IN THE WHIRLPOOL
The conflicting interests had so shaped themselves before Justin went
to Denver that he knew it would be impossible for him to vote on
certain questions with the representatives of the ranchmen. He reached
this decision, after many long talks with Doctor Clayton, in the quiet
of the doctor’s study. Yet he maintained a silence, trying to himself,
which Clayton deemed discreet; and he went to Denver with many
misgivings.
He had no sooner set foot in the hotel when Fogg’s smiling face made
its appearance.
“Good; you’re here!” Fogg cried. “Now I’ll see that you have a
first-class room. These hotel people will poke you off into any old
corner, if you don’t watch them.”
He seized Justin’s valise, but relinquished it to the colored boy who
came forward to take it, and walked with Justin to the clerk’s desk,
where he made known with confidential words and gestures that his
friend, Justin Wingate, the representative from Flatrock, was to have
a good room, in a good location. And he went up with Justin to the
room, to make sure that he had not been swindled by the wicked hotel
men.
“This will be all right,” he declared, joyously. “My room is on the
same floor. You must come in and look at it.”
Justin went in, and they talked awhile. Fogg did not ask him any
questions, but seemed to assume that there could be no divergence of
opinion between them on any vital point; they were old friends, and
they understood each other!
On the mantel was a copy of that photograph of Justin and Mary Jasper,
taken on the occasion of Fogg’s first visit to Paradise Valley. Fogg
had put it there, to be seen, that it might further cement the ties
that he hoped would bind Justin to him. It would bring back memories
of pleasant days, he believed. It brought back, instead, memories of
Peter Wingate and Curtis Clayton. When that picture was taken, the
ranchmen had not invaded Paradise Valley. Sloan Jasper was tilling his
little fields by the river undisturbed by the Davison cattle. And
Jasper had been one of Wingate’s staunchest friends and admirers!
“You’ll find things a bit new here, of course,” said Fogg, as he
returned with Justin to the latter’s room; “but I know Denver like a
book, and I’ll be glad to help you in any way I can.”
Yet even Lemuel Fogg, observing that Justin did not say much, had an
uneasy sense of insecurity.
“These quiet men do a lot of thinking,” was his troubled conclusion,
“and they’re likely to be hard to manage, when they get crooked
notions in their heads. I’ll have to keep my eyes on him, and I’ll get
some other fellows to help me. We’ve got to swing his vote; we’ve
simply got to do it!”
To Justin’s inexperienced eyes Denver was in a condition of political
chaos. He was not accustomed to crowds, and at first they annoyed and
bewildered him. Caucuses were apparently being held in every corner.
Ranching interests, mining interests, agricultural interests, each
seemed to have a host of champions. But the thing that excited every
one, whether cattlemen, farmer, or miner, was the coming election of a
United States senator.
Early on the day after his arrival, he found himself drawn into a
caucus held in the interests of the cattlemen. Fogg piloted him into
it adroitly, wishing to commit him irrevocably to that side. Justin
sat down and looked about, not knowing what was to be done. Men came
to him with friendly words, and were introduced by Fogg. A chairman
was appointed, and the meeting began, with speeches. Their drift soon
filled Justin with uneasiness. Having listened awhile, he arose
nervously in his place. He did not wish to be misunderstood, or put in
a doubtful position.
As he stood up, thoughts of Lucy Davison came to trouble him; and,
knowing that every eye was trained on him, he became somewhat
disconcerted. Fogg, watching him closely, saw his face flush to a deep
red. Yet even Fogg, consumed by anxious expectancy, did not fail to
note the commanding flash of the blue eyes and the stiffening of the
lithe, erect form of this young man from the remote ranges of
Paradise, as he began to speak. There was nothing rural or awkward in
his manner. His bare shapely head with its masses of dark hair, his
clear-cut profile, and his straight supple form clad in a neat
business suit of dark gray, spoke of anything but verdant
inexperience.
Though he began in hesitation, having begun he did not falter, and he
did not palter; but expressed himself simply, as an honest man
expressing honest opinions without thought of subterfuge. He did not
go into details, and he did not explain, further than to declare that
he had not sought an election; but, having been elected unpledged, by
the combined votes of farmers, cowboys, and citizens of the town, in a
revolt against a candidate they did not like, he still stood
unpledged, and would vote as his conscience dictated in all things. He
was not to be considered, he said, as belonging to the party or
interests represented by this caucus, and if he had known that those
attending it were supposed to be pledged to do the will of the
majority he would not have been there. They must understand his
position. He would not deceive them.
Justin did not expect to create a sensation when he delivered that
brief speech, but it was like hurling a bomb. Of all the men there
Fogg was apparently the most surprised and hurt. He came to Justin
immediately, as the caucus began to break into groups, and while
Justin was trying to get out of the room. Angry men were shouting
questions at Justin. Fogg resolved to maintain his conciliatory
attitude.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said, in a low tone, hooking a finger in
Justin’s buttonhole in a friendly manner. “You’ll live to regret it.
You’re a young man just entering political life. You’re educated and
you’ve got ability; and a young man of education and ability can make
almost anything of himself, in a country like this. But not if he
starts out in this way. You’ve got to stand with somebody. Don’t lose
your head now. We’re the strongest party. Stand with us. We’re going
to win this fight, and you can’t afford to be on the losing side.”
“Fogg,” said Justin, looking almost angrily at him, “I won’t be
pulled and hauled about by you nor any other man. I’m not trying to
control you, and you can’t control me. I came up here untrammeled.
When it comes to voting in the house of representatives I intend to
listen to the arguments for and against every measure, and then I
shall make up my mind and vote for whatever seems to me to be right.”
“You can’t do that, Justin,” Fogg urged. He was nervously solicitous.
“Legislatures are run by majorities, by parties. If every man stood
by himself nothing could be accomplished. Sometimes we must vote for
measures we don’t like in order to help along measures we do like. In
a place like this men have to stand together. You can’t afford to herd
by yourself, like an outcast buffalo. You’ll want to come up here
again, or you will want an office of some kind. Now don’t be quick,
don’t be nervous and gunpowdery; think it over, think it over.”
He patted Justin on the shoulder. He was much shorter than Justin and
had to reach up, and it was a comical motion.
Justin released himself from Fogg’s grasp, and though men were still
shouting at him and trying to reach him, he moved on out of the room
without speaking to any one.
To his surprise, the tenor of his speech in the caucus seemed to be
known everywhere almost immediately. Men came to him; some arguing
with him, others praising him. He went out into the street to escape
them. Returning, he was thinking of retreating to the privacy of his
room, when a newsboy rushed through the corridor yelling, “Extra! All
about the defection of the representative from Flatrock County!”
Justin Wingate’s “defection” was not an hour old, yet here it was
blazoned in print. He snatched one of the papers and made for his
room, where he read it in a state of exasperated bewilderment, for he
found himself denounced in unmeasured terms. This paper was the organ
of the cattlemen. “Scare heads” above the news columns of the first
page informed an astonished world of cattlemen that a Judas Iscariot
had arisen suddenly in their midst to betray them with an unholy kiss.
In a brief paragraph on the editorial page Justin was spoken of as
“The Cattlemen’s Benedict Arnold.” Elected chiefly by cowboy votes, he
was, the paper said, preparing to “sell them out.”
Justin threw down the paper. Newsboys were yelling in the street. He
left the room, thinking to get another paper. As he made his way
toward the hotel office a smiling little man tapped him on the
shoulder. He saw Fogg advancing with one of the offensive newspapers
in his hands, and scarcely noticing the little man he turned about,
seeking a way of escape, and found himself in another room. The little
man closed the door behind Justin; and the men before him, rising from
their chairs, began to cheer.
This was a caucus of the opposition, and Justin discovered that he was
being hailed as an ally, and was expected to say something. He would
declare himself to them, he resolved suddenly, even though these men
might not like what he said, or the manner of its saying, any better
than those others. He would tell them that he did not belong to any
faction, and should vote only as his conscience led him. Then, if he
must stand alone, he would do so.
He hardly knew what he said, yet it was well said. Clayton’s training
had given him command of language, and his honest indignant feelings
and ingenuous nature gave him force and candor. As he spoke the caucus
broke into frantic cheering. Men stood in their chairs and yelled like
wild Indians, or maniacs. Here Justin was not an Iscariot or an
Arnold, but a “patriot” and a “savior.” This caucus represented the
irrigationists, and Justin’s declaration that he would vote only as
his conscience dictated assured them that he was not to be controlled
by the ranchmen, and that the reports they had received from Paradise
Valley concerning him were true.
Escaping from these men Justin returned to his room, to which Fogg
came soon, though Justin was in no mood to receive him. Fogg closed
the door softly and dropped somewhat heavily into a chair. His fat
face looked worried.
“You don’t doubt that I’m your friend, Justin?” he said, cautiously.
“I don’t know that I’ve any right to doubt it; you’ve always been my
friend, heretofore.”
“And I’m your friend now—the best friend you’ve got in this city.”
“The only one, I suppose,” said Justin, tipping his chair against the
wall and looking at Fogg keenly. “I’m a stranger here.”
“So I’ve come to talk this matter over with you. I don’t need to go
into details—you know how you were elected, by a queer combination of
opposing interests. The cowboys who voted for you did it because they
like you and dislike Ben Davison, and not because they want you to
oppose the ranch interests in the legislature. If they considered the
matter at all, which is doubtful, they thought they could trust you
not to do anything here that would be to their injury. Likely you
think you owe your election to the farmers, but you don’t; they
supported you, but it was the cowboy vote which elected you.”
“I have never questioned that fact,” said Justin.
“Perhaps not, but you seem to forget it. Now, there’s another thing,
of even greater importance, it appears to me, which you ought to take
into consideration. The cattlemen are a power in this state. At
present they are allied with the party in control here, and the same
party is in control at Washington. You know what that means.”
“I should be a fool if I didn’t.”
“Just so; and understanding the situation, is it the part of
wisdom—under all the circumstances now, Justin—is it the part of
wisdom for you to oppose that party? The opposition, which is just now
making such a noise, is a composite thing bound together with a rope
of sand. A half-dozen factions have thrown their influence to the
minority party and are making a desperate effort to get control of the
legislature. Suppose they succeed this time, where will they be next
year, or two or four years from now? They are antagonistic on every
question but this, and they will fall apart; nothing else can happen,
as you must see yourself. Don’t you see that?”
“Yes, I can see that all right.”
“Well, then, what is to be gained, in a personal way, by going over to
them? I’m not going to argue the thing with you, but just make these
statements to set you to thinking.”
Fogg knew when he had said enough, and he arose to go.
“What did that paper mean, by attacking me in that way?” Justin asked.
Fogg sat down again.
“Newspaper men are as likely to make fools of themselves as other men.
They rushed that edition onto the street as a ‘beat,’ or ‘scoop.’
They’re sorry they did it already, if they’ve got as much brains as I
think they have.”
“Why should it be assumed in the first place that I intended to ally
myself with the cattlemen, and why should the simple statement which I
made in that caucus cause me to be branded as a Judas and Benedict
Arnold?”
“It was simply an exhibition of what those fellows would call
journalistic enterprise, I suppose. They wanted to make a sensation,
and sell papers. They even sold a copy to you.” Fogg laughed. “You
wouldn’t have bought that copy, otherwise.”
“Well, I wasn’t pleased by it. If anything would make me vote against
the cattlemen when I thought I ought to vote with them, such attacks
as that would.”
Fogg laughed again, and ran his fingers over the shining gold chain
that lay across his rotund stomach.
“The fellow that stands in the limelight has got to take his medicine,
and it’s no use kicking. The only way to do is to go straight ahead
and take no notice of what the papers say. That’s what I try to do,
though I admit I get my mad up sometimes over some of the things they
print about me. That paper, which poured vitriol on you to-day, will
shower you with rosewater and honey to-morrow, if what you do pleases
it.”
“I shan’t try to please it!” Justin declared, angrily.
“No, I wouldn’t; I’d try to please myself, and I’d try to look out for
Number One. Well, I must be going!” He rose again. “And just think
over what I’ve said to you in friendship. The range will be here, and
the cattlemen, when all these other little barking dogs are dead and
forgotten. My word for it, a desire for loot and plunder is really all
that holds them together now, though they’re making such a howl about
public virtue and honesty. I’ve been in the political whirl before,
and I know those men right down to the ground.”
He extended his hand as he reached the door, and Justin, having risen
also, took it.
“I’m your friend,” said Fogg, as a final word, “and what I’ve said is
for your own good.”
When he was gone Justin sat down to think it over. He knew there was
much truth in Fogg’s statements. The conglomerate opposition
struggling now to gain control of the legislature would fall to pieces
inevitably by and by. If he voted with the ranch interests he would
please the cowboys who had worked for his election, he would please
Fogg and Davison, and he would not displease Lucy Davison. But would
he please himself? Would he please Curtis Clayton? He could not hope
by so doing to please the farmers.
Justin had ambition, though he was not consumed by it. He did not wish
to wreck his future. Philip Davison, in that memorable interview, had
told him to do something, be something, accomplish something. In the
interval between that time and now no opportunity had come to him. He
had left the ranch, where he could earn only cowboy’s wages, though
not wholly because of the low wages. He had for a time secured
employment in the town, but the position had been neither promising
nor permanent. He had been thinking seriously of going to Denver, to
try his fortunes in its larger field, when the fire came which
incapacitated him, and after the fire this unexpected election.
He was in Denver now, and he was a member of the legislature. Ambition
and a desire to show to Philip Davison that he was not unworthy of his
regard and friendship, not unworthy even to become the husband of Lucy
Davison, urged him to one course; Clayton’s teachings and influence,
and his own inner feeling as to what was right and what was not right,
was urging him to the opposite course. Should he continue to offend
Philip Davison and at the same time wreck his political prospects?
“But what can I do?” was his mental cry, as he struggled with this
problem. “I can’t vote for things which I know are not right, nor for
men I know I can’t trust.”
Early in the morning he encountered Fogg. The encounter was not by
chance, though Fogg pretended that it was.
“I hope you thought over those things carefully?” he inquired, unable
to conceal his anxiety.
“I have thought to this point,” said Justin; “I will vote with the
cattlemen wherever my conscience will let me, but I can’t vote for
your candidate for United States senator.”
Fogg stood aghast.
“That puts you in the camp of the irrigationists, with all that
mongrel crew!”
“I can’t help it.”
Justin’s tone was decided. His face was feverish. He had passed a bad
night.
“I can’t help it, if it does, Fogg. The things that man stands for are
not right, and I can’t support him.”
Fogg detained him, and threshed the old arguments over; he even used
the potent argument that Justin ought not to follow deliberately a
course that must inevitably injure Philip Davison very much in a
financial sense; but, having with deep travail of soul reached that
one conclusion, Justin Wingate was now as immovable as a rock.