A LONG CHAPTER BUT A BUSY ONE, IN WHICH KENYON ADAMS AND HIS MOTHER HAVE
A STRANGE MEETING, AND LILA VAN DORN TAKES A NIGHT RIDE
The next morning at eight o'clock, Grant Adams came hurrying into
Brotherton's store. As he strode down the long store room, Brotherton
thought that Grant in his street clothes looked less of a person than
Grant in his overalls. But the big man rose like a frisky mountain in
earthquake and called:
"Hello there, Danton--going to shake down the furnace fires of
revolution this morning, I understand."
Grant stared at Brotherton. Solemnly he said, as he stood an awkward
moment before sitting. "Well, Mr. Brotherton, the time has come, when I
must fight. To-day is the day!"
"Yes," replied Brotherton, "I heard a few minutes ago that they were
going to run you out of the district to-day. The meeting in the
Commercial Club rooms is being called now."
"Yes," said Grant, "and I've been asked to appear before them."
"I guess they are going to try and bluff you out, Grant," said
Brotherton.
"I got wind of it last night," said Grant, "when they nailed up the last
hall in the Valley against me. One after another of the public halls has
been closed to me during the past year. But to-day is to be our first
public rally of the delegates of the Wahoo Valley Trades Council. We
have rented office rooms in the second floor of the Vanderbilt House in
South Harvey, and are coming out openly as an established labor
organization, ready for business in the Valley, and we are going to have
a big meeting--somewhere--I don't know where now, but somewhere--" his
face turned grim and a fanatic flame lighted his eyes as he spoke.
"Somewhere the delegates of the Council will meet to-night, and I shall
talk to them--or--"
"Soh, boss--soh, boss--don't get excited," counseled Mr. Brotherton.
"They'll blow off a little steam in the meeting this morning, and then
you go on about your business."
"But you don't know what I know, George Brotherton," protested Grant as
he leaned forward. "I have converted enough spies--oh, no--not counting
the spies who were converted merely to scare me--but enough real spies
to know that they mean business!" He stopped, and sitting back in his
chair again, he said grimly, "And so do I--I shall talk to the men
to-night, or--"
"All right, son; you'll talk or 'the boy, oh, where was he?' I'll tell
you what," cried Mr. Brotherton; "you'll fool around with the buzz saw
till you'll get killed. Now, look here, Grant--I'm for your revolution,
and six buckets of blood. But you can't afford to lose 'em! You're dead
right about the chains of slavery and all that sort of thing, but don't
get too excited about it. You live down there alone with your father and
he is talking to spooks, and you're talking to yourself; and you've got
a kind of ingrown idea of this thing. Give the Lord a little time, and
he'll work out this pizen in our social system. I'll help you, and maybe
before long Doc'll see the light and help you; but now you need a
regulator. You ought to have a wife and about six children to hook you
up to the ordinary course of nature! And see here, Grant," Mr.
Brotherton dropped a weighty hand on Grant's shoulder, "if you don't be
careful you'll furnish the ingredients of a public funeral, and where
will your revolution be then--and the boys in the Valley and your father
and Kenyon?"
While Brotherton was speaking, Grant sat with an impassive face. But
when Kenyon's name was uttered he looked up quickly and answered:
"That is why I am here this morning; it's about Kenyon. George
Brotherton, that boy is more than life to me." The fanatic light was
gone from Grant's eyes, and the soft glow in them revealed a man that
George Brotherton had not seen in years. "Mr. Brotherton," continued
Grant, "father is getting too old to do much for Kenyon. The Nesbits
have borne practically all the expense of educating him. But the Doctor
won't always be here." Again he hesitated. Then he went ahead as if he
had decided for the last time. "George Brotherton, if I should be
snuffed out, I want you to look after Kenyon--if ever he needs it. You
have no one, and--" Grant leaned forward and grasped Brotherton's great
hands and cried, "George Brotherton, if you knew the gold in that boy's
heart, and what he can do with a violin, and how his soul is unfolding
under the spell of his music. He's so dumb and tongue-tied and unformed
now; and yet--"
"Well--say!" It came out of Mr. Brotherton with a crash like a falling
tree, "Grant--well, say! Through sickness and health, for better or for
worse, till death do us part--if that will satisfy you." He put his big
paw over and grabbed Grant's steel hook and jerked him to his feet.
"You've sure sold Kenyon into bondage. When I saw him last night--honest
to God, man--I thought I'd run into a picture roaming around out of
stock without a frame! Him and me together can do Ariel and Prospero
without a scratch of make-up." Grant beamed, but when Brotherton
exclaimed as an afterthought, "Say, man, what about that boy's eyes?"
Grant's features mantled and the old grim look overcast his face, as
Brotherton went on: "Why, them eyes would make a madonna's look like
fried eggs! Where did he get 'em--they're not Sands and they're not
Adams. He must take back to some Peri that blew into Massachusetts from
an enchanted isle." Brotherton saw that he was annoying Grant in some
way. Often he realized that his language was not producing the desired
effect; so he veered about and said gently, "You're not in any danger,
Grant; but so long as I'm wearing clothes that button up the
front--don't worry about Kenyon, I'll look after him."
Five minutes later, Grant was standing in the front door of Brotherton's
store, gazing into Market Street. He saw Daniel Sands and Kyle Perry and
Tom Van Dorn walking out of one store and into the next. He saw John
Kollander in a new blue soldier uniform stalking through the street. He
saw the merchants gathering in small, volatile groups that kept forming
and re-forming, and he knew that Mr. Brotherton's classic language was
approximately correct when he said there was a hen on. Grant eyed the
crowd that was hurrying past him to the meeting like a hungry hound
watching a drove of chickens. Finally, when Grant saw that the last
straggler was in the hall, he turned and stalked heavily to the
Commercial Club rooms, yet he moved with the self-consciousness of one
urged by a great purpose. His head was bent in reflection. His hand held
his claw behind him, and his shoulders stooped. He knew his goal, but
the way was hard and uncertain, and he realized the peril of a strategic
misstep at the outset. Heavily he mounted the steps to the hall,
entered, and took a seat in the rear. He sat with his head bowed and his
gaze on the floor. He was aware that Judge Van Dorn was speaking; but
what the Judge was saying did not interest Grant. His mind seemed aloof
from the proceedings. Suddenly what he had prepared to say slipped out
of his consciousness completely, as he heard the Judge declare, "We deem
this, sir, a life and death struggle for our individual liberties; a
life and death struggle for our social order; a life and death struggle
for our continuance to exist as individuals." There was a long
repetition of the terms "life and death." They appealed to some tin-pan
rhythmic sense in the Judge's oratorical mind. But the phrase struck
fire in Grant Adams's heart. Life and death, life and death, rang
through his soul like a clamor of bells. "We have given our all,"
bellowed the Judge, "to make this Valley an industrial hive, where labor
may find employment--all of our savings, all of our heritage of
Anglo-Saxon organizing skill, and we view this life and death struggle
for its perpetuity--" But all Grant Adams heard of that sentence was
"life and death," as the great bell of his soul clanged its alarm. "We
are a happy, industrial family," intoned the Judge, the suave Judge, who
was something more than owner; who was Authority without responsibility,
who was the voice of the absentee master; the voice, it seemed to Grant,
of an enchanted peacock squawking in the garden of a dream; the voice
that cried: "and to him who would overthrow all this contentment, all
this admirable adjustment of industrial equilibrium we offer the life
and death alternative that is given to him who would violate a peaceful
home."
But all that Grant Adams sensed of his doom in the Judge's pronouncement
was the combat of death with life. Life and death were meeting for their
eternal struggle, and as the words resounded again and again in the
Judge's oratory, there rushed into Grant Adams's mind the phrase, "I am
the resurrection and the life," and he knew that in the life and death
struggle for progress, for justice, for a more abundant life on this
planet, it would be finally life and not death that would win.
As he sat blindly glaring at the floor, there may have stolen into his
being some ember from the strange flame burning about our earth, whose
touch makes men mad with the madness that men have, who come from the
wildernesses of life, from the lowly walks and waste places--the madness
of those who feed on locusts and wild honey; who, like St. Francis and
Savonarola, go forth on hopeless quests for the unattainable ideal, or
like John Brown, who burn in the scorching flame all the wisdom of the
schools and the courts, and for one glorious day shine forth with their
burning lives a beacon by which the world is lighted to its own sad
shame.
Grant never remembered what he said by way of introduction as he stood
staring at the crowd. It was a different crowd from audiences he knew.
To Grant it was the market place; merchants, professional men; clerks,
bankers,--well-dressed men, with pale, upturned faces stretched before
him to the rear of the hall. It was all black and white, and as his soul
cried "life and death" back of his conscious speech, the image came to
him that all these pale, black-clad figures were in their shrouds, and
that he was talking to the visible body of death--laid out stiffly
before him.
What answer he made to Van Dorn does not matter. Grant Adams could not
recall it when he had finished. But ever as he spoke through his being
throbbed the electrical beat of the words, "I am the resurrection and
the life." And he was exultant in the consciousness that in the struggle
of "life and death," life would surely win. So he stood and spoke with a
tongue of flame.
"If you have given all--and you have, we also have given all. But our
all is more vitally our all--than yours; for it is our bodies, our food
and clothing; our comfortable homes; our children's education, our
wives' strength; our babies' heritage; many of us have indeed given our
sons' integrity and our daughters' virtue. All these we have put into
the bargain with you. We have put them into the common hopper of this
industrial life, and you have taken the grain and we the chaff. It is
indeed a life and death struggle. And this happy family, this
well-balanced industrial adjustment, this hell of labor run through your
mills like grist, this is death; death is the name for all your wicked
system, that shrinks and cringes before God's ancient justice. 'I am the
resurrection and the life' was not spoken across the veil that rises
from the grave. It was spoken for men here in the flesh who shall soon
come into a more abundant life. Life and death, life and death are
struggling here this very hour, and you--you," he leaned forward shaking
his steel claw in their faces, "you and your greedy system of capital
are the doomed; you are death's embodiment."
Then came the outburst. All over the house rose cries. Men jumped from
their chairs and waved their arms. But Judge Van Dorn quieted them. He
knew that to attack Grant Adams physically at that meeting would inflame
the man's followers in the Valley. So he pounded the gavel for quiet. To
Adams he thundered, "Sit down, you villain!" Still the crowd hissed and
jeered. A great six-footer in new blue overalls, whom Grant knew as one
of the recent spies, one of the sluggers sent to the Valley, came
crowding to the front of the room. But Judge Van Dorn nodded him back.
When the Judge had stilled the tumult, he said in his sternest judicial
manner, "Now, Adams--we have heard enough of you. Leave this district.
Get out of this Valley. You have threatened us; we shall not protect you
in life or limb. You are given two hours to leave the Valley, and after
that you stay here at your own peril. If you try to hold your labor
council, don't ask us, whom you have scorned, to surround you with the
protection of the society you would overthrow in bloodshed. Now, go--get
out of here," he cried, with all the fire and fury that an outraged
respectability could muster. But Grant, turning, twisted his hook in the
Judge's coat, held him at arm's length, and leaning toward the crowd,
with the Judge all but dangling from his steel arm, cried: "I shall
speak in South Harvey to-night. This is indeed a life and death
struggle, and I shall preach the gospel of life. Life," he cried with a
trumpet voice, "life--the life of society, and its eternal resurrection
out of the forces of life that flow from the everlasting divine spring!"
After the crowd had left the hall, Grant hurried toward the street
leading to South Harvey. As he turned the corner, the man whom Grant had
seen in the hall met him, the man whom Grant recognized as a puddler in
one of the smelters. He came up, touched Grant on the shoulder and
asked:
"Adams?" Grant nodded.
"Are you going down to South Harvey?"
Grant replied, "Yes, I'm going to hold a meeting there to-night."
"Well, if you try," said the man, pushing his face close to Grant's,
"you'll get your head knocked off--that's all. We don't like your
kind--understand?" Grant looked at the man, took his measure physically
and returned:
"All right, there'll be some one around to pick it up--maybe!"
The man walked away, but turned to say:
"Mind now--you show up in South Harvey, and we'll fix you right!"
As Grant turned to board a South Harvey car, Judge Van Dorn caught his
arm, and said:
"Wait a minute, the next car will do."
The Judge's wife was with him, and Grant was shocked to see how
doll-like her face had become, how the lines of character had been
smoothed out, the eyelids stained, the eyebrows penciled, the lips
colored, until she had a bisque look that made him shudder. He had seen
faces like hers, and fancied that he knew their story.
"I would like to speak with you just a minute. Come up to the office.
Margaret, dearie," said Van Dorn, "you wait for me at Brotherton's." In
the office, Van Dorn squared himself before Grant and said:
"It's no use, sir. You can't hold a meeting there to-night--the thing's
set against you. I can't stop them, but I know the rough element there
will kill you if you try. You've done your best--why risk your head,
man--for no purpose? You can't make it--and it's dangerous for you to
try."
Grant looked at Van Dorn. Then he asked:
"You represent the Harvey Fuel Company, Judge?"
"Yes," replied the Judge with much pride of authority, "and we--"
Grant stopped him. "Judge," he said, "if you blow your horn--I'll ring
my bell and--If I don't hold my meeting to-night, your mines won't open
to-morrow morning." The Judge rose and led the way to the door.
"Oh, well," he sneered, "if you won't take advice, there's no need of
wasting time on you."
"No," answered Grant, "only remember what I've said."
When Grant alighted from the car in South Harvey, he found his puddler
friend waiting for him. The two went into the Vanderbilt House, where
Grant greeted Mrs. Williams, the landlady, as an old friend, and the
puddler cried: "Say, lady--if you keep this man--we'll burn your house."
"Well, burn it--it wouldn't be much loss," retorted the landlady, who
turned her back upon the puddler and said to Grant: "We've given you the
front room upstairs, Grant, for the committee. It has the outside
staircase. Your room is ready. You know the Local No. 10 boys from the
Independent are all coming around this afternoon--as soon as they learn
where the meeting is."
The puddler walked away and Grant went out into the street; looked up at
the wooden structure with the stairway rising from the sidewalk and
splitting the house in two. Mounting the stairs, he found a narrow hall,
leading down a long line of bedrooms. He realized that he must view his
location as a general looks over a battlefield.
The closing of the public halls to Grant and his cause had not
discouraged him. He knew that he still had the great free out-of-doors,
and he had thought that an open air meeting would give the cause
dramatic setting. He felt that to be barred from the halls of the Valley
helped rather than hurt his meeting. The barring proved to the workers
the righteousness of their demands. So Grant sallied forth to locate a
vacant lot; he shot out of his room full of the force of his enthusiasm,
but his force met another force as strong as his, and ruthless. God's
free out of doors, known and beloved of Grant from his boyhood, was
preempted: What he found in his quest for a meeting place was a large
red sign, "No trespassing," upon the nearest vacant lot, and a special
policeman parading back and forth in front of the lot on the sidewalk.
He found a score of lots similarly placarded and patrolled. He sent men
to Magnus and Foley scurrying like ants through the Valley, but no lot
was available.
Up town in Harvey, the ants also were busy. The company was sending men
over Market Street, picking out the few individuals who owned vacant
lots, leasing them for the month and preparing to justify the placarding
and patrolling that already had been done. One of the ants that went
hurrying out of the Sands hill on this errand, was John Kollander, and
after he had seen Wright & Perry and the few other merchants who owned
South Harvey real estate, he encountered Captain Ezra Morton, who
happened to have a vacant lot, given to the Captain in the first flush
of the South Harvey boom, in return for some service to Daniel Sands.
John Kollander explained his errand to the Captain, who nodded wisely,
and stroked his goatee meditatively.
"I got to think it over," he bawled, and walked away, leaving John
Kollander puzzled and dismayed. But Captain Morton spent no time in
academic debate. In half an hour he was in South Harvey, climbing the
stairs of the Vanderbilt House, and knocking at Grant Adams's door.
Throwing open the door Grant found Captain Morton, standing to attention
with a shotgun in his hands. The Captain marched in, turned a square
corner to a chair, but slumped into it with a relieved sigh.
"Well, Grant--I heard your speech this morning to the Merchants'
Association. You're crazy as a bed bug--eh? That's what I told 'em all.
And then they said to let you go to it--you couldn't get a hall, and the
company could keep you off the lots all over the Valley, and if you
tried to speak on the streets they'd run you in--what say?" His old eyes
snapped with some virility, and he lifted up his voice and cried:
"But 'y gory--is that the way to do a man, I says? No--why, that ain't
free speech! I remember when they done Garrison and Lovejoy and those
old boys that way before the war. I fit, bled and died for that,
Grant--eh? And I says to the girls this noon: 'Girls--your pa's got a
lot in South Harvey, over there next to the Red Dog saloon, that he got
way back when they were cheap, and now that the company's got all their
buildings up and don't want to buy any lots--why, they're cheaper
still--what say?'
"And 'y gory, I says to the girls--'If your ma was living I know what
she'd say. She'd say, "You just go over there and tell that Adams boy
that lot's hisn, and if any one tries to molest him, you blow 'em to
hell"--that's what your ma'd say'--only words to that effect--eh? And so
by the jumping John Rogers, Grant--here I am!"
He looked at the shotgun. "One load's bird shot--real fine and soft,
with a small charge of powder." He put his hand to his mouth sheepishly
and added apologetically, "I suppose I won't need it,--but I just put
the blamedest load of buck shot and powder in that right barrel you ever
saw--what say?"
Grant said: "Well, Captain--this isn't your fight. You don't believe in
what I'm talking about--you've proved your patriotism in a great war.
Don't get into this, Captain."
"Grant Adams," barked the Captain as if he were drilling his company, "I
believe if you're not a Socialist, you're just as bad. But 'y gory, I
fought for the right of free speech, and free meetings, and Socialist or
no Socialist, that's your right. I'm going to defend you on my own lot."
He rose again, straightened up in rheumatic pain, marched to the door,
saluted, and said:
"I brought my supper along with me. It's in my coat pocket. I'm going
over to the lot and sit there till you come. I know this class of people
down here. They ain't worth hell room, Grant," admonished the Captain
earnestly. "But if I'm not there, the company will crowd their men in on
that lot as sure as guns, when they know you are to meet there. And I'm
going there to guard it till you come. Good day--sir."
And with that he thumped limpingly down the narrow stairs, across the
little landing, out of the door and into the street.
Grant stood at the top of the stairs and watched him out of sight. Then
Grant pulled himself together, and went out to see the gathering members
of the Labor Council in the hotel office and the men of Local No. 10 to
announce the place of meeting. Later in the afternoon he met Nathan
Perry. When he told Nathan of the meeting, the young man cried in his
rasping Yankee voice:
"Good--you're no piker. They said they had scared the filling out of you
at the meeting this morning, and they've bragged they were going to beat
you up this afternoon and kill you to-night. You look pretty husky--but
watch out. They really are greatly excited."
"Well," replied Grant grimly, "I'll be there to-night."
"Nevertheless," returned Nathan, snapping off his words as though he was
cutting them with steel scissors, "Anne and I agreed to-day, that I must
come to Mrs. Williams's and take you to the meeting. They may get ugly
after dark."
Half an hour later on the street, Grant was passing his cousin Anne,
wheeling Daniel Kyle Perry out to take the air. He checked his hurried
step when he caught her smile and said, "Well, Anne, Nate told me that
you wish to send him over to the meeting to-night, as my body guard. I
don't need a body guard, and you keep Nate at home." He smiled down on
his cousin and for a moment all of the emotional storm in his face was
melted by the gentleness of that smile. "Anne," he said--"what a brick
you are!"
She laughed and gave him the full voltage of her joyous eyes and
answered:
"Grant, I'd rather be the widow of a man who would stand by you and what
you are doing, than to be the wife of a man who shrank from it." She
lowered her voice, "And Grant, here's a curious thing: this second Mrs.
Van Dorn called me up on the phone a little bit ago, and said she knew
you and I were cousins and that you and Nate were such friends, but
would I tell Nate to keep you away from any meeting to-night? She said
she couldn't tell me, but she had just learned some perfectly awful
things they were going to do, and she didn't want to see any trouble.
Wasn't that queer?"
Grant shook his head. "Well, what did you say?" he asked.
"Oh, I said that while they were doing such perfectly awful things to
you, your friends wouldn't be making lace doilies! And she rang off.
What do you think of it?" she asked.
"Just throwing a scare into me--under orders," responded the man and
hurried on.
When Grant returned to the hotel at supper time, he found Mr. Brotherton
sitting in a ramshackle rocking chair in the upstairs bedroom, waiting.
"I thought I'd come over and bring a couple of friends," explained Mr.
Brotherton, pointing to the corner, where two shotguns leaned against
the wall.
"Why, man," exclaimed Grant, "that's good of you, but in all the time
I've been in the work of organization, I've never carried a gun, nor had
one around. I don't want a gun, Mr. Brotherton."
"I do," returned the elder man, "and I'm here to say that moral force is
a grand thing, but in these latitudes when you poke Betsy Jane under the
nose of an erring comrade, he sees the truth with much more clearness
than otherwise. I stick to the gun--and you can go in hard for moral
suasion.
"Also," he added, "I've just taken a survey of these premises, and told
the missus to bring the supper up here. There may be an early curtain
raiser on this entertainment, and if they are going to chase you out of
town to-night, I want a good seat at the performance." He grinned. "Nate
Perry will join us in a little quiet social manslaughter. I called him
up an hour ago, and he said he'd be here at six-thirty. I think he's
coming now." In another minute the slim Yankee figure of Nathan was in
the room. It was scarcely dusk outside. Mrs. Williams came up with a
tray of food. As she set it down she said:
"There's a crowd around at the Hot Dog, you can see them through the
window."
Nate and Grant looked. Mr. Brotherton went into the supper. "Crowd all
right," assented Nate. There was no mistaking the crowd and its
intention. There were new men from the day shift at the smelter,
imported by the company to oppose the unions. A thousand such men had
been brought into the district within a few months.
"There's another saloon across the road here," said Mr. Brotherton,
looking up from his food. "My understanding is that they're going to
make headquarters across the street in Dick's Place. You know I got a
pipe-line in on the enemy through the Calvin girl. She gets it at home,
and her father gets it at the office. Our estimable natty little friend
Joe will be down here--he says to keep the peace. That's what he tells
at home. I know what he's coming for. Tom Van Dorn will sit in the back
room of that saloon and no one will know he's there, and Joseph will
issue Tom's orders. Lord," cried Mr. Brotherton, waving a triangle of
pie in his hand, "don't I know 'em like a book."
While he was talking the crowd slowly was swelling in front of the Hot
Dog saloon. It was a drinking and noisy crowd. Men who appeared to be
leaders were taking other men in to the bar, treating them, then
bringing them out again, and talking excitedly to them. The crowd grew
rapidly, and the noise multiplied. Another crowd was gathering--just a
knot of men down the street by the Company's store, in the opposite
direction from the Hot Dog crowd. Grant and Nate noticed the second
crowd at the same time. It was Local No. 10. Grant left the window and
lighted the lamp. He wrote on a piece of paper, a few lines, handed it
to Nathan, saying:
"Here, sign it with me." It read:
"Boys--whatever you do, don't start anything--of any kind--no matter
what happens to us. We can take care of ourselves."
Nathan Perry signed it, slipped down the stairs into the hall, and
beckoned to his men at the Company's store. The crowd at the Hot Dog saw
him and yelled, but Evan Evans came running for the note and took it
back. Little Tom Williams came up the stairs with Nathan, saying:
"Well--they're getting ready for business. I brought a gun up to No. 3
this afternoon. I'm with Grant in this."
The little landlord went into No. 3, appeared with a rifle, and came
bobbing into the room.
Grant at the window could see the crowd marching from the Hot Dog to
Dick's Place, yelling and cursing as it went. The group in the bedroom
over the street opened the street windows to see better and hear better.
An incandescent over the door of the saloon lighted the narrow street.
In front of the saloon and under the light the mob halted. The men in
the room with Grant were at the windows watching. Suddenly--as by some
prearranged order, four men with revolvers in their hands ran across the
street towards the hotel. Brotherton, Williams and Perry ran to the head
of the stairs, guns in hand. Grant followed them. There they stood when
the door below was thrown open, and the four men below rushed across the
small landing to the bottom of the stairs. It was dark in the upper
hall, but a light from the street flooded the lower hall. The men below
did not look up; they were on the stairs.
"Stop," shouted Brotherton with his great voice.
That halted them. They looked up into darkness. They could see no
faces--only four gun barrels. The men farthest up the stairs literally
fell into the arms of those below. Then the four men below scrambled
down the stairs as Mr. Brotherton roared:
"I'll kill the first man who puts his foot on the bottom step again."
With a cry of terror they rushed out. The crowd at the Company store
hooted, and the mob before the saloon jeered. But the four men scurried
across the street, and told the crowd what had happened. For a few
minutes no move was made. Then Grant, who had left the hallway and was
looking through the window, saw the little figure of Joseph Calvin
moving officiously among the men. He went into the saloon, and came out
again after a time. Then Grant cried to Brotherton at the head of the
stairs:
"Watch out--they're coming; more of them this time." And half a dozen
armed men rushed across the street and appeared at the door of the
hallway.
"Stop," yelled Brotherton--whose great voice itself sounded a terrifying
alarm in the darkened hallway. The feet of two men were on the first
steps of the stairs--they looked up and saw three gun barrels pointing
down at them, and heard Brotherton call "one--two--three," but before he
could say "fire" the men fell back panic stricken and ran out of the
place.
The crowd left the sidewalk and moved into the saloon, and the street
was deserted for a time. Local No. 10 held its post down by the Company
Store. It seemed like an age to the men at the head of the stairs. Yet
Mr. Brotherton's easy running fire of ribaldry never stopped. He was
excited and language came from his throat without restraint.
Then Grant's quick ear caught a sound that made him shudder. It was far
away, a shrill high note; in a few seconds the note was repeated, and
with it the animal cry one never mistakes who hears it--the cry of an
angry mob. They could hear it roaring over the bridge upon the Wahoo and
they knew it was the mob from Magnus, Plain Valley and Foley coming. On
it came, with its high-keyed horror growing louder and louder. It turned
into the street and came roaring and whining down to the meeting place
at the saloon. It filled the street. Then appeared Mr. Calvin following
a saloon porter, who was rolling a whiskey barrel from the saloon. The
porter knocked in the head, and threw tin cups to the crowd.
"What do you think of that for a praying Christian?" snarled Mr.
Brotherton. No one answered Mr. Brotherton, for the whiskey soon began
to make the crowd noisy. But the leaders waited for the whiskey to make
the crowd brave. The next moment, Van Dorn's automobile--the old one,
not the new one--came chugging up. Grant, at the window, looked out and
turned deathly sick. For he saw the puddler who had bullied him during
the day get out of the car, and in the puddler's grasp was Kenyon--with
white face, but not whimpering.
The men made way for the puddler, who hurried the boy into the saloon.
Grant did not speak, but stood unnerved and horror-stricken staring at
the saloon door which had swallowed up the boy.
"Well, for God--" cried Brotherton.
"A screen--they're going to use the boy as a shield--the damn cowards!"
rasped Nathan Perry.
The little Welshman moaned. And the three men stood staring at Grant
whose eyes did not shift from the saloon door. He was rigid and his
face, which trembled for a moment, set like molten bronze.
"If I surrender now, if they beat me here with anything less than my
death, the whole work of years is gone--the long struggle of these men
for their rights." He spoke not to his companions, but through them to
himself. "I can't give up--not even for Kenyon," he cried. "Tom--Tom,"
Grant turned to the little Welshman. "You stood by and heard Dick Bowman
order Mugs to hold the shovel over my face! Did he shrink? Well, this
cause is the life and death struggle of all the Dicks in the Valley--not
for just this week, but for always."
Below the crowd was hushed. Joe Calvin had appeared and was giving
orders in a low tone. The hulking figure of the puddler could be seen
picking out his men; he had three set off in a squad. The men in the
room could see the big beads of sweat stand out on Grant's forehead.
"Kenyon--Kenyon," he cried in agony. Then George Brotherton let out his
bellow, "Grant--look here--do you think I'm going to fire on--"
But the next minute the group at the window saw something that made even
George Brotherton's bull voice stop. Into the drab street below flashed
something all red. It was the Van Dorn motor car, the new one. But the
red of the car was subdued beside the scarlet of the woman in the back
seat--a woman without hat or coat, holding something in her arms. The
men at the window could not see what those saw in the street; but they
could see Joe Calvin fall back; could see the consternation on his face,
could see him waving his hands to the crowd to clear the way. And then
those at the window above saw Margaret Van Dorn rise in the car and they
heard her call, "Joe Calvin! Joe Calvin--" she screamed, "bring my
husband out from behind that wine room door--quick--quick," she
shrieked, "quick, I say."
The mob parted for her. The men at the hotel window could not see what
she had in her arms. She made the driver wheel, drive to the opposite
side of the street directly under the hotel window--directly in front of
the besieged door. In another instant Van Dorn, ghastly with rage, came
bare-headed out of the saloon. He ran across the street crying:
"You she devil, what do you--"
But he stopped without finishing his sentence. The men above looked down
at what he was looking at and saw a child--Tom Van Dorn's child, Lila,
in the car.
"My God, Margaret--what does this mean?" he almost whispered in terror.
"It means," returned the strident voice of the woman, "that when you
sent for your car and the driver told me he was going to Adamses--I knew
why--from what you said, and now, by God," she screamed, "give me that
boy--or this girl goes to the union men as their shield."
Van Dorn did not speak. His mouth seemed about to begin, but she stopped
him, crying:
"And if you touch her I'll kill you both. And the child goes first."
The woman had lost control of her voice. She swung a pistol toward the
child.
"Give me that boy!" she shrieked, and Van Dorn, dumb and amazed, stood
staring at her. "Tell them to bring that boy before I count five: One,
two," she shouted, "three--"
"Oh, Joe," called Van Dorn as his whole body began to tremble, "bring
the Adams boy quick--here!" His voice broke into a shriek with nervous
agitation and the word "here" was uttered with a piercing yell, that
made the crowd wince.
Calvin brought Kenyon out and sent him across the street. Grant opened a
window and called out: "Get into the car with Lila, Kenyon--please."
The woman in the car cried: "Grant, Grant, is that you up there? They
were going to murder the boy, Grant. Do you want his child up there?"
She looked up and the arc light before the hotel revealed her tragic,
shattered face--a wreck of a face, crumpled and all out of line and
focus as the flickering glare of the arc-light fell upon it. "Shall I
send you his child?" she babbled hysterically, keeping the revolver
pointed at Lila--"His child that he's silly about?"
Van Dorn started for her car, but Brotherton at the window bellowed
across a gun sight: "Move an inch and I'll shoot."
Grant called down: "Margaret, take Lila and Kenyon home, please."
Then, with Mr. Brotherton's gun covering the father in the street below,
the driver of the car turned it carefully through the parting crowd, and
was gone as mysteriously and as quickly as he came.
"Now," cried Mr. Brotherton, still sighting down the gun barrel pointed
at Van Dorn, standing alone in the middle of the street, "you make
tracks, and don't you go to that saloon either--you go home to the bosom
of your family. Stop," roared Mr. Brotherton, as the man tried to break
into a run. Van Dorn stopped. "Go down to the Company store where the
union men are," commanded Mr. Brotherton. "They will take you home.
"Hey--you Local No. 10," howled the great bull voice of Brotherton. "You
fellows take this man home to his own vine and fig tree."
Van Dorn, looking ever behind him for help that did not come, edged down
the street and into the arms of Local No. 10, and was swallowed up in
that crowd. A rock from across the street crashed through the window
where the gun barrels were protruding, but there was no fire in return.
Another rock and another came. But there was no firing.
Grant, who knew something of mobs, felt instinctively that the trouble
was over. Nathan and Brotherton agreed. They stood for a time--a long
time it seemed to them--guarding the stairs. Then some one struck a
match and looked at his watch. It was half past eight. It was too late
for Grant to hold his meeting. But he felt strongly that the exit of Van
Dorn had left the crowd without a leader and that the fight of the night
was won.
"Well," said Grant, drawing a deep breath. "They'll not run me out of
town to-night. I could go to the lot now and hold the meeting; but it's
late and it will be better to wait until to-morrow night. They should
sleep this off--I'm going to talk to them."
He stepped to an iron balcony outside the window and putting his hands
to his mouth uttered a long horn-like blast. The men saw him across the
street. "Come over here, all of you--" he called. "I want to talk to
you--just a minute."
The crowd moved, first one or two, then three or four, then by tens.
Soon the crowd stood below looking up half curiously--half angrily.
"You see, men," he smiled as he shoved his hand in his pocket, and put
his head humorously on one side:
"We are more hospitable when you all come than when you send your
delegations. It's more democratic this way--just to kind of meet out
here like a big family and talk it over. Some way," he laughed, "your
delegates were in a hurry to go back and report. Well, now, that was
right. That is true representative government. You sent 'em, they came;
were satisfied and went back and told you all about it." The crowd
laughed. He knew when they laughed that he could talk on. "But you see,
I believe in democratic government. I want you all to come and talk this
matter over--not just a few."
He paused; then began again: "Now, men, it's late. I've got so much to
say I don't want to begin now. I don't like to have Tom Van Dorn and Joe
Calvin divide time with me. I want the whole evening to myself. And," he
leaned over clicking his iron claw on the balcony railing while his jaw
showed the play of muscles in the light from below, "what's more I'm
going to have it, if it takes all summer. Now then," he cried: "The
Labor Council of the Wahoo Valley will hold its meeting to-morrow night
at seven-thirty sharp on Captain Morton's vacant lot just the other side
of the Hot Dog saloon. I'll talk to that meeting. I want you to come to
that meeting and hear what we have to say about what we are trying to
do."
A few men clapped their hands. Grant Adams turned back into the room and
in due course the crowd slowly dissolved. At ten o'clock he was standing
in the door of the Vanderbilt House looking at his watch, ready to turn
in for the night. Suddenly he remembered the Captain. He hurried around
to the Hot Dog, and there peering into the darkness of the vacant lot
saw the Captain with his gun on his shoulder pacing back and forth, a
silent, faithful sentry, unrelieved from duty.
When Grant had relieved him and told him that the trouble was over, the
little old man looked up with his snappy eyes and his dried, weazened
smile and said: "'Y gory, man--I'm glad you come. I was just a-thinking
I bet them girls of mine haven't cooked any potatoes to go with the meat
to make hash for breakfast--eh? and I'm strong for hash."