CHAPTER LIV

The Formation of the Club

Foundation Sunday came, and with it a respectable crowd at the House.

There were some who had brought babies--which was unfortunate, but

unavoidable--and there were one or two men too hilarious for good

manners; but the crowd was, on the whole, good-natured and desirable.

Mike Shay was not there, although Jim had tried to get him; but Mike had

a curious diffidence about appearing in public. All his power was

underground, and all his methods behind the scenes. Squeaks was there to

keep an eye on things, and his little bleary, ferret eyes watched each

person and detail with cunning, if not with discernment.

It was made perfectly clear that only members in good standing had

votes.

"Vell, vot dot mean, dot good at stannin'? Don't ve vote settin' down?"

demanded Skystein.

"It means members whose dues are fully paid, and who are not under

indictment for serious breach of rules."

"I want to pay one year's dues for myself and Mr. Michael Shay," said

Squeaks; and he walked to the secretary and paid ten dollars. This

indorsement by the boss produced immediate results.

"I'll take a year's membership," said a big, coarse, red-faced man. And

he rolled up the aisle to deposit his five dollars, giving his name as

Bud Towler. Jim remembered him as the third person in the back room the

day he met Michael Shay. He had not seen him since.

So many more came up now, mostly to pay a month's dues, which was the

minimum, that Belle was worked hard and other business was stopped.

Then, when all who wished to pay and register had done so, the voice of

Squeaks was heard: "I have here a list of names that I want to propose

for charter membership," and he read off a list of twenty-five men, none

of them present. Bud Towler got up and seconded the lot; the Chair was

asked to put the names to immediate vote, as it was a charter meeting;

all were carried, and Squeaks came forward and paid twenty-five dollars

dues for the lot to cover the next ten weeks, that is, to the end of a

year.

Belle whispered to Hopkins as Squeaks retired. The Chair nodded, rose

and explained. "In drawing up our constitution, we deemed it best, in

the interests of democracy, to do all voting by ballot and to exclude

all proxies."

"Dot's right, dot's all right!" shouted Skystein.

"Mr. Chairman, I protest," came the wire-like voice of Squeaks; this

measure, would, naturally, mean the disfranchisement of every man whose

business happened to keep him away at election time. How much more

reasonable it would be for him to empower some trusted friend to

represent him and his views, etc., etc.

On the matter of the ballot he was not so strong, but he did think "that

the manly, straightforward way was for a voter to announce his vote and

not be ashamed of his principles. Of course, he was aware that there was

much to be said on the other side, but he was in favour of proxies and

open voting."

"So am I," shouted Towler. "We ain't got no right to rob a man of his

vote because he happens to be a night watchman."

"Ah, vat's de matter mit ye?" said Skystein. "Effery-body knows you an'

Squeaks is in cahoots to run de hull push cart."

There was a good chance of a row; but Hopkins explained that voting by

mail was a different thing from voting by proxy, and every member in

good standing would get the chance to vote by mail on important matters,

when he could not be present.

No one could long have been in that meeting without realizing that it

was a veritable microcosm--a little world in which were all the

struggling, rival elements, the good and evil forces of the big world.

Not a problem that was tormenting the country but was represented in

vital strength in that club group. It was full of lessons and grave

responsibilities.

They were now ready for the elections. Squeaks rose and said: "Since the

owners of the lease are to nominate two of the four governors, it would

clear things up if their nominations were made first and the club

elections afterward."

This at once confronted Hopkins with a problem. He had a free hand, but

he was puzzled, because while it was understood that he was to be

president and Hartigan the active governor on the spot, they had not

secured a third man who, as governor, could be counted on for a

continued whole-souled support. It was Dr. Mary Mudd that let the

daylight into this problem by rising to say:

"Mr. Chairman, I understand we are free to elect a woman to the board of

governors as well as to any other office."

Hopkins had not thought of that, but the broad principle had been

established and he replied "Yes."

"Very good," said Dr. Mudd, "now there's a chance for common sense as

well as decency."

In a flash, Hopkins got the answer to his own problem. Belle Hartigan

had steadily been winning his appreciation. His admiration for her

clear-headedness and business training was increased at each meeting. He

knew now pretty well how often her brain was behind Jim's actions. In

any event, the trial would be for only two and one-half months, when

elections were to take place for the new year. He bent toward her: "Will

you be one of the appointed governors for the rest of the year?"

"Yes."

Hopkins rose and announced that the owners of the lease appointed Mr.

and Mrs. Hartigan as the two governors to represent them.

This was warmly applauded, especially by the women--led by Dr. Mudd.

There followed some sharp electioneering and the members elected Squeaks

and Skystein to represent them. Dr. Mudd, who had been nominated,

demanded a recount of the votes, but the election was sustained. The

four governors then met and within five minutes agreed on Hopkins for

president. So the board was formed and for good or ill, the club was

launched--in the slum, of the slum, and for the slum--but with a long,

strong arm from the other world; an outside thing, but meant in kindly

help.

BOOK V

THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER LV

In the Absence of Belle

Every citizen of South Chicago remembers the work of the Cedar Mountain

House; how it grew and prospered, and how the old building became too

small and an annex across the street was called for. How its greatest

strength lay in the monthly free discussion of _any subject_ approved in

advance by the governors. How the rival parties of Skystein and Squeaks

alternately pulled and pushed each other about. How musical genius was

discovered in abundance and an orchestra formed as well as a monthly

minstrel show. How pool tables were introduced and a restaurant started.

How the movement to introduce beer was defeated by a small majority.

How, after due discussion, they adopted some seemingly hard policies,

such as the exclusion of all Negroes and Chinamen. How Squeaks led an

abortive attempt to disqualify all Jews. How the gymnasium became the

focal centre of all the boys in the neighbourhood. How they organized a

strong-arm squad of a dozen club members who acted as police, and

without offense, because they were of themselves. At the end of the

first six months, the House had more than justified its existence. It

had nearly four hundred members and was doing work that in a higher

state of civilization would be the proper care of the government.

It would have been hard to say who was the chief. Belle had been the

planner and executor and now was not only a governor, but secretary and

head of the women's department, on a fair business basis. But the growth

of power in Jim was obvious. It had all been very new to his ways of

thinking and, after all, Links and Chicago have little in common. Belle

had a business training that was essential, and her quick judgment

helped at every turn for it is a fact that second-class judgment right

now is better than first-class judgment to-morrow. The full measure of

her helpfulness in bearing the burdens was made transparently clear by a

sudden crisis in their affairs. A telegram from Cedar Mountain arrived

for Belle.

Mother very ill. Come at once--FATHER.

It was impossible for both to go, so Belle set off alone for Cedar

Mountain, leaving Jim in charge of the flock at the Mountain House.

Alone--he didn't think it possible to feel alone in such a crowd. His

work was doubled in the absence of Belle, although Dr. Mary Mudd gave

not a little help in the mothers' department. It was a good thing for

Jim to find out just how much he owed to his wife. There was a

continuous stream of callers at the office with requests or complaints.

These had all been met by Belle. She had an even poise, a gentle

consideration for all, and certain helpful rules that reduced the

strain, such as exact hours for work, one call at a time, and written

complaints only. Jim's anxiety to placate and smooth out led him to

undertake too much, and the result was a deluge of small matters of

which he had previously known nothing. The exasperating accumulation of

annoyances and attacks, in spite of all his best and kindest endeavours,

invoked a new light.

"Oh, if Belle were only here!" was his repeated thought. "I don't know

how she manages, but she does. It's mighty strange how few of these

annoyances came up when she was in the office." He began to realize more

and more her ability. "She has more judgment, more tact than any of us;

she has been meeting these things all along, and saving me from them by

settling them without me. Yes, she's wiser than I am in such matters."

So he wrote her of his troubles. He detailed many cases in point and

added: "We miss you awfully; every one in the House complains. I haven't

got your cleverness and tact. It seems as if I made enemies every time I

tried to make friends. Come back as soon as you can." And if the truth

must be told there was a little flush of pleasure and triumph in her

soul. "Now he knows what I have known so long." And who shall blame her

for gloating a little over the deacons who, in the beginning, were

unwilling to recognize her? But she had to send a discouraging reply.

For the angel of destiny said: "No, it is now time for him to walk

alone" and the telegram ran:

Cannot come; Mother is very low.

After the first shock of disappointment he braced up, and, like a man

who has been retreating and who knows in his heart that he never meant

to make a stand as long as some one else could be depended on, he

upbraided himself and turned to face the fight. "There is a way of doing

it all, and I can do it." And in the resolve to win he found new

strength. In many small, but puzzling matters, he got guidance in the

practical sayings of men like Lincoln and Grant: "Be sure you are right,

then go ahead"; "Every one has some rights"; "In case of doubt, go the

gentle way"; "Never hunt for trouble." These were samples of the homely

wisdom that helped him and proved that the old proverbs are old wisdom

in shape for new use.

One man came to complain that a member had been drunk and disorderly at

a certain other place the night before. A year ago, Jim would have said

that it was a disgrace and that he would make a thorough investigation,

which would have meant assuming a special guardianship of each and every

member all the time. Wiser now, he said, "Since it was not on our

premises, we have no knowledge of the matter." On the other hand, it was

a serious affair when a member brought in a bottle of strong drink and

treated a number of weak friends until there was a wild orgy going on in

one of the rooms, in spite of official protests from those in charge.

This was clearly high treason; and repressing a disposition to gloss it

over, Hartigan expelled the principal and suspended the seconds for long

periods.

During a boyish contest in the gymnasium, a man somewhat in liquor,

shouted out a string of oaths at the youngsters. Jim rebuked him quietly

for using such language there, whereupon the man turned upon him with a

coarse insult and, misunderstanding the Preacher's gentleness, struck

him a vicious blow, which Jim only partly warded off. "If you do that

again, we may have to put you out," said Jim, inwardly boiling under the

double insult. Fortunately, the man's friends interfered now and got the

fellow away. For this Jim was most thankful. Afterward, he rejoiced

still more that he had restrained himself; and he knew Belle would flush

with pride at this victory over self, this proof of a growing

self-control.

Another week went by and again came word that Belle could not return for

perhaps ten days at the earliest. A dozen broils that Jim had been

postponing for Belle to arbitrate had now to be considered. Dr. Mary

Mudd was the leader of an indignant party of women to complain that

though the men were not more in numbers than the women they had

appropriated sixty out of the one hundred coat hangers.

Rippe, the tailor, was there to complain that Dr. Mary Mudd always

walked up the middle of the stairs, unlawfully delaying the traffic,

instead of keeping the proper right side. With his outstretched arms, he

illustrated the formidable nature of the barrier. Dr. Mudd retorted that

said Rippe had repeatedly smoked in the ladies' room, etc., etc. But

these were small matters easily adjusted. Two, much more serious, came

on him in one day.

First, he yielded to the temptation of having a beautiful banner hung on

the wall, because it was contributed and very decorative. It bore a

legend, "No popery." This was much in line with his private views, but

it made a great stir and cost them a score of members, as well as

incurring the dislike of Father O'Hara, hitherto friendly. His second

blunder was to allow the cook in the restaurant to put scraps of pork in

the soup, thereby raising a veritable storm among the many keen debaters

of the kosher kind, and causing the resignation of Skystein from the

board--temporarily at least.

It would have been much to Jim's taste to have an open war with Father

O'Hara and his flock. His Ulster blood was ready for just such a row.

And in his heart he believed pork and beans quite the best of foods. But

his opinions were not law; he had been learning many things. Others had

rights; and he won the disaffected back, one by one, by recognizing the

justice of their claims and by making kindly personal calls on each of

them.

Thus Jim Hartigan got a new knowledge of his own endowment and

discovered unsuspected powers. He had held his peace and triumphed in a

number of trying situations that two or three years before would have

ended in an unprofitable brawl. He had controlled his temper, that was a

step forward and he was learning to control those about him as well as

manage an organization. He had begun to realize his _prejudices_ and to

learn to respect the beliefs of others even when he thought them wrong.

The memory of Father Cyprian and the Sioux boy had helped him to deal

kindly and respectfully with Skystein and Father O'Hara.

Strange to say, it was a travelling Hindu who supplied him with the

biggest, broadest thought of all. This swarthy scholar was deeply imbued

with the New Buddhism of Rammohan Roy and, when asked for his opinion of

some Romanist practices, he remarked softly, but evasively, "My religion

teaches me that if any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby

he is worshipping God, he _is_ worshipping God and his action must be

treated with respect, so long as he is not infringing the rights of

others."

Jim took a long walk by the lake that day and turned over and over that

saying of the Hindu in the library. The thing had surprised him--first,

because of the perfect English in the mouth of a foreigner, and

secondly, because of the breadth and tolerance of the thought. He

wondered how he could ever have believed himself open-minded or fair

when he had been so miserably narrow in all his ideas. Where was he

headed? All his early days he had been taught to waste effort on

scorning the ceremonials great and small of Jews, Catholics, yes, of

Baptists even; and now the heathen--to whom he had once thought of going

as a missionary--had come to Chicago and shown him the true faith.

Striding at top speed, he passed a great pile of lumber and sawdust. The

fresh smell of the wet wood brought back Links--and his mother, and a

sense of happiness, for he had given up "trying to reason it all out."

He was no longer sure, as he once was, that he had omniscience for his

guide. Indeed he was sure only of this, that the kindest way is the only

way that is safe.

There was daylight dawning in his heart, and yet, across that dawn there

was a cloud which grew momentarily more black, more threatening.

Paradoxical as it seemed, Jim was intensely unhappy over the abandonment

of the ministerial career. The enduring force of his word as a man was

only another evidence of the authentic character of that deep emotional

outburst which had pledged him openly to the service of Christ. The work

at the Cedar Mountain House for a while satisfied the evangelical hunger

of his ardent soul. It was good, it was successful, it was increasing in

scope; but of its nature it could never be more than secular; it was

social work in its best form--that was all. The work of which he

dreamed, and to which he had consecrated his life was the preaching of

the Gospel, and, as the months passed, an unrest--the like of which he

had hardly known--took possession of him. These last weeks of Belle's

absence had brought on one of his periodic soul-searchings and the gloom

of it was as thick as a fog when the mail brought word of Belle's

return. As he sat with her letter in his hand his mind went back to the

hills and the free days and he longed to go back--to get away from the

ponderous stolidity of this pavement world.

He met her at the station and her joyousness was as a shock to him. And

yet, how hungry he was for every least word of that lost life.

"Oh, Jim, it was glorious to ride again, to smell the leather and the

sagebrush. I just loved the alkali and the very ticks on the sagebrush.

I didn't know how they could stir one's heart."

His eye glowed, his breath came fast, his nostrils dilated and, as Belle

looked, it seemed to her that her simple words had struck far deeper

than she meant.

"And the horses, which did you ride?" he queried. "How is Blazing Star?

Are they going to race at Fort Ryan this year? And the Bylow boys, and

the Mountain? Thank God, men may come and go, but Cedar Mountain will

stand forever." He talked as one who has long kept still--as one whose

thoughts long pent have dared at length to break forth.

And Belle, as she listened, saw a light. "He is far from forgetting the

life of the Hills," she said to herself as she watched him. "He is

keener than ever. All this steadfast devotion to club work is the

devotion of duty. Now I know the meaning of those long vigils, those

walks by the lake in the rain--of his preoccupation. His heart is in

Cedar Mountain." And she honoured him all the more for that he had never

spoken a word of the secret longing.

CHAPTER LVI

The Defection of Squeaks

Michael Shay had come to the club in person once or twice, but did not

desire to be conspicuous. It was clear now that the club was not to be

the political weapon at first suspected. The boss had another

organization through which to hold and make felt his power; but the fact

that it pleased a number of his voters was enough to insure his support.

Squeaks, however, was quite conspicuous and present on all important

occasions; it was generally supposed that he was there in the interests

of Shay, but that was not clearly proven. It was obvious that the club

was not in any way lined up for or against Shay. It was, however,

believed by Belle that Squeaks was there in the interests of Squeaks and

none other.

This strange, small person had a small, strange history--so far as it

was known. A lawyer, he had been disbarred for disreputable practice,

and was now a hanger-on of the boss, a shrewd person, quite purchasable.

He was convinced that he was destined to be a great boss, and satisfied

that Cedar Mountain House would help his plans--which lay in the

direction of the legislature--hence he sought to identify himself with

it. For the present, also, he stuck to Shay.

The approved boss system of the time rested on a regiment of absolutely

obedient voters, who voted not once, but many times in as many different

wards as needed. They were thoroughly organized, and part of their

purpose was to terrorize independent voters, or even "remove" men who

developed power or courage enough to oppose them; so the "reliable

squad" was important. As their ranks contained many convicts or men

qualified for life terms, they were a dangerous and desperate lot. They

responded at once and cheerfully to any duty call, and one "removal" per

night would have probably been less than average for a boss-ruled city

in those days. For this they received protection; that is, the police

and the Courts were so completely in the scheme that it was sufficient,

on the arrest of a "reliable," if the boss sent word to the judge or

State's attorney "to be keerful" as this was "one of our boys." Promptly

a flaw would be discovered in the indictment and the case dropped.

The boss who derives power from such a machine must ever look out for

the appearance of a rival, hence Shay's early watchfulness of the club;

but that gave place to a friendly indifference. He was a man superior to

his class, in some respects; for, though brutal and masterful on

occasion, it was said that he never "removed" a rival. At most, he had

applied pressure that resulted in their discreetly withdrawing. And he

cared little for money. Most bosses are after either money or power or

both. Shay loved power. The revenues he might have made out of tribute

from those protected were not well developed, and most of what he

received he disbursed in generous gifts to those in his ward who needed

help. It was said that no man ever went hungry from Mike Shay's door,

which was perfectly true; and the reward that he loved above all things

was to be pointed out on the street or in the car as "Mike Shay." To

overhear some one say, "That's Michael Shay, the big Boss of the South

Ward," meant more to him a thousand fold than any decoration in the gift

of the greatest of Old-World potentates.

Hartigan learned that he could go to Shay at any time for a reasonable

contribution, after having made it clear that it was for some one in

distress--not for a church. The only return Shay ever asked was that Jim

come sometimes and put on the gloves with him in a friendly round. Most

of Shay's legal finesse was done through Squeaks. That small, but active

person was on the boards of at least twenty-five popular organizations,

and it was understood that he was there to represent the boss.

Extraordinary evidence of _some one's_ pull was shown when one day

Squeaks was elevated to the Bench. It was only as a police magistrate,

but he was now Judge Squeaks, with larger powers than were by law

provided, and he began to "dig himself in," entrench himself, make his

position good with other powers, in anticipation of the inevitable

conflict with Boss Shay. It became largely a line-up of political

parties; Squeaks had made a deal with the party in power at Springfield,

and gave excellent guarantees of substantial support--both electoral and

financial--before the keen-eyed myrmidons of Shay brought to the boss

the news that Squeaks had turned traitor.

Then the war was on; not openly, for Squeaks had scores of documents

that would, before any impartial jury, have convicted Shay of

manipulating election returns, intimidating voters, and receiving

blackmail. It was important to get possession of these documents before

they could be used. While the present party held power in State

politics, there would be no chance for Shay to escape. There were two

possibilities, however; one, that the election close at hand might

reverse the sympathies of those in power; the other, that Squeaks might

find it unwise to use the weapon in his hands.

Now was the Cedar Mountain House in peril, for Shay's support was

essential. At a word from him, the police might call the club a

disorderly house, and order it shut up. The fact that Squeaks was a

governor strengthened the probability of drastic action. On the other

hand, Squeaks as police magistrate, could restrain the police for a time

or discover flaws in as many indictments as were brought up. The

District Court could, of course, issue a warrant over the head of the

police magistrate; but the Court of Appeals was friendly to Squeaks and

would certainly quash the warrant; so that, for the time being the many

unpleasant possibilities simply balanced each other, and the club went

on in a sort of sulphurous calm like that before a storm.

Then came an exciting day at the club. By an unusual chance both Shay

and Squeaks met there and the inevitable clash came. Angry words passed

and Shay shouted: "Ye dirty little sneak, I'll fix ye yet!" Squeaks,

cool and sarcastic, said: "Why don't ye do it now?" Shay rushed at him

with a vigorous threat, and would have done him grievous bodily injury

but for the interference of Hartigan and others. Shay waited at the gate

for Squeaks, but the Judge slipped out the back way and disappeared.

It was Bud Towler who called on the Judge with a letter from Boss Shay,

demanding the return of certain personal papers and authorizing said Bud

to receive them. To which Judge Squeaks replied: "He better come for

them himself. He knows where I live. I'll be home every night this

week."

And thither that night with two friends went Shay. It was a very simple

lodging. These men habitually avoid display. The janitor knew all too

well who Shay was.

"Is Squeaks at home?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"I'm going up to see him, and if I lay him over my knee and spank him

till he squeals, ye needn't worry; it's nothing." Then up went Shay,

while his friends stayed below, one at the front of the house and the

other in the lane that commanded the back.

The trembling janitor heard the heavy foot go up the wooden stairs; he

heard a voice, then a crash as of a door forced open, then heavy steps

and a pistol shot. A window was opened behind the house, and _something_

was thumped down into the back yard. A little later, the boss came

hurriedly down the stairs. The timid janitor and his trembling wife saw

the big man step out with a bundle under his arm. Then all was still.

After twenty minutes of stupefaction, they began to realize that they

should go up to the Judge's room. They mounted the stairs together,

carrying a lamp. The door had, evidently, been forced. The room was in

some disorder; the drawers of the desk were open, and papers scattered

about. On one or two of the papers was fresh blood. The window was

closed, but not fastened; the end of the curtain under it seemed to give

proof that it had recently been opened. On the sill was more fresh

blood.

There was no sign of the Judge.

As they gazed about in horror, they heard a noise in the back yard and

looking out saw, very dimly, two men carrying off a heavy object, they

lifted it over the back fence and then followed, to disappear.

Schmidt, the janitor, was terror-stricken. Evidently, the Judge had been

murdered and his body was now being made away with. What was to be done?

If he interfered, the murderers would wreak their vengeance on him; if

he refrained, he would be blamed for the murder or at least for

complicity.

"I tink, Johann, dere's only one ting, and dat is go straight an' tell

de police," said his wife. As they stood, they heard a light foot on the

stairs. Their hearts stood still, but they peered out to see a woman in

a gray cloak step into the street, and they breathed more freely. Now

they rushed to the station house and told their tale in tears and

trembling.

The Police Captain was scornful and indifferent. Had there been but one

witness, he might have ordered him away; but two witnesses, intensely in

earnest, made some impression. He sent an inspector around to see. That

official came back to report the truth of the statement made by the

Schmidts, that the Judge's room was empty, upset, and had some blood

stains; but he attached little importance to the matter. He had,

however, locked up and sealed the door, pending examination.

Next morning, there was an attempt to hush the matter up, but a reporter

appeared in the interests of a big paper, and by a clever combination of

veiled threats and promises of support, got permission to see the room.

The reporterial instinct and the detective instinct are close kin, and

the newspaper published some most promising clues: The Judge was visited

at midnight by a man whom he had robbed and who had threatened to kill

him; a broken door, papers stolen, a scuffle, traces of human blood (the

microscope said so) in several places, blood on the window sill, a heavy

something thrown out of the window and carried off by two men, blood on

the back fence, and no trace of the Judge.

It was a strong case, and any attempt to gloss it over was rendered

impossible by the illustrated broadside with which the newspaper

startled the public.

CHAPTER LVII

The Trial

All Chicago remembers the trial of Michael Shay. It filled the papers

for a month; it filled folk's minds and mouths for two. Many a worse

murder had been quietly buried and forgotten, but this was too

conspicuous. The boss, facing a decline of his power, had undoubtedly

murdered the man he had begun to fear, and the parties in control of all

the machinery of justice were against the accused.

The case was thoroughly threshed out. Shay had openly threatened the

life of Squeaks; he had tried before to do him hurt; had gone with two

men to Squeaks's lodgings; had warned Schmidt that there was going to be

"a little fuss"; had broken open the door and got certain papers--his

own property, undoubtedly, but now splashed with blood; a shot had been

heard--a heavy something thrown from the back window and then carried

off by two men; blood on the floor, the sill and the back fence; and the

Judge had disappeared from the face of the earth. The case was clear,

the jury retired, but quickly brought in a verdict of guilty, although

at every point there was nothing but circumstantial evidence.

Jim Hartigan was one of the first friends to call on Shay after his

arrest, and Belle came soon after. They heard his story, which was

simple and straight: Squeaks was holding the papers which would be, at

least, damaging to Shay's property and reputation; he got them in

confidence and then defied Shay to come and take them. Shay decided it

would be well to take two witnesses and went, as planned, to Squeaks's

apartments. Finding the door locked and believing that Squeaks was

inside, he forced it open; the room was dark and no one was there. He

lighted the gas and rummaged through the desk for the papers that

belonged to him, paying no attention to any others. He saw blood on some

of the papers, but didn't know where it came from. As he was coming

away, he heard a pistol shot, either upstairs or outside, he didn't know

which. He knew nothing about anything thrown from the window. He got his

own property and came away.

Although every particle of evidence adduced by the prosecuting attorney

was circumstantial, it was very complete. Some juries would have felt

reasonable doubt, but no one could get over the facts that Shay had

threatened Squeaks's life and that Squeaks had disappeared after a visit

from Shay which left traces of blood in Squeaks's apartment. The trial

over, the verdict of guilty rendered, Shay was asked if he could offer

any reason why he should not be condemned. He rose and said: "Only that

I didn't do it. I never saw him from that time in the club a week

before."

Then the judge pronounced the awful words: "...Hanged by the neck till

you are dead." Shay sat stunned for a minute, then, when the jailor

tapped his shoulder, rose and walked silently forth to the cell of the

doomed.

It is the hour of trial that sifts out your friends. There were two at

least who followed every move in that crowded court room--Hartigan and

his wife. They had learned that the crude, brutal exterior of the

prizefighter held a heart that was warm and true. They had learned that

they could go to him with certainty of success when they wanted help for

some struggling man or woman in their ward. They knew that he would not

drive a bargain for his help, nor plaster his gift with religious

conditions. It was enough for him to know that a fellow-being was in

need and that he had the power to help him. Shay was a product of

submergence and evil system; he was wrong in his theories, wrong in his

methods, wrong in his life; but his was a big, strong spirit--ever kind.

And out of the strange beginnings there had grown a silent but real

friendship between the Hartigans and himself.

On the black day of the verdict and the sentence, Belle and Jim were

sadly sitting at home. "Jim," she said, "I know he didn't do it; his

story is so simple and sound. It's easy to get human blood if you have a

friend in the hospital; he is innocent. We know that Squeaks could

easily have access to a room upstairs; that bundle may have been thrown

out from the window merely as a part of a plot. Everything is against

Shay now because he is in wrong with the party; but, surely, there is

something we can do."

"His attorney asked for an appeal, but I am afraid it won't be

entertained; there is no new evidence--no reason for delay that they can

see or wish to see."

"That attorney has behaved very suspiciously, I think. Don't you think

the governor might intervene with at least a commutation?" she

suggested.

"The governor! His worst enemy," said Jim. "The governor's been after

him for years."

Hope seemed gone. They sat in silence; then she said: "Pray, Jim; maybe

light will come." And together they prayed that the God of justice and

mercy would send his light down among them and guide them in this awful

time. It was a short and simple prayer, followed by a long silence.

Belle spoke: "There is only one thing that can be done; that is find

Squeaks. I know he is living somewhere yet, gloating probably over the

success of his plan to get rid of Shay. I know he is alive, and we must

find him. We have one month to do it, Jim. We must find him."

Jim shook his head. "We've tried hard enough already. We've examined

every corpse taken out of the river or exposed at the morgue."

"Well; doesn't that help to prove that he is alive?"

"We've advertised and notified every police station in the country," Jim

continued.

"They don't want to find him, Jim; they're on the other side."

"I don't know what else to do."

"Jim, I've read enough and seen enough of human nature to know that, if

Squeaks is alive, he's not hiding in California or Florida or London;

he's right here in South Ward where he can watch things. It's my belief,

Jim, that he's been in the court room watching the trial."

Jim shook his head; but she went on. "This much I'm sure; he would hang

around his former haunts, and we should leave nothing undone to find

him."

They went first to Shay's attorney, but he dismissed the idea as

chimerical, so they dropped him from their plans. Together they set to

work, with little hope indeed, but it was at least better to be up and

doing. Judge Squeaks's office was small, easily entered and productive

of nothing. The police would give no information and seemed little

interested in the new theory. Squeaks's lodgings yielded nothing new,

but they found that Belle's theory was right; he had also had a room on

the floor above. The woman in the gray cloak had called on him once or

twice in the previous month and had come once since. She was a sort of

janitress, as she had a key and straightened up his room. There was no

hint of help in this. There was only one of his haunts that they had not

thoroughly examined, that was the club. There was no need for that, as

they knew every one that came and went, at least by sight.

Mrs. Hartigan was sitting in the club office at the back of the building

next day when Skystein came in, and sat down to go over some club

letters, officially addressed to him. As he read he made a note on each

and sorted them into three neat piles. Belle watched him with interest

that was a little tinged with shame. It is so human to consider a man

inferior if he does not speak your language fluently, and the early

impression they had gotten of Skystein gave them a sense of lofty pity.

But it did not last. At every board meeting they had found reason to

respect the judgment and worldly knowledge of the little Hebrew; those

keen black eyes stood for more than cunning, they were the lights of

intellect. Belle turned to him now. If any one knew the underworld of

the South Ward it was he, and what he didn't know he had means to find

out.

She openly, frankly, told him all she knew and suspected. He heard her

at first doubtingly, then with growing interest, then with a glare of

intense attention and conviction at last. His eyes twinkled knowingly as

she expressed her opinion of the attorney. Skystein uttered the single

word "fixed." Then he tapped his white teeth with his slender forefinger

and rose to get the membership roll. He looked over it, but got no help;

there was no one entered within the last few months that they could not

fully account for.

They sat gazing in silence through the window into the adjoining reading

room when an elderly woman came in and sat down. She wore a gray cloak

and large goggles.

"Who is she?" said Belle. "I've seen her often enough, but I don't

remember her name."

"Dat's Mrs. Davis: she's been coming only about five months. She was one

of Squeaks's members."

A ray of hope shot into Belle's brain. "This fits the description of

Squeaks's cleaning woman. She knows where he is hidden; she takes him

food and keeps him posted. She is here now for the news." The woman at

the desk raised her face; through the goggles and through that inner

window she saw the two gazing at her. She rose quickly, but without

hurry, and left the building. Skystein turned after her, without

actually running, but she had disappeared.

"That woman knows where Squeaks is hiding," said Belle. But what became

of her was a puzzle. They were confronted now by a stone wall, for there

was no trace of her. The old janitor at Squeaks's lodging had not seen

her for two weeks and she did not again appear at the club.

Michael Shay's religion so far as he had any, was of the Ulster type,

and Jim Hartigan was accepted as his spiritual adviser and allowed to

see him often. Jim and Belle agreed that it was well to tell him

everything in their minds, to keep alive the light of hope, or maybe get

from him some clue. Two weeks passed thus without a hint. Then, one

evening as Skystein came late to the club, he saw a woman go out. He

went to the desk and asked who it was. The register showed a strange

name, but the clerk thought it was the gray woman till she looked at the

name. Skystein rushed out as fast as possible, just in time to see a

gray-cloaked figure board the car. There was no hack in sight so he

leaped on the next car and followed. He was able to watch the car most

of the time, but saw only one woman leave it. She was in black. At

length, he got a chance to run forward and mount the first car. He

stayed on the platform and peered in. There was no gray-cloaked woman.

He asked the conductor, and learned that a woman had got on and taken

off her cloak till she went out again three blocks back. At once his

Hebrew wit seized these two ideas: she had deliberately turned her

cloak; she was eluding pursuit.

Skystein went back at once to the street where the black-cloaked woman

had descended. Of course, he saw nothing of her, but there was a peanut

vender of his own race, at the corner. Skystein stopped, bought a bag of

peanuts and began to eat them. Casually he asked the merchant if that

woman in gray bought peanuts there. The vender didn't seem to

comprehend, so Skystein addressed him in Yiddish; told him the woman was

a detective, and promised to give ten dollars for information as to

where she lived or what she was after. The expression on the peanut

man's face showed an eagerness to find out the facts with all possible

speed. But a week went by and he had nothing to report.

Meanwhile, Jim was at Joliet in daily conference with Shay, reporting to

him the success or ill success of the search; reporting, alas, how

little help they got from those who were supposed to forward the ends of

justice. Money was not lacking, but it would help little; if an open

campaign were conducted to find the man they believed to be in hiding,

it might put an insuperable obstacle in the way. The governor was

approached, but he was little disposed to listen or order a stay, least

of all when they had nothing but a vague theory to offer.

Four days more went by, and Skystein found the peanut man in high

excitement. He had seen the gray woman; she passed down his street and,

before he could follow, turned into a side street; he left his peanuts

and ran to follow, but got no second glimpse. She must have gone into

one of the near-by tenements. "Didn't Mr. Skystein orter pay for de

peanuts stole by de boys, as well as de reward."

Two days of life remained to Shay. Hope had died out of their hearts.

Hartigan was preparing him for the great change that is always a bitter

change when so approached. Belle still clung to hope. She posted herself

where she could view the street, and made judicious inquiries, but got

no help. The gray mantle was not a complete identification; the woman

might have a dozen mantles. She went to the police station to enlist

their cooperation. The Precinct Captain took no stock in the story and

refused to order a house-to-house search. Finally--for even police are

human--he promised to search any particular house when it was indicated,

and to give reasonable support to any move that was obviously in the

cause of justice.

The morning of the execution came and nothing had developed to revive

their hopes. Belle was on watch at the street corner when on the main

avenue an excitement occurred. A Savoyard with a dancing bear was

holding a public show and gathering in a few coins. An idea came to her;

she made her way through the crowd and said: "Here, is a dollar, if you

make him dance before every house on this street." The Savoyard smiled

blandly, bowed, pocketed the dollar and, leading the bear into the side

street that Belle had watched so long, began the droning song that

caused the animal to rear up and sway his huge, heavy body round and

round as he walked. All the world came forth to see, or peered from

upper windows; all the world was watching the strange antics of the

bear--all but one. Belle's keen brown eyes were watching the crowd,

watching the doorways, and watching, at length, the windows with

desperate eagerness for sign of the gray woman. There seemed to be no

gray woman; but, of a sudden, she saw a thing that stopped her heart.

Flat against the window of a second-floor room, and intently watching

the bear, was the pale, wizened, evil face of Squeaks!

Belle's hand trembled as she noted the house, the number and the very

room; then, passing quickly around the corner, she hailed a cab and

drove for life to the telegraph office, where she telegraphed Jim:

"Hold up the execution for two hours; we have found Squeaks."

(Signed) "BELLE"

Then away to the police station. "Captain, Captain, I've found Squeaks!

Come, come at once and get him."

"I have to know about it first," said he, calmly.

"Oh, Captain, there is no time to lose. It is ten o'clock now; the

execution is fixed for noon."

The Captain shook his head.

"Then telegraph the Governor," she begged.

"He wouldn't pay any attention to your say-so."

"Then come at once and see; I have a cab here."

The Captain and two men went with Belle. They entered the cab. "I'll

give you double fare to go your fastest," Belle said through her white,

compressed lips; and the kindly cabman, sensing something out of common,

'Said, "I'll do my best, miss."

In ten minutes, they were in the side street. The bear was gone, the

crowd was gone. The police entered without knocking, went to the second

floor, to the very door and then knocked. There was no answer. The

Captain put his shoulder to the door and forced it in. There, sure

enough, standing in an attitude of fear in a far corner was the thin

woman of the gray cloak.

"Where is Judge Squeaks? He was seen in this room half an hour ago."

"I don't know what you mean," and she covered her face with her skinny

hands and began to cry.

"You must come to the station at once," said the Captain. Then to Belle:

"Will you testify that this is the woman?"

Belle was white and trembling, but she walked up and said: "I will

testify that this is--" She reached forward, peering at the woman's

hidden face. Then seizing the loose hair, Belle gave one jerk, the wig

came off, and they were facing Judge Squeaks!

"My God!" was all the Captain had to say. "The telephone as quick as

possible! You hold him." He dashed down the stairs and made for the

nearest long distance wire. It was half an hour before they could

connect with Springfield, only to learn that the Governor had left for

Chicago and was expected to arrive there about noon.

CHAPTER LVIII

In the Death House

Shay sat calmly waiting as the big clock ticked his life away that

morning in the house of death at Joliet. At eleven o'clock, Hartigan

received Belle's telegram: "We have found Squeaks." He rushed to the

Sheriff with it. That officer was very sorry, but "no one except the

Governor had any right to order a stay."

"Why, sir," said Jim, "you are not going to hang an innocent man, when

here is proof of his innocence."

"There is no proof in that telegram. I don't know who "Belle" is. I get

my orders from the Courts. No one but the Governor can order a

reprieve."

Jim sent a telegram to Springfield only to learn, as Belle had done,

that the Governor had left for Chicago. He sent telegrams to every one

who had the power to help. He telegraphed Belle; he rushed to the

Sheriff to beg for God's sake but one hour's reprieve. He hurried to the

penitentiary to find another telegram from Belle:

Pray without ceasing for an hour's delay. We have Squeaks now.

But the clock ticked on. He literally ran to Michael's cell; the jailer

opened the way. "Michael," he gasped, "we have found Squeaks; we know

you are innocent."

Michael was the calmest of all. "Whatever is God's will I'll take

without a grumble," he said, and sat smoking.

At a quarter to twelve the Sheriff appeared.

"Why, Sheriff, you are not going to--when you know the reprieve is on

the way. You are not going to let a technicality lead you into murder?"

"I have no change in my instructions," said the Sheriff, "and no proof

that any change is on the way."

"Why; this is monstrous," gasped Jim. "An hour's delay is all we ask, so

the Governor can be reached."

The Sheriff motioned the guard to move on, and Shay walked firmly

between the two officers. They came into the prison yard. There

assembled were a score of officials and newspaper men.

"Have you any final statement to make?" asked the State officials.

"Nothing, only that I am innocent and Squeaks is alive at this moment."

That was an old story--an old trick to win time. The officers were

preparing to act, when Hartigan pale and exultant, swinging the last

telegram before the Sheriff, re-read it and for the first time truly got

its meaning. He said: "Let us pray."

They kneeled down, all of them, in accordance with the ancient custom,

and Jim began to pray. His voice was broken and husky, but it grew

steadier as he appealed to the God of Justice and Mercy. He prayed and

prayed; the clock struck twelve, but still he prayed. "Pray without

ceasing," Belle's message had said. His gift of speech stood by him now;

a quarter of an hour passed and still he was pouring out petitions to

the throne of grace; another quarter of an hour and his voice was a

little weary, but he prayed on. Still another, and another, and the

clock struck one. All those men still kneeled, dead silent, except for a

low, sobbing sound from the little group farther off. The Sheriff waited

uneasily; he coughed a little and waited for a gap--but there was no

gap; Jim bared his heart to God that day. He prayed as he never did

before and all his bodily strength went into his prayer. At a quarter

past one, when he was still calling on the God of Life for help, the

Sheriff knew not what to do, for by the unwritten law the man of God had

a right to finish his prayer. At half past one, the Sheriff moved

uneasily and at length uttered a faint "Amen," as though to give the

signal to stop. As it had no effect he realized for the first time just

what Hartigan's desperation and iron will were leading him to do, he

took cover under the technicality and played the game with him. Shay

would have a chance as long as the Preacher's voice lasted. The party

all stood, hats off, except those around the condemned one. They still

kneeled, some of them, while others in bodily weariness, were frankly

sitting on the scaffold. And the Preacher prayed on. His voice was thick

and husky now; he could scarcely enunciate the words. The big clock

ticked and two was struck. Still Jim prayed, as one who hopes and clings

to any hope.

There were uneasy movements among the witnesses. The Sheriff said "Amen"

twice again, quite loudly so that no one else should interrupt, but he

was under a terrible strain. It was ten minutes after two when a shout

was heard from the outer office and a warden with a paper came running,

shrieking, "_Reprieve! Reprieve!_"

Jim turned to look and closed his prayer: "...and this we ask for

Jesus's sake"; then he fell flat upon the scaffold.

"I knew she would, I knew she would; Belle never failed me yet," were

the first words he uttered when he revived.

The Sheriff read the Governor's telegram to the crowd:

"Reprieve Michael Shay for three days."

As they led him back to the house of death, which was to him a house of

resurrection, there was the whistle of a special train followed by the

clatter of a carriage approaching the gate. Whoever it was had the right

of entry. Hurried footsteps were heard, and short, low words. Then the

doors swung wide for--the Governor himself, John Hopkins, and Belle.

White fear was on their faces till they met a warder who knew.

"All right, sir; we got it in time."

"Thank God!"

"Yes, sir; two hours after the time fixed. But the minister was in the

middle of his prayer and he didn't seem to finish till it came."

The party entered the death house, and at once were ushered into the

room where Shay and Jim were sitting. Jim was weak and worn looking. The

warden announced, "The Governor." Jim rose, and in a moment, Belle was

in his arms. "I knew you would. I knew you would. I got your message. I

prayed without ceasing. I would have been at it yet."

Mike Shay, calm until now, broke down. Tears ran from his small gray

eyes, and clutching the soft hand of his deliverer, he murmured: "There

ain't anything I got too good for the Hartigans. Ye--ye--ye--oh, God

damn it! I can't talk about it!" and he sobbed convulsively.

The Governor shook his hand and said: "Michael Shay, I think the danger

is over so far as you are concerned; all will be well now that Squeaks

is found." Shay mumbled a "thank you." "Don't thank me," replied the man

of power. "You may thank the loyal friends who found the trap and found

the answer and found the Governor, when almost any other man or woman

would have given up."

CHAPTER LIX

The Heart Hunger

When the flood rushes over the meadow and tears the surface smoothness,

it exposes the unmoved rock foundation; when the fire burns down the

flimsy woodwork, it shows in double force the unchanged girders of

steel. Storm and fire in double power and heat had been Jim's lot for

weeks and, in less degree, for months. Now there was a breathing spell,

a time to stop and look at the things beneath.

It was a little thing that gave Belle the real key to a puzzle. It

occurred one afternoon in the apartment and Belle saw it from the inner

room. Jim thought he was alone; he did not know she had returned. He

stood before the picture of Blazing Star, and lifting down the bunch of

sage he smelt it a long time, then sighed a little and put it back.

Belle saw and understood. The rock foundation was unchanged; he loved

and longed for the things he had always loved, and the experiences of

these months had but exposed the granite beneath. The thought that had

been in her heart since the day he put the ring on her finger, rose up

with appalling strength. "He gave up everything for me. I taught him

that his duty lay through college and then made him give that up for

me." She had been quick enough to mark the little turnings of his spirit

toward the West when there were times of relaxation or unguardedness.

But she had hitherto set them down to a general wish to visit former

scenes rather than to a deep, persistent, fundamental craving.

Many little things which she had noted in him came up before her now,

not as accidental fragments, but as surface outcroppings of the deep,

continuous, everlasting granite rock, the real longing of his nature;

and the strength of its fixity appalled her. As she watched from the

outer room on that epochal afternoon, she saw him kneel with his face to

the western sky and pray that the way might be opened, that he yet might

fulfil the vow he made to devote his life to bearing the message of the

Gospel. "Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done."

He sat long facing the glowing West which filled his window and then

rose and walked into the inner room. He was greatly astonished to find

Belle there, lying on the bed, apparently asleep. He sat down beside her

and took her hand. She opened her eyes slowly as though

awakening--gentle hypocrite.

"I didn't know you were back," he said. She closed her eyes again as

though they were heavy with sleep. It was a small fraud, but it set his

mind at ease, as she meant it should.

After a time, she roused herself and began with enthusiasm: "Oh, Jim, I

have had such a clear and lovely dream. I thought we were back at Cedar

Mountain, riding again in the sagebrush, with the prairie wind blowing

through our very souls."

She watched his face eagerly and saw the response she expected. It came

in larger measure than she had looked for. "I felt as though I could do

anything," she went on, "go anywhere or take any jump; and just as I was

riding full tilt at the Yellowbank Canyon, you took me by the hand and

held me back; then I awoke and you _did_ have my hand. Isn't it queer

the way dreams melt into reality?" She laughed happily and went on as if

he were opposing the project: "Why not, Jim? You need a holiday; why

shouldn't we go and drink a long deep draught of life in the hills and

sage? I know we'll get a clearer vision of life from the top of Cedar

Mountain than we can anywhere else."

"It seems too good to be true," he slowly answered, and his voice

trembled. Less than half an hour ago he had prayed for this and suddenly

the way seemed plain, if not yet open.

The winter and spring had gone, and the summer was dying. In all this

time the Hartigans had carried their daily, hourly burden, without halt

or change. Whatever of hardship there was, came in the form of thwarted

plans, heart-cravings for things they felt they must give up. Jim made

no mention of his disappointments and, so far as he could, he admitted

his hunger neither to himself nor to Belle. It was merely a matter of

form, applying for a month's leave; this had been agreed on from the

beginning. The largest difficulty was in the fact that they must go

together--the head and the second head both away at once. But there

were two good understudies ready trained--Skystein and Dr. Mary

Mudd--with Mr. Hopkins as chairman to balance their powers. Michael Shay

too, came to offer gruffly and huskily his help: "If I can do anything,

like puttin' up cash, or fixin' anybody that's workin' agin you, count

on Mike." Then after a pause he added, a little wistfully: "I ain't got

many real friends, but I want to have them know I'm real, and I know the

real thing when I find it."

A conference was finally held and the management of the Club was turned

over to the chairman and his aides for a month. Jim and Belle were like

children on leave from boarding school. They packed in wild hilarity and

took the first train the schedule afforded for Cedar Mountain.

CHAPTER LX

The Gateway and the Mountain

August with its deadening heat was over; September, bright, sunny and

tonic, was come to revive the world. Rank foliage was shaking off the

summer dust, and a myriad noisy insects were strumming, chirping,

fiddling, buzzing, screeping in the dense undergrowth. It was evening

when they boarded the train for the West and took the trail that both

had taken before, but never with such a background of events or such an

eagerness for what was in the future. As the train roared through the

fertile fields of Illinois, with their cornfields, their blackbirds and

their myriads of cattle, red and white, the sun went down--a red beacon

blaze, a bonfire welcome on their pathway just before the engine--a

promise and a symbol.

It was near noon the next day when they reached the junction and took,

the branch line for the north. The first prairie-dog town had set Jim

ablaze with schoolboy eagerness; and when a coyote stood and gazed at

the train, he rushed out on to the platform to give him the hunter's

yell.

"My, how sleek he looked! I wonder how those prairie dogs feel as they

see him stalk around their town, like a policeman among the South

Chicago kids!"

When a flock of prairie chickens flew before the train he called, "Look,

look, Belle! See how they sail, just as they used to do!" As though the

familiar sights of ten months before were forty years in the past.

They were in the hills now, and the winding train went more slowly.

Animal life was scarcer here, but the pine trees and the sombre peaks

were all about. At five o'clock the train swung down the gorge with

Cedar Mountain before it, and Jim cried in joy: "There's our mountain;

there's our mountain!"

There was a crowd assembled at the station and as soon as Jim appeared a

familiar voice shouted, "Here he is!" and, led by Shives, they gave a

hearty cheer. All the world of Cedar Mountain seemed there. Pa Boyd and

Ma Boyd came first to claim their own. Dr. Jebb and Dr. Carson forgot

their religious differences in the good fellowship of the time, and when

the inner circle had kissed Belle and manhandled Jim to the limit of

custom, a quiet voice said: "Welcome back, Mr. Hartigan," and Charlie

Bylow grasped the Preacher's hand. "I brought my team so I could take

care of your trunks." There was only one small trunk, but he took the

check and would have resented any other man having hand or say in the

matter.

That evening the meal was a "welcome home," for a dozen of the nearer

friends were there to hear the chapters of their hero's life. Jim was in

fine feather and he told of their Chicago life as none other could have

done, with jest and sly digs at himself and happy tributes to the one

who had held his hand when comradeship meant the most.

A month of freedom, with youth, sounds like years. Many plans were

offered to fill the time. An invitation came from Colonel and Mrs.

Waller to spend three days at Fort Ryan. In a delicately worded

postscript was the sentence: "Blazing Star is well and will be glad to

feel your weight again."

"Blazing Star and Cedar Mountain!" shouted Jim as Belle read the letter

the next morning at breakfast. And then, much to Pa Boyd's amusement he

broke out in his lusty baritone:

"'Tis my ain countree,

'Tis my ain countree!'

The fairest brightest land

That the sun did ever see."

Midnight and the horse that had been Belle's were waiting in the stable.

"Now, where shall we go? Up Cedar Mountain, to Fort Ryan, or where?"

asked Belle as they saddled their mounts. His answer was not what she

expected. Cedar Mountain had ever been in his thought. "If only I could

stand on Cedar Mountain!" had been his words so many times. And now,

with Cedar Mountain close at hand, in sight, he said: "Let's ride

nowhere in particular--just through the sage."

They set off and veered away from Fort Ryan and any other place where

men might cross their path. The prairie larks sang about them their

lovely autumn song--the short, sweet call that sounds like: "_Hear me,

hear me! I am the herald announcing the King._" Fluttering in the air

and floating for a moment above the riders they carolled a wild and

glorious serenade that has no possible rendition into human notation.

After a hard gallop they rode in silence side by side, hand in hand,

while Jim gazed across the plain or watched the fat, fumbling prairie

dogs. But ever he turned his face and heart away from Cedar Mountain.

At first it had been to him but a mighty pile of rocks; then it had

grown to be a spot beloved for its sacred memories. It had become a

symbol of his highest hopes--the blessed things he held too good for

words. He was riding now in the lust of youthful force; he was dwelling

not in the past; or the hopeful far-ahead; he was in the living _now_,

and, high or low, his instinct bade him drink the cup that came.

As the sun went down, he drew rein and paused with Belle to gaze at the

golden fringe that the cedars made on the mountain's edge in the glow.

He knew it and loved it in every light--best of all, perhaps, in its

morning mist, when the plains were yet gray and the rosy dawn was

touching its gleaming sides. He was content as yet to look on it from

afar. He would seek its pinnacle as he had done before, but something

within him said: "No; not yet."

And the wise young person at his side kept silence; a little puzzled but

content, and waiting, wisely waiting.

CHAPTER LXI

Clear Vision on the Mountain

Kind friends and hearty greetings awaited the Hartigans at the Fort.

Colonel Waller, Mrs. Waller, and the staff received them as long-lost

son and daughter; and with the least delay by decency allowed they went

to the stable to see Blazing Star, still Fort Ryan's pride. The whinnied

welcome and the soft-lipped fumbling after sugar were the outward tokens

of his gladness at the meeting.

"He's the same as ever, Jim," said the Colonel, "but we didn't race last

summer. Red Cloud came as usual, but asked for a handicap of six hundred

yards, which meant that they had not got a speeder they could trust. We

had trouble, too, with the Indian Bureau over the whole thing, so the

affair was called off. As far as we know now, Blazing Star is the racer

of the Plains, with Red Rover making a good second. He's in his prime

yet; he could still walk a stringer on a black night, and while you are

here at the Fort he's yours as much as you want to use him."

Jim's cup was filled to overflowing.

Their midday meal over, a ride was in order; first around the Fort among

the men--Captain Wayne, Osier Mike, Scout Al Rennie--then out over the

sagebrush flat. "Here's the old battle ground of the horses; here's

where you chased the coyote, and here's where Blazing Star took you over

the single stringer bridge on that black night." It was less than a year

he had been away, and yet Jim felt like one who was coming back to the

scenes of his boyhood, long gone by. His real boyhood in far-away Links

was of another world. Fightin' Bill Kenna, Whiskey Mason, the Rev.

Obadiah Champ, the stable and the sawmills, his mother--they were

dreams; even Chicago was less real than this; and he rode like a

schoolboy and yelled whenever a jack rabbit jumped ahead of his horse

and jerked its white tail in quick zigzags, exactly as its kind had done

in the days when he lived in the saddle.

After dinner, by the log fire in the Colonel's dining room, Mrs. Waller

raised the question of their plans. "Now, children" (she loved to be

maternal), "what do you want to do to-morrow?"

There was a time when Belle would have spoken first, but there had been

a subtle, yet very real, change in their relationship. Jim was a child

three years before, dependent almost entirely on her; now she was less

his leader than she had been. She waited.

Gazing at the fire, his long legs straight out and crossed at the

ankles, his hands clasped behind his head, he lounged luxuriously in a

great arm chair. Without turning his gaze from the burning logs he

began:

"If I could do exactly what I wished----"

"Which you may," interjected Mrs. Waller.

"I'd saddle Blazing Star and Red Rover at seven o'clock in the morning

and ride with Belle and not come back till noon."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Waller and the Colonel. "You children! You two

little, little ones! Well, we must remember that Belle is still a bride

and will be for another month, so we'll bid you Godspeed on the new

wedding trip and have your breakfast ready at half past six."

Early hours are the rule in a fort at the front, so the young folk were

not alone at breakfast. And when they rode away on their two splendid

horses, many eyes followed with delight the noble beauty of the pair--so

fitly mounted, so gladly young and strong.

"Now, where, Jim?" said Belle, as they left the gate and thundered over

the bridge at a mettlesome lope. And as she asked, she remembered that

that was the very question he used always to put to her.

"Belle" (he reined in Blazing Star), "I have been waiting till it seemed

just right--waiting for the very time, so we could stand again at our

shrine. Sometimes I think I know my way and the trail I ought to seek,

and sometimes I am filled with doubt; but I know I shall have the clear

vision if we stand again as we used to stand, above our world, beside

the Spirit Rock, on the high peak of our mountain."

And then, in the soft sign language of the rein let loose, the ribs

knee-nudged, they bade their horses go. Side by side they rode and swung

like newly mated honkers in the spring--like two centaurs, feeling in

themselves the power, the blood rush of their every bound. In less than

half an hour they passed the little town and were at the foot of Cedar

Mountain. The horses would have gone up at speed, but the riders held

them in, and the winding trail was slowly followed up.

The mountain jays flew round the pines before them as they climbed; an

eagle swung in circles, watching keenly; while, close at hand, the

squirrels dropped their cones to spring behind the trunks and chatter

challenge.

At the half-way ledge they halted for a breathing. Belle looked keenly,

gently into Jim's eyes. She was not sure what she saw. She wondered what

his thoughts were. The brightness of the morning, the joy of riding and

being, the fullness of freedom--these were in glowing reflex on his

face, but she had seen these before; yet never before had she seen his

face so tense and radiant. Only once, perhaps, that time when he came

home walking in the storm.

He smiled back at her, but said nothing. They rode again and in ten

minutes came to the end of the horse trail. He leaped from the saddle,

lifted her down, and tied the horses. With his strong hand under her

arm, he made it easy for her to climb the last steep path. A hundred

feet above, they reached the top, above the final trees, above the

nearer peaks, above all other things about them except the tall, gray

Spirit Rock. Below spread a great golden world; behind them a world of

green. The little wooden town seemed at the mountain's foot--Fort Ryan

almost in shouting hail, though it was six miles off; beyond, was the

open sea of sage, with heaving hills for billows and greasewood streaks

for foam.

Jim gazed in utter silence so long that she looked a little shyly at

him. His face was radiant, his eye was glistening, but he spoke no

words. The seat they had used a year before was there and he gently drew

her toward it. Seated there as of old, he put his arm about her and held

her to him. She whispered, "Make a fire." She had indeed interpreted his

thought. He rose, lighted a little fire on the altar at the foot of the

Spirit Rock, and the smoke rose up straight in the still air. It

ascended from the earth mystery of the fire to be lost in the mystery of

the above. How truly has it been the symbol of prayer since first man

kindled fire and prayed.

Jim took his Bible from his pocket and read from the metrical Psalm

CXXI:

I to the hills will lift mine eyes,

From whence doth come mine aid;

My safety cometh from the Lord

Who heaven and earth hath made.

"They always went up into the hills to pray, Belle, didn't they? The

fathers of the faith never went down into the valley when they sought

God's guidance. I don't know why, but I know that I don't feel the same,

away down there on the plains as I do up here. I see things more

clearly, I have more belief in Him and know He is near me.

"The clouds have been gathering in my mind pretty thick and dark; yes,

darker the last half year, Belle. I began to doubt myself as I never

did. Even when we were winning in our Chicago fight, I wondered whether

I was doing right. I couldn't see clearly, Belle, and then my doubt grew

stronger and even you could not understand; there was something within

that told me to go back to Cedar Mountain. Ever since we got here I have

been waiting for the moment when I could come to the mountain. From

here, a mile above the sea, I know that I shall see the way of wisdom. I

wonder if you know what that Rock means to me with that little thread of

smoke going up?

"Belle, men called Bill Kenna a ruffian and a brute. I guess he was,

too, but he had a brave, warm heart. His whole religion was to feed the

hungry and honour his word as a man. That was about all he taught me;

and he loved my mother--that's enough; it bit in deep. When I gave my

word as a man on that wild night four years ago when I heard the call, I

vowed that I would, from that time on, devote my strength to telling

others what I had found and try to make them find it, too. That was my

vow, Belle; I've tried to keep it. I gave up things out here because

they seemed to come between. I may be doing right in the city slum work,

but it is not what I set out to do; I am not keeping to the trail."

Poor Belle! The periods of vague unrest she had noted; that time of

fervent prayer; the reasons she had urged upon him for returning to

college, and the crisis in which she had forced him to give it up--all

now came back to her in quick succession. She remembered the weakness

that had so nearly ended all and how he had overmastered it--that

craving for drink, so strong from inheritance and from the evil habits

of his earliest manhood. Amid daily temptations of the Chicago life, it

had not seemed to touch him even as temptation. The horses that he loved

he had given up for principle. The surface plasticity he still showed

was merely the velvet that concealed the rod of steel and why he seemed

so weak she knew now, was that he was so young, so very immature, a man

in stature, a little happy child at heart. And the sting of sudden iron

hurt her soul.

To say that she was shamed by remorse would not be fair; but the sum of

her feelings was that he had given up all for her; she owed him

something to atone.

There is clear vision from the hilltop--the far-sight is in the high

place. The prophets have ever gone up into the high places for their

message. The uplift of Cedar Mountain was on his spirit and on hers. She

spoke softly, gravely, and slowly: "Jim, God surely brought me into your

life for a purpose and, if I am no help, then I have failed. As surely

as He sent us to Chicago to fight that fight and overcome the things

about as well as the things inside, He also sent us here to-day to show

our inmost souls, to get light on ourselves, to learn the way we must

go. I have learned, for my spirit's eyes are clearer now and here than

they ever were in my life before, and some things have come to me so

vividly that I take them as commands from Him who set this rock up here

and brought us in this frame of mind to see it. Jim, you must go back to

college; you must finish your course; you must carry out your vow and

consecrate yourself to spreading the gospel of His love."

Jim stared with glowing eyes as Belle went on: "I've thought it all out,

Jim. I know it is mine to open the way now, as once I closed it."

He clutched her in his arms and shook with a sudden storm of long

pent-up feeling, now bursting all restraint. He had no words; he framed

no speech; he was overwhelmed.

Why put it into words? They understood each other now. He had gone to

the city because that seemed the open way. He had taken up the purely

secular work of the club while his inmost soul cried out: "This is not

what you vowed; this is not the way to which you consecrated all your

life." It was for her sake he had turned aside, and now that she

announced the way of return, they came together as they never had; now

was she truly his in spirit as in law.

It was long before they spoke, and their words now were of other things.

The noon train was sounding at the bend; from the ledge below them

Blazing Star sent up a querulous whinny. Jim was calm again and Belle

was gently smiling, though her eyes still brimmed.

"We shall be late for the noon meal," he said, rising. For a moment they

stood before the Spirit Rock, and he said in words of the old, old Book:

"He carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain."

"It is good for us to be here."

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my

help."

They walked hand in hand and silently down the crooked trail to the

horses. He lifted her to the saddle and kissed her hand only; but their

eyes met in a burning look and their souls met face to face. Then they

turned and rode the downward trail, and on the level plain gave free

rein to the horses so that they went like hounds unleashed and skimmed

the plain and leaped the gulch nor stayed till they reached the Fort and

the friendly door where the soldier grooms were waiting.

* * * * *

They rode again the next day, circling the plain where the Indian race

had been run and pointing out familiar objects. Jim led the way to the

cottonwoods near where Higginbotham's "Insurance Office" had stood.

He stopped at the very spot and said: "Little girl, do you know what

happened here about a year ago?"

"What?" she answered, as though in doubt.

"Guess."

"I can't," she replied. She would not say it. If he wanted it said, he

must say it himself.

"It was here that I met 'Two Strikes.' Oh, what a blind fool I have

been! If God had only given me a little less body and a little more

brain! But it's all right. He knows best. He gave me you and I am

thankful for that."

"We understand each other better now, Jim, don't we? I know you were

only a child when I first saw you. You are a boy yet, but you will soon

be a man. Listen, Jim; I have not ceased to think it over since we stood

by the Spirit Rock. Do you remember what I said--you must go back to

college? I must open the way. And I will, Jim; I have it all planned

out. You must go back, not to Coulter, there are better colleges. They

do not all bar married men. There is one in Chicago; Chicago is our

gateway still. The Western Theological College is there. They will

accept your year at Coulter for entrance and one year's work. I think I

can get Mr. Hopkins to let me keep on with the Mountain House. My salary

and what we have saved will make us comfortable. I can help in all your

studies. In two years you will be through; then the Methodist Church, or

any other, will be glad to have you and the way will be open wide. I

will not fail you. You shall not fail to keep your word. And when we

know, as we cannot know now, you will see that God was guiding me. Maybe

He took you from Coulter because you were too young; surely He planned

for us and has led us at every turn in the trail. It seems crooked now,

but every rider in the hills knows that the crooks in the trail up Cedar

Mountain were made to elude some precipice or to win some height not

otherwise attainable; no other trail could end at the Spirit Rock, the

highest point, the calm and blessed outlook, the top of Cedar Mountain."

"Now, Belle, I understand. My heart told me to wait, then to go up the

mountain and find the thing I needed. I knew you would not fail; I knew

my mountain meant vision for you and me."

CHAPTER LXII

When He Walked With the King

He must have been a huge, unwieldy egotistical brute who said, "Big men

have ever big frames." He might have had Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott,

Lincoln or Washington in mind; but, standing ready there to hurl the

glib lie in his teeth, were Napoleon, Hamilton, St. Paul, Tamerlane, and

the Rev. Dr. Jo. Belloc, President of the Western Theological College in

Chicago. He was five feet high in his stockinged feet, thin and wiry,

with a large gray head, a short gray beard and keen gray eyes of

piercing intensity. When you saw him on the street, you hardly saw him

at all; when you met him in a crowded room, you felt that the spirit

behind those eyes was a strong one; and when you heard him speak, he

grew tall and taller in your eyes--you instinctively removed your hat,

for now you knew that a great man and teacher was here.

Why should such a one devote his power to mere denominationalism? Ah,

you do not understand. He answered thus to a hostile critic: "My friend,

the harvest is huge, the labourers are few; we need more, and many more

than we have. If they be of simple sort and not too strong, we teach

them the sweep and cut of the scythe, the width of the swathe, the

height of the stubble, the knot of the sheaf-band, all that is safe,

neither to waste the crop, nor their time, nor cut their fellow

harvesters in the legs. But, if we find a giant with his own mode, who

cuts a double swath, leaves ragged stubble, smashes oft his scythe, but

saves a wondrous lot of grain, we say: 'Praise God! You're doing well;

the rules are for the helpless as the fence is for the sheep; but you we

judge by your results; keep on.'"

Dr. Belloc was in his office when there came for an interview a man who

towered above him as they shook hands. The president motioned him to a

seat; then as he turned those piercing eyes on the comely countenance of

his caller, the prophet's description of the youthful David came to his

mind, "Now, he was ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance and

goodly to look to."

"What can I do for you?" asked the big little man who filled the room,

but did not fill the chair.

Jim modestly stated that he believed he had a call to preach the Gospel

and he wished to enter college. Then, in answer to questions, he told

his story with simple sincerity and fervour. The keen gray eyes were

glowing like coals, and although no word was spoken by the man whose

soul looked through them, Jim felt his earnest, kindly spirit. He felt,

as never before, that "here is one who understands. Here is one in whom

I have absolute confidence. Here is one whom I should love to obey."

This leader stirred Jim to the depths. His best, his inmost soul came

forth to speak in response to the master mind; and the older man smiled

when he heard how the Preacher had hated the books at Coulter.

"Coulter," he said, "is a good old college, we accept their entrance;

but it is quite likely that our curriculum may more quickly win your

interest than theirs did."

As the president pondered the question that had brought them together,

the second part of the lines of Samuel's description of David rose in

his mind: "Arise and anoint him, for this is he." But the college had

its own way of saying these big things; documents, questions, boards,

had each a bearing on the matter, or a drop of ink to spend, and each

offered a delay to the decisive action that the President had then and

there resolved on. But they slowly ran their course and in the early

autumn Jim was back, a college boy, and Belle had taken up the ruler's

post at the Club.

It was easier every month for Jim to fight the battle with the books,

where before he had been badly beaten. No doubt he was helped by his

determination to win the fight and by Belle; but the two great reasons

were that he, himself, was more developed--had outgrown the childish

restlessness of the first attempt; and last but strongest of all, was

the compelling personality of the president. With what consummate tact

had he first offered to Jim's wild spirit the concrete, the simple, the

history of to-day, the things that clearly were of immediate use; and

later--much later, and in lesser degree--the abstruse, the doctrinal.

And when the younger mind of the student came to a place that seemed too

hard, or met a teacher who was deadening in his dullness, it needed but

a little heart-to-heart talk with the strong soul in the robe to brace

him up, to spur him on.

The president soon discovered Jim's love for heroic verse and at once,

by wise selection, made it possible to tie that up with books. When Jim

betrayed his impatience of fine-split doctrines, the president bade him

forget them and read the lives of Luther, Calvin, and Wesley--take in

the facts; the principles, so far as they had value, would take care of

themselves. Such methods were unknown to his former teachers. Such

presentation--vivid, concrete, human--was what he could understand, and

accept with joy.

* * * * *

Two years went by. The first six months seemed slow; The last eighteen

all too rapid. Jim had won his fight, he had more than won, for he was

valedictorian of his class. The graduation class was much like any

other, as the world could see it, yet it differed, too. When the tall

form of the student speaker was left standing alone on the platform,

there were not lacking those who said: "Never before has one gone from

these halls so laden with good gifts; all, all seems showered on him."

In the audience, bound by closer ties than kinship, was one whose heart

was too full for any human utterance. For her it was the crowning of

their lives; had she not helped to make it possible?

After the set programme was over, Dr. Belloc handed to Jim an official

letter. It was a call to be the pastor of the church in Cedar Mountain.

Jim could not see the typed words for his tears and the president took

it from him to read aloud. As he listened to the words Jim's thought

turned to his mother, and in his heart he prayed: "O, God, grant this:

that she may see me now."

Reader of this tale, do you recall the history of Cedar Mountain--how

the church grew strong in the newly given strength? Those of many

diverse churches came, for they said: "We care not what the vessel's

shape that draws the blessed water from the well, so long as it be

always there and the water pure and plentiful." Then came the great gold

strike in the near hills; and the Preacher was troubled till he learned

that it had not touched his mountain. Another railway came, and the town

grew big and bigger yet. There were those that feared that their

Preacher might leave them, for the needs and calls of the great cities

are ever loud and forceful. They said: "Our town is not big enough for

such a man; he will surely go to the city." But it was not so; for the

city came to the man and mightily grew about him.

* * * * *

Two years after the return to Cedar Mountain, late in the day,

designedly late, two horses might have been seen ascending the crooked

trail through the cedars that mantled the mountain. Familiar forms were

these that rode. They had often taken this path before. The first was

the Preacher; the second, the woman that had held his hand. But in her

arms was another--the baby form of their first-born. This was their

first long ride together since he came, this was the elected trail; and,

as the big, red sun went down in the purple and gold of his curtains,

Jim took the baby and led the way up the last rough trail, to the little

upland, right to the Spirit Rock. The red symbols of the Indians had

been recently renewed; in a crevice was a shred of tobacco wrapped in

red-dyed grass. It was still a holy place, accounted so by those who

knew it.

From the bundle that he carried on his back, Jim took a handful of

firewood, a canteen of water, and a church baptismal bowl. He filled the

bowl and set it on the lowest ledge of the Spirit Rock. Before the rock

he lighted a little fire and, when it blazed, he dropped into the flames

the tobacco from the crevice. "That is what they wished done with it,"

he said in reverence. When the thread of smoke went up nearly straight

into the sky--an emblem of true prayer that has ever been--he kneeled,

and Belle beside him with the little one kneeled, and he prayed to the

God of the Mountain for continued help and guidance and returned thanks

for the little one whom they had brought that day to consecrate to Him.

Jim wished it. Belle willed it. His mother, he knew, would have had it

so. There seemed no better place than this, the holiest place his heart

had ever known. There was no better time than this, the evening calm,

with all the symbols of His Presence in their glory.

Belle handed the infant to Jim, who sprinkled water on its face,

baptizing it in the form of the Church, and then added: "I consecrate

thee to God's service, and I name thee William in memory of the friend

of my childhood, a man of wayward life, but one who helped to build

whatever there is in me of strength, for he never was afraid, and he

ever held his simple word as a bond that might not be broken."

THE END

BOOKS BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, 1898

The stories of Lobo, Silverspot, Molly Cottontail, Bingo, Vixen, The

Pacing Mustang, Wully and Redruff.

THE TRAIL OF THE SANDHILL STAG, 1899

The story of a long hunt that ended without a tragedy.

BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY, 1900

The story of old Wahb from cubhood to the scene in Death Gulch.

LOBO, RAG AND VIXEN, 1900

This is a school edition of number one, with some of the stories and

many of the pictures left out.

THE WILD ANIMAL PLAY, 1900

A musical play in which the parts of Lobo, Wahb, Vixen, etc., are taken

by boys and girls.

THE LIVES OF THE HUNTED, 1901

The stories of Krag, Randy, Johnny Bear, The Mother Teal, Chink, The

Kangaroo Rat, and Tito, the Coyote.

PICTURES OF WILD ANIMALS, 1901

Twelve large pictures for framing (no text), viz., Krag, Lobo, Tito Cub,

Kangaroo Rat, Grizzly, Buffalo, Bear Family, Johnny Bear, Sandhill Stag,

Coon Family, Courtaut the Wolf, Tito and her family.

KRAG AND JOHNNY BEAR, 1902

This is a school edition of Lives of the Hunted with some of the stories

and many of the pictures left out.

TWO LITTLE SAVAGES, 1903

A book of adventure and woodcraft and camping out for boys telling how

to make bows, arrows, moccasins, costumes, teepee, war-bonnet, etc., and

how to make a fire with rubbing sticks, read Indian signs, etc.

MONARCH, THE BIG BEAR OF TALLAC, 1904

The story of a big California grizzly that is living yet.

ANIMAL HEROES, 1905

The stories of a Slum Cat, a Homing Pigeon, The Wolf That Won, A Lynx, A

Jack-rabbit, A Bull-terrier, The Winnipeg Wolf, and a White Reindeer.

BIRCH-BARK ROLL, 1906

The Manual of the Woodcraft Indians, first edition, 1902.

WOODMYTH AND FABLE, 1905

A collection of fables, woodland verses, and camp stories.

THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, 1907

Showing the Ten Commandments to be fundamental laws of all creation.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SILVER FOX, 1909 or Domino Reynard of Goldur Town,

with 100 illustrations by the author.

A companion volume to the Biography of a Grizzly.

LIFE HISTORIES OF NORTHERN ANIMALS, 1909

Said by Roosevelt, Allen, Chapman, and Hornaday to be the best work ever

written on the Life Histories of American Animals.

BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA, 1910

A handbook of Woodcraft, Scouting, and Life Craft including the

Birch-Bark Roll.

ROLF IN THE WOODS, 1911

The Adventures of a Boy Scout with Indian Quonab and little dog Skookum.

Over 200 drawings by the author.

THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES, 1911

A canoe journey of 2,000 miles in search of the Caribou. 415 pages with

many maps, photographs, and illustrations by the author.

THE BOOK OF WOODCRAFT AND INDIAN LORE, 1912

with over 500 drawings by the author.

THE FORESTER'S MANUAL, 1912

One hundred of the best-known forest trees of eastern North America,

with 100 maps and more than 200 drawings.

WILD ANIMALS AT HOME, 1913

with over 150 sketches and photographs by the author.

In this Mr. Seton gives for the first time his personal adventures in

studying wild animals.

MANUAL OF THE WOODCRAFT INDIANS, 1915

The fourteenth Birch-Bark Roll.

WILD ANIMALS WAYS, 1916

More animal stories introducing a host of new four-footed friends with

200 illustrations by the author.

THE INDIAN SIGN LANGUAGE (to be published later).

BY MRS. ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

A WOMAN TENDERFOOT, 1901

A book of outdoor adventures and camping for women and girls. How to

dress for it, where to go, and how to profit the most by camp life.

NIMROD'S WIFE, 1907

A companion volume, giving Mrs. Seton's side of the many camp-fires she

and her husband lighted together in the Rockies from Canada to Mexico.