Next morning came a rap at his office door and Baudette entered,
treading very lightly. Clark looked up and shook his head.
"I haven't got any money yet."
"I don't want any money."
The gray eyes softened a little. "You're the only man I've met who
doesn't. What is it?"
Baudette pointed out of the window.
Clark got up and glanced at the open space in front of the
administration building. There lounged some fifty men, the pick of
Baudette's crew, big and broad shouldered, in light colored woollen
jackets, shoepacks and blazing shirts. Each toyed with an ax handle
that swung lightly between strong, brown fingers. They were a
loose-jointed lot, active as cats, and moved with the superlative ease
of the skilled woodsman. Clark's jaw thrust out and he glanced grimly
at his visitor.
"If they think they can get it that way, they're mistaken."
"You don't understand," came the even voice. "These are my friends,
and yours. St. Marys is full of people who are after you. They are
hungry for money, and they're coming for it. This crowd reckons their
money is all right and will help you talk back."
Clark drew a long breath and caught the clear blue of Baudette's eyes.
Then he nodded and began to smile.
"Thank you, friend," he said with a catch in his breath. "I might have
known it."
Hours dragged by. That night there was looting in Ironville, and the
local grocers suffered a sudden depletion of stock. Morning broke,
gray and threatening, while through shack and cabin an ugly temper
spread steadily. Clark perceived that the real thing was coming now.
Once or twice he thought of Semple, who must already be closeted with
the Premier.
Just before midday a howling mob gathered swiftly outside the big
gates, when instantly Baudette and his fifty axemen ran up and joined
the guards. The crowd increased, and there went out an imperative
summons to Manson who, with his thirty police, ranged himself half a
mile away on the road to St. Marys. But for this the town was utterly
unprotected. Came the pad pad of flying feet, and Fisette dashed up,
swinging a prospecting pick. He grinned at the big constable.
"By Gar!" he panted, "I guess we catch hell now."
Followed a little pause, broken only by the deep threatening note of
the crowd. Then Belding felt a touch on his shoulder.
"Open the gates," said Clark evenly, "I want to speak to them."
The engineer stared at the set face. His chief's eyes were like
polished steel, and his jaw thrust out. There was no fear here.
"Stay inside, sir. They'll kill you."
The front rank caught sight of the erect figure. Then silence fell
over them and spread slowly through the dark-browed multitude, Clark
raised an imperative finger. The gates opened a fraction, and in front
of them stood the man in whom the rioters perceived the head of their
present world.
"I want to tell you that your money is coming, and that I stay here
till you are paid," rang the clear voice.
For an instant there came no answer, but presently from the rear ranks
rose again a bull-like roar.
"You tell us that last week."
Followed a murmur that ran through the packed mass of broad shoulders.
"I tell you again--and it's true!"
For reply, a short iron bolt came hurtling through the air. It took
Clark on the cheek. He seemed not to feel it, but stood undaunted,
while a trickle of blood crept down his smooth face. The sight of it
seemed to rouse some latent fury in the mob, and a deep growl sounded
ominously. He felt himself jerked suddenly back, and Belding and
Baudette jumped in front of him. The woodsman balanced a great shining
axe, and the engineer's automatic gleamed dully.
"Get inside, sir, quick!"
For the first time in his life, Clark felt himself passed from hand to
hand, and landed, fuming, on the other side of the big gates. The
voice of the mob lifted to an infuriated howl. Simultaneously the rear
ranks pressed forward.
Fighting began the next instant. Belding's revolver barked viciously,
while he shot low at legs and feet. Three men went down to be engulfed
in the oncoming tide. Baudette was standing firm, his cold blue eyes
alight with the fire of battle. His broad axe was cutting swift
circles around him, while he dodged a shower of missiles. To right and
left of him fifty axe handles rose and fell like flails, and behind
them was all the skill and sinew of those who dwell amongst big timber.
Then a jagged fragment of iron casting took Baudette on the knee, and
he went down.
The battle grew, while the faithful ranks thinned visibly. Just
through the big gates lay the battlemented works, and toward them
pressed the mob, now drunk with the hunger to destroy. At the moment
when it seemed that the living barrier must collapse, the rioters
wheeled to meet a new attack. With the sound of fighting, Manson
pushed on and now struck hard. His thirty constables set their batons
going, and there came the heavy crack of loaded wood on thick skulls.
Fisette, his eyes gleaming, was tapping like a deadly woodpecker with
his pick, and the impetus of this onslaught drove a formidable wedge
into the surging mass. Manson's great voice bellowed unspeakable
things in the lust of combat, his dark visage distorted, his mighty
body gathered into a great, human battering ram.
Presently the constable too went down with a shattered arm, and the
line of police shortened and curved. Fisette found himself throttled
by a muscular arm which shot round his neck, and two minutes later they
were surrounded and fighting for their lives.
The battle surged and palpitated. What remained of Baudette's axemen
were behind the big gates, where Belding had dragged the prostrate
foreman. Clark stood in absolute calmness, though he knew that
presently this barrier would be battered down.
Belding drew a long breath and shot a fascinated glance at his chief.
It flashed into his mind that Clark was getting punishment now, not
only in the eyes of the world, but also in the eyes of the man from
whom he had taken that which was dearest and best. But his leader's
gaze was as clear as ever.
"It can't last much longer, sir," he shouted through the uproar. His
automatic was empty, and he could only watch the front rank of rioters
pick up a great baulk of timber and balance it opposite the gates.
Then a sudden chill struck to his very soul. What would happen in St.
Marys?
Clark, staring at him, just as suddenly perceived what was in his mind.
"Take my launch," he called into his ear. "You can land at the house.
Hurry! Don't mind about me."
Belding hung for a moment in frantic uncertainty, and shook his head.
He was next in command here, but a short mile away was his heart's
desire, defenseless, save for what resistance could be hastily
organized in the town. It was questionable what that was worth, and
his whole soul commanded him to go to her. For an instant he felt
sick, then over him flooded the cold conviction that, even though he
saved Clark for Elsie, he must stay and see this thing through.
Suddenly from far down the road came a sharp rattle, that pierced the
uproar and brought a grim, inflexible message. Clark heard it, and
over his face stole an expression of relief. The mob heard it, and
through their surging ranks ran that which sobered and cooled their
fury. Manson, prostrate and bloody, heard it, and Fisette, and all the
others who had fought, it seemed, their last fight. The rioters began
to dissipate like blown leaves in autumn, and a rippling line of
infantry in open formation moved rhythmically up the road from St.
Marys.
Clark drew a long breath and looked curiously at his engineer.
"You saved my life, Belding." He hesitated a moment, and added
thoughtfully, "Now, why should you want to do that?"
Belding stared and a lump rose in his throat. He had lost and yet he
had won,--been defeated and yet had risen to something bigger than he
had ever achieved before. He could face the future now, even though it
were written that he should face it alone. He tried to speak, then
turned on his heel and walked towards the dock, where Clark's fast
launch lay glinting in the sun.
The gray eyes followed him in profound contemplation. Presently Clark
smiled, it seemed a little sadly, and advanced to the officer
commanding the troops. Baudette was sitting up. Manson, his face gray
with pain, was nursing a dangling arm, and round them the derelicts of
battle were strewn grotesquely. But it was Fisette who spoke first.
"By Gar!" he said with flashing teeth, "she's one big fight, eh!"
Silence spread again over the works. An armed picket was left at the
big gates, while the rest of the troops patrolled suddenly deserted
streets in Ironville. In the accounting office there began again the
clicking of typewriters, and Clark, at his desk, dictated a dispatch to
Philadelphia. This done, he fell into a mood of strange abstraction.
The car of destiny was traveling fast.
Just then the telephone rang, and he took up the receiver
automatically. As in a dream Elsie's voice came in, tremulous but very
clear. He smiled wearily as he listened.
"Thank you very much," he said in answer. "There is really no serious
damage done, except to a few foolish heads; and," he added, "please
thank Mr. Belding again for me,--yes, he'll understand."
A hush fell in the office again, and he felt inexpressibly alone. He
was not in any sense hopeless, being assured that in the vast machine
of his own creation were inherent qualities of life that could never be
extinguished. He was strong, since for himself he desired nothing. In
this hour of uncertainty his imagination traveled far, but again and
again it was captured by the remembrance of his days with the bishop.
This had nothing to do with works, and yet in a way they were
intimately connected. The bishop had demonstrated the operation of
high and subtle forces to which he himself had not given much thought.
The bishop had saved his life, just as Belding had saved it, and he
still seemed to feel the working of big muscles under his twitching
palms. There flashed back what the prelate had said about being
prepared for the worst, which after all was sometimes the best, and,
with half closed eyes, he wondered whether this was the occasion.
There sounded a knock at the door, and the bishop himself came in.
Clark, getting up hastily, advanced to meet him. There were only three
people in the world he would have cared to see at that moment, and here
was one of them.
"Come in and sit down, sir. This is very good of you."
"It took me two hours to get here," said the big man, breathing a
little hard. "It's rather difficult traveling to-day."
Clark stared at him. He had always thought of the bishop as an
exemplar of peace, but he had arrived almost on the tail of the riot.
"I only reached town a short time ago," the visitor was smiling
cheerfully, "and heard about the trouble. Now that I'm safely here,
I'll only stay a minute."