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THE HOMESTEADER




[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

"SOMETHING HAPPENED AND I WAS STRANGELY GLAD AND CAME HERE BECAUSE
I--I--JUST _HAD_ TO SEE YOU, JEAN."]




  THE HOMESTEADER

  _A NOVEL_


  BY
  OSCAR MICHEAUX
  Author of "The Forged Note"


  _ILLUSTRATED BY W.M. FARROW_


  SIOUX CITY, IOWA
  WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS




  COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY OSCAR MICHEAUX
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




  BELOVED MOTHER

  THIS
  TO
  YOU




PUBLISHERS TO THE READER


_How much of the story of Jean Baptiste is a work of the author's own
imagination and how much comes from an authentic source we do not
consider it necessary to say. But that he has in this instance drawn
more largely and directly from fact than is the practice of the novelist
is admitted, and we have his consent therefore, to make certain
statements concerning himself that relate to the story, and why he has
written it._

_To begin with, that which any writer has been more closely associated
with, are the things he can best portray. Wherefore, in "THE
HOMESTEADER," Oscar Micheaux has written largely along the lines he has
lived, and, naturally of what he best knows. His experience has been
somewhat unusual; his association largely out of the ordinary. Born
thirty-three years ago in Southern Illinois, he left those parts at an
early age to come into his larger education in the years that followed
through extensive traveling and a varied association. Purchasing a
relinquishment on a homestead in South Dakota at the age of twenty; five
years later he had succeeded and owned considerable lands in the country
wherein he had settled. Always literarily inclined he wrote articles for
newspapers and magazines as a beginner, and then during his twenty-sixth
and twenty-seventh years occurred the conflicting incident that changed
the whole course of his life, and gave him more than anything else, the
subsequent material for the building of this story._

_Shortly after this his first book appeared, and he at last had found
his calling. He wrote his second book two years later. But the episode
that had changed his life from ranching to writing was ever in his mind
and always so forcibly until he was never a contented man until he had
written it--and "The Homesteader" is the story._




CONTENTS


EPOCH THE FIRST

  CHAPTER       PAGE

     I AGNES      13

    II THE HOMESTEADER      21

   III AT THE SOD HOUSE      28

    IV SHE COULD NEVER BE ANYTHING TO HIM      37

     V WHEN THE INDIANS SHOT THE TOWN UP      43

    VI THE INFIDEL, A JEW AND A GERMAN      49

   VII THE DAY BEFORE      56

  VIII AN ENTERPRISING YOUNG MAN      61

    IX "CHRISTINE! CHRISTINE!"      75

     X "YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE"      80

    XI WHAT JEAN BAPTISTE FOUND IN THE WELL      85

   XII MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER      89

  XIII THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD      97

   XIV THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL      107

    XV OH, MY JEAN      115

   XVI "BILL" PRESCOTT PROPOSES      123

  XVII HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT      131


EPOCH THE SECOND

     I REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES      143

    II WHICH?      153

   III MEMORIES--N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY      159

    IV ORLEAN      174

     V A PROPOSAL: A PROPOSITION; A CERTAIN MRS. PRUITT--AND
         A LETTER      186

    VI THE PRAIRIE FIRE      190

   VII VANITY      196

  VIII MARRIED      207

    IX ORLEAN RECEIVES A LETTER AND ADVICE      212

     X EUGENE CROOK      221

    XI REVEREND MCCARTHY PAYS A VISIT      227

   XII REVEREND MCCARTHY DECIDES TO SET BAPTISTE RIGHT,
         BUT--      234

  XIII THE WOLF      240

   XIV THE CONTEST      247

    XV COMPROMISED      252

   XVI THE EVIL GENIUS      259

  XVII THE COWARD      267


EPOCH THE THIRD

     I CHICAGO--THE BOOMERANG      279

    II THE GREAT QUESTION      284

   III GLAVIS MAKES A PROMISE      294

    IV THE GAMBLER'S STORY      299

     V THE PREACHER'S EVIL INFLUENCE      305

    VI MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK      311

   VII A GREAT ASTRONOMER      317

  VIII N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY PREACHES A SERMON      325

    IX WHAT THE PEOPLE WERE SAYING      332

     X "UNTIL THEN"      339

    XI "IT'S THE WRONG NUMBER"      346

   XII MRS. PRUITT EFFECTS A PLAN      354

  XIII MRS. MERLEY      363

   XIV "OH, MERCIFUL GOD! CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!"      369

    XV "LOVE YOU--GOD, I HATE YOU!"      376

   XVI A STRANGE DREAM      385


EPOCH THE FOURTH

      I THE DROUGHT      395

     II THE FORECLOSURE      400

    III IRENE GREY      407

     IV WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN      414

      V "TELL ME WHY YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE LAST LETTER
          I WROTE YOU"      421

     VI THE STORY      427

    VII HER BIRTHRIGHT "FOR A MESS OF POTTAGE"      436

   VIII ACTION      440

     IX GOSSIP      446

      X A DISCOVERY--AND A SURPRISE      456

     XI THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION      464

    XII THE BISHOP ACTS      479

   XIII WHERE THE WEAK MUST BE STRONG      482

    XIV THE TRIAL--THE LIE--"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"      488

     XV GRIM JUSTICE      495

    XVI A FRIEND      502

   XVII THE MYSTERY      508

  XVIII "VENGEANCE IS MINE. I WILL REPAY"      515

    XIX WHEN THE TRUTH BECAME KNOWN      523

     XX AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING      529




ILLUSTRATIONS


  "Something happened and I was strangely glad and came here
      because I--I just _had_ to see you, Jean"        _Frontispiece_

                                                        FACING
                                                          PAGE

  He was young, The Homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and
      vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous      22

  He raised on an elbow and looked into her face while she staggered
      forward in great surprise      35

  "But, Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for you I
      would have done for anybody. It was merely an act of
      providence; but yours--oh, Jean, _can't you understand_!"      138

  "Miss Pitt was so anxious to meet you and I was, too, because
      I think you and her would like each other. She's an awfully
      good girl and willing to help a fellow"      159

  "He's going to kill you out here to make him rich, and then
      when you are dead and--" "Please don't, father!" she almost
      screamed. She knew he was going to say: "in your
      grave, he will marry another woman to enjoy what you have
      died for," but she could not quite listen to that      245

  He tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to
      hang on like grim death. And as he stood enmeshed in its
      sinister thraldom, he thought he saw her rise and point an
      accusing finger at him      518




LEADING CHARACTERS


  AGNES, _Whose Eyes Were Baffling_

  JEAN BAPTISTE, _The Homesteader_

  JACK STEWART, _Agnes' Father_

  AUGUSTUS M. BARR, _an Infidel_

  ISAAC SYFE, _a Jew_

  PETER KADEN, _The Victim_

  N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY, _a Preacher_

  ORLEAN, _his Daughter, Without the Courage of Her Convictions_

  ETHEL, _her Sister, Who Was Different_

  GLAVIS, _Ethel's Husband_

  EUGENE CROOK, _a Banker_




EPOCH THE FIRST




THE HOMESTEADER




CHAPTER I

AGNES


Their cognomen was Stewart, and three years had gone by since their
return from Western Kansas where they had been on what they now chose to
regard as a "Wild Goose Chase." The substance was, that as farmers they
had failed to raise even one crop during the three years they spent
there, so had in the end, therefore, returned broken and defeated to the
rustic old district of Indiana where they had again taken up their
residence on a rented farm.

Welcomed home like the "return of the prodigal," the age old gossip of
"I told you so!" had been exchanged, and the episode was about
forgotten.

But there was one in the family, the one with whom our story is largely
concerned, who, although she had found little in Western Kansas to
encourage her to stay there, had not, on the other hand, found much
cheer back in old Indiana so long as they found no place to live but
"Nubbin Ridge." Although but a girl, it so happened through
circumstances over which she had no control, that whatever she thought
or did, concerned largely the whole family's welfare or destiny.

Her father was a quaint old Scotchman, coming directly from Scotland to
this country, a Highlander from the highest of the Highlands, and
carried the accent still. But concerning her mother, she had never known
her. Indeed, few had known her mother intimately; but it was generally
understood that she had been the second wife of her father, and that she
had died that Agnes might live. She was the only offspring by this
marriage, although there were two boys by the first union. These lived
at home with her and her father, but were, unfortunately, half-witted.
Naturally Agnes was regarded as having been fortunate in being born of
the second wife. But, what seemed rather singular, unlike her half
brothers who were simple, she, on the other hand, appeared to be
possessed with an unusual amount of wit; rare wit, extraordinary wit.

She was now twenty, and because she possessed such sweet ways, she was
often referred to as beautiful, although, in truth she was not. Her face
was somewhat square, and while there was a semblance of red roses in her
cheeks when she smiled, her complexion was unusually white--almost pale.
Her mouth, like her face, was also inclined to be square, while her lips
were the reddest. She had a chin that was noticeable due to the fact
that it was so prominent, and her nose was straight almost to the point
where it took a slight turn upwards. It was her hair, however, that was
her greatest attraction. Unusually long, it was thick and heavy, of a
flaxen tint, and was her pride. Her eyes, however, were a
mystery--baffling. Sometimes when they were observed by others they were
called blue, but upon second notice they might be taken for brown. Few
really knew their exact color, and to most they were a puzzle. There was
a flash about them at times that moved people, a peculiarity withal that
even her father had never been able to understand. At such times he was
singularly frightened, frightened with what he saw, and what he didn't
see but felt. Always she then reminded him of her mother whom he had
known only briefly before taking her as his wife. He had loved her,
this wife, and had also feared her as he now feared this daughter when
her eyes flashed.

Her mother had kept a secret from him--and the world! In trust she left
some papers. What they contained he did not know, and would not until
the day before she, Agnes, was to marry; and should she not marry by the
time she reached thirty, the papers were to be given her then anyhow.

And so Jack Stewart had resigned himself to the situation; had given her
the best education possible, which had not been much. She had gone
through the grade schools, however, and barely succeeded in completing
two years of the high school course. The love that he had been deprived
of giving her mother because of her early death he had given to Agnes;
she was his joy, his pride. She read to him because his eyes were not
the best; she wrote his letters, consulted with him, assisted and
conducted what business he had, and had avoided the society of young
men.

So we have met, and know some little of the girl we are to follow. In
the beginning of our story, we find her anything but contented. Living
in quaint old "Nubbin Ridge," could not, to say the most, be called
illustrious. It was a small district where the soil was very poor--as
poor, perhaps, as Indiana afforded. So poor indeed, that it was capable
of producing nothing but nubbins (corn) from which it derived its name.
When a man went to rent a farm in "Nubbin Ridge" he was considered all
in, down and out.... To continue life there was to grow poorer. It was a
part of the state wherein no one had ever been known to grow rich, and
Stewarts had proven no exception to the rule. But this story is to be
concerned only briefly with "Nubbin Ridge," so we will come back to the
one around whom it will in a measure center.

Her chief accomplishments since their disastrous conquest of Western
Kansas had been the simple detail of keeping a diary. But at other times
she had attempted musical composition and had even sent the same to
publishers, one after another. Of course all she sent had duly come
back, and she had by this time grown to expect the returned manuscripts
as the inevitable. But since sending the same gave her a diversion, she
had kept it up--and had today received a letter! A letter, that was all,
and a short one at that; but even a letter in view of her previous
experiences was highly appreciated. It stated briefly that her
composition had been carefully examined--studied, but had, they very
much regretted to inform her, been found unavailable for their needs.
Although they had returned the same, they wished to say that she had
shown some merit--"symptoms" she thought would have sounded better--and
that they would always be patient and glad to examine anything she might
be so kind as to submit!

She read the letter over many times. Not that she hoped that doing so
would bring her anything, but because in her little life in "Nubbin
Ridge" there was so little to break the usual monotonous routine. When
she had read and studied it until she knew every letter by heart, she
sighed, picked up her diary, and wrote therein:

     There is little to record tonight. Today just passed was like
     yesterday, and yesterday was like the day before that, except it
     rained yesterday, and it didn't the day before. Papa and Bill and
     George have just completed picking corn--nubbins, the kind and only
     thing that grows in Nubbin Ridge. Verily does the name fit the
     production! We will perhaps have enough when it is sold to pay the
     rent, send to Sears & Roebuck for a few things, and that's all.
     George wants a gun and thinks he's worked hard enough this summer
     to earn one. He has found one in the catalogue that can be had for
     $4.85 and is all heart that papa will get it for him; along with
     four boxes of shells that will, all told, reach $6.00. Little
     enough, to say the least, for a summer's work! Bill has his mind
     set on a watch, but papa bought him a suit of clothes that cost
     $5.89 two months ago when we sold the hogs, so I don't think Bill
     will get in on anything this fall or winter. As for me, I would
     like to have a dress that I see can be had through a catalogue for
     a reasonable sum; but if it will crowd papa I will say nothing
     about it. He has the mortgage on the horses to pay, and by the time
     we get the few other necessities, it will not leave much, if
     anything.

     LATER--Papa has been growing very restless of late. I don't wonder,
     either. Any one that had any energy, any spark of ambition, would
     grow restless or crazy in Nubbin Ridge! The very name smacks of
     poverty, ignorance and degeneration! But a real estate man from
     South Dakota has been in the neighborhood for a week, and has told
     some wonderful tales of opportunities out there. He has made it
     plain to papa that Western Kansas has been a failure to thousands
     of people for forty years; that South Dakota is different; that the
     rainfall is abundant; the climate is the best, and that every
     renter in Indiana should there proceed forthwith. I'm surprised
     that he should waste his time talking with papa who has no money,
     but he seems to be just as anxious for him to go as he is for
     others. Perhaps it's because he wishes a crowd. A crowd even though
     some are poor would, I imagine, appear more like business.

     Bill and George are full for going, and papa has hinted to me as to
     whether I would like it. How should I know? It couldn't be worse
     than this place even if it was the jumping off place of all
     creation! I have about come to the place where I am willing to try
     anywhere once. There surely must be some place in this wide world
     where people have a chance to rise. Of course, with us--poor Bill
     and George, and papa's getting old, I don't suppose we will ever
     get hold of much anywhere. But the real estate man says we could
     all take homesteads; that in those parts--I cannot quite call the
     name, I'll study a while.... The Rosebud Country, is what he called
     it--there had been a great land opening, and there would be another
     in a few years. That we could go out now and rent on a place, raise
     big crops and get in good financial circumstances by the time the
     opening comes, go forth then and all take homesteads and grow rich!
     It sounds fishy--us growing rich; but since we have nothing we
     couldn't lose.

     He says that people have grown wealthy in two years; that among the
     successful men--those who have made it quickly--is a <DW52> man
     out there who came from--he couldn't say just where; but that if a
     <DW52> man could make it, and get money together, surely any one
     else should. I will close this now because it is late, the light is
     low; besides I'm sleepy, and since that is surely one thing a
     person can do with success in "Nubbin Ridge," I will retire and
     have my share of it.

     A MONTH LATER--It has happened! We are going West! The real estate
     man has gone back, and papa has been out there. He is carried away
     with the country. Says it is the greatest place on earth. I won't
     attempt to put down the wonders he has told of. Rich land to be
     rented for one-third of the crops--and we pay two-fifths in Nubbin
     Ridge where there is no soil, just a sprinkling of dust over the
     surface. Has rented a place already, and has made arrangements with
     the man that we owe to give him a year's time to pay the two
     hundred dollars. So we have enough to get out there and buy seed
     next spring! Everybody says we are going on another "Wild Goose
     Chase," but they would say that if we were going into the next
     county. It would seem better, however, if we would wait until
     spring, but Papa is getting ready to go right after Xmas. That
     settles it! I will make no more notes in this diary until we have
     reached the "promised land." In the meantime I am full of dreams,
     dreams, dreams! I had a strange dream last night; a real dream in
     which things happened! Always I have those day dreams, but last
     night I had a real dream. I dreamed that we went out to this
     country and that we rented and lived on a farm near the <DW52> man
     the real estate man spoke of. I dreamed that he was an unusual man,
     a wonderful personality, and that we--he and I--became very close
     friends! That a strange murder occurred near where we went; a
     murder that no one could ever understand; but that in after years
     it was all made plain--and I was involved! Think of such a dream!
     Me being involved in anything; I, of "Nubbin Ridge!" I am sure that
     if I told out there the name of the place from where we came they
     would think we were crazy! But that was not all the dream--and it
     was all so plain! It frightens me when I think of it. I cannot
     realize how I could have had such a strange dream. I dreamed after
     we had been there a while that I fell in love--but it's the man I
     fell in love with which makes the dream so unusual,
     and--impossible! Yet there is a saying that nothing is impossible!

     I will not record here or describe the one with whom I fell in
     love. Strangely I feel that I should wait. I cannot say why, but
     something seems to caution me; to tell me not to say more now.

     There remains but one thing more. Yesterday I happened to glance
     at myself in the mirror. As if by magic I was drawn closer and
     studied myself, studied something in my features I had never seen
     before--at least not in that way. I observed then my hands. They,
     too, appeared unlike they had been before. It seems to have been
     the dream that prompted me to look--and the dream that revealed
     this about myself that I cannot understand. My eyes did not appear
     the same; they were as if--as if, they belonged to some other! My
     lips were red as usual; but there was about them something too I
     had not seen before: they appeared thicker, and as I studied them
     in the mirror more closely, I couldn't resist that singularity in
     my eyes. They became large and then small; they were blue, so blue,
     and then they were brown. It was when they appeared brown that I
     could not understand. I will close now for I wish to think. My
     brain is afire, I must think, think, think!




CHAPTER II

THE HOMESTEADER


The day was cold and dark and dreary. A storm raged over the prairie,--a
storm of the kind that seem to come only over the northwest. Over the
wide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as if terribly
angry. It raced across the level stretches, swept down into the draws,
where draws were, tumbled against the hillsides, regained its
equilibrium and tore madly down the other side, as if to destroy all in
its path. A heavy snow had fallen all the morning, but about noon it had
changed to fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and made
going against it very difficult. Notwithstanding, through it--directly
against it at most times, The Homesteader struggled resolutely forward.
He was shielded in a measure by the horses he was driving, whose bulks
prevented the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at all
times. At other times--and especially when following a level stretch--he
got close to the side of the front wagon with its large box loaded with
coal, which towered above his head and shoulders.

Before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail, despite the heavy
snow that had fallen that morning, was outlined. Perhaps it was because
he had followed it--he and his horses--so often before in the two years
since he had been West, that he was able to keep to its narrow way
without difficulty today. And still, following it was not as difficult
as following other trails, for it was an old, old trail. So old indeed
was it, that nobody knew just how old it was, nor how far it reached. It
was said that Custer had gone that way to meet his massacre; that
Sitting Bull knew it best; but to The Homesteader, he hoped to be able
to follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the way. When
night came--but upon that he had not reckoned! To be caught upon it by
darkness was certain death, and he didn't want to die.

He was young, The Homesteader--just passed twenty-two--and vigorous,
strong, healthy and courageous. His height was over six feet and while
he was slender he was not too much so. His shoulders were slightly round
but not stooped. His great height gave him an advantage now. He followed
his horses with long, rangy strides, turning his head frequently as if
to give the blood a chance to circulate about and under the skin of his
wide forehead. The fury of the storm appeared to grow worse, judging
from the way the horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it was
growing colder. Almost continually some of the horses were striking the
ice from their nosepoints; while very often The Homesteader had to rest
the lines he held while he forced the blood to his finger tips with long
swings of his arms back and forth across his breast.

His claim lay many miles yet before him, and his continual gaze toward
the west was to ascertain how long the light of day was likely to hold
out. Behind, far to the rear, lay the little town of Bonesteel which he
had left that morning, and now regretted having done so. But the storm
had not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he had
conjectured it would be better to reach home before it became too deep
or badly drifted. As it was now he was encountering all this and some
more.

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

HE WAS YOUNG, THE HOMESTEADER--JUST PASSED TWENTY-TWO--AND VIGOROUS,
STRONG, HEALTHY AND COURAGEOUS.]

"Damn!" he cried as they passed down a <DW72> to where the land
divided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest. His course lay
directly northwest, straight against the wind which he could only avoid
by hanging the lines over the lever of the brake and fall in behind the
trail wagon. But this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from the
horses. He had walked all the way, for to walk was apparently the only
way to keep from freezing. He soon reached the other side of the draw,
and when he had come to the summit beyond, he groaned. Ahead of him just
above the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from beneath the clouds. On
either side of it, great, gasping sundogs struggled. They seemed to vie
with the red sinking orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing in
that direction they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank lower
and lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with a mighty force for only
a few minutes later the sun had fallen into the great abyss below and
the night was on!

"We can make it yet, boys," he cried to his horses as if to cheer them.
And as if they understood, they crashed forward with such vigor that he
was thrown almost into a trot to keep up.

As to how long it went on thus, or as to how far they had gone, he was
not able to reckon; but out of the now pitch darkness he became
conscious of a peculiar longing. He had a vision of his sod house that
stood on the claim, and he saw the small barn with its shed and the
stalls for four. He saw the little house again with its one room, the
little monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and imagined himself
putting a pan of baking powder bread therein. He saw his bed, a large,
wide, dirty--'tis true--but a warm bed, nevertheless. He fancied himself
creeping under the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did. He
could not understand his prolific thoughts that followed. He thought of
his boyhood back in old Illinois; he took stock of the surroundings he
had left there; he lived briefly through the discontentment that had
ultimately inspired him to come West. And then he had again those
dreams. Regardless of where his train of wandering thoughts began or of
where they followed, always they were sure to end upon this given point,
the girl. The girl of his dreams--for he had no real girl. There had
never been a real girl for Jean Baptiste, for this was his name. In the
years that had preceded his coming hither, it had been one relentless
effort to get the few thousands together with which to start when he
finally came West. At that he had been called lucky. He had no heritage,
had Jean Baptiste. His father had given him only the French name that
was his, for his father had been poor--but this instant belongs
elsewhere. His heritage, then, had been his indefatigable will; his firm
determination to make his way; his great desire to make good. But we
follow Jean Baptiste and the girl.

Only a myth was she. She had come in a day dream when he came West, but
strangely she had stayed. And, singularly as it may seem, he was
confident she would come in person some day. He talked with her when he
was lonely, and that was almost every day. He told her why he had come
West, because he felt it was the place for young manhood. Here with the
unbroken prairie all about him; with its virgin soil and undeveloped
resources; and the fact that all the east, that part of the east that
was Iowa and Illinois had once been as this now was, had once been as
wild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more--indeed, not
so much. Here could a young man work out his own destiny. As Iowa and
Illinois had been developed, so could this--so _would_ this also be
developed. And as railways had formed a network of those states, so in
time would they reach this territory as well. In fact it was inevitable
what was to come, the prime essential, therefore, for his youth, was to
begin with the beginning--and so he had done.

So he had come, had Jean Baptiste, and was living alone with a great
hope; with a great hope for the future of this little empire out there
in the hollow of God's hand; with a great love, too, for her, his dream
girl. So in his prolific visions he talked on with her. He told her that
it was a long way to the railroad now--thirty-two miles. He had that far
to haul the coal he and others burned. There were yet no fences, and
while there were section lines, they were rarely followed. It was nearer
by trail. But he was patient, he was perseverant. Time would bring all
else--and her. He had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she might
not be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but she was good.
Always he understood everything that was hers, and he was confident she
would understand him. Her name was sweet and easily pronounced. How he
loved to call it!

He staggered at times now and didn't know why. He had wanted to be home
and in his bed where he could sleep; but home as he now regarded it was
too far. He couldn't make it, and didn't need to. Why should they
blunder and pull so hard to get home when all about them was a place
where they could rest. The prairie was all about; and he had slept on
the ground before with only the soft grass beneath him. Why, then, must
he continue on and on! The air was pleasant--warm and luxuriant, and he,
Jean Baptiste, was very tired--oh, how tired he really was!

It was settled! He had gone far enough. He would make his bed right
where he was. He called to the horses. But somehow they didn't seem to
hear. He called again then, he thought, louder, and still they failed to
hear. He wondered at their stubbornness. They were good horses and had
never disobeyed before. He called now again at the top of his voice, but
they heeded him not; in the meantime forging onward, onward and onward!
It occurred to him to drop the reins, but such had never been a custom.
Within his tired, freezing and brain-fagged mind, there was a resolution
that made him cling to them, but struggling to pull them down to a stop
he continued.

And as he followed them now onward toward the sod house that stood on
the claim, all realism seemed to desert him; he became a chilled
mechanician; he seemed to have passed into the infinite where all was
vague; where turmoil and peculiar strife only abided.... For Jean
Baptiste did not understand that he was on the verge of freezing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stewarts were pleased with the country. They had arrived in early
January. The weather had not been bad, although the wind blew much
stronger here than it did in Indiana. However, they had not forgotten
how it blew in Western Kansas and were therefore accustomed to it. The
house upon the place they had rented was small, just four rooms, but it
was well built and was warm. A village was not far. The people in it
called it a town, but you see they were enthusiastic. To be more amply
provided they could get what they needed at Gregory which was seven
miles. Seven miles was not far to one who could ride horseback, and this
Agnes had learned in Western Kansas.

"You had best not go to town today, my girl," cautioned Jack Stewart,
her father, as she made ready to ride to Gregory after ordering Bill to
saddle Dolly, the gray mare that was their best.

"Tut, tut, papa," she chided. "This is a day to take the benefit of this
wonderful air. The low altitude of Nubbin Ridge made me sallow; there
was no blood in my cheeks. Here--ah, a nice horseback ride to Gregory
will be the best yet for me!"

"I don't like the wind--and so much snow with it," he muttered, looking
out with a frown upon his face.

"But the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost ready. "It's
letting up."

"It's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing colder."

"Better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her lithe young
body as agile as an athlete's. "Now, dada," she let out winsomely, "I
shall dash up to Gregory, get all we need, and be back before the sun
goes down!" And with that she kissed away further protest, swung open
wide the door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. A moment
later she was gone, but not before her father cried:

"If you should be delayed, stay the night in town. Above all things,
don't let the darkness catch you upon the prairie!"




CHAPTER III

AT THE SOD HOUSE


She enjoyed the horseback ride to Gregory. Although she trembled at
times from the sting of the intense cold, the exercise the riding gave
her body kept the blood circulating freely, and she made the trip to the
little town without event.

Once there, after thawing the cold out of her face and eyes, she
proceeded to do her trading, filling the saddlebags to their fullest.

"Which way do you live from town?" inquired the elderly man who waited
upon her at the general store where she was doing her trading.

"Seven miles southeast," she replied.

"Indeed!" he cried as if surprised. "But you didn't come from there
today--this afternoon? That would be directly against this storm!"

She nodded.

"Well, now, who would have thought you could have made it! 'Tis an awful
day without," he cried as he regarded her in wonder.

"It _wasn't_ warm, I admit," she agreed; "but I didn't seem to mind it
so much!"

"You will not go back today--rather tonight?"

"Oh, yes."

"But it would be very risky. Look! It's grown dark already!" She looked
out and observed that it had really grown almost pitch dark during the
few minutes she had lingered inside. She was for a moment at a loss for
a reply, then, conscious that the wind would be to her back, she laughed
lightly as she said:

"Oh, I shan't mind. It will take me less than forty minutes, and then
it'll all be over," and she laughed low and easily again. The man
frowned as he pursued:

"I don't like to see you start, a stranger in such a night as this.
Since settlement following a trail is rather treacherous. One may leave
town on one, but be on some other before they have gone two miles. And
while the wind will be to your back, the uncertainty of direction,
should you happen to look back or even around, is confusing. One loses
sense of the way they are going. I'd suggest that you stick over until
morning. It would be safer," he concluded, shaking his head dubiously.

"Oh, I am not afraid," she cried cheerfully. She was ready then, and
with her usual dash, she crossed the short board walk, vaulted into the
saddle, and a few minutes later the dull clatter of her horse's hoofs
died in the distance.

With the wind to her back she rode easily. She enjoyed the exercise the
riding gave her, and was thrilled instead of being frightened over what
was before her. She followed quite easily the trail that had taken her
into the village. In due time she passed a house that she had observed
when going in that stood to one side of the trail, and then suddenly the
mare came to an abrupt halt. She peered into the darkness before her. A
barbwire fence was across the trail. She could not seem to recall it
being there on her way in. Yet she argued with herself that she might
have come around and not noticed it. For a moment she was in doubt as to
which way to go to get around it. As she viewed it, it did not extend
perhaps more than a quarter mile or a half at the most, after which she
could come around to the other side and strike the trail again. She gave
the ever faithful mare rein and they sailed down the fence line to where
she estimated it must shortly end.

She did not know that this was the old U-Cross fence, and that because
it stood on Indian land, it had not been taken up when the great ranch
had been moved into the next county when giving up to the settler. In
truth only a few steps to her right she had left the trail she had
followed into town. The old trail had been cut off when The Homesteader
in whose house she had seen the light, had laid out his claim, and it
was this which caused the confusion. She did not know that one could go
to town, or to the railroad today and returning on the morrow, find the
route changed. Homesteaders were without scruples very often in such
matters. The law of the state was that before a followed trail was cut
off, it should be advertised for five weeks in advance to that effect;
but not one in twenty of the settlers knew that such a law existed.

So Agnes Stewart had ridden fully two miles before she became
apprehensive of the fact that she had lost her way. Now the most
practical plan for her would been to have turned directly about and gone
back to where she had started down the fence. But, charged with
impatient youth, she sought what she felt to be the quickest way about.
Now upon looking closely she could see that wires hung down in places
and that a post here and there had sagged. She urged the mare over a
place and then, once over, went in the direction she felt was home. The
stiff, zero night air had somewhat dulled her, and she made the mistake
of looking back, thereby confusing her direction to the point where
after a few minutes she could not have sworn in what direction she was
going, except that the wind was still at her back.

She peered into the darkness before her. She thought there would be
lights of homesteaders about, and while there was, the storm made it
impossible for her to see them. After a time she became alarmed, and
recalled her father's warning, also the store-keeper's. But her natural
determination was to go on, that she would get her bearings, presently.
So, with a jerking of her body as if to stimulate circulation of the
blood, she bent in the saddle and rode another mile or more. She had
crossed draws, ascended hills, had stumbled over trails that always
appeared to lead in the wrong direction, and at last gave up for lost at
a summit where the wind and fine snow chilled her to the marrow. She was
thoroughly frightened now. She thought to return to Gregory, but when
she turned her eyes against the wind, she could catch no sight of
anything. She was sure then that she could not make it back there had
she wished to. Not knowing what to do she allowed the mare to trot ahead
without any effort to direct her. She had not gone far before she
realized that they were following a level stretch. And because she
seemed to keep warm when the horse moved, she allowed the mare to
continue. A half mile she estimated had been covered when out of the
darkness some dark shape took outline. She peered ahead; the mare was
ambling gently toward it, and she saw after a time that it was a quaint,
oblong structure, a sod house apparently, many of which she had observed
since coming West into the new country. She was relieved. At least she
was not to freeze to death upon the prairie, a fact that she had begun
to regard as a possibility a few minutes before. The mare fell into a
walk and presently came up to a low, square house, built of sod, with
its odd hip roof reposing darkly in the outline. She called, "Hello,"
and was patient. The wind bit into her, and she was conscious of the
bitter cold, and that she was beginning to feel its severe effects.
There was no response, and she called again, dismounting in the
meantime. When she saw no one she went around to where she observed a
low door at which she knocked vigorously. From all appearances the place
was occupied, but no one was at home. She tried the knob. It gave, and
she pushed the door open cautiously. All was darkness within. Then,
dropping the bridle reins she ventured inside. She could not understand
why her feet made no sound upon the floor, but in truth there was no
floor except the earth. She felt in her coat pocket and presently
produced a match. When the flaring light illuminated the surroundings,
she gazed about. It was, she quickly observed, a one room house. There
was at her side a monkey stove with an oven on the pipe; while at her
left stood a table with dishes piled thereupon. There was also a lantern
on the table and this she adjusted and lighted before the blaze died.
She swung this about, and saw there was a bed with dirty bed clothing,
also a trunk, some boxes and what nots.

"A bachelor, I'd wager," she muttered, and then blushed when she
considered her position. She looked about further, and upon seeing fuel,
proceeded to build a fire. This done, she passed outside, found a path
that extended northwest, and, leading the horse, soon came to a small
barn. Here she saw two stalls with a manger filled with hay. She had to
push the mare back to keep her from entering and making herself at home.
She passed around the barn and entered the door of a small shed, for
cattle obviously, but empty. Hay was in the manger, and, taking the bits
from the mare's mouth, she tied the reins to the manger, unsaddled, and,
leaving the shed after fastening the door, she carried the saddle with
her to the house.

The little stove was roaring from the fire she had started, and she was
surprised to find the room becoming warm. She placed the saddle in a
convenient position and lifted her cap, whereupon her heavy hair fell
over her shoulders. She caught it up and wound it into a braid quickly,
guiltily.... She unbuttoned her coat then, and took a seat.

"There is no one here," she muttered to herself. "So since I don't know
the way home, and there's no one here to tell me, guess I'll have to
give it up until morning." She was thoughtful then. This _was_ something
of an adventure. Lost upon the prairie: a bachelor's homestead: there
alone. Then suddenly she started. From the storm swept outside she
thought she caught a sound, and thereupon became quickly alert, but the
next moment her tension relaxed. It was only the wind at the corner of
the house. The room had become warm, she was uncomfortable with the
heavy coat about her. She was conscious, moreover, that her eyes were
heavy, sleep was knocking at her door. She shook off the depression and
fell again to thinking. She wondered who could live there and she
continued in her random thinking until shortly, unconsciously, she fell
into a doze.

She could not recall whether she had dozed an hour or a minute, but she
was awakened suddenly and jumped to her feet; for, from the storm she
had caught the sound of horses and wagons passing the house at only a
short distance. She stood terrified. Her eyes were wide, her lips were
apart as she listened to the grinding of the wagon wheels--and they went
directly toward the barn. Then all was silent, and she placed her hand
to her heart, to still the frightened beating there. She heard the
horses shake in their harness, and came to herself. The man of the place
had returned; she had taken charge of his house, he a bachelor and she a
maid. She felt embarrassed. She got into her coat and buttoned it about
her hurriedly; and then drawing the cap over her head, she waited,
expectantly, although she was sure that time sufficient had expired,
whoever drove the teams had not come toward the house. She could hear
the horses, but she could not ascertain that they were being unhitched.
She was undecided for a moment, then, catching up the lantern, she
quickly went outside. Two wagons loaded heavily with coal greeted her.
She passed to the front and found four horses, white with the frost from
perspiration, standing hitched to the loads. She passed to their heads.
No one was about, and she was puzzled. She passed around to the other
side, and as she did so, stumbled over something. With the lantern
raised, she peered down and then suddenly screamed when she discovered
it was a man. Then, on second thought, fearing he had fallen from the
wagon and become injured, she put her arm through the bail of the
lantern, reached down, caught him by the shoulders and shook him. He was
not injured, she was relieved to see; but _what was_ the matter? In the
next moment she gave a quick start. She realized in a twinkling then,
that the man was freezing--perhaps already frozen!

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

HE RAISED ON AN ELBOW AND LOOKED INTO HER FACE WHILE SHE STAGGERED IN
GREAT SURPRISE.]

With quick intuition she reached and caught him beneath the arms, and
turning, dragged him to the house. She opened the door, and lifting his
body, carried him in her arms across the room and laid him upon the bed.
Then, realizing that the night was severely cold, she rushed out,
closing the door behind her, and a half hour later had the horses
unhitched, unharnessed and tied in their stalls. This done she returned
hurriedly to the house to find the man still unconscious, but breathing
heavily. She did not know at once what to do, but going to his feet,
took off his shoes. This was rather difficult, and she feared that from
the way they felt, his feet were frozen. She rubbed them vigorously,
and was relieved after a time to feel the blood circulating and the same
giving forth warmth. She sighed with relief and then pulling off the
heavy gloves, she exercised the same proceeding with the hands, and was
cheered to feel them give forth warmth after a time. She unbuttoned the
coat at his throat, and rolling him over, managed to get it off of him.
Next she unbuttoned the collar, drew off the cap, and for the first time
saw his face. It was swollen and very dark, she thought. She brought the
lantern closer and looked again. She gave a start then and opened her
mouth in surprise. Then she fell to thinking. She went back to the chair
beside the fire and reflected.

"It is all the same, of course," she said to herself. "But I was just
surprised. It all seems rather singular," she mused, and tried to
compose herself. The surprise she had just experienced, had,
notwithstanding her effort at self possession, disconcerted her. She
turned suddenly, for she had caught the sound of a noise from the bed.
She got up quickly and went to him. He had turned from his side to his
back. She stood over him with the lantern raised. To see him better she
leaned over, holding the lantern so that her face was full in the light.
She had unbuttoned her coat at the throat, and seeking more comfort, had
also removed the cap she wore. She had, however, forgotten her hair
which had been held about her head by the cap and it now fell in braids
over her slender shoulders. On the instant the man's eyes opened. He
raised on an elbow, looked into her face, smiled wanly, and murmured:

"It is you, Agnes. You have come and oh, I am glad, for I have waited
for you so long." In the next breath he had fallen back upon the bed and
was sleeping again, while she staggered in great surprise. _Who was this
man_ that he should call her name and say that _he_ had waited?

But with Jean Baptiste, he snored in peace. His dream had come true; the
one of his vision had come as he had hoped she would. But Jean Baptiste
was not aware of the debt he owed her; that through strange providence
in getting lost she had come into his sod house and saved his life. But
what he was yet to know, and which is the great problem of our story,
the girl, his dream girl, Agnes Stewart, happened to be white, while he,
Jean Baptiste, The Homesteader, was a <DW64>.




CHAPTER IV

SHE COULD NEVER BE ANYTHING TO HIM


Jean Baptiste slept soundly all the night through, snoring loudly at
times, turning frequently, but never awakening. And while he slept,
unconscious of how near he had come to freezing to death upon the
prairie, but for the strange coincidence of Agnes Stewart's having
gotten lost and finding him, she sat near, listening to the dull roar of
the storm outside at times; at other times casting furtive, anxious and
apprehensive glances toward the bed, half in fear. More because the
position she realized herself to be in was awkward, not to say
embarrassing.

Her eyes became heavy as the night wore on, and she arose and walked
about over the dirt floor in an attempt to shake off the inertia. And in
the meantime, the man she had saved slept on, apparently disturbed by
nothing. Presently she approached him shyly, and, taking the coat he had
worn and which lay near, she spread it carefully over him, then tiptoed
away and regarded him curiously. Her life had never afforded character
study in a broad sense; but for some reason, which she could not account
for, she strangely trusted the sleeping man. And because she did, she
was not in fear lest he awaken and take advantage of the compromising
circumstances. But in her life she had met and known no <DW52> people,
and knew directly little about the <DW64> race beyond what she had read.
Therefore to find herself lost on the wide plains, in a house alone
with one, a bachelor Homesteader, with a terrific storm without, gave
her a peculiar sensation.

When the hand of the little clock upon the table pointed to two o'clock
a.m., she put coal on the fire, became seated in a crude rocking chair
that proved notwithstanding, to be comfortable, and before she was aware
of it, had fallen asleep. Worn out by the night's vigil, and the unusual
circumstances in which she found herself, she slept soundly and all
sense of flying time was lost upon her. The storm subsided with the
approach of morn, and the sun was peeping out of a clear sky in the east
when she awakened with a start. She jumped to her feet. Quickly her eyes
sought the bed. It was empty. The man had arisen. She looked out through
the little window. The blizzard had left the country gray and streaked.
Buttoning her coat collar about her throat, she adjusted her cap by
pulling it well down over her head, and ventured outside.

Never had she looked upon such a scene as met her eyes! Everywhere, as
far as she could see, was a mantle of snow and ice. Here the snow had
been swept into huge drifts or long ridges; while there it sparkled in
the sun, one endless, unbroken sheet of white frost and ice. Here and
there over the wide expanse a lonesome claim shack reposed as if lost;
while to the northwest, she could see the little town to which she had
gone the afternoon before, rising heroically out of the snow. Upon
hearing a sound, she turned to find The Homesteader leading her horse,
saddled and bridled from the barn. She turned her eyes away to hide the
confusion with which she was suddenly overcome, and at the same time to
try to find words with which to greet him.

"Good morning," she heard from his lips, and turned her face to see him
touch the cap he wore.

"Good morning, sir," she returned, smiling with ease, notwithstanding
her confusion of a moment before.

"I judge that you must have become lost, the why you happened along,"
said he pleasantly, courteously.

"I did," she acknowledged, marveled at finding herself so much at ease
in his presence, and him conscious. In the same instance she took quick
note of his speech and manner, and was strangely pleased.

"I see," she heard him mutter. She had cast her eyes away as if to
think, but now turned again toward him to find him regarding her
intently. She saw him give a quick start, and catch his breath as if in
surprise, whereupon she turned her eyes away. But she did not understand
the cause of his start; she did not understand that while he had
recognized her as his dream girl, that only then had he realized that
she was white, while he had naturally supposed his dream girl would be
of his own blood, Ethiopian.

He lowered his eyes as this fact played in his mind, and as he
hesitated, she again turned her eyes upon him and regarded him
wonderingly. And in that moment the instance of the night before when he
had awakened and looked up into her eyes for the first time when she
stood over him, and had uttered the words she would never as long as she
lived, forget, came back. "_It is you, Agnes. You have come and, oh, I
am glad, for I have waited for you so long._" "How did he know my name
and come to say what he did?" was the question she now again, as she had
been doing all the night through, asked herself. She prayed that she
might find a way to ask him--how deeply her curiosity to know was
aroused. And then, while she was so deeply engrossed, abruptly he raised
his head, and his eyes fell searchingly again upon her. He saw and
wondered at the curious intentness he saw there, and as he did so, he
caught that something in her eyes; he saw what she had seen before
leaving Indiana; and as she had been when she had seen it, he too, was
strangely moved and could not understand. Apparently he forgot all else
as the changing color of her eyes held him, and while so, unconsciously
he advanced a step nearer her. She did not move away, but stood as if in
a thraldom, with a feeling stealing over her that somewhere she had seen
and known him once.... But where--_where, where!_ She had never known an
_Ethiopian_, she full well recalled; but she was positive that she had
seen this man somewhere before. Then _where--where, where!_

As for the man, Jean Baptiste, he seemed to relax after a time, and
looked away. He had seen her at last; she had been his dream girl; had
come in a dream and as she stood before him she was all his wondrous
vision had portrayed. Her face was flushed by the cold air, and red
roses in full bloom were in her cheeks; while her beautiful hair, spread
over her shoulders, and fanned by a light breeze, made her in his eyes a
picture of enchantment. When he observed her again and saw that her eyes
were blue and then again were brown, he was still mystified; but what
was come over Jean Baptiste now was the fact, the Great fact: _The fact
that between him and his dream girl was a chasm so deep socially that
bridging was impossible._ Because she was white while he was black,
according to _the custom of the country and its law_, she could never be
anything to him....

Her back was to the rising sun, and neither had observed that it was
mounting higher in the eastern skies. She suppressed the question that
was on her lips to ask him, the eternal question, and in that instant he
came out of his trance. He turned to her, and said:

"It was sure fortunate for me that you lost your way," and so saying
his eyes went toward the place she had found him, and she understood.
She could not repress a happy smile that overspread her face. He saw it
and was pleased.

"It was rather providential; but I would forget it. To think that you
might have frozen to death out there makes me shudder when I recall it."

"I cannot seem to understand what came over me--that I was in the act of
freezing while I walked."

"It was a terrible night," she commented. "I, too, might have frozen,
but for the good fortune of my horse finding your house."

"Isn't it strange," he muttered abstractedly.

"I hadn't the least idea where I was," said she, musingly.

"Such a coincidence."

"Indeed it was----, but please, shall we forget it," and she shuddered
slightly.

"Yes," he replied readily. "Where do you live?"

She pointed to where the smoke curled from the chimney of their home, a
mile and a half away.

"The Watson place? I see. You are perhaps, then, newcomers here?"

"We are," and she smiled easily. He did also. He handed her the bridle
reins then, and said:

"I trust you will pardon my forgetfulness. Indeed I was so absorbed in
the fact that I had been saved, that I forgot to--to be courteous."

"Oh, no, sir!" she cried quickly. "You did not. You--" and then she
broke off in her speech. It occurred to her that she was saying too
much. But strangely she wanted to go on, strangely she wanted to know
more of him: from where he had come; of his life, for already she could
see that he was a gentleman; an unusual person--but he was speaking
again.

"You have become chilled standing there--it is severely cold. Step back
into the house and warm yourself before you start. I will hold your
horse while you do so." And he reached for the bridle reins.

She looked up into his face, and again trusted him; again she
experienced a peculiar gratitude, and turning she obeyed him. As she
stood inside over the little monkey stove a moment later, she could see
him, and appreciated how thoughtful he was.

She returned after a few minutes, stood beside the animal he had brought
and was ready to go. Suddenly she vaulted into the saddle. She regarded
him again intently, while he returned the same a bit abstractedly. She
started to urge the mare forward, and then she drew her to a stop before
she had gotten fully started. Impulsively she leaned forward and
stretched her hand toward him. Mechanically he took it. She
unconsciously gripped his, as she said:

"I'm glad it happened.... That I became lost and--and--you were saved."
His dark face  with gratitude, and he had an effort to keep from
choking when he tried to reply. In the meantime, she bestowed upon him a
happy smile, and the next moment her horse had found the trail and was
dashing along it toward the place she lived.

And as she went homeward over the hill, the man in whose life she was
later to play such a strange and intimate part, stood looking after her
long and silently.




CHAPTER V

WHEN THE INDIANS SHOT THE TOWN UP


The claim of Jean Baptiste, containing 160 acres of land, adjoined the
little town of Dallas on the north, and it was one of the surprises that
Agnes Stewart had not wandered into it when she found the sod house and
had later found Jean Baptiste in the snow.

The town had been started the winter before. A creek of considerable
depth, and plenty of water ran to the south of it a half mile, and up
this valley the promoters of the town contended that the railroad would
build. It came up the same valley many miles below where at a way
station it suddenly lifted out of it and sought the higher land to
Bonesteel. Now the promoters, because the Railroad Company owned
considerable land where the tracks left the valley to ascend to the
highland, contended that it was the purpose of the railroad to split the
trade country by coming up the valley, and that was why the town had
been located where it was, on a piece of land that had once belonged to
an Indian.

There were three other towns, platted by the government along a route
that did not strike Dallas, and if the railroad should continue the
route it was following where its tracks stopped west of Bonesteel, it
was a foregone conclusion that it must hit the three government
townsites.

This had ever been, and was, the great contention in the early days of
the country of our story. But to get back to the characters in question,
we must come back to the little town near the creek valley.

The winter preceding, when the town had been started, men had chosen to
cast their lot with it, and by the time spring arrived, there was a half
dozen or more business places represented. From Des Moines a man had
come and started a lumber yard; while from elsewhere a man had
cooperated with the promoters in establishing a bank. Two men, whose
reputations were rather notorious, but who, nevertheless, were well
fitted for what they chose, started a saloon. From a town that had no
railroad in the state on the south, a man came with a great stock of
merchandise. A weazened creature had been made postmaster; while a
doctor, beliquored until he was uncertain, had come hither with a hope
of redemption and had hung out his shingle. He was succeeding in the
game of reform (?) as the best customer the saloon had. A tired man was
conducting a business in a building that had been hauled many miles and
was being used as a hotel. Many other lines of business were expected,
but at this time the interest was largely in who the settlers were that
had come, and those who were to come.

A beautiful quarter section of land joined the town on the east, and the
man who had drawn it had already established his residence thereupon, so
that he was known. On the south the land was the allotment of an Indian;
while the same was true on the west. Naturally, when it was reported
that a <DW64> held the place on the north, considerable curiosity
prevailed to meet this lone Ethiopian.

But Jean Baptiste was a mixer, a jolly good fellow of the best type and
by this time such was well known. As to where he had come from, we know;
but his name had occasioned much comment because it was odd. To make it
more illustrious, the settlers had added "Saint," so he was now commonly
know as St. Jean Baptiste. The doctor, whose name was Slater, had
improved even upon this. He called him "St. John the Baptist." But
nobody took Doc very seriously. So full was he of red liquor most of the
time, that he was regarded as a joke except in his profession. Here he
was considered one of the best,--his redeeming feature.

The coal The Homesteader had hauled from Bonesteel was not all for
himself, but for the lumber yard which sold it at fifteen dollars the
ton, and the quality was soft, and not of the best grade at that.

He hauled it into town the morning following the episode of our story,
and after unloading it and taking his check for the hauling, returned
home, took care of his stock, and upon returning to town, forgot to
relate anything concerning his experiences.... _Perhaps_ he forgot....
Jean Baptiste could be depended upon to forget some things....
Especially the things that were best forgotten.

He walked across the quarter mile that lay between his claim and the
town, and up to the saloon. Inside he encountered the usual crowd, Doc
among them.

"Hello, there, St. John the Baptist," cried that one in beliquored
delight. "Did you crawl through all that storm?"

"I'm here," laughed Baptiste. "How's Doc?"

"Finer'n a fiddle, both ends in the middle," and called for another
drink. Just one. It is said that saloons would not be so bad if it was
not for the treating nuisance. Well, Doc could be regarded here then, as
practical, for he never bought others a drink.

"See you got your nose freezed, Baptiste," Doc laughed. Baptiste went
toward the bar, took a look at himself, and laughed amusedly upon seeing
the telltale darkness at the point of his nose, his cheeks and his
forehead.

"T' hell, I didn't know that," he muttered. The crowd laughed.

"Play you a game of Casino?" suggested Doc.

"You're on!" cried Baptiste.

After they had played awhile a Swede who lived across the creek entered,
took a seat and drawing his chair near, watched the game. Presently he
spoke. "The Indians are coming in today, so I guess there will be a
shooting up the town."

The players paused and regarded each other apprehensively. Others
overheard the remark, and now exchanged significant glances. This had
been the one diversion of the long winter. Indians who lived on the
creek, coming into town, getting drunk, and then as a sally ride up and
down the main street and shoot up the town. The last time this had taken
place, the bartender's wife had been frightened into hysterics. And
thereupon the bartender had sworn that the next time this was attempted,
they would have to reckon with him.

The few people about became serious. They knew the bartender was
dangerous, and they feared the Indians, breeds, mostly, who made this
act their pastime. They were annoyed with such doings; but were inclined
to lay the blame at the saloon door, for, although the law decreed that
Indians should not be sold liquor they were always allowed to purchase
all that they could possibly carry away with them inside and out. So
upon this announcement, those about prepared themselves for excitement.
The news quickly spread and to augment the excitement, a few minutes
later the breeds in full regalia dashed into town. They tied their
horses at the front, and proceeded at once to the bar.

"Whiskey," they cried, shifting their spurred boots on the barroom
floor.

"Sorry, boys, but I can't serve you," advised the bartender carelessly.

"What!" they cried.

"Can't serve you. It's agin' the law, yu' know."

"T' hell with the law!" exclaimed one.

"I didn't make it," muttered the bartender.

"You've been playing hell enforcing it," retorted another.

"Now, don't get rough, my worthy," cautioned the bartender.

"Give us what we called for, and none of this damn slush then," cried
one, toying with the gun at his holster. The bartender observed this and
got closer to the bar for a purpose. Those about, being of the peaceful
kind, began shifting toward the door.

"We've been breakin' the law to serve you," said the bartender "and
you've been breaking the law after we done it. Now the last time you
were here you pulled off a 'stunt' that caused trouble. So I'll not
serve you whiskey, and advise you that if you try shooting up the town
again, there'll be trouble."

"Oh, is that so?" cried the bunch. "Well," sniffed one, who was more
forward than the rest, "we'll just show you a trick or two. And,
remember, when we've shot your little chicken coops full of holes, we
are going to return and be served." With a hilarious laugh, they went
outside, got into the saddles and had their fun. The population took
refuge in the cellars in awed silence.

It was over in a few minutes and the breeds, true to their statement,
returned to the saloon, and stood before the bar.

"Whiskey," they cried, and couldn't repress a grin. Ordinarily they were
cowards, and their boldness had surprised even themselves.

"Whiskey?" said the bartender, nodding toward the speaker.

"That's my order!" the other cried uproarously. The bartender arranged
several bottles in a row. This they did not understand at first. They
did, however, a moment later.

"Very well," he cried of a sudden as his eyes narrowed, whereupon, with
deliberation he caught the bottles one by one by the neck and as fast as
he could let go, threw the same into the faces before him with all the
force he could concentrate quickly. So quickly was it all done that
those before him had not time to duck below the bar before many had been
the recipients of the deluge. Within the minute there was a wild
scramble for the door--all but three. For while the others disappeared
over the hill toward the creek, Dr. Slater took thirty stitches or
thereabouts in the faces of the recalcitrants.




CHAPTER VI

THE INFIDEL, A JEW AND A GERMAN


A mile north from where stood the house of St. Jean Baptiste, there
lived a quaint old man. He was a widower; at least this was the general
opinion, especially when he so claimed to be. In a new country there may
be found among those who settle much that is unusual, not to say quaint
and oftentimes mysterious. And in the case of this man, by name
illustrious, there was all this and some more.

Augustus M. Barr, he registered, and from England he hailed. How long
since does not concern this story at this stage. Besides, he never told
any one when, or why--well, he had been in America long enough to secure
the claim he held and that was sufficient. But that Barr had been a man
of some note back from where he came, there could be little doubt. Among
the things to prove it, he was very much of a linguist, being well
versed in English, French, Polish, German; the Scandinavian he
thoroughly understood--and Latin, that was easy!

He had been a preacher and had pastored many years in a Baker street
church, London. Then, it seems, he concluded after all that there was no
God; there was no Satan nor Hell either--so he gave up the ministry and
became an infidel. And so we have him. But there was something A.M. Barr
had never told--but that was the mystery.

And while he will be concerned with our story, let us not forget that
two miles and more west of the little town of Dallas, there lived
another, a Jew. He was not a merchant, nor was he a trader; then, Jews
who are not the one or the other are not the usual Jew, apparently.
Well, Syfe wasn't, for that was his name, Isaac Syfe, and from far away
Assyria he had come. He was dark of visage with dark hair, and piercing
but lurking eyes with brows that ran together; while his nose was long
and seemed to hang down at the point, reminding one of the ancient
Judas. His mouth was small and close; and there was always a cigarette
between the dark lips. He was of medium size, somewhere in the thirties,
perhaps, lived alone, on a homestead that was his own, and so we have
Isaac Syfe. But there is another still.

He lived about as far southwest of Dallas as Syfe lived to the west and,
unlike Syfe, he was light, a blond, thick, short and stout. His neck was
muscular and slightly bull like; while his features were distinctly
Germanic: his face was rounded and healthy with cheeks soft and red, and
they called him Kaden, Peter Kaden. He also held a claim, having
purchased a relinquishment in the opening, lived alone as did Syfe and
numerous other bachelors, and did his own cooking, washing and ironing.

Augustus M. Barr appeared very much impressed with Jean Baptiste. He was
a judge of men, withal, and much impressed with Baptiste as a
personality; but the fact that Baptiste had broken one hundred and
thirty acres on his homestead and now had it ready for crop, the first
year of settlement; and had wisely invested in another quarter upon
which a girl had made proof, delighted Barr. He admired the younger
man's viewpoint and optimism. So when Barr was in town, and the
conversation happened around that way, he was ever pleased to speak his
praise of Baptiste.

It was the day of the Indian episode when Barr, driving a team hitched
to a spring wagon, came to town, hoping that the lumber yard had
received the much needed coal.

"And how about the coal," cried Barr to the lumberman before he drew his
team to a stop.

"Coal a plenty," replied the lumberman cheerfully.

"Good, good, good!" exclaimed Barr, his distinguished old face lighting
up with great delight.

"Yep," let out the lumberman, coming toward the buggy. "I've weighed
you, and round to the bin is the coal. St. Jean Baptiste arrived last
night--that is, I think he got home last night, although he brought the
coal this morning, two loads, four tons."

"Eighty hundred pounds of coal, you don't say! And it was Jean Baptiste
who brought it! Now, say, wasn't that great! Not another man on this
whole Reservation save he could have made it," he ended admiringly.

"Jean Baptiste is the man who can bring it if anybody," rejoined the
other.

At this moment a large, stout man came driving up in a one horse rig.

"Any coal?" he called lazily from his seat.

"Plenty," cried Barr.

"Thank God," exclaimed the other, whose name was Stark, and who held the
claim that cornered with the town on the northeast, and therefore joined
with the Baptiste claim on the east.

"Thank Jean Baptiste," advised Barr. "He's the man that brought it."

"So?" said Stark thoughtfully. "When?"

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"That's what the lumberman said."

"Well, I'll be blowed!"

"You'll be warmed, I guess."

"Well, I should say!"

"That Baptiste is _some_ fellow."

"Well, yes. Although I sometimes think he is a fool."

"Oh, not so rash!"

"Any man's a fool that would have left Bonesteel with loads yesterday."

"Then I suppose we should be thankful to the fool. A fool's errand will
in this case mean many lazy men's comfort."

"And last summer you recall how it rained?"

"I sure do."

"Well, you know that fellow would go out and work in the rain."

"And has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop while I have but
thirty."

"I have but ten, but--"

"You will be in the hole--at least behind at the end of this summer."

"But I'm advertised to prove up."

"And leave the country when you have done so."

"Well, of course. I have a house and lot and three acres back in Iowa."

"And Jean Baptiste has 320 acres. In a few years he will have a rich,
wonderful farm that will be a factor in the local history and
development of this country; it will also mean something for posterity."

"Well, I don't care."

"You drew your land and got it free excepting four dollars an acre to
the government. Baptiste bought his and paid for the relinquishment. You
were lucky, but it will be up to Jean Baptiste and his kind to make the
country. Had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all be in
Jerusalem, or the jungle. Let's load the coal."

"Good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the two were at the
bin. "Lot's o' truth in it, too. Old Stark needed it. He's too lazy to
hitch up a team, so rides to town in that little buggy with one horse
hitched to it."

"What are you talking about?" inquired another, coming up at this
moment.

"Jean Baptiste."

"So?"

"Barr and Stark have just had a set-to about him."

"M-m?"

"Stark says a man that would come from Bonesteel a day like yesterday
was a fool."

"Why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep from freezing,
then?"

"Well, Stark is too lazy to care. He's advertised to prove up, you know,
and he always has something to say about working."

"Used to come to town after the mail during the rainy spell last summer,
and upon seeing Baptiste at work in the field, cry 'Just look at that
fool <DW65>, a workin' in the rain.'" Both laughed. A few minutes later
the town was thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last
chapter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now it happened that day that Augustus M. Barr went to the postoffice
and received a heavy envelope. He glanced through the contents with a
serious face, and put the papers in his pocket. On the way to his claim,
he took them out and went through them again, and returned them to his
pocket. A few minutes later he reached into the pocket, drew out what he
thought to be the papers, and silently tore them to threads, and flung
the bundle of paper to the winds.

When Jean Baptiste left the town for his little sod house on the hill,
he saw A.M. Barr just ahead of him. He followed the same route that Barr
had taken, and when he reached the draw on the town site that lay
between his place and the town, he espied some papers. He picked them
up, continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of paper
that Barr had cast away. He idly opened the package he held. He wondered
at the contents and as he read them through he became curious. The
papers had to do with something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe,
and Peter Kaden.

"Now that is singular," he said to himself. He continued to read through
the papers, and as he did so, another fact became clear to him. Kaden
was a sad character. And because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any
friendship, lived alone and never visited, the people had begun to
regard him as crazy. But now Jean Baptiste understood something that
neither he, nor any of the people in the country had dreamed of. He read
on. He recalled that the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined
but strange at times, had stayed at the Barr claim. Barr had introduced
her as his niece. The people wondered at her seclusion. She had a fine
claim. Barr had come to him once and spoken about selling it, stating
that the girl had fallen heir to an estate in England and was compelled
to return therewith.... Later he had succeeded in selling the place. She
had disappeared; but he had never forgotten the expressions he had
observed upon the face of Christine.... He had thought it singular at
the time but had thought little of it since. He read further into the
papers, and learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning
her he could gather nothing definite. He could not understand about
Christine either, except that she had fallen heir to nothing in England;
was not there, but not more than three hundred miles from where he stood
at that moment. But there was before him what he _did_ understand, and
which was that there was something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe,
and Peter Kaden, _and something was going to happen_.




CHAPTER VII

THE DAY BEFORE


Never since the night at the sod house had Agnes Stewart been the same
person. She could not seem to dismiss Jean Baptiste, and the instance of
her providence in getting lost and thereby saving him, from her mind.
His strange words and singular recognition of her was baffling. Being so
very curious therefore, she had since learned that he was well known in
the community and held in popular favor.

She knew little and understood less with regard to predestination; but
she had, since meeting him, recalled that he was the one she had seen in
her dream--and loved! She tried to laugh away such a freak; but do what
she might, she grew more curious to see him again as the days passed; to
talk with him, and learn at last what she was anxious to know--curious
to know. _How did he come to utter her name and say that he had waited?_

And, coincident with this, she recalled anew what she had learned--which
positively was little--regarding her mother. She had been told that she
inherited that one's peculiarity; that her mother had possessed rare
eyes, which in a measure explained her own. But she had not been told or
knew why her mother had arranged the legacy as she had. Not until the
day before she was to marry must she know. And then should she not have
won a husband to herself by the time she had reached thirty, she was to
have the same then, anyhow. Singular, but in a sense practical.

Well, it was so, and she could only sigh and be patient. Most girls she
had known back in "Nubbin Ridge" were usually married by the time they
had reached her present age. But she was not quite like other girls, and
did not even have a beau.

She wondered if the man she had saved had a sweetheart. And when she
thought of this, she had a feeling that she would know in time. And as
the days passed she began at last to believe that in some manner he
would play a part in her own life. But Agnes Stewart was too innocent to
know--at least appeared not to be aware of--_the custom of the country
and its law_, and therefore could not appreciate the invisible and
socially invincible barrier between them. 'Twas only the man Jean
Baptiste she saw and reckoned according to what she understood.
Therefore, because she could get nowhere in her wonderings, as a
diversion she turned to the little diary and recorded therein:

     JANUARY 20TH, 19-- I have not had the patience since arriving here
     to record any of the events that have transpired since we left
     Indiana. We have been here now nearly three weeks. Have not as yet
     had time to draw any conclusion with regard to the country, but
     this much I can cheerfully say--and which did not prevail back
     where we came from--there is spirit in the country, the spirit of
     the Pioneer.

     The weather has been cold, cold every day since we arrived. Because
     we ran out of urgent provisions soon after coming here I ventured
     to go to Gregory, which is seven miles distant, for some more. I
     have been too much upset over what took place on that memorable
     trip to say much about it. Because I have never kept anything from
     him, I told papa how I started from the town, became lost, and
     stayed all night at a house and saved a man thereby. He has been so
     frightened over what happened that he will not let me go anywhere
     alone again--not even in the daytime. "Just think, my girl," he has
     said time and again, "supposing you had not stumbled into that
     house, you would surely have frozen to death on the plains!" I
     somehow feel that Dolly would have brought me home; but that is a
     matter for conjecture. But what I say to papa in return is: "Had I
     not gotten lost, that man that is known so well about the country
     must surely have suffered death!" This seems to pacify him, and he
     is pleased after all to know that my getting lost was so provident
     and opportune.

     He has met the man, Jean Baptiste, (such an odd name,) and likes
     him very much--in fact, he is very much carried away with him. I
     have not seen him since the morning I left him at his sod house;
     but I cannot get out of my mind the events that passed while I was
     there. Always I can see him look up into my eyes with that strange
     recognition, and then as he turned, call "_Agnes, it is you. I'm
     glad you have come for I've waited for you so long._" What that
     means I would give most half my life to know. I know that I shall
     never rest in peace until I have become well enough acquainted with
     him to ask him why and how he knew me. Then followed the morning
     when he talked to himself and did not know I heard. It is all so
     vivid in my mind.

     Of late I have had an uncontrollable desire. I have wanted to know
     more of my mother. It seems that if I could have known her, I would
     understand myself better. I am positive now, that she must have
     been a rare person. That she was French and very high tempered,
     papa has told me; and also that she had lived in the West Indies
     before he met her, but that she was born in France. As to the
     legacy, he lays that to her peculiarity. She was always peculiar
     in a way, says he; and that at all times she was mysterious. She
     had been over almost all the world, and was wise in many things. He
     thinks I have inherited much of her wit, and that eventually it
     will express itself in some manner, which is all so strange. I
     hope, however, it will. To rise in some manner out of the simple,
     uneventful life I've lived would certainly be appreciated; but
     whatever it is I cannot conclude.

     Should I ever rise in any way, I feel now it would be due in some
     manner to my meeting that strange <DW52> man. I have wondered so
     often since meeting him, how it feels to be a <DW64>. Papa and I
     have discussed it often since. I understand there is a sort of
     prejudice against the race in this country; that in the South they
     are held down and badly treated; that in the North, even, they are
     not fairly treated. Papa and I were both agreed about it. We cannot
     understand why one should be disliked because his skin is dark; or
     because his ancestors were slaves. But withal I cannot understand
     how one could deal unfairly with them because of this. It is said
     that some of the race are very ignorant and vicious; that they very
     often commit the unspeakable crime. I suppose that is possible. If
     so, then they should be educated. Take this Jean Baptiste, for
     instance, an educated man, and what a gentleman! But papa, (he is
     very vindictive!) he says that only about half the <DW52> people
     in this country are full blood; that in the days of slavery and
     since, even, the white man who is very often ready to abuse the
     black men, has been the cause of this mixture.... I should think
     their consciences would disturb them.

     Oh, well, I am glad that I have grown up where prejudice against
     races is not a custom. My mother was French; my father Scotch all
     through, and because I know him and am so ingrained with his
     liberal traditions--even tho' he be poor,--I am at peace with all
     mankind.

     We haven't all the money we need, and the fact worries me. Papa
     says he will hire Bill to some one if any one should need help. It
     might be that the <DW52> man will hire him, maybe. They say he is
     going to hire a man. Papa intends to speak to him about it. The
     only thing that worries us is that we have to explain that weakness
     in Bill and George. George is impossible: too slow, talks too much,
     and would never earn his salt. But if one is patient with Bill
     until he catches on, he is an excellent worker, and faithful. I
     wish the <DW52> man would give him the job. He owns the quarter
     that corners with us, which he expects to complete breaking out and
     putting into flax next summer, so we are told. If Bill could get
     that job it would be handy. Handy for Bill, for Mr. Baptiste, and
     for us.

     We have not met many people as yet. Because it is so cold to get
     out, I haven't met any so to speak; but papa appears to be getting
     acquainted right along. We are going to town--to Gregory again
     Saturday. I am looking forward to it with pleasant anticipation. I
     sincerely trust it will be a beautiful day. In the meantime the
     clock has struck one, papa is turning over in bed and I can hear
     him. I'll hear his voice presently, so I will close this with hopes
     that Saturday will be a beautiful day and that I'll meet and become
     acquainted with some nice people.




CHAPTER VIII

AN ENTERPRISING YOUNG MAN


When Jean Baptiste had found the papers belonging to Barr, and had come
to understand that it had been Barr's intention to destroy the same,
natural curiosity had prompted him to read into and examine what was in
his possession.

But after having read them, and realizing fully to return the same then,
would be to have Barr know, at least feel, that he was in possession of
such a grave secret, would make their, up to this time agreeable,
relationship rather awkward, he was at a loss as to what to do. So in
the end he laid the papers away, and waited. If Barr should make
inquiries for them, he would try to find some convenient way to return
the same. But on after thought, he knew that Barr would hardly start an
inquiry about the matter--even if he did come to realize he had lost
instead of destroyed the papers.

A few days later he saw Peter Kaden in the village, and this time
observed him more closely than had been his wont theretofore. Always
sad, he so remained, and down in Baptiste's heart he was sorry for the
wretch. It was after he had returned home and lingered at the fire that
he heard a light knock at the door. He called "Come in." The door was
opened and Augustus M. Barr stood in the doorway.

Baptiste was for a time slightly nervous. He was glad then that it was
dark within the room, otherwise Barr must have seen him give a quick
start.

"Ah-ha," began Barr, cheerfully, coming forward and taking the chair
Baptiste placed at his disposal. "Quite comfortable in the little sod
house on the claim."

"Quite comfortable," returned Baptiste evenly, his mind upon the papers
so near. He didn't trust himself to comment. He waited for whatever was
to happen.

"Suppose you are thinking about the big crop you will seed in the
springtime," ventured Barr.

"Yes," admitted Baptiste, for in truth, the same had been on his mind
before Barr put in his appearance. "Suppose you will put out quite a
crop yourself in the spring," he ventured in return.

"Well, I don't know," said Barr thoughtfully. "I fear I'm getting a
little old to farm--and this baching!" Baptiste thought about Christine
who was not so far away instead of in England.... He marveled at the
man's calm nerve. It did not seem possible that a man of this one's
broad education could be so low as to resort to fallacies.

"No," he heard Barr again. "I don't think that I shall farm next summer.
In fact I have about decided to make proof on my claim, and that is what
I have called on you in regard to. I suppose I can count you as witness
to the fact?" Baptiste was relieved. Barr still thought he had destroyed
the papers. He was smiling when he replied:

"Indeed, I shall be glad to attest to the fact you refer to."

"Thanks," Said Barr, and rose to go.

"No hurry."

"I must go into town on a matter of business," said Barr from the
doorway. "Well," he paused briefly and then said, "I am applying for a
date, and when that is settled I shall let you know."

"Very well. Good day."

"Good day, my friend," and he went over the hill.

Baptiste was thoughtful when he was gone. He looked after him and
thought about the papers. He marveled again at the man's calmness....
Then suddenly he arose as a thought struck him, and going to his trunk,
lifted from the top the last issue of the Dallas _Enterprise_. He
glanced quickly through the columns and then his eyes rested on a legal
notice. He smiled.

"Old Peter is going to make proof.... So is Barr. The eternal triangle
begins to take shape...." He got up and went to the door. Over the hill
he saw Barr just entering the town.... "This is beginning to get
interesting.... But I don't like the Kaden end of it.... I wish I could
do something.... Something to help Kaden...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Saturday was a beautiful day. To Gregory from miles around went almost
everybody. So along with the rest went Jean Baptiste. He fostered
certain hopes,--had ulterior purposes in view. Firstly, it was a nice
day, the town he knew would be filled; and secondly, he was subtly
interested in Kaden. He had seen by the paper that he was advertised to
make proof that day on his homestead.... Another thing, whenever he
thought of Kaden, he could not keep Barr, and Syfe, and lastly,
Christine, out of his mind....

He found the little town filled almost to overflowing when he arrived.
Teams were tied seemingly to every available post. The narrow board
walks were crowded, the saloons were full, red liquor was doing its bit;
while the general stores were alive with girls, women and children. A
jovial day was ahead and old friendships were revived and new ones made.
There is about a new country an air of hopefulness that is contagious.
Here in this land had come the best from everywhere: the best because
they were for the most part hopeful and courageous; that great army of
discontented persons that have been the forerunners of the new world.
Mingled in the crowd, Jean Baptiste regarded the unusual conglomeration
of kinds. There were Germans, from Germany, and there were Swedes from
Sweden, Danes from Denmark, Norwegians from Norway. There were Poles,
and Finns and Lithuanians and Russians; there were French and a few
English; but of his race he was the only one.

As a whole the greater portion were from the northern parts of the
United States, and he was glad that they were. With them there was no
"<DW64> problem," and he was glad there was not. The world was too busy
to bother with such: he was glad to know he could work unhampered. He
was looked at curiously by many. To the young, a man of his skin was
something rare, something new. He smiled over it with equal amusement,
and then in a store he walked right into Agnes, the first time he had
seen her since the morning at the sod house. He was greatly surprised,
and rather flustrated,--and was glad again his skin was dark. She could
not see the blood that went to his face; while with her, it showed most
furiously.

As the meeting was unexpected, all she had thought and felt in the weeks
since, came suddenly to the surface in her expression. In spite of her
effort at self control, her blushing face evidenced her confusion upon
seeing him again. But with an effort, she managed to bow courteously,
while he was just as dignified. They would have passed and gone their
ways had it not been that in that instant another, a lady, a neighbor
and friend of Baptiste's, came upon them. She had become acquainted with
Agnes that day, and was very fond of Baptiste. Although her name was
Reynolds, she was a red blooded German, sociable, kind and obliging. She
had not observed that they had exchanged greetings--did not know,
obviously, that the two were acquainted; wherefore, her neighborly
instincts became assertive.

Coming forward volubly, anxiously, she caught Baptiste by the hand and
shook it vigorously. "Mr. Baptiste, Mr. Baptiste!" she cried,
punctuating the hand shaking with her voice full of joy, her red,
healthy face beaming with smiles. "How very glad I am to see you! You
have not been to see us for an age, and I have asked Tom where you were.
We feared you had gone off and done something serious," whereupon she
winked mischievously. Baptiste understood and smiled.

"You are certainly looking well for an old bachelor," she commented,
after releasing his hand and looking into his face seriously, albeit
amusedly, mischievously. "We were at Dallas and got some of the coal you
were brave enough to bring from Bonesteel that awful cold day. My, Jean,
you certainly are possessed with great nerve! While that coal to
everybody was a godsend, yet think of the risk you took! Why, supposing
you had gotten lost in that terrific storm; lost as people have been in
the West before! You must be careful," she admonished, kindly. "You are
really too fine a young man to go out here and get frozen to death,
indeed!" Baptiste started perceptibly. She regarded him questioningly.
Unconsciously his eyes wandered toward Agnes who stood near, absorbed in
all Mrs. Reynolds had been saying. His eyes met hers briefly, and the
events of the night at the sod house passed through the minds of both.
The next moment they looked away, and Mrs. Reynolds, not understanding,
glanced toward Agnes. She was by disposition versatile. But she caught
her breath now with sudden equanimity, as she turned to Agnes and cried:

"Oh, Miss Stewart, you!" she smiled with her usual delight and going
toward Agnes caught her arm affectionately, and then, with face still
beaming, she turned to where Baptiste stood.

"I want you, Miss Stewart," she said with much ostentation, "to meet one
of our neighbors and friends; one of the most enterprising young men of
the country, Mr. Jean Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste, Miss Agnes Stewart." She
did it gracefully, and for a time was overcome by her own vanity. In the
meantime the lips of both those before her parted to say that they had
met, and then slowly, understandingly, they saw that this would mean to
explain.... Their faces lighted with the logic of meeting formally, and
greetings were exchanged to fit the occasion.

For the first time he was permitted to see her, to regard her as the
real Agnes. There was no embarrassment in her face but composure as she
extended her small ungloved hand this time and permitted it to rest
lightly in his palm. She smiled easily as she accepted his ardent gaze
and showed a row of even white teeth momentarily before turning
coquetishly away.

He regarded her intimately in one sweep of his eyes. She accepted this
also with apparent composure. She was now fully normal in her
composition. That about her which others had understood, and were
inspired to call beautiful now seemed to strangely affect him.

Was it because he was hungry for woman's love; because since he had
looked upon this land of promise and out of the visions she had come to
him in those long silent days; because of his lonely young life there in
the sod house she had communed with him; was it that he had imagined
her sweet radiance that now caused him to feel that she was beautiful?

She had looked away only briefly, as if to give him time to think, to
consider her, and then she turned her eyes upon him again. She regarded
him frankly then, albeit admiringly. She wanted to hear him say
something. She was not herself aware of how anxious she was to hear him
speak; for him to say anything, would please her. And as she stood
before him in her sweet innocence, all the goodness she possessed, the
heart and desire always to be kind, to do for others as she had always,
was revealed to him. His dream girl she was, and in reality she had not
disappointed him.

If visionary he had loved her, he now saw her and what was hers. Her
wondrous hair, rolled into a frivolous knot at the back of her head made
her face appear the least slender when it was really square; the
chestnut glint of it seemed to contrast coquettishly with her white
skin; and the life, the healthy, cheerful life that now gave vigor to
her blood brought faint red roses to her cheeks; roses that seemed to
come and go. Her red lips seemed to tempt him, he was captivated. He
forgot in this intimate survey that she was of one race while he, Jean
Baptiste, was of another.... And that between their two races, the
invisible barrier, the barrier which, while invisible was so absolute,
so strong, so impossible of melting that it was best for the moment that
he forget it.

While all he saw passed in a moment, he regarded her slenderness as she
stood buttoned in the long coat, and wondered how she, so slight and
fragile, had been able to lift his heavy frame upon the bed where he had
found himself. And still before words had passed between them, he saw
her again, and that singularity in the eyes had come back; they were
blue and then they were brown, but withal they were so baffling. He did
not seem to understand her when they were like this, yet when so he felt
strangely a greater right, the right to look into and feast in what he
saw, regardless of _the custom of the country and its law_.... And still
while he was not aware of it, Jean Baptiste came to feel that there was
something between them. Though infinite, in the life that was to come,
he now came strangely to feel sure that he was to know her, to become
more intimately acquainted with her, and with this consciousness he
relaxed. The spell that had come from meeting her again, from being near
her, from holding her hand in his though formally, the exchange of words
passed and he gradually became his usual self; the self that had always
been his in this land where others than those of the race to which he
belonged were the sole inhabitants. He was relieved when he heard Mrs.
Reynolds' voice:

"Miss Stewart and her folks have just moved out from Indiana, Jean, and
are renting on the Watson place over east of you; the place that corners
with the quarter you purchased last fall, you understand."

"Indeed!" Baptiste echoed with feigned ignorance, his eyebrows dilating.

"Yes," she went on with concern, "And you are neighbors."

"I'm glad--honored," Baptiste essayed.

"He is flattering," blushed Agnes, but she was pleased.

"And you'll find Mr. Baptiste the finest kind of neighbor, too," cried
Mrs. Reynolds with equal delight.

"I'm a bad neighbor, Miss Stewart," he disdained. "Our friend here, Mrs.
Reynolds, you see, is full of flattery."

"I don't believe so, Mr. Baptiste," she defended, glad to be given an
opportunity to speak. "We have just become acquainted, but papa has told
me of her, and the family, and I'm sure we will be the best of friends,
won't we?" she ended with her eyes upon Mrs. Reynolds.

"Bless you, yes! Who could keep from liking you?" whereupon she caught
Agnes close and kissed her impulsively.

"Oh, say, now," cried Baptiste, and then stopped.

"You're not a woman," laughed Mrs. Reynolds, "but you understand," she
added reprovingly. Suddenly her face lit up with a new thought, and the
usual smiling gave way to seriousness, as she cried:

"By the way, Jean. We hear that you are going to hire a man this spring,
and that reminds me that Miss Stewart's father has two boys--her
brothers--whom he has not work enough nor horses enough to use, so he
wishes to hire one out." She paused to observe Agnes, who had also
become serious and was looking up at her.

At this point she turned to Baptiste, and with a slight hesitation, she
said:

"Do you really wish to hire a man--Mr.--a--Mr. Baptiste?" Saying it had
heightened her color, and the anxiety in her tone caused her to appear
more serious. She had turned her eyes up to his and he was for the
instant captivated again with the thought that she was beautiful. His
answer, however, was calm.

"I must have a man," he acknowledged. "I have more work than I can do
alone."

"Why, papa wishes to hire Bill--" It was natural to say Bill because it
was Bill they always hired, although George was the older; but since we
know why George was never offered, we return to her. "I should say
William," she corrected awkwardly, and with an effort she cast it out
of her mind and went on: "So if--if you think you could--a--use him, or
would care to give him the job," she was annoyed with the fact that Bill
was halfwitted, and it confused her, which explains the slight catches
in her voice. But bravely she continued, "That is, if you have not
already given some one else the job, you could speak to papa, and he
would be pleased, I'm sure." She ended with evident relief; but the
thought that had confused her, being still in her mind, her face was
dark with a confusion that he did not understand.

Hoping to relieve the annoyance he could see, although not understanding
the cause of it, he spoke up quickly.

"I have not hired a man, and have no other in sight; so your suggestion,
Miss, regarding your brother meets with my favor. I will endeavor
therefore, to see your father today if possible, if not, later, and
discuss the matter pro and con."

He had made it so easy for her, and she was overly gracious as she
attempted to have him understand in some manner that her brother was
afflicted. So her effort this time was a bit braver, notwithstanding as
anxious, however, as before.

"Oh, papa will be glad to have my brother work for you, and I wish you
would--would please not hire any other until you have talked with him."
She paused again as if to gather courage for the final drive.

"You will find my brother faithful, and honest, and a good worker;
but--but--" it seemed that she could not avoid the break in her voice
when she came to this all embarrassing point, "but sometimes--he--he
makes mistakes. He is a little awkward, a little bunglesome in starting,
but if you would--could exercise just a little patience for a few
days--a day, I am sure he would please you." It was out at last. She
was sure he would understand. It had cost her such an effort to try to
make it plain without just coming out and saying he was halfwitted. She
was not aware that in concluding she had done so appealingly. He had
observed it and his man's heart went out to her in her distress. He
remembered then too, although he had on their first meeting forgotten
that he had been told all about her brothers, and had also heard of her.

"You need have no fear there, Miss Stewart," he wilfully lied. "I am the
most patient man in the world." He wondered then at himself, that he
could lie so easily. His one great failing was his impatience, and he
knew it. Because he did and felt that he tried to crush it, was his
redeeming feature in this respect. But the words had lightened her
burden, and there was heightening of her color, as she spoke now with
unfeigned delight:

"Oh, that is indeed kind of you. I am so glad to hear you say so. Bill
is a good hand--everybody likes him after he has worked a while. It is
because he is a little awkward and forgetful in the beginning that
worries my father and me. So I'm glad you know now and will not be
impatient."

In truth while she did not know it, Jean was pleased with the prospect.
He had not lived two years in the country, the new country, without
having experienced the difficulty that comes with the usual hired man.
The class of men, with the exception of a homesteader, who came to the
country for work usually fell into the pastime of gambling and drinking
which seemed to be contagious, and many were the griefs they gave those
by whom they were employed. And Jean Baptiste, now that she had made it
plain regarding her brother, had something to say himself.

"There is one little thing I should like to mention, Miss Stewart," he
said with apparent seriousness. She caught her breath with renewed
anxiety as she returned his look. In the next instant she was relieved,
however, as he said: "You understand that I am baching, a bachelor, and
the fare of bachelors is, I trust you will appreciate, not always the
best." He paused as he thought of how she must feel after having seen
the way he kept his house, and hoped that she could overlook the
condition in which she knew he kept it. But if he was embarrassed at the
thought of it, it was not so with her. For her sympathy went out to him.
She was conscious of how inconvenient it must be to bach, to live alone
as he was doing, and to work so hard.

"It is not always to hired men's liking to forego the meals that only
women can prepare, and for that reason it is sometimes difficult for us
to keep men."

"Oh, you will not have to worry as to that, Mr. Baptiste," she assured
him pleasantly. She caught her breath with something joyous apparently
as she turned to him. "You see, we live almost directly between your two
places, and my brother can stay home and save you that trouble and
bother." She was glad that she could be of assistance to him in some
way, though it be indirectly. With sudden impulse, she turned to Mrs.
Reynolds who had not interrupted:

"It will be nice, now, won't it?"

"Just dandy," the other agreed readily. "I am so glad we all three met
here," she went on. "In meeting we have fortunately been of some service
to each other. You will find Mr. Baptiste a fine fellow to work for. We
let our boys go over and help him out when he's pushed, and we know he
appreciates it to the fullest." She halted, turned now mischievously to
Baptiste and cried:

"We are always after Jean that he should marry. Why, just think what a
good husband he would make some nice girl." She had found her topic, had
Mrs. Reynolds. Of all topics, she preferred to jolly the single with
getting married to anything else, so she went on with delight.

"He goes off down to Chicago every winter and we wait to see the girl
when he returns, but always he disappoints us." She affected a frown a
moment before resuming: "It is certainly too bad that some good girl
must do without a home and the happiness that is due her, while he lives
there alone, having no comfort but what he gets when he goes visiting."
She affected to appear serious and to have him feel it, while he could
do nothing but grin awkwardly.

"Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, you're hard on a fellow. My! Give him a chance. It
takes two to make a bargain. I can't marry myself." He caught the eyes
of Agnes who was enjoying his tender expression. Indeed the subject
appealed to him, and he had found it to his liking. She blushed. She
enjoyed the humor.

"I suspect Mrs. Reynolds speaks the truth," she said with affected
seriousness, but found it impossible to down the color in her flaming
cheeks nevertheless.

"Oh, but you two can jolly a fellow." He became serious now as he went
on: "But it isn't fair. There is no girl back in Chicago; there is no
girl anywhere for me." He was successful in his affectation of self
pity, and her feelings went out to him in her words that followed:

"Now that is indeed, too bad, for him, Mrs. Reynolds, isn't it? Perhaps
he is telling the truth. The girls in Chicago do not always understand
the life out here, and cannot make one feel very much encouraged." She
wondered at her own words. But she went on nevertheless. "Even back in
Indiana they do not understand the West. They are--seem to be, so
narrow, they feel that they are living in the only place of
civilization on earth." Her logical statement took away the joke. They
became serious. The store was filling and the crowd was pushing. So they
parted.

A few minutes later as Baptiste passed down the street, he saw Peter
Kaden coming from the commissioners' office. Across the way he observed
Barr and Syfe stop and exchange a few words. The next moment they went
their two ways while he stood looking after them.




CHAPTER IX

"CHRISTINE, CHRISTINE!"


One week from the day Peter Kaden made proof at Gregory on the homestead
he held, the court record showed that he had transferred the same to
some unknown person. In the course of events it was not noticed by the
masses. It was because Jean Baptiste was expecting something of the kind
that he happened to observe the record of the transfer in the following
week's issue of the paper. He couldn't get the incident out of his mind,
and he found his eyes wandering time and again in the direction of the
house of Augustus M. Barr in the days that followed.

From what he had gleaned from the papers, he was sure that something
sinister was to occur in that new land soon. He tried in vain to
formulate some plan of action--rather, some plan of prevention. But the
plot, the intrigue, or whatever it may be called, was deep. It had taken
root before either had ever seen the country they now called home. And
because of its intricate nature, he could formulate no plan toward
combatting the thing he felt positively in his veins was to take place.

Over the hill two miles and more the claim shack of Peter Kaden could
not be seen. But he could always feel where it was and the events that
went on therein. This healthy, but sad, forlorn German had aroused his
sympathy, and always when he thought of him, strangely he thought of
Christine.

The days passed slowly and things went on as usual. He saw Barr
occasionally and as often saw the dark Syfe. He read as was his wont,
and then one evening when his few chores were done, he had a desire to
walk. He drew on his overcoat, and, taking a bucket, he walked slowly
down the <DW72> that led up to his house, to the well a quarter mile
distant. He could never after account for the strange feeling that came
and went as he ambled toward the well. He reached it in due time, filled
his bucket, and was in the act of returning when out of the night he
caught the unmistakable sound of horses' hoofs. Some one on horseback
was coming. He set the bucket down and bent his ears more keenly to hear
the sound.

Yes, they were hoof beats, an unusual clatter. He gave a start. Only one
horse in the neighborhood made such a noise with the hoofs when moving,
for he had heard the same before, and that horse belonged to A.M. Barr,
and was a pacer. Christine had use to ride him. And when he recalled it,
he became curious. Christine was not there, he knew, unless she had come
that day, which was not likely.... Then _who rode the horse_? He had
never seen Barr on horseback.... They were coming from about where
Barr's house stood, coming in his direction along the road. He estimated
at that moment they must be about a quarter of a mile away. He listened
intently. Onward they came, drawing closer all the while. He got an
inspiration. Why should he be seen? He moved back from the road some
distance. There was no moon and the night was dark, but the stars filled
the night air with a dim ray. He lay upon the ground as the horseman
drew nearer. Presently out of the shadow he caught the dim outline of
the rider. He saw that a heavy ulster was worn, and the collar of the
same was around the rider's neck, almost concealing the head; but he
recognized the rider as A.M. Barr.

"Now where can he be going," he muttered to himself, standing erect as
he listened to the hoof beats on the road below. He pondered briefly.
"Why does he never ride in the daytime?" From down the road the sound of
hoof beats continued. And then Baptiste was again inspired.

"Kaden!" he cried, and fell into deep thought.

At his left was a small creek, usually dry. This stream led in an
angling direction down toward the larger stream south of the town. It
led directly toward the claim of Peter Kaden, although the homestead lay
beyond the creek. By following it, one could reach Kaden's house in
about two-thirds the distance if going by trail.

A few minutes later Jean Baptiste was speedily following the route that
led to the creek. He paused at intervals and upon listening could hear
the hoof beats along the trail in the inevitable direction. He reached
the creek in a short time, found his way across it, and once on the
other side, he hurried through a school section to Kaden's cabin that
was joined with this on the south. He crossed the school section
quickly, and in the night air he could smell, and presently came to see,
the smoke curling from the chimney. He approached the house cautiously.
He was glad that poor Kaden didn't keep a dog. When he had drawn close
enough to distinguish the objects before him, he saw Barr's horse tied
out of the wind, on the south side of the little barn. He looked closer
and observed another near. He reckoned that one to be Syfe's. "So the
triangle is forming," he muttered.

He went up to the house noiselessly. He passed around its dark side to
where he saw light emanating from the small window. He peered cautiously
through it. Sitting on the side of the bed, Kaden's face met his gaze.
He regarded it briefly before seeking out the others. Never, he felt, if
he lived a hundred years would he ever forget the expression of agony
that face wore! Upon its usual roundness, perceptible lines had formed;
in the light of the dim lamp he caught the darkness about the eyes, the
skin under almost sagging and swollen. He permitted his gaze to drift
further, and to take in the proportions of the room.

On a stool near sat Syfe, the Jew. He wore his overcoat. Indeed,
Baptiste could not recall having ever seen him without it about him;
also he wore his thick, dark cap. His little mustache stood out over the
small mouth, between the lips of which reposed the usual cigarette. He
was drawing away easily at this, while his ears appeared to be attentive
to what was going on. He was listening to Barr, who stood in the center
of the room, talking in much excitement, making gestures; while he could
see the agonized Kaden protesting. He could not catch all that was being
said, but some of it. Barr, in particular, he observed, while speaking
forcibly, was nevertheless controlled. It was Kaden whose voice reached
his ears more often on the outside.

"I kept you from Australia...." this from Barr. "They had you on
shipboard.... Your carcass would be fit for the vultures now on that
sand swept desert you were headed for...."

"But I was innocent, I was innocent," protested Kaden. "I didn't go to
Russia that trip. I didn't go to Russia, and to Jerusalem, I have never
been!"

"But you hadn't proved it. You were done for. They had you, and all you
could do or say wouldn't have kept you in England. It was I, me, do you
understand.... You do understand that I kept you from going. I, me, who
saved you. No law in this land could keep you here if they knew now
where you were...."

"But you forget Christine, my poor Christine! You have her, is that not
enough? Oh, you are hard. You drive me most insane. Tell me about
Christine. Give her back to me and all is yours."

A wind rose suddenly out of the west. A shed stood near, a shed covered
over with hay and some poles that had been cut green, and the now dry
leaves gave forth a moaning sound. He saw those inside start. With the
noise, Baptiste knew he could hear no more, and might be apprehended.
Stealthily he departed.

And all the way to the sod house that night he kept repeating what he
had heard. "_Christine, Christine! You have her, is she not enough? Give
her back and all is yours!_"

If he could only ascertain what was between Kaden and Christine--but it
was all coming to something soon, and he knew that Augustus M. Barr was
taking the advantage of some one; that Kaden was innocent but couldn't
prove it; that Syfe was in some way darkly connected, and the eternal
triangle held to its sinister purpose.




CHAPTER X

"YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE"


When Agnes Stewart found her father and they were ready to return home,
she inquired:

"Did he see you?"

"See who?"

"You? You don't understand. I mean the <DW52> gentleman, Mr. Baptiste?"

"Why, no, my dear," her father replied wonderingly. "I saw him, but I
had no word with him. I don't understand."

"Why, I met him. Mrs. Reynolds, who knows you--she and I became
acquainted, and we met and had a long talk with Mr. Baptiste, and he is
going to hire a man, so we discussed Bill. He said he would see you."
Her father drew the team to a stop.

"I don't understand. I should see him, and I did, but he was talking
with some fellows who live north of town. I think it was about horses.
He went with them, so I suppose we may as well go on home and see him
later."

"I'm so sorry," she said and showed it in her face. "I had hoped he
would get to see you, and that it would all be settled and Bill would
get the job."

"Don't be so out of hope," said he. "I have no doubt that we will get to
see Mr. Baptiste, and talk it over."

"I am worried, because--you know, papa, when we have paid for the seed
and feed, we will have very little left."

"Such a wonderful, such a thoughtful little girl I have," he said
admiringly, stroking her hand fondly in the meantime. "I can't imagine
how I could get along without my Aggie."

"See him and get Bill hired and I'll not worry any more."

"I'll do so, I'll do so tomorrow."

"You say you saw him going north of town?"

"Yes."

She was silent, while he was thoughtful. Presently he inquired of what
passed when she met him.

She told him.

"I never spoke of having met him before."

"You didn't?"

"Why, no, papa. How could I? It would be hard to explain."

"Well, now, coming to think of it, it would, wouldn't it?"

"It _shouldn't_," she said. She didn't relish the situation.

"Did he?"

"What?"

"Speak of it."

"Oh, no! He didn't...."

"I wonder has he ever."

"I don't think so."

"That is very thoughtful of him."

"It is. He is a real gentleman."

"So everybody says."

"And so pleasant to listen to."

"Indeed."

"Mrs. Reynolds is carried away with him. Says he's one of the most
industrious and energetic young men of the country."

"Isn't that fine! But it seems rather odd, doesn't it? Him out here
alone."

"It is indeed singular. But he is just the kind of man a new country
needs."

"If the country had a few hundred more like him we wouldn't know it in
five years."

"In three years!" she said admiringly.

"How shall we explain in regards to Bill?..."

"I've explained."

"You have!"

"Oh, I didn't come out and say it in words, of course. I didn't need
to."

"Then how? How did you make him understand?"

"It was easy. It was easy because he is so quick witted. He seems to
readily understand anything."

"I'll bet!"

"He spoke of the fact that being a bachelor it was awkward to keep hired
men, and this fact seemed to worry him."

"But why didn't you explain that Bill could stay home?"

"I did."

"Oh!"

"And he was so relieved."

"I'm sure he was. It is very inconvenient."

"It is. And I feel rather sorry for him."

"Needs a wife."

She was silent.

"Wonder why he doesn't marry?"

"I don't know."

"Will make some girl a fine husband."

Silence.

"I guess he has a girl, though, and will likely marry soon."

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"Well," she said slowly. She blushed unseen and went on: "Mrs. Reynolds
joked him about it, and he denied it."

"But any man would do that. They like to be modest; to appear like they
have no loves. It creates sympathy. Men are sentimental, too. They like
sympathy."

"Yes, I suppose so," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "But I don't think
he has a girl. In my mind he is a poor lonesome fellow. Just like he has
no close friends...."

He was silent now.

"I have thought about it since I met him."

"You have?"

"Why, yes. Certainly."

Her father laughed.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked, somewhat nettled.

"I was thinking."

"Thinking? Thinking of what?"

"Of Jean Baptiste."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, there is a good chance for you."

"Father!"

"Why not!"

"Father! How can you!"

He laughed. She acted as if angry. He looked at her mischievously. She
did not grant him a smile.

"Tut, tut, Aggie! Can't you take a joke?"

"But you should not joke like that."

"Oh, come now. It pleased me to joke like that."

"Why should it please you?"

"Why, I have a sense of humor."

"A sense of humor?"

"Yes."

"But I don't see the joke?"

"Why, Aggie," he turned to her seriously. "Almost I don't think it is a
joke."

"Father!"

"Well, dear? You seem to be so interested in the man."

"Father, oh, father!" and the next instant she was crying. He reached
out and caught her fondly to him. "My girl, my girl, I didn't intend to
upset you. Now be papa's little darling and don't cry any more!"

"You have never been this way before," she sobbed. He caressed her more
now.

"Well, dearest. You see. Well, your mother--"

"My mother!" she sat quickly up.

"We are going to raise a great crop this year. I feel sure of it."

"But my mother!"

"I think I know where I can get some good seed oats."

They rode along in silence the rest of the way, consumed with their own
thoughts. No words passed, but Agnes was thinking. She would never get
out of her mind what her father had started to say. But he had stopped
in time.... Her mind went back to the strange incidents in her life. She
lived over again the day she had looked in the mirror and had seen that
strange look, she connected it singularly with what her father had
started to say. She was silent thereafter, but her soul was on fire.




CHAPTER XI

WHAT JEAN BAPTISTE FOUND IN THE WELL


"Well, my friend," said A.M. Barr, stopping before Baptiste's hut one
day shortly after his visit to Kaden's, "I have my date and will make
proof on the 22nd of March. I have listed you as one of my witnesses.
Guess I may depend on you to be ready that day?"

"I shall remember it, Mr. Barr," answered Baptiste. "Have you rented
your place yet?"

"No, I have not. Rather, not the buildings. My neighbor across the road,
however, will put the thirty acres I have broken into crop, and break a
few more."

"M-m."

"How much do you plan seeding this season?"

"All of both places anyhow."

"Ah, young man, I tell you, you are a worker! Such young men as you will
be the making of this country. And you'll be rich in time."

"Oh, no," cried Baptiste disdainfully.

"If I were young and strong like you, I would be doing the same."

"You expect to go away when you have completed your proof...."

"Well, I don't know," whereupon A.M. Barr cast a furtive glance in his
direction. Baptiste pretended not to see it.

"What'll you do with your horses?" Another furtive glance.

"Well, I might advertise a sale," he said boldly. He cast a dark look in
Baptiste's direction, which the other pretended not to see--but did see
nevertheless. "Why, what could he know," was in Barr's mind. "Nothing,"
he answered his own question. A moment later he was the same Barr; the
officious Englishman when he drove down the road a few minutes later,
and none the wiser therefor.

March the twenty-second came and went, and Augustus offered proof on his
homestead, and passed, Baptiste assisting him as witness.

Sunday was the next day, and when it came, all calm and beautiful,
Baptiste realized that he did not have enough seed wheat to sow all his
land that he wished put in wheat. A squaw man had raised a large crop to
the southwest of him the year before, and this, he understood, was for
sale. He decided to call on the squaw man, ascertain the fact, and if
so, purchase a share of it for his purpose.

Accordingly, Sunday morning after he had breakfasted, and piled the
dishes bachelor fashion (unwashed) he started out.

The route he took carried him directly by Peter Kaden's claim, and when
he had gone that far, and found himself looking at the low, sod house
that stood a few paces back from the road, he was curious. He paused
unconsciously before the house and observed it idly a few moments.

He was struck with the quietness about, and at once became curiously
apprehensive. No smoke emerged from the chimney. There was no evidence
that any one was about. Impelled by his growing curiosity, he approached
the house and knocked at the door. There was no response from within. He
tried it again. Still no response. He tried the knob. It gave. He pushed
the door open cautiously, and peered in. The house was empty but for the
crude furniture. He entered curiously and looked about. The bed was
spread over, there was no fire in the stove, the coldness of the
atmosphere within impressed him with a theory that no fire had been in
the stove that day or the night before. The dishes were clean and piled
on the table with a cloth spread over them. He went outside, closing the
door behind him and swept the surrounding country with his gaze which
revealed no Peter Kaden. He lowered his eyes in thought as his lips
muttered:

"Wonder where he is?"

A path began at his feet. It led down to a draw some two hundred yards
away. He fell into it aimlessly and followed its course for a short way.
Presently, upon looking up, he saw a well at the side of the draw which
obviously was the terminus of the path.

Forthwith he made the well his objective. In that country wells were not
plentiful. The soil was of the richest and blackest loam with a clay
subsoil; but water except where there was sand, was not easily found
only in or near a draw, or a flat. He reached the well, and, drawing
aside the bucket that reposed on the lid, he opened the well and lowered
the bucket to the water some thirty feet below.

The bright sun rays somewhat blinded him and for a moment he could not
see the water clearly. The bucket struck, in due time, however, and he
wondered why there was no splash. He jerked it over, and when it struck
again there was the sound of water, but it appeared difficult to sink
it. He peered down into it again to ascertain what the matter was. A
wave of ripples caught his gaze, while the bucket seemed to be resting
on something. He gave the rope another jerk and twist, and it came down
bottom-side up on the dark object.

"Hell," he muttered, "this well is dry!" He took another look. "No, it
isn't dry. There is something in the well." Bending until his face was
shaded by the shadow of the well, he searched below very closely with
his eyes. He could distinguish that there was something; and that _the
something_ seemed to bobble. He withdrew the bucket, unfilled, and,
allowing a few moments for the ripples to subside, he searched the
darkness below again closely. He became conscious of a cold feeling
stealing up his spine, then he caught and held his breath as slowly what
was below took outline. It was not a dog, a coyote, a pig, or an animal
of any kind. It was _something_ else ... and the _something_ else had
features that were familiar. At last realization was upon him, his
fingers gripped the boards they held as he gradually straightened up.

"My God!" he cried at last, terror stricken.

For below him, with white face turned upward as if laughing, was the
dead body of Peter Kaden.




CHAPTER XII

MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER


Coincident with the finding of Peter Kaden's body in the well, certain
things became public with regard to others. But to complete this part of
it. After finding the body Jean Baptiste hurried into Dallas and gave
the alarm. Excitement ran high for a time, and as it was Sunday, in a
few hours the spot around the well was crowded. From over all the
reservation the people came, and the consensus of opinion was that it
was suicide.... Perhaps Jean Baptiste was the only one who had his
doubts. If it was suicide, then he was positive it was a precipitated
suicide.

Until the coroner arrived there was no disposition made of the remains,
and when he did, the decision of suicide was sustained.

Since the man Baptiste had started to see was brought to the spot by the
excitement, the business in hand was settled thereupon, and that
evening, he went to call on the Stewarts with a view to hiring Bill.

He found Agnes alone, but was invited to enter. From her expression, he
could see that he was expected, and while he waited for her father who
had gone across the road, they fell into amiable conversation.

"Springtime is knocking at our door," he ventured.

"And I am glad to see it, and suppose you are also," she answered.

"Who isn't! It has been a very severe winter."

"I think so, too. Are the winters here as a rule as cold as this one has
been?" How modest he thought she was. She was dressed neatly in a satin
shirtwaist and tailored skirt; while from beneath the skirts her small
feet incased in heavy shoes peeped like mice. Her neck rose out of her
bodice and he thought her throat was so very round and white; while he
noticed her prominent chin more today than he had before. He liked it.
Nature had been his study, and he didn't like a retreating chin. It, to
his mind, was an indication of weak will, with exceptions perhaps here
and there. He reposed more confidence in the person, however, when the
chin was like hers, so naturally he was interested. As she sat before
him with folded hands, he also observed her heavy hair, done into braids
and gathered about her head. It gave her an unostentatious expression;
while her eyes were as he had found them before, baffling.

"Why, no, they are not," he said. "Of course I have not seen many--in
fact this is the second; but I am advised that, as a rule, the winters
are very mild for this latitude."

"I see. I hope they will always be so if we continue to live here," and
she laughed pleasantly.

"How do you like it in our country?" he inquired now, pleased to be in
conversation with her.

"Why, I like it very well," she replied amiably. "What I have seen of
it, I think I would as soon live here as back in Indiana."

"I have been in Indiana myself."

"You have?" She was cheered with the fact. He nodded.

"Yes, all over. What part of Indiana do you come from?"

"Rensselaer," she replied, shifting with comfort, and delighted that by
his having been in Indiana, he was making their conversation easier.

"Oh, I see," she heard him. "That is toward the northern part of the
state."

"Yes," she replied in obvious delight.

"I have never been to that town, but I have been all around it."

"Well, well!" She was at a loss in the moment how to proceed and then
presently she said:

"You have traveled considerably, Mr. Baptiste, I understand."

He felt somewhat flattered to know that she had discussed him with
others apparently.

"Well, yes, I have," he replied slowly.

"That must be fine. I long so much to travel."

"You have not traveled far?"

"No. From Indiana to Western Kansas where we were most starved out, and
then back to Indiana and out here." He laughed, she also joined in and
they felt nearer each other by it.

"And how do you like it, Mr. Baptiste?"

"Out here, you mean?"

"Yes, why, yes, of course," she added hastily.

"Why, I like it fine. I'm thoroughly in love with the country."

"That's nice. And you own such nice land, I don't wonder," she said
thoughtfully.

"Oh, well," he replied, modestly, "I think I should like it anyhow."

"Of course; but when one has property--such nice land as you own, they
have everything to like it for."

"I'm compelled to agree with you."

"I'm sorry we don't own any," she said regretfully. "But of course in a
way we are not entitled to. We didn't get in 'on the ground floor,'
therefore we must be satisfied as renters."

He was silent but attentive.

"Papa never seems to have been very fortunate. It may be due to his
quaint old fashioned manner, but he has never owned any land at all,
poor fellow." She said the last more to herself than to him. He was
interested and continued to listen.

"We went to Western Kansas with a little money and very good stock, and
were dried out two years straight, and the third year when we had a good
crop with a chance to get back at least a little of what we had lost,
along came a big hail storm and pounded everything into the ground."

"Wasn't that too bad!" he cried sympathetically.

"It sure was! It is awfully discouraging to work as hard and to have
sacrificed as much as we had, and then come out as we did. It just took
all the ambition out of him."

"I shouldn't wonder," he commented tenderly.

"And then we went back to Indiana--broke, of course, and having no money
and no stock; because we had to sell what we had left to get out of
Western Kansas. So since 'beggars can't be choosers' we had to take what
we could get. And that was a poor farm in a remote part of Indiana, in a
little place that was so poor that the corn was all nubbins. They called
it 'Nubbin Ridge.'"

He laughed, and she had to also when she thought of it.

"Well, we were able to live and pay a little on some more stock. Because
my brothers didn't take much to run around with like other boys but
stayed home and worked, we finally succeeded in getting just a little
something together again and then a real estate man came along and told
us about this place, so here we are." She bestowed a smile upon him and
sighed. She had told more of themselves than she had intended, but it
had been a pleasant diversion at that; moreover, she was delighted
because he was such an attentive listener.

"So that is how you came here?" he essayed. "I have enjoyed listening to
you. Your lives read like an interesting book."

"Oh, that isn't fair. You are joking with me!" Notwithstanding, she
blushed furiously.

"No, no, indeed," he protested.

She believed him. Strangely she reposed such confidence in the man that
she felt she could sit and talk with him forever.

"But it is certainly too bad that you have been so unfortunate. I am
sure it will not always be so. You are perseverant, I see, and 'riches
come to him who waits.'"

"An old saying, but I hope it will not wait too long. Papa is getting
old, and--my brothers would be unable to manage with any effect
alone...." He understood her and the incident was overlooked.

"Your mother is dead?"

"Yes, my mother is dead, Mr. Baptiste."

"Oh."

"Died when I was a baby."

"Well, well...."

"I never knew her."

"Well, I do say!" He paused briefly, while she was silent but thinking
deeply.... Thinking of what her father had started to say and never
finished.

"And I venture to say that you have just about raised yourself?"

She blushed.

"You must be a wonderful girl."

She blushed again and twisted her hands about. She tried to protest; but
couldn't trust herself to say anything just then. How she liked to hear
him talk!

"You have my best wishes, believe me," he was at a loss for the moment
as to how to proceed.

"Oh, thank you." She didn't dare raise her eyes. He regarded her as she
sat before him, blushing so beautifully, and wished they were of the
same race.... Footsteps were heard at that moment, and both sat up
expectantly. Quickly, then, she rose to her feet and went to the door
and opened it in time to meet her father who was about to enter.

"Oh, it's you, father! I'm glad you've come. Mr. Baptiste is here to see
you."

"Ah-ha, Mr. Baptiste, I am honored," cried Jack Stewart, her father, and
he marched forward with outstretched hand and much ado; Scotch
propriety.

"Glad to know you, Judge," Baptiste returned warmly, grasping the
proffered hand.

"Be seated, be seated and make yourself comfortable; make yourself at
home," he said, pushing forward the chair out of which Baptiste had
risen. Agnes was smiling pleasantly. She could see that the two were
going to become friends, for both were so frank in their demeanor.

"Now, Aggie, you must prepare supper for Mr. Baptiste and myself," he
said, taking hold of her arm.

"Oh, no," disdained Baptiste. "Don't think of it!"

"Now, now, my worthy friend," admonished Stewart, and then stopped.
"Why--you have met my daughter?"

"Yes, we have met," they spoke in the same breath, exchanging glances.

"Then, while you fix us something good to eat, we will discuss our
business."

They found no difficulty in reaching a bargain in regard to Bill, the
bargain being that Bill was to board home and sleep there also; and the
consideration was to be one dollar per day, and by the time this was
completed, Agnes called them to supper.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, even though it be an intrusion," said
Baptiste as he was gently urged into a seat.

"Ah-ha, and I see you have a sense of humor," whereupon Jack Stewart's
eyes glistened humorously behind the old style glasses he wore. Baptiste
 unseen, while Agnes regarded him smilingly.

"We haven't much, but what is here you are welcome to," she said.

"It's a feast," said he.

"About as good as baching, anyhow," joined Stewart.

"Hush!"

"How do you like it?"

"Didn't I say hush? That should be sufficient!" Agnes took a seat and
surveyed the table carefully to see that all was there. Her father was
pious. He blessed the table, and when this was over, fell to eating with
his knife.

"By the way," cried Baptiste near the end of the meal. "Did you hear the
news?"

"What news," they asked in chorus.

"The man dead in the well."

"Is that so!" they exclaimed, shocked.

He then told them in detail all about the finding of the body, and the
opinion that it was a suicide. They listened with the usual awe and
curiosity. But Jean Baptiste did not voice his suspicions, or tell them
anything he knew. At a later hour he took his leave.

And neither of the three realized then that the self-same tragedy
linked strangely an after event in their lives. But when Jean Baptiste
went over the hill to his sod house that stood on the claim, Jack
Stewart went outside and walked around for almost an hour. He was
thinking. Thinking of something he knew and had never told.




CHAPTER XIII

THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD


It is not likely that the people in the neighborhood of Dallas would
have ever known any more than they did regarding A.M. Barr, had it not
been for two accounts. When proof had been offered by him on his
homestead and a loan sought, to keep from invalidating the title to his
land, he was compelled to admit that he was married; but, fortunately
for him, it was not necessary to state when or how long he had been
married, and this he obligingly did not state. But the surprise came
when upon admittance, he then confessed to the promoters that he had
married Christine.... Of course everybody was positive then that he had
been married to Christine when he came to the country, and that he was
married to her at the time she was holding the claim. Perjury was a
penitentiary offense. He had sold her claim on pretense that she must go
to England. Christine, as Baptiste had come to know by the papers he
found, had not, of course, gone to England; but merely to Lincoln,
Nebraska, where she was safe to keep silent about what she knew in
regard to the subtle transactions of Augustus M. Barr.

The incident went the usual route of gossip, the people wondering how
such a beautiful girl as Christine could be happy as the wife of an old,
broken down infidel like Barr. But they never came into the truth, the
whole truth; they never connected Barr with the dark Assyrian Jew, Isaac
Syfe; nor were they aware that he had ever known the forlorn Peter
Kaden. Only Jean Baptiste knew this, and that, although Barr called a
sale and immediately left the country, there was something still to be
completed. But Jean Baptiste didn't know then that it would all come
back to him in such an unusual manner. However, the public learned a
little more concerning the previous activities of this august
contemporary before long. It came in the form of a sensational newspaper
feature story. And was in brief to wit:

While pastor of the Baker Street church, London, Isaac M. Barr, and not
Augustus, mind you, although there was no question about the two being
one and the same became very much in the confidence of his flock. Of
London's great middle class they were and possessed ambition, which Barr
apparently appealed to. The result was that a great colony set sail for
a land of promise, the land being Western Canada. The full details were
not given; but it seems that Barr was the trustee and handled the money.
On arrival, Barr suddenly disappeared and the good people from England
never saw him again, which perhaps accounts in some measure for his
becoming an infidel.... Who would not under such circumstances?

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a feature regarding a new country--that is, a country that lays
toward the western portion of the great central valley, that is always
questioned, and is ever a source for knockers. But we should explain one
thing that might be of benefit to those who would go west to settle and
develop with hopes of success. And this is rainfall. In this country of
our story, which lay near the line where central time is changed to
mountain time, near the fifth principal meridian the altitude is about
2000 feet above the level of the sea, and the rainfall may be estimated
accordingly. Rainfall is governed by altitude and is a feature beyond
discussion. This is a very serious matter, and could multitudes of
people going west to take homesteads, or settle, be impressed with the
facts and know then what to expect, much grief could be avoided.

But unfortunately this is not so. Masses can be convinced--were
convinced in the country of our story, and all the west beyond, in other
parts, that rainfall was governed by cultivation. An erroneous idea! As
has been stated, rainfall is governed by elevation: air pressures are
such that when in contact with the heavy air due to the lower elevation,
thunder showers and general rains fall more frequently on the whole and
this can be certified by the record of any weather bureau, comparing the
elevation to the amount of precipitation over a given period, say five
or ten years. It is a fact, however, that in the most arid districts
cloudbursts do occur, but they are always a detriment to the parts over
which they may fall. And it is also true that in a given year or season,
more rain may fall over a certain arid district than some well
cultivated portion in a country where the fall of rain is beyond
question.

Because of these contending features, many portions of the country have
received a boom one season and failed to produce the next. When one year
had proven exceedingly wet, the theory was that the whole climatic
origin of the country had changed; drought had passed forever, and
people and capital flowed in to sometimes go out, broken and shattered
in spirits, hopes and finances later. Such instances hurt and hinder a
country instead of helping it. If, in coming to the country of our story
the masses of people could have understood that at an elevation of from
two thousand to twenty-two hundred feet, the rainfall over a period of
ten years would approximate an average of twenty-five inches annually,
it is reasonable to suppose that they would expect dry years and wet
years; some cold winters and some fair, open winters; some cloudbursts
and some protracted droughts. But when the first years of settlement
were accompanied by heavy rains, the boom that followed is almost beyond
our pen to detail.

From over all the country people came hither; people with means, for it
was the land of opportunity. The man who was in many cases wealthy in
older portions of the country, had come there with next to and very
often with nothing and had grown rich--not by any particular ability or
concentrated effort on the part of himself; not by the making and
saving, investing and profiting, but because in the early days the land
was of such little value and brought so little when offered for sale
that it had been a case of staying thereon; result, riches came in the
advance later in the price according to demand.

Such was not the circumstances altogether in the land where Jean
Baptiste had cast his lot in the hope for ultimate success. While
opportunity was ripe, a few thousands had been expedient. For what could
be had for a small amount here would have cost a far greater amount back
east. But while land was selling and selling readily the country would
and could not maintain its possible quota of development without
railroad facilities. This question, therefore, was of the most urgent
anxiety. When would the railroad be extended out of Bonesteel westward?
At Bonesteel they said never. Others, somewhat more liberal said it
might be extended in twenty years. They argued that since it had taken
that many years after Bonesteel had been started before the company
placed their tracks there, the same would in all probability hold with
regards to the country and the towns west. So be it.

The promoters of the town of Dallas argued that it would not be
extended from Bonesteel at all; that when it was extended, it would come
up the valley from the town some miles below Bonesteel, where the tracks
lifted to the highlands. Meaning, of course that Dallas would be the
only town in the newly opened portion of the country to get the
railroad.

Jean Baptiste and Bill had seeded all the land that was under
cultivation on Baptiste's property, and were well under way of breaking
what was left unbroken, when Baptiste was offered a proposition that
looked good to him. It was 200 acres joining his place near Stewart's,
the property of an Indian, the allotee having recently expired. Under a
ruling of the Department of the Interior, an Indian cannot dispose of an
allotment under twenty-five years from the time he is alloted. This
ruling is dissatisfactory to the Indian; for, notwithstanding all the
roles in which he is characterized in the movies and dramas as the great
primitive hero, brave and courageous, the people of the West who are
surrounded with red men, and know them, know that they wish to sell
anything they might happen to possess as soon as selling is possible.
Therefore, when one happens to expire, leaving his land to his heirs who
can thereupon sell, dispose, give away or do what they may wish with the
land, as long as it accords with the dictates of the Indian agent, the
tract of land in question can be expected to pass into other hands
forthwith.

The two hundred acres offered Jean Baptiste was convenient to his land,
and was offered at twenty dollars per acre. Other lands about had sold
as high as thirty dollars the acre. A thousand dollars down and a
thousand dollars a year until paid was the bargain, and he accepted it,
paying over the thousand, which was the last of the money he had brought
from the East with him.

This was before something happened that turned the whole country into an
orgy of excitement.

A few days after this one of the long rainy periods set in, and the
little town was overrun with homesteaders, agreeing that the land that
was broken was acting to their advantage: bringing all the good rains,
and drought would never be again.

Then one day a man brought the news. The surveyors were in Bonesteel. It
was verified by others, and really turned out to be true. The surveyors
being in Bonesteel was an evident fact that the railroad would follow
the highlands and would not come up the valley, and that settled Dallas
as a town. It was doomed before a stake was set, and here passes out of
our story, in so far as a railway in its present location was concerned.
But whatever route a railroad took, it meant that the value to a
homestead by the extension of the railroad would approximate to exceed
ten dollars per acre. And Jean Baptiste now owned five hundred and
twenty acres.

Since the work now in breaking the extra two hundred acres was before
him, and was more than three miles from his homestead, he sought more
convenience, by determining to approach the Stewarts with a request to
board him.

It was a rainy day, when he called, only to find Jack Stewart out, while
George and Bill were tinkering about the barn. They had not been
informed of his purchase.

"Oh, it is you--Mr. Baptiste," cried Agnes upon opening the door in
response to his knock. "Come right in."

"Where's the governor?" he inquired when seated.

"Search me," she laughed. "Papa's always out, rain or shine."

"Busy man."

"Yes. Busy but never gets anything by it, apparently."

She was full of humor, her eyes twinkled. He was also. It was a day to
be grateful. Rainfall, though it bring delay in the work, such days
always are appreciated in a new country. It made those there feel more
confident.

"Lots of rain."

"Yes. I suppose you are glad," she said interestedly.

"Well, I should be."

"We are, too. It looks as if, should this keep up, we will really raise
a crop."

"Oh, it'll keep up," he said cheerfully, confidently. "It always rains
in this country."

"How optimistic you are," she said, regarding him admiringly.

"Thanks."

She smiled then and bit her lip.

"How's your neighbors across the road? I've never become acquainted with
them."

"Their name is Prescott. I don't know much about them; but papa has met
them."

"How many of them?"

"Three. The man and wife and a son."

"A son?"

"M-m."

"How old is he--a young man?"

"M-m."

He smiled mischievously.

"Oh, it will be great," and she laughed amusedly.

"He farms with his parents?"

"I don't think so. He has rented a few acres on the place north of us.
Don't seem to be much force."

"You should wake him up."

"Humph!"

"My congratulations," irrelevantly.

"Please don't. He's too ugly, too lazy; loves nothing but a stallion he
owns, and is very uninteresting."

"Indeed!" Suddenly he jumped up. "I have forgotten that I came to see
your dad."

"I can't say when papa will be home," she answered, going toward the
door and looking out.

"I wanted to see him regarding a little business about boarding. I
wonder if he could board me?"

"He'll be home about noon, anyhow."

"That won't be so long, now," said he, regarding the clock.

"So you are tired of baching," she said with a little twinkle of the
eyes.

"Oh, baching? Before I started. But that is not what has expedited my
wishing to board. I bought some more land. Couple hundred acres of that
dead Indian land over south."

"You did!"

"Why, yes." He did not understand her exclamation.

"Oh, but you are such a wonderful man, and to be such a young man!" She
was not aware of the intimacy in her reference, and spoke thoughtfully,
as if to herself more than to him.

He was flattered, and didn't know how to reply.

"You are certainly deserving of the high esteem in which you are held
throughout the community," and still she was as if speaking to herself,
and thoughtful.

He could not shut out at once the vanity she had aroused in him. He
wished to appear and to feel modest about it, however. After all, he had
most of the other land to pay for, which, nevertheless, gave him no
worry. His confidence was supreme. He continued silent while she went
on:

"It must be wonderful to be a young man and to be so courageous; to be
so forceful and to be admired."

"Oh, you flatter me."

"No; I do not mean to. I am speaking frankly and what I feel. I admire
the qualities you are possessed with. I read a great deal, and when I
see a young man like you going ahead so in the world, I think he should
be encouraged."

How very frankly, and considerately she had said it all. His vanity was
gone. He saw her as the real Agnes. He saw in her, moreover, that which
he had always longed for in his race. How much he would have given to
have heard those words uttered by a girl of his blood on his trips back
East. But, of course the West was foreign to them. They could not have
understood as she did. But the kindness she had shown had its effect. He
could at least admire her openly for what she was. He spoke now.

"I think you are very kind, Miss Stewart. I can't say when any one has
spoken so sensibly to me as you have, and you will believe me when I say
that such shall never be forgotten." He paused briefly before going on.
"And it will always be my earnest wish that I shall prove worthy of such
kind words." He stopped then, for in truth, he was too overcome with
emotion, and could not trust himself to go on.

She stood with her back to him, and could he have seen her eyes he would
also have observed tears of emotion. They were honest tears. She had
spoken the truth. She admired the man in Jean Baptiste, and she had not
thought of his color in speaking her conviction. But withal she felt
strangely that her life was linked in some manner with this man's.

Her father's appearance at this moment served to break the silent
embarrassment between them, the embarrassment that had come out of what
she had said.

They settled with regards to his boarding with them, and a few minutes
later he took his leave. As he was passing out, their eyes met. Never
had they appeared so deep; never before so soft. But in the same he saw
again that which he had seen before and as yet could not understand.




CHAPTER XIV

THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL


Never before since Jean Baptiste had come West and staked his lot and
future there, doing his part toward the building of that little empire
out there in the hollow of God's hand, had he worked so hard as he did
in the days that followed that summer. When the rains for a time ceased
and the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently to permit a return to
the fields, from early morn until the sun had disappeared in the west
late afternoons, did he labor. Observation with him seemed to be
inherent. Ever since he had played as a boy back in old Illinois he had
been deeply sensitive with regards to his race. To him, notwithstanding
the fact that he realized that less than fifty years had passed since
freedom, they appeared--even considering their adverse circumstances--to
progress rather slowly. He had not as yet come fully to appreciate and
understand why they remained always so poor; always the serf; always in
the position to gain so little--but withal to suffer so much! Oh, the
anguish it had so often given him!

His being in the West had come of an ulterior purpose. It has been
stated that he was a keen observer. While so he had cultivated also the
faculty of determination. By now it had became a sort of habit, a sort
of second nature as it were. But there were certain things he could not
seem to get away from. For instance: It seemed to him that the most
difficult task he had ever encountered was to convince the average
<DW52> man that the <DW64> race could ever be anything. In after years
he understood more fully why this was--but we deal with the present;
those days when Jean Baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to
"do his bit" in the development of the country of our story. He
struggled with these problems at times until he became fatigued; not
knowing that he could never understand until the time came for him to.

When he dined late one afternoon and found himself alone with Agnes, he
spoke of being tired.

"You work too hard, Jean," she said, kindly.

"Perhaps so," he admitted. "And, still, the way I choose to see that is,
that I'll not know the difference this time next year."

"That is quite possible," she agreed thoughtfully. "But your case is
this, I think. You seem inspired by some high compulsion; some infinite
purpose in the way you work, and in your mind this is so uppermost that
you forget the limit of your physical self." She paused and gazed at the
knife she held. Her mind appeared to deliberate, and he wondered at her
deep logic. What a really mindful person she was, and still but a girl.

"I cannot help thinking of you and your effort here," she resumed, "and
if I was asked, I would advise you to exercise more discretion in regard
to yourself. To labor as you do, without regard to rain, sun, or time,
is not practical. It would be very sad if, in conducting yourself as you
do, something should happen to you before you had quite fulfilled that
to which you are aspiring--not to accomplish altogether, but to
demonstrate."

"You seem to have such a complete understanding of everything, Agnes,"
he said. "You appear to see so much deeper than the people I have met,
to look so much beneath the surface and read what is there. I cannot
always understand you." He paused while she continued in that
thoughtful manner as if she had not heard what he said. "Now in your
remark of a moment ago, you so defined a certain thing I would like to
tell you.... But I shall not now. The instance is always so much in my
mind that indeed, I lose sense of physical endurance; I lose sight of
everything but the one object. It is not that I care so much for the
fruits of my labor; but if I could actually succeed, it would mean so
much to the credit of a multitude of others.--Others who need the
example...." He paused and thought of his race. The individual here did
not count so much, it was the cause. His race needed examples; they
needed instances of successes to overcome the effect of ignorance and an
animal viciousness that was prevalent among them.

In this land, for instance, which had been advertised from one end of
the country to the other; this land where four hundred thousand acres of
virgin soil had been opened to the settler, he was about the only one of
that race who had come hither, or paid the instance any attention. Such
examples of neglected opportunity stood out clearly, and were recorded;
and the record would give his race, claiming to be discriminated
against, no credit.... Such examples of obliviousness to what was around
them would be hard to explain away. So in his ambitious youth, Jean
Baptiste's dream was to own one thousand acres of land. He was now
twenty-three and possessed half that much. He conjectured that he could
reach the amount by the time he was thirty--providing nothing serious
happened to <DW44> him....

He had finished his meal and was ready to go back to that little place
over the hill. The girl who had made proof on the homestead he had
purchased, had lived fourteen months alone in a little sod house her
father had built for her in which he now had his bed. She had come of a
prosperous family in the East. She had come hither and put in the time,
and the requirements, and had sold the land that he had bought at a good
profit to herself. Such instances were common in that country, so common
indeed, that little was thought of it. In his trips back East when
Baptiste told of such opportunities, he was not taken seriously. The
fact that the wealth of the great Central Valley was right at their
door; that from the production there they purchased the food they ate;
that sheep were raised whose wool was later manufactured into the very
clothes they wore, had no meaning to them. And always he felt
discouraged when he returned from a visit among them.

He had never seen Agnes so serious as she was that night. She arose and
followed him to the door, and stood with him a moment before he left.
Her eyes were tired and she appeared worried. He became possessed with
an impulse to shake her hand. She seemed to sense his desire, and as he
stepped out into the night, she extended it. He grasped and held it
briefly. He whispered goodnight to her, and as he went through the yard
and out into the road, she watched him from the open door until he was
out of sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean Baptiste thought he had secured a bargain in a team he had
purchased a week before, and, from all appearances he had. For, after
working them a week, he found them model horses--apparently. As stated,
he slept in the little sod house on the place near Stewart's, and also
had a barn there in which he kept his horses while working. The morning
following the conversation with Agnes, just related, he went out to
curry and feed this team along with the other horses, and received a
kick that was almost his ending. Right at the temple one spiked him, and
he knew no more for hours.

"I wonder why Jean is so late," said Agnes, going to the window and
gazing up the road. He was a hardy eater and the fact that he was late
for breakfast was unusual. They waited a while longer and then ate
without him. Bill who had been to care for his horses at the place
before breakfast, reported that he had seen Baptiste go into the barn.
So he had arisen, that was sure; but why had he not come for his meal?
The subject was dismissed by all except Agnes, who was strangely uneasy.

"Bill," said she, "see what is the matter with your boss when you go
over, and tell him to come to breakfast."

Bill had no difficulty ascertaining, and returned quickly with the news.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Agnes, excitedly. "I just felt that something was
the matter," whereupon she got into a light coat and followed her father
and brothers to where he lay outside the barn door, bleeding freely from
the temple.

They carried him into their house, and were cheered to see that the
blood had ceased to flow. His head was bandaged while Bill went for Doc.
Slater, who pronounced the wound serious but not fatal. He awakened
later in the day and called for water. It was brought him forthwith by
Agnes.

When he had drunk deeply and lay back weakly upon the pillow, he heard:

"How do you feel, Jean?" He looked around in the semi-darkness of the
room, and upon seeing her, sighed before answering. When he did it was a
groan. She came quickly to where he lay and bent over him.

"Jean," she repeated softly, tenderly. "How do you feel? Does your head
pain you much?"

"Where am I?" he said, turning his face toward her. She put her hand
lightly over his bandaged head.

"You're here, Jean. At Stewart's. You are hurt, do you understand?"

"Hurt?" he repeated abstractedly.

"Yes, hurt, Jean. You were kicked on the temple by one of your horses."

"Is that so?" and he suddenly sat up in the bed.

"Careful, careful," she cried, excitedly, pushing him gently back upon
the pillow. He was silent as if in deep thought, while she waited
eagerly. Presently she said in a low voice:

"Do you feel hurt badly, Jean?"

"I don't know." He raised his hand to his head as if trying to think
more clearly. She caught his hands and held them as if trying to
estimate his pulse, to see if he had any fever.

"How did you come to get kicked, Jean?" she asked, speaking in the same
low tone.

"I don't know. When I opened the barn door I had a vision of one of the
horses moving and I knew no more."

"You must be very careful and not start the bleeding again," she
advised. "You bled considerably."

"And you say I am at your house. At where I board?"

"Yes, Jean."

He turned and stared at her, and for the first time seemed to be
himself. He closed his eyes a moment as if to shut out something he did
not wish to see.

"And you have me here and are caring for me?"

"We brought you here and are caring for you, Jean," she repeated.

"It is singular," said he.

"What is singular?"

"That you have twice happened to be where you can serve me when I am
injured or in danger." She was silent. She didn't know how to answer, or
that there was to be any answer.

"Has a doctor been here?"

"Yes."

"What did he seem to think of it?"

"He said your wound was serious, but not fatal."

"Did he say I could get up soon?"

"He didn't say, Jean; but I don't think it would be wise." He groaned.

"Now you must be patient and not fret yourself into a fever," she said
seriously.

"But I have so much work to do."

"That will have to wait. Your health is first," she said firmly.

"But the work should be done," he insisted.

"But you must consider your health before you can even think about the
work."

He groaned again. She was thoughtful. She was considerate, and she could
see that he would worry about his work and injure himself or risk fever.

"I'll speak to papa, and perhaps George can take your place for a few
days, a week or until you can get out."

"You are so kind, Agnes," he said then. "You are always so thoughtful. I
don't know how I can accept all you do for me."

"Please hush--don't mention it." She arose and presently returned with
her father.

"Ah-ha," he always greeted. "So you've come to. Thought something would
show up in that 'bargain.'"

"Please don't, father," admonished Agnes, frowningly.

"I'll look after everything while you are down, old man," said Stewart.
"I'll start the horses you've been working this afternoon. Aggie has
explained everything. I understand."

"I'm so thankful," he said, then closing his eyes, and a few minutes
later had fallen asleep.




CHAPTER XV

OH, MY JEAN!


When Jack Stewart left Indiana, and left owing the two hundred dollars
which was secured by a chattel mortgage on his horses, he failed to do
something he now had cause to regret. The man to whom he owed this money
agreed to give him one year in which to pay it, but didn't renew the
mortgage. He was a close friend of Jack's, and there had been no worry.
But the man died; his affairs fell into the hands of an administrator,
whose duties were to clean up, to realize on all due and past due
matter. And because the note of Jack Stewart's was due and past due, the
extension being simply a verbal one, the administrator wrote Jack
demanding that he take up his note at once.

We know the circumstances of Jack Stewart; that because Jean Baptiste
had hired his son Bill, and now was boarding with them, he was able to
get along; but Jack Stewart had nothing with which to pay $200 notes....
So while Jean Baptiste was recovering from his illness, Jack Stewart had
cause to be very much worried.

Possessed, however, with a confidence, Jack took the matter up with the
banker in the town where he received his mail. Now a common saying in a
new country is: "I'm going to borrow five dollars and start a bank...."
Inferring that while there is, as a whole, an abundance of banks in a
new country, they do not always have the wherewithal to loan. What they
have is usually retained for the accommodation of their regular patrons,
and they were unable to accommodate Jack, even had they wished to do so.

Now, he could have secured the money had he been a claimholder or a land
owner. But Jack, being neither, found himself in a bad plight. He had
Aggie write a long letter in which he tried to explain matters, and
requested until fall to pay, as had been verbally agreed upon. But the
class of people in the old East who regard the new West as a land of
impossibilities, where drought burns all planted crops to crisp, where
grasshoppers eat what is left, who still regard those who would stake
their fortunes and chances in the West as fools, were not all dead.

The administrator happened to be one of this kind. He had no confidence
in the country Jack wrote about, the crops he had planted; what he
expected to reap, and no patience withal into the bargain. So he wrote
Jack a brief letter, and also one to the bank in the town, sending the
papers with it at the same time, with instructions to foreclose at a
given time. And when Jack knew more of it, he was confronted with paying
the note in thirty days or having his horse taken, and sold at auction.

Jean Baptiste recovered, went back to his work, and noticed that Jack
Stewart and Agnes were much worried; but, of course, didn't understand
the cause of it.

"Have you tried elsewhere, father?" said Agnes when they had gotten the
notice giving them thirty days' grace.

"But I am not known, dear. There is not much money in a new country, and
it is very difficult to get credit where there is nothing to lend."

"There must be some way to avoid this. Oh, that man, why couldn't he be
reasonable!"

"It is always bad when one has to write. If I were back in Indiana I
could go and see this man and reason it out, but when a thousand miles
is between us--it's bad!"

"If we could have only just three months."

"Two months," he exclaimed.

The days that followed were days of grave anxiety, of nervous
anticipation for them. There was but one person they could turn to at
such a time, and that was Jean Baptiste. Agnes thought of him, she
started to speak with her father regarding him, but in the end did not
bring herself to do so.

So the time went on, and the thirty days became twenty; and the twenty
fell to ten; and the ten fell to five, and then Jean Baptiste could bear
their worry no longer without speaking.

"You and your father have been very kind to me, Agnes, and I can see you
are greatly worried about something. If I could help you in any way, I
would be glad to do so."

She was so near to crying when she heard this that she had much
difficulty keeping back the tears. But she managed to say:

"Why, it's nothing serious. Just a little matter, that's all," and she
went into her room. He pondered. It was more than that. Of this he was
sure. He left the house and came around to where Jack sat, and was moved
by his expression. But Jack would say nothing. He could not understand.
He tried to dismiss the subject from his mind, and so came Sunday, the
day of days.

He was walking from his meal to his place to look over his crops, when
from up the road he caught the sound of buggy-wheels. Two men, driving a
single horse hitched to a light buggy were coming his way. When they
caught sight of him, they hurried the animal forward slightly by
touching him up with the whip, and beckoned to him to stop. Presently
they drew up to where he stood and he recognized one as a homesteader,
and having a claim near and the other as a professional dealer in
horses. They exchanged greetings and some remarks about the weather and
crops, and then the trader said:

"By the way, Jean, where does that old Scotchman live out this way? The
old fellow who moved out here recently from Indiana?"

"That's the place there," and Baptiste pointed to the top of the house
that could just be seen from where they stood.

"I see," said the other thoughtfully. "Wonder where that dappled gray
mare he owns is grazing. I'd like to take a look at 'er."

"I think you will see her grazing in the pasture," said Baptiste
curiously.

"How--what kind of animal is it?"

"Why, she's a hum-dinger," returned Baptiste more curiously. His
curiosity aroused the other, who, looking at him said:

"Well, you see the old man is to be sold out--foreclosed, and I thought
I'd take a look at his stuff and if I thought there was anything in it,
I might save the old scout the humiliation by buying it."

"T' hell you say!" exclaimed Baptiste.

"Oh, yes. Hadn't you heard about it?"

"This is my first knowledge of it."

"Yes, the sheriff's coming to get the stuff Tuesday--that is, providing
the old man don't come across with a couple of hundred before that time,
and it is not likely he can, I don't think."

"Well, well!" Baptiste exclaimed, thinking of the worry he had observed
in the faces of Agnes and her father, and at last beginning to
understand.'

"Yes, it's rather bad, that. But this follows the old gent from where he
comes, and he is not known here, so I guess I'll mosey along and take a
look at the stuff--just a glance at it from the road, you understand.
And if things look good, I'll drop by 'n see him later." Whereupon they
went their way cheerfully, while Baptiste resumed his, thoughtfully.

He returned to his house by a roundabout way, and, later, hitching a
team to a light buggy, he drove into the town where Jack traded and
looked up the banker.

"Say, Brookings," he opened, "what kind of deal is the old Scotchman up
against out there? You understand."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the cashier. "The old man out there on the Watson
homestead! Well, it seems like the old fellow stands a good chance of
being sold out." He then explained to Baptiste regarding the note and
the circumstances.

"That don't look just right to me," muttered Baptiste when he had heard
the circumstances.

"Well, now, it _isn't_ right. But what can be done?"

"Can't you loan the old man the money?"

"I could; but I don't like letting credit to strangers and renters. If
he could get a good man on his note I'd fix it out for him, since we've
just received quite a sum for deposit."

"Well, if I should go it," said Baptiste suggestively. The other looked
quickly up.

"Why, you! Gee, I'd take care of him for ten times the amount if you'd
put your 'John Henry' on the note."

"Well, I'll be in town early in the morning," said Baptiste, turning to
drive away.

"All right, Jean. Sure! I'll look for you."

The day was bright and lovely for driving, and Baptiste drove to his
homestead, and from there to the Reynolds' where he had dinner and
visited late. The next morning he went to the town, and when Jack
Stewart, exhausted by the strain of worry under which he was laboring,
came into town, having decided to try and sell the mare and one of the
other horses, thereby leaving him only one with which to complete the
cultivating of his corn and the reaping of his crops, he was called into
the bank.

"Now if you'll just sign this, Mr. Stewart," said Brookings, "you can
have until December first on that stuff."

"You mean the note!" the old man exclaimed, afraid to believe that he
had heard aright.

"Yes, the note that is about to be foreclosed. You've been granted an
extension." Jack Stewart was too overcome to attempt to comment. The
realization that he was to be allowed to go on and not be sold out or be
forced to dispose of his little stock at such a critical time, was too
much for words. He caught up the pen, steadied his nerves, and wrote his
name, not observing that the banker held a blotter over the lower line
of the note. Jean Baptiste had cautioned him to do this. In view of the
circumstances he had not wished Stewart or Agnes to know that he had
gone on the note.

Jack Stewart hurried home in a fever of excitement. He could not get
there fast enough. He thought of Agnes, he did not wish her to have a
minute more grief than what she had endured. He reached home and
stumbled into the house, and to Agnes he said:

"Oh, girl, girl, girl! They have extended the note! The sheriff is not
coming! We are saved, saved, saved!" He was too overcome with emotion
and joy then to proceed. He sank into a chair, while Agnes, carried
away with excitement over the news, caressed him; said words of love and
care until both had been exhausted by their own emotions. When they at
last became calm, she turned to her father who now walked the floor in
great joy.

"How did they come to extend the note, father?"

"Why--why, dear, that had never occurred to me! I became so excited when
they told me that I had been granted an extension, I can only recall
that I signed the note and almost ran out of the bank. The man had to
call me back to give me my old note and mortgage. I don't know why they
granted the extension." He stood holding his chin now and looking down
at the floor as if trying to understand after all how it happened. Then
his eyes opened suddenly wide. "Why, and, do you know, now, since I come
to think of it, they did not take a new mortgage on the stock."

"I don't believe that the administrator had anything to do with it," she
said after a time. "I know that man. He would sell his mother out into
the streets. Now I wonder who has influenced the bank into giving us
this time...."

"Bless me, dear lord. But right now I am too tickled to try to think
who. To be saved is enough all at once. Later, I shall try to figure out
who has been my benefactor." And with this he left the house and went to
walk with his joy in the fields where George was plowing corn,
unconscious of the fact that the team he was driving was to have been
seized on the morrow and sold for debt.

"Now I wonder _who_ saved papa," Agnes said to herself, taking a seat by
the window and gazing abstractedly out into the road. She employed her
wits to estimate what had brought it about, and as she sat there, Jean
Baptiste came driving down the road. He had not been there since
breakfast the morning before. He had taken his morning's meal at the
restaurant in the town. As he drove down the <DW72> that began above the
house wherein she sat, his dark face was lighted with a peaceful smile.
He drove leisurely along, concerned with the bright prospects of his
four hundred acres of crop. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he
passed on by without seeing Agnes at the window; without even looking
toward the house.

Upon seeing him Agnes had for the moment forgotten what she was thinking
about. But when he had passed by, she was suddenly struck with an
inspiration. She jumped quickly to her feet: She raised her hands to her
breast and held them there as if to still a great excitement, as she
cried:

"Jean! Jean, Jean Baptiste! It was you, you, who did it. It was you who
saved my father, saved me; saved us all! Oh, my Jean!"

She was overcome then with a great emotion. She sank slowly upon a
chair. And as she did so sobs broke from her lips and she wept long and
silently.




CHAPTER XVI

BILL PRESCOTT PROPOSES


Summertime over the prairie country; summertime when the rainfall has
been abundant, is a time of happiness to all settlers in a new land. And
such a summer it was in the land of our story. God had been unusually
kind to the settlers; he had blessed them with abundant moisture; with
sunshine, not too warm and not too cold. The railroad was under course
of construction and would be completed far enough west for the settlers
from the most remote part--from the farthest corner of the reservation
to journey with their grain or hogs, chickens or cattle to it and return
to home the same day. And now the fields which had been seeded to winter
wheat had turned to gold. Only a few thousand acres had been sowed over
the county, and of this amount one hundred thirty acres grew on the
homestead of Jean Baptiste. The season for its growth had been ideal,
and the prospects for a bumper yield was the best. Ripe now, and ready
to cut, the air was filled with its aroma.

He had brought a new self-binder from Gregory which now stood in the
yard ready for action, its various colors green, red, blue and white,
resplendent in the sunlight.

So now we see Jean Baptiste the cheerful, Jean Baptiste the hopeful,
with hopes in a measure about realized; Jean Baptiste the Ethiopian in a
country where he alone was black. He whistles at times, he sings, he is
merry, cheery and gay.

But while Jean Baptiste was happy, cheerful and gay, there was in him
what has been, what always will be that which makes us appreciate the
courage that is in some men.

Bill Prescott, from the first day he had seen Agnes, had considered a
match between her and himself a suggestive proposition. Bill Prescott
might be referred to as a "feature." He was not so fortunate as to have
been born handsome, and could not be called attractive. He had not,
moreover, improved the situation by cultivation of wit, of art or pride.
The West had meant no more to him than had the East, the South--or the
West Indies, for that matter. Because Bill had no homestead, no deeded
land, and had not tried to get any. His wealth consisted of a few
horses, among which, an old, worn out, bought-on-credit-stallion, was
his pride.

Of this stallion Bill talked. He told of his pedigree, tracing him back
almost to the Ark. He was fond of tobacco, was Bill Prescott; he chewed,
apparently, all the time. He had lost his front teeth; wore his thin
hair long, and upon his small head a hat, oiled to the point where its
age was a matter for conjecture. He had apparently appreciated that the
wind blew outrageously over those parts at times, and, therefore, had
hung a leather string to his hat which he pulled down over the back of
his head to hold his hat in place. This succeeded in frumpling the long,
thin hair and kept it in a dishevelled condition.

Now Bill had been a frequent caller at the Stewarts' home since they had
come West. He did not always take the trouble to remove his hat when
inside. That he was fond of Agnes was apparent, and smiled always upon
seeing her, and at such times showed where his front teeth had been but
where tobacco more frequently now was, with lazy delight.

He called this day wearing a clean, patched jumper over his cotton
shirt. When once inside, sprawling his legs before him, and while Jack
Stewart worked in the sun outside, repairing harness, he said to Agnes:

"Well, old girl, how'd you like to marry?" Agnes changed color a few
times before she could decide whether to answer or not. In the meantime,
patient and in no hurry, Bill grinned with pleasure at the ease with
which he had started; showed tobacco where his teeth had been, and spat
a pound of juice, with plenty of drippings trailing out the window by
which she sat. It made considerable argument getting through the screen,
but succeeded finally--most of it, the remainder, clung, hesitated,
wavered, and finally giving up, dripped slowly to the ledge below.

"Dog-gone, myself," said Bill, getting up heavily from his chair, and
going to the window and thumping it lightly, whereupon the hesitant
amber, dashed in many directions about. Agnes had observed it all with
calm disgust. Bill, however, not the least perturbed over his apparent
breach of impropriety, became reseated, and resumed:

"Well?"

She turned her eyes slowly toward him, surveyed him coldly, and
continued at her sewing.

Bill muttered something.

She regarded him again with cold disdain.

"Haw, haw!" he laughed loudly. "You don't pretend t' hear me, haw! haw!
Then I guess you're stuck on that <DW65> you got a hangin' round here."

"Will you go!" she cried, as she quickly jumped to her feet and swung
open the door. She controlled herself with considerable effort.

"Oh, ho! So that's the way you treat a white man--and honor a d--n
<DW65>!" And with that he dashed out and passed to where the senior
worked away over his harness. Jack Stewart saw and heard Bill
approaching without looking up. He greeted:

"Ah-ha, William. And how are you today?"

Bill was struck with a sudden inspiration. In his way he really liked
Agnes, and it was all settled in his mind to wed her. He realized now
that he had rather bungled matters, and thereupon decided to exercise a
little more discretion. So, choking down the anger that was in him, and
swallowing a bit of tobacco juice at the same time, he said to Stewart:

"Good morning! Ah, by the way, Jack, I'd like to marry Agnes." So
saying, he was pleased with himself again, and spat tobacco juice more
easily in the next squirt. Jack continued working at his harness. For
the moment he did not appear to comprehend, but presently he raised his
eyes with the old style glasses before them, and surveyed Bill slowly.

"You want to do what?" he said, uncomprehendingly.

"To marry Agnes," Bill repeated calmly. He paused, looked away, sucked
his soft mouth clean of amber and spat it tricklingly at Jack's feet,
and looked up and at Jack with a wondrous smile.

Now Jack Stewart was possessed with certain virtues. He did not smoke,
chew, drink, swear nor shave. He was rather put out, but with
considerable effort at self control he managed to say:

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, why don't you take it up
with the girl?" Bill hesitated at this point, sucked his mouth clear
again of tobacco juice, cleared his throat, spat the juice, and, after a
hasty glance toward the house, decided not to mention that he had spoken
with Agnes. He replied:

"Well, I thought it best to speak to you, and if it's all right with
you, it ought to be all right with the gal."

Jack Stewart drew up, and then tried to relax. He did not think so much
of Bill; but he did think the world of Agnes and wanted her respected by
everybody. Moreover, he did not like to hear her "galled." He turned to
William; he regarded him keenly, and then in a voice and words that were
English, but accent that was very much Scotch, the which we will not
attempt to characterize, he said:

"You're a joke. Just a great, big joke." He paused briefly, and then
continued: "I'd like to be patient with you; but honestly, with you it
wouldn't pay. You are not worth it. And in so far as my girl--any girl
is concerned, I cannot imagine how you could even expect them to be
interested." He paused and looked away, too full up to go ahead. In the
meantime he heard Bill:

"Is that so!"

"Is _it_ so!" cried Stewart with a touch of vehemence. "Gad! See
yourself. See how you go! Don't you observe what's around you close
enough to see that girls want some sedateness; they admire in some
measure cleverness, clothes, and--well, manhood!"

"So I don't guess I have it?" retorted William, sneeringly.

"Oh, you bore me!" Jack returned disgustingly. He bent to his work in an
attempt to forget it. And then he again heard from Bill:

"So that's the way yu' got it figgered out, eh!" He drew his mouth tight
shut. He gave another soft suck that drew his skin close to his gums,
and with his tongue, he cleared his mouth and spat tobacco, juice and
all in a soft lump at Stewart's feet and said in unconcealed anger: "So
that's the way you got me figgered out! And I want to say, now, that I
don't think I want yer gal, anyhow. I'm a white man, I am. And what
white man would want a gal that a <DW65> is allowed to hang aroun' and
court!"

Jack Stewart was struck below the belt. He was fouled, and for a time
everything went dark around him, he was so angry. He did not know that
Jean Baptiste had saved him from losing his stock or being forced to
sell them; he had never connected Baptiste and Agnes as being other than
friends, and friends they had a right to be. But Jack Stewart _did_
regard Jean Baptiste as a gentleman and gentlemen he respected. His
knockout therefore was brief. He soon recovered. He could not speak, he
could not even stammer; but with a sudden twitch of the tug his hands
held, he came away around with it, and the heavy leather took Bill
fairly in the mouth, in the middle of the mouth. And then Jack got his
voice, and ready for another swing; but not before Bill found something,
too. It was his feet.

"You stinkin', low down, pup!" cried Stewart, falling over from the
force of the swing he had missed. "You trash of the sand hills! You
tobacco chewin', ragga-muffin!" Getting his balance, and turning after
William madly, he resumed: "You ornery, nasty, filthy, houn'! If I get
my han's on you, I swear t' God I'll kill you."

But Bill Prescott now held the advantage. He was younger, and more fleet
of foot; so therefore out ran Jack, who was left before he reached the
gate, far to the rear, and Bill gained his side of the wide road with a
safe lead. Jack finally came to a stop before getting off the premises
with his blood boiling with such heat that he drew his hat off and beat
himself with it. In the meantime, Agnes, who had witnessed the
controversy from the gate, ventured out to where her father stood and
taking him gently by the arm, she led him inside.

"My blood's up, my blood's up!" Jack kept crying and repeating. "That
stinkin', triflin' peace a nothin', has been gittin' smart. Tryin' to
low rate me; tryin' to low rate my girl. Insultin' Jean Baptiste! Dang
him, dang him!"

"Father, father!" cried Agnes soothingly.

"Did you hear'm! Did you hear'm! Why, the low down, good for nothin',
I'm a good mind to go cross the road and skin him alive!"

"Father, father!" begged Agnes.

"Did you hear what he said," insisted the infuriated senior.

"Yes, father," she confessed. "I heard him."

"You did! 'N that's worse!" Whereupon he tore loose and threw up his
arms in an angered gesture.

"Now, papa," Agnes argued kindly. "I heard him, and what he said to you.
He was in here and insul--spoke to me before he went out there.... I
understand all about it.... So you must simply be calm--and forget it.
That's all...."

"I don't care so much for myself, but that he should speak about you and
Baptiste! I just wish Baptiste could have heard him and just beat the
gosh danged manure right out of him."

"Please be quiet, papa. Forget Bill Prescott and what he has tried to
insinuate.... We understand _him_ and what he _is_, and we understand
Mr. Baptiste--and what _he is_, so let us just think of other things."

"Yes, Aggie, I suppose you're right. You always seem to be right. And I
will try to forget it; but I'll say this much: If that ornery, lazy cuss
ever crosses this road to my place again I'll thresh him within an inch
of his life!"

"You've agreed to forget it, father...."

"I agree again; but it's outrageous that he should say what he did about
Jean Baptiste, now isn't it?"

"It is, father," she admitted with downcast eyes.

"Of course it is. Never was there more of a gentleman in the world than
Jean Baptiste."

"Mr. Baptiste is a real gentleman," acknowledged Agnes again.

"There never was, and he knows it, the pup!"

Agnes was strangely silent, which Jack, in his excitement overlooked.

"And even if he should like my girl--"

"Father!"

"Well?"

"Oh, please hush!"

"I will, Aggie," he said slowly. He bent forward presently, folded her
close, kissed her, and then placing his hat on his head, went back to
his work....




CHAPTER XVII

HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT


Harvest time, harvest time! When the harvest time is, all worries have
passed. When the harvest time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears
are no more. When the golden grain falls upon the canvas; when the
meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the land sing the song of
harvest time, the farmer is happy, is gay, and confident.

And harvest time was on in the country of our story.

Jean Baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn, jumped from the
seat, and before he started to unhitch, he gazed out over a stretch of
land which two years before, had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but
was now a world of shocked grain. Thousands upon thousands of shocks
stood over the field like a great army in the distance. His crop was
good--the best. And no crops are like the crop on new land. Never, since
the beginning of time had that soil tasted tamed plant life. It had
seemed to appreciate the change, and the countless shocks before him
were evidence to the fact.

From where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed across country
toward the southeast where lay his other land. Only a part of which he
could see. As it rose in the distance he could see the white topped
oats; and just beyond he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed
blossoms. He sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink,
and turned them toward the pasture. He was not tired; but he went to
the side of the house which the sun did not strike, and sat him down. At
the furthest side of the field he observed Bill and George as they
shocked away to finish. He was at peace again, as he always was, and
thereupon fell into deep thought.

"My crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels to the acre,"
he whispered to himself. "And one hundred and thirty acres should then
yield almost four thousand bushels. I should receive at least eighty
cents the bushel, and that would approximate about three thousand
dollars, with seed left to sow the land again." He paused in his
meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean to him. He
could pay the entire amount on the land he had purchased, and perhaps a
thousand or two more from the flax crop. That would leave him owing but
four hundred dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he felt
he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have 520 acres clear!

He could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain over his
prospects. He was now just twenty-three and appreciated that most of his
life was yet before him. With, at the most, two or three more seasons
like the present one, he could own the coveted thousand acres and the
example would be completed.

That was the goal toward which he was working. If he or any other man of
the black race could acquire one thousand acres of such land it would
stand out with more credit to the <DW64> race than all the protestations
of a world of agitators in so far as the individual was concerned.

"It is things accomplished," he often said to himself.

"It is what is actually accomplished that will get notice--and credit!
Damn excuses! The best an excuse can secure is dismissal, and positively
that is no asset." He would then invariably think deeply into the
conditions of his race, the race who protested loudly that they were
being held down. Truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to
solve with prolific thinkings. He compared them with the Jew--went away
back to thousands of years before. Out of the past he could not solve it
either. All had begun together. The Jew was hated, but was a merchant
enjoying a large portion of the world commerce and success. The <DW64>
was disliked because of his black skin--and sometimes seemingly for
daring to be human.

At such times he would live over again the life that had been his before
coming West. He thought of the multitudes in the employment of a great
corporation who monopolized the sleeping car trade. Indeed this company
after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men. Not so much
in what was collected in tips and in other devious ways, nor from the
small salary, but from the great opportunity of observation that that
particular form of travel afforded.

But so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves thereby. He
continued to think along these lines until his thoughts came back to a
point where in the past they were wont to come and stop. He could not in
that moment understand why they had not been coming back to that
selfsame point in recent months.... Since one cold day during the first
month of that year.... He gave a start when he realized why, then
sighed. It seemed too much for his thoughts just then. He regarded Bill
and George at their task of trying to finish their work. Upon hearing a
sound, he turned. Behind him stood Agnes.

"My, how you frightened me!" he cried.

She held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him and her brothers.
This she had brought every day, but he had been so absorbed in his
thoughts that he had quite forgotten that she was coming on this day as
well. As she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter than
she really was, also more slender, and appeared withal more girlish than
usual. Her eyes twinkled and her heavy hair drawn together at the back
of her head, hung over her shoulders. Her sunkist skin was a bit tanned;
her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown and were very round. And
as Jean Baptiste regarded her there in the bright golden sunlight she
appeared to him like the Virgin Mary.

"You are tired," he cried, and pointed to a crude bench that reposed
against the sod house, which he had just left in his prolific thinking
of a moment before.

"Sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded. She obeyed him
modestly, with a smile still upon her pleasant face.

"I judge that Bill and George will finish in a few minutes, so I'll
wait, that we may all dine together. You'll be so kind as to wait until
then, will you not?" he asked graciously, and bowed.

"Until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly.

"Thanks!" he laughed, good humoredly. Suddenly she cried:

"Oh, isn't it beautiful!" And swept her hands toward the field of
shocked wheat. He had been looking away, but as she spoke he turned and
smiled with satisfaction.

"It is."

"Just lovely," she cried, her eyes sparkling.

"And all safe, that's the best part about it," he said.

"Grand. I'm so glad you have saved it," she said with feeling.

"Thank you."

"You have earned it."

"I hope so. Still I thank you."

"It will bring you lots of money."

"I am hoping it will."

"Oh, it will."

"I was thinking of it before you came up."

"I knew it."

"You knew it!"

"I saw you from a distance."

"Oh...."

"And I knew you were thinking."

"Oh, come now."

"Why shouldn't I? You're always thinking. The only time when you are not
is when you are sleeping."

"You can say such wonderful things," he said, standing before her, the
sun shining on his tanned features.

"Won't--ah--won't you be seated?" she invited. He  unseen. She
made room for him and he hesitatingly took a seat, at a conventional
distance, on the bench beside her.

"Your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably.

"I'm going over to look at them this afternoon."

"You should."

"Where is your father today?"

"Gone to town."

"Wish I'd known he was going; I'd had him bring out some twine for me. I
think the oats will be ready to cut over on the other place right away,
and I don't want to miss any time."

"No, indeed. A hail storm might come up." He glanced at her quickly. She
was gazing across the field to where her halfwitted brothers worked,
while he was thinking how thoughtful she was. Presently he heard her
again.

"Why, if it is urgent--you are out, I--I could go to town and get the
twine for you." She was looking at him now and he was confused. Her
offer was so like her, so natural. Why was it that they understood each
other so well?

"Oh, why, Agnes," he stammered, "that would be asking too much of you!"

"Why so? I shall be glad--glad to oblige you in any way. And it is not
too much if one takes into consideration what you have done for--I'll be
glad to go...."

"Done for what?" he said, catching up where she had broken off, and
eyeing her inquiringly.

She was confused and the same showed in her face. She blushed. She had
not meant to say what she did. But he was regarding her curiously. He
hadn't thought about the note. She turned then and regarded him out of
tender eyes. She played with the bonnet she held in her lap. She looked
away and then back up into his face, and her eyes were more tender
still. In her expression there was almost an appeal.

"What did you mean by what you started to say, Agnes," he repeated,
evenly, but kindly.

"I--I--mean what you did for papa. What--you--you did about
that--that--note." It was out at last and she lowered her eyes and
struggled to hold back the tears with great effort.

"Oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. "That was nothing." And he laughed
again as if to dismiss it.

"But it _was_ something," she cried, protestingly. "It _was_ something.
It was _everything_ to us." She ended with great emotion apparent in
her shaking voice. He shifted. It was awkward, and he was a trifle
confused.

"Please don't think of it, Agnes."

"But how can I keep from thinking of it when I know that had it not been
your graciousness; your wonderful thoughtfulness, your great kindness,
we would have been sold out--bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me!" She covered
her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now raining down her
face and dropping upon her lap.

"Oh, Agnes," he cried. "I wish you wouldn't do that! Please don't. It
hurts me. Besides, how did you know it? I told Brookings that your
father was not to know it. I did not want it known." He paused and his
voice shook slightly. They had drawn closer and now she reached out and
placed her small hand upon his arm.

"Brookings didn't tell. He didn't tell papa; but I knew." She was
looking down at the earth.

"I don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly.

"But didn't you think, Jean, that I understood! I understood the very
day--a few minutes after papa returned home, brought the old note and
told me about the extension." She paused and looked thoughtfully away
across the field. "I understood when you drove by a few minutes later.
You had forgotten about it, I could see, and your mind was on other
things; but the moment you came into my sight, and I looked out upon you
from the window, I knew you had saved us."

Her hand still rested lightly upon his arm. She was not aware of it, but
deeply concerned with what she was saying. Presently, when he did not
speak, she went on. "I understood and knew that you had forgotten
it--that you were too much of a man to let us know what you had done. I
can't forget it! I have wanted to tell you how I felt--I felt that I
owed it to you to tell you, but I couldn't before."

"Please let's forget it, Agnes," she heard him whisper.

"I can keep from speaking of it, but forget it--never! It was so much
like you, like the man that's in you!" and the tears fell again.

"Agnes, Agnes, if you don't hush, almost I will forget myself...."

"I had to tell you, I _had_ to!" she sobbed.

"But it is only a small return for what you did for me. Do you realize,
Agnes, had it not been for you, I--I--would not be sitting here now? Oh,
think of that and then you will see how little I have done--how very
little I can ever do to repay!" His voice was brave, albeit emotional.
He leaned toward her, and the passion was in his face. She grasped his
arm tighter as she looked up again into his face out of her tear
bedimmed eyes and cried brokenly:

"But Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for you I would have
done for anybody. It was merely an act of providence; but yours--oh,
Jean, _can't you understand_!" He was silent.

"Yours was the act of kindness," she went on again, "the act of a man;
and you would have kept it secret; because you would never have had it
known, because you would not have us feel under obligation to you. Oh,
that is what makes me--oh, it makes me cry when I think of it." The
tears flowed freely while her slender shoulders shook with emotion.

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

"BUT, JEAN, THE CASES ARE NOT PARALLEL. WHAT I DID FOR YOU I WOULD HAVE
DONE FOR ANY ONE; BUT YOURS--OH, JEAN, _CAN'T_ YOU UNDERSTAND!"]

And when she had concluded, the man beside her had forgotten _the custom
of the country, and its law_ had passed beyond him. He was as a man
toward the maid now. Beside him wept the one he had loved as a dream
girl. Behind him was the house with the bed she had laid him upon
when she saved his life. And when he had awakened, before being
conscious of where he was or what had happened to him, he had looked
into her eyes and had seen therein his dream girl. She was his by the
right of God; he forgot now that she was white while he was black. He
only remembered that she was his, and he loved her.

His voice was husky when he answered:

"Agnes, oh, Agnes, I begged you not to. I almost beseeched you,
because--oh, don't you understand what is in me, that I am as all men,
weak? To have seen you that night--the night I can never forget, the
night when you stood over me and I came back to life and saw you. You
didn't know then and understand that I had dreamed of you these two
years since I had come here: that out of my vision I had seen you, had
talked with you, oh, Agnes!" She straightened perceptibly; she looked up
at him with that peculiarity in her eyes that even she had never come to
understand. They became oblivious to all that was about them, and had
unconsciously drawn closer together now and regarded each other as if in
some enchanted garden. She sang to him then the music that was in her,
and the words were:

"Jean, oh, Jean Baptiste, you have spoken and now at last _I_
understand. And do you know that before I left back there from where I
came, I _saw_ you: I dreamed of you and that I would know you, and then
I came and so strangely met and have known you now for the man you are,
oh, Jean!"

Gradually as the composure that had been theirs passed momentarily into
oblivion, and the harvest birds twittered gayly about them, his man's
arm went out, and into the embrace her slender body found its way. His
lips found hers, and all else was forgotten.




EPOCH THE SECOND




EPOCH THE SECOND




CHAPTER I

REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES


It was winter, and the white snow lay everywhere; icicles hung from the
eaves. All work on the farms was completed. People were journeying to a
town half way between Bonesteel and Gregory to take the train for their
former homes; others to spend it with their relatives, and Jean Baptiste
was taking it for Chicago and New York where he went as a rule at the
end of each year.

He was going with an air of satisfaction apparently; for, in truth, he
had everything to make him feel so--that is, _almost_ everything. He had
succeeded in the West. The country had experienced a most profitable
season, and the crop he reaped and sold had made him in round numbers
the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. He had paid for the two
hundred acres of land he had bargained for; he had seeded more land in
the autumn just passed to winter wheat which had gone into the winter in
the best of shape; his health was the best. For what more could he have
wished?

And yet no man was more worried than he when he stepped from the stage
onto the platform of the station where he was to entrain for the
East.... It is barely possible that any man could have been more sad....
To explain this we are compelled to go back a few months; back to the
harvest time; to his homestead and where he sat with some one near, very
near, and what followed.

"I couldn't help it--I loved you; love you--have loved you always!" he
passionately told her.

For answer she had yielded again her lips, and all the love of her warm
young heart went out to him.

"I don't understand you always, dear," he whispered. "Sometimes there is
something about you that puzzles me. I think it's in your eyes; but I
_do_ understand that whatever it is it is something good--it couldn't be
otherwise, could it?"

"No, Jean," she faltered.

"And did you wonder at my calling your name that night?"

"I have never understood that fully until now," she replied.

"You came in a vision, and it must have been divine, two years ago gone
now," she heard him; "and ever since your face, dear, has been before
me. I have loved it, and, of course, I knew that I would surely love you
when you came."

"Isn't it strange," she whispered.

"But beautiful."

"So beautiful."

"Was it providence, or was it God that brought you that night and saved
me from the slow death that was coming over me, Agnes?"

"Please, Jean, don't! Don't speak again of that awful night! Surely it
must have been some divine providence that brought me to this place; but
I can never recall it without a tremor. To think that you would have
died out there! Please, never tell me of it again, dear." She trembled
and nestled closer to him, while her little heart beat a tattoo against
her ribs. They looked up then, as across the field her halfwitted
brothers were approaching. It was only then that they seemed to realize
what had transpired and upon realization they silently disembraced. What
had passed was the most natural thing in the world, true; and to them it
had come because it was in them to assert themselves, but now before him
rose the Custom of the Country, and its law. So vital is this Custom; so
much is it a part of the body politic that certain states have went on
record against it. Not because any bad, or good, any wealth or poverty
was involved. It had been because of sentiment, the sentiment of the
stronger faction....

So it ruled.

In the lives of the two in our story, no thought but to live according
to God's law, and the law of the land, had ever entered their minds, but
now they had while laboring under the stress of the pent-up excitement
and emotion overruled and forgot the law two races are wont to observe
and had given vent and words to the feeling which was in them.... They
stood conventionally apart now, each absorbed in the calm realization of
their positions in our great American society. They were obviously
disturbed; but that which had drawn them to the position they had
occupied and declared, still remained, and that was love.

So time had gone on as time will; never stopping for anything, never
hesitating, never delaying. So the day went, and the week and the month,
and the month after that and the month after that, until in time the
holidays were near, and Jean Baptiste was going away, away to forget
that which was more to him than all the world--the love of Agnes
Stewart.

He had considered it--he had considered it before he caught the one he
loved into his arms and said the truth that was in him.... But there was
another side to it that will have much space in our story.

Down the line a few stations from where he now was, there lived an
example. A man had come years ago into the country, there, a strong,
powerfully built man. He was healthy, he was courageous and he was dark,
because forsooth, the man was a <DW64>. And so it had been with time this
man's heart went out to one near by, a white. Because of his race it was
with him as with Jean Baptiste. Near him there had been none of his
kind. So unto himself he had taken a white wife. He had loved her and
she had loved him; and because it was so, she had given to him children.
And when the children had come she died. And after she had died and some
years had passed, he took unto himself another wife of the same blood,
and to that union there had come other children.

So when years had passed, and these selfsame children had reached their
majority, they too, took unto themselves wives, and the wives were of
the Caucasian blood. But when this dark man had settled in the land
below, which, at that time, had been a new country, he decided to claim
himself as otherwise than he was. He said and said again, that he was of
Mexican descent, mongrel, forsooth; but there was no _Custom Of The
Country_ with regard to the Mexican, mongrel though he be. But the
people and the neighbors all knew that he lied and that he was
Ethiopian, the which looked out through his eyes. But even to merely
claim being something else was a sort of compromise.

So his family had grown to men and women, and they in turn brought more
children into the world. And all claimed allegiance to a race other than
the one to which they belonged.

Once lived a man who was acknowledged as great and much that goes with
greatness was given unto him by the public. A <DW64> he was, but as a
climax in his great life, he had married a wife of that race that is
superior in life, wealth and achievements to his own, the Caucasian. So
it had gone.

The first named, Jean Baptiste never felt he could be quite like. Even
if he should disregard _The Custom Of The Country, and its law_, and
marry Agnes, he did not feel he would ever attempt that. But to marry
out of the race to which he belonged, especially into the race in which
she belonged, would be the most unpopular thing he could do. He had set
himself in this new land to succeed; he had worked and slaved to that
end. He liked his people; he wanted to help them. Examples they needed,
and such he was glad he had become; but if he married now the one he
loved, the example was lost; he would be condemned, he would be despised
by the race that was his. Moreover, last but not least, he would
perhaps, by such a union bring into her life much unhappiness, and he
loved her too well for that.

Jean Baptiste had decided. He loved Agnes, and had every reason to; but
he forswore. He would change it. He would go back from where he had
come. He would be a man as befitted him to be. He would find a girl; he
would marry in his race. They had education; they were refined--well, he
would marry one of them anyhow!

So Jean Baptiste was going. He would forget Agnes. He would court one in
his own race. So to Chicago he now sped.

He had lived in the windy city before going West, and was very familiar
with that section of the city on the south side that is the center of
the <DW64> life of that great metropolis. Accordingly, he approached a
station in the loop district, entered one of the yellow cars and took a
seat. He looked below at the hurly-burly of life and action, and then
his eyes took survey of the car. It was empty, all save himself and
another, and that other was a girl, a girl of his race! The first he had
seen since last he was in the city. How little did she know as she sat
across the aisle from him, that she was the first of his race his eyes
had looked upon for the past twelve months. He regarded her curiously.
She was of that cross bred type that are so numerous, full bloods
seemingly to have become rare about those parts. She was of a light
brown complexion, almost a mulatto. She seemed about twenty-two years of
age. Of the curious eyes upon her she seemed entirely unaware, finally
leaving the train at a station that he was familiar with and
disappeared.

At Thirty-first Street he left the train, fell in with the scattered
crowd below and the dash of the city life was his again in a twinkling.
He found his way to State Street, the great thoroughfare of his people.
The novelty in viewing those of his clan now had left him, for they were
all about. Even had he been blind he could have known he was among them,
for was not there the usual noise; the old laugh, and all that went with
it?

He hurried across and passed down Thirty-first to Dearborn Street,
Darktown proper; but even when he had reached Federal, then called
Armour, he had seen nothing but his race. He had friends--at least
acquaintances, so to where they lived he walked briskly.

"And if it isn't Jean Baptiste, so 'elp me Jesus," cried the woman, as
she opened the door in response to his knock, and without further
ceremony encircled his neck with her arms, and kissed his lips once and
twice. "You old dear!" she exclaimed with him inside, holding him at
arms' length and regarding him fondly. "How are you, anyhow?"

"Oh, fine," he replied, regarding her pleasantly.

"You are certainly looking good," she said, looking up into his face
with fun in her eyes. "Sit down, sit down and make yourself at home,"
she invited, drawing up a chair.

"Well, how's Chicago?" he inquired irrelevantly.

"Same old burg," she replied, drawing a chair up close.

"And how's hubby?"

"Fine!"

"And the rest of the family?"

"The same. Pearl, too."

"Oh, Pearl.... How is Pearl?"

"Still single...."

"Thought she was engaged to be married when I was here last year?"

"Oh, that fellow was no good!"

"What was the matter?"

"What's the matter with lots of these nigga' men 'round Chicago? They
can't keep a wife a posing on State Street."

"Humph!"

"It's the truth!"

"And how about the women? They seem to be fond of passing along to be
posed at...."

"Oh, you're mean," she pouted. Then: "Are you married yet?"

"Oh, lordy! How could I get married? Not thirty minutes ago I saw the
first <DW52> girl I have seen in a year!"

"Oh, you're a liar!"

"It's the truth!"

"Is it so, Jean? Have you really not seen a <DW52> girl in a whole
year?"

"I have never lied to you, have I?"

"Well, no. Of course you haven't; but I don't know what I would do under
such circumstances. Not seeing nigga's for a year."

"But I've seen enough already to make up."

She laughed. "Lordy, me. Did you ever see so many 'shines' as there are
on State Street!" She paused and her face became a little serious for a
moment. "By the way, Jean, why don't you marry my sister?"

"You're shameful! Your sister wouldn't have me. I'm a farmer."

"Oh, yes she would. Pearl's getting tired of getting engaged to these
<DW64>s around Chicago. She likes you, anyhow."

"Tut, tut," he laughed depreciatingly. "Pearl would run me ragged out
there on that farm!" She laughed too.

"No, she wouldn't, really. Pearl is good looking and is tired of
working."

"She's good looking, all right, and perhaps tired of working; but she
wouldn't do out there on the farm."

"Oh, you won't do. I'll bet you are married already."

"Oh, Mrs. White!"

"But you're engaged?"

"Nope!"

"Jean. I'll bet you'll marry a white girl out there and have nothing
more to do with nigga's."

"Now you're worse."

"And when you marry a white woman, I want to be the first one to shoot
you--in the leg."

He laughed long and uproariously.

"You can laf all you want; but you ain't goin' through life lovin'
nobody. You gotta girl somewhere; but do what you please so long as it
don't come to that."

"Come to what?"

"Marrying a white woman."

"Wouldn't that be all right?"

She looked up at him with a glare. He smiled amusedly. "Don't you laf
here on a subject like that! Lord! I think lots of you, but if I should
hear that you had married a white woman, man, I'd steal money enough to
come there and kill you dead!"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"_Why would I want to do that?_ Humph! What you want to ask me such a
question for? The idea!"

"But you haven't answered my question?"

She glared at him again, all the humor gone out of her face. Presently,
biting at the thread in some sewing she was doing, she said: "In the
first place, white people and <DW64>s have no business marrying each
other. In the second place, a nigga' only gets a po' white woman. And in
the third place, white people and nigga's don't mix well when it comes
to society. Now, supposin' you married a white woman and brought her
here to Chicago, who would you associate with? We nigga's 's sho goin'
to pass 'er up. And the white folks--you better not look their way!"

He was silent.

"Ain't I done outlined it right?"

"You've revealed some very delicate points with regard to the matter,"
he acknowledged.

"Of course I have, and you can't get away from it. But that ain't all.
Now, to be frank with yu'. I wouldn't ceh so much about some triflin' no
'count nigga' marrying some old white woman; but that ain't the kind no
white woman wants when she stoops so low as to marry a nigga'. Uh, naw!
Naw indeedy! She don't fool with nothin' like that! She leaves that kind
for some poor <DW52> woman to break her heart and get her head broken
over. She marries somebody like you with plenty of money and sense with
it, see!"

He laughed amusedly.

"No laffin' in it. You know I'm tellin' the truth. So take warning!
Don't marry no white woman up there and come trottin' down here
expectin' me to give you blessin'. Because if you do, and just as sure
as my name is Ida White, I'm going to do something to you!"

"But a white woman might help a fellow to get up in the world," he
argued.

"Yes, I'll admit that, too. But ouh burden is ouh burden, and we've got
to bear it. And, besides, you c'n get a girl that'll help you when you
really want a wife. That ain't no argument. Of course I'd like to see
Pearl married. But you ain't going to fool with her, and I know it.
Pearl thinks she would like it better if she could marry somebody from
out of Chicago; but they'd all be the same after a month or so with
her."

"Well," said he, "I'd better get over to the Keystone. You've interested
me today. I've learned something regarding the amalgamation of
races...."

"I hope you have, if you had it in your mind. Anything else might be
forgiven, but marrying a white woman--never!"

They parted then. She to her sewing, and Jean Baptiste to his
thoughts....




CHAPTER II

WHICH?


Jean Baptiste returned to the West after two months' travel through the
East, and the spring following, sowed a large crop of small grain and
reaped a bountiful yield that fall. About this time the county just west
of where he lived was opened to settlement, and a still larger crowd
than had registered for the land in the county he lived came hither and
sought a quarter section.

The opening passed to the day of the drawing, and when all the lucky
numbers had secured their filings, contracts for the purchases of
relinquishments began. By this time the lands had reached great values,
and that which he had purchased a short time before for twenty dollars
the acre, had by this time reached the value of fifty dollars the acre.
And now he had an opportunity of increasing his possessions to the
number coveted, one thousand acres.

He had paid a visit to his parents that winter, and found his sisters,
who were mere children when he had left home, grown to womanhood, and
old enough to take claims. So with them he had discussed the matter.
Inspired by his great success, they were all heart and soul to follow
his bidding; so thereupon it was agreed that he would try to secure
three relinquishments on good quarters, and upon one or more of these
they would make filings.

His grandmother, who had raised a family in the days of slavery agreed
and was anxious to file on one; one sister on another, and the third
place,--was to be his bride's.

By doing this, he could have her use her homestead right, providing she
filed on the claim before marrying him. So it was planned. But Jean
Baptiste knew no girl that he could ask to become his wife, therefore
this was yet to be. When he had given up his real love to be loyal to
his race, he had determined on one thing: that marriage was a business,
even if it was supposed to be inspired by love. But when Agnes was left
out, he loved no one. Therefore it must be resolved into a business
proposition--and the love to come after.

So, resigned to the fact, he set himself to choose a wife.

On his trip East the winter before he met two persons with whom he had
since corresponded. One, the first, was a young man not long out of an
agricultural college whose father was a great success as a potato
grower. He and Jean became intimate friends. It now so happened that the
one mentioned had a sister, and through him Jean Baptiste was introduced
to her by mail.

Correspondence followed and by this time it had become very agreeable.
She proved to be a very logical young woman, and Jean Baptiste was
favorably impressed. She was, moreover, industrious, ambitious, and well
educated. Her age was about the same as his, so on the surface he
thought that they should make a very good match. So be it.

In the meantime, however, he had opened a correspondence with another
whom he had met on his trip the winter before where she had been
teaching in a coal mining town south of Chicago. The same had developed
mutually, and he had found her agreeable and obviously eligible. Her
father was a minister, a dispenser of the gospel, and while for reasons
we will become acquainted with in due time, he had cultivated small
acquaintance with preachers, he took only such slight consideration of
the girl's father's profession that he had good cause to recall some
time later.

About the time he was deeply engrossed in his correspondence with both
the farmer's daughter and the young school teacher, he received a letter
from a friend in Chicago introducing him to a lady friend of hers
through mail. This one happened to be a maid on the Twentieth Century
Limited, running between New York and Chicago. Well, Jean Baptiste was
looking for a wife. Sentiment was in order, but it was with him, first
of all, a business proposition. So be it. He would give her too a
chance.

He was somewhat ashamed of himself when he addressed three letters when
perhaps, he should have been addressing but one. It was not fair to
either of the three, he guiltily felt; but, business was business with
him.

From his friend's sister he received most delightful epistles, not
altogether frivolous, with a great amount of common sense between the
lines. But what was more to the point, her father was wealthy, and she
must have some conception of what was required to accumulate and to
hold. He rather liked her, it now seemed.

Now from the preacher's daughter he received also pleasing letters.
Encouraging, but not to say unconventionally forward. He appreciated the
fact that she was a preacher's child, and naturally expected to conform
to a certain custom.

But from New York he received the most encouragement. The position the
maid held rather thrilled him. He loved the road--and she wrote such
letters! It was plain to be seen here what the answer would be.

Which?

He borrowed ten thousand dollars, giving a mortgage upon his land in
security therefor. He purchased relinquishments upon three beautiful
quarter sections of land in the county lying just to the west. The same,
having to be homesteaded before title was acquired, had all ready been
in part arranged for. His grandmother and sister were waiting to file on
a place each--the third was for the bride-to-be. There remained a few
weeks yet in which to make said selection; but, notwithstanding, all
must be ready to make filing not later than the first day of
October--and September at last arrived.

He became serious, then uneasy. Which? He wrote all three letters that
would give either or all a right to hear the words from him, but did not
say sufficient to any to give grounds for a possible breach of promise
suit later.

He rather liked the girl whose father had made money. Yes, it so
seemed--more than either of the other two. A match with her on the
surface seemed more practical. But for some reason she did not reply
within the time to the letter he had written her. Oh, if he could only
have courted her; could have been in the position to have seen her of a
warm night; to have said to her: "----." Poor Jean Baptiste your life
might not have later come to what it did....

He waited--but in vain. October was drawing dangerously near when at
last he left for somewhere. Indeed he had not a complete idea where, but
of one thing he had concluded, when he returned he would bring the
bride-to-be.

At Omaha he made up his mind. The girl whose father had made money had
had her chance and failed. He regretted it very much, but this was a
business proposition, and he had two thousand dollars at stake that he
would lose if he failed to get some one to file on that quarter section
he had provided, on October first.

He was rather disturbed over the idea. He really would have preferred a
little more sentiment--but time had become the expedient. "Of course,"
he argued, as he sped toward Chicago, "I'll be awfully good to the one I
choose, so if it is a little out of the ordinary--why, I'll try to make
up for it when she is mine."

With this consolation he arrived in Chicago, wishing that the girl who
lived two hundred miles south of Omaha and whose father was well-to-do
had replied to his letter. He really had chosen her out of the three.
However, he resigned himself to the inevitable--one of the other two.

He left the train and boarded the South Side L. He got off again at
Thirty-first Street, and found what he had always found before, State
Street and <DW64>s. He was not interested in either this time. He had
sent a telegram to New York from Omaha to the effect that he was headed
for Chicago. It was to the maid, for she had drawn second choice. He
planned to meet her at the number her dear friend--and the match maker,
lived.

So it was to this number he now hurried.

"Oh, Mr. Baptiste," cried this little woman, whose name happened to be
Rankin, and she was an old maid. She gave him her little hand, and was
"delighted" to see him.

"And you've come! Miss Pitt will be so glad! She has talked of nobody
but Mr. Baptiste this summer. Oh, I'm so glad you have come!" and she
shook his hand again.

"I sent her a telegram that I was coming, and I trust she will let me
know...."

"She is due in tomorrow," cried their little friend, and her voice was
like delicate music.

"I expect a telegram," he said evenly. "I am somewhat rushed."

"Indeed! But of course, you are a business man, Mr. Baptiste," chimed
Miss Rankin with much admiration in her little voice. "How Miss Pitt
will like you!"

Jean Baptiste smiled a smile of vanity. He was getting anxious to meet
Miss Pitt himself--inasmuch as he expected to ask her to become his wife
on the morrow.

"Ting-aling-aling!" went the bell on the street door, and little Miss
Rankin rushed forth to open it.

"Special for Mr. Jean Baptiste," he heard and went to get it. After
signing, he broke the seal a little nervously, and drawing the contents
forth, read the enclosed message.

He sighed when it was over. Miss Pitt had been taken with a severe
attack of neuralgia in New York, was indisposed and under the care of a
physician, but would be in Chicago in six days. He studied the calendar
on the wall. Six days would mean October second!

Too late, Miss Pitt, your chance is gone. And now we turn to the party
of the third part who will follow us through our story.

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

"MISS PITT WAS SO ANXIOUS TO MEET YOU AND I WAS, TOO, BECAUSE I THINK
YOU AND HER WOULD LIKE EACH OTHER. SHE'S AN AWFULLY GOOD GIRL AND
WILLING TO HELP A FELLOW."]




CHAPTER III

MEMORIES--N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY


"She will not be in tomorrow," said Baptiste, handing the letter to Miss
Rankin.

"Oh, is that so!" cried Miss Rankin in a tone of deep disappointment, as
she took the letter. "Now isn't that just too bad!"

"It is," agreed Baptiste. "I will not get to see her, since I shall have
to return to the West not later than two or three days." He was
extremely disappointed. He sat down with a sigh and rested his chin in
his palm, looking before him thoughtfully.

"I'm sure sorry, so sorry," mused Miss Rankin abstractedly. "And you
cannot possibly wait until next week?" she asked, anxiously.

He shook his head sadly.

"Impossible, absolutely impossible."

"It is certainly too bad. Miss Pitt was so anxious to meet you. And I
was, too, because I think you and her would like each other. She's an
awfully good girl, and willing to help a fellow. Just the kind of a girl
you need."

He shifted his position now and was absorbed in his thoughts. He had
come back to his purpose. He was sorry for Miss Pitt; but he had also
been sorry that Miss Grey had not answered his letter.... The
association with neither, true, had developed into a love affair, so
would not be hard to forget. He had agreed with himself that love was
to come later. He had exercised discretion. Any one of the three was a
desirable mate from a practical point of view. After marriage he was
confident that they could conform sufficiently to each other's views to
get along, perhaps be happy. Miss McCarthy was, in his opinion, the most
intelligent of the three, as she had been to school and had graduated
from college. He had confidence in education uplifting people; it made
them more observing. It helped them morally. And with him this meant
much. He was very critical when it came to morals. He had studied his
race along this line, and he was very exacting; because, unfortunately
as a whole their standard of morals were not so high as it should be. Of
course he understood that the same began back in the time of slavery.
They had not been brought up to a regard of morality in a higher sense
and they were possessed with certain weaknesses. He was aware that in
the days of slavery the <DW64> to begin with had had, as a rule only what
he could steal, therefore stealing became a virtue. When accused as he
naturally was sure to be, he had resorted to the subtle art of lying. So
lying became an expedient. So it had gone. Then he came down to the
point of physical morality.

The masters had so often the slave women, lustful by disposition, as
concubine. He had, in so doing of course, mixed the races, Jean Baptiste
knew until not more than one half of the entire race in America are
without some trait of Caucasian blood. There had been no defense then,
and for some time after. There was no law that exacted punishment for a
master's cohabitation with slave women, so it had grown into a custom
and was practiced in the South in a measure still.

So with freedom his race had not gotten away from these loose practices.
They were given still to lustful, undependable habits, which he at times
became very impatient with. His version was that a race could not rise
higher than their morals. So in his business procedure of choosing a
wife, one thing over all else was unalterable, she must be chaste and of
high morals.

Orlean McCarthy, however she as yet appeared from a practical
standpoint, could, he estimated rightly, boast of this virtue. No doubt
she was equally as high in all other perquisites. But strangely he did
not just wish to ask Miss McCarthy to become his wife. He could not
understand it altogether. He was confident that no girl lived who
perhaps was likely, as likely, to conform to his desires as she; but
plan, do as he would, that lurking aversion still remained--infinitely
worse, it grew to a fear.

He sighed perceptibly, and Miss Rankin, catching the same, was deeply
sympathetic because she thought it was due to the disappointment he felt
in realizing that he was not to see Miss Pitt on the morrow. She placed
her arm gently about his shoulders, leaned her small head close to his,
and stroked his hair with her other hand.

"Well," said he, after a time, and to himself, "I left the West to find
a wife. I've lived out there alone long enough. I want a home, love and
comfort and only a wife can bring that." He paused briefly in his
mutterings. His face became firm. That will that had asserted itself and
made him what he was today, became uppermost. He slowly let the
sentiment out of him, which was at once mechanically replaced by a cold
set purpose. He smiled then; not a sentimental smile, but one cold,
hard, and singularly dry.

"Oh, by the way, Miss Rankin," he essayed, rising, apparently cheerful.
"Do you happen to be acquainted with a family here by the name of
McCarthy?"

"McCarthy?"

"Yes. I think the man's a preacher. A Rev. N.J. McCarthy, if I remember
correctly." She looked up at him. Her face took on an expression of
defined contempt as she grunted a reply.

"Humph!"

"Well...."

"Who doesn't know that old rascal!"

"Indeed!" he echoed, in affected surprise; but in the same instant he
had a feeling that he was to hear just this. Still, he maintained his
expression of surprise.

"The worst old rascal in the state of Illinois," she pursued with equal
contempt.

"Oh, really!"

"Really--yes, _positively_!"

"I cannot understand?"

"Oh well," she emitted, vindictively. "You won't have to inquire far to
get the record of N.J. McCarthy. Lordy, no! But now," she started with a
heightening of color, "He's got a nice family. Two fine girls, Orlean
and Ethel, and his wife is a good little soul, rather helpless and
without the force a woman should have; but very nice. But that
husband--forget him!"

"This is--er--rather unusual, don't you think?"

"Well, it is," she said. "One would naturally suppose that a man with
such a family of moral girls as he has, would not be so--not because he
is a preacher." She paused thoughtfully. "Because you know that does not
count for a high morality always in our society.... But N.J. McCarthy
has been like he is ever since I knew him. He's a rascal of the deep
water if the Lord ever made one. And such a hypocrite--there never
lived! Added to it, he is the most pious old saint you ever saw! Looks
just as innocent as the Christ--and treats his wife like a dog!"

"Oh, no!"

"No!" disdainfully. "Well, you'd better hush!" She paused again, and
then as if having reconsidered she turned and said: "I'll not say any
more about him. Indeed, I don't like to discuss the man even. He is the
very embodiment of rascalism, deceit and hypocrisy. Now, I've said
enough. Be a good boy, go out and buy me some cream." And smilingly she
got his hat and ushered him outside.

"Well, now what do you think of that," he kept repeating to himself, as
he went for the ice cream, "_what do you think of that?_" Suddenly he
halted, and raised his hands to his head. He was thinking, thinking,
thinking deeply, reflectively. His mind was going back, back, away back
into his youth, his earliest youth--no! It was going--had gone back to
his childhood!

"N.J. McCarthy, _N.J. McCarthy_? Where did I _know you_! Where, where,
_where_!" His head was throbbing, his brain was struggling with
something that happened a long time before. A saloon was just to his
left, and into it he turned. He wanted to think; but he _didn't_ want to
think too fast. He took a glass of beer. It was late September, but
rather warm, and when the cold beverage struck his throat, his mind went
back into its yesterdays.

It had happened in the extremely southern portion of the state, in that
part commonly referred to as "Egypt," where he then lived. He recalled
the incident as it occurred about twenty years before, for he was just
five years of age at the time. His mother's baby boy they called him,
because he was the youngest of four boys in a large family of children.
It was a day in the autumn. He was sure of this because his older
brothers had been hunting; they had caught several rabbits and shot a
few partridges. He had been allowed to follow for the first time, and
had carried the game.... How distinctly it came back to him now.

He had picked the feathers from the quail, and had held the rabbits
while his brothers skinned them. And, later, they had placed the game in
cold water from their deep well, and had thereupon placed the pan
holding the same upon the roof of the summer kitchen, and that night the
frost had come. And when morning was again, the ice cold water had drawn
the blood from the meat of the game, and the same was clear and white.

"Now, young man," his mother said to him the following morning, "you
will get into clean clothes and stay clean, do you understand?"

"Yes, mama, I understand," he answered. "But, mama, why?" he inquired.
Jean Baptiste had always asked such questions and for his doing so his
mother had always rebuked him.

"You will ask the questions, my son," she said, raising his child body
in her arms and kissing him fondly. "But I don't mind telling you." She
stood him on the ground then, and pointed to him with her forefinger.
"Because we are going to have company from town. Big people. The
preachers. Lots of them, so little boys should be good, and clean, and
be scarce when the preachers are around. They are big men with no time,
or care, to waste with little boys!"

"M-um!" he had chimed.

"And, why, mama, do the preachers have no time for little boys? Were
they not little boys once themselves?"

"Now, Jean!" she had admonished thereupon, "you are entirely too
inquisitive for a little boy. There will be other company, also.
Teachers, and Mrs. Winston, do you understand! So be good." With that
she went about her dinner, cooking the rabbits and the quail that he had
brought home the day before.

It had seemed an age before, in their spring wagon followed by the
lumber wagon, the dignitaries of the occasion wheeled into the yard. He
could not recall now how many preachers there were, except that there
were many. He was in the way, he recalled, however, because, unlike his
other brothers, he was not bashful. But the preachers did not seem to
see him. They were all large and tall and stout, he could well remember.
But the teachers took notice of him. One had caught him up fondly,
kissed him and thereupon carried him into the house in her arms. She
talked with him and he with her. And he could well recall that she
listened intently to all he told her regarding his adventures of the day
before in the big woods that was at their back. How beautiful and sweet
he had thought she was. When she smiled she showed a golden tooth,
something new to him, and he did not understand except that it was
different from anything he had ever seen before.

After a long time, he thought, dinner was called, and, as was the
custom, he was expected to wait. He had very often tried to reason with
his mother that he could sit at the corner of the table in a high chair
and eat out of a saucer. He had promised always to be good, just as good
as he could be, and he would not talk. But his mother would not trust
him, and it was understood that he should wait.

At the call of dinner he slid from the teacher's lap upon the floor and
went outside. He peeped through the window from where he stood on a
block. He saw them eat, and eat, and eat. He saw the quail the boys had
shot disappear one after another into the mouths of the big preachers,
and since he had counted and knew how many quail there were, he had
watched with a growing fear. "Will they not leave one?" he cried.

At last, when he could endure it no longer, he ran into the house,
walked into the dining room unseen, and stood looking on. Now, the
teacher who had the golden tooth happened to turn and espy him and
thereupon she cried:

"Oh, there is my little man, and I know he is hungry! Where did you go,
sweet one? Come, now, quick to me," whereupon she held out loving arms
into which he went and he had great difficulty in keeping back the
tears. But he was hungry, and he had seen the last quail taken from the
plate by a preacher who had previously taken two.

Upon her knee she had sat him, and he looked up into all the faces
about. He then looked down into her plate and saw a half of quail. His
anxious eyes found hers, and then went back to the plate and the half of
quail thereon.

"That is for you, sweetness," she cried, and began to take from the
table other good things, while he fell to eating, feeding his mouth with
both hands for he was never before so hungry.

After a few moments he happened to lift his eyes from the plate. Just to
the side of the beloved teacher, he observed a large, tall and stout
preacher. He wore a jet black suit and around his throat a clerical vest
fit closely; while around his neck he wore a white collar hind part
before. The preacher's eyes had found Jean's and he gave a start. The
eyes of the other were upon him, and they were angry eyes. He paused in
his eats and gazed not understanding, into the eyes that were upon him.
Then suddenly he recalled that he had observed that the preacher had
been smiling upon the teacher. He had laughed and joked; and said many
things that little Jean had not understood. As far as he could see, it
appeared as if the teacher had not wished it; but the flirtation had
been kept up.

At last, in his child mind he had understood. His crawling upon the
teacher's lap had spoiled it all! The preacher was angry, therefore the
expression in his eyes.

From across the table his mother stood observing him. She seemed not to
know what to say or do, for it had always been so very hard to keep this
one out of grown people's way. So she continued to stand hesitatingly.

"Didn't your mother say that you were to wait," growled the preacher,
and his face was darker by the anger that was in it. This frightened
Jean. He could find no answer in the moment to such words. His little
eyes had then sought those of the teacher, who in reply drew him closely
to her.

"Why, Reverend," she cried, amazed, "he's a little boy, a nice child,
and hungry!" Whereupon she caressed him again. He was pacified then, and
his eyes held some fire when he found the preacher's again. The others,
too, had grown more evil. The preacher's lips parted. He leaned slightly
forward as he said lowly, angrily:

"You're an impudent, ill mannered little boy, and you need a spanking!"

Then suddenly the child grew strangely angry. He couldn't understand.
Perhaps it was because he had helped secure the quail, all of which the
preachers were eating, and felt that in view of this he was entitled to
a piece of one. He could not understand afterward how he had said it,
but he extended his little face forward, close to the preacher's, as he
poured:

"I ain't no impudent 'ittle boy, either! I went to hunt with my brothers
yistidy and I carried all the game, and now you goin' eat it all and
leave me none when I'm hungry. You're mean man and make me mad!"

As he spoke everything seemed to grow dark around him. He recalled that
he was suddenly snatched from the teacher's lap, and carried to the
summer kitchen which was all closed and dark inside. He recalled that
switches were there, and that soon he felt them. As a rule he cried and
begged before he was ever touched; but strangely then he never cried,
and he never begged. He just kept his mouth shut tightly, and had borne
all the pain inflicted by his mother, and she had punished him longer
than she had ever done before. Perhaps it was because she felt she had
to make him cry; felt that he _must_ cry else he had not repented. After
a time he felt terribly dazed, became sleepy, and gradually fell into a
slumber while the blows continued to fall.

How long he slept he could not remember, but gradually he came out of
it. There were no more blows then. Yet, his little body felt sore all
over. When he looked up (for he was lying on his back in the summer
kitchen), his mother sat near and was crying and wiping the tears with
her apron, while over him bent the teacher, and she was crying also. And
as the tears had fallen unchecked upon his face he had heard the teacher
saying:

"It's a shame, an awful shame! The poor, poor little fellow! He was
hungry and had helped to get the game. And to be punished so severely
because he wanted to eat is a shame! Oh, Mrs. Baptiste, you must pray to
your God for forgiveness!" And his mother had cried more than ever then.

Presently he heard a heavy footfall, and peeped upward to see his father
standing over him. His father was fair of complexion, and unlike his
mother, never said much and was not commonly emotional. But when he was
angry he was terrible, and he was angry now. His blue eyes shone like
fire.

"What is this, Belle," he cried in a terrible voice, "you've killed my
boy about that d--n preacher!" His father stooped and looked closely
into his face. In fear he had opened his eyes. "Jean!" he heard his
father breathe, "God, but it's a blessing you are alive, or there would
be a dead preacher in that house."

"Oh, Fawn," his mother cried and fell on him, weeping. The teacher
joined in to pacify him, and in that moment Jean was forgotten. Stiffly
he had slipped from the room, and had gone around near the kitchen step
of the big house to a place where the dogs had their bed. Here he kept a
heavy green stick, a short club. He passed before the door, and observed
the preacher still sitting at the table, talking with Mrs. Winston. He
glared at him a moment and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits. Then
he thought of something else.... It was Mose Allen, Mose Allen, a hermit
who lived in the woods. It was miles--in his mind--to where Mose lived,
through heavy forests and timber; but he was going there, he was going
there to stay with old Mose and live in the woods. He had done nothing
wrong, yet had been severely punished. Before this he had thought
several times that when he became a man he would like to be a preacher,
a big preacher, and be admired; but, now--never! He would go to old Mose
Allen's, live in the woods--and hate preachers forever!

Later, deep into the forest he plodded. Deep, deeper, until all about
him he was surrounded with overgrowth, but resolutely he struggled
onward. He crossed a branch presently, and knew where he was. The branch
divided their land with Eppencamp's, the German. From there the forest
grew deeper, the trees larger, and the underbrush more tangled. But he
was going to Mose Allen and remembered that that was the way. He grasped
his green club tighter and felt like a hunter in the bear stories his
big brothers had read to him. He crossed a raise between the branch and
the creek where the water flowed deeply, and where they always went
fishing. He paused upon reaching the creek, for there a footlog lay. For
the first time he experienced a slight fear. He didn't like foot logs,
and had never crossed one alone. He had always been carried across by
his brothers; but his brothers were not near, and he was running away!
So he took courage, and approached the treacherous bridge. He looked
down at the whirling waters below with some awe; but finally with a
grimace, he set his foot on the slick trunk of the fallen tree and
started across. He recalled then that if one looked straight ahead and
not down at the water, it was easy; but his mind was so much on the
waters below. He kept his eyes elsewhere with great effort, and finally
reached the middle. Now it seemed that he could not go one step further
unless he saw what was below him. He hesitated, closed his eyes, and
thought of the whipping he had received and the preacher he hated,
opened them, and with calm determination born of anger, crossed safely
to the other side.

He sighed long and deeply when he reached the other side. He looked back
at the muddy waters whirling below, and with another sigh plunged into
the forest again and on toward Mose Allen's.

He gained the other side of the forest in due time, and came into the
clearing. A cornfield was between him and another forest, and almost to
the other side of this Mose Allen lived. The sun was getting low, and
the large oaks behind him cast great shadows that stretched before him
and far out into the cornfield. He thought of ghosts and hurried on. He
must reach Mose Allen's before night, that was sure.

It was a long way he thought when he reached the other side, and the
forest before him appeared ominous. He was inclined to be frightened,
but when he looked toward the west and home he saw that the sun had sunk
and he plunged grimly again into the deep woodland before him.

Now the people of the neighborhood had made complaints, and it was
common talk about the country, that chickens, and young pigs, and calves
had been attacked and destroyed by something evil in the forests. At
night this evil spirit had stolen out and ravaged the stock and the
chickens.

Accordingly, those interested had planned a hunt for what was thought to
be a catamount. It was not until he had gone deeply into the woods, and
the darkness was everywhere about him, that he remembered the catamount.
He stopped and tried to pick the briers out of his bleeding hands, and
as he did so, he heard a terrible cry. He went cold with fear. He hardly
dared breathe, and crouched in a hole he had found where only his
shoulders and head were exposed. He awaited with abated breath for some
minutes and was about to venture out when again the night air and
darkness was rent by the terrible cry. He crouched deeper into the hole
and trembled, for the noise was drawing nearer. On and on it came. He
thought of a thousand things in one minute, and again he heard the cry.
It was very near now, and he could hear the crunch of the animal's feet
upon the dry leaves. And still on and on it came. Presently it was so
close that he could see it. The body of the beast became dimly outlined
before him and he could see the eyes plainly, as it swung its head back
and forth, and its red eyes shone like coals of fire. Again the varmint
rent the night air with its yell, as it espied its prey crouching in the
hole.

By watching the eyes he observed the head sink lower and lower until it
almost touched the earth. And thereupon he became suddenly calm and
apprehensive. He held his breath and met it calmly, face to face. His
club was drawn, his eyes were keen and intense. He waited. Suddenly the
air was rent with another death rendering cry, and the beast sprung.

It had reckoned well, but so had he. He had, moreover, struck direct.
The blow caught the beast on the point of its nose and muffled and
spoiled its directed spring. He quickly came out of the hole and then,
before the animal could get out of his reach, he struck it again with
such force at the back of the head, that the beast was stunned. Again
and again he struck until the head was like a bag of bones. When his
strength was gone, and all was quiet, he became conscious of a
drowsiness. He sank down and laid his head upon the body of the dead
animal, and fell into a deep sleep.

And there they found him during the early hours of the morning and took
him and the dead catamount home.

"Another beer, Cap'n?" he heard from the bartender. He quickly stood
erect and gazed about in some confusion.

"Yes," he replied, throwing a coin upon the bar. He drank the beer
quickly, went out, bought Miss Rankin the cream and after delivering it
to her, went outside again and up State Street.

He was overcome with memories, was Jean Baptiste. He had a task to
accomplish. He was going to Vernon Avenue where Miss McCarthy lived to
ask her to become his wife.

And the preacher who had been the cause of his severe punishment twenty
years before was her father, the Rev. N.J. McCarthy.




CHAPTER IV

ORLEAN


"Oh, Mama," cried Orlean E. McCarthy, coming hastily from the hallway
into the room where her mother sat sewing, and handing her a note, "Mr.
Baptiste is in the city and wishes to call at the earliest possible
convenience."

"Indeed," replied her mother, affecting a serious expression, "this is
rather sudden. Have you sent him word when he could?"

"Yes, mama, I wrote him a note and returned it by the boy that brought
this one, that he could call at two o'clock." Her mother's gaze sought
the clock automatically.

"And it is now past one," she replied. "You will have to get ready to
receive him," she advised ceremoniously.

"All right, mama," said Orlean cheerfully, and suddenly bending forward,
kissed her mother impulsively upon the cheek, and a moment later hurried
upstairs.

"What is this I hear about somebody coming to call," inquired another,
coming into the room at that moment. Mrs. McCarthy looked up on
recognizing the voice of her younger daughter, Ethel, who now stood
before her. She gave a perceptible start as she did so, and swallowed
before she replied. In the meantime the other stood, regarding her
rather severely, as was her nature.

She was very tall, was Ethel, and because she was so very thin she
appeared really taller than she was. She did not resemble her mother,
who was a dumpy light brown skinned woman. She was part Indian, and
possessed a heavy head of hair which, when let down, fell over her
shoulders.

Ethel, on the other hand, was somewhat darker, had a thin face, with
hair that was thick, but rather short and bushy. Her eyes were small and
dark, out of which she never seemed to look straight at one. They
appeared always to be lurking and without any expression, unless it was
an expression of dislike. Forsooth, she was a known disagreeable person,
ostentatious, pompous, and hard to get along with.

She was a bride of a few weeks and was then resting after a short
honeymoon spent in Racine, Wisconsin, sixty miles north of Chicago.

"Why, Mr. Baptiste is coming. Coming to call on your sister. He has been
corresponding with her for some time, you understand," her mother
returned in her mild, trained manner.

"Oh!" echoed Ethel, apparently at a loss whether to be pleased or
displeased. She was as often one way as the other, so her mother was
apprehensive of something more.

"I think you have met him, have you not?" her mother inquired.

"Yes, I've met him," admitted Ethel. "Last winter while teaching."

"And what do you think of him, my dear?"

"Well, he has some ways I don't like."

"What ways, please?" She had started to say "naturally" but thought
better of it.

"Oh, he does not possess the dignity I like in a man. Struck me as much
too commonplace."

"Oh," her mother grunted. She was acquainted with Ethel's disposition,
which was extremely vain. She loved pomp and ceremony, and admired very
few people.

"What's he calling to see Orlean for?"

Her mother looked up in some surprise. She regarded her daughter keenly.
"Why, my dear! Why do you ask such a question! Why do young men call to
see any young ladies?" Both turned at this moment to see Orlean coming
down the stairway, and attention was fastened upon her following.

"All 'dolled' up to meet your farmer," commented Ethel with a touch of
envy in her voice. In truth she was envious. Her husband was just an
ordinary fellow--that is, he was largely what she was making of him. It
was said that she had found no other man who was willing to tolerate her
evil temper and that, perhaps, was why she had married him. While with
him, he had been anxious to marry her to satisfy his social ambition.
Although an honest, hardworking fellow, he had come of very common
stock. From the backwoods of Tennessee where his father had been a
crude, untrained preacher, he had come to Chicago and had met and
married her after a courtship of six years.

"You look very nice, my dear," said her mother, addressing Orlean.
Between the two children there was a great difference. Although older,
Orlean was by far the more timid by disposition. An obedient girl in
every way, she had never been known to cross her parents, and had the
happy faculty of making herself generally liked, while Ethel invited
disfavor.

She was not so tall as Ethel, and while not as short as her mother, she
was heavier than either. She was the image of her father who was dark,
although not black. After her mother she had taken her hair, which,
while not as fine, was nevertheless heavy, black and attractive. Her
eyes were dark like her mother's, which were coal black. They were
small and tender. Her expression was very frank; but she had inherited
her mother's timidness and was subservient unto her father, and in a
measure unto her younger sister, Ethel.

She was a year older than the man who was coming to see her, and had
never had a beau.

"Do I look all right, mama?" she asked, turning so that she might be
seen all around.

"Yes, my dear," the other replied. She always used the term "my dear."
She had been trained to say that when she was a young wife, and had
never gotten out of the habit.

"Now sit down, my daughter," she said judiciously, "and before the young
man comes to call on you, tell me all about him."

"Yes, and leave out nothing," interposed Ethel.

"She is talking to your mother, Ethel. You will do her a favor by going
to your room until it is over," advised their mother.

"Oh, well, if I'm not wanted, then I'll go," spit out Ethel wickedly,
whereupon she turned and hastened up the stairs to her room and slammed
the door behind her.

"Ethel has such a temper," her mother sighed deploringly. "She is so
different from you, dear. You are like your mother, while she--well, she
has her father's ways."

"Papa is not as mean as Ethel," defended Orlean, ever obedient to her
mother, yet always upholding her father, it mattered not what the issue.

Her mother sighed again, shifted in her chair, and said no more on that
subject. She knew the father better than Orlean, and would not argue.
She had been trained not to....

"Now where did you meet Mr. Baptiste, my dear?" she began.

"Where I taught last winter, mother," she replied obediently.

"And how did you come to meet him, daughter?"

"Why, he was calling on a girl friend of mine, and I happened along
while he was there, and the girl introduced us."

"M-m. Was that the first time you had seen him?"

"No, I had met him on the street when he was on the way down there."

"I see. Did he speak to you on the street?"

"Oh, no, mother. He did not know me."

"But he might have spoken anyhow...."

"But he was a gentleman, and he never spoke." She paused briefly, and
then, her voice a trifle lower, said: "Of course he looked at me. But--"

"Well, any man would do that. We must grant that men are men. How were
you impressed with him when you met him later at this friend's house?"

"Well, I don't know," returned Orlean hesitatingly. "He seemed to be a
great talker, was very commonplace, dressed nicely but not showily. He
knew quite a few people in Chicago that we know, and was born near the
town in which I met him. He was just returning from New York, and--well,
I rather admired him. He is far above the average <DW52> man, I can
say."

"M-m," her mother mused thoughtfully, and with an air of satisfaction.
She couldn't think of anything more to say just then, and upon looking
at the clock which showed ten minutes of two, she said: "Well, you had
better go in the parlor, and after he has called, when convenient, call
me and permit me to meet him. You will be careful, my dear, and
understand that we have raised you to be a lady, and exercise your usual
dignity."

"Yes, mama."

On the hour the street door bell was pulled with a jerk, and arising,
Orlean went toward the door expectantly.

"Oh, how do you do," she cried, a moment later, her face lighted with a
radiant smile as she extended her hand and allowed it to rest in that of
Jean Baptiste's.

"Miss McCarthy," he cried, with her hand in one of his, and his hat in
the other, he entered the door.

"May I take your hat?" asked Orlean, and taking it, placed it on the
hall tree. In the meantime, his habitually observing eyes were upon her,
and when she turned she found him regarding her closely.

"Come right into the parlor, please, Mr. Baptiste, and be seated." She
hesitated between the davenport and the chairs; while he, without ado,
chose the davenport and became seated, and the look he turned upon her
commanded more than words that she, too, be seated. With a little
hesitation, she finally sank on the davenport at a conventional
distance, beside him.

"I was not certain, judging by your last letter, just when you would get
here," she began timidly. He regarded her out of his searching eyes
attentively. He was weighing her in the balance. He saw in those close
glances what kind of a girl she was, apparently, for, after a respite,
he relaxed audibly, but kept his eyes on her nevertheless.

"I was not certain myself," he said. "I am so rushed these days that I
do not know always just what comes next. But I am glad that I am here at
last--and to see you looking so well."

They exchanged the usual words about the weather, and other conventional
notes, and then she called her mother.

"Mama, I wish you to meet Mr. Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste, this is my
mother."

"Mr. Baptiste," said her mother, giving him her hand, "I am glad to know
you."

"The same here, madam," he returned cheerfully. "Guess your health is
good!"

"Very good, I'm glad to say."

They talked for a time, and all were cheered to find themselves so
agreeable.

"I think I can slightly recall your people, Mr. Baptiste," her mother
remarked, thoughtfully. "My husband, Dr. McCarthy," she said, giving him
an honorary term, "pastored the church in the town near where you were
born, many years ago."

"I do say," he echoed non-commitally.

"Do you recall it?" she asked.

He appeared to be thinking.... He hardly knew what to say, then, after
some deliberation he brightened and said: "I think I do. I was very
young then, but I think I do recall your husband...."

"Your name--the name of your family has always remained in my mind,"
said she then, reflectively.

"Indeed. It is a rather peculiar name."

"It is so, I should say," she cried. "If it is quite fair, may I ask
where or how your father came by such a name?"

"Oh, it is very simple. My father, of course, was born a slave like
most--almost all <DW64>s previous to the war--and took the name from his
master who I suppose was of French descent."

"Oh, that explains it. Of course that is natural. M-m; but it's a
beautiful name, I must say."

He smiled.

"It is an illustrious name, also," she commented further.

"But the man who carries it in this instance, is much to the contrary
notwithstanding," he laughed depreciatingly.

"It is a very beautiful day without, my dear," she said, addressing her
daughter, "and perhaps Mr. Baptiste might like to walk out and see some
of the town."

"I most assuredly would," he cried, glad of something for a change. He
was restless, and estimated that if he felt the air, with her at his
side, it might help him.

Orlean arose, went upstairs, and returned shortly wearing a large hat
that set off her features. He rather liked her under it, and when they
walked down the street together, he was conscious of an air of
satisfaction.

"Where would you like to go?" she asked as they neared the intersection.

"For a car ride on the elevated," he replied promptly.

"Then we will go right down this street. This is Thirty-third, and
there's an elevated station a few blocks from here."

They walked along leisurely, she listening attentively, while he talked
freely of the West, his life there and what he was doing. When they
reached the L. he assisted her upstairs to the station, and in so doing
touched her arm for the first time. The contact gave him a slight
sensation but he felt more easy when they had entered the car and taken
a seat together. A moment later they were gazing out over the great city
below as the cars sped through the air.

It was growing dark when they returned, and she invited him to dinner.
He accepted and thereupon met Ethel and her husband.

Ethel was all pomp and ceremony, while her husband, with his cue from
her, acted in the same manner, and they rather bored Jean Baptiste with
their airs. He was glad when the meal was over. He followed Orlean back
to the parlor, where they took a seat on the davenport again, and drew
closer to her this time. Soon she said: "Do you play?"

"Lord, no!" he exclaimed; "but I shall be glad to listen to you."

"I can't play much," she said modestly; "but I will play what little I
know." Thereupon she became seated and played and sang, he thought, very
well. After she had played a few pieces, she turned and looked up at
him, and he caught the full expression of her eyes. He could see that
they were tender eyes; eyes behind which there was not apparently the
force of will that he desired; but Orlean McCarthy was a fine girl. She
was fine because she was not wicked; because she was intelligent and had
been carefully reared; she was fine because she had never cultivated the
society of undesirable or common people; but she was not a fine girl
because she had a great mind, or great ability; or because she had done
anything illustrious. And this Jean Baptiste, a judge of human nature
could readily see; but he would marry her, he would be good to her; and
she would, he hoped, never have cause to regret having married him. And
thereupon he bent close to her, took her chin in his hand and kissed her
upon the lips. She turned away when he had done this. In truth she was
not expecting such from him and knew not just how to accept it. Her lips
burned with a new sensation; she had a peculiar feeling about the heart.
She arose and went to the piano and her fingers wandered idly over the
keys as she endeavored to still her beating heart.

Shortly she felt his hand upon her shoulder and she turned to hear him
say:

"Won't you come back into the parlor? I--would like to speak to you?"

She consented without hesitation, and arising followed him timidly back
to the seat they had occupied a few minutes before. Again seated he drew
closely but did not deign to place his arm about her, looked toward the
rear of the house where the others were, and, seeing that the doors were
closed between them, sighed lightly and turned to her.

"Now, Miss McCarthy," he began, evenly. "I am going to say something to
you that I have never said to a woman before." He paused while she
waited with abated breath.

"I haven't known you long; but that is not the point. What I should say
is, that in view of our brief correspondence, it will perhaps appear
rather bold of me to say what I wish to. Yet, there comes a time in life
when circumstances alter cases.

"Now, to be frank, I have always regarded matrimony as a business
proposition, and while sentiment is a very great deal in a way, business
considerations should be the first expedient." She was all attention.
She was peculiarly thrilled. It was wonderful to listen to him, she
thought, and not for anything would she interrupt him. But _what_ did he
mean; what was he _going_ to say.

"Well, I, Miss McCarthy, need a wife. I want a wife; but my life has not
been lived where social intercourse with girls of my race has been
afforded, as you might understand." She nodded understandingly,
sympathetically. Her woman's nature was to sympathize, and what she did
was only natural with all women.

"It has not been my privilege to know any girl of my race intimately; I
am not, as I sit here beside you able to conscientiously, or truly, go
to one and say: 'I love you, dear, and want you to be my wife,' in the
conventional sense. Therefore, can I be forgiven if I say to you; if I
ask you, Miss McCarthy," and so saying, he turned to her, his face
serious, "to become my wife?"

He had paused, and her soul was afire. Was _this_ a proposal or was it a
play? For a time she was afraid to say anything. She wouldn't say no,
and she was afraid to say yes, until--well, until she was positive that
he had actually asked her to marry him. As it was, she hesitated. But it
was so wonderful she thought. It was so beautiful to be so near such a
wonderful young man, such a strong young man. The young men she had
known had not been like this one. And, really, she wanted to marry. She
was twenty-six, and since her sister had married, she had found life
lonely. To be a man's wife and go and live alone with him must be
wonderful. She was a reader, and he had sent her books. In all books and
life and everything there was love. And love always had its climax in a
place where one lived alone with a man. Oh, glorious! She was _ready to
listen to anything he had to say_.

"Now, I do not profess love to you, Miss McCarthy, in trying to make
this clear. I could not, and be truthful. And I have always tried to be
truthful. Indeed, I could not feel very happy, I am sure, unless I was
truthful. To pretend that which I am not is hypocrisy, and I despise a
hypocrite. I am an owner of land in the West, and I believe you will
agree with me, that it behooves any <DW64> to acquire all he can. We are
such a race of paupers! We own so little, and have such little prestige.
Thankfully, I am at present, on the high road to success, and, because
of that, I want a wife, a dear, kind girl as a mate, the most natural
thing in the world." She nodded unaware. What he was saying had not been
said to her in that way; but the way he said it was so much to the
point. She had not been trained to observe that which was practical;
indeed, her father was regarded as a most impractical man; but she liked
this man beside her now, and was anxious for him to go on. He did.

"I own 520 acres of very valuable land, and have consummated a deal for
480 more acres. This land is divided into tracts of 160 acres each, and
must be homesteaded before the same is patented.

"Now, my grandmother, and also a sister are already in the West, and
will homestead on two places. The other, I have arranged for you. The
proceeding is simple. It will be necessary only for you to journey out
West, file on this land as per my directions, after which we can be
married any time after, and we can then live together on your claim. Do
you understand?"

"I think so," she said a bit falteringly.

"Now, my dear, do not feel that I am a charter barterer; we can simply
acquire a valuable tract of land by this process and be as we would
under any other circumstances. Once you were out there all would be very
plain to you, but at this distance, it is perhaps foreign to you, that I
understand."

She looked up into his face trustingly. Right then she wanted him to
kiss her. It was all so irregular; but he was a man and she a maid, and
she had never had a love.... He seemed to understand, and passionately
he caught her to him, and kissed her many, many times.

It was all over then, as far as she was concerned. She had not said yes
or no with words, but her lips had been her consent, and she knew she
would love him. It was the happiest hour in the simple life she had
lived, and she was ready to become his forever.




CHAPTER V

A PROPOSAL; A PROPOSITION; A CERTAIN MRS. PRUITT--AND A LETTER


"Oh, mama, Mr. Baptiste has asked me to marry him," cried Orlean,
rushing into the room and to the bed where her mother lay reading, after
Jean Baptiste had left.

"Why, my child, this--this is rather sudden, is it not? Mr. Baptiste has
known you only a few months and has been corresponding with you just a
little while," her mother said with some excitement, suddenly sitting
erect in the bed.

"Yes, mama, what you say is true, but he explained. He said--well, I
can't quite explain, but he--he wants to marry me, mama, and you
know--well, mama, you understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand. All girls want husbands, but it must be regular. So
take off your clothes, dear, get into bed and tell me just what Mr.
Baptiste did say."

The other did as instructed, and as best she could, tried to make plain
what Jean had said to her regarding the land and all. She didn't make it
very plain, and the matter rather worried her, but the fact that he had
asked her to marry him, was uppermost in her mind, and she finally went
to sleep happier than she had ever been in her life before.

"Now, when the young man calls today, you will have him take his
business up with me," her mother instructed judiciously the following
morning.

"He will explain it all, mama. He can do so very easily," she said, glad
to be relieved of the difficult task. Yet she had her worries withal.
Her mother was a very difficult person to explain anything to; besides,
Orlean knew her mother was in constant fear of her father who was a
Presiding Elder, traveling over the southern part of the state, and who
came into the city only every few months. And if her mother was hard to
make understand anything, her father was worse--and business, he knew
next to nothing about although he was then five and fifty.

Jean Baptiste had accomplished a great many more difficult tasks than
explaining to his prospective mother-in-law in regard to the land. When
she seemed to have sensed what it all meant, he observed that she would
give a peculiar little start, and he would have to try it all over
again. In truth she understood better than she appeared to; but it was
the girl's father whom she feared to anger--for in all her life she had
never been able to please him.

But she found a way out along late that afternoon when a caller was
announced.

The visitor was a woman possessed of rare wits, and of all the people
that Mrs. McCarthy disliked, and of all who disliked Mrs. McCarthy, Mrs.
Pruitt was the most pronounced. Yet, it was Mrs. Pruitt who settled the
difficulty and saved the day for Orlean and Jean Baptiste. But as to why
Mrs. Pruitt should dislike Mrs. McCarthy, and Mrs. McCarthy should
dislike Mrs. Pruitt, there is a story that was known among all their
friends and acquaintances.

When Miss Rankin had said what she did about Rev. N.J. McCarthy, she had
not told all, nor had she referred to any woman in particular. She was
not a scandal monger. But she knew as all Chicago knew, that in so far
as the parties in question were concerned there was a friendship
between Mrs. Pruitt and the Reverend that was rather subtle, and had
been for years. And it was this which caused the two mentioned to
dislike each other with an unspoken hatred.

But Mrs. McCarthy trusted Orlean's going eight hundred miles west to
file on a homestead, and what might come of it, to Mrs. Pruitt rather
than to herself. While she could--was aware of it--she did not dare
venture anything to the contrary where it might come back to her
husband's ears, she knew Mrs. Pruitt had more influence with her husband
than had she.... Therefore when she invited Jean Baptiste to meet Mrs.
Pruitt, who had met him years before, she breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over in a few hours. Mrs. Pruitt would accompany Orlean to the
West and back, with Jean Baptiste paying expenses, and preparations were
made thereto.

In two days they had reached Gregory where the great land excitement was
on. From over all the country people had gathered, and the demand for
the land had reached its greatest boom since Jean Baptiste had come to
the country.

His sister and grandmother had arrived during his absence, and, after
greeting them, he was handed a letter, which read:

     _My dear Mr. Baptiste_:

     Your most delightful letter was received by me today, and that you
     may see just how much I appreciate it, I am answering at _once_ and
     hope you will receive the same real soon.

     To begin with: the reason I have not answered sooner is quite
     obvious. I was away on a short visit, and only returned home today,
     to find that your _most_ interesting letter had been here several
     days. Think of it, and I would have given most _anything_ to have
     had it sooner.

     Well, in reference to what you intimated in your letter regarding
     the land up there, I am deeply interested. Nothing strikes my fancy
     so much as homesteading--which I think you meant. I would the best
     in the world like to hold down a claim, and am sure I would make a
     great homesteader. But why write more! An hour with you will
     explain matters more fully than a hundred letters, so I will close
     with this: You hinted about coming down, and my invitation is to do
     so, and do so at _your earliest possible convenience_. I am waiting
     with great anxiety your honored appearance.

     In the meantime, trusting that you are healthy, hopeful and happy,
     please believe me to be,

     Cordially, sincerely--and anxiously yours,

     IRENE GREY.

He regarded the letter a little wistfully, and the next moment tore it
to bits, flung it to the winds, and went about his business.




CHAPTER VI

THE PRAIRIE FIRE


     "My mother grabbed me, kissed and hugged me time and again when I
     returned," Jean Baptiste read in the letter he received from his
     wife-to-be a few days after she had returned to the windy city, and
     he was satisfied. "She had been so worried, you see, because she
     had written father nothing about it, and this was the first time in
     her married life that she has dared do anything without a long
     consultation with him. But she is glad I went now, and thinks you
     are a very sensible fellow therefor. Papa sent a telegram advising
     that he had been reappointed Presiding Elder over the same
     district, and would come into Chicago for a few days before
     entering into another year of the work.

     "I am deluged with questions regarding the West, and it gives me a
     great deal of pleasure to explain everything, and of the wonderful
     work you are doing. Now, papa will be home in a few days, and,
     knowing how hard he is to explain anything to, I am preparing
     myself for quite a task. I will close now. With love and kisses to
     you, believe me to be,

     "Your own,

     "ORLEAN."

Jean now went about his duties. His sister and grandmother were with
him, and he had planned to put them on their claims at once, so as to
enable them to prove up as soon as possible. Therefore to their places
he hauled lumber, coal and provisions. Their claims lay some forty-five
miles to the northwest beyond the railroad which now had its terminus at
Dallas. And, referring to that, we have not found occasion to mention
what had taken place in the country in the two years passed.

When the railroad had missed Dallas and struck Gregory and the other two
government townsites, Dallas was apparently doomed, and in a few months
most of the business men had gone, and the business buildings, etc., had
been moved to Gregory. This town, because of the fact that it was only
five miles from the next county line--the county that had been opened
and which contained the land that Jean Baptiste had secured for his
relatives and bride--was, for a time, expected to become the terminus.
And to this end considerable activity had transpired with a view to
getting the heavy trade that would naturally come with the opening and
settlement of the county west, which had twice the area of the county in
which Gregory lay.

Now, it was shortly after the railroad was under course of construction
that one, the chief promoter of the townsite, called on the "town Dad's"
of Gregory with a proposition. The proposition was, in short, to move
Dallas to Gregory, and thereupon combine in making Gregory a real city.

Unfortunately for Gregory, her leaders were men who had grown up in a
part of the country where the people did not know all they might have
known. They consisted in a large measure of rustic mountebanks, who,
because, and only because, Gregory happened to have been in the direct
line of the railroad survey, and had thereby secured the road, took unto
themselves the credit of it all. So, instead of entertaining the offer
in a logical, business and appreciative manner, gave the promoter the
big haw! haw! and turned their backs to him.

There was a spell of inactivity for a time on the part of the said
promoter. But in the fall, when the ground had frozen hard, and the corn
was being gathered, all that was left in the little town of Dallas,
laying beside the claim of Jean Baptiste, was suddenly hauled five miles
west of the town of Gregory. And still before the Gregory illogics had
time even to think clearly, business was going on in what they then
chose to call New Dallas--and the same lay directly on the line of the
two counties, and where the railroad survey ended.

It is needless to detail the excitement which had followed this. "Lies,
lies, liars!" were the epithets hurled from Gregory. "The railroad is in
Gregory to stay; to stay for"--oh, they couldn't say how many years,
perhaps a hundred; but all that noise to the west was a bluff, a simon
pure bluff, and that ended it. That is, until they started the same
noise over again. But it had not been a bluff. The tracks had been laid
from Gregory to Dallas early in the spring that followed, and now Dallas
was _the_ town instead of Gregory, and the boom that had followed the
building of the town, is a matter never to be forgotten in the history
of the country.

Gregory's one good fortune was that she had secured the land office
which necessitated that all filings should be entered there, and in this
way got more of the boom that was occasioned by the land opening at the
west than it had expected to when the railroad company had pushed its
way west out of the town.

It was about this time while great excitement was on and thousands of
people were in the town of Dallas that something occurred that came near
literally wiping that town off the map. Jean Baptiste had loaded his
wagons and was on the way from his land to the claims of his sister when
the same came to pass.

The greatest danger in a new country comes after the grass has died in
the fall and before the new grass starts in the spring. But in the fall
when the grass is dry and crisp, and the surface below is warm and dry,
is the time of prairie fires. No time could have been more opportune for
such an episode than the time now was. The wind had been blowing for
days and days, and had made the short grass very brittle, and the
surface below as hot as in July. Jean Baptiste was within about a mile
of where New Dallas now reposed vaingloriously on a hillside, her many
new buildings rising proudly, defiantly, as if to taunt and annoy
Gregory, against the skyline, when with the wind greeting him, he caught
the smell of burning grass. He reached a hillside presently, and from
there he could see for miles to the west beyond, and the sight that met
his gaze staggered him.

"A prairie fire," he cried apprehensively, and urged his teams forward
toward Dallas. One glance had been sufficient to _convince_ him what it
might possibly mean. A prairie fire with the wind behind it as this was,
would bid no good for Dallas, and once there he could be of a little
service, since he knew how to fight it.

When he arrived at the outskirts of the embryo city, he was met by a
frightened herd of humanity. With bags and trunks and all they could
carry; with eyes wide, and mouths gaped, in terror they were hurrying
madly from the town to an apparent place of safety--a plowed field
nearby. Miles to the west the fire and smoke rose in great, dark
reddened clouds, and cast--even at that distance, dark shadows over the
little city. As he drew into the town, he could see a line of figures
working at fire breaks before the gloom. They were the promoters and the
townspeople, and he imagined how they must feel with death possible--and
destruction, positive, coming like an angry beast directly upon them.

Soon, Jean Baptiste, with wet horse blankets, was with them on the
firing line. The speed at which the wind was driving the fire was
ominous. Soon all the west was as if lost in the conflagration, for the
sun, shining out of a clear sky an hour before was now shut out as if
clouds were over all. The dull roar and crackle of the burning grass
brought a feeling of awe over all before it. The heat became, after a
time, intense; the air was surcharged with soot, and the little army
worked madly at the firebreaks.

Rolling, tumbling, twisting, turning, but always coming onward, the
hurricane presently struck the fire guards. In that moment it was seen
that a mass of thistles, dried manure, and all refuse from the prairie
was sweeping before it, as if to draw the fire onward. The fire plunged
over the guards as though they had not been made, pushed back the little
army and rushed madly into the town.

It was impossible now to do more. The conflagration was beyond control.
Now in the town, an effort was therefore made to get the people out of
their houses where some had even hidden when it appeared that all would
be swept away in the terrible deluge of fire. One, two, three, four,
five, six--ten houses went up like chaff, and the populace groaned,
when, of a sudden, something happened. Like Napoleon's army at Waterloo
there was a quick change. One of those rare freaks--but what some chose
to claim in after years as the will of the Creator in sympathy with the
hopeful builders, the wind gradually died down, whipped around, and in
less than five minutes, was blowing from the east, almost directly
against its route of a few minutes before. The fire halted, seemed to
hesitate, and then like some cowardly thing, turned around and started
back of the same ground it had raged over where it lingered briefly,
sputtered, flickered, and then quickly died. And the town, badly
frightened, hard worked, but thankful withal, was saved.




CHAPTER VII

VANITY


     "My father is home, and, oh! but he did carry on when he was
     informed regarding my trip West to take the homestead," Orlean
     wrote her betrothed in her next letter. "He was so much upset over
     it that he went out of the house and walked in the street for a
     time to still his intense excitement. When he returned, however, he
     listened to my explanation, and, after a time, I was pleased to
     note that he was pacified. And still later he was pleased, and when
     a half day had passed he was tickled to death.

     "Of course I was relieved then also, and now I am fully satisfied.
     I have not written you as soon as I should have on this account. I
     thought it would be best to wait until papa had heard the news and
     was settled on the matter, which he now is. He has written you and
     I think you should receive the letter about the same time you will
     this. He has never been anxious in his simple old heart for me to
     marry, but of course he understands that I must some day, and now
     that I am engaged to you, he appears to be greatly pleased.

     "By the way, I have not received the ring yet, and am rather
     anxious. Of course I wish to be quite reasonable, but on the whole,
     a girl hardly feels she's engaged until she is wearing the ring,
     you know. Write me a real sweet letter, and make it long. In the
     meantime remember me as one who thinks a great deal of you,

     "From your fond,

     "ORLEAN."

Baptiste heard from his father-in-law-to-be in due time, and read the
letter carefully, replying to the same forthwith.

We should record before going further that the incident which had
happened between them in his youth had been almost as completely buried
as it had been before the day of its recent resurrection. In his reply
he stated that he would come into the city Xmas, which meant of course,
that they would meet and come to understand each other better. He was
glad that the formalities were in part through with, and would be glad
when it was over. He did not appreciate so much ado where so little was
represented, as it were. He had it from good authority without inquiry
that the Reverend McCarthy had never possessed two hundred dollars at
one time in his life, and the formalities he felt compelled to go
through with far exceeded that amount already. And with this in mind he
began gathering his corn crop which he had been delayed in doing on
account of the stress of other more urgent duties.

He had been at work but a few days when snow began to fall. For days it
fell from a northwesterly direction, and then turning, for a week came
from an easterly direction. This kept up until the holidays arrived,
therefore most of the corn crop over all the country was caught and
remained in the field all the winter through. By the hardest work his
sister and grandmother succeeded in reaching his place from their
homesteads, and stayed there while he went into Chicago.

"Mr. Baptiste, please meet my father," said Orlean when he called,
following his arrival in the city again. He looked up to find a tall,
dark but handsome old man extending his hand. He regarded him, studied
him carefully in a flash, and in doing so his mind went back twenty
years; to a memorable day when he had been punished and had followed it
by running away. He extended his hand and grasped the other's, and
wondered if he also remembered.... They exchanged greetings, and if the
other recalled him, he gave no evidence of the fact in his expression.

When he had sat beside the teacher, such a long time before, Baptiste
recalled now, that at the back of the other's head there had been a
white spot where the hair was changing color; but now this spot spread
over all the head, and the hair was almost as white as snow. With his
dark skin, this formed a contrast that gave the other a distinguished
appearance which was noticeably striking. But his eyes did not meet with
Baptiste's favor, though he was not inclined to take this seriously. But
as he continued to glance at him at times during the evening he did not
fail to see that the other seemed never to look straight and frankly
into his eyes; and there was in his gaze and expression when he met
Baptiste,--so Baptiste thought--a peculiar lurking, as if some hidden
evil were looking out of the infinite depths of the other's soul. It
annoyed Baptiste because every time he caught the other's gaze he
recalled the incident of twenty years before, and wanted to forget it;
declared he would forget it, and to that task he set himself, and
apparently succeeded while in the city.

With Ethel and her husband, whose name was Glavis, he never got along at
all. Ethel was pompous, and known to be disagreeable; while Glavis was
narrow, and a victim of his wife's temper and disposition. So unless
the talk was on society and "big" <DW64>s, which positively did not
interest Jean Baptiste, who was practical to the superlative, there was
no agreement.

So when Jean Baptiste returned West, he was conscious of a great relief.

The severe winter passed at last and with early spring everybody
completed the gathering of the corn and immediately turned to seeding
their crops. Work was plentiful everywhere, and to secure men to
complete gathering his crop of corn, Baptiste had the greatest
difficulty. Stewarts had failed to secure any land at all--either of the
four in the drawing, and, being unable to purchase relinquishments on
even one quarter at the large sum demanded therefor, had gone toward the
western part of the state and taken free homesteads. As for Agnes, she
had apparently passed out of his life.

He labored so hard in the cold, wet muddy fields in trying to get his
corn out that he was taken ill, and was not able to work at all for
days, and while so, he wrote his fiancee his troubles; and that since he
was so indisposed, with a world of work and expense upon him she would
do him a great favor if she would consent to come to him and be married.

Now the McCarthys had given Ethel a big wedding although her husband
received only thirteen dollars a week for his work. Two hundred dollars,
so it was reported, had been expended on the occasion. Such display did
not appeal to the practical mind of Jean. He had lived his life too
closely in accomplishing his purpose to become at this late day a victim
of such simple vanity; the ultra simple vanity of aping the rich. Upon
this point his mind was duly set. The McCarthys had started to buy a
home the summer before which was quite expensive, and had entered into
the contract with a payment of three hundred dollars. The Reverend had
borrowed a hundred dollars on his life insurance and paid this in, while
Glavis had paid another. Ethel had used what money she had saved
teaching, to expend in the big wedding, so Orlean had paid the other
hundred out of the money she had saved teaching school.

Now, if there was any big wedding for Orlean, then he, Jean Baptiste,
knew that he would be expected to stand the expense. Therefore, Baptiste
tried to make plain to Orlean in his letters the gravity of his
position. She would be compelled to establish residence on her homestead
early in May, and this was April, or forfeit her right and sacrifice all
he had put into it.

But Orlean became unreasonable--Jean Baptiste reasoned. She set forth
that she did not think it right for her to go away out there and marry
him; that he should come to her. She seemed to have lost sense of all he
had written her, regarding the crops, responsibilities, and other
considerations. He wrote her to place it up to her mother and father,
which she did, to reply in the same tenor. They had not agreed to it,
either. He replied then heatedly, and hinted that her father was not a
business man else he would have realized his circumstances, and, as man
to man, appreciated the same.

The next letter he received had enclosed the receipt for the first
payment of the purchase price of six dollars an acre, a charge the
government had made on the land, amounting to some $210, in the first
payment. She released him from his promise--but kept the ring.

"Now, don't that beat the devil!" he exclaimed angrily, when he read the
letter. "As though this receipt is worth anything to me; or that it
would suffice to get back the $2,000 I paid the man for the
relinquishment. The only thing that will suffice is, for her to go on
the land, so I guess I'll have to settle this nuisance at once by going
to Chicago and marrying her."

So he started for the Windy City.

At Omaha he sent a telegram to her to the effect that he was on the way,
and would arrive in the city on the morrow.

He arrived. He called her up from the Northwestern station, and she
called back that it was settled; she had given him her word. The
engagement was off.

"Oh, foolish," he called jovially.... "It isn't," she called back
angrily.... "Well," said he, "I'll call and see you...." "No need," she
said.... "But you'll see me," he called.... "Yes, I'll see you. I'll do
you that honor...."

Now when Jean Baptiste had called over the 'phone, Glavis had answered
the call, and thereupon had started an argument that Orlean had
concluded by taking the receiver from his hand. Of course she had jilted
Jean Baptiste and had sent back the papers; moreover, she had declared
she would not marry him--_under any circumstances_. But she would
attend to that herself and did not need the assistance of her
brother-in-law....

Glavis was quite officious that morning--acting under his wife's orders.
When the bell rang, although he should have been at his work an hour
before he opened the door. Baptiste was there and Glavis started to say
something he felt his wife would be pleased to know he said. But, being
affected with a slight impediment of speech, his tongue became twisted
and when he could straighten it out, Baptiste had passed him and was on
his way to the rear of the house where Orlean stood pouting. Ethel stood
near with her lips protruding, and Mrs. McCarthy, whom he had termed,
"Little Mother Mary," stood nearby at a loss as to what to say.

"Indeed, but it looks more like you were waiting for a funeral than for
me," as he burst in upon them. Pausing briefly, he observed the one who
had declared everything against him, turned her face away and refused to
greet him.

"What's the matter, hon'," he said gaily and laughed, at the same time
gathering her into his arms.

"Will you look at that!" exclaimed Ethel, ready to start something. But
Glavis, countered twice the morning so soon, concluded at last that it
was his time to keep his place. So deciding, he cut his eyes toward
Ethel, and said: "Now, Ethel, this is no affair of yours," and cautioned
her still more with his eyes.

"No, Ethel," commanded Orlean, "This is _my_ affair. I--" she did not
finish, because at that moment Jean Baptiste had kissed her.

"It beats anything I ever witnessed," cried Ethel, almost bursting to
get started.

"Then don't witness it," said Glavis, whereupon he caught her about the
waist and urged her up the stairs and locked her in their room.

"You've been acting something awful like," chided Baptiste, with Orlean
still in his arms. She did not answer just then. She could not. She
decided at that moment, however, to take him into the parlor, and there
tell him all she said she would. Yes, she would do that at once. So
deciding, she caught him firmly by the arm, and commanded:

"Come, and I will get you told!"

He followed meekly. When they reached the parlor she was confronted with
another proposition. Where would they sit? She glanced from the chairs
to the davenport; but he settled it forthwith by settling upon the
davenport. She hesitated, but before she had reached a decision, she
found herself pulled down by his side--and dreadfully close. Well, she
decided then, that this was better, after all, because, if she was close
to him he could hear her better. She would not have to talk so loud. She
did not like loud talking. It was too "niggerish," and she did not like
that. But behold! He, as soon as she was seated, encircled her waist
with his arm. Dreadful! Then, before she could tell him what she had
made up all the night before to say to him, she felt his lips upon
hers--and, my! they were so warm, and tender and soft. She was confused.
Ethel and her father had said that the country where Jean lived was
wild; that all the people in it were hard and coarse and rough--but
Jean's kisses were warm, and soft and tender. She almost forgot what she
had intended telling him. And just then he caught her to him, and that
felt so--well, she did not know--could not say how it felt; but she was
forgetting all she had planned to tell him. She heard his voice
presently, and for a moment she caught sight of his eyes. They were real
close to hers, and, oh, such eyes! She had not known he possessed such
striking ones. How they moved her! She was as if hypnotized, she could
not seem to break the spell, and in the meantime she was forgetting more
of what she had made up her mind to say. He spoke then, and such a
wonderful voice he seemed to have! How musical, how soft, how
tender--but withal, how strong, how firm, how resolute and determined it
was. She was held in a thraldom of strange delight.

"What has been the matter with my little girl?" And thereupon, as if
they were not close enough, he gathered her into his arms. Oh, what a
thrill it gave her! She had forgotten now, all she had had in mind to
say and it would take an hour or so, perhaps a day, to think and
remember it all over again.... "Hasn't she wanted to see me? Such
beautiful days are these! Lovely, grand, glorious!" She looked out
through the window. It _was_ a beautiful day, indeed! And she had not
observed it before.

"And hear the birds singing in the trees," she heard. And thereupon she
listened a moment and heard the birds singing. She started. Now she had
felt she was thoughtful. She really loved to listen to the twitter of
birds--and it was springtime. It was life, and sunshine and happiness.
She had not heard the birds before that morning, therefore it must have
been because she had let anger rule instead of sunshine. And as if he
had read her thoughts, she heard his voice again:

"And because you were angry--gave in to evil angriness and pouted
instead of being cheerful, happy and gay, you have failed to observe how
beautiful the sun shone, and that the birds were singing in the trees."

She felt--was sensitive of a feeling of genuine guilt.

"And away out west, where the sunshine kisses the earth, and the wheat,
the corn, the flax, and the oats grow green in great fields, everybody
there is about his duty; for, when the winter has been long, cold and
dreary, the settlers must stay indoors lest they freeze. So with such
days as these after the long, cold and dreary winters, everybody must be
up and doing. For if the crops are to mature in the autumn time, they
must be placed in the earth through seed in the springtime. But there
is, unfortunately, one settler, called St. Jean Baptiste, by those who
know him out there, who is not in his fields; his crops are not being
sown; his fields--wide, wide fields, which represent many thousands of
dollars, and long years of hard, hard work, are lying idle, growing to
wild weeds!"

"But, Jean," she cried of a sudden. "It is not so?"

"Unfortunately it is so, my love!"

"Then--Jean--you must go--hurry, and sow your crops, also!" she echoed.

"For years and years has Jean Baptiste labored to get his fields as they
are. For, in the beginning, they were wild, raw and unproductive,
whereupon naught but coyotes, prairie dogs and wild Indians lived; where
only a wild grass grew weakly and sickly from the surface and yielded
only a prairie fire that in the autumn time burned all in its path; a
land wherein no civilized one had resided since the beginning of time."

"Oh, Jean!"

"And he has longed for woman's love. For, according to the laws of the
Christ, man should take unto himself a wife, else the world and all its
people, its activity, its future will stop forthwith!"

"You are so wonderful!"

"Not wonderful, am I," quoth Baptiste. "Just a mite practical."

"But it is wonderful anyhow, all you say!"

"And yet my Orlean does not love me yet!"

"I didn't say that," she argued, thinking of what she had written him.

"Since therefore she has not said it, then methinks that she does not."

"I--I--oh, you--are awful!"

"And she will not go to live alone with me and share my life--and my
love!"

"I--oh, I didn't say I wouldn't do all that." She was done for then. She
had shot her last defense.

"Then you will?" he asked anxiously. "You will go back with me, and be
mine, all mine and love me forever?"

She sought his lips and kissed him then, and he arose and caught her
close to him and kissed her again and looked into her eyes, and she was
then all his own.




CHAPTER VIII

MARRIED


"Why--why--why, what does this mean!" exclaimed "Little Mother Mary"
coming upon them at this minute. Notwithstanding the fact that she was
surprised, it was obviously a glad surprise. She admired Jean Baptiste,
and had been much upset over their little controversy. She understood
the root of the trouble, and knew that it had been on account of what
Baptiste had written and intimated in the letter regarding the Elder.
Her husband did not admire real men, although of course, he was not
aware of it. In truth, he admired no man, other than himself. And when
others did not do likewise, he usually found excuses to disagree with
them in some manner.

Jean Baptiste was not the type of man to make friends with her husband.
He was too frank, too forward, too progressive in every way ever to
become very intimate with N. Justine McCarthy. To begin with, Jean had
never flattered his vanity as it was not his wont to give undue praise.
And as yet he had no reason especially to admire the Reverend. That it
had not been Orlean who had objected to coming West to marry him he was
aware. Nor had it been her mother. It had been N. Justine who had a way
of making his faults and shortcomings appear to be those of
others--especially within his family, and in this instance his elder
daughter bore the blame.

"What would you expect us to do, Little Mother," he said, turning a
beaming face upon her.

"But--Orlean, I thought--I thought--"

"Oh, Mother," cried Jean Baptiste, "don't think. It will hurt you.
Besides, it will not be necessary for you to think any more with regards
to us now. We are as we were, and that is all. There is nothing wrong
between us--never has been, nor between you and I now either, is there?"
Whereupon he drew her down and upon the davenport and placed himself
between her and her daughter.

"Now let's reason this thing out together," he began. "There is no need
for quarreling. We'll leave that to idle, disagreeable people. The first
thing in life is to know what you want--and then go get it. That's the
way I do. When I proposed to Orlean I did so after due consideration.
There has been some little disagreement with regards to my coming to get
her, which was due to the fact that I have been so overrun with work
until I really felt I had not the time to spare. However, here I am and
ready to marry her. So let's get those who are concerned together and
have it over with. What do you say to it?" he said, looking from one to
the other. In the meantime, Ethel had crept down from upstairs to see
what was going on, and saw the three on the davenport together, with
Jean Baptiste in the middle. Whereupon, she turned and hurried back
upstairs to where her husband was, with these words: "Glavis, Glav--is,"
she cried all out of breath with exasperation. "I just wish you'd look!
Just step down there and look!"

"Why, why--what is the matter, Ethel!" he cried, rising from his chair
in some excitement.

"Why, that Jean Baptiste is sitting down there on the davenport with
mama on one side of him and my sister on the other!"

"Oh, is that all!" he breathed with relief.

"Is that all!" she echoed in derision, her narrow little face screwed
up.

"Well?"

"Will you 'well' me when that man just comes in here and takes the house
and all that's in it!"

"Oh, Ethel." he argued. "Will you use some sense!"

"Will I use some sense! After what Orlean said? You remember well enough
what she said, no longer than last night when she received that
telegram. That she was through with that man; that she was not going to
marry him, and had sent his old papers back to him to prove it!"

"Well, now, get all excited over the most natural thing in the world!
Have you never seen a woman who never changed her mind--especially when
there was a man in the case?"

"Of course I have," she shouted. "I am one who has never changed their
mind!"

"I agree, and that is what's the matter with you," so saying, he made
his get-away to avoid what would have followed.

"Now, you will have to deal with my husband in regard to this matter,
Mr. Baptiste," admonished Mother Mary. She had given into him along with
Orlean. It was useless to try to pit their weak wits against the
commanding and domineering reason, the quick logic and searching
intuition of Jean Baptiste. So they had quickly resigned to the
inevitable, and left him to the rock of unreason, the Reverend N. J.
McCarthy.

"All settled. I'll bounce right out and get him on the wire. Best words
to send are: 'Please come to Chicago today. Important!' Will that be
alright?"

"Jean Baptiste, you are a wonder!" cried Orlean, and, encircling his
neck with her arms, kissed him impulsively.

In answer they received by special delivery a letter that night, stating
that his honor, N.J., was on the way, and would arrive the following
morning. Preparations were entered into at once therefore for a simple
wedding, only Ethel holding aloft from the proceedings. It was while at
the supper table that evening that Orlean took upon herself to try to
set Baptiste right with what was before him in dealing with regards to
her father.

"Now, my dear," she said lovingly, "if you would get along with papa,
then praise him--you understand, flatter him a little. Make him think
he's a king."

"Oh-ho!" he laughed, whereat she was embarrassed. "That's the 'bug,'
eh!"

"Well," she hesitated, awkwardly, "he _is_ rather vain."

Baptiste was thoughtful. Rev. McCarthy was vain.... He must be praised
if one was to get along with him.... Make him think he was a king. His
Majesty, Newton Justine, sounded very well as a title. All he needed
now, then, was a crown. If necessary for peace in the family he would
praise him, although it was not to his liking.

Jean Baptiste had little patience with people who must be praised. In
his association he had chosen men, men who were too busy to look for or
care for praise. But he failed to reckon then that he was facing another
kind of person, one whom he was soon to learn.

His Majesty, Newton Justine, arrived on schedule the next morning, very
serious of expression, and apparently tired into the bargain. Baptiste
recalled when he saw him what he had been advised with regards to making
him think he was a king. "Well," sighed Baptiste, "providing 'His
Majesty' is not a despot, we may be able to get along for a day or two."

Later, when convenient, Baptiste attempted and was apparently
successful in making the matter so plain that despite his reputed
dislike for fair reasoning, the Elder was compelled to call his daughter
and say:

"Now, Orlean, you have heard. Are you in love with this man?" The
melting smile she bestowed him with was quite sufficient, so seeing, he
continued:

"And do you wish to become his wife?" She looked down into her lap then,
turned her hands in childish fashion, and replied in a very small voice:

"Yes."

"Then, that settles it," said the Elder, and thereafter made himself
very amiable. By the morrow arrangements had been completed for a simple
little home wedding, and at two o'clock, the ceremony was performed.

And when the bride and groom had been kissed according to custom, a
storm without broke of a sudden, and the wind blew and the rain fell in
torrents. So terrible became the storm that the piano, which some one
played loudly, as if to shut out the roar of the storm outside, could
hardly be heard. And in the meantime, so dark did it become that at two
thirty the lights had to be turned on, the people could hardly
distinguish each other in the rooms. Nor did the storm abate as the
afternoon wore on, but continued in mad fury far into the night and the
guests were compelled to leave in the downpour and wind.

And there were among those who departed, many who thought and did not
speak. They were, for the most part, the new <DW64>, hence loathe to
admit of superstitions--besides, they had great respect for the two who
were about to start upon matrimony's uncertain journey. But regardless
of what they might have said openly, it was a long time before they
forgot.




CHAPTER IX

ORLEAN RECEIVES A LETTER AND ADVICE


"Jean!" called Orlean three months later, as she came out of the house,
the house where Stewarts had lived, and which Jean Baptiste had rented
for the season so as to be near all his land in the older opened county.
"I have something to tell you."

"What is it, dear?" he replied, drawing his horses to a stop, while she
climbed on the step of the spring wagon he was riding in. He could see
she was excited, and he was apprehensive.

She got up on the seat beside him, and placing her arms around him,
began to cry. He petted her a moment and then, placing his hand under
her chin, raised her head and said: "Well, now, my dear, what is the
matter?" whereupon, he kissed her. Drawing his head down then, she
whispered something in his ear.

"Oh!" he cried, his face suddenly aglow with an expression she had never
seen in it before. The next instant he caught and drew her closely to
him, and kissed her fondly. "I am so happy, dear; the happiest I have
been since we married!"

"But, Jean!" she started and then hesitated. He appeared to understand.

"Now, my wife, you must not feel that way," he admonished. "That is the
ultimate of young married life--children. Of course," he added, slowly,
"couples are not always ready they feel, but such does not wait. We are
not always ready to die, but old death comes when he gets ready and
there's no use trying to argue a delay. So now, instead of looking
distressed, just fancy what a great thing, a beautiful and heavenly
thing after all it is, and be real nice." He kissed her again and
assisted her from the buggy, and while he drove to his work she went
into the house and picked up a letter.

It was from Ethel, and ran:

     "_My dear sister_:

     "I am writing you to say that I am very unhappy. You cannot imagine
     how disagreeable, how very inconvenient it is to be as I am. Never
     did I want a child--or children; but that silly man I'm married to
     is so crazy for a family that he has given me no peace.

     "As a result I must sit around the house during these beautiful
     summer days and be satisfied to look out of the window and go
     nowhere. Oh, it is distressing, and I am so mad at times I can seem
     not to see! Can you sense it: Him so anxious for a family, when
     what he earns is hardly sufficient to keep us in comfort and
     maintain the payments on the home. I have tried to reason with him
     on the score, but it is no use at all. So while I sit around so
     angry I cannot see straight, he dances around gleefully, wondering
     whether it will be a girl or a boy!

     "Now, I thought I would write you in time so that you could protect
     yourself. I am, therefore, sending you certain receipts which have
     been given me--but too late! They will not be again, though--trust
     me to attend to that! Don't wait too long, and use them as per
     direction. Do it and run no chance of getting to be as I am.

     "I hope you are well and write me any time anything happens, and if
     these don't work, then tell me right quick and I will send you
     something that is sure. I depend on you taking care of yourself
     now, and don't let anybody put foolishness in your head.

     "Hoping to hear from you soon, and that you are safe as yet,
     believe me to be,

     "As ever your sister,

     "ETHEL."

When she had completed the letter, she was thoughtful as her eyes
wandered out to where her husband worked away in the field beyond. She
tried to see a few months ahead. It was then midsummer, and Ethel and
her father and all the girls were writing her already that they supposed
they might as well not expect her until Xmas. But Jean had intimated
already that he did not expect to go to Chicago Xmas. Still, that was
several months away, and the dry weather of which he was complaining at
the present, might be offset by rain soon. So she might get to see old
Chicago Xmas after all. But she would be unable to go out if she did go
to the city Xmas with what she knew now. She pondered, and while she did
so, she read through certain receipts her sister had sent her. One was
very simple, and she was tempted. It stated that the blossom of a
certain weed was positive when made into a tea.

She was thoughtful a moment, and her eyes wandered again toward where
her husband worked in the field. Finally they fell upon the creek that
ran near the house, and she gave a start as she saw growing upon its
banks, a peculiar weed with purple blossom. She wondered what kind of
weeds they were. She made a mental note of the same and decided that
when her husband came to luncheon she would ask him. She sighed then as
she thought of the months to come, and what was to come with it.
Presently, having nothing else urgent to do, she picked up paper, pen
and ink and replied to Ethel's letter:

     "_My dear sister_:

     "Receipt of your recent letter is here acknowledged, and in reply,
     will say that I have read the same carefully, and made a note of
     what you said.

     "I hardly know how to reply to what you set forth in your letter,
     and I am not fully decided. But I might as well admit that I have
     just discovered that I also am to become a mother and, Jean, like
     Glavis, is tickled to death! I just told him this morning and he
     said it was the happiest moment he had experienced since we have
     been married.

     "I am entirely at a loss what to do; but I will consult him
     regarding it. I don't think I ought to do as you advise--not let
     him know anything--because that would hardly be fair. He is just as
     good to me as he can be, and considers my every need. Sometimes I
     do not think he loves me as much as I would wish, but what can I
     do! He is my husband and gives me all his attention. I am,
     therefore, afraid that he will object to the measures you suggest.
     I am very much afraid he will, but I will ask him.

     "He's a perfect dear, so jolly, so popular everywhere about, and, I
     repeat, so good to me that I hardly think my conscience would be
     clear if I did something in secret and something that he would not
     like.

     "In the meantime, thanking you for your suggestions, and begging
     you not to act foolish, I am,

     "Your affectionate sister,

     "ORLEAN."

Jean Baptiste drove into the yard at noon singing cheerfully. He was met
by his wife at the gate which she opened. The wind was blowing from the
south, and the air was very hot. It had been blowing from that direction
for days. He stopped singing while he unhitched the horses and gazed
anxiously toward the northwest.

"What is it, dear?" she inquired, observing the old frown upon his face.
He shook his head before replying, and tried to smile.

"This wind."

"The wind?"

"Yes. It's terribly hot. It's awfully drying. The oats are suffering,
the wheat is hurt. I wish it would rain, and rain soon," whereat he
shook his head again and his frown grew deeper.

He led the horses to the well to drink and while they were drinking she
stood near, holding her hands and looking at the patch of strange weeds
that were in blossom near. Presently she observed him, and, seeing that
his mind was concerned with problems, she would satisfy her mind.

"Jean!" she called.

"Yes," he replied abstractedly.

"What kind of weeds are those?" and she pointed to the wild blossoms.

"Those!" he said, his mind struggling between what he was thinking about
and the question. "Oh, those are evil weeds," he concluded, and turning,
led his horses into the barn.

"Evil weeds!" she echoed. Slowly she turned and looked again. She was
strangely frightened. Then taking courage, she went playfully to where
they grew, and, gathering a bunch in a sort of bouquet, carried them
into the house, laid them down, and began to place the meal upon the
table.

"Why, Orlean," she heard, and turned to meet her husband. "What are you
doing with these old things in here! My dear, you could find something
better for the table than these things! Just outside the fence in the
road roses are blooming everywhere, and the air is charged with their
sweet fragrance." He paused briefly and held them to his nose. "And,
besides, they stink. Booh!" he cried, holding them away. "They make me
sick! Now, if you'll agree I'll throw these things away and run out into
the road and get you a big bunch of roses. Will that be all right,
dear?"

"Yes," she answered, and he did not understand why her eyes were
downcast.

"Good!" he exclaimed, and she was glad to see that the frown upon his
face was gone, if only for a while. "I'll bring you some nice flowers.
You know," he paused in the doorway and turned to her, "I never liked
this weed, anyhow. I have always connected them with all that's vile and
evil." So saying, he turned and a few minutes later she heard his voice
coming cheerfully from the road where he picked the various shades of
roses.

"Now, my dear," said he pleasantly, "I have brought you a real bouquet,"
and he placed the vase containing the same in the center of the table,
stood back and regarded the flowers admiringly.

"Why," he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes widening, "what is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing," she stammered more than spoke.

"Now there must be something?" While standing where he was he caught
sight of Ethel's letter. Immediately she reached forth to snatch it from
beneath his gaze. He made no effort to take it, but regarded her in the
meantime wonderingly. The receipt concerning the weed lay in plain
sight, and he could hardly help reading it. She caught it up then, while
he still looked after her wonderingly. He raised his hand to his head
and was thoughtful, before saying:

"Why were you so disturbed over me seeing the letter, Orlean? You have
never been so before. Of course," he said, and hesitated, and then went
on patiently, "I have no wish to pry into women's affairs or secrets,
but I am curious to know why you acted as you did?"

She was an emotional girl. Never in her life had she violated the rules
of her parents, and she had never thought of disobeying, or keeping
secrets from her husband. When she was confronted with the situation,
she broke down thereupon, and crying on his breast, told him all the
letter contained, and what the receipt meant.

He listened patiently and when she was through he hesitated before
speaking. After a moment he led her to the table, sat down, and fell to
eating the luncheon.

"When we have dined," he paused after a few minutes to remark, "and you
have washed the dishes, we will spare a few minutes for a talk, Orlean."

"Now," he resumed at the appointed time, "when we married, Orlean, it
was my hope--and I feel sure 'twas yours, that we would live happily."

"Of course, Jean," she agreed tremulously.

"Then, dear, there are certain things we should come to an understanding
thereto lest we find our lives at variance. To begin with, I wish your
sister would not write you such letters as the one you received today.
But, if she must and offer--yes, criminal advice, I trust you will not
incline toward such seriously. You and I, as well as those who have gone
before us; and as those who must perforce come after us, did not come
into this world altogether by ours or others' providence. And if the
world, and the people in the world are growing wicked, as yet, thank
God, race suicide has not come to rule!" He was meditatively silent then
for a time, gazing as if into space off across the sunkist fields.

"First," he resumed, "selfishness is a bad patient to nurse. Secondly,
we must appreciate that ours--our lives have a duty to fulfill. Bringing
children into the world and rearing them to clean and healthy man and
womanhood is that duty--our greatest duty. And now with regards to that
receipt, or receipts.

"I will not seek to deny that such practices are not in some measure a
custom. Such very often are given thoughtlessly as to the infinite harm,
ill health and unhappiness they might later bring. But the fact that
others cultivate and heed such is no reason, dear, do you feel, that we
should?"

"No, Jean," she admitted without hesitation and very humbly.

"I feel more inspired to say this at this point in our new union,
Orlean, because I cannot believe that it is your nature to be wicked; to
wilfully practice and condone the wrong."

"Oh, Jean," she cried, moving toward him; laying her hands upon him, and
seeking his eyes with her soul standing out in hers. "You are so noble
and so good," and in the next minute she was weeping silently upon his
shoulder.

       *       *       *       *       *

The dry weather continued over all the West, and for two weeks the wind
remained in the south, and blew almost day and night. Heretofore, it had
been known to blow not more than a week at the most, before the heat
would be broken by a rain. And coincident with the heat and drought, the
crops began to fire, plants of all kinds to wither, and every one in the
country of our story became ominous.

But the Creator seemed to be with the struggling people of the new
country, the drought was broken by rain before the crops were destroyed;
the harvest was very good, and with the completion of the same, Orlean
met her husband one evening with a letter, announcing that her father
was coming to visit soon. And the next day they got another letter--no,
a paper. It was a summons, and concerned Orlean.




CHAPTER X

EUGENE CROOK


Tripp County, laying just to the west of the town of Dallas and where
Jean Baptiste had purchased the relinquishments for his people was a
large county and rich in soil. There had been little delay on the part
of the railroad company in extending their line into it. But before this
occurred--before even the county had been thrown open to the settlers,
new promoters, conscious of the great success which had been achieved by
the men who had promoted Dallas, purchased an allotment from an Indian,
or a breed and started a town thereon almost directly in the center of
the county in a valley of a creek known as the Dog Ear.

And it was about this time that a political ring was formed in the newer
county for the avowed and subtle purpose of securing the county seat.
Settlement on the whole had not as yet been possible, so the politics
included the rabble. The cowboy, and the ex-cowboy; saloon men,
bartenders--some freighters, squaw men and cattle thieves represented
the voters. So it happened that before the bona-fide settlers had a
chance in the way of political expression, they found the county
organized, controlled and exploited by this ilk. But, as we have already
stated, a town in the West--nor the East for that matter--is ever a town
until a railway has found its way thither.

The difficulty began when the survey was run. Notwithstanding the fact
that the county seat had been secured by the promoters of the town in
the valley of the Dog Ear, the surveyors, from the route they took, did
not seem to have had any orders to go via of Lamro, the county seat in
question. On the contrary, they went smack through a section of land
that had been secured in due time by the promoters who had made Dallas
possible as a town.

Where the line of the survey stretched, less than two miles northwest of
the county seat, they started a town, and were now bidding the
townspeople and business men of the county seat to move their building
over. A bitter fight was the answer--at the start. A railroad is
everything almost to an aspiring town, and these people were capable of
appreciating the fact. As a result, the little town in the valley a few
months later, was no more. Another election was held and through the
same the bona fide settlers asserted their rights and administered a
severe rebuke by defeating the town in the valley and electing the new
town which had been entitled Winner as the county seat.

Nevertheless, a few people remained in what was left of the valley town.
Some were unable to move their buildings, others were indifferent, while
others still remained there for purposes of their own.

Among those who remained, there was a banker, whose little bank reposed
all alone with caves and broken sidewalks and all the leavings of the
moved away town about. His name was Crook, Eugene Crook, and it was
common knowledge that he was fond of his name and conducted his affairs
so as to justify it. 'Gene Crook would rather, it was said, acquire
something by beating some one in a deal than to secure it honestly. He
possessed an auto, and had business to the northwest of the town some
fifteen or eighteen miles, and had been seen in the neighborhood quite
often.

Perhaps it was due in some measure to an unscrupulous character who had
drawn a claim in those parts, and pretended to be homesteading there;
but who in truth homesteaded more around the saloons of Winner and
Crook's town than he did on the claim. His name was James J. Spaight.

James J. Spaight, and Eugene Crook were very close. 'Gene Crook had
advanced Spaight considerable money towards his claim, and had him tied
up in many ways, therefore, they were understood cohorts.

"They are never here," said Spaight, jumping from the auto and sweeping
his hand about over a beautiful quarter section of land, one of the
finest in the county.

"But I see a sod shack over in the draw," returned Crook. "They have
apparently called themselves establishing a residence on the land."

"Yes; but let me tell you," said Spaight. "I can get you this piece of
land--I can win it for you through contest. I know a thing or two, and I
believe when we let the fellow know that we've got him dead to right,
he'll weaken, and sell it to you for a song."

"Well," said Crook, thoughtfully, "we'll drive back to town and consult
Duval about it."

On the way they drove by the homesteaders near and held subtle
conversations with many, always in the end ascertaining how many times
the people had been seen on the claim they had just left.

When they returned to the town in the valley, and retired into the
private office of the little bank, Spaight went for Duval, a lawyer, who
came forthwith. He was a tall, lean creature who attracted attention by
his unusual height and leanness. He, also, was one of the "left overs."
He was told of the beautiful homestead, and that the claimant had been
seen only a few times there, and of the proposition to contest it.

"Who holds the place, did you say?" inquired Duval in his deep, droll
voice, crossing his legs judiciously.

"Why, a <DW65> woman," said Spaight.

"A <DW64> woman?"

"Yes, what do you think of that?" pursued Spaight, his eyes widening. "I
told Crook that if he worked a bluff good and right he could more than
likely scare them out. A <DW65> in a white man's country!"

Crook smiled; Duval was thoughtful.

"What's her name--this Negress? Is she a single woman or married?"

"Why, she _was_ single when she took it, of course. But she's got
married since. I think the guy she married put up the money, and that's
where we have them again."

"And the name?" inquired Duval again.

"Oh, yes, Baptiste. That's it. Jean Baptiste is her husband's name."

"Oh, hell!" cried Duval, and spat upon the floor.

"Why--what's the matter?" cried Crook and Spaight in chorus.

"I was struck with the joke."

"The joke?"

"Yes. The bluffing."

"But we don't understand?"

"Then you ought to. Jean Baptiste, huh! You'll bluff Jean Baptiste! Say,
that's funny." Suddenly his face took on a cold hard expression. "Why,
that's one of the shrewdest, one of the wisest, one of the most forcible
men in this country. Have you never heard of Jean Baptiste? Oh, you
fools! He's worth forty thousand dollars--made it himself and is not
over twenty-five."

"Is that so?" they echoed, taken aback.

"Well, I should say so, and everybody in the county knows it."

"But they haven't lived on the place as they should!" protested Spaight,
weakly.

"Something like yourself," laughed Duval. Spaight  guiltily.

"But I can prove it," insisted Spaight.

"Well, in so far as that goes, I wouldn't doubt but they have not lived
on the land. Baptiste owns a lot of land in the county east, and the
chances are that he's been so busy that his wife has neglected to stay
on the claim as she should have. Yes, that is quite likely."

"Then we can contest it?" cried Spaight.

"Of course. You can contest any place so far as that goes."

"Well, that's what we intend to do. And I have the goods on him and am
sure we can win."

"They're all sure of that when they start," said Duval, sarcastically.
"But I want to disillusion you. If you contest the place then do so with
a realization of what we are up against. Don't go down there with any
'rough stuff' or with a delusion that you are going to meet a weakling.
Go down there with the calm, considerate understanding that you are
going to vie with a man all through, and that man is Jean Baptiste. And
while I'll take the case and do what I can, before we start, I'd advise
that you keep away from that fellow as much as possible."

"Well, now, to be frank, Duval," said Crook, "What do you think of it
anyhow?"

Duval regarded him closely a moment out of his small eyes. And then
spoke slowly, easily, carefully. "Well, Crook, being frank with you, I
don't think you can beat that fellow fairly. No one will beat Jean
Baptiste in a fair fight. But of course," he added, "there are other
ways. Yes, and when the time is right--if ever, you may try the _other_
way."




CHAPTER XI

REVEREND McCARTHY PAYS A VISIT


"Well," said Baptiste to his wife, following the service of the summons.
"We're up against a long, irksome and expensive contest case." Under his
observation had come many of such. Only those who have homesteaded or
have been closely related to such can in full appreciate the annoyance,
the years of annoyance and uncertainty with which a contest case is
fraught. Great fiction has been created from such; greater could be. Oh,
the nerve racking, the bitterness and very often the sinister results
that have grown out of one person trying to secure the place of another
without the other's consent. Murder has been committed times untold as a
sequel--but getting back to Jean Baptiste and his wife.

He was inclined to be more provoked than ordinarily, for the reason that
by sending his wife--at least taking her to the homestead, he knew he
could have avoided the contest. As a rule places are not contested
altogether without a cause. He felt that it was--and it no doubt
was--due to his effort to farm his own land and assist his folks in
holding their claims as well. He had discovered before he married Orlean
that she was likely to prove much unlike his sister, who possessed the
strength of her convictions, for she was on the clinging vine order.
Being extremely childish, this was further augmented by a stream of
letters from Chicago, giving volumes of advice in regards to something
the advisors had not a very keen idea of themselves. He also was
cautioned not to expose her. So she had, in truth only gone to her
homestead when taken by him, returning when he did as well. The fact
that he had arranged in regards to the renting of his land the next
season would be no evidence to assist him before the bar that would hear
his case.

The contest against his wife's homestead did not, of course alter his
plans in any way. He would continue along the lines he had started. But
there were other things that came to annoy him at the same time. Chiefly
among these was his wife's father. Always there had to be some ado when
it came to him. He had reared his daughter, as before intimated, to
consider him of the world's greatest men--especially the <DW64> race's,
and to avoid friction, Baptiste came gradually to see that he would
almost have to be beholden unto this creature in whom he was positively
not very deeply interested.

N. Justine McCarthy's accomplishments were of a nature which Baptiste
would rather have avoided. The fact that he had been a Presiding Elder
in one of the leading denominations of <DW64> churches out of which he
managed to filch about a thousand a year, was in a measure foreign to
his son-in-law. And the Reverend was not an informed or practical man.

The truth was that all the pretensions made to the Elder, flattering him
into feeling he was a great man, Jean Baptiste came to regard as a
deliberate fawning to flatter an extreme vanity. Far from being even
practical, N.J. McCarthy was by disposition, environment and
cultivation, narrow, impractical, hypocritical, envious and spiteful. As
to how much he was so, not even did Jean Baptiste fully realize at the
time, but came to learn later from experience.

He was expected in early October. The hearing of the contest was to
convene a few days later, so as a greeting to his Majesty, he was to be
given an opportunity to see Orlean on the stand and mercilessly grilled
by non-sentimental lawyers. Baptiste was appreciative of what might
result, and wished the visit could have been deferred for a while.

Another source of irritation continually, was Ethel's letters, and his
wife's nervousness over the child that was to come. For the first time
in her life she had been disobedient. Secretly she had, after many
misgivings, fears and indecisions, brewed a tea from the weed as per
Ethel's prescription--but in vain! Later, the guilt, the
never-to-be-forgotten guilt; the unborn child that refused the poison,
seemed to haunt her. And she could not tell her husband. But this was
not all. Ethel's letters continued to come, filled with the same advice;
the same suggestions; the same condemnation of motherhood--and she was
compelled to keep it all a hopeless secret from the man she had sworn to
love and obey.

One thing was agreed upon, they decided not to inform the Elder--at
least, in so far as Orlean was concerned, she left it to Jean, and Jean,
with as many troubles as he cared for and more, to deal with, was
becoming perceptibly irritant. So with this state of affairs prevailing,
the Reverend finally arrived for his long anticipated visit.

The letter advising the day he would arrive did not happen to reach them
in time to meet him. Accordingly, neither was at the station to greet
him, but, recalling that Baptiste had spoken of the Freedom and no
narrow prejudices and customs to irk one, the Elder went forthwith to
the leading hotel in Gregory where he was accorded considerable
attention as a guest. This indeed satisfied his vanity, and he was
taken much notice of by those about because of his distinguished
appearance. A fact that he seldom ever lost sight of.

But Baptiste happened to be in town that night on horseback, and when
the train had come and gone, he inquired carelessly of a fellow he met,
and who had come in on the train, if he had seen a <DW52> man aboard.

"Yes," said the other. "An elderly man, very distinguished looking."

"My father-in-law!" ejaculated Baptiste, and went forthwith to the hotel
to find his erstwhile compatriot very much at ease among those filling
the place.

"And it's a great way to greet me," exclaimed the Reverend, cheerfully,
upon seeing him. Baptiste made haste to explain that he had not been
aware of the day when he would arrive.

"Oh, that's all right, my son," said the other heartily. "And how is
Orlean?"

"Fine! She'll be tickled to death to see you."

"And I her." The old gent was very cheerful. Such a trip was much to
him. A life spent among the simple black people to whom he preached
afforded little contrast compared with what was about him now. And,
pompous by disposition, he was thrilled by the diversity. Baptiste
decided thereupon to try to make his sojourn an agreeable one.

"Now, there is an old neighbor of mine in town with a buggy, and I'll
see him and figure to have him take you out with him, as I am in on
horseback."

"Very well," returned the Elder, and Baptiste went for the neighbor who
happened to be a German with a very conspicuous voice. He found him at a
saloon where the old scout was pretty well "pickled" from imbibing too
freely in red liquor.

"Sure thing," he roared in his big voice when Baptiste stated his
errand. "Bring him down here and I'll buy him a drink."

"But he's a preacher," cautioned Baptiste with a laugh.

"A preacher! Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed the German, humorously.
Whereupon he ordered drinks for the house, and two for himself. Baptiste
grinned.

"I shall now depart," essayed the German, swaying not too steadily
before the bar, and raising his glass, "to become sanctimonious and
good," and drained his glass. The crowd roared.

"Where is he?" called the German loudly, as he drew his team to a stop
before the hotel. Baptiste got out, went in and called to the Reverend.
The other came forward quickly, carrying his bags and other accessories.

"Ah-ha!" roared the German from the buggy, sociably, "So there you are!"

"Why--Jean--the man is--drunk, is he not?" whispered the Elder.

"But he's alright--gets that way when he comes to town, but is perfectly
safe withal." The Reverend stood for a moment, regarding the other
dubiously.

"Come on, brother, and meet me!" called the German again in a voice
sufficiently loud almost to awaken the dead.

"But, Jean," said the Reverend, lowly but apprehensively, "I don't know
whether I want to ride with a drunken man or not."

Now it happened that the German's ears were very keen, and he overheard
the Elder's remark, so without ceremony, and while the Reverend
hesitated on the pavement, the German who did not like to be referred
to as drunk, roared:

"Ah-ha! Naw, naw, naw! You don't have to ride with me! Naw, naw, naw!"
And turning his horses about, he went back to the saloon where his voice
rang forth a minute later in a raucous tune as he unloaded another
schooner.

The Reverend beat a hasty retreat back into the hotel, while Baptiste
called after him:

"I'll send Orlean for you in the morning," and went to look up his
neighbor who had made himself so conspicuous.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, now, if this doesn't beat all," cried the Reverend when he had
kissed his daughter the following morning and they were spinning along
the road on the way to the farm. "I would never have believed three
months ago had some one said you could and would be driving these
mules!"

"Oh, I have driven them fifty miles in a day--John!" she called suddenly
to the off mule who was given to mischievous tricks.

"Well, well," commented the Reverend, "but it certainly beats all."

She was cheered and pleased to demonstrate what she had learned. They
sailed along the country side in the autumn air, and talked of home,
Ethel, her mother, Glavis and Jean. They came presently to Baptiste's
homestead and viewed with great delight the admirable tract of land that
stretched before them. She talked on cheerfully and told her father all
that had passed, of how happy they were, but said nothing about her
prospects of becoming a mother. When they had passed her husband's
homestead and were nearing a corner where they must turn to reach the
house in which they were living, they passed an automobile carrying two
men. They bowed lightly and the men returned it. When they had gotten
out of hearing distance, one of the men whispered to the other:

"That's her!"

'Gene Crook thereupon turned and looked after the retreating figure of
the girl in the buggy whose place he had determined to secure through
subtle methods. But not even 'Gene Crook himself conceived of the
unusual circumstances that came to pass and brought him on a visit to
these selfsame people, later.




CHAPTER XII

REVEREND MCCARTHY DECIDES TO SET BAPTISTE RIGHT, BUT--


"Now the first thing, daughter," said the Reverend, "when Jean comes and
you have the time, is to go up and see your claim." Orlean swallowed,
and started to tell him that it was contested; but on second thought,
decided to leave the task to her husband, and said instead:

"I have a fine claim, papa. Jean says it is the best piece of land we
have."

"Now isn't that fine!"

"It is," Orlean said, thinking of her husband.

"Your husband has a plenty, my dear, and we have been surprised that you
have not been sending money to Chicago to have us buy something for
you."

Orlean swallowed again and started to speak; to say that while her
husband was a heavy land holder, the crops had not been the best the
year before and were not as good this year as he had hoped for. Then she
thought Jean could explain this better, also, instead she said:

"I--I haven't wanted for anything, papa."

"No, perhaps not. But you know papa always thinks of his baby; always
buys her little things and so on, you know." He paused, regarded her and
the dress she wore. He recognized it as one that she had bought just
before she had gotten married--forgetting that Jean Baptiste had paid
for it--and said:

"And you have on the same dress you wore away from Chicago! Indeed, and
that is a spring dress! Why do you not wear some of your summer dresses?
Some you have bought since you have been married?"

"I haven't bought--my husband hasn't--I haven't needed any more clothes,
really," she argued falteringly. He saw that she was keeping something
back, and pursued:

"Why, dear, what do you mean! You don't mean to say that Jean hasn't
bought you any dresses since he married you, and him owning so much
land!"

"But I haven't needed any, papa--I have not asked him for any." He
looked at her keenly. He saw that she was shielding the man she married,
but with this he had no patience.

"Now, now, my dear. Jean ought not to treat my girl like that. He ought
to buy you lots of things, and pretty things. I'm rather inclined to
think he is miserly--have rather felt he was all the time." He paused
briefly, posed in the way he did when preaching, and then went on. "Yes,
you are sacrificing a great deal by coming away out here in a new
country and living with him. Yes, yes, my dear. You see you are deprived
of many conveniences; conveniences that you have been accustomed to." He
looked around the little house; at its floor with only rugs, and its
simple furniture. "Just compare this to the home you came out of. The
good home. Yes, yes. I'm afraid that--that the rough life your husband
has been living rather makes him forget the conventions my daughter has
been accustomed to. Yes, I think so. I'm afraid I'll have to kind
of--a--bring such to his attention that he might see his duty. Yes, my
dear--"

"But, papa! I--I--think you had--better not. You see--" and she caught
his arm and was thoughtful, looking downward in the meantime. She loved
Jean Baptiste, but she was not a strong willed person by nature,
training or disposition. She had inherited her mother's timidness. At
heart she meant well to the man she married, but she had always been
obedient to her father; had never sauced him and had never crossed him,
which was his boast. Perhaps it was because of these things and that he
knew it, that his nature asserted itself.

"I'm afraid you, like any newly married wife, are inclined to forget
these things, rather accept your husband's excuse. Now your husband has
a plenty, and can well afford to give to you. And, besides, you--he
should not forget the sacrifices you are making for him. That is what he
should see. Yes, yes. Now take Ethel," he suddenly turned to her. "Why,
Glavis only makes thirteen dollars a week, and--why, Ethel makes him do
just what she wants him to. Buys her a dress any time she wants it; a
hat, a pair of shoes--and whatever she wishes. That's Ethel," he ended,
forgetting to add that Glavis also bought and paid for the food Mrs.
McCarthy ate, or that he, himself only brought--and never bought things
to eat only when he came into Chicago, three or five times a year--and
sent a few things infrequently. But Orlean had taken a little courage.
It was rather unusual, and she was surprised at herself. She was
surprised that she dared even argue--just a little--with her father. He
had always been accepted as infallible without question. To get along
with him--have peace, her mother and she had always followed the rule of
letting everything be his way, and be content with their own private
opinion without expression as to conclusions. Moreover, whether he was
right or wrong, abused or accused, the rule was to praise and flatter
him notwithstanding. And at such times they could depend on him to do
much for them. But she found her voice. Jean Baptiste was her husband,
and she was not ungrateful. He gave her real love and husbandry, and it
was perhaps her woman's nature to speak in defense of her mate. So she
said:

"But Jean is not like Glavis, papa. They are two different men
entirely."

"Well, yes, my dear," he said slowly, his dark face taking on a
peculiar--and not very pleasant expression, "I'm afraid I will have to
agree with you. Yes. They are different. Glavis is a fine boy, though.
Don't own a thousand acres of land, but certainly takes care of home
like a man. No, no. I never have to worry about anything. Just come home
every few months to see that everything is all right--and find it so.
Yes, that is Glavis. While Jean," and his mind went quickly back to an
incident that had happened twenty-one years before, "is rather set in
his ways. Yes, very much so, I fear. That is one of his failings. Some
people would call it hard headed, but I should not quite call it that.
No. Then, again," he paused a moment, looked at the floor and looked up.
"He's crazy to get rich. You see, dear--of course you don't know that.
Not old enough. That's where your father has the advantage over you--and
Jean also. He's older. It's bad when a man is ambitious to get rich, for
he is liable to work himself and his wife to death. Jean's liable to do
that with you. Not like your old father, you know."

"Here he comes now," she cried excitedly, going quickly to the kitchen
and making a fire and starting the meal. Her father looked after her. He
looked out the window to where his son-in-law was unhitching his horses.
He looked back to where his daughter was working nervously over the
stove, and muttered to himself. "Has her trained to run like something
frightened at his approach. That's the same spirit I tried to conquer
twenty-one years ago and it is still in him. M-m. I'll have to look
after that disposition." And with that he went outside to where his
daughter's husband worked.

"Hello, Reverend," called Jean cheerfully. The "Reverend" darkened and
glowered unseen. He did not like that term of address. Glavis called him
"father." That was better. But he returned apparently as cheerful:

"Hello, my boy. So you are home to dinner?"

"Yes. Guess it's ready. She is very prompt about having my meals on
time. Yes. Orlean is a good girl, and appreciates that I believe in
always being on time," he rattled off.

"And how are the crops?"

"Not so good, not so good, I regret to say," said Jean moodily. "No; to
be truthful, it is the poorest crop I have ever raised. Yes," he mused
as if to himself. "And I need a good crop this year worse than I have
ever needed one. Yes, I sure do.

"Indeed so. Got lots of expense. Borrowed ten thousand dollars to buy
that land out there in Tripp County, and have none of it producing
anything. And on top of that a guy comes along and slaps a contest on
Orlean's place, and so I have that on my hands in addition to all the
other burdens. So, believe me, it keeps me hopping."

"A contest on Orlean's place? What does that mean?"

"Does that mean! But of course you couldn't understand," whereat,
Baptiste tried to explain to him what it meant.

"So you see you find us with our troubles." The Reverend made no reply
to this. Indeed, he had never been able to reply to Jean Baptiste. In
the first place, the man was ever too hurried; moreover, he understood
so little regarding practical business matters until their relations had
never been congenial. When Jean had watered and fed his teams he came
back to where the Elder stood and said:

"Well, Judge, we'll go in to dinner." Now the Reverend was almost upset.
Such flat expressions! Such a little regard for his caste. Horrid! He
started to speak to him regarding his lack of manners, but that one had
his face in the tub where the horses had drank, washing himself eagerly.
When he was through, he drew water from the well, and pouring it into a
wash basin rinsed himself, and called for the towel. No sooner had he
done so than out of the house came Orlean with the goods.

"Wash up," cried Baptiste, pointing to the horse tub.

"Jean!" called his wife remonstratingly. "You forget yourself. Asking
papa to wash where the horses have drank! You must be more thoughtful!"

Baptiste laughed. "Beg pardon, Colonel. You see this open life has made
me--er--rather informal. But you'll get used to and like it with time.
Wash up and let's eat!"

"He's wild, just wild!" muttered the Reverend, as he followed them into
the house.




CHAPTER XIII

THE WOLF


"Now, Elder," said Baptiste, getting up from the table without going
through the usual formalities of resting a few minutes after the meal.
"I've bought a building in town that I'm going to move onto Orlean's
place. I'm preparing to jack it up and load it, so if you would like to
come along, very well, we'll be glad to have you. But it's rather a
rough, hard task, I'll admit."

"Now, now, son," started the Reverend, holding back his exasperation
with difficulty. His son-in-law had never addressed him more than once
by the same name. It was either Colonel, Judge, Reverend, Elder, or some
other burlesque title in the sense used. He wanted to tell him that he
should call him father, but before he had a chance to do so, that worthy
had bounced out of the room and was heard from the barn. The Reverend
looked after him with a glare.

"Dreadful!" he exclaimed when the other was out of hearing distance.

"What, papa?" inquired his daughter, regarding him questioningly. She
had become accustomed to Jean's ways and did not understand her father's
exclamation.

"Why, the man! Your husband!"

"Jean?"

"Such rough ways!"

"Oh," she exclaimed. "That's his way. He has always lived alone, you
know. And is so ambitious. Is really compelled to hurry a little because
he has so much to do."

"Well, I never saw the like. I'm afraid he and Ethel would never get
along very well. No, he--is rather unusual."

"Oh, father. You must pay no attention to that! Jean is a fine fellow, a
likeable man, and is loved by every one who knows him," she argued,
trying to discourage her father's mood to complain. She had never been
able to bring her father and husband very close. Perhaps it was because
of their being so far apart in all that made them; but she was aware
that Jean had never flattered her father, and that was very grave! No
relation had ever risked that. Her father was accustomed to being
flattered by everybody who was an intimate of the family, and Jean
Baptiste had come into the family, married her, and apparently forgot to
tell the Reverend that he was a great man. Moreover, from what she knew
of her husband, he was not likely to do so. Her mother had tried to have
Baptiste see it, she recalled, her little mother of whom Baptiste was
very fond of. As has been stated it was generally known that her father
was not very kind and patient, with her mother, and never had been.

It was, moreover, no secret that her father was unusually friendly with
Mrs. Pruitt. But she was not supposed to let on that she was aware of
such. If she was--and she certainly was--she did not mention the fact.
Jean Baptiste knew of the Reverend's subtle practices, and in his mind
condemned rather than admired him therefor. He knew that the Elder
expected to be praised in spite of all these things. Now what would it
all come to?

This thought was passing through Orlean's mind when she heard her father
again:

"Now, he said something about a contest." She caught her breath quickly,
swallowed, changed color, and then managed, hardly above a whisper, to
say:

"Oh!"

"I don't understand. And he never takes the time to explain anything.
Seems to take for granted that everybody should know, and tries to know
it all himself, and it makes it very awkward," he said complainingly.

"It's all my fault, papa," Orlean admitted falteringly.

"Your fault!" the other exclaimed, not understanding.

"Yes," she breathed with eyes downcast.

"And what do you mean? How can it be your fault when you have sacrificed
the nice home in Chicago for this wilderness?"

"But, papa," she faltered. "You have never been West before. You--you
don't understand!"

"Don't understand!" cried the Reverend, anger and impatience evident.
"What is there to understand about this wilderness?"

"Oh, papa," she cried, now beseechingly. "You--" she halted and
swallowed what she had started to say. And what she had started to say
was, that if he kept on like he had started, he would make it very
difficult for her to be loyal to her husband and obedient to him as she
had always been; as she was trying to be. Perhaps it was becoming
difficult for her already. Subservience to her father, who insisted upon
it, and obedience and loyalty to her husband who had a right and
naturally expected it. It was difficult, and she was a weak willed
person. Already her courage was failing her and she was beginning to
sigh.

"It is very hard on my daughter, I fear," said the Elder, his face now
full of emotion and self pity. "I worked all my life to raise my two
darlings, and it grieves me to see one of them being ground down by a
man."

"Oh, father, my husband is not cruel to me. He has never said an unkind
word. He is just as good to me as a man can be--and I love him." This
would have been sufficient to have satisfied and pacified any man, even
one so unscrupulous. But it happens that in our story we have met one
who is considerably different from the ordinary man. The substance of N.
Justine McCarthy's vanity had never been fully estimated--not even by
himself. Orlean did not recall then, that since she had been married she
had not written her father and repeated what a great man he was. She
had, on the other hand, written and told him what a great man her
husband was. In her simplicity, she felt it was expected of her to tell
that one or the other was great. But here she had encountered
discouragement. Her husband apparently was considerably opposed to
flattery. And she had difficulty to have him see that it was an evidence
of faith on her part. But her husband had not seen it that way. He had
dismissed it as a waste of time and had gradually used his influence
with her to other ends; to the road they were following; the road to
ultimate success, which could only be achieved by grim, practical
methods. And that was one of his words, practical. But her father was
speaking again.

"Now I wish you would explain how you could be at fault for this contest
upon your place, and why your husband accuses you of such?"

"But Jean does not accuse me of being at fault, father," she defended
weakly. "I accuse myself. And if you will be just a little patient," she
begged almost in tears, "I'll explain." He frowned in his usual way,
while she sighed unheard, and then fell to the task before her.

"It is like this," she began with an effort at self control. "Jean has
not wished to ask me to stay on my claim alone as his sister and
grandmother have done, you see."

"Oh, so he has them living out there alone like cattle, helping him to
get rich!"

"They do not live like cattle, father," she defended in the patient
manner she had been trained to. "They have a horse and buggy that he has
furnished them, and get all their needs at the stores which is charged
to him. They have good neighbors, awfully nice white people--women, too,
who live alone on their claims as his sister and grandmother are doing."

"But they are not like you, daughter. Those are all rough people. You
cannot live like them. You have been accustomed to something."

She sighed unheard again and did not try to explain to his Majesty that
most of the people--women included--were in a majority from the best
homes in the East, as well as families; that many had wealth where she
had none; and that Jean's sister had been graduated from high school and
was very intelligent. It was difficult, and she knew it, to explain
anything to her father; but she would endeavor to tell him of the
contest.

"Well, father, since I was not on my place as I should have been, a man
contested it, and now we must fight it out, Jean says, so that is it."

"M-m-m," sighed that one. "He's going to kill you out here to make him
rich. And then when you are dead and--"

"Please, don't, father," she almost screamed. She knew he was going to
say: "and in your grave, he will marry another woman and bring her in
to enjoy what you have died for." But she could not quite listen to
that. It was not fair. It was not fair to her and it was not fair to
Jean. She was surprised at the way she felt. She forgot also, and for
his benefit, that they had never been very happy at home when he was in
Chicago. They had only pretended to be. It had been because of him being
away all the time and their relation having been confined to letters
that they had been contented. But Orlean had made herself believe for
this occasion that when he came to visit, they were going to have a
really pleasant time. And now so soon she was simply worn out. She had
become more sensitive of her tasks in life than it had occurred to her
she could ever be. For the first time she was getting the idea that,
after all they were burdensome.

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

"HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU OUT HERE TO MAKE HIM RICH, AND THEN WHEN YOU ARE
DEAD AND"--"PLEASE DON'T, FATHER!" SHE ALMOST SCREAMED. SHE KNEW HE WAS
GOING TO SAY: "IN YOUR GRAVE, HE WILL MARRY ANOTHER WOMAN TO ENJOY WHAT
YOU HAVE DIED FOR," BUT SHE COULD NOT QUITE LISTEN TO THAT.]

"Wouldn't you like to go to town, papa?" she cried, trying to be jolly.
"Jean is ready now, and please come along and see the nice little house
he has bought and is going to move on my claim." She was so cheerful, so
anxious to have him enjoy his visit that his vanity for once took a back
seat, and a few minutes later they were driving into Gregory.

As they drove along Baptiste told of what he was doing; discussing at
length the West and what was being done toward its development. When
they arrived in the town they approached the small but well made little
building that he had purchased for $300, and went inside.

"Awfully small, my boy," said the Reverend, as they looked around.

"Of course," admitted Baptiste. "But it is not practical to invest in
big houses in the beginning, you know. We must first build a good big
barn, and that, I cannot even as yet afford."

"Places his horses before his wife, of course," muttered the Reverend,
but obligingly unheard.

"And you say you intend to move it. Where? Not away down on that farm
southeast?" he said, standing outside and looking up at the building.

"Oh, no," Baptiste returned shortly. "Onto Orlean's place, west of
here."

"Oh. How far is that?"

"Not so far. About fifty miles."

"Good lord!" And the Reverend could say no more.




CHAPTER XIV

THE CONTEST


Moving a building fifty miles across even a prairie is not an easy task,
and before Jean Baptiste reached his wife's homestead with the building
he had purchased, he had suffered much grief. And with the Reverend
along, ever ready to keep their minds alive to the fact, it was made no
easier. But because he was so chronic, he was left to grumble while his
son-in-law labored almost to distraction into getting the building to
the place before he would be compelled to turn back and face the contest
which was scheduled for an early hearing. They succeeded in getting it
within twenty miles of the claim when they were compelled to abandon the
task for the time and return to Gregory to fight the contest.

This developed at times into a rather heated argument, and a prolonged
one that tried the patience of all, dragging over a period of three
days. It became obvious during the proceedings that the contestant and
his cohorts desired as much as possible to keep away from Baptiste and
on the other hand to concentrate their cross-fire upon his wife. But,
expecting this, they found him on his guard, countering them at every
angle, and, assisted by an able land attorney, he was successful in
upsetting in a large way, their many, subtle and well laid plans,
causing them to fail in making the showing they had expected to.

To begin with their corroborating witness, James J. Spaight, developed
before the close to more definitely corroborate for the defense. He had
come to the trial with false testimony prepared, and had, under a
fusillade of cross-examinations, broken down and impaired and weakened
the prosecution. In all such cases the one contesting is placed at a
moral disadvantage, and the fact that Crook was a banker, fully able to
have purchased relinquishment as others over all the county had done,
was ever in the witness' mind, and did not help his case. Baptiste's
wife proved much stronger after the first day. This was due largely to
the fact that her father had been present on the first day, and had kept
her so much alive to what she was sacrificing in struggling to assist
her husband in his ambition to be rich, until she was perceptibly weak.
The time limit on his ticket having about expired he had been compelled
to return to Chicago the morning of the second day of the trial.

It was the consensus of opinion that she would retain her claim, though
with so many cases to consider, it was obvious that it would take many
months, and possibly a year to get a hearing--that is, before the
officers of the local land offices could settle the case.

This done, Jean Baptiste returned and completed moving the house on the
claim, fixed it up, dug a well, fenced in a small pasture and returned
to gather his corn which amounted to about half a crop.

So time passed and the holidays approached and another phase in their
relations took shape when the Reverend insisted that they come to
Chicago to spend the holidays. It was very annoying. Orlean was
expecting to become a mother in the early spring, and because they had
never informed him of the fact, it brought considerable embarrassment to
all.

It was difficult to explain to his Majesty that they would not come
into the city for the holidays. The Elder had insisted that he would
send them tickets, and because Jean Baptiste had scoffed at the idea,
trouble was brewing as a result. It was then he lost his patience.

"Can your father not understand, Orlean," he complained, with a deep
frown, "that I cannot accept his charity? Because I have made up my mind
not to go to Chicago, does not mean that I am not able to purchase our
transportations there and back. It's the expense of the trip and what
goes with it that has caused me to decide to dispense with it. But it's
almost useless to try to reason anything with him, and I'll not waste
the effort." Whereupon he would say no more.

He was having troubles of his own. He owed ten thousand dollars, and
upon this, interest accrued every few months, and the rate was high.
Besides, he had other pressing bills, and the grain he had raised was
bringing very low prices. Therefore, he was in no mood to dally with a
poverty poor preacher whose offer was more to show himself off and place
Baptiste in a compromising position, than his desire for them to be
home. He made no effort to appreciate the sentiments or to understand
Jean Baptiste. And the fact that his daughter loved her husband and was
willing to help him seemed to be lost sight of by N. Justine McCarthy.
Being accustomed to having people flatter him as a rule, was so engraved
in his shallow nature, that he was unable to see matters from a liberal
point of view.

Their relations reached a climax when Orlean was with his sister on the
claim a few days before the Yuletide. Baptiste received a letter
addressed to her from the Elder. Thinking that, since she was on the
claim, it might be something urgent, he opened it. It _was_ urgent. It
contained a money order covering the price of a ticket to Chicago with
a trite note that he expected her soon, and that he, her husband, could
come on later.

We shall not attempt to describe the anger that came over Jean Baptiste
then. And, as is most likely the case when a man is angry, he does the
thing he most likely would not do when his feelings are under control.
With hands that trembled with anger, he turned the note over, wrote in a
few words that he had defined his position with regards to coming to
Chicago; that he would be obliged if the other would mind his own
business; that he had married his wife and was trying to be a husband in
every way to her; but that he was running his house, and was therefore
returning the money therewith.

It served as a declaration of the war between the two that had been
impending for months. We are too well acquainted with their regard for
each other, so upon this we will not dwell; but upon receipt of
Baptiste's letter, the Reverend sang his anger in a letter that fairly
scorched the envelope in which it was enclosed. He threatened to turn
the world over, and set it right again if the other did not do thus and
so. To the threats, Baptiste made no reply. In a measure he was
relieved; he had at last made his position clear to the other, and his
wife, of course, was with him in the controversy. In view therefore, of
the manner in which she had been trained, this made matters rather
awkward. The yield of crops had not been one half the average, and it
took almost all he had made to pay the interest, taxes and expenses.
Baptiste was not cheerful; but Orlean was to become a mother, and he was
a practical man. So together they passed a happy Xmas after all. In fact
the only cloud upon their horizon of happiness was her father.

Evidently he voiced what he had done to near friends, and they had not
endorsed his action. Orlean was the wife of Jean Baptiste and if he
expected her to stay with him, it was their affair, even if the Reverend
had only intended to help. Attempting to force charity on others is not
always sensible, so the Elder wrote later that it was "up to them," and
if they had agreed to stay in the West Xmas, it was alright with him.

This was very considerate of him--apparently, after all the noise he had
made, and Orlean was much relieved, and loved her father still. Her
husband was also relieved, and forgot the matter for the time. But did
the Reverend?

Well, that was not his nature. He never forgot things he should forget.
Oh, no! He had not been a hypocrite forty years for nothing! In the
meantime, the Xmas passed as it has for more than nineteen hundred
years, winter set in, and the spring was approaching when the
catastrophe occurred.




CHAPTER XV

COMPROMISED


"Please don't go, Jean," she begged. "I don't want you to go. Stay with
me."

"Now, Orlean," he said gently. "I have such a lot of work to do. I will
go, tear down some of the old buildings on the homestead and be back
before many days."

She cried for a time while he held her in his arms. Crying was nothing
new with her. As the time for her delivery drew near, she was given to
such spells. He was patient. After a few moments she dried her eyes and
said:

"Well, dear, you can go. But hurry back. I want you to be home then, you
understand."

"Of course I want to be home then, wifey, and sure want it to be a boy."

"It _will_ be a boy, Jean," she said with a strange confidence. "I
believe it. I am sure it will."

"I shall love you always then, my wife. All our cares and burdens will
vanish into the air, and we shall be as happy as the angels."

"Oh, Jean, you can make life seem so light."

"Life should be made to appear light, sweetheart," he said, caressing
her. "Grandmother will be here with you and if you need for anything,
draw a check and have the neighbors below bring it out. It is only three
miles over the hill to Carter, you understand."

"By the way, dear," she said suddenly, going into the bedroom, and
returning presently with a letter. "This is from mama. She writes that
they have never told papa yet, and hopes that nothing serious will
happen for then she would never--we would never be forgiven by him."

"Dear Little Mother Mary," he said fondly. "I hope nothing will happen,
Orlean, for our sakes." And then he paused. He had started to say that
he was not worried about her father's forgiveness. He had lost what
little patience he had ever had with that one, and did not propose to be
annoyed with his love, the love that he had to be continually making
excuses and apologies to entertain. But before he had spoken he thought
better of it, and decided to say nothing about it. His wife had been
trained to regard her father as a king, and because he had succeeded in
letting her see that after all he was just a <DW64> preacher with the
most that went with <DW64> preachers in him, she had at last ceased to
bore him with telling him how great her father was.

They were at her claim, and he was about to depart for his original
homestead to clean up work preparatory to moving onto her claim
permanently as he had intended to do. Already his wagons with horses
hitched thereto stood near, and he was only lingering for a few parting
words with her.

"I am kind of sorry we placed mother in this position," he heard her say
as if talking more to herself than he.

"In what position, Orlean?"

"In keeping this a secret."

"From your father, you mean?" said he, frowning.

"Yes."

"Well, Orlean, I have tried to be a husband to you."

"And you have been, Jean."

"Then it is our business if I chose to keep such a secret."

"Yes, Jean," she said, lowering her eyes and thinking.

"But the one burden of our married life has been your father. I never
anticipated that his love would be such a burden. Ever since we have
been married we have had to waste our substance on fear over what he
will think. He seems to lose sight of a husband's sentiment or right. I
can fancy him in my position with regard to your mother before they had
been married long. My God, if any father or mother would have ventured
any suggestion as to how they should live or what they should do I can
see him!"

His wife laughed.

"Have I spoken rightly?"

"Yes," she agreed and was momentarily amused.

"Yes. But he just makes our life a burden with his kind of love. Now
take this matter for instance. Why should we be keeping this a secret
from him--rather, why should I? It's just simply because I have too much
other cares to be annoyed with a whole lot of to-do on his part. If he
knew you were going to become a mother, he would just make our life
unbearable with his insistences and love. Your mother knows it, and
Ethel. Ethel who would have had you dispose of that innocent, knows it
and keeps it from him, with fear all the while of what will come of it,
should anything happen.

"Now, I'll say this much. I don't propose to make any excuses to him
about anything I do or have you do hereafter. I'm going to be husband
and master, and have nothing to do with what he does with regard to your
mother. As long as I am good and kind to you, and don't neglect you,
then I have a right, and positively will not be annoyed even by your
father!"

"Please hush, Jean," she begged, her arms about him. But he was aroused.
He had made himself forget as he should have forgotten the punishment
he had been given twenty-two years before. But he did not like the man's
conduct. Everywhere and with everybody back in Illinois who knew N.
Justine McCarthy, he was regarded as an acknowledged rascal.

"Just look how he treats your mother!" She pulled at him and tried to
still his voice; but speak he would. "If I was ever guilty of treating
you as your father has treated your mother ever since he married her, I
hope the Christ will sink my soul into the bottom-most pit of hell!"

"Jean, my God, please hush!"

"But I speak the truth and you know it. Would you like to look forward
and feel that you had to go through all your life what your mother has
endured?"

"Oh, no, no, no! But you must hush, Jean, in heaven's name, hush." He
did then. The storm that had come over him had spent its force and he
kissed her, turned then, went to where his teams stood, got into the
front wagon, and looking back, drove upon his way.

"Poor Jean," murmured Orlean. "Father and he will never be friends and
it makes it so hard for me." She continued to stand where he left her,
looking after him until he had disappeared over the hills to the east.

Arriving at Gregory late that afternoon, Jean found a Lyceum concert,
the number consisting of <DW64>s, one of whom, a girl, he had known some
years before, for she had lived next door to where he then roomed.

He attended and afterward renewed their acquaintance. It so happened
that a lumber company was going out of business in the next town east
from Gregory, and some coal sheds there were for sale. Desiring
something of the kind to use as a granary on his wife's claim, Baptiste
journeyed hither the following day to look the same over. Now it also
happened that the same concerters were billed for the same town for an
evening performance of that day. The day after being Sunday, and the
company laying over until Monday, the days were passed together, with
Baptiste scheduled to go out to his old place Sunday night.

It was a cheer to revive old acquaintances; to talk of Chicago and olden
days with those who still lived there. It was a cheer to all, but Jean
Baptiste had cause to regret it as we shall later see. In the meantime,
he went to his old place as per schedule, returning to the little town
the following morning, where he purchased a hundred foot shed and
prepared to move it to his wife's claim forthwith.

A few miles only had been traversed before an intermittent thaw set in,
the soft uncertain surface of the earth making it hazardous to pull a
heavy load over. So when he reached his old place, he decided to leave
it there, tear down his old granary and haul the lumber instead.

While in this act, his sister, who had been on a visit to Kansas,
returned, and worried with regards to his wife, alone with his grandma
out on the homestead, he hurried her therewith at once. The next day he
was relieved to receive a letter from Orlean, advising that she was
well, but to come home as soon as possible.

A week had passed and Saturday was upon him again before he was ready to
make a start. Now there often comes in the springtime in the West,
severe winds that may blow unchecked for days. And one came up just as
Jean Baptiste had set out, and blew a terrific gale. It almost upset his
wagons, and made driving very difficult. This was augmented further,
because the wind was right in his face, and there was no way to avoid
it. However, he finally reached a town about eleven miles west of
Dallas, by the name of Colome that day. The next morning the wind had
gone down and the day was beautiful, and he was cheered to think he
could reach home that day, by getting started early. But bad luck was
with Jean Baptiste that day, which was Sunday, and when he was going
down a hill, the wagon struck a rocky place, bounced, and the right
front wheel rolled out ahead of him. The axle had broken, and his load
went down with a crash.

He went to a house he saw near, secured a wagon, and there met a man who
had known his father, and had lived and run a newspaper in the same town
near where he was born twenty-six years before. He wasted hours getting
his load transferred to another wagon, and finally got started again.
But not two miles had been covered before the coupling pole snapped, and
his loads almost went down again. What trick of fate was playing him, he
wondered, and swore viciously. Hours it took before the break was
repaired, and he pulled into Winner, eighteen miles from home, late that
night.

Early morning found him, however, resolutely on the way. He had covered
about half the distance when he met a man who lived neighbor to him on
his wife's claim, who told him he had tried to get him on the 'phone
Saturday, at Gregory and again at Dallas; that his wife had given birth
to a baby which had come into the world dead, on a Saturday.

He almost tumbled from the wagon when he heard this. "Dead!" he
repeated. Finally he heard himself speaking, and in a voice that seemed
to come from far away:

"Ah--well--did my wife have--attention?"

"Oh, yes," said the other. "Your sister, and two doctors. Yes, she had
all the attention necessary. But I'm sorry for you, old man. It was sure
a big, fine kid. She couldn't give it birth, so they had to kill it in
order to save her life."

He started to resume his journey East, while Baptiste, now with unstrung
nerves, started to resume his way West. But before his horses had gone
many steps he suddenly drew them down to a halt, and, turning, heard the
other call out: "I went to Carter and sent her father a telegram as per
a request of hers. I suppose it was all right," and continued on his
way.

"To him!" cried Baptiste inaudibly. "_To_ him!" he repeated. "To him no
doubt, that the baby--which he had not known was to be, had come
and--dead!"

Mechanically he drove upon his way. He did not think, he did not speak.
He said nothing for a long, long time; but down in his heart _Jean
Baptiste knew that he was coming nearer to the parting of the ways_.

Back in old Illinois N. Justine McCarthy, upon receiving the telegram,
he realized would in all probability depart at the earliest convenience
for the West. And when he arrived, would learn still more than the
message had told; would learn that he had been absent when his wife had
given birth to the dead baby. Oh, his child, why could it not have
lived.... Yes, she had had all the attention that was possible; but such
would not be credited by N. Justine McCarthy. The fact that not every
man had found it possible to be present at the bedside of their wives
when children came, would not be considered by N. Justine McCarthy. _The
fact that he himself had been absent when his own Orlean came into the
world_ would be no counter here. Jean Baptiste's absence at the critical
time would serve as an excuse for the Reverend to vent his spite, and he
would demand a toll. Jean Baptiste was compromised, and would have to
make a sacrifice....




CHAPTER XVI

THE EVIL GENIUS


"Oh, Jean," breathed Orlean, from the bed, "where have you been?"

He had come unto the house then, and the man in him was much downcast.
He was, and had cause to feel discouraged, sorrowful and sad. So he
explained to the one who lay upon the bed where he had been, and what
had happened to him, and why he had been delayed.

She sighed when he was through and was sorry. For a long time he was on
his knees at the bedside, and when an hour had passed, she reached and
placed her arm about his neck, and was thankful that he was spared to
her, and they would live on hopeful; but both felt their loss deeply.

"I sent papa a telegram," she said presently. Because he knew he made no
answer. He knew the other would come, and he was resigned as to what
would follow. She sighed again. Perhaps it was because she knew and also
feared what was to follow.... She had not known her father her lifetime
without knowing what must happen. But she loved her husband, and now in
the weak state the delivery had left her she was struggling to withstand
the subtle attack her father was sure to make.

Two days passed, and she was progressing toward health as well as could
be expected. Since her marriage her health on the whole had improved
wonderfully. The petty aches and pains of which she complained formerly
had gradually disappeared, and the western air had brought health and
vigor to her.

And then on the third day he arrived. Moreover, he brought Ethel with
him. They rode over the hill that led to the claim in a hired rig, and
Baptiste espied them as soon as they were in sight.

Our pen cannot describe what Jean Baptiste read in the eyes of N.J.
McCarthy when he alighted from the buggy and went into the house. But
suffice to say, that what had passed twenty-two years before had come
back. There was to be war between them and as it had been then Baptiste
was at a disadvantage, and must necessarily accept the inevitable.

Ethel was crying, and her tears meant more than words. She had never
cried for love. It had always been something to the contrary. But we
must turn to the one in bed--and helpless!

She saw her father when he stepped from the buggy, and understood what
he carried behind his masklike face. He did not allow his eyes to rest
on Jean Baptiste, and she noted this. She settled back upon the pillow,
and tried to compose herself for the event that was to be. Her husband
was compromised, and could not defend himself.... Therefore it fell upon
her and from the sick bed to defend him.

He was inside the house now, and came toward her, and she was frightened
when he was near and saw his face and what it held. Hatred within was
there and she shuddered audibly. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Oh,
the agony that came over her. She opened her eyes when his lips touched
hers, and then began the struggle that was to be hers.

"Papa," she whispered, and in her voice there was a great appeal. "Don't
blame Jean. Jean has burdens, he has responsibilities--he's all tied
up! He's good to me, he loves me, he gives me all he has." But before
she had finished, she knew that her appeal had fallen upon deaf ears.
Her father had come--and he had brought a purpose to be fulfilled.

He caressed her; he said many foolish things, and she pretended to
believe him; she made as if his coming had meant the saving of her life;
but she knew behind all he pretended was the evil, the evil that was his
nature, and the fear that filled her breast made her weaker; made her
sick.

The doctor had said that she would be able to leave the bed in ten days,
probably a week; but now with grim realization of what was before her
she became weak, weaker, weakest. And all the time she saw that it was
being charged to Jean Baptiste, and to his neglect.

We should perhaps try to make clear at this point in this story that
Jean Baptiste could have settled matters in a very simple manner....
True, the manner in which he could have settled it, would be the manner
in which wars could be avoided--by sacrificing principle. He could have
gone to his Majesty and played a traitor to his nature by pretending to
believe the Elder had been right and justified in everything; whereas,
he, Jean Baptiste, had been as duly wrong. He could have acted in such a
manner as to have his Majesty feel that he was a great man, that he had
been honored by even knowing him, much less in being privileged to marry
his daughter. This, in view of the fact that having been absent from her
bedside at that crucial time, he was compromised, would have satisfied
the Elder, and Baptiste would not have been compelled to forego all that
later came to pass in their relations. _But Jean Baptiste had a
principle, and was not a liar, nor a coward, nor a thief._ And,
although, he had been so unfortunate as not to have been by the bedside
of his wife during that hour, he could have sentimentally appeased his
father-in-law, but Jean Baptiste had not nor will he ever in the
development of this story, sink so low. Of what was to come--and the
most is--in this story, Jean Baptiste at no time sacrificed his manhood
for any cause.

N. Justine McCarthy, and this is true of too many of his race and to
this cause may be attributed many of their failures, was not a reader.
He never read anything but the newspapers briefly and the Bible a
little. He was, therefore, not an informed man. As a result he took
little interest in, and appreciated less, what the world is thinking and
doing. He had never understood because he had not tried, what the people
around where Jean Baptiste had come were doing for posterity. Yet he
claimed very loudly to be an apostle of the race--to be willing--and
was--sacrificing his very soul for the cause of Ethiopia. He took great
pride in telling and retelling how he had sacrificed for his
family--wife included. As he was heard by others, he had no faults;
could do no wrong, and would surely reach heaven in the end!

So while they lingered at the bedside of Orlean, he and Ethel, as a
pastime argued with each other, and involved everybody but themselves
with wrongs. For instance, the Reverend, affecting much piety, would in
discussing his wife, whom he ever did in terms regarding her faults,
find occasion to remark in a burst of self pity--and of self pity he had
an abundant supply:

"After all I have done for that woman; after all I have sacrificed for
her; after all the patience I have endured while she has held me
down--kept me from being what I would have been and should, she is ever
bursting out with: 'You're the meanest man in the world! You're the
meanest man in the world!'" Whereupon he would affect a look of deep
self pity and eternal mortification.

Unless we lengthen the story unnecessarily, we would not have the space
to relate all he said in reference to his son-in-law in subtle ways
during these days. But Jean Baptiste was too busy building a barn and
other buildings to listen to these compliments the Elder was bestowing
upon his wife with regard to him. "Yes, my dear," he said time and
again, "If Jean was like your father, you would not be here now with
your child lying dead in the grave. No, no. You would be in the best
hospital in Chicago, with nurses and attendants all about you and your
darling baby at your side," and, so saying, he would affect another sigh
of self pity.

At first she had struggled to protest, but after a few days she gave up
entirely and became resigned to the inevitable. She received an
occasional diversion, however, when the Elder and Ethel entered into a
controversy. Unlike Orlean, Ethel was not afraid of her father,
especially when he had something to say about Glavis. The truth was,
that while he so pretended, N.J. McCarthy had no more love for Glavis
than he had for Baptiste; but he could tolerate Glavis because Glavis
endeavored to satisfy his vanity. Baptiste, on the other hand, while he
now accepted all his father-in-law chose to pour upon him in the way of
rebuke for what he had done and should not have, and what he had not
done and should have, he never told the Elder that he was a great man.

The first few days the Elder had held the usual prayer; but after some
days he dispensed with this, and turned all his energy to rebuking Jean
Baptiste, when he was out of sight.

"Now, don't you talk about Glavis," cried Ethel one day when his
Majesty had tired of abusing Baptiste and sought a diversion by
remarking that Glavis had come from a stumpy farm in the woodlands of
Tennessee. "No, you don't! Glavis is my husband and you can't abuse him
to his back like you are doing Baptiste!"

"Just listen how she treats her father, Orlean," cried the Elder,
overcome with self pity. Orlean then rebuked Ethel and chided her
father. But the part which escaped her, was that Ethel defended her
mate, while Orlean suffered to have hers rebuked at will. The greatest
reason why Ethel and her father could not agree, as was well known, was
that they were too much alike.

When Jean Baptiste had completed his barn, and his wife was out of
danger, according to the doctor--but would never be according to the
Elder--who insisted that the only cure would be for her to return to
Chicago with them,--he was ready to go to work. His wife wanted to go to
Chicago, for what the Reverend had done to her in the days he had sat by
her and professed his great love, would have made her wish to go
anywhere to appease him for even a day.

"Now, after the expense we have been to," said Baptiste, "I hardly know
whether I can let you go to Chicago or not."

The Elder sighed, and said to her low enough for her husband's ears not
to hear: "Just listen to that. After all I have done! Then I will have
to pay your way to Chicago where I shall endeavor to save your life,
your dear life which this man is trying to grind out of you to get
rich."

"But I'll think it over," said Baptiste. "We have lots of work this
summer, and will try to get caught up," and the next moment he was gone.

"Did you hear that, daughter?" said the Reverend, now aloud, when the
other's back was turned. "Oh, it's awful, the man you have married! Just
crazy, crazy to get rich! And puts you after his work; after his horses;
after his everything! And after all your poor old father has done for
you," whereupon he let escape another sigh, and fell into tears of self
pity.

Orlean stroked his head and swallowed what she would have offered in
defense of the man she had married. It was useless to offer defense, he
had broken this down long since.

"Yes, he is wanting to kill, to kill my poor daughter after all she has
sacrificed," he sobbed, "and when you are dead and in your grave like
your baby is out in this wild country," his voice was breaking now with
sobs, "he will up and marry another woman to enjoy the fruits of your
sacrifice!" He was lost in his own tears then, and could say no more.

"Now, dear," she suddenly heard her husband, and looked up to find that
he had returned. He stooped and kissed her fondly, and then went on: "I
am going up to my sister's homestead to start the men to work with the
engine breaking the land and I must haul them the coal, which I will get
at Colome. Now I will not be back for several days, but will make up my
mind in the meantime as to whether I can let you go to Chicago or not."

"All right, dear," she said, raising from the bed and caressing him long
and lingeringly. She could not understand how much she wanted him then,
it seemed that she could hold him so forever. She kissed him again and
again, and as he passed out of the room she looked after him long and
lingeringly, and upon her face was a heavenly smile as he passed out of
sight and disappeared over the hill. As he did so, the Elder got from
his position at the other side of the bed, went to the door, and also
watched him out sight. As he turned away, Baptiste's grandmother who had
fed many a preacher back there in old Illinois, the Reverend included,
started. She had seen his face, and what she had seen therein had
frightened her. When he went back into the room and to the bed where
Orlean lay, she dropped by the table and buried her face in her old arms
and sobbed, long and silently. And a close observer could have heard
these shaken words:

"Poor Jean, poor Jean, poor Orlean, oh, poor Orlean! You made all the
fight you could but you were weak. You were doomed before you started,
for he knew you and knew you were weak. But would to God that the world
could end today, for it will end tomorrow for you two. Poor Orlean, poor
Jean!"




CHAPTER XVII

THE COWARD


"Hello, Jean," cried a friend of his at Colome some days later, as he
was leading his horses into the livery barn, after loading the coal he
was hauling to the men who were breaking prairie on his sister's claim
with a steam tractor. "Were those your folks I seen driving into town a
while ago?"

"My folks?"

"Yeh. Three of them. A man and two women. One of the ladies appears to
be sick."

"Oh," he echoed, and before he could or would have answered in his
sudden surprise, the other passed on. It was some moments before he
recovered from the shock the other's words had given him. He knew
without stopping to think that the ones referred to were the Reverend,
Ethel and his wife. He had written his wife a few days before that he
would be home the following Sunday, and when he would be caught up in
his hauling sufficiently and could spend a few days there.

"So he moves without my consent or bid," he breathed, and for a time he
was listless from the feeling that overcame him. He attended to his
horses, mechanically, had supper and went to verify what he had heard.

He had little difficulty in doing so, for the town was small, but that
night, happened to be full of people, and the Reverend had found some
difficulty in securing lodging. The day had not been a beautiful one by
any means. It was in early April and the month had borrowed one of the
dreary days of the previous month. Light snow had fallen, which, along
toward evening had turned into a dismal sleet. A bad day to say the
least, to be out, and a sick person of all things!

He went directly to the preacher when he saw him. He was aroused, and
the insults he had suffered did not make him pleasant.

"Now, look here, Reverend McCarthy," he said and his tone revealed his
feelings, "what kind of a 'stunt' are you pulling off with my wife?" And
he blocked his way where they stood upon the sidewalk.

"Now, now, my son--"

"Oh, don't 'son' me," said the other impatiently. "You and I might as
well come to an understanding right here tonight as any other time. We
are not friends and you know it. We have never since we have known each
other been in accord--not since we met--yes, twenty-two years ago. Oh,
you remember it." The other started guiltily when Jean referred to his
youth.

"You remember how my mother licked me for letting Miss Self help me upon
her lap and fed me, thereby disturbing your illegitimate flirtation...."
The other's pious face darkened. But it was not his nature to meet and
argue openly as men should and do. Always his counter was subtle. So
while Jean Baptiste was in the mood to come to an understanding, to
admit frankly to the other, that enemies they were, the Elder permitted
a womanish smile to spread over his face and patted the other on the
back, saying:

"Now, now, Jean. You are my daughter's husband, and it is no time or
place to carry on like this. The girl lays sick over here and if you
would be a husband you would go to her. Now let's dispense with such
things as you refer to and go forth to the indisposed." He appeared
more godly now than he had ever. Distrust was in the face of Baptiste.
He knew the preacher was not sincere, but his wife, the girl he had
married, lay ill. He suspicioned that the Elder had intended stealing
her away without his knowledge; he knew, moreover, that all his affected
tenderness was subtle; but he hushed the harsh words that were on his
tongue to say and followed the other.

"Yes, my children," his pious face almost unable to veil the evil behind
the mask, "here we are together," he said when he entered the room
followed by Baptiste. Orlean was in bed and made no effort to greet her
husband; while Ethel sat sulkily in a chair nearby and kept her mouth
closed. Jean went to the bed and sat by his wife and regarded her
meditatively. She did not seem to recognize him, and he made no effort
to arouse her to express her thoughts which seemed to come and go. He
was lost in thoughts, strange and sinister. Verily his life was in a
turmoil. The life he had come into through his marriage had revived so
many old and unpleasant memories that he had forgotten, until he was in
a sort of daze. He had virtually run away from those parts wherein he
had first seen the light of day, to escape the effect of dull indolence;
the penurious evil that seemed to have gripped the populace, especially
a great portion of his race. In the years Jean Baptiste had spent in the
West, he had been able to follow, unhampered, his convictions. But now,
the Reverend's presence seemed to have brought all this back.

In a conversation one day with that other he had occasion to mention the
late James J. Hill, in his eulogy of the northwest and was surprised to
find--and have the Reverend admit--that he had never even heard of him.
Indeed, what the Elder knew about the big things in life would have
filled a very small book. But when it came to the virtues of the women
in the churches over which he presided, he knew everything. And whenever
they had become agreeable in any way, it was sure to end with the
Reverend relating incidents regarding the social and moral conduct of
the women in the churches over which he presided. Moreover, the Elder
sought in his subtle manner, to dig into the past life of members of
Baptiste's family, of what any had committed that could be used as a
measure for gossip. And this night, as they sat over Jean's wife whose
sentiment and convictions had been crushed, the Elder attempted to dwell
on the subject again.

"Yes, when your older sister taught in Murphysboro, and got herself
talked about because she drew a revolver on Professor Alexander, that
was certainly too bad."

"Looks as if she was able to take care of herself," suggested Baptiste,
deciding to counter the old rascal at his own game.

"But that's what I'm trying to show you, and you could see it if you
wasn't inclined to be so hard headed," argued the Elder.

"We'll leave personalities out of it, if you please," said Baptiste,
coloring.

"Oh, but if your sister had had protection, such a deplorable incident
would not have happened. Now, for instance," argued the Elder, "my girls
have never had their good names embarrassed with such incidents."

"Oh, they haven't," cried Baptiste, all patience gone.

"Then what about their half brother in East St. Louis, eh? And the other
one who died--was stabbed to death. Those were yours, and you were never
married to their mother!"

The other's face became terrible. The expression upon his face was
dreadful to behold. He started to rise, but Baptiste was not through.
He was thoroughly aroused now, and all he had stood from this arch
sinner had come back to him. Therefore, before the other could deny or
do anything, said he:

"Oh, you needn't try to become so upset over it. Your morals are common
knowledge to all the people of Illinois, and elsewhere. And let me tell
you, you can--as you have--in your family, force those who know it and
condemn it to keep quiet by making yourself so disagreeable that they
will honey you up to get along with you. But it is not because they, or
all those who know you, are not aware of it! That's your reputation, and
some day you are going to suffer for it. You deliberately make people
miserable to satisfy your infernal vanity; your desire to be looked upon
and called great. Now right here you are bent upon crucifying your own
daughter's happiness just because I haven't tickled your rotten vanity,
and lied." He arose now, and pointed a threatening finger at the other.

"You are out to injure me, and you are taking advantage of your own
child's position as my wife to do so. I'm going to let you go ahead.
Orlean's a good girl, but she's weak like the mother that you have
abused for thirty years! But remember this, N.J. McCarthy, and I've
called you Reverend for the last time. The evil that you do unto others
will some day be done unto you and will drag your ornery heart in its
own blood. Mark my words!" And the next instant he was gone.

The other looked after him uneasily. The truth had come so forcibly, so
impulsively, so abruptly, that it had for the time overcome his
cunningness; but only for a moment after the other had disappeared was
he so. He regained his usual composure soon enough, and he turned to
the sick woman for succor--to her whom he was dragging down to the
gutter of misery for his own self aggrandizement.

"Did you hear how he abused your father?" he cried, the tears from his
piggish eyes falling on her cheeks. She reached and stroked his white
hair, and mumbled weak words.

"Oh, I never thought I would come to this--be brought to this through
the daughter that I have loved so much. Oh, poor me, your poor old
father," whereupon he wept bitterly.

"You see, you see," cried Ethel, who had risen and stood over her,
pointing her finger to Orlean as she lay upon the bed. "This is what
comes of marrying that man! I tried, oh, I tried so hard to have you see
that no good could come of it, no good at all!" The other sighed. She
was too weak from mortification to reply in the affirmative, or the
negative.

"I tried, and I tried to have you desist, but you would! When I had at
last gotten you to quit him, and you swore you had, no sooner did he
come and place his arm about you and whisper fool things in your ear,
than did you but up and consent to this. This, this, do you hear? This
that has brought your poor father to that!" and she stopped to point to
where that one lay stretched across the bed, sobbing.

The night was one long, miserable, quarrelsome night. Ethel and the
Elder wore themselves out abusing Baptiste, and along toward morning all
fell into a troubled sleep.

Baptiste met them the next morning as they came from the rooms, and
helped his wife across the street to a restaurant. When they had
finished the meal, he said to her as they came from the restaurant,

"Now, dear, I'll step into the bank here and get you some money--"

"No, no, no, Jean," she said quickly, cutting him off before he
completed what he had started to say.

"Well," and he started toward the bank again as if he had not understood
her.

"No, no, no, Jean," she repeated, and caught his arm nervously. "No,
don't!"

"But you are going away, dear, and will surely need money?" he insisted.

"Yes, but--Jean--Jean--I have money."

"You have money?" repeated the other uncomprehendingly. "But how came
you with money? That much money?"

"I--I had--a--check cashed. That is--papa had one cashed for me."

"Oh, so that was it. M-m. _Your father_ had it cashed for you?" he
understood then, and his suspicion that the Elder had intended taking
her to Chicago without letting him know it was confirmed. They walked
down the street toward the depot, and while she held nervously to his
arm, his mind was concerned with his thoughts. It occurred to him that
he should take his wife back to the claim right then. He felt that if
she went to Chicago there would be trouble. He began slowly to
appreciate that in dealing with Reverend McCarthy he was not dealing
with a man; nor a near man. He was not dealing with a mere liar, or a
thief, even--he was dealing with the lowest of all reptiles, a snake!
Then why did not he, Jean Baptiste, act?

Perhaps if he had, we should never have had this story to tell. Jean
Baptiste did not act. He decided to let her go. Beyond that he had no
decision. It seemed that his mind would not work beyond the immediate
present. Soon she heard him, as she clung to his arm, allowing her body
to rest against his shoulder:

"How much for, Orlean?"

"Two--two--hundred dollars."

"Why--two hundred dollars!" he cried. "Why, Orlean, what has come over
you?" She burst into tears then, and clung appealingly to him. And in
that moment she was again his God-given mate.

"Besides," he went on, "I haven't such an amount in the bank, even." He
looked up. A half a block in their lead walked Reverend McCarthy,
carrying the luggage.

"Papa, p-a-pa!" called Orlean at the top of her voice. "Pa-p-a," she
called again and again until she fell into a fit of coughing. He halted,
and was uneasy, Baptiste could see. They came up to him. Orlean was
running despite her husband's effort to hold her back.

"Papa, papa! My God, give Jean back that money. Give it back, I say! Oh,
I didn't want to do this, oh, I didn't want to! It was you who had me
sign that check, you, you, you!" She was overcome then, and fell into a
swoon in her husband's arms. He stood firmly, bravely, then like the
Rock of Gibraltar. His face was very hard, it was very firm. His eyes
spoke. It told the one before him the truth, the truth that was.

And as the other ran his hand to his inside vest pocket and drew forth
the money, he kept saying in a low, cowardly voice:

"_It was her, it was her. She did it, she did it!_"

Baptiste took the money. He looked at it. He took fifty dollars from it
and handed the amount to the other. He spoke then, in a voice that was
singularly dry:

"I will not keep her from going. She can go; but you know I ought not
let her."

They carried her to where the cars stood, and made her comfortable when
once inside. She opened her eyes when he was about to leave upon
hearing the conductor's call. She looked up into his eyes. He bent and
kissed her. She looked after him as he turned, and called: "Jean!"

"Yes, Orlean!"

"Goodby!"

He stood on the platform of the small western station as the train
pulled down the track. A few moments later it disappeared from view, and
she was gone.




EPOCH THE THIRD




EPOCH THE THIRD




CHAPTER I

CHICAGO--THE BOOMERANG


The Reverend McCarthy had scored. He had succeeded in separating his
daughter from the man she married. The fact that there was positively no
misunderstanding between the two, was not seen or considered by him.
Jean Baptiste had opposed him, and that was enough. He hated any member
of his household, or any one related to the one of his household who
dared disagree with him. Of course his "Majesty" did not see it that
way. He saw himself as the most saintly man in the world and sympathized
with himself accordingly. No man thought himself more unjustly abused
than did N. Justine McCarthy.

But there were other things to complete. He had not wilfully
participated in what had just passed--in fact, he had not meant to part
the couple at all. He prided himself with having some judgment. He was
merely undertaking that which in a way had grown common to him--the task
of getting even.

Now he had estimated that he knew Jean Baptiste, although studying
characters and their natural tendencies had not been a part of his theme
in life. He felt albeit, that he had this one's tender spot clearly
before him. To begin with: he put himself right with his own conscience
by believing that Baptiste was a vain, selfish character, bent on one
purpose--getting rich! He concluded--because he wished to--that
Baptiste did not, and had never, loved Orlean. The fact that Orlean had
not said anything to the contrary did not matter. He was her father, and
therefore predicated and privileged to think and act for her. That was
why he had always been of so much service, such fatherly help. He was
protecting his daughter from the cruelty of men. But how he had planned
it all!

"Now that hard-headed rascal," meaning of course his son-in-law, "is not
going to lay down. Oh, no! My poor girl has that claim. He does not want
her, but he does want the claim. To hold the claim, he must have her,
and have her back on the claim. He's all war now; but when he realizes
that to lose her is to lose the claim into the bargain--oh, well, I'll
just set right down at home here and wait. Yes, I'll wait. He'll be
coming along. And when he appears here, then I'll bend his ornery will
into the right way of seeing things." So thereupon he took up his vigil,
waiting for Jean Baptiste to put in his appearance.

But for some reason the other had not hastened to Chicago as soon as the
Elder had anticipated he would. Three weeks had been consumed in the
trip West, so he was somewhat behind in his church work. While it was
true that ministers in some of the towns in his itinerary collected from
the members at the quarterly conference and sent the money to him; on
the other hand if he expected to get what was due him in any great
measure, it was highly necessary that he be there in person.
Accordingly, the time he spent in Chicago, waiting for the coming of his
son-in-law that he might have the satisfaction of bending the other to
his will began to grow long and irksome.

Moreover, if he sat at home, he was obliged to meet and greet the many
visitors who called to see his sick daughter. More largely of course for
the purpose of securing information for gossip, but compelling him
therefore to make or offer some explanation. And here arose another
phase of the case that was not pleasant. Following Jean Baptiste's
marriage to Orlean, and after the Reverend had paid them his first
visit, he had said a great deal in praise of his "rich" son-in-law. That
he was so extremely vain, was why he had done this. It had tickled his
vanity to have the people see his daughter marry so well, since it was
well known about Chicago that Jean Baptiste was very successful. When
the Elder had boasted to the people he met of the "rich" man his
daughter had married, he wrote telling the young couple of it. To be
referred to as "rich" he conjectured, should have flattered any man's
vanity--it would have his--and he estimated that he was doing Baptiste a
great favor when he let him know that he, the Elder, was advertising him
as rich.

But the same had brought no response from that one. He had been too busy
to take any interest in being praised. And even after the Elder had made
his first visit, and returned and told of the wonders his daughter had
married into, he still hoped this would soften Baptiste's disposition
into praising and fawning upon him. It was not until Baptiste had
returned the money he had sent his daughter for railway fare the Xmas
before that the Reverend had thrown down the gauntlet and declared war.
So the very thing he had played up a few months before, came back now to
annoy him. Because he had never lived as he should have it was proving a
boomerang. He had made a practice of pretending not to hear what was
being said about him by others. But he could not seal his ears to the
fact that the people were asking themselves and everybody else what had
happened to his daughter, or between his daughter and the "rich"
son-in-law. This was very uncomfortable, it was very annoying. It was
reported that he was compelled to go out West and get her, and it was
exasperating to explain all without making it seem that what he had said
a few months before was boast, pure and simple.

"Yeh. All you could hear a few months ago, was the 'rich' man Orlean had
married. Yeh. Mr. Mc. would make it his business to get around so you
had to ask 'im about them. Then he'd swell up lak a big frog and tell
all about it. Then of a sudden he jumps up and goes out there and brings
her back. Ump! Now I wonder what is the mattah."

During these times, those of the household had little peace. With
impatience over Baptiste's not showing up so he could read him the riot
act, and his work being neglected; with having to listen to no end of
gossip that his meddling had brought about, he became the most obstinate
problem imaginable about the house. All the love he had pretended for
Orlean while on the claim, was now changed to severe chastisement. He no
longer fondled and wasted hours over her. She had no longer the
convenient check book. The fact that she had to have a little medicine,
and that she also had to have other necessities; that she had to
eat--and the most of this he was forced to provide, made him so
irritable, that those near prayed for the day when he would leave. But
if Jean Baptiste would only come so that he could say to him what he had
planned to say. Just to have the opportunity to bend that stubborn
will--that would be sufficient to repay him for all he was now actually
sacrificing.

As for "Little Mother Mary" these were the darkest days of her never
happy married life. Of all the men she had met or known, she had truly
admired and loved Jean Baptiste more than any other. In truth it was her
disposition to be frank, kind and truthful. She dearly loved her
son-in-law for his manly frank and kind disposition. She trusted him,
and, knowing that Orlean was of her disposition, weak and subservient to
the will of those near, she had been relieved to feel that she had
married the kind of man that would be patient and love a person with
such a disposition.

She had been sincere in her praise of him to her many friends. She had
told of him to everybody she knew or met. So much so indeed, that the
Reverend on his last trip West in his daily rebuke, then had said: "And
Mary has just sickened me with telling everybody she meets about Jean."
Ethel had joined with him in this. The truth was that when her mother
had sung her praise to the people regarding Jean Baptiste, there was
nothing left to say about Glavis, but more especially about the Elder.

What the Reverend was forced to endure at this time, he promptly of
course charged to the indiscretions of Jean Baptiste. If he had not done
this, or if he had done that, the Elder would not have been forced to
endure such annoyance. If he would only show up with his practical ideas
in Chicago! Every morning when the door bell rang, he listened eagerly
for the voice of his son-in-law. He watched the mail, and in assorting
the letters, looked anxiously for the Western postmark. But a week
passed, and no letter and no Jean Baptiste. Then at the end of two
weeks, the same prevailed. And at the end of three weeks, he knew he
would have to go to work or reckon with the bishop.

So on Tuesday of the following week, the Elder left for his work, and
that same afternoon, Jean Baptiste arrived in Chicago.




CHAPTER II

THE GREAT QUESTION


The days that followed after the Elder had taken his wife away, were
unhappy days for Jean Baptiste. In his life there were certain things he
had held sacred. Chief among these was the marriage vow. While a strong
willed, obviously firm sort of person, he was by nature sentimental. He
had among his sentiments been an enemy of divorces. Nothing to him was
so distasteful as the theory of divorce. He had always conjectured that
if a man did not drink, or gamble, or beat his wife there could be no
great cause for divorce; whereas, with the woman, if she was not guilty
of infidelity a man could find no just cause, on the whole, to ask for a
divorce. But whatever the cause be--even a just cause--he disliked the
divorcing habit. He persisted in believing that if two people whose
lives were linked together would get right down to a careful
understanding and an appreciation of each other's sentiments, or points
of view, they could find it possible to live together and be happy.

Fancy therefore, how this man must have felt when he arrived at the
little house upon the wife's claim and found his grandmother alone. They
had taken his wife and all her belongings. He lived in a sort of
quandary in the days that followed. His very existence became
mechanical. And one day while in this unhappy state, he chanced to find
a little sun bonnet that they had evidently overlooked. She had bought
it the summer before, and it was too small. But he recalled now that he
had thought that it made her look very sweet. How much the bonnet meant
to him now! He placed it carefully away, and when he was alone in the
house in after days with only her memory as a companion he would get and
bring it forth, gaze at it long and tenderly. It seemed to bring back
the summer before when he had been hopeful and happy and gay. It brought
him more clearly to realize and appreciate what marriage really meant
and the sacred vow. And during these hours he would imagine he could see
her again; that she was near and from under the little bonnet that was
too small he communed with her and he would thereupon hold a mythical
conversation, with her as the listener.

Was it all because Jean Baptiste loved his wife? What is there between
love and duty? It had never been as much a question with Jean Baptiste
as to how much he loved her as it was a question of duty. She was his
wife by the decree of God and the law of the land. Whatever he had been,
or might have been to others, therefore had gone completely out of his
mind when he had taken her to him as wife. And now that she was away, to
his mind first came the question, _why_ was she away?

Yes, that was the great question. _Why was she away?_

Oh, the agony this question gave the man of our story.

Not one serious quarrel had they ever had. Not once had he spoken
harshly to her, nor had she been cross with him. Not once had the
thought entered his mind that they would part; that they could part;
that they would ever wish to part. In the beginning, true, there had
been some little difficulties before they had become adjusted to each
other's ways. But that had taken only a few months, after which they had
gradually become devoted to each other. And so their lives had become.
Out there in the "hollow of God's hand," their lives had become
assimilated, they had looked forward to the future when there would be
the little ones, enlarging their lives and duties.

And yet, why was his wife in Chicago without even a letter from her to
him; or one from him to her? Why, why, _why_?

N. Justine McCarthy!

Oh, the hatred that began to grow--spread and take roots in the breast
of this man of the prairie toward the man who had wilfully and
deliberately wronged him, wrecked that which was most sacred to him. The
days came and went, but that evil, twisting, warping hatred remained; it
grew, it continued to grow until his very existence became a burden and
a misery. No days were happy days to him. From the moment he awakened in
the morning until he was lost in slumbers in the evening, Jean Baptiste
knew no peace. While that perpetrator of his unhappiness waited
impatiently in Chicago with plans to grind and humiliate him further,
this man began to formulate plans also. With all the bitter hatred in
his soul against the cause of his unhappiness, his plans were not the
plans of "getting even," but merely to see his wife where no subtle
influences could hamper her or warp her convictions and reason. He knew
that to write to her would be but to prove useless. The letters would be
examined and criticized by those around her. He knew that sending her
money would be only regarded as an evidence of weakening on his part,
and if he was to deal, weakness must have no place. So as to how he
might see his wife, and give her an opportunity to appreciate duty,
became his daily determination.

The great steam tractor, breaking prairie on his sister's homestead was
diligently at its task, and while it turned over from twenty to thirty
acres of wild sod each day, it also ate coal like a locomotive. So to
it he was kept busy hauling coal over the thirty-five miles from Colome.
On the land he was having broken (for he had teams breaking prairie in
addition to the tractor) he had arranged to sow flaxseed. For two years
preceding this date, crops had been perceptibly shorter, due to drought.
Therefore seeds of all kind had attained a much higher price than
previously. Flaxseed that he had raised and sold thousands of bushels of
in years gone by for one dollar a bushel he was now compelled to pay the
sum of $3.00 a bushel therefor.

So with a steam tractor hired at an average cost of $60 a day; with
extra men in addition to be boarded; and with hauling the coal for the
tractor himself such a distance and other expenses, Jean Baptiste,
unlike his august-father-in-law, had little time or patience to sit
around consuming his time and substance perpetrating a game of spite.

But he was positive that he would needs lose his mental balance unless
he journey to Chicago and see his wife. Alone she would have time, he
conjectured to think, to see and to realize just what she was doing. Why
should they be separated? Positively there was nothing and never had
been anything amiss between them, was what passed daily through his
mind. Well, he decided that he would go to her as soon as he had
arranged matters so he could. He was peeved when he recalled that the
spring before he had been forced to make a trip to that same city that
could as well have been avoided. But when anything had to be done, Jean
Baptiste usually went after it and was through. In business where he was
pitted against men, this was not difficult, and instead of disliking to
face such music, he rather relished the zest it gave him. But when a man
is dealing with a snake--for nothing else can a man who would sacrifice
his own blood to vanity be likened to, it must be admitted that the
task worried Jean Baptiste. If N. Justine McCarthy had been a reader,
an observer, and a judge of mankind as well as a student of human nature
and its vicissitudes he could have realized that murder was not short
for such actions as he was perpetrating. But here again Jean Baptiste
was too busy. He had no time to waste in jail--for even if killing the
man who had done him such an injury be justified he realized that
justice in such cases works slowly. But it would be vain and untruthful
to say that with the bitterness in his heart, Jean Baptiste did not
reach a point in his mind where he could have slain in cold blood the
man with whom he was dealing.

At last came the time when he could be spared from his farm, and to
Chicago he journeyed. Positively this was one trip to that city that
gave him no joy. He estimated before reaching there, that he should best
not call up the house, but bide his time and try to meet his wife
elsewhere. But when he arrived in the city, and not being a coward, he
dismissed this idea and went directly to the house in Vernon Avenue.

He was met at the door by "Little Mother Mary," who did not greet him as
she might have, but for certain reasons. The most she could do even to
live in the same atmosphere with her husband was to pretend to act in
accordance with his sentiments. Baptiste followed her back to the rear
room where she took a seat and he sat down beside her. She had uttered
no word of greeting, but he came directly to the point. "Where is
Orlean?"

"She's out."

"Out where?"

"She just walked out into the street."

"How is she?"

"Better than when she came home," meaningly.

"When she was _brought_ home," he corrected.

"Well?"

"But I am not here to argue whereof. I am here to see her."

"But she's out."

"However, she'll return, I hope. If not, then, where might I find her?"

"She'll return presently."

He was silent for a time while she regarded him nervously, listening in
the meantime as if expecting some one. She was afraid. Her husband had
left the city only that morning; but behind him he had left an
escutcheon who could--and was, as capable of making matters as
disagreeable. It was Ethel, and Mrs. McCarthy was aware that that one
was upstairs. The household had been conducted according to the desires
and dictates of the Elder. Wherefore she was uneasy. Baptiste observed
her now, and made mental note as to the cause of the expression of
uneasiness upon her face.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

She did not reply, but sighed.

"What's the matter, Mother Mary?" he asked kindly. Her love and
admiration asserted itself momentarily in the look with which she
replied to him. How in that moment she wanted to tell him all, and to be
to him as she had always wanted to be. But only a moment was she so,
then that look of hunted fear overspread her face again, and she turned
uneasily toward the stairs.

"Won't you tell me what the matter is, mother?" she heard him again. For
answer the quick glance over her shoulder was sufficient. It was as if
to say. "Hush! Enemies are near!" He then estimated that the Elder had
gone to the southern part of the state, but Ethel must be near, and it
was Ethel whom the mother feared. He understood then, that the Reverend
had a cunning way of having Ethel do his bidding. Because she was
possessed of his evil disposition, he could trust her to carry out
anything on this order--that is, providing she disliked the person in
question, and that was usually the case, for, like him, there were few
people whom she really liked.

"What have you been doing to my child?" he heard from Mother Mary,
presently. He studied her face again and saw that she was trying to
reckon with him herself, although he knew that it mattered little what
she thought or did on the whole.

"Has she told you what I have been doing to her?" he said. She shifted
uncomfortably, looked around a little, listened for a sound that she
expected to hear sooner or later, and then replied, and in doing so, he
saw that she was again subservient to the old training.

"My husband told me," she countered.

"Oh," he echoed.

"You have not acted with discretion," she said again, and he understood
her. Acting with "discretion" would been never to have given the
Reverend an excuse for making that trip....

"I have been good to your daughter; a husband to the best of my
ability."

"But you--you--should not have blundered." Again he was reminded of what
it meant to displease or give her husband any excuse.

"I did not agree in this room a year ago to be regardful of the opinion
of others," he defended. "I agreed to the word of the law and of God. I
have tried to fulfill that word. I did not intend to be absent when the
child came." She shifted again uneasily, and her mind went back to the
day Orlean was born and that her husband, too, had been away....

"If I can see Orlean that will be sufficient," he said.

"She went to walk."

"Mother?"

She regarded him again, and then turned her eyes away for she could not
stand to look long into his. The truth there would upset her and she
knew it.

"Why must this be so?" She shifted uneasily again. Oh, if she could only
be brave. If she could only dare--but she was not brave, Orlean was not
brave. They had lived their lives too long subservient to the will of
others to attempt bravery now. She rested her eyes on some sewing she
pretended to do and waited. It could only be for a little while. Ethel
must learn sooner or later of his presence, and then--! There would be a
scene or he must go.

"It's a shame," said the other.

"You should have been careful," she returned meaningly. But in her mind
was still the dream. If she could be brave....

"Mother!" called some one sharply. Jean recognized the voice, the
command. The other's face went pale for a moment, while her eyes closed.
He understood. The worst had come. In the minutes they had been sitting
there, she had almost dared hope that Orlean would return, and that in
some way--perhaps it would have to come from heaven--they could fly. But
chances now were gone. His cohort had appeared. "Who is it out there?"
she asked, and came toward where they sat. She saw him then, and
regarded him coldly. Through her mind shot the fact that her father had
waited three weeks for him, and had just left that morning. Her
disappointment was keen. For a moment she was frightened. In truth she
held a fearsome admiration for the man, and then she stiffened. She had
come back to herself; to the fact that she had a reputation for being
disagreeable. She turned to him, and said:

"What are you doing here?"

He answered her not. Her mother was trembling.

"Get out of this house!" she commanded, getting control of herself.

Baptiste was in a quandary. He recalled how he had seen her make her
husband jump as if trying to get out of his skin when she was in her
evil spasms.

"Did you hear!" she almost screamed.

"I am waiting for my wife," he replied then calmly.

"She is my sister!" she screamed again.

"I suppose I am aware of that."

"Then you cannot have her!"

"She is mine already."

"You're a liar!" she yelled, crying now, and her evil little face
screwed up horribly in her anger. Mrs. McCarthy was trembling as if a
chill had come over her. Ethel suddenly flew to the 'phone. She got a
number, and he heard her scream:

"Glavis! Glav--is.... That man is here!... Glav--is!... That man is
here!..." He could understand no more, then, but saw that she was
frantic. He finally heard Mother Mary.

"You're wanted at the 'phone," she said, tremblingly. He got up and went
to it. Ethel was dancing about the room like a demon.

"Hello!" he called.

"Hello!" came back. "Ah--ha--who--who--who is th-is?" the other
sputtered, all excitement.

"Baptiste," replied the other, wondering at his excitement.

"Wh--at a--re yo--u do-i-ng a--t m-y h-o-u-s-e?"

"Oh, say," called back Baptiste. "There's nobody dead out here. Now calm
yourself and say what you want to. I'm listening."

"We--ll," said the other, a little better controlled. "I ask what you
are doing at my house?"

"Your house!" echoed Baptiste, uncomprehendingly. "Why, I do not
understand you."

"I want to know what you are doing at my house after what you said about
me!"

"At your house after what I said about you!" Baptiste repeated.

"Yes. You said I was 'nothing but a thirteen dollars a week jockey,' and
all that." Baptiste was thoughtful. He had never said anything about
Glavis--and then he understood. Some more of the Elder's work.

"Now, Glavis, I do not understand what you mean when you say what I said
about you; but as for my being here, that is distinctly no wish of mine.
But you know my wife is here, and it is her I am here to see. No other."

"But I want to see you downtown--you come down here!"

Baptiste was thoughtful. He knew that he could exert no influence over
Orlean when she did return with Ethel acting as she was, so he might as
well be downtown for the present as elsewhere. So he answered:

"Well, alright."

Ethel slammed and locked the door behind him, and he walked over to
Cottage Grove Avenue and boarded a car.




CHAPTER III

GLAVIS MAKES A PROMISE


Glavis tried to appear very serious when Baptiste called at where he
worked an hour later, but it was beyond him to be so. It was said that
he was in the habit of trying to appear like the Reverend, but since the
pretended seriousness of that one had never affected Jean Baptiste,
Glavis' affectation had still less effect.

"Well, Glavis," he began pointedly. "I'm here as per your suggestion,
and since it is quite plain what the matter is, we may as well come
directly to the point."

"Well, yes, Baptiste, I guess I may as well agree with you," replied
Glavis.

"Then, to begin with. That remark you made over the 'phone regarding
what I had said about you, let me say is a falsehood pure and simple.
What I said or would say to your back I will say to your face."

"Well, Baptiste," he replied quickly, and his expression confirmed the
words that followed, "I believe you."

"I have no occasion to lie. It is very plain that our father-in-law and
I are not in accord, and while it may be nothing to you perhaps, I do
not hesitate to say that there is nothing wrong between Orlean and
me--and never has been. It is all between her father and me, and he is
using her as the means."

"Well, that is rather direct," suggested Glavis.

"Evidently so; but it's the truth and you know it. It is simply a case
which you are supposed not to see all sides of."

"Now, Baptiste," defended Glavis, "I am no party to your wife's being
here in Chicago."

"And I agree with you," returned Baptiste. "It is not your nature to
make trouble between people, Glavis. I'll do you that honor. People are
inclined to follow their natural bent, and yours, I repeat, is not to
cause others misery. Therefore, you can rest assured that I do not mean
to involve you in any of my troubles."

"That is sure manly in you, Baptiste," Glavis said heartily.

"But it is a fact, I venture, that you have been advised that I spoke
ill of you--at least, I spoke disparagingly of you while your folks were
in the West. Am I speaking correctly?"

"I'll have to admit that you are," and he scowled a little.

"Do you believe these statements?"

The other scowled again, but didn't have the courage to say that he
did--or, perhaps to lie. He knew why he had been told what he had. To
unite with the Reverend in his getting even with Baptiste, Glavis had
been told that Baptiste had "run him down."

"Well, Glavis, the fact that my wife is at your home--under your
roof--I, her husband, am therefore placed at a disadvantage thereby. You
cannot help being indirectly implicated in whatever may happen."

"Now, now, Baptiste," the other cried quickly. "I do not want to have
anything to do with you and Orlean's troubles. I--"

"It is _not_ Orlean and my troubles, Glavis. It is her father's and my
troubles."

Glavis shifted uncomfortably. Presently he said hesitatingly:

"The old man just left town this morning. Wished you and he could have
had your outs together."

"Yes, it is too bad we did not. As I see it, I have no business with
him. In him I am not interested, and never have been. Because I have
held aloof from becoming so is the cause of the trouble. I was told
before I married Orlean, and by her herself, that I should praise her
father; that I should make him think that he was a king, if I would get
along with him. Indeed, I did not, I confess, at the time consider it to
be as grave as that, that I _had_ this to do in order to live with
Orlean."

It was positively uncomfortable to Glavis. He could find no words to
disagree with the other because he knew that he spoke the truth. He knew
that he had catered to the Reverend's vanity to be allowed to pay court
to Ethel before he was married to her; he knew that he had done so
since; and he knew--and did not always like it--that he was still doing
so, and boarding the Reverend's wife into the bargain, and Orlean now
was added thereto. He did not relish the task. He earned only a small
salary that was insufficient for his own and his wife's needs. Up to a
certain point his wife defied her father; but since she was so like him
in disposition, and had been instrumental in assisting to separate
Orlean and her husband, she had not the courage to rebel and compel--at
least insist--that the Reverend take care of his wife and the daughter
he had parted from her husband.

So it was all thrown onto Glavis. He made a few dollars extra each week
by various means, and this helped him a little. In truth, he wished that
Orlean was with her husband, and knowing very well that there was where
she wanted to be, he was inclined for the moment to try to help
Baptiste. Besides, he rather admired the man. Few people could be
oblivious to the personality of Baptiste and be honest with themselves.
Even the Elder had always found it expedient to be disagreeable in
order to dispel the effect of his son-in-law's frank personality.

"The way we are lined up, Glavis, you must appreciate that you cannot
keep out of it. You are aware that I have no wish to hang around your
abode; but I didn't come all the way from the West to fail to see
Orlean. You know full well that Ethel would never let her meet me
elsewhere, that her father has left orders to that effect. Now, what am
I to do? If I call, your wife will make it so disagreeable that nothing
can be accomplished."

"Dammit!" exclaimed Glavis suddenly. "It _isn't_ all my fault or the old
man's or my wife's! It's Orlean's!"

"Well," agreed Baptiste, thoughtfully, "on the whole, that is so."

"Of course it is! If Orlean was a woman she would be right out there
with you now where she belongs!"

"And I agree with you again, Glavis. But Orlean isn't a woman, and that
is what I have been trying to make her. She has never been a
woman--wasn't reared so to be. By nature she is like her mother, and she
has grown up according to her training."

"She cannot be two things at the same time," Glavis argued, "and that is
a daughter to her father and a wife to you!"

"No, that is where the difficulty lay," said Baptiste. "But her father's
influence over her is great, you will admit. She has been taught to
agree with him, and that--I can never, nor will I try to do."

"It certainly beats hell!"

"It's the most awkward situation I have ever been placed in. But here's
the idea: I took that girl for better or for worse. Now, what am I to
do? Throw up my hands and quit, or try to see Orlean and get her around
to reason? It isn't Orlean. It's her father. So I have concluded to
make some sort of a fight. Life and marriage are too serious just to let
matters go like this."

"Yes, it is," agreed Glavis. "It certainly worries me. And it annoys me
because it is so unnecessary." He was thoughtful and then suddenly he
said:

"I'm sorry you let the old man--er--ah--get you mixed up like this." He
appeared as if he wished to say more. To say that: "For when you let him
get into it, the devil would be to pay! Keep him out of your affairs if
you would live in peace."

"Well," said Baptiste, rising, "your time here belongs to the company
you are working for, and not to me or my troubles. So I'm going to
'beat' it now out to Thirty-first Street."

"Well," returned Glavis, "believe me, Baptiste, I'm sorry for you, and
for Orlean. It's rotten." It was remarkable how he saw what was causing
it; but how he cleverly kept from directly accusing his father-in-law.
"And I'll meet you at Thirty-first Street after supper. At the Keystone,
remember." With that he grasped the other's hand warmly, and as Jean
Baptiste went down the stairway from where Glavis worked, he knew that
he had a friend who at least wanted to help right a most flagrant wrong.
The only question was, would E.M. Glavis have the courage to go through
with it?

Well, Glavis might have the courage--_but Ethel was his wife. And Jean
Baptiste realized that of all things in the world, a woman's influence
is the most subtle._




CHAPTER IV

THE GAMBLER'S STORY


The keystone was the oldest and most elite hostelry for <DW64>s in
Chicago and the West for many years. It is located near Thirty-first and
State Street, in the heart of the black belt of the southside of the
city. It was built previous to the World's Fair and still maintains its
prestige as the most popular hangout for <DW64>s of the more
ostentatious set. And it was here that Jean Baptiste went, following his
departure with Glavis.

When Chicago was a "wide open" town, gambling had been carried on
upstairs as a business. Porters, waiters, barbers and politicians who
held the best jobs had always found their way eventually to the
Keystone. Likewise did the <DW64>s in business and the professions and
workers in all the trades, as well as mail carriers, mail clerks, and
the men of the army and actors. In short the Keystone was the meeting
place for men in nearly all the walks of life.

Always the freest city in the world for the black man, Chicago has the
most <DW64>s in the mail service and the civil service; more <DW64>s
carry clubs as policemen; more can be found in all the departments of
the municipal courts, county commissioners, aldermen, corporation
counsels, game warden assistants, and so on down. Indeed, a <DW64> feels
freer and more hopeful in Chicago than anywhere else in the United
States.

So it was such a crowd that Jean Baptiste encountered at the Keystone
that day. There were two real estate men who had once run on the road
with him and who had since succeeded in business; also there was another
who was a county commissioner; and still another one, an army officer.
So, upon seeing him they did all cry:

"Baptiste! Well, well, of all things! And how do you happen to be down
here in the spring?"

"Oh, a little business," he returned, and joined with the crowd, bought
a drink for them all, and was apparently jolly.

Among the number was a gambler by the name of Speed. He shook the
visitor's hand heartily, and when the visit with the others was over, he
went to a table and, sitting down, beckoned for Baptiste. When the other
responded, he begged him to be seated, and then said:

"Now, I know what you are down here about--heard about it the day he
brought her home." Baptiste regarded him wonderingly. "Yes, I
understand," he said, making himself comfortable as if to tell a long
story. "You are wondering how _I_ come to understand about your
father-in-law, and if you are not in a hurry, I'll tell you a little
story."

"Well," said the other, "let's have a drink before you start."

"I don't care," and he beckoned to the bartender.

"Small bottle, a Schlitz," he said, and turned to Baptiste.

"Make it two," said the other, and turned to hear the story the other
had to tell.

"It happened fifteen years ago," began Speed when their beer had been
served. "I was a preacher then.--Hold on," he broke off at the
expression on Baptiste's face.

"Yes, of course you can hardly believe it; but I was then a preacher. I
was the pastor of the church in a little town, and I won't tell the name
of the town; but it's all the same, I was a preacher and pastor of this
church. I had not been long ordained, and was ambitious to succeed as a
minister. The charge had not been long created, and was, of course, not
much of a place for money. But it so happened that a quarry was opened
about the time I was sent there and it brought some hundred and fifty
<DW64> families to live in the town, and in almost a twinkling, my charge
became from among the poorest, to one of the best from a financial point
of view. The men worked steadily and were paid well, and their families
found quite a bit of work to do among the wealthy whites of the town.

"There were two young ladies living a few doors from where I preached,
girls who made their own living, honestly, nice, clean girls, and I was
much impressed with them. I sought, and finally succeeded in getting
them interested in the church, and later began keeping company with one.
Now here is where your folks come in. The Reverend McCarthy--old Mac, I
called him, was filling the same line he now is, Presiding Elder, and
this church was in his itinerary. I was therefore under his
recommendation. He had been visiting the church regularly, holding his
quarterly conference every three months, and getting his little bit. It
was shortly after I had started going with this young lady that McCarthy
got awful nice and treated me so good until I became suspicious. Then
one day it came out.

"'By the way, Speed,' he said. 'Who're those girls living near the
church?' I knew who he was referring to because I had seen him trying to
smile on them the day before which had been a Sunday. But I pretends I
don't know what or who he's talking about.

"'Who?' I inquired as innocent as a lamb.

"'Oh, those two girls living near the church,' and he called their
names.

"'Why, they are two young ladies who came here not long ago,' I said,
and waited.

"'Is _that_ all?' he asked then, and I looked at him. He grinned, and
said:

"'Aw, come on, Speed! Be a good fellow. Now, _are those girls_
straight?' and he specified the one I had begun going with.

"'Why,' said I, 'Reverend McCarthy, I am surprised at you to ask such a
question, or to offer such an insinuation. Besides,' I went on, 'Why?'

"'Aw, now, Speed,' he laughed easily, his big fat round face shaking.
'Be a _good_ sport and put me onto these girls. Now, I'll tell you what
I want you to do,' he said, drawing his chair close to mine. 'I'll make
it my business to get back over here next Sunday night, and I want you
to "_fix_" it for me with that one, and--' he winked in a way I did not
at the time understand--but I did later--'I'll make it _right_ with you.
You understand,' he said, rising, '_I'll make it right with you_.'

"I was never so put out in my life. Here was this man, a minister of the
Gospel, and a Presiding Elder, who had just deliberately delegated me to
make a _previous_ engagement for him without regard to morals--and with
the girl I loved. I don't think he knew I was paying her court, but the
moral was the same.

"I was outdone! But true to his words, the next Sunday night he was
back!

"'Well, Speed,' he said when the services were over. 'What's the rip?
Everything O.K.?' He was very anxious, and I'll never forget his face.
But, I was afraid of the old rascal, still I hadn't lost my manhood at
that. So I says:

"'Now, Reverend, you place me in a very awkward predicament. To begin
with, I have the highest respect for those young ladies. And, again,
even if I did not, I could not be expected to cohort as you suggested.'

"'Aw, Speed,' he cut in. 'You're no good. Pshaw! I just know the older
of those two girls is not straight--am positive of it. And you could
fix things if you would,' and I detected a touch of angry
disappointment in his tone.

"Well, to get out of it, I told the old rascal what I thought of his
suggestion and left him. I never saw him again until near conference,
and then not to speak with him. I was confident that I had satisfied the
people, and that I would be sent back without any argument.

"So imagine when I went to conference and when the charges were being
read off and I heard the Secretary call 'Reverend Speed to Mitchfield!'
instead of the town from which I had gone.

"I was just sick, man; so sick until I almost dropped dead on the floor!
Oh, the agony it gave me! I finally got outside some way, and stood
leaning against the church. How long I stood thus, I never knew; but the
church let out by and by, while I still stood there--and let me explain.
Mitchfield was a charge that contained exactly a dozen members--the
Reverend McCarthy came out and I looked up straight into his eyes.... I
knew then why I had been sent to Mitchfield instead of back to the
charge I had been at.

"Well, I went to Mitchfield, and by working around town by the day, in
connection with the charge, I managed to make it. Some months later, I
married the girl I have spoken of, and we began to keep house in
Mitchfield.

"It was pretty hard, and sometimes I don't wonder at what later
happened. But to make a long story short, I was compelled to get work in
a near-by town to make a living for me and my wife, and was gone all
the week until Saturday night. At the end of six months, Reverend
McCarthy had taken my wife, and she had left me and was living in St.
Louis!"

Baptiste was regarding him strangely.

"Have you heard the rest of it?" the other paused to ask. "Well,
Reverend McCarthy became the father of her two sons. One was killed some
years ago, the other lives in St. Louis."

"But what--what became of their mother?" Baptiste inquired curiously.

"Her? What becomes of women who are deceived? If you visited St. Louis
and the _district_, you might find her. She was there the last I heard
of her."

"And you?"

"Me?" the other repeated in a strangely hollow voice. "You know what _I_
am. A gambler, and with an old score to settle with that man if I ever
get the chance."




CHAPTER V

THE PREACHER'S EVIL INFLUENCE


With all Ethel's excited ways, she was not to be reckoned a fool when
she had in mind to accomplish some purpose. She understood full well,
that it would be up to her at this time to keep Orlean from returning
West with her husband, unless she recalled her father. This she did not
wish to resort to, until she had exhausted all her force without avail.
She appreciated the fact that Jean Baptiste could and would influence
her husband as well as her mother, while as to Orlean, she would only
need a half a chance to fall away from her influence and go back to her
husband.

So with this in mind, Ethel, who had inherited from her father, much
evil and the faculty of making people miserable began, as soon as
Baptiste had left the house, to formulate plans to counter any effort on
his part to see Orlean.

Her first move, therefore, was to recall Orlean who was visiting near, a
fact which her mother had feared to tell Baptiste. She convinced her
forthwith that she was sick, in danger, and sent her to bed, not telling
her that Baptiste was even in town. She followed this by sending her
mother to the kitchen, and keeping her there.

"Now what I must do--succeed in doing," she muttered to herself, "is to
keep Orlean from seeing or meeting him in private and even in public for
as much as an hour." She realized that keeping a man and wife apart was
a grave task, and that she could not trust to the sympathy of any
friends. But one person could she trust to be an ally in the task she
was trying to accomplish, and that was her father. She rather feared her
husband at this time, for, while she held him under her control at most
all times, he was by disposition inclined to be kind and good. And,
although he was jealous of Baptiste in a measure, this did not reach
proportions where he was likely to be a very ready accomplice with the
plan in hand. Indeed, if it was left to him, Orlean would sleep in her
husband's arms that very night!

"I wish papa had stayed just another day," she grumbled as she walked
the floor and tried to formulate some effective plan of action. "To
think that he left only this morning and that man came this afternoon!"
She was provoked at such a coincidence. She did not like to think too
deeply, or to scheme too long, for it hurt her. So she was compelled to
take a chair for a time and rest her mind. She was not positive how long
Baptiste would stay, and she would have difficulty in keeping her sister
in bed for any length of time. But she decided to keep her in the house
if she had to sit on guard at the front door.

And it was while she was yet undecided upon her plan of action, that
Glavis came home. Once in a great while, when she wanted a change, a
diversion, she would have his supper waiting. Other times it was left to
her mother. He loved her in spite of all her evil, and was always
pleased when she had his supper ready. So when she heard his footsteps
outside, she was suddenly struck with an inspiration. She rushed toward
the rear, and began hurriedly to set the table. Her mother had the meal
ready, so she affected to be very cheerful when Glavis came into the
room, and even kissed him fondly. He was so surprised, that the instance
made him temporarily forget what was on his mind, which was just what
she wished him to do.

"Where is Orlean?" he inquired after a time, whereupon his wife's face
darkened.

"Oh, she's sick, and in bed," replied Ethel guardedly.

Glavis grunted. He was thinking. For a time he forgot all that was
around him; his wife, the supper, his work, all but Jean Baptiste and
the wife that was being harbored under the roof that he kept up. He
suddenly got up. He walked quickly out of the room and hurried upstairs
while his wife's back was turned, and knocked at the door of the room
wherein Orlean was supposed to lay sick.

"Come in," called the other.

"Oh, it's you, Glavis," she cried, dropping back into bed when he
entered the door.

"A--ah--Orlean," he said in his stammering sort of way. "A--ah--how are
you?"

"Why, I feel well, Glavis," she replied wonderingly. She had never felt
just right mentally since before she left the West. And when she allowed
herself to think, she found that it hurt her. She had always been
obedient--her father had told her that time and again, and gave her
great credit for being so. "Think of it, my dear," he had so often said,
"in all your life you have never 'sassed' your father, or contraried
him," whereupon he would look greatly relieved. So her father had laid
down the rule she was following--trying to follow. Her husband must
certainly have been in grave error--not that she had observed it, or
that she had been badly treated by him, for she had not. However,
whenever she tried to see and understand what it all meant, it hurt her.
She was again the victim of those nervous little spells that had
harassed her before she married, but which had strangely left her during
that time. But to do her father's will--for he never bid--always his
was an influence that seemed to need no words--she was trying. So she
looked up at Glavis, and observed something unusual in his face.

"What is the matter, Glavis?" she inquired, sitting up in bed again.
Glavis shifted about uneasily before replying.

"Ah--why--Orlean, it's Baptiste, your husband."

"Jean!" she cried, forgetting everything but her husband--forgetting
that she had allowed herself to be parted from him. "What--what is the
matter with him, Glavis? With Jean? Has something happened? Oh, I'm
always so afraid something will happen to Jean!"

"No, no," exclaimed Glavis, pushing her gently back upon the pillow.
"Nothing has happened. Ah--er--ah--"

"Oh, I'm so relieved," she sighed, as she fell over in the bed.

"He's here--in the city," she heard then from Glavis.

"He is!" she cried, sitting suddenly erect again. For a moment she
hesitated, and then, raising her hand to her forehead as if in great
pain, she groaned perceptibly. The next moment she had again sunk back
upon the pillow, and her breath came hard. Perspiration stood upon her
brow, and he saw it.

"Orlean, oh, Orlean," he cried then upon impulse. "Great God, this is a
shame, a shame before God!" he lamented with great emotion.

Suddenly he rushed to the door and then halted as he heard his wife
calling him from below. He turned to where Orlean lay in the bed, sick
now for true.

"Aren't you coming down to supper, Orlean?" he called.

"No, Glavis. I am not hungry."

"But you should eat something, Orlean."

"No, Glavis," she repeated in a tired voice, a voice in which he
detected a sigh. "I couldn't eat anything--now." He looked at her a
moment with great tenderness, let escape a sigh, and then as if resigned
to the inevitable, he turned and passed down the stairway to where his
wife waited below.

She regarded him keenly, and during the meal, she kept casting furtive
glances in his direction. "I wonder what he's been saying to Orlean?"
she kept muttering to herself. She concluded then, that she would have
to watch him closely. He had never been in accord with her and her
father's plan, and they had borne false witness to influence him against
Baptiste. But he had seen Baptiste she knew, and was also aware of the
fact that Glavis liked both her sister and brother-in-law, and it was
going to be a task to keep him from following his natural inclination.

She thought about her father again, and wished that he was in Chicago.

She had never been delegated to handle such a task alone, and she
disliked the immense responsibility that was now upon her, and no one to
stand with her in the conflict.

"Well, Ethel," Glavis said, arising from the table when the meal was
over, "I'm going to walk out for a while."

She started up quickly. Her lips parted to say that he was going to meet
Baptiste and conspire with him against her father, but she realized that
this would not be expedient. He might revolt. She rather feared this at
times, notwithstanding her influence over him, therefore she decided to
exercise a little diplomacy. Accordingly she sank back into the chair,
and replied:

"Very well, dear."

He regarded her keenly, but she appeared to be innocently completing her
meal. He sighed to think that she did not make herself disagreeable, the
anticipation of which had made him fear and dread the task that was
before him. But now he was compelled to feel a little grateful because
she was apparently very prudent in the matter.

He hurried quickly to the hall tree, slipped into a light overcoat, and
left the house. As he walked down the street, he was in deep thought.




CHAPTER VI

MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK


Jean Baptiste was thoughtful for a long time after the other had left
him. He had heard before he married Orlean that the Reverend was the
father of two illegitimate children, but from Speed's story he had met
the whole of it. Not only was he the father of two illegitimate
children, but he had taken another man's wife to become so--and all this
while he was one of the most influential men in the church!

This fact, however, did not cause Baptiste any wonderment. It was
something he had become accustomed to. It seemed that the church
contained so many of the same kind--from reports,--until it was a common
expectation that a preacher was permitted to do the very worst
things--things that nobody else would have the conscience to do. He
arose presently and going to the bar, ordered another bottle of beer. He
looked around the large room while he drank at the usual class who
frequented the place. He knew that here and there among them were
crooks, thieves, "con" men, gunmen, and gamblers. Many of these men had
perhaps even committed murder--and that for money. Yet there was not one
he was positive, that would deliberately separate a man and his wife for
spite. And that was the crime this preacher father-in-law of his had
committed.

Always in the mind of this man of the prairie this played. It followed
him everywhere; it slept with him, arose with him, and retired with him.
And all through long sleepless nights it flitted about in his dreams
like an eternal spectre, it gave him no peace. Gradually it had brought
him to a feeling that the only justifiable action would be to follow the
beast to his lair and kill him upon sight. Often this occurred to him,
and at such times he allowed his mind to recall murder cases of various
phases, and wondered if such a feeling as he was experiencing, was the
kind men had before committing murder. Then if so, what a relief it must
be to the mind to kill. He had a vision of this arch hypocrite writhing
at his feet, with death in his sinful eyes, and his tongue protruding
from his mouth.

He drank the beer and then ordered liquor. Somehow he wanted to still
that mania that was growing within him. He had struggled for happiness
in the world, for success and contentment, and he did not wish his mind
to dwell on the subject of murder. But he was glad that this man had
left the city. A man might be able to accept a great deal of rebuke, and
endure much; but sometimes the sight of one who has wronged him might
cause him for a moment to forget all his good intentions and manly
resolutions. Yes, he was glad that Reverend McCarthy had left the city,
and he shuddered a little when he recalled with a grimace that he had
traveled these many miles to see and reckon with his wife.

"Well, you are here," he heard then, and turned to greet Glavis.

"Oh, hello, Glavis," he returned with a tired expression about his eyes
from the effect of the strain under which he had been laboring. "Have a
drink."

"An old-time cocktail," Glavis said to the bartender. He then turned to
Baptiste.

"Well, how's everything over home?" said Baptiste, coming directly to
the point.

"Your wife's sick," said Glavis a little awkwardly.

"And I, her husband, cannot call and see her. I'm compelled to hear it
from others and say nothing." He paused and the expression on his face
was unpleasant to behold. Glavis saw it and looked away. He could not
make any answer, and then he heard the other again.

"This is certainly the limit. I married that girl in good faith, and
I'll bet that she has not told you or anybody else that I mistreated
her. But here we are, compelled to be apart, and by whom?" His face was
still unpleasant, and Glavis only mumbled.

"That damn preacher!"

"Oh, Baptiste," cried Glavis, frowningly.

"Yes, I know--I understand your situation, Glavis. But you must
appreciate what it is to be thrown into a mess like this. To have your
home and happiness sacrificed to somebody's vanity. I'm compelled to
stand for all this for the simple crime of not lauding the old man. All
because I didn't tickle his vanity and become the hypocrite he is, for
should I have said what he wanted me to say, then I would have surely
lied. And I hate a liar!"

"But come, Baptiste," argued Glavis, "we want to figure out some way
that you and your wife can get together without all this. Now let's have
another drink and sit down."

"Well, alright," said the other disconsolately, "I feel as if it would
do me good to get drunk tonight and kill somebody,--no, no, Glavis," he
added quickly, "I'm not going to kill anybody. So you needn't think I am
planning anything like that. I'm too busy to go to jail."

"Now, I'm willing to help you in any way I can, Baptiste," began Glavis,
"as long as I can keep my wife out of it. I've got the darndest woman
you ever saw. But she's my wife, and you know a man must try to live
with the one he's married to, and that's why I am willing to help you."

They discussed plans at some length, and finally decided to settle
matters on the morrow.

But when the morrow came, Ethel blocked all the plans. She refused to be
sent away across town and let Baptiste come into the house and see his
wife. She knew what that would mean, so she stood intrenched like the
rock of Gibraltar. Other plans were resorted to, but with the same
result. The days passed and Baptiste became obsessed with worry. He knew
he should be back in the West and to his work; he began to lose patience
with his wife for being so weak. If he could only see her he was certain
that they would come to some agreement. Sunday came and went, and still
he saw her not. Ethel took confidence; she smiled at the success with
which she had blocked all efforts of communication. Baptiste wrote his
wife notes, but these she intercepted and learned his plans. She
convinced her sister that she was sick and should be under the care of a
physician. This reached Baptiste, and he secured one, a brilliant young
man who was making a reputation. He had known him while the other was
attending the Northwestern Medical College, and admired him; but this
too was blocked. For when he knocked at the door with the doctor at his
side, they were forbade admittance. Thereupon Baptiste was embarrassed
and greatly humiliated at the same time.

Ethel had a good laugh over it when they had left and cried: "He had his
nerve, anyhow. Walking up here with a <DW65> doctor, the idea! I wish
papa had been home, he'd have fixed him proper! Papa has never had one
of those in his house, indeed not. No <DW65> doctor has ever attended
any of us, and never will as long as papa has anything to do with it!"

Glavis finally succeeded in getting a hearing. By pleading and begging,
he finally secured Ethel's consent to allow him to bring Baptiste to the
house and sit near his wife for just thirty minutes--but no more. He did
not apprise Baptiste of this fact nor of the time limit, but caught him
by the arm and led him to the house as though he were a privileged
character. He took notice of the clock when he entered, because he knew
that Ethel, who was upstairs had done so. And he was very careful during
the time to keep his eyes upon the clock. He knew that Ethel would
appear at the expiration of thirty minutes and start her
disagreeableness, so at the end of that time he quietly led Baptiste
away after he had been allowed only to look at his wife, who was like a
Sphinx from the careful dressing down she had had before and preparatory
to his coming.

So, having carried out what he considered a bit of diplomacy, Glavis was
relieved. Baptiste could expect no more of him, and so it ended.

Ethel wrote her father a cheerful letter and stated that that
"hardheaded rascal" had been there from the West; but that Orlean had
declined to see him but once, and had refused to go back at all,
whereupon her father smiled satisfactorily.

Jean Baptiste returned to the West, defeated and downcast. He had for
the first time in his life, failed in an undertaking. He had never known
such before, he could not understand. But he was defeated, that was
sure. Perhaps it was because he was not trained to engage in that
particular kind of combat. He had been accustomed to dealing with men in
the open, and was not prepared to counter the cunning and finesse of his
newly acquired adversaries.

Over him it cast a gloom; it cast great, dark shadows, and in the days
that followed the real Jean Baptiste died and another came to live in
his place. And that one was a hollow-cheeked, unhappy, nervous,
apprehensive creature. He regarded life and all that went with it
dubiously; he looked into the elements above him, and said that the
world had reached a time whence it would change. The air would change,
the earth would become hot, and rain would not fall and that drought
would cover all the land, and the settlers would suffer. And so feeling,
it did so become, and in the following chapter our story will deal with
the elements, and with how the world did change, and how drought came,
and what followed.




CHAPTER VII

A GREAT ASTRONOMER


Not long ago a man died who had made astronomy a specific study for
sixty years. He knew the planets, Mars and Jupiter, and Saturn and all
the others. He knew the constellations and the zodiac--in fact he was
familiar with the solar system and all the workings of the universe.
This man had predicted with considerable accuracy what seasons would be
wet, and what seasons would be dry. He also foretold the seasons of
warmth and those of cold. And he had said that about every twenty years,
the world over would be gripped with drought. This drought would begin
in the far north, and would cover the extreme northern portion of the
country the first year. The second year it would reach further south,
and extend over the great central valleys and be most severe near the
northern tier of states. Following, it would go a bit further south the
next year, and so on until it would finally disappear altogether.

So according to this man's prediction, the country of our story would
experience a severe drought soon, preceded by a slight one as a
forerunner. For two years the crops would be inferior but the following
year would see it normal again.

So be it.

It had been dry the year before, and had been just a little bit so the
year before that. We know by the shortage of crops Jean Baptiste had
raised that such had been so. So, with hundreds of acres, and the sun
shining hot, and the wind blowing from the south, it was no surprise
when he became now, an altogether different person. (For you see the
life--that life that makes men strong and fearless and cheerful had gone
from the body of Jean Baptiste.) Then he began to grow uneasy. It is,
perhaps, somewhat difficult to portray a drought and its subsequent
disasters. We beg of you, however, that you go back to the early years
in the peaceful, hopeful, vigorous country of our story: In the years
that had been before when everything had pointed to success. Rainfall
had been abundant; frost had waited until October before it showed his
white coat upon the window sill. Land values had climbed and climbed,
and had gone so high until only the moneyed could even reckon to own
land. And Jean Baptiste controlled a thousand acres.

Over all the country, the pounding of steam and gasoline tractors filled
the air with an incessant drumming; the black streaks everywhere told
the story of conquest. The prairie was giving place to the inevitable
settler, and hope was high in the hearts of all. So the wind had blown
hot many days before the settlers became apprehensive of anything really
serious.

Never since they had come to this country had they experienced such
intense heat; such regular heat; such continued heat. A week passed and
the heat continued. It blew a gale, and then a blast; but always it was
hot, hot, hot!

Two weeks passed, and still it blew. Before this it had at least
subsided at night, although it did begin afresh in the morning. But now
it blew all night and all day, and each day it became hotter, the soil
became dryer, and presently the crops began to fire.

"Oh, for a rain!" every settler cried. "For a rain, a rain, a rain!" But
no rain came.

So every day there was the continual firing of the crops.

The corn had been too small in the beginning to require much moisture,
and the dry weather had enabled the farmer to kill the weeds, so it
stood the gaft quite well, for a time, and grew like gourd vines in the
meantime. It was the wheat, the oats, the rye and the barley that were
first to suffer. These were at their most critical stage, the time when
tiny little heads must dare seek the light. And as they did so, the
cruel heat met and burned them until thereupon they cried and died from
grief. And still the drought continued.

No showers fell. The crops needed water. After the third week of such
intense heat, the people groaned and said "'93" had returned with all
its attendant disaster. And still the wind kept blowing. The air grew
hot, hotter; almost to stifling with the odor of the burning plants. The
aroma mixed with the intense heat was suffocating. The grass upon the
prairie gave up, turned its tiny blades to the sun and died to the
roots, while all the grain of the land, slowly became shorter. It
struggled, it bent, and at last turned what had pointed upward,
downward, and also died of thirst.

And then the people awakened to the emergency. They began to take note
of the fact that many had gone into debt so deeply until there were many
who could never get out unless they sold their land! This had been so
with poor managers, speculators, and others before. When they found that
they were unable to make it, there had always remained the alternative
of selling out. And this had been so easy, because the people at large
wanted the land. So instead, heretofore, of retiring in defeat, the
weakest had retired in apparent victory. "For my homestead, I received
$8,000," or maybe it had been $10,000. So it had been. Great prices to
all who wanted to sell. Only a small portion of them, however, had
wanted to sell up to date.

But when the crops were surely a failure for the most part, hundreds and
thousands and even more quarters were offered for sale. Then came the
shock--the jolt that brought the people to a stern realization of what
was before them. The buyers! There were no buyers! No, the buyers now
when many wished to sell, stayed in Iowa, and Illinois and wherever they
lived, and refused to come hither!

So, for the first time the people in the new country were face to face
with a real problem. And this continued to be augmented by the intense
heat. Hotter it had grown, and at last came a day when all the small
grain was beyond redemption, only the corn and the flaxseed were yet a
possibility. So to Jean Baptiste we now return.

He had written to his wife, and she had replied to his letter. He read
them where he lived, on the homestead she had left, and longed simply
for her to return. He lived with his mind in a dull quandary. It was
useless to try to find consolation hating the cause of his troubles, so
him, he tried much to forget. It would all come right some day, he still
hoped, and worried between times over his debts. He had borrowed more
money to develop his land; was behind in the interest, now, and also the
taxes, and his wife wrote for money.

This was what Glavis had advised him to do--Send her money and all would
be right. Yes, that was what Ethel and her mother and her father had all
thought right. Send her money. But the day of plenty of money for Jean
Baptiste was slipping. The burning, dried crop that lay in the field,
would bring no money. But this he dared not write. If he wrote and told
the woman he had married--for a wife she surely was no more--that would
be to tell the family. And that Prince of Evil, the Reverend, would say
with his wonted braggadocio: "Um-m. Didn't I tell you right! That is a
wild country out there for wild people, only." So Baptiste kept what was
ruining the crops to himself.

He sent her five dollars, and this brought the most pleasant letter he
had yet received. It also brought one from Glavis, who followed the same
with another, which was more to the point. It was this he wrote:

     "CHICAGO, ILL., June, 30th, 191--

     "_Dear friend Baptiste_:

     "I have your recent letter, and it gives me a great pleasure to
     reply to it. You would have had my last letter sooner; but I left
     it to Ethel to mail, and this she did not do, so that explains the
     delay.

     "Now we are getting along very well in Chicago, and hope the same
     prevails in the West. By the papers I read where considerable dry
     weather is prevailing over a part of the West, but hope it hasn't
     struck your part of the country. Appreciating, however, your
     disposition to come directly to a point, I will now turn to a
     subject that I am sure will be of greater interest to you than
     anything else, and which is Orlean, your wife.

     "It gives me a pleasure to state that she appears more relieved of
     recent than she has since returning home. But I will not hesitate
     to tell you why. It is because of you, and you only. Always she
     talks of you--to me--and it pleases me to talk with her concerning
     you, for it is with you her mind is at all times. I fear that you
     cannot appreciate her now as you were once inclined to do; but
     really think you would be justified, fully so, if you did.

     "Now, for instance, when you sent the money not long ago, it gave
     her great delight. That you haven't forgotten that she is your wife
     and have some regards, in spite of all, meant to her very much.
     She took it and bought her a pair of shoes, with a part; the other
     she spent to have pictures made so that she might send you one. And
     I speak truly that to send you one was the sole object in her
     having them made.

     "The poor girl has suffered much--agonies. It is not her
     disposition to be as she has somehow been compelled to be. I can't
     quite explain it, but if it was left to Orlean's dictates, things
     would not be as they are. Yet, you might not appreciate this,
     either. But to make it plainer: Orlean has her mother's
     disposition, and that is not to assert her rights. Too bad.

     "Well, there was a little incident that touched me the other day,
     and which I will tell you of. A certain lady was over and seeing
     her with the new shoes, she asked who had bought them. Poor Orlean!
     It is certainly to be regretted that a girl of her temperament, and
     kind disposition must be placed forever in a false light. Frankly
     it worries me. I trust you will understand that the true state of
     affairs has not been given to the public, and here I will draw a
     long line instead of saying what will be best left unsaid----But
     Orlean replied to the lady in these words: 'My husband bought them
     for me.'

     "I wish you could understand that it is all one great mistake. I
     wish you knew the truth and the suffering this poor girl has been
     put to; for if you did you would know that she is a good girl, and
     loves the man she has married with all her soul--but Orlean is not
     like other women. She's weak and--oh, well, I must close here
     because it hurts me to tell more.

     "I will, however, in conclusion say: Do not despair, or grow bitter
     toward her. This is a strange world, and strange things happen in
     it. Of but one thing I can assure you, and that is: The right must
     come and rule in the end. Yes, nothing but right can stand, all
     else passes. Therefore, hoping that you will be patient, and trust
     to that I speak of, believe me to be,

     "Always your friend,

     "E.M. GLAVIS."

Now it so happened that when Glavis had completed this letter, he was
called to the phone, and later into the street. He was gone a half hour
or more, and in the meantime, Ethel came upon it, and read it. Her evil
little eyes narrowed to mere slits when she had finished. She had noted
what had been going on--Orlean and her husband always finding each
other's company so congenial.

"Well," she muttered after a time. "The time to strike iron is while
it's hot. I'll have to get that man of mine straightened out." Whereupon
she went to her room, and here is the letter she wrote:

     CHICAGO, ILL., June 30TH, 191--

     "_THE REVEREND N.J. MCCARTHY, CAIRO, ILL._

     "DEAR FATHER: We received your letter and were glad to hear you say
     that you expected to come to Chicago soon. I was just thinking
     awhile ago, that if you could come soon, real soon, it might be
     best. Certain matters need your attention. I will not state which,
     but I, you know, am aware of how you have been slandered and
     vilified by a certain person that you know. Well, that person is
     again finding a way to influence those who are near to us. So
     knowing how equal you are to the most arduous task, I take this
     means of communicating that which is most expedient.

     "Hoping that your health is the best, and that we may see you real
     soon, believe me to be, as ever,

     "Your loving daughter,

     "ETHEL."

So it happened that out in the West where the most terrific and
protracted drought the country had ever experienced was burning crops
and hopes of the people included, Jean Baptiste was made joyful.

He understood Glavis' letter; he understood what he had said and what he
had not said. He had suffered. He saw disaster creeping upon him from
the drought rent fields. Is it, therefore, but natural that in his
moments of agony and unhappiness, shattered hopes and mortal anguish,
that he should turn to the woman who had been his mate. To have her to
talk to; her to tell the truth to and share what little happiness there
was to be had in life, he became overly anxious? Thereupon he wrote her,
sending another check for five dollars.


     July 5th, 191--

     "_My dear wife_:

     "I am writing and sending you a little more money, and since you
     must be well by now, and realize how much I need you, I am
     enclosing a signed but not filled-in-amount check, with the request
     that you come home right away. You will start, say the 10th, that
     will place you in Winner on the night of the eleventh, on Saturday,
     where I will meet you.

     "I will expect you, dear; and please don't disappoint me. I have
     not seen you for three months now, and that has not been my
     preference. The amount will be sufficient for your fare, and
     expenses please, and I will write no more; but should anything
     happen that you can not start on that date, then write or wire me
     that I may know.

     "With love to you, I am,

     "As ever, your husband,

     "JEAN."




CHAPTER VIII

N. JUSTINE MC CARTHY PREACHES A SERMON


The text of Reverend N.J. McCarthy's sermon to be delivered on Mothers'
Day, was one of the most inexhaustible. Most of his sermons he did not
prepare. But because this was one of the greatest days in the annual of
the church, he spent a half a day in the preparation thereof. The title
he selected for it suited him fully, and he called it: "The Claim of the
Wicked."

Into it he put all the emotion that was in him. He drew a picture in
illustrious words, of the wicked, the vicious man, and the weak, the
undefended woman, and made many in his dark congregation burst into
emotional discordance thereby. He ridiculed the vain; he denounced,
scathingly, the hypocrite; he made scores in his audience turn with
perspiration at the end of their noses with conscious guilt. Oh, never
before in the years since he had mounted to the pulpit and begun what he
chose to call, "an effort for the salvation of souls," had he preached
such a soul stirring sermon.

"Live right, live right, I say!" he screamed at the top of his voice.
"How many of you are there as you sit here before me, that have done
evil unto thy neighbor; have made some one unhappy; have cast a soul
into grief and eternal anguish? Think of it! Think of what it means
before God to do evil, spite; vent your rotten deceit upon others! I
stand before you in God's glory to beseech you to desist; to pray with
you to live according to your consciences; to dispense with that evil
spirit that in the end you may face your God in peace! Go forth
hereafter in this world of sin; go to those whom you have wronged and
made thereby to suffer, and ask forgiveness; ask there and repent
forthwith! Oh, I'll tell you it is a glorious feeling to know you have
lived right," and he turned his eyes dramatically heavenward, and
affected his audience by the aspect. "To feel that unto others you have
been just; that you have been kind; that you have not caused them to
suffer, but to feel happy! Think of the thrill, the sensation such must
give you, and then let your conscience be henceforth your guide in all
things!"

When the services were over, and he had shaken hands with all the
sisters, and bowed to the brothers, a boy, the son of the lady where he
stayed, approached and handed him a letter. He looked at it with his
spectacles pinched upon his nose, and then read it. It was from Ethel,
and we know the contents.

"So," he said easily as he read it. "The evil seeks to influence my
household in subtle matters, eh! Oh, that man has the brain of a Caesar,
but the purpose of Satan! Drat him, and his infernal scheming! Ever
since the day I first knew him in the country four miles from this town,
he has been wont to annoy, to aggravate me--and after all my daughter,
my poor daughter, and myself have done for him!"

He began preparation to go to Chicago at the earliest convenience. As
his work was so urgent, he wrote Ethel in reply that same day:

     "_My dear daughter_:

     "I am in receipt of your letter and make haste to reply. To begin
     with, I am not surprised to hear what you wrote in your letter. I
     am not surprised to hear anything these days. Ever since your
     mother committed the unpardonable blunder of letting my poor child
     go straggling off into the West, that wild West, where only the
     rough and the uncivilized live, I have not been surprised with what
     each day might bring. It is certainly to be regretted that when one
     has sacrificed as much as I have to raise two of the nicest girls
     that ever saw the light of day, a fortune hunter should come along
     and bring misery into a peaceful home as that man has done. God be
     merciful! But it is to be hoped that we will see fit to adjust
     rightly the evil that we are threatened with.

     "I cannot come to Chicago until a week from next Thursday or
     Friday. I am so behind with God's work, caused by the trip we made
     to that land of wilderness last spring, that I am almost compelled
     to be at Cairo next Sunday. But should anything transpire that will
     necessitate my presence before that time, wire or write me right
     quick and I will be there.

     "From yours in Christ,

     "N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY."


In the West Jean Baptiste got ready for the homecoming of his wife. The
small grain crop was gone. While the drought was now burning the corn to
bits, his large crop of flax, which had been the most hopeful possible a
few days before, was showing the effect of the drought now as well.

But with Jean Baptiste, he could almost forego anything and be happy
with the prospects. In his mind this became so much so, until he looked
forward to the day he had set for her coming as if all the world must
become righted when she was once again near him.

Now during these months he had only his grandmother for company, and her
he wanted to send home. But she would not leave him, always willing to
wait until Orlean came back. During these long lonesome days he found a
strange solace in talking to his horses. There, for instance, was John
and Humpy, the mules that Orlean had driven her father out to their home
with when he had come on his first visit. He told them that she was
coming back now, and to him they appeared to answer. They had become
round and plump since work had closed, and having fully shed their
winter's hair, and not yet become sunburned their dapple gray coating
made them very attractive.

He rearranged the house, bought a few pieces of much needed furniture,
and made elaborate preparations for the homecoming. At last the day
arrived.

It was Saturday morning. The wind had died down, and gave threats of
rain for the first time in six long, hot dry weeks. He hitched John and
Humpy to the spring wagon, and with a touch of his old enthusiasm, left
his grandmother cheerfully--but for reasons of his own, did not tell her
that he was going for Orlean. Perhaps he wished to surprise her, at
least he did not tell her.

He drove to Winner more filled with hope than he had been for months.

The town was filled that day, and because there was an appearance of
rain in the air, which could yet save much of the corn, there was an air
of hope and cheer abroad. Jean thought to board a train and ride a few
miles, and return on the evening train on which she would be. Then he
decided he would wait for her and be ready to drive directly home. As
the train was due shortly after nine p.m., he estimated that he could
drive the distance in two hours; thereby getting to her claim before
midnight and they could spend Sunday together celebrating their happy
reunion.

He had longed to talk with her--and grieve with her over their loss in
the fine little boy who never knew his parents. He thought of all this
and of the happy days they had spent together the summer before. He felt
the love and the devotion she had given him then. He wondered sometimes
whether he had ever loved her as he had dreamed he would love his wife;
but this thought had ever been replaced by his sense of duty. Marriage
was sacred; it was the institution of good; he always disliked to see
people part. He felt then, as he had ever felt before, that nothing but
infidelity could ever make him leave a woman that he had married. He was
still an enemy of divorce. He recalled how they had gone to the Catholic
church once in Gregory, and had heard a learned priest discourse on
divorce and its attendant evils. Never before had anything so impressed
him. How plain the priest had made his audience understand why the
church did not tolerate divorce. How decidedly he had shown that divorce
could and would be avoided if the people could be raised to feel that
"until death do us part." And Baptiste and the woman he had married had
discussed it afterward. They had found books and stories in the
magazines to which they subscribed, and had read deeper into it, and had
been united in their opinion on the subject. Divorce was bad; it was
evil; it was avoidable in almost every case. Then why should it be?

They had agreed that duty toward each other was the first essential
toward combating it; that selfishness was a thing that so often
precipitated it. In all its phases he had discussed it with her, and in
the end, she had agreed with him. And down in their hearts they had felt
that such would never be necessitated in the union they had formed.

So he lived again through the life that had been his, he did not allow
his mind to dwell on the evil that had come into and made his life
unhappy; made his days and nights and very existence a misery. He did
not, as he lingered on the platform of that little western station,
think or dwell on the things that were best forgotten. For a time he
became Jean Baptiste of old. Return to him then did all that old
buoyancy, all that vigor and great hope, all that was his when he had
longed for the love that should be every man's.

And she had been away on a visit, to recover from the illness that the
delivery had given her. He was sorry for their loss, and he would talk
with her this night as they drove along the trail. They would talk of
that and all they had lost, and they would talk of that which was to
come. Oh, it would be beautiful! Just to have a wife, the wife that
gives all her love and thought to making her husband happy. And he would
try to give her all that was in him. And his wife would soon be with
him--in his arms, and they would be happy as they had once been!

There it was! From down the track the train whistled. It was coming, and
his wait was to an end. Near he saw John and Humpy whom she had been
delighted to drive. They were groomed for the occasion, and were anxious
to go home. Tonight they would haul her and hear her voice. He rose
suddenly to his feet when at last the light fell upon the rails and he
could see the engine. The roar of the small locomotive was approaching.
Around him were others whose wives had been away. They, too, were come
to meet their loved ones. Some were alone while around the others were
children--all waiting to meet those dear to their hearts.

The train came to a stop at last, and the people emerged from the
coaches. There was the usual caressing as loved ones greeted loved ones.
Little cries of "mama" and "papa" were heard, and for a moment there was
quite a hubbub of exclamations. "Oh, John," and "Jim" with the
attendant kiss. In the meantime he looked expectantly down the line to
where the car doors opened, and not seeing the one for whom he was
looking, he presently jumped aboard the first car, and passed through
it. It was empty and he estimated that she would be in the rear car. It
was the chair car, and the one in which he naturally would expect her to
ride. He passed into it bravely, with his lips ready to greet her. The
last of the passengers were filing out. The car was empty, and his wife
had not come.

Slowly he passed out of the car as the brakeman rushed in to change his
apparel for the street. Across the street was the team waiting. They
seemed to know him before he came in sight and they greeted him as
though they thought that she had come, too.

He got slowly into the wagon, and soon they were hurrying homeward.




CHAPTER IX

WHAT THE PEOPLE WERE SAYING


N.J. McCarthy arrived in the city late on Friday afternoon and was met
by both his daughters. Ethel had, of course, read the letters Jean
Baptiste had written his wife requesting her to return home, and so she
took Orlean with her to meet her father, instead of permitting her to go
to the station to return to the husband who had asked for her. The Elder
was due in about the same time the train that would have taken Orlean
West was due out.

"Ah-ha," he cried as he stepped from the car. "And both my babies have
come to meet their father! That is the way my children act. Always
obedient to their father. Yes, yes. Never have contraried or disobeyed
him," a compliment he meant for Orlean, but Ethel could share it this
once, although the times she had contraried or sauced him would have
been hard to recount.

Upon arriving home, they met Glavis just returning from work, and he was
also greeted in the same effusive manner by the Reverend.

"And how is everything about the home, my son?" asked the Elder in a big
voice. At the same time he eyed Glavis critically. He had come to the
city with and for a purpose, and that purpose was to put down early the
intimacy that had been reported as growing up between Glavis and
Baptiste. So he had planned to attend to it diplomatically.

"Why everything is alright, father," glabbed Glavis, grinning broadly
and showing his teeth. He was ever affected by the other's lordlyism,
and he had never tried matching his wits with those of the other's in an
extraordinary manner. The Elder was aware of this, and it made him
rather grateful. However, he regarded the other closely as Glavis
stepped about in quick attention to his possible needs or desires. That
was as he had hoped to have both his sons-in-law, wherefore his team
would have been complete. It made him sigh now regretfully when he
recalled how he had failed in the one case. He gave up momentarily to a
siege of self pity. How different it would have been had Jean Baptiste
chosen to admire him as Glavis apparently did. But--and he straightened
up perceptibly when it occurred to him, instead of being as Glavis was,
the other had chosen to be independent, to call him "Judge," "Colonel,"
"Reverend," and "Elder" and any other vulgar title he happened to think
of on the moment. Moreover, he had also chosen to ask him a thousand
questions about things he did not understand--that was the trouble,
though the Elder had not seen it that way--asking him questions about
things he did not understand. The Elder saw it as "impudent." He saw and
regarded that persistency which had been the making of the man in Jean
Baptiste as "hardheadedness." He regarded that tenacity to stick to
anything in the other, sufficient to characterize "a bulldog."

"M-m, my boy," he said now to Glavis. "You are certainly a fine young
man, just fine, fine, fine!" He paused briefly while Glavis could
swallow the flattery, and then went on: "Never in the thirty years I
have been a minister of the gospel and been compelled to be away from
home in God's work, has it ever been like it has since you married
Ethel. I simply do not have to worry at all now; whereas, I used to
have to worry all the time." Whereupon he paused again, affected a
lordly sigh, and permitted Glavis to become inflated with vanity before
going on.

"Now, before you married Ethel, I was a little dubious." He always said
this for a purpose. "I am so well informed and understand men so well,
and the ways of men, until I was hesitant to risk trusting you with my
daughter's love. You will understand how it is when you have raised
children with the care I have exercised in the training of my precious
darlings. A man cannot be too careful, and for that reason, I was
dubious regarding her marrying you. Besides, we, I think you understand,
are among the best <DW52> people of the city of Chicago, and the State
of Illinois, so it behooved me to exercise discretion."

"Yes, father," Glavis swallowed. He felt then the dignity of his
position as a member of such a distinguished family.

"Well," went on the other, "you know how much grief I must be enduring
when I see this poor baby," pointing to Orlean, "as she is. The finest
girl that ever trod the earth, and my heart always, and then to see her
dragged down to this, and all this attendant gossip, grieves my old
heart," whereupon big tears rolled down his dark face. All those about
sighed in sympathy and were silent.

"Oh, it's a shame, a shame, my father, it is a shame!" he cried between
sobs. "Oh, his immortal soul! Come in here like a thief in the night,
and with his dirty tongue just deliberately stole her from her good
home--her an innocent child to go out into that wilderness and sacrifice
her poor soul to make him rich!" He ended with the eloquence that his
years of preaching had given him. He shed more tears of mortification,
and resumed:

"And my wife, her own mother, was a party to it!" He was killing two
birds with one stone now. Nothing was more gratifying to him than to
seize every possible opportunity to place all his failures, all his
shortcomings, all his blunders, and last, but not least, all the results
of his evil nature, on the shoulders of his little helpless wife. For
years--aye, since he had taken her as wife, had it been so. Never had
she shared even in reflected light the honors that had come to him. She
did as he requested, and endeavored to please him in every way. The love
he had given her was an affected love. It was not from his heart. He had
given her little that was due her as his wife.

"I went out there," he went on, "to find this child lying there in the
bed with only his sister and grandmother to look after her. The doctor
was coming twice a day, but that man asked him, when she could but open
her eyes, whether such was necessary; and that when it wasn't, then to
come but once. I sat there by her bed, I, her poor old father, and
nursed her back to life from the brink of death, the death that surely
would have come had it not been for me. And when she was well enough, I
went to all the expense of bringing her out of that wilderness back to
her home and health.

"And for that, for all that I have sacrificed, what am I given? Credit?
Well, I guess not! I am being slandered; I'm being vilified by evil
people--and right in my own church! Think of it! For thirty years I have
preached the law of the gospel and saved so many souls from hell, and
now, now when my poor old head is white and my soul is grieved with the
evil that has come into my home, I am vilified!

"No longer than last week, I was approached by a woman, a woman
purporting to be a child of God, but who ups to me and said: 'Reverend
Mac., what is the matter with your daughter and the man she married? I
hear they are parted?' I was so put out that I did not attempt to
answer, but just regarded her coldly. But did that stop her mouth? Well,
I guess not! She went right on as flip as she could be: 'Well, you know,
Reverend, there is all kinds of reports about to various effects. One is
that you didn't like him because of his independent ways, and because he
was successful, and he didn't take much stock in you because he didn't
like the way you had lived. And then there's other reports that he made
an enemy of you because he didn't praise and flatter you, and that you
did it to "get even." They say that you had your daughter to sign her
husband's name to a check for a large sum of money and used it to slip
away from him and so on. But the one thing that everybody seems to be
agreed upon is, that there was nothing whatever wrong between the
couple, and that they had never quarreled and never had thought of
parting. That all the trouble is between you and your son-in-law.'

"I had stood her gab about as long as I could, I was so angry. So all I
could say was: 'Woman, in the name of heaven, get you away from me
before I forget I am a minister of the gospel and you a woman!' But
before she had even observed how angry I was, she ups and says: 'Why,
now, Elder, as much as you love the ladies, and then you'd abuse a poor
woman like me,' and right there, after such a tonguing as she had let
out, fell to crying!

"Those are some of the things I must endure, my son, in this work. I
must endure slander, vilification, misunderstanding, and all that. It's
terrible."

"People are certainly ungrateful," cried Ethel at this point. "And they
don't try to learn the truth about anything before they start their
rotten gossip. More, they have nerve with it! A certain woman stopped me
on the street downtown the other day, a woman who claims to have been my
friend and a friend of our family for years. And what do you think she
had the nerve to say to me? Well, here's what it was, and I _hope_ she
said it: 'Why, Ethel, how is Orlean?' I replied that she was getting
better. She says: 'Is she sick physically, or mentally?' I said: 'I
don't understand you?' She looked at me kind of funny as she replied,
'Why, don't _you_ know, Ethel Glavis, that it's the talk around
Chicago--everybody is saying it, that you and your father went out West
there, and made her forge his name to a check for a large sum of money
and for spite and spite only, took poor Orlean away from her husband and
came back here and spread all this gossip about her being sick and
neglected when the doctor had come to see her every day? I know Jean
Baptiste and I have not lived in this world for thirty-five years and
not able yet to understand people. And Jesus Christ couldn't make me
believe that Jean Baptiste would mistreat Orlean. Besides, all this talk
comes from you and your father. Orlean has said nothing about it. She is
just simple and easy like her mother and will take anything off you and
your father. Now, it's none of my business; but I am a friend of
humanity, and I want to say this, that anybody that is doing what you
and your father are doing will suffer and burn in hell some day for it!'
And she flies away from me and about her business."

"It's outrageous," the Reverend cried. "We hardly dare show our heads on
the street; to greet old friends for fear we are going to be ridiculed
and abused for what we have done."

"It's certainly an ungrateful world, that's all," agreed Ethel.




CHAPTER X

"UNTIL THEN"


It did not rain the night Jean Baptiste went to Winner to meet the wife
who failed to come, but the protracted drought continued on into July.
For three weeks into this month it burned everything in its path. From
Canada to Kansas, the crops were almost burned to a crisp, while in the
country of our story proper, only the winter wheat, and rye, and some of
the oats matured. And this was confined principally to the county where
Jean Baptiste had homesteaded. Here a part of a crop of small grain was
raised, but everything else was a failure.

His flaxseed crop in Tripp County which had given some promise if rain
should come in time, had now fallen along with all else, and when he saw
it next, after his trip to Winner, it was a scattered mass of sickly
stems, with army worms everywhere cutting the stems off at the ground.
The whole country as a result, was facing a financial panic. Interest
would be hard to raise--and this, in view of the fact that the year
before had seen less than half a crop produced, was not a cheerful
prospect. With Baptiste, and others who had gone in heavily, disaster
became a possibility; and, unless a radical change intervened, disaster
appeared as an immediate probability.

During these days there was little to do. He had harvested what little
crop he had raised, and having no hauling or anything, to engage him he
found going fishing his only diversion. And it was at about this time
that he received a letter. It bore the postmark of the town where he
had met his wife in the beginning, and read:

     "_My dear Jean_:

     "I thought I would be bold this once and write you, since it is a
     fact that you are on my mind a great deal. You will, of course,
     remember me when I mention that it was in my home that you met your
     wife. Rather, the woman you married, whom, I suppose, from what I
     hear, has not proven very faithful. I daresay that your trip to my
     home that day was the beginning of this episode. But it is of him,
     the Reverend, her father, of whom I wish to speak.

     "He used to speak of you. You see this town is in his itinerary,
     and I therefore, see him quite often. In fact, he is quite well
     known to me, and visits my home, and has been here recently. He was
     here just a week ago yesterday before going into Chicago, and I
     asked about you. He ups with his head when I did so, and I
     estimated that the trouble that is supposed to be between you and
     Orlean, is possibly between him and yourself.

     "Well, you see, it is like this. After you married Orlean, we could
     hear nothing from him but you. You were the most wonderful, the
     most vigorous, the wealthiest--in fact you were everything
     according to his point of view. He preached of you in the pulpit;
     he set you up as the standard and model for other young men to
     follow. Therefore, you must imagine our surprise when almost over
     night you had changed so perceptibly. From everything a man should
     be--or try to be, as a young man, you became the embodiment of all
     a man should not be. Now it is rather singular. Apparently the
     Elder must have been possessed with very poor judgment to begin
     with, or you must have become in a few weeks an awfully bad man.

     "Well, I don't know what to say; but in as much as I have known you
     some little time--before you met Orlean in the house where I write
     this, I cannot conceive or realize how you could change so quickly.
     But what is more to the point--I have known the august Elder even
     longer than I have you--know him since I have been large enough to
     know anybody, and I have known him always to be as he is yet. One
     wonders how such men can have the conscience to preach and tell
     people to live right, to do right, so they may be prepared to die
     right. But somehow we take the Elder's subtle conduct down this way
     as a matter of course. We think no more--I daresay not as much--of
     what he does in that way than we would the most common man in town.
     But it is too bad that his daughter must suffer for his evil.
     Orlean is a good girl, but she has been raised to regard that old
     father as a criterion of righteousness, regardless of the life he
     does, and always has lived. But withal, honestly, I do feel so
     sorry for you. I am aware that this letter and the nature of its
     contents is unsolicited, but it is and has been in my heart to say
     it. I really feel that it is no more than honest to protest against
     in some manner, the wrong that man is practicing. But to the point.

     "The last time he was here, and mama asked him about you, and he
     was made angry because of it, he remarked among the discredits he
     endeavored to pay the country and you, that there was no church for
     her to attend. I remarked that you had said you attended the white
     churches. Thereupon he became very demonstrative. He said you did
     attend the white churches, and had taken her, but that you went to
     the Catholic church where there was, of course, no religion in the
     sense to which she had been raised. I hardly knew how to reply to
     or counter this, but I thought that if you had, and she had
     belonged to the Catholic church, how easy it would be now for you
     to lay your cause before the priest and have it considered. But if
     you did such before the ministers of his church--oh, well, I am
     saying too much.

     "And only now have I arrived at the event I choose to relate. It is
     always so when one chooses to gossip, to forget the things that may
     be of real interest. Well, word has come that the Elder was taken
     violently ill in Chicago the other day, and grave fears are held of
     his recovery. I hear that he is very low, and perhaps the Lord
     might see fit to remove a stumbling block....

     "I must close. I am sure I have bored you with such a long letter
     and so much gossip; but I have at least satisfied my own
     conscience. So hoping that all comes out well with you in the end,
     believe me to be,

     "Your dear friend,

     "JESSIE MANSFIELD."

It so happened that the exhausted Jean Baptiste turned to the hope that
illness might claim his enemy, and he exchanged letters with Jessie
Mansfield, regularly, and after a time, found her correspondence a great
diversion.

And so the summer passed. Near the last days of July the severe drought
was broken, but too late to benefit the crops which had been so badly
burned by the drought. He managed to get considerable land into winter
wheat, and the fall came on with only a crop of debts and overdue bills
that made him regard the mail box dubiously.

Winter followed, one of the coldest ever known, and spring was
approaching when Jean Baptiste decided to make his last attempt for a
reunion with his wife.

In all the months that had followed his previous trip he had planned
that if he could only see her, could only see her and be alone with her
for a day, they would abridge the chasm that had been forced because of
the Reverend. That one had not obliged him by dying by any means, but
had regained his health in a measure, so Baptiste read in the letters he
received from Jessie. However, she wrote, it seemed that something had
come over him, for he was not the same. He had lost much of his great
flesh, wore a haggard expression, and seemed to be weighted down with
some strange burden.

It was April again when at last he took the train for Chicago, for the
last time, he decided, on the same mission that had taken him there
twice before. He planned now, to exercise more discretion. Inasmuch as
the Reverend was as a rule, always out of the city, he trusted to fate
that he would be out this time. The bitterness that had grown up in his
heart toward the Elder, he feared, might make him forget to observe the
law of the land if he chanced to encounter that adversary. So when he
arrived in the great city, he went about the task of seeing his wife
under cover.

He first visited a barber shop. He happened into one near Van Buren on
State Street, where lady barbers did the trimming. He did not find them
efficient, and was glad when he left the chair. He decided that he would
act through Mrs. Pruitt, who he had heard from the fall before, and who
was being charged along with Mrs. McCarthy, as being the cause of all
the trouble.

He had not written her that he was coming, calculating that it would be
best for her not to have too long to think it over. Upon leaving the
barber shop, he ventured up State Street, through the notorious section
of the "old tenderloin" to Taylor Street, and presently turned and
discovered himself in the Polk and Dearborn Street station. He found
that slipping about the street under cover like a sneak thief was much
against his grain, and he was nervous. In all the months he had
contemplated the trip, he had taken great care not to let Ethel or any
of the family know in advance of his coming. He wanted his wife. The
agony of living alone, the dreaded suspense, the long journey and the
gradual breaking down of what he had built up, played havoc with his
nerves, and he was trembling perceptibly when he took a seat in the
station. He encountered a man upon arrival there, whom he had known
years before, and because he had been so intent on keeping out of sight,
the recognition by the other frightened him. He managed to control
himself with an effort, and greeted the other casually. However, he was
relieved when he recalled that the other knew nothing of his
relations--not even that he had ever married.

After he felt his nerves sufficiently calm, he ventured to the telephone
booth, and secured Mrs. Pruitt's number. He paused briefly before
calling her to steady his nerves, and then got her in due time.

"Hello, Mrs. Pruitt," He called.

"Hello," came back, and he caught the surprise in her voice. "Is it
_you_?" she asked, and he noted that her voice was trembling.

"Yes," he called back nervously. "Do you recognize my voice?"

"Yes," he heard, and the uneasiness with which she answered discouraged
him. He had great faith in Mrs. Pruitt. Notwithstanding the gossip that
connected her name with the Elder's she was regarded as a woman of
unusual ability and mental force. She was speaking again in a very low
tone of voice. Almost in a whisper.

"Listen," said she. "_Call this same number in about ten minutes,
understand?_ Yes. Do that. I'll explain later."

He sat before the clock now, in the station, and watched the minutes
pass. They seemed like hours. He was now aware that the strain of these
months of grief and eternal mortification, had completely unnerved him.
His composure was like that of an escaped convict with the guards near.
His heart beat so loud until he looked around in cold fear wondering
whether those near heard it. And all the while he sat in this nervous
quandary, he kept repeating over, and over again: "_Mrs. Pruitt, Mrs.
Pruitt--surely even you have not gone back on me, too. Oh, Mrs. Pruitt,
you can't understand what it means to me, what I have suffered,--the
agony, the disgrace--the hell!_" He regarded the telephone booth before
him and his eyes were like glass. All the busy station was a hubbub.
After what seemed to him an eternal waiting, he was slightly relieved to
see that fifteen minutes had passed, and he got up and slipped back into
the booth and called Mrs. Pruitt.

"Yes, I'm here, Jean", she called, "and the reason I told you to call
later was that _your_ people--_your father-in-law is right here in the
house at this moment_. He was sitting right here by the 'phone when you
called awhile ago, so now you understand."

"Oh," he cried, his head swimming, and everything grew dark around him.
After one long year of agony, of eternal damnation, one long year of
waiting and suspense, he had banked his chances, and encountered his
enemy the first thing. Right under the telephone he had been! Jean
Baptiste who had once been a strong, brave and fearless man, was now
trembling from head to foot.

"Now, Jean," he heard Mrs. Pruitt. "I understand _everything_. You are
here to see and get Orlean if you can; but you want to do so without
them knowing anything about it, and I agree with you. You wish me to
help you, and I will. I'll do anything to right this terrible wrong, but
give me time to plan, to think! In the meantime, he is so near that it
is not safe for me to talk with you any longer. So you go somewhere, and
come back, say: in about an hour. If he is still here, I will say: 'this
is the wrong number,' Get it?"

"Yes, Mrs. Pruitt," he replied, controlling the storm of weakness that
was passing over him. "I _get_ you."

"Very well, until then."

"Until then," he called, and hung up the receiver.




CHAPTER XI

"IT'S THE WRONG NUMBER"


Jean Baptiste had come eight hundred miles after one terrible year, to
the feet of his father-in-law, and when he realized that such was the
case upon hanging up the receiver, his composure was gone. Bitter agony
beyond description overwhelmed him when he came from the booth at the
end of his brief conversation with Mrs. Pruitt. Never in his life had he
been as miserable as he now was. It seemed to him that in the next hour
he must surely die of agony. He found a place in the station where he
was very much alone, and for a time gave up to the grief and misery that
had come over him.

"Unless I find some diversion, I will be unfit for anything but
suicide!" he declared, trying to see before him. Out in the West all was
wrong. He was now loaded down with debt. His interest was unpaid, also
his taxes. His creditors for smaller amounts he had not even called upon
to say that he was unable to meet his financial obligations. He had
tried being blind to everything but the instance of his wife. He had
just deliberately cast everything aside until he could have her. That
was it. He had made himself believe that only was it necessary to see
her alone, and together they would fly back to the West. He had not
reckoned that his arch enemy would be lying like a great dog right at
the door he was to enter.

And now, before he was hardly in the city, he was all but confronted
with his hypocritical bulk.

"Oh, I can stand it no longer, no, no, no!" he cried in agonizing
tones. The world to him was lost. The strong shall be the weakest when
it becomes so, it is said; and surely Jean Baptiste had come to it in
this hour. He had no courage, he had no hope, he had no plans.

After minutes in which he reached nowhere; minutes when all the manhood
in him crept out, and went away to hide, he staggered to his feet. He
straightened his body, and also his face; he became an automaton. He had
decided to seek artificial stimulation. Thereupon he made his way into
the main waiting room. He looked about him as one in a daze, and finally
turned his face toward the entrance of the station. When there he had
arrived, he hesitated, and looked from right to left. As he did so, his
mind went back to some years before when he first saw the city, and had
gone about its streets in search of work. A block or two away he
recalled Clark Street, that part of it which had been notorious. He
recalled where one could go and see almost _anything_ he wished.

Now, he was a man, was Jean Baptiste, a man who had loved a wife as men
should; a man who had found a wife and a wife's comfort all he had
longed for in life. But that one he had taken as wife had fled. She had
left him to the world, and all that was worldly. He was breaking down
under the strain, and his manhood was for the time gone. He became as
men are, as men have been, and he was at a place where he did not care.
He was alone in the world, the prairies had not been good to him, and he
felt he must have rest, oh, rest.

He stepped from the station, and held himself erect with an effort. He
turned to his left, and walked or rather ambled along. He did not know
in particular where he was going, but going somewhere he was. He kept
his face turned to the west, and after many steps, he came to a side
street. It was a narrow street, and he recalled it vaguely. It was
called Custom House Place, and its reputation for the worst, was
equalled by none. Even from where he stood the sound of ragtime music
came to his ears from a gorgeous saloon across its narrow way.

He listened to it without feeling, no thrill or inspiration did it give
him. He turned into this street after some minutes, and ambled along its
narrow walkway. As he went along, from force of habit, he studied the
various forms of vice about. In and out of its many ways, he saw the
familiar women, the painted faces and the gorgeous eyes. He came
presently to where <DW64>s stood before a saloon. They, too, were of the
type he understood. Characters with soft hands, and soft skin, and he
knew they never worked. He turned into it. A bar was before him, and
although for liquor he had never cared especially, he could drink. He
went forward to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He drank it slowly, as
he observed himself, all haggard and worn in the bar mirror, and as he
did so, he could see what was passing behind him. A man sat in a small
ante room near a door, and he observed that men would pass by this man
to a door opening obviously to a stairway beyond. He wondered what _was_
beyond. He ordered another cocktail, and drank it slowly, studying those
who passed back and forth through the door that the man opened with a
spring. He decided to venture thereforth.

When he had drank his cocktail he wandered toward the door also, as if
he had been accustomed to entering it. The door opened before him and he
entered. He found himself in a hallway, with a flight of stairs before
him, and a closed and locked door on the stairway. He stood regarding
it, and espied a bell presently. This he approached and touched.

The door was opened straightway and the flight of stairs continued to
the landing above. He looked up and beheld a woman standing at the top
of the stairs, who had seemingly opened the door by pressing a button.
He entered and approached her. As he did so, she turned and led him into
a small room, then into a larger room, where sat many other women. He
was directed to a chair, and became seated. He regarded all the women
about wonderingly; for to him, none had said a word. He might as well
have been in a house of tombstones, for they said naught to him, and did
not even look at him.

He sat where he was for perhaps two minutes. Then he arose and walked to
the door which he had entered, and turned to look back into the room. It
was empty, every woman had disappeared without a sound in a twinkling,
all except the woman who had admitted him. She stood behind, regarding
him noncommittally.

"What is this place?" he inquired of her. She looked up at him, and he
thought he caught something queer in her eyes. But she replied in a
pleasant tone:

"Why, it is _anything_."

"Oh," he echoed. She continued to stand, not urging him to go, nor to
stay. He looked at her closely, and saw that she was a white woman,
perhaps under thirty.

"A sort of cabaret?" he suggested.

"Yes," she replied, in the same pleasant tone of voice. "A _sort_ of
cabaret."

"So you serve drinks here, then?"

"Yes, we _serve_ drinks here."

"Where?"

"Well," and she turned and he followed her to another room apparently
the abode of some one. Included in the furniture there was a table and
two chairs, and while he became seated in one, she took the other and
her eyes asked what he wished.

"A cocktail," he said.

She went to a tube and called the order.

"And something for yourself," he said.

She did as he directed, and duplicated his order. She came back to where
he sat by the table and sat before him, without words, but a pleasant
demeanor.

"Here's luck," he said, when the drinks had been brought up.

"Same to you," she responded, and both drank.

He told her then to bring some beer, and when the order had been given,
he bethought himself of his errand. Instantly he became oblivious of all
about him, and the old agony again returned. He stretched across the
table, and was not aware that he groaned. He did not hear the woman who
stood over him when she returned with the beer. He was living the life
of a few minutes before,--misery.

"Here is your beer," she said, but he made no move. Presently she
touched him lightly upon the shoulder, whereupon he sat erect, and
looked around him bewilderingly.

"Your beer," she said, and he regarded her oddly.

"What is the matter?" she said now, and regarded him inquiringly.

"I was thinking," he replied.

"Of something unusual," she ventured.

"Yes," he answered, wearily. "Of something _unusual_."

She observed him more closely. She saw his haggard face; his tired, worn
expression, and beneath it all she caught that sad distraction that had
robbed him of his composure. In some way she really wished to help him.
Here was an unusual case. She,--this woman who was for sale, became
seated again, and regarding him kindly she said:

"You are in trouble."

He sighed but said no word.

"In great trouble."

He sighed again, and handed her the money for the beer.

"I wish I could help you," she said thoughtfully and her eyes fell upon
the table. His hat lay there, and she saw therein the name of the town
where it had been purchased.

"You don't live here?" she suggested then.

"No," he mumbled, trying to dispel the heaviness that was over him. If
he could just forget. That was it. If he _could_ forget and be normal;
be as he had been until that evil genius had come back again into his
life. "No," he repeated, "I don't live here."

"And--you--you--have just come?" she said. Her voice was kind. "Is
it--it--a _woman_?"

He nodded slowly.

"Oh," she echoed. "Your wife, perhaps?"

He nodded again.

"Oh!"

They were both silent then for some moments; he struggling to forget,
she wondering at the strange circumstances.

"Has some one come between you?" she inquired after a time.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Oh, that's bad," she uttered sympathetically. "It is bad to come
between a man and his wife. And you--" she paused briefly then bit her
lip in slight vexation, then observed him with head bent before her. It
was rather unusual, and that was what had vexed her. Could it mean
anything what a woman like her thought of or sympathized. Yet, she was
moved by the condition of the stranger before her. She felt she had to
say something. "And you--you don't look like a bad fellow at all." He
looked up at her with expressionless eyes. She returned the look and
then went on:

"You have such honest, frank and truthful eyes. Honestly, I feel sorry
for you."

"Oh, thank you," he said gratefully then. To have some one--even _such a
woman_ look at him so kindly, to say words of condolence was like water
to the thirsty. He thought then again of that other, and the father that
was hers, who at that moment sat in the company of another man's wife.
He recalled that Mrs. Pruitt said that he had been in town for several
days and every day since he had been there. Naturally. This man courted
another man's wife openly, yet was ready with all the force in him, the
moment Jean Baptiste sought his God-given mate, to rise up in pious
dignity to oppose him. Wrath became his now, and his eyes narrowed. In
the moment he wanted to go forth and slay the beast who was making this.
He rose slightly. She saw it, and her eyes widened. She reached out and
touched his hand where it gripped the table.

"Please don't do _that_," she said, and in her voice there was a slight
appeal.

He regarded her oddly, and then understood. He sank back listlessly in
the seat, and sighed.

"Poor boy," she said. "Some one has done you a terrible wrong. It is
strange how the world is formed, and the ill fortune it brings to some.
I can just see that some one has done you a terrible wrong, and that
when you rose now you would have gone forth and killed him."

He regarded her with gratitude in his eyes, and the expression upon his
face told her that she had spoken truly.

"But try to refrain from that desire. Oh, it's justifiable it seems. But
then when we stop to think that we will never feel the same afterward
about it, it's best to try to forget our grief. You are young, and there
are worlds of nice girls who would love and make for you happiness. Some
day that will be yours in spite of all. So please, just think and--don't
kill the one who has done this."

"You are awfully kind," he whispered. He felt rather odd. Of all places,
this was not where men came to be _consoled_, indeed. But herein he had
gotten what he could not get on Vernon Avenue where church members were
supposed to dwell. He arose now.... He reached out his hand and she took
it. "I don't quite understand what has happened, but you have helped
me." He reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins, and this he
handed her. She drew back her hand, but he insisted.

"Yes, take it. _I_ understand your life here. But you have helped me
more than you can think. I was awfully discouraged when I came. Almost
was I to something rash. Take it and try to remember that you have
helped some one." He squeezed her hand, and she cast her eyes down, and
as she did so, he saw a tear fall to the floor. He turned quickly then
and left.

He retraced his steps toward the Polk Street station, and to the booth
he had been inside of an hour before. He called Mrs. Pruitt, and after a
time came back over the wire, in a low, meaning voice:

"_It's the wrong number._"




CHAPTER XII

MRS. PRUITT EFFECTS A PLAN


He had some friends who lived on Federal Street and to their home he
decided to go. He thought of the day when he had married. The man ran on
the road. His wife he had known long, her name being Mildred, Mildred
Merrill. She had been invited to his wedding but had not attended. When
he had seen her a year later, and had asked her why she had not
attended, she replied that she had been unable to purchase a suitable
wedding gift.

Her parents had been lifelong friends of his parents, and he had been
provoked because she stayed away. She and her husband had been quietly
married in the court house and had since lived happily together.

"Oh, Jean," Mildred cried, when the door opened and she saw his face.
"We have just been talking of you," as she swung the door wide for him
to enter.

"Mama," she called, "here is Jean Baptiste!" Her mother came hurriedly
forward, grasped his hand, and exchanged a meaning look with Mildred.

"And you are back _again_," she said as all three became seated.

"Yes," he said, and sighed.

"It's awful," commented her mother.

"Isn't it the truth, oh, my God, how can those people be so mean?" cried
Mildred.

"He's in Chicago," said her mother.

"Yes," said Mildred, "and I'll bet right over at Mrs. Pruitt's every
day."

"He wouldn't be _likely_ to be home," commented her mother.

"He returns as a rule along about midnight." The two laughed then, and
regarded the man.

"You ought to give her up, Jean," said Mildred. "A woman that has no
more will power than she has, isn't fit--isn't worth the grief you are
spending."

"Yes, Mildred, it does seem so, but she is my wife, and somehow I feel
that I should give her every chance."

"The case _is_ unusual," commented her mother again. "The man has a
reputation for such actions--rather, he has been known to persecute, and
does persecute the preachers that are under his dictation in the church.
But that such would extend to the possible happiness of his own
children! Indeed, it hardly seems credible."

"Vanity, mama. Reverend McCarthy is regarded as the most vain man in the
church. Jean here has never flattered him--tickled his vanity, and this
is the price he's paying."

"Well," said her mother. "Such as this _can't_ keep up. Some day he's
going to be called on to pay--and the debt will be large."

"Understand that he aspires for the bishopric in the convention next
month," said Mildred.

"Shucks!" exclaimed her mother. "That's all bluff. He seeks to grab off
a little cheap notoriety around Chicago before he goes to conference.
There is as much chance of his being even entered as a candidate for the
office as there is of me."

"That's what I think," from Mildred.

"What are your plans, Jean?" her mother now inquired of Baptiste who sat
in a sort of stupor listening to their talk.

"I am trying to get to see her without the old man's knowledge." And he
told them of his conversation with Mrs. Pruitt.

"Isn't that a wife, now!" exclaimed Mildred. "Afraid to meet the man she
has married."

"Orlean and old lady McCarthy have no voice in that house," said her
mother. "First it's the Reverend, and then follows Ethel."

"And it hardly seems credible when one knows how he has always flirted
with other women," said Mildred.

"I asked Orlean the last time I saw her," said Mildred again, "what was
the matter; was Jean mean to her, or had he neglected her. She said: No,
that he was just as good to her as he could be, but that she could not
stay out in that wild country; that it would impair her health, and she
just couldn't stay out there, and that was all."

"Reverend McCarthy," said her mother.

"Of course. But that is one thing I have observed. They have never got
her to lie as they have done, and say that he mistreated her." From
Mildred.

"It's to be regretted that she has not more will to stand up for what
she knows to be right," said her mother.

"You have taken it up with the right person, Jean," said Mildred. "If
any one can help you in such a delicate undertaking, it is Mrs. Pruitt.
She has more influence with that old rascal than his wife. In fact, his
wife, from what I hear, has no influence at all."

"Well, Jean," said Mildred's mother, "you are to be admired for the
patience you have exercised with Orlean. The average man would have
knocked that old white headed rascal stiff and let Orlean go, and I
don't wonder that if I was a man that I wouldn't have done so myself."

"If I were that weak, and could see things as I do now, I would want my
husband to shoot me. I'm getting out of patience with Orlean's
weakness," Mildred added.

"Well," said Baptiste at this point, "it is now eleven, and I will call
up Mrs. Pruitt to go ahead with certain plans that I have in view. Have
you a 'phone?"

"Just outside," said Mildred, and opened the door.

He got Mrs. Pruitt directly, and again came back over the wire:

"It's the wrong number!" But during the recent conversation he had
forgotten for the moment the "counter sign," and continued calling back.
Frantically he heard again and again, "_The wrong number! You have the
wrong number!_" Suddenly he caught on, and as suddenly hung up the
receiver with a jerk.

He didn't go to the Keystone that night. He felt as though he wanted to
be near some friends. Accordingly he went to Miss Rankin's. She was glad
to see him, and, like all his friends, knew his troubles, and welcomed
him.

"You will awaken me early tomorrow--say, six o'clock?" he asked, and
upon being assured she would, he went to bed.

All the night through his sleep was fitful. He saw gorgeous processions
that frightened him, and then again he was thrilled; but never did he
seem to feel just right. Then he saw his enemy. He dreamed that he came
to him and kissed him; he heard him saying kind words, and saw his wife
by his side. They were back in the West and his wife was returning from
a visit. He was aroused, and jumped to his feet. He looked at the clock,
and the time was half past five. All the agony of the day before came
back with a rush, and he was overwhelmed. Thereupon he got him up, and,
dressing quickly, hurried out of the house and caught a car to where
Mrs. Pruitt lived on the west side, in the basement of an apartment
building, of which her husband was janitor.

He estimated that the other would go home during the night, and early
morning would be the time to form some plan of action. It seemed a long
way to the west side, and it was after seven when he arrived there.

He was greeted by Mrs. Pruitt, and the expression upon her face did not
disappoint him.

"Now, Jean," she said, "I have prepared you some breakfast, and you must
eat first, for I'll wager that not a bite have you eaten since you
talked with me yesterday."

"It is so, Mrs. Pruitt," said he, recalling then that eating had not
occurred to him for the last eighteen hours or more.

"Well," said she, becoming seated, "_he_ left here at almost midnight,
and I have been planning just what to do, that you may see Orlean. I
certainly should have little patience with a girl that has no more
gumption than Orlean; but since I know that she gets it from her mother,
who has not as much as a chicken, I have accepted the inevitable.

"Now, to begin with. If I called up and had her come over here, he would
come with her, of course, and also maybe Ethel. And you know what that
would mean. It is so unusual that such a thing could be, but that is
Reverend McCarthy. He has always been this way, and I could not change
him. You erred when you didn't flatter him. But that you did not have to
do, and I don't blame you. He has done you dirty, and some day he's
going to pay for it. I wouldn't be surprised if he did not soon, either.
He is a disturbed man, he is. Never has he been happy as he was before
he brought that girl home. The crime he has committed is weighing on
him, and I wouldn't wonder if he wouldn't be glad to have Orlean go back
with you. The only thing is, that he has been associated with a hard
headed lot of <DW64> preachers so long, until his disposition is
ingrained. He actually _couldn't_ be as he should. He would let Orlean
go back to you, but he would determine on a lot of ceremony, and
something else that you are ill fitted to forego. So the best way, as I
can see, is for you to meet Orlean somewhere, and there reason it out
with her." She paused briefly then, and was thoughtful.

"She loves you as her mother loves, in a simple, weak way; but what is a
love like that worth! In truth, while I admire your courage, and desire
to uphold the sacredness of the marriage vow, you ought to get a divorce
and marry a girl with some will and force."

"I realize so, Mrs. Pruitt, but I am determined to live with Orlean and
protect her if it is within my power."

"I understand your convictions and sentiments, Jean, and admire you for
it. If the world contained more men like you, the evil of divorce would
lessen; but on the other hand, as long as it contains men like the
Reverend, and women like Orlean, there will always be ground for
divorce."

"But every man should exhaust all that is in him for what he feels is
right, shouldn't he, Mrs. Pruitt?" spoke Baptiste.

"Of course," she said somewhat absently. She looked quickly at him then,
and her eyes brightened with an inspiration.

"By the way, Jean," she said. "You remember Mrs. Merley?"

"Who? Blanche's mother?"

"The same."

"Most sure. Why?"

"Well," said Mrs. Pruitt. "I have been thinking. She's a friend of
yours, a good friend, although you might not have known it."

"It is news to me--that is, directly."

"Well, she is, and has been very much wrought up over the Reverend's
treatment of you."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, it is so. You see, moreover, she is a distant relation of Mrs.
McCarthy's, and is fairly well-to-do."

"So I have understood."

"Yes, they are, and McCarthys sort of look up to them."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Merley is independent, and hasn't much patience with the Elder."

"So."

"No, and for that reason he admires her."

"Indeed."

"Yes, and she was over there and sort a 'bawled' them out over what they
were doing. Understand that she just spat it in the Elder's face and he
had to take it."

"Well?"

"Yes. You see Blanche got married this last summer, and didn't quite
please her mother."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes, Mary Merley is a friend of mine, and frankly she almost told me
that she wished Blanche had married some one on your order.

"Oh!...."

"Yes, she did. And meant it! She admired your type, and I know she would
have been more fully pleased in such an event."

He was silent.

"Anyhow, I have planned that it will be through her that you and Orlean
may be brought together."

He was attentive.

"But before you go into it, my request is that my name shall be left
out."

His eyes asked a question that she answered.

"It is so. While Mary is a friend of mine, she has certain habits that I
don't like."

He regarded her more questioningly.

"I will say no more."

His face blanched, and then his mind went back two years. Orlean had
made just such a remark. He was sorry.

"So I don't want you to mention me, since it would do no good."

"I understand."

"I want her to have the credit for whatever success might come of this."

"Yes."

"And my plans are that you go over there, and see her?"

"Yes."

"Jolly her a little, and don't let on that you are aware that she
admires you."

"Very well."

"Get her to call Orlean up, and suggest a show."

"I get you."

"And there you are."

"Your plan is simple, but practical," and he smiled upon her thankfully.

He was standing now. He held out his hand. She grasped it, and bending
forward, kissed him.

"Be careful, Jean," she said. "And don't do anything rash."

When he went his way, he understood.




CHAPTER XIII

MRS. MERLEY


The April morn shone beautifully over Chicago, when Jean Baptiste came
from the basement of the apartment where Mrs. Pruitt lived, and had bade
Godspeed to him. It was election day over all the state, a preferential
primary for the purpose of choosing delegates to the G.O.P. convention
to be held two months later. And when Jean Baptiste thought of it, he
understood what had brought the Reverend to the city.

Baptiste arrived at Mrs. Merley's an hour after he left Mrs. Pruitt,
went directly to the number and pulled the bell. It was responded to by
a young woman he did not know, but she assured him that the one he
sought was in, and after seating him in the parlor, hurried to tell Mrs.
Merley.

She came at once all joy and gladness, and greeted him with a shake of
both hands, and kissed him into the bargain.

"Sit right down, sit right down," she said profusely. "And, oh, my, how
glad I am to see you!" she smiled upon him happily, proving how glad she
really was, and he was moved.

"And you came to see me," she continued. "You could have called on no
one who would have been more delighted to see you!"

"You do me too much honor, Mrs. Merley," said he gratefully.

"Indeed," she returned. "I could not do you enough."

"I hadn't hoped for so much kindness, I am sure."

"But, Jean, you don't know how much I have thought about you in the last
two years, and I have longed to talk with you!"

"Oh, really! But I thought I was forgotten by everybody in Chicago."

"You have never been forgotten by us. And especially have we talked of
you in this last year...."

He was silent, though he felt he understood her reference.

"Some dirty sinner ought to be in torment!"

And still he did not speak.

"Oh, I know all that has been done to you, Jean," she went on tenderly.

"Your words give me much relief, Mrs. Merley."

"I wish they could give you more. It is my wish that an opportunity
could be given me to help you."

He straightened. Now was the time to state his mission. But she was
speaking again:

"I spoke my sentiments to his face, the rascal! All his dirty life has
been given to making people miserable, wherever he could."

Jean said nothing, but was listening nevertheless.

"He has been a rascal for thirty-five years, and has made that simple
cousin of mine he married, the goat." She paused to get her breath. "I
saw Orlean not long ago, and asked her where her will was, or if she had
any."

He was attentive. Always he liked to hear her.

"She, of course, tried to stand up for that arch hypocrite. But I waived
that aside. Said I to her: 'Orlean, I could never believe you if you
said Jean Baptiste abused, mistreated or neglected you.' She looked down
when I had spoken and then said evenly. 'No, Jean did not do any of
those things,' 'Then,' said I. 'Why do you live apart from him, the man
you married? Where is your sense of duty?' 'But, Mrs. Merley,' she tried
to protest. 'I just couldn't live out there in that wilderness, it was
too lonesome,' 'Oh, Orlean,' I said disgustingly, 'do you expect me to
believe that? And if even I believed you, how could I respect you?'

"But that is it, Jean. Here is this family posing as among the best
<DW64> families in Chicago, but with no more regard for what is morally
right than the worst thief. Indeed, no thief would do what that man is
doing."

He mumbled something inaudible. She was out to talk, so he heard her on:

"I understand the whole line up, and their vain shielding of that old
rascal, just because you didn't lie to him and become a hypocrite like
he himself is. Everybody near him must bow to him and tell him he is
great, else he will use what influence is his to 'get even.' So that's
the whole output. He took her away from you because he raised her as he
has willed my cousin, his wife, to subserve to him. And now he goes
around here with all that dirty affected piety and wants people to
sympathize with him in his evil." She paused again for breath, and then
he spoke:

"I am glad to know you have taken the view of this you have, Mrs.
Merley," he said slowly, "And I am wondering therefore, whether you
would be willing to help me in a certain Christian cause."

"Why, Jean! Why ask me? You must know that I would help you in any way I
could."

He then told her just what he had planned. She interrupted him at times
with little bursts of enthusiasm, and there was no hesitancy on her
part.

"Anything, Jean, anything! You don't know how anxious I am, and how
glad I am to have the opportunity! The only thing I regret is that you
ever married such a weakling. You might have heard that Blanche is
married?"

"I have," he replied. "I trust she is happy."

"Well," said the other slowly, "she appears to be, withal. And for that
reason I suppose I should be thankful. But she did not quite please me
in her selection."

"Oh," he echoed.

"No," she said slowly, and as if she felt the disappointment keenly.
"She did not. Her husband, it is true, is good to her, but he did not
come up to my hope. Yet, and it is singular," she said thoughtfully, "to
think that a man with all you possess financially, and mentally, should
get 'in' as you have." She paused again a little embarrassed, and then
pursued:

"I wish Blanche had a husband of your disposition and attainments."

"Blanche, I thought, was a sweet girl," he said reflectively.

"And a good girl," said Mrs. Merley. "I would have given anything to
have had her marry a promising young farmer of your order, and be now
living in the West."

"I love the West, and had hoped others would be loving it too," he said
ruefully.

"He came back here after his first visit, and sitting right where you
are now, said that you was one of the race's most progressive young men.
He added to this everywhere he had half a chance and eulogized you to
the highest. It happened that the minister who married you, was here,
and he, too, very much admired you, and voiced the same to the Reverend.
That old devil just swelled up like a big frog with vanity. Three months
later he comes back here, and, to seek to justify his action, he
spreads the town with lies that nobody believes."

The other shifted his position.

"Well, Jean," she said now more soberly, "just what shall I do?"

"If you would not mind--"

"Oh, don't say that!"

"Very well, Mrs. Merley. I would like you to call her up and suggest a
matinee."

"Why not just go to one?"

"That would please me if you would condescend?"

"I'd be glad to go, and in view of the circumstances, I think it would
be a suggestive idea. Let her get used to your presence again, without
coming directly to the point at once."

"A capital idea, I agree!"

"Call her up and ask her to come over and go with you to the matinee."

"That is the plan, and I understand."

"I will appreciate your kindness," said he heartily. She arose then and
advancing toward him, embraced him impulsively.

Thereupon she went to the telephone, and succeeded in getting his wife
on the wire. He heard her answer the call, and laugh over something
humorous Mrs. Merley said. His heart beat faster, and he was conscious
that he was more hopeful than he had been for a long time.

"Yes...." Mrs. Merley was saying. "I want you to go with me to a
matinee.... Be here at one forty-five.... Yes, I have the tickets....
And you'll not be late."

She was standing before him again, and her face was lighted up with the
joy of what she had accomplished. He was grateful, and rose to thank
her, whereupon she embraced him again. The next moment she went quickly
up the stairs to prepare for the occasion.

"You may come upstairs, too, Jean," she invited, "and from the front
room there, you can watch for yours."

"Oh, Mrs. Merley, you make me happier than I have been for a long time,"
he said, and almost was he emotional.

"And I have a nice spare bedroom for you and _her_, tonight. And
tomorrow, she is _yours_."

Jean Baptiste waited and watched, and then suddenly he heard a voice. It
was that of the girl who had admitted him, who was also watching.

"Here she comes," she cried, excitedly. Jean Baptiste looked quickly out
of the window and up the street, and saw his wife coming leisurely
toward the house wherein he was sitting.




CHAPTER XIV

OH, MERCIFUL GOD, CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!


Reverend Newton Justine McCarthy had once lived in Peoria, Illinois, and
was well acquainted with the late Robert Ingersoll. Moreover, he had
admired the noted orator, and although he had not the courage, in truth,
he believed as Ingersoll believed. And because he did, and was forced to
keep his true convictions a secret, while he preached the gospel he did
not believe, he had grown to hate almost all people. But N.J. McCarthy
was not aware of this fact himself.

Ever since he brought his daughter home, and had thereby parted her from
the man she married, he had never been the same. Always he was troubled
with something he could not understand. His dreams were bad. The awful
sensations he very often experienced while in slumber, grew so annoying
that at times he found that he was almost afraid to sleep. Then, a
persistent illness continually knocked at his door. The truth of it was,
that he was battling with a conscience he had for years crucified. But
it would persist. So deep had he sowed the habits he followed, and so
intrenched were the roots of these habits, until it was no easy task to
uproot them.

He had left Mrs. Pruitt near midnight of the day when Jean Baptiste had
arrived on his trip in a last effort to secure his wife. The family had
retired before he arrived home, and having some business in the rear of
the house, he passed through the room which contained the bed wherein
his daughter, Orlean, lay in peaceful slumber. When he was returning he
paused briefly to observe the face of the sleeping girl in the
moonlight. Peacefully she slept, and for the first time in his life he
saw therein something he had never seen before. He felt his flesh and
wondered at the feeling that was come over him. It seemed that he was
asleep, but positively he was awake. He _was_ awake, and looking into
the sleeping face of his daughter. But if he _was awake, what was it he
saw_?

Surely not. But as he stood over her, he thought he could see her eyes
open, and look at him strangely, regard him in a way she had never done
before. And as she looked at him, he thought she raised her hand that
lay under the cover, and with her forefinger leveled, she pointed at
him. In the trance he imagined he could hear her voice. She called him:

"Father?" And betimes he answered.

"Yes, daughter."

"Where is my husband?" He gave a start. He thought he caught at
something, and then he heard her again:

"You have sent him away, out of my life, and the day is coming when you
will be called upon to answer for your sins!"

He thought he was trembling. All about him was turmoil. He saw the
people, the friends of the family, and all the people he had preached to
in thirty years, and all were pointing an accusing finger at him. And
out of the chaos he heard them crying: "_Shame, oh shame! That you
should be so evil, so vile, such a hypocrite, and let your evil fall
upon your own daughter!_" He saw then the wife he had taken from Speed.
He saw that one in his misery, he saw him sink, and renounce from
weakness the sentiments he had started in the world to teach. He saw him
struggle vainly, and then saw him fall, low, lower, until at last the
flames of hell had swallowed him up. "Merciful God," he cried, and he
was sure he staggered. "Was it _I_ who brought all this?" But before he
could recover, the procession kept passing.

Behind Speed came the wife he had robbed him of. She carried in her arms
a baby that he had given her. By the hand she led the other illegitimate
offspring. There they were, the innocents that had no name. He saw the
bent head of the woman, and saw the grief and anguish in her face. He
saw her suddenly stop and fall, and while she lay upon the earth, her
children were taken, and grew up surrounded with all that was bad and
evil. He saw one suddenly dead, while still a boy, murdered by the
companions he kept. He saw his young body in the morgue. And before all
this had passed, he saw this one's mother again, the woman he had
fooled, in the depth of the "tenderloin." He saw her a solicitor, and he
could hear himself groan in agony.

The years passed, and while he grew older, other things came and went; a
train of evil deeds he had committed, and at last came his own daughter.
He saw her passing and when he saw her face, the agony therein
frightened him. Was it so! Had _he_, done that, too? Was _he_ the cause
of what he saw in this girl's face? Suddenly he saw her change, and in
the distance he saw Jean Baptiste, and all he had suffered. "_Oh,
merciful God, close thou mine eyes_," he thought he could hear himself
call. But his eyes would not close, and the one to whom he appealed
appeared to be deaf, and the procession continued.

He saw Orlean stretch her hands out to Baptiste, and he came toward her
with arms outstretched, and he thought he heard a voice, the voice of
the man Jean Baptiste. And the words he cried rang in his ears: "My
wife, oh, Orlean, my wife! Come unto me!"--But lo! When the two had came
close, and the man would have held her to him, a shadow suddenly rose
between them, and shut them out from each other's sight. He thought he
raised his voice to call out to the one of the shadow. And when he
called to him, and the one of the shadow turned, and behold! It was
himself! He suddenly came out of the trance, to see Orlean sitting up in
bed. He caught his breath and held his hand over his heart, as he heard
her voice:

"Papa, is that you? My, how you frightened me! I--" and then she quickly
stopped. She had started to say, "I thought it was Jean," for in truth
she had dreamed of him, and that he had come for her, and she was glad,
and when she arose to go she had awakened to find her father standing
over her.

"Yes, yes, my dear," he said rather awkwardly. "It is I. I stopped to
look at you and seemed to forget myself." He hurried away then, and up
the stairs to his room and went to bed, but it was near morning when he
fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

It so happened when Jean Baptiste had gone upstairs to call on Mildred
and her mother, he had knocked at the door below. A man lived there whom
he had known in the years gone by and who had educated himself to be a
lawyer. His name was Towles, Joseph Towles. Always before when he was in
the city, he had called on Towles and his family, and when their door
rose before him, on the impulse he had forgotten all else but to greet
them. He pushed the bell, and no sooner had he done so than he recalled
his mission, and that he was avoiding his acquaintances. He quickly
passed upstairs but not before Mrs. Towles had opened the door and
caught a glimpse of him passing.

She was aware of his difficulty, and had pretended to sympathize with
him. But Mrs. Towles was a gossipy, penurious woman, and did not get
along with her neighbors overhead. So when she saw Jean Baptiste passing
up the stairs, and hurrying from her without speaking, she at once
became angry, and with it apprehensive. She went back to where she had
been working over some sewing. She was thoughtful, and then regarded the
clock.

"I wonder what he is doing here?" she mused to herself. And then she
suddenly brightened with an inspiration. "_His wife_, of course," she
cried, and fell to thinking further.

She happened to be a close friend of a certain lady who lived next door
to the McCarthys on Vernon Avenue, and it was to her that she decided to
pay a visit on the morrow. And, of course she would discuss the fact
that she had gotten a glimpse of Jean Baptiste, and would try to find
out what she could.

It was the following afternoon that she found the time to visit her
friend in Vernon Avenue. She passed by the house wherein lived the
McCarthys, and made up her mind to call there later in company with her
friend to hear the news.

"Why, Mrs. Towles!" cried her friend when she saw her face upon opening
the door. "How nice it was of you to call, when I was not expecting you!
Such a pleasant surprise," whereupon they kissed in womanly fashion. She
took a seat by the window, for she wished to look into the street. The
other took a chair just facing her, and together they fell to talking.
As they sat there, Orlean suddenly came out of the house next door,
down the steps, and passed before Mrs. Towles' gaze as she went up the
street to Wabash Avenue to fill the engagement with Mrs. Merley.

"Oh, look," cried Mrs. Towles, pointing to the figure of the other.
"There goes Orlean!"

The other strained her neck, and said:

"M-m."

"And I saw her husband last night."

"You did!" exclaimed the other in great surprise. She had a grown
daughter who was very much accomplished, but unmarried. So she took a
delight in such cases as Jean Baptiste's....

"I did," replied the other, making herself comfortable and getting ready
to relate his strange actions.

"Well, well, now!" echoed the other, all attention.

"Yes," said Mrs. Towles, and then related all that had passed which was
not anything but catching a glimpse of Baptiste as he had disappeared up
the steps.

"I don't think they know next door, that he is in town," suggested the
other.

"Don't they?"

"Why, not likely. You know the last time he was here they wouldn't admit
him!" They eyed each other jubilantly, and then went on.

"Then we ought to go right over and inform them at once!" said Mrs.
Towles.

"Just what we should do," agreed the other.

And so it happened that the Reverend learned that Jean Baptiste was in
the city; but for once he was not excited. Somehow, he hoped that Jean
would meet Orlean, and he knew then that she had gone out for that
purpose. He knew that she was supposed to go to a matinee, and he
realized from previous statements, that Mrs. Merley was the "go
between."

So he took no part in the gossip that followed, nor did he for once sigh
in self pity.

Perhaps after all he had decided not to interfere.




CHAPTER XV

"LOVE YOU--GOD, I HATE YOU!"


The play they witnessed that afternoon was an emotional play, and in a
degree it sufficed to arouse the emotion in all three. The meeting
between Orlean and her husband had been without excitement. As if she
had been expecting him, she welcomed him, and they had proceeded
directly to a play at the Studebaker Theater downtown.

When they were again in the street, they went to another theater where
they purchased tickets to witness Robert Mantell in Richelieu. And,
later, taking a surface car on State Street, proceeded to a restaurant
near Thirty-first Street where they had supper, after which they retired
to the home of Mrs. Merley.

Of course that one left them to themselves in due time, and in a few
minutes they were engaged in congenial conversation. After a time Jean
caught her hand, and despite the slight protest she made, he succeeded
in drawing her up on his knee.

"I ought not to sit here," she said.

"Why not, Orlean?" he said kindly, placing his arm about her waist
fondly.

"Because."

"Because what, dear?"

She looked at him quickly. He met her eyes appealingly. She looked away,
and then down at her toes.

"How you have fleshened," he commented.

"Do you think so?" she returned, inclined to be sociable.

"It is quite noticeable. And you are better looking when you are so."

"Oh, you flatter me," she chimed.

"I would like to flatter my wife."

She did not reply to this. She appeared to be comfortable, and he went
on.

"Don't you know that I have longed to see you, and that it has not been
just right that I could not?"

And still she made no answer.

"I never want to live so again. I want you always, Orlean."

"When did you leave home?" she asked now.

"A couple of days ago."

"And how long have you been here?"

"I came yesterday afternoon."

"And when to Mrs. Merley's?"

"This morning."

She was thoughtful then. Indeed they were getting along better than he
had hoped. There remained but one thing more. If he could persuade her
to stay the night at Mrs. Merley's and not insist on going home. If he
could keep her out of her father's sight until morning, he would have no
more worry. That, indeed, was his one point of uneasiness. Keeping her
out of her father's sight. He recalled how he had refrained from buying
a revolver when he left home. It would not have been safe after all that
had passed between himself and her father for him to have anything of
the kind about, and he was glad now that he had been sensible.

He drew his wife's head down, turned her face to his, and kissed her
lips. He caught the sigh that passed her lips. He saw her eyebrows
begin to contract. What was passing in her mind? Duty? Then, to whom?

He kissed her again, and caressed her fondly. This meant much to him. He
told her so then, too.

"It has been very hard on me, wife, for you to have stayed away a whole
year. Awfully hard. It was never my plans or intention for such to be."
He was full up now. He wanted to talk a long time with her. If they
could just retire and talk far into the night as they had done in the
eleven months that had been theirs.

His confidence was growing. All that was expedient now, he felt sure,
was to keep the Reverend out of it until morning. By that time no
further effort on his part would be necessary.

"Do you love me, Orlean?" he said now, drawing her face close to his
again.

She made no reply audibly, but she seemed to be struggling with
something within herself. In truth she did not want to say that she did,
and she _would not_ tell him she did not. She let her arm unconsciously
encircle his neck. Her hand found his head and stroked his hair, while
she was mentally meditative.

In the meantime, his head rested against her breast, and he could hear
the beating of her heart.

"Oh, my wife," he cried, intended for himself but she heard it. It
aroused her, her emotion began to assert itself. How long would it take
for her to be his mate again at this rate?

"How is everything back home?" she asked, as if seeking a change. He
hesitated. She looked down into his face to see why he did not answer
directly. He caught her eyes, and she could see that he was not wishing
to tell her something.

"What is the matter, Jean?" she asked now, slightly excited and anxious.

"Oh, nothing," he replied. He wanted to tell her the truth, all the
truth, but it was not yet time he feared. Until she had given up to him,
he decided to withhold anything serious.

"There is _something_, Jean, of that I am sure," she insisted, shifting
where she could see his face more clearly.

"If there is anything, wife, I would discuss it later. Now,--I can think
of but one thing, and that is you," whereupon he caressed her again
fondly. She sighed then and her emotion was becoming more perceptible.

"You are going back home with me tomorrow, dear?" he dared to say
presently.

For answer she shifted uneasily, and then her eyes espied the clock on
the wall. It was five-thirty.

"I think I should call up home," she said thoughtfully. He caught his
breath, and trembled perceptibly. She regarded him inquiringly.

And here again we must remark about Jean Baptiste. In the year of
misery, of agony and suffering in general he had endured, he had settled
upon one theory. And that was that if he and his wife were to ever live
together again and be happy, the family were to be kept out of it.
Perhaps if this could have been forgotten by him in this moment, we
would not have had this story to tell; but when she mentioned her folks,
all that he had wished to avoid--all that he felt he _must_ avoid, came
before him. As he saw it now, if she called her father, they would
_never_ live together again. He was nervous when he anticipated the
fact. He started, and took on unconsciously a fearsome expression.

"Please don't, Orlean," he said, beseechingly.

"Don't what?" she asked, apprehensive of something she did not like.

"Call your father," he said. He wanted to tell her that if she called
her father, it would mean the end of everything for them, but he
withheld this.

"Now, I wish him to know where I am," she said, protestingly, and arose
from his knee. She stood away from where he sat hesitatingly. In that
moment, she was not aware that she stood between duty and subservience.
As she saw it, she forgot from her training that there _was_ a duty, she
only remembered that she was obedient. Obedient to the father who had
reared her so to be.

It was the psychological moment in their union. Near her the husband
that she had taken, regarded her uneasily. He had come to her to do the
duty that was his to do. They were estranged because of one thing, and
one thing only, and that was her father, the man her husband would never
yield to. And as she hesitated between obedience to one and duty toward
the other, her life, her love and future was in the balance.

Which?

"Orlean," she heard now, from the lips of her husband. "Listen, _before
you go to the phone_." He became suddenly calm as he said this. "I
married you two years gone now, for better or for worse, and 'until
death do us part.' That was the vow that I took and also you. I've done
my best by you under the circumstances. I gave you a home and bed that
you left. I gave you my love, and am willing to give you my life if that
be necessary. But, Orlean, I didn't contract to observe the ideas and be
subservient to the opinion of others. To force me to regard this is to
do me a grave injustice. You cannot imagine, appreciate, maybe, how
humiliating it is to be placed in such a position. I cannot explain it
with you standing impatiently before me as you are. I have come here to
try and have you discuss this matter with me from a practical point of
view. Surely, having taken me as your God-given mate, you owe me that.
You force me to honor and respect certain persons--"

"Don't you," she cried. "Don't you insinuate my father!" She advanced
toward him threateningly in her excitement, and all sense of duty was
gone. Only obedience to the one who had made it so remained. That she
should rally to the support of his adversary, displaced his composure.
He had hoped to have her reason it out with him, and he had prayed that
he be given a little time, and then all would be well. He was aware that
she was unequal to a woman's task. Not one woman in a thousand he knew
would place a father before a husband; but his wife was different. She
had been trained to be devoutly subservient to her father. For that
reason he was willing to be patient--he had been patient. But at the
same time he had suffered much, and her love and obedience to his worst
enemy--even if it was her father, unfitted him for that with which he
was now confronted. He was fast losing his composure, likewise his
patience. Nothing in the world should stand between him and his wife. He
became excited now, but calmed long enough to say:

"Go ahead, or come to me. There are two things a woman cannot be at the
same time," and he waved his hand toward her resolutely. "A wife to the
man she has married, and a daughter to her father." With this statement
he sank back into the chair from which he had partly risen. He had said
the last statement with such forceful logic, that it made her stop,
pause uneasily, and then suddenly she straightened and turning, went to
the telephone. But when she called over the wire to her father, all the
composure that Jean Baptiste ever had left him. All the suffering and
agony that he had experienced from the hand of the other asserted
itself. He arose from the chair and came toward her. His eyes were
bloodshot, his attitude was threatening. She called to her father, and
the words she said were:

"Yes, papa.... Is this you.... Yes.... I am at Mrs. Merley's....
And--ah--papa," she hesitated and her voice broke from fear.
"Ah--papa--a--Jean is here, papa.... Yes, Jean. He is here." She was
trembling now, and the man standing behind her saw it. He saw her
passing out of his life forever, and desperation overtook him. In that
moment something within him seemed to snap.

He reached over her shoulder and grasped the receiver and pushed her
roughly aside. The next instant she was protesting wildly, while Mrs.
Merley was brought to the front by his loud voice screaming over the
'phone.

"_Hell, hello, you!_" he cried savagely. "_Hello, I say!... How am I! My
God, how could I be after what you have done to me, my life.... Why
didn't I come to the house?... Why should I come to your house, when the
last time I was there I was kicked out, virtually kicked out, do you
hear?_"

"You get away from here!" he heard in his ear, and turned to see his
wife gone wild with excitement. Her eyes were distraught, her attitude
was menacing, as she struggled at his arm to try and wrest the receiver
from his hand. He heard the other saying something in his ear. He did
not understand it, he was too excited. Everything was in a whirl around
him. He became conscious that he had dropped the receiver after a time.
He felt himself in contact with some one, and saw the face of his wife.
In her excitement she was striking him; she was trying to do him
injury.

He became alive to what was going on, then. The receiver hung suspended;
he was in a grapple with his excited wife.

"You--you!" she screamed. "You abuse my father, my poor father! You have
abused him ever since I knew you. You will not respect him, and then
come to ask me to live with you. You abuser! you devil! Do I love you?
God, _I hate you_!"

He made no effort to protect himself. He allowed her to strike him at
will and with a strength, born of excitement, she struck him in his
face, in his eyes, she scratched him, she abused him so furiously until
gradually he began to sink. He reached out and caught her around the
waist as he lost his footing and fell to his knees. As he lingered in
this position his face was upturned. She struck him then with all the
force in her body. He groaned, as he gradually loosened his hold upon
her, and slowly sank to the floor. And all the while she fought him, she
punctuated her blows with words, some abusing him, others in defense of
her father.

At last he lay upon the floor, while around her, Mrs. Merley and the
other girl begged and beseeched. But she was as if gone insane. As he
lay with eyes closed and a slight groan escaping from his lips at her
feet, she suddenly raised her foot and kicked him viciously full in the
face. This seemed, then, to make her more vicious, and thereupon she
started to jump upon him with her feet, but Mrs. Merley suddenly caught
her about the waist and drew her away.

How long he lay there he did not know, but he opened his eyes when from
the outside he heard hurried footsteps. He continued to lay as he was,
and then somebody pulled the bell vigorously. Mrs. Merley went to it,
opened it, and let some one in. He looked up through half closed eyes to
see the Reverend standing over him. In that instant he saw his wife dash
past him and fall into the other's arms. He heard her saying words of
love, while he was aware that the other pacified her with soft words.
They took no notice of the man at their feet.

And then he saw them open the door, while the others stood about in awe.
While the door was open he caught a glimpse of the street outside--and
of Glavis on the sidewalk below.

The next instant the door closed softly behind them, and she went out of
his life as a wife forever.




CHAPTER XVI

A STRANGE DREAM


When the others had gone, Jean Baptiste rolled over again upon the
floor, and was conscious that one eye was closed and swollen, filled
with blood from a wound inflicted by his wife just below it. He rose to
a sitting posture presently, and looked around him. He was in the hall,
and when he looked through the open door into the parlor, he saw Mrs.
Merley stretched on the settee before him weeping. He staggered to his
feet, and went toward her.

She looked up when he approached, and dried her eyes. "You spoiled
things, Jean," she accused, and he noted the disappointment in her
voice, and also detected a note of impatience.

"Yes, I admit I did, Mrs. Merley, and I'm sorry--for you."

"For me?" she repeated, not understanding his import.

"Yes," he replied wearily. "For _you_."

"But--but--why--for _me_?"

"Well," he said, with a sigh, "It _had_ to be as it was. I wanted her.
But it would have been disaster in the end on his account, because I
could never have brought myself to honor him, and to have lived with her
I should have been forced to--at least pretended to do so, and that
would have been worse still."

She was thoughtfully silent then for some time, then she regarded him
closely, and said as if to herself:

"Well, I fear you are right. Yes, I _know_ you are when I recall how she
abused you a while ago. Gracious! I did not know that it was in
Orlean."

"Nor did I," he said, his face covered with his hands.

"_He_ made her that way through the influence he has exerted over her.
Evil influence. I have a feeling that there will come a day when that
influence will work the other way," she said musingly, "_he_ will be the
victim, and the punishment will be severe."

Both were silent for a time, and nothing but the ticking of the clock on
the mantel disturbed the quiet. He presently raised his head, and in so
doing uncovered his face. It was dark and distorted, swollen a great
deal, and one of his eyes was closed. She saw it then for the first
time.

"My God, Jean!" she exclaimed, arising and hurrying to him. "Your face
is swollen almost beyond recognition. Why, my dear, you are in a
dreadful fix!" She stood over him scarcely knowing just what to do. Then
she regained her composure. She caught at his arm, as she cried:

"Come with me, quick!" He arose and followed her upstairs and into the
bedroom she had prepared for him and Orlean. In a corner there was a
little basin, and to this she led him. She then had him hold his face
over the basin while she carefully bathed it. This done, she asked him
to go to bed while she went downstairs, returning presently with
liniments and towels, and bathed his wounds again and bandaged his face
carefully.

"Now, Jean," she said kindly, "I will leave you. But you will do this
favor which I ask of you?"

He turned his face toward her.

"Don't advise Mr. Merley about what has occurred here tonight," she
said.

"I understand," he replied quietly. Thereupon she left him to himself.

At the Vernon Avenue home of the McCarthys, the house was in an orgy of
excitement. When the Reverend had been advised regarding his
son-in-law's presence in the city, he recalled the seance he had
experienced the night before. When the women came, he was preparing to
go to the west side for his daily visit with Mrs. Pruitt. But upon this
advice, he desisted, and decided to remain home.

When the mongers had taken their gossip from his presence, he fell into
deep thought. For the first time since he had precipitated the trouble,
he saw the situation clearly. He was aware that his act by this time,
had helped nobody, had made no one happy or satisfied--not even himself.
Almost he agreed with himself then, that he had miscalculated; Jean
Baptiste was willing apparently, to forego his wife's loss and the loss
of her homestead, before he would do as the Elder had planned and
estimated he would. His conscience was disturbed. He recalled the
unpleasant nights he had endured in the last few months. He recalled
that while Orlean always pretended to him that she was satisfied, for
the first time in his life, he saw that it was due to the training, the
subservience to his will, and not to her own convictions.

He arose from his seat and walked the floor in meditation. Habit,
however, had become such a force with him, that he could hardly resist
the impulse to commit some action; to rush to Mrs. Merley's and make
himself conspicuous. He struggled between impulse and conscience, and
neither won fully. After an hour, however, he reached this decision: He
would not go to or call up Mrs. Merley. He would just leave it to them
to solve, and if they should finally reach some agreement between
themselves, he would not stand in the way. When he had reached this
conclusion, he went into the street, and was surprised at the relief he
felt. Not for months had he enjoyed a walk as much as he did that one.

But while Newton Justine McCarthy had struggled with his conscience, and
at last found solace in admitting at this late hour to what he should
have done two years before, he had failed to reckon with other features
that asserted themselves later. He had not estimated that if Jean
Baptiste sought his wife secretly, it must have been because he wished
to avoid him. He failed to see that this man had suffered bitterly
through his evil machinations. He failed, moreover, to appreciate that
his training of Orlean to the subservient attitude, would prevent her
from returning to her husband or reaching any agreement with him until
she had first ascertained that such would be agreeable to her father.
Had he so reckoned the scene just related might not have occurred.

It was while they were sitting at supper that the telephone rang. When
the conversation ensued, the Reverend sought not only to promulgate good
will by leaving it to Jean Baptiste, but he thought also to encourage
him by inviting him to the house, and in this he meant well. But behind
him stood Ethel. She caught the gist of excitement and instantly began
to scream.

"Get Orlean, go get my sister! Don't let that man have her, owee!" at
the top of her voice, she yelled, and Glavis and her mother had to hold
her. Some friends were having dinner with them, and they now stood
toward the rear uncertain whether to leave or remain, and heard all that
passed. The Reverend was laboring frantically to get an answer over the
'phone, and it was at this moment that Orlean had gone frantic and was
abusing her husband.

In the excitement, Ethel kept up her tirade at the top of her voice, and
in the end, the Reverend, followed by Glavis, had gone to Mrs.
Merley's.

They had now returned, and Ethel was pacified. The visitors had departed
to spread the gossip, and all but Ethel was downcast. Orlean, in
unspoken remorse, had retired; while the Reverend, fully conscious at
last of what his interposition had brought, was regretful, but not
openly. And the others, not knowing that he had that day repented, sat
at their distance and tried to form no conclusion.

"It is over--all over," cried Orlean now in the bed. "And as I have done
all my life, I have failed at the most crucial moment. Oh, merciful God,
what can you do with a weak woman like I! It has been I all along who
has made misery for myself, for _him_, and for all those near me! I! I!
_I!_ That I could have cultivated the strength of my conviction; that I
could have been the woman he wanted me to be. Out there he _tried_ to
make me one; he sought in every way he knew how. But a weakling I would
remain! And because I have sought to please others and abuse him in
doing so, I have brought everybody to the ditch of misery and despair."
She cried for a long time, but her mind was afire. All that her weakness
and subservience had caused, continued, and at last the event of the
night.

"And what did I do to him?" she said now, rising in the bed. "I recall
that he came to the telephone. He stood listening to what I was saying,
and I recall that when I turned slightly and saw his face, it was
terrible! Then I saw him suddenly snatch the receiver from my hand, and
I heard him talking to papa. He was terribly excited, and I shall never
forget the expression on his face. I cannot clearly remember what
followed. I recall, however, that I struggled with him; that I struck
him everywhere I could; that I scratched his face.... And, oh, my God, I
recall what passed then!" She suddenly sank back upon the pillow and
gave up to bitter anguish, when she recalled what had followed. But the
excitement was too great for her to lay inert. She rose again upon her
elbow, and looked before her into the darkness of the room as she slowly
repeated half aloud what had followed.

"Yes, I _recall_. _He made no resistance. He did not defend himself, but
allowed me to strike him at will. And under the fusillade of blows, I
recall that he sank slowly to his knees--sank there with his arms about
me, and I striking him with all the strength in my body. Upon his knees
then, he lingered, while I rained blow after blow upon his upturned
face. And now I can recall that his eyes closed, and from his lips I
caught a sigh, and then he rolled to the floor. And, here, oh, Lord, I
added what will follow me throughout my life and never again give me
peace._

"_While he lay there upon the floor, with his eyes closed before me, I
kicked him viciously full in the face! But even then he did not resist,
but only groaned wearily. Merciful Jesus! Nor did I stop there! I jumped
on his face with my feet, and then I recall that some one caught me and
saved me from further madness!_" She was exhausted then, and lay without
words for a long time. Almost in a state of coma, she bordered, and
while so, she fell into a strange sleep. The night wore on, and the
clock downstairs was striking the hour of two when she suddenly
awakened. She sat straight up in bed, and jerked her hands to her head,
and screamed long and terribly. The household was awakened, and came
hurrying to where she lay. But in the meantime she continued to scream
loudly, at the top of her voice. And all the while, perspiration flowed
from her body. It was nigh onto four o'clock before they succeeded in
quieting her, and when they had done so she lay back again upon the
pillow with a groan, and the family went back to their beds to wonder
what had come over her. All felt strangely as if something evil had
crept into their lives, and their excitement was great. All but Ethel,
who, in her evil way, was delighted, and laughed gleefully when she had
returned to bed.

"Laugh on, Ethel, you evil woman!" said Glavis at her side. "Evil has
this night come into our lives. It _wasn't_ right in the beginning; it
_isn't_ right now, nor was last night. Oh, I have never wanted to see
this go along as it has. Because your father has trained Orlean to obey
and subserve to his will, he has done something to her, and she has
become a demon instead of a weakling. Last night I saw Jean Baptiste
lying prone upon the floor, and knew that she had beaten him down to it,
and he had not resisted. She told me as we came home what she had done,
but was not aware that she was telling me. Nothing good can come of
evil, and it is evil that we have practiced toward that man. He is
through now, and never again will he make effort to get her to live with
him. But just so sure as she has abused him, just so sure will _she_ do
injury to those who have brought this about." And with this he turned on
his side and feigned sleep.

Alone Orlean lay trying vainly to forget something--something that stood
like a spectre before her eyes. But she could not forget it, nor did she
_ever_ forget it. It had come, and it was inevitable. She had seen _it_
in her sleep. _It_ had all been so clear, and when she had awakened and
screamed so long, she knew, then that it must in time be so. She would
never forget it; but realizing its gravity, she decided thereupon never
to tell it--the dream--to anybody.

The sun shone and the birds sang, and the day was beautiful without when
she at last fell asleep again.




EPOCH THE FOURTH




EPOCH THE FOURTH




CHAPTER I

THE DROUGHT


Jean Baptiste jumped from the bed and went quickly to where his trousers
hung on a chair, and went through the pockets hurriedly. He laid them
down when through, and got his breath slowly when he had done so, and
the perspiration stood out on his forehead as he concluded that he had
been robbed.

After a time he raised his hand to his forehead, and appeared puzzled.
He was positive he had seen some one enter the room, go to the chair,
and take the money from his pockets. It was rather singular, however, he
now thought; for if such had happened, and he had seen it, then why had
he not stopped the robber? He was deeply puzzled. He had seen the act
committed, he felt sure but had made no effort whatever to stop the
thief. He scratched his head in vexation, sat down, and as he did so,
saw that his coat hung also upon the chair. Absently his hands wandered
through the pockets, and found his purse and the money in an outside
pocket.

He was awake then, and went to the basin, removed the bandages, and
bathed his face. The swelling had gone down considerably, but the
injured eye was dark. He realized then, that nobody had entered the
room, for the door was locked with the key inside; but he couldn't
recall having his money in his coat pocket. He was awake at last to the
fact that it had been a dream.

When he had bathed and dressed, he slipped quietly down the stairs, and
into the street, and found his way to the Thirty-fifth Street "L."
station. He had no plans. He considered that his relations with his wife
were at an end, and from his mind he dismissed this in so far as it was
possible--and as far as future plans were concerned. But since he had
made no plans, whatever in the event of failure, and since failure had
come, he was undecided where he was going or what he would do at once.

He decided not to return home directly; he wanted to go somewhere, but
did not care to stay in Chicago. He took the train that was going
down-town, and when he reached the Twelfth Street station, suddenly
decided to go to Southern Illinois, and visit the girl Jessie, with whom
he had been corresponding.

While walking toward the Illinois Central Station, he purchased a paper,
and was cheered to see that his candidate had carried the state in the
preferential primary by an overwhelming majority. The train he was to
take left at nine-forty, and he was able to forget his grief in the hour
and a half he waited, by reading all the details of the election.

The journey three hundred miles south was uneventful, but when he
arrived at Carbondale, the train that would have taken him to where he
was going had left, and he was compelled to spend the night there. The
next morning he caught an early train and reached the town in which she
lived, his first visit there since he met the one he had married.

He found Jessie, and her kind sympathy, served to revive in a measure
his usual composure, and when he left a few days later, he was much
stronger emotionally than he had been for a year, and on his return
West, determined to try to regain his fortunes that had been gradually
slipping from him in the past two years.

When he had digested the state of his affairs at home he had a new
problem to face. Decidedly he was almost "in bad." For a time his
interest had been paid by his bankers; but they had left him to the
mercy of the insurance companies who held the first mortgages. And these
had been protesting and had lately threatened foreclosure. Even so, and
if the crops be good, he was confident he could make it. But before he
could even sow that year's crop, he would have to see a certain banker
who lived in Nebraska. This man was represented by a son who conducted
the bank he controlled at Gregory, and the son had issued an ultimatum,
and if Baptiste would keep his stock that was mortgaged to the bank as
security, he realized that it was best to see the boy's father, since
the son had made plain his stand.

The banker was out of town when he arrived, and to save time, Baptiste
judged that it would be best to go to Sioux City, where he could meet
the banker on his way home, and on the way from Sioux City to the little
town where the banker made his home, he could consult with him, and get
an extension. In this he was successful, and returned home with an
assurance that he would be given until fall to make good--but in truth,
until fall to get ready.

To work he went with a sort of fleeting hope. The spring had been good.
But he was apprehensive that the summer would be dry as the last, and it
was with misgivings that he lived through the days and weeks that
followed. Seed wheat and oats had been furnished to the settlers in
Tripp County that spring by the county commissioners, and he had sowed a
portion of his land with it.

Conditions in the new country had gone from bad to worse, and if the
season should experience another drought, the worst was come. Already
there were a few foreclosures in process, and excitement ran high. The
country was financially embarrassed. To secure money now was almost
impossible. Any number of farms were for sale, but buyers there were
none.

A local shower fell over part of the country in the last days of May,
wetting the ground perhaps an inch deep, and then hot winds began with
the first day of June. For thirty days following, not a drop of rain
fell on the earth. The heat became so intense that breathing was made
difficult, and when the fourth of July arrived, not a kernel of corn
that had been planted that spring, had sprouted. The small grain crops
had been burned to a crisp, and disaster hung over the land. Everywhere
there was a panic. From the West, people who had gone there three and
four years before were returning panic stricken; the stock they were
driving--when they drove--were hollow and gaunt and thin. Going hither
the years before they had presented the type of aggressive pioneers. But
now they were returning a tired, gaunt, defeated army. All hopes, all
courage, all manhood gone, they presented a discouraging aspect.

From Canada on the north, to Texas on the south, the hot winds had laid
the land seemingly bare. Everywhere cattle were being sold for a trifle,
as there was no grass upon which they could feed.

To the north and the south, the east and the west in the country of our
story, ruin was in the wake. Foreclosures became the order, and suits
were minute affairs. From early morn to early morn again, the hot winds
continued, and the air was surcharged with the smell of burning plants.

And with the hero of our story, he saw his hopes sink with the disaster
that was around him; he saw his holdings gradually slipping from him,
and after some time became resigned to the inevitable.

So it came to pass that another change came into his life, hence another
epoch in the unusual life was his.




CHAPTER II

THE FORECLOSURE


Early in July when the drought had burned the crops to a crisp, and
plant life was beyond redemption, the Banks, Trust and Insurance
Companies holding notes secured by mortgages against the land and stock
of Jean Baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. He read with the
cold perspiration upon his forehead the notices that appeared in the
papers. Attachments were filed against all he personally possessed in
Gregory County, as well as in Tripp County. The fact that he had not had
his sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had just made
proof that summer, was a relief to him now, and with a sigh he laid down
the newspapers containing the notices.

It was no surprise since he had been threatened with such for many
months, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable. But when the grim
reality of the situation dawned upon him, it weakened him. Never had he
dreamed that it would come to this. He took mental inventory of his
possessions and what he could lay claim to, and he happened to think
about his wife's homestead. On this he had made his home since her
departure, and no trouble had been given him. While the local land
office had rendered a decision in her favor; the contestee had taken an
appeal to the general land office and the commissioner and upon being
represented by an attorney, the local land office's decision had been
reversed. It had been up to him then to go further, which he had done,
by appealing the case to the highest office in the land department, the
Secretary of the Interior, and here it rested. To do this, he had agreed
to pay the attorney $300 to win, and one hundred dollars in the event he
should not, the latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. He had
formulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he would continue
to hold it, since now it was a settled fact in his mind that he and the
woman he had married were parted forever.

But poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years was a general
and accepted thing now. And the fact that he was being foreclosed,
occasioned no comment, and at least he could continue on without
intensely feeling the attendant disgrace.

It was at this juncture in life that a new thought came to Jean
Baptiste. In all his life he had been a thinker, a practical thinker--a
prolific thinker. Moreover, a great reader into the bargain. So the
thought that struck him now, was writing. Perhaps he could write. If so
then what would he write? So in the days that followed, gradually a plot
formed in his mind, and when he had decided, he chose that he could
write his own story--his life of hell, the work of an evil power!

Of writing he knew little and the art of composition appeared very
difficult. But of thought, this he had a plenty. Well, after all that
was the most essential. If one has thoughts to express, it is possible
to learn very soon some method of construction. So after some weeks of
speculation, he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up the
art of writing.

He found no difficulty in saying something. The first day he wrote ten
thousand words. The next day he reversed the tablet and wrote ten
thousand more. In the next two days he re-wrote the twenty thousand,
and on the fifth day he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds.

He had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures had been
completed and the wheat had been threshed he sowed a large portion of
the seed back into the ground on three hundred acres of ground upon
which the crop that year had failed. According to the law of the state,
when a foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may redeem
the land within one year from the date of the foreclosure. Or, better
still, he may pay the interest, and taxes at the end of one year from
the date of the foreclosure, and have still another year in which to
redeem the land. So it is to be seen that if Jean Baptiste could pay his
interest and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years in
all to redeem his lost fortunes. Hence, in seeding a large acreage of
wheat, he hoped for the best. The years, however, had been too adverse
to now expect any returns when a crop was sown and it had been merely
good fortune that he happened to secure the means with which to sow
another, for credit there was for few any more.

When this was done, there was nothing to do but listen to the wind that
blew dry still, although the protracted drought had been broken by light
autumn rains. So took he up his pencil and fell to the task of writing
again. Through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at his
difficult task, the task of telling a story. The greatest difficulty he
encountered was that he thought faster than he could write. Therefore he
often broke off right in the middle of a sentence to relate an incident
that would occur to him to tell of something else. But at last he had
written something that could be termed a story. He took what appeared to
him to be quite sufficient for a book to a friend who had voiced an
interest in his undertaking. In fact, although he had said nothing
about it, the news had spread that he was writing a story of the country
and everybody became curious.

Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art of
composition. To them, a patriotic, boosting people--despite the ravages
of drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,--a
subtle method of advertising the country. So everybody began looking for
the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. The fact
helped the newsdealers considerably. But to return to Jean Baptiste and
the story he was writing.

The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. He
pretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him to
another. But it was a long time before he found any one who was willing
to attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who needed
the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it he
plunged. He staggered along with much difficulty and managed to complete
half of it by Christmas. The remainder was corrected by a woman who
proved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact
that she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of quick
wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was very
helpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he had
some sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers.

And here was the next great problem. He had, while writing, and before,
read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted for
publication. But, like most writers in putting forth their first
literary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was so
different from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, that
it must therefore receive preference over all.

So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to a
Chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.

It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days he
received a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, and
would be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it to
them.

Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anew
that it would be accepted.

In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it would
appear. He was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculation
was the issue. Many inquired if he had featured them in the story, and
were cheered if he said that he had, while others showed their
disappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. But with
one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literary
effort.

So anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the days
passed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board until
he could receive a reply. And as time passed, he became more and more
nervous. At last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that
if he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. Therefore
he would entertain no possibility of a rejection. It _must_ be accepted,
and that was final. Added to this, he took note of all the publicity he
had been accorded with regard to the same. How would he be able to face
these friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that it had
been rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him considerably, and
made him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it.

Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation
anticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds for
settlement--the question of acceptance they did not know enough about
to consider. So it went, the time passed, and he could scarcely wait
until the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail.
He was never later than the second at the postoffice window. He had read
in Jack London's _Martin Eden_ that an acceptance meant a long thin
envelope. Well, that was the kind he watched for--but of course, he
estimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope,
so he wouldn't take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelope
should be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.

And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster, who knew everybody's
business, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner,
and said:

"There she is! Now read it aloud!"

Baptiste muttered something about that not being the one, and got out of
the office. His heart was pounding like a trip hammer; for, while he had
concluded that a long thin envelope would not necessarily mean an
acceptance, his was a short one, and he was greatly excited.

He went blindly down the street, turned at the corner and sought a quiet
place, a livery barn. Herein he found an empty stall that was dark
enough not to be seen, and still afforded sufficient light to read in.
He nervously held the letter for some minutes afraid to open and read
the contents, and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart. At
last, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the letter forth and
read:

     "_Mr. Jean Baptiste_,

     "DEAR SIR:

     "As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript
     you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has
     been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found
     unavailable for our needs. We are therefore returning the same to
     you today by express.

     "Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking
     you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be,

     "Cordially and sincerely yours,

     "A.C. MCGRAW & CO."

He gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. He was trying to
believe he had read awrong. So he read it again. No, it read just the
same as it had before. It was done; his last opportunity for redemption
seemed to be gone. He turned and staggered from the barn and went
blindly up the street. At the corner he met the deputy sheriff, who
approached him jovially, and then gave him another shock when he said:

"I've got a writ here, Baptiste, and will be glad to have you tell me
where this stuff of yours is so I can go and get it."

He raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking. He _had_ to
do something, for although all his land had been foreclosed on, he had
two years to redeem the same. But this writ--well, the man was there to
take the stock, then!




CHAPTER III

IRENE GREY


Men of the type of Jean Baptiste don't waver and despair regardless as
to how discouraged they may at times, under adverse circumstances,
become. When he was confronted with the law with the papers to take from
him the stock with which to seed his crop, his mental faculties became
busy, and in the course of two hours he had been granted an extension on
the note and the deputy sheriff had returned to Winner as he had come,
empty handed.

But _what was he to do_! He had no money and no credit. He had the land
in Tripp County that was broken into winter wheat, while that in the
next county east was rented. He could, of course, rent some more land
and put it to crop; but he was for the present through with any more
large crops until the seasons became more normal. So he was at a loss
how to engage himself for the months that were coming. He still lived on
his wife's homestead, and had no plans and nowhere else to live. In
these days he found reading a great diversion. He simply devoured books,
studying every detail of construction, and learning a great deal as to
style and effect.

Then he tried writing short stories, but like the book manuscript, they
always came back. He concluded after a time that it was a waste of
postage to send them around; that in truth they were not read--and
again, that there was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow.

He was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one day he met a man
who told him that it was possible for him to have his book printed and
be his own publisher. That sounded very good--anything sounded good in
these dark days in the life of Jean Baptiste. This was a splendid idea.
But it was some time before he was able to find the proper persons with
whom to take this up. But, he finally secured the address of a company
who would manufacture a book to exceed 300 pages for fifty cents per
book. Although this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered in
his literary effort, the price seemed very high in view of what he had
been told. He had planned that it could be made for much less. However
he decided to consider it.

Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had ever had in his
life. Not a dollar did he possess--not even did he have a suit of
clothes any more, and wore every day his corduroys. He owed the
promoters of the old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to pay
very soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas, fifty
miles away, was still another problem. He went to a bank in the little
town where he had other friends from whom he had never asked credit.
They loaned him what he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas.
The senior member of the firm was in town--that is, senior in age but
not in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality, and to be
near one was to effect that one with it.

"I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste," this one said
when Baptiste had told him regarding the company who would put it out
for him.

"Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste. "But I am
clean, dead broke. I can't go down there."

The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped in thought.
Presently he said:

"How much do you have to have to go down there?"

"Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."

"I'll let you have fifty."

"I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store across the
street where he had friends, and there was dressed from head to foot,
charging the clothes to his account. Two days later he walked into the
office of the printing firm with which he had been in correspondence.
They were rather surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, but
he soon put them at ease.

After several days' of negotiating they finally reached an agreement
whereby they would manufacture one thousand copies at seventy-five cents
per copy. He was to pay one third of the amount before the book went to
press, the balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. An outrageous
price, he knew--at least felt. But he was to have all subsequent
editions for one half the amount of the original edition, which was some
consolation to look forward to.

Another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and fifty dollars and
secure him for the remainder? Besides, what would he do with the books
when he had them? Publishing meant distribution. But what did he know of
such? He thought these things over carefully and finally decided that he
would sell them himself. He communicated this fact to the firm. It was
rather unusual for an author, perhaps, to sell his own works. Jean
Baptiste had never sold anything by solicitation since he had grown up,
but when he was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables.
He would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them that he could.

They prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home he returned. He
told, in answer to the volumes of inquiries that everything was all
right, and that the book would appear soon. He said nothing, however, to
the friends he had in view to put up the money and that necessary
security. He believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarily
follow. He would go out and secure orders there at home among his
friends and acquaintances. But the day he planned to start was very
cold--the mercury stood twenty-seven below zero.

Starting in Dallas he received orders for one hundred forty-two copies
the first day. Very good for a starter. He went to Winner the next day.
Despite the fact that the drought had done no good to the people of that
community and town, they all were acquainted with and admired Jean
Baptiste. Besides, they would not see Dallas beat them. And one hundred
fifty-three copies were ordered by them.

Jean Baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given a chance. He
secured orders for fifteen hundred copies of his book in two weeks. The
promoters went his security and put up the cash into the bargain, and he
went back to the publishing house victorious.

The printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for they had been so
impressed with his personality that they had begun work upon the copy
when he returned. In thirty days it was ready, and in sixty days from
the time he was penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollars
to the credit of the book in the banks.

As he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing his
printers, establishing an office and going into the book business for a
livelihood, he was the recipient of a telegram from Washington advising
that the Honorable Secretary of the Interior had reversed the
commissioner's decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regard
to the claim. He had won, but as to how he would ever prove up he
didn't know, nor did he let it worry him. He was too flushed with
success in his new field. He could still hold the claim, but it would be
his wife who must offer proof on the same, and his wife he had not heard
from for over a year.

He did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable when he began to
work among strangers. Indeed, while he did business the money didn't
seem to come in as it should. He conceived an idea of securing agents
among the <DW52> people, and in that way effect a good sale. To begin
with, this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment has
not been conducive to the art of selling anything except those things
that require little or no wide knowledge. They deal largely in hair
goods to make their curls grow or hang straighter,--or in complexion
creams to clarify and whiten the skin. Yet he succeeded in getting many
to take the agency and these received orders and sent for the books. He
had learned that it was a custom with subscription book companies to
allow agents to have the books and give them thirty days in which to
remit the money. This proved agreeable to his agents. However, the
greater number of them took not only thirty days--but life, and did not
send in the money when they died.

He was confronted then with the task of learning how he could get the
books to them and be assured of his money. To learn this, he went on the
road himself appointing agents and selling to bookstores. And it was
upon this journey that he met one who had played a little part in his
life some years before, at a time when conditions had been entirely
different with him.

In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it was only twelve
miles from the city where her father owned and lived upon one of the
greatest farms in the country. He thought of the last letter he had
received from her, the letter that had come too late. And then he
thought of what had passed since. Girls in her circumstances would not
be likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but he wished
that he might see her and look just once into the eyes that might have
been his. But his courage failed him. He still had spirit and pride, so
he gave it up for the time.

Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with some
acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became quite jolly as
cocktails and red liquor flowed and tingled their veins. He thought
again of Irene Grey, and the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktails
gave him the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephone
he went and called her over long distance.

"Is this the Greys home?" he called.

"Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the mellowness of
the voice at the other end.

"Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.

"Yes," it said. "This is she."

He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out of him on the
instant. He choked blindly, groped for words, and finally said:

"Why--er--ah--this is a friend of yours. An old friend. Mayhap you have
forgotten me."

"I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"

He still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to make himself
known by explaining. He then mentioned the state from whence he came,
but no further did he get. It so happened that she had heard all about
his troubles following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that she
had been in a way displaced by the other, she had always been anxious to
meet and know him.

"Oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his ears over the
wire for some moments. "Is this you?" she cried now, her voice
evidencing the excitement she was laboring under.

"Yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing whether the fact had
thrilled and joyed her, or, whether he was in for a rebuke for calling
her up. But he was speedily reassured.

"Then why don't you come on out here?" she cried.

"I--I didn't know whether I would be welcome," he replied, happy in a
new way.

"Oh, pshaw! Why _wouldn't_ you be welcome? But now," her tone changed.
"Where are you?"

"In Kansas City."

"Let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking. "It is now four
thirty, and a train leaves there that passes through here in forty
minutes. It doesn't stop here; but you catch it and go to the station
above here, do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly.

"Well, now, listen! The station I refer to is only four miles above
this, and when you get off there, catch another train that comes in a
few minutes back this way, see?"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, that train stops at this station, and there I will meet you."

"Oh, fine," he cried. "I'll be there."

"Now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned.

"Most assuredly!"

"I will depend on it."

"Count me there!"

"I want to talk to you, I'm going to talk all night."

"Good-by."




CHAPTER IV

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN


Jean Baptiste was so elated over being invited to call early to see Miss
Irene Grey, that he went back to the bar where his acquaintances
lingered, ordered drinks for all, and imbibed so freely that when he
reached the depot, he found the train had left him. His disappointment
was keen, and he was provoked with himself. However, since it was so, he
went to a booth, called her up, and advised her of the fact.

"Now wasn't that careless of you," she complained. "I am sure you are
_very_ careless."

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the _world_," he told her.
"Indeed, I was so delighted over the prospects of seeing you, after
these many years, and I indulged so freely that I lost the sense of
time."

"How is that--did you say that you _drank_?"

"Well, yes, I do," he admitted frankly; "but not in a dangerous sense. I
do not recall having been drunk but once in my life, and trust that I
will never have occasion to recall a second occurrence."

"Oh," she echoed. "I am relieved. I don't trust a drinker, and the fact
that you were left made me suspect you."

"At least I can reassure you on that score. I am proud to say that I
have the strength of my convictions."

"I am pleased to hear that. A man has a poor chance to succeed in the
world otherwise."

"I agree with you."

"Well, now, let me see when you can get out here," she said
meditatively. After a time he heard her voice again. He had never seen
her, not even a photograph of her. He could only estimate her appearance
from recalling her brother, and from what he had been told. But however
she may appear, her voice, to say the least, was the most beautiful he
thought that he had ever heard. He listened to every word she said, and
thought the tone like sweet music.

"You will have to stay in K.C. all night now," she said regretfully.
"And I must repeat that I am so disappointed. It had been my dream that
I would talk with you all the night through," whereupon she laughed and
this was even more beautiful than her voice when speaking. "But, now,"
she began again, admonishingly, "you will arise at eight--no, seven, do
you understand, and catch a train that leaves the city at eight. I will
be at the station to meet you again."

"I cross my heart that I will catch it."

"And if you do not--so help you God!"

"I hope to die if I miss it."

"Well, if you do, don't die--but catch the train, that's all. Now
good-by, and you are forgiven this once."

"Good-by."

       *       *       *       *       *

Whatever happened it is irrelevant to relate, but Jean Baptiste missed
the morning train, and so disgusted was he with himself that he boarded
a train for Topeka where he went and appointed some agents, intending to
get the train back that afternoon. But his "Jonah" still clung to him,
and when he had it estimated that the train went at five-thirty, it had
gone at four fifty-two and he was left again.

"I'll catch the morning train if I must sit here all the night through,"
he swore, so put out with himself that he could say no more.

He ascertained the exact minute the morning train left, and this train
found him on time. It was Sunday in early June, and the day was
beautiful. The air was rich, and the growing crops gave forth a sweet
aroma. He reached the little town near where she lived, and even from
the depot the splendid home in which they lived could be seen reposing
vaingloriously upon a hillside. In the community her father was the
wealthiest man, having made his fortune in the growing of potatoes and
fruit.

She was not at the depot to meet him, and he had not expected her. It
was perhaps two miles to the big residence on the hill, and to this he
set out to walk. When he arrived, the house seemed to be deserted, and,
as it was Sunday, he surmised that the family were at services. He went
up to the front door and knocked loudly. He was conscious at once of
whisperings from the inside. Presently the door was opened slowly an
inch, and he saw an eye peeping out at him.

"Who are you?" a voice whispered.

He told the eye.

"Oh, yes," cried the voice and it happened to be a boy, and the cause of
the whispering and quietness from the inside was due to certain pranks
going on inside. "And you're that fellow from up in the Northwest," said
the youngster, opening the door wide and stepping away to look at him
curiously.

"Yes, I guess that's whom you refer to."

"We are certainly glad to see you around here," said the other. "Irene's
been down to the train to meet you three times and she's sure fighting
mad by this time."

"Oh, say, I really don't blame her a bit--to be put to so much trouble
and be disappointed in the end. But, on the square, I had not
anticipated being so highly honored."

"Aw, we've been anxious to know you for years. We boys had sort of
planned when you was writing to Irene two or three years ago to come up
there and get in on some of that land."

"That would have been a capital move."

"Yes, but you quit writing and got married, so we heard, and had bad
luck in the end," whereupon he laughed. Baptiste looked embarrassed.

"Where is the family and how many are there of you?"

"Aw, say! We are so many around here that you'll have to get paper and
pencil and mark us down to keep track of how many. My father is in
Colorado on business, while Irene, mama and another sister are at the
next town up the line attending a funeral."

"And the boys--"

"Just gettin' ready to go swimmin'. Wanta go long?"

"Say, there hasn't enough water fallen where I've lived for the last
three years at the right time to fill a pond deep enough to go swimming
in, so I'll just take you up," he cried, full of the idea.

It was in the early afternoon when they got back, to find that the folks
had returned from the funeral. Following the boys, Baptiste entered by
the kitchen door to encounter the mother and three daughters preparing
the meal. Hereupon he was caused much embarrassment and discomfiture,
for of the three girls, he knew not which one was Irene. Quickly seeing
his confusion, they laughed long and heartily among themselves. Finally,
his predicament became so awkward that an expression of distress crept
into his face. At this point the most attractive one of the three girls
walked forward, extended her hand, and he saw by the expression she now
wore, that she was sorry for him, as she said:

"I'm Irene, and you are Mr. Jean Baptiste." She paused then, and looked
away to hide the color that had rushed to her face, while he clutched
the outstretched hand just a bit dubiously. She looked up then again,
and seeing that he was still confused and perhaps in doubt, she
reassured him:

"The joke is over now, thanks. I'm the one you called up and once wrote
to. I'm Irene," and with this she led him to the front and showed him
her picture, whereupon he was at last satisfied.

"And you came at last," she said later, when the two were seated in the
parlor.

"At last," he laughed and observed her keenly. She noted it, and
conjectured that it was from a curiosity that was some years old. It was
true, and he was seeing her and perhaps thinking of what might have
been.

She was beautiful, he could see. A mixed type of the present day <DW64>,
she was slightly tall, and somewhat slender, with a figure straight and
graceful. Her hair was of the silken wavy sort not uncommon among the
<DW64> of this type. Such hair seems to have had its beginning with the
cross between the <DW64> and the Indian--a result that has always been
striking when it comes to the hair. Her face, like her figure was
straight and slender; while her eyes were black, quick and small. Her
nose was high bridged, and straight to a point while the mouth below was
small and tempting. But what he observed most of all now, and admired
forthwith was the chin. A wonderful chin, long and straight. A strong,
firm chin, and as he regarded it he could seem to read the owner.
Whatever she was or may be, he was confident then that she was possessed
of a strong will and in that moment Orlean recurred to him. Orlean was
regarded as a fairly attractive woman; but her chin, unlike that of the
one before him, was inclined to retreat. And, of course, he knew only
too well, that her will had been the weakest.

"You are very successful in missing trains," she ventured.

He laughed, and she joined him. He looked up then and caught her
regarding him keenly out of her half closed eyes, and as she did so, she
reminded him of an Indian princess such as he had seen in pictures and
read about. There was more about her than he had at first observed, and
which was made plain in the look she gave him. For in it there was
passion--love to her meant much!

"Oh, I was so disappointed," she said.

"It was not you?"

"But how could you have missed the train so often?"

"I cannot account for it. I am not in the habit of doing so. Indeed, I
think it was because I was overly anxious."

She laughed then, to herself, elfin like.

"I have been curious to see you for a long time."

He was silent, and his eyes did not return the look she had given him.

"Ever since I received _that_ letter...."

And still he did not reply. The subject was too suggestive, not to say
embarrassing; but she was bold. He couldn't know now whether she was
serious or merely joking; but notwithstanding it sounded pleasant to his
ears. He could hear her voice for a long time, he was sure, and not grow
weary.... We should pause at this point to make known--perhaps explain,
that the persons of our story are the unconventional. And with the
unconventional what was in their minds was most likely to be discussed.
The woman, therefore, was the most curious. She was a woman, and in
truth she would have married the man beside her had he have come hither
when he had gone to Chicago.

"What did you do with your little wife?"

He raised his eyes then, not to look at her, but because of something he
did not himself understand. Perhaps it just happened so? She regarded
him again; looked him full in the eyes, and his eyes spoke more than
words. Strangely she understood all, almost in a flash, and was sorry.
She regretted that she had spoken so directly. She admired him now. When
he had looked up, and like that, she had seemed to see and understand at
last the man he was.

"Pardon me, please," she said, and rising quickly, took a chair nearer
his. She reached and touched him on the arm. "I didn't--I--well, I
didn't intend to be bold." She paused in confusion, and then went on:

"I hope you will pardon me. I am sure I didn't intend to embarrass you."

"It is all right," he said. "And since you have asked me, may I
explain?"

It was she who was now embarrassed. She looked away in great confusion.
She was bolder than the conventional girl as a rule; but the subject was
delicate. Yet she wanted to hear the story that she knew he would never
tell. If he did, he was not the type of man she had estimated.

"Of course you would think me a cad, a--well, I have my opinion of a man
that would tell _his_ side of such a story to a _woman_."

She looked at him then without any embarrassment in her eyes. She was
able to read the man and all that was him clearly. She smiled a smile
after this that was one of satisfaction, and at that moment her sisters
called that the meal was ready.




CHAPTER V

"TELL ME WHY YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE LAST LETTER I WROTE YOU"


"Now I wish you would tell me all about yourself, that is, all you
_care_ to tell," said Irene Grey to the man who sat beside her on the
veranda of their beautiful home, some time after luncheon had been
served. "I have always been peculiarly interested in you and your life
alone off there in the Northwest," whereupon she made herself
comfortable and prepared to listen.

"Oh," he said hesitatingly, thinking of the series of dry years and
their attendant disaster, and hoping that he could find some way of
avoiding a conversation in which that was involved. "I really don't
consider there is much to relate. My life has been rather--well, in a
measure uneventful."

"Oh, but it hasn't, I know," she protested. "All alone you were for so
many years, and you have been, so I have been told, an untiring worker."
She was anxious, he could see, but withal sincere, and in the course of
the afternoon, she told him of how her father had came to Kansas a poor
man, bought the land now a part of what they owned on payments, found
that raising potatoes was profitable--especially when they were ready
for the early market, and later after his marriage to her mother, and
with her mother's assistance, had succeeded. From where they sat, their
property stretched before them in the valley of the Kaw, and comprised
several hundred acres of the richest soil in the state. Indeed, his
success was widely known, and Jean Baptiste had been rather curious to
know the family intimately.

After some time he walked with her through three hundred acres of
potatoes that lay in the valley before the house, and he had for the
first time in his life, the opportunity to study potato raising on a
large scale.

"From your conversation it seems that you raise potatoes on the same
ground every year. I am curious to know how this is done, for even on
the blackest soil in the country I live, this is regarded as quite
impossible with any success."

"Well, it is generally so; but we have found that to plow the land after
the potatoes have been dug, and then seed the same in turnips is
practical. When the turnips, with their wealth of green leaves are at
their best, then, we plow them under and the freezing does the rest."

"A wonderful mulch!"

"It is very simple when one looks into it." They were walking through
the fields, and without her knowing it, he studied her. The kind of girl
and the kind of family his race needed, he could see. In his observation
of the clan to which he had been born, practicability was the greatest
need. Indeed he was sometimes surprised that his race could be so
impracticable. Further west in this State, his uncles, who, like all
<DW64>s previous to the emancipation, had been born slaves, had gone
West in the latter seventies and early eighties, and settled on land.
With time this land had mounted to great values and the holders had been
made well-to-do thereby. A case of evolution, on all sides. Over all the
Central West, this had been so. At the price land now brought it would
have been impossible for any to own land. There happened, then as had
recently, a series of dry years--seemingly about every twenty years. To
pull through such a siege, the old settlers usually did much better
than the new. To begin with, they were financially better able; but on
the other hand, they did not, as a rule, take the chances new settlers
were inclined to take. Because two or three years were seasonable, and
crops were good, they did not become overly enthusiastic and plunge
deeply into debt as he had done. He could see his error now, and the
chances new settlers were inclined to take. Because moreover, he had
been so much alone--his wedded life had been so brief, and even during
it, he was confused so much with disadvantages, that he had never
attempted to subsidize his farming with stock raising. Perhaps this had
been his most serious mistake; to have had a hundred head of cattle
during such a period as had just passed, would have been to have gone
through it without disaster.

He felt rather guilty as he strolled beside this girl whose father had
succeeded. But one thing he would not do, and that was make excuses. He
had ever been opposed to excusing away his failures. If he had failed,
he had failed, no excuses should be resorted to. But as they strolled
through the fields of potatoes he could not help observe the contrast
between the woman he had married, and the one now beside him that he
might have had for wife. Here was one, and he did not know her so well
as to conclude what kind of girl in all things she was, but it was a
self evident fact that she was practical. Whereas, he had only to recall
that not only had his wife been impractical, but that her father before
her had been so. He recalled that awful night before he had taken her
away, at Colome, when that worthy when he chanced to use the word
practical, had exclaimed: "I'm so tired of hearing that word I do not
know what to do!" and it was seconded by his cohort in evil, Ethel.

His race was filled with such as N.J. McCarthy, he knew; but not only
were they hypocrites, and in a measure enemies to success but enemies to
society as well. How many were there in his race who purported to be
sacrificing their very soul for the cause of Ethiopia but when so little
as medical aid was required in their families, called in a white
physician to administer the same. This had been the case of his august
father-in-law all his evil life.

"Would you like to walk down by the river?" she said now, and looked up
into his face. She had been silent while he was so deeply engrossed in
thought, and upon hearing her voice he started abruptly.

"What--why--what's the matter?" she inquired anxiously.

"Nothing," he said quickly, coloring guiltily. "I was just thinking."

"Of what?" she asked artfully.

"Of you," he said evasively.

"No, you weren't," she said easily. "On the contrary, I venture to
suggest that you were thinking of yourself, your life and what it has
been."

"You are psychological."

"But I have guessed correctly, haven't I?"

"I'm compelled to agree that you have."

They had reached the river now, and took a seat where they could look
out over its swiftly moving waters.

"Frankly I wish you would tell me of your life," she said seriously. "My
brother who, as you know is now dead, told me so much of you. Indeed, he
was so very much impressed with you and your ways. He used to tell me of
what an extraordinary character you were, and I was so anxious to meet
you."

He was silent, but she was an unconventionally bold person. She was
curious, and the more he was silent on such topics, the more anxious she
became to know the secret that he held.

"I appreciate your silence," she said, and gave him the spell of her
wonderful eyes. Stretched there under a walnut she was the picture of
enchantment. Almost he wanted to forget the years and what had passed
with them since she wrote him that letter that he had received too late.

"I want to ask you one question--have wanted to ask it for years," she
pursued. "I want to ask it because, somehow, I am not able to regard you
as a flirt." She paused then, and regarded him with her quick eyes,
expectantly. But he made no answer, so she went on. "From what _I_ have
heard, I think I may be free to discuss this," and she paused again,
with her eyes asking that she may.

He nodded.

"Well, of course," she resumed, as if glad that she might tell what was
in her mind. "It is not--should not be the woman to ask it, either; but
won't you tell me why you didn't answer the last letter I wrote
you--tell me why you _didn't_ come on the visit you suggested?"

He caught his breath sharply, whereat, she looked up and into his eyes.
His lips had parted, but merely to exclaim, but upon quick thought he
had hesitated.

"Yes?"

"I heard you."

"Well?"

"I hardly know how to answer you."

"Please."

"Don't insist on a reply."

"I don't want to, but--"

"I'd rather not tell."

"Well, I don't know as I ought to have asked you. It was perhaps
unladylike in me so to do; but honestly I _would_ like to know the
truth."

He permitted his eyes to rest on the other bank, and as a pastime he
picked up small pebbles and cast them into the river, and watched the
ripples they made subside. He thought long and deeply. He had almost
forgotten the circumstances that led up to the unfortunate climax. She,
by his side, he estimated, was merely curious. Should he confess? Would
it be worth while? Of course it would not; but at this moment he felt
her hand on his arm.

"We'll go now."

They arose then, and went between the rows of potatoes back to the
house. When they arrived there was some excitement, and she was greeted
anxiously.

"Papa has returned," said one of the boys, coming to meet them.

"Oh, he has," whereupon she caught his hand and led him hurriedly into
the presence of the man who was widely known as Junius N. Grey, the
<DW64> Potato King.




CHAPTER VI

THE STORY


Junius Grey inquired at length concerning the land whence he had come,
of the prospects, of the climate, and at last relieved Baptiste by
inquiring as to whether the drought had swept over that section as well
as other westerly parts.

"I have had the same result with twenty-two hundred acres I own in the
western part of the State. But such will come--have come every once in a
while since I have been here," he assured him. "If you have been caught
with considerable debt to annoy you, and succeed in pulling through, it
will be a lesson to you as it has been to others."

"It _has_ been a lesson, I admit," said Baptiste a little awkwardly.
Irene, who seemed to be her father's favorite, sat near, and regarded
him kindly while he related how the drought had swept over the land, and
the disaster that followed. He did not tell them _all_; that he had been
foreclosed, but that, he felt, was not necessary.

Withal, he had met those in his race whom he had longed to meet. Of
business they could discourse with intelligence, and that was not
common. Grey's holdings were much, and Baptiste was cheered to see that
he was possessed with the sagacity and understanding to manage the same
with profit to himself. Besides, the family about him, while not as
conventional as he had found among the more intelligent classes of his
race, had grown into the business ways and assisted him.

"Would you like to attend services at the church this evening," said
Irene after a time, and when they were again alone.

"Why, I suppose I might as well."

"Then I'll get ready." She disappeared then, to return shortly, dressed
in a striking black dress covered with fine lace; while on her head she
wore a wide, drooping hat that set off her appearance with much artistic
effect.

"What is your denomination," she asked when they went down the walkway
to the road. The church was not far distant, and, in fact was at the
corner of his property, and was largely kept up by her father he had
been told.

"The _big_ church, I guess," he said amusedly.

"Indeed!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise.

"And yours?"

"Oh, Baptist, of course," she replied easily.

When she held his arm like she now did, it made him feel peculiar.
Never, three years before, would he have thought that he would be
company again for another woman--at least, under such circumstances.

"What do you think of protestantism?"

"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "it has not been until lately that I
have considered it seriously."

"So?"

"And sometimes I am not inclined to think it has been for the best."

"How so?"

"Well, it appears to me that organization is lacking in so many of the
protestant churches."

"But is that the fault of protestantism?"

"I hardly know how to reply to you. It seems, however, that inasmuch as
catholicism requires more effort, more concentration of will force on
the part of their members to come up and live up to their standard of
religion; and that since it is obviously easier to be some kind of a
protestant, then protestantism has afforded a less organized
appreciation of the Christ."

"You make it very plain. And especially is it so in the church to which
I belong. But I am sure, however, if the standard of requirement was
raised within the <DW64> Baptists, it would be better for all."

"You mean--"

"If it was compulsory for the ministers to possess a college education
and attendance for at least three years at a theological seminary, the
standard would be raised in the churches conducted by <DW64>s."

"I agree with you; and do you know, that since I have been in the book
business only these few short months, it has been my experience that
ours is a race of notoriously poor readers."

"Isn't it so! Oh, it is dreadful when we come to consider how much needy
knowledge we lose thereby."

"It is staggering."

"Why is it so?"

"Well, to begin with. There is little encouragement to become a reader
among <DW64>s themselves. Take, for instance, the preacher. By all
circumstances a minister--at least should be a reader. Is it not so?"

"Certainly."

"Well, are they as a whole?"

"Lord, no!"

"Then, how can you expect their followers to be?"

"We cannot."

"Another disadvantage, is separate schools."

"I don't quite understand?"

"Well, mix the <DW64> children daily with the whites, and they are sure
to become enamored of their ways."

"I gather your trend."

"The most helpful thing on earth. <DW64> children thereby are able, in a
measure, to eradicate the little evils that come from poor homes; homes
wherein the parents, ignorant often, are compelled to be away at work."

"Evil environment, bad influence!"

"That is it. There is no encouragement to read, therefore no opportunity
to develop thought, and the habit of observation."

"How plain you make everything."

"And now we have come unto the church, and must end our conversation."

"I'm sorry."

He was, too, but they filed into the little church.

In and around where they now sat, there was quite a settlement of
<DW64>s, mostly small farmers. Perhaps it was due to the inspiration of
the successful Grey. She had, earlier in the evening, pointed out here
and there where a <DW64> family owned five acres; where somewhere else
they lived on and farmed ten acres and fifteen acres and so on. After
slavery there had been a tendency on the part of the <DW64> to continue
in the industrious ways he had been left in by his former master. The
cultivation was strong; but strangely there had come a desire to go into
town to see, and to loaf. Perhaps it was because he had not been given
such a privilege during the days of bondage. But here in this little
valley of the Kaw, he was cheered to see his race on a practical and
sensible basis. Only in the pursuit of agriculture can the black man not
complain that he is discriminated against on account of his color.

When the service was over, they walked leisurely homeward, and their
conversation became more intimate. The feeling of a woman by his side
thrilled Jean Baptiste. In his life on the prairies, this had never
been afforded, so to him it was something new, and something gloriously
sweet. Or was it her presence? At least he was moved. He decided that he
would go his way soon, because it was dangerous for him to linger in her
radiating presence without regretting what fate had willed.

"Isn't it warm tonight?" she said, when they reached the porch.

"Dreadfully so down here in your valley."

"Perhaps you will not care to retire, and would rather sit out where the
air is best," she suggested.

"I would be glad to."

"Very well, then," and she found a seat where they were hidden by vines
and the shade of the big house. "I'll return presently, when I have put
my hat away."

When she returned, her curiosity to know why he had not visited her was,
he could see again, her chief anxiety. She tried to have him divulge why
in subtle ways. Late into the night they lingered on the veranda, and he
found himself on the verge of confessing all to her.

He succeeded in keeping it from her that night, but she was resourceful.
Moreover, her curiosity had reached a point bordering on desperation.
Accordingly, she had the boys to hitch a team to a buggy and took him
driving over the great estate. For hours during the cool of the morning,
she drove him through orchards, and over wheat-fields where the wheat
now reposed in shocks. She chatted freely, discoursed on almost every
topic, and during it all he saw what a wonderfully courageous woman she
was.

He loved the study of human nature, and wit. Here, he could see, was a
rare woman, but withal there was about her something that disturbed him.
What was it? He kept trying to understand. He never quite succeeded
until that night.

A heavy rain had fallen in the afternoon, and he lingered in her company
at her invitation and encouragement. That night the sky was overcast,
the air was sultry, and the night was very dark. She took him to their
favorite seat within the vines, and where nothing but the darkness was
their company. And there she resumed her artful efforts to have him tell
her all.

Never in his life had Jean Baptiste the opportunity to be perfectly
free. He had once loved dearly, and he had sought to forget the one he
had so loved because of the _Custom of the Country_ and its law. Out of
his life she had apparently gone, and we know the fate of the other.
There is nothing in the world so sweet as to love a woman. But, on the
other hand, mayhap all that is considered love is not so; it may be
merely passion, and it was passion he discovered that was guiding Irene
Grey. He saw when this occurred to him, that in such a respect she was
unusual. Well, his life had been an unhappy life; love free and openly
he had never tasted but once, but a law higher than the law of the land
had willed against that love, and he had subserved to custom. So he
decided to tell her all, and leave on the morrow.

"Please, Jean," she begged, calling him by his first name. "Won't you
tell it to _me_?"

He regarded her in the darkness beside him. She was very close, and he
could feel the warmth of her body against his. He reached him out then,
and boldly placed his arm about her. She yielded to the embrace without
objection. He could feel the soft down of her hair against his face, and
it served to intoxicate him; aroused the passion and desire in his
hungry soul.

"_Yes_, Irene," he said then. "I will tell _you_ the story, and tomorrow
I will go away."

"No," she said, and drew closer to him. On the impulse he embraced her,
and in the darkness found her lips, and the kiss was like a soul touch.
He sighed when he turned away, but she caught his face and drew his lips
where she could hear him closely.

"Tell me," she repeated. "For so long I have wanted to hear."

"Well, it was like this. You know--rather, perhaps you recall the
circumstances under which we met."

"I remember _everything_, Jean."

"I was in love with no one, I can say, but I _had_ loved outside of our
race."

"Our race?"

"Yes."

"You mean," she said, straightening curiously, "that you loved an Indian
up there? That, I recall is the home of the Sioux?"

"No, I have _never_ loved an Indian."

"Then _what_?"

"A white girl."

"_Oh, Jean_," she said, and drew slightly away. He drew her back to him,
and she yielded and settled closely in the curve of his arm, and he told
her the story.

"Honestly, that was too bad. You sacrificed much. And to think that you
_loved_ a white girl!"

"It was so."

"So it came that you sacrificed the real love to be loyal to the race we
belong to?"

"I guess you may call it that."

"It was manly, though. I admire your strength."

"It was then I wrote you."

"Yes. And--"

"Others."

"I understand. You loved none of us, perhaps, and it was because you had
not had the opportunity, maybe?"

"Perhaps it was so."

"And now I will hear how it happened."

"I must first confess something that pains me."

"Oh, that confession! But maybe I am entitled to hear it?"

"Well, yes, I think so. There were three."

"Oh...."

"And you were the first choice."

"_Me?_"

"But I waited for your letter. There was a _time_ limit."

"And I was away."

"Therefore never received it in time."

"And you?"

"At Omaha I hesitated, and then decided that you did not favor it."

"O-oh!"

"So I went to Chicago, to meet the second choice."

"Such an unusual proceeding, but interesting, oh, _so_ much so. Please
go on."

"_She_ lived in New York."

"In New York?"

"Was a maid on the Twentieth Century Limited."

"O-oh!"

"But sickness overtook her. She didn't get into Chicago when she was
due."

"Such fate."

"I wonder at it."

"And then you got the _last_ choice."

"That is it."

Not knowing what else to do, she was so carried away with the story, she
stared before her into the darkness.

"And when _did_ you receive my letter? I understand about the claim
business."

"When I returned with her to Gregory."

She was silent. He was too. Both were in deep thought and what was in
the mind of both was:

_What might have been._




CHAPTER VII

HER BIRTHRIGHT "FOR A MESS OF POTTAGE"


The people of Winner and vicinity had no opportunity to rush to the
Farmers' State Bank, of which Eugene Crook, mentioned earlier in our
story was president, and draw any portion of their money before the bank
examiner's notice greeted them one morning.

The bank was closed by order of the public examiner, so that was
settled. The causes became apparent the day before, although those
directly interested did not understand. It was in the shape of drafts
they had bought and sent away, which came back to them indirectly,
marked by the bank upon which they were drawn: "No funds."

Not much excitement followed the closing, although in some manner Crook
had worked into the confidence of the people since moving the bank to
Winner, and was leading the four banks in the town in point of deposits.
Of course it hit many needy ones quite hard, but the people of the
country had become so accustomed to adversities, that even bank failures
included did not excite them.

But there happened a few days after the failure an incident that has
some connection with our story. Crook went upon a journey. He was gone
several days and when he returned, the unexpected happened. It caused
about as much excitement as had the failure of the bank because of its
cunningness.

When Jean Baptiste had ended his visit with Irene Grey, he returned to
his office at the publishing house to find considerable mail awaiting
him. One letter was from his attorney in Washington, and since he had
won the claim for Baptiste's wife in the contest, Baptiste naturally
took it for granted that it was a request for the balance of his fee. So
he laid the letter aside until he had attended to all other business,
and later opened and read it.

     "WASHINGTON, D.C., July, 191--

     "_Mr. Jean Baptiste_,

     "MY DEAR SIR: I am informed through your attorney at Gregory, that
     your wife has sold her relinquishment on the homestead I was
     successful in getting the Secretary of the Interior to reverse the
     land commissioners decision on. I am not informed further; but
     inasmuch as you are living on the place, my advice is that you stick
     right there, and hold it. You may write and advance me the details
     concerning the matter, and I will assist you in a legal way in
     pressing your right to hold the same.

     "In the meantime, kindly send me a remittance on the fee that is
     past due at your earliest convenience, and oblige.

     "Very truly,

     "PATRICK H. LOUGHRAN."

He reread the letter to be positive that he had understood it correctly.
He was thoughtful as he allowed the substance to become clear. His wife
had sold her relinquishment on the claim that he had spent thirty-five
hundred dollars cash for. And in so doing she had sacrificed his
confidence; _had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage_. And she had
not received, he was sure, perhaps one tenth part of the amount he had
expended for it. He thought a little longer, and as he did so, a vision
of his arch enemy rose before him. His mind went back to a day when N.J.
McCarthy in all his lordliness had with much vituperation, denounced and
condemned Eugene Crook for having contested his poor daughter's place,
and all the white race with him.

"And Newton Justine McCarthy," muttered Baptiste, "this is _more_ of
your work."

He was very calm over it, was Jean Baptiste; but the _turning point_ in
his life had come. At last his manhood had returned, _and he was ready
to fight_.

He wrote his attorney at once at Gregory, and the reply that came back
in due time was:

     "GREGORY, S.D., July -- 191--

     "_Mr. Jean Baptiste_,

     "FRIEND JEAN: Replying to yours regarding the claim, it was Eugene
     Crook who got it. He went to Chicago and bought it from your wife,
     through her father. I understand that your wife refused to sell,
     whereupon, Crook sent for the Reverend who was at Cairo, sending him
     the railroad fare to Chicago at the same time. I do not, of course,
     know just what followed, but it is the report here, that the
     Reverend had his daughter to execute the relinquishment, and Crook
     returned and filed on the claim.

     "I understand, further, that Crook got the idea from reading your
     book, wherein you told of the preacher and what he had done,
     although anonymously. It is also reported that Crook paid the Elder
     $300 for the claim.

     "Very truly yours,

     "WM. MCCONNELL."

Jean Baptiste laughed when he had completed the letter, picked up one of
his books and looking through it, found the place. "Well, old boy, I
guess you lost me more than I'll make out of you; but you've given me
what I ought to have had three years ago!" He was silent then, but his
face took on a cold, hard expression, whereupon he laughed again.

"N.J. McCarthy, we vied twenty-five years ago, and we encountered three
years since. On both occasions you had me at a disadvantage.... We are
_going_ to _vie_ again, now; _but it will be upon an equal basis_." So
saying, he looked before him at nothing; his eyes narrowed to mere
slits.

An hour later his grip was packed. He went that afternoon back to Tripp
County. His three hundred acres of wheat had failed, so he was
unencumbered. He returned to Winner, and the next morning he boarded a
train for Chicago.

And of the battle that he fought with his august contemporary, will be
the continuance of our story.




CHAPTER VIII

ACTION


Jean Baptiste went directly to an attorney, a <DW64> attorney with
offices in the loop district, upon his arrival in Chicago, and did not
lurk around the depots to keep from being seen this time. He was well
acquainted with the one upon whom he called and they greeted each other
cordially when he walked into the office.

"Well, White," he said. "I think I have a little work for you."

"That's what I'm here to look after," said the other aimiably.

"A suit--want to obtain a judgment?"

"We obtain judgments in this old town every day. The question is--"

"Are they worth anything?" laughed his prospective client.

After indulging in a bit of humor the which he was at times given to,
his face cleared, his eye-brows contracted and he related the business
upon which he was bent, and questioned the attorney concerning the law
covering such cases or instances.

"Yes," said the other, after looking it up in the Illinois Statutes, "it
can be done."

"Then we will begin at once," said Baptiste decidedly.

"I'll have the papers drawn up, and have the same ready for service
tomorrow afternoon."

"Very well," said the other, handing him a check for twenty-five
dollars as a retainer, and straightway left the office.

He caught the State Street car and went to visit his friends on Federal
Street. They were delighted and surprised to see him looking so well,
and so carefree.

"Why--what has happened to you," said Mildred's mother, looking him over
carefully from head to foot.

"You infer that I have forgotten my troubles?"

"Of course," and she laughed.

"You'll know in a few days," he returned. Soon he bade them good-by and
went over to the Keystone where he encountered Speed.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, I have everything ready now," said the attorney when Jean called
at his office the following afternoon.

"So the next is to get service on my friend," said Baptiste.

"That's it. Where shall we find him?" inquired the lawyer.

"I don't know. I suppose you might call up his wife on Vernon Avenue and
find out. Of course, she need not know what our business is with her old
man...."

"Of course not."

In a few minutes he was talking to her over the telephone. "The Elder is
in the southern part of the State," Baptiste could hear.

"Yes, madam; but what place.... I see.... He will be there over Sunday
you say?... I understand.... What do I want with him? Why, I have a
little _personal_ matter with him.... Yes ... that is all."

The attorney turned and advised him where the Elder was, and would be
there until after Sunday, and as that day was Wednesday, Baptiste
breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's the town near where I first knew him. I was born within four
miles of it."

"Indeed! Something of a coincidence."

"Indeed so."

"I'll get these papers off to the sheriff down there on the evening
train. He'll get them tomorrow morning, and should get service on him
tomorrow afternoon."

"Then I'll see you about Saturday."

"All right," and Jean was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little town near where Jean Baptiste was born, and where he had met
the man who was now his acknowledged enemy, had not changed much.
Perched on the banks of the Ohio, it still lingered in a state of dull
lethargy; loafers held to the corners, and arguments were the usual
daily routine. When he had left the town, the Odd Fellows' hall, an old
frame building, three stories high, had stood conspicuously on a corner,
and had been the rendezvous for loafers for years untold. This had been
torn down and replaced since by a more commanding brick structure, at
the front of which a shed spread over the walk and made welcome shade in
the afternoon. And under it on benches the usual crowd gathered reposing
comfortably thereunder from day to day. Under it the preachers sometimes
paused on their return from the postoffice where they received their
mail every afternoon. And it was the afternoon train that brought the
papers for N. Justine McCarthy. The sheriff who happened at the
postoffice at the same time the Elder did, received them, and upon his
return to his office in the court house, laid the mail on his desk and
went at once to serve the papers.

He knew that Odd Fellows' hall was where <DW64>s might be easily found;
at least the information as to the whereabouts of any particular one
might be obtained. So to that spot he went directly.

It so happened that a large crowd of <DW64>s were gathered there this
particular afternoon, and that the Reverend had paused there on his way
from the postoffice to listen to the heated argument that was a daily
diversion. At that moment the sheriff came up, listened a moment to the
usual harangue, and then inquired aloud for Rev. N.J. McCarthy. When the
crowd saw who he was the argument desisted forthwith, the crowd became
quiet and respectful, moreover expectant.

"You refer to me?" said the Elder, and wondered what the sheriff could
possibly want with him.

"N.J. McCarthy?" the other repeated.

"That's me," replied the Elder. The crowd looked on with curious
interest.

"Some papers," and handed him the same, turned on his heel and went his
way.

The Reverend went down the street later reading the papers. He had never
had any experience in legal proceedings, and knew little of such, but he
understood the papers and was thoroughly angry.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well," greeted the attorney, "got service right off on your friend."

"Good!"

"Yes, got my return, and now we may as well draw up the complaint."

This they did, but in the meantime, while passing downtown, Glavis had
espied Baptiste. Thinking that he was on another mission of trying to
persuade his wife to return, and having been loyal to the Reverend in
his fight on Baptiste, he went at once to advise her of the fact.

Orlean had secured a position in a ladies' tailoring establishment at
five dollars and fifty cents a week, and there he went. She was out so
he did not get to tell her that her husband was in town. Since the
selling of her homestead the entire family had been apprehensive of him.
They appreciated by now that he was not the kind to give up without a
fight, therefore they were on the lookout.

In some way the <DW64> papers got hold of enough of it to give the Elder
a great deal of free advertising; but since McCarthys did not get the
papers, they knew nothing of it until the next morning which was Sunday.
That morning they espied a copy of the paper in their mail box. They
never knew how it got there, but thinking it was by mistake, Glavis took
it into the house and spread it out.

Pandemonium reigned when they had read the account, and in the same hour
they received a special from the Elder announcing that he was leaving
for Chicago that night. That would place him in the city the following
morning, and they were anxious all that day.

It was the talk of Dark Chicago that day, and for days and weeks
following. Moreover, it circulated over all the state where the Elder
was well known, and gave the gossips great food for delight.

The Elder arrived the next morning, and after being greeted by the
family, with Glavis, went at once to a white attorney. They laid the
case before him.

"And so you are sued for ten thousand dollars," said the attorney, "and
by your son-in-law?"

"It seems that way," replied the Elder. "And to me it looks like a
joke."

"How so?"

"Did you ever know a <DW64> preacher that was worth such an amount?"

The attorney shared the obvious joke with his prospective client and
Glavis, and then took on a rather serious expression.

"And you are not worth ten thousand?"

"Lord, no!"

The other bit the cigar he held between his teeth, got up and brought a
statute from among his many volumes, glanced through it, and stopped at
a page and read it.

He returned the book to its place and came back and sat down.

"What do you think of it?" inquired the Elder, still seeming to take it
as a joke.

"Have you ever considered the outcome in case he should get a judgment
against you? He accuses you of having alienated the affections of his
wife, your daughter."

"Granting that he secured a judgment?"

"And you could not pay it?"

"Certainly, I could not."

"Then he could remand you to jail for six months by paying your keep."

When the Elder, accompanied by Glavis, returned home, both understood
Jean Baptiste a little better than they had ever before....




CHAPTER IX

GOSSIP


"I've been over to the McCarthys today," cried Mildred Merrill, greeting
her mother, as she returned home the Sunday following the filing of the
suit. "And, oh, mama, they are certainly excited over there!"

"Mm! Guess they'll understand that Jean Baptiste better now. Because he
had wished to settle their difficulties--if there were any--like a man,
they thought he was afraid of the Reverend."

"That was it--positively!"

"What was the conversation?"

"Of course it was Ethel who was making the most of the noise."

"Naturally."

"And she _made some_ noise!"

"I'd wager."

"To begin with, they didn't know Jean had sued the Reverend until they
read it in the paper."

"Is that so!"

"Yes! You see, it was like this. Orlean sold her farm."

"Gave it away."

"Quite likely."

"It was so. Why I understand that Baptiste had paid over thirty-five
hundred dollars into it, and that the place was supposed to be worth
about forty dollars an acre, with one hundred sixty acres bringing the
sum of sixty-four hundred dollars. That insurance companies would lend
two thousand five hundred dollars on the place if she had proved up on
the same as other people were doing and had done, and secured a patent."

"Isn't that a shame!"

"Nigga's!"

"<DW64>s proper!"

"Well, what did they say?"

"Oh, yes! Orlean sold her farm some time ago."

"For three hundred dollars."

"Is that all she received?"

"Every cent."

"Well, what do you think of that!"

"It was the Reverend's work, of course."

"That dirty old rascal."

"Ignorant into the bargain."

"If I were Baptiste I'd kill him."

"That would do no good."

"No, I guess not."

"Would make him appear a martyr, also."

"Well, ever since Orlean sold her place, you see, they have been
uneasy."

"I guess so."

"So they had been sort of looking to hear from him."

"And they have."

Mildred laughed.

"And they'll hear from him some more!"

Both laughed.

"Now, Orlean heard that Jean was in town before the rest of the family
did, and told me so."

"She's waited a long time to tell other people things she hasn't told
the folks first...."

"Yes," thoughtfully. "Anyhow, Glavis met Baptiste on the streets
downtown, and, of course, Glavis, not knowing Baptiste's mission,
thought he was here after Orlean again."

"Just like him."

"The truth."

"He was by here awhile ago."

"He was?"

"Yes; but I'll tell you about that later. Go on."

"When he met Jean on the street--rather, after, he goes around to where
Orlean worked to warn her."

"Sneak!"

"But Orlean was out."

"Yes?"

"So when she returned, and was told that a <DW52> man had called and
inquired for her, she--"

"Thought it had been Baptiste."

"Yes."

"I'll try to quit interrupting you."

"Well, Orlean told me that she was provoked. She wished that Jean would
not be calling at where she worked to bother her."

"She got fooled--excuse me!"

"But she didn't say anything to the folks about it, and they knew
nothing of his presence in town--Glavis didn't tell it seems,
either--until Sunday morning."

"Indeed!"

"No, none of them had gone out Saturday night, so they hadn't heard any
of the talk that was going the rounds."

"Well, Glavis went outside Sunday morning and found the _Defender_ in
the mail box."

"So?"

"You see, they do not subscribe for it, but the people next door get
it--"

"And knowing they were not subscribers, they take the paper and place it
where they could get it."

Mildred laughed.

"So," resumed Mildred, "when they saw the paper, all was excitement."

"Goody!"

"So Glavis (he is the Reverend's faithful lieutenant, you know), went
out to look up Baptiste and have a talk with him."

"Ump!"

"He didn't find him."

"That was how he happened by here."

"But the funny part about it is, that they don't know what Baptiste is
up to. They don't know that if he secures a judgment, he can remand the
Elder to jail for six months."

"Now won't there be some excitement when they learn!"

Mildred laughed again, her mother joined her.

"But getting back to Ethel."

"Tell me about her."

"Oh, she was on the war path. 'You see,' she cried, standing over
Orlean. 'You see what you've done by your hard-headedness. I told you
all the time not to marry that man!'"

"Wouldn't that disgust you!"

"'But you _would_ go ahead and marry him! You _would_ go ahead and marry
him, after all papa and _I_ tried to persuade you not to! And now! You
are going to _kill_ your father; going to _kill your poor old father_.'
Orlean just hung her head like a silly and took it. 'Yes,' went on
Ethel, turning her little slender body around and twisting her jaws as
if to grind it out. 'You got him all mixed up with that nigga', and
here he comes in here and sues him. Think of it! _Sues him!_ And now all
the nigga's in Chicago have the laugh on us--we daren't show our faces
in the street!

"'And what has he done it for?' 'But, Ethel,' Orlean protested, 'Papa
isn't worth anything. He _can't_ do anything with papa if he gets a
judgment.' 'What do you know about judgments,' Ethel flew up. 'Well,'
said Orlean, 'I recall hearing Jean say that if a man was worth nothing,
then a judgment was of little or no good.' 'You heard _Jean_ say it!'
screamed Ethel, looking at Orlean severely. And then she turned to me.
'Do you know, Mildred,' she rang out, '_This_ fool woman loves that man
yet. Yes. Y-e-s! _Loves_ him yet and would go back to him tomorrow if it
wasn't for us!'"

"Doesn't it beat anything you ever saw!"

Mildred laughed again as she paused for breath.

"Well, Ethel went on: 'And don't you think that nigga' is a fool. No,
no! _Never!_ That's a scheming nigga'. He's the schemingest nigga' in
the world! _He_ knows what he's about. Believe me! He knows papa isn't
worth anything. And, besides, he isn't _after_ money, he's after papa.
He don't _want_ no money. A scheming nigga' like him can make all the
money he wants. Oh, yes! He's up to _something_ else.'"

"Seems they are willing to admit very readily now that which they were
not as long as he tried to deal with them like a man."

"I should think so," returned Mildred. "Well, Ethel was so excited that
she walked up and down the floor in a rage. Every little while she would
stop before me, and glare into my face: 'But what can he do, what can he
do!' 'I have nothing to do with it, Ethel,' I replied. 'Yes, you have,
yes, _you_ have! You know! I know you and I know Jean Baptiste! He never
comes to Chicago without coming to see you all. He's told you what he's
_up_ to, and I know it! _Oh, that nigga'!_'

"I looked at Orlean, and she sat by looking like the man who has
murdered his wife and regrets it. When she met my eyes she sighed, and
then said: 'Do you think he can hurt papa, Mildred? I'm worried. You
see, I know Jean some. He's shrewd, Jean is very shrewd.' I confess that
I was rather uncomfortable, knowing what I did. So hoping to find some
way to get out of it, I suggested that they walk out. 'No,' exclaimed
Ethel. 'I'm afraid I'll run into that nigga'.'"

"When do they look for the Reverend in?"

"In the morning. They are afraid to go out until he comes."

"I'd like to be around there when they found out what Jean is up to."

Mildred laughed again, and then cried: "And oh, yes, I forgot to tell
you that Orlean asked me whether Jean came direct from the farm here."

"What did you tell her?"

"Why, I said I thought he was visiting down in Kansas before coming
here."

"Hump."

"She said: 'I guess he was calling on Miss Irene Grey.'"

Her mother giggled.

"I said I thought he remarked something about having visited there,
whereupon Orlean said: 'He ought to have married her.'"

"Jealousy."

"Yes, that was it."

"Look! There is Glavis," cried Mildred's mother, pointing to his figure
crossing the street.

"Now for some fun," said Mildred, whereupon, both feigned sleepiness,
and prepared for some good interesting gossip.

"Oh, Mr. Glavis," exclaimed Mildred, answering the rap on the door and
admitting him.

"And how is everybody?" asked Glavis, coming in with his head bared, and
smiling in his usual way.

"Fine, Mr. Glavis," replied Mildred's mother, arising to greet him for
the second time that day.

"And where is my friend, Baptiste?" said Glavis. "I've just come from
the Keystone, and while he stops there, I can never catch him in."

"He has not been here today, Glavis," replied Mildred.

"That's funny. I'd certainly like to see him."

"Why would _you_ want to see him?" inquired Mildred's mother.

"Oh, I want to see him, of course, about all this scandal that's in the
air."

"Hump! This appears to be the first time that you have wanted to see him
since your father-in-law brought Orlean home."

"Well, of course," said Glavis, a little embarrassed. "It has always
been a bad affair. A bad affair, and I certainly have wished Orlean
would have kept us out of all the mess."

"Why not say you _wished the Reverend_ had kept you out of all the
mess," ventured Mildred's mother, who was out of patience with their
conduct.

"Well, it's rather awkward. Baptiste is a little in fault himself."

"How's that?"

"Oh, he sorter had it in for father before he even married Orlean. He
didn't come into the family like _I_ did."

Mildred and her mother regarded each other as Glavis went on
thoughtfully.

"Yes, Baptiste is a good fellow, and I have always rather liked him. But
he has always had it in for father; has never treated him as I have....
If he would have, I'm sure we would not be the bone of this scandal."

"It seems that this enmity between your 'father' and Baptiste, begun way
back in the southern part of this state, when Baptiste was a small
boy...."

"I've heard something concerning that, but of course he oughtn't hold
such things against a man when he has grown up."

"You seem to hold Baptiste in fault for everything, when it's common
knowledge, from what I can hear, Glavis," argued Mildred's mother, "that
the Elder went up there and just broke Orlean and Baptiste up; made her
sign his name to a check for a big sum of money--and a whole lot of
other things. How do you account for or explain that?"

"Well, Baptiste could have settled this without all that. If he'd come
and seen me before starting this suit," Glavis was evasive, "I would
have had him and Orlean meet and reason their differences out together."

"Why have _you_ waited so long to take such action, Glavis? You had
years almost to have gotten them together--to have been at least fair to
Baptiste. As it is, you have treated--all of you--Baptiste like a dog,
like a dog. And because he tried to settle an affair like it ought to
have been settled, you just ground him--pride and all--right into the
ditch."

Glavis winced under the fusillade with which the elder lady of the house
bombarded him.

"And now after you do him all the injury you can, you cry about him
making a scandal! Just because he didn't come around again a whining
like the dog you have tried to make him, you profess to be shocked at
his conduct. Moreover, you had Orlean to give away the farm he gave her,
and from what I can hear, to the man that tried every way known to law
to beat her out of it and failed. And at Baptiste's expense!"

Glavis was very uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, while his
handkerchief was kept busy mopping the perspiration from his brow.

"I heard that the Reverend just scored the man about trying to beat poor
Orlean out of her place: Preached a great sermon on the evil and
intriguing of the white race, and just gave that man, a banker, the
devil. Then upon top of that he comes down here to Chicago and sends
your 'father' the money to come here from Cairo to sell him the place
that Baptiste was man enough to trust her with for nothing. I can't
figure out where any of you have any cry coming."

"Well," said Glavis, rising, "I want to see Baptiste anyhow. If you see
him, tell him to come over to the house."

"No, Glavis, I have nothing to do with it, and I oughtn't to be
gossiping as I have been; but I have known Baptiste since he was a
little boy, and I just can't help protesting--as I have always
heretofore protested, about the way you people have treated him."

"Well, I guess Baptiste hates all of us enough to make up."

"Baptiste has nothing against any one in that house over there but your
'father.' But there would be no use in my telling him to call over
there. No use at all, for let me tell you," she said, following him to
the door; "The day of Baptiste beholding unto you for his wife is past.
I don't think he wants Orlean any more, and don't blame him after what
she has allowed to happen to him through her lack of womanhood.
Nawsiree, Baptiste didn't come into Chicago this time crying, he came
here like _a man_, and it's the _man_ in him with which you'll have to
fight now."

"Oh, well, I don't know," said Glavis, taking a little courage, "I don't
think he is so wise after all. Any man that will sue a man like father
for ten thousand dollars, wouldn't seem so wise."

"Well," returned the elder lady, "Perhaps you had _better_ wait until
you see a lawyer."




CHAPTER X

A DISCOVERY--AND A SURPRISE


Jean Baptiste called by to see the Merrills before leaving the city, and
took Mildred and her mother one afternoon to a matinee at the Colonial
theatre. It was a musical repertoire, and a delightful entertainment.
Before one of the numbers was to appear, the director of the orchestra
came upon the stage and announced:

"Ladies and gentlemen: If I may have your kind attention, I wish to
announce that the next number is an extraordinary specialty. Miss Inez
Maryland, the young prima donna who has made considerable of a
reputation by her beautiful singing in the last year, will this
afternoon sing in an introduction, a song that is destined by the
critics to be one of the most popular of recent production." Whereat, he
stepped to one side, and led upon the stage, a charming blonde who was
greeted profusely.

"I am glad to have you meet Miss Maryland, who will now sing the
discovery of the season, _O, My Homesteader_, by Miss Agnes Stewart."

In the moment Jean Baptiste did not quite recall the name, or rather, he
did not connect it with an instance in his life; but as the sweet mezzo
soprano voice, combined with the strains of the orchestra, floated out
over the audience, the years gone by, to him were recalled. He listened
to it with a peculiar and growing enchantment, and the night he had lain
upon the ground and would have frozen, but for the now composer, came
fresh again into his mind.

"Beautiful."

"Wonderful."

"Grand!" came to his ears from over all the theatre and then followed
the storm of applause. Again and again did the singer have to return to
satisfy the audience before her, and when the crowds poured into the
street at the close of the performance, every one seemed to be humming
the tune that had that afternoon began its initial success.

As it would take nine months or a year for the suit to come to trial,
Jean resumed his efforts in the book business, and was able by borrowing
a little, to meet the interest and taxes on the foreclosed property, and
was given the customary year's extension.

He traveled now from town to town, from city to city, and found agents
for his book, and was able in a small way to recuperate his finances. He
hired an engine to plow all his land that was not prepared, besides
renting a little more, and also took a flier in wheat. The war abroad
had been going on a year, and he conceived that if it "happened" to rain
at the right time he _might_ get a crop and redeem his land. At least,
he could lose only what he put into it by risking the same, so he took
the chance. So with all he could get hold of until the last days of
October of that year, he put it into winter wheat on his land, and
succeeded in getting over 700 acres seeded.

And everywhere he went, the people were playing and singing _O, My
Homesteader_. Never, whether it was fifty times a day, or one, could he
seem to tire of hearing it. At the stores he saw hundreds of copies of
it, and in every home it was. And always it took him back to his
youthful days in the land where he had gone with the great hope. And
then one day he saw a picture of her. It was in a musical review. It
spoke at length of her, and of the simple life she had lived. That she
was a product of the prairies and a wonderful future was in store for
her because of the fact that her work was original.

So the winter passed and springtime came again with all its beauty, and
he continued in his book business. He made a trip to Gregory and Winner
to see what the prospects were again in the Northwest. The winter for
the wheat, he was cheered to learn, had been ideal; but the spring was
dry, and that was not to the wheat's advantage. However, he had the best
prospects he had had for years, and he returned to the book business
with renewed hope.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now we are compelled by the course of events to return to certain
characters who were conspicuous in the early part of our story.

When Jack Stewart left the farm he had rented near the property of Jean
Baptiste and went West and took a homestead and had George and Bill and
Agnes to do likewise, he was obsessed with a dream that riches had come
to him at last. Agnes was delighted with the prospects, also, and so
they looked forward to a great future in the new land.

But there was something that troubled Jack Stewart, and for days when
alone he would shake his head and cry: "Dang it. Dang it! I oughtn't to
have let it go that far, dang it!" But he had kept what was now the
cause of his worry to himself so long that he would not bring himself to
confess it even to Agnes after what had occurred. But never did he
forget Jean Baptiste, and to Agnes he would mention him quite often.

"By the way, my girl," he said one day when they were settled on their
claims, staying mostly on his, of course, for the prospects were
hopeful. "Do you know that I never did learn who saved me from that
foreclosure. No, sir, I never did! I paid the note and was so glad that
it was paid, that I tore it up and forgot the whole matter.

"Now _who_ do you reckon it was that interceded for me?"

She paused and looked up from her sewing, and then bent over it again,
as she said:

"Jean Baptiste."

"Jean Baptiste!" he exclaimed incredibly.

"It was him."

"Why the stinkin' rascal, he never told me!"

She was silent.

"And it was him that came to my assistance," the other mused
reflectively. "Well, now since I come to recall him, it was just like
him to do something like that and keep it to himself. Well, well, I do
say!" He paused then, and looked down at the toe of his boot. Suddenly
he looked up, and concentrated his gaze on Agnes.

"And _you knew_ it all the time. He told you."

"He didn't tell me."

"Didn't tell you!"

"I knew it when you returned home that morning."

"Well, well...."

"I was positive the administrator hadn't granted you an extension, nor
wouldn't have, so it must have been some one near. So who else could it
have been but Jean Baptiste."

"Of course not, now that I recall it; but did you tell him about it?"

Her eyes had business in her lap at the moment, _very_ much business.
She saw the sewing and she didn't see it. What she was seeing again was
_what had happened one day when she had gone to carry his and her
brother's luncheon_.... It passed before her, as it had done many times
since. _Never_, she knew, would she be able to forget _that day, that
day_ when the harvest was on, and he had said sweet words to her.... It
was all past now, forever, but it was as fresh as the day it was done.

She understood why he had gone away, and when he returned and she had
seen his face she understood then his sacrifice. She knew that the man's
honor, his respect for his race and their struggle had brought him to
commit the sacrifice. And strangely, she loved him the more for it. It
had been an evidence of his great courage, the great strength with which
he was possessed. It was strange that the only man she, a white girl,
had ever loved was a <DW64>, and now when that was history, it seemed to
relieve her when she could recall that he had been a _man_.

"Did you hear me, Aggie?" her father called now again. She started.

"Why--yes, father--I heard you," she said, straightening up. "And--of
course--I told him about it...."

"Now I'm glad to hear that you did. It seems that you ought to have told
me at the time--at least before we left there, so that I could have
thanked him." He was silent for a time then and reflective.

"I wonder what sort of woman he married," he mused after a time.

"I don't know."

"I am sometimes a little afraid that he didn't get the right kind of
woman.

"He was such a prince of a good fellow, that it would most likely have
been his luck to have gotten a woman who would betray him in some way.
It is all rather strange, for I don't think he loved any woman but
_you_, Aggie."

He darted his eyes quickly in her direction, recalling a time before
when he had intimated something of the kind. This time, however, she did
not cry out, but continued at her sewing as though he had not spoken.

As he slowly walked out, what was in his mind was the thing that had
worried him before.

She looked after him and sighed. It was her effort then to forget the
past, and in so doing, the inspiration with regard to music came again,
and developed in her mind. But her efforts had brought so little
encouragement from those to whom she had submitted her compositions that
she for a long time despaired of making another effort.

So it was not until the great drought swept over the land and drove
almost all the settlers from their claims in a search for food, that
made her again resort to the effort.

The drought was even worse in the part of the country they now called
home than it had been in Tripp County and other parts farther East. Corn
that was planted under the sod one spring had actually not sprouted for
two years, for the moisture that fell had never wet the earth that deep.
So, after two years in which they came nearer to starvation than they
had ever before, she secured a position in a hotel in a town farther
West, and the money earned thereby, she gave to her father and brothers
to live on.

It was then she had returned to compositions in a desperate effort and
hope to save them from disaster. For a long time she met with the usual
rejections, and it was a year or more before anything she composed
received any notice.

But _O, My Homesteader_ was an instantaneous success. While she still
worked in the kitchen of the little hotel in the western village, the
royalties came pouring in upon her so fast until she could hardly
believe it. And coincident with the same, she became the recipient of
numerous offers from almost everywhere. Most were for compositions;
while many were offers to go on the stage, at which she was compelled to
laugh. The very thought of her, a dishwasher in a country hotel, going
on the stage! But she resigned her position and went back to her father
and brothers on the farm. She used her money to pay off their debts and
started them to farming, and made herself contented with staying on as
she had done before, and keeping house for her father and the boys. She
refused to submit any more manuscripts until the success of her first
song was growing old, and then she released others which followed with a
measure of success.

The offers from the East persisted; and with them, drought in the West
continued and they saw that trying to farm so far west was, for the
present time, at least, impractical. So they returned to Gregory where
she purchased the place they had lived on. Owing to the fact that the
drought had been severe there, also, she secured the place at a fair
bargain, and they returned to farming the summer following the
publication of Baptiste's book.

When she read it, she hardly knew what to think; but it was rather
unusual she thought, because he had told a true story in every detail;
but had chosen to leave his experiences with her out of it. She heard of
him, and the disaster that had overcome him, and was sorry. She felt
that if she could only help him in some way, it would give her relief.
And so the time passed, and he came again into her life in a strange and
mysterious manner.

She was surprised one day to receive a visit in person from the
publisher of her works. She was, to say the least, also flattered. He
had come direct from Chicago to persuade her to come to the city, and
while she was flattered and was really anxious to see the city, she
refrained from going, but promised to write more music.

In the months that followed, he wrote to her, and the experience was
new. Then his letters grew serious, and later she received the surprise.
He came again to see her and proposed. She hardly knew how to accept it,
but he was so persistent. To be offered the love of a man of such a
type, carried her off her feet, and she made him promise to wait.

He was very patient about it, and at last she concluded that while she
did not feel that she really loved him yet, she was a woman, and growing
no younger, and, besides, he was a successful publisher and the match
seemed logical. So after some months in which she tried to make herself
appear like the woman she knew he wished her to be, she accepted, but
left the date for their wedding indefinite.




CHAPTER XI

THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION


The reverend McCarthy was commonly regarded as a good politician in
church affairs, meaning, that he was successful with the Bishop in being
able to hold the office of Presiding Elder over such a long period. At
every conference other aspirants attempted to oust him. But he had
always held with the Bishop and had succeeded himself annually until the
five-year limit had expired. At the end of this time he had usually
succeeded in manipulating matters in such a manner that he had
invariably been successful in securing the same appointment over another
district in the state. Over this he presided another five years, and was
then automatically transferred back to the district over which he had
formerly presided. For twenty years he had been successful in keeping
this up, but in the conference that was to convene after he had been
sued by his son-in-law, it became known and talked about that he would
not be re-appointed to the Presiding Eldership, and would necessarily be
sent to a charge for a year or more.

Accordingly, he began early to seek a charge which he was in position to
know would be lucrative, since there were few outside the large churches
in Chicago that would pay as well as the Presiding Eldership.

The fact was, however, he regretted going back to a charge, for his
former experience in such work, in gaining and retaining the confidence
of the members of his church had not been ideal, to say the least. And
again, it was expedient that he should have his family, especially his
wife, living in the town with him where he held the charge. Perhaps that
made it awkward for him, as he was not accustomed to having his wife in
such close proximity with him daily. His regard for her was such that he
could not bear the thought of that close association. For his experience
had been that it was impossible for him to be in the house with her a
matter of two days without losing his patience and speaking harshly to
her. To avoid this unpleasant domestic state of affairs it had been
agreed that Orlean should be his housekeeper, and this was settled on
before conference--and before he had been sued.

This pending suit, however, brought added complications. Ever since he
had brought Orlean home, he had been embarrassed by gossips. Nowhere had
he been able to turn unless some busy-body must stop him and inquire
with regard to his daughter; what was the matter, etc., and so on. It
kept him explaining and re-explaining, a subject that was to say the
least, delicate. He had, however, succeeded in explaining and conveying
the impression that the man she married had mistreated and neglected
her, and that he had been compelled to go and get her in order to save
her life. This was not satisfactory to him in view of the fact that he
decided once to let her return, but Jean Baptiste not knowing that he
had reached such a decision, had felt that his only chance to secure her
again was to keep away from her father--well, we know the result of that
effort.

But inasmuch as that Jean Baptiste had refused to argue with him over
her, he had used this as an excuse to become his old self again, which,
after all, was so much easier. So when 'Gene Crook had approached him
with an offer, and convinced him that Baptiste was what the Elder knew
he was not (because the Elder was easily to be convinced of anything
toward the detriment of his adversary) he easily secured the place and
the Elder had felt himself ahead. Three hundred dollars was a great deal
of money to him, and went a long way in taking up the payments in which
they were in arrears on the home they were buying in Chicago. True, it
twitched his conscience, but N.J. McCarthy had a practice--long in
effect--of crucifying conscience. So when he had closed the deal--and
had been reimbursed for his traveling expenses--he went directly back to
his work, and had not been in the city since until called in on the
suit.

When he left the lawyer's office and returned home, he discussed the
matter with Glavis, who in turn discussed the matter with white friends
who advised him how to answer to the charge. Returning to the lawyer's
office they engaged counsel. It was very annoying--more than ever--to
the Elder when he was required to put up twenty-five dollars in cash as
a retainer. He had become so accustomed to posing his way through in so
many matters--letting some one else put up the money, that when he was
forced to part with that amount of money he straightway appreciated the
seriousness of the situation. It was no pleasant anticipation in looking
forward to the trial, for there he would be compelled to counter the
other on equal terms.

He was very disagreeable about the house when he returned home, and his
wife adroitly kept out of his sight. He sought the street to walk off
his anger and perturbation, only to run into a Mrs. Jones, teacher in
the Sunday school of one of the large <DW64> churches, and with whom he
had been long acquainted. It was, in a measure, because his
acquaintances were of long standing that gave them, they felt, the right
to question him regarding such delicate affairs. So when he met Mrs.
Jones, he doffed his hat in his usual lordly manner, and paused when she
came to a stop.

"Good evening, Reverend Mac.," she exclaimed, and extended her long,
lean hand. He grasped it, and bowing with accustomed dignity, replied:

"Good evening, Sister Jones. I trust that your health is the best."

"My health is good, Reverend Mac. But, say, Reverend Mac., you don't
look so well."

"Indeed so, my dear madame, I have not been in the best of health for
some months."

"Well, well, that is too bad, indeed. I hear that you have not been,
Reverend Mac. And say, Brother McCarthy, what is this I read in the
paper about your son-in-law coming in here and suing you for breaking up
Orlean and he?"

His Majesty's head went up, while he  unseen, and would have
passed on, but Mrs. Jones was standing in such a manner that he was
unable to do so without some difficulty.

"The man is crazy," he retorted shortly, and stiffened. But it took more
than stiffness to satisfy this gossip.

"Well, I thought something was the matter, Reverend. For you see, I've
heard that you went out there and brought her home to save him from
killing her, so you see it is rather strange. That fellow, as a boy--and
even yet, when he is in Chicago--attends Sunday school and sits in my
class, and I was rather surprised that he should treat Orlean as it is
said you said he did."

Reverend McCarthy would liked very well to have moved on. But Mrs. Jones
was very much interested.

"There's all kind of talk around town about it. They say that if he gets
a judgment against you, Elder, he will put you in jail, and all that;
but of course that couldn't be. You stand too well in the church. But
you know, Reverend, the only thing that looks kind a bad for you is,
they say that he wouldn't dare start such a suit unless he had good
ground for action. They say--"

The Elder had extricated himself at last, and now sailed down the street
with high head. "May the God crush that hard-headed bulldog into the
earth," he muttered between compressed lips, so angry that he could not
see clearly. "How long am I to be aggravated with this rotten gossip!"

He changed his mind about walking far, and at a convenient corner, he
turned back toward home. But when he arrived there, he was confronted
with another, and more serious problem. It had been his intention before
arriving there, to arraign his wife again for having let Orlean go West
in the beginning. But now he was confronted with his august honorary,
the Bishop.

"And, now, Reverend," said the Bishop, after they had gone through the
usual formalities, "I am forced to come around to something that
embarrasses me very much, in view of our long and intimate relations,"
and he paused to look grave. The Reverend tried to still his thumping
heart. All his life he had been a coward, he had bluffed himself into
believing, and having his family believe, that he was a brave man, but
Orlean had told Baptiste on several occasions that her father might have
risen higher in the church, but for his lack of confidence.

"It pertains to all this gossip and notoriety that is going the rounds.
I suppose you are aware of what I refer to." The other swallowed, and
nodded.

"You can appreciate that it is very embarrassing to me, and to the
church, more, because I have struggled to raise the standard in this
church. We have in the years gone by been subjected to unfair gossip,
and some fair because of the subtle practices of some of our ministers.
And now, with conference convening in two weeks, it is very awkward that
we should be confronted with such a predicament with regard to you, one
of our oldest ministers. The subject is made more embarrassing because
of its--er, rather personal nature. I would regard it as very
enlightening if you would give me an explanation--but, of course, in the
name of the church."

The Reverend swallowed again, struggled to keep his eyes dry, for the
rush of self pity almost overcame him. It was, however, no time or place
for self pity. The Bishop was _not_ an emotional man; he was _not_ given
to patience with those who pitied themselves--in short, the Bishop was
_very much_ of a cold hearted business man, notwithstanding his
position. He was waiting in calm austerity for the other's reply.

"Ah-m ahem!" began the Reverend with a great effort at self composure.
"It is, to say the least, my dear Bishop, with much regret that I am
compelled to explain a matter that has caused me no end of grief. To
begin with: It was not with my consent that my daughter was allowed to
go off into the West and file on a homestead."

The other's face was like a tomb upon hearing this. Indeed, the Elder
would have to put forth a more logical excuse. It has been said that the
Bishop was a practical man which in truth he was, and the fact is, he
regarded it as far more timely if a larger number of the members of his
race in the city would have taken up homesteads in the West, than for
them to have been frequenting State Street and aping the rich. Also, the
Bishop had read Baptiste's book--although the Reverend was not aware of
it,--and was constrained to feel that a man could not conscientiously
write that which was absolutely false.

"But I came into the city here after a conference to find that my
daughter had been herded off out West in a wild country to take a
homestead."

"Now, just a minute, Reverend," interposed the Bishop astutely.
"Regarding this claim your daughter filed on. What was the nature of the
land? You have been over it, I dare say."

"Of course, of course, my dear Bishop! It was a piece of wild,
undeveloped land. At the time she took it, it was fifty miles or such a
matter from the railroad. She gave birth to a child--"

"But," interposed the Bishop again, "you say the land was a considerable
distance from the railroad at the time your daughter filed on the place?
Very well. Now, Reverend, isn't it a fact that in the history of this
country, all new countries when opened to the settler may have been some
distance from the railroad in the beginning? For instance, somebody
started Chicago, which was certainly not the convenient place then that
it is now in which to live."

"Of course, my dear Bishop, of course."

"So the fact that the railroad was, as you say, fifty miles away, could
not be held as an argument against it. Besides, is it not a fact that
there were other people, men and women, who were as far from the
railroad and therefore placed at an equal disadvantage?"

"Of course, of course."

"Then, my dear Reverend, it does not appear to me that that should be a
fact to be condemned."

"I have not condemned it, my dear Bishop. No."

"Very well, then, my dear Reverend, please proceed."

Now the interposition of the Bishop, had rather disconcerted the Elder.
Had he been allowed to proceed in the manner he had planned and started
to, he might have made the case from his standpoint, and under the
circumstances very clear to the Bishop. But the latter's questions threw
him off his line, and he started again with some embarrassment, and with
the perspiration beginning to appear around the point of his nose.
Appreciating, however that he was expected to explain, he went
resolutely back to the task.

"Well, my wife allowed my daughter to be taken out there and file on
this land that this man had secured on his representation that he wished
to marry her, and when I came into the city it was all settled."

"Pardon me for interrupting you again, my dear Elder. But is it not a
fact that Mrs. Pruitt, with whom you are well acquainted, accompanied
your daughter on this trip?"

"It is so, Bishop."

"And is it not a fact that Mrs. Pruitt as well as your daughter,
explained it all at the time with satisfaction to you?"

"Well, ah--yes, she did."

"You admit to this, then, my dear Reverend?"

"Under the circumstances at the time, I was rather compelled to, my dear
Bishop."

"Meaning that since she had gone and taken the land, you were morally
bound to look into and consider the matter favorably?"

"Yes, I think that explains it."

"Now, Reverend. Is it not a fact that a considerable write-up appeared
in the Chicago _Defender_ shortly after this visit, detailing
considerable, and with much illustration regarding the trip; that, in
short, your daughter had come into considerable land and was regarded
as having been very fortunate?"

"I think so, my dear Bishop."

"Very well, Reverend. Now--a--who solicited that write-up? Did the
editor not have a conversation with you before the article appeared?"

"I believe he did, yes, sir. I think he did."

"Well, now, Reverend, if I remember correctly, this young man visited
the city the Christmas following, and I was introduced to him by you in
this same room?"

"I think so. Yes, Bishop, I remember having introduced him to you
myself."

"And do I quote correctly when I say that you called me up the following
spring to perform the ceremony that made your daughter and this Jean
Baptiste man and wife?"

"I think you quote correctly, my dear Bishop."

"M-m. Yes, I recall that I was indisposed at the time and was very sorry
I could not perform the ceremony," said the Bishop thoughtfully, but
more to himself than to the other.

"Well, now. After they had been married some months, my wife visited
your wife, and the latter seemed to be greatly impressed with the union.
I think if I am correctly informed that you went on a visit to them
yourself that fall."

"I did, my dear Bishop. Yes, I did."

"And at the conference on your return, you, if I am not mistaken, called
on me at my home and discussed the young man at considerable length."

"Yes, my dear Bishop. I did that."

"Yes," mused the Bishop again thoughtfully and as if to himself. "And
you appeared greatly delighted with their union. You seemed to regard
him as an extraordinary young man, and, from what I have heard, I have
been inclined to feel so myself. Now it seems that a few months after
you were speaking in high praise of him, you made a trip West and on
your return brought your girl home with you, and she has not since
returned to her husband. Of course," he added slowly, "that is your
personal affair, but since it has reached the public, the church is
concerned, so I am ready to listen to further explanation."

"I went out there and found my girl in dire circumstances," defended the
Elder. "I found her in neglect; I found her without proper medical
attention--no nurse was there to administer her needs. In short, I was
prevailed upon by my love and regard for my daughter's health, to
expedite the step I took."

"Nobly said, Reverend, nobly said," said the Bishop, and for the first
time during his explanation, the Elder felt encouraged.

"The man did not marry her for love," the Elder went on now somewhat
more confident. "He did not marry her to make her happy and comfortable.
He married her to secure more land. It is true that I was impressed with
him in a way, because the man was rather--er, inspiring, and I
entertained hopes. Our race does not possess successful men in such a
number that we can be oblivious to apparent success as on a young man's
part. This man seemed to be such a man--in fact, I grant him that. The
man was popular with those who knew him; he was a pusher; but he _was so
ambitious to get rich_ that he was in the act of killing my child to
accomplish his ends." The Reverend finished this with a touch of emotion
that made the other nod thoughtfully. And while he paused to gather
force and words for further justification of his interposition, the
Bishop said:

"I note by the reports in the newspaper that you are accused of having
coerced the girl; that you had her write her husband's name on a check
with which you secured the money to bring her from the West."

"He gave my daughter the privilege of securing money by such a method
for her needs, and it was not I that had her do any such a thing."

"But it was--er, rather--a little irregular, was it not? It does not
seem reasonable to suppose that he granted her the privilege to sign his
name to checks to secure money with which to leave him?" The question
was put rather testily and caused the other to shift uncomfortably
before making answer.

"Well, under the circumstances, methods _had_ to be resorted to--er,
rather to fit the occasion." The Elder's defence was artful.

The Bishop, not pretending to take his question seriously, pursued:

"I note, further, that he accuses you of disposing of some property...."

"My daughter sold her place. It was hers, in her name, and the
transaction did not require his consent."

"M-m--I see. It seems that the property, so he claims, represented an
outlay of some thirty-five hundred dollars in cash, and he purports the
same as being worth something like sixty-four hundred dollars. What is
your opinion, having been on the property, of its actual worth?"

"Well, I have some sense of values, since I am buying this home, and I
do not regard the property as being worth such a sum."

"I see," said the other, stroking his beard which was thick and flowing.

"A piece of wild, raw land such as that I could not estimate it as being
so valuable."

"M-m. Have you any knowledge of what land has brought in that
neighborhood, Reverend. You see, value is a very delicate thing to
estimate. We cannot always be the judge in such matters. The usual
estimate of what anything is worth is what some one is willing to pay.
Do you recall of having ever heard your daughter or any one say what
deeded land in that section sold for?"

"Well, I have heard my daughter say that a place near there had brought
five thousand dollars."

"Which would not compare with the value you put on the place your
daughter held."

"It would not seem to."

"M-m. You say this was your daughter's place entirely?"

"It was," returned the Reverend promptly.

"And she paid for it out of her own money?"

"Well, no. She did not."

"I see. M-m. Then who purchased it for her, Reverend?"

"I think he did that. Yes, I think he did."

"I see. Do you recall the consideration. I understand that he purchased
what is called a relinquishment. I understand such transactions
slightly. I have read of such deals in Oklahoma. Seems to be a sort of
recognized custom in securing land in new countries, notwithstanding the
subtlety of the transaction."

"I think he claimed to have paid two thousand dollars for the
relinquishment, which I would consider too much, considerably too much."

"But, inasmuch as your knowledge of new countries has been brief,
perhaps, you would not set your judgment up as a standard for values
there," suggested the Bishop, pointedly. "You will grant that the
individual in the controversy would likely be able to judge more
correctly with regard to values?"

"It is obvious."

"Yes, yes. Quite likely." The Reverend was very uncomfortable. If the
Bishop would only stop where he was it wouldn't be so bad, but if he
kept on with such questions. That was what he had disliked about Jean
Baptiste.... He had a habit of asking questions--too many questions, he
had thought; but this man before him was the Bishop, a law unto himself.
And he must answer. The Bishop knew a great deal more about the West
than he had thought he did, however.

"Who bought your daughter's place, my dear Elder? A white man or a
<DW64>? Which of course, doesn't matter, but if I understand all the
details, it would be more clear, you understand."

"Of course, my dear Bishop. Naturally. A white man bought the place."

"I understand now. A _white_ man," he repeated thoughtfully. During all
the questioning, the Bishop had looked into the Reverend's eyes only
occasionally. Most of the time he had kept his eyes upon the carpet
before him, as if he were studying a spot thereon.

"It seems by the paper that the man, according to the accusations set
forth in the complaint, had once contested the claim."

"Yes, he had done so, Doctor, he had."

"I see. Why did he contest the place, my dear Reverend?"

"Why, I do not understand clearly, but such methods appear to be a
recognized custom in those parts," countered the Elder evasively.

"But isn't it a fact that he tried to contest her out of the place, and
if he had been successful, he would have had the place for nothing in so
far as she was concerned?"

"It is quite likely." The Elder had nothing but evasive answers now. He
tried counters no more.

"But he failed, it seems, to get the place through contest, regardless
of the fact that your daughter was here in Chicago instead of being on
her claim."

"It seems that way."

"And then, forsooth, it must have been your daughter's husband who was
instrumental in saving the place for her?"

"Yes."

"And after this, your daughter sold the place to the man who had
struggled to beat her out of it and failed through the instrumentalities
of her husband, and without consulting her husband with regard to the
bargain."

"I counciled her, my dear Bishop."

"Ah, _you_ counciled her," and for the first time he turned his sharp,
searching eyes on the Elder and seemingly looked directly through him.
The next moment they were back on the carpet before him, and he resumed
his questions. He was thinking then, thinking of what he had read in the
book by Jean Baptiste, and what had recently appeared in all the papers.
It seemed to him that the Elder's defence was not quite clear; but he
would see it through.

"It was reported that this man, a banker, whose bank had failed ... sent
you the money for your railroad fare from Cairo to this city, and also
reimbursed for the return. Is that quite true?"

"That was--the railroad fare--a part of the transaction."

"Ah-ha. A _part_ of the transaction. You never, I suppose, informed her
husband regarding the _transaction_ after the deal was closed?"

"No."

"What was the consideration, Reverend, for this piece of land that your
daughter's husband bought, for which he paid $2000, placing a house and
barn thereon, digging a well, and making other improvements, fighting
off a three years' contest--placed there by the man who tried to beat
her out of it? What did he pay for the place?"

"Three hundred dollars." Such an awful moment! The Elder's head dropped
as he said this. But the Bishop's eyes were still upon the spot in the
carpet.

"And so this young man comes hither and accuses and sues you, accusing
you of breaking up he and his wife. He published all that you have told
me and if he should secure a judgment it is known that he can remand you
to jail for six months."

He paused again, regarded the spot in the carpet before him very keenly
and then arose. The Elder arose also, but he was unable to find his
voice. In the meantime the Bishop was moving toward the door, his hand
was upon the knob, and when the door was open, he turned, and looking at
the one behind him, said:

"Well, see you at the conference, Newt," and was gone.

The other stood regarding the closed door. His brain was in a whirl and
he could not quite understand what had happened. But _something_ in that
hour had transpired, and while he could not seem to realize what it was
just then, he knew he would learn it in due time.




CHAPTER XII

THE BISHOP ACTS


The conference that followed was one of grave apprehensions for the
Reverend McCarthy. Before, he had always looked forward to this occasion
with considerable anxiety. He had usually prepared himself for the
battle that was a rule on such occasions. For thirty-five years he had
not missed a conference; he had never come away in defeat. True, he had
not risen very high, but he had, at least, always been able to hold his
own.

But, for the first time in his long experience, he went to meet this
conference with a feeling in his heart that he would come away defeated.
That he was not to be reappointed Presiding Elder, was a foregone
conclusion, but he entertained doubts about getting the appointment he
had hoped to secure. Ever since the Bishop had paid him the visit, he
had been uncomfortable. When the prelate bade him good-by that day, he
had never been able to get out of his mind the idea that the other had
convicted him in his own heart, and had purposely avoided his company.
It worried him, and he had been losing flesh for two years, therefore he
did not present now the same robust, striking figure as when he had met
the conference heretofore year after year.

And then, moreover, he had been hounded almost to insanity by gossips.
From over all his circuit it was the talk, they brought it to conference
and discussed it freely and did not take the trouble to get out of his
hearing to do so. Nowhere was there, as he well knew, a body that would
have delighted more in his downfall than those brother preachers who met
the conference that year. Always had they been ready to oppose him, but
always before the Bishop had been with him. He had been able by subtle
methods to place himself in the Bishop's favor, but this time that
august individual artfully kept from meeting him directly. Besides, he
had not the conscience to seek him, and he had not been able to meet the
Bishop in the free atmosphere as before.

The charge that he had picked out was very good, and it was convenient
for his needs for many reasons. Of course there were scores of others
after the same charge, but with his old influence he need not have
worried. However, he had not and could not see the Bishop privately long
enough to secure from him a promise. And so he met the conference for
the first time, unsettled as to where he was to preach the ensuing year.

Never had a conference seemed so long as that session. The week wore
slowly away, and he was forced to be aware of the fact that on all sides
they were discussing him, and the fact that he had been sued, and was
likely to be remanded to jail as a result, since no one credited him
with so large a sum as ten thousand dollars. He could see the
unconcealed delight, and the malice that had always been, but which
before he had been able to ignore. Affairs reached such a point until it
was almost a conclusion that it mattered little as to where he was sent,
for he would be unable to fill the pulpit because of the fact that he
would have to go to jail shortly. It nettled him; it broke down his
habitual composure, and it was a relief to him when the conference came
to a close.

And not until the secretary arose to call the various charges and who
had been sent thither, did he know where he was to go. So it was with a
sinking of the heart when his name was reached:

"Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!"

"_Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!_" was the echo all through the
audience. Impossible! _Reverend McCarthy_, one of the oldest, and
regarded as one of the strongest, one of the ablest ministers to such a
forsaken charge. Indeed they could hardly have sent him to a poorer
charge, to a less dignified place. It seemed incredible, and the rest of
the calls were almost drowned out in the consternation that followed.

Well, it was done. He had been all but silenced, and lowered as much as
the Bishop dared to lower him. That was settled, and he returned to
Chicago without telegraphing the fact to his family.

With resignation he made the necessary preparations for the trip, and
taking Orlean with him, went to the small town. They rented a house, for
the place didn't afford a parsonage, and began the long dreary year that
was to follow. It was his good fortune, however, when the school board
met and decided to separate the <DW64> children from the whites in the
public schools, that they employed his daughter to teach the 
pupils for the year. In this way they were able to get along in very
good comfort in the months that followed. So the autumn passed, and also
the winter. Spring came and went, and summer had set in when his
attorney wrote him that the case had been called, to come into Chicago,
and prepare to stand trial in the case of Jean Baptiste, plaintiff,
versus Newton Justine McCarthy, defendant.




CHAPTER XIII

WHERE THE WEAK MUST BE STRONG


The trial was called for early June, and Baptiste reached the city a
week or ten days before the time set. He had become very friendly with
the <DW64> lawyer who was conducting his case. He also secured a Gregory
lawyer, the one who had conducted the contest case. When he arrived in
the city, the lawyer advised that, inasmuch as they had a spare bedroom
at his home, and that it would be imperative for them to be close to
discuss various phases of the prosecution, he could have the room if he
liked. So he accepted it.

It so happened that the lawyer's home was located in the same block on
Vernon Avenue as was the McCarthys, and on the same side of the street.
Moreover, it had been built at the same time as had that of the
McCarthys, and was very much like in appearance the one in which they
were living.

One afternoon a few days before the trial, while lingering at the bar of
the Keystone Hotel, Baptiste was approached by Glavis, who invited him
to a table nearby, where they were very much alone. He ordered the
drinks, and when they were served he began:

"Now, Baptiste, it seems we ought to be able to get together on this
case without going into court."

"Yes?" replied Baptiste, regarding the other noncommittally.

"Yes, I think we could, and should. I think you and Orlean ought to be
able to console your differences without such an extreme."

"You _think_ so?"

"Why, I do. Orlean has always--ah--rather loved you, Baptiste, and I
think you two could make up."

"But this is not between Orlean and me, Glavis. You seem to
misunderstand. It is between N. Justine McCarthy and me."

"Of course, but it is over Orlean. You have sued father for this sum, a
sum you know he cannot pay in the event you should secure judgment. So
there would be nothing left for you but to remand him to jail, which
seems to be your desire."

"Possibly so." The other was still noncommittal.

"Then why not you and I get together on this proposition before the
trial is called?"

"I don't see as I can oblige you, Glavis. There comes a time when
compromise is impossible, only vindication can suffice. And it's
vindication that I want now and, regret to advise, am determined to
have."

"That seems rather severe, Baptiste."

"Why so?"

"Well, you see, I understand that the old man kinda--er, gave you the
worst of it, but you ought to forget some things. Look at it from a
broad viewpoint. See how expensive it is going to be, and all that."

"I considered all that before I went into it, Glavis," replied Baptiste
calmly.

"Well, now, Baptiste, I want to stop this thing before it goes to court.
If you had of kinda flattered the old man a little in the beginning as I
did, all would have been well."

"Why should I have done so when I didn't feel to?"

"Oh, Baptiste, you are _so_ severe!"

"When a man has suffered as I have, it is time to be severe, my friend.
For your own benefit, I will say that I do not trust your father-in-law.
I do not love him and never have. If it wasn't because I wish to observe
and subserve to the law of the land, I would have killed him long ago.
_Even when I think of it now_, my bitterness is so great at times that I
must repel the inclination to strike him down for the coward he is. So
if that's all, we will call the meeting to an end," so saying he arose,
strode toward the bar and ordered drinks for both. He drank his with a
gulp when served, and turned and left the saloon.

Glavis proceeded to his lawyer, and advised him of his inability to
dissuade the plaintiff.

"Couldn't dissuade him, eh?"

"Couldn't do a thing!"

"That's too bad. It might be to your advantage if you could settle this
case out of court. When will your father-in-law be in?"

"I'm looking for him here in a day or so, now."

"M-m." The attorney was thoughtful. "This is rather an unusual case," he
resumed, "and I have been studying the complaint of the plaintiff. The
old man, it seems to me, committed some very grave blunders."

"You think so?"

"Quite obvious. And while it will be difficult for the plaintiff to
secure a judgment in such a case; it is, however, apparent that the
sympathy of the court will be against your father-in-law in the
proceedings."

Glavis was uncomfortable.

"Now I take notice here that the plaintiff states that his wife drew a
check for two hundred dollars unknown to her husband, and that the
Reverend had it cashed. That may be regular, but it will not help her
father's case. Again, he complains that her father influenced the girl
to sell a quarter section of land for less than one-tenth what it cost
the plaintiff. Of course these are technicalities that while they cannot
justify a judgment will win the sympathy of the jury. What the plaintiff
must show, however, is that his father-in-law actually was the direct
cause of and did alienate the affections of his wife. Such a case is not
without parallel, but it is uncommon. A father alienating the affections
of his daughter.

"Now where is your sister-in-law?"

"At home."

"Wish you'd bring her down. This is a complicated case, and we've got to
conduct it with directness. She can be of great assistance in
extricating her father from this predicament."

"All right, sir. When shall I bring her?"

"Oh, any time that is convenient. Tomorrow morning at nine will perhaps
be the best. And, now, say! Have you any idea who the plaintiff is going
to use as witnesses?"

"Why, I think he plans to bring his grandmother from what I can hear,
for one."

"His grandmother? What does she know about it?"

"Well, she was in the house when my father-in-law went on the visit and
the girl came away with him."

"I see. I'd like to know just what passed and what she heard and will
testify to. I wonder whether she will testify that she overheard your
father-in-law abusing this Baptiste to his wife?"

"I really don't know."

"Who else?"

"I heard something about him going to bring a doctor down, and also a
lawyer."

"The doctor, eh?" He shook his head then a little dubiously. "This
physician attended the girl while she was confined?"

"I think so."

"M-m. I see here where we have recorded that your father-in-law claims
that the girl was neglected; didn't have proper medical attention. What
about this? Have you any knowledge as to how many visits this doctor
made to the bedside of this girl when she was sick? Any knowledge of
what kind of bill was rendered by him?"

"I hear that his bill amounted to something like two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred! Great Scott! And for a dead baby! Gee! We'll have to keep
away from neglect as an excuse. That's a fact. No jury will believe such
a statement if that fellow shows where he's paid such a bill as that!"

Glavis shifted uneasily. He was seeing another side of the controversy.
Before he had only seen one side of it, and that side was as the
Reverend had had him see it.

"You send or bring the girl down here tomorrow. It will be up to _her_
to keep her father out of jail, that's all. It will be up to _her_ to
convince the court that she never loved this man, that all he did for
her was by persuasion, and that her father only followed her
instructions. In short, it's almost directly up to her; for the
plaintiff has certainly got the goods on her dad if he can prove that
she ever loved him."

Glavis was much disturbed when he went home. For the first time he was
able to appreciate the full circumstances. It would be up to Orlean to
save her father, and that he could see. He would take her to the lawyer,
and have her carefully drilled. The success for them depended on her; on
her falsifying to the court, for it could not be otherwise. For her to
testify that she did not love--and had never loved Jean Baptiste, he
knew would be a deliberate falsehood. It worried him, but he had to go
through with it.

He accompanied her to the lawyer's office as agreed, and there she was
made to understand the gravity of the situation, that everything
depended on her statements, _and her statements only_.

Her father arrived the following day, and at the attorney's office in
company with Orlean and Glavis, he was impressed with the nature of the
defense. All were finally drilled in their course of action.

That night Orlean faced the most serious period in her life. She was a
weak woman and her weakness had been the cause of it all. The trial was
approaching--and the result was _up to her_. Her father's freedom, his
continuance in the pulpit, his vindication of the action he had taken
depended upon _her_, and _her strength_.

And that strength--for on that day she would _have_ to be
strong,--_depended upon a lie_.




CHAPTER XIV

THE TRIAL--THE LIE--"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"


"_Not guilty, your honor!_"

The court room was silent for a time before any one stirred. It had been
apparent that the decision would be so; because there were several
reasons why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict.

Among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff had failed
to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict in his favor. His
grandmother, his corroborating witness, had answered her last call just
before she was to start for Chicago to give hers, the most incriminating
testimony. The doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement
was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit. But what had
gone harder than anything against the plaintiff was his wife's
testimony. Under the most severe examination, and cross examinations,
she had stood on her statements. She had never loved her husband, and
had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence into leaving
him. She had instructed her father in all he had done, and that he was
in no wise guilty as accused.

No jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary under such
circumstances, and no one--not even the plaintiff, had expected or even
hoped that they would.

But in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded court room, N.J.
McCarthy stood a guilty man. Not even the faintest semblance of doubt as
to this lingered in their minds. It was merely a case of insufficient
evidence to convict. And while the people filed out into the air at the
conclusion, every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his evil
perpetuation. In their ears would always ring the story Jean Baptiste
had told. Told without a tremor, he had recited the evils from the day
he had married her up until the day she had sold her birthright for a
mess of pottage. So vivid did he make it all that the court was held in
a thraldom. For an hour and a half he detailed the evil of his enemy,
his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit, and his artful
cunningness, and brought women to tears by the sorrow in his face, his
apparent grief and external mortification.

Never had the black population of the city listened to or witnessed a
more eloquent appeal. But justice had been unable to interfere. The
trial was over, and Newton Justine McCarthy left the court room a free
man, with head held high, and walking with sure step.

Jean Baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers. They had
anticipated losing the case before going into court, for it had been
apparent to them that the outcome rested entirely with Baptiste's wife.
If they failed to shake her testimony; that she had never loved him,
then they knew it was hopeless. It had all depended on her--_and she had
stood by her father_.

"Well, I'm satisfied," said Baptiste as they went through the street.

"I suppose so, in a way."

"I wanted vindication. I wanted the people to know the truth."

"And they know it now. He goes free, but the people know he is a guilty
man, and that your wife _lied_ to save him."

"Yes," said Baptiste a little wearily.

Somehow he felt relieved. It seemed that a great burden had been lifted
from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if shutting out the past now
forever. He was free. Never would the instance that had brought turmoil
and strife into his life trouble him again. Always before there had
seemed to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had taken as
wife. Always he seemed to have a claim upon her in spite of all and she
upon him. But, by the decision of the court, all this had been swept
away, and he sighed as if in peace.

They found their way to the "L" station that was nearest, and there took
a train for the south side. At Thirty-first Street Baptiste left his
lawyer and slowly betook himself toward the familiar scenes on State
Street.

While he lost himself in the traffic of State Street, the Reverend, in
company with Glavis, Ethel, and Orlean, boarded an Indiana Avenue
surface car. The Reverend was cheery for a great fear had passed. A
coward by nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown before
the trial, thinking of what might happen. But now that was over. He was
free. That meant everything. The fact that he was guilty in the minds of
everybody who heard the trial, did not worry him now. He was free and
could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the action he had
taken. That was the great question. Always before he had been sensitive
of the fingers of accusation that were upon him, and the worry had
greatly impaired his usual appearance.

And while he was relieved, Glavis, sitting proudly by him, was also. He
talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision, and of the future that
was before them. He smiled at all times, and the Reverend's large face
was also lighted up with a peculiar delight. But there was another who,
in spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved the day
for the Reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not in a mood to discuss
the case.

This one was Orlean. Few knew--in fact maybe only one other, and that
was her husband--or appreciated how much that false testimony had cost
her. She had lied; lied freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the
case--_and this for the man who had brought her to it_. And _now_ when
it was over she felt not at ease. While Jean Baptiste was conscious that
a burden had been lifted from his mind, and Glavis and her father
chatted freely, she sat silently by without even a clear thought. She
was only conscious that she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a
life that had made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the
first time in her life, deliberately lied. And as she became more
conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her. Never since
the day she had abused her husband; never since the suffering her
actions had brought him; never since as a climax to all this, when he
lay upon the floor and she had kicked him viciously in the face, had she
experienced a happy or a cheerful day.

But today--after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life held little
for her, that she was now unfit to perform any womanly duty. She found
no consolation in the fact that she had been encouraged to do as she had
done by those who claimed to love her. That seemed to annoy her if
anything. She could now, for the first time in her life, realize clearly
what duty meant. Duty could not be side-tracked, regardless of what
might have passed. Her husband had been good to her. He had given her
the love that was his. Never had he abused her in any way, never had he
used a cross word in her presence. But she had done everything to him.
And as a climax to it all, she had _lied_.

Oh, that lie would haunt her forever!

They arrived at the street where they must leave the car for home. She
arose along with the rest. When they stood upon the walkway and had
started toward home, her father paused.

"By the way, children," he said cheerfully. "I think I should call at
the lawyer's office and thank him." He turned his eyes to Glavis, his
worthy counsellor at all times, and read agreement in his face before
the other opened his lips to give sanction.

"I think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon he turned to
accompany him.

"Well, I'll drop by his office. You may go on home with the girls,
Glavis," he said. So saying he turned toward the attorney's office to
settle his account and talk over the case.

As he walked along his way, he became reflective. He allowed his mind to
wander back into the past--back many years to the time when he had gone
into the country to take a meal. He recalled that day at the dinner
table where he had sat near a certain school teacher. She had been an
attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. And he admired her. It
was a privilege to sit so close to her at the table, to wait on her, and
be the recipient of her charming smiles. He saw himself now more clearly
in retrospection. He saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance.
He saw again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw the
teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and caught that youth
and then smother his face with kisses. He felt again the anger that
little boy's action had aroused in him. He heard again the cries from
the summer kitchen as the mother administered punishment for the same.
He recalled briefly the years that followed. He recounted the testimony
at the trial. For many, many months he had endeavored to make Baptiste
suffer, and this day he had succeeded. But still he was not satisfied.
The joy that had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy
and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind for a time.
After all freedom is so much. But was freedom all? He could not account
for the feeling that was suddenly come over him. He recalled then again
the severe chastisement he had caused Jean Baptiste to receive when he
was a mere child. He recalled also how he had been instrumental in
separating him from his daughter. He recalled now the lies, oh, the lies
she had resorted to that had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed
from self pity, while Baptiste stood stoically by.

And thinking thusly, he reached his destination.

He found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. He approached him
courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, said:

"Yes, sir. I thought I would drop in and pay you the balance of the fee
that is now due, and thank you for your services." He smiled pleasantly
as he spoke, and never appeared more impressive. The other regarded him
a moment, held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said:

"Well, it's over, and you are free."

"Yes," said the Elder, but now found it rather hard to smile. "I am glad
it is over for it was a very awkward affair, I must confess." He paused
then, perforce. The lawyer was regarding him, and the Elder wondered at
his expression. He had never seen that look in his face before. What did
it mean? He was not kept long in suspense, for soon the other spoke.

"Yes, you are free and fortunate."

"Fortunate," the Reverend repeated, thoughtfully, and looking up found
the lawyer's eyes upon him. They were looking straight into his with the
same expression of a moment before.

"Yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you are _free_ and _fortunate_,
because _you were as guilty as hell_!"




CHAPTER XV

GRIM JUSTICE


Agnes decided to visit Chicago and planned to be married there. Besides,
since she was now engaged, the legacy in the bank at Rensselaer must be
secured, and, according to her mother's will, consulted before she was
married. She was curious to know what it was all about. Indeed, she was
almost as anxious, if not more so to learn the contents of the legacy
than she was to become the wife of the man she had consented to marry.

Accordingly, before the train reached Chicago, she became very anxious.
It gave her a peculiar and new thrill to recline in the luxurious
Pullman, to have her needs answered and attended to by servants, and to
be pointed out by curious people as the writer and composer of a song
that had delighted the whole country. She was experiencing how very
convenient life is when one has sufficient means to satisfy one's needs.
This had been her privilege only a short time. A newsboy boarded the
train and passed hurriedly through the cars with the morning papers. She
purchased one, and glanced through the headlines. In the index she saw
an account of the suit of Jean Baptiste, versus his father-in-law.
Curiously and anxiously she turned to the account and read the
proceedings of the trial. She laid the paper aside when through and
reviewed her acquaintance with him in retrospection. How strange it all
seemed at this late date. Beside her, a long, narrow mirror fit between
the double windows. In this she studied her face a moment. Some years
had passed since that day--and the other day, too, at the sod house. She
thought of the man that was to be her mate and of what he would think
should he ever know that the only man who had ever touched her lips
before him, was a <DW64>. She found herself comparing the two men, and
she was rather surprised at the difference she could distinguish. She
tried to estimate what true love was. The life she had so recently
entered was the life she had aspired to. She had hopes for it. The life
that could now be hers was the goal of her ambition--and she had
attained it! She should be satisfied. But was she?

As the train with its luxurious appointments sped along, she felt after
all that she was going out of the life that she really loved. Was it
because she had always been so poor and unable to have the things she
could now partake of at will, that such had become a habit, and
indispensable to her happiness? For indeed she had a longing for the old
life, the dash and open it afforded. She had a vision of Jean Baptiste
and his honor. He had sacrificed her to be loyal to the race in which he
belonged. Had it not been for this, she knew she would not be journeying
to the great city to become the wife of another. But amid all these
thoughts and introspectives and otherwise, there constantly recurred to
her mind the man she was to marry and what he would think if he knew
that she had once loved and would have married--_and even kissed a
Negro_.

She was glad when at last the train drew into the outskirts of the city,
and the excitement about drove such reminiscences out of her mind. She
had wired him, and of course, she expected him to meet her.

"Oh, here you are," he cried as she stood upon the platform a half hour
later. On hearing him her eyes wandered toward where he stood, and
regarded him keenly for a moment. A really handsome man, immaculately
attired in the finest tailored clothes and in the fashion of the day. He
caught her in his arms and she did not resist the hot kisses he planted
upon her cheeks. Still, she was greatly confused, and feared that she
would create a scene before she had become accustomed to the ways and
dash of the city.

He had her arm--held it close, as they passed through the station and
crossed the walkway to where an inclosed auto stood. Into this he
ushered her, attended to her luggage, and a moment later followed her
inside. Through the city with all its bustle and excitement they sped.

"I'm going to take you to my aunt's," he said, when they had gotten
started.

"Oh," she chimed. At that moment she could think of nothing to say. It
was all so confusing to her. She was so unaccustomed to any kind of a
city that she was actually in a fear. She did not realize because of the
distinction to which she had attained, that any awkwardness on her part
would be looked upon as the eccentricity of a genius. She decided,
however, to say as little as possible, to speak only when spoken to. In
that way she would try not to cause him any embarrassment or
mortification.

"You have certainly been a hard one to pull off the farm, dear," she
heard now.

"Oh, do you think so?" she said coyly.

"Do I think so?" he laughed. "Well, say, now, there isn't one person in
a thousand who, after writing the hit you have composed, wouldn't have
been over all this old land by this time, letting people see them."

"Oh, I could never wish that," she said quickly.

"Oh, come, now! Get into the limelight." He eyed her artfully, winked
playfully, and continued: "You'll like it when you get the modesty out
of yourself."

"I don't think so."

He regarded her quickly out of the corner of his eye, and then looked
ahead.

"Ever heard of State Street?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes. Is this it?"

"This is State Street," he said, and she looked out and started. She
didn't know just what she had expected to see, but what met her gaze and
made her start was the sight of so many <DW64>s.

"What's the matter, dear?" he said, glancing at her quickly.

"Why--ah--oh, nothing."

"I wondered why you started," and he again looked ahead. They were
across it now, and approaching Wabash Avenue. He turned into this, to
where his aunt lived some distance out in the most exclusive part of its
residence section.

Agnes, sitting by his side, despite the excitement, the great buildings
and fine streets, was thinking of the past, and of what she had just
seen. <DW64>s, <DW64>s, and _that_ would have been her life had she
married Jean Baptiste. All such was foreign to her, but she could
estimate what it would have meant. She was sure she could never have
become accustomed to such an association, it wouldn't have seemed
natural. And then she thought of Jean Baptiste, the man. Oh, of him, it
was always so different. In her mind he was like no other person in the
world. How strange, and singularly sweet had been her acquaintance with
him. Never had she understood any one as she understood him. She tried
to shut him out of her life, for the time had come, and she must. But
_could_ she? When she dared close her eyes she seemed to see him more
clearly.

The car had stopped now, and he was lifting her out before a large house
that stood back from the street some distance in sumptuous splendor. As
they went up the walkway, the large front doors parted, and a handsome
elderly woman came forth. Upon her face was written refinement and
culture.

"Oh, aunt, here we are."

"I saw you coming because I was watching," said his aunt, coming
forward, the personification of dignity. She held out her arms, and
Agnes felt herself being embraced and kissed. Her head was in a whirl.
How could _she_ readily become accustomed to such without displaying
awkwardness.

Arm in arm they mounted the steps, were met by the butler, who took her
bags, and a moment later she found herself in a large, richly furnished
room.

"Come now, dear," he said, and led her to a couch. She heard his aunt
going upstairs to prepare her room, and the next moment she felt him
draw her to him, and whatever difference there was in this convenient
life, all men loved alike.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean Baptiste lingered late at the Keystone bar. He was alone in the
world, he felt, so company of the kind about seemed the best, and was,
at least, diverting. It was twelve o'clock and after when he left. He
still retained his room at the attorney's residence, and to this he
strolled slowly. He attempted to formulate some plans in his mind, and
after a time it occurred to him that he should go back West to Gregory.
He had hired more than seven hundred fifty acres put into wheat. He
hadn't heard how it was, or whether there was any wheat there or not.
But he had seen in the papers that a drought had affected much of the
crop in Kansas and Nebraska. He half heartedly assumed that it would
naturally hit his country also. If so, there was nothing left for him to
do but leave that section. But he would depart from the city on the
morrow and see what there was up there, and with this settled in his
mind, he quickened his step, and hurried to his room.

He turned into the right number, as he thought, but upon trying to
insert the key in the lock he found that he had made a mistake. He
glanced up in confusion and almost uttered a cry. It was not the
attorney's home, but that of the Reverend McCarthy.

"Chump!" he said to himself as he turned and started back down the
steps. "I'll never sleep inside that house again," and laughed.

Upon the walk he heard steps, and when he had reached the street, looked
up to meet Glavis and a strange <DW64> just turning in. Glavis glared at
him as if to say, "Well, what business have you here, now?" But Baptiste
mumbled some word of apology about having turned in at the wrong number,
went directly to his room, retired and forgot the incident.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep or what time it was when he
was awakened suddenly by a drumming on his door, and the attorney's
voice, saying:

"Heh! Heh! Baptiste, wake up, wake up, you're wanted!"

He turned on his side and drew his hand to his forehead to assure
himself that he was awake. Then, realizing that he was, he jumped from
the bed and going forward, opened the door.

Two officers, the attorney in a bath robe, and Glavis stood at the
door. He regarded them curiously. "What is this?" he managed to say, as
they came into the room.

"Seems that they want you," said the attorney.

"Me?" he chimed.

"Yep," said one of the officers. "Will you go along peacefully or shall
we have to put the bracelets on. You're arrested for murder."

"For murder! _Me_, for murder?"

"Just go with the officers, Baptiste. If you'd been a little earlier you
might have gotten away; but it so happened that I met you coming out
just as I was going in."

"But I don't understand what you're talking about--all of you,"
persisted Baptiste. "Who has been murdered, and why am I accused?"

The lawyer had been observing him keenly, and now he interposed.

"Why, your wife and her father have just been found murdered, and Glavis
here and another assert they met you coming out of the house at midnight
or a little after."

The incident of the night came back to him then, "Well," he muttered,
and began to get into his clothes. When he was fully dressed he turned
to the attorney and said:

"Glavis is right in part, White." He was very calm. "I'll call you up
when I need you." And then he turned to the officers and said. "I'm
ready. The cuffs will not be necessary."




CHAPTER XVI

A FRIEND


Because she feared that rising as early as she had been accustomed to
might serve to embarrass her fiance and his aunt, Agnes took a magazine
from her bag, returned to bed and tried to interest herself in a story
the morning following her arrival in the city. About seven, some one
knocked lightly at her door, and, upon opening it, she found the maid
with the morning paper.

"Would you care for it?" she asked courteously.

"I would be glad to have it," she said as she took it, returned to the
bed, and once again therein, turned to read the news. It was but a
moment before she started up quickly as she read:

     STRANGE MURDER CASE ON VERNON AVENUE

     <DW64> MINISTER AND HIS DAUGHTER FOUND MURDERED ABOUT MIDNIGHT

     JEAN BAPTISTE, WHO HAD LOST SUIT AGAINST PREACHER, ARRESTED AND
     HELD WITHOUT BAIL AS SUSPECT. WAS MET LEAVING THE HOUSE JUST BEFORE
     DISCOVERY OF THE MURDER.

     Jean Baptiste, <DW64> author and rancher is under arrest at the
     county jail this morning, accused of the murder of his wife and
     father-in-law, the Reverend N.J. McCarthy, at 3---- Vernon Avenue.
     The dead bodies of the preacher and his daughter were discovered
     shortly after midnight last night by his daughter Ethel and her
     husband, upon his return from State Street where he had seen
     Baptiste leave the Keystone saloon a few minutes after twelve.

     The murder appears to be the sequence of a long enmity between the
     preacher and his son-in-law, Baptiste. Some years ago Baptiste had
     the preacher's daughter take a homestead in the West, on which he
     had purchased a relinquishment for her. Some months later they were
     married and went to live on the claim he had secured. It seems that
     bad blood existed between the preacher and Baptiste, and some time
     after the marriage the preacher went on a trip West and when he
     returned brought his daughter back with him. It is said that the
     rancher visited Chicago several times following in an effort to
     persuade her to return. About a year ago, the daughter sold a
     relinquishment on the homestead and Baptiste accused the preacher
     of having influenced her to do so. He also accused him of other
     things that contributed to the separation, and finally sued the
     minister in the circuit court of Cook County for ten thousand
     dollars for alienating his wife's affections. The case was brought
     up, tried, and, yesterday, the minister was adjudged not guilty by
     the jury. The rancher and author made a strong case against the
     minister, and it was the consensus of opinion in the court room
     that the minister was guilty. But it was his daughter's alibi that
     saved him: she testified that she did not and never had loved her
     husband, and because the plaintiff was unable to prove conclusively
     that she had, the jury's verdict was "not guilty."

     E.M. Glavis, also a son-in-law of the dead man, testified and was
     corroborated by another, a minister, that just as he turned into
     his yard last night, he met Jean Baptiste coming out. He moreover
     claims, that a few days before the trial, he tried to dissuade
     Baptiste from going through with the case, and to settle it out of
     court. But that Baptiste refused to consider it; that he showed his
     bitterness toward the now dead man, by declaring that if he hadn't
     wished to observe and subserve to the law, he would have killed the
     preacher long ago.

     It is therefore the consensus of opinion that Baptiste,
     disappointed by losing the suit, entered the house and murdered his
     wife and father-in-law while they slept. The circumstantial
     evidence is strong, and it looks rather bad for the author. Only
     one phase of the case seems to puzzle the police, however, and that
     is that the preacher and his daughter were found dead in the same
     room, the room which the minister occupied. Both had been stabbed
     with a knife that had long been in that same room. The minister's
     body lay in bed as if he had been murdered while he was sleeping,
     while that of the daughter lay near the door. It is the opinion
     also of those who feel Baptiste guilty, that he entered the house
     and went to the preacher's room, and there killed him while he lay
     sleeping; and that the daughter, who was sleeping downstairs near
     her mother, was possibly aroused by the noise, went up to the room,
     and was murdered as the intruder was about to leave.

     Baptiste refused to make any comment further than that he was
     innocent.

"Accused of murder!" Agnes echoed, staring before her in much
excitement. "_Jean Baptiste accused of murder!_" She read the account
again. She arose and stood on the floor. "He _is_ innocent, _he is
innocent_!" she cried to herself. "_Jean Baptiste would not commit
murder, no, no, no! No, not even if he was justified in doing so._"
Suddenly she seized her clothes, and in the next instant was getting
hurriedly into them.

She completed her toilet quickly, opened the door and slipped down the
stairs. The maid was at work in the hall, and she approached her, and
said:

"Will you kindly advise the lady of the house that I have gone downtown
on some very urgent business. That I shall return later in the day?"

She stepped outside, crossed to State Street, inquired of an officer the
way to the county jail, and a few minutes later boarded a car for the
north side.

She had no plans as to what she would or could do, but she was going to
him. All that he had been to her in the past had arisen the instant she
saw that he was in trouble. Especially did she recall his having saved
them from foreclosure and disgrace years before. She was determined. She
was _going_ to him, he was innocent, she was positive, and she would do
all in her power to save him.

It was rather awkward, going to a place she had never dreamed of going
to, the county jail, but she shook this resolutely from her mind, and a
few minutes following her arrival, there she stood before the bailiff.

"I am a friend of a man who was arrested in connection with a murder
last night," she explained to the officer. "And--ah, would it be
possible for me to see and consult with him?"

"You refer to that case on Vernon Avenue, madam?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you would like to see this Jean Baptiste?"

"That is the one."

They regarded her closely, and was finally asked to follow the bailiff.

They stopped presently before a cell, and when the light had been turned
on, she saw Baptiste sitting on a cot. He looked up, and upon
recognizing her, came forward.

"Why, Agnes--Miss Stewart, _you_!" he cried in great surprise. He
regarded her as if afraid to try to understand her presence there.

"Yes, Jean," she answered quickly. "It is _I_." She hesitated in her
excitement, and as she did so, he caught that same mystery in her eyes.
They were blue, and again he could swear that they were brown. Despite
his precarious position and predicament, he could not help regarding
her, and marking the changes that had come in the years since he had
seen her. She seemed to have grown a trifle stouter, while her hair
appeared there in the light more beautiful. Her face was stronger, while
her lips were as red as ever. Withal, she had grown more serious
looking. She reminded him as she stood there then, of a serious young
literary woman, and he was made hopeful by her visit.

"Now, Jean, I've read all about it in the papers. I happened to be in
the city, and so came right over. I know nothing about anything like
this, and don't suppose you do either. But, Jean," she spoke excitedly,
anxiously, and hurriedly, "I am willing to do anything you ask me to,
just anything, Jean." And she regarded him tenderly. He was affected by
it, he choked confusedly. It was all so sudden. She noted his confusion,
and cried in a strained little voice,

"You must just tell _me_, Jean."

"Why, Agnes--I. Well, I don't know what to say. I don't feel that I
ought to involve you in such a mess as this. I--"

"Oh, you must not speak that way, Jean. No, no, no! I'm here to help
you. You _didn't_ kill him, you _didn't_ kill _her_--_you didn't kill
anybody, did you, Jean_?"

"Of course I didn't kill anybody, Agnes."

"Of course you didn't, Jean!" she cried with relief. "I _knew_ you were
innocent. I said so, and I got out of bed and came at once, I did."

"How brave, how noble, how kind," he murmured as if to himself, but she
reached and placed her hand over his where it rested upon the bar.

"Shall I hire a lawyer, Jean? A great lawyer--the best in the city. That
would be the first thing to do, wouldn't it, Jean?"

He looked at her, and could not believe it was so, but finally he
murmured:

"I have a lawyer--a friend of mine. You may call on him, Agnes. His
number is 3---- Vernon Avenue. He will tell me what to do."

"And _me_," she said quickly.

"Yes--_you_," he repeated, and lowered his eyes.

"Well, I'm going now, Jean," and she reached for his hand.

He was almost overcome, and could not look at her directly.

"Be strong, Jean. It will come out all right--it must come out all
right--"

"Oh, Agnes, this is too much. Forget it. You should not--"

"Please hush, Jean," she said imploringly, and he glanced up to see
tears in her eyes. She looked away to hide them. As she did so, she
cried: "Oh, Jean, I know what _they_ have been doing to you--how you
have been made to suffer. And--and--I--could _never_ stand to see it
after all--" she broke away then, and rushed from him and out of the
building. He watched her and when she was gone, he went back to the cot
and sat him down, and murmured.

"Agnes, oh, Agnes,--_and after all that has passed_!"




CHAPTER XVII

THE MYSTERY


After Agnes had consulted with the lawyer, who was glad to go into the
case, and agreed to engage a worthy assistant, she returned to Baptiste
and said:

"Now, Jean. Don't you think that if I secured a good detective to look
into it--this case, it would be the proper thing?"

"Why--yes, Agnes," he said. He could hardly accustom himself to her in
such a situation.

"I think that would be best," she resumed. "As I was coming downtown on
the car I observed the Pinkerton Office on 5th Avenue and now, Jean, if
you think that would be a practical move, I will go there at once and
have them send a man to you. I'll bring him."

"That would be practical, Agnes. Yes," he said thoughtfully, "since you
insist--"

"No more, please," and she affected a little smile. "Just let me work
until we arrive somewhere," and she was gone, returning in due time with
a man.

"I represent the Pinkerton agency, Mr. Baptiste," he said, after
greeting the prisoner, "and now if you will state just where you were;
what time, as near as you can recall, that you reached home; also what
time you turned into this place where the murder was committed, I shall
be glad to get down to work on the case."

Since Baptiste had observed the time by the clock in the Keystone before
leaving there, he was quite accurate in fixing the time he reached his
room. Since we have followed him to his room, we know this phase of the
case.

"Well, I'll hike over there and squint around a little. Hope I'll get
there before the inquest is held." And so saying, he was gone.

"I will go back to where I am staying, now, Jean," said Agnes, after the
detective had departed, "and you may expect me at any time. I want to
see you out of here as soon as possible, and I will do all in my power
to get you out," and she dashed away.

The detective went to the McCarthy home forthwith. The bodies had been
removed and were then at the morgue. He looked into the room where the
tragedy had been committed, and then sought Glavis.

"Who discovered the murder, Mr. Glavis?" he inquired when they stood in
the death room.

"Why myself and another fellow returned home just after it had been
committed."

"How did _you_ know it had just been committed?"

"Well--why, my wife was in the hall-way, and when we entered she had
just discovered the bodies."

"But that doesn't prove that they had just been murdered."

"But my wife says she was awakened by her sister's scream."

"I see. So it was your wife who first discovered the bodies, or that
they had just been murdered."

"Yes."

"Where had you been, and what time did you return home?"

"I had been around town, to the Keystone where Baptiste was until
shortly after midnight."

"You saw this Baptiste leave the hotel?"

"I did."

"How long after Baptiste left was it, before you followed?"

"Perhaps fifteen minutes."

"_Perhaps_ fifteen minutes; but you are not positive?"

"No, but I am quite certain."

"When you left the hotel, where did you go?"

"I came here."

"You came directly here. Didn't stop on the way anywhere?"

"I did not."

"And when you arrived, what happened? Did you meet anybody on the way?"

"I passed people of whom I took no notice on the way here, of course.
The only person I took notice of was Jean Baptiste."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Coming out of the house upon my arrival."

"You met him coming out of the house upon your arrival?"

"Well, out of the yard. I saw him come down the steps that leads up to
the house."

"But you _didn't_ see him come out of the house?"

"Well, no, I didn't see that."

"Did you exchange any words with him when you met him? Did you stop and
talk?"

"No. But I heard him mutter something."

"Did you understand the words or any words he muttered?"

"I thought he said something about having turned in at the wrong place."

"How do you account for him having done so--if so?"

"Well, the house where he stops is just a few doors--about a half
dozen--up the street--"

"On the same side or the opposite?"

"The same side. And he was stopping there."

"Did you have any conversation with Baptiste after the trial in which he
sued your father-in-law?"

"No; but I tried to have him settle the case before going to court."

"What did he say to it?"

"Refused to consider it."

"Did he give reasons?"

"Yes. He said he wanted vindication."

"Anything else?"

"That he would have killed the Elder if it had not been that he was an
observer of the law."

"Where were they murdered?"

"She lay near the door, while he lay in bed."

"Any evidence of a struggle?"

"No, not as I could see."

"With what were they murdered?"

"With a knife that has been in the room here for two or three years."

"Was Baptiste aware that such a knife was in the room?"

"Not that I know of."

"When, to your knowledge, was Baptiste last in the house?"

"He has not been in the house for more than three years."

"Then he couldn't have known the knife was there."

"Well, unless he discovered it when he entered the room."

"Providing he _entered_ the room. Was he aware also that the preacher
occupied this particular room? Is it not reasonable to suppose that he
would not know where the preacher slept if he had not been in the house
for three years?"

"But he could have looked around."

"Possibly. But how do you account for the girl's body being here in the
room also. Where did she sleep?"

"Downstairs near her mother. It is my theory that she was disturbed by
the sound of some one walking, went upstairs, and was in time to see the
tragedy of her father, and was in turn murdered by her husband."

"That is your _theory_. But why was there no evidence of a struggle? It
hardly seems reasonable that she would have allowed herself to be
stabbed without some effort to save herself."

"Well, that is beyond me. Jean Baptiste acted suspicious in my opinion,
and it is certainly strange that he should have been in the position he
was at such a crucial time."

"May I consult with your wife?"

Glavis looked around, uneasily. "She is very much torn up by the
incident," he suggested.

"But this is a very grave matter."

"Well," and he turned and entered the room wherein Ethel had enclosed
herself.

"Ethel, an officer has called and wishes to consult with you."

"No, no, no!" she yelled. "Send him away. Didn't I tell you I didn't
want to see no police," and she fell to crying. The detective had
entered the room in the meantime, and when she looked up, she saw him.

"What are you doing in here?" she fairly screamed. He did not flinch
under the glare she turned upon him. Indeed, the day was at last come
when she could frighten no one. The one she had been able to drive to
any lengths with such a propaganda, lay stiff at the morgue. The
detective regarded her searchingly, and upon realizing he was not going
to jump and run, she ceased that unseemly noise making and began crying,
woefully.

"You discovered this tragedy, madam?" he inquired calmly, but with a
note of firmness in his tone.

"Yes, yes!--oh, my poor sister! My poor father--and that low down man!"

"When did you discover this, madam?"

"Just as soon as it was done, oh me!"

"How did you come to discover it, lady?"

"By my sister's scream. She screamed so loud it seemed everybody must
have heard it. Screamed when he stuck that knife into her breast!"

"How long after you heard her scream was it before you came out of the
room--your room?"

"I came at once," she said sulkily, and tried to cry louder. The
detective was thoughtful.

"So you came at once! And what did _you see_ when you came out?"

At this she seemed overcome, and it was some moments before he could get
her answer, and that was after he had repeated.

"My sister and father lying murdered in the room there."

"Is _that all_ you saw?"

She was sulky again. After a time she muttered. She wrinkled her face
but the tears would not come. Presently she said, and the detective
caught an effort on her part to say it.

"Yes. But I think I heard a door slam downstairs."

"You _think_ you heard a door slam? What happened next?"

"My husband came."

"How long after the door slammed was it before your husband came?"

"Not long."

"Is it not possible that when you heard the door slam, that it was your
husband coming in?"

"No. I heard the door slam behind him, too." Again he thought he
detected something singular in her manner, as if she were not telling
all she knew....

The detective went downstairs and talked with Mrs. McCarthy a few
minutes, and then took his leave. He called up Agnes, and made an
appointment and met her some hours later.

"What have you discovered?" she inquired anxiously, her eyes searching
his face.

"Well," said he, slowly, "a few things, I think."

"And Jean--Mr. Baptiste?" He looked up sharply and searched her face.

"He is innocent."

"Thank God!" And she clasped her hands and looked down in great relief.
Quickly, she looked up, however, and cried: "But the proof. Will
you--can you _prove_ it?"

He toyed idly with a pencil he held in his hands, and after a time,
drawled: "I think so. _When the proper time comes._"

"The _proper_ time? And--when will that be?" Her voice was controlled,
but the anxiety was apparent.

"Well, we'll say at the preliminary hearing tomorrow morning."

"And--and--you have no more to report?"

"Not today. I shall attend the inquest, of course. And where may I see
you--say, tomorrow?"

"At the hearing."

"Very well, then. Good day."

"Good day."




CHAPTER XVIII

VENGEANCE IS MINE. I WILL REPAY


"Jean," she cried joyfully. "The detective says that you are innocent;
and that he feels he will be able to place the crime where it belongs!"

"I'm glad," he said solemnly. She bestowed upon him a kind smile as she
said:

"So I thought I would just come over and cheer you up. There is
something mysterious about it all, and the newspapers are devoting much
space to it. Oh, I'm so glad to hope that it will be all over tomorrow,
and you will be let out of this place, so you can go back home and cut
your wheat."

"My wheat?"

"Yes, of course, Jean. You have a fine crop of wheat on all your land."

"I have?"

"Yes, it is so," she reassured him. And then she paused, as something
seemed to occur to her. "Because of the fact that you have had several
failures you cannot realize that you have actually raised a crop, a big
crop, better than any crop since--since." She stopped short, and he
understood and suppressed a sigh. When he looked up, she was moving down
the hallway, her mind filled with something she had almost forgotten
during the past two days.

He knew of it. She had been given quite a write-up in the social columns
of a Chicago paper and many lovers of her musical hit, were, unknown to
her, curious with regard to her coming marriage.

The detective Agnes had retained, called on Baptiste's lawyers and held
a lengthy consultation. When he left them, an understanding had been
reached with regard to the hearing, and silence was agreed upon.

At the magistrate's office the following morning, the court room was
crowded. Scores were turned away, and all the family had been
subpoenaed.

Glavis was first called, and related what he knew, which has already
been related. Next came Mrs. McCarthy who knew even less. She was
followed by Ethel, and the detective and two lawyers questioned her
closely.

"Now, you say you heard your sister scream," said the lawyer after the
usual formalities had passed. "Will you kindly state to the court just
what you overheard and know regarding this affair?"

She glared at him, and then her eyes met those of Baptiste, and she
glared again. She told a varied story of the case, and made it very
brief.

"You say, madame, that after you heard your sister scream you rushed
from your room and to where she was?"

"Yes," she answered, and those near noticed the sulkiness.

"And when you arrived you found her dead near the door, while your
father lay murdered in the bed?"

"Yes."

"Do you recall, Mrs. Glavis, whether she screamed long, or whether it
was brief?"

She hesitated, somewhat confused. Presently, she stiffened and said: "It
was long."

"Did it last until after you had left your bed?"

"It did."

"Until you had left the room you were in?"

"Yes."

"In fact she was screaming still when you arrived at the door of the
room, no doubt?" the lawyer's tone was very careless, just as though he
were not in the least serious. Her reply was prompt.

"Yes."

"Now Mrs. Glavis, do you recall having ever heard your sister scream
before in a like manner?"

She started perceptibly. Her eyes widened, as if she were recalling an
incident. Suddenly she became oblivious of her present surroundings, and
conscious of a night two years before.... When she resumed her
testimony, she was seen to be weaker.

"No," she said bravely.

Now it so happened that the attorneys for the defense had consulted with
a chemist, who was in the court room by request. At this juncture he was
called to the stand. He was asked a number of questions, and then Ethel
was again placed on the stand.

"Now, madame, the court has decided to investigate this matter
thoroughly. You are positive Jean Baptiste, here, killed your sister,
also your father? You remember, of course, in giving your testimony,
_that we are going to investigate the case and prosecute for perjury_!"
She had been seen to raise her handkerchief to her eyes with the first
announcement regarding the investigation. Now she uttered a loud cry as
the tears flowed unchecked. Suddenly she dropped her handkerchief, and
with her arms stretched forward, she screamed:

"_No, no! Orlean, Orlean! Oh, my God, Orlean!_" And in the next instant
she would have fallen in a dead faint had those near not caught her. For
this is how it happened.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the family returned from the court house, Orlean had retired at
once, complaining of a headache. Since she had very often since her
father brought her home complained of such, no particular attention had
been paid it. She stayed in bed until late in the afternoon. In the
meantime her father went over to the west side, presumably to call on
Mrs. Pruitt. It was late when he returned, about eleven o'clock, that
night.

Orlean retired again about ten, and had fallen into a troubled sleep.
She felt the same as she did the night she had returned from Mrs.
Merley's, and she could not account for the strange nausea that lingered
over her.

When N.J. McCarthy returned, he went to the kitchen for a drink of
water, after which, he must return through the room in which his
daughter, Orlean, lay sleeping. As he had done on that occasion two
years before, he had paused at the foot of the bed to observe his
sleeping daughter. How long he stood thus, he never knew, but after a
time he became conscious of that strange sensation that had come over
him on the memorable night before. He tried to throw off the uncanny
feeling, but it seemed to hang on like grim death. And as he stood
enmeshed in its sinister thraldom, he thought he again saw her rise and
point an accusing finger at him. Out of it all he was sure he heard
again her voice in all its agony as it had spoken that other night. But
tonight the accusation was more severe.

[Illustration: From a painting by W.M. Farrow.

HE TRIED TO THROW OFF THE UNCANNY FEELING, BUT IT SEEMED TO HANG ON LIKE
GRIM DEATH. AND AS HE STOOD ENMESHED IN ITS SINISTER THRALDOM, HE
THOUGHT HE SAW HER RISE AND POINT AN ACCUSING FINGER AT HIM.]

"_There you are again, my betrayer_," she said coldly. "_Today you
completed your nefarious task; you completed the evil that began more
than thirty years ago, oh, debaser of women! Where is Speed, and the
wife of his you ruined? Where? In hell and its tortures did you say?
Yes, and where are my brothers? Oh, don't tremble, for you should know!
No, you made me pretend to feel that you had not committed that sin, and
other sins, also. But I knew--yes, I knew! You never told me I had
brothers. You said foolish things to deceive me and the mother of mine.
You called me by a boy's name, Jim, and pretended, because you did not
recognize your illegitimate off-spring, that there were none. And then
came Jean. Oh, you had him at a disadvantage always! When he was a
little boy, you started your evil, and twenty years later you renewed
it. Why, oh, you vain sinner, you know! He married me--perhaps he didn't
love me then as he might have--as he would have had I tried to be the
woman he wished me to be. But you took advantage of the weakness that
was in me by the heritage of my mother, and you made me subservient unto
your evil will!_

"_Well, it's all over now, and from this day henceforth you will never
see peace. The evil and misery you have brought unto others, shall now
be cast upon you. You are my father, and the creator of my weakness, but
you have taken my husband and soul mate, and made a new generation
impossible for me to lead. And now I say unto you, go forth and repent.
Begone from me. For from this day evermore though in weak flesh I may
pretend to love you, know that I must hate you!_"

He shook himself, and succeeded in casting off the depression. When he
looked again, Orlean was sitting up in bed, regarding him sleepily. He
started, and wondered whether what had passed was real, but in the next
moment he was relieved.

"Papa," she said in her usual, but sleepy-like voice, "Is that you?"

"Yes, daughter," he replied quickly, and as if to still the excitement
in his heart, he passed quickly around to where she reposed, and planted
a kiss upon her lips, and turning, hurried upstairs.

She sat upright for some minutes after he had gone, and became conscious
of that singular feeling that she had felt all the day, still lingering
over her. As she sat there, she heard the little clock on the table
beside her mother strike 11:30. She lay down again, and a few minutes
later she was asleep.

The Reverend retired quickly and wished he could sleep and forget what
he thought he had seen and heard. He was successful, and soon he was
snoring. He could not understand upon being awakened slowly how long he
had slept, but he became conscious that the light was burning brightly.
He turned on his back, and when he could see clearly, his eyes fell upon
Orlean.

She stood between him and the door, and he regarded her with a puzzled
expression. Presently his eyes met hers, and he started up. _What was
the matter with her?_ Her eyes were like coals of burning fire; her
stiff, bushy hair, was unbraided and stood _away from her head giving
her the appearance of a savage. But it was the expression of her eyes
that disturbed him._ He was held in a thraldom of fear as she slowly
advanced toward the bed.

"Orlean," he at last managed to say. "What is the--"

"_I have come at last to right a wrong_," she began in an uncanny voice.
Never had he seen her appear like that before, nor heard her speak in
such a voice. She paused when she was beside the bed, and stood looking
down upon him in that demented fashion. The cold perspiration broke out
all over him, and he trembled.

"_Oh, you told me my husband did not love me. While he worked to make us
comfortable and happy out there on the claim you sat beside my sick bed
and told me lies. While he grieved over the loss of our little one, you
conceived a vile plot to 'get even,' Oh, you--liar! You sunk his soul
into hell for spite. And then today--yesterday you reached your climax
by having me go on the stand and testify to a greater lie! To save your
wretched soul from disgrace, I swore to the most miserable lie a woman
could tell! And now that you have made him suffer unjustly, and spoiled
all life held for me, the judgment of God is upon you. The God that you
have lied to and made a laughing idol of seeks restitution! So you
sinner of all the sins, vengeance is mine, I will repay!_"

So saying, she reached quickly and grasped the knife he had found years
before, a desperate looking instrument with a six-inch blade and bone
handle. She raised it high, and for the first time he was fully
awakened. He attempted to struggle upward, but with a strength borne of
excitement, she pushed him and he felled backward upon the bed.

"_Orlean, my child, Orlean! My God--oh, my heaven, what do you--_" he
got no further. Quickly her poised arm descended, and the knife she held
sank deeply into his heart.

"_Oh, God--my beloved God--ah--oh--Christ! Christo...._" he struggled
upward while she stood over him with that same white expression upon her
face. As the blood clogged in the cut the knife had made, and all the
pulsations concentrated, struggled before ceasing their functions for
all time, he turned his dying eyes toward her. Regarded her blindly for
a moment, and then, dropped limply back from where he had risen, dead.
In that moment she regained her sanity.

She regarded him a moment wildly, and then she closed her eyes to try to
shut out the awful thing she had done and screamed long and wildly--just
as she had done that night when she returned from Mrs. Merley's. Then,
as the echo died away, the door was pushed open, and before her stood
Ethel. One terrible look and the mad girl went quickly forward, halted,
swayed, and then with a moan, raised the knife and sank it into her own
breast. Drawing it forth she regarded Ethel wildly, and then, throwing
the knife against the wall of the room, dropped dead at Ethel's feet,
just as Glavis' steps were heard in the hall below.

When he heard his wife scream, and had rushed upstairs, saw the dead
father-in-law and her sister, he cried:

"Jean Baptiste did this! I just met him coming out of the house as I
entered," and catching his wife he quickly took her back to the room,
and proceeded to spread the alarm.

Even with the grief she was cast into, Ethel had quickly seen a chance
to spite the man she hated, and instead of telling the truth, she had
chosen to keep silent and let Jean Baptiste be convicted if possible for
the crime he knew nothing of.

The people were filing out of the court room. Ethel's confession, born
out of the excitement when the lawyer had mentioned investigating the
crime deeply, had cleared everything, and Jean Baptiste was free.

In the court room during the hearing he had observed Agnes, but when the
trial was over, she was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, but failed
to find any trace of her. At last, with a sigh, he went with the lawyers
and a few days later was home, to harvest the wheat she had told him was
the best, and so he found it.

He was saved thereby, and went into the harvest with Bill and George
again shocking as they had done years before. But there was no Agnes to
bring the luncheon now, and Jean Baptiste lived in the memory of what
had once been.




CHAPTER XIX

WHEN THE TRUTH BECAME KNOWN


"I have hardly seen you for two days, my dear," he complained when Agnes
had returned from the hearing.

"I have been consumed with some very delicate business," she said, and
notwithstanding the excitement she was laboring under, allowed him to
caress her. At the same time he was regarding her strangely. For the
first time he seemed to be aware of the fact that she was a rather
strange person. He was trying to understand her eyes as everybody else
had done, even herself.

"Will Agnes tell me what has kept her so busy and away, I know not
where?" he asked tenderly. "Or would she rather not--now."

"She'd _rather_ not--now," and she tried to be jolly, although she knew
she must have failed miserably.

"Very well, my dear. But, sweet one, when are you going to become my
own?"

She started. In the excitement she had so recently been through, the
fact that she was engaged and expected to marry soon, had gone entirely
out of her mind.

"Why, really--when?" She paused in her confusion, and he said quickly:

"Let's just get married--today!"

"Oh, no, please don't ask me to so soon."

He frowned. Then he was pleasant again. "Then, when, Agnes?"

She was still confused, and in that moment thought of the legacy. She
was more confused. He caught her hand then, and touched her cheek with
his lips.

After an hour she had told him of the legacy.

"That place is less than a hundred miles from Chicago and we can just
run down there today and back this evening!" he exclaimed, shifting in
anxious excitement. "We can go there and back today, and be married
tomorrow."

"No," she said slowly. "I'll suggest that we have the legacy brought
here, and attended to according to the will and all that has for a
lifetime to me been a mystery, be cleared here in your and your aunt's
presence. And the day after--I will marry you." She dropped her eyes
then in peculiar solemnity. He didn't understand her but the thrill of
what was to come overwhelmed him, and in the next instant he held her in
his arms.

They explained their plans to his aunt, who, because she disliked
notoriety, readily agreed, and by special messenger the papers were
brought to the city the following day and opened according to her
mother's will.

The night before, as they were returning from the theatre, he said to
her:

"Agnes, do you know--and I trust you will pardon me if it seems
singular, but there is something about you I can never--somehow feel I
never _will_, understand." He paused then and she could see he was
embarrassed.

"It is in your eyes. I see them in this hour and they are blue, but in
the next they are brown. Has any one ever observed the fact before?" he
ended.

She nodded, affirmatively.

"Why is it, dear?"

"I don't know."

"And you--you have noticed it yourself?"

"Yes."

"And--can't you understand it, either?"

She acknowledged the fact with her eyes.

"It is strange. I'll be glad when we understand this legacy."

"I will, too."

"It makes me feel that something's going to happen. Perhaps we--you are
going to prove to be an heiress."

She laughed cheerfully.

"And then you will not want to marry me, maybe."

She laughed again.

"But nothing would keep me from loving you always, Agnes," he said with
deep feeling.

"Even if the papers would show me to be descended from some horrible
pirate or worse."

"Nothing in the world could make a difference. Indeed, should the papers
connect you with something out of the ordinary, I think I would like you
better--that is, it would add even more mystery to your already
mysterious self."

"Wonderful!"

He kissed her impulsively, and in the next hour she went off to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What is this?" said her fiance's aunt, as the lawyer lifted a small
package from the box of documents, and as he did so, an old photograph
slipped and fell to the floor. It was yellow with age; but the
reflection of the person was clearly discernible. All three looked at it
in wonderment. Then her fiance and his aunt regarded her with
apprehension. The package was untied, and all the papers gone through
and much history was therein contained. But one fact stood above all
others.

"Is _this_ a fact?" said the aunt coldly. Never had she appeared more
dignified. Her nephew stood away, regarding Agnes out of eyes in which
she could see a growing fear.

"Well, I hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely. "It seems
that you have come into something, madam, and I trust it will prove of
value." She mumbled something in reply, and stood gazing at the two
pictures she now held. All that had been so strange to her in life was
at last clear. She understood the changing color of her eyes, and her
father's statements that he had never quite explained. _At last she knew
who she was._

She turned to find herself alone. She opened her lips and started to
call the others, and then hesitated. _Why had they left her?_ She looked
at the photographs she held--_and understood_.

She gathered the documents and placed them in the box, went upstairs,
slowly packed her belongings, and called a cab.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean Baptiste came into the granary on the old claim, and looked out
over the place. And as he did so, he regarded the spot where the sod
house had once stood and wherein he had spent many happy days. As he
thought of it, the past rose before him, and he lived through the
sweetness again that a harvest had once brought him. That was years
before, and in that moment he wished he could bring it back again. _The
Custom of the Country and its law_ had forbid, and he had _paid the
penalty_. He wondered whether he would do the same again and sacrifice
all that had been dear and risk the misery that had followed.

He shifted, and in so doing his back was toward the road. "Withal, it
would have been awkward to have married a white woman," he muttered, and
reached for the cold lunch he had brought for his meal. Bill and George
were eating in the field where they worked.

"Baching is hell," he muttered aloud, and picked up a sandwich.

"How very bad you are, Jean," he heard, and almost strained his neck in
turning so quickly.

"_Agnes!_"

"Well, _why_ not?"

"But--but--oh, tell me," and then he became silent and looked away,
raising the sandwich to his mouth mechanically.

"Don't eat the cold lunch, Jean. I have brought some that is warm," so
saying she uncovered the basket she carried, and he regarded it eagerly.

"But, Agnes, how came you here? I--I--thought you--were _getting
married_. Are you here on--on your _wedding trip_?"

"Oh, Lord, no! No, Jean, I am not going to marry."

"_Not going to marry!_"

She shook her head and affected to be sad, but a little smile played
around her lips that he saw but didn't understand.

"But--Agnes, _why_?"

"Because the one to whom I was engaged--well, he wouldn't marry me," and
she laughed.

"I wish you would make it all clear. At least tell me what it
means--that it is so."

"It _is_ so!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when he saw her
eyes.

"Well, I guess I'll understand by and by."

"You _will_ understand, soon, Jean," she said kindly. "Papa will
explain--_everything_." She turned her eyes away then, and in the moment
he reached and grasped her hand. In the next instant he had dropped it,
as a far away expression came into his eyes as if he had suddenly
recalled something he would forget.

"Jean," she cried, and came close to him. She looked up into his eyes
and saw what was troubling him. She got beside him closely then. She
placed an arm around him, and with her free hand she lifted his left
hand over her shoulder and held his fingers as she looked away across
the harvest fields, and sighed lightly as she said:

"Something happened and I was strangely glad and came here
because--because I--just _had_ to see you, Jean."

"Please, Jean. You--will--forget that _now_." She paused and was not
aware that her arm was around him, and that his hand rested over her
shoulder. Her eyes were as they had been that day near this selfsame
spot years before, kind and endearing. She did not resist as she saw his
manly love and felt his body quiver.

And almost were his lips touching hers when suddenly, she saw him
hesitate, and despite the darkness of his face, she could see that in
that moment the blood seemed to leave it. He dropped the arms that had
embraced her, and almost groaned aloud. As she stood regarding him he
turned and walked away with his eyes upon the earth.

She turned then and retraced her steps, but as she went along the
roadway she was thinking of him and herself and _who she was at last_.
She sighed, strangely contented, and was positive--knew that in due time
_he too_ must come to understand.




CHAPTER XX

AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING


It was in the autumn time, after the wheat and the oats, the rye, the
barley and the flaxseed had all been gathered, and threshed, and also
after the corn had been husked. Wheat, he had raised, thousands and
thousands of bushels. And because there was war over all the old world,
and the great powers of the land were in the grim struggle of trying to
crush each other from the face of the earth, the power under which he
lived was struggling with the task of feeding a portion of those engaged
in the struggle. And because Black Rust had impaired the spring wheat
yield those thousands of bushels he raised, he had sold at a price so
high that he had sufficient to redeem at last the land he was about to
lose and money left for future development into the bargain.

He sat alone at this moment in a stateroom aboard a great continental
limited, just out of Omaha and speeding westward to the Pacific coast.
As was his customary wont, his thoughts were prolific. But for once--and
maybe for the first time, on the whole, he was satisfied,--he was
contented--and last, but not least, he was happy.

Being happy, however, is not quite possible alone. No, and Jean Baptiste
was _not_ alone. And here is what had happened.

Jack Stewart had told him the story. And in the story told, one great
mystery was solved. He now understood why Agnes' eyes had been so
baffling. Simple, too, in a measure. To begin with, her mother had
possessed rare brown eyes, he had seen by her picture, because Agnes'
mother had not been a white woman at all, but in truth was of Ethiopian
extraction. This was a part of the story Jack Stewart had told him. He
had met and married her mother on a trip from the West Indies where she
had lived, to Glasgow; the marriage being decided upon quickly, for in
truth the woman was fleeing. In London some years before, she had been
the pupil of a learned minister, who had become an infidel, and also
unscrupulous. But we know the story--at least a part of it--of Augustus
M. Barr, alias, Isaac M. Barr; alias--but it does not matter. We are
concerned with Agnes' mother. Her mother had inherited a small fortune
from Agnes' grandma and this Barr had sought to secure. To do so, he had
followed Jack Stewart and his wife, Agnes' mother to Jerusalem. There he
had met Isaac Syfe, the Jew, whom he later brought to America. He did
not find the woman he had followed there, but on his return to England
he _did_ find Peter Kaden who was married to Christine. Kaden was
involved in a murder case, was accused, and had been sentenced to
Australia for the rest of his natural life. It was Barr who saved him,
and the fee Kaden paid was Christine. Barr accommodated him by bringing
him to America where he placed all three, including himself, on
homesteads. Syfe settled with him in cash by taking a large loan on his
homestead and giving Barr the proceeds.

But Kaden was in the way. He had never been comfortable in the new
country with Christine the wife of another and living so near, so Barr
sent Christine away and drove Kaden to suicide. Later at Lincoln,
Nebraska she left him and went out of his life forever. Barr had secured
Kaden's homestead, and all this Jack Stewart knew, but had never
disclosed. Barr lost track of Agnes' mother, but knew that somewhere in
the world there was a treasure but not as great as he had thought it
was--about ten thousand dollars in all.

While Jean Baptiste was absorbed in these thoughts, the door was opened
quietly, and closed. Some one had entered the stateroom and his ears
caught the light rustle of a skirt. His eyes were upon the landscape,
but suddenly they saw nothing, for his eyes had been covered by a pair
of soft hands.

"I knew it was you," he said, happily, as he drew her into the seat
beside him, between himself and the window.

"What are you thinking of, my Jean," she said then.

"Of what I have been thinking ever since the day when we understood that
you and I after all are of the same blood."

"Oh, you have," she chimed, and drawing his face close with her hands,
she kissed him ardently.

"Isn't it beautiful, Agnes? Just grand!"

"Oh, Jean, you make me so happy."

"You are _honestly_ happy, dear?" he inquired for the hundredth time.

"I _couldn't_ be happier," and she reposed in his arms.

"Have truly forgotten that you are _an Ethiopian_, and _must share_ what
is Ethiopia's?"

"Will share what is _yours_, my Jean."

"Always so beautifully have you said that."

"Have I, now, really?"

"Do you recall the day when I forgot, dear, _The Custom of the
Country--and its law_?"

"How could I forget it?"

"And what followed?"

"I cannot forget that, either. But Jean, do you want me to?"

"Agnes, we must both forget what followed. Still, when we think how kind
fate has been to us, after all, we must feel grateful."

"Oh, how much I do. But, Jean--it was _such_ a sacrifice...."

He was thoughtful for a time, and from the expression on his face, the
present was far away.

"Please, dear," she said, taking his hand and fondling it. "When you
happen to think of it; will you try never to allow yourself to resume
that expression--_that_ expression again?"

He looked down at her.

"Expression?"

"Like you wore just then."

"Oh."

"You see, it seems to bring back events in your life that we want to
forget."

"You mean, I--"

"Yes," she said slowly, "you--we understand each other and everything
that has concerned each other, don't we, Jean?"

"Of course we do, Agnes. We have always--but there, now!" and he
smothered the rest of it in a fond caress.

"Wasn't it strange," she mused after a time. "I could never understand
it. I saw it in my eyes before we left Indiana. And then I had that
strange dream and saw you." She paused and played with his fingers. "But
I never felt the same afterwards. Somehow I felt that something strange,
something unusual was going to happen in my life, and now when I look
back upon it and am so happy," whereupon she grasped tightly the fingers
she held--"I feel it just had to be."

"Do you reckon your father understood the love that was between us?"

"I think he did. And he started more than once about that time to tell
me something. He went so far once as to say that if you liked me, and I
cut him off. Afterwards I could see that it worried you and my heart
went out to you more than ever. And then you reached your decision. I
saw it, and it seems that I liked you more for the man you were."

"Did you love the man you were engaged to?"

"Jean!"

He laughed sheepishly, and patted her shoulder. He was sorry, that he
had asked her such a question, and he resolved thereupon never to do so
again. Something dark passed before him--terrible years when he had
suffered much. She was speaking again.

"You know I never loved any one in the world but you."




THE END




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.

With the exception of obvious printer errors, the following changes have
been made in this text:

     1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it
     hasn't struck...."

     2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get
     them tomorrow morning...."

Inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of
hyphens have been retained as in the original book.

Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not
limited to) the following:

  weazened, page 44
  uproarously, page 48
  flustrated, page 64
  glabbed, page 332
  aimiably, page 440
  counciled, page 477





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Homesteader, by Oscar Micheaux

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