“Yet you saw many men?”
She laughed lightly; it was like sunshine after rain.
“Not so very many as you might think. Mrs. Lassell’s Finishing School for Young Ladies is a very exclusive and select place, you must remember. She holds a very tight rein over the girls placed in her charge.”
“Is it so bad as that? It’s a good thing for me, I guess, that she is so careful; you might get to see someone you could like better than me.”
She laughed again, seeing the anxiety he strove to cover.
“If you’ve been accumulating wrinkles and gray hairs on account of that you’ve been very foolish.”
“Your last letter didn’t seem quite as genial as some others!”
“I didn’t underscore the important words, or write them in red ink?”
She became suddenly grave. The events of the evening haunted her like a bad dream.
He stooped low above her bended head.
“I love you,” he whispered; “and I’m going to ask you again if you love me, just to hear you say it!”
She looked up at him, tremulously.
“Justin, I love you, and I love you! There, don’t ask me again, until after you have spoken to Uncle Philip.”
His blue eyes were shining into the depths of her brown ones; and with a quick motion he stooped and kissed her.
“No one was looking, and no one could see us in here,” he said, as she gave a start and her pale face flushed rosy red.
“I will speak to Mr. Davison to-morrow,” he promised, as if to make amends.
CHAPTER XVI
BEN DAVISON’S TRIUMPH
Justin made that call on Philip Davison in much trepidation, and broached the subject with stammering hesitation and flushed face. Davison was non-committal, until he had heard him through. Yet, looking earnestly at this youth, he saw how prepossessing Justin was in appearance, how clear-cut, frank and intelligent was his face, with its expressive blue eyes, how shapely the head under its heavy, dark-brown hair. Justin’s costume was that of a cowboy, but it became him. There was a not unkindly light in Davison’s florid face and he stroked his beard thoughtfully, as Justin made his plea. But his words were not precisely what Justin hoped to hear.
“I don’t blame you for thinking well of Lucy,” he said; “she is a rare girl; and the man who takes her for his wife with my consent must show some qualities that will make me think he is worthy of her. I’ve thought well of you, Justin, and I think well of you now. That you’re a cowboy isn’t anything that I would hold against you; a cowboy can become a cattle king, if he’s got the right kind of stuff in him. Everything depends on that.”
“I intend to do something, to become something, make something of myself,” Justin urged, his face very hot and uncomfortable. “I haven’t had time to do much yet, and my opportunities haven’t been very good. I’ve succeeded in getting a pretty fair education.”
“But would you have done even that, if Clayton hadn’t driven you on to it? You’ve got brains, and he coaxed you to study, and of course you learned. But in other things you’re not doing nearly so well as Ben, for instance. Ben will go into the state legislature this fall, and he’s not so very much older than you.”
The flush deepened on Justin’s face.
“I shall try to make the most of myself,” he declared, somewhat stiffly. That reference to Ben was not pleasing.
“See that you do. Then you can come to me later. I shall speak to Lucy about this. There isn’t any hurry in the matter, for she has two more years in that school.”
He dismissed the matter abruptly, with an inquiry about the line fences and a mention of the destroyed dam.
“I told those farmers their dam wouldn’t hold,” he declared, with something akin to satisfaction in his tone. “I knew it couldn’t, the way they put it together. They wouldn’t believe me, for they thought I had some axe to grind in saying it; but now they see for themselves.”
Justin wondered what Philip Davison would say if he knew the truth. He did not even comment on Davison’s statement, but left the room as soon as he could do so without brusqueness.
Sloan Jasper, representing the opposition to Ben Davison, came to him the next day, which was Thursday.
“How about that, Justin?” he asked, anxious yet hopeful.
Justin had been given time to think, and his answer was ready.
“It wouldn’t be possible for me to run against Ben—it wouldn’t be right.”
“He ain’t fit fer the place, and you know it!”
“I can’t run against him, Mr. Jasper.”
Jasper was almost angry.
“Well, we’ll git somebody that will. You could split the cowboy vote.”
“Perhaps I could, but I can’t make the race.”
“Maybe Davison thinks we’re done fer, jist because that dam went out; but he’ll soon know better. We’ll put in a new dam, and we’ll have our rights hyer in the valley; and we’re goin’ to beat Ben Davison fer the legislature, if talk and votes and hard work can do it.”
Sloan Jasper and the farmers were very much in earnest. They found a man who was willing to stand in opposition to Ben Davison, and the campaign which followed was heated and bitter. With sealed lips Justin continued his round of work on the ranch. A word from him, from Fogg, or from Lucy Davison, would not only have wrecked Ben’s political prospects, but would have landed him in prison. That word was not spoken. The opposition exerted its entire strength, but Ben Davison was elected triumphantly.
The day Ben drove away from the ranch on his way to Denver, to become one of the legislators of the state, Philip Davison spoke again to Justin.
“There goes Ben, a member of the legislature! He’s not so very much older than you, Justin; yet see what he has accomplished, young as he is.”
“Yes, I see!” said Justin, quietly.
BOOK TWO—THE BATTLE
CHAPTER I
COWARDICE AND HEROISM
Though Justin Wingate was no longer connected with the Davison ranch he was not the less concerned when he beheld the sudden flare of flame near the head of the cañon and the cloud of smoke which now concealed it. A fire starting there in the tall grass and sedge might destroy much of the Davison range, and would endanger the unharvested crops and the homes of the valley farmers. Forest fires were ravaging the mountains, and for days the air had been filled with a haze of smoke through which the sun shone like a ball of copper. The drought of late summer had made mountain and mesa a tinder box. Hence Justin turned from the trail and rode rapidly toward the fire.
There had been many changes in Paradise Valley; but except that it had grown more bitter with the passage of time, there had been none in the attitude of the farmers and cattlemen toward each other. William Sanders was still vindictively hostile to the people of the ranch, and they disliked him with equal intensity of feeling. As for Justin, he had developed rather than changed. He was stronger mentally and physically, better poised, more self-reliant and resourceful. He had come to maturity.
He was on his way to Borden’s ranch, with some medicines for one of Clayton’s patients there. The distance was long, and he had a pair of blankets and a slicker tied together in a roll behind his saddle. Lucy Davison was in the town, making a call on an acquaintance, and he was journeying by the valley trail, hoping to meet her, or see her, as he passed that way. But thoughts of Lucy fled when he saw that fire. As he rode toward it and passed through the strong gate into the fenced land, he wondered uneasily if any plum gatherers were in the sand-plum thickets by the cañon.
Justin had not proceeded far when he heard a pounding of hoofs, and looking back he beheld Steve Harkness riding toward him at top speed. He drew rein to let Harkness approach.
“Seen Pearl and Helen anywhere?” Harkness bellowed at him.
Helen was the child of Steve and Pearl Harkness, and was now nearly two years old.
“No,” said Justin, thinking of the plum bushes. “Are they out this way?”
“I dunno where they air; but they said at the house Pearl come this way with Helen. That was more’n an hour ago. They was on horseback, she carryin’ Helen in front of her; and she had a tin bucket. So she must have been goin’ after plums. That fire made me worried about ’em.”
He rode on toward the plum bushes, and Justin followed him, through the smoke that now filled the air and obscured the sun. Harkness’s horse was the speedier, and he disappeared quickly. As he vanished, Ben Davison dashed out of the smoke and rode across the mesa. In the roar and crackle of the fire Justin heard Harkness shout at Ben, but he could not distinguish the words. Justin called to Ben, repeating what he believed had been Harkness’s question, asking if he had seen Pearl and Helen; but Ben did not hear him, or did not wish to answer. He rode right on, as if frightened. And indeed that fire, which pursued him even as he fled, was not a thing to be regarded lightly. Yet Justin wondered at Ben’s action, his wonder changing to bewilderment when he saw that a woman’s saddle was on the horse Ben rode.
A horrible suspicion was forced upon him. He knew that Ben had deteriorated; had become little better than a loafer about the stores of the little town, consorting with Clem Arkwright and kindred spirits. Arkwright had also changed for the worse. He had lost his position as justice-of-the-peace, and was now often seedy and much given to drinking. He was said to be an inveterate gambler, gaining an uncertain livelihood by the gambler’s arts. Ben Davison was never seedy. Whether he obtained his money from Davison or secured it in other ways Justin did not know, but Ben was always well dressed and had an air of prosperity.
Ben was again the candidate of the ranch interests for the legislature. Lemuel Fogg, also representing the ranch interests, had secured for himself a nomination to the state senate; for which purpose he had become temporarily a resident of the town of Cliveden, some miles away, where he had established a branch of his Denver store.
Justin’s desire for justice made him put aside the conclusion almost inevitably forced upon him by that sight of Ben Davison riding wildly away from the fire in a woman’s saddle.
Following Harkness toward the plum thickets, where the roar of the fire was loudest, he heard a woman’s scream. It was off at one side, away from the fire. Justin pulled his horse about and galloped toward the fire through the pall of smoke. In a few moments he beheld the plump form of Pearl Harkness. Helen was not with her. Seeing Justin, she ran toward him, screaming frantically.
“Helen! Helen!”
Justin stopped his horse.
“What is it? Where is she?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know! I’ve lost her! She was right here a while ago. The fire started, and I left her to get the horse; but the horse was gone, and when I tried to find her I couldn’t, the smoke was so thick. I must have got turned round.” She started on again, wildly. “Helen! Helen!”
“Can you stay here just a minute? I’ll find her, and I’ll bring her to you. Stay right here. The fire can’t get here for at least ten minutes. Stay right here.”
He feared to leave her, yet felt that he must if he hoped to save the child. Pearl Harkness seemed not to hear him. Calling the name of her child she ran on, in an agony of apprehension, choking and gasping. Lifted high above her by his horse, Justin found breathing difficult. His mind was in a puzzled whirl, when he heard the fog-horn bellow of Harkness’s heavy voice. Pearl heard it also, and ran toward Harkness with hysterical cries. Justin rode after her. Harkness appeared out of the smoke like a spectre, his horse at a dead run. When he saw Pearl he drew rein and jumped to the ground.
“Helen! Helen!” she screamed at him, stretching out her hands.
Then, before either Harkness or Justin could reach her, she pitched forward, overcome by excitement and the thick smoke. Harkness lifted her in his strong arms, clinging to his bridle rein as he did so. The bronchos were snorting and uneasy.
“I’ve got to git her out of here,” said Harkness, with tender solicitude. “Where’s Helen?”
“She must be right here somewhere; over that way, your wife said. I’ll find her.”
Harkness glared at the smoke.
“Yes, find her, and find her quick! That fire will be right on top of this place in another minute.”
He swung Pearl toward the saddle. Justin assisted him to hoist the heavy woman to the back of the horse, and held her there while he mounted. Harkness took the limp form in his arms.
“We ain’t got any time to lose!” he gasped. “Find Helen! For God’s sake, save Helen! It will kill Pearl, and me too, if you don’t. The fire is right here. For God’s sake, save her; I know you’ll do it if anybody can.”
Justin was in the saddle.
“Save your wife!” he cried. “Save your wife! I’ll find Helen! I’ll find her!”
“You’ve got to find her! Don’t stop till you find her! I reckon I’d better help you look for her.”
He could not abandon Helen; and holding his wife in his arms he rode toward the fire.
“Save your wife!” Justin shouted to him.
He was already moving off, forcing the broncho toward the point where the smoke lay heaviest. Again he shouted to Harkness, begging him to save his wife. Then a moving wall of smoke swept between them.
“Helen! Helen!” Justin began to call, circling swiftly about the spot where Pearl Harkness believed she had left her child.
The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable.
“I must find her!” was his thought, as he recalled Pearl’s hysterical screams and the anguished face of Steve Harkness.
Then, as if in a fire-framed picture, he saw her, well up toward the head of the cañon, whither she had fled in a panic of fright. The strong upward pull of the heated air, lifting the smoke for an instant, revealed her, clad in her short dress of striped calico, her yellow head bare.
As the flames flared thus on high, their angry red blending and tangling with the thick black smoke on the rim of the cañon, Justin’s broncho became almost unmanageable. He struck it now, pounding his fist against its body, kicking it mercilessly, and jerking like a madman at the sharp bit. Fighting with the scared broncho, he drove it toward the child.
She heard him call to her; and seeing him, she began to run toward him. She stumbled and fell, and rose crying. Her small face was smeared with soot and tears, with charred plum leaves and with sand. All about her, as the flames and the smoke lifted and fell under the force of the wind, flakes of soot, plum leaves, and burning grass, floated and flew. It was a wonder to Justin that her striped dress was not already ablaze. In a few moments he was at her side.
“I want my mamma!” she wailed, as he leaped down by her. “Where is my mamma?”
She pushed back the tangle of yellow hair that the wind tumbled into her face, and coughed violently. Her chubby hands were stained with tears and soot. She doubled one of them and gouged it into her eyes.
“I want my mamma!”
“I will take you to her,” Justin promised, as he tore the blankets and slicker from behind the saddle.
One of the blankets he wrapped about her; the other he threw over his shoulders and secured in place with a pin. The slicker he cast away, fearing its coating of oil would make it inflammable. Having done this, he clambered into the saddle, with the child in his arms.
But the fire had been as busy. A long red prong thrown in the direction of the ranch buildings had widened and was drawing back toward the cañon. It lapped across the open grassy space toward which he rode before he could gallop a dozen rods, thus hemming them in.
As Justin dashed furiously at this wall of flame, he drew the hood of the blanket well over his head; and while still holding the child closely wrapped, and clinging to the rein, he sought protection for his hands in the folds of the blanket. There was no protection for the horse. Yet he drove it to the plunge, which it took with blind and maddened energy.
The fire flashed about him and roared like a furnace. The flesh of his hands and face cried out in pain and seemed to crisp under the lash of that whip of flame. Giddy and reeling, he set his teeth hard and gouged his booted heels furiously into the broncho’s flanks. The blanket seemed to be burning about his head.
For a few brief moments after that he was but half conscious; then he felt the broncho fall under him, and was pitched from the saddle. He staggered to his feet, still holding the child. His blanket had been torn aside by the fall; and he saw that he had broken through the cordon of flame, and that the fire was behind him. The broncho lay quivering where it had dropped, having run to the last gasp. He could not have recognized it. Its hair was burnt off, and blood gushed from its nostrils.
Helen seemed to be uninjured, though she cried lustily. Still resolved to save her from the fire, Justin began to stagger with her across the unburned grass. As he did so he heard a shout, followed by galloping hoofs. He saw the horsemen dimly as they rode toward him, and he ran in their direction. As he thus ran on he fell.
When he came to himself he was on a horse in front of some one who clasped him firmly about the body. Horses’ feet were rustling noisily over the grass. The sky was black with smoke; its taste was in his mouth, it cut his lungs and pinched his quivering nostrils. His face and eyes; his hands, his whole body, throbbed with the smarting pain of fire.
“You’re still all right, air ye?”
It was the voice of Dicky Carroll, one of the cowboys.
It was Dicky’s arms that held him, and he was on Dicky’s horse. He drew himself up, looked about, and saw Steve Harkness galloping at Dicky’s side with Helen in his arms.
“He’s got to be made all right if he ain’t,” he heard Harkness shout. “He’s too gamy to be let die!”
CHAPTER II
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.
CHAPTER III
LEES OF THE WINE
The next morning Justin rode over to the ranch house to see Lucy. He desired to know how she felt about his sudden elevation, by which Ben had been thrust down. Near the crossing, where the bare boughs of the cottonwoods were tossing in the autumn wind, he encountered Philip Davison. The ranchman drew rein. Justin had a sense of uneasiness, as he lifted his hat respectfully to his former employer.
“Justin,” Davison spoke sharply, “we want to know how you stand. I heard from that meeting last night, and from what you said there nobody can tell. Fogg says you’re all right, but I’d like to hear you say so.”
Davison disliked circumlocution, being as direct in his methods as Justin himself. He had yielded reluctantly to the restraining hand of Fogg. Now, meeting Justin thus, he formulated his doubt and his question. His florid face had taken on added color and his blue eyes began to flash. Except for that sudden fire he looked tired, and older than Justin had ever seen him.
“Speak up, speak up!” he commanded testily, as Justin hesitated. “For myself I want to know just what to expect. Are you with us, or against us? You can’t be both.”
Justin did not want to speak up, for he did not want to break with Philip Davison. He still held for him much of the strong admiration he had cherished in his youth.
“Having been elected without my knowledge or wish, I shall go to Denver untrammeled,” he said, still hesitating. “How I shall vote will depend upon the questions that come up for settlement.”
“That’s a fool’s answer,” Davison declared. “Are you against the range, or are you for it? Will you support the interests of the cattlemen, or the interests of the farmers?”
His words flushed his face still more and made his eyes very bright. There were fleshy pads under those blue eyes, and the cheeks below the pads looked flabby. Justin thought of Ben. In some respects the father and the son were alike. Yet Ben was smaller, had a weak face, and little of the towering bulk of his father, who was as tall as Justin himself. And thoughts of Ben, humiliated by defeat, of Lucy, together with the old regard, made him oblivious to the harsh words and harsher tones. Yet evasion was not possible.
“I don’t think I ought to be called on to declare myself before I know just what the issues are and in what shape they will be presented,” he urged. “But you know my sentiments, Mr. Davison. You know I quit the ranch not because I did not wish to work for you, but simply because I——”
“Because you were a fool; because the work of branding a bawling calf made you sick at the stomach; because you couldn’t stand it to see a starving cow wandering about in a blizzard with nothing to eat! You think—”
“Mr. Davison—”
“You think the cattle business is cruel and brutal, and—”
“I think cattle raising as it is conducted on the open range is cruel. I can’t help that.”
“And you think the farmers are the only people! You think the cattlemen are—”
“I sympathize with the farmers. Perhaps that is because they are poor men and need sympathy.”
“You will vote with them!” Davison lifted his voice and shook his finger in Justin’s face, leaning forward in the saddle. “After all I’ve done for you, Justin! There is a contemptible conspiracy on foot in this state to ruin the cattle business, and it has your sympathy. I have always been your friend, and Fogg is your friend; yet you’d vote us into poverty to-morrow, just on account of Clayton’s idiotic notions. I’m done with you. You needn’t ride on over to the house, for I don’t want you there. There is no one there who does want you. I hope you understand that. A man who is a man doesn’t go where he isn’t wanted. I wash my hands of you!”
Having lost his temper, Philip Davison began to rave.
“Yet you owe your election to ranch influences,” he shouted. “You gained your place through the defection of the cowboys from Ben. They persisted in misunderstanding what he did at the time of the fire, and they played the sneak, riding over the country by night and banding themselves together to put him down. If you lent yourself to that, it—”
“I did not lend myself to it, Mr. Davison,” Justin protested, earnestly. “I did not know anything about it.”
“Yet you profit by it, you profit by it; and the receiver of stolen goods is as bad as the thief.”
Fogg had beheld this collocution from the ranch house, and now he galloped up, his fat body swaying heavily in his creaking saddle. Though perturbed, his round fat face beamed like a kindly sunset.
“How are you, Justin; how are you?” he cried. “Hope that racket at Clayton’s didn’t rob you of your sleep last night. It was a successful meeting, and I’m glad that it was, having had something to do with getting it up.” He mopped his hot forehead with his handkerchief. “Davison, a word with you! The Deep River Company write that they want to buy some of our cattle.”
Fogg’s hand was again on the wheel. Justin was glad to ride on, for Davison’s savage assault had left him breathless. He was hurt, but tried hard not to be angry. He was still determined to see Lucy, even though Davison’s words practically forbade him the house. Ben was absent so much from the ranch now that Justin hardly expected to meet him; yet he did meet him, in front of the ranch house door. Ben had long since discarded cowboy clothing, and he had lost much of the cowboy tan, his face being now white and unhealthy-looking, as if bleached by late hours and artificial lights. It took on a surly look, when he saw Justin.
“I shouldn’t think you’d care to come over here now,” he said, curtly. “If it’s pleasant for you, it isn’t pleasant for me.”
“I hope we can be friends,” Justin urged. “I’m sure I want to be yours.”
He had not recovered his equanimity, and his face was flushed.
“Well, I don’t want to be yours! You may deny it if you want to, but you played me a mean, dirty trick. You probably had it in mind, when you put up that melodramatic exhibition at the fire.”
Justin found great difficulty in keeping his temper. Hot words burned on his trembling lips.
“I won’t talk with you, Ben,” he declared, hoarsely. “Is Lucy in? I should like to see her.”
“Find out if she’s in,” Ben snapped, and turned toward the corrals.
Lucy met Justin at the door. Though she smiled in welcome, he could see that she was troubled.
“Don’t mind what Ben says,” she urged, as she took Justin’s hat and then led the way to the sitting room.
“He was crusty,” said Justin, “but I can’t blame him.”
Having gained the sitting room she turned to Justin, admiration in her troubled eyes.
“Justin, I ought to be proud of you, and I am—I can’t help being—but this is, in a way, very unfortunate and distressing. Ben wasn’t worthy of that place, as I know only too well, and as you know; but he is so very bitter over his defeat, and Uncle Philip is the same. Ben has been in a stubborn rage ever since the election, and has said some sharp things to me about it—as if I could help it, or had anything to do with it!”
“I’m sorry.” He took a chair. “I suppose I’ve lost Mr. Davison’s good-will entirely. When I met him a few minutes ago he forbade me the house. But I wanted to see you, and came on.”
“I suppose you will accept the position?”
“Can I do otherwise?”
“I shouldn’t want you to refuse it. The people chose you, over Ben, and even though it was unexpected, I suppose you ought to serve. Ben is alone responsible for his defeat. Uncle Philip will not believe the things which we know to be true, and he thinks Ben ought to have been elected. Yet I do hope,” she looked at Justin earnestly, “that you will not feel that you must vote against the cattlemen in everything, in the legislature?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Uncle Philip declares that you mean to.”
“It will depend, I fancy, upon the general action of the legislature—upon the measures and bills that may be introduced, and the candidates who are presented for senator. I don’t expect to take any active part against the ranchmen.”
“The farmers expect you to.”
“I’m opposed to the ranchmen on some points. You know how I feel; and of course I shall have to be guided by what I think is right. I don’t see how I can do anything else.”
“Uncle Philip says certain bills will come up, aimed at the free range; and he declares that if the free range is taken away or curtailed he will have to go out of business. He can’t fence against everybody.”
“On the other hand, what about the farmers?”
“There aren’t so very many of them, and their holdings are small. They might fence their land. The ranchmen were here first. You’ll remember that?”
“I’m not likely to forget it.” He settled back easily in his chair. “That’s been dinned in my ears a good deal, already.”
“It’s a serious matter,” she urged. “My sympathies are with the ranchmen; because I’m a ranch girl, I suppose, and have always lived on a ranch.”
“And it’s because I’ve seen so much of ranching that my sympathies are not with the ranchmen, aside from Mr. Davison himself. I should dislike to do anything to injure him, or displease him. But the ranching business, as it is now carried on, is, I fancy, the thing around which the fight in Denver will rage, if there is any fight. You know yourself, Lucy, that in a certain sense the ranchmen are lawbreakers. The trouble is, Mr. Davison doesn’t stand alone. It is not any one ranchman, but the system.”
“That’s why I’m disturbed by the situation.”
“A long time ago,” he said, seeming to change the subject, “you asked me to go to your uncle and put to him a certain momentous question. His answer was virtually a command that I should do something and become something. This opportunity has come, and it would be a weakness not to make the most of it. I shall trust that I won’t have to do anything to turn your uncle against me completely; but,” he regarded her earnestly, “I hope in any event nothing can ever come between you and me.”
He arose and stood beside her.
“Justin,” she said, looking up at him, “that does not need an answer; but I’m going to ask you not to be stubborn when you go to Denver, that is all. You do get unreasonably angry, sometimes, just like Uncle Philip; and when you do, you become stubborn. You don’t mind if I say this? If the struggle we fear comes, will you promise me not to permit yourself to get angry and stubborn about it? There will be many things said, I’ve no doubt, that will try you. But just think of me here, a ranch girl, and your best friends ranch people; the cowboys, who regard you so highly, didn’t vote for you because they were opposed to the ranchmen, but simply because they didn’t like Ben. You’ll remember these things, won’t you?”
He drew her to him.
“Lucy,” he said, as he put his arm about her and kissed her, “I shall be thinking of you all the time. I was almost afraid to come over here to-day, but I see I had nothing to fear.”
“And do you know why?”
“Because you love me even as I love you.”
“Then you won’t forget—you won’t forget—that I am a ranch girl, and that my interests, and yours too if you but knew it, are ranch interests!”
“I will not forget,” he promised.
CHAPTER IV
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.