GORDON LANDS AT SNAKE'S FALL
Gordon sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then one blood-stained hand went up
to his head, and its fingers passed through his ruffled hair. It
smoothed its way down one cheek, and finally dropped to the ground on
which he was sitting.
Where was he?
Suddenly he became aware of the metal track in front of him,
and--remembered. He glanced down the track. Far in the distance he
could see the speeding train. Then his eyes came back to his immediate
surroundings, and discovered that he was sitting on the boarded footway
of a small country railroad depot.
How did he get there? How on earth did he get there?
As no answer to his mute inquiry was forthcoming he explored further.
He discovered that his grip and overcoat were beside him, also his hat.
And some distance away a number of loungers were idly watching him,
with a smile of profound amusement on every face.
The latter discovery filled him with a swiftly rising resentment, and,
grabbing his hat and thrusting it on his head, he leaped to his feet.
He had no intention of permitting amusement at his expense.
"I guess you sure had some good time," said a deep, musical voice at
his elbow.
Gordon swung about and stood confronting the man, One Eye, whom he had
seen in the train. For a moment he had it in mind to make some
furiously resentful retort. But the man's appearance held his
curiosity and diverted his purpose. The patch had been removed from
his second eye, which now beamed upon him in company with its fellow.
"Guess these are yours," the man went on, thrusting a roll of bills out
towards him. "That 'sharp' dropped his wad during the scrap. I hated
to think a grafting train boss was goin' to collect it. You see, I
guessed how that scrap would end."
"Are they mine?" Gordon was not quite sure he wasn't dreaming.
"Mostly."
The stranger's reply was full of dry humor. Suddenly Gordon's eyes lit.
"Where is that 'sharp'? I haven't done with----"
The stranger pointed after the train.
"You'll need to hustle some."
The anger died out of Gordon's eyes and he began to laugh. With some
diffidence he accepted the money.
"Say, it's--mighty decent of you," he cried cordially. Then, for want
of better means of expression, "Mighty decent."
The two men stood steadily regarding each other. Tall and broad as
Gordon was, the stranger was no less. But he added to his stature the
massiveness of additional years.
Gordon's feelings were under perfect control now. His eyes began to
brighten with their native humor. He was longing to solve the mystery
of that eye-shade which had disappeared from his companion's face, but
was constrained to check his curiosity.
"You said you guessed how the scrap would end?" he said. "There's a
sort of blank in my--memory. I mean about the finish."
The big stranger began to rumble in his throat. To Gordon the sound
was comforting in its wholesome enjoyment.
"It don't need a heap of guessing when a train 'sharp,' who's got the
conductor grafted from his brassbound cap to the soles of his rotten
feet, gets into a scrap how things are going to end. I'd sort of hoped
you'd 'out' him before the crew come along. Guess you'd have done it
if there'd been more room. That's the worst of scrappin' in a railroad
car," he added regretfully. "That train boss got along with his crew
and threw you out--on your head. They kept the 'sharp' aboard, being
well grafted, and figgered to hold up your baggage. I guessed
diff'rently. That all your baggage?" he inquired anxiously.
Gordon gazed down at the grip and coat.
"That's all," he said. Then he impulsively threw out a hand, and the
stranger took it. "It's decent--mighty decent of you." Again his
buoyant laugh rang out. "Say, I surely do seem to have had some good
time."
The twinkling eyes of the stranger nearly closed up in a cordial grin.
"Seems to me you're fixed here till to-morrow, anyway. There ain't any
sort of train west till then. You best come along over to the hotel.
They call it 'hotel' hereabouts. I'm goin' that way."
Gordon agreed, gathered up his property, and fell in beside his
companion.
They moved across the track, and as they went he caught some impression
of the ragged little prairie town at which he had so inadvertently
arrived. There seemed to him to be but a single, unpaved street,
consisting of virgin prairie beaten bare and hard by local traffic.
This was lined on one side by a fringe of wooden houses of every size
and condition, with gaps here and there for roads, yet to be made,
turning out of it. These houses were mostly of a commercial nature.
Back of this he vaguely understood there to be a sparse dotting of
other houses, but their purpose and arrangement remained a mystery to
him. Still farther afield he beheld the green eminence of foothills,
and still farther on, away in the distance, the snowy ramparts of the
Rocky Mountains. The town seemed to occupy only one side of the
track--the south side. The depot was beyond it, on the other.
They picked their way across the track and debouched upon the Main
Street, the name of which Gordon discovered painted in indifferent
characters upon a disreputable signboard. Then they turned westwards
in the direction of an isolated building rather larger than anything
else in the village.
After awhile, as his companion made no further effort at conversation,
Gordon's interest and curiosity refused to permit the continued silence.
"What State are we in?" he inquired.
"Montana."
Gordon glanced quickly at his companion.
"What place is this?"
"Snake's Fall."
The announcement set Gordon laughing.
"What's amiss with Snake's Fall?" inquired the other sharply.
"Why, nothing. I was just thinking. You see, the conductor told me
'most everybody was making for Snake's Fall on the train. I'm sorry
that 'sharp' wasn't. Say----"
"What?"
Gordon laughed again.
"I remember you in the smoker, only--you seemed to have a--a patch over
your left eye."
"Sure."
"Now you haven't got it?"
"No."
"I'm not curious, only----"
The stranger's eyes lit ironically.
"Sure you ain't. That's the hotel. Peter McSwain's. He's the boss.
He's a friend of mine, an' I guess he'll fix you right for the night."
The snub was decided but gentle. The man's deep, musical voice
contained no suggestion of displeasure. However, he had made the other
feel that he had been guilty of unpardonable rudeness.
He was reduced to silence for the rest of the journey to the hotel, and
gave himself up to consideration of this new position in which he now
found himself. The one great fact that stood out in his mind was that
he had gained another day on the wrong side of his ledger, and, however
wrong he had been in his first attempt at fortune, his course had been
hopelessly diverted into a still more impossible channel. The
absurdity of the situation inclined him to amusement, but the knowledge
of the real seriousness of it held him troubled.
As they neared the hotel his curiosity further made itself felt. The
place was an ordinary frame building with a veranda. It was square and
squat, like a box. It was two-storied, with windows, five in all, and
a center doorway. These were dotted on the face of it like raisins in
a pudding. Its original paint was undoubtedly white, but that seemed
to have long since succumbed to the influence of the weather, and now
suggested a hopeless hue which was anything but inspiriting.
Leaning against the door-casing, in his shirt-sleeves, was a smallish,
florid man with ruddy hair. His waistcoat was almost as cheerful as
his face, and, judging by the sound of his voice as he talked to a
number of men lounging on the veranda, the latter quite matched the
pattern of his violently checked trousers.
"That's Peter," remarked One Eye, the name, failing a better, Gordon
still thought of his companion by. "He's a bright boy, is Peter," he
added, chuckling.
"The proprietor of the--hotel?" said Gordon, interested.
"Sure."
Then a hail reached them from the veranda.
"Got back, Silas?" cried the loud-voiced hotel-keeper.
"Just what you say yourself," retorted Silas amiably. "Seems to me I
bought a ticket and just got off the train. Still, ther' ain't nothing
certain in this world except--graft."
"That's so," laughed the other. "Still, ther' ain't much of a shadow
'bout you, so we'll take it as real. Who's your friend?"
The hotel-keeper eyed Gordon with a view to trade. The man called
Silas laughed and turned to Gordon.
"Guess I didn't get your name. Mine's Mallinsbee--Silas Mallinsbee.
I'm a rancher, way out ther' in the foothills."
Gordon thought for a moment. Then he decided to use two of his given
names in preference to his father's.
"Mine's Gordon Van Henslaer. Glad to meet you."
"Van Henslaer?" Mallinsbee's eyes twinkled. "Guess the first and last
letters on your grip are spare. Kind of belong back east. How-do?"
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to McSwain and the men on
the veranda who were interestedly surveying Gordon. "This is Mister
Gordon Van Henslaer from New York. Thought he'd like to break his
journey west and get a look around Snake's Fall."
Gordon laughed.
"I was persuaded at the last minute," he added. "Can you let me have a
room?"
McSwain became active.
"Sure. Guess we're pretty busy these times, with the town gettin'
ready to boom. But I guess I ken fix any friend of Silas Mallinsbee.
Ther's a room they calculated makin' into a bathroom back of the house,
but some slick Alec figured the boys of Snake's Fall were prejudiced,
so cut it out. It's small, but we got a bed fixed ther', an' you ken
clean yourself at the trough out back. Come right along in."
Gordon was half inclined to protest, but Mallinsbee's voice came
opportunely--
"I told you Peter 'ud fix you right. I've slept in that room myself,
and you'll find it elegant sleepin', if you don't get a nightmare and
get jumping around. We'll go right in."
Gordon's protest died on his lips. Mr. Mallinsbee had a persuasion all
his own. There was a humorous geniality about him that was quite
irresistible to the younger man, nor could he forget the manner in
which he had helped him after the debacle on the train. He felt that
it would have been churlish to refuse his good offices.
They passed into the building. The office was plainly furnished. A
few Windsor chairs, a table, an empty stove, a few nigger pictures on
the walls, and a large register for guests' names. This was the whole
scheme.
Gordon flung down his grip.
"Well, I'm thankful to be off that train, anyway," he said. "Sign
here, eh?" as Peter threw the book towards him. "Say," he added,
glancing at the list of names above his, "you sure are busy."
Peter grinned complacently, while Mallinsbee looked on.
"You've hit this city at the psychological moment in its history, sir,"
he declared expansively. "You've hit it, sir, when, if I ken be
allowed to use the expression, the snow's gone an' all the earth's jest
bustin' with new life. You've hit it, sir, when fortunes are just
going to start right into full growth with all the impetus of virgin
soil. Snake's Fall, sir, is about to become the greatest proposition
in the Western States, as a sure thing for soaking dollars into it.
And here, sir, standing right at your elbow, is the courage, enterprise
and intellect that's made it that way. Mr. Silas Mallinsbee is the
father of this city, sir; he's more--he's the creator of it. And, sir,
I congratulate you on the friendship of such a man, a friendship, sir,
in which I have the honor to share."
He grabbed a filthy piece of blotting-paper and dabbed it cheerfully
over Gordon's name in the book, while the latter smiled at the monument
of enterprise himself.
"I was quite unaware----" he began. But Mallinsbee cut him short.
"Peter's a good feller," he declared, "but some seven sorts of a galoot
once told him he ought to go into Congress, and he's been talking ever
since. Ther's jest one thing 'll stop Peter talking, and that's
orderin' a drink. Which I'm doin' right now. Peter, you'll jest hand
us two cocktails. Your specials. And take what you like yourself."
Peter accepted the order with alacrity. His admiration of and
friendship for Mallinsbee could not be doubted for a moment. And
somehow Gordon felt it was a good sign. He returned in a few moments
with the cocktails, and a glass of rye whiskey for himself.
"I know a better play than my special cocktails," he said, a huge wink
distorting most of his ginger-hued features. "They're all right for
customers, but I ain't no use fer picklin' my liver. How?"
"Here's to the extermination of all 'sharps,'" said Mallinsbee in his
deep, rolling voice, and with a meaning glance in Gordon's direction.
Gordon nodded.
"And here's to the confusion of graft and grafters."
All three drank and set their glasses down.
"Graft?" said Mallinsbee thoughtfully. Then he shrugged his massive
shoulders and laughed. "It's not a heap of use blaming grafters for
their graft. They can't help it, any more than you can help scrappin'
when a feller hits your wad on the crook. Graft--why, I just hate to
think of the ways of graft. But you can't get through life without it;
anyway, not life on this earth. I used to think graft a specialty of
this country, but guess I was wrong. I'd localized. It don't belong
to any one country more than another. It belongs to life; to our human
civilization. It's the time limit of life causes the trouble. Nature
makes it a cinch we've all got to be rounded up in the get-rich-quick
corral. We start life foolish. Then for a while we get a sight more
foolish. Then for a few mousy years we take on quite a nice bunch of
sense. After that we start getting foolish again, and then the time
limit comes right down on the backs of our necks like an ax. Well, I
guess those years of sense are so mighty few we've got to get rich
quick against the time we start on the foolish racket again, and graft,
of one sort or another, is the short cut necessary.
"You see, there's every sort of graft. All through life we're looking
around for something we ain't got. Did you ever see a kid around his
parents? Graft; it's all graft. No kiddy ever acted right because he
fancied that way. He's lookin' ahead fer something he's needing, and
his pop or his momma are the folks to pass it along to him. Did you
ever know a kid take his physic without the promise of candy, or the
certainty it would come his way? That's graft. Say, ain't the gal you
fancy the biggest graft of all? You don't get nowhere with her without
graft. She'll eat up everything you can hand her, from automobiles and
jewels down to five-cent candy. Then when you've started getting old
and sick and foolish again, having grafted a pile out of life yourself,
don't every grafter you ever knew come around an' hand you cures and
listen to your senile wisdom just as though they thought you the
greatest proposition ever and hated to see you sick? That's graft.
You've got a pile and they're needin' it."
The twinkle in the big man's eyes while he was talking found a joyous
response in Gordon's. The tongue in the cheek of this native of
Snake's Fall pleased him mightily. But the wide-eyed sunset of Peter
McSwain's features was one of sober earnestness and admiration.
"Gee!" he cried, with prodigious appreciation. "He orter write a book!"