THE HARVEST OF THE FIRE
The fire ravaged a large part of the mesa range. In the valley it did
small damage, for the farmers checked it there by flooding the canals
and laterals with the water they had stored for the fall irrigation.
Some of their hay land was swept over, and a few stacks of alfalfa
were destroyed, but no house was burned. One of the destroyed stacks
belonged to William Sanders. And it did not mitigate his hostility to
the people of the Davison ranch to know that the fire had been started
by Ben Davison.
Ben was voluble with excuses and explanations. He stated that he had
gone to the plum bushes by the rim of the cañon. There, tossing away a
smoked-out cigarette, it had fallen into some dry grass, which at once
leaped into flame. He had tried to stamp out the fire, and failed.
Startled by the rapidity with which it spread, and by the increasing
heat and smoke, he had fled. As he did so he came on a loose horse,
bearing a woman’s saddle. No one was near it, or to be seen, and he
supposed very naturally that the rider had let the horse get away. At
any rate, it offered him a chance to escape from the fire, which he
believed to be ringing him in, and he accepted it. He did not hear
Harkness shout at him, he said, nor Justin. Riding toward the ranch
house, he had encountered the cowboys who were hastening to the fire,
and had turned back with them, thus meeting Steve Harkness, who was
holding his wife in front of him and had ridden out of the smoke. And
he had continued with the cowboys, and was with them when Justin
appeared with Helen.
Dicky Carroll’s version, poured into the ears of Justin Wingate as he
lay convalescing from the effects of his burns, held some peppery
additions:
“Gee! wasn’t Harkness wild; wasn’t he hot? He was hotter than the fire
he had run from. He was simply crazy. He didn’t say anything to Ben
when we first met him, fer there wasn’t time right at that minute. But
he come on him at the ranch house. That was after you was carried in,
and while Doc Clayton was fingerin’ you over to see if you was all
there. Ben was standin’ by the door; and Harkness stepped up to him,
his face as white as a sheet, where it wasn’t all smoked up; and he
says to him, jest like this:
“‘Damn you fer a sneakin’ coward! You took my wife’s horse, and left
her and Helen in that hell of fire to be roasted to death!’ And then
he hit him square on the mouth and knocked him up ag’inst the side of
the house.
“After that he never said a word to Ben, but as soon as the Old Man
come he told him what he’d done, and handed in his resignation as
ranch foreman. The Old Man was as hot as Harkness, the fellers say
that saw it; fer a minute he looked as swelled up and porkupiny as a
horned toad. Then he calmed down. ‘I’ll see Ben,’ he says, jest like,
that. And he did see Ben; and of all the roastin’s, that feller got
it; things couldn’t have been much warmer fer him if he’d let the
horse go and stayed in the fire. And Harkness is still foreman. He’s
too good a man, you see, fer Davison to lose. But there’s one thing to
be said fer Ben, which I reckon he don’t want to say fer hisself. He
was drinkin’ that day, up by the cañon. Nobody but a drunk man or a
fool would have throwed that burnin’ cigarette butt into grass as dry
as that. Ben was too drunk to realize the danger, and I reckon he was
too drunk to know or care whose horse he took. But he was middlin’
sober, I tell you, when we met him. The scare did that. He was scared
good. And I will say fer him that he turned right round, though he’d
been ridin’ like the devil was after him, and went back with us, and
afterward he done his part in puttin’ out the fire.”
Lucy Davison must have heard this story from Pearl Harkness; and it
was possible, as Justin knew, that she had seen Harkness strike Ben.
Yet she said nothing to Justin on the subject, but left him to his own
conclusions.
In one way, the aftermath of that unpleasant experience was not
unpleasant to Justin. Much of the time he had for a nurse no less a
person than Lucy Davison herself. Whether engaged in the actual work
of nursing him or otherwise, she made constant and solicitous
inquiries which strengthened and soothed him more than anything within
the range of Clayton’s skill. Her presence would have more than
counter-balanced the suffering but for one thing. He knew that his
appearance was worse than grotesque. Even a comely youth loses all
comeliness, with his eyelashes and eyebrows gone, and his face
disfigured by burns and bandages.
Somewhat reluctantly Justin was at length obliged to confess himself
so nearly well that he could go home with Clayton. Thanks to the
latter’s skill he had escaped permanent disfigurement. Nevertheless,
his injuries confined him for some time to the house, and to short
walks and rides near it.
Lucy made him many visits, and brought him the news and gossip of the
valley. She had “finished” at Mrs. Lassell’s school, so was not to go
East again, and that was a pleasant thought to both. Philip Davison
was deep in his plans for Ben’s advancement, and Fogg was working
earnestly to secure his own election. The thing that sorely troubled
both Davison and Fogg now, as it also troubled Ben, was the story
which was spreading, that Ben had cut the dam the night of the storm.
“I hope no one will think I told that!” thought Justin.
Yet the repositories of that secret, he was sure, were Lucy, Fogg and
himself.
Justin inquired concerning the political action of the farmers.
Apparently, they had not desired to turn to him again; they had chosen
a candidate, and were working for Ben’s defeat.
When Fogg called at Clayton’s, Justin, in a private conversation with
him, declared with heat that he had remained silent about the dam,
even though that silence had distressed his conscience. Fogg, tricky
himself, hence ready to impute trickery to others, might not have
believed Justin, if it had not come out soon that Ben had given the
story wings himself, as he boasted one night, while he sat gambling
and drinking with Clem Arkwright and some cronies in the town. Ben
denied this strenuously to his father. But after that, the suspicions
of Lemuel Fogg against Justin were blown to the wind.
There was some wild talk among the farmers of prosecuting Ben, which
ended in talk, for there was a lack of first-hand proof. But to the
work of defeating him at the polls they had set themselves with might
and main.
Then, as suddenly as the fire itself, a surprising change came in the
political situation. From the first, as now appeared, the campaign
against Ben had been engineered craftily by crafty men. At the last
moment, the name of the opposition candidate was taken down, and
another name hoisted in its stead—the name of Justin Wingate, used
without his knowledge. Cowboys made hurried night rides, moving with
secrecy. Ben’s conduct at the time of the fire had laid up for him in
their hearts a store of smothered rage and contempt, which now found
expression. Everywhere the cowboys rallied to the support of Justin
Wingate—and he was elected.
Because he was confined so closely to the house and its vicinity, but
more because the sudden movement to elect him was sedulously concealed
both from him and from Clayton, Justin’s election came to him as a
stunning surprise. His astonishment was mingled with pain and anxiety.
The hopes of the Davisons were in the dust. He knew that Ben must be
humiliated beyond measure, and he feared that Davison would resent it
as a personal insult to his son and an act of treachery. And what
would Lucy think? That was, to Justin, the most important of all.
Clayton brought him the news early on the morning after the election.
Justin, who had been walking about in the yard enjoying the bright
autumn sunshine, dropped to a seat on the doorsteps, startled, weak
and unnerved. Clayton began to make the thing clear to him.
“After that affair, the cowboys couldn’t stand Ben Davison, and the
story that he cut the dam killed him with a good many of the town
people, as well as the farmers. When your name was mentioned, the
suggestion caught as quickly as that fire Ben started. At Borden’s
ranch, at Wilson’s, at Lindborg’s, and all over the county, where the
story of the fire had gone, the thing was taken up by the cowboys; and
it was all done so quickly and quietly that neither Davison nor Ben,
nor even Fogg, knew a thing of it, until it was too late. I’m as
surprised as you are; I knew of the talk against Ben, but I didn’t
dream of this.”
Lemuel Fogg, shrewd and astute, hurried to Davison’s, as soon as he
heard the astounding news. Davison was in a white rage. But for Fogg’s
timely intervention he would have discharged all of his cowboys at
once, together with Steve Harkness. They were angry, and they stood
ready to go.
“Don’t do it!” Fogg begged. “We can’t fight all of the cowboys of the
county, and they all went against Ben. The thing to do is to make
Justin see that the cowboys—and in that sense the ranch
interests—elected him. Though the cowboys united with the farmers
this time, they are not naturally with them; Justin knows that. We
mustn’t let him go to Denver feeling that he owes his election to the
farmers. He is a cowboy, and if we work him right we can hold him to
our side.”
“I can’t believe yet but that Justin knew all about it,” said Davison,
angrily.
“I don’t think he did; but whether he did or didn’t, he’s elected.”
“He may not accept the place; he might give way, if pressure is
brought to bear on him?”
“Don’t you believe that for even a minute,” said Fogg. “I know Justin.
He’s not a fool, and he’d be a fool if he did that. He will go to
Denver and sit in that legislature, and we want him to go as our
friend, not our enemy. Don’t stir up the cowboys, don’t make trouble
with them; just give me a free hand—I think I can work this thing.”
Lemuel Fogg set about the work at once. He suggested to certain men
that it would be a good idea for the friends of the ranch interests to
meet publicly at Clayton’s that evening and show Justin that they
regarded him as their friend, and not their enemy; and, having done
that, he walked over to Clayton’s to see Justin himself, and
congratulate him. Some of the farmers, he learned, had already visited
Clayton’s for that purpose; and he felt that for the ranchmen to
permit the “farming jays” to get ahead of them in that way was a
tactical mistake.
So Fogg came into Clayton’s little study, where he had been so many
times, and sat in the big chair which had so often nursed his rotund
body. His round freckled face oozed amiability, and his big laugh was
cheery and infectious, as he congratulated Justin.
“You ought to have been nominated regularly in the first place,
instead of Ben,” he asserted. “It was a mistake to put Ben up, after
that trouble about the fire. The cowboys wouldn’t have him. They’ve
elected you, and they’re roaring with joy. I suppose Ben has gone into
hiding, for I haven’t seen him anywhere this morning.”
He laughed, as if this were a joke.
“Ben’s defeat and your election surprised me, of course,” he admitted,
“but as soon as I had time to think it over I felt there wasn’t
anything to be sorry about, for you’ll make a good deal better
representative. You’re better educated all round than Ben is, and
you’ve got the confidence of the people, which as this vote shows he
hasn’t.”
Justin liked Fogg, in spite of the known defects of his character. He
had believed that Fogg would be instantly alienated; yet here he was,
as friendly and as jovial as ever, not disturbed in the least,
apparently, by the strange turn of events.
“It’s a thing that doesn’t come every day to a young man that hasn’t
gone gunning for it, and it’s up to you to make the most of it,” Fogg
continued. “This may be the stepping-stone that will lead you into the
governor’s chair some day. You can’t tell, you know. Make as many
friends as you can, and as few enemies as you can. Ben made enemies,
without making friends, and you see where he is. It’s a good lesson to
any young man. I’m glad I’m to be in the legislature with you; in the
senate, of course; but I’ll be right there, where I can see you every
day; and if I can help you in any way, by advice or otherwise, why,
I’m yours truly, to command to the limit.”
“The position is what I should have sought, if I could have had the
choosing,” said Justin, “yet I feel troubled about it, coming to me as
it did.”
“You wouldn’t think of refusing to accept it, now that it’s yours?”
“No, I shouldn’t want to do that, and it wouldn’t be right to the men
who voted for me.”
“I felt sure you wouldn’t,” Fogg admitted significantly, shifting
comfortably in his big chair.
“I’m too bewildered to know what to say, or what to think; I only know
that it’s a great surprise, and that I’m troubled as to how it will be
regarded by the Davisons.”
“Well, of course you must expect them to be a little sore over it, as
it comes so close home to them. But Davison is a pretty square sort of
man, as I’ve found, and he’ll look at it in the right light, unless
you give him occasion to do otherwise. Ben will be bitter, I’ve no
doubt; but there’s no help for that, and if I were you I shouldn’t let
it trouble me. He’ll get over it after awhile. If his head is level
he’ll know that he went up against a cyclone for which you were not
responsible and he’ll keep still.”
Fogg’s attitude eased Clayton’s anxiety. The turbulent conflict he
foresaw seemed about to be avoided.
“I’ve spoken to some of my friends,” Fogg went on, “and there will be
a crowd up here to-night. I reckon you’d better rub up a little
something in the way of a speech, Justin. And if you happen to hear a
brass band filling the air with march music, don’t get scared and bolt
like a stampeding broncho, for that will be the new band they’ve
organized in town coming up to serenade you. You’re a public character
now, and you’ve got to stand such things.”
Fogg left Clayton’s with growing confidence. He believed that Justin
would be pliable, if properly manipulated.
“If I can only jolly him along here I can manage him when we get to
Denver,” was his thought.
Though Justin was strong enough now to take short rides about the
valley, he did not visit the Davison ranch that day. Lucy was
temporarily absent from home, he was glad to know. So he shut himself
up at Clayton’s and tried to take stock of the situation. His thoughts
were chaotic. The thing he would have chosen had come to him, but in a
manner so strange that he could hardly be sure it was desirable. As he
did not know what he ought to say to the people who would gather there
that evening, he did not try to put together the few thoughts in the
way of a speech which Fogg had suggested.
For Paradise Valley that was a great gathering. At nightfall the new
band came down from the town, braying its loudest. Horsemen, and men
on foot and in carriages, seemed to spring out of the ground. They
overflowed the little house, for Clayton’s hospitality urged them to
make themselves at home anywhere, and they filled the yard, yelling
lustily. Fogg set up some gasolene torches, and came out of the house,
accompanying Justin.
The noise, the cries for him to appear, the music of the band, the
leaping call of aroused ambition, tingled Justin’s blood. He felt his
soul swell, when he heard that roar. It was a feeling wholly new and
he could not define it, but it caused him to lift his head and step
with sure precision as he passed through the doorway with Fogg to the
little piazza in front of the house.
Before him some farmers, in whose midst he saw Sloan Jasper, were
bellowing their delight. Farther out he saw Steve Harkness, by the
light of the torch which flared red in his face. At Harkness’s side
was Dicky Carroll; and both were yelling with wide-open mouths, and
swinging their big hats, as they sat on their horses. Justin knew that
he trembled, but it was not because he distrusted himself, or feared
to face these people.
As he came out upon the piazza, Fogg, the diplomat, took him
affectionately by both hands, his fat face beaming with simulated joy,
as he introduced to these people the newly-elected—their
newly-elected—representative. Fogg’s remarks took the form of a wordy
panegyric, whose chief note was that, as Justin had been elected by
what seemed to be a spontaneous uprising of the whole people, he would
go to Denver as the representative of the whole people, and not of any
party or faction.
Called on for a speech, Justin spoke but a few words. He was sensible,
he said, that a very high honor had been conferred on him, and
conferred most unexpectedly. For it he thanked his friends and all who
voted for him. He had not sought the place, and in the manner in which
it had come to him there were some painful things, on which it was not
necessary for him to dwell; but now that he was elected, he would try
to serve his constituency to the best of his ability and do what was
right. The position having come to him wholly unsought, he felt that
he stood pledged to nothing except honesty and the good of the state
and the county.
Dicky Carroll’s small clean-shaven face and beady eyes shone with
supreme satisfaction. Dicky was a firm admirer of Justin, and he was
delighted to be able to swing his hat and yell for a cowboy, one of
his own kind as he thought, who had been elected to the legislature
largely by cowboy votes. He was swinging his hat and yelling even
before Justin concluded; and the speech, brief as it was, had been
punctuated with cheers.
Fogg thanked the people for their kindness, and with fat freckled hand
patted Justin on the shoulder much as he would have patted a fine
young horse he was grooming for the races. Clayton looked on with his
quiet smile, pleased to have Justin so praised and cheered, yet
anxious.
Then the people and the brass band went away. Only Harkness and Dicky
Carroll stayed, for a few words with the “cowboy” whom they had helped
to elect. They did not intend that Fogg should have Justin all to
himself.