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THE LADY DOC

by

CAROLINE LOCKHART

Author of
"The Man from Bitter Roots," "The Fighting Shepherdess"

Frontispiece by Gayle Hoskins







[Illustration: "No, Essie Tisdale, I can't just see you in any such
setting as that"]



A. L. Burt Company
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company

Copyright, 1912,
by J. B. Lippincott Company

Published September, 1912



CONTENTS

    CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
         I. The "Canuck" That Saved Flour Gold                     9
        II. The Humor of the Fate Lachesis                        17
       III. A Mesalliance                                         31
        IV. "The Ground Floor"                                    43
         V. Another Case in Surgery                               56
        VI. "The Church Racket"                                   70
       VII. The Sheep From the Goats                              77
      VIII. "The Chance of a Lifetime"                            90
        IX. The Ways of Polite Society                            99
         X. Essie Tisdale's Enforced Abnegation                  110
        XI. The Opening Wedge                                    120
       XII. Their First Clash                                    127
      XIII. Essie Tisdale's Colors                               139
       XIV. "The Ethics of the Profession"                       147
        XV. Symes's Authority                                    165
       XVI. The Top Wave                                         172
      XVII. The Possible Investor                                179
     XVIII. "Her Supreme Moment"                                 188
       XIX. "Down And Out"                                       213
        XX. An Unfortunate Affair                                234
       XXI. Turning a Corner                                     248
      XXII. Crowheart's First Murder Mystery                     259
     XXIII. Symes Meets the Homeseekers                          271
      XXIV. The <DW55> Duke And Dan Treu Exchange Confidences      280
       XXV. Crowheart Demands Justice                            288
      XXVI. Latin Methods                                        294
     XXVII. Essie Tisdale's Moment                               303
    XXVIII. The Sweetest Thing in the World                      312
      XXIX. "The Bitter End"                                     325
       XXX. "Thicker Than Water"                                 332






THE LADY DOC

I

THE "CANUCK" THAT SAVED FLOUR GOLD


"A fellow must have something against himself--he certainly must--to
live down here year in and year out and never do a lick of work on a
trail like this, that he's usin' constant. Gettin' off half a dozen
times to lift the front end of your horse around a point, and then the
back end--there's nothin' _to_ it!"

Grumbling to himself and talking whimsically to the three horses
stringing behind him, Dick Kincaid picked his way down the zigzag,
sidling trail which led from the saddleback between two peaks of the
Bitter Root Mountains into the valley which still lay far below him.

"Quit your crowdin', can't you, Baldy!" He laid a restraining hand upon
the white nose of the horse following close at his heels. "Want to jam
me off this ledge and send me rollin' two thousand feet down onto their
roof? Good as I've been to you, too!"

He stopped and peered over the edge of the precipice along which the
faint trail ran.

"Looks like smoke." He nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, _'tis_ smoke. Long
past dinner time, but then these squaws go to cookin' whenever they
happen to think about it. Lord, but I'm hungry! Wish some good-lookin'
squaw would get took with me and follow me off, for I sure hates cookin'
and housework."

Still talking to himself he resumed the descent, slipping and sliding
and digging his heels hard to hold himself back.

"They say she sticks like beeswax, Dubois's squaw, never tries to run
off but stays right to home raisin' up a batch of young 'uns. You take
these Nez Perces and they're good Injuns as Injuns go. Smarter'n most,
fair lookers, and tolerable clean. Will you look at that infernal pack
slippin' again, and right here where there's no chance to fix it!

"Say, but I'd like to get my thumb in the eye of the fellow that made
these pack-saddles. Too narrow by four inches for any horse not just off
grass and rollin' fat. Won't fit any horse that packs in _these_ hills.
Doggone it, his back'll be as raw as a piece of beefsteak and if there's
anything in this world that I hate it's to pack a sore-backed horse.

"You can bet I wouldn't a made this trip for money if I wasn't so plumb
anxious to see how Dubois saves that flour gold. You take one of these
here 'canucks' and he's blamed near as good if not a better placer miner
than a Chink; more ingenious and just as savin'. Say, Baldy, will you
keep off my heels? If I have to tell you again about walkin' up my pant
leg I aim to break your head in. It's bad enough to come down a trail so
steep it wears your back hair off t'hout havin' your clothes tore off
you into the bargain."

And so, entertaining himself with his own conversation and scolding
amiably at his saddle and pack horses, the youthful prospector slid for
another hour down the mountain trail, though, as a rock would fall, the
log house of the French Canadian was not more than a thousand yards
below.

It was the middle of May and the deep snows of winter still lay in the
passes and upon the summit, but in the valley the violets made purple
blotches along the stream now foaming with the force of the water
trickling from the melting drifts above. The thorn bushes were white
with blossoms and the service-berry bushes were like fragrant banks of
snow. Accustomed as he was to the beauty of valleys and the grandeur of
peaks, something in the peaceful scene below him stirred the soul of
young Dick Kincaid, and he stopped to look before he made the last drop
into the valley.

"Ain't that a young paradise?" He breathed deep of the odorous air.
"Ain't it, now?"

The faint blue smoke rising straight among the white blossoms reminded
him again of his hunger, so, wiping the perspiration from his
snow-burned face, he started on again, but when he came to the ditch
which carried water from the stream through a hundred and fifty feet of
sluice-boxes he stopped and examined with eager interest the methods
used for saving fine gold, for, keen as was his hunger, the miner's
instinct within him was keener.

"Will you look at the lumber he's whip-sawed!" Astonishment was in his
voice! "Whip-sawin' lumber is the hardest work a man ever did. I'll bet
the squaw was on the other end of that saw; I never heard of Dubois
hiring help. Uh-huh, he uses the Carriboo riffles. Look at the work he's
been to--punchin' all those holes in that sheet-iron. And here's two
boxes of pole riffles, and a set of Hungarian riffles, not to mention
three distributin' boxes and a table. Say, he isn't takin' any chances
on losin' anything, is he? But it's all right--you gotta be careful with
this light gold and heavy sand. I'm liable to learn something down
here. Lord I'm hungry! Come on, Baldy!"

As he pulled his saddle horse in the direction of the smoke he noticed
that there were no footprints in the trail and a stillness which
impressed him as peculiar pervaded the place. There was something which
he missed--what was it? To be sure--dogs! There were no barking dogs to
greet him. It was curious, he thought, for these isolated families
always had plenty of dogs and no "breed" or "Injun" outfit ever kept
fewer than six. There were no shrill voices of children at play, no
sound of an axe or a saw or a hammer.

"Blamed funny," he muttered, yet he knew where there was smoke there
must be human beings.

He stopped short at some sound and listened attentively. A whimpering
minor wail reached him faintly. It was unlike any sound he ever had
heard, yet he knew it was a woman's voice. There was something in the
cadence which sent a chill over him. He dropped the bridle reins and
walked softly down the trail. Suddenly he halted and his lips parted in
a whispered ejaculation of astonishment and horror. He was young then,
Dick Kincaid, but the sight which met his eyes stayed with him distinct
in every detail, through all his adventurous life.

Two children, boys of eleven and thirteen or thereabouts, were roasting
a ground squirrel in the smouldering embers of what had been a cabin. A
dead baby lay on a ragged soogan near a partially dug grave.
Cross-legged on the ground beside it was a woman wailing unceasingly as
she rocked her gaunt and nearly naked body to and fro. The eagerness of
famished animals gleamed in the boys' eyes as they tore the half-cooked
squirrel in two, yet each offered his share to his mother, who seemed
not to see the proffered food.

"Just a little piece, mother," coaxed the elder, and he extended an
emaciated arm from which hung the rags of a tattered shirt sleeve.

Both children were dressed in the remnants of copper-riveted overalls
and their feet were bound in strips of canvas torn from a "tarp." Their
straight black hair hung over faces sunken and sallow and from the waist
up they were naked.

The boy held the food before her as long as he could endure it, then he
tore it with his teeth in the ferocity of starvation.

"Can you _beat_ it! Can you beat _that_!" The boys did not hear
Kincaid's shocked exclamation.

It was not until he cleared his throat and called in a friendly,
reassuring voice that they learned they were not alone. Then they jumped
in fright and scurried into a near-by thicket like two scared rabbits,
each holding tight his food. But Dick Kincaid's face was one to inspire
confidence, and as he approached they came forth timidly. Their first
fright gave place to delirious joy. The smaller threw his arms about
Kincaid's long legs and hugged them in an ecstasy of delight while the
elder clung to his hand as though afraid he might vanish. The woman
merely glanced at him with vacant eyes and went on wailing.

While he took cold biscuits and bacon from his pack they told him what
had happened--briefly, simply, without the smallest attempt to color the
story for his sympathy.

"We couldn't have held out much longer, m'sieu, we're so weak." The
elder boy was the spokesman.

"And the strawberries and sarvis-berries won't be ripe for a long time
yet. It wasn't so bad till the cabin burned. We could keep warm. But we
went off in the woods to see if we could kill something, and when we
came back the cabin was burned and the baby dead. Mother went crazy more
than a month ago, I guess it was. She wouldn't let us bury the baby till
yesterday, and when we started to dig we found we could only dig a
little at a time. We got tired so quick, and besides, we had to try and
keep a fire, for we have no more matches."

"I could dig longer nor you," chimed in the younger boy boastfully. The
other smiled wanly.

"I know it, Petie, but you had more to eat. You had two trout and a bird
more nor me."

"You have a gun, then? and fish-hooks?"

"Not now. We lost our hooks and shot our shells away long ago. We kill
things with rocks but it takes muscle, m'sieu, to throw hard enough. The
dog was starvin' and we killed and ate him. We couldn't try to get out
because mother wouldn't leave and she'd a been dead before we got back.
We couldn't have wallered through the snow anyhow. We'd never have made
it if we'd gone. There wasn't anything to do but to try and hang on till
spring; then we hoped somebody would come down like you have."

The boy did not cry as he told the story nor did his lip so much as
quiver at the recollection of their sufferings. He made no effort to
describe them, but the hollows in his cheeks and the dreadful thinness
of his arms and little body told it all more eloquently than words.

Kincaid noticed that he had not mentioned his father's name, so he asked
finally:

"Where's Dubois? Where's your father? I came to see him."

The childish face hardened instantly.

"I don't know. He cleaned up the sluice-boxes late last fall after the
first freeze. Mother helped him clean up. He got a lot of gold--the most
yet--and he took it with him and all the horses. He said he was going
out for grub but he never came back. Then the big snows came in the
mountains and we knew he couldn't get in. We ate our bacon up first,
then the flour give out, and the beans. The baby cried all the time
'cause 'twas hungry and Petie and me wore our shoes out huntin' through
the hills. It was awful, m'sieu."

Kincaid swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Do you think he'll come back?" the younger boy asked eagerly.

"He might have stayed outside longer than he intended and found he
couldn't get in for the snow, or he might have tried and froze in the
pass. It's deep there yet," was Kincaid's evasive reply.

"He'll never come back," said the older boy slowly, "and--he wasn't
froze in the pass."

It was still May when Dick Kincaid climbed out of the valley with the
whimpering squaw clinging to the horn of his saddle while the swarthy
little "breeds" trudged manfully in the trail close to his heels. The
violets still made purple blotches along the bank of the noisy stream,
the thorn trees and the service-berry bushes were still like fragrant
banks of snow, the grass in the valley was as green and the picture as
serenely beautiful as when first he had stopped to gaze upon it, but it
no longer looked like paradise to Dick Kincaid.

They stopped to rest and let the horses get their breath when they
reached the edge of the snows, and for a time they stood in silence
looking their last upon the valley below them. The older boy drew his
thin hand from Kincaid's big palm and touched the gun swinging in its
holster on his hip.

"Do they cost much, a gun like this?"

"Not much, boy. Why?"

The younger answered for him, smiling at the shrewdness of his guess.

"I know. He's goin' to hunt for father when he's big."

There was no answering smile upon his brother's face, the gravity of
manhood sat strangely upon it as he answered without boastfulness or
bitterness but rather in the tone of one who speaks of a duty:

"I'm goin' to find him, m'sieu, and when I do I'll get him _sure_!"

Dick Kincaid regarded him for a moment from the shadow of his
wide-brimmed hat.

"If you do, boy, and I find it out, I don't know as I'll give you
away."




II

THE HUMOR OF THE FATE LACHESIS


What possible connection, however remote, this tragedy of the Bitter
Root Mountains could have with the future of Doctor Emma Harpe, who,
nearly twenty years later, sat at a pine table in a forlorn Nebraska
town filling out a death certificate, or what part it could play in the
life of Essie Tisdale, the belle of the still smaller frontier town of
Crowheart, in a distant State, who at the moment was cleaning her white
slippers with gasoline, only the Fate Lachesis spinning the thread of
human life from Clotho's distaff could foresee.

When Dr. Harpe, whose fingers were cold with nervousness, made tremulous
strokes which caused the words to look like a forgery, the ugly Fate
Lachesis grinned, and grinned again when Essie Tisdale, many hundred
miles away, held the slipper up before her and dimpled at its arched
smallness; then Lachesis rearranged her threads.

Dr. Harpe arose when the certificate was blotted and, thrusting her
hands deep in the pockets of her loose, square-cut coat, made a turn or
two the length of the office, walking with the long strides of a man.
Unexpectedly her pallid, clear-cut features crumpled, the strained
muscles relaxed, and she dropped into a chair, her elbows on her knees,
her feet wide apart, her face buried in her hands. She was unfeminine
even in her tears.

Alice Freoff was dead! Alice Freoff was dead! Dr. Harpe was still numb
with the chilling shock of it. She had not expected it. Such a result
had not entered into her calculations--not until she had seen her best
friend slipping into the other world had she considered it; then she had
fought frantically to hold her back. Her efforts had been useless and
with a frightful clutching at her heart she had watched the woman sink.
Alexander Freoff was away from home. What would he say when he learned
that his wife had died of an operation which he had forbidden Dr. Harpe
to attempt? Fear checked the tears of grief with which her cheeks were
wet. He was a man of violent temper and he had not liked the intimacy
between herself and his wife. He did not like _her_--Dr. Emma Harpe--and
now that Alice was dead and the fact that she, as a physician, had
blundered, was too obvious to be denied, the situation held alarming
possibilities. Consternation replaced her grief and the tears dried on
her cheeks while again she paced the floor.

She was tired almost to exhaustion when she stopped suddenly and flung
her shoulder in defiance and self-disgust. "Bah! I'm going to pieces
like a schoolgirl. I must pull myself together. Twenty-four hours will
tell the tale and I must keep my nerve. The doctors will--they _must_
stand by me!"

Dr. Harpe was correct in her surmise that her suspense would be short.
The interview between herself and the husband of her dead friend was one
she was not likely to forget. Then the coroner, himself a physician,
sent for her and she found him waiting at his desk. All the former
friendliness was gone from his eyes when he swung in his office chair
and looked at her.

"It will not be necessary, I believe, to explain why I have sent for
you, Dr. Harpe." His cool, impersonal voice was more ominous, more final
than anger, and she found it hard to preserve her elaborate assumption
of ease.

A dull red mounted slowly to her cheeks and faded, leaving them ashen.

"Two doors are open to you." He weighed his words carefully. "If you
remain here, suit will be brought against you by Alexander Freoff; and
since, in this case, you have acted in violation of all recognized
methods of medical science, I will not uphold you. As a matter of fact,
immediate action will be taken by the State Medical Board, of which I am
a member, to disqualify you. If you leave town within twenty-four hours
you will be permitted to go unmolested. This concession I am willing to
make; not for your sake but for the sake of the profession which you
have disgraced. You have my ultimatum; you may take your choice."

She gripped the arms of her chair hard, silent from an inability to
speak. At last she arose uncertainly and said in a voice which was
barely audible:

"I will go."

And so it happened that while Dr. Emma Harpe was saying good-by to a few
wondering acquaintances who accompanied her to the station, Essie
Tisdale was making preparations for a dance which was an event in the
embryotic metropolis of Crowheart, several hundred miles away.

Crowheart was booming and the news of its prosperity had spread.
Settlers were hurrying toward it from the Middle West to take up
homesteads and desert claims in the surrounding country. There was no
specific reason why the town should boom, but it did boom in that
mysterious fashion which far western towns have, up to a certain stage,
after which the reaction sets in.

But there was no thought of reaction now. All was life, eagerness,
good-nature, boundless belief in a great and coming prosperity. The Far
West and the Middle West greeted each other with cordial, outstretched
hands and this dance, though given by a single individual, was in the
nature of a reception from the old settlers to the new as well as to
celebrate the inception of an undertaking which was to insure
Crowheart's prosperity for all time.

Crowheart was platted on a sagebrush "bench" on a spur of a branch
railroad. The snow-covered peaks of a lofty range rose skyward in the
west. To the north was the solitary butte from which the town received
its name. To the south was a line of dimpled foothills, while eastward
stretched a barren vista of cactus, sand, and sagebrush. A shallow
stream flowed between alkali-coated banks on two sides of the town. In
the spring when melting mountain snows filled it to overflowing, it ran
swift and yellow; but in the late fall and winter it dropped to an
inconsequential creek of clear water, hard with alkali. The inevitable
"Main Street" was wide and its two business blocks consisted of
one-story buildings of log and unpainted pine lumber. There was the
inevitable General Merchandise Store with its huge sign on the high
front, and the inevitable newspaper which always exists, like the
faithful at prayer, where two or three are gathered together. There were
saloons in plenty with irrelevant and picturesque names, a dance hall
and a blacksmith shop. The most conspicuous and pretentious building in
Crowheart was the Terriberry House, bilious in color and Spartan in its
architecture, located in the centre of Main Street on a corner. The
houses as yet were chiefly tar-paper shacks or floored and partially
boarded tents, but the sound of the saw and the hammer was heard
week-days and Sundays so no one could doubt but that it was only a
question of time when Crowheart would be comfortably housed. There was
nothing distinctive about Crowheart; it had its prototype in a thousand
towns between Peace River and the Rio Grande; it was typical of the
settlements which are springing up every year along the lines of those
railroads that are stretching their tentacles over the Far West. Yet the
hopes of Crowheart expressed themselves in boulevards outlined with new
stakes and in a park which should, some day, be a breathing spot for a
great city. It was Crowheart's last thought that it should remain
stationary and obscure.

To Dr. Harpe swinging down from the high step of the single passenger
coach in the mixed train of coal and cattle cars, it looked like a
highly  picture on a drop-curtain. The effect was impressionistic
and bizarre as it lay in the gorgeous light of the setting sun, yet it
pleased and rested the eye of the woman whose thoughts had not been
conducive to an appreciation of scenery during the journey past.

As she drew a deep breath of the thin, stimulating air, the tension
lessened on her strained nerves. She looked back at the interminable
miles over which she had come, the miles which lay between her and the
nightmare of disgrace and failure she had left, and then at the new,
untried field before her. The light of new hope shone in her handsome
hazel eyes, and there was fresh life in her step as she picked up her
suitcase and started across the railroad track toward the town.

"Emma Harpe ... St. Louis," she wrote boldly upon the bethumbed register
of the Terriberry House.

The loungers in the office studied her signature earnestly but it told
them nothing of that which they most wished to know--her business. She
might be selling books upon the instalment plan: she might be peddling
skin-food warranted to restore their weather-beaten complexions to the
texture of a baby's: she _might_ be a new inmate for the dance hall.
Anything was possible in Crowheart.

She was the object of interested glances as she ate her supper in the
long dining-room for, although she was nearly thirty, there was still
something of girlhood in her tired face. But she seemed engrossed in her
own thoughts and returned to her room as soon as she had eaten. There
she lay down upon the patchwork quilt which covered her bed, with her
hands clasped above her head, staring at the ceiling and trying to
forget the past in conjecturing the future.

The clatter of dishes ceased after a time and with the darkness came the
sound of many voices in the hall below. There was laughter and much
scurrying to and fro. Then she heard the explanatory tuning of a violin
and finally a loud and masterful voice urging the selection of partners
for a quadrille. Whoops of exuberance, shrill feminine laughter, and
jocose personalities shouted across the room followed. Then,
simultaneous with a burst of music, the scuffling of sliding soles and
stamping heels told her that the dance was on.

The jubilant shriek of the violin, the lively twang of a guitar, the
"boom! boom" of a drum marking time, the stentorian voice of the master
of ceremonies, reached her plainly as she lay staring at the stars
through the single window of her room. She liked the sounds; they were
cheerful; they helped to shut out the dying face of Alice Freoff and to
dull the pitiless voice of the coroner. She found herself keeping time
with her foot to the music below.

An hour passed with no diminution of the hilarity downstairs and having
no desire to sleep she still lay with her lamp unlighted. While she
listened her ear caught a sound which had no part in the gayety below.
It came faintly at first, then louder as a smothered sob became a sharp
intake of breath.

Dr. Harpe sat up and listened intently. The sound was close, apparently
at the head of the stairs. She was not mistaken, a woman was crying--so
she opened the door.

A crouching figure on the top step shrank farther into the shadow.

"Is that you crying?"

Another sob was the answer.

"What ails you? Come in here."

While she struck a match to light the lamp the girl obeyed mechanically.

Dr. Harpe shoved a chair toward her with her foot.

"Now what's the trouble?" she demanded half humorously. "Are you a
wall-flower or is your beau dancing with another girl?"

There was a rush of tears which the girl covered her face with her hands
to hide.

"Huh--I hit it, did I?"

While she wept softly, Dr. Harpe inspected her with deliberation. She
was tall and awkward, with long, flat feet, and a wide face with high
cheek bones that was Scandinavian in its type. Her straight hair was the
drab shade which flaxen hair becomes before it darkens, and her large
mouth had a solemn, unsmiling droop. Her best feature was her brown,
melancholy, imaginative eyes. She looked like the American-born daughter
of Swedish or Norwegian emigrants and her large-knuckled hands, too,
bespoke the peasant strain.

"Quit it, Niobe, and tell me your name."

The girl raised her tearful eyes.

"Kunkel--Augusta Kunkel."

"Oh, German?"

The girl nodded.

"Well, Miss Kunkel"--she suppressed a smile--"tell me your troubles and
perhaps you'll feel better."

More tears was the girl's reply.

"Look here"--there was impatience in her voice--"there's no man worth
bawling over."

"But--but----" wept the girl, "he said he'd marry me!"

"Isn't he going to?"

"I don't know--he's going away in a few days and he won't talk any more
about it. He's waltzed every waltz to-night with Essie Tisdale and has
not danced once with me."

"So? And who's Essie Tisdale?"

"She's the waitress here."

"Downstairs? In this hotel?"

Augusta Kunkel nodded.

"I don't blame him," Dr. Harpe replied bluntly, "I saw her at supper.
She's a peach!"

"She's the belle of Crowheart," admitted the girl reluctantly.

"And who is _he_? What's _his name_?"

The girl hesitated but as though yielding to a stronger will than her
own, she whimpered:

"Symes--Andy P. Symes."

"Why don't you let Andy P. Symes go if he wants to? He isn't the only
man in Crowheart, is he?"

"But he promised!" The girl wrung her hands convulsively. "He promised
_sure_!"

A look of quick suspicion flashed across Dr. Harpe's face.

"He _promised_--oh, I _see_!"

She arose and closed the door.

The interview was interrupted by a bounding step upon the stairs and a
little tap upon the door, and when it was opened the belle of Crowheart
stood flushed and radiant on the threshold.

"We want you to come down," she said in her vivacious, friendly voice.
"It must be lonely for you up here, and Mr. Symes--he's giving the
dance, you know--he sent me up to ask you." She caught sight of the
girl's tear-stained face and stepped quickly into the room. "Why,
Gussie." She laid her arm about her shoulder. "What's the matter?"

Augusta Kunkel drew away with frank hostility in her brown eyes and
answered:

"Nothing's the matter--I'm tired, that's all."

Though she flushed at the rebuff, she murmured gently: "I'm sorry,
Gussie." Turning to Dr. Harpe, she urged persuasively:

"Please come down. We're having the best time _ever_!"

Dr. Harpe hesitated, for she thought of Alice Freoff, but the violin
was shrieking enticingly and the voice of the master of ceremonies in
alluring command floated up the stairway:

"Choose your partners for a waltz, gents!"

She jerked her head at Augusta Kunkel.

"Come along--don't sit up here and mope."

Andy P. Symes, waiting in the hall below, was a little puzzled by the
intentness of the newcomer's gaze as she descended the stairs, but at
the bottom he extended a huge hand:

"I'm glad you decided to join us, Miss----"

"Harpe--Doctor Emma Harpe."

"Oh," surprised amusement was in his tone, "you've come to settle among
us, perhaps? Permit me to welcome you, Dr. Harpe. We are to be
congratulated. Our nearest physician is sixty miles away, so you will
have the field to yourself. You should prosper. Do you come from the
East?"

She looked him in the eyes.

"St. Louis."

"Take your pardners for the waltz, gents!"

Andy P. Symes held out his arms in smiling invitation while the news
flashed round the room that the newcomer with the cold, immobile face,
the peculiar pallor of which contrasted strongly with their own
sun-blistered skins, was a "lady-doctor" who had come to live in
Crowheart.

The abandon, the freedom of it all, appealed strongly to Dr. Harpe. The
atmosphere was congenial, and when the waltz was done she asked that she
might be allowed to sit quietly for a time since she found herself more
fatigued by her long journey than she had realized; but, in truth, she
desired to familiarize herself with the character of the people among
whom her future work lay.

A noisy, heterogeneous gathering it was, boisterous without vulgarity,
free without familiarity. There were no covert glances of dislike or
envy, no shrugs of disdain, no whispered innuendoes. The social lines
which breed these things did not exist. Every man considered his
neighbor and his neighbor's wife as good as himself and his genuine
liking was in his frank glance, his hearty tones, his beaming, friendly
smile. Men and women looked at each other clear-eyed and straight.

The piercing "yips" of cowboys meant nothing but an excess of spirits.
The stamping of feet, the shouts and laughter were indicative only of
effervescent youth seeking an outlet. Most were young, all were full of
life and hope, and the world was far away, that world where clothes and
money matter.

The scene was typical of a new town in the frontier West. The old
settlers and the new mingled gaily. The old timers with their
indifferent dress, their vernacular and free manners of the mountains
and ranges brushed elbows with the more modern folk of the poor and the
middle class of the Middle West. They were uninteresting and mediocre,
these newcomers, yet the sort who thrive astonishingly upon new soil,
who become prosperous and self-important in an atmosphere of equality.
There were, too, educated failures from the East and--people who had
blundered. But all alike to-night, irrespective of pasts or presents or
futures, were bent upon enjoying themselves to their capacities.

Callous-handed ranchers and their faded wives promenaded arm in arm.
Sheep-herders and cow-punchers passed in the figures of the dance eyeing
each other in mutual antipathy. The neat "hand-me-downs" of grocery
clerks contrasted with the copper-riveted overalls of shy and silent
prospectors from the hills who stood against the walls envying their
dapper ease. A remittance man from Devonshire whose ancestral halls had
sheltered an hundred knights danced with Faro Nell, who gambled for a
living, while the station agent's attenuated daughter palpitated in the
arms of a husky stage-driver. Mr. Percy Parrott, the sprightly cashier
of the new bank, swung the new milliner from South Dakota. Sylvanus
Starr, the gifted editor of the Crowheart _Courier_, schottisched with
Mrs. "Hank" Terriberry, while his no less gifted wife swayed in the arms
of the local barber, and his two lovely daughters, "Pearline" and
"Planchette," tripped it respectively with the "barkeep" of the White
Elephant Saloon and a Minneapolis shoe-drummer. In the centre of the
floor the new plasterer and his wife moved through the figures of the
French minuet with the stiff-kneed grace of two self-conscious giraffes,
while Mrs. Percy Parrott, a long-limbed lady with a big, white,
Hereford-like face, capered with "Tinhorn Frank," the oily, dark,
craftily observant proprietor of the "Walla Walla Restaurant and
Saloon." Mr. Abe Tutts, of the Flour and Feed Store, skimmed the floor
with the darting ease of a water-spider dragging beside him his far less
active wife, a belligerent-appearing and somewhat hard-featured lady
several years his senior.

But the long, crowded dining-room held two central figures, one of which
was Andy P. Symes, and the other was Essie Tisdale, the little waitress
of the Terriberry House and the belle of Crowheart.

Symes moved among his guests with the air of a man who found amusement
in mingling with those he deemed his inferiors even while patently
bidding for their admiration and regard. His height and breadth of
shoulder made him conspicuous even in this gathering of tall men. His
finely shaped head was well set but in contrast his utterly
inconsequential nose came as something of a shock. His face was florid
and genial and he had a word for the most obscure.

Yet the trained and sensitive observer would have felt capabilities for
boorishness beneath his amiability, a lack of sincerity in his impartial
and too fulsome compliments. His manner denoted a degree of social
training and a knowledge of social forms acquired in another than his
present environment, but he was too fond of the limelight--it cheapened
him; too broad in his attentions to women--it coarsened him; his
waistcoat was the dingy waistcoat of a man of careless habits; his linen
was not too immaculate and the nails of his blunt fingers showed lack of
attention. He was the sort of man who is nearly, but not quite, a
gentleman.

The slim little belle of Crowheart seemed to be everywhere, her youthful
spirits were unflagging, and her contagious, merry laugh rang out
constantly from the centre of lively groups. Her features were delicate
and there was pride, sensitiveness and good-breeding in her mouth with
its short, red upper lip. Her face held more than prettiness, for there
was thoughtfulness, as well, in her blue eyes and innate kindness in its
entire expression. Her light brown hair was soft and plentiful and added
to her stature by its high dressing. She was natural of manner and
graceful with the ease of happy youth and her flushed cheeks were pinker
than her simple gown. She looked farther removed from her occupation
than any woman in the room and to Dr. Harpe, following her with her
eyes, the connection seemed incongruous.

"Moses!" she whispered to herself, "but that little biscuit-shooter
would be a winner if she had clothes."

Other eyes than Dr. Harpe's were following Essie Tisdale and with an
intentness which finally attracted her attention. She stopped as she was
passing a swarthy, silent man in the corner, who had not moved from his
chair since the beginning of the dance, and, arching her eyebrows, she
asked mischievously:

"Don't you mean to ask me for a single dance, Mr. Dubois--not one?"

To her surprise and the amusement of all who heard, he arose at once,
bending his squat figure in an awkward bow, and replied:

"Certainly, m'amselle, if you will give me that pleasure."

And all the roomful stared in mingled astonishment and glee when old
Edouard Dubois, the taciturn and little-liked sheepman from the
"Limestone Rim," led Essie Tisdale out upon the floor to complete a set.

The evening was well along when Dr. Harpe laid her hand upon the
unpainted railing which served as a bannister and turned to look once
more at the roomful of hot, ecstatically happy dancers before she went
upstairs.

"Harpe," she murmured, and her eyes narrowed, "Harpe, we're going to
make good here. We're going to win out. We're going to make money hand
over fist."

And even with her own boastful words there came a pang which had its
source in a knowledge her dance with Symes had brought her. Something
was dead within her! That something was the spirit of youth, and with it
had gone the best of Emma Harpe.




III

A MESALLIANCE


Crowheart was surprised but not shocked when the engagement of Andy P.
Symes to the blacksmith's sister was announced. It saw no mesalliance in
the union. It was merely unaware that he had been attentive to Augusta
Kunkel. Now they were to be married in the long dining-room of the
Terriberry House and take the night train for Chicago on their
honeymoon.

Dr. Harpe standing at the window of her new office on the second floor
of the hotel smiled to herself as she saw the chairs going inside which
served equally well for funerals or for social functions. The match, she
felt, was really of her making.

"You've got to do it," she had told him. "You've simply got to do it."

He had come to see her at Augusta's insistence.

"But!" he had groaned; "a Kunkel! Perhaps you don't know--but I'm one of
the Symes of Maine. Great-grandfather a personal friend of Alexander
Hamilton's, and all that. My family don't expect _much_ of me since I'm
the black sheep, but," a dull red had surged over his face, "they expect
something better of me than a Kunkel!"

She had shrugged her shoulders.

"Suit yourself, I'm only telling you how it looks to me. You'll queer
yourself forever if you don't marry her, for this country is still
western enough to respect women. You are just starting in to promote
this irrigation project and if you succeed you can't tell what the
future will hold for you politically; this is just the sort of thing to
bob up and down you. You know I'm right."

"But she looks so obviously what she is," he had groaned miserably.
"Some day I may want to go home--and think of introducing Augusta
Kunkel!"

"You are wrong there," she had replied with conviction, "Augusta has
possibilities. She has good eyes, her voice is low, her English is far
better than you might expect, and, best of all, she's tall and slender.
If she was short and fat I'd call her rather hopeless, but you hang good
clothes on these slim ones and it works wonders. Besides, she's
imitative as a parrot."

He had thrown his arms aloft in despair.

"But think of it!--the rest of my life--with a parrot."

"It's the lesser of two evils," she had urged, and in the end he had
said dully:

"I guess you're right, Dr. Harpe. Your advice no doubt is good, though,
like your medicine, a bitter dose just now. You've done me a favor, I
suppose, and I'll not forget it."

"When the door of her office had closed upon his broad back she had said
to herself:

"I'll see that you don't forget it." And she repeated it again with
renewed satisfaction. She liked the feeling that she already had become
a factor in the affairs of Crowheart and she intended to remain one.

The practice of medicine with Dr. Harpe was frankly for personal gain.
No ideals had influenced her in the choice of her profession and her
practice of it had developed no ambition save the single one of
building up a bank account. The ethical distinction between the trades
and professions, which is based upon the fact that the professional man
or woman is supposed to take up his or her life work primarily because
he loves both his profession and the people whom it may benefit, was a
distinction which she never had grasped. She practised medicine in the
same commercial spirit that a cheap drummer builds up a trade. She had
no sentiment regarding it, none of the ambitious dreams of high
professional standing attained by meritorious work which inspire those
who achieve. It was a business pure and simple; each patient was a
customer.

Another consideration in her choice of this profession was the freedom
it gave her. Because of it she was exempt from many of the restrictions
and conventionalities which hampered her sex, and above all else she
disliked restraint.

She was the single result of a "typhoid romance." Her mother, a trained
nurse, had attended a St. Louis politician during a long illness. Upon
his recovery he married his nurse and as promptly deserted her,
providing a modest support for the child. She had grown to womanhood in
a cheap boarding school, attaining thereby a superficial education but
sufficient to enable her to pass the preliminary examinations necessary
to begin her studies in the medical college which was an outcast among
its kind and known among the profession as a "diploma mill." She
selected it because the course was easy and the tuition light, though
its equipment was a farce and its laboratory too meagre to deserve the
name; one of the commercial medical colleges turning out each year by
the hundreds, for a few dollars, illiterate graduates, totally unfitted
by temperament and education for a profession that calls for the highest
and best, sending them out in hordes like licensed murderers to
prescribe and operate among the trusting and the ignorant.

Dr. Harpe had framed her sheepskin and been duly photographed in her
cap and gown; then, after a short hospital experience, she had gone to
the little Nebraska town where perhaps the most forceful comment upon
the success of her career there was that the small steamer trunk, which
she was now opening, contained very comfortably both her summer and
winter wardrobe.

Her pose was an air of camaraderie, of blunt good-nature. Her
conspicuous walk was a swaggering stride, while in dress she affected
the masculine severity of some professional women. Her hair was the dull
red that is nearly brown and she wore it coiled in trying simplicity at
the back of her head. Her handsome eyes were the hazel that is
alternately brown and green and gray, sometimes an odd mixture of all
three. Ordinarily there was a suspicion of hardness in her face but
there was also upon occasions a kind of winsomeness, an unexpected
peeping out of a personality which was like the wraith of the child
which she once had been--a suggestion of girlish charm and spontaneity
utterly unlike her usual self.

This attractive phase of her personality was uppermost as she sought in
the trunk for something to wear, and a smile curved the corners of her
straight lips and brought out a faint cleft in her square chin, as she
inspected its contents.

She found what she wanted in a plain cloth skirt and a white tailored
waist with stiffly starched cuffs, and a man's sleeve links. When she
was dressed a man's linen waistcoat with a black silk watch-fob hanging
from the pocket added further to the unfeminine _tout ensemble_. She
liked the effect, and, as she thrust a scarf-pin in the long black
"four-in-hand" before her mirror, she viewed the result with
satisfaction.

Dr. Harpe regarded the wedding as exceedingly opportune for herself,
bringing in as it did the settlers from the isolated ranches and
outlying districts of the big county, and she meant it to serve as her
real debut in the community.

It was in fact a notable event for the reason that it was the first
wedding in Crowheart, and, since the invitation was general, the guests
were coming from far and near to show their approval and incidentally
perhaps to partake of the champagne which it was rumored was to flow
like water. Champagne was the standard by which Crowheart gauged the
success of an entertainment and certainly Andy P. Symes was not the man
to serve sarsaparilla at his own wedding.

When Dr. Harpe came downstairs she found the long dining-room cleared of
its tables and already well filled with guests. "Curly" the camp cook
was caressing his violin, and "Snake River Jim," tolerably drunk, was in
his place beside him, while Ole Peterson, redolent of the livery-stable
in which he worked, constantly felt his muscle to show that he was
prepared to do his share with the big bass drum.

As Andy P. Symes moved through the rapidly growing crowd no one but Dr.
Harpe guessed that he winced inwardly at the resounding slaps upon his
back and the congratulations or that his heart all but failed him when
he saw his bride-to-be in her bobinet veil, a flush upon her broad face
and following his every movement with adoring eyes. To all but Dr. Harpe
he looked the fortunate and beaming bridegroom and only she saw the tiny
lines which sleeplessness had left about his eyes or detected the
hollowness of his frequent laughter.

It was more or less of a relief to all when the ceremony was over and
the nervous and perspiring Justice of the Peace, miserable in a collar,
had wished them every known joy. It was a relief to Symes who kissed his
bride perfunctorily and returned her to weeping "Grandmother" Kunkel's
arms--a relief to those impatient to dance--a relief to the thirsty
whose surreptitious glances wandered in spite of their best efforts
toward the pile of champagne cases in the corner.

But the reward of patience came to all, and as the violin and guitar
tuned up the popping of corks was assurance enough that the unsurpassed
thirst created by alkali dust would shortly be assuaged. "Hank"
Terriberry, in whose competent charge Symes had placed this portion of
the wedding entertainment, realizing that, at best, pouring from a
bottle and drinking from a glass is a slow and tedious process, to
facilitate matters had provided two large, bright, new dish-pans which
he filled with wine, also a plentiful supply of bright, new, tin
dippers.

They drank Symes's health in long, deep draughts and it was with some
forebodings that Symes noted the frequency with which the same guests
appeared in line. Symes had no great desire that his wedding should go
down in the annals of Crowheart as the most complete drunk in its
history nor was his bank account inexhaustible. Also he observed with,
annoyance that his newly-created brother-in-law, Adolph Kunkel, had
retired to a quiet corner where he might drink from the bottle
unmolested. Adolph Kunkel, sober, was bad enough, but Adolph Kunkel,
drunk, was worse.

That his fears were not unfounded was shortly made evident by the
appearance of Sylvanus Starr with a bland, bucolic smile upon his
wafer-like countenance and his scant foretop tied in a baby-blue ribbon
which had embellished the dainty ham sandwiches provided by Mrs.
Terriberry. By the time the dance was well under way eyes had brightened
perceptibly and sunburned faces had taken on a deeper hue while Snake
River Jim sat with a pickle behind his ear and his eyes rolled to the
ceiling as though entranced by his own heavenly strains.

As the room grew warmer, the conversation waxed louder, the dance faster
and the whoops of exuberance more frequent, until Bedlam reigned. Percy
Parrot chancing to observe "Tinhorn Frank" sliding toward the door with
two unopened bottles of champagne protruding from his coat pockets made
a low tackle and clasped him about the ankles. As "Tinhorn" lay prone he
was shamed in vivid English by the graceful barber while the new
plasterer excused himself from his partner long enough to kick the
prostrate ingrate in the ribs. Mrs. "Hank" Terriberry, whose hair looked
like a pair of angora "chaps" in a high wind, returning from her third
trip to the dish-pan, burst into tears at the man's depravity and
inadvertently wiped her streaming eyes on the end of her long lace jabot
instead of her handkerchief.

Sylvanus Starr, declaring that his chivalrous nature was unable to
endure the sight of a woman's tears, sought to divert her by slipping
his arm about her waist and whirling her dizzily the length of the room
and back again where they were met by Mr. Terriberry who, while
playfully endeavoring to snatch his wife from the editor's encircling
arms, accidentally stepped on the train of her black satin skirt. There
was a popping, ripping sound! In the brief but awful second while this
handsome creation slid to the floor, Mrs. Terriberry stood
panic-stricken in a short, red-flannel petticoat. She screamed
piercingly and with the sound of her own voice recovered her presence of
mind. Swooping, she picked up the garment and bounded out of the room,
thereby revealing upon her plump calves the encircling stripes of a pair
of white and black stockings.

The milliner, who was clairvoyant, covered her face with her gauze fan,
while Pearline and Planchette Starr asked to be taken into the air, and
left the room each leaning heavily upon an arm of the "Sheep King of
Poison Crick."

The remittance man from Devonshire removed the crash towel from its
roller in the wash-room off the hotel office, and spread it carefully on
the floor in a corner to protect his clothing while he refreshed himself
with a short nap.

A Roumanian prince who had that day returned from a big game hunt in the
mountains and who had been cordially urged by Symes to honor his
wedding, adjusted his monocle and stood on a chair under a kerosene
wall-lamp that he might the better inspect the fig "filling" of Mrs.
Terriberry's layer cake which he seemed to regard with some suspicion.

Mrs. Abe Tutts, who was reputed to have histrionic ability, of her own
accord recited in a voice which made the welkin ring: "Shoot if you will
this old gray head, But spare my country's flag." Whereupon "Baby"
Briggs, six foot two in his cowboy boots, produced a six-shooter and
humorously pretended to be about to take her at her word. Mrs. Tutts was
revived from a fainting condition by a drink while "Baby" Briggs was
relieved of his weapon.

"Take your pardners for a quadrille!" yelled Curly, the camp cook,
rising from his chair.

The guests scrambled for places in the quickly formed sets.

"Swing your pardner!" he whooped.

Andy P. Symes slipped his arm about Essie Tisdale's waist and the dance
moved fast and furious.

"Join your hands and circle to the left!"

Around they went in a giddy whirl and starched petticoats stood out like
hoopskirts.

"First lady swing with the right hand round with the right hand gent!"

The train of Mrs. Abe Tutts's diaphanous "tea-gown" laid out on the
breeze, thereby revealing the fact that she was wearing Congress
gaiters, comfortable but not "dressy."

"Pardner with your left with your left hand round!"

Andy P. Symes held Essie Tisdale's hand in a lingering clasp and
whispered in foolish flattery:

"Terpsichore herself outdone!"

"Swing in the centre and seven hands around. Birdie hop out and crow hop
in! Take holt of paddies and run around agin!"

Abe Tutts executed a double shuffle on the corner.

"Allemande Joe! Eight hand to pardner and around you go! Balance to
corners, don't be slack! Turn right around and take a back track! When
you git home, don't be afraid. Swing her agin and all promenade!"

It was a glorious dance and it moved unflaggingly to the end; but when
it was done and the dancers laughing and exhausted sought their seats,
it was discovered that Snake River Jim had fallen to weeping because he
said it was his unhappy lot to work while others danced.

Therefore Sylvanus Starr suggested that out of a delicate regard for an
artist's feelings, and no one could deny but Snake River Jim was that,
the dance be temporarily suspended while the bridegroom and others
expressed their sentiments and delight in the occasion by a few remarks,
Sylvanus Starr himself setting the example by bursting into an eulogy
which had the impassioned fervor of inspiration.

The vocabulary of laudatory adjectives gleaned in many years' experience
in the obituary department of an eastern newspaper were ejected like
volcanic matter, red hot and unrestrained, running over and around the
name of Symes to harden into sentences of which "a magnificent specimen
of manhood, a physical and intellectual giant, gallantly snatching from
our midst the fairest flower that ever bloomed upon a desert waste,"
only moderately illustrates the editor's gift of language.

When Andy P. Symes stood on a chair and faced the expectant throng the
few trite remarks which he had in mind all but fled when his eyes fell
for the first time upon his bride buttoned into her "going away gown."
As he mounted the chair his face wore the set smile of the man who
means to die a nervy death on the gallows. His voice sounded strained
and unnatural to himself as he began:

"Ladies and gentlemen."

"Wee-hee!" squealed a youth in a leather collar and a rattleskin
necktie.

"This is the happiest moment of my life!"

"Wee-ough! It ought to be!" yelled the "Sheep King of Poison Crick" as
he pressed the arms of the Misses Starr gently and impartially against
his sides.

"Also the proudest moment." He looked at his bride, noting that she wore
a broach which might have belonged on a set of harness.

"Yip! Yip! Yee-ough!"

"I am deeply conscious of my own unworthiness and not insensible to the
fact that the gods have singled me out for special favor----"

Any reference to the gods was considered a mark of learning and
eloquence, so Symes's humble admission was loudly applauded.

"Love, the Wise Ones say, 'is blind.' If this is true it is my earnest
wish that I may remain so, for I desire to continue to regard my wife as
the most beautiful, attractive, charming of her sex." He bowed
elaborately toward the grotesque figure whose adoring eyes were fixed
upon his face.

The guests howled in ecstasy at this flight of sentiment and only Dr.
Harpe caught the sneering note beneath the commonplaces he uttered with
such convincing fervor.

"What a cad," she thought, yet she looked in something like admiration
at his towering figure. "If only he had brains in proportion to his body
he might accomplish great things here," she murmured. Shrugging her
shoulder, she added: "I envy him his chance."

It did not occur to any person present that this wedding was an
important, far-reaching event to any save the principals; but to Essie
Tisdale and to Dr. Harpe it was a turning point in their careers. It
meant waning triumphs to the merry little belle of Crowheart, while it
spread a fallow field before Dr. Harpe the planting of which in deeds of
good or evil was as surely in her hands as is the seed the farmer sows
for his ultimate harvest. Which it was to be, can be surmised from the
fact that already she was considering how soon, and in what way, she
might utilize her knowledge after Symes's return from his wedding
journey.




IV

"THE GROUND FLOOR"


While Andy P. Symes on his honeymoon was combining business with
pleasure in that vague region known as "Back East," and his bride was
learning not to fold the hotel napkin or call the waiter "sir," the
population of Crowheart was increasing so rapidly that the town had
growing pains. Where, last month, the cactus bloomed, tar-paper shacks
surrounded by chicken-wire, kid-proof fences was home the next to
families of tow-heads.

Crowheart, the citizens of the newly incorporated town told each other,
was booming _right_.

They came in prairie schooners, travel-stained and weary, their horses
thin and jaded from the long, heavy pull across the sandy trail of the
sagebrush desert. With funds barely sufficient for horse feed and a few
weeks' provisions, they came without definite knowledge of conditions or
plans. A rumor had reached them back there in Minnesota or Iowa,
Nebraska or Missouri, of the opportunities in this new country and,
anyway, they wanted to move--_where_ was not a matter of great moment.
Others came by rail, all bearing the earmarks of straitened
circumstances, and few of them with any but the most vague ideas as to
what they had come for beyond the universal expectation of getting rich,
somehow, somewhere, some time. They were poor alike, and the first
efforts of the head of each household were spent in the construction of
a place of shelter for himself and family. The makeshifts of poverty
were seldom if ever the subject of ridicule or comment, for most had a
sympathetic understanding of the emergencies which made them necessary.
Kindness, helpfulness, good-fellowship were in the air.

When Ephriam Baskitt loomed up on the horizon with two freight wagons
filled with the dust-covered canned goods of a defunct grocery store and
twenty-four hours later was a fixture, nobody saw anything humorous in
the headline in the _Courier_ which heralded him as "The Merchant Prince
of Crowheart." Two new saloons opened while "Curly" resigned as chef for
the Lazy S Outfit to become the orchestra in a new dance hall which
arrived about midnight in a prairie schooner.

As Dr. Harpe made friends with the newcomers and continued to ingratiate
herself with the old, she sometimes felt that the death of Alice Freoff
was not after all the tragedy it had at first seemed. She missed the
woman--not the woman so much either, as the association--and there was
no one in Crowheart to fill her place, so she was frequently lonely,
often bored, with the intensely practical, unsophisticated women whom
she attracted strongly. Sometimes she thought of Augusta Kunkel and a
derisive smile always curved her lips as she attempted to picture her in
a worldly setting and the smile grew when she tried to imagine Symes's
sensations while presenting her to his friends. She indulged, too, in
speculation as to the outcome of the marriage, but could not venture a
prophecy since it was one of those affairs to which no ending would be
improbable.

But while Dr. Harpe speculated, observation and the suggestions of Andy
P. Symes were working wonders in the appearance of the gawky,
long-limbed woman. A session with a hair-dresser had not been wasted,
for she had learned to dress her hair in the prevailing mode. Symes had
lost no time in rushing her to an establishment where the brown cashmere
basque and many gored skirt had been exchanged for a gown of fashionable
cut. A pair of French stays developed indications of a figure and the
concho-like broach had been discarded, while Augusta herself had learned
that black silk mitts had not been greatly in vogue for nearly a quarter
of a century. The conspicuous marvel which had displayed the skill of
the clairvoyant milliner from South Dakota had been replaced by a hat of
good lines and simplicity, and, for the first time in her life, Augusta
Kunkel rustled when she walked.

When the transformation was complete, Andy P. Symes sighed in a little
more than relief, and mentally observed that in the course of human
events he _might_ be able to introduce her to his family.

Nor was Symes himself idle in a land where Capital hung like an
over-ripe peach waiting to be plucked by the proper hand. Mr. Symes was
convinced that his was the hand, so he lost no opportunity of widening
his circle of desirable acquaintances.

In his wide-brimmed Stetson, with his broad shoulders towering above the
average man, his genial smile and jovial manners, he was the typical
free, big-hearted westerner of the eastern imagination. And he liked the
role; also he played it well. Symes was essentially a poseur. He loved
the limelight like a showman. To be foremost, to lead, was essential to
his happiness. He demanded satellites and more satellites. His love of
prominence amounted to a passion. Sycophancy was as acceptable as real
regard, since each catered to his vanity.

It required money, much money, to live up to the popular conception of
the type he chose to represent. To successfully carry out his role of
the breezy, liberal, unconventional westerner required money enough to
include the cabman on the pavement in his invitations to drink, money
enough to donate bank notes to bellboys, to wave change to waiters, to
occupy boxes where he could lay his conspicuous Stetson upon the rail.
Having indulged himself in these delightful extravagances, Symes was
suddenly recalled one morning to a realization of the fact that earthly
paradises end by a curt notification from his bank that he had overdrawn
his account.

This was awkward. It was particularly awkward to Symes because he had no
assets. With the singular improvidence which distinguished him he had
not provided for this exigency before leaving Crowheart. True, he had
made a vague calculation which would seem to indicate that he had
sufficient funds to last the trip, but it was more extended than he had
anticipated and he had forgotten to deduct the amount of the checks
which he had given in payment for the champagne provided in such
unstinted quantities by "Hank" Terriberry.

Not only was Symes without reserve funds but he had a large hotel bill
owing. Yes, it was high time he was "doing something." "Doing something"
to Mr. Symes, meant devising some means of securing an income without
physical and no great mental effort, something which should be
compatible with the notable House of Symes.

Had he borne any other than that sacred name he would have turned to
insurance or a mail order business with the same unerring instinct with
which the sunflower turns to the sun, but this avenue was closed to him
by the necessity of preserving the dignity of his name. It was necessary
for him as a Symes to promote some enterprise which would give him the
power and prestige in the community which belonged to him.

Mr. Symes had been East before with this end in view. As he himself
observed, "he never went East except to eat oysters and raise money." He
had been much more successful as an oyster eater than a promoter. There
was that vein of coking coal over beyond the "Limestone Rim"; he nearly
landed that, but the investors discovered too soon that it was 150 miles
from a railroad. There was an embryo coal mine back in the hills--a fine
proposition but open to the same objection. Also an asbestos deposit,
valueless for the same reason. He had tried copper prospects with
startling assays and had found himself shunned nor had mountains of
marble aroused the enthusiasm of Capital. They had listened with marked
coldness to his story of a wonderful oil seepage and had turned a deaf
ear on natural gas. He had baited a hook with a stratum of gypsum which
would furnish the world with cement. Capital had barely sniffed at the
bait. Nor had banks of shale adapted to the making of a perfect brick
appealed to its jaded palate. But Symes was never at a loss for
something to promote, for there was always a nebula of schemes vaguely
present in his prolific brain. Irrigation was the opportunity of the
moment and he meant to grab it with a strangle hold. He had been
dilatory but now he intended to get down to business.

If only he could hang on until he accomplished his end! Symes stopped
manicuring his nails with a pin, which he kept in the lapel of his coat
for that commendable purpose, and counted his money. He was thankful
that since he _had_ overdrawn his account he had done it so liberally
as, by strict economy, it would enable him to remain a short while and
depart with his credit still unimpaired.

Augusta Symes regarded the pile of crisp banknotes with pleased eyes.
She could not recollect ever having seen so much money together before;
the proceeds of horse-shoeing and wagon repairs came mostly in silver.
Placing the banknotes in his wallet with considerably more than his
usual care, Mr. Symes paced the floor of their corner suite with the
slow, measured strides of meditation, his noble head sunk upon his
breast and his broad brow corrugated in thought. Mrs. Symes's eyes
followed him in silent and respectful admiration.

When he stopped, finally, in the middle of the room, the fire of
enthusiasm was newly kindled in his eyes and an unconscious squaring of
his shoulders announced that he was now prepared to "do something."

Symes really had initial energy and the trait was most apparent when
driven by necessity. The first step toward getting his enterprise under
way was the bringing together of the people he hoped to interest. He
reached for his hat and straightened his scarf before the mirror.

Augusta watched the preparations in some dismay; she dreaded being alone
in the great hotel.

"Will you be gone long, Mr. Symes?"

"Good God! Don't call me Mister Symes," he burst out in unexpected
exasperation.

Augusta's eyes filled with tears.

"But--but everybody calls you 'Andy' and--and just 'Symes' sounds so
familiar. Why can't I call you 'Phidias?'"

"Phidias! Do, by all means, call me Phidias. I dote on Phidias! I love
the combination--Phidias Symes. Father was drunk when he named me."

He slammed the door behind him, forgetting to explain that he was not
returning for luncheon or dinner so, that evening, while Augusta
wandered aimlessly through the rooms, both hungry and anxious yet afraid
to venture into the big dining-room, Andy P. Symes was saying with
impressive emphasis as he fumbled in a box of cabanas:

"Big opportunities, I am convinced, seldom come more than once to a
man."

His guests listened to the trite axiom with the respect due one who has
met and grappled successfully with his one great chance. His well-fed
appearance, his genial, contented smile, gave an impression of
prosperity even when his linen was frayed and his elbows glossy; now in
the latest achievement of a good tailor it was difficult to conceive him
as being anything less than a millionaire.

"And this," Symes looked squarely in each eager eye in turn, "this,
gentlemen, is such an opportunity."

The timid voice of a man who had made a hundred thousand from a patent
fly-trap broke the awed silence.

"It sounds good."

"_Sounds_ good! It _is_ good." Mr. Symes clenched his huge fist and
emphasized the declaration with a blow upon the table which made the
dishes rattle.

"Think of it," he went on, "two hundred thousand acres that can be made
to bloom like the rose. An earthly paradise of our own making." The
flowery figures were borrowed from a railroad folder but Mr. Symes had
grasped them with the avidity of true genius and made them his own. "And
how?"

The waiter starting away with a tray load of dishes stopped to learn.

"By the mere introduction of water upon the most fertile soil in the
world! Is there anything like it--a miracle worker!" Mr. Symes shut one
eye and peered into an empty bottle. "And how can this be done?" He
answered himself. "By the expenditure of a ridiculously small amount of
money; the absurd sum of $250,000. And look at the returns!"

By the intentness of their gaze it was evident that all were willing
enough to look. Symes lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper and swept
the air with his outspread fingers.

"A clean million!"

The man who made only six thousand a year selling plumbers' supplies,
gulped.

"But who's goin' to buy it?" It was the timid voice of the Fly-trap
King.

"_Buy it!_" The questioner withered before Symes's scorn. "Buy it? Why,
the world is land-hungry--crying for land!--and water. But I've
considered all that; I've arranged for it," Mr. Symes went on with a
touch of impatience. "We'll colonize it. We'll import Russian Jews to
raise sugar-beets for the sugar-beet factory which we will establish.
They will buy it for $50 an acre cash or $60 an acre with 10 per cent.
interest upon the deferred payments. It's very simple."

"But--but--I thought Russian Jews went in mostly for collar buttons,
shoe-strings and lace--mercantile enterprises--commercial natures, you
know? Besides, where they going to get their money for the first
payment?"

Symes curbed his irritation at the piffling objections of the Fly-trap
King and responded tolerantly.

"We'll organize a bank and loan 'em the money. If they fail to come
through at the specified time the land will return to the company and
we'll have their improvements, making them a small allowance for same,
at our discretion. We'll lay out a town and build an Opera House, get
electric light and street railway franchises--a million? Why, there's
millions in sight when you consider the possibilities."

The painting of the roseate picture had flushed Mr. Symes's cheeks;
already "Symesville" or "Symeston" rose clear before his mental vision,
while his listeners endeavored to calculate their share of the millions
when proportioned in accordance with the investment of all their
available cash. Certainly the returns were temptingly large and the
least optimistic among them believed he could convince his wife of the
perfect safety of the investment, the success of which was practically
assured by the fact that Andy P. Symes for an infinitesimal salary, as
compared to his ability, was willing to assume the management.

A slender, blond gentleman, who derived a satisfactory income from the
importation of Scotch woollens and Irish linens, confessed that for
years he had cherished a secret desire to do something for mankind,
providing he was assured of a reasonable return upon his investment,
and, with the King of Brobdingnag, believed that the man who made, say,
two sugar-beets grow where only one grew before, rendered an
incalculable service to the human race.

The other guests expressed their admiration of the woollen importer's
high sentiments, and while they admitted that no such noble impulse
governed them they subscribed generously for stock in the company which
was formed then and there to apply for the segregation of 200,000 acres
of irrigable land.

Mr. Symes talked familiarly of State Land Boards, water rights, flood
water, ditches, laterals, subsoil and seepage, the rotation of crops and
general productiveness until even the cynical politician who controlled
the <DW64> vote in his ward began to realize that it was a liberal
education merely to know Andy P. Symes, not to mention the distinction
of being associated with him in business.

Inspired by the prospect of once again handling real money, Andy P.
Symes talked with an earnestness and fluency which cast a hypnotic spell
upon his listeners. Swiftly, graphically, he outlined the future of the
country which would be opened up to settlement by this great irrigation
project. His florid face turned a deeper red, his eyes sparkled as the
winged imagination of the natural promoter began to play. It was of the
dirigible kind, Symes's imagination, he could steer it in any direction.
It could rise to any heights. It now shot upward and he saw himself at
the head of a project which would make his name a household word
throughout the State. He saw crowds of Russian Jews crying hosannas as
he walked along the street of Symesville; he heard the clang of
trolleys; he saw the smoke of factories; he heard the name of Symes upon
the lips of little children; he saw, but the dazzling vision made him
blink and he leaned back in his chair with the beneficent smile of a
man who had just endowed a hospital for crippled children, while he
permitted himself to accept a subscription for $15,000 from a guest who
had cleared that modest sum in the manufacture of white lead and paint.
A slow and laborious process compared to the sale of irrigated land to
Russian Jews.

Symes's guests wrung his hand at parting, in silent gratitude at being
permitted to get in on the ground floor of what was undoubtedly the
greatest money making enterprise still open to investors. And they left
him with the assurance of their hearty co-operation and willingness to
endeavor to raise the balance among their friends.

While the subscribers for the stock of the Symes Irrigation Project were
rousing their wives from their first sleep to gloat with them over the
unprecedented good fortune which had thrown the big-hearted and shrewd
but honest westerner in their paths, that person was returning from a
night lunch cart with two hot frankfurter sandwiches for Augusta
concealed in his pocket. The dinner, although so fruitful of results,
had seriously reduced the roll of crisp bank notes.

Strict economy was imperative during the days which followed and it
became no uncommon occurrence for Andy P. Symes to whisk Augusta into a
caravansera where the gentlemen patrons ate large, filling plates of
griddle cakes with their hats on. But such are the sordid straits to
which the proudest spirits are sometimes reduced and depressing as it
was to Andy P. Symes, who winced each time that he seated himself at the
varnished pine table upon which the pewter castor was chained to the
wall and selected a paper napkin from a glass tumbler, he consoled
himself with the thought that it would not be for long. Also it was some
little compensation to see traces of animation in Augusta's stolid face,
for the atmosphere was vastly more congenial to his wife than that of
the fashionable hotel restaurant where her appetite fled before the
waiter's observant eye and the bewildering nightmare of a menu.

Invariably upon these humiliating occasions when Symes dined cheek by
jowl with _hoi polloi_ who left their spoons in their cups and departed
using a toothpick like a peavy, his thoughts turned to his coming
triumph in Crowheart. And although his gorge rose at the sight of a
large, buck cockroach which scurried across the table and turned to wave
a fraternal leg at him before it disappeared, the knowledge that he
would soon take his rightful position as that city's leading citizen
helped to restore his equanimity.

With an assured income, Company money to spend among the local
merchants, work for many applicants, Symes felt that he could do little
else than step into the niche which clearly belonged to him. The one
smudge upon the picture was Augusta. Her eyes were ever upon him in
adoring, dog-like fidelity and it irritated him. Her appearance had
altered amazingly, she no longer called him "Mister Symes," and by
repeated corrections he had succeeded in inducing her to refrain from
folding her hands upon her abdomen, but the plebeian strain, the
deficiency of gentle birth betrayed itself in a dozen little ways, by
indelicacies none the less irritating because they were trifling.

Symes knew what a gentlewoman should be, for he had mingled with them in
the past and he never had thought of his wife as being anything else
than well born. Augusta's large knuckled hands, conspicuous in white kid
gloves, her long, flat feet, the shiny, bald spots behind her ears, were
sources of real mortification to him, and invariably he found himself
growing red upon the occasions when it was necessary to present her to
his friends.

In the presence of other women she sat bolt upright, a red spot burning
on either cheek-bone, her eyes bright with nervous excitement while she
answered the careless small talk with preternatural seriousness. At such
times Symes himself talked rapidly to hide the gaucheries of her speech,
and they were ordeals which he took care should be as few as possible.

If the yoke were chafing already, he asked himself frequently, what
would its weight be in a year, five, ten years later?




V

ANOTHER CASE IN SURGERY


Dr. Emma Harpe walked briskly into her office and, taking ten silver
dollars and some worn banknotes from the pocket of her square-cut coat,
piled them upon her office desk.

"Moses! I need that money, and," she sniggered at the recollection,
"didn't old Dubois hate to dig."

She threw the Stetson hat she now affected upon a chair, her coat upon
another, and rolling a cigarette with the skill of practice, sauntered
up and down the room.

"He's sick all right--the old guinea. Looks like typhoid. If it is,
it'll pull me out of this hole. Mileage counts up in this country at a
dollar a mile. About five cases of typhoid would put me square again and
see me through the summer; an epidemic would be a godsend. This is the
infernalest healthy country I ever saw; die in their boots or dry up and
blow off. Two cases of measles and the whooping cough in six weeks.
Dubois comes like a shower of manna, for I can't stand off the
Terriberrys forever. I'll go out and see him again in a couple of days
and give him a dose of calomel. If he pulls through the credit is mine;
if he dies, it's the will of God. Any way it goes, I'm squared. Harpe,"
she stopped and looked out of the window, "you belong to a noble
profesh--you play a safe and genteel game where you can't lose."

She watched idly as a covered wagon accompanied by two men on horseback
stopped on the vacant lot opposite the hotel which was much used as a
camping-ground by freighters and campers. It was a common enough sight
and she looked on indifferently while the team was unharnessed and the
saddle horses led toward the livery stable by one of the riders and the
driver of the wagon hastened across the street, looking, she thought, at
the sign beneath her window.

She barely had time to throw away her cigarette and fan the smoke out of
the air before the hurrying footsteps which had told her of his approach
brought the man to her office door.

"Are you the doctor?" he asked in surprise at seeing a woman.

She nodded.

"Will you come over right away? My little girl fell over the wheel and
one of the fellows that's along says her leg is broken. It only happened
a little ways back but it's beginning to swell."

The man's face was pale beneath its tan and the dust of travel, and he
plainly chafed at her deliberate movements as she took bandages from the
drawer and adjusted her hat before a mirror. It was the first practical
test of her theoretical knowledge of bone-setting and because of some
misgivings her swagger was a little more pronounced than usual when she
accompanied him across the street.

The child lay upon the bunk in the front of the wagon and her eyes were
bright with the pain of the dull ache, and fear of more that the doctor
might inflict.

"Is it hurtin' bad, Rosie?" Anxiety was in the man's voice.

"Not so very much, Daddy," she replied bravely.

"Your young'un?"

The man glanced at Dr. Harpe quickly in a mixture of surprise and
resentment.

"My sister's--young'un," he answered curtly.

The child winced as Dr. Harpe picked up the foot roughly and ran her
fingers along the bone.

"Yep; it's broken." She hesitated for an instant and added: "The job'll
cost you fifty dollars."

"Fifty dollars!" Consternation was in the man's tone. "Ain't that pretty
steep for settin' a leg?"

"That's my price." She added indifferently, "There's another sawbones
sixty miles farther on."

"You know well enough that she can't wait to get there."

"Well," she shrugged her shoulder, "dig then."

"But I haven't got it," he pleaded.

"Sell a horse."

He looked to see if she was serious; undoubtedly she was.

"How am I to go on if I sell a horse?"

"That's your lookout."

He stared at her in real curiosity.

"What kind of a doctor are you, anyhow? What kind of a woman?"

"O Daddy--it's hurtin' worse!" moaned the child.

Dr. Harpe laughed disagreeably--

"I'm not in Crowheart for my health." Ignoring the displeasure which
came into the man's eyes, she suggested: "Can't you borrow from those
fellows that came with you?"

"They're strangers. We are all strangers to each other--we only fell in
together on the road. The one lying under the wagon was on a tear in the
last town; most likely he's broke."

The child in the bunk whimpered with the increasing pain.

"How much have you got yourself?" she haggled.

"Twenty-two dollars and fifty cents; it's _all_ I've got and we're a
hundred miles yet from the end of our road. I've got work there and I'll
give you my note and send the balance as soon as I earn it."

Twenty-two dollars and fifty cents--it was more than she anticipated,
but every extra dollar was "velvet" as she phrased it.

"See what you can do with that fellow outside."

The man's dark eyes flashed and his face went blood red, but he left the
wagon abruptly, and she heard distinctly the angry explanation to his
travelling companion lying on a saddle blanket in the shade of the
wagon. The knowledge that she was forfeiting these strangers' respect
did not disturb her. These indigent campers--gone on the morrow--could
do her no harm in Crowheart where her reputation for blunt kindness and
imperturbable good nature was already established. It was something of a
luxury to indulge her hidden traits; in other words, she was enjoying
her meanness.

A forceful ejaculation told her that the slumbering debauche had revived
and grasped the situation. She listened intently to his response to the
other's request for a loan.

"So the lady doc wants money? She wants to see the color of your dust
before she can set the baby's broken leg, you say? Interesting--very. By
all means give the kind lady money. How much money does the lady want?"

The color rose swiftly in her cheeks, not so much because of the mocking
words as the intonation of the voice in which they were uttered--the
most wonderfully musical speaking voice she ever had heard. The angry
resentment of the child's foster-father had left her unmoved but this
was different. The sneering, cutting insolence came from no ordinary
person. It stung her. She thought she detected a slight foreign accent
in the carefully articulated words, though the phraseology was
distinctly western. The voice was high pitched without effeminacy, soft
yet penetrating, polished yet conveying all the meaning of an insult. No
Anglo-Saxon could express such mocking contempt by the voice alone--that
accomplishment is almost exclusively a gift of the Latins.

She was hot and uncomfortable, conscious that the blood was still in her
face, when she heard him scramble to his feet and walk to the back of
the wagon. Ever after Dr. Harpe remembered him as she saw him first
framed in the white canvas opening of the prairie schooner.

His unusually high-crowned Stetson was pushed to the back of his head,
one slender, aristocratic hand rested carelessly upon his hip, a fallen
lock of straight, black hair hung nearly to his eyebrows--eyebrows which
all but met above a pair of narrow, brilliant eyes. The aquiline nose,
the creamy, colorless complexion, the long face with its thin, slightly
drooping lips was unmistakably foreign in its type while a loose, silk
neck scarf containing the bright colors of the Roman stripe added an
alien touch. There was at once high breeding and reckless _diablerie_ in
his handsome face.

In the antagonistic moment in which they eyed each other, Dr. Harpe
endeavored to recall the something or somebody which his appearance
suggested. She groped for it in the dim gallery of youthful memories.
What was it? It flashed upon her with the suddenness of a forgotten
word. She remembered it plainly now--that treasured, highly 
lithograph of a brigand holding up a coach in a mountain pass! There was
in this face the same mocking deviltry; his figure had the same lithe
grace; he needed only the big hoop earrings to complete the resemblance.

He removed his hat with a long, sweeping gesture and bowed in
exaggerated deference.

"At your service," he murmured.

"There was no need----" she began in a kind of apology.

"Fifty dollars is little enough to pay for the privilege of your skill,
madam. Shall it be in advance? Of course; in advance."

She threw out her hand in a gesture of protest, which he ignored.

"Permit me at least to show you that we have it here. I feel sure that
you can work with a freer mind if I count it out and lay it where you
can see it." He took an odd, foreign purse from the belt of his "chaps"
and she noted that it sagged with the weight of its contents.

"Gold," he explained; "nearly new from the Mint. You can have it tested
at the bank before you begin--acids or something of the sort, I
believe."

She crimsoned with anger, but he went on--

"Fifty dollars! What a very little sum to start the milk of human
kindness flowing!"

"I told him he needn't mind--there was no rush--just when it was
convenient. He misunderstood me." She found her tongue at last and lied
glibly.

The child's foster-father stared at her as though he doubted his own
ears. Her very audacity left him speechless.

"There you are, $50 in gold!" He flung the money into her lap. "Old
hoss," he laid his hand upon the man's shoulder while his mocking laugh
again made her cheeks tingle, "you oughtn't to lie to me like that."

When he had sauntered across the street with his careless, easy stride
and disappeared inside the swinging doors of the bar-room of the
Terriberry House, Dr. Harpe said brusquely:

"Here, you gotta help me yank this leg straight but, first, I want you
to go over to the store and bust up a thin box--something for
splints--strips off a fruit case would be best if you can get 'em."

"Haven't you splints?" the man asked in surprise.

"No; I've just come; I haven't got a stock yet and there's no drug store
in this jay town. It's on the way but that doesn't help us now. We ought
to have plaster of Paris but we haven't. Hurry up--get a move on before
it swells any more."

The man did as he was bid, with a look of doubt and uncertainty upon his
face.

He returned almost immediately with strips torn from a case of fruit.

"That's good." Dr. Harpe laid them on the bunk with the bandages. She
added shortly: "She's going to howl."

"Can't you give her anything?"

"No; I can't give ether by myself. I'm not going to take a chance like
that. If she'd die on my hands it'd queer me here on the jump. 'Twon't
kill her. She'll probably faint and then it'll be easy. When the
muscles relax, hold on to her leg above her knee while I pull."

The man's face turned a ghastly hue as the child screamed and fainted
away, nor did the color return as he watched the woman's clumsy fingers,
the bungling movements which, unlettered as he was, told him of her
inexperience--bungling movements which had not even compensating
feminine gentleness.

When the child had revived and Dr. Harpe had finished, the man went
outside and leaned against the wheel.

"Are you sure it'll be straight?"

She saw her own misgivings reflected in his face, and it exasperated
her.

"What a fool question. Do you think I don't know my business?"

He did not answer, and she turned away.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Rosie." He was at her side at once.

She lifted her clear eyes to his face.

"I don't like that woman."

"Like her!" he answered slowly. "Like her! Her heart is as black as my
hat."

To herself Dr. Harpe was saying:

"Moses! I had to start in on somebody."

It was with relief that she looked through her office window after
supper and saw that the wagon was gone from the vacant lot.

"Good riddance!" she muttered. "I wouldn't have that black-eyed devil
hanging around this town for money. He's onery enought to do me
mischief. I wonder who he was? He might be anything or anybody; a <DW55>
duke or a hold-up--or both. Anyway, he's gone, and if I never see him
again it'll be soon enough."

She sat down in her office chair and rested her heels on the window sill
while her cigarette burned to ashes between her listless fingers. For a
time she watched the white light of the June moon grow on the line of
dimpled foothills, the myriad odors of spring were in the air and the
balmy west wind lifted the hair at her temples as it came through the
open window. She felt lonely--inexpressibly lonely. She thought of Alice
Freoff and restlessness grew. Downstairs she heard Essie Tisdale's merry
laughter and it changed the current of her thoughts.

She had learned her story now and the mystery of her identity had given
the little belle of Crowheart an added attraction. Everybody in
Crowheart knew her story for that matter; it was one of the stock tales
of the country to be repeated to interest strangers.

In the old days when Crowheart was a blacksmith shop and the stamping
ground of "Snow-shoe" Brown, whose log cabin hung on the edge of the
bench overlooking the stream like a crow's nest in a cottonwood tree,
"Snow-shoe" Brown had yelled in vain, one spring day, at a man and woman
on the seat of a covered wagon who were preparing to ford the stream at
the usual crossing. But the sullen roar of the water drowned his warning
that it was swimming depth, and, even while he ran for his horse and
uncoiled his saddle rope, the current was sweeping the wagon and the
struggling horses down stream. He followed along the bank until the
horse's feet came up and the wagon went down, while there floated from
the open end, among other things, something that looked to his
astonished eyes like a wooden cradle. He threw his rope, and threw
again, with the skill which long practice in roping mavericks had given
him; and gently, gently, with a success which seemed miraculous even to
"Snow-shoe" Brown, he had drawn the bobbing cradle gradually to shore.
Inside, a baby smiled up at him with the bluest eyes he ever had seen.
There was a picture primer tucked beneath the flannel coverlet and it
contained the single clue to her identity. "Esther Tisdale" was written
on the fly-leaf with a recent date.

"Snow-shoe" Brown said she was a maverick and unblushingly declared that
he claimed all mavericks that he had had his rope on; therefore "Esther
Tisdale" belonged to him. He left her in the care of the wife of a
cattleman who hoped thereby to purchase immunity from "Snow-shoe's"
activities, which he did, though that person rustled elsewhere with
renewed energy, since he said he had a family to keep. So she learned to
ride and shoot as straight as "Snow-shoe" himself and even as a child
gave promise of a winsome, lovely girlhood. The unique relationship
ended when her guardian died in his boots in the little cowtown over
beyond the Limestone Rim. A hard winter and the inroads of sheep "broke"
the cattleman who sold out and moved away, while Esther Tisdale shifted
for herself that she might not be a burden. She was nearly twenty now,
and, in the democratic community never had felt or been made to feel
that her position was subservient or inferior. Therefore when her work
was done and she bounded up the stairs to Dr. Harpe's door she felt sure
of a welcome.

"It's only Essie Tisdale," she said in her merry voice as she rapped and
peered into the room.

"Come in, Essie; I'm lonesome as the deuce!"

It was some time later that Mrs. Terriberry sailing through the corridor
in her dressing-sacque and petticoat, with her feet scuffling in Mr.
Terriberry's carpet-slippers, had the stone-china water-pitcher dashed
from her hand as she turned a corner.

"Why, Essie!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Terriberry!"

"What's the matter?" She looked wonderingly at the girl's crimson face.

"Don't ask me! but don't expect me to be friends with that woman again!"

"Have you had words--have you quarrelled with Dr. Harpe?"

"Yes--yes; we quarrelled! But don't ask me any more! I won't--I can't
tell you!" the girl replied fiercely as she rushed on and slammed the
door of her room behind her.

In her office, Dr. Harpe was sitting by the window panic-stricken, sick
with the fear of the one thing in the world of which she was most
afraid, namely, Public Opinion.

She was deaf to the night sounds of the town; to the thick,
argumentative voices beneath her window; to the scratched phonograph
squeaking an ancient air in the office of the Terriberry House; to the
banging of an erratic piano in the saloon two doors above; to the sleepy
wails of the butcher's urchin in the tar-paper shack one door below, and
to a heap of snarling dogs fighting in the deep, white dust of the
street.

She glanced through the window and saw without seeing, the
deputy-sheriff escorting an unsteady prisoner down the street followed
by a boisterous crowd. In a way she was dimly conscious that there was
something familiar in the prisoner's appearance, but the impression was
not strong enough to rouse her from her preoccupation, and she turned to
walk the floor without being cognizant of the fact that she was walking.

She suddenly threw both hands aloft.

"I've got it!" she cried exultingly. "The very thing to counteract her
story. It'll work--it always does--and I know that I can do it!"

In her relief she laughed, a queer, cackling laugh which came strangely
from the lips of a woman barely thirty. The laughter was still on her
lips when a sound reached her ears which killed it as quickly as it
came.

    Addio mia bella Napoli, addio, addio!
    La tua soave imagine chi mai, chi mai scordar potra!
    Del ciel l'auzzurro fulgido, la placida marina,
    Qual core non imebria, non bea non bea divolutta!
    In tela terra el 'aura favellano d'amore;
    Te sola al mio dolore conforto io sognero
    Oh! addio mia bella Napoli, addio, addio!
    Addio care memorie del tempo ah! che fuggi!

The voice rang out like a golden bell, vibrating, as sweetly
penetrating. The strange words fell like the notes of the meadow lark in
spring, easy, liquid, yet with the sureness of knowledge.

The incoherent argument beneath the window ceased, the piano and the
phonograph were silenced, the wailing urchin dried its tears and all the
raw little town of Crowheart seemed to hold its breath as the wonderful
tenor voice rose and fell on the soft June night.

    Adieu, my own dear Napoli! Adieu to thee, Adieu to thee!
    Thy wondrous pictures in the sea, will ever fill my memory!
    Thy skies of deepest, brightest blue, thy placid waves so soft and clear;
    With heaving sigh and bitter tear, I bid a last, a sad adieu!
    Adieu the fragrant orange grove, the scented air that breathes of love
    Shall charm my heart with one bright ray, in dreams, wher'er I stray;
    Oh, adieu, my own dear Napoli! Adieu to thee, Adieu to thee!
    Adieu each soul-felt memory, of happy days long passed away!

The old street-song of Italy, the song of its people, never held a
stranger audience in thraldom. If the song had been without words the
result would have been the same, almost, for it was the voice which
reached through liquor befuddled brains to find and stir remote and
hidden recesses in natures long since hardened to sentiment. Rough
speeches, ribald words and oaths died on the lips of those who crowded
the doorway of saloons, and they stood spell-bound by the song which was
sung as they felt dimly the angels must sing up there in that shadowy
land back of the stars in which vaguely they believed.

Only those who have lived in isolated places can understand what music
means to those who year after year are without it. Any sound that is not
an actual discord becomes music then and the least gentle listen with
pathetic eagerness. A worn phonograph screeching the popular songs of a
past decade holds the rapt attention of such. It reminds them of that
world they left long ago, a world which in the perspective of waning
years looks all song and laughter, good company, good clothes, good
food, and green things everywhere.

Therefore it is little wonder that this voice of marvellous sweetness
and power rising unexpectedly out of the moonlit night should lay an
awed hush upon the music-starved town. To some it brought a flood of
memories and lumps in aching throats while many a weather-beaten face
was lifted from mediocrity by a momentary exultation that was of the
soul.

That a human voice unaided by a visible personality could throw such a
spell upon the listeners seems rather a tax upon credulity; but the
singer himself appeared to have no misgivings. His face wore a look of
smiling, mocking confidence as he stood with one hand on his hip, the
other grasping a bar of the iron grating which covered the single window
of Crowheart's calaboose, pouring forth the golden notes with an
occasional imperious toss of his head and a flash of his black eyes
which made him look like a royal prisoner.

When the last note had died away, Dr. Harpe breathed an ejaculation.

"The <DW55> Duke!"

"He sings like an angel," said "Slivers," a barkeep.

"And fights like a devil," replied Dan Treu, the deputy-sheriff. "He
turned a knife in Tinhorn's shoulder."




VI

"THE CHURCH RACKET"


Dr. Harpe went downstairs the next morning with her straight upper lip
stretched in the set smile with which she met a crisis. "Hank"
Terriberry passed through the hall as she descended the stairs and she
watched him breathlessly.

"Mornin', Doc." He nodded in friendly nonchalance and her heart leaped
in relief.

He knew nothing of the quarrel!

"Wait a minute, Mr. Terriberry," she called, and he stopped. "Say, what
church do you belong to? What are you?"

Mr. Terriberry suffered from pyorrhea, and the row of upper teeth which
he now displayed in a genial grin looked like a garden-rake, due to his
shrinking gums.

"I'm a Presbyterian, Doc, but I don't work at it. Why?"

"Let's get together and build a church. I'll go around with a
subscription paper myself and raise the money. I feel lost without a
church, I honestly do. It's downright heathenish."

"That's so," Mr. Terriberry agreed heartily, "there's something damned
respectable about a church. It makes a good impression upon strangers to
come into a town and hear a church bell ringin', even if nobody goes.
Doc, you're all right," he patted her shoulder approvingly; "you're a
rough diamond; you can put me down for $50."

When Mr. Terriberry had gone his pious way, Dr. Harpe smiled and
reiterated mentally: "There's nothing like the church racket; it always
works."

She passed on into the dining-room where the <DW55> Duke who had sung
himself out of the calaboose sprang to his feet and, laying his hand
upon his heart, bowed low in a burlesqued bow of deference.

"A tribute to your skill and learning, madam."

She stared at him stonily and his white teeth flashed.

How she hated him! yet she felt helpless before his impudence and
audacity. He had "presence," poise, and she knew instinctively that to
whatever lengths she might go in retaliation he would go further. She
would only bring upon herself discomfiture by such a course. She knew
that she had forfeited his respect; more than that, she felt that she
had incurred a deep and lasting enmity which seemed to her out of all
proportion to the cause.

His horseback companion of the previous day was breakfasting beside him
and she found the young man's cold, impersonal scrutiny as hard to bear
as the <DW55> Duke's frank impudence as she swaggered to her seat at the
end of the long dining-room and faced them. He was as different in his
way from the men about him as the <DW55> Duke, yet he differed, too, from
that conspicuous person. He seemed self-contained, reserved to the point
of reticence, but with a quiet assurance of manner as pronounced as the
other's effrontery. He was dressed in a blue flannel shirt and worn
corduroys. His face was tanned but it was the sunburned face of an
invalid. There were hollows in his cheeks and a tired look in his gray
eyes. Having critically examined her, Dr. Harpe observed that he seemed
to forget her.

Essie Tisdale passed her without a glance, but Mrs. Terriberry came
behind with the breakfast of fried potatoes and the thin, fried
beefsteak on the platter which served also as a plate, from which menu
the Terriberry House never deviated by so much as a mutton chop.

"I'm sorry you and Essie fell out," said Mrs. Terriberry apologetically
as she placed the dishes before her. "But she seems awful set on not
waitin' on you."

Dr. Harpe dropped her eyes for an instant.

"It's up to her."

"She's as good-natured as anybody I ever saw but she's high-strung, too;
she's got a temper."

Dr. Harpe lifted a shoulder.

"She'd better have my friendship than my enmity, even if she has a
temper."

"Essie's mighty well liked here," Mrs. Terriberry returned quickly.

"Popularity is a mighty uncertain asset in a small town."

"Don't forget that yourself, Doc," returned Mrs. Terriberry, nettled by
her tone.

Dr. Harpe laughed good-naturedly; she had no desire to antagonize Mrs.
Terriberry.

She watched the <DW55> Duke hold up a warning finger as Essie placed the
heavy hotel dishes before him.

"Be careful, Miss, be very careful not to nick this fragile ware. As a
lover of ceramic art, it would pain me to see it injured."

The girl dimpled, and, in spite of herself, burst into a trill of
laughter which was so merry and contagious that the grave stranger
beside him looked up at her with an interested and amused smile as
though seeing her for the first time.

"Breakfasting at the Terriberry House was a pleasure which seemed a long
way off last night," observed the <DW55> Duke without embarrassment. "You
heard the imprisoned bird singing for his liberty? Music to soothe the
savage breast of your sheriff. When I am myself I can converse in five
languages; when I am drunk it is my misfortune to be able only to sing
or holler. Your jail is a disgrace to Crowheart; I've never been in a
worse one. The mattress is lumpy and the pillow hard; I was voicing my
protest."

"I don't care why you sing so long as you sing," said Essie, dimpling
again. "It was beautiful, but isn't it bad for your health to get
so--drunk?"

"Not at all," returned the <DW55> Duke airily. "Look at me--fresh as a
rock-rose with the dew on it!"

Again the grave stranger smiled but rather at Essie Tisdale's laughter
than his companion's brazen humor.

He interested Dr. Harpe, this other stranger, and as soon as her
breakfast was finished she looked for his name upon the register.

"Ogden Van Lennop," she read, and his address was a little town in the
county. She shook her head and said to herself: "He never came from this
neck of the woods. Another black sheep, I wonder?"

Dr. Harpe lost no time in agitating the subject of a church and it
tickled Crowheart's risibilities, since she was the last person to be
suspected of spiritual yearnings--her personality seeming incongruous
with religious fervor. But while they laughed it was with good-nature
and approval for it merely confirmed them in their opinion that with all
her idiosyncrasies she was at heart what she liked to be considered, "a
rough diamond," sympathetic and kind of heart underneath her blunt
candor. That she had never been known to refuse a drink to the knowledge
of any inhabitant was one of the stock jokes of the town, yet it was
never urged against her. Already she had come to be pointed out to
strangers with a kind of affectionate pride as a local celebrity--a
"character." She had a strong attraction for the women of Crowheart--an
attraction that amounted to fascination. Her stronger personality
overshadowed theirs as her stronger will dominated them. She quickly
became a leader among them, and her leadership aroused no jealousy. They
quoted her rude speeches as characteristic bits of wit and laughed at
her uncouth manners. Her callousness passed for the confidence of
knowledge.

"She's so different," they told each other. "She's a law unto herself."
Yet the most timid among them had less fear of Public Opinion than Dr.
Harpe to whom it was always a menacing juggernaut.

She returned at the end of the day tired but content in the knowledge
that her efforts had produced exactly the effect she desired. She had
raised enough money to insure the erection of a modest mission church,
but the important thing was that in so doing she had built a stout
bulwark about herself which would long withstand any explanation that
Essie Tisdale might make as to the cause of the mysterious break between
them.

While she congratulated herself upon the success of this inspired move
on her part, circumstances due to other than her own efforts were
conspiring to eliminate the girl as a dangerous factor in her life.

She retired early and, consequently, was in ignorance of the receipt of
a telegram by Sylvanus Starr announcing the return of Andy P. Symes and
the complete success of his eastern mission. So when she was awakened
the next morning by a conflict of sounds which resembled the efforts of
a Chinese orchestra and raised the shade to see the newly organized
Cowboy band making superhuman endeavors to march and yet produce a
sufficiently correct number of notes from the score of "A Hot Time in
the Old Town" to make that American warcry recognizable, she knew that
something unusual had developed in the interim of her long sleep.

It was like Andy P. Symes to announce his coming that he might extract
all the glory possible from his arrival and he knew that he could depend
upon Sylvanus Starr to make the most of the occasion.

The editor issued an "Extra" of dodger-like appearance, and it is
doubtful if he would have used larger type to announce an anticipated
visit of the President. He called upon every citizen with a spark of
civic pride to turn out and give Andy P. Symes a fitting welcome; to do
homage to the man who was to Crowheart what the patron saints are to the
cities of the Old World.

The matutinal "Hot Time in the Old Town" and a majority of the
population waiting on the cinders about the red water tank were the
results of his impassioned plea.

Tears of gratified vanity stood in the eyes of Andy P. Symes as from the
front platform of the passenger coach he saw his neighbors assembled to
greet him. It seemed an eminently fitting and proper tribute to the
great-grandson of the man who had been a personal friend of Alexander
Hamilton's. He viewed the welcoming throng through misty eyes as, with
an entire appreciation of the imposing figure he presented, he bared his
massive head in deference to Mrs. Terriberry, Mrs. Percy Parrott, Mrs.
Starr and her two lovely daughters whose shrill shrieks were audible
above the grinding of the car-wheels upon the rusty track.

Sylvanus Starr with many sweeping gestures of a hand which suggested a
prehensile, well-inked claw, welcomed him in an outburst of oratory,
iridescent with adjectives which gushed from him like a volume of water
from a fire-plug, that made Crowheart's jaw drop. While Symes may have
felt that the editor was going it rather strong when he compared him to
the financial geniuses of the world beginning with Croesus and
ending with the Guggenheims, he made no protest.

Behind Mr. Symes, wide-eyed and solemn, and transformed nearly past
recognition by a hobble skirt and "kimona" sleeves, stood Mrs. Symes
with the growing feeling of complacent aloofness which comes from being
the wife of a great man.

In contrast to Sylvanus Starr's fluency Symes's response seemed halting
and slow, but it gained thereby in impressiveness. When he clenched his
huge fist and struck at the air, declaring for the third time that "it
was good to be home!" nobody doubted him. And they need not have doubted
him, for, since his salary did not begin until his return to Crowheart,
and the offerings of night-lunch carts are taxing upon the digestion, it
was indeed "good to be home!"




VII

THE SHEEP FROM THE GOATS


Andy P. Symes decided to emphasize further his return to Crowheart by
issuing invitations for a dinner to be given in the Terriberry House,
reserving the announcement of his future plans for this occasion; and,
although Crowheart did not realize it at the time, this dinner was an
epoch-making function. It was not until the printed invitations worded
with such elegance by Sylvanus Starr were issued, that Crowheart dimly
suspected there were sheep and goats, and this was the initial step
toward separating them.

The making up of a social list in any frontier town is not without its
puzzling features and Mr. Symes in this instance found it particularly
difficult once he began to discriminate.

First there came the awkward question of his relatives by marriage. At
first glance it would have seemed rather necessary to head the list with
Grandmother Kunkel, but the fact that she was also the hotel laundress
at the time made it a subject for debate. Once, just once, he was
willing to test the social possibilities of his brother-in-law, so Symes
magnanimously gave him his chance and the name of Adolph Kunkel headed
the list.

The Percy Parrotts, of course, went through the sieve, and the Starrs,
and Dr. Emma Harpe, but there was the embarrassing question of Mrs. Alva
Jackson who had but lately sold her dance hall, goodwill, and fixtures,
to marry Alva Jackson, a prosperous cattleman--too prosperous, Mr. Symes
finally decided, to ignore. Would the presence of the sprightly Faro
Nell give a touch of piquancy to the occasion or lower its tone? Could
rich, old Edouard Dubois be induced to change his shirt if invited? The
clairvoyant milliner was barred owing to the fact that she was "in
trade," but "Tinhorn Frank," who no longer sat drunk and collarless in
his dirt-floored saloon fumbling a deck of cards thick with grime, went
down upon the list as "Mr. Rhodes," the citizens of Crowheart learning
his name for the first time when it appeared on the sign above the door
of his new real estate office.

When the difficult undertaking was complete Mrs. Symes looked over his
shoulder and read the list.

"You haven't Essie Tisdale's name."

Mr. Symes laughed good-humoredly--

"Oh, she'll be there; she'll wait on the table."

"You don't mean to ask Essie Tisdale?" Mrs. Symes's eyes opened.

Symes shook his head.

"That seems awfully mean," insisted Mrs. Symes in feeble protest; "she's
always been so nice to me at dances and things."

"My dear," Symes replied impatiently, "we can't invite all the people
who have been nice to us. Won't you ever understand that society must
draw the line somewhere?"

Mrs. Symes pondered this new thought a long time.

When the invitations were out and the news of the dinner spread it
became the chief topic of conversation. The fact that the dinner was at
seven instead of twelve o'clock, noon, occasioned much hilarity among
the uninvited while the invited guests were more than delighted at the
fashionable hour. A tinge of acerbity was noticeable in the comments of
those who were unaccustomed to the sensation of being excluded, among
them Mrs. Abe Tutts, whose quick recognition of slights led one to
believe she had received a great many of them. Mrs. Tutts, who was
personally distasteful to Mr. Symes, went so far as to inquire
belligerently of Mrs. Symes why she had not been invited.

"I don't know," stammered Mrs. Symes who was still truthful rather than
tactful, "but I'll ask Phidias."

"You find out and lemme know," said Mrs. Tutts menacingly. "They can't
nobody in this town hand _me_ nothin'!"

Since Mrs. Tutts's sensitiveness appeared always to show itself in a
desire to do the offender bodily harm, Andy P. Symes took care not to
commit himself.

Until the very last Essie Tisdale could not believe that she had been
intentionally omitted. She was among the first thought of when any
gathering was planned and in her naive way was as sure of her popularity
as Symes himself, so she had pressed the wrinkles from her simple gown
and cleaned once more the white slippers which were among her dearest
treasures.

As a matter of course Mrs. Terriberry had engaged other help for the
occasion and all the afternoon of the day set Essie Tisdale waited for
the tardy invitation which she told herself was an oversight. She could
not believe that Augusta Kunkel, who was indebted to her for more good
times than she ever had had in her uneventful life, could find it in her
heart to slight her.

But the afternoon waned and no belated invitation came, so when the hour
had arrived for her to go below she hung her cheap little frock upon
its nail and replaced the cherished slippers in their box, hurt and
heavy hearted and still unaware that the day when she had tripped in
them as the acknowledged belle of Crowheart was done and the old regime
of charity and democratic, unpretentious hospitality was gone never to
return.

Her shapely head was erect and her eyes bright with the pain of hurt
pride when she knocked upon Mrs. Terriberry's door. That lady thrust a
floured face through the crack.

"You needn't get anyone to take my place to-night," she said bravely,
"I'm not invited."

"What!"

In the white expanse Mrs. Terriberry's mouth looked like a crack in a
glacier.

Essie Tisdale shook her head.

"Come in." Mrs. Terriberry sank upon the bed which sagged like a hammock
with her weight. "What do you 'spose is the reason?"

"I haven't the least idea in the world." Essie's chin quivered in spite
of her.

"For half a cent I wouldn't budge!" Mrs. Terriberry shook a warlike
coiffure. "Folks like that ought to be learned something."

"Oh, yes, you must go."

"If I do it'll be only to see what they wear and how they act; I don't
expect to enjoy myself a bit after hearin' this. I've lost interest in
it."

With a zest somewhat at variance with her words Mrs. Terriberry began to
manipulate a pair of curling tongs which had been heating in the lamp.

A sizzling sound followed and a cloud of smoke rose in the air.

"There! I've burnt off my scoldin' locks." Mrs. Terriberry viewed the
damage with dismay. "I'm just so upset I don't know what I'm doin'.
Essie, if you don't want to wait on 'em you needn't."

"I won't mind much--after the first. It will be hard at first. Thank
you, though."

"If I ever git me another pair of these 'pinch-ins'," panted Mrs.
Terriberry, "you'll know it. Take holt and lay back on them strings,
will you? They got to come closter than that or that skirt won't meet on
me by an inch--and to think twenty-fours was loose on me onct! Wait a
minute!" A startled look came in Mrs. Terriberry's bulging eyes. "I
thought I felt somethin' give inside of me--don't take much to cave a
rib in sometimes."

"More?"

"Yep; these things have gotta meet if I have to hitch the 'bus team onto
'em."

When she was finally encased in a steel- satin bodice her plump
shoulders appeared to start directly beneath her ears, and her hands
were not only purple, but slightly numb.

"How do I look, child?"

"How do you feel?" asked Essie evasively.

"As well as anybody could with their in'ards crowded up under their
chin," replied Mrs. Terriberry grimly. "I hope the house don't ketch
fire while we're eatin', for I sure aims to slide these slippers off
onct we're set down, and there's one thing certain," Mrs. Terriberry
continued savagely, "I'm sufferin' enough to git some good out of it."

As Essie turned away Mrs. Terriberry kissed her cheek kindly.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, Essie, don't let them see."

"I can do that," the girl replied proudly.

Innovations are nearly always attended by difficulties and
embarrassments but even Andy P. Symes had not anticipated that his
effort to establish a local aristocracy would entail so many awkward
moments and painful situations.

If the printed invitations and the unusual hour had filled his guests
with awe, the formalities of the dinner itself had the effect of
temporarily paralyzing their faculties. In lieu of the merry scramble
characteristic of Crowheart's festivities, there was a kind of a Death
March into the dining-room from which Mrs. Terriberry had
unceremoniously "fanned" the regular boarders.

The procession was headed by Andy P. Symes bearing Mrs. Starr, tittering
hysterically, upon his arm. Mrs. Symes's newly acquired _savoir-faire_
deserted her; her hands grew clammy and Sylvanus Starr's desperate
conversational efforts evoked no other response than "Yes, sir--No,
sir." Mrs. Terriberry, red and flustered, found herself engaged in a
wrestling match with little Alva Jackson, which lasted all the way from
the door of the dining-room to the long table at the end. Mr. Jackson in
his panic was determined to take Mrs. Terriberry's arm, whereas she was
equally determined that she would take his, having furtively observed
her host gallantly offering support to Mrs. Starr.

A sure indication of the importance attached to the affair was the
number of new boots and shoes purchased for the occasion. Now,
thick-soled, lustrous, in the frozen silence of the procession, these
boots and shoes clumping across the bare floor called attention to
themselves in voices which seemed to shriek and with the fiendishness
of inanimate objects screamed the louder at their owners' gingerly
steps. A function of the Commune when Madame Guillotine presided must
have been a frothy and frivolous affair compared to the beginning of
this dinner.

Adolph Kunkel, who had attached himself to Dr. Harpe to the extent of
walking within four feet of her side, darted from line and pulled out
the nearest chair at the table. Observing too late that the other guests
were still standing, he sprang to his feet and looked wildly about to
see if he had been noticed. He had. Alva Jackson covered his mouth with
his handkerchief and giggled.

There was a frozen smile upon the faces of the ladies who, sitting bolt
upright, twisted their fingers under the kindly shelter of the
table-cloth. Each trivial observation, humorous or otherwise, was
greeted with a burst of laughter and the person brave enough to venture
a remark seemed immediately appalled by the sound of his own voice.
Adolph Kunkel, to show that he was perfectly at ease, stretched his arms
behind his neighbor's chair and yawned.

In spite of the efforts which brought beads of perspiration out on the
broad forehead of their host, Essie Tisdale appeared with the first
course mid a ghastly silence.

"I hardly ever drink tea," observed Mr. Rhodes, for the purpose, merely,
of making conversation.

"Oh, my Gawd, Tinhorn, that ain't tea, it's bullion!" Mrs. Terriberry's
loud whisper was heard the length of the table as she tore the sugar
bowl from his hand, but the warning came too late, for Mr. Rhodes
already had sweetened his consomme.

The guests displayed their tact by assuming a wooden expression, and
turning their heads away secretly relieved that they had not committed
the _faux pas_ themselves. Only Alva Jackson stared at Mr. Rhodes's
embarrassment in unconcealed delight.

"Let Essie bring you another cup," suggested Mr. Symes.

"Oh, no! not at all; I take sweetenin' in everything," declared Mr.
Rhodes.

There was a distinct relaxation of tension all around when Andy P. Symes
took the initiative in the matter of spoons.

"This here soup makes me think of the time I had mountain fever and et
it stiddy for three weeks." Adolph Kunkel whispered the reminiscence
behind the back of his hand.

"My real favorite is bean soup," admitted Mr. Terriberry, and Mrs.
Terriberry looked mortified at this confession of her husband's vulgar
preferences.

"It's very nourishing," declared Mrs. Starr tremulously.

"And delicious, too, when properly served." Mrs. Percy Parrott curled
her little finger elegantly and toyed with a spoon.

"It's a pretty good article in camp," said Mr. Symes desperately to keep
the ball rolling.

The guests shrieked with mirthless laughter at the suggestion of rough
camp life.

"Gosh! me and Gus was weaned and raised on bean soup--and liverwurst,"
interjected Adolph Kunkel in the lull which followed, and immediately
squirmed under Mrs. Symes's blazing eyes. "Of course," he added lamely,
"we et other things, too--mush and headcheese."

During these trying moments Dr. Harpe settled back in her chair with
folded arms regarding the scene with the impersonal amusement with which
she would have sat through a staged comedy. No sense of obligation
toward her host and hostess impelled her to do her share toward
lessening the strain, and Andy P. Symes felt a growing irritation at the
faint smile of superiority upon her face. She was the one person present
who might have helped him through the uncomfortable affair.

Formality was the keynote of the occasion. Ladies who had been at each
other's back door a few hours previous borrowing starch or sugar now
addressed each other in strained and distant tones while the men were
frankly dumb. It was a relief to everybody when a heaping platter of
fried chicken appeared upon the table followed by mounds of mashed
potatoes and giblet gravy which made the guests' eyes gleam like
bird-dogs gaunt from a run.

Fried chicken is only fried chicken to those who dwell in the country
where chickens scratch in every backyard, but to those who dwell where
they reckon time from the occasion when they last ate an egg, fried
chicken bears the same relation to other food that nightingales' tongues
bore to other dishes at epicurean Roman feasts. As a further evidence of
Symes's prodigality there was champagne in hollow-stemmed glasses
brought from the East.

It was a glorious feast with cold storage chicken expressed from the
Main Line and potatoes freighted up from the Mormon settlement a hundred
miles below.

"It's a durn shame," said Adolph Kunkel as he surreptitiously removed an
olive, "that the plums is spiled, for this is the best supper I ever
flopped my lip over."

Symes suppressed a groan.

Each guest devoted himself to his food with an abandon and singleness of
purpose which left no doubt as to his enjoyment, and the effort of old
Edouard Dubois to scrape the last vestige of potato from his plate
brought out a suggestion from Adolph Kunkel to leave the gilt design on
the bottom. And when tiny after-dinner coffee cups appeared, the guests
felt that a new and valuable experience was being added to their lives.

"Holy smoke--but that's stout!" hinted Mr. Terriberry after looking the
table over for the customary pitcher of tinned milk. But before Mr.
Symes could act upon the hint his brother-in-law's eyes began to water
and bulge. He groped for his napkin while he compressed his lips in an
heroic effort to retain the hot and bitter coffee, but instead he
grabbed the hanging edge of the table-cloth. His pitiful eyes were fixed
upon the coldly disapproving face of Andy P. Symes, but there is a limit
to human endurance and Adolph Kunkel quickly reached it. Simultaneous
with a spurt of coffee Adolph rose and fled, upsetting his chair as he
went, disgraced upon his only appearance in that exclusive set from
which he was henceforth and forever barred.

He coughed significantly under the window to remind Mr. Symes that he
might be induced to return, but the hint passed unheeded, for regret
would not have been among Mr. Symes's emotions if his brother-in-law's
removal had been complete and permanent.

Over the coffee and a superior brand of cigars to which Mr. Symes called
particular attention, the conversation of his guests began to contain
some degree of naturalness and their painful self-consciousness
gradually vanished. When they seemed in a mellow and receptive mood he
began to rehearse his achievements in the East and unfold his plans. As
he talked, their imaginations stimulated by wine, they saw the future of
Crowheart pass before them like a panorama.

The army of laborers who were to be employed upon this enormous ditch
would spend their wages in Crowheart. The huge payroll would be a
benefit to every citizen. The price of horses would jump to war-time
values and every onery cayuse on the range would be hauling a scraper.
Alfalfa and timothy would sell for $18 a ton in the stack and there
would be work for every able-bodied man who applied. The grocery bills
of the commissary would make the grocers rich and Crowheart would boom
_right_. When the water was running swift and deep in the ditch the
land-hungry homeseekers would fight for ground. And it was only a step
from settlement to trolley cars, electric lights, sandstone business
blocks and cement pavements, together with lawns growing real grass!
Under the spell of his magnetic presence and convincing eloquence
nothing seemed more plausible or possible than the fulfilment of these
prophecies. And all this was to be brought about through the efforts of
Andy P. Symes, who intimated that not one million but millions had been
placed at his disposal by eager and trusting capitalists to be used by
him if necessary in making the desert bloom like the rose.

Mr. Rhodes saw himself selling corner lots at twenty thousand each while
space rates rose in the mind of Sylvanus Starr in leaps and bounds. The
Percy Parrots saw themselves lolling in a rubber-tired vehicle while the
vulgar populace on the curb identified them by pointing with their grimy
fingers. Each guest looked forward to the fulfilment of some cherished
dream and Dr. Emma Harpe saw a picture, too, as she gazed at Symes with
speculative, contemplative eyes.

He looked the embodiment of prosperity and success, did Symes, and if he
subtly intimated that the road to prosperity lay through loyalty to him,
that his friendship, support and approval were the steps by which they
could best climb, they were willing to give it without quibbling. They
were content to shine in his reflected glory, and they dispersed at a
late hour feeling that they had been tacitly set apart--a chosen people.

The next issue of the Crowheart _Courier_ referred to the dinner as a
three-course banquet, and published the menu. If the description of the
guests' costumes made Crowheart's eyes pop and none more than the
wearers, the latter did not mention it.

Pleased but bewildered, Mrs. Terriberry read of herself as "queenly in
gray satin and diamonds," being unable to place the diamonds until she
recalled the rhinestone comb in her back hair which sparkled with the
doubtful brilliancy of a row of alum cubes.

Mrs. Percy Parrott had some difficulty in recognizing herself as
"ravishing in shot silk garnished with pearls," since the plaid taffeta
which had come in a barrel from home with the collar tab pinned flat
with a moonstone pin bore little resemblance to the elegance suggested
in the paragraph.

And if the editor chose to refer to the pineapple pattern, No. 60
cotton, collarette which Mrs. Jackson had crocheted between beers in
the good old Dance Hall days as an "exquisite effect in point lace,"
certainly Mrs. Jackson was not the lady to contradict him.

But this was merely the warming up exercise of the editor's vocabulary.
When he really cut loose on Andy P. Symes the graves of dead and buried
adjectives opened to do him honor. In the lurid lexicon of his eloquence
there was no such word as obsolete and no known synonym failed to pay
tribute to this "mental and physical colossus." In his shirt sleeves,
minus his cuffs, with his brain in a lather, one might say, Sylvanus
Starr painted a picture of the coming Utopia, experiencing in so doing
such joys of creation as he had not known since his removal from the
obituary department.

And reading, the citizens of Crowheart rejoiced or envied according to
their individual natures.




VIII

"THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME"


Dr. Harpe was still young enough to be piqued by Ogden Van Lennop's
utter indifference to herself. He was now established in the hotel,
apparently for an indefinite stay, and they met frequently in the
corridors and on the stairs. His attitude of impassive politeness
nettled her far more than the alert hostility of the <DW55> Duke whom she
saw occasionally.

The slight overtures she made met no response and she minded it the more
that he made no attempt to disguise his liking for Essie Tisdale, whose
laughing good-nature and quaint humor had penetrated the reserve which
was in his manner toward every one else. He seemed even to have no
desire to take advantage of the patronizing advances of Andy P. Symes
and was content enough to spend a portion of each day reading books with
mystifying titles and to ride away into the hills to be gone for hours
at a time. He still wore the regalia of the country, the Stetson hat,
flannel shirt and corduroys that were too common to attract attention,
but the hollows in his cheeks were filling out and the tired look was
going from his eyes.

When he had been a month in Crowheart and had made not the smallest
effort to "get a job" he began to be regarded with some suspicion. The
fact that he seemed always to have money for which he did not work
inspired distrust. Then, too, as Mr. Rhodes shrewdly pointed out, he had
the long white hands of a high-toned crook. As a result of the various
theories advanced, Ogden Van Lennop came gradually to be looked at
askance--a fact of which he seemed totally oblivious. And when the
clairvoyant milliner went into a trance and declared that a desperado
was in their midst planning a raid on Crowheart the finger of suspicion
pointed straight at the uncommunicative stranger, and the Iowa Notion
Store installed a riot gun.

Dr. Harpe wondered with the rest but she did not share their ignorant
mistrust, for she had sufficient worldly wisdom to recognize the nicety
of his speech and the reticence of his manners as belonging to a
gentleman--a gentleman under a cloud mayhap but still born a gentleman.
She was intensely curious regarding his antecedents, and one day she had
her curiosity gratified. A letter which came in the morning mail from a
schoolmate in the East, read:

    DEAR EMMY:

    I have just learned through the papers here that Ogden Van Lennop is
    "roughing it" in your country and I thought I'd write and give you a
    hint in case you come across him. Grab him, my dear, if you have the
    ghost of a show, for he is the most eligible man in seven states.
    Money, family, social position--it makes me green to think of your
    chance, it's the chance of a lifetime--for I'd never meet him in my
    humble sphere in a thousand years. He's an awfully decent sort, too,
    they say. He overworked after he came out of college and he's there
    getting his health back. Good luck to you and I hope you appreciate
    my tip.

    Lovingly,
    ADELE

Dr. Harpe folded the letter and put it away.

"Don't I though?" she said grimly.

She frowned as Van Lennop's low, amused laugh, mingling with Essie
Tisdale's merry trill, reached her through the open window.

"The presumptuous little upstart! The biscuit-shooter!" Dr. Harpe's face
was not pleasant to see.

She took care to keep to herself what she had learned for when they met,
as she was now determined that they should, she wished the friendship
she meant to proffer to seem above all else disinterested. While she
realized that she had his prejudice to overcome, she believed that she
could overcome it and she would wait now with eagerness for the
opportunity to insert the opening wedge.

Heretofore the dubious compliment "a good fellow," from the men with
whom she smoked and drank, had pleased and satisfied her. She had no
desire to appeal to them in any other way; but this was different
because Ogden Van Lennop was different, being the first really eligible
man who had ever come within the circle to which she had been limited by
her always straitened circumstances. She looked upon Van Lennop in the
light of an exceptional business chance, and with a conceit oddly at
variance with her eminently practical nature, she believed she had only
to set about exerting herself in earnest to arouse his interest and
attach him to herself.

Van Lennop found himself still smiling at Essie Tisdale's sallies as he
came up the stairs. Her droll originality amused him as he had not been
amused in a long time, and he found himself unbending to a degree which
often surprised himself; besides, with her frankness, her naturalness
and perfect unconsciousness of any social barrier, she seemed to him a
perfect western type. He prized the novel friendship, for it had become
that, and would have regretted keenly anything which might have
interrupted it.

Her realistic descriptions of the episodes of a small town were
irresistible and Van Lennop never found himself more genuinely
entertained than when after a certain set form of greeting which they
went through daily with the greatest gravity, he would inquire--

"Well, Miss Tisdale, what are the developments in the world to-day?" And
with her quick, dimpling smile she would respond with some item of local
news which took its humor chiefly from the telling.

When a sign on the tar-paper shack which bore the legend "Warshing" was
replaced by "Plane Sewing Done," she reported the change and, again, the
fact that he was aware of Mrs. Abe Tutts's existence was due to Essie
Tisdale's graphic account of the outburst of temper in which that
erratic lady, while rehearsing the role of a duchess in an amateur
production, kicked, not figuratively but literally, the duke--a role
essayed by the talented plasterer--down the stairs of Odd Fellow's Hall
over the General Merchandise Store. The girl enjoyed life and its small
incidents with the zest of exuberant youth and Van Lennop often declared
himself as anxious that Mrs. Percy Parrott should accumulate enough from
the sale of milk to buy screens before flytime as that lady herself
since Essie sustained his interest by daily account of the addition to
the screen fund. He was still thinking of the combative Mrs. Tutts when
he opened a book and sat down by the open window.

A murmur of voices which began shortly underneath his window did not
disturb him, though subconsciously he was aware that one of them
belonged to Essie Tisdale. It was not until he heard his own name that
he lifted his eyes from the interesting pages before him.

"You lak him I t'ink--dat loafer--dat fellow Van Lennop?"

Van Lennop recognized the thick, gutteral voice of old Edouard Dubois.

"Like him? Of course I like him, and"--there was asperity in Essie's
tone now--"he isn't a loafer."

"Hold-up, then," substituted Dubois.

"Nor a hold-up."

"What you t'ink he is?"

"Something you would never recognize," she answered sharply; "a
gentleman."

Van Lennop smiled, for in his mind's eye he could see the tense
aggressiveness of her slim figure.

"Chentleman!" was the contemptuous snort. "Chentleman--and never buy de
drinks for nobody all de time he is in Crowheart. Fine chentleman dat!"

"When do you buy any?" was the pointed inquiry.

"I haf to work for _my_ money; his comes easy," he replied
significantly.

"You said that before." The voice was growing shriller. "How do you
know?"

"Robbin's easy."

"I must believe it if _you say_ so."

"Why you get mad? Why you stick up for him so hard?" persisted the
Frenchman stubbornly.

"Why wouldn't I stick up for him? He's a friend of mine."

"Fine fren--dat lazy cheap-skate!" There was real venom in the voice.

Van Lennop heard the stamp of Essie Tisdale's small foot upon the
hard-trodden dooryard.

"You needn't think you'll advance your own interests by calling him such
names as that! Let me tell you I wouldn't marry you if you asked me a
million, million times!"

Van Lennop started. So he was asking Essie Tisdale to marry him--this
old Edouard Dubois with the bullet-shaped head and the brutal face that
Van Lennop had found so objectionable upon each occasion that he had
been his vis-a-vis in the dining-room?

"Oh, you wouldn't marry me?"--the guttural voice was ugly now--"I offer
you good home, good clothes, ze chance to travel when you lak and hear
ze good music zat you love and you wouldn't marry me if I ask you
million times? Maybe some time, Mees Teesdale, you be _glad_ to marry me
when I ask you once!"

"Maybe I will," the angry young voice flung back, "but that time hasn't
come _yet_, Mr. Dubois!"

"And God forbid that it ever should," breathed Van Lennop to himself at
the window above. His eyes had grown a little moist at this exhibition
of her loyalty and somehow the genuineness of it made him glow, the more
perhaps that he was never without a lurking suspicion of the
disinterestedness of women's friendship for the reasons which Dr. Harpe,
for instance, knew.

What Van Lennop had learned through his unintentional eavesdropping was
something of a revelation. In his mild conjectures as to Crowheart's
opinion of him it never had occurred to him that it considered him
anything more interesting than an impecunious semi-invalid or possibly a
homeseeker taking his own time to locate. But a hold-up! a loafer! a
lazy cheap-skate! Van Lennop shook with silent laughter. A skinflint too
mean to buy a drink! He had no notion of enlightening Crowheart in
regard to himself because of the illuminating conversation he had
overheard. The situation afforded him too much amusement and since Essie
Tisdale liked him for himself and trusted him in the face of what was
evidently Crowheart's opinion, nothing else mattered. The only result
then was to give him a more minute interest in his surroundings.
Heretofore he had viewed the life about him in the impersonal fashion in
which persons of large interests and wide experience regard unimportant
people doing unimportant things. In the light of what he had learned he
placed a new interpretation upon the curious stares, averted faces,
frankly disapproving looks or challenging insolence of glances such as
he received from Mr. Rhodes's bold eyes. He smiled often in keen
enjoyment of his shady reputation and kept adding to his unpopularity by
steadfastly refusing to be drawn into poker games which bore evidence of
having been arranged for his benefit.

The experience of being avoided by the respectably inclined and sought
after by those who had no respectability to lose was a new experience to
Van Lennop, who had been accustomed from infancy to the deference which
is tacitly accorded those of unusual wealth; but even had he found the
antagonistic atmosphere which he encountered frequently now annoying, he
would have felt more than compensated by the knowledge that he had
discovered in the little belle of Crowheart a friend whose loyalty was
strong enough to stand the difficult test of public opinion.

Essie Tisdale had no notion that Van Lennop had overheard her quarrel
with the Frenchman, but her quick perceptions recognized an added
friendliness in his manner--a kind of unbending gentleness which was
new--and she needed it for she daily felt the growing lack of it in
people whom she had called her friends.

In the days which followed, Van Lennop sometimes asked himself if
anything had gone wrong with Essie Tisdale. Her shapely head had a proud
uplift which was new and in unguarded moments her red, sensitive lips
had a droop that he had not noticed before.

Essie Tisdale was not, in her feelings, unlike a frolicsome puppy that
has received its first vicious kick. She was digesting the new knowledge
that there were people who could hurt others deliberately, cruelly, and
so far as she knew, without provocation; that there were people whom she
had counted her friends that were capable of hurting her--who could
wound her like enemies. And, like the puppy who runs from him who has
inflicted his first pain and turns to look with bewilderment and
reproach in his soft puppy eyes, Essie felt no resentment yet, only
surprise and the pain of the blow together with a great and growing
wonder as to what she had done.

The ordeal of the dinner had been greater even than she had anticipated.
For the first time in her life she had been treated like an inferior--a
situation which Essie Tisdale did not know how to meet. But it had
remained for Andy P. Symes who but a few months previous had pressed her
hand and called her the prettiest girl in Crowheart to inflict the blow
that hurt most.

The guests were leaving when she had found a chance to whisper, "You
look so well to-night, Gussie," and Andy P. Symes had interrupted
coldly, "Mrs. Symes, if you please, Essie."

Her cheeks grew scarlet when she thought of it. She had meant to tell
them in that way that the slight had not altered her friendship and Andy
P. Symes had told her in his way that they did not want her friendship.

She did not understand yet, she only felt, and felt so keenly, that she
could not bring herself to speak of it, even to Ogden Van Lennop, who
still supposed that she had gone as an invited guest.




IX

THE WAYS OF POLITE SOCIETY


The change which a marcelled pompadour, kimona sleeves, a peach-basket
hat, and a hobble skirt wrought in the appearance of Mrs. Andy P. Symes,
nee Kunkel, was a source of amazement to Crowheart. Her apologetic
diffidence was now replaced by an air of complacency arising from the
fact that since her return she began to regard herself as a travelled
lady who had seen much of life. The occasions upon which she had sat
blushing and stammering in the presence of her husband's friends were
fast fading from mind in the agreeable experience of finding herself
treated with deference by those who formerly had seemed rather to
tolerate than desire her society. Until her return to Crowheart she had
not in the least realized what a difference her marriage was to make in
her life.

In that other environment she had felt like a servant girl taken
red-handed and heavy-footed from the kitchen and suddenly placed in the
drawing-room upon terms of equality with her mistress and her
mistresses's friends, but she had profited by her opportunities and now
brought back with her something of the air and manner of speech and
dress of those who had embarrassed her. While Crowheart laughed a little
behind her back it was nevertheless impressed by the mild affectations.

It is no exaggeration to say that Crowheart's eyes protruded when Mrs.
Symes returned the neighborly visits of the ladies who had "just run in
to see how she was gettin' on," by a series of formal afternoon calls.
No such fashionable sight ever had been witnessed in the town as Mrs.
Symes presented when, in a pair of white kid gloves and a veil, she
picked her way with ostentatious daintiness across several vacant lots
still encumbered with cactus and sagebrush, to the log residence of Mr.
and Mrs. Alva Jackson.

There was a pair of eyes staring unabashed at every front window in the
neighborhood when Mrs. Symes stood on Mrs. Jackson's "stoop" and removed
a piece of baling wire from the lace frill of her petticoat before she
wrapped her handkerchief around her hand to protect her white kid
knuckles and knocked with lady-like gentleness upon Mrs. Jackson's door.

Mrs. Jackson, who had been peering through the foliage of a potted
geranium on the window-sill, was pinning frantically at her scolding
locks, but retained sufficient presence of mind to let a proper length
of time elapse before opening the door. When she did, it was with an
elaborate bow from the waistline and a surprised--

"Why, how do you do, Mis' Symes!"

Mrs. Symes smiled in prim sweetness, and noting that Mrs. Jackson's
hands looked reasonably clean, extended one of the first two white kid
gloves in Crowheart which Mrs. Jackson shook with heartiness before
bouncing back and inquiring--

"Won't you come in, Mis' Symes?"

"Thanks." Mrs. Symes took a pinch of the front breadth of her skirt
between her thumb and finger and stepped daintily over the door-sill.

"Set down," urged Mrs. Jackson making a dash at a blue plush
rocking-chair which she rolled into the centre of the room with great
energy.

When the chair tipped and sent Mrs. Symes's feet into the air Mrs.
Jackson's burst of laughter was heard distinctly by Mrs. Tutts across
the street.

"Trash!" exclaimed that person in unfathomable contempt.

Mrs. Jackson had two missing front teeth which she had lost upon an
occasion to which she no longer referred, also a voice strained and
husky from the many midnight choruses in which she had joined before she
sold her goodwill and fixtures. She now rested her outspread fingers
upon each knee and wildly ransacked her brain for something light and
airy in the way of conversation.

Mrs. Symes, sitting bolt upright on the edge of the plush rocking-chair
with her long, flat feet pressed tightly together, tweaked at the only
veil in Crowheart and cleared her throat with subdued and lady-like
restraint before she inquired--

"Isn't it a lovely day?"

"Oh, lovely!" Mrs. Jackson answered with husky vivacity. "Perfeckly
lovely!"

Another silence followed and something of Mrs. Jackson's mental state
could be read in her dilated pupils and excited, restless eyes. Finally
she said in a desperate voice--

"It's a grand climate anyhow."

"If it wasn't for the wind; it's one drawback."

Another burst of laughter from Mrs. Jackson who covered her mouth with
her hand after the manner of those who have been unfortunate in the
matter of front teeth.

"Cats!" hissed Mrs. Tutts across the street. "I'll bet they are laffin'
at me!"

"We had charming weather while we were gone," continued Mrs. Symes
easily. The word was new to her vocabulary and its elegance did not
escape Mrs. Jackson.

"That's good."

"The change was so beneficial to me. One so soon exhausts a small town,
don't you think so, Mrs. Jackson?"

Mrs. Jackson could not truthfully say that she ever had felt that she
had exhausted Crowheart, but she agreed weakly--

"Uh-huh."

"I had so many new and delightful experiences, too." Mrs. Symes smiled a
sweetly reminiscent smile.

"You musta had."

"Going out in the train we had cantelope with cracked ice in it. You
must try it sometimes, Mrs. Jackson--it's delicious."

"I can't say when I've et a cantelope but, Oh Lord, I has a hankerin'
for eggs! I tell Jackson the next time he ships he's gotta take me
along, for I want to git out where I can git my mitt on a pair of eggs."

"We became quite surfeited with eggs, Phidias and I," observed Mrs.
Symes with an air of ennui.

Mrs. Jackson blinked.

"I can't go 'em onless they're plumb fresh," she replied non-committally.

"I've had _such_ a pleasant call." Mrs. Symes rose.

"Run in agin." Mrs. Jackson's eyes were glued upon the leather card-case
from which Mrs. Symes was endeavoring to extract a card with fingers
which she was unable to bend.

"Thanks. I've been so busy getting settled and all but now I mean to
keep a servant and shall have more time."

Mrs. Jackson had read of ladies who kept servants but never had hoped to
know one.

"Where you goin' to git--it? From Omyhaw or K. C.?"

"Grandmother has promised to come to me," said Mrs. Symes languidly.

Mrs. Jackson's jaw dropped.

"Gramma Kunkel ain't a servant, is she? she's 'help.'"

"'Help' are servants," explained Mrs. Symes with gentle patience as she
laid her printed visiting card upon the centre table.

"Gosh! that strikes me funny." Mrs. Jackson was natural at last.

"Not at all," replied Mrs. Symes with hauteur. "She must work, so why
not for me? She's strong and very, very capable."

"Oh, she's capable all right, but," persisted Mrs. Jackson unconvinced,
"it strikes me funny. Say, is Essie Tisdale a servant, too?"

Mrs. Symes smiled ever so slightly as she fumbled with her visiting card
and laid it in a more conspicuous place.

"Certainly."

"Was that why she wasn't ast to the banquet?"

Again Mrs. Symes smiled the slow, deprecating smile which she was
assiduously cultivating.

"Society must draw the line somewhere, Mrs. Jackson."

Mrs. Jackson gulped with a clicking sound, and at the door shook hands
with Mrs. Symes, wearing the dazed expression of one who has bumped his
head on a shelf corner. Through the potted geranium she watched Mrs.
Symes picking her way across another vacant lot to the dwelling of the
Sylvanus Starr's.

Mrs. Abe Tutts with her blue flannel yachting cap set at an aggressive
angle over one eye paddled across the street and was upon Mrs. Jackson
before that person was aware of her presence.

"Has that guttersnipe gone?" A quite superfluous question, as Mrs.
Jackson was well aware.

"Of who are you speakin'?" inquired Mrs. Jackson coldly.

"Who would I be speakin' of but Gus Kunkel?" demanded Mrs. Tutts
belligerently.

"Look here, Mis' Tutts, I don't want to have no words with you, but----"

"What's that?" interrupted Mrs. Tutts eyeing the visiting card which
Mrs. Jackson had been studying intently. "Is she leavin' tickets for
somethin'?"

"Oh, no," replied. Mrs. Jackson in a blase tone, "this is merely her
callin' card."

"Callin' card! You was to home, wasn't you?"

"It's the new style to leave your callin' card whether they're to home
or not," explained Mrs. Jackson, hazarding a guess.

Mrs. Jackson's air of familiarity with social mysteries was most
exasperating to Mrs. Tutts.

"What's the sense of that? Lemme see it."

Mrs. Tutts read laboriously and with unmitigated scorn:

    MRS. ANDREW PHIDIAS SYMES
        At Home
            Thursday 2-4

She sank cautiously into the blue rocking-chair and removed a hatpin
which skewered her yachting cap to a knob of hair.

"That beats _me_! 'Mrs. Andrew Phidias Symes!'" Mrs. Tutts saw no reason
to slight the letter p and pronounced it distinctly. "At home Thursdays
between two and four! What of it? Ain't we all generally home Thursdays
between two and four?"

"Gussie has improved wonderful," replied Mrs. Jackson pacifically.

"_Improved!_ If you call goin' around passin' of them up that she's
knowed well 'improved' why then she has improved wonderful. Snip!"

"I don't think she really aimed to pass you up."

"I wasn't thinkin' of myself," replied Mrs. Tutts hotly, "I was thinking
of Essie Tisdale. I hope Mis' Symes don't come around to call on me--I'm
kind of perticular who I entertain."

Mrs. Jackson's hard blue eyes began to shine, but Mrs. Jackson had been
something of a warrior herself in her day and knew a warrior when she
saw one. She had no desire to engage in a hand to hand conflict with
Mrs. Tutts, whose fierceness she was well aware was more than surface
deep, and she read in that person's alert pose a disconcerting readiness
for action. It was a critical moment, one which required tact, for a
single injudicious word would precipitate a fray of which Mrs. Jackson
could not be altogether sure of the result. Besides, poised as she was
like a winged Mercury on the threshold of Society, she could not afford
any low scene with Mrs. Tutts. Conquering her resentment, Mrs. Jackson
said conciliatingly--

"Yes, of course, now we 're married it's different--we _have_ to be
perticular who we entertain. As Mis' Symes says--'Society must draw the
line somewhere!'"

Mrs. Tutts searched her face in quick suspicion.

"Who'd she say it about?"

"Promise me that this won't go no further--hope to die?--but to tell the
truth we was speakin' of Essie Tisdale."

Mrs. Tutts looked mystified.

"What's she done?"

In unconscious imitation of Mrs. Symes, Mrs. Jackson curled her little
finger and smiled a slow, deprecating smile--

"You see she works _out_--she's really a servant."

Mrs. Tutts nodded in entire comprehension.

"I know; back East in Dakoty we always looked down on them more or less
as was out'n out hired girls. But out here I've aimed to treat everybody
the same."

"I'll say that for you, Mis' Tutts," declared Mrs. Jackson generously,
"you've never showed no diffrunce to nobody."

"I'm glad you think so," said Mrs. Tutts modestly, "and I don't mean to
pass Essie Tisdale up altogether."

"Ner me," declared Mrs. Jackson, "she's a perfeckly good girl so far as
I know."

"Where do you suppose Mis' Symes got them cards printed?" inquired Mrs.
Tutts. "I gotta git Tutts to git to work and git me some."

"Over to the _Courier_ office I should think," Mrs. Jackson added. "It's
lucky I got some in the house since they've started in usin' em."

There was a moment's silence in which Mrs. Tutts eyed Mrs. Jackson with
unfriendly eyes. It seemed very plain to her that her neighbor was
trying to "put it over her." The temptation against which she struggled
was too strong and she inquired pointedly while she discreetly arose to
go--

"Business cards, Mis' Jackson--some you had left over?"

Diplomacy was scattered to the four winds.

"No; not business cards, Mis' Tutts! Callin' cards. I'll show you one
since I've no notion you ever saw one back there in that beer garden
where you cracked your voice singin'!"

Mrs. Tutts put on her yachting cap and pulling it down on her head until
her hair was well covered, advanced menacingly.

"You gotta eat them words, Mis' Jackson," she said with ominous calm.

Mrs. Jackson retreated until the marble-topped centre table formed a
protecting barrier.

"Don't you start no rough-house here, Mis' Tutts."

Mrs. Tutts continued to advance and her lips had contracted as though an
invisible gathering string had been jerked violently.

"You gotta eat them words, Mis' Jackson." Unwavering purpose was in her
voice.

"I'll have the law on you if you begin a ruckus here." Mrs. Jackson
moved to the opposite side of the table.

"The law's nothin' to me." Mrs. Tutts went around the table.

"I haven't forgot I'm a lady!" Mrs. Jackson quickened her gait.

"Everybody else has." Mrs. Tutts also accelerated her pace.

"Don't you dast lay hands on me!" Mrs. Jackson broke into a trot.

"Not if I can stomp on you," declared Mrs. Tutts as the back fulness of
Mrs. Jackson's skirt slipped through her fingers.

"What's the use of this? I don't want to fight, Mis' Tutts." Mrs.
Jackson was galloping and slightly dizzy.

"You will onct you git into it," encouraged Mrs. Tutts, grimly measuring
the distance between them with her eye.

"You ought to have your brains beat out for this!" On the thirteenth lap
around the table Mrs. Jackson was panting audibly.

"Couldn't reach yours th'out cuttin' your feet off!" responded Mrs.
Tutts, in whose eyes gleamed what sporting writers describe as "the joy
of battle."

The strength of the hunted hostess was waning visibly.

"I've got heart trouble, Mis' Tutts," she gasped in desperation, "and
I'm liable to drop dead any jump!"

"No such luck." Mrs. Tutts made a pass at her across the table.

"This is perfeckly ridic'lous; do you at all realize what you're doin'?"

"I won't," Mrs. Tutts spoke with full knowledge of the deadly insult; "I
won't until I git a few handfuls of your _red_ hair!"

Mrs. Jackson stopped in her tracks and fear fell from her. Her roving
eye searched the room for a weapon and her glance fell upon the potted
geranium. Mrs. Tutts already had possessed herself of the scissors.

"My hair may be red, Mis' Tutts," her shrill voice whistled through the
space left by her missing teeth, as she stood with the geranium poised
aloft, "but it's _my own_!"

Mrs. Tutts staggered under the crash of pottery and the thud of packed
dirt upon her head. She sank to the floor, but rose again, dazed and
blinking, her warlike spirit temporarily crushed.

"There's the door, Mis' Tutts." Mrs. Jackson drew herself up with regal
hauteur and pointed. "Now get the hell out of here!"




X

ESSIE TISDALE'S ENFORCED ABNEGATION


There was one place at least where the popularity of the little belle of
Crowheart showed no signs of diminution and this was in the menagerie of
domestic animals which occupied quarters in the rear of the large
backyard of the hotel. The phlegmatic black omnibus and dray horses
neighed for sugar at her coming, the calf she had weaned from the wild
range cow bawled at sight of her, while various useless dogs leaped
about her in ecstasy, and a mere glimpse of her skirt through the
kitchen doorway was sufficient to start such a duet from the two
excessively vital and omniverous mammals whom Essie had ironically named
Alphonse and Gaston that Van Lennop, who had the full benefit of this
chorus, often wished the time had arrived for Alphonse and Gaston to
fulfil their destiny. Yet he found diversion, too, in her efforts to
instil into their minds the importance of politeness and unselfishness
and frequently he laughed aloud at the fragments of conversation which
reached him when he heard her laboring with them in the interest of
their manners.

A loud and persistent squealing caused Van Lennop to raise his eyes from
his book and look out upon the pole corral wherein the vociferous
Alphonse and Gaston were confined. Essie Tisdale was perched upon the
top pole, seemingly deaf to their shrill importunities; depression was
in every line of her slim figure, despondency in the droop of her head.
Her attitude held his attention and set him wondering, for he thought
of her always as the embodiment of laughter, good-humor, and exuberant
youth. Of all the women he ever had known, either well or casually, she
had seemed the farthest from moods or nerves or anything even dimly
suggestive of the neurasthenic.

Moved by an impulse Van Lennop laid down his book and went below.

"Air-castles, Miss Tisdale?" he asked as he sauntered toward her. He
still insisted upon the whimsical formality of "Miss Tisdale," although
to all Crowheart, naturally, she was "Essie."

The girl lifted her sombre eyes at the sound of his voice and the shadow
in them gave them the look of deep blue velvet, Van Lennop thought.

"You only build air-castles when you are happy, don't you? and hopeful?"

"And are you not happy and hopeful, Miss Tisdale?" Amusement glimmered
in his eyes. "I thought you were quite the happiest person I know, and
to be happy is to be hopeful."

"What have I to make me happy?" she demanded with an intensity which
startled him. "What have I to hope for?"

"Fishing, Miss Tisdale?" He still smiled at her.

"For what? To be told that I'm pretty?"

"And young," Van Lennop supplemented. "I know women who would give a
king's ransom to be young and pretty. Isn't that enough to make one
person happy?"

"And what good will being either ever do me?" she demanded bitterly;
"me, a biscuit-shooter!" Her musical voice was almost harsh in its
bitterness. She turned upon him fiercely. "I've been happy because I was
ignorant, but I've been enlightened; I've been made to see; I've been
shown my place!"

That was it then; some one had hurt her, some one had found it in his
heart to hurt Essie Tisdale whose friendliness was as impartial and as
boundless as the sunshine itself. He looked at her inquiringly and she
went on--

"Don't you think I see what's ahead of me? It's as plain as though it
had happened and there's nothing else possible for me."

"And what is it?" he asked gently.

"There'll come a day when I'm tired and discouraged and utterly,
utterly hopeless that some cowpuncher will ask me to marry him and I'll
say yes. Then he'll file on a homestead away off somewhere in the
foothills where the range is good and there's no sheep and it's fifty
miles to a neighbor and a two days' trip to town." She stared straight
ahead as though visualizing the picture. "He'll build a log house with a
slat bunk in one end and set up a camp-stove with cracked lids in the
other. There'll be a home-made table with a red oilcloth table cover and
a bench and a home-made rocking chair with a woven bottom of cowhide for
me. He'll buy a little bunch of yearlings with his savings and what he
can borrow and in the spring I'll herd them off the poison while he
breaks ground to put in a little crop of alfalfa. I'll get wrinkles at
the corners of my eyes from squinting in the sun and a weather-beaten
skin from riding in the wind and lines about my mouth from worrying over
paying interest on our loan.

"In the winter we'll be snowed up for weeks at a time and spend the
hours looking at the pictures in a mail order catalogue and threshing
the affairs of our acquaintances threadbare. Twice a year we'll go to
town in a second-hand Studebaker. I'll be dressed in the clothes I wore
before I was married and he'll wear overalls and boots with run-over
heels. A dollar will look a shade smaller than a full moon and I'll cry
for joy when I get a clothes-wringer or a washing machine for a
Christmas present. That," she concluded laconically, "is my finish."

Van Lennop did not smile, instead he shook his head gravely.

"No, Essie Tisdale, I can't just see you in any such setting as that."

"Why not? I've seen it happen to others."

"But," he spoke decisively, "you're different."

"Yes," she cried with a vehemence which sent the color flying under her
fair skin, "I _am_ different! If I wasn't I wouldn't mind. But I care
for things that the girls who have married like that do not care for,
and I can't help it. They save their money to buy useful things and I
spend all mine buying books. Perhaps it's wrong, for that may be the
reason of my shrinking from a life such as I've described since books
have taught me there's something else outside. Being different only
makes it all the harder."

"And yet," said Van Lennop, "I'm somehow glad you are. But what has
happened? Who has hurt you? Did something go wrong at this wonderful
dinner of which you told me? Were you not after all quite the prettiest
girl there?"

"I wasn't asked!"

Van Lennop's eyes widened.

"You were not? Why, I thought the belle of Crowheart was always asked."

"Not now; I'm a biscuit-shooter; I work--and--'Society must draw the
line somewhere.'"

"Who said that?" Amazement was in Van Lennop's tone.

"Mr. Symes said it to Mrs. Symes, Mrs. Symes said it to Mrs. Jackson,
Mrs. Jackson said it to Mrs. Tutts, Mrs. Tutts said it to me."

"Of whom?"

"Of me."

"But what society?" Van Lennop's face still wore a puzzled look.

"Crowheart society."

A light broke over his face; then he laughed aloud, such a shout of
unadulterated glee that Alphonse and Gaston ceased to squeal and fixed
their twinkling eyes upon him in momentary wonder.

"When I told you I was going I thought of course they would ask me. I
thought the tardy invitation was just an oversight, but now I know"--her
chin quivered suddenly like a hurt child's--"that they never meant to
ask me."

Van Lennop's face had quickly sobered.

"You are sure he really said that--this Andy P. Symes?"

"I think there's no mistake. It was the easiest way to rid themselves of
my friendship." She told him then of the reproof Symes had administered.

An unwonted shine came into Van Lennop's calm eyes as he listened. This
put a different face upon the affair, this intentional injury to the
feelings of his stanch little champion, it somehow made it a more
personal matter. The "social line" amused him merely, though, in a way,
it held a sociological interest for him, too. It was, he told himself,
like being privileged to witness the awakening of social ambitions in a
tribe of bushmen.

Van Lennop was silent, but the girl felt his unspoken sympathy, and it
was balm to her sore little heart.

"This--society?" she asked after a time. "What is it? We've never had it
before. Everybody knows everybody else out here and there are so few of
us that we've always had our good times together and we have never left
anybody out. The very last thing we wanted to do was to hurt anyone
else's feelings in that way."

"You have left those halycon days behind, I'm afraid," Van Lennop
replied. "The first instinct of a certain class of people is to hurt the
feelings of others. It's the only way they know to proclaim their
superiority, a superiority of which they are not at all sure,
themselves. Just what 'society' is, is an old and threadbare subject and
has been threshed out over and over again without greatly altering
anybody's individual point of view. Good breeding, brains and money are
generally conceded to be the essentials required by that complex
institution and certainly one or all of them are necessary for any great
social success."

Van Lennop watched her troubled face and waited.

"Then that's why old Edouard Dubois was asked, though he never speaks,
and Alva Jackson, who is uncouth and ignorant? They represent money."

Van Lennop smiled.

"Undoubtedly."

"And the Starrs are brains."

He laughed outright now.

"The power of the press! Correct, Miss Tisdale."

"And Andy P. Symes----" Van Lennop supplied dryly--"is family. He had a
great-grandfather, I believe."

Van Lennop returned the persistent, pleading stare of Alphonse and
Gaston while Essie pondered this bewildering subject.

"But out here it's mostly money that counts, or rather will count in the
future."

"Yes, with a man of Symes's type it would be nearly the only
qualification necessary. If you had been the 'rich Miss Tisdale' you
undoubtedly would have been the guest of honor."

"Then," she said chokingly, "my good times are over, for I'm--nobody
knows who--just Essie Tisdale--a biscuit-shooter whose friendship counts
for nothing."

With feminine intuition she grasped Crowheart's new point of view, and
Van Lennop, because he knew human nature, could not contradict her, but
in the security of his own position he could not fully understand how
much it all meant to her in her small world.

"You mustn't take this to heart," he said gently, conscious of a strong
desire to comfort her. "If the cost of an invitation were a single tear
it would be too high a price to pay. In explaining to you what the world
recognizes in a general way as 'Society,' I had no thought of Crowheart
in my mind. There can be no 'Society' in Crowheart with its present
material. What it is obvious this man Symes means to attempt, is only an
absurd imitation of something he can never hope to attain. The effort
resembles the attempts of a group of amateurs to present a Boucicault
comedy, while 'in front' the world laughs at them, not with them. It is
a dangerous experiment to pretend to be anything other than what you
are. It means loss of dignity, for you are merely absurd when you
attempt to play a part which by birth and training and temperament you
are nowise fitted to play. You become a target for the people whom you
care most to impress.

"When one begins to imitate he loses his individuality and his
individuality is the westerner's chief charm. Be yourself, Essie
Tisdale, be simple, sincere, and you can never be absurd.

"I am sorry for what you have told me, since, if what seems threatening
comes to pass, Crowheart will be only a middle class, commonplace town
of which it has a thousand prototypes. Its strongest attraction now is
its western flavor, the lingering atmosphere of the frontier. This must
pass with time, of course, but it seems a shame that the change should
be forced prematurely by the efforts of this man Symes. Really I feel a
distinct sense of personal injury at his innovations." Van Lennop
laughed slightly. "The old way was the best way for a long time to come,
it seems to me. That was real democracy--a Utopian condition that had of
necessity to go with the town's growth, but certainly not at this stage.
In larger communities it is natural enough that those of similar tastes
should seek each other, but, in a place like Crowheart where the
interests and the mental calibre of its inhabitants are practically the
same, the man who seeks to establish an 'aristocracy' proclaims himself
a petty-minded, silly ass. Be a philosopher, Miss Tisdale."

But Essie Tisdale was not a philosopher; the experience was still too
new and bewildering for philosophy to prove an instant remedy. She found
Van Lennop's sympathy far more comforting than his logic, but through
her heavy-heartedness there was creeping a growing appreciation of the
superiority of this stranger in worn corduroys to his surroundings, a
clearer conception of his calm mental poise.

Van Lennop himself was a living contradiction of the fallacious
statement that all men are equal, and now, moved by her unhappiness, she
caught a glimpse of that lying beneath the impregnable reserve of a
polite and agreeable exterior which made the distinction. She realized
more strongly than before that he lived upon a different plane from that
of any man she ever had known.

"Do you know who I think must have been like you?" she asked him
unexpectedly.

He shook his head smilingly.

"I can't imagine."

"Robert Louis Stevenson."

He flushed a little.

"You surely flatter me; there is no one whom I admire more." He looked
at her in something of pleased surprise. "You read Stevenson--you like
him?"

Her face lighted with enthusiasm.

"So very, very much. He seems so wise and so--human. I have all that he
has written--his published letters, everything."

He continued to look at her oddly. Yes, Essie Tisdale was "different"
and somehow he was glad. The personal conversation had shown him
unexpected phases of her character. He saw beneath her youthful
unworldliness the latent ambitions, undeveloped, immature desires and
something of the underlying strength concealed by her ordinarily
light-hearted exuberance. While the readjustment of Crowheart's social
affairs was hurting her on the raw he saw the sensitiveness of her
nature, the quick pride and perceptions which he might otherwise have
been long in discovering. Previously she had amused and interested him,
now she awakened in him a real anxiety as to her future.

"Be brave," he said, "and keep on smiling, Essie Tisdale. You must work
out your own salvation as must we all. This will pass and be forgotten;
there will be triumphs with your failures, don't forget that, and the
long years ahead of you which you so dread may hold better things than
you dare dream. In some way that I don't see now I may be able to lend
you a helping hand."

"Your friendship and your sympathy are enough," she said gratefully.

"You have them both," he answered, and on the strength of ten years'
difference in their ages he patted her slim fingers with a quite
paternal hand, in ignorance of the malevolent pair of eyes watching him
from the window at the end of the upper corridor.




XI

THE OPENING WEDGE


It was with mixed feelings that Dr. Harpe saw Van Lennop ride briskly
from the livery stable leading a saddle horse behind his own. It was for
Essie Tisdale, she surmised, and her conjecture was confirmed when she
saw them gallop away.

While the sight galled her it pleased her, too, for it lent color to the
impression she was discreetly but persistently endeavoring to spread in
the community that the open rupture between herself and the girl was of
her making and was necessitated by reasons which she could but did not
care to make public. She made no definite charge, but with a deprecatory
shrug of her shoulder and a casual observation that "it was a pity Essie
Tisdale was making such a fool of herself and allowing a perfect
stranger to make such a fool of her" she was gradually achieving the
result she desired. The newcomers seized upon her insinuations with
avidity, but the old settlers were loath to believe, though upon each,
in the end, it had its effect, for Dr. Harpe was now firmly established
in Crowheart's esteem. She had, she felt sure, safeguarded herself so
far as Essie Tisdale was concerned, yet she was not satisfied, for she
seemed no nearer overcoming Van Lennop's prejudice than the day she had
aroused it. He distinctly avoided her, and she did not believe in
forcing issues. Time, she often averred, would bring nearly every
desired result, and she could wait; but she did not wait patiently,
fretting more and more as the days drifted by without bringing to her
the desired opportunity.

"I hate to be thwarted! I hate it! I hate it!" she often said angrily to
herself, but she was helpless in the face of Van Lennop's cool
avoidance.

In the meantime the bugbear of her existence was making history in his
own way. The <DW55> Duke was no inconspicuous figure in Crowheart, for his
daily life was punctuated with escapades which constantly furnished
fresh topics of conversation to the populace. He fluctuated between
periods of abject poverty and briefer periods of princely affluence, the
latter seldom lasting longer than a night. He engaged in disputes over
money where the sum involved rarely exceeded a dollar, with a night in
the calaboose and a fine as a result, after which it was his wont to
present his disfigured opponent with a munificent gift as a token of his
esteem. Who or what he was and why he chose to honor Crowheart with his
presence were questions which he showed no desire to answer. He was duly
considered as a social possibility by Andy P. Symes, but rejected owing
to the fact that he was seldom if ever sober, and, furthermore, in spite
of his undeniably polished manners, showed a marked preference for the
companionship of the element who were unmistakably goats in the social
division.

At last there came a time when the <DW55> Duke was unable to raise a cup
of coffee to his lips without scalding himself. He had no desire for
food, his eyes were bloodshot, and his favorite bartender tied his scarf
for him mornings. He moved from saloon to saloon haranguing the patrons
upon the curse of wealth, encouraged in his socialistic views by the
professional gamblers who presided over the poker games and roulette
wheels. In view of their interest there seemed no likelihood that the
curse would rest upon him long.

Then one night, or morning, to be exact, after the <DW55> Duke had been
assisted to retire by his friend the bartender, and the washstand by
actual count had chased the bureau sixty-two times around the room, the
<DW55> Duke noticed a lizard on the wall. He was not entirely convinced
that it was a lizard until he sat up in bed and noticed that there were
two lizards.

He crept out and picked up his shoe for a weapon.

"Now if I can paste that first one," he told himself optimistically, "I
know the other will leave."

He struck at it with the heel of his shoe, and it darted to the ceiling,
whence it looked down upon him with a peculiarly tantalizing smile.

The <DW55> Duke stood on the bureau and endeavored to reach it, but it was
surprisingly agile; besides other lizards were now appearing. They came
from every crack and corner. They swarmed. Lizards though harmless are
unpleasant and the perspiration stood out on the <DW55> Duke's brow as he
watched their number grow. He struck a mighty blow at the lizard on the
ceiling and the bureau toppled. He found himself uninjured, but the
breaking of the glass made something of a crash. The floor was all but
covered with lizards, so he decided to return to his bed before he was
obliged to step on them. He was shaking as with a chill and his teeth
clicked. They were on his bed! They were under his pillow! Then he
laughed aloud when he discovered it was only a roll of banknotes he had
placed there before his friend the bartender had blown out the light.
But the rest were lizards, there was no doubt about that, and he would
tell Terriberry in the morning what he thought of him and his hotel!
They were darting over the walls and ceiling and wiggling over the
floor.

"I can stand it to-night," he muttered, "but to-morrow----"

What was that in the corner? He had only to look twice to know. He had
seen Gila monsters in Arizona! He had seen a cowpuncher ride into town
with one biting his thumb in two. The puncher went crazy later. Yes, he
knew a Gila monster when he saw one and this was plain enough; there
were the orange and black markings, the wicked head, the beady, evil
eyes--and this one was growing! It would soon be as big as a sea-turtle
and it was blinking at him with malicious purpose in its fixed gaze.

The <DW55> Duke's hands and feet were like ice, while the cold sweat stood
in beads on his forehead. Then he screamed. He had not intended to
scream, but the monster had moved toward him, hypnotizing him with its
stare. He could see clearly the poisonous vapor which it was said to
exhale! He screamed again and a man's scream is a sound not to be
forgotten. The <DW55> Duke "had them," as Crowheart phrased it, and "had
them" right.

The bartender was the first to arrive and Van Lennop was not far behind,
while others, hastily dressed, followed.

The <DW55> Duke gripped Van Lennop's hand in dreadful terror.

"Don't let it come across that seam in the carpet! Don't let it come!"

"I'll not; it shan't touch you; don't be afraid, old man." There was
something wonderfully soothing in Van Lennop's quiet voice.

"I'll tell the lady doc to bounce out," said the bartender. "He's got
'em bad. I had 'em twict myself and took the cure. It's fierce. He's
gotta have some dope--a shot o' hop will fix him."

The bartender hurried away on his kindly mission, while the <DW55> Duke
clung to Van Lennop like a horrified child to its mother.

Dr. Harpe came quickly, her hair loose about her shoulders, looking
younger and more girlish in a soft negligee than Van Lennop had ever
seen her. She saw the faint shade of prejudice cross his face as she
entered, but satisfaction was in her own. Her chance had come at last in
this unexpected way.

"Snakes," she said laconically.

"Yes," Van Lennop replied with equal brevity.

"I'll have to quiet him. Will you stay with him?" She addressed Van
Lennop.

"Certainly."

"Look here," protested the bartender in an injured voice. "He's my best
friend and havin' had snakes myself----"

"Aw--clear out--all of you. We'll take care of him."

"Folks that has snakes likes their bes' friends around 'em," declared
the bartender stubbornly. "They has influence----"

"Get out," reiterated Dr. Harpe curtly, and he finally went with the
rest.

"I'll give him a hypodermic," she said when the room was cleared, and
hastened back to her office for the needle.

Together they watched the morphine do its work and sat in silence while
the wrecked and jangling nerves relaxed and sleep came to the
unregenerate <DW55> Duke.

Dr. Harpe's impassive face gave no indication of the activity of her
mind. Now that the opportunity to "square herself," to use her own
words, had arrived, she had no notion of letting it pass.

"He seems in a bad way," Van Lennop said at last in a formal tone.

"It had to come--the clip he was going," she replied, seating herself on
the edge of the bed and wiping the moisture from his forehead with the
corner of the sheet.

The action was womanly, she herself looked softer, more womanly, than
she had appeared to Van Lennop, yet he felt no relenting and wondered at
himself.

She ended another silence by turning to him suddenly and asking with
something of a child's blunt candor----

"You don't like me, do you?"

The awkward and unexpected question surprised him and he did not
immediately reply. His first impulse was to answer with a bluntness
equal to her own, but he checked it and said instead----

"One's first impressions are often lasting and you must admit, Dr.
Harpe, that my first knowledge of you----"

"Was extremely unfavorable," she finished for him. "I know it." She
laughed in embarrassment. "You thought, and still think, that I'm one of
these medicine sharks--a regular money grabber."

Van Lennop replied dryly----

"I do not recollect ever having known another physician quite so keen
about his fee."

She flushed, but went on determinedly--

"I know how it must have looked to you--I've thought of it a thousand
times--but there were extenuating circumstances. I came here 'broke'
with only a little black case of pills and a few bandages. My hotel bill
was overdue and my little drug stock exhausted. I was 'up against
it'--desperate--and I believed if that fellow got away I'd never see or
hear of him again. I've had that experience and I was just in a position
where I couldn't afford to take a chance. There isn't much practice
here, it's a miserably healthful place, and necessity sometimes makes us
seem sordid whether we are or not. I'd like your good opinion, Mr. Van
Lennop. Won't you try and see my position from a more charitable point
of view?"

He wanted to be fair to her, he intended to be just, and yet he found
himself only able to say--

"I can't quite understand how you could find it in your heart even to
hesitate in a case like that."

"I meant to do it in the end," she pleaded. "But I was wrong, I see that
now, and I've been sorrier than you can know. Please be charitable."

She put out her hand impulsively and he took it--reluctantly. He
wondered why she repelled him so strongly even while recognizing the odd
charm of manner which was undoubtedly hers when she chose to display it.

"I hope we'll be good friends," she said earnestly.

"I trust so," he murmured, but in his heart he knew they never would be
"good friends."




XII

THEIR FIRST CLASH


The Symes Irrigation Company was now well under way. The application for
segregation of 200,000 acres of irrigable land had been granted. The
surveyors had finished and the line of stakes stretching away across the
hills was a mecca for Sunday sight-seers. The contracts for the moving
of dirt from the intake to the first station had been let and when the
first furrow was turned and the first scoop of dirt removed from the
excavation, Crowheart all but carried Andy P. Symes on its shoulders.

"Nothing succeeds like success," he was wont to tell himself frequently
but without bitterness or resentment for previous lack of appreciation.
He could let bygones be bygones, for it was easy enough to be generous
in the hour of his triumph.

"He had it in him," one-time sceptics admitted.

"Blood will tell," declared his supporters emphatically and there was
now no dissenting voice to the oft-repeated aphorism.

Symes moved among his satellites with that benign unbending which is a
recognized attribute of the truly great. The large and opulent air which
formerly he had assumed when most in need of credit was now habitual,
but his patronage was regarded as a favor; indeed the Crowheart
Mercantile Company considered it the longest step in its career when the
commissary of the Symes Irrigation Company owed it nearly $7000.

Conditions changed rapidly in Crowheart once work actually began. The
call for laborers brought a new and strange class of people to its
streets--swarthy, chattering persons with long backs, and short legs, of
frugal habits, yet, after all, leaving much silver in the town on the
Saturday night which followed payday.

Symes's domestic life was moving as smoothly and as satisfactorily as
his business affairs. A lifetime seemed to lie between that memorable
journey on the "Main Line" with Augusta in her brown basque and dreadful
hat, and the present. She was improving wonderfully. He had to admit
that. "No, sir," he told himself occasionally, "Augusta isn't half bad."
Her unconcealed adoration and devotion to himself had awakened affection
in return, at least her gaucheries no longer exasperated him and they
were daily growing less. Dr. Harpe had been right when she had told him
that Augusta was as imitative as a parrot, and he often smiled to
himself at her affectations, directly traceable to her diligent perusal
of _The Ladies' Own_ and the column devoted to the queries of troubled
social aspirants. While it amused him he approved, for an imitation lady
was better than the frankly impossible girl he had married. Something of
this was in his mind while engaged one day in the absorbing occupation
of buttoning Mrs. Symes's blouse up the back.

He raised his head at the sound of a step on the narrow porch.

"Who's that?"

"Dr. Harpe."

"What--again?"

There was a suspicion of irritation in his voice, for now that he came
to think of it, he and Augusta had not dined alone a single evening that
week.

"What of it? Do you mind, Phidias?"

"Oh, no; only isn't she crowding the mourners a little? Isn't she rather
regular?"

"I asked her," Mrs. Symes replied uneasily.

"It's all right; I'm not complaining--only why don't you ask some one
else occasionally?"

"I don't want them," she answered bluntly.

"The best of reasons, my dear," and Symes turned away to complete his
own toilet while Augusta hastened out of the room to greet the Doctor.

Symes wondered if the installation of a meal ticket system at the
Terriberry House had anything to do with the frequency with which he
found Dr. Harpe at his table, and was immediately ashamed of himself for
the thought. It recalled, however, an incident which had amused him,
though it had since slipped his mind. He had found a pie in his writing
desk and had asked Grandma Kunkel, who still formed a part of his unique
menage, for an explanation.

"I'm hidin' it," she had answered shortly.

"From whom?"

"Dr. Harpe. I have to do it if I want anything for the next meal. She
helps herself. She's got an awful appetite."

He had laughed at the time at her injured tone and angry eyes and he
smiled now at the recollection. It was obvious that she did not like Dr.
Harpe, and he was not sure, he could not exactly say, that he liked her
himself, or rather, he did not entirely like this sudden and violent
intimacy between her and Augusta, which brought her so constantly to the
house. Some time he meant to ask Grandmother Kunkel why she so resented
Dr. Harpe's presence.

Dr. Harpe was seated in a porch chair, with one leg thrown over the arm,
swinging her dangling foot, when Mrs. Symes appeared. She turned her
head and eyed her critically, as she stood in the doorway.

"Gus, you're gettin' to be a looker."

Mrs. Symes smiled with pleasure at the compliment.

"You are for a fact; that's a nifty way you have of doin' your hair and
you walk as if you had some gumption. Come here, Gus."

Dr. Harpe pushed her unpinned Stetson to the back of her head with a
careless gesture; it was a man's gesture and her strong hand beneath the
stiff cuff of her tailored shirtwaist strengthened the impression of
masculinity.

She arose and motioned Mrs. Symes to take the chair she had vacated
while she seated herself upon the arm.

"Where have you been all day?" There was reproach in Mrs. Symes's dark
eyes as she raised them to the woman's face.

"Have you missed me?" A faint smile curved Dr. Harpe's lips.

"Missed you! I've been so nervous and restless all day that I couldn't
sit still."

"Why didn't you come over to the hotel?" Dr. Harpe was watching her
troubled face intently.

"I wanted to--I wanted to go so much that I determined not to give in to
the feeling. Really it frightened me."

Dr. Harpe's eyes looked a muddy green, like the sea when it washes among
the piling.

"Perhaps I was wishing for you--_willing_ you to come."

"Were you? I felt as though something was _making_ me go, making me
almost against my will, and each time I started toward the door I simply
had to force myself to go back. I can't explain exactly, but it was so
strange."

"Very strange, Gus." Her eyes now held a curious gleam. "But the next
time you want to come--_come_, do you hear? I shall be wishing for you."

"But why did you stay away all day?"

"I wanted to see if you would miss me--how much."

"I was miserably lonesome. Don't do it again--please!"

"You have your Phidias." There was a sneer in her voice.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Symes responded simply, "but he has been gone all day."

"All day! Dreadful--how very sad!" She laughed disagreeably. "And are
you still so desperately in love with Phidias?"

"Of course. Why not? He's very good to me. Did you imagine I was not?"

"Oh, no," the other returned carelessly.

"Then why did you ask?"

"No reason at all except that--I like you pretty well myself. Clothes
have been the making of you, Gus. You're an attractive woman now."

Mrs. Symes flushed with pleasure at the unusual compliment from Doctor
Harpe.

"Am I? Really?"

"You are. I like women anyhow; men bore me mostly. I had a desperate
'crush' at boarding-school, but she quit me cold when she married. I've
taken a great shine to you, Gus; and there's one thing you mustn't
forget."

"What's that?" Mrs. Symes asked, smiling.

"I'm jealous--of your Phidias."

"How absurd!" Mrs. Symes laughed aloud.

"I mean it." Dr. Harpe spoke lightly and there was a smile upon her
straight lips, but earnestness, a kind of warning, was in her eyes.

A clatter of tinware at the kitchen window attracted Symes's attention
as he came from the bedroom.

"What's the matter, grandmother?" he asked in the teasing tone he
sometimes used in speaking to her. "Not the cooking sherry, I hope."

She did not smile at his badinage.

"There's enough drinkin' in this house without my help," she returned
sharply.

"What do you mean?" Symes's eyes opened. "Are you serious?"

The question he saw was superfluous.

"It's nothin' I'd joke about."

"You amaze me. Do you mean Augusta--drinks?"

"Too much."

"By herself?"

"No; always with Dr. Harpe. Dr. Harpe drinks like a man--that size." She
held up significant fingers.

Symes frowned.

"I know that Dr. Harpe's sentiments are not--er--strictly temperance,
but Augusta--this is news to me, and I don't like it." He thrust his
hands deep in his trousers pockets and leaned his shoulder against the
door jamb.

"When did this commence?"

"With the comin' of that woman to this house."

"It's curious--I've never noticed it."

"They've taken care of that. She's a--nuisance."

"You don't like Dr. Harpe?" Watching her face, Symes saw the change
which flashed over it with his question.

"Like her! Like Dr. Harpe?" She took a step toward him, and the
intensity in her voice startled him. Her little gray eyes seemed to dart
sparks as she answered--"I come nearer hatin' her than I ever have any
human bein'!"

"But why?" he persisted. Perhaps in her answer he would find an answer
to the question he had but recently asked himself.

There was confusion in the old woman's eyes as they fell before his.

"Because," she answered finally, with a tightening of her lips.

"There's no definite reason? Nothing except your prejudice and this
matter you've mentioned?"

A red spot burned on either withered cheek. She hesitated.

"No; I guess not," she said, and turned away.

"If I thought for a moment that her influence over Augusta was not good
I'd put an end to this intimacy at once; but I suppose it's natural that
she should desire some woman friend and it seems only reasonable to
believe that a professional woman would be a better companion than that
illiterate Parrott creature or the tittering Starrs." Symes shifted his
broad shoulders to the opposite side of the door and his tone was the
essence of complacency as he went on--

"Yes, if I had the shadow of a reason for forbidding this silly
schoolgirl friendship I'd stop it quick."

The old woman's lips twisted in a faintly cynical smile.

"And could you?"

Symes laughed. Nothing could have been more preposterous than the
suggestion that his control over Augusta was not absolute.

"Why, certainly. I mean to speak to Augusta at once in regard to this
matter of drinking. I've never approved of it for women. There are two
things that cannot be denied--Augusta is obedient and she's truthful."
His good-nature restored by the contemplation of these facts, he turned
away determined to demonstrate his control of the situation for his own
and the old woman's benefit at the earliest opportunity. In fact, the
present was as good as any.

He walked to the door opening upon the porch, where Dr. Harpe still sat
on the arm of the chair, her hand resting upon Augusta's shoulder.

"One moment, Augusta, if you please."

She arose at once with a slightly inquiring look and followed him
inside.

"I have reason to believe, or rather to know, that you have fallen into
the way of doing something of which I do not at all approve," he began.
"I mean drinking, Augusta. It's nothing serious, I am aware of that,
it's only that I do not like it, so oblige me by not doing that sort of
thing again." His tone was kindly but final.

He expected to see contrition in Augusta's face, her usual penitence
for mistakes; instead of which there was a sullen resentment in the
glance she flashed at him from her dark eyes.

"It's true, isn't it? You do not mean to deny it?"

"No."

"You intend to respect my wishes, of course?"

"Of course." She turned from him abruptly and went back to the porch.

The action was unlike her. He was still thinking of it when he put on
his hat and went down town to attend to an errand before dinner.

As the gate swung behind him Dr. Harpe said unpleasantly--

"You were raked over the coals, eh, Gus?"

Mrs. Symes flushed in discomfiture.

"Oh, no--not exactly."

"Oh, yes, you were. Don't deny it; you're as transparent as a
window-pane. What was it?"

"He has found out--some one has told him that we--that I have been
drinking occasionally."

"That old woman." Dr. Harpe jerked her head contemptuously toward the
kitchen.

"Probably it was grandma--she doesn't like it, I'm sure, for I never was
allowed to do anything of the sort; in fact, I never thought of it or
cared to."

"You are a free human being, aren't you? You can do what you like?"

"I've always preferred to do what Phidias liked since we've been
married."

"Phidias! Phidias! You make me tired! You talk like a peon!"

Her hand rested heavily upon Mrs. Symes's shoulder. "Assert
yourself--don't be a fool! Let's have a drink." Mrs. Symes winced under
her tightening grip.

"Oh, no, no," she replied hastily. "Phidias would be furious. I--I
wouldn't dare."

"Look here." She took Mrs. Symes's chin in her hand and raised her face,
looking deep into her eyes. "Won't you do it for me? because I ask you?"

"I can't." There was an appeal in her eyes as she lifted them to the
determined face above her.

"You can. You _will_. Do you want me to stay away again?"

"No, no, no!"

"Then do what I ask you--just this once, and I'll not ask it again." She
saw the weakening in the other woman's face. "Come on," she urged.

Mrs. Symes rose mechanically with a doubting, dazed expression and Dr.
Harpe followed her inside.

Throughout the constraint of the dinner Dr. Harpe sat with a lurking
smile upon her face. The domestic storm she had raised had been prompted
solely by one of those impulses of deviltry which she seemed sometimes
unable to restrain. It was not the part of wisdom to antagonize Symes,
but her desire to convince him, and Augusta, and herself, that hers was
the stronger will when it came to a test, was greater than her
discretion. This was an occasion when she could not resist the
temptation to show her power, and Symes with his eyes shining ominously
found her illy-concealed smirk of amusement and triumph far harder to
bear than Augusta's tittering, half-hysterical defiance.

When she had gone and Symes had closed the door of their sleeping
apartment behind him he turned to Augusta.

"Well, what explanation have you to make?"

The cold interrogation brought her to herself like a dash of water.

"Oh, Phidias!" she whimpered, and sank down upon the edge of the bed,
rolling her handkerchief into a ball between her palms, like an abashed
and frightened child.

Her uncertain dignity, her veneer of breeding dropped from her like a
cloak and she was again the blacksmith's sister, self-conscious, awed
and tongue-tied in the imposing presence of Andy P. Symes. Her prominent
knees visible beneath her thin skirt, her flat feet sprawling at an
awkward angle, unconsciously added to Symes's anger. She looked, he
thought, like a terrified servant that has broken the cut-glass berry
bowl. Yet subconsciously he was aware that he was wounded deeper than
his vanity by her disregard of his wishes.

"I insist upon an answer."

"I--I haven't any answer except--that--that I'm sorry."

"Did you drink at Dr. Harpe's suggestion?" he demanded in growing wrath.

She wadded the handkerchief between her palms and swallowed hard before
she shook her head.

"No."

"She should never come here again if I thought you were not telling me
the truth."

Agitation leaped into her eyes beneath their lowered lids and she
blurted in a kind of desperation--

"But I am--it was my fault--I suggested it--she had nothing to do with
it!"

"Am I to understand that you have no intention of respecting my wishes
in this matter?"

She arose suddenly and began weeping upon his shoulder. The action and
her tears softened him a little.

"Am I, Augusta?"

"No; I'll never do it again--honest truly."

"That's enough, then--we'll say no more about it. This is a small matter
comparatively, but it is our first clash and we must understand each
other. Where questions arise which concern your welfare and mine you
must abide by my judgment, and this is one of them. I am old-fashioned
in my ideas concerning women, or, rather, concerning the woman that is
my wife, and I do not like the notion of your drinking alone or with
another woman; with anyone else, in fact, except when you are with
me--and then moderately. Personally, I like a womanly woman; Dr. Harpe
is--amusing--but I should not care to see you imitate her. One does not
fancy eccentricity in one's wife. There, there," he kissed her
magnanimously, "now we'll forget this ever happened."




XIII

ESSIE TISDALE'S COLORS


Essie Tisdale's ostracism was practically complete, her position was all
that even Dr. Harpe could desire, yet it left that person unsatisfied.
There was something in the girl she could not crush, but more
disquieting than that was the fact that her isolation seemed only to
cement the friendship between her and Van Lennop, while her own
progressed no farther than a bowing acquaintance. His imperturbable
politeness formed a barrier she was too wise to attempt to cross until
another opportune time arrived. But she fretted none the less and her
eagerness to know him better increased with the delay.

She had plenty of time, too, in which to fret, for her practice was far
from what she desired, owing to the climate, the exasperating
healthfulness of which she so frequently lamented, and the arrival of a
pale personality named Lamb who somehow had managed to pass the State
Board of Medical Examiners. The only gratifying feature of her present
life was the belief that Essie Tisdale was feeling keenly her altered
position in Crowheart. The girl gave no outward sign, yet Dr. Harpe knew
that it must be so.

The change in people Essie Tisdale had known well was so gradual,
so elusive, so difficult of description that in her brighter
moments she told herself that it was imaginary and due to her own
supersensitiveness. But it was not for long that she could so convince
herself, for her intuitions were too sure to admit of her going far
astray in her conclusions.

She detected the note of uneasiness in Mrs. Percy Parrott's hysterical
mirth when they met in public, although she was entirely herself if no
one was about. The Percy Parrotts, with nearly $400 in the bank to their
credit, were climbing rapidly, and Mrs. Parrott lost no opportunity to
explain how dreadfully shocked mamma was when she learned that her only
daughter was doing her own work--Mrs. Parrott being still in ignorance
of the fact that local sleuths had learned to a certainty that Mrs.
Parrott formerly had lived on a street where the male residents left
with their dinner pails when the whistle blew in the morning.

Essie Tisdale saw Mrs. Alva Jackson's furtive glances toward the Symes's
home when they met for a moment on the street and she interpreted
correctly the trend of events when Mrs. Abe Tutts ceased to invite her
to "run in and set a spell."

Pearline and Planchette Starr no longer laid their arms about her
shoulders and there was constraint in the voices of the younger sisters,
Lucille and Camille when they sang out "Hullo" on their way to school.

The only persons in whom Essie could detect no change were "Hank" and
Mrs. Terriberry, the latter herself clinging desperately to the fringe
of Crowheart's social life, determined that no ordinary jar should shake
her loose.

Van Lennop himself saw, since Essie had made the situation clear to him,
the patronizing manner of her erstwhile friends, the small
discourtesies, the petty slights, and he found springing up within him a
feeling of partisanship so vigorous as frequently to surprise himself.
Were they really so ignorant, so blind, he asked himself, as to be
unable to see that the girl, regardless of her occupation or
antecedents, had a distinction of mind and manner which they could never
hope to achieve? Of her parentage he knew nothing, for she seldom talked
of herself, but he felt there was breeding somewhere to account for her
clean, bright mind, the shapeliness of her hands, the slender feet and
ankles and that rare carriage of her head. Immigrant stock, he assured
himself, did not produce small pink ears, short upper lips, and a grace
as natural as an antelope's.

But it was a small thing in itself--it is nearly always small things
which precipitate great ones--that at last stirred Van Lennop to his
depth.

They were riding that afternoon and the saddle horses were at the long
hitching post in front of the hotel when Symes came down the street as
Essie stepped from the doorway. She bowed as he passed, while Van Lennop
mechanically raised his hat. The half-burnt cigar stayed in the corner
of Symes's mouth, his hands in his trousers pockets, and his grudging
nod was an insult, the greater that a few steps on he lifted his hat
with a sweeping bow to Mrs. Alva Jackson.

Van Lennop's face reddened under its tan.

"Does he--do that often?" His voice was quiet, but there was a quaver in
it.

"Often," Essie Tisdale answered.

They galloped out of town in silence. The incident seemed to have robbed
the day of its brightness for the girl and a frown rested upon Van
Lennop's usually calm face. They often rode in silence, but it was the
silence of comradeship and understanding; it was nothing like this which
was lasting for a mile or more. She made an effort at speech after
awhile, but it was plainly an effort, and he answered in monosyllables.
She glanced at him sideways once or twice and she saw that his eyes were
narrowed in thought and their grayness was steel.

When the town was lost to sight and their horses had dropped to a walk
on the sandy road which stretched to the horizon, Essie turned in her
saddle and looked behind her.

"I wish we were never going back!" she said impulsively. "I hate it all!
I wish we were going on and on--anywhere--but back--don't you?"

His eyes were upon her as she spoke, and he had no notion how they
softened, while her color rose at something in his voice as he
answered--

"I can imagine worse things in life than riding 'on and on' with Essie
Tisdale. But"--his tone took on a new and vigorous inflection--"I want
to go back. I want to stay. As a matter of fact I'm just getting
interested in Crowheart."

She looked at him questioningly and then explained--

"It couldn't be, of course; I was only wishing, but you don't understand
quite--about things."

He spoke promptly--

"I think I do--far better than you believe--and I've about made up my
mind to take a hand myself. I cannot well be less chivalrous, less loyal
than you."

She looked puzzled, but he did not explain that he had overheard her
valiant defence of himself to old Edouard Dubois.

"You're not vindictive, are you?"

She shook her head.

"I think not, but I am what is just as bad, perhaps--terribly
unforgiving."

"Even your beloved Stevenson was not too meek," he reminded her. "Do you
remember his essay 'Ordered South'?"

She nodded.

"If I am quoting correctly, he says in speaking of a man's duties: 'He,
as a living man, has some to help, some to love, some to correct; it may
be, some to punish.' And," he was speaking to himself now rather than to
her, "the spirit of retaliation is strong within me."

She answered, "They've been very unjust to you, but I did not think
you'd noticed."

He laughed aloud.

"To me? Do you think I'd trouble myself for anything they might say or
do to me?"

Her eyes widened--

"You don't mean because of----"

"You? Exactly. Aren't we friends--the best of friends--Essie Tisdale?"

The quick tears filled her eyes.

"Sometimes," she answered chokingly, "I think you are my only friend."
She continued, "And that's the reason I want you to be careful. Don't
resent anything on my account----"

"That's the privilege of friendship," he answered with a reassuring
smile. "But why be careful--of whom?" There was some curtness in his
voice. "Symes?"

"Yes--of Symes."

"And why Symes?"

"You must remember that you are in a country where the people are poor
and struggling. Money is power, and influence, and friends. He has all,
and we have neither. I appreciate your reasons, and am more grateful
than I can tell you, but you would only hurt yourself, and Andy P. Symes
cannot be--reached; is that the word?"

Van Lennop's lips twitched ever so slightly and he turned his head away
that she might not see the betraying twinkle which he felt was in his
eyes. When his face was quite grave again, he replied--

"Yes, 'reached' is the word, but there are few of us who cannot be
reached when it comes to that, for somewhere there is some one who has
the 'long arm.'" Once more the shadow of a smile rested upon his lips.
"I still believe that Andy P. Symes might be 'reached.'"

"But," she argued, "it is his privilege to withdraw his friendship, if
he likes."

"But not his privilege to treat you with disrespect--to insult you both
openly and covertly. I like fair play, and Symes fights with a woman's
weapons. Listen, Essie Tisdale. I mean from now on to wear your colors
in the arena where _men_ fight--the arena where I have moderately
indulged my combative proclivities with the weapons I know best how to
use--the arena where there is no quarter given or received. The most
satisfying retaliation is to make money out of your enemies. Concentrate
your energy; don't waste it in words. Allow me to add to my income."

He concluded with a whimsical smile, but she had been studying his face
wonderingly as he talked, for it wore an expression which was new to
her. The keen, worldly look of a man of affairs when his mind reverts to
business had come into his eyes and his voice was curt, assured,
containing the unconscious authority of one who knows his power.

Essie Tisdale's knowledge of the world was too limited for her to
entirely grasp the significance of his words; she felt, rather, the
chivalry which inspired them, that spirit of defence of the weaker which
lies close to the surface in all good men.

She put out her hand with a gesture of protest.

"Don't antagonize him. Your friendship and your sympathy are enough. To
know that you are too big, too strong, to be influenced by the reasons
which have made cowards of those upon whom I counted, is all I want. You
can't tell to what lengths these people here will go when their private
interests are attacked, and that is what Andy P. Symes represents to
them."

"You are not very complimentary," he laughed. "You don't think highly of
my ability, I'm afraid. What you tell me is not news. Self-interest is
the controlling factor in the affairs of human life. I've learned this
largely by having my cuticle removed in many quarters of the globe. The
methods here are rather raw and shameless, also more novel and
picturesque. We accomplish the same result with more finesse in the
East."

"I wasn't thinking of your ability, but of your safety," she said
quickly. "I know this world out here as you know yours, and----"

"Remember this, Essie Tisdale," he interrupted, and unexpectedly he
leaned and laid his gloved hand upon her fingers as they rested on the
saddle horn, "whatever I may do, I do of my own volition, freely,
gladly--yes, eagerly."

He spoke more lightly as he withdrew his hand and continued--

"The situation appeals to my sporting blood which I believe has been
greatly underrated in Crowheart." He laughed as he remembered Dubois's
complaints. "Whatever I may chose to do in the future, please consider
that I regard it solely in the light of recreation. It's one's enemies
that give a zest to life, you know, and if I choose to match my wits
against the wits of Andy P. Symes--my wits and resources--don't grudge
me the pleasure, for it is in much the same spirit in which I might play
the races or work out a game of chess."

"But," she shook her head dubiously, "with less chance of success."




XIV

"THE ETHICS OF THE PROFESSION"


Andy P. Symes sat in his comfortable porch chair in the cool of the
evening, at peace with all the world. His frame of mind was enviable;
indeed, that person would be hard to please who could look down the
vista of pleasant probabilities which stretched before his mental vision
and not feel tolerably serene.

His enterprise had been singularly free from the obstacles, delays, and
annoyances which so often attend the getting under way of a new
undertaking. Mudge, the Chicago promoter, had been particularly
successful in disposing of the Company's bonds, at least a sufficient
number to keep the work going and meet the local obligations. Save in a
few instances, the contractors had made money on their contracts and
were eager for more. The commissary was a source of revenue and there
were certain commissions and rebates in the purchase of equipment which
he did not mention but which added materially to his income. His salary,
thus far, had been ample and sure. Symes told himself, and sometimes
others, that he had nothing in life to trouble him, that he was, in
fact, that rare anomaly--a perfectly happy man.

This evening in the agreeable picture which he could see quite plainly
by merely closing his eyes, there was an imposing residence that bore
the same relation to Crowheart which the manor house does to the
retainers upon a great English estate. He could see a touring car which
sent the coyotes loping to their dens and made the natives gape; not so
close, but equally distinct, a friendly hand was pointing the way to
political honors whose only limit was his own desires. And Augusta--his
smile of complacency did not fade--she was equal to any emergency now,
he believed. She had not only changed amazingly but she was still
changing and Symes watched the various stages of her development with
quiet interest and approval. It is true he missed her former
demonstrativeness and open admiration of himself, but he considered her
self-repression a mark of advancement, an evidence of the repose of
manner which she was cultivating. There were times, he thought, when she
carried it a bit too far, when she seemed indifferent, unresponsive to
his moods, but at such moments he would assure himself that not for the
world would he have had her as she was in the beginning.

She was happy, too; he could hear her occasional laughter and the murmur
of her voice as she swung in the hammock at the corner of the house with
Dr. Harpe. On his right, he heard the unceasing click of Grandmother
Kunkel's needles as they flew in and out upon the top row of the woollen
stocking that was never done. It was a pleasing domestic scene and he
opened his eyes lazily to enjoy it. They sought the hammock and their
listlessness was gradually replaced by an intentness of gaze which
became a stare.

"Grandmother," he said after a time, and he noticed that her mouth was a
tight pucker of displeasure, though she seemed to have eyes only for her
work. "You remember our conversation some time ago--have you changed
your opinion in regard to the person we discussed?"

In the look she flashed at him he read not only the answer to his
question but something of the fierce emotion which was finding vent in
her flying needles.

"I haven't!" she snapped.

"You truly believe that her influence over Augusta is not good?"

She leaned toward him in quiet intensity--

"Believe it? I _know_ it! I've been prayin' that you might see it
yourself before it is too late."

"Too late? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say." Her old chin trembled. "Before Augusta has lost every
spark of affection for you and me--before I am sent away."

He looked at her incredulously.

"You don't mean that?"

She nodded.

"I've been warned already. I'm in Dr. Harpe's way; she knows what I
think of her, and she'd rather have some stranger here."

"You amaze me. Does she dominate Augusta to such an extent as that!"

His mind ran back over the events of the past few weeks and he could see
that those occasions from which Dr. Harpe had been excluded had seemed
flat, stale, footless to Augusta. She had been absent-minded,
preoccupied, even openly bored. He recalled the fact now that it was
only at this woman's coming that animation had returned and that she had
hung absorbed, fascinated upon her words. She became alive in her
presence as though she drew her very vitality from this stronger-willed
woman.

"I've noticed a change--but I thought it was nerves--the altitude,
perhaps--and I've intended taking her with me on my next trip East."

"She wouldn't go."

"I can't believe that."

"Ask her," was the grim reply.

"She obeyed me in that other matter," Symes argued.

"Because she was _allowed_ to do so."

"I'm going to stop this intimacy; I'm tired of her interference--tired
of seeing her around--tired of boarding her, as a matter of fact, and I
_will_ end it." He spoke in intense exasperation.

"Look out, Andy P., you'll make a mistake if you try in that way. You
might have done it in the beginnin' or when I first warned you; but
Augusta's like putty in her hands now. She don't seem to have any will
of her own or gratitude--or affection. I'm tellin' you straight, Andy
P."

Symes considered.

"There is a way, if I could bring myself to do it."

"What's that?"

"Make Augusta jealous. Touch her pride, wound her vanity by making love
to Dr. Harpe. No," he put the thought from him vehemently, "I'm not that
kind of a hypocrite. But she can't be invulnerable--tell me her
weaknesses. You women know each other."

The old woman assented vigorously--

"I know her you kin be sure. For one thing she's a coward. She's brave
only when she thinks she's safe. She's afraid of people--of what they'll
say of her, and she's crazy for money."

They were getting up, the two in the hammock, and as Dr. Harpe sauntered
to the porch, Andy P. Symes looked at her in a sudden and violent
dislike which he took no pains to conceal. Her hands were shoved deep in
her jacket pockets as she swaggered toward him, straight strands of
hair hung in dishevelment about her colorless, immobile face, while her
muddy hazel eyes became alternately shifting or bold as she noted the
intentness of his gaze. No detail of her slovenly appearance, her
strange personality, escaped him.

"I'll be goin', Gus; good-night," Dr. Harpe said shortly. She felt both
uneasy and irritated by the expression on his face.

Symes watched her swaggering down the sidewalk to the gate, and when it
had slammed behind her, he said, sharply--

"I'll be greatly obliged to you, Augusta, if you will ask Dr. Harpe not
to abbreviate your name. It's vulgar and I detest it."

Mrs. Symes turned and regarded him coolly for a moment before answering.

"I do not in the least mind what Dr. Harpe calls me."

"That is obvious"--his voice was harsh--"but I do--most emphatically."

Her eyes flashed defiance.

"Then tell her yourself, for I have no notion of doing so," and she
stalked inside the house.

The incident of the evening brought to a head certain plans which long
had been formulating in Dr. Harpe's mind; and the result was a note
which made his lip curl as he read and re-read it the next morning with
various shadings of angry scorn.

    MY DEAR MR. SYMES:

    Kindly call at your earliest convenience, and oblige,

    Faithfully yours,
    EMMA HARPE

Symes had spent a sleepless night and his mood was savage. Another
defiant interview before leaving the house had not improved it and now
this communication from Dr. Harpe came as a climax.

He swung in his office chair.

"'My earliest convenience!' If that isn't like her confounded
impudence--her colossal nerve! When she's stalking past here every
fifteen minutes all day long. 'My earliest convenience!' By gad!"--he
struck the desk in sudden determination--"I'm just in the mood to humor
her. Things have come to a pretty pass when Andy P. Symes can't say who
and who not shall be admitted to his home. If she wants to know what's
the matter with me, I'll tell her!"

He closed his desk with a slam and slung his broad-brimmed hat upon his
head. Dr. Harpe, glancing through her window, read purpose in his stride
as he came down the street. Her green eyes took on the gleam of battle
and to doubly fortify herself she wrenched open her desk drawer and
filled a whiskey glass to the brim. When she had drained it without
removing it from her lips she drew her shirtwaist sleeve across her
mouth to dry it, in a fashion peculiarly her own. Then she tilted her
desk chair at a comfortable angle and her crossed legs displayed a
stocking wrinkled in its usual mosquetaire effect. She was without her
jacket but wore a man's starched pique waistcoat over her white
shirtwaist, and from one pocket there dangled a man's watch-fob of
braided leather. She threw an arm over the chair-back and toyed with a
pencil on her desk, waiting in this studied pose of nonchalance the
arrival of Symes.

The occasion when he had last climbed the stairs of the Terriberry House
for the purpose of visiting Dr. Harp was unpleasantly vivid and the
secret they had in common nettled him for the first time. But secret or
no secret he was in no humor to temporize or conciliate and there were
only harsh thoughts of the woman in his mind.

"How are you, Mr. Symes?" She greeted him carelessly as he opened the
door, without altering her position.

"Good morning," he responded curtly. There was no trace of his usual
urbanity and he chewed nervously upon the end of an unlighted cigar.

"Sit down." She waved him casually to a chair, and there was that in her
impudent assurance which made him shut his teeth hard upon the mutilated
cigar.

"Thanks," he said stiffly, and did as she bid him.

"Light up," she urged, and fumbled in a pocket of her waistcoat for a
match which she handed him. "Guess I'll smoke myself. It helps me talk,
and that's what we're here for."

He had not known that she smoked, and as he watched her roll a cigarette
with the skill of much practice the action filled him with fresh
repugnance. Through rings of smoke he regarded her with coldly quizzical
eyes while he waited for her to open the conversation.

"I've got a proposition to put up to you," she began, "a scheme that I
had in the back of my head ever since you started in to 'make the desert
bloom like the rose.'"

Her covert sneer did not escape him, but he made no sign.

She went on--

"It's an easy graft; it's done everywhere, and I know it'll work here
like a breeze."

Graft was a raw word and Symes's face hardened slightly, but he waited
to hear her out.

"You're putting a big force of men on the ditch, I understand. How
many?"

"About five hundred."

"Give me a medical contract."

So that was it? His eyes lit up with understanding. She wanted to make
money--through him? Her tone and attitude was not exactly that of a
person asking a favor. A faint smile of derision curved his lips. She
saw it and added--

"I'll give you a rake-off."

He resented both the words and her tone, but she only laughed at the
frown which appeared for a moment.

"You're 'out for the stuff,' aren't you?" she demanded. "Well, so am I."

He regarded her silently. Had she always been so coarse of speech, he
wondered, or for some reason he could not divine was she merely throwing
off restraint? Brushing the ashes from his cigar with deliberation, he
inquired non-committally--

"Just what _is_ your scheme?"

"It's simple enough, and customary. Take a dollar a month out of your
employees' wages for medical services and I'll look after them and put
up some kind of a jimcrow hospital in case they get too bad to lie in
the bunk-house on the works. I can run in some kind of a cheap woman to
cook and look after them and you bet the grub won't founder 'em. Why,
there's nothin' to it, Mr. Symes--I can run the joint, give you two bits
out of every dollar, and still make money."

Symes scarcely heard what she said for looking at her face. It seemed
transformed by cupidity, a kind of mean penuriousness which he had
observed in the faces of persons of small interests, but never to such a
degree. "She's money mad," Grandmother Kunkel had said; the old woman
was right.

He was not squeamish, Andy P. Symes, and it was true that he was "out
for the stuff," but the woman's bald statement shocked him. Upon a few
occasions Symes had been surprised to find that he had standards of
conduct, unsuspected ideals, and somehow, her attitude toward her
profession outraged his sense of decency. If a minister of the gospel
had hung over his Bible and shouted from the pulpit "I'm out for the
stuff!" the effect upon Symes would have been much the same.

Until she thrust her sordid views upon him he had not realized that he
entertained for the medical profession any deeper respect than for any
other class of persons engaged in earning a livelihood, but now he
remembered that the best physicians he had known had seemed to look upon
their life-work as a consecration of themselves to humanity and the most
flippant among them, as men, had always a dignity apart from themselves
when they became the physician, and he knew, too, that as a class they
were jealous of the good name of their profession and sensitive to a
degree where anything affected its honor. The viewpoint now presented
was new to him and sufficiently interesting to investigate further;
besides it shed a new light upon the woman's character.

"But supposing the men object to such a deduction," he said tentatively.
"There's little sickness in this climate and the camps are sanitary."

"Object? What of it!" she argued eagerly. "They'll have to submit if
you say so; certainly they're not goin' to throw up their jobs for a
dollar. Work's too scarce for that. They can't kick and they won't kick
if you give 'em to understand that they've got to dig up this dollar or
quit."

"But," Symes evaded, "the most of this work is let to contractors and
it's for them to determine; I don't feel like dictating to them."

"Why not?" Her voice quavered with impatience. "They want new contracts.
They'd make the arrangement if they thought it would please you?"

"But," Symes answered coolly, "I don't know that it would please me."

He saw the quick, antagonistic glitter which leaped into her eyes, but
he went on calmly--

"Where the work is dangerous and the force is large your scheme is
customary and practicable, I know, but upon a project of this size where
the conditions are healthy, there is nothing to justify me in demanding
a compulsory contribution of $500 a month for your benefit."

She controlled her temper with visible effort.

"But there will be dangerous work," she urged. "I've been over the
ground and I know. There'll be a tunnel, lots of rock-work, blasting,
and, in consequence, accidents."

"That would be my chief objection to giving you the contract."

"What do you mean?"

His smile was ironical as he answered--

"You are not a surgeon."

"Hell! I can plaster 'em up somehow."

Symes stared. His expression quickly brought her to a realization of the
mistake into which her angry vehemence had led her and she  to
the roots of her hair.

"Your confidence is reassuring," he said dryly at the end of an
uncomfortable pause. "But tell me,"--her callousness aroused his
curiosity--"would you, admittedly without experience or practical
surgical knowledge, be willing to shoulder the responsibilities which
would come to you in such a position?"

"I told you," she answered obstinately, "I can fix 'em up somehow; I can
do the trick and get away with it. You needn't be afraid of _me_."

"What _I'm_ afraid of isn't the question; but haven't you any feeling of
moral responsibility when it comes to tinkering and experimenting with
the lives and limbs of workingmen who have families dependent upon
them?"

"What's the use of worryin' over what hasn't happened?" she asked
evasively. "I'll do the best I can."

"But supposing 'the best you can' isn't enough? Supposing through
inexperience or ignorance you blunder, unmistakably, palpably blunder,
what then?"

"Well," she shrugged her shoulder, "I wouldn't be the first."

"But," he suggested ironically, "a victim has redress."

She snorted.

"Not a doctor's victim. Did you ever hear of a patient winnin' a case
against a doctor? Did you ever hear of a successful malpractice suit?"

He considered.

"I can't say that I've known the sort of doctors who figure in
malpractice suits, but since I think of it I don't believe I ever read
or heard of one who ever did."

"And you won't," she said tersely.

"Why not? The rest of the world must pay for the mistakes of
incompetency."

"'The ethics of the profession,'" she quoted mockingly. "We protect each
other. The last thing a doctor wants to do, or will do, is to testify
against a fellow practitioner. He may despise him in his heart but he'll
protect him on the witness stand. Besides, we're allowed a certain
percentage of mistakes; the best are not infallible."

"That's true; but supposing," he persisted, "that the mistake to a
competent surgeon was so obviously the result of ignorance that it could
not be gotten around, would he still protect you?"

"Nine times in ten he would," she replied; "at least he'd be silent."

"And allow you to go on experimenting?"

He saw that she hesitated. She was thinking that she need not tell him
she had known such a one.

"Of course there are high-brows who set the standards for themselves and
others pretty high, and if I acted, or failed to act, in violation of
all recognized methods of procedure, and with fatal results, they
_might_ make me trouble. But you can bet," she finished with a grin,
"the ethics of the profession have saved many a poor quack's hide."

"Quack?"

"Oh, they may have diplomas. A diploma doesn't mean so much in these
days of cheap medical colleges where they grind 'em out by the hundreds;
you need only know where to go and have the price."

"This is--illuminating." Symes wondered at her candor. She seemed very
sure of her position with him, he thought.

"What difference does it make where your diploma's from to jays like
these?" She waved her arm at Crowheart. "A little horse sense, a bold
front, a hypodermic needle, and a few pills will put you a long way on
your road among this class of people. I'm talkin' pretty free to an
outsider, but," she looked at him significantly, "I know we can trust
each other."

The implication irritated him, but he ignored it for the present.

"Do you mean to tell me," he demanded, "that there are medical schools
where you can _buy_ a diploma? Where _anybody_ can get through?"

She laughed at his amazement.

"A quiz-compend and a good memory will put a farm-hand or a sheep-herder
through if he can read and write; he doesn't have to have a High School
education." She inquired jocularly, appearing to find enjoyment in
shocking him: "You've seen my hated rival, haven't you--Lamb, the new
M.D. that pulled in here the other day? His wife looks like a horse with
a straw bonnet on and he ought to be jailed on sight if there's anything
in Lombroso's theories. Have you noticed him?"

Symes nodded.

"He laid brick until he was thirty-five," she added nonchalantly. "I've
thought some of taking him in with me on this contract, for some men,
working men especially, are devilish prejudiced against women doctors."

Symes's eyes narrowed.

"Why share the--spoils?"

"It's a good thing to have somebody like him to slough the blame on in
case of trouble."

"By gad!"--the exclamation burst from him involuntarily--"but you're a
cold-blooded proposition."

She construed this as a compliment.

"Merely business foresight, my dear Mr. Symes," she smirked
complacently. "Some fool, you know, might think he could get a judgment
if he didn't like the way we handled him."

"And you're sure he couldn't?"

"Lord!--no. Not out here." Her leg slipped over her knee and her foot
slumped to the floor. She slid lower in the chair, until her head rested
on the back, her sprawling legs outstretched, her fingers clasped across
her starched waistcoat, upon her face an expression of humorous disdain.
"Let me tell you a story to illustrate what you can do and get away with
it--to ease your mind if you're afraid of gettin' into trouble on my
account. A friend of mine who had a diploma from my school came out West
to practise and she had a case of a fellow with a slashed wrist--the
tendons were plumb severed. She didn't know how to draw 'em together, so
she just sewed up the outside skin. They shrunk, and he lost the use of
his hand. Then he goes back East for treatment and comes home full of
talk about damage suits and that sort of thing. Well, sir, she just
bluffed him down. Told him she had fixed 'em all right, but when he was
drunk he had torn the tendons loose and was tryin' to lay the blame on
her. She made her bluff stick, too. Funny, wasn't it?"

"Excruciating," said Symes.

She seemed strangely indifferent to his sarcasm--to his opinion.

"I can promise you," she urged, "that I'll be equal to any emergency."

"I've no doubt of it," he returned.

Symes smoked hard; he was thinking, not of the contract which he
intended to peremptorily refuse, but how best, in what words to tell
this woman that now more than ever he wished the intimacy between her
and his wife to end.

At the close of an impatient silence she demanded bluntly--

"Do I get the contract?"

With equal bluntness he responded--

"You do not."

She straightened herself instantly in the chair and he knew from the
look in her eyes that the clash had come.

"Do you want a bigger rake-off?" she sneered offensively.

"Do you think I'm a petty thief?"

She shrugged her shoulder cynically, but answered--

"It's legitimate."

"Perhaps; but I don't choose to do it. I refuse to force your
confessedly inexperienced and incompetent services upon my men. What you
ask is impossible."

He expected an outburst but none came; instead, she sat looking at him
with a twisted smile.

"You'd better reconsider," she said at last, and there was in her voice
and manner the taunting confidence of a "gun-man" who has his hand at
his hip.

Symes spat out a particle of tobacco with angry vehemence and his ruddy
face turned redder.

"My answer is final."

Her composure grew with his loss of it.

"I hoped it wouldn't be necessary to remind you of your first visit
here, but it seems it is."

That was it then--the source of her assurance--she meant to trade upon,
to make capital of a professional secret. It was like her to remind him
of an obligation, to attain her ends.

"I've not forgotten," he answered with an effort, "but the favor you ask
is one I cannot conscientiously grant."

She laughed disagreeably.

"Since when has your conscience become a factor in your affairs?"

He could have throttled her for her insolence, but she gave him no
chance to reply.

"Supposing I insist?"

"Insist?" Was she threatening him?

She answered coldly--

"That's what I said."

"Do you mean"--his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper--"that you
are threatening to betray Augusta to attain your end?"

"I don't like to be thwarted for a whim--a senseless piece of sentiment.
This contract means too much to me."

"But do I understand aright?" She gloated as she saw his fading color.
"Do you intend to say that the price of your silence is this contract?"

"Something of the sort," she replied in cold stubbornness.

The full knowledge of her power swept over him; the helplessness of his
position filled him with sudden fury. He sprang to his feet and hurled
his cigar through the open window. His thick fingers twitched to choke
the insolent smile from her face.

"You traitor! You blackmailer!"

She arose leisurely.

"Unpleasant words--but there are others as unpleasant."

With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets Symes faced her,
eyeing her with an expression which would have made most women wince but
which she returned with absolute composure. She was in control of the
situation and realized it to the full. Symes was speechless nearly in
the face of such effrontery, such disloyalty, such ingratitude.

"You would sacrifice your best friend for money!"

"Business is business, and I'm out for the stuff, as I told you, but
there's no sense in letting it come to that. I don't _want_ to do it, so
don't be a fool!"

Symes groaned; she had attacked him in his most vulnerable spot, namely,
his horror of scandal, of anything which would besmirch the name of
which he was so inordinately proud. This pride was at once his strength
and his weakness.

"And if I permit myself to be blackmailed--there is no use in mincing
words--if I give you this contract in exchange for my wife's good name
are you willing to consider every obligation wiped out?"

Her eyes flashed their triumph at this quick collapse of his stand.

"I am."

"And, furthermore, will you agree to discontinue your visits to my
house?"

"Why?" There was hard bravado in the question.

"Your influence is not good, Dr. Harpe."

"What does Augusta say?"

"I've not consulted her."

"And the contract is mine?--that is settled?"

"So long as you keep your word."

She smiled enigmatically.

"I'll keep my word."

A fumbling at the door ended the interview, for it opened to admit a
white-faced woman with a child moaning in her arms.

"Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you're here!" she cried in relief. "He's been
like this since early this morning and I brought him in town as quick as
I could. Is it anything serious?"

"Come here, my little man."

Symes saw the reddening of the ranchwoman's eyelids at the sympathy in
the Doctor's voice, at the gentleness with which she took the child from
her arms. Symes paused in the doorway to look longer at the swift
transition which made her the woman that her patients knew. There was a
softly maternal look in her face as she hung brooding over the child, a
look so genuine that it bewildered him in the light of what had just
transpired. Was this another phase of the woman's character or was it
assumed for his benefit?

The child's shawl slipped to the floor and, as the mother stooped for
it, Dr. Harpe flashed him a mocking glance which left him in no doubt.




XV

SYMES'S AUTHORITY


Symes descended the stairs of the Terriberry House in a frame of mind
that was very different from the determined arrogance with which he had
ascended them less than an hour before. He was filled with a humiliating
sense of defeat, and of having acted weakly. He returned mechanically
the salutations of those he passed upon the street and sunk into his
office chair with his hat upon his head, a dazed sense of shock and
humiliation still upon him.

He had been blind as a bat, he told himself, blinder even, for a bat has
an instinct which warns it of danger. The interview which had revealed
the woman's character came in the nature of a revelation in spite of
that he already knew. The part he had been forced to play did not become
more heroic by contemplation, and the only satisfaction he could wring
from it was that he was rid of her--that she would never pollute his
home again. It had cost him his pride and the sacrifice of his
conscience, but he tried to make himself believe that it was worth the
purchase price; yet the thought always came back that he, Andy P. Symes,
had allowed himself to be blackmailed.

The knowledge of Dr. Harpe's unbelievable perfidy would be a shock to
Augusta, but it would terminate the friendship, he told himself, and he
would be relieved of the disagreeable necessity of asserting his
authority too strongly.

Symes removed his hat and flung it upon a near-by chair, then turned to
his desk. A telegram propped conspicuously upon the ink-well proved to
be from Mudge, the promoter, and read:

    Have possible investor who wants detailed information. Better come
    on at once.

    S. L. MUDGE

Symes's face lighted.

"This is lucky! It couldn't have been more opportune! We'll go to-morrow
and I'll tell Augusta while we're gone."

Thus the problem of abruptly ending the friendship without causing
comment was solved. He had no misgivings as to the outcome when he
issued his mandate concerning Dr. Harpe, but there might be a scene, and
he had a man's instinctive dread of a family row in case that Augusta
was loath to believe. She was loyal by nature and there was that
possibility.

When his wife was removed from the influence which had undermined him in
his own home, the old Augusta would return, he thought confidently; that
adoring Augusta so flatteringly attentive to his opinions, so responsive
to his moods. He wanted the old Augusta back more than he would have
believed possible.

As his thoughts slipped in retrospect over the weeks past he could see
that the change in her had come almost from the commencement of her
friendship with Dr. Harpe. He shut his teeth hard as he thought of the
banal influence she had exercised over a good woman; he always had
considered Augusta that.

Well, it was ended. They would start once more with a better
understanding of each other, in a clearer atmosphere. Something in the
prospect made him glow; he felt a boyish eagerness to tell her of the
proposed trip, but decided to wait until evening, as she would then have
plenty of time to prepare.

The nervous strain of the day previous and the interview of the morning
left Symes with a feeling of fatigue when evening came. As he stretched
himself upon a couch watching Augusta moving to and fro freshly dressed
for the dinner which had now wholly replaced the plebeian supper in the
Symes household, he was again impressed by the improvement in her
appearance.

The artificial wave in her straight, ash-blond hair softened greatly her
prominent cheek bones, and a frill of lace partially hid the peasant
hand that had so frequently distressed him. Her high-heeled slippers
shortened and gave an instep to her long, flat foot. He smiled a little
at the prim dignity which she unconsciously took on with her clothes;
but that at which he did not smile was the air of cool toleration with
which she listened to his few remarks. She seemed restless and went
frequently to the door; when they faced each other at the dinner table
he exerted himself to interest her and his reward was a shadowy smile.
He was not at all sure that she was listening and he asked himself if
this could be the woman who not so long ago had glowed with happiness
merely to be noticed? As the meal progressed he became alternately
chagrined and angry. Was the change in her more marked than usual, or
was it only that he was awake? He felt that he could not endure her
vacant, absent-minded stare much longer without comment, so it was a
distinct relief when they arose from the table. He concluded to keep the
pleasant surprise he had for her a little longer.

He felt something like a pang when she walked past the porch chair where
he was sitting and went to the hammock at the corner of the house. She
had a book and passed him without a glance, appearing not to notice the
hand which he partially extended to detain her.

She looked often toward the street and he noticed that she only seemed
to read. Would Dr. Harpe keep her word? Symes believed that she would.

The twilight deepened and he could plainly see her restlessness grow.
She no longer made a pretence of reading but sat with her eyes upon the
street. Symes remembered that it had been a long time since she had
watched for him like that. Finally she threw down her book and stood up
that she might have a better view of the door of the Terriberry House.
When she started down the sidewalk toward the gate Symes called her.

"Augusta!"

"Yes?" impatiently.

"Come here."

"What is it?" She made no movement to return.

"If you please--one moment."

"I'll be back in a little while."

"But I want to speak to you now." His tone was a command.

"Pshaw!" She frowned in annoyance, but reluctantly obeyed.

"Where are you going?"

"Over to the hotel," she answered shortly.

"To look for Dr. Harpe?"

Resentment was in her curt answer--

"Yes."

"Don't go, Augusta."

"Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you."

"You can talk when I come back."

"I want to talk now; please sit down."

She made no motion to do so.

"What's the matter with you, Augusta?"

"Nothing,"--her face was sullen--"only I don't like to be ordered
about."

"I'm not ordering you, as you put it, but I've a surprise for you and I
want to tell you of it."

For answer she looked at him inquiringly.

"We're going to Chicago to-morrow."

Instead of the pleasure which he anticipated would light her dark eyes,
there was a look rather of apprehension, of disapproval, of anything, in
fact, but delight.

"Aren't you _glad_?" he asked in amazement.

"I'm not ready; I've no clothes."

"We can soon remedy that."

She stood before him in sullen silence and he finally asked--

"Well?"

"I don't _want_ to go, if you must know!" She blurted the answer rudely
and turned away.

"Augusta! Wait!"

"I'm going to the hotel," she flung over her shoulder.

She kept on walking.

"Come back."

Unlatching the gate she flung it open in defiance.

"No!" She seemed like a person obsessed.

Symes arose and walked quickly after her. She stopped then and Symes
wondered at his own self-control as he faced her.

"Augusta," he said quietly, "Dr. Harpe is not coming here again."

He saw her face pale.

"Why not?" Her vehemence startled him.

"Because I have told her not to; she understands."

"How dare you?" Her voice rose shrill and her eyes blazed into his.
"She's my friend!"

"No, she's not your friend or my friend." He grasped her wrist as she
started to go. "You've got to listen; you've got to hear me out! I found
her out to-day and I meant to tell you when we had gone from here, but
you are forcing me to do it now." Still grasping her wrist he told her
briefly of the interview and the price he had paid for her silence. When
he had done she wrenched herself free.

"I don't believe it! Anyway, why shouldn't you give her the contract?
Why shouldn't you? I tell you I'm going to her and you shan't stop me!"

"Augusta!" There was horror in his voice. "Do you realize what this
means? Do you understand what you are doing--that you are choosing
between this woman and me? Are you crazy? Are you mad?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Anything you like, but I'm going! I tell you, you shan't
dictate who and who not shall be my friends!"

"But she isn't your friend!" he cried with savage bitterness. "She's
your worst enemy. Augusta,"--the harshness went suddenly from his
voice--"I beg of you don't let this woman come between us!"

"You're a nice one to criticise others."

He winced at the taunt.

"I've tried to make amends," he pleaded.

"Well--you haven't! And," she flung the challenge at him recklessly,
"if you want to get a divorce, get it, for I'll quit you quick before
I'll give up Dr. Harpe."

She stared into his eyes defiant, unabashed, and in her face he read his
defeat--the utter uselessness and futility of commands, or threats, or
appeals. He loosened his hold of her wrist without a word, and, flinging
him a last glance of angry resentment and defiance, she walked swiftly
toward the hotel.




XVI

THE TOP WAVE


Medical contracts between Drs. Harpe and Lamb, Andy P. Symes and the
several contractors upon the project, were properly executed before
Symes left for Chicago--alone. It entailed a delay, but Dr. Harpe
insisted upon immediate action, and her covert threats had the desired
result.

"I've kept my word," she said, "and it's up to you to keep yours. If Gus
comes to see me that's your lookout, not mine." And since Symes could
not help himself, he consented, although he knew that the delay might
mean the loss of an investor.

Dr. Harpe quickly realized that she had assailed him in his most
vulnerable spot and Symes realized as surely that she would use this
knowledge to the limit to attain her ends.

"Am I a coward or a hero?" Symes sometimes asked himself in his hours of
humiliation and ignominy.

The day Andy P. Symes left for Chicago Dr. Harpe celebrated the era of
prosperity upon which she was about to enter, by the purchase of a
"top-buggy," which is usually the first evidence of affluence in the
West.

"Doc's all right--she's smart," chuckled the populace when they heard
the news of the contract and watched her sitting up very straight in the
new vehicle with its shining red wheels and neatly folded top.

"Moses!" Dr. Harpe told herself frequently and complacently, "'getting
there' is easy enough if you've only the brains and the nerve to pull
the right wire," and she considered that she had taken a turn around
Opportunity's foretop in a manner which would have been creditable to a
far more experienced hand than hers; also she had no reason to doubt
that the "wire" upon which she now held an unshakable grip held manifold
possibilities. By her astuteness and daring, she assured herself, she
was in absolute control of a situation which promised as great a success
as any person handicapped by petticoats could hope for. Assuredly the
top wave made pleasant riding.

Lamb accepted her partnership proposition with an avidity which rather
indicated that he needed the money. He had no objections to being a
salaried scapegoat providing the pay was sure, but naturally it did not
occur to Lamb to regard himself in any such light. If Dr. Harpe dubbed
him her "peon," she took care to treat him and his opinions with
flattering deference.

They rented a long, unpainted, one-story building which had been a
boarding house, for hospital purposes. It was divided lengthwise by a
narrow hall which ended in a dingy kitchen in the rear. Dr. Lamb who had
some vague theories upon sanitation protested feebly when the operating
room was located next to the kitchen, but the location was not changed
on that account. The office in the front was furnished with a few
imposing bottles and their combined display of cutlery was calculated to
impress. Their ideas as to keeping expenses for equipment at a minimum
were in perfect harmony, for Lamb as well as Dr. Harpe regarded it as a
purely commercial venture. The latter, however, was disposed to regard
the purchase of an X-ray machine as a profitable investment because of
the impression it would make upon their private patients.

"Moses!" She chortled at the notion. "Wouldn't their eyes bung out if I
showed 'em their own bones! I could soak 'em twice the fee and they'd
never peep."

Lamb discouraged the idea for the present on the grounds of economy and
advised a sterilizing apparatus instead, which Dr. Harpe opposed for the
same reason.

If Dr. Harpe had been given the opportunity of selecting an associate
from a multitude of practitioners, it is doubtful if she could have
found another better suited to her purpose than the man Lamb. Although,
by some means, he had succeeded in being graduated from an institution
of good repute, he was a charlatan in every instinct--greedy,
unscrupulous, covering the ignorance of an untrained mind with a cloak
of solemn and pious pretence which served its purpose in the uncritical,
unsuspicious western community where a profession is always regarded
with more or less awe.

Lamb's colorless personality had made no great impression upon Crowheart
and as yet he was known chiefly through his professional card which
appeared among the advertisements in the Crowheart _Courier_. Dr. Harpe
had not reckoned him a formidable rival, but she recognized in him an
invaluable associate; and often as she contemplated his pasty face, his
close, deep-set eyes and listened to his nasal voice she congratulated
herself upon her choice, for he was what she needed most of all, a
pliable partner.

"Be you goin' to put up a sign?" inquired Lamb.

"Sure; we want all the advertisin' we can get out of this, don't we?"
And soon the day came when the two partners stood across the street and
read proudly:

HARPE AND LAMB HOSPITAL

In her new buggy with its flashing wheels Dr. Harpe was soon driving
through the different camps along the project, and the laborers rather
enjoyed the novelty of visits from the "lady doc," as they called her,
and consented good-naturedly enough to the deduction of monthly dues for
hospital benefits from their wages.

While they regarded her professionally and personally in a humorous
light and made her more or less the target of coarse jokes, as is any
woman who leaves the beaten track, yet the general feeling toward her
was one of friendliness.

They laughed at her swaggering stride, her masculine dress, the
vernacular which was their own speech, but there was quickly established
between them and her a good-humored familiarity which was greatly to her
liking. They become "Bill" and "Pat" and "Tony" to her and she was "Doc"
to them.

While her horses trotted briskly the length of the ditch and she was
returning smiling nods and flinging retorts that were not too delicate
over her shoulder, she began to feel herself a personage; she was filled
with a growing sense of importance and power.

There was everything to indicate that the contract would prove all that
she and Lamb had hoped for. The general health was exceptionally good
and she urged sanitary precautions upon the men to prevent long and
expensive fevers; as yet there was no dangerous rock-work entailing the
use of explosives to imperil the lives and limbs of the men. The
remedies required were of the simplest and the running expenses of the
hospital were nil.

When they received their first checks from the Company and the
contractors, Lamb's joy was almost tearful.

"It's easier than layin' bricks, Doc," he said as they wrung each
other's hands in mutual congratulation.

Dr. Harpes' ambitions grew with her bank account, and among them there
was one which began to take the shape of a fixed purpose. With her
successful manipulations of conditions to further her own ends she came
to believe herself in her small world invincible. The effect of this
belief upon a nature like hers was to increase its natural arrogance and
her tendency to domineer, while the strange, extravagant personal
conceit which seemed so at variance with her practical nature became a
paramount trait.

There was really no doubt in her mind that she could marry Ogden Van
Lennop if she really set about doing so. It was only of late that she
had given the thought words. In the beginning when she had discovered
his identity, the most she had hoped for was to be friends, for a friend
of Van Lennop's importance might be useful. She felt that there would be
some way of turning his friendship to account. The fact that they were
still only acquaintances did not discourage her, nor the fact that he
seemed entirely satisfied with the companionship of the erstwhile belle
of Crowheart.

Rich men and rich men's sons had a way of amusing themselves with the
society of their inferiors where they were unknown, was her disdainful
explanation to herself, but it piqued and irritated her even while it
furnished the material for her sly innuendoes, for the insidious attacks
which were fast completing what Andy P. Symes's social dictatorship had
begun. With her mounting arrogance Dr. Harpe believed that if her
ultimate success in her new ambition demanded the entire removal of
Essie Tisdale from the field, this too she could accomplish. Her
overweening confidence now was such that she was persuaded that she
could shape events and mould the lives of others and her own as she
willed.

She was resting one day in her new office in the hospital after a long
drive along the ditch, and from her window she watched Van Lennop at the
Kunkel blacksmith shop across the street. He gave his horse a friendly
pat between the eyes before he swung into the saddle and she stood up to
watch him gallop the length of the street with the lithe and confident
grace which made him a noticeable figure in the saddle.

"Moses!" she observed aloud, "but he has improved in looks since he
landed here--his looks, however, are a mere incident compared to the
value of his name on the business end of a check. Harpe,"--she sniggered
at a mental picture--"how will you look anyhow hanging to a man's arm?
As a clingin' vine you'll never be a conspicuous success, but you could
give a fair imitation if the game was worth the candle, and this happens
to be an instance where it is. Let's have a look at you, my child."

She took a small hand-mirror from beneath the papers of a drawer and
regarded her reflection with a critically humorous smile.

"You're not the dimpled darling you once were, Harpe," she said aloud.
"You're tired now and not at your best, but all the same there's a kind
of a hard-boiled look coming that's a warning, a hint from Father Time,
that you've got to do something in the matrimonial line before it gets
chronic."

Still viewing herself in the mirror she continued her soliloquy--

"By rights, Harpe, you ought to cut out these pique vests and manly
shirt bosoms and take to ruches and frills and ruffles. It would be the
quickest way to make a dent in his heart. He's that sort, I can see,
but, Lord! how I hate such prissy clothes! Your chance will come, Harpe,
you'll wear the orange blossoms now you've set your mind on it, and, if
the chance doesn't come soon you'll have to make it."




XVII

THE POSSIBLE INVESTOR


The slender, mild-mannered young man to whom Symes was introduced in the
office of Mudge, the promoter, was not a person Symes himself would have
singled out as one entrusted with the handling and investment of the
funds of a great estate. He had a slight impediment of speech, he was
modest to diffidence, and modesty and money was a combination not easy
for Symes to conceive, but Mudge had said anxiously upon Symes's
arrival:

"I hope you make a good impression, Symes, and can put the proposition
up to him right, because if we can land him at all we may be able to
land him for the whole cheese, and it will take a load off me if we can.
It's gettin' harder all the time to place these bonds; money is tighter
and people seem leary of irrigation projects.

"I had no idea so many people had been pecked in the head until I began
to handle this proposition. They're damned suspicious I can tell you.
It's nearly as easy to sell mining stock and, compared to that, peddling
needles and pins from door to door is a snap. Talk it up big but don't
overdo it, for J. Collins Prescott is no yap."

"Leave him to me," Symes had replied confidently; "don't worry. If he
has got real money and is looking for a place to put it, I'll see that
he finds it." And Mudge, noting the warmth of his grasp, the heartiness
of his big voice, the steady frankness of the look which the westerner
sent into Prescott's eyes, felt that Symes was the man to do the trick
and congratulated himself upon his wisdom in sending for him.

"I--I've been looking through your prospectus, Mr. Symes," said J.
Collins Prescott after he had been duly presented with a cabana by that
gentleman, "and it is v-very attractive, I might say a-alluring."

Symes beamed benignly.

"You think so? I tell Mudge there's one fault I have to find with
it--it's too conservative."

"A good fault," commended Mr. Prescott.

"Yes, yes, of course, better that than overdrawn, and then it's always
an agreeable surprise to investors when they come out and look the
proposition over. If you are thinking seriously of this thing, Mr.
Prescott, I wish you could arrange to return with me. I invariably
advise it. Mr. Mudge tells me you have some idle money and I feel sure
that you could not place it where you'd get bigger returns."

"W-western irrigated lands have a-always interested me c-considerably,"
admitted Mr. Prescott, "but heretofore the estate which I represent has
confined itself chiefly to the acquirement of water-power sites and
their development. They--they're good investments in your opinion?"

"Undoubtedly," was Mr. Symes's emphatic reply. "Very; but they're
gettin' scarce, while the irrigating of arid lands is as yet in its
infancy."

"E-exactly. I feel that we should begin reaching out along those lines,
and although I am not greatly c-conversant with investments of this
nature, I can readily see their possibilities."

"No limit!" declared Symes. "Nothin' _but_! Takes capital of course, but
the returns are big and sure. That's what we are all looking for."

"I know little if anything of the actual construction of a ditch, but I
should presume that the personnel of the m-management would count for
much," ventured Mr. Prescott.

"Rather!" Symes replied abruptly, "and if I may say so--if you will
pardon me--the name of Symes is a valuable asset to any
enterprise--prestige, you know, and all that."

Prescott looked slightly mystified.

"The Symes of Maine--grandfather personal friend of Alexander
Hamilton's--father one-time Speaker of the House; naturally the name of
Symes stands for something."

Not a muscle of J. Collins Prescott's face moved, but Mudge, watching
him keenly, felt uncomfortable and a sudden annoyance at Symes's
childish boastings, for so they sounded in Prescott's presence. Symes
seemed unable to realize the importance of the unassuming young man who
listened so attentively but non-committally to all that he was saying,
and in the light of their relative positions Mudge felt that Symes was
making himself a trifle ridiculous.

"Ah, yes," Prescott replied courteously, "Symes is a notable name, but I
was considering the management from a business rather than a social
point of view. You have a w-wide experience in this line? You c-can, I
presume, furnish credentials as to past successes, Mr. Symes?"

Symes's natural impulse was to reply, "Certainly, to be sure, years of
experience, delighted to furnish anything you like," but something, the
voice of caution or Mudge's warning look, induced him to say instead:

"I can't say a _wide_ experience, Mr. Prescott, not truthfully a _wide_
one, but some, of course, in fact considerable. Experience isn't really
necessary; horse-sense is the thing, horse-sense, executive ability and
large-mindedness--these qualifications I think I may conscientiously say
I possess."

"I--I see."

Mudge pulled nervously at his mustache.

"As a matter of fact," continued Mr. Symes, "I never permit myself to be
identified with failures. When I see that things are shootin' the chutes
I pull out." Mr. Symes laughed heartily. "I get from under."

"V-very wise." For an instant, the infinitessimal part of a second,
there was a glint of amusement in Prescott's mild eyes and, as he added,
Mudge once more felt that uncomfortable warmth under his collar, "Symes
and success are synonymous terms, I infer."

Symes laughed modestly.

"But to get down to business,"--there was a suggestion of weariness in
Prescott's tone--"the water supply is ample?"

"Oceans! Worlds of it, I might say."

"The water rights perfect--stand the severest legal scrutiny?"

"Absolutely!"

"Only engineers of recognized ability consulted and employed upon a
project of such magnitude, I infer?"

Mr. Symes's hesitation was so slight as to be scarcely perceptible.

"The best obtainable."

"And approximately 200,000 acres of segregated land can be reclaimed
under your project?"

"Every foot of it."

"At an expense of $250,000, according to the figures in your
prospectus?"

"That's our estimate and the amount of our bond issue."

"You believe you will have no difficulty in disposing of this land at
$50 an acre?"

"Dispose of it? They'll fight for it! Why," declared Mr. Symes, striking
at the air with a gesture of conviction, "the whole country is land
hungry."

"It's a liberal return upon the investment," murmured Prescott.

"It's a big thing! And think of the Russian Jews."

"Pardon me?"

"Colonization, you know, hundreds of Russian Jews out there raising
sugar-beets for the sugar-beet factory, happy as larks."

"To be sure--I had forgotten." Mr. Prescott reached for a prospectus
upon the table at his elbow and looked at the picture of a factory with
smoke pouring from myriad chimneys and covering nothing short of an
acre.

"The soil is deep then--strong enough to stand sugar-beets?"

"Rotation of crops--scientific farming," explained Symes, "gives it a
chance to recover."

Prescott nodded.

"I see. The length of the ditch is----"

"Thirty-five miles and a fraction."

"What is the normal width and what amount of water does it carry?"

"Sixty-five feet and it carries six feet of water."

"What is the <DW72>?"

"Two and a half feet per mile."

"How much water to the acre is applied in your State?"

Symes was showing some surprise. For a man who was not familiar with
irrigation projects Prescott was asking decidedly pertinent questions,
but Symes answered glibly--

"A cubic foot per second to each seventy acres."

"And the yardage? What are your engineer's figures on the yardage?"

Symes cleared his throat--a habit which manifested itself when he was
nervous--

"It can be moved for ten to fifteen cents a cubic yard."

"C-cheap enough." Prescott looked at him with interested intentness.
"And the loose rock?"

"Twenty-five to thirty." Symes stirred uneasily in his chair.

"And the cuts? the solid rock?"

"Fifty to sixty cents," Symes replied after an instant's hesitation.

"Ah, soft rock. These are your engineer's figures, of course?"

"Of course," Symes answered curtly, and added: "I should say that you
had a good deal of practical knowledge of such matters, Mr. Prescott."

Prescott answered easily--

"Superficial, v-very superficial, just a little I picked up in railroad
construction."

There were more questions as to loss of water by seepage, air and
subsoil drainage, drops, earth canals, character and depth of soil,
possibilities of alkali, all of which questions Symes answered readily
enough, but which at the conclusion left Symes with the exhausted
feeling of a long session on the witness stand.

"There are still something like $150,000 worth of bonds in the market, I
believe?"

"Approximately." It was Mudge who spoke up hopefully.

"And there is no doubt in your mind, Mr. Symes, but that with this
amount you can finish the work at the specified time and in a manner
satisfactory to the State engineers?"

Symes jingled the loose change in his trousers pockets and replied with
a large air of confidence--

"None whatever, sir."

Mr. Prescott arose and stood for a moment thoughtfully stroking the back
of one gray suede glove with the tips of the other.

"I--I will take the matter up with my p-people and give you their
decision shortly."

His eyes were lowered so he did not see the look which made Symes's face
radiant for an instant, but he may have imagined it was there, for his
lips curved in ever so faint a smile.

"It has been a p-pleasure to meet you, Mr. Symes." Prescott extended a
gray suede hand. "I do not feel that the hour has been wasted, since I
have learned so m-much."

"Ask any question that occurs to you: my time is at your disposal as
long as I am here." Symes shook his hand heartily in a strong western
grip. "Great pleasure to converse with a gentleman again, I assure you."

Symes and Mudge looked at each other when the door had closed upon his
back.

"Tractable as a kitten!" exclaimed Symes, beaming.

"Think so?" Mudge did not seem greatly elated.

"Why, yes; don't you?" Symes looked surprised.

"'Tractable' isn't just the word I'd ever apply to Prescott," he
answered dryly. "You don't understand his kind."

"You're wrong there," Symes answered with asperity. "But don't you think
we're goin' to land him?"

Mudge shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll bet you a hat!" cried Symes confidently. "I know the difference
between a nibble and a bite. I tell you Prescott's hooked."

"I hope you're right"--Mudge's tone was doubtful--"but get it out of
your head that he's an easy mark. I know that outfit; they're
conservative as a country bank. Prescott didn't ask questions enough."

"Didn't ask questions enough? Lord amighty, he was cocked and primed."

Mudge smiled grimly.

"Not for Prescott. Besides, it's not like them to go into a proposition
like this without further investigation. If they'd send an engineer back
with you I'd begin to hope."

"Bosh!" Symes exclaimed impatiently. "My name counts for something in a
game like this."

Mudge was unresponsive.

"Gentlemen understand each other," Symes went on complacently,
"intuition--hunch--kind of a silent sympathy. I tell you, Mudge, I'm
goin' to win a hat off you."

After leaving the office of Mudge, the promoter, J. Collins Prescott,
sauntered into a secluded waiting room in a near-by hotel and sank into
the depths of a huge leather chair. He took a voluminous type-written
report from the pocket of his fashionable top-coat and fell to studying
it with interest and care. He was engrossed in its contents for nearly
an hour, and when he had finished he replaced it in his pocket. Then he
sauntered to the telegrapher's station in the corner of the hotel office
and wrote upon a blank with swift decision a telegram which seemed a
trifle at variance with the almost foppish elegance of his appearance.
The telegram read:

Crooked as a dog's hind leg. Buy.




XVIII

"HER SUPREME MOMENT"


Dr. Harpe had surprisingly good shoulders for so slender a woman--white,
well rounded, and with a gentle feminine <DW72>. That she never had been
given the opportunity of showing them to Crowheart had been a matter of
some regret. Her chance came when Andy P. Symes celebrated the sale of
$150,000 worth of bonds by an invitation ball in the dining-room of the
Terriberry House.

Elation over the placing of these bonds with the estate represented by
J. Collins Prescott mitigated in some slight degree the humiliation and
bitterness of his feelings when, upon his return from his successful
business trip, he found that not only had Grandmother Kunkel gone as she
had foreseen she would go, but Dr. Harpe had resumed her visits as
before and vouchsafed to him no word of explanation or apology at the
deliberate violation of her promise.

In any case, as Symes saw clearly now, the fulfilment of it would have
been futile so far as ending the intimacy was concerned, for the only
result would have been that Augusta would have done the visiting. That
he let the matter of Dr. Harpe's broken word pass without protest
evidenced the completeness of his capitulation, his entire realization
of the hopelessness of resistance to the situation, as did also the
silence in which he accepted Augusta's cold explanation of Grandmother
Kunkel's departure.

It is not likely that more time and care is devoted to the making up of
the list for a court ball than Symes bestowed upon the selection of
guests for the proposed function, which he intended should leave an
indelible impression upon Crowheart. It was a difficult task, but when
completed the result was gratifying.

No person whom Symes could even dimly foresee as being of future use to
himself was omitted and with real astuteness he singled out those who
had within themselves the qualities which made for future importance.
Even Mrs. Abe Tutts, who, he had learned, was second cousin to a
railroad president, was thrown into a state of emotional intoxication by
receiving the first printed invitation of her life. Besides, Mrs. Tutts
had turned her talents churchward and now ruled the church choir with an
iron hand. While her husky rendition of the solo parts of certain
anthems was strongly suggestive of the Bijou Theatre with its adjoining
beer garden, her efforts were highly praised. This invitation
demonstrated clearly that Mrs. Tutts was rising in the social scale.

It was due to a suggestion from Dr. Harpe, made through Augusta, that
Van Lennop also received his first social recognition in Crowheart.

"I don't know who the fellow is," Symes demurred. In reality his
reluctance was largely due to a secret resentment that Van Lennop had
seemed to withstand so easily the influence of his genial personality.
Their acquaintance never had passed the nodding stage and the fact had
piqued Symes more than he cared to admit. "Besides, he has elected to
identify himself with rather singular company."

"No doubt he has been lonely," defended Mrs. Symes mildly, "and of
course Essie _is_ pretty."

When Van Lennop found the invitation in the mail a couple of days later
he frowned in mingled annoyance and amusement.

"Discovered," he said dryly, quickly guessing its import.

Dr. Harpe's increased friendliness had not escaped him and it had
occurred to him that their frequent meetings were not entirely
accidental. Past experiences had taught him the significance of certain
signs, and when Dr. Harpe appeared with her hair curled and wearing a
lingerie waist, the fact which roused the risibilities of her friends
stirred in him a feeling which resembled the instinct of
self-preservation.

Van Lennop's brow contracted as he re-read the invitation in his room.

"Confound it! I'm not ready to be discovered yet." Then he grinned, in
spite of himself, at the hint in the corner--"full dress." He flung it
contemptuously upon the washstand. "What an ass!" and it is to be feared
he referred to the sole representative of the notable House of Symes.

The initial step in Crowheart toward preparing for any function was a
hair washing, and the day following the mailing of the invitations saw
the fortunate recipients drying their hair on their respective back
steps or hanging over dividing fences with flowing locks in animated
discussion of the coming event.

That there was some uncertainty as to the exact meaning of the request
to wear "full dress" may be gathered from Mrs. Abe Tutts's observation,
while drying a few dank hairs at Mrs. Jackson's front gate, that it was
lucky she had not ripped up her accordion-pleated skirt which was as
full as anybody could wear and hope to get around in!

"'Tain't that," Mrs. Jackson snorted in her face. "The fuller a dress is
the less they is of it. You're thinkin' of a masquerade, maybe.
Personally myself," declared Mrs. Jackson modestly, "I don't aim to
expose my shoulder blades for nobody--not for _nobody_."

"I'd do it if I was you," replied Mrs. Tutts significantly.

"Why, if you was me?" inquired Mrs. Jackson, biting guilelessly.

"Because"--Mrs. Tutts backed out of reach.--"they's a law agin' carryin'
concealed weapons."

Mrs. Tutts did not tarry to complete the drying of her hair, for Mrs.
Jackson had succeeded in wrenching a paling from the fence and was
fumbling at the catch on the gate.

The dining-room of the Terriberry House was a dazzling sight to the
arriving guests, who were impressed to momentary speechlessness by such
evidences of wealth and elegance as real carnations and smilax and a
real orchestra imported from the nearest large town on the main line.
The sight which held their eyes longest, however, was a large glass bowl
on a table in an anteroom, beside which, self-conscious but splendid in
new evening clothes, stood Mr. Symes urging an unknown but palatable
beverage hospitably upon each arrival.

"This is cert'nly a swell affair," they confided to each other in
whispers behind the back of their hands after the first formal
greetings. "Trust Andy P. for doin' things right."

They frankly stared at each other in unaccustomed garb and sometimes as
frankly laughed.

"Gosh!" said Mr. Terriberry as he sniffed the pungent atmosphere due to
the odor of camphor emanating from clothing which had lain in the
bottom of trunks since the wearers had "wagoned it" in from Iowa or
Nebraska, "looks like you might call this here function a moth ball."

Mr. Terriberry himself gave distinction to the gathering by appearing in
a dinner jacket, borrowed from the tailor, and his pearl gray wedding
trousers, preserved sentimentally by Mrs. Terriberry.

Mr. Abe Tutts, in a frock coat of minstrel-like cut and plum-
trousers of shiny diagonal cloth, claimed his share of public attention.
For the sake of that peace which he had come to prize highly, Mr. Tutts
had consented to make a "dude" of himself.

Mr. Percy Parrott appeared once more in the dinner clothes which upon a
previous occasion had given Crowheart its first sight of the habiliment
of polite society. If their exceeding snugness had caused him
discomfiture then his present sensations were nothing less than anguish.
His collar was too high, his collar-band too tight, the arm-holes of his
jacket checked his circulation, and his waistcoat interfered with the
normal action of his diaphragm, while Mr. Parrott firmly refused to sit
out dances for reasons of his own. It was apparent too that he selected
partners only for such numbers on the programme as called for steps of a
sliding or gliding nature, for Mr. Parrott had the timid caution of an
imaginative mind. Following him with anxious eyes was Mrs. Parrott
looking like an India famine sufferer decollete.

From the bottom of that mysterious wardrobe trunk, which resembled the
widow's cruse in that it seemed to have no limitations, Mrs. Abe Tutts
had resurrected an aigrette which sprouted from a knob of hair tightly
twisted on the top of her head. As the evening advanced and the exercise
of the dance loosened Mrs. Tutts's simple coiffure, the aigrette slipped
forward until that lady resembled nothing so much as a sportive unicorn.

Mrs. Terriberry was unique and also warm in a long pink boa of curled
chicken feathers which she kept wound closely about her neck.

The red and feverish appearance of Mrs. Alva Jackson's eyelids was
easily accounted for by the numberless French knots on her new
peach-blow silk, but she felt more than repaid for so small a matter as
strained eyes by the look of astonishment and envy which she surprised
from Mrs. Abe Tutts, who had exhausted her ingenuity in trying to
discover what she meant to wear.

Mrs. "Ed" Ricketts in black jet and sequins, decollete, en train,
leaning on the arm of her husband, who was attired in a pair of
copper-riveted overalls, new and neat, was as noticeable a figure as any
lady present.

Mrs. Ricketts's French creation was a souvenir of a brief but memorable
period in the history of the Ricketts family.

A few years previous Mr. Ricketts had washed $15,000 from a placer claim
in an adjoining State and started at once for Europe to spend it,
meaning to wash $15,000 more upon his return. In his absence some one
washed it for him. When he came back with a wide knowledge of Parisian
cafes, a carved bedstead, two four-foot candelabra and six trunks filled
with Mrs. Ricketts's gowns, but no cash, it was a shock to learn that
financially he was nil. After months of endeavor in other lines there
seemed no alternative but to light his four-foot candelabra and die of
starvation in his carved bedstead, or herd sheep, so he wisely decided
upon the latter. Mrs. Ricketts adapted herself to the situation and made
petticoats of her court trains and drove the sheep-wagon decollete, so
Crowheart was more or less accustomed to Mrs. Ricketts in silk and
satin.

Dr. Harpe did not come down until the evening was well along, but the
delay produced the effect she intended. As she appeared, fresh and cool
with her hair in perfect order, at the end of a number which left the
dancers red and dishevelled, she caused a sensation that could not well
have been otherwise than flattering. Crowheart stared in candid
amazement and admiration.

Her sheer, white gown fell from sloping, well powdered shoulders and its
filminess softened wonderfully the lines which were beginning to harden
her face. She had dressed with the eagerness of a debutante, and her
eyes were luminous, her cheeks delicately flushed with the excitement of
it and with happiness at the visible impression she was making.

Dr. Harpe could, upon occasions, assume an air which gave her a certain
distinction of carriage and manner which was the direct antithesis of
the careless, swaggering, unfeminine creature that Crowheart knew, and
as she now came slowly into the ballroom it is little wonder that a buzz
went round after the first flattering silence of astonishment, for even
a stranger would have singled her out at a glance from the perspiring
female crudities upon the floor.

She looked younger by years and with that unexpected winsomeness which
was her charm. The murmur of approval was a tribute to her femininity
that was music in her ears. The night promised to be one of triumph
which she intended to enjoy to the utmost, but to her it ensured more
than that, for Ogden Van Lennop was there, as she had seen in one swift
glance, and it meant, perhaps, her "chance."

For reasons of his own Van Lennop finally decided to accept the
invitation which at first thought he fully intended to refuse. He
figured that he had time to telegraph for his clothes, and this he did
with the result that Crowheart stared as hard almost at him as at Dr.
Harpe's amazing transformation. The reserved, unapproachable stranger in
worn corduroys, who had come to be tacitly recognized as an object of
suspicion, was not readily reconciled with this suave, self-possessed
young man in clothes which they felt intuitively were correct in every
detail. He moved among them with a _savoir-faire_ which was new to
Crowheart, talking easily and with flattering deference to this
neglected lady and that, agreeable to a point which left them animated
and coquettish. He danced with Mrs. Terriberry, he escorted Mrs. Tutts
to the punch bowl, he threw Mrs. Jackson's scarf about her shoulders
with a gallantry that turned Jackson green, a neat compliment sent Mrs.
Percy Parrott off in a series of the hysterical shrieks which always
followed when Mrs. Parrott found herself at a loss for words. Long
before Dr. Harpe's appearance it had begun to dawn upon Crowheart that
in holding aloof in unfriendly suspicion the loss had been theirs, for
it was being borne in even upon their ignorance that Van Lennop's sphere
was one in which they did not "belong."

Dr. Harpe quickly demonstrated that she was easily the best dancer in
the room, and there was no dearth of partners after the first awe of
her had worn off, but her satisfaction in her night of triumph was not
complete until Van Lennop's name was upon her programme.

Essie Tisdale, busy elsewhere, had her first glimpse of the ballroom
where Van Lennop claimed his dance. She grew white even to her lips, and
her knees shook unaccountably beneath her as she watched Dr. Harpe glide
the length of the room in Van Lennop's arms. The momentary pain she felt
in her heart had the poignancy of an actual stab. It was so--so
unexpected; he had so unequivocally ranged himself upon her side, he had
seen so plainly Dr. Harpe's illy-concealed venom and resented it in his
quiet way, as she had thought, that this seemed like disloyalty, and in
the first shock of bewilderment and pain Essie Tisdale was conscious
only that the one person in all the world upon whom she had felt she
could count was being taken from her.

Van Lennop had told her of his invitation in amusement and later had
remarked carelessly that he might accept, but apparently had given it no
further thought. Even in her unhappiness the girl was fair to her
merciless enemy. She looked well--far, far more attractive than Essie
would have believed possible, softer, more feminine and--more dangerous.
Van Lennop was human; and, after all, as she was forced to recognize
more and more fully, she was only the pretty biscuit-shooter of the
Terriberry House. Essie Tisdale pushed the swinging doors from her with
a shaking hand and managed somehow to get back into the kitchen where,
as she thought, with a strange, new bitterness, she belonged.

Van Lennop did not leave Dr. Harpe when the waltz was done, but seated
himself beside her, first parting the curtain that she might get the air
and showing a solicitude for her comfort so different from the cold,
impersonal courtesy of months that her heart beat high with triumph.
Verily, this propitious beginning was all she needed and, she told
herself again, was all she asked. While she believed in herself and her
personal charm when she chose to exercise it, Van Lennop's tacit
recognition of it brightened her eyes and softened her face into smiling
curves of happiness.

Van Lennop toyed with her fan and talked idly of impersonal things, but
there was a veiled look of curiosity in his eyes, a kind of puzzled
wonder each time that they rested upon her face. As he covertly studied
her altered expression and manner, strongly conscious of the different
atmosphere which she created, there rose persistently in his mind
Stevenson's story of the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He
could not conceive a more striking example of dual personality or double
consciousness than Dr. Harpe now presented. There was a girlish shyness
in her fluttering glance, honesty in the depths of her limpid hazel
eyes, while her white, unmarred forehead suggested the serenity of a
good woman, and Van Lennop was dimly conscious that for some undefined
reason he never had thought of her as that. She had personal
magnetism--that he had conceded from the first, for invariably he had
found himself sensible of her presence even when disliking her the most.
To-night he was more strongly aware of it than ever.

"You are enjoying the evening?"

"Isn't that apparent?" A twinkle shone for a moment in his eyes. "And
you?" adding quickly, "An unnecessary question--your face is the
answer."

She laughed lightly.

"It doesn't belie me, for I like this--immensely. Flossying up
occasionally helps me keep my self-respect. You didn't expect to find
this sort of thing out here, did you?"

He looked at her oddly, not sure that she was serious. Was it possible
that she did not see the raw absurdity of it all? Somehow he had thought
that she "belonged" a little more than this; her unusual self-possession
gave the impression perhaps. He glanced at the attenuated Mrs. Percy
Parrott, at Mrs. Sylvanus Starr, exhilarated by numerous glasses of
punch, capering through an impromptu cakewalk with Tinhorn Frank, at
Mrs. Andy P. Symes, solemn and as stiffly erect as a ramrod, trying to
manage her first train, and Van Lennop's lips curved upward ever so
slightly, but his voice had the proper gravity when he replied:

"Scarcely."

She shot a quick look at him.

"You _don't_ like it," she asserted.

Van Lennop smiled slightly at her keenness.

"To be candid, I don't. The West has always been a bit of a hobby of
mine since I was a lad and adored Davy Crockett and strained my eyes
over the adventures of Lewis and Clark. I like the picturesqueness, the
naturalness, the big, kind spirit of the old days and I'm sorry to see
them go--prematurely--for that which takes their place makes no appeal
to the heart or the imagination. It is only a--well--a poor imitation of
something else.

"With no notion of criticising my host, I must say, that in my opinion
those who introduce these innovations"--he included the ballroom with a
slight movement of her folded fan--"are robbing the West of its greatest
charm. But then," he concluded lightly, and with a slight inclination of
his head, "if I were a woman and the results of--er--'flossying up' were
as gratifying as in your case, for instance, I might welcome such
opportunities."

Dr. Harpe raised her eyes to his for one fluttering second and achieved
a blush while he smiled down upon her with the faint, impersonal smile
which was oftenest on his face.

                 *       *       *       *       *

"Just this once, my dear, and I won't ask you to go in there again. I
know how hard it must be for you."

"Not at all"--Essie had looked at Mrs. Terriberry bravely--"I will do
whatever is to be done."

She picked up a tray of fresh glasses for the table in the well
patronized anteroom as she spoke and passed through the swinging door in
time to see Dr. Harpe's uplifted eyes and blush and Van Lennop's
answering smile.

The glasses jingled upon the tray in her unsteady hand, but her little
mouth shut in a red, straight line as she nerved herself for the ordeal
of passing them. She came toward them with her head erect and a set look
upon her young, almost childish face, and Van Lennop catching sight of
her intuitively guessed something of her thoughts and interpreted aright
the strained look upon her white face.

"She thinks me disloyal," flashed into his mind, and he all but smiled
at the idea.

Swift as was the passing of the softly interested expression upon Van
Lennop's face, Dr. Harpe caught it and involuntarily turned her head to
follow his gaze.

Essie Tisdale! Her face hardened and all her slumbering jealousy and
hatred of the girl leaped to life in a mad, unreasoning desire to do her
harm, bodily harm; she tingled with a longing to inflict physical pain.

The whirling dancers made it necessary for Essie to pass close, close
enough to brush the skirts of the women occupying the chairs along the
wall, and as she came toward them with her head erect, looking straight
before her, Dr. Harpe acted upon an unconquerable impulse and slid her
slippered toe from beneath her skirt. There was a crash of glass as the
girl tripped and fell headlong. Tinhorn Frank guffawed; a few of his ilk
did likewise, but the laughter died upon their lips at the blazing
glance Van Lennop flashed them.

"Essie, you are hurt! Your hand is bleeding!"

Dr. Harpe shut her teeth hard at the concern in Van Lennop's voice as he
helped the girl to her feet, but there was solicitude in her tone when
she said:

"Let me see if there's glass in it, Essie."

The girl hesitated for an instant, then with an enigmatical smile
extended her hand, but there was nothing enigmatical in the sidelong
look which Van Lennop gave Dr. Harpe, a look that, had she seen it,
would for once have made her grateful for her sex. Subconsciously he had
seen the slight movement of her foot and leg as Essie Tisdale passed,
but had not grasped its significance until the girl fell.

"I don't think there's any glass in it, but wash it out well and bring
me a bandage. You got a hard fall; you must have slipped."

"Yes, I must have slipped." Her smile this time was ironic.

The night fulfilled the promise of the evening. It was a succession of
triumphs for Dr. Harpe. The floor was air beneath her feet and the
combination of insidious punch and sensuous music turned her cold,
slow-running blood to fire. She was the undisputed belle of the evening,
and they took the trailing smilax from the side lamps on the wall and
made her a wreath in laughing acknowledgment of the fact. It was such an
hour as she had dreamed of and the reality fulfilled every expectation.

She had attracted Van Lennop to herself at last; she had aroused and
held his interest as she had known she could and she had sent Essie
Tisdale sprawling ridiculously at his feet. She had shown Crowheart how
she could look when she tried--what she could do and be with only half
an effort. In other words, she had proved to Van Lennop and to Crowheart
that she was a success as a woman as well as a doctor. What more could
any one person ask? The road to the end looked smooth before her. She
wanted to scream, to shriek aloud in exultation. Her cheeks burned, her
eyes blazed triumph. She had the feeling that it was the climax of her
career, that no more satisfying hour could come to her unless perhaps it
was the day she married Ogden Van Lennop. And she owed nothing, she
thought as she whirled dizzily in Mr. Terriberry's arms, to anyone but
herself. Every victory, every step forward since she arrived penniless
and unknown in Crowheart had been due to her brains and efforts. She
raised her chin arrogantly. She had never been thwarted and the person
was not born who could defeat her ultimately in any ambition! Her mental
elation gave her a feeling akin to omnipotence.

A clicking sound in Mr. Terriberry's throat due to an ineffectual effort
to moisten his lips brought the realization that her own throat and
mouth were parched.

"Let's stop and hit one up," she whispered feverishly. "I'm dry as a
fish."

Mr. Terriberry seemed to check himself in midair.

"I kin hardly swaller."

He led the way to the anteroom and she followed, swaying a little both
from the dizzy dance and the effects of previous visits to the punch
bowl. The hour was late and the remaining guests were rapidly casting
aside the strained dignity which their clothes and the occasion had
seemed to demand. Observing that Van Lennop had made his adieux, Dr.
Harpe also felt a sudden freedom from restraint.

Mr. Terriberry filled a glass to the brim and executed a notable bow as
he handed it to her.

"To the fairest of the fair," said Mr. Terriberry gallantly, protruding
his upper lip over the edge of his glass something in the manner of a
horse gathering in the last oat in his box.

Dr. Harpe raised her glass to arms' length and cried exultantly--

"To my Supreme Moment!"

Mr. Terriberry, who had closed his eyes while the cooling beverage
flowed down his throat, opened them again.

"Huh?"

Again she swung her glass above her head and shrilled--

"My Supreme Moment--drink to it if you're a friend of mine!"

"Frien' of yours? Frien' of yours! Why, Doc, I'd die fer you. But that's
all same Ogollalah Sioux 'bout your S'preme Moment! Many of 'em, Doc,
many of 'em, and here's t'you!"

They drained their glasses together.

"Always liked you, Doc. H'nest t'God, from the first minute I laid eyes
on you." Mr. Terriberry reached for her fan dangling from the end of its
chain and began to fan her with tender solicitude.

"Come on, let's have another drink; I don't cut loose often." Her eyes
and voice were reckless.

"Me and you don't want to go out of here with our ropes draggin',"
protested Mr. Terriberry in feeble hesitation. "Let's go out on the
porch fer a minute an' look at the meller moon."

"Meller moon _nothin_'! Come on, don't be a piker." She was ladling
punch into each of their glasses.

"Ah-h-h! Ain't that great cough mixture!" Mr. Terriberry rolled his eyes
in ecstasy as he once more saw the bottom of his glass. "Doc, 'bout one
more and me and you couldn't hit the groun' with our hats." Mr.
Terriberry speared a bit of pineapple with the long nail of his
forefinger and added ambiguously: "M'bet you."

"Aw, g'long! Food for infants, this--wish I had a barrel of it."

"Doc, you got a nawful capac'ty." Mr. Terriberry looked at her in
languishing admiration. "That's why I like you. Honest t'God I hate to
see a lady go under the table firs' shot out o' the box. Now my
wife,"--suddenly remembering the existence of that lady Mr. Terriberry
tiptoed to the door and endeavored to locate her--"my wife," he
continued in a confidential whisper, "can't take two drinks t'hout
showing it. Doc,"--Mr. Terriberry's chin quivered as the pathos of the
fact swept over him--"Doc, Merta's no sport." Mr. Terriberry buried his
face in his highly perfumed handkerchief as he confessed his wife's
shortcomings.

"Aw, dry up! Take another and forget it," replied his unsympathetic
confidante crossly.

Mr. Terriberry looked up in quick cheerfulness.

"Le's do, Doc. Do you know I hate water--just plain water. If it'll rot
your boots what'll it do to your stummick!"

A man breathless from haste appeared in the doorway of the anteroom.

"Dr. Harpe----"

"What is it?" She did not turn around.

"A case came in at the hospital--feller shot, down the street."

"Where's Lamb?" she demanded irritably.

"Out of town."

"Thunder!" She stamped her foot impatiently. "Who is it?" she scowled.

"Billy Duncan. He's bleedin' bad, Doc." There was a note of entreaty in
his voice.

"All right," she answered shortly, "I'll be down."

"Frien' of yours?" inquired Terriberry.

"Friend? No. One of those damned hoboes on the Ditch. Looks like he
might have taken some other night than this."

"Don't blame you 'tall, Doc. I gotta get to work and fin' Merta. If you
see Merta----" Mr. Terriberry suddenly realized that he was talking to
himself.

As Dr. Harpe made her way to the cloak-room she was conscious that it
was well she was leaving. The lights were blurring rapidly, the dancers
in the ballroom were unrecognizable and indistinct, she was sensible,
too, of the increasing thickness of her tongue. Yet more than ever she
wanted to laugh hysterically, to scream, to boast before them all of the
things she had done and of those she meant to do. Yes, decidedly, it was
time she was leaving, her saner self told her.

She fumbled among the wraps in the cloak-room until she found her own,
then, steadying herself by running her fingertips along the wall, she
slipped from the hotel without being observed.

"Made a good getaway that time," she muttered.

Her lips felt stiff and dry and she moistened them frequently as she
stumbled across the hummocks of sagebrush growing on the vacant lots
between the hospital and the hotel. She fell, and cursed aloud as she
felt the sting of cacti spines in her palm. She sat where she fell and
tried to extract them by the light of the moon. Then she arose and
stumbled on.

"God! I'm drunk--jus' plain drunk," she said thickly, and was glad that
there would be no one but Nell Beecroft about.

Nell was safe. She had long since attended to that. They shared too many
secrets in common for Nell to squeal. Nell was not easily shocked. She
laughed foolishly at the thought of Nell being shocked and wondered what
could do it.

Her contract with Symes called for a graduate nurse--Dr. Harpe
snorted--a graduate nurse for hoboes! Nell was cheaper, and even if her
reputation was more than doubtful she was big and husky--and they
understood each other. The right woman in the right place, and with Lamb
helped form a trio that stood for harmony and self-protection.

"Graduate nurse for hoboes!" She muttered it scornfully again. "Not on
your tintype!"

She fell against the kitchen door and it opened with her weight.

"Hullo, Nell!" She blinked foolishly in the glare of the light.

The woman looked at her in silence.

"Hullo, I say!" The cloak slipped from her bare shoulders and she lunged
toward a chair.

The flush on her face had faded and her color was ghastly, a grayish
white, the pallor of an anaemic; the many short hairs on her forehead
and temples hung straight in her eyes, the filmy flounce of her gown was
torn and trailing, while a scraggly bunch of Russian thistle clung to
the chiffon ruffles of her silk drop-skirt.

The woman stood in the centre of the kitchen with her arms akimbo--a
huge raw-boned creature of a rough, frontier type.

She spoke at last.

"Well, you're a sight!"

"Been celebratin', Nell," she chuckled gleefully, "been celebratin' my
S'preme Moment."

"You'd better git in there and fix that feller's arm or we'll be
celebratin' a funeral," the woman answered curtly. "He's bleedin' like a
stuck pig."

"That's what he is--good joke, Nell. Where'd it happen?" She seated
herself in a chair and slid until her head rested on the back, her
sprawling legs outstretched.

"Gun fight at the dance hall. Look here," she took her roughly by the
arm, "I tell you he's bad off. You gotta git in there and do somethin'."

"Shut up! Lemme be!" She pulled loose from the nurse's grasp, but arose,
nevertheless, and staggered down the long hallway into the room where
the new patient lay moaning softly upon the narrow iron cot.

"Hullo, Bill Duncan!"

His moaning ceased and he said faintly in relief--

"Oh, I'm glad! I thought you'd never come, Doc."

"Say," her voice was quarrelsome, "do you think I've nothin' to do but
wait at the beck and call of you <DW77>s?"

The boy, for he was only that, looked surprise and resentment at the
epithet, but he was too weak to waste his strength in useless words.

She raised his arm bound in its blood-soaked rags roughly and he
groaned.

"Keep still, you calf!"

He shut his teeth hard and the sweat of agony stood out on his pallid
face as she twisted and pulled and probed with clumsy, drunken fingers.

"Nell!" she called thickly.

The woman was watching from the doorway.

"Get the hypodermic and I'll give him a shot of hop, then I'm goin' to
bed. Lamb can look after him when he comes. I'm not goin' to monkey with
him now."

"But, Doc," the boy protested, "don't leave me like this. The bullet's
in there yet, and a piece of my shirt. The boys pulled out some, but
they couldn't reach the rest. Ain't you goin' to clean out the hole or
something? I'm scart of blood-poisonin', Doc, for I've seen how it
works," he pleaded.

His protest angered her.

"God! but you're wise with your talk of blood-poisonin'! You bums from
the Ditch give me more trouble and do more kickin' than all my private
patients put together. What do you want for a dollar a month"--she
sneered--"a special nurse? A shot in the arm will shut your mouth till
morning anyhow."

She shoved up the sleeve of his night clothes on the good arm and
gripped his wrist; then she jabbed the needle viciously.

His colorless lips were shut in a straight line and in his pain-stricken
eyes there was not so much anger now as a great wonder. Was this the
woman of whose acquaintance he had been proud, by whose bow of
recognition he always had felt flattered; this woman whose free speech
and careless good-nature he had defended against the occasional
criticism of coarser minds? This woman with her reeking breath and an
expression which seen through a mist of pain made her face look like
that of Satan himself, was it possible that she had had his liking and
respect? He was still wondering when the drowsiness of the drug seized
him and he slipped away into sleep.

Dr. Harpe gathered his clothes from the foot of the bed as she passed
out.

"Did he have anything on him, Nell?"

"No."

"They must have cleaned him out down below." She jerked her head toward
the dance hall as she turned a pocket inside out. "A dollar watch and a
jack-knife." She threw them both contemptuously upon the kitchen table.
"If he wakes up bellerin', shove the needle into him--you can do it as
well as I can. I'm goin' to bed."

She lunged down the corridor once more and Nell Beecroft stood looking
after with a curious expression of derision and contempt upon her hard
face.

Dr. Harpe threw herself upon the bed in one of the private rooms and
soon her loud breathing told Nell Beecroft that she was in the heavy
sleep of drink. The nurse opened the door and stood by the bedside
looking down upon her as she lay dressed as she had come from the dance,
on the outside of the counterpane. One bare arm was thrown over her
head, the other was hanging limply over the edge of the bed, her loose
hair was a snarled mass upon the pillow and her open mouth gave her face
an empty, sodden look that was bestial.

"I wonder what your swell friends would say to you now?" the woman
muttered, staring at her through narrowed lids. "Those private patients
that you're always bragging swear by you? What would they say if I
should tell 'em that just bein' plain drunk like any common prostitute
was the least of----" she checked herself and glanced into the hallway.
"What would they think if they knew you as I know you--what would they
say if I told them only half?" Her mouth dropped in a contemptuous
smile. "They wouldn't believe me--they'd say I lied about their 'lady
doc.'"

She went on in sneering self-condemnation--

"I'm nothin'--just nothin'; drug up among the worst; no learnin'--no
raisin'--but _her_--HER!" Nell Beecroft's lips curled in indescribable
scorn. "She's _worse_ than nothin', for she's had her chanst!"

There was no color in the East, only a growing light which made Dr.
Harpe look ashen and haggard when she crawled from the bed and looked at
herself in a square of glass on the wall.

"You sure don't look like a spring chicken in the cold, gray dawn,
Harpe," she said aloud as she made a wry face and ran out her tongue.
"Bilious! A dose of nux vomica for you. That mixed stuff does knock a
fellow's stomach out and no mistake. Moses! I look fierce."

Her head ached dully, her mouth and throat felt parched, and yet withal
she had a feeling of contentment the reason for which did not
immediately penetrate her dull consciousness. She realized only that
some agreeable happening had left her with a sensation of warmth about
her heart.

As she fumbled on the floor for hair-pins, yawning sleepily until her
jaws cracked, she wondered what it was. She stopped in the midst of
twisting her loose hair and her face lighted in sudden recollection.
Ogden Van Lennop! Ah, that was it. She remembered now. She had broken
down his prejudice; she had partially won him over; she had been the
"hit" of the evening; further conquests were in sight and within easy
reach if she played her cards right. And Essie Tisdale--her long upper
lip stretched in its mirthless smile--she would not have her feelings
this morning for a goodly sum.

The thought of Van Lennop accelerated her movements. She must get back
to the hotel before Crowheart was astir, for it might be her ill-luck to
bump into Van Lennop starting on one of his early morning rides. She
had no desire that he should see her in her present plight.

The closeness of the illy-ventilated hospital, with its odors of
disinfectants and sickness, nauseated her slightly as she opened the
door and stepped into the hallway. She frowned at the delirious
mutterings of a typhoid patient at the end of the corridor, for it
reminded her of a threatening epidemic in one of the camps. The sharper
moans of Billy Duncan, whose inflamed and swollen arm was wringing from
him ejaculations of pain, recalled vaguely to her mind something of the
incident of the night before.

Hearing her step, he called aloud as she passed the door--

"Won't somebody give me a drink? Please, please give me a drink! I'm
choked!"

"Nell will be up directly," she answered over her shoulder. There was no
time to lose, for the day was coming fast.

She lifted her torn and trailing flounce and pulled her cloak about her
bare shoulders as she opened the street door. The air felt good upon her
hot forehead and she breathed deep of it. The East was pink now, but the
town was still as silent as the grave save for the sound of escaping
steam from the early morning train. Happening to glance toward the
station, something in the appearance of a man carrying a suitcase across
the cinders attracted her attention and caused her to slacken her pace.
It looked like Ogden Van Lennop. It _was_ Ogden Van Lennop. He was
leaving! What did it mean? Her air-castles collapsed with a thud which
left her limp.

She kept on toward the hotel, but her step lagged. What did she care who
saw her now? Surely, she reassured herself, he was not leaving for
good--like this. It was certainly strange.

Entering the hotel through the unlocked office door she found the night
lamp still burning and Terriberry was nowhere about. That was curious,
for he was always up when any of his guests were leaving on the early
train.

Van Lennop's decision must have been sudden. What could be the
explanation?

There was a letter propped against the lamp on a table behind the office
desk and, as she surmised, it was addressed to Mr. Terriberry in Van
Lennop's handwriting. Looking closer she saw the end of a second
envelope behind the first. To whom could he have written? In some
respects Dr. Harpe had the curiosity of a servant and it now prompted
her to walk behind the desk and gratify it.

"Miss Essie Tisdale" was the address on the second envelope. Instantly
her face changed and the swift, jealous rage of the evening before swept
over her again.

She ground her teeth together as she regarded the letter with malice
glittering in her heavy eyes. He was writing to her, then, the little
upstart, that infernal little biscuit-shooter!

Shorty, the cook, was rattling the kitchen range. She listened a moment.
There was no other sound. She thrust the letter quickly beneath the line
of her low-cut bodice and tiptoed up the stairs with slinking, feline
stealth.




XIX

"DOWN AND OUT"


Dr. Harpe ripped open the envelope addressed to Essie Tisdale and
devoured its contents standing by the window, bare-shouldered in the
dawn. Long before she had finished reading her hand shook with
excitement, and her nose looked pinched and drawn about the nostrils. As
a matter of fact the woman was being dealt a staggering blow. Until the
moment she had not herself realized how strongly she had built upon the
outcome of this self-constructed romance of hers.

In her wildest dreams she had not considered Van Lennop's attentions to
Essie Tisdale serious or, indeed, his motives good. That Ogden Van
Lennop had entertained the remotest notion of asking Essie Tisdale to be
his wife was furthest from her thoughts. Yet there it was in black and
white, staring at her in words which burned themselves upon her brain,
searing the deeper because she learned from them that her own deed had
precipitated the crisis.

"I wasn't sure of myself until last night," Van Lennop wrote, "but that
creature's disgraceful act left me in no doubt. If I had been sure of
_you_, Essie Tisdale, I would have put my arm about you then and there
and told that braying crowd that any indignity offered you was offered
to my future wife.

"But I was not sure, I am not sure now, and only business of the utmost
urgency could take me away from you in this state of uncertainty. If you
want me to come back won't you send me a telegram telling me so to the
address I am giving below? Just a word, Essie Tisdale, to let me know
that you care a little bit, that your sweet friendship holds something
more for me than just friendship? I shall haunt the office until I hear
from you, so lose no time."

Further on she read:

"I love you mightily, Essie Tisdale, and I have not closed my eyes for
making plans for you and me. It is quite the most delirious happiness I
have ever known. I long to take you away from Crowheart and place you in
the environment in which you rightly belong, for, while we know nothing
of your parentage, I would stake my life that in it you have no cause
for shame. I am filled with all a lover's eagerness to give, to heap
upon you the things which women like--to share with you my possessions
and my pleasures.

"But in the midst of my castle building comes the chilling thought that
I am taking everything for granted and the fear that I have been
presumptuous in mistaking your dear, loyal comradeship for something
more makes me fairly tremble. I am very humble, Essie Tisdale, when I
think of you, but I am going to believe you will say '_yes_' until you
have said '_no_'."

Dr. Harpe crumpled the letter and hurled it into the farthermost corner
of the room, half sick with a feeling of helplessness, of passionate
regret and despair. She realized to the fullest what she was losing, or,
as she phrased it to herself, what was "slipping through her fingers,"
And this was to be the future of the girl whom it seemed to her she
hated above all others and all else in the world! The thought was
maddening. She strode to and fro, kicking her torn flounce and trailing
skirt out of the way with savage resentment. Van Lennop's letter
temporarily punctured her conceit, chagrin and mortification adding to
her feeling the anguish of that bad half hour. "That creature" he was
calling her while in her ridiculous self-complacency she was drinking to
her Supreme Moment. Oh, it was unbearable! She covered her reddening
face with both hands.

When she raised it at last there was a light in her eyes, new purpose in
her face. Her moment of weakness and defeat had passed. She would make
good her boast that that person was not yet born who could ultimately
defeat her. She would not go so far as to say that in the end she would
marry Van Lennop nor would she admit that it was impossible, but she
swore that whatever else might happen, Essie Tisdale should never be his
wife. In every clash between herself and this girl she had won, so why
not again? There must be--there was--some way to prevent it!

She had no plan in mind as yet, but something would suggest itself, she
knew, for her crafty resourcefulness had helped her since her childhood
in many a tight place, from seemingly hopeless situations. She picked up
the crumpled letter and seating herself by the window smoothed the
sheets upon her knee.

She read it through again, calmly, critically this time, lingering over
the paragraph which hinted at the things he had to offer the woman who
became his wife.

"Diamonds and good clothes that means, a box at the Opera, fine horses
and a limousine. The trollop! the----!" The epithet was the most
offensive that she knew. "He knows she would like such things," she
reasoned.

Her mind was working in a circuitous way toward a definite goal which
she herself had not as yet perceived, but when she did see it, it came
with the flash of inspiration. She all but bounded to her feet and began
to pace the floor in the quick strides of mental excitement. A plan
suddenly outlined itself before her with the clearness of a written
text. Her crushing disappointment was almost forgotten in the keen joy
of working out the details of her plot. If only she could influence
certain minds--could manipulate conditions.

"I can! I _will_!" She emphasized her determination with clenched fist.

After a hasty toilette she surveyed herself in the glass with
satisfaction. The jaded look was fast fading under the stimulus of the
congenial work ahead of her and little trace of her intemperate
indulgence of the night remained.

"You're standing up well under the jolt, Harpe," she commented. "That
letter was sure a body blow."

She seated herself at the breakfast table and in her habitual attitude
of slouching nonchalance sat with half-lowered lids watching Essie
Tisdale as she moved about the dining-room. There was something in her
crouching pose, the cruel eagerness of her eyes, which suggested a bird
of prey, but it was not until they were alone that she asked
carelessly--

"How's the hand, Ess?"

The girl gave no sign of having heard.

"That was rather a bad fall you got."

Essie turned upon her with blazing eyes.

"Not so bad as you intended."

Dr. Harpe laughed softly and asked with a mocking pretence of surprise--

"Why, what do you mean?"

"You know perfectly well that I know you tripped me. You need not
pretend with me. Don't you think I know by this time that you would go
to any length to injure me--in any way--that you already have done so?"

"You flatter me; you overestimate my power."

"Not at all. How can I when I see the evidence of it every day? You have
left me practically without a friend; if that flatters you, enjoy it to
the utmost." The girl's eyes filled with tears.

"Not without _one_," she sneered significantly; "surely you don't mean
that?"

The peach-blow color rose in the girl's cheeks.

"No," she answered with a touch of defiance, "not without one, or two
when it comes to that."

"And who is--the other?"

"I can count on Mrs. Terriberry. Even you have no influence with her,
Dr. Harpe."

"You are very sure of your two friends." The woman slouching over the
table looked more than ever like a bird of prey.

"Very sure," Essie Tisdale answered, again in proud defiance.

"Then of course you know that Van Lennop left Crowheart this morning?"
She drawled the words in cruel enjoyment with her eyes fixed upon the
girl's face.

Her eyes shone malevolently as she saw it blanch.

"Didn't he tell you he was going? I'm amazed."

The girl stood in stunned silence.

"Yes, a telegram sent him to Mexico to look after some important
interests there. Quite unexpected. He left a letter for me saying
good-by and regretting that he would not be back. So you see, my dear
Essie, that when it comes to the actual count your friends have
simmered down to one." It was not enough that she should crush her, she
wanted somehow to wring from her a cry of pain.

"You made a fool of yourself over him, Ess! The whole town laughed at
you. You should have known that a man like Van Lennop, of his position,
doesn't take a biscuit-shooter seriously. Green as you are you should
have known that. You've ruined yourself in Crowheart, doggin' his
footsteps every time he turned and all that sort of thing; he simply
couldn't shake you. You're done for here; you're down and out and you
might as well quit the flat. It's the best thing you can do, or marry
the first man that asks you and settle down."

Essie Tisdale looked at her, speechless with pain and shock. She had no
reply; in the face of such a leave-taking there seemed nothing for her
to say. Every taunt was like a stab in her aching heart because she felt
they must be true. It _was_ true, else he would not have left her
without a word. What did it all mean? How could such sincerity be false!
Was no one true in all the world? Oh, the sickening misery of it all--of
life!

She turned away and left the dining-room, swaying a little as she
walked.

Dr. Harpe returned to her room with a smirk of deep satisfaction upon
her face.

"I soaked the knife home _that_ time," she murmured, pinning on her
stiff-brimmed Stetson before the mirror, but, mingled with her
gratification was a slight feeling of uneasiness because she had gone
farther than she had intended in mentioning Van Lennop's letter and
boasting that it had been left for her.

The pair of horses which she and Lamb owned in common was at the stable
already harnessed for their semi-weekly trip to the camps along the
Ditch, but Dr. Harpe turned their heads in the opposite direction and by
noon had reached the sheep-camp of old Edouard Dubois.

She hitched her horses to the shearing-pen and opened the unlocked door
of the cabin. A pan of freshly-made biscuit and a table covered with
unwashed breakfast dishes told her that the cabin was being occupied, so
she reasoned that it was safer to wait until some one returned than to
search the hills for Dubois.

A barking sheep-dog told her of some one's approach, and in relief she
went out to meet him, for she was restless and impatient of any delay.
But instead of the lumbering old French Canadian she saw the <DW55> Duke
coming leisurely from a near-by coulee, picturesque in the unpicturesque
garb of a sheep-herder.

If there was no welcoming smile upon her face the <DW55> Duke was the last
person to be embarrassed by the omission.

"Ah, 'Angels unawares' and so forth." The <DW55> Duke swept his hat from
his head in a low bow. "A rare pleasure, Doctor, to return and find a
lady----"

She flushed at the mocking emphasis.

"Cut that out; any fool can be sarcastic."

"You surprise and pain me. If it is sarcasm to refer to you as a
lady----?"

"Where's Dubois?"

He waved his hand toward the coulee and she walked away.

The <DW55> Duke looked after her with an expression of amused speculation
in his handsome eyes. What deviltry was she up to now?

"Addio, mia bella Napoli," he whistled. "Addio! addio!" What difference
did it make so long as she confined her activities to Dubois?--since he
had no more liking for one than the other.

The <DW55> Duke had applied to Dubois for work as a sheep-herder and got
it.

After the memorable midnight session with pink lizards and the Gila
monster, the <DW55> Duke applied for work as a sheep-herder and got it,
chiefly because of his indifference to the question of wages.

"I want to get away from the gilded palaces of vice and my solicitous
friends; I want to lead the simple, virtuous life of a sheep-herder
until my system recovers from a certain shock," explained the applicant
glibly, "and something within me tells me that you are not the man to
refuse a job to a youth filled with such a worthy ambition."

Dubois grinned understandingly and gave him work at half a
sheep-herder's usual pay.

Whatever the nature of Dr. Harpe's business with his employer, the
interview appeared to have been eminently satisfactory to them both, for
she was smiling broadly, while Dubois seemed not only excited but elated
when they returned together.

He looked after her buggy as she drove away, and chuckled--

"Ha--she brings me good news--zat woman!"

While the <DW55> Duke was warming up the fried potatoes and bacon, which
remained from breakfast, over the rusty camp-stove, Dubois was diving
under his bunk for a box from which he produced a yellowed shirt and
collar, together with a suit of black clothes, nearly new.

"Per Iddio! 'Tis the Day of Judgment and you've gotten inside
information!" jeered the <DW55> Duke.

Dubois showed his yellowed teeth.

"Mais oui, 'eet is ze Resurrection."

"I swear, you look like Napoleon, Dubois!" gibed the <DW55> Duke, when he
was fully arrayed.

"Why not?" The Frenchman's face wore a complacent smirk. "Ze Little
Corporal, _he_ married a queen."

The frying-pan of fried potatoes all but dropped from the <DW55> Duke's
hand, while his employer enjoyed to the utmost the amazement upon his
face.

"The lady doc?"

Dubois threw up both hands in vehement protest.

"Non, non! Mon Dieu, non, non!"

The <DW55> Duke shrugged his shoulders impertinently.

"You aim higher, perhaps?"

"Mais certes," he leered. "Old Dubois has thirty thousand sheep."

"To exchange for----"

"A queen, ze belle of Crowheart--Mees Essie Teesdale!"

The <DW55> Duke stared and continued to regard his employer fixedly. Essie
Tisdale! Had the solitude affected the old man's mind at last? Was he
crazy? How else account for the preposterous suggestion, his colossal
egotism? Why, Essie Tisdale, even to the <DW55> Duke's critical eye, was
like a delicately tinted prairie rose, while old Dubois with his
iron-gray hair bristling on his bullet-shaped head, his thick,
furrow-encircled neck, his swarthy, obstinate, brutal face, was
seventy, a remarkable seventy, it is true, but seventy, and far from
prepossessing. It was too absurd! It must be one of the lady doc's
practical jokes--it was sufficiently indelicate, he told himself. At any
rate he would soon see Dubois returning crestfallen from his courting
expedition, and the sight, he felt, was one he should relish.

"I'll reserve my congratulations until you come," said the <DW55> Duke as
he picked up his sheep-herder's staff and returned to his band of sheep.

"You will have ze opportunity, my frien'," grinned Dubois confidently.

Dr. Harpe had advised--

"Give her a night to cry her eyes out. Twenty-four hours will put a
crimp in her courage. Let the fact that she's jilted soak in. Give her
time to realize what she's up against in Crowheart."

And the woman had been right in her reasoning, for a night of tears and
grief, of shame and humiliation left Essie Tisdale with weakened
courage, mentally and physically spent.

Back of everything, above all else loomed in black and gigantic
proportions the fact that Van Lennop had gone away forever without a
word to her, that he even had thought less of her when it came to
leaving than of the woman whom he had seemed to avoid.

In the long hours of the night her tired brain constantly recalled the
things which he had said that had made her glow with happiness at the
time, but which she knew now were only the pleasant, idle words of the
people who came from the world east of the big hills. Dr. Harpe was
right when she had told her that in her ignorance of the world and its
men she had misunderstood the kindness Van Lennop would have shown to
any person in her position.

"But he didn't show it to her--he didn't show it to anyone else but me!"
she would whisper in a fierce joy, which was short-lived, for,
instantly, the crushing remembrance of his leave-taking confronted her.

Her face burned in the darkness when she remembered that Dr. Harpe had
taunted her with having displayed her love to all the town. She no
longer made any attempt to conceal it from herself, the sure knowledge
had come with Van Lennop's departure, and she whispered it aloud in the
darkness in glorious defiance, but the mood as quickly passed and her
face flamed scarlet at the thought that she had unwittingly showed her
precious secret to the unfriendly and curious.

She crept from bed and sat on the floor, with her folded arms upon the
window-sill, finding the night air good upon her hot face. She felt
weak, the weakness of black despair, for it seemed to her that her faith
in human nature had received its final shock. If only there was some one
upon whose shoulder she could lay her head she imagined that it might
not be half so hard. There was Mrs. Terriberry, but after what had
happened could she be sure even of Mrs. Terriberry? Could any
inconsequential person like herself be sure of anybody if it conflicted
with their interests? It seemed not. She shrank from voicing the
thought, but the truth was she dared not put Mrs. Terriberry's
friendship to any test.

"The best way to have friends," she whispered bitterly with a lump in
her aching throat, "is not to need them."

She dreaded the beginning of another day, but it must be gotten through
somehow, and not only that day but the day after that and all the
innumerable, dreary days ahead of her. Finally she crept shivering to
bed to await the ordeal of another to-morrow.

The long shadows of the afternoon's sun lay in the backyard of the
Terriberry House when Essie sat down in the doorway to rest before her
evening's work began. The girl's sad face rested in the palm of her hand
and her shoulders drooped wearily as Mrs. Abe Tutts in her blue flannel
yachting cap came down the road beside her friend Mrs. Jackson, who
rustled richly in the watered silk raincoat which advertised the fact
that she was either going to or returning from a social function. Mrs.
Jackson's raincoat was a sure signal of social activity.

"Let's walk up clost along the fence and see how she's takin' it,"
suggested Mrs. Tutts amiably. "Gittin' the mitten is some of a pill to
swaller. Don't you speak to her, Mis' Jackson?"

Mrs. Jackson glanced furtively over her shoulder and observed that Mrs.
Symes was still standing on the veranda.

"If I come upon her face to face, but I don't go out of my way a-tall,"
she added in unconscious imitation of Mrs. Symes's newly-acquired
languor of speech. "One rully can't afford to after her bein' _so_
indiscreet and all."

"Rotten, I says" declared Mrs. Tutts tersely.

"She looks kinda pale around the gills s'well as I can see from here,"
opined Mrs. Jackson, staring critically as they passed along. They
tittered audibly. "I tell you what, Mrs. Tutts, Essie ought to get to
work and marry some man what'll put her right up in society where Alva
put me."

A biting comment which it caused Mrs. Tutts real suffering to suppress
was upon the tip of that lady's tongue, but it was gradually being borne
in upon her that the first families were not given to actual
hand-to-hand conflicts, so she checked it and inquired significantly
instead--

"But could he, after ridin' over the country t'hout no chaperon and
all?"

Mrs. Tutts had only recently found out about chaperons and their
function, but, since she had she insisted upon them fiercely, and Mrs.
Jackson was finally forced to admit that this violation of the
conventions was indeed hard to overlook.

Essie Tisdale was too unhappy either to observe the passing of the women
or their failure to recognize her. In the presence of this new, real
grief their friendliness or lack of it seemed a small affair. The only
thing which mattered was Ogden Van Lennop's going. The sun, for her, had
gone down and with the inexperience of youth she did not believe it ever
would rise again.

The girl sat motionless, her chin still resting in her palm, until a
tremulous voice behind her spoke her name.

"Essie."

She turned to see Mrs. Terriberry, buttoned into her steel-
bodice and obviously flustered.

"Yes?" There was a trace of wonder in her voice.

At the sight of the pale face the girl upturned to her, Mrs.
Terriberry's courage nearly failed her in the task to which she had
nerved herself.

"Essie," she faltered, twisting her rings nervously, finally blurting
out, "I'm afraid you'll have to go, Essie."

The girl started violently.

"Go?" she gasped. "Go?"

Mrs. Terriberry nodded, relieved that it was out.

"But why? Why?" It seemed too incredible to believe. This was the very
last thing she had expected, or thought of.

Mrs. Terriberry avoided her eyes; it was even harder than she had
anticipated. Why hadn't she let "Hank" Terriberry tell her himself! Mrs.
Terriberry was one of that numerous class whose naturally kind hearts
are ever warring with their bump of caution.

She was sorry now that she had been so impulsive in telling him all that
Dr. Harpe had whispered over the afternoon tea at Mrs. Symes's now
fashionable Thursday "At Home." It was the first of the coveted cards
which Mrs. Terriberry had received and Dr. Harpe took care to adroitly
convey the information that the invitation was due to her, and Mrs.
Terriberry was correspondingly grateful.

"You can't afford to keep her; you simply can't afford it, Mrs.
Terriberry," Dr. Harpe had whispered earnestly in a confidential corner.

"But," she had protested in feeble loyalty, "but I _like_ Essie."

"Of course you do," Dr. Harpe had agreed magnanimously; "so do I; she's
a really beautiful girl, but you know how it is in a small town and I am
telling you for your own good that you can't afford to harbor her."

"I couldn't think of turning her out just when she needs a friend," Mrs.
Terriberry had replied with some decision, and Dr. Harpe's face had
hardened slightly at the answer.

"It's your own affair, naturally," she had returned indifferently; "but
I'll have to find accomodations elsewhere. If living in the same house
would injure me professionally, merely a boarder, you can guess what it
will do to you in a business way, and," she had added significantly,
"socially."

Mrs. Terriberry had looked startled. After hanging to the fringe until
she was all but exhausted, it was small wonder that she had no desire to
again go through the harrowing experience of overcoming Society's
objections to a hotelkeeper's wife.

"Certainly I don't blame you for hanging on to her as long as you can,"
Dr. Harpe had added, "and of course you would be the last to hear all
the gossip that there is about her. But, on the whole, isn't it rather a
high price to pay for--well, for a biscuit-shooter's friendship? Such
people really don't count, you know."

Mrs. Terriberry who had once shot biscuits in a "Harvey's Eating House"
murmured meekly--

"Of course not." But instantly ashamed of her weak disloyalty she had
declared with a show of spirit, "However, unless Hank says she must go
she can stay, for Essie has come pretty close to bein' like my own girl
to me."

Dr. Harpe had been satisfied to let it rest at that, for she felt sure
enough of Terriberry's answer.

"He needs my money, but if more pressure is necessary,"--she sniggered
at the recollection of Mr. Terriberry's sentimental leanings--"I can
spend an hour with him in the light of the 'meller moon.'"

Again Dr. Harpe was right. Mr. Terriberry needed the money, also his
fears took instant alarm at the thought of losing so popular and
influential a guest, one, who, as he told Mrs. Terriberry emphatically,
could do him a power of harm. The actual dismissal of the girl who had
grown to womanhood under his eyes he wisely left to his wife.

The girl stood up now, a slender, swaying figure: white, desolate, with
uplifted arms outstretched, she looked like a storm-whipped flower.

"Oh, what shall I do! Where shall I go!"

The low, broken-hearted cry of despair set Mrs. Terriberry's plain face
in lines of distress.

"Essie, Essie, don't feel so bad!" she begged chokingly.

The girl's answer was a swift look of bitter reproach.

"You can stay here until you find some place that suits you."

The girl shook her head.

"To-morrow I'll go--somewhere."

"Don't feel hard toward me, Essie," and she would have taken the girl's
hand, but she drew it quietly away and stood with folded arms in an
attitude of aloofness which was new to her.

"It's not that; it's only that I don't want your--pity. I don't think
that I want anything you have to give. You have hurt me; you have cut me
to the quick and something is happening--has happened--_here_!" She laid
both hands upon her heart. "I feel still and cold and sort
of--impersonal inside."

"Oh, Essie!"

"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Terriberry. You like me--you like me very
much, but you are one kind of a coward, and of what value is a coward's
friendship or regard? I don't mean to be impertinent--I'm just trying to
explain how I feel. In your heart you believe in me, but you are
afraid--afraid of public opinion--afraid of being left out of the teas
and card parties which mean more to you than I do. You've known me all
my life and fail me at the first test."

"I hate to hear you talk like that; it doesn't sound like Essie
Tisdale." But in her heart she knew the girl was right. She was a
coward; she had not the requisite courage to set her face against the
crowd, but must needs turn and run with them while every impulse and
instinct within her pulled the other way.

"Doesn't it?" The girl smiled bitterly. "Why should it? Can't you
see--don't you understand that you've helped kill _that_ Essie
Tisdale--that blundering, ignorant Essie Tisdale who liked everybody and
believed in everybody as she thought they liked and believed in her?"

"Dear me! oh, dear me!" Mrs. Terriberry rubbed her forehead and groaned
pathetically.

Any consecutive line of thought outside the usual channels pulled Mrs.
Terriberry down like a spell of sickness. She looked jaded from the
present conversation and her thoughts ran together bewilderingly.

"I know to-night how an outlaw feels when the posse's at his heels and
he rides with murder in his heart," the girl went on with hardness in
her young voice. "I know to-night why he makes them pay dear for his
life when he takes his last stand behind a rock."

"Oh, Essie, don't!" Mrs. Terriberry wrung her garnet and
moonstone-ringed fingers together in distress. "You mustn't get
reckless!"

"What real difference does it make to you or anybody else how I get?"
she demanded fiercely, and added: "You are showing me how much when you
advertise to all the town by turning me out that you believe their evil
tongues."

"I'm goin' to talk to Hank again----" but Essie stopped her with a
vehement gesture.

"You needn't. I don't want pity, I tell you, I don't want favors. I am
going to-morrow. There is some way out. There is a place in the world
for me somewhere and I'll find it."

She turned away and walked toward the corral where the black omnibus
horses nickered softly at her coming, while Alphonse and Gaston stood on
their hind legs and squealed a vociferous welcome.

"My only friends----" and she smiled bitterly.

She winced when she saw a new face passing the kitchen door and realized
that Mr. Terriberry already had filled her place. It was only one small
thing more, but it brought again the feeling that the world was sinking
beneath her feet.

She stood for a long time with her forehead resting on her folded arms
which lay upon the top rail of the corral. The big 'bus horses shoved
her gently with their soft muzzles, impatient to be noticed, but she did
not lift her head until a step upon the hard-trodden yard roused her
from her apathy of dull misery. She glanced around indifferently to see
old Edouard Dubois lumbering toward her in the fast gathering dusk.

Dubois's self-conscious, ingratiating smile did not fade because she
drew her arched eyebrows together in a slight frown. It took more than
an unwelcoming face to divert the obstinate old Frenchman from any
purpose firmly fixed in his mind.

"Ha--I am ver' glad to find you alone, Mees Teesdale, I lak have leetle
talk with you." There was a purposeful look behind his set smile of
agreeableness.

She shrank from him a little as he came close to her, but he appeared
not to notice the movement, and went on--

"I hear you are in trouble--eh? I hear you get fire from ze hotel?"

Again the girl's face took on its new look of bitterness. That was the
way in which they were expressing it, spreading the news throughout the
town. They were losing no time--her friends.

"'Fired' is the word when a biscuit-shooter is dismissed," she returned
coldly.

"I hear you get lef' by that loafer, too. I tole you, mam'selle, that
fellow Van Lennop no good. I know that kind, I see that kind before,
Mees Teesdale. Lak every pretty girl an' have good time, then
'pouf!--zat is all!"

She turned upon him hotly, her face a mixture of humiliation and angry
resentment.

"You can't criticise him to me, Mr. Dubois! I won't listen. If I have
been fool enough to misunderstand his kindness that's my fault, not
his."

Dubois's eyes became suddenly inscrutable. After a moment's silence he
said quietly--

"You love heem, I think. Zat iss too bad for you. What you do now, Mees
Teesdale? Where you go?"

He saw that her clasped hands tightened at the question, though she
replied calmly--

"I don't know, not yet."

"Perhaps you marry me, mam'selle? I ask you once--I haf not change my
mind."

She stared at him with a kind of terror in her eyes.

Was _this_ her way out! Was this the place that somewhere in the world
she had declared defiantly was meant for her? Was it the purpose of the
Fates to crowd her down and out--until she was glad to fill it--a
punishment for her ambitions--for daring to believe she was intended for
some other life than this?

Upon that previous occasion when the old Frenchman had made her the
offer of marriage which had seemed so grotesque and impossible at the
time, he had asserted in his pique, "You might be glad to marry old
Edouard Dubois some day," and she had turned her back upon him in light
contempt--now she was, not glad, she could never be that, but grateful.

"But I--don't love you." Her voice sounded strained and hoarse.

"Zat question I did not ask you--I ask you will you marry me?" He did
not wait for an answer, but went on persuasively, yet stating the bald
and hopeless facts that seemed so crushing to her youth and
inexperience. "You have no parent--no home, Mees Teesdale; you have no
money and not so many friend in Crowheart. You marry me and all is
change. You have good home and many friends, because," he chuckled
shrewdly, "when I die you have thirty thousand sheep. Plenty sheep,
plenty friends, my girl. How you like be the richest woman in this big
county, mam'selle?"

The girl was listening, that was something; and she was thinking hard.

Money! how they all harped upon it!--when she had thought the most
important thing in the world was love. Even Ogden Van Lennop she
remembered had called it the great essential and now she saw that old
Edouard Dubois who had lived for seventy years regarded it in a wholly
reverent light.

"When you marry me you have no more worry, no more trouble, no more
tears."

Her lips moved; she was repeating to herself--

"No more worry, no more trouble, no more tears."

She was bewildered with the problems which confronted her, frightened by
the overwhelming odds against her, tired of thinking, sick to death of
the humiliation of her position. She stopped the guttural, wheedling
voice with a quick, vehement gesture.

"Give me time to think--give me until to-morrow morning."

"What time to-morrow morning?"

"At ten o'clock,"--there was desperation in her face--"at ten to-morrow
I will tell you 'yes' or 'no.'"

She was clutching at a straw, clinging to a faint hope which had not
entirely deserted her: she might yet get a letter from Van Lennop, just
a line to let her know that he cared enough to send it; and if it came,
a single sentence, she knew well enough what her answer to Dubois would
be.

"Until to-morrow." The old Frenchman bowed low in clumsy and
unaccustomed politeness, but gloating satisfaction shone from his
deep-set eyes, small and hard as two gray marbles.




XX

AN UNFORTUNATE AFFAIR


Billy Duncan was in a bad way, so it was reported to the men upon the
works, and the men to show their sympathy and liking for the
fair-haired, happy-go-lucky Billy Duncan made up a purse of $90 and sent
it to him by Dan Treu, the big deputy-sheriff, who also was Billy
Duncan's friend.

"It'll buy fruit for the kid, something to read, and a special nurse if
he needs one," they told the deputy and they gave the money with the
warmest of good wishes.

Dan Treu took their gift to the hospital, and Billy Duncan burst into
tears when he saw him.

"Oh, come, come! Buck up, Billy, you're goin' to pull through all
right."

"Dan! Dan! Take me out of here--take me away! Quick!"

The deputy looked his surprise.

"What's the matter, Billy? What's wrong?"

"Everything's wrong, Dan, everything!" His voice was shrill in his
weakness. "I'm goin' to croak if you don't get me out of here!"

Dan Treu bent over him and patted his shoulder as he would have
comforted a child.

"There, there, don't talk like that, Billy. You're not goin' to croak.
You're a little down in the mouth, that's all." He glanced around the
tiny room. "It looks clean and comfortable here; you're lucky to have a
place like this to go to and Doc's a blamed good fellow. She'll pull you
through."

"But she ain't, Dan--she ain't anything that we thought. Lay here sick
if you want to find her out. She thinks we don't count, us fellows on
the works, and Lamb's no better, only he's more sneakin'--he hasn't her
gall." He searched the deputy's face for a moment then cried pitifully,
"You don't believe me, Dan. You think I'm sore about something and
stretchin' the truth. It's so, Dan--I tell you they left me here the
night I was brought in until the next forenoon without touchin' my arm.
They've never half cleaned the hole out. It's swelled to the shoulder
and little pieces of my shirt keep sloughing out. Any cowpuncher with a
jack-knife could do a better job than they have done. They don't know
how, Dan, and what's worse they don't care!"

He reached for the deputy's hand and clung to it as he begged again--

"My God! Dan, won't you believe me and get me out of here? Honest,
honest, I'm goin' to die if you don't!"

In his growing excitement the boy's voice rose to a penetrating pitch
and it brought Lamb quickly from the office in the front. He looked
disconcerted for an instant when he saw the deputy, for he had not known
of his presence in the hospital. Glancing from one to the other he read
something of the situation in Billy Duncan's excited face and Dan Treu's
puzzled look. Stepping back from the doorway he beckoned the deputy into
the hall.

"I guess he was talkin' wild, wasn't he?" He walked out of the sick
boy's hearing. "Kickin', wasn't he?"

Dan Treu hesitated.

"I thought as much," nodded Lamb. "But you mustn't pay any attention to
him. His fever's way up and he's out of his head most of the time."

"He seems to think his arm ain't had the care it should,"--Treu's voice
was troubled--"that the wound ain't clean and it's swellin' bad."

Lamb laughed.

"His hallucination; he's way off at times. Everything's been done for
him. We like the boy and he's havin' the best of care. Why, we couldn't
afford to have it get around that we neglect our patients, so you see
what he says ain't sense."

The deputy-sheriff's face cleared gradually at Lamb's explanation and
solicitude.

"Yes, I guess he is a little 'off,' though I must say he don't exactly
look it. But do all you can for him, Lamb, for Billy's a fine chap at
heart and he's a friend of mine. The boys have raised some money for any
extras that he wants--I put it under his pillow."

Lamb brightened perceptibly.

"That's a good thing, because seein' as how he wasn't hurt on the works
he'll have to pay like any private patient and of course we'd like to
see where our money is comin' from. I've asked him for the money--his
week is up to-day--but he don't seem to think he owes it."

"Kind of strikes me the same way," replied the deputy obviously
surprised.

"That's accordin' to contract--that's the written agreement." Lamb's
nasal voice immediately became argumentative.

"It may be that,"--the deputy looked at him soberly--"but it don't sound
like common humanity to me--or fairness. He's been paying a dollar a
month to you and your hospital ever since it started and hundreds of
men who have no need of its services have been doin' the same, and I
must say, Lamb, it sounds like pretty small potatoes for you to charge
him for an outside accident like this because your contract will let you
do it and get away with it."

"We ain't here for our health, be we?" demanded Lamb, offensively on the
defensive.

"It don't look like it," Treu replied shortly.

"But he'll want for nothin' while he's under our care." Lamb's tone grew
suddenly conciliatory. "You'd better go now, your presence excites him
and he must have quiet. Step to the door and say good-by, if you like,
but no conversation, please."

"Adios, Billy!" The deputy thrust his head and broad shoulders in the
doorway. "I'll come again soon."

"Good-by, Dan, good-by for keeps, old man. I don't believe I'll be here
when you come again." All the excitement was gone and the boy spoke in
the quiet voice of conviction. "You're quittin' me, Dan. You don't
believe me and the jig's up. You'd risk your life to save me if I was
drowning or up against it in a fight, but you're walkin' away and
leavin' me here to die. You don't believe me now, but I know you're
goin' to find out some time for yourself that I'm tellin' the truth when
I say that I've been murdered. There's more ways to kill a man than with
a gun. Ignorance and neglect does the trick as well. Tell the boys 'much
obliged,' Dan." He turned his white face to the wall and the tears
slipped hot from beneath his lashes.

Dan Treu's troubled eyes sought Lamb's, who waited in the hallway.

"He'll be himself when you come again," said Lamb reassuringly. "We're
doin' everything to git his fever down. Don't let his talk worry you."

But in spite of Lamb's confident assurance Dan Treu walked away from the
hospital filled with a sense of oppression which lasted throughout the
day. The next morning he heard upon the street that they had amputated
Billy Duncan's arm.

"Amputated Billy Duncan's arm!" The deputy-sheriff kept saying it over
and over to himself as he hurried to the hospital. He was shocked; he
was filled with a regret that was personal in its poignancy. He knew
exactly what such a loss meant to Billy Duncan, who earned his living
with his hands and gloried in his strength--independent young Billy
Duncan an object of pity in his mutilated manhood! Dan Treu could not
entirely realize it yet.

Lamb met him at the hospital door as though he had awaited his coming.

"Blood-poisonin' set in," he began with a haste which seemed due to
excitement. "Developed sudden. Had to amputate to save his life. He was
willin' enough; he knew it was for the best, his only chance in fact."

Dan Treu was seized with a sudden aversion for Lamb's shifty,
dark-circled eyes, his unconvincing nasal voice.

"Blood-poisonin' set in, you say?" He eyed Lamb steadily.

"His habits, you know, battin' around and all that. Bad blood."

"Bad blood--hell!" said Dan Treu sharply. "His blood was as good as
yours or mine, and his habits too."

He made to step inside, but Lamb stopped him.

"He hasn't come out of the ether yet--I'll let you know when you can see
him."

There was nothing more to say, so Dan Treu turned on his heel and walked
away, angry, sceptical--without exactly knowing why.

The aversion which Lamb had inspired was still strong within him when he
stopped on a street corner to ruminate and incidentally roll a
cigarette.

"When he gets close I feel like I do when a wet dog comes out of the
crick and is goin' to shake." The deputy felt uncommonly pleased with
the simile which so well described his feelings.

Dan Treu did not receive the promised notification that Billy Duncan was
in a condition to be seen, which was not strange, since Billy Duncan was
dying--dying because a man and woman whose diplomas licensed them to
juggle with human life and limb were unable in their ignorance and
inexperience to stop the flow of blood. Vital, life-loving,
happy-go-lucky Billy Duncan lay limp on his narrow bed in the bare,
white room, filled with a great heart-sickness at the uselessness of it,
the helpless ignominy of dying like a stuck pig! With a last effort he
turned his head upon his pillow and through the window by his bedside
watched the colors of the distant foothills change from gold to
purple--purple like the shadows of the Big Dark for which he was bound.
And when at last the night shut out the world he loved so well, Billy
Duncan coughed--a choking, strangling cough and died alone.

Nell Beecroft learned it first when she brought the soup and prunes
which she was pleased to call his supper. She set the tray upon the bed
and stood with arms akimbo looking down upon him. The boyish look of
him as he lay so still brought the thought home to her for the first
time that somewhere in the world there was some one--a mother--a woman
like herself who loved young Billy Duncan. She stooped and with rough
gentleness brushed a lock of fair hair from his forehead.

"Poor devil!" she murmured.

"He's dead." She conveyed the news shortly when Lamb came to make his
nightly round.

"Who?"

"The kid--Billy Duncan."

Lamb looked startled. It had come sooner than he thought. Recovering
himself, he wagged his head and sighed in his pious whine:

"Ah, truly, 'the wages of sin is death.' Altogether a most unfortunate
affair, but no human skill could save him." His voice faltered a little,
at the end, for pretence seemed ridiculous beneath Nell Beecroft's hard
eyes, and her unpleasant laugh nettled him as she strode back to the
kitchen.

Yes, Billy Duncan was dead--there was no doubt about that--perfectly and
safely dead. There was no question of it in Dr. Lamb's mind when he
slipped his hand beneath the pillow and withdrew the $90 which Billy
Duncan had so obstinately refused to turn over toward his hospital
expenses. Ninety dollars; yes, it was all there; Lamb counted it
carefully. Little enough for the trouble and anxiety he had been. The
eminent surgeon's waistcoat bulged with the gift of Billy Duncan's
friends when he closed the door behind him.

A curious stillness came over Dan Treu when Lamb himself brought the
news that Billy Duncan was dead. His jaw dropped slightly and he forgot
to smoke.

"The shock--his weakened condition--it was to be expected, though we
hoped for the best." Lamb found it something of an effort to speak
naturally beneath the Deputy-sheriff's fixed gaze. "But he wanted for
nothing. Me and the nurse was with him at the last."

A mist blurred Dan Treu's eyes and he turned abruptly on his heel.

"Wait a minute! Ahem! there's one thing more."

The deputy halted.

"You will arrange with the County about his funeral expenses?"

"With the County? Billy Duncan's no pauper."

"Why ain't he? I've been around and found out he's got nothin' in the
bank."

"You have?" He eyed Lamb for a moment. "Billy Duncan will not be buried
by the County," he finished curtly.

"I'm glad to hear that," said Lamb conciliatingly, and added: "Of course
you're not counting on that $90?"

"There must be some left."

"Oh, no--nothing. Arm amputations are a $100. We are really out
$10--more than that with his board and all, but"--his tone was
magnanimity itself--"let it go."

When the Deputy-sheriff went out on the works and raised $125 more among
Billy Duncan's friends, he handed it to Lutz, the hospital undertaker,
and said--

"The best you can do for the money, Lutz. I've got to go to the County
seat on a case and I can't be here myself. Billy was a personal friend
of mine, so treat him right."

"Sure; we can turn him out first-class for that money; a new suit of
clothes and a tony coffin. Any friend of yours I'll handle like he was
my own."

There was something slightly jocular in his tone, a flippancy which Dan
Treu felt and silently resented. He looked at Lutz in his shiny, black
diagonals, undersized, sallow, his meaningless brown eyes as dull as the
eyes of a dead fish, and he thought to himself as he walked away--

"That feller's in the right business, and, by gosh, he's thrown in with
the right bunch."

The grave-digger's mouth puckered in a whistle when Lutz went to his
home to notify him that his services were needed.

"What! Another!"

The undertaker grinned.

"I'm about used up from gittin' robbed of my rest," complained the
grave-digger. "This night-work ain't to my taste."

"It's no use kickin'; you know what Lamb says--that these daylight
buryin's makes talk amongst the neighbors."

"Should think it would," retorted the grave-digger, "with them typhoids
dyin' like flies."

"I thought of a joke, Lem."

"Undertakin' is a comical business; what is it?"

"When an undertaker's sick ought he to go to the doctor what gives him
the most work or the least?"

"You got me; I'll think it over and let you know."

In spite of his garrulous complaints the grave-digger was at work in a
new grave on the sagebrush flat a mile or more from town when the
undertaker and the liveryman drove up at midnight with all that remained
of Billy Duncan jolting in the box of a lumber wagon.

The coffin of unplaned lumber was unloaded at the grave and the
liveryman hastened away, for he himself had no liking for these
nocturnal drives, but neither was he the man to quarrel with his own
interests. If the Health Officer and His Honor, the mayor, asked no
questions when the hospital deaths went unreported, he felt that these
frequent midnight pilgrimages were no concern of his.

The undertaker peered into the shallow grave.

"This hole looks like a chicken had been dustin' itself."

"You'd think it was deep enough if you was diggin' in these rocks and
drawin' only $5.00 for it," was the tart reply. "I told you I wouldn't
dig but three feet for that money. 'Tain't like diggin' in nice, easy
Nebrasky soil. Gimme $10 a grave an' I'll dig 'em regalation depth."

"Quit jawin' and take holt of this here box."

"Is he heavy?"

"Never heard of any of 'em comin' out of there fat. Slide the strap
under your end."

"He's heavier than most," grunted the grave-digger. "He couldn't a been
in there long."

Lutz laughed.

"They made a quick job of this one. Steady now--let her slide."

The grave-digger was sleepy and cross and careless. The strap slipped
through his fingers and the box fell with a heavy thud. It fell upon its
side and the lid came off.

"My God!" The grave-digger was staring into the hole with all his
bulging eyes.

"You fool! You clumsy, blunderin' fool!"

The epithet passed unheard, for the grave-digger was looking at the
stark body rolled in a soiled blanket now lying face downward in the
dirt of the grave.

"Jump in there and put him back!" cried Lutz excitedly.

The grave-digger backed off and shook his head emphatically.

"Not _me_!"

"What are you here for--you?"

"Not for jobs like this; this sure don't look right to me."

"What do I care how it looks to you! Get busy and help me roll him back
and be quick about it!"

"I ain't paid for no such crooked work as this."

"Crooked?"

"I've heard it straight that every pauper had a suit o' clothes, a
coffin, a six-foot grave, and a headboard comin' to him from the County.
That's the law."

"Look here, Lem, use a little sense. Now what's the use spendin' County
money on these paupers from God knows where? That's a good blanket."

"Oh, yes, that's a peach of a blanket. Kind of a shame to waste such a
good blanket, ain't it? Why don't you take it off him? He'll never tell.
But say, are you sure the County don't pay for that suit of clothes and
coffin and six feet of diggin' he didn't git?"

"Are you goin' to lend a hand here or not?"

"Not." The grave-digger picked up his shovel and started off looking
like a gnome in the moonlight under his high-crowned Stetson.

"Come back here! Don't be a fool."

"I'm not the man you're lookin' for," he replied stubbornly.

The undertaker started after him and laid a hand roughly upon his arm.

"See here, Lem, you goin' to blab this all over town?"

Remembering the graves he had dug for $5.00, the grave-digger began to
enjoy Lutz's anxiety.

"Can't tell what I'll do when I get a few drinks in me."

"You start somethin' and you'll be sorry." Lutz's tone was threatening.

"I'm naturally truthful; I aims to stick strictly to facts if I does
talk."

"Facts don't cut any ice in a libel suit," replied the undertaker
significantly.

Libel suit! That sounded like the law and the grave-digger had a poor
man's fear of the law. There was less assurance in his voice when he
asserted--

"No man don't own me."

"I don't want to see you get in trouble, Lem, and I'm tellin' you for
your own good that you better keep your trap shut on this. Who'd believe
you if you'd tell any such story? You couldn't prove anything with the
mayor and town officer against you if it was anything likely to get out
and hurt the town. Who of Lamb and Harpe's friends that see them pikin'
off to church every Sunday, singin' their sa'ms and the first at the
altar of a Communion Sunday, who, I say, would believe us if we'd tell
what we knew about that hospital and the whole lot more that we suspect?
They could bluff you out because you haven't got the money it would take
to prove you're right. Come back here and behave yourself and I'll try
and get you that $10."

"If I wasn't a family man----" mumbled the grave-digger.

"But you are, and it's no use bein' squeamish over somethin' that's none
of your business. This is your bread and butter."

It was the argument which has tied men's tongues since the world began
and it never grows less effective. The shovel dropped from the
grave-digger's shoulder.

"Hop in here and help me roll him back."

The grave-digger reluctantly obeyed.

"This looks fierce to me." He wiped the cold perspiration from his
forehead.

"Take a rock and hammer in them shingle-nails and forget it!"

When Dan Treu returned from his business trip to the County seat the
undertaker met him smilingly.

"I made a fine show for the money, Dan; you'd have been pleased.
Everything was plain but good and went off without a slip. I handled him
as I promised--like he was my own."

The few in Crowheart who heard the story laughed openly at the statement
which Giovanni Pelezzo made when he returned to camp one day and
declared that while seated in the doorway of the operating room of the
hospital he had turned in time to see Dr. Harpe take five dollars and
some small change from the pocket of his cousin Antonio Pelezzo, whom
she had etherized for a minor operation.

Although Antonio turned his empty pockets inside out to verify
Giovanni's stoutly reiterated assertion, the camp ridiculed their story
and none laughed more heartily at the absurdity of the tale than Dr.
Harpe herself. When she declared that it was only one illustration of
the lengths to which ignorant and suspicious foreigners would go, her
listeners agreed that she must indeed have much with which to contend in
practising her profession among such a class of people as were employed
upon the project.

The only person who did not laugh, beside the countrymen of the two
Italians, was Dan Treu. He made no comment when he heard the tale, but
he sat for a long time on the corner of the White Elephant's billiard
table, holding a cigarette which he forgot to smoke.




XXI

TURNING A CORNER


Andy P. Symes was much occupied with his own thoughts, he was not
sleeping well and all food tasted much alike, while the adulation of his
fellow-townsmen did not afford him the usual pleasure. These symptoms
are most frequently associated with lack of funds, and in this respect
Mr. Symes's case was not a peculiar one, the fact being that the total
of the month's payroll exceeded the amount in the treasury--with no
relief in sight--interest in the great Symes Irrigation Project having
seemed suddenly to lag in financial circles.

"Maybe I imagine it," Mudge, the promoter, had written, "but it looks to
me as though Capital was giving us the frosty mitt. They won't even
listen. I can't raise a dollar among the stockholders or sell a bond.
Could anybody have been knocking the proposition?"

Symes had written back--

"Ridiculous! Who would knock? I have no enemies of sufficient importance
to hurt me, and particularly back there. Do your utmost, for the
situation is growing critical here--desperate, in fact."

And desperate was the word when Symes contemplated going into his own
pocket for money to make up the deficit--money which he had told himself
he would salt away against that rainy day with which he had become all
too familiar.

Symes's private bank account had grown to quite a respectable sum since
that memorable morning when he had received word that his balance was in
the red. If he was given a confidential discount upon machinery for
which he charged the company full price, was he not entitled to the
difference? If he received a modest revenue from his manipulation of the
commissary, and the hospital contract contributed its mite, was it not
all in the game? Wasn't it done every day by men in similar positions
and as honest as himself? It was legitimate enough, certainly, and, if
he did not mention it, it was because it was his own affair.

The longer and harder Symes walked the floor the more he realized that
payday must be met. Labor was not an account which could wait. Nothing
would so arouse suspicion and hurt his credit as a dilatory payday.
Local merchants would come down upon him like a thousand of brick for
the settlement of the large accounts which at the present moment they
were rather proud of his owing.

The impression was general that the affairs of the Symes Irrigation
Company were entirely satisfactory, and Symes's credit had only been
limited by the local merchants' own credit.

Heretofore the treasury had been replenished through the activities of
Mudge, but it was now disturbingly low and payday was close, while
instead of the expected check from the promoter came his disquieting
letter.

"Mudge is losin' his grip; he's gettin' timid," Symes thought irritably.
"I may have to go back myself and raise the wind." His success with J.
Collins Prescott had given him added confidence in his abilities along
this line.

The estate which Prescott represented were now the largest bondholders
and at the time of the purchase Symes had chortled--

"If we can just get this crowd in deep enough they won't dare lay down
if we get in a hole. They've got to see the proposition through to save
themselves."

"Yes," Mudge had agreed doubtfully, "but you gotta be careful." And
added in the tone of a specialist in the delicate art of handling
capital: "You can't force or crowd 'em, for once they get their necks
bowed they'd sooner drop their pile than give an inch."

The question which Symes was now trying to decide was whether it was
better to meet payday with his own money and trust Mudge to raise
sufficient to reimburse him and meet the next payday or to bare the
situation to the stock and bondholders and make an imperative demand for
funds.

In the end Symes's own money met the payroll, and the sensation of
checking it out was much like parting with his heart's blood. Though it
was a relief to feel that his credit was still good and that he could
continue to shine in the community for another month as its one large,
luminous star, it also brought the cold perspiration out on him when he
woke up in the night and remembered where this noble act had placed him.
He was worse than penniless if Mudge could not raise more money, but
this he refused to believe a possibility.

In the days which followed, the circles deepened beneath his eyes, his
high color faded and Mudge's laconic messages "Nothing doing" were not
calculated to restore it. As the time shortened toward another payday
there were moments when Symes felt that his overtaxed nerves nearly had
reached their limit. There was no rest or solace for him in his home,
for when Augusta was not away with Dr. Harpe the latter was there to
remind him of the skeleton jangling in his closet. He came and went
beneath the cold eyes of the one and the half-contemptuous glances of
the other, like, as he told himself, a necessary but objectionable
boarder.

He no longer found diversion in his nightly game of "slough" in the card
room of the Terriberry House, for they became only occasions to remind
him that he owed his fellow-players more than he could ever hope to pay
if Mudge did not dispose of more bonds quickly or the stockholders did
not "come through," as he phrased it. He knew fairly well the financial
resources of those whom he had favored with his liberal patronage and
realized that they were doomed to go down with him to that limbo
provided for the over-sanguine and the over-trusting.

At last the black day came when the treasury could not meet the smallest
bills. Delay was no longer possible. He must play his last card. An
imperative call must be made upon the stockholders and Symes telegraphed
Mudge to this effect.

Symes dreaded the reply, yet he tried to bolster his courage with the
argument which had seemed so potent at the time he used it, namely, that
they were all in too deep to refuse aid at this crisis. Symes imagined
that he could almost see himself growing old in the hours of suspense
which followed the sending of the telegram.

Symes's hand shook noticeably when he took the yellow sheet from the
operator who delivered it in person. The message read:

    Turned down cold. Something wrong. Letter follows.

    MUDGE

Symes's towering figure seemed to crumple in the office chair.

Abe Tutts to whom he owed $2500 for hay and grain waved a genial hand as
he passed the door.

"How goes it?" he called.

"Great!" and the boastful reply sickened him.

_Great_--when he was ruined!

It was the sentence "Something wrong" which gave Symes that weak feeling
in his knees. To what did Mudge refer, to the stock and bondholders or
to the project and himself? Must he go about for the four days which
must intervene before a letter could reach him with that sinking
sensation in the pit of his stomach, that curious limpness of his spine?

He lived through it somehow without betraying himself and when Mudge's
letter came it read in part:

"Your theory regarding the extraction of funds from stockholders is all
right only it don't work. When I called a meeting and suggested that
they raise more money among themselves to relieve the present situation
and protect their interests, they cut me off at the pockets.

"That Fly-trap King of yours said, 'If that's all you got us together
for, Mudge, we might as well get to hell out of here because I, for one,
don't propose to put another cent into the proposition--"My Wife Won't
Let Me."'

"The air was so chilly I could see my own breath and my last winter's
chilblains began to hurt.

"'Gentlemen,' I said, 'I don't understand your attitude in this matter.
We've got to raise this money to save ourselves. The proposition is as
good as it ever was.'

"'We don't doubt that,' says Prescott in that infernally quiet way of
his that makes your ears tingle, and a grin like a slice of watermelon
went round.

"I tell you, Symes, something or somebody has queered us here and if you
can find out who or what it is you can do more than I've been able to
do. Haven't you got some powerful enemy? Is there any weak spot in the
proposition? Rack your brains and let me know the result.

"These fellows don't seem worried and that's the strange part of it, for
I know that some of them have got in a whole lot more than they can
afford to lose.

"Whatever's at the bottom of it, it's mighty effective, for I'm up
against a blank wall. I've exhausted every resource and I can't raise a
dollar. If only we dared advertise the land and get some purchasers to
make part payments down it would keep things moving for a while, but I
suppose this is out of the question."

Was it? Symes laid the letter down. It was against the law to sell land
before the water was actually upon it, but was it out of the question?

In his desperation Symes decided that it was not.

Casually imparting the information to the Crowheart _Courier_ that he
was going out to meet a party of millionaires who were anxious to
invest, Symes packed his suitcase and arrived in the State Capital as
soon as an express train could get him there.

When he appeared before the State Land Board the arguments he used to
that body never were made public, but they were sufficiently convincing
to enable him to send a guarded telegram to Mudge that night telling him
to prepare additional literature and commence a campaign of
advertisement. Also to arrange with the railroad for a Homeseekers'
Excursion at as early a date as possible.

The telegram restored Mudge's faith in Symes, revived his waning
enthusiasm and courage. He composed a pamphlet for distribution among
Eastern and Middle West farmers, from which he quoted extracts to his
wife in the middle of the night, awakening her for that purpose.

"Extend a hand to Nature and she meets you with outstretched arms!
Tickle the soil and it laughs gold!"

"Wouldn't that start a man-milliner to raising alfalfa?" demanded Mudge
upon such occasions.

"Where the clouds never lower and the sun shines always. Where the
perfumed zephyrs fan the cheeks of men and brothers. The Perfect Climate
found at last! Crowheart the Gem of the Rockies! within easy reach. Buy
a ticket for $29.50 and breathe the Elixir of Life while you look over
our unequalled proposition."

"That ought to catch all the lungers in the world," averred Mudge.

That the promoter's confidence in the merits of his pamphlet was
justified was soon evidenced by the flood of inquiries and requests for
additional information which came by mail while his office became a
mecca for the restless and the "land hungry" who read his vivid
description of the great Symes irrigation project which was making the
desert bloom like the rose.

They came in droves to ask questions and to stare at the twenty-pound
beet which sat conspicuously upon Mudge's desk and their jaws dropped
when he explained carelessly--

"A runt from under the Mormon ditch; we raise bigger on _our_ land."

They studied the map of the neatly plotted townsite of Symes with its
substantial bank building, its park, its boulevards, its public school
building and band-stand.

"That's goin' to be some town," Mudge told each with a confidential air,
"and you've got a chance to make something if you gobble up a corner lot
or two before prices soar. Quick turns while the boom is on is the way
to do it in the West."

Mudge believed all that he said, because he believed in Symes; that is,
he was convinced that all would be as he represented as soon as Symes
could be provided with money to complete the project, and if he
permitted his imagination to take liberties with the truth, it was
solely because he felt that the end justified the means. He assured
himself that all would be forgotten and forgiven in the ultimate success
of the enterprise and so great was his faith in it and its efficient
management that his own money paid for the pamphlets and the half-page
newspaper advertisements which told the world of the Homeseekers'
Excursion to the great Symes Irrigation Project where the desert was
blooming like the rose. If at times there came to him, as there did to
Symes, chilling thoughts of the exact meaning of failure should their
plans miscarry, he did not allow them to long dampen his ardor.

"We'll put it through _somehow_!" he declared vehemently. "There'll be a
trainload of these Homeseekers, and, out of a bunch like that, surely
_some_ of 'em will stick even if it isn't--well--not quite exactly in
the shape they expect to find it. They'll see the merits of the
proposition and make allowances for my enthusiasm; and if we can work
this once we can work it again." Mudge insisted to himself resolutely,
"I'm not the man to be stumped by a few obstacles, I can't afford to be
identified with failures and we'll put this thing through if S. B. Mudge
goes broke trying."

The stock and bondholders had something of the attitude of blase
spectators at a circus, regarding Mudge's sensational efforts calmly,
without applause or protest. A curious attitude, Mudge thought, for
persons so vitally concerned, and there were times, after a chance
meeting with Prescott, for instance, when Mudge wondered if they really
were as indifferent as they seemed. That Prescott had an amazing
knowledge of the situation for one in a position to know so little was
evidenced by an occasional pertinent comment. But Mudge was too busy
getting his Homeseekers in line to attempt the solution of any mysteries
on the side.

In Crowheart the coming excursion of Homeseekers was the chief theme.
Its citizens were elated at the wide publicity which the Company's
advertising campaign was giving to the town, and increased deference to
Symes was the result, for the merchants of Crowheart made no secret of
the fact among themselves that without the payroll of the Symes
Irrigation Project real money would be uncommonly scarce, and should the
project fail--the remote possibility made them shudder. Gradually it had
dawned upon these venturesome pioneers from "way back East in Nebraska"
that the surrounding country had few if any resources and without the
opening of fresh territory Crowheart's future was one they preferred not
to contemplate.

If they wondered somewhat at the elasticity of the law, Symes's ability
to stretch it only demonstrated still further his power, his ability to
bend men and things to his iron will, and their awe of him increased
proportionately. To the isolated community of obscure persons Symes
seemed very nearly omnipotent. They had no criticism to make of the
law's adaptability to Symes's needs; it was enough for them that
Crowheart was in the limelight and the influx of settlers meant their
individual prosperity.

It soon became obvious from the sale of excursion tickets that the
Terriberry House would not be able to accommodate the Homeseekers.

"Not a carload but a trainload!" said Symes jubilantly to the editor of
the Crowheart _Courier_, and Sylvester dashed off a double leaded plea
to the first families of Crowheart to "throw open their homes" and do
their utmost to make the strangers feel that they would be received upon
terms of equality and find a welcome in their midst.

Crowheart's citizens responded magnificently to the appeal. The Percy
Parrotts threw open their three-roomed residence and made arrangements
to sleep in the hay, while their self-sacrificing example was quickly
followed by others. Neither the Cowboy Band nor the neighbors knew
either rest or sleep until they had mastered a Sousa March, while Mrs.
Tutts showed her public spirit by rehearsing Crowheart's talented
amateurs in an emergency performance of the "Lady of Lyons" for the
strangers' evening entertainment.

Every available vehicle was engaged by Symes to convey the excursionists
to the project and a committee chosen to meet them on the cinders at the
station, himself to greet them in a few neat words.

With so much upon his mind, so many responsibilities upon his shoulders,
it is small wonder that the little formality of payday should slip by
without being properly observed. When it was called to his attention
his explanation sounded reasonable enough.

"I'm just so busy now, boys, that I haven't the time to attend to your
checks. But your money's as safe as though it was in the Bank of
England, and if you'll oblige me by waiting until this excursion is over
I'll greatly appreciate it."

"Sure!" they replied heartily, and indeed it was a pleasure to do Andy
P. Symes a favor when he asked it in his big, genial voice. "Take your
time, Mr. Symes, we are in no rush." In his magnetic presence they had
quite forgotten that they were in a rush; besides, it was plain that he
had more than one man should be expected to attend to, and no one
dreamed that a dollar dropped in the treasury would have echoed like a
rock falling in a well.

Like Mudge, Symes was convinced that out of a trainload of Homeseekers
some of them would "stick." The inducement to do so was the privilege of
the first choice of the 160-acre tracts--for a substantial deposit.

But those who did not stick?--those who were strongly under the
impression that the water was already flowing through the ditch or that
it was so near completion that it would do so shortly--would they
be--irritated? As the day of the excursion approached the disquieting
thought came with increasing frequency to Symes that they _would_
be--irritated.




XXII

CROWHEART'S FIRST MURDER MYSTERY


The postmaster's curt "nothing" was like a judge's sentence to Essie
Tisdale, for it meant to her the end of things. And now the marriage
ceremony was over. She looked at the gold band upon her finger with a
heavy, sinking heart. She must wear it always, she was thinking, to
remind her that she had sold herself for a place to lay her head and
thirty thousand sheep.

The jocose congratulations of the burly Justice of the Peace went
unanswered and her eyes swept the smirking, curious faces of the
bystanders without recognition. She heard Dubois's guttural voice
saying--

"Go there to ze hotel, my dear, and get your clothes. Ze wagon is at ze
shop for repairs and there you meet me. I've got to get back to ze sheep
for awhile. You will haf good rest in ze hills."

The lonely hills with Dubois for company! A shiver like a chill passed
over her. Returning to the hotel she found that the news had preceded
her, for Mrs. Terriberry rushed down upon her with outstretched arms.

"Why didn't you tell me last night, Essie?"

The girl withdrew herself from the plump embrace.

"I didn't know it last night."

"I declare, if this isn't romantic!" Mrs. Terriberry fanned herself
vigorously with her apron. "You'll be the richest woman around here when
Dubois dies." She added irrelevantly, "And I've been like a mother to
you, Ess."

"Why don't you and Dubois stay in town a few days and make us a visit?"
Mr. Terriberry's voice rang with cordial hospitality.

The girl looked at him with embarrassing steadiness. The thirty thousand
sheep were doing their work well.

"We are going to the camp to-day," she answered and turned upstairs.

When her few belongings were folded in a canvas "telescope" she looked
about her with the panic-stricken feeling of one about to take a
desperate, final plunge. The tiny, cheaply furnished room had been her
home, her refuge, and she was leaving it, for she knew not what.

Every scratch upon the rickety washstand was familiar to her and she
knew exactly how to dodge the waves in the mirror which distorted her
reflection ludicrously. She was leaving behind her the shabby kid
slippers in which she had danced so happily--was it centuries ago? And
the pink frock hung limp and abandoned on its nail.

She walked to the window where she had sat so often planning new
pleasures, happy because she was young and merry, and her heart brimmed
with warmth and affection for all whom she knew, and she looked at the
purple hills which shut out that wonderful East of which she had dreamed
of seeing some time with somebody that she loved. She turned from the
window with a lump in her aching throat and looked at the flat pillow
which had been so often damp of late with her tears.

"It's over," she whispered brokenly as she picked up the awkward
telescope, "everything is ended that I planned and hoped for. There's no
happiness or love or laughter in the long, hot alkali road ahead of me.
Just endurance--only duty."

She closed the door behind her, the door that always had to be slammed
to make it fasten, and, drooping beneath the weight of the heavy bag
trudged down the street toward the blacksmith shop.

It was less than an hour after the sheep-wagon had rumbled out of town
with Dubois slapping the reins loosely upon the backs of the shambling
grays that the telegraph operator, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, bumped
into Dr. Harpe as she was leaving the hotel.

"Have they gone?"

"Who?"--but her eyes looked frightened.

"Essie and old Dubois."

"Ages ago."

"I'm sorry, I hoped I'd catch her; perhaps I've something she ought to
have."

Dr. Harpe looked at the telegram. Perhaps it was something she ought to
have also.

"Look here, I've got a call to make over in the direction of Dubois's
sheep camp and I'll take the message."

"Will you, Doc?" he said in relief. "That's good of you." He looked at
the telegram and hesitated. "I didn't stop for an envelope."

"Oh, I won't read it."

"I know that, Doc," he assured her. "But----"

She was already hastening away for the purpose.

"Whew!" Dr. Harpe threw open her coat in sudden warmth. "I'm glad she
didn't get _that_!"

She re-read the message--

     Have heard nothing from you. Am anxious. Is all well with you?
     Telegraph answer to address given in letter.

Dr. Harpe tore the telegram in bits and watched the pieces flutter into
the waste-basket.

"The Old Boy certainly looks after his own, Harpe," she murmured, but
her fingertips were cold with nervousness.

Dr. Harpe had paid her professional visit and her horses were dragging
the buggy through the deep sand in the direction of Dubois's
sheep-ranch, where she contemplated staying for supper and driving home
in the cooler evening. The small matter of being unwelcome never
deterred Dr. Harpe when she was hungry and could save expense.

There was no one in sight nor human habitation within her range of
vision; the slow drag was monotonous; the flies were bad and the heat
was great; she was both drowsy and irritable.

"Lord! how I hate the smell of sheep!" she said fretfully as the odor
rose strong from a bedding-ground, "and their everlastin' bleat would
set me crazy. Gosh! it's hot! Wonder how she'll enjoy spending her
honeymoon about forty feet from Dubois's shearing-pens," she sniggered.
"Well, no matter what comes up in the future, I've settled _her_; she's
out of the way for good and all, and I've kept my word--she'll never
marry Ogden Van Lennop!"

Yet she was aware that there was hollowness in her triumph--that it was
marred by a nameless fear which she refused to admit. Van Lennop was
still to be reckoned with. His telegram had reminded her forcibly of
that.

The muffled sound of galloping hoofs in the sand caused her to raise her
chin from her chest and her mind became instantly alert. It would be a
relief to exchange a word with some one, she thought, and wondered
vaguely at the swiftness of the gait upon so hot a day. She could hear
the labored breathing of the horses now and suddenly two riders flashed
into sight around the curve of the hill. Instantly they pulled their
horses on their haunches and swung them with rein and spur into the deep
washout in the gulch where the giant sagebrush hid them.

It was so quickly done that Dr. Harpe had only a glimpse of flashing
eyes, swarthy skins, and close-cropped, coal-black hair, but the glimpse
was sufficient to cause her to say to herself--

"Breeds--and a long way from the home range," she added musingly. "Looks
like a getaway--what honest men would be smokin' up their horses in heat
like this?"

A barking sheep-dog ran up the road to greet her when, after another
hour of plodding, she finally reached the ridge where she could look
down upon the alkali flat where Dubois had built his shearing-pens, his
log store house and his cabin of one room.

"No smoke. Darned inhospitable, I say, when it's near supper time and
company comin'."

There was no sign of life anywhere save the sheep-dog leaping at her
buggy wheels.

"Can it be the turtle-doves don't know it's time to eat?" she sneered.
"Get ep!"

The grating of the wheels against the brake as she drove down the steep
pitch brought no one around the corner of the house, which faced the
trickling stream that made the ranch a valuable one.

They were somewhere about, she was sure of that, for she had recognized
gray horses feeding some distance away and the sheep-wagon in which they
had left town was drawn up close to the house. She tied her fagged team
to the shearing-pens and sauntered toward the house, but with something
of uncertainty in her face. There was a chance that she had been seen
and the new Mrs. Dubois did not mean to receive her.

A faint, quavering moan stopped her at the corner of the house. She
listened. It was repeated. She stepped swiftly to the doorway and looked
inside. The girl was lying in a limp heap on the bunk, her face, her
hands and wrists, her white shirtwaist smeared horribly with blood,
while an unforgettable look of terror and repulsion seemed frozen in her
eyes. The sight startled even Dr. Harpe.

"What's the matter? What's happened?" She shook her roughly by the
shoulder, for the half-unconscious girl seemed about to faint. "Where's
Dubois?"

She bent her head to catch the answer.

"Outside."

Dr. Harpe was not gone long, but returned to stand beside the bunk,
looking down upon Essie with eyes that in the dimness of the
illy-lighted cabin shone with the baleful gleam of some rapacious
feline.

"You did a good job, Ess; he's dead as a mackerel."

The answer was the faint, broken moan which came and went with her
breath.

"I'll go to town for help----"

The girl opened her eyes and looked at her beseechingly.

"Don't leave me alone!"

Dr. Harpe ignored the whispered prayer.

"Don't touch anything--leave everything just as it is," she said curtly;
"it'll be better for _you_."

Before she untied her team at the shearing-pens she walked around the
house and looked once more at the repulsive object lying upon a dingy
quilt. Death had refused Dubois even the usual gift of dignity. His
mouth was open, and his eyes; he looked even more than in life the brute
and the miser.

"Two shots; and each made a bull's eye. One in the temple and another
for luck. Either would have killed him."

She covered his face with a corner of the "soogan" and glanced around.
The short, highly polished barrel of a Colt's automatic protruded from a
clump of dwarf cactus some few feet away. She swooped swiftly down upon
it and broke it open. The first cartridge had jammed and every other
chamber was filled. Dr. Harpe held it in the palm of her hand, regarding
it reflectively. Then she took her thumb nail and extracted the jammed
cartridge and shook a second from the chamber. These she kept. The gun
she threw from her with all her strength.

She lost no time in urging her fagged horses up the steep hill opposite
the ranch house on the road back to Crowheart. At the top she let them
pant a moment before they started up another almost as steep.

Dr. Harpe removed her hat and lifted her moist hair with her fingers.
The sun was lowering, the annoying gnats and flies were beginning to
subside, it soon would be cool and pleasant. Dr. Harpe looked back at
the peaceful scene in the flat below--the sheep-wagon with its canvas
top, the square, log cabin, the still heap beside it--really there was
no reason why she should not enjoy exceedingly the drive back to town.

Out of the hills behind her came a golden voice that had the carrying
qualities of a flute.

"Farewell, my own dear Napoli, farewell to thee, farewell to thee."

The smile faded from her face.

"The devil!" She chirped to her horses. "Where'd _he_ come from?"

Those of Crowheart's citizens who yawned at 8 and retired at 8.30 were
aroused from their peaceful slumbers by the astounding news that Essie
Tisdale had shot and killed old Edouard Dubois, and the very same day
that she had married him for his money. As a result, Crowheart was astir
at dawn, bearing every evidence of a sleepless night and a hasty
toilette.

This was the town's first real murder mystery. To be sure, there was the
sheep-herder, who was found with his throat cut and his ear taken for a
souvenir; but there was not much mystery about that, because he was off
his range and had been duly warned. Also there had been plain killings
over cards and ladies of the dance hall--surprising sometimes, but only
briefly interesting--certainly never anything mysterious and thrilling
like this.

Sylvanus Starr in that semi-conscious state midway between waking and
sleeping, composed a headline which appeared on the "Extra" issued
shortly after breakfast.

"A Man, a Maid, a Marriage and a Murder" read the headline, and while
the editor made no definite charges, he declared in double-leaded type
that the County should spare no expense to bring the assassin to justice
_regardless of sex_, and the phrase "the dastardly murder of a good
citizen and an honorable man" passed from lip to lip unmindful of the
fact that in life Dubois had not been regarded as either.

That portion of Crowheart which was pleased to speak of itself as the
"sane and conservative element" endeavored to suspend sentence until the
deputy-sheriff should return with further details, but even they were
forced to admit that, from the meagre account furnished by Dr. Harpe,
"it certainly looked bad for Essie Tisdale."

Dan Treu and the coroner, who was also the local baker, started
immediately for the sheep-ranch, and Dr. Harpe accompanied them. "Ess
looked about 'all in,'" she said in explanation.

They found the girl and the <DW55> Duke waiting by the fire which he had
built outside the cabin. Huddled in a blanket which he had thrown about
her shoulders she sat staring into the fire with the shocked look which
never left her eyes. Utter, utter weariness was in her flower-like face
and over and over again her subconsciousness was asking her tired brain,
"What next? What horrible thing can happen to me next? What is there
left to happen?" She felt crushed in spirit, unresentful even of Dr.
Harpe's presence, for she felt herself at the mercy of whosoever chose
to be merciless. But the <DW55> Duke was unhampered by any such feelings.
He commented loudly as Dr. Harpe swaggered toward them with her hands
thrust deep in the pockets of the man's overcoat which she wore on
chilly drives--

"The ghouls are arriving early."

"There's another word as ugly," Dr. Harpe retorted significantly.

"I can't imagine--unless it's quack."

"Or accomplice," she suggested with a sneer.

Dan Treu frowned.

With the surprising tact and gentleness which blunt men of his type
sometimes show, the deputy-sheriff drew from the girl her story of the
murder.

"I went to the creek--down the trail there--to get some water. I was
only gone a moment; I was bending down--dipping with the pail--I heard
two shots--close together. I thought he was shooting at prairie dogs--I
did not hurry. When I came back--he was lying near the wagon. It was
horrible! I called and called. He was dead. The blood was running
everywhere. I got a quilt and dragged and dragged until I got him on it
somehow. I saw no one. I heard no one."

Her slender hands were clenched tightly and she spoke with an effort.
There was silence when she finished, for her story seemed complete;
there seemed nothing more that she could tell. It was Dr. Harpe who
asked--

"But his gun--where's his gun? He's always kept a gun--I've seen it--a
Colt's automatic?"

The girl shook her head.

"I don't know."

"And, Doctor,"--it was the <DW55> Duke's suave voice that asked the
question--"you saw no one--passed no one while driving through the
hills?"

She looked at him steadily.

"I saw no one."

His eyelids slowly veiled his eyes.

"Why do you ask that?" His faint smile irritated her. "Don't you suppose
I would have said so long before this?"

"Let's look for that gun," the deputy interrupted. "He had a gun--I'm
sure of that; every sheepman packs a gun."

With the aid of a lantern and the glare of a huge sagebrush fire they
searched in the immediate vicinity for the gun and in the hope of
finding some accidental clue.

"We can't expect to do much till morning," the deputy opined as with his
light close to the ground he looked for some strange footprint in the
dust of the dooryard.

It was behind the cabin that Dan Treu stooped quickly and brought the
lantern close to a blurred outline in a bit of soft earth close to a
growth of cactus. He looked at it long and intently and when he
straightened himself his heavy, rather expressionless face wore a
puzzled look.

"Come here," he called finally to the coroner. He pointed to the
indistinct outline. "What does that look like to you?"

The coroner was not long from Ohio.

"It looks to me like somebody had made a track in his stockin' feet."

The deputy was born near the Rosebud Agency.

"Does it?" he added. "I guess we won't walk around any more until
morning."

The track was a moccasin print to him.

It was the coroner who said to Dan Treu in an undertone as they sat by
the fire waiting for the daylight--

"Did you ever see a woman act like Doc? By Gosh! did you ever see
anybody act like Doc? She's enjoyin' this--upon my soul she is! She
makes me think of a half-starved hunting dog that's pulled somethin'
down and has got a taste of blood."

The deputy nodded with an odd smile.

The <DW55> Duke said nothing. But he seemed vastly interested in watching
Dr. Harpe. He observed her every movement, her every expression, with a
purposeful look upon his face which was new to it.

They found the gun in the morning, caught in a giant sagebrush where it
hung concealed until accidentally jarred loose by no less a person than
Mr. Percy Parrott, who had arrived early to give his unsolicited aid to
the deputy-sheriff.

The Colt's automatic was easily identified as Dubois's gun, and two
shells were missing.

"A pretty rough piece of work," commented Dr. Harpe as she looked at the
empty chambers.

"As raw as they make it," agreed the <DW55> Duke for once.

"Don't run away, <DW55>," said the sheriff, "I may want you."

"Run?--when I go I'll fly."

All the town turned out to look when Dan Treu drove into town with the
girl sitting bolt upright and very white upon the seat beside him.

They stopped at the Terriberry House and her old room was assigned to
her, but all the gaping crowd considered her a prisoner.




XXIII

SYMES MEETS THE HOMESEEKERS


Andy P. Symes awoke from a night of troubled dreams with the impression
still strong upon him that he was the exact centre of a typhoon in the
China Seas. He realized gradually that the house was alternately
shivering and rocking, that the shade of the slightly lowered window was
flapping furiously, that his nose and throat were raw from the tiny
particles of dust which covered the counterpane and furniture, that
pebbles were striking the window-panes like the bombardment of a gatling
gun. There was a wailing and shrieking from the wires which anchored his
kitchen flue, a rattling and banging outside which conveyed the
knowledge that the sheet-iron roof on his coal-house was loose, while a
clatter from the street told his experienced ears that some one's tin
garbage-can was passing.

He groaned. This was the day the Homeseekers' Excursion was due--coming
to view the land "where the perfumed zephyrs fanned the cheeks of men
and brothers!" Coming to breathe "the Elixir of Life," while they
inspected that portion of the desert which was "blooming like the rose!"

Even the elements were against him it seemed.

Symes shoved up the shade to see the lovely Pearline Starr, with her
head tied in a nubia, fighting her way through his front gate. She was
bearing ahead of her some garment on the end of a stick. Mr. Symes
dressed hastily that he might respond to her knock.

When Mr. Symes opened the door Miss Starr was clinging, breathless, to
a pillar of the veranda in order to keep her footing. She cast down her
eyes as she extended her offering.

"Are these yours, Mr. Symes? We found them around a sagebrush in the
backyard."

"If they were," said Mr. Symes shortly, "I'd be in bed. They look like
Tuttses."

The air was filled with flying papers, shingles, pans, and there were
times when he could not see across the street. Alva Jackson was in his
corral distributing hay among his horses from a sack instead of a
pitchfork. The Perfect Climate! Symes watched Miss Starr dig in her
heels and depart lying back horizontally on the breeze. Then he slammed
the door, but not before he saw Parrott's coal-house making its way
toward his lot. He already had a cellar-door and a chicken coop which
did not belong to him, while a "wash" he did not recognize was lodged in
his woodpile of jack-pine and ground-cedar in the backyard.

The Homeseekers' Excursion arrived at last--hours late--delayed by the
worst dust-storm in months. The committee of prominent citizens met it
where the cinder platform had been before it blew off.

The excursionists looked through the car-windows to see members of the
Cowboy Band with one arm locked around the frame-work of the water-tank
and with the other endeavoring to keep divers horns, trombones and
flutes in their mouth. No sound reached the ears of the excursionists
owing to the fact that they were on the windward side of the band and
the stirring notes of "Hot Time in the Old Town" were going the other
way.

Mr. Symes's neat speech of welcome was literally blown out of his mouth,
so he contented himself with shouting a warning to "look out for his
hat" in the ear of the first Homeseeker to venture from the car, and led
the way to the Terriberry House.

Crowheart found itself in the position of the boy at the double-ringed
circus who suffers from the knowledge that there is something he must
miss. It could not give its undivided attention to the strangers and at
the same time attend the funeral of old Edouard Dubois, which was to be
held under the auspices of the beneficiary society of which he had been
a member.

To extend the warm, western hand of fellowship to the Homeseekers and
find out where they came from, what their business was, and how much
money they had was a pleasure to which the citizens of Crowheart had
long looked forward, but also it was a pleasure and a duty to walk down
the Main street in white cotton gloves and strange habiliments,
following the new hearse. The lateness of the train had made it
impossible to do both.

They were a different type, these Homeseekers, from the first crop of
penniless adventurers who had settled Crowheart, being chiefly shrewd,
anxious-eyed farmers from the Middle West who prided themselves upon
"not owing a dollar in the world" and whose modest bank accounts
represented broiling days in the hay field and a day's work before dawn,
by lantern light, when there was ice to chop in the watering trough and
racks to be filled for the bawling cattle being wintered on shares.

A trip like this had not been undertaken lightly by these men, but
Mudge's alluring literature had stirred even their unimaginative minds,
and the more impulsive had gone so far as to dispose of farming
implements and stock that they might send for their families without
delay when the purchase of the land was consummated.

In the long journey across the plains, one man had been tacitly assigned
the position of spokesman for the excursionists. He was big, this
prosperous looking stranger who seemed so unconscious of his leadership,
as big as Andy P. Symes himself, and as muscular. He was a western type,
yet he differed noticeably from his companions in that his clothes
fitted him and his cosmopolitan speech and manner were never acquired in
Oak Grove, Iowa. His eyes were both humorous and shrewd. He compelled
attention and deference without demanding it. They explained him with
pride, the Homeseekers, to inquiring citizens of Crowheart.

"That fellow? Why he controls all kinds of money beside what he's got
himself; cattleman, banker, land, money to burn. He's representin' some
farmers from his section that want to invest if the proposition's good."

This was enough for Crowheart, and Andy P. Symes, who was attracted to
Capital by an instinct as sure as a law of Nature, flew to him and clung
like a bit of steel to a magnet.

"Murder case," explained Symes for conversational purposes as he and the
banker stood at the front window in the office of the Terriberry House
and watched a mad race between Lutz, the undertaker, and a plume which
had blown off the hearse.

"Yes?"

"Pretty raw piece of work," continued Symes, while the banker searched
in his case for a cigar. "Old sheepman shot dead in his tracks the same
day he was married to a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.
Married him for his money and there's no doubt in anybody's mind but
that she killed him for the same purpose. She may get away with it,
though, for she'll be able to put up a fight with old Dubois's coin."

"Whose?" The banker's hand stopped on its way to scratch a match on the
window-sill.

"French Canadian; signed himself 'Edouard Dubois.' Name familiar?"

The banker's face was a curious study as his mind went galloping back
through the years.

"You say he was murdered--shot?"

"Dead as a door nail." Symes was pleased to have found a topic
interesting to the stranger. "Each shot made a bull's-eye, one through
the forehead and the other in his heart. She's a good shot, this girl,
her one accomplishment."

"Does she admit it?"

Symes laughed.

"Oh, no; she tells some tale about having gone for water and hearing two
shots--just about the sort of a yarn she _would_ tell, but there was
blood on her clothing and Dubois's own gun with two empty chambers was
found where she had thrown it. They had a row probably and she beat him
to his gun or else she waited and got the drop on him."

"But have they looked for strange footprints or any clues to corroborate
her story?" persisted the banker.

Symes returned indifferently--

"I suppose so, but it's an open and shut case and the girl is
practically a prisoner here in the hotel. The sheriff is hanging back
about her arrest--western chivalry, you know, but it can't stand in the
way of justice, and the people are pretty sore. Hurts a town, a thing
like this," continued Symes feelingly, "gets in all the eastern papers,
and when we appear in print we wish it to be in connection with
something creditable."

The banker agreed absent-mindedly, and asked--

"Do you know her--this Mrs. Dubois?"

"In a way--as one person knows another in a small town"--he hesitated
delicately--"not socially at all. She was never in society."

The banker looked at Symes sidewise through a cloud of smoke and his
lips twitched suspiciously at the corners. He said merely:

"No?" and continued to stare at the pall-bearers clinging to the wheels
of the hearse while they waited outside the undertaking establishment
for Lutz to beat his way back with the plume.

"I'd like to have a look at this man Dubois, if it's possible," he said
suddenly.

"Why, yes," said Symes not too willingly. "They're going to the Hall now
to hold the services." He hated to be separated from Capital even for so
short a time, besides he had a hope that his "magnetic personality" and
personal explanations might go a long way toward softening any
criticisms he might make when he noted the discrepancies between Mudge's
statements and the actual conditions.

Symes had been quick to recognize this man's leadership and importance;
simultaneously his sanguine temperament had commenced to build upon the
banker's support--perhaps even to the extent of financing the rest of
the project.

The banker followed the morbid crowd up the steep stairs to the Hall and
seated himself on one of the squeaking folding chairs beside Mrs. Abe
Tutts and Mrs. Alva Jackson, who were holding hands and stifling sobs
which gave the impression that their hearts were breaking.

The ugly lodge room whose walls were decorated with the gaudy insignias
of the Order was filled to overflowing with the citizens of Crowheart,
whose attendance was prompted by every other reason than respect. But
this a stranger could not know, since the emotion which racked Mrs.
Percy Parrott's slender frame and reddened Mrs. Hank Terriberry's nose
seemed to spring from overwhelming grief at the loss of a good friend
and neighbor.

Mrs. Jackson's rose-geranium had blossomed just in the nick of time, and
Mrs. Parrott, who did beautiful work in paper flowers, had fashioned a
purple pillow which read "At Rest" and reposed conspicuously upon the
highly polished cover of a sample coffin. Nor could the stranger, who
found himself dividing attention with the casket, know that the
faltering tributes to the deceased taxed the young rector's ingenuity
and conscience to the utmost. Indeed, as he saw the evidences of esteem
and noted the tears of the grief-stricken ladies, he regretted the
impulse which had prompted him to go, for he could not conceive the
removal of the Dubois of his acquaintance being the occasion of either
private or public sorrow.

But even the sermons of young rectors must end, and at last Lutz, in the
tremulous, minor, crepe-trimmed voice and drooping attitude which made
the listeners feel that undertakers like poets are born, not made, urged
those who cared to do so to step forward and pass around to the right.

Yes, it was he; there was no doubt about that; the brutal, obstinate
face had altered very little in twenty years. Twenty years? It was all
of that since he had seen old "Ed" Dubois betting his gold-dust on an
Indian horse race--twenty years since young Dick Kincaid had floundered
through the drifts in a mountain pass to see how the Canuck saved flour
gold. Once more he was on the trail, scuffling rocks which rolled a mile
without a stop. Before him were the purple blotches which the violets
made and he could smell the blossoms of the thorn and service berry
bushes that looked like fragrant banks of snow. He felt again the
depression of the silence in the valley below--the silence in which he
heard, instead of barking dogs and laughing children, the beating of his
own heart. He never had forgotten the sight that met his eyes, and he
recalled it now with a vividness which made him shudder, and he heard
with startling clearness the childish voice of a half-naked, emaciated
boy saying without braggadocio or hysteria--

"I'm goin' to find him, m'sieu, and when I do I'll get him, _sure_!"

Twenty years is a long time to remember an injury, but not too long for
Indian blood. It was a good shot--the purple hole was exactly in the
centre of the low, corrugated forehead--it had been no boyish, idle
threat. His son had "got him, _sure_!" Neither had Dick Kincaid
forgotten his own answer--

"If you do, boy, and I find it out, I don't know as I'll give you away."

He had learned to save flour gold and he was known as Richard H. Kincaid
in the important middle west city where he had returned with his
fortune. Time and experience had cooled his blood, yet, deep down, his
heart always responded to the call of the old, primitive justice of the
mining camps--"An eye for an eye: a tooth for a tooth."

Kincaid became conscious that he was being eyed in curiosity and
impatience by the eager folk behind. He heard Mrs. Tutts's rasping
whisper as he moved along--

"She ain't shed a tear--not even gone into black. I'll bet she don't aim
to view the corp' at all!"

Kincaid followed Mrs. Tutts's disapproving gaze.

That was the suspect! That slim, young girl with her delicately cut
features hardened to meet the concentrated gaze of a procession of
staring, unfriendly eyes? Why, as he glanced about him, she looked the
only lady in the room!

Essie sat with the feeling that ice had formed about her heart, trying
to bear unflinchingly the curious or sneering looks of those she had
known well enough to call by their first names. It was torture for the
sensitive girl who saw in each cold eye the thought that she had killed
a man--killed a human being--for money!

A feeling of overwhelming pity surged over Kincaid as he looked at her,
a feeling so strong that when she raised her eyes and gazed squarely
into his he wondered if he had spoken aloud. They were blue and
beautiful, her eyes, as two mountain forget-me-nots, like two bruised
flowers, he thought, that had been hurt to death. He could remember
having seen only one other pair like them.

An impulse so strong, a resolve so sudden and violent that it sent the
blood in a crimson wave above his collar and over his face seized him,
and he whispered to himself as he moved toward the door--

"I'll see her through, by George! I'll stand by her till there's skating
in the place that don't commonly freeze!"




XXIV

THE <DW55> DUKE AND DAN TREU EXCHANGE CONFIDENCES


"They were shod horses and they were goin' some. See how deep the corks
sunk. Look at the length of the jumps." The sheriff followed the hoof
tracks with his eye until they turned at an angle and dropped into the
gulch.

"Pft!--like that--and they were gone," said the <DW55> Duke, with an
expressive gesture. "Over there, where I was reposing under the scant
shade of a sagebrush, I opened my eyes just in time to see the top of
their black hats disappear. Her buggy was turning the hill."

The sheriff stepped off the distance.

"Less than a hundred yards. She must have seen them plainly."

"Certainly; that's when they swung into the gulch."

"Well, sir, it gets me." With the admission the sheriff thrust his hands
deep in his trousers pockets and looked frankly nonplussed.

"She denied as plain as she could say it in English that she had seen or
met anybody and she'll probably do the same under oath."

"No doubt about it," replied the <DW55> Duke.

"But why should she?" demanded the sheriff in frowning perplexity. "I
can think of no reason, yet she must have one. Do you suppose she knew
the men--that she's protecting them at the girl's expense?"

The <DW55> Duke shrugged his shoulders.

"It's possible, but not probable if they were Indians."

"If them wasn't moccasin tracks around the camp, I'll eat 'em," Dan Treu
declared with conviction. "I've run with Injuns and fit 'em, too, enough
to know their tracks in the dark, but, man, there ain't an Injun within
two hundred miles of here, and besides they never got away with
anything, there was nothin' gone, and Reservation Injuns ain't killin'
for fun these days. That's right, too, about her not knowin' them if
they were Injuns. I'll tell you, <DW55>, I never run up agin' a
proposition just like this."

The <DW55> Duke looked reflectively at the end of his cigarette.

"It seems as though that little girl's fate depends upon this woman."

"You say they are urging you to arrest her?"

The sheriff's face darkened.

"Oh, yes, they've got it all cut and dried just how it happened. They
make me think of a pack of wolves that's got a weak one down; he's
outnumbered and can't fight back, so jump him! tear him! They're roarin'
at me to 'do somethin'--Tinhorn Frank, Symes, Parrott, the whole outfit
of 'em. Say, <DW55>, I wasn't raised to fight women."

"Does your chivalry extend to the lady doc?"

"No, by gum! it don't," replied the sheriff, with a promptness which
made the other laugh. "If I knew any way short of choking her to get the
truth I'd do it."

"You mean to try?"

"To choke her?"

"To get the truth."

"I'm goin' to appeal to her first."

The <DW55> Duke laughed sardonically.

"You think it won't work?"

"Not for a minute."

"I'll see what bull-dozing will do, then."

"Better save your breath."

"Why?"

"It's a question of veracity. She'll see that. Her word against mine.
Even you must admit, Dan, that I haven't her spotless reputation. A
communicant of the church versus the town drunkard. She'd merely say
that instead of Gila monsters I was 'having' assassins. This chronic
cloud under which I live has its drawbacks. The fact that I haven't had
a drink in six weeks wouldn't have the slightest weight if she chooses
to persist in her denial that she met these men."

"I suppose you're right," the sheriff admitted reluctantly, "and if this
wind keeps up we won't even have tracks to back up your story."

"Besides," added the <DW55> Duke, "if there is not great friendship
between them there is, at least, no open quarrel to furnish a plausible
reason for her silence. We would only make ourselves absurd, Dan, by any
public charge. But there is some way to get the truth. Try your methods
and then--well, I'll try mine."

This was in the forenoon. That evening the <DW55> Duke leaned against the
door-jamb of the White Elephant Saloon and watched Dan Treu coming from
Dr. Harpe's office with failure written upon his face. His white teeth
gleamed in a smile of amusement as he waited for the sheriff.

"Don't swear, Dan. Never speak disrespectfully of a lady if you can help
it."

"<DW55>," said the sheriff, with his slow, emphatic drawl, "I wish she
was a man just for a minute--half a minute--one second would do."

"She laughed at you, yes?"

"She laughed at me, yes? Well, I guess she did. She gave me the merry
ha! ha! I told her you had seen two men on horseback pass her out there
in the hills, that I had seen the mark of her buggy wheels and the
tracks of the two horses on the run and that the print of moccasins led
from the sheep-wagon into the brush. She looked at me with that kind of
stare where you can see the lie lying back of it and said--

"I didn't see anybody. I've told you that and I'll swear to it if
necessary."

"'Look here, Doc,' I says, 'if you don't tell that you saw these men
we'll tell it for you.'"

"That's when she laughed, cackled would be a better word, it sure wasn't
a laugh, you'd call ketchin', and says--

"'You fly at it. Try startin' something like that and see what happens
to you. I got some pull in this town and you'll find it out if you don't
know it. You'll wake up some mornin' and find yourself out of a job. Who
do you think would take that drunken loafer's word against mine? And
beside, why should I keep anything back that would clear Essie Tisdale?
You're crazy, man! Why, she's a friend of mine.'

"You called the turn on her all right, <DW55>; she said just about what
you said she would say."

"You haven't got the right kind of a mind, Dan, to sabe women of her
sort. It takes a Latin to do that. There's natural craft and intrigue
enough of the feminine in the southern races to follow their illogical
reasoning and to understand their moods and caprices as an Anglo-Saxon
never can. You are like a big, blundering, honest watch-dog, Dan,
trying to do field work that requires a trained hunting dog with a fine
nose and hereditary instincts. If this was a horse-stealing case, or
cattle rustling, or a sheep raid, and you were dealing with men all
around----"

The deputy-sheriff's jaw set grimly.

"I'd have the truth or he'd be in the hospital. I'm handicapped here
because there's no money in the treasury to work with. This county's as
big as a State and only two or three thousand in it, so we are about as
flush as grasshopper year in Kansas. The people are howling about
bringin' the murderer to justice at any cost, but if I'd ask 'em to dig
up a hundred apiece in cold cash for expense money they'd subside
quick."

"This is one of the few occasions when my past extravagances and habits
fill me with regret," replied the <DW55> Duke, with half-humorous
seriousness. "My remittance which has shrunk until it is barely
sufficient to sustain life, is already spoken for some months ahead by
certain low persons who consider themselves my creditors. Tinhorn Frank,
who drew to a straight and filled, is one of them, and Slivers, inside,
has a mortgage on my body and soul until an alleged indebtedness is
wiped out.

"Financially and socially I am nil; mentally and physically my faculties
are at your disposal. Do you happen to know anything in the lady's past
or present that she would not care to have exploited? Blackmail, yes? I
have no scruples. What do you know?"

The deputy gave the <DW55> Duke a curious look, but did not answer.

"There's something," guessed the other quickly.

"Yes, <DW55>, there is," said Dan Treu finally with awkward hesitation.
"It's something so fierce that I hate to tell it even to you for fear
there might be some mistake. It's hard to believe it myself. It sounds
so preposterous that I'd be laughed at if I told it to anyone else in
Crowheart."

"I'll not laugh," said the <DW55> Duke. "It's the preposterous--the most
unlikely thing you can think of that is frequently true. I've studied
that woman, with my comparatively limited opportunities, until I know
her better than you think and far, far better than she thinks."

"<DW55>," the big deputy squirmed as he asked the question:

"Could you believe her a petty thief?"

"Without the least difficulty," replied the <DW55> Duke composedly.

"That she would rifle a man's pockets--roll him like any common woman of
the street?"

"If it was safe--quite, quite safe."

Slowly, even reluctantly, Dan Treu told the <DW55> Duke the story of the
Italians as he had heard it in their broken English from their own lips.
Through it all the <DW55> Duke whistled softly, listening without emotion
or surprise. He still whistled when the deputy had finished.

"Do you believe it?" the sheriff asked anxiously, at last.

"Emphatically I do. Let me tell you something, Dan: a woman that will
stoop to the petty leg-pulling, sponging, grafting that she does to save
two bits or less has got a thief's make-up. Her mania for money, for
getting, for saving it, is a matter of common knowledge.

"You know and I know that she will do any indelicate thing which occurs
to her to get what she wants without paying for it. When she wants a
drink, which the good God knows is often, she asks any man she happens
to know and is near to buy it for her. Her camaraderie flatters him. She
habitually 'bums' cigarettes and I've known her to go through a fellow's
war-bag, in his absence, for tobacco. When she's hungry, which I should
judge was all the time, she drops in casually upon a patient and
humorously raids the pantry--all with that air of nonchalant good
fellowship which shields her from much criticism, since what in reality
is miserliness and gluttony passes very well for amusing eccentricity."

Dan Treu laughed.

"You've got her sized up right in that way, <DW55>. I know a fellow that
was sick and had to cache the chocolate and things his folks sent him
from the East under the mattress when he saw her coming and he always
locked the fruit in his trunk after she had cleaned him out a dozen
times as though a flock of seventeen-year locusts had swarmed down upon
him. One night about two or three in the morning when she couldn't
sleep, she called on a typhoid patient under the pretext of making a
professional visit, and got the nurse to fry her some eggs. She's as
regular as a boarder at Andy P. Symes's when meal-time rolls around. I
wonder sometimes that he stands for it."

The <DW55> Duke looked at him oddly, but observed merely:

"Do you?"

"And you don't think the <DW55>s made a mistake or misunderstood something
through not talkin' English much? It sounded straight to me the way
they told it, but a thing like this is something you don't want to
repeat unless you just about saw it for yourself."

"If they told you they had $5.50 taken from them you can bet it's so.
Italians of that class know to a penny what they have sent home, what
they have in the bank, what there is in their pockets to spend.
Generations of poverty have taught them carefulness and thrift.
Americans call them ignorant and stupid because their unfamiliarity with
the language and customs make them appear so, but they are neither too
ignorant nor stupid to misunderstand an incident like this. Are the men
still on the works?"

The deputy nodded.

"If you'll loan me your horse I'll ride out and see them myself. My
understudy can perhaps stand another day with the sheep without going
crazy. When I come back I may be in a better position to call upon the
lady doc and talk it over. She's fond of me, you know."

"So I've noticed." Dan Treu grinned as he recalled the invariable
exchange of personalities when they met.




XXV

CROWHEART DEMANDS JUSTICE


The utterly insignificant telegraph operator at an equally insignificant
railway station in Mexico loomed a person of colossal importance to
Ogden Van Lennop, who had calculated that the reply to his telegram was
considerably more than a week overdue. As he went once more to the
telegraph office, the only reason of which he could think for being glad
that he was the principal owner in the only paying mine in the vicinity
was that the operator did not dare laugh in his face.

"Anything for me?"

"Nothing; not yet, sir."

The operator's voice and manner were respectful, but Van Lennop saw his
teeth gleam beneath his dark mustache. He had found it quite useless to
assure Van Lennop that he need not trouble himself to call as any
telegram would be delivered immediately upon its receipt, also he had
been long enough in the service to know that young Americans of Van
Lennop's type did not ordinarily become so intense over a matter of
business.

"Could it have gone astray--this infernal name--it looks like a piece of
barbed wire when it's spelled out--is there another place of the same
name in Mexico?"

"Not in the world, sir."

"I didn't think so," returned Van Lennop grimly. He continued: "I want
you to telegraph the operator in Crowheart and find out positively if
the message was delivered to the person to whom it was sent."

"I'll get it off at once, sir."

So this was being "in love?"--this frenzy of impatience, this unceasing
anxiety which would not let him sleep! It seemed to Van Lennop that he
had nearly run the emotional gamut since leaving Crowheart and all that
remained to be experienced was further depths of doubt and dark despair.
Had he been too sure of her, he asked himself; had something in his
letter or the sending of his telegram displeased her? Was she ill?

He reproached himself bitterly for not telling her before he left, and
thought with angry impatience of the caution which had kept him silent
because he wanted to be sure of himself.

"Sure of myself!" he repeated it contemptuously. "I should have been
making sure of her! The veriest yokel would have known that he was
completely--desperately in love with her, but I, like the spineless
mollusk that I am, must needs wait a little longer--'to be sure of
myself'!"

To shorten the long hours which must intervene before he could expect a
reply from Crowheart, Van Lennop ordered his saddle horse and rode to
the mine, where a rascally superintendent had stripped the ore shoot and
departed with everything but the machinery. Van Lennop had the tangled
affairs of the mine fairly well straightened out and the new
superintendent was due that day, so the end of his enforced stay was in
sight in a day or two more--three at the most.

As his horse picked its way over the mountain trail the fresh air seemed
to clear his brain of the jumble of doubts and misgivings and replace
them with a growing conviction that something had gone wrong--that all
was not well with Essie Tisdale. His unanswered letter and telegram was
entirely at variance with her sweet good-nature. What if she were
needing him, calling upon him now, this very minute? He urged his horse
unconsciously at the thought. Some accident--he could think of nothing
else--unless a serious illness.

The employees at the mine observed that the young American owner was
singularly inattentive that day to the complaints and grievances to
which heretofore he had lent a patient ear.

His horse was sweating when upon his return he threw the reins to an
idle Mexican in front of his hotel and hurried into the office.

Yes; there was a telegram for Senor Van Lennop--two, in fact.

He tore open the envelope of one with fingers which were awkward in
their haste. The telegram read:

    Message addressed to Miss Essie Tisdale received and delivered.

    OPERATOR

Van Lennop stood quite still and read it again, even to the
unintelligible date-line. He felt suddenly lifeless, listless, as though
he wanted to sit down. It was all over, then. She had received his
letter and his telegram, and her reply to his offer of his love and
himself was--silence? It was not like her, but there seemed nothing more
for him to do. He could not force himself and his love upon her. She
knew her own mind. His conceit had led him into error. It was done.

He opened the other telegram mechanically. It was from Prescott and
partially in code. It was a long one for Prescott to send, but Van
Lennop looked at it without interest. He would translate it at his
leisure--there was no hurry now--the game had lost its zest.

Van Lennop turned to the dingy register. A train had arrived in his
absence and perhaps Britt, the new superintendent, had come. His name
was there--that was something for which to be grateful, as he could the
sooner get back into the world where he could find in business something
better than his own wretched thoughts to occupy his mind.

He walked languidly over the stone flagging to his room and dropped
listlessly into a chair. It was not long before he heard Britt's alert
step in the corridor quickly followed by his brisk rap upon the door. He
always had liked the ambitious young engineer and they shook hands
cordially.

"I'm more than glad to see you."

Britt laughed.

"I dare say. A week in a place like this is much like a jail sentence
unless you're hard at work. Are things in pretty much of a mess?"

Van Lennop went over the situation briefly, and concluded--

"I'll stay over a day or so, if you desire."

"There's no necessity, I think," said Britt, rising. "I'll keep in touch
with you by wire. Crowheart again?"

Van Lennop shook his head.

"I'm going east from here."

"Here's a late paper; perhaps you'd like to look it over. When I'm in a
place like this I can read a patent medicine pamphlet, and enjoy it."

Van Lennop smiled.

"Much obliged. There's the supper gong. Don't wait for me; I'll be a
little late."

Van Lennop had no desire for food, much less for conversation, so he
picked up the travel-worn newspaper which Britt had tossed upon the
table and glanced at the headlines.

The stock market was stronger. Nevada Con was up three points. The girl
with the beautiful eyebrows had married that French jackanapes after
all. Another famine in India. A Crowheart date-line caught his eye.

    WEALTHY SHEEPMAN MURDERED
    EDOUARD DUBOIS SHOT AND KILLED AT HIS CAMP
    BRIDE OF A DAY TO BE ARRESTED

The story of Essie Tisdale's marriage with Dubois followed, and even the
news editor's pencil could not eliminate Sylvanus Starr's distinctive
style. He had made the most of a chance of a lifetime. "An old man's
darling"--"Serpent he had warmed in his bosom"--"Weltering in his
blood"--all the trite phrases and vulgarisms of country journalism were
used to tell the sensational story which sickened Van Lennop as he read:

"The arrest of the murdered patriarch's beautiful bride is expected
hourly, as the leading citizens of Crowheart are clamoring for justice
and are bringing strong pressure to bear upon Sheriff Treu, who seems
strangely reluctant to act."

The paper dropped from Van Lennop's nerveless hand and he sat staring at
it where it lay. He picked it up and read the last paragraph, for his
dazed brain had not yet grasped its meaning. But when its entire
significance was made clear to him it came with a rush: it was like the
instantaneous effect of some powerful drug or stimulant that turned the
blood to fire and crazed the brain. The blind rage which made the room
swing round was like the frenzy of insanity. Van Lennop's face went
crimson and oaths that never had passed his lips came forth, choking-hot
and inarticulate.

"The leading citizens of Crowheart, the outcasts and riff-raff of
civilization, the tinhorn gamblers, the embezzlers, ex-bankrupts and
libertines, the sheep-herders and reformed cattle-thieves, the
blackmailers and dance-hall touts swollen by prosperity, disguised by a
veneer of respectability, want justice, do they? By God!" Van Lennop
shook his clenched fist at the empty air, "the leading citizens of
Crowheart shall HAVE justice!"

He smoothed Prescott's crumpled telegram and reached for his code-book.

When he had its meaning he pulled a telegraph-blank toward him, and
wrote:

     Carry out my instructions to the letter. Do not neglect the
     smallest detail. Leave no stone unturned to accomplish the end in
     view.

     VAN LENNOP




XXVI

LATIN METHODS


"Oh, Doc!" It was the telegraph operator, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves,
hurrying toward her from the station as she passed.

Doctor Harpe stood quite still and waited, not purposely but because a
sudden weakness in her knees made it impossible for her to meet him
half-way. She was conscious that the color was leaving her face even as
her upper lip stretched in the straight, mirthless smile with which she
faced a crisis. She knew well enough why he called her, the dread of
this moment had been with her ever since her foolish boast of Van
Lennop's letter and the destruction of his telegram.

"You gave that message to Essie? She got it all right, didn't she, Doc?"

She had prepared herself a hundred times to answer this question, but
now that it was put she found it no easier to decide on a reply; to know
what answer would best save her from the consequences of the stupid
error into which her hatred had led her.

If she said that she had lost it and subsequent events had driven it
from her mind, he would duplicate the message. If she said she had
delivered it and her falsehood was discovered, her position was rendered
more dangerous, ten-fold. She decided on the answer which placed
discovery a little farther off.

"Sure, she got it; I gave it to her that afternoon."

Her assurance closed the incident so far as the telegraph operator was
concerned; it was the real beginning of it to Doctor Harpe, whose
intelligence enabled her to realize to the utmost the position in which
she now had irrevocably placed herself. She turned abruptly and walked
to her office with a nervous rapidity totally unlike her usual swagger.

When the door was closed behind her she paced the floor with excited
strides. It was useless to attempt to hide from herself the fact that
she was horribly, cravenly afraid of Ogden Van Lennop; for she
recognized beneath his calm exterior a quality which inspired fear. She
was afraid of him as an individual, afraid of his money and the power of
his influence if he chose to use them, for Dr. Harpe had brains enough,
worldly wisdom enough, to know that he was beyond her reach.

In Crowheart, she believed that through her strong personality and the
support of Andy P. Symes she could accomplish nearly anything she
undertook; but she knew that in the great world outside where she had
discovered Van Lennop was a factor, she would be only an eccentric
female doctor, amusing perhaps, mildly interesting, even, but entirely
inconsequential.

Her thoughts became a chaotic jam of incoherent explanations as she
thought of an accounting to Van Lennop should he return, and again she
raged at herself for the insane impulse which had led her to boast of a
farewell letter to her. The sleepless hours in which she had gone over
and over the situation with every solution growing more preposterous
than the last, had been telling upon the nerves which never had quite
recovered from the shock and the incidents which followed Alice Freoff's
death. The slightest excitement seemed to set them jangling of late.

They were twitching now; her eyelids, her shoulders, her mouth seemed
never in repose when she was alone. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she
refilled a whiskey glass and rolled and smoked another cigarette. It
was no new thing, this nervous paroxysm, being nearly always the climax
to a night of exaggerated fear. The necessity for self-possession and
outward calmness in public made it a relief to let her nerves go when
alone.

"If he comes back, I'm ruined! He'll cut loose on me in public and he'll
sting; I know him well enough for that." Her hands grew clammy at the
thought. "It'll put a crimp in my practice. If it wasn't for the backin'
of Symes I'd as well pull my freight--but he hasn't come yet. It's not
likely he ever will with no word from her and this scandal comin' close
on the heels of her silence. I'm a fool to worry--to let myself get in
such a state as this."

She no longer entertained the hallucination that she might attract Van
Lennop to herself; to save herself from public exposure, should he by
any chance return, was her one thought, her only aim. And always her
hopes simmered down to the one which centred in Symes's influence in
Crowheart and his compulsory protection of herself. He dared not desert
her.

"Let him try it!" She voiced her defiant thoughts. "Let him go back on
me if he dare! If I get in a place where I've absolutely nothing to
lose--if he throws me down--Andy P. Symes and Crowheart will have food
for thought for many a day. But, pshaw! I'm rattled now; I've pulled out
before and I'll----"

A hand upon the door-knob startled her. Hastily she shoved the glass and
bottle from sight and pulled herself together.

"Oh, it's you?" Her tone was not cordial, as the <DW55> Duke stood before
her.

"Did you think it was your pastor," inquired that person suavely as he
sniffed the air, "come to remonstrate with you upon your intemperate
habits?"

She laughed her short, harsh laugh as she took the bottle from its
hiding-place and shoved it toward him.

"Help yourself."

She had long since learned that it was useless to pretend before the
<DW55> Duke. His mocking, comprehending eyes made pretence ridiculous even
to herself. She dreaded meeting him in public because of the flippant
disrespect of his manner toward her; privately she found a certain
pleasure in throwing off the cloak which hid her dark, inner-self from
Crowheart. He assumed her hypocrisy as though it were a fact too obvious
to question and she had been obliged to accept his estimate of her.

"How like you, my dear Doctor!" He picked up the bottle and read the
label. "Your womanly solicitude for my thirst touches me deeply,
but,"--he replaced the bottle upon her desk--"since I've stood off the
demon Rum for six weeks now I'll hold him at bay until I finish my
little talk with you."

"If you're here on business, cut it short," she said curtly.

"I can't imagine myself here on any other errand" he returned placidly.
"Say, Doc,"--there was a note in his wonderful speaking voice which made
her look up quickly--"why don't you give back that $5.00 and four bits
you pinched from Giovanni Pellezzo?"

The moment showed her remarkable self-control. She could feel her
overtaxed nerves jump, but not a muscle of her face moved.

"What are you driving at?" she demanded.

"The name is not familiar to you?"

"Not at all."

"I'm not surprised at that, since your interest in your contract
patients extends no further than their pockets."

"If you're here to insult me----"

"I couldn't do that," returned the <DW55> Duke composedly; "I've tried."

"You've got to explain."

"That's what I came for." He smiled pleasantly.

"Well?" She tapped her foot.

"Don't rush me, Doc. I have so few pleasures, you know that, and the
enjoyment I'm extracting from your suspense makes me desire to prolong
it. You _are_ anxious, you must admit that, although you really conceal
it very well. But you're gray around the mouth and those lines from your
nose down look like--yes, like irrigation laterals--furrows--upon my
soul, Doc, you've grown ten years older since I came in. You should
avoid worry by all means, but I can understand exactly how you feel when
you're not quite sure to which case I may refer."

Her tense nerves seemed suddenly to snap. She struck the desk with her
open palm, and cried--

"I'm _sick_ of this!"

He looked at her critically.

"I can believe it. Temper adds nothing to your appearance. But, Doc,
with your intelligence and experience, how did you come to rifle a man's
pocket with a witness in the room?"

She jumped to her feet.

"I won't stand this! I don't have to stand it!"

The <DW55> Duke crossed his legs leisurely.

"No--you don't have to, but I believe I would if I were you. The fact
is, Doc, I dropped in merely to make a little deal with you."

"Blackmail!" she cried furiously.

"In a way--yes. Strictly, I suppose, you might call it blackmail."

"You're broke again--you want money!"

The <DW55> Duke shuddered.

"Oh, Doc! how can you be so indelicate as to taunt me with my poverty;
to suggest, to hint even so subtly, that I would fill my empty pockets
from your purse?" He looked at her reproachfully.

"What _do_ you want, then?"

The <DW55> Duke's voice took on a purring, feline softness which was more
emphatic and final than any loud-mouthed vehemence--

"What do I want? I want you to tell the officers that you passed two men
riding on a run from Dubois's sheep-camp--two Indians or 'breeds' in
moccasins--and I want you to do it quick!"

"You want me to perjure myself and you 'want me to do it quick,'" she
mimicked.

He paid no attention.

"I want you to help clear that girl; if you refuse, Giovanni Pellezzo
will swear out a warrant for your arrest, charging you with the theft of
$5.50 while he was etherized for a minor operation."

They regarded each other in a long silence.

She said finally--

"You know, of course, that this Italian will have to go after this?"

"You'll have him discharged?"

"Certainly."

"He needs a rest."

"He'll get it."

Another pause came before she asked--

"Do you imagine for a moment that an ignorant foreigner can get a
warrant for me on such a charge?"

"I foresee the difficulty."

"You mean to persist?"

He nodded.

She flung at him--

"Try it!"

"If we fail in this," continued the <DW55> Duke evenly, "there's the case
of Antonio Amato, whose hand the nurse, acting under your instructions,
held after thrusting a pencil in his limp fingers and signed a check
when he was dying and unconscious. Which check you cashed after his
death, in violation of the State banking laws from which perhaps even
you are not exempt if this man's relatives choose to bring you to
account for the irregularity."

"It is a lie!"

"It is not impossible," he continued, "to get the nurse who left you
before Nell Beecroft came, saying that she knew enough about you both to
'send you over the road.' It is not too difficult to bring to light the
examples of your incredible incompetency which prove you unfit to sign a
death certificate, nor is your record in Nebraska hard to get."

She moistened her colorless lips before she spoke.

"And where is the money coming from to do all this?"

She had touched the weak spot in his attack, but he replied with
assurance.

"It will be ready when needed."

"This is persecution--a plot to ruin me on the trumped-up charges of
irresponsible people."

The <DW55> Duke's keen ear detected the faint note of uncertainty and
agitation beneath the defiance of her tone.

"These things are true--and more," he returned unemotionally. "But
consider, even if you beat us at every turn through personal influence,
you will pay dearly for your victories in money, in peace, in
reputation. These things will leave a stigma which will outlast you. It
will arouse suspicion of your ability and skill among your private
patients who now trust you. You'll have to fight every inch of the road
to retain your ground, or any part of it, against the new and abler
physicians who must come with the growth of the country. You'll not be
wanted by your best friends when it comes to a case of life and death.
You'll become only a kind of licensed midwife rushing about from one
accouchement to another, and, even for this, you must finesse and
intrigue in the manner which has made the incompetents of your sex in
medicine the bete noir of the profession."

The sneering smile she had forced faded as he talked. It was like the
deliberate voice of Prophecy, drawing pictures which she had seen in
waking nightmares that she called the "blues" and was wont to drive away
with a drink or a social call outside.

She raised her chin from her chest where it had sunk, and summoned her
courage.

"You have taken a great deal of trouble to inform yourself upon the
subject of the medical profession and my unfitness for it."

The <DW55> Duke hesitated and an expression which was new to it crossed
his face, a look of mingled pride and pain.

"I have gone to less trouble than you think," he answered finally. "I
was reared in the atmosphere of medicine. My father was a beloved and
trusted physician to the royal family of my country. I was to have
followed in his footsteps and partially prepared myself to do so. The
reason that I have not is not too difficult to guess since it is the
same which sends me sheep-herding at $40 a month."

"But my identity is neither here nor there." The <DW55> Duke threw up his
hand with a characteristic, foreign gesture as though dismissing himself
from the conversation and half regretting even so much of his personal
history. "It serves but one purpose and that is that you may know that
the degrees which I have earned, not bought, qualify me to speak of your
ability, or lack of it, with rather more authority than the average
layman's." He arose languidly and sauntered across the room where he
stood looking up at her framed diploma, and added, "To judge, too, of
the value of a sheepskin like that. How much did you pay for it, Doc?"
Seeming to expect no reply, he continued serenely, "Well I'll have to be
going. Stake me to a cigarette paper? I haven't talked so much or been
so strongly moved since my remittance was reduced to $100 a month. I
can't get drunk like a gentlemen on that--you couldn't yourself--and
it's an inhuman outrage. It may drive me to reform--I've thought of it.
You're such a sympathetic listener, Doc. It makes me babble." His hand
was on the door-knob. "Since you've nothing to say I suppose you mean to
stick to your story, but you must admit, Doc, I've at least been as much
of a gentleman as a rattlesnake. I'm rattling before I strike."

The door had closed upon his back when she tore it open.

"Wait a minute!" She was panting as though she had been running a
distance. He saw, too, the desperation in her eyes. "Give me--a
little--time!"

The <DW55> Duke's tone was one of easy friendliness.

"All you need, but don't forget the suspense is hard on Essie Tisdale."




XXVII

ESSIE TISDALE'S MOMENT.


Mrs. Sylvanus Starr, who was indisposed, sat up in her _robe de nuit_ of
pink, striped outing-flannel and looked down into the street.

"Pearline," she said hastily, "turn the dish-pan over the roast beef and
cache the oranges. Planchette, hide the cake and just lay this sweet
chocolate under the mattress--the doctor's coming."

"She cleaned us out last time all right," commented Lucille.

"Her legs are hollow," observed Camille, "she can eat half a sheep."

"What's half a sheep to a growing girl?" inquired Mrs. Starr as she
plucked at her pompadour and straightened the counterpane.

The Starrs were still tittering when Dr. Harpe walked in. Their hilarity
quickly passed at the sight of her face. Another intelligence, a new
personality from which they unconsciously shrank looked at them through
Dr. Harpe's familiar features. The Starrs were not analytical nor given
to psychology, therefore it was no subtle change which could make them
stare. It was as though a ruthless hand had torn away a mask disclosing
a woman who only resembled some one they had known. She was a trifle
more than thirty and she looked to-day a haggard forty-five.

A grayish pallor had settled upon her face, and her neck, by the simple
turning of her head, had the lines of withered old age. Her lips were
colorless, and dry, and drooped in a kind of sneering cruelty, while
her restless, glittering eyes contained the malice and desperation of a
vicious animal when it's cornered. The uneasiness and erratic movements
of a user of cocaine was in her manner.

"What ails you now?" Her voice was harsh and Mrs. Starr flushed at the
blunt question.

She saw that Dr. Harpe was not listening to her reply.

"Get this filled." The prescription she wrote and handed her was
scarcely legible. "I'll be in again."

She stalked downstairs without more words.

The Starrs looked at each other blankly when she had gone.

"What's the matter with Dr. Harpe?"

Elsewhere throughout the town the same question was being asked. The
clairvoyant milliner cautiously asked the baker's wife as they watched
her turn the corner--

"Have you noticed anything queer about Dr. Harpe?"

There was that about her which repelled, and those who were wont to pass
her on the street with a friendly flourish of the hand and a "Hello,
Doc," somehow omitted it and substituted a nod and a stare of curiosity.
Her swaggering stride of assurance was a shamble, and, as she came down
the street now with her head down, her Stetson pulled low over her eyes,
her hand thrust deep in one pocket of her square cut coat, her skirt
flapping petticoatless about her, she looked even to the wife of the
baker, who liked her, and to the clairvoyant milliner, who imitated her,
a caricature upon womankind.

There was a look of evil upon her face at the moment not easy to
describe. She and Augusta had quarrelled--for the first time--and when
she could least afford to quarrel.

She had spoken often of Andy P. Symes as "the laziest man in Crowheart"
and Augusta always had giggled; to-day she had resented it. Was it, Dr.
Harpe asked herself, that she was losing control of Augusta because she
was losing her own? Nothing more disastrous could happen to her at this
time than to lose her footing in the Symes household. Her power over
Symes went with her prestige, for her word would have little weight if
the <DW55> Duke even partially carried out his threats. Her disclosure
would appear but the last resort of malice and receive little credence.

As she walked down the street with bent head she was asking herself if
the props were to be pulled from beneath her one by one, if the
invisible lines emanating from her own acts were tightening about her to
her undoing?

With a fierce gesture she pushed these thoughts from her as though they
were tangible things. No, no! she would not be beaten! Insomnia,
narcotics and stimulants had unnerved her for the time, but she was
strong enough to pull herself together and stay the circumstances which
threatened to swamp her midway in her career. Bolstered for the moment
by this resolve, she threw back her head and raised her eyes.

The <DW55> Duke, Dan Treu, and an important looking stranger were crossing
the street and she felt intuitively that it was for the purpose of
meeting her face to face. The <DW55> Duke bowed with his exaggerated
salutation of respect as they passed, the deputy-sheriff with an odd
constraint of manner, while the stranger who raised his hat in formal
politeness gave her a look which seemed to search her soul. It
frightened her. Who was he? She had seen him at old Dubois's funeral.
Was he some new factor to be reckoned with, or was it merely her crazy
nerves that made her see fresh danger at every turn, a new enemy in
every stranger?

She climbed the stairs to her office in a kind of nervous frenzy. She
felt like screaming, like beating upon the walls with her bare fists.
Inaction was no longer possible. She must do something, else this agony
of uncertainty and suspense would drive her mad. She strode up and down
at a pace which left her breathless, clenching and unclenching her
hands, while thickly, between set teeth, she raved at Essie Tisdale,
upon whom her venom concentrated.

"I could throttle her!" She looked at her curved, outspread fingers,
tense and strong as steel hooks. "I could choke her with my own hands
till she is black! Curse her--curse her! She's been a stumbling block in
my way ever since I came. The sight of her is a needle in my flesh. I'd
only want a minute if I could get my fingers on her throat! I'd shut
that baby mouth of hers for good and all. God! How I hate her!" She
hissed the words in venomous intensity, racked with the strength of her
emotions, weak from it, her ghastly face moist with perspiration.

"I've humiliated her!" she gasped. "I've made her suffer. I've downed
her, but there's something left yet that I haven't crushed! I'm not
satisfied; I haven't done enough. I want to break her spirit, to break
her heart, to finish her for all time!"

She groped for the door-knob as one who sees dimly, and all but ran down
the corridor. Even as she went the thought flashed through her mind that
she was making a fool of herself, that she was being led by an impulse
for which she would be sorry.

But she was at a pitch where the voice of caution had no weight; she
wanted what she wanted and in her heart she knew that she was going to
Essie Tisdale with the intention of inflicting physical pain. Nothing
less would satisfy her. Yet, when the door opened in response to her
knock, her upper lip stretched in its straight, mirthless smile.

"Hello, Ess!" She stepped back a bit into the dimly lighted corridor and
the girl all but shrank from the malice glowing in her eyes.

Essie did not immediately respond, so she asked in mock humility--

"Can't I come in, Mrs. Dubois?"

She saw the girl wince at the name by which no one as yet had called
her.

"Why this timidity, this unexpected politeness, when it's not usual for
you even to knock?"

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

"True enough, Mrs. Dubois, but naturally a poor country doctor like me
would hesitate before bolting in upon the privacy of a rich widow."

"If you use 'poor' in the sense of incompetent I am afraid I must agree
with you," was the unexpected answer.

"Ah, beginning to feel your oats, my dear." She slouched into the
nearest chair and flung her hat carelessly upon the floor.

"You notice it, my dear?" mimicked Essie Tisdale.

"When a range cayuse has a few square meals he gets onery."

"While they merely give a well-bred horse spirit."

Dr. Harpe looked at her searchingly. There was a change in Essie
Tisdale. She had a new confidence of manner, a cool poise that was older
than her years, while that intangible something which she could never
crush looked at her more defiantly than ever from the girl's sparkling
eyes. She had a feeling that Essie Tisdale welcomed her coming.
Certainly her assurance and animation was strangely at variance with her
precarious position. What had happened? Dr. Harpe intended to learn
before she left the room.

"At any rate you've paid high for your oats, Ess," she said finally.

The girl agreed coolly--

"Very."

"And you're not done paying," she added significantly.

"That remains to be seen."

Dr. Harpe's eyes narrowed in thought.

"Ess," in a patronizing drawl, "why don't you pull your freight? I'll
advance you the money myself."

"Run away? Why?"

"You're going to be arrested--that's a straight tip. You may get off,
but think what you'll have to go through first. Skip till things simmer
down. They'll not go after you."

The girl flashed a smile of real merriment at her, which almost cost Dr.
Harpe her self-control. The young and now glowing beauty of the girl
before her, the unconscious air of superiority and confidence which had
its wellspring in some mysterious source was maddening to her. The
interview was taxing her self-control to the limit and she felt that in
some inexplicable way the tables were turning.

"You--won't go, then?" Her voice held a menace.

"Why should I, since I am innocent? Take a vacation yourself, Dr. Harpe,
with the money you so generously offer me. You need it."

She followed the girl's dancing eyes to the mirror opposite which was
tilted so that it reflected the whole of her uncouth pose. Slid far down
in the chair with her heels resting on the floor and wrinkling hose
exposed above her boottops, a knot of dull, red hair slipped to one side
with shorter ends hanging in dishevelment about her face, she
looked--the thought was her own--like a drab of the streets in the
magistrate's court in the morning. She was startled, shocked by her own
appearance. Was she, Emma Harpe, as old, as haggard, as evil-looking as
that!

She had clung with peculiar tenacity to the hallucination that she still
had youthful charm of face and figure. As she stared, it seemed as
though the sand was sliding a little faster from beneath her feet. She
shoved the loose knot of hair to its place and straightened herself,
growing hot at the realization that she had betrayed to Essie Tisdale
something of her consternation.

She turned upon her fiercely--

"Look here, Ess, if you want to be friends with me, and have my
influence to get you out of this mess, you'd better change your
tactics."

"Haven't I yet made it clear to you that I care no more for your
friendship than for your enmity? Do you imagine that you can frighten
liking, or force respect after the occasion which we both remember?"

"There's one thing I can do--I can make Crowheart too hot to hold you!"
Her grip on herself was going fast.

Essie Tisdale stood up and, folding her arms, drew herself to her slim
height while she looked at her in contemptuous silence.

"I know there is no low thing to which you would not stoop to make good
your boast. You make me think of a viper that has exhausted its venom.
You have the disposition to strike, but you no longer have the power."

"You think not? And why? Do you imagine that your position in Crowheart
will be changed one iota by the fact that you've got a few dollars that
are red with blood?" She flung the taunt at her with savage insolence.

"My position in Crowheart is of no importance to me. But"--her voice cut
like finely tempered steel--"don't goad me too far. Don't forget that I
know you for what you are--a moral plague--creeping like a pestilence
among people who are not familiar with your face. I know, and you _know_
that I know you are in no position, Dr. Harpe, to point a finger at the
commonest women in the dance hall below."

The woman sprang from her chair and walked to her with the crouching
swiftness of a preying animal. She grasped Essie Tisdale's wrist in a
grip which left its imprint for hours after.

"How dare you!"

Essie Tisdale raised her chin higher.

"How dare I?" She smiled in the infuriated woman's face. "It takes no
courage for me to oppose you now. When I was a biscuit-shooter here, as
you lost no opportunity to remind me, you loomed large! That time has
gone by. Crowheart will know you some day as I know you. Your name will
be a byword in every saloon and bunk-house in the country!"

"I'll _kill_ you!"

The tense fingers were curved like steel hooks as she sprang for Essie
Tisdale's slender throat, but even as the girl shoved her chair between
them a masculine voice called "Esther" and a rap came upon the door.

Doctor Harpe's arms dropped to her side and she clutched handfuls of her
skirt as she struggled for self-control.

Essie Tisdale walked swiftly to the door and threw it wide. The towering
stranger stood in the corridor looking in amazement from one woman to
the other.

The girl turned and said with careful distinctness:

"You have been so occupied of late that perhaps you have not heard the
news. My uncle--Mr. Richard Kincaid--Dr. Harpe."




XXVIII

THE SWEETEST THING IN THE WORLD


Dr. Harpe standing at her office window saw the lovely Pearline Starr,
curled and dressed at ten in the morning, trip down the street bearing a
glass of buffalo berry jelly in her white-gloved hands, while Mrs. Percy
Parrott sitting erect in the Parrotts' new, second-hand surrey, drove
toward the hotel, carefully protecting from accident some prized package
which she held in her lap. Mrs. Parrott was wearing her new ding-a-ling
hat, grass-green in color, which, topping off the moss- serge
which, closely fitting her attenuated figure, gave Mrs. Parrott a
surprising resemblance to a katydid about to jump.

Dr. Harpe could not see Mrs. Abe Tutts walking gingerly across lots
carrying a pot of baked beans and brown bread in her two hands, nor Mrs.
Alva Jackson panting up another street with a Lady Baltimore cake in the
hope of reaching the hotel before her dearest friend and enemy Mrs.
Tutts, but Dr. Harpe knew from what she already had seen and from the
curious glances cast at the windows of the Terriberry House, that the
town was agog with Essie Tisdale's romantic story and her newly
established relationship to the important looking stranger. Mrs.
Terriberry could be trusted to attend to that and in her capable hands
it was certain to lose nothing in the telling.

The story was simple enough in itself and had its counterpart in many
towns throughout the West. Young Dick Kincaid had run away from his home
on the bank of the Mississippi River to make his fortune in the mining
camps of the far West. He did not write, because the fortune was always
just a little farther on. The months slipped into years, and when he
returned with the "stake" which was to be his peace offering, the name
of Kincaid was but a memory in the community, and the restless
Mississippi with its ever-changing channel flowed over the valuable
tract of black-walnut timber which had constituted the financial
resources of the Kincaids. The little sister had married a westerner as
poor as he was picturesque, and against her parents' wishes. They had
gone, never to be heard from again, disappeared mysteriously and
completely, and Samuel Kincaid had died, he and his wife, as much of
loneliness and longing as of age.

The triumphant return of his boyish dreams was, instead, an acute and
haunting remorse. The success that had been his, the success that was to
be his in the near-by city, never erased the bitter disappointment of
that home-coming. He had searched in vain for some trace of the little
sister whom he had loved. He had never given up hoping and that hope had
had its weight in influencing him to make the tedious trip to Crowheart.

And then, as though the Fates had punished him enough for his filial
neglect, his sister's eyes had looked out at him from the flower-like
face at the funeral of old Edouard Dubois. He had followed up his
impulse, and the rest is quickly told, for all Crowheart knew the story
of Essie Tisdale's miraculous rescue and of the picture primer which had
furnished the single clue to her identity.

With the news of Essie Tisdale's altered position--and Mrs. Terriberry
missed no opportunity to convey the impression that Kincaid's resources
were unlimited--the tide turned and the buffalo berry jelly, the Lady
Baltimore cake, baked beans and Mrs. Parrott's tinned lobster salad,
were the straws which in Crowheart always showed which way the wind was
blowing. That the ladies bearing these toothsome offerings had not been
speaking to Essie for some months past was a small matter which they
deemed best to forget.

Not so Mrs. Terriberry.

Mrs. Terriberry not only had Essie Tisdale's score to pay off but her
own as well, and who knows but that the latter was the sharper
incentive? To have been obliged to watch through a crack in the curtain
the fashionable world rustle by on its way to Mrs. Alva Jackson's euchre
had occasioned a pang not easily forgotten. To have knowledge of the
monthly meetings of Mrs. Parrott's Shadow Embroidery Class only through
the Society Column of the Crowheart _Courier_ and to be deprived of the
privilege of hearing Mrs. Abe Tutts's paper upon Wagnerian music at the
Culture Club were slights that rankled.

She was suspiciously close at hand when the ladies appeared in the
office of the Terriberry House with their culinary successes; also she
was wearing the red foulard which never went out of the closet except to
funerals and important functions.

Although the most conspicuous thing about these early callers was the
parcels they carried, Mrs. Terriberry chose to ignore them.

"Why, how do you do, Mrs. Parrott, and Miss Starr, too. It's a lovely
day to be out, isn't it?" Her voice was distinctly patronizing and she
extended a languid hand to Mrs. Jackson. "And usin' your brain like you
do, Mrs. Tutts, writin' them pieces for the Culture Club, I suppose you
have to git exercise."

"I've brought Essie some lobster salad from a receipt that mamma sent
me," said Mrs. Parrott when she could get an opening, "and while it's
canned lobster, it's really delicious!"

"The whites of sixteen aigs I put in this Lady Baltimore cake, and it's
light as a feather."

Mrs. Terriberry made no offer to take the package which Mrs. Jackson
extended.

"Just a little taste of buffalo berry jelly for Essie," said Miss Starr,
with her most radiant smile. "Her uncle might enjoy it."

"I ain't forgot," said Mrs. Tutts, "how fond Ess is of brown bread, so I
says to myself I'll just take some of my baked beans along, too. Tutts
says I beat the world on baked beans. Where's Ess? I'd like to see her."

"Yes; tell her we're here," chorused the others.

Mrs. Terriberry's moment had come. She drew herself up in a pose of
hauteur which a stout person can only achieve with practice.

"Miss Tisdale," she replied with glib gusto, "is engaged at present and
begs to be excused. But," she added in words which were obviously her
own, "you can put your junk in the closet over there with the rest
that's come."

                 *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Harpe understood perfectly now the meaning of the <DW55> Duke's
confident smile and the stranger's cold, searching look of enmity. He
was no weakling, this new-found relative of Essie Tisdale's, and the
<DW55> Duke's threats were no longer empty boastings.

If only she could sleep! Sleep? Was it days or weeks since she had
slept? Forebodings, suspicions of those whom she had been forced to
trust, Nell Beecroft, Lamb, and others, were spectres that frightened
sleep from her strained eyes. A tight band seemed stretched across her
forehead. She rubbed it hard, as though to lessen the tension. There was
a dull ache at the base of her brain and she shook her head to free
herself from it, but the jar hurt her.

Some one whistled in the corridor. She listened.

"Farewell, my own dear Napoli, Farewell to Thee, Farewell to Thee----"
How she hated that song! The <DW55> Duke was coming for his answer.

He stood before her with his hat in his hand, the other hand resting on
his hip smiling, confident, the one long, black lock of hair hanging
nearly in his eyes. He made no comment, but she saw that he was noting
the ravages which the intervening hours had left in her face. Beneath
his smile there was something hard and pitiless--a look that the
executioner of a de Medici might have worn--and for a moment it put her
at a loss for words. Then with an attempt at her old-time camaraderie,
she shoved a glass toward him--

His white teeth flashed in a fleeting smile--

"If you will join me--in my last drink?"

For answer she filled his glass and hers.

He raised it and looked at her.

"I give you--the sweetest thing in the world."

Her lip curled.

"Love?"

His black eyes glittered between their narrowed lids.

"The power to avenge the wrongs of the helpless."

He set down his empty glass and fumbled in his pocket for a paper which
he handed her to read.

"It's always well to know what you're signing," he said, and he watched
her face as her eyes followed the lines, with the intent yet impersonal
scrutiny of a specialist studying his case.

She looked, as she read, like a corpse that has been propped to a
sitting position, with nostrils sunken and lips of Parian marble. Her
hand shook with a violence which recalled her to herself, and when she
raised her eyes they looked as though the iris itself had faded. The
<DW55> Duke seemed absorbed in the curious effect.

He could hear the dryness of her mouth when she asked at last--

"You expect me--to put my name--to this?"

He inclined his head.

"It is--_impossible_!"

He replied evenly:

"It is necessary."

"You are asking me to sign my own death warrant."

He lifted his shoulders.

"It is your reputation or Essie Tisdale's."

The name seemed to prick her like a goad. Her hands and body twitched
nervously and then he saw swift decision arrive in her face.

"I'll not do it!"

As moved by a common impulse they arose.

"It's the lesser of two evils."

"I don't care!" She reiterated in a kind of hopeless desperation, "I
don't care--I'll fight!"

He eyed her again with a recurrence of his impersonal professional
scrutiny.

"You can't go through it, Doc; you haven't the stamina, any more. You
don't know what you're up against, for I haven't half showed my hand. I
have no personal grievance, as you know, but the wrongs of my
countrymen are my wrongs, and for your brutality to them you shall
answer to me. Fight if you will, but when you're done you'll not
disgrace your profession again in this or any other State."

While this scene was occurring in Doctor Harpe's office, Andy P. Symes
in his office was toying impatiently with an unopened letter from Mudge
as Mr. Percy Parrott, hat in hand, stood before him.

"It's not that I'm worried at all, Mr. Symes"--every line of Parrott's
face was deep-lined with anxiety as he spoke--"but, of course, I've made
you these loans largely upon my own responsibility, I've exceeded my
authority, in fact, and any failure on your part----" Mr. Parrott
finding himself floundering under Symes's cold gaze blurted out
desperately, "Well, 'twould break us!"

"Certainly, certainly, I know all that, but, really, these frequent
duns--this Homeseekers' Excursion has put me behind with my work, but as
soon as things are straightened out again----"

"Oh, of course. That's all right. I understand, but as soon as you
conveniently can----"

Mr. Parrott's lengthened jaw rested between the "white wings" of his
collar as he turned away. It might have reached his shirt-stud had he
known the number of creditors that had preceded him.

Even Symes's confident assurances that the complete failure of the
Homeseekers' Excursion was relatively a small matter, could not entirely
eradicate from the minds of Crowheart's merchants the picture presented
by the procession of excursionists returning with their satchels to the
station, glowering at Crowheart's citizens as they passed and making
loud charges of misrepresentation and fraud.

When the door closed behind him Symes dropped the catch that he might
read Mudge's bulky letter undisturbed. Mudge's diction was ever open to
criticism, but he had a faculty for conveying his meaning which genius
well might envy.

The letter read:

    MY DEAR SYMES:

    Are you the damnedest fool or the biggest scoundrel out of jail?
    Write and let me know.

    I told you there was something wrong; that some outside influence
    was queering us all along the line and I let myself be talked out of
    my conviction by you instead of getting busy and finding out the
    truth.

    The stock and bondholders have had a meeting and are going to ask
    the court to appoint a Receiver, and when he gets through with us
    we'll cut as much ice in the affairs of the Company as two
    office-boys, with no cause for complaint if we keep out of jail.

    There's been a high-priced engineer doing detective work on the
    project for days and his report wouldn't be apt to swell your head.
    The bondholders know more about the Symes Irrigation Company and
    conditions under the project than I ever did.

    They know that your none too perfect water-right won't furnish water
    for a third of the land under the ditch. They know that if you had
    every water-right on the river that there's some ten thousand acres
    of high land that couldn't be reached with a fire-hose. They know
    that there's another thousand or so where the soil isn't deep enough
    to grow radishes, let alone sugar-beets. They know, too, that
    instead of the $250,000 of your estimate to complete the ditch it
    will require nearly half a million, and they're on to the fact that
    in order to get this estimate you cut your own engineer's figures in
    two, and then some, upon the cost of making cuts and handling loose
    rock.

    Rough work, Symes, raw even for a green hand. You've left a trail of
    blood a yard wide behind you.

    Furthermore, the report contained the information that the wide
    business experience which you lost no occasion to mention consisted
    chiefly of standing off your creditors in various sections of the
    country.

    I trust that I have made it quite plain to you that we're down
    and out. I have about as much weight in financial circles as a
    second-story man, and am regarded in much the same light, while you
    are as important as a cipher without the rim.

    And the man behind all this, the largest bond-holder, the fellow
    that has pulled the strings, is not the Fly-Trap King, or even J.
    Collins Prescott, but the man he works for, Ogden Van Lennop, whose
    present address happens to be Crowheart.

    What's the answer? Why has a man like Van Lennop who is there on the
    ground and has long been familiar with conditions, why has he become
    the largest investor? Why should he tie up money in a project which
    the engineer reports will never pay more than a minimum rate of
    interest upon the investment even when the Company is re-organized
    and the ditch pushed to completion under economical and capable
    management? Why has he come in the Company for the one purpose of
    wrecking it? Why has he stuck the knife between your short ribs and
    mine--and turned it? What's the answer, Symes, you must know?

    We might as well buck the Bank of England as the Van Lennops, or
    match our wits against the Secret Service. They've got us roped and
    tied and I'd advise you not to squeal.

    Truly yours,
    S. B. MUDGE

Symes laid down the letter and smoothed it carefully, setting a small
brass crocodile exactly in the centre. Wiping his clammy palms upon one
of the handkerchiefs purchased on his wedding tour, the texture of which
always gave him a pleasurable sense of refinement and well-being, he
read again the line which showed below the paper-weight:

    There's one thing sure--we're down and out.

Symes's head sunk weakly forward. Down and out! Not even Mudge knew how
far down and out!

Stripped of the hope of success, robbed of the position which he had
made for himself, his self-esteem punctured, his home-life a mockery, no
longer young--it was the combination which makes a man whose vanity is
his strength, lose his grip. To be little where he had been big; to be
the object of his ruined neighbors' scorn--men have blown their brains
out in his mood, and for less.

What Mudge and the Company regarded as wilful misrepresentations had in
the beginning been due to inexperience and ignorance of an undertaking
which it required scientific knowledge to successfully carry out. When
the truth had been gradually borne in upon him as the work progressed,
he felt that it was too late to explain or retract if he would raise
more money and keep his position. The real cost he believed would
frighten possible investors and with the peculiar sanguineness of the
short-sighted, he thought that it would work out somehow.

And all had gone well until Mudge's unheeded warning had come that some
subtle but formidable influence was at work to their undoing.

The dull red of mortification crept slowly over Symes's face as he
realized that Ogden Van Lennop, before whom he had boasted of his
lineage, and patronized, was a conspicuous member of a family whose name
was all but a household word throughout the land!

But why, Symes asked the question that Mudge had asked, why should Van
Lennop thrust the knife between his short ribs--and turn it? It could
not be because Van Lennop had resented his patronage and his vaporings
to any such extent as this; he was not that kind. No; he had been
touched deeper than his pride or any petty vanity.

Another question like an answer to his first flashed through his mind.
Could it be--was it possible that his attentions to Essie Tisdale, the
biscuit-shooter of the Terriberry House, had been sincere?

Symes rose in sudden excitement and paced the floor.

He believed it was! The belief grew to conviction and he dropped again
into his chair. If this was it he need expect no quarter. As his
thoughts flashed back over the past the fact began to stand out clearly
that nearly every unfriendly act he had shown the girl had been
instigated by Doctor Harpe and accomplished through Augusta.

"That woman!" The veins swelled in his temples. "Always that woman!" and
as though in answer to her name he saw her pass the window and shake the
latched door.

"Let me in!" It was a peremptory demand.

Symes threw the catch back hard.

"Yes, Dr. Harpe, I'll let you in. I've business with you. For the first
time in my life I want to see you." His tone was brutal. "Sit down!" He
laid his huge hand upon her shoulder and thrust her into a chair.

Towering above her in the red-faced, loud-voiced fury of a man who has
lost his self-control, he shouted:

"I want you to get out! To quit! To leave this town! Twenty-four hours
I'll give you to get your traps together. Do you hear? If you don't, so
help me God, I'll put you where you belong! Don't speak," he raised his
hand as though to forestall her, "lest I forget your sex." He went on,
inarticulate with passion: "I've protected you as long as I can--as long
as I'm going to. Do you understand? I'm done. I've got some little
self-respect left; not much, but enough to see me through this. And you
can tell Augusta Symes that if she wants to go, every door is open wide!
Tell her--tell her that for me!"

He stopped, choked with the violence of his feelings, and in the pause
which followed she sat looking up at him unmoved. The shock seemed to
quiet her. Then, too, it was so like another scene indelibly engraved
upon her memory that she wanted to laugh--actually to laugh. Yet Symes's
violence cut her less than had the cool, impersonal voice of the coroner
back there in that little Nebraska town. She found his blazing eyes far
easier to meet than the cold unfriendliness in the gaze of the man who
had delivered that other ultimatum. Perhaps it was because she believed
she had less to fear. Symes dared not--_dared_ not, she told
herself--enforce his threats.

Symes read something of this thought in her face and it maddened him.
Was it not possible to make her comprehend? Was she really so callous,
so thick-skinned that she was immune from insult? His hand dropped once
more upon her shoulder.

"I'm ruined--do you understand?" He shook her. "I'm down and out. I'm
broke; and so is Crowheart!" She winced under his tightening grip. "The
smash was due when Van Lennop said the word. He's said it." He felt her
start at the name and there was something like fear in her face at last.
"Van Lennop," he reiterated, "Van Lennop that you've made my enemy to
gratify your personal spite and jealousy." He continued through clenched
teeth:

"From the beginning you've used me to further your petty ends. It's
plain enough to me now, for, with all your fancied cleverness, you're
transparent as a window-pane when one understands your character. You've
silenced me, I admit it, and blackmailed me through my pride and
ambition, but you've reached the limit. You can't do it any more. I've
none left.

"You expect to cling to my coat-tails to keep yourself up. You look to
my position for shelter, but let me make it clear to you that you can't
hide behind my prestige and my position any longer. You human sponge!
You parasite! Do you think I'm blind because I've been dumb? Go!
you--DEGENERATE! By God! you go before I kill you!"

In his insane fury he pulled her to her feet by the shoulders of her
loose-cut coat where she stood looking at him uncertainly, her faded
eyes set in a gray mask.

"See here, Mr. Symes, see here----" she said in a kind of vague
belligerence.

Symes pushed her toward the door as Adolph Kunkel passed.

"Will you go?" Symes shouted.

She turned on the sidewalk and faced him. The gray mask wore a sneer.

"Not alone."

"Hi, Doc!" Kunkel pointed to a straight, black pillar of smoke rising at
the station, and yelled in local parlance: "Look there! Your beau's
come! That's the Van Lennop Special!"




XXIX

"THE BITTER END"


"She ain't here." Nell Beecroft, with arms akimbo, blocked the hospital
door.

"Upon your honor, Nell?"

She looked the sheriff squarely in the eyes.

"Upon my honor, Dan."

She saw the doubt lying behind his look, but she did not flinch.

"When she comes, send me word. No," on second thought, "you needn't;
I'll be back." He tapped the inside pocket of his coat significantly. "I
want to see Dr. Harpe most particular."

"I'll tell her," the woman answered shortly. She watched him down the
street. "He knows I'm lyin'," she muttered, and though the heat was
unusual, she closed the door behind her.

The muffled sound of beating fists drew her to the cellarway.

"Nell--let me out! Quick! Open the door!"

Nell Beecroft took a key from her apron pocket and demanded harshly as
she turned it in the lock:

"What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

Dr. Harpe stumbled blinking into the light.

"Oh-h-h!" she gasped in relief.

"You'd better stay cached." Nell Beecroft eyed, with a look of contempt,
the woman for whom she had lied. "Dan Treu was here; he's got a
warrant."

"I don't care--I'll not go down there!" She pinned wildly at the
loosened knot of dull red hair which lay upon her shoulders. "That was
fierce!" She looked in horror down the dusky cellarway.

"What ails you, Harpe?" There was no sympathy in the harsh voice.

Dr. Harpe laughed--a foolish, apologetic laugh.

"Spooks--Nell! I'm nervous--I'm all unstrung. Moses! I thought all the
arms and legs we've amputated were chasin' me upstairs. Did you hear me
scream?"

"No," the woman reiterated sharply. "Dan Treu was here. He wants to see
you most particular."

"You didn't tell him----"

"Of course not."

"You won't go back on me, Nell?"

The woman regarded her in cold dislike.

"No, I'll not go back on you, Harpe. A man or a woman that ain't got
some redeemin' trait, some one thing that you can bank on, is no good on
earth, and stickin' to them I've throwed in with happens to be mine.
What you goin' to do? stay and brazen it out--this mess you're in--or
quit the flat?"

"Nell," she replied irrelevantly with a quick, uncertain glance around,
"I'm _afraid_. Do you know what it is to be afraid?"

"I've been scart," the woman answered curtly.

"I've a queer, sinkin' feeling here," she laid her hand at the pit of
her stomach, "and my back feels weak--all gone. My knees take spells of
wobblin' when I walk. I'm afraid in the dark. I'm afraid in the light.
Not so much of any one thing as of some big, intangible thing that
hasn't happened. I can't shake off the feeling. It's horrible. My mind
won't stop thinkin' of things I don't want to think of. My nerves are a
wreck, Nell. I've lost my grip, my judgment. I'm not myself."

Nell Beecroft listened in hard curiosity, eyeing her critically.

"Oh, yes, you are, only you've never really seen yourself before. You've
took your brass for courage. Lots of people do that till some real
show-down comes."

"Look here, Nell,"--her voice held a whine of protest--"you haven't got
me sized up right." Yet in her heart she knew that the woman's brutal
analysis was true. Better even than Nell Beecroft she knew that what
passed with her following for shrewdness and courage in reality was
callousness and calculating cynicism.

The woman ignored the interruption and went on--

"So long as you could swagger around with Andy P. Symes to bolster you
up and a crowd of old women to flatter you, you could put up a front,
but you ain't the kind, Harpe, that can turn your back to the wall, fold
your arms, and sling defiance at the town if they all turn on you."

"But they won't."

"You've got a kind of mulishness, and you've got gall, and when things
are goin' your way you'll take long chances, but they ain't the traits
that gives a person the sand to stand out in the open with their head up
and let the storms whip thunder out of them without a whimper."

"It's my nerves, I tell you; they're shot to pieces--the strain I've
been under--everything goin' wrong--pilin' on me like a thousand of
brick."

"Is it goin' to be any better?"

"Some of my friends will stick," Dr. Harpe repeated stubbornly.

"Sure, they will. A woman like you will always have a followin' among
the igner'nt and weak-minded."

"What you roastin' me for like this?" The woman's brutal frankness
touched her at last. "Who and what do you think you are yourself?"

"Nothin'," Nell Beecroft returned composedly. "Nobody at all. Just the
wife of a horse-thief that's doin' time. But," and her hard, gray eyes
flashed in momentary pride, "he learnt me the diffrunce between sand and
a yellow-streak. They sent fifty men to take him out of the hills, and
when he was handed his medicine he swallowed the whole dose to save his
pardner, and never squeaked."

Nell Beecroft walked to the window swallowing hard at the lump which
rose in her throat.

"If I could sleep--get one night's decent sleep----"

"When you collapse you'll go quick," opined the woman unemotionally.

"But I'm goin' to see it through--I'll stick to the bitter end--I'm no
coward----"

"Ain't you?" Sudden excitement leaped into Nell Beecroft's voice and she
stared hard down the street. "Unless I'm mistaken you're goin' to have
as fine a chance to prove it as anybody I ever see. Come here." She
pointed to a gesticulating mob which was turning the corner where the
road led from the Symes Irrigation Project into town.

"The <DW55>s!" Dr. Harpe's voice was a whisper of fear.

"They're on the <DW8>," Nell Beecroft said briefly, and strode to the
cellar-door. "Cache yourself!" She would have thrust Dr. Harpe down the
stairway.

"No--no--not there! I can't! I'd scream!" She shrank back in unfeigned
horror. "I'm goin' to run for it, Nell! The <DW55> Duke has ribbed this up
on me!" From force of habit she reached for her black medicine case as
she swung her Stetson on her head. "If I can get to Symes's house--down
the alley--they can't see me----"

Nell Beecroft, with curling lips, stood in the kitchen doorway and
watched her go. Crouching, with her head bent, she ran through the
alley, panting, wild-eyed in her exaggerated fear.

A big band of bleating sheep on the way to the loading pens at the
station blocked her way where she would have crossed the street to
Symes's house. She swore in a frenzy of impatience as she waited for
them to pass in the cloud of choking dust raised by their tiny, pointed
hoofs.

"Way 'round 'em, Shep!" The voice was familiar. "Hullo, Doc!" The Sheep
King of Poison Creek waved a grimy, genial hand.

"Hurry your infernal woolers along, can't you?" she yelled in response.

That other cloud of dust rising above the road which led from the Symes
Irrigation Project into town was coming closer. She plunged among the
sheep, forcing a path for herself through the moving mass of woolly
backs.

"You're in a desprit rush, looks like. They won't die till you get
there!" The Sheep King was not too pleased as he ran to head the sheep
she had turned.

"Like the devil was after her." He watched her bound up the steps of
Symes's veranda and burst through the doorway.

The engineer had steam up and the last half dozen sheep were being
prodded into the last car of the long train bound for the Eastern
market when the Sheep King of Poison Creek drew his shirt sleeve across
his moist forehead in relief and observed with feeling:

"Of all the contrary--onery--say, Bill, there's them as says sheep is
fools!"

It took a moment for this surprising assertion to sink into his helper's
brain.

"They as says sheep is fools----" Bill, the herder's voice rang with
scorn, "them as says sheep is fools----" great mental effort was visible
upon his blank countenance as he groped for some word or combination of
words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of those who doubted
the intelligence of sheep--"is fools themselves," he added lamely,
finding none.

"Guess we're about ready to pull out. Get aboard, Bill." The Sheep King,
squinting along the track where the banked cinders radiated heat waves,
was watching, not the signalling brakeman, but a figure skulking in the
shade of the red water-tank. "It looks like----"

The heavy train of bleating sheep began to crawl up the grade. The Sheep
King stood at the door of the rear car looking fixedly at the slinking
figure so obviously waiting for the caboose to pass.

Dr. Harpe threw her black medicine case upon the platform.

"Give us a hand." The words were a demand, but there was appeal in the
eyes upturned to his as she thrust up her own hand.

"Sure." The cordiality in the Sheep King's voice was forced as he
dragged her aboard; and in his curious looks, his constraint of manner,
the sly glances and averted, grinning faces of his helpers inside, Dr.
Harpe read her fate.

"Your name," Essie Tisdale had said, "will be a byword in every
sheep-camp and bunk-house in the country."

Sick with a baffled feeling of defeat and the realization that the
prophecy of the girl she hated already had come true, Dr. Harpe sat on
the top step of the caboose, her chin buried in her hands, with moody,
malignant eyes watching Crowheart fade as the bleating, ill-smelling
sheep train crept up the grade.




XXX

"THICKER THAN WATER"


Essie Tisdale pulled aside the coarse lace curtains starched to
asbesteroid stiffness which draped the front windows of the upstairs
parlor in the Terriberry House, and looked with growing interest at an
excited and rapidly growing group on the wide sidewalk in front of the
post-office.

Such gatherings in Crowheart nearly always portended a fight, but since
the hub of the fast widening circle appeared to be Mr. Percy Parrott
gesticulating wildly with a newspaper, she concluded that it was merely
a sensational bit of news which had come from the outside world. Yet the
citizens of Crowheart were not given to exhibiting concern over any
happening which did not directly concern themselves, and Dr. Lamb was
running. From a hurried walk he broke into a short-stepped, high-kneed
prance which was like the action of an English cob, while from across
the street dashed Sohmes, the abnormally fat butcher, clasping both
hands over his swaying abdomen to lessen the jar.

She turned from the window, and one of the waves of gladness which kept
rising within her again swept over her as she realized that the affairs
of Crowheart meant nothing to her now. A gulf, invisible as yet, but
real as her own existence, lay between her and the life of which she had
been a part such a little time before.

She looked about her at the cotton plush furniture of dingy red, at the
marble-topped centre table upon whose chilly surface a large,
gilt-edged family Bible reposed--placed there by Mrs. Terriberry in the
serene confidence that its fair margins would never be defiled through
use. Beside the Bible, lay the plush album with its Lombroso-like
villainous gallery of countenances upon which transient vandals had
pencilled mustaches regardless of sex. She looked at the fly-roost of
pampas grass in the sky-blue vase on the shelf from which hung an
old-gold lambriquin that represented the highest art of the Kensington
cult--water lilies on plush--and at the crowning glory of the parlor, a
pier glass in a walnut frame.

It was tawdry and cheap and offended her eye, but it was exclusively her
own and she looked about her with a keen thrill of pleasure because of
the condition which her occupancy of it represented. Somehow it seemed
years ago that she had walked around the hole in the ingrain carpet in
the bare room which looked out upon the heap of tin-cans and corrals of
the Terriberry House.

Through the door which opened into her bed-chamber she saw the floor
littered with boxes and papers, the new near-silk petticoat draping a
chair, the new near-tailored suit which represented the "last cry" from
the General Merchandise Store, the Parisian hat which the clairvoyant
milliner had seen in a trance and trimmed from memory, but the lines of
which suggested that the milliner's astral body had practised a
deception and projected itself no further than 14th Street.

A fresh realization of what these things meant, namely the personal
interest of some one who cared, brought a rush of tears to her eyes.
They were still moist when Mr. Richard Kincaid appeared in the parlor,
his eyes twinkling above a pillar of boxes and bundles which he carried
in his arms.

"What's the matter, Esther? What has happened?" He dropped the packages
and went to her side.

She threw her arms impulsively about his neck and laid her head upon his
breast while she said between little sobs of tears and laughter--

"I'm so happy! happy! _happy!_ Uncle Dick--that's all. And so grateful,
too. I love you so much that I want to cry, and so happy that I want to
laugh. So I do both. I didn't have to learn to love you. I did from the
first. It came with a rush just as soon as I found out who you
were--that we belonged to each other, you know. All at once I felt so
different--so safe--so sure of you, and so secure--and so proud to think
we were related. I can't explain exactly, but just being _me_, so
long--not knowing who I was or where I came from--and belonging to no
one at all--it seems a wonderful thing to have you!"

She turned her face to his shoulder and cried softly.

He patted her cheek and smiled--a smile that was of sadness and
understanding.

"I know what you mean, Esther; I comprehend your feelings perfectly.
It's the bond of kinship which you recognize, the tie of blood, and let
me tell you, girl, there never was a truer saying than the old one that
'blood is thicker than water.' Disguise it as you will, and bitter
family feuds would sometimes seem to give it the lie, but it's a fact
just the same. It takes time to find it out--a lifetime often--but deep
in the heart of every normal human being there's an instinctive,
intimate, personal feeling for one's own flesh and blood that is like
nothing else. Their successes and their failures touch us closer, for
the pride of race is in us all.

"There's none who realize more strongly the limitations of strangers'
friendships than those, who, like you and I, have been dependent upon
them as a substitute for the affection of our own. But there, that's
done with, loneliness is behind us, for we have each other now; and,
bottled up within me, I've the longings of twenty years to spoil and
pamper somebody. When I was the marrying age I was off in the hills;
since then I've been too busy and too critical. So you see, Esther
Kincaid Tisdale, you are filling a long-felt want."

He kissed her with a smack and she hugged his arm in ecstasy.

"I'm going to try and make up for what we both have lost. No harm can
come to you so long as I have a dollar and the brains to make more."

"It's like stories I've dreamed!" she breathed happily.

"But tell me,"--some thought made him hold her at arms' length to read
her face--"has there been no one, no one at all who has figured in these
dreams of yours in a different way from which I do?"

He watched with something like consternation the tell-tale color rise in
her face and her eyes drop from his own.

"There was--one," she faltered, "but he--I--misunderstood--I was vain
enough to think he cared for me. It was a mistake--a stupid mistake of
mine--he just liked me--he was lonely--I suppose--that's all." She
swallowed hard to down the rising lump in her throat.

"Who was he?"

"I don't know exactly who he was; he just came here; rode in on
horseback--for his health, he said. They used to say he was a hold-up
getting the lay of the town to make a raid, or a gambler, but he wasn't,
he _wasn't_ anything like that. _You'd_ have liked him, Uncle Dick, I
know you would have liked him!" Her eyes were sparkling now. "He talked
like you, and when he was interested enough to exert himself he had the
same sure way of doing things. But he went away about three weeks ago
and did not even say good-by."

"What's his name?"

She answered with an effort--

"Ogden Van Lennop."

"Van Lennop?" Kincaid's voice was sharp with astonishment. "Why, girl,
he's here. He just got in and he's raising Cain in Crowheart! I meant to
tell you, but this shopping business quite drove it from my head. The
news has only come out that the Symes's Irrigation Company is going into
a Receiver's hands and the bondholders will foreclose their mortgages.
Look down in the street. There's a mob of workmen from the project and
the creditors of your friend Symes considering how they best can extract
blood from a turnip. For some reason of his own Van Lennop has gone
after Symes's scalp and got it. Don't be too quick to judge him,
Esther." But a glance at her face told him he need not plead Van
Lennop's cause.

"He meant it, then!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "All that he said that
day we rode together. I didn't understand his meaning, but this is it:
'I'll wear your colors in the arena where _men_ fight--and win,' he
said. 'I'll fight with the weapons I know best how to use.'"

"If he's the member of the family that I think he is," said Kincaid
dryly, "it's almost unsportsmanlike for him to go after Symes; it's like
a crack pigeon shot shooting a bird sitting."

"And he said," Essie went on, "'Don't waste your energy in quarrelling
with your enemies, concentrate--make money out of them.'"

"Did Van Lennop say that?"

She nodded.

"They'll pay tribute, then. Van Lennop will put this project through in
his own good time; but let me prophesy they'll be pitching horse-shoes
in the main street of Crowheart first."

The sound of a commotion on the stairs reached them.

"What's broken loose in this man's town now?"

As though in direct answer to Kincaid's question Mrs. Terriberry lunged
down the corridor looking like a hippopotamus in red foulard.

"If anything more happens"--Mrs. Terriberry's voice rose shrill and
positive--"I shall _die_!"

A lunge in his direction indicated that her demise might take place in
Kincaid's arms, but a startled side-step saved him and she sank heavily
upon the red plush sofa. Her teeth chattered with a touch of nervous
chill and her skin looked mottled.

"She choked her! choked her almost to death! She'd a done it in a minute
more only the hired girl broke her holt!"

"Who? What do you mean, Mrs. Terriberry?"

"Dr. Harpe! She choked Gussie Symes because Gussie wouldn't leave her
home and go away with her! Did you ever hear such a thing!" She went on
in disconnected gasps: "Crazy! Jealous! I don't know what--nobody
does--and she's disappeared--they can't find her." Mrs. Terriberry's
shudders made the sofa creak. "And her active in church work, which they
say her langwudge was awful!"

But Essie Tisdale was listening to another step upon the stair and she
trembled when she heard the steps hastening down the corridor.

Van Lennop saw only her as he came toward her with outstretched hands,
speaking her name with the yearning tenderness with which he had spoken
it to himself a hundred times--

"Essie--Essie Tisdale!"

He kissed her, and she yielded, as though there were no need for words
between them.

"But my letter? My telegram? Why didn't you answer?"

Her eyes widened with astonishment.

"Your letter! Your telegram!"

"You didn't get them?"

"Not one."

"Who did then?"

She shook her head.

"No one knew you'd gone but Dr. Harpe."

"Dr. Harpe!"

"You wrote her!"

"I wrote Dr. Harpe?" He stared at her for one incredulous second. "I
wrote Dr. Harpe! She said so?"

"She said you left a letter for her."

There leaped into his steel-gray eyes a look which reminded Kincaid of
the play of a jagged flash of lightning. He spoke slowly and enunciated
very carefully when he said--

"I knew Dr. Harpe had the instincts of a prying servant, but I scarcely
thought she'd go as far as that."

"Essie," Kincaid tapped her on the shoulder, "don't forget that your old
Uncle Dick is here and waiting to be noticed."

He laughed aloud at her confusion and said as he and Van Lennop shook
each other's hand--

"Just as I think I'm fixed for life, by George! I'm shoved out in the
cold again; for I am forced to believe"--his eyes twinkled as he looked
at Van Lennop--"that I am not the only Homeseeker left in Crowheart."



***