CHAPTER XXXIV—THE WILL OF THE MOB

Parsons had always been an unemotional man. His own character being

immune to the little twinging impulses of humanness that grow to

generous and unselfish deeds, he had looked with derision upon all

persons who betrayed concern for their fellow-men. And so Parsons had

lived apart from his fellows; he had watched them from across the gulf

of disinterest, where emotion was foreign.

But tonight Parsons was learning what emotion is. Not from others, but

from himself. Emotions—thousands of them seethed in his brain and

heart. He was in an advanced state of hysteria when he rode down the

Dawes trail with Marion Harlan. For there was the huge, implacable,

ruthless, and murderous Carrington, whom he had just passed on the

trail, to menace his very life—and he knew that just as soon as

Carrington returned to the big house and found Marion gone and the

guard dead, he would ride back to Dawes, seeking vengeance. And

Carrington would know it was Parsons who had robbed him of the girl;

for Carrington would inquire, and would discover that he had ridden

into town with Marion. And when Parsons and Marion rode into Dawes

fear, stark, abject, and naked, was in the man’s soul.

Dawes was aflame with light as the two passed down the street; and

Parsons left the girl to sit on her horse in front of a darkened

store, while he rode down the street, peering into other stores,

alight and inviting. He hardly knew what he did want. He knew,

however, that there was little time, for at any minute now Carrington

might come thundering into town on his errand of vengeance; and

whatever Parsons did must be done quickly.

He chose the second store he came to. He thought the place was a

billiard-room until he entered and stood just inside the door blinking

at the lights; and then he knew it was a saloon, for he saw the bar,

the back-bar behind it, littered with bottles, and many tables

scattered around. More, there were perhaps a hundred men in the

place—some of them drinking; and at the sight of them all, realizing

the mightiness of their number, Parsons raised his hands aloft and

screamed frenziedly:

“Men! There’s been a crime committed tonight! At the Huggins house!

Carrington did it! He abducted my niece! I want you men to help me!

Carrington is going to kill me! And I want you to protect my niece!”

For an instant after Parsons’ voice died in a breathless gasp, for he

blurted his story, the words coming in a stream, with hardly a pause

between them; there was an odd, strained silence. Then a man far back

in the room guffawed loudly:

“Plumb loco. Too much forty-rod!”

There was a half-hearted gale of laughter at the man’s taunt; and then

many men were around Parsons, ready to laugh and jeer. And while some

of the men peered at Parsons, cynically inspecting him for signs of

drunkenness, several others ran to the open door and looked out into

the street.

“There’s somethin’ in his yappin’, boys,” stated a man who returned

from the door; “there’s a gal out here, sure enough, setting on a

hoss, waitin’.”

There was a concerted rush outside to see the girl, and Parsons was

shoved and jostled until he, too, was forced to go out. And by the

time Parsons reached Marion’s side she had been questioned by the men.

And wrathful curses arose from the lips of men around her.

“Didn’t I know he was that kind of a skunk!” shouted a man near

Parsons. “I knowed it as soon as he beat Taylor out of the election!”

“I’m for stringin’ the scum up!” yelled another man. “This town can

git along without guys that go around abductin’ wimmen!”

There were still other lurid and threatening comments. And many

profane epithets rose, burdened with menace, for Carrington. But the

girl, humiliated, weak, and trembling, did not hear all of them. She

saw other men emerging from doorways—all of them running toward her to

join those who had come out of the saloon. And then she saw a woman

coming toward her, the men making a pathway for her—a motherly looking

woman who, when she came near the girl, smiled up at her

sympathetically and reached up her hands to help the girl out of the

saddle.

Marion slipped down, and the woman’s arms went around her. And with

many grimly pitying glances from the men in the crowd about her, which

parted to permit her to pass, she was led into a private dwelling at a

little distance down the street, into a cozy room where there were

signs of decency and refinement. The woman placed the girl in a chair,

and stood beside her, smoothing her hair and talking to her in low,

comforting tones; while outside a clamor rose and a confused mutter of

many voices out of which she began to catch sentences, such as:

“Let’s fan it to the big house an’ git him!”

“There’s too many crooks in this town—let’s run ’em out!”

“What in hell did he come here for?”

“Judge Littlefield is just as bad—he cheated Taylor out of the

election!” “That’s right,” answered another voice. “Taylor’s our man!”

“They are all wrought up over this, my dear,” said the woman. “For a

long time there has been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction over the

way they cheated Quinton Taylor out of the mayoralty. I don’t think it

was a bit fair. And,” she continued, “there are other things. They

have found out that Carrington is behind a scheme to steal the water

rights from the town—something he did to the board of directors of the

irrigation company, I believe. And he has had his councilmen pass laws

to widen some streets and open new ones. And the well-informed call it

a steal, too. Mr. Norton has stirred up a lot of sentiment against

Carrington and Danforth, and all the rest of them. Secretly, that is.

And there is that murder charge against Quinton Taylor,” went on the

woman. “That is preposterous! Taylor was the best friend Larry Harlan

ever had!”

But the girl turned her head, and her lips quivered, for the mention

of Taylor had brought back to her the poignant sense of loss that she

had felt when she had learned of the charge against Taylor. She bowed

her head and wept silently, the woman trying again to comfort her,

while outside the noise and tumult grew in volume—threatening

violence.

By the time Marion Harlan had dropped into the chair in the room of

the house into which the woman had taken her, the crowd that had

collected in the street was packed and jammed against the buildings on

each side of it.

Those who had come late demanded to be told what had happened; and

some men lifted Parsons to the back of his horse, and with their hands

on his legs, bracing him, Parsons repeated the story of what had

occurred. More—yielding to the frenzy that had now taken possession of

his senses, he told of Carrington’s plotting against the town; of the

man’s determination to loot and steal everything he could get his

hands on. He told them of his own culpability; he assured them he had

been as guilty as Carrington and Danforth—who was a mere tool, though

as unscrupulous as Carrington. He gave them an account of Carrington’s

stewardship of his own money; and he related the story of Carrington’s

friendship with the governor, connecting Carrington’s trip to the

capital with the stealing of the election from Taylor.

It is the psychology of the mob that it responds in some measure to

the frenzy of the man who agitates it. So it was with the great crowd

that now swarmed the wide street of Dawes. Partisan feeling—all

differences of opinion that in other times would have barred concerted

action—was swept away by the fervent appeal Parsons made, and by his

complete and scathing revelation of the iniquitous scheme to rob the

town.

A great sigh arose as Parsons finished and was drawn down, his hat

off, his hair ruffled, his eyes gleaming with the strength of the

terrible frenzy he was laboring under. The crowd muttered; voices rose

sharply; there was an impatient movement; a concerted stiffening of

bodies and a long pause, as of preparation.

Aroused, seething with passion, with a vindictive desire for action,

swift and ruthless, the crowd waited—waited for a leader. And while

the pause and the mutterings continued, the leader came.

It was the big, grim-faced Bothwell, at the head of the Arrow outfit.

With his horse in a dead run, the other horses of the outfit crowding

him close, Bothwell brought his horse to a sliding halt at the edge of

the crowd.

Bothwell’s eyes were ablaze with the light of battle; and he stood in

his stirrups, looming high above the heads of the men around him, and

shouted:

“Where’s my boss—Squint Taylor?” And before anyone could

answer—“Where’s that damned coyote Carrington? Where’s Danforth?

What’s wrong here?”

It was Parsons who answered him. Parsons, again clambering into the

saddle from which he had spoken, now shrieking shrilly:

“It’s Carrington’s work! He abducted Marion Harlan, my niece. He’s a

scoundrel and a thief, and he is trying to ruin this town!”

There was a short silence as Parsons slid again to the ground, and

then the man growled profanely:

“Let’s run the whole bunch out of town! Start somethin’, Bothwell!”

Bothwell laughed, a booming bellow of grim mirth that stirred the

crowd to movement. “We’ve been startin’ somethin’! This outfit is out

for a clean-up! There’s been too much sneakin’ an’ murderin’; an’ too

many fake warrants flyin’ around, with a bunch like them Keats guys

sent out to kill innocent men. Damn their hides! Let’s get ’em—all of

’em!”

He flung his horse around and leaped it between the other horses of

the Arrow outfit, sending it straight to the doors of the city hall.

Closing in behind him, the other members of the Arrow outfit followed;

and behind them the crowd, now able to center its passion upon

something definite, rushed forward—a yelling, muttering, turbulent

mass of men intent to destroy the things which the common conscience

loathes.

It seemed a lashing sea of retribution to Danforth and Judge

Littlefield, who were in the mayor’s office, a little group of their

political adherents around them. At the first sign of a disturbance,

Danforth had attempted to gather his official forces with the

intention of preserving order. But only these few had responded, and

they, white-faced, feeling their utter impotence, were standing in the

room, terror-stricken, when Bothwell and the men of the Arrow outfit,

with the crowd yelling behind them, entered the door of the office.

* * * * *

The little, broken-nosed man had done well to leave the vicinity of

the big house before Taylor arrived there. For when Taylor emerged

from the front room, in which the light still burned, his soul was

still in the grip of a lust to slay.

He was breathing fast when he emerged from the house, for what he saw

there had puzzled him—the guard lying on the floor and Marion gone—and

he stood for an instant on the porch, scanning the clearing and the

woods around the house with blazing eyes, his guns in hand.

The silence around the house was deep and solemn now, and over Taylor

stole a conviction that Carrington had sent Marion to Dawes in charge

of some of his men; having divined that he would come for her. But

Taylor did not act upon the conviction instantly. He ran to the

stable, stormed through it—and the other buildings in the cluster

around the ranchhouse; and finding no trace of men or girl, he at last

leaped on Spotted Tail and sent him thundering over the trail toward

Dawes.

When he arrived in town a swaying, shouting, shooting mob jammed the

streets. He brought his horse to a halt on the edge of the crowd that

packed the street in front of the city hall, and demanded to know what

was wrong.

The man shouted at him:

“Hell’s to pay! Carrington abducted Marion Harlan, an’ that little

guy—Parsons—rescued her. An’ Parsons made a speech, tellin’ folks what

Carrington an’ Danforth an’ all the rest of the sneakin’ coyotes have

done, an’ we’re runnin’ the scum out of town!” And then, before Taylor

could ask about the girl, the man raised his voice to a shrill yell:

“It’s Squint Taylor, boys! Squint Taylor! Stand back an’ let ol’

Squint take a hand in this here deal!”

There was a wild, concerted screech of joy. It rose like the shrieking

of a gale; it broke against the buildings that fringed the street; it

echoed and reechoed with terrific resonance back and forth over the

heads of the men in the crowd. It penetrated into the cozy room of a

private dwelling, where sat a girl who started at the sound and sat

erect, her face paling, her eyes, glowing with a light that made the

motherly looking woman say to her, softly:

“Ah, then you _do_ believe in him, my dear!”

* * * * *

It was when the noise and the tumult had subsided that Taylor went to

her. For he had been told where he might find her by men who smiled

sympathetically at his back as he walked down the street toward the

private dwelling.

She was at the door as soon as he, for she had been watching from one

of the front windows, and had seen him come toward the house.

And when the motherly looking woman saw them in each other’s arms, the

moon and the light from within the house revealing them to her, and to

the men in the crowd who watched from the street, she smiled gently.

What the two said to each other will never be known, for their words

were drowned in the cheer that rose from hoarse-voiced men who knew

that words are sometimes futile and unnecessary.