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Elder Conklin and Other Stories

by Frank Harris · English · Gutenberg #7153 · 362,140 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Elder Conklin and Other Stories

Author: Frank Harris


        
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7153]
                Most recently updated: March 8, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELDER CONKLIN AND OTHER STORIES ***




Produced by Blain Nelson, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team








ELDER CONKLIN

AND OTHER STORIES


By Frank Harris


New York

Macmillan And Co.

And London 1894


_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1894,

BY MACMILLAN AND CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONTENTS


ELDER CONKLIN

THE SHERIFF AND HIS PARTNER

A MODERN IDYLL

EATIN' CROW

THE BEST MAN IN GAROTTE

GULMORE, THE BOSS





ELDER CONKLIN.

As soon as the Elder left the supper-table his daughter and the new
schoolmaster went out on the stoop or verandah which ran round the
frame-house. The day had been warm, but the chilliness of the evening
air betokened the near approach of the Indian summer. The house stood
upon the crest of what had been a roll in the prairie, and as the two
leant together on the railing of the stoop, they looked out over a small
orchard of peach-trees to where, a couple of hundred yards away, at the
foot of the bluff, Cottonwood Creek ran, fringed on either bank by the
trees which had suggested its name. On the horizon to their right, away
beyond the spears of yellow maize, the sun was sinking, a ball of orange
fire against the rose mist of the sky. When the girl turned towards him,
perhaps to avoid the level rays, Bancroft expressed the hope that she
would go with him to the house-warming. A little stiffly Miss Conklin
replied that she'd be pleased, but--

“What have I done, Miss Loo, to offend you?” the young man spoke
deprecatingly.

“Nothin', I guess,” she answered, with assumed indifference.

“When I first came you were so kind and helped me in everything. Now for
the last two or three days you seem cold and sarcastic, as if you were
angry with me. I'd be sorry if that were so--very sorry.”

“Why did you ask Jessie Stevens to go with you to the house-warmin'?”
 was the girl's retort.

“I certainly didn't ask her,” he replied hotly. “You must know I
didn't.”

“Then Seth lied!” exclaimed Miss Conklin. “But I guess he'll not try
that again with me--Seth Stevens I mean. He wanted me to go with him
to-night, and I didn't give him the mitten, as I should if I'd thought
you were goin' to ask me.”

“What does 'giving the mitten' mean?” he questioned, with a puzzled air.

“Why, jest the plainest kind of refusal, I guess; but I only told him
I was afraid I'd have to go with you, seein' you were a stranger.
'Afraid,'” she repeated, as if the word stung her. “But he'll lose
nothin' by waitin', nothin'. You hear me talk.” And her eyes flashed.

As she drew herself up in indignation, Bancroft thought he had never
seen any one so lovely. “A perfect Hebe,” he said to himself, and
started as if he had said the words aloud. The comparison was apt.
Though Miss Loo Conklin was only seventeen, her figure had all the
ripeness of womanhood, and her height--a couple of inches above the
average--helped to make her look older than she was. Her face was more
than pretty; it was, in fact, as beautiful as youth, good features, and
healthy colouring could make it. A knotted mass of chestnut hair set off
the shapely head: the large blue eyes were deepened by dark lashes. The
underlip, however, was a little full, and the oval of the face through
short curve of jaw a trifle too round. Her companion tried in vain to
control the admiration of his gaze. Unelated by what she felt to be
merely her due, Miss Conklin was silent for a time. At length she
observed:

“I guess I'll have to go and fix up.”

Just then the Elder appeared on the stoop. “Ef you're goin',” he said
in the air, as his daughter swept past him into the house, “you'd better
hitch Jack up to the light buggy.”

“Thank you,” said the schoolmaster; and for the sake of saying
something, he added, “What a fine view.” The Elder paused but did not
answer; he saw nothing remarkable in the landscape except the Indian
corn and the fruit, and the words “fine view” conveyed no definite
meaning to him; he went on towards the stables.

The taciturnity of the Elder annoyed Bancroft excessively. He had now
passed a couple of weeks as a boarder with the Conklins, and the Elder's
unconscious rudeness was only one of many peculiarities that had brought
him to regard these Western folk as belonging almost to a distinct
species. George Bancroft was an ordinary middle-class Bostonian. He
had gone through the University course with rather more than average
success, and had the cant of unbounded intellectual sympathies. His
self-esteem, however, was not based chiefly on his intelligence, but on
the ease with which he reached a conventional standard of conduct. Not
a little of his character showed itself in his appearance. In figure he
was about the middle height, and strongly though sparely built. The head
was well-proportioned; the face a lean oval; the complexion sallow;
the hair and small moustache very dark; the brown eyes inexpressive
and close-set, revealing a tendency to suspiciousness--Bancroft prided
himself on his prudence. A certain smartness of dress and a conscious
carriage discovered a vanity which, in an older man, would have been
fatuous. A large or a sensitive nature would in youth, at least,
have sought unconsciously to bring itself into sympathy with strange
surroundings, but Bancroft looked upon those who differed from him in
manners or conduct as inferior, and this presumption in regard to the
Conklins was strengthened by his superiority in book-learning, the
importance of which he had been trained to over-estimate.

During their drive Miss Conklin made her companion talk of Eastern life;
she wanted to know what Chicago was like, and what people did in New
York. Stirred by her eager curiosity, Bancroft sketched both cities
in hasty outline, and proceeded to tell what he had read and heard of
Paris, and Rome, and London. But evidently the girl was not interested
by his praise of the art-life of European capitals or their historical
associations; she cut short his disquisition:

“See here! When I first seed you an' knew you was raised in Boston, an'
had lived in New York, I jest thought you no account for comin' to this
jumpin'-off place. Why did you come to Kansas, anyway, and what did you
reckon upon doin'? I guess you ain't goin' to teach school always.”

The young man flushed under the frankness of the girl's gaze and
question, and what appeared like contempt in her opinion of him. Again
he became painfully conscious that there was a wide social difference
between Miss Conklin and himself. He had been accustomed to more
reticence, and such direct questioning seemed impertinent. But he was so
completely under the spell of her beauty, that he answered with scarcely
visible hesitation:

“I came out here because I wanted to study law, and wasn't rich enough
to do it in the East. This school was the first position offered to me.
I had to take it, but I intend, after a term or two, to find a place in
a lawyer's office in some town, and get admitted to practice. If I'd had
fifteen hundred dollars I could have done that in Boston or New York,
but I suppose it will all come right in time.”

“If I'd been you I'd have stayed in New York,” and then, clasping her
hands on her knee, and looking intently before her, she added, “When
I get to New York--an' that won't be long--I'll stay there, you bet!
I guess New York's good enough for me. There's style there,” and she
nodded her head decisively as she spoke.

Miss Loo and Bancroft were among the latest arrivals at the Morrises'.
She stood beside him while he hitched Jack to a post of the fence amidst
a crowd of other horses, and they entered the house together. In
due form she presented the schoolmaster to Mr. and Mrs. Morris, and
smilingly produced three linen tablecloths as her contribution to the
warming. After accepting the present with profuse thanks and unmeasured
praise of it and of the giver, Mrs. Morris conducted the newcomers
across the passage into the best sitting-room, which the young folk had
already appropriated, leaving the second-best room to their elders.

In the small square apartment were some twenty boys and girls, ranging
between sixteen and twenty-two years of age. The boys stood about at
one end of the room, while the girls sat at the other end chattering
and enjoying themselves. Bancroft did not go among those of his own
sex, none of whom he knew, and whom he set down as mere uncouth lads. He
found it more amusing to stand near the girls and talk with them. By so
doing he unconsciously offended the young men.

Presently a tall youth came towards them:

“I guess we'd better play somethin'?”

“Forfeits! Mr. Stevens,” was a girl's quick reply, and it was arranged
to play forfeits in a queer educational fashion. First of all Mr.
Stevens left the room, presumably to think. When he came in again he
went over to Miss Conklin and asked her to spell “forgive.” After a
moment's pause she spelt it correctly. He retired slowly, and on
his return stopped again in front of Miss Conklin with the word
“reconciliation.” She withstood the test triumphantly. Annoyed
apparently with the pains she took, Mr. Stevens, on his next entrance,
turned to a pretty, quiet girl named Miss Black, and gave her
“stranger,” with a glance at Bancroft, which spread a laugh among the
boys. Miss Black began with “strai,” and was not allowed to go on, for
Mr. Stevens at once offered his arm, and led her into the passage.

“What takes place outside?” asked Bancroft confidentially of the girl
sitting nearest to him, who happened to be Miss Jessie Stevens. She
replied with surprise:

“I guess they kiss each other!”

“Ah!--Now I understand,” he said to himself, and from that moment
followed the proceedings with more interest. He soon found that
successive pairs called each other out in turn, and he had begun to tire
of the game, when Miss Jessie Stevens stopped before him and pertly gave
the word “friendship.” Of course he spelt it wrongly, and accompanied
her outside the door. As he kissed her cheek, she drew away her head
quickly:

“I only called you out to give you a chance of kissin' Loo Conklin.”

He thought it wiser not to reply to this, and contented himself with
thanking her as they entered the room. He paused before Miss Conklin,
and gave her “bumpkin,” adding, by way of explanation, “a rude country
fellow.” She spelt it cheerfully, without the “p.” When the mistake was
made plain to her, which took some little time, she accepted his arm,
and went with him into the passage. He kissed her more than once,
murmuring, “At last, Miss Loo!” She replied seriously:

“See here! You're goin' to get into a fuss with Seth Stevens if you call
me out often. And he's the strongest of them all. You ain't afraid? O.K.
then. I guess we'll pay him out for lyin'.”

On returning to the room, Bancroft became conscious of a thinly veiled
antagonism on the part of the young men. But he had hardly time to
notice it, when Miss Loo came in and said to him demurely, “Loo.” He
spelt “You.” Much laughter from the girls greeted the simple pleasantry.

So the game, punctuated by kisses, went on, until Miss Loo came in
for the fourth time, and stopped again before Bancroft, whereupon Seth
Stevens pushed through the crowd of young men, and said:

“Miss Loo Conklin! You know the rule is to change after three times.”

At once she moved in front of the stout youth, Richards, who had come
forward to support his friend, and said “liar!” flashing at the same
time an angry glance at Stevens. “Lire,” spelt Richards painfully, and
the pair withdrew.

Bancroft went over to the men's corner; the critical moment had come;
he measured his rival with a glance. Stevens was tall, fully six feet
in height, and though rather lank, had the bow legs and round shoulders
which often go with strength.

As he took up his new position, Stevens remarked to a companion, in a
contemptuous drawl:

“Schoolmasters kin talk an' teach, but kin they fight?”

Bancroft took it upon himself to answer, “Sometimes.”

“Kin you?” asked Stevens sharply, turning to him.

“Well enough.”

“We kin try that to-morrow. I'll be in the lot behind Richards' mill at
four o'clock.”

“I'll be there,” replied the schoolmaster, making his way again towards
the group of girls.

Nothing further happened until the old folk came in, and the party broke
up. Driving homewards with Miss Conklin, Bancroft began:

“How can I thank you enough for being so kind to me? You called me out
often, almost as often as I called you.”

“I did that to rile Seth Stevens.”

“And not at all to please me?”

“Perhaps a little,” she said, and silence fell upon them.

His caution led him to restrain himself. He was disturbed by vague
doubts, and felt the importance of a decisive word. Presently Miss
Conklin spoke, in a lower voice than usual, but with an accent of
coquettish triumph in the question:

“So you like me after all? Like me really?”

“Do you doubt it?” His accent was reproachful. “But why do you say
'after all'?”

“You never kissed me comin' back from church last Sunday, and I showed
you the school and everythin'!”

“Might I have kissed you then? I was afraid of offending you.”

“Offendin' me? Well, I guess not! Every girl expects to be kissed when
she goes out with a man.”

“Let's make up for it now, Loo. May I call you Loo?” While speaking he
slipped his arm round her waist, and kissed her again and again.

“That's my name. But there! I guess you've made up enough already.” And
Miss Conklin disengaged herself. On reaching the house, however, she
offered her lips before getting out of the buggy.

When alone in his bedroom, Bancroft sat and thought. The events of the
evening had been annoying. Miss Loo's conduct had displeased him; he did
not like familiarity. He would not acknowledge to himself that he
was jealous. The persistent way Stevens had tried to puzzle her had
disgusted him--that was all. It was sufficiently plain that in the past
she had encouraged Stevens. Her freedom and boldness grated upon his
nerves. He condemned her with a sense of outraged delicacy. Girls ought
not to make advances; she had no business to ask him whether he liked
her; she should have waited for him to speak plainly. He only required
what was right. Yet the consciousness that she loved him flattered his
vanity and made him more tolerant; he resolved to follow her lead or to
improve upon it. Why shouldn't he? She had said “every girl expects to
be kissed.” And if she wanted to be kissed, it was the least he could do
to humour her.

All the while, at the bottom of his heart there was bitterness. He would
have given much to believe that an exquisite soul animated that lovely
face. Perhaps she was better than she seemed. He tried to smother
his distrust of her, till it was rendered more acute by another
reflection--she had got him into the quarrel with Seth Stevens. He did
not trouble much about it. He was confident enough of his strength and
the advantages of his boyish training in the gymnasium to regard the
trial with equanimity. Still, the girls he had known in the East would
never have set two men to fight, never--it was not womanly. Good girls
were by nature peacemakers. There must be something in Loo, he argued,
almost--vulgar, and he shrank from the word. To lessen the sting of
his disappointment, he pictured her to himself and strove to forget her
faults.

On the following morning he went to his school very early. The girls
were not as obtrusive as they had been. Miss Jessie Stevens did not
bother him by coming up every five minutes to see what he thought of her
dictation, as she had been wont to do. He was rather glad of this; it
saved him importunate glances and words, and the propinquity of girlish
forms, which had been more trying still. But what was the cause of the
change? It was evident that the girls regarded him as belonging to Miss
Conklin. He disliked the assumption; his caution took alarm; he would
be more careful in future. The forenoon melted into afternoon quietly,
though there were traces on Jake Conklin's bench of unusual agitation
and excitement. To these signs the schoolmaster paid small heed at the
moment. He was absorbed in thinking of the evening before, and in trying
to appraise each of Loo's words and looks. At last the time came for
breaking up. When he went outside to get into the buggy--he had brought
Jack with him--he noticed, without paying much attention to it, that
Jake Conklin was not there to unhitch the strap and in various other
ways to give proof of a desire to ride with him. He set off for
Richards' mill, whither, needless to say, Jake and half-a-dozen other
urchins had preceded him as fast as their legs could carry them.

As soon as he was by himself the schoolmaster recognized that the affair
was known to his scholars, and the knowledge nettled him. His anger
fastened upon Loo. It was all her fault; her determination to “pay
Stevens out” had occasioned the quarrel. Well, he would fight and win,
and then have done with the girl whose lips had doubtless been given to
Stevens as often and as readily as to himself. The thought put him in
a rage, while the idea of meeting Stevens on an equality humiliated
him--strife with such a boor was in itself a degradation. And Loo had
brought it about. He could never forgive her. The whole affair was
disgraceful, and her words, “Every girl expects to be kissed when she
goes out with a man,” were vulgar and coarse! With which conclusion in
his mind he turned to the right round the section-line, and saw the mill
before him.

       *       *       *       *       *

After the return from the house-warming, and the understanding, as she
considered it, with Bancroft, Miss Loo gave herself up to her new-born
happiness. As she lay in bed her first thought was of her lover: he
was “splendid,” whereby she meant pleasant and attractive. She wondered
remorsefully how she had taken him to be quite “homely-looking” when
she first saw him. Why, he was altogether above any one she knew--not
perhaps jest in looks, but in knowledge and in manners--he didn't stand
in the corner of the room like the rest and stare till all the girls
became uncomfortable. What did looks matter after all? Besides, he
wasn't homely, he was handsome; so he was. His eyes were lovely--she had
always liked dark eyes best--and his moustache was dark, too, and she
liked that. To be sure it wasn't very long yet, or thick, but it would
grow; and here she sighed with content. Most girls in her place would
be sorry he wasn't taller, but she didn't care for very tall men; they
sorter looked down on you. Anyway, he was strong--a pang of fear shot
suddenly through her--he might be hurt by that brute Seth Stevens on the
morrow. Oh, no. That was impossible. He was brave, she felt sure, very
brave. Still she wished they weren't going to fight; it made her uneasy
to think that she had provoked the conflict. But it couldn't be helped
now; she couldn't interfere. Besides, men were always fightin' about
somethin' or other.

Mr. Crew, the Minister, had said right off that he'd make his mark in
the world; all the girls thought so too, and that was real good. She'd
have hated a stupid, ordinary man. Fancy being married to Seth Stevens,
and she shuddered; yet he was a sight better than any of the others;
he had even seemed handsome to her once. Ugh! Then Bancroft's face came
before her again, and remembering his kisses she flushed and grew hot
from head to foot. They would be married soon--right off. As George
hadn't the money, her father must give what he could and they'd go
East. Her father wouldn't refuse, though he'd feel bad p'r'aps; he never
refused her anythin'. If fifteen hundred dollars would be enough for
George alone, three thousand would do for both of them. Once admitted
as a lawyer, he would get a large practice: he was so clever and
hard-working. She was real glad that she'd be the means of giving him
the opportunity he wanted to win riches and position. But he must begin
in New York. She would help him on, and she'd see New York and all the
shops and elegant folk, and have silk dresses. They'd live in a hotel
and get richer and richer, and she'd drive about with--here she grew hot
again. The vision, however, was too entrancing to be shut out; she
saw herself distinctly driving in an open carriage, with a negro nurse
holding the baby all in laces in front, “jest too cute for anythin',”
 and George beside her, and every one in Fifth Avenue starin'.

Sleep soon brought confusion into her picture of a happy future; but
when she awoke, the glad confidence of the previous night had given
place to self-reproach and fear. During the breakfast she scarcely
spoke or lifted her eyes. Her silent preoccupation was misunderstood by
Bancroft; he took it to mean that she didn't care what happened to him;
she was selfish, he decided. All the morning she went about the house in
a state of nervous restlessness, and at dinner-time her father noticed
her unusual pallor and low spirits. To the Elder, the meal-times were
generally a source of intense pleasure. He was never tired of feasting
his eyes upon his daughter when he could do so without attracting
attention, and he listened to her fluent obvious opinions on men and
things with a fulness of pride and joy which was difficult to divine
since his keenest feelings never stirred the impassibility of his
features. He had small power of expressing his thoughts, and even in
youth he had felt it impossible to render in words any deep emotion.
For more than forty years the fires of his nature had been “banked up.”
 Reticent and self-contained, he appeared to be hard and cold; yet his
personality was singularly impressive. About five feet ten in height, he
was lean and sinewy, with square shoulders and muscles of whipcord. His
face recalled the Indian type; the same prominent slightly beaked nose,
high cheek bones and large knot of jaw. But there the resemblance ended.
The eyes were steel-blue; the upper lip long; the mouth firm; short,
bristly, silver hair stood up all over his head, in defiant contrast to
the tanned, unwrinkled skin. He was clean-shaven, and looked less than
his age, which was fifty-eight.

All through the dinner he wondered anxiously what could so affect his
daughter, and how he could find out without intruding himself upon her
confidence. His great love for his child had developed in the Elder
subtle delicacies of feeling which are as the fragrance of love's
humility. In the afternoon Loo, dressed for walking, met him, and, of
her own accord, began the conversation:

“Father, I want to talk to you.”

The Elder put down the water-bucket he had been carrying, and drew the
shirt-sleeves over his nervous brown arms, whether out of unconscious
modesty or simple sense of fitness it would be impossible to say. She
went on hesitatingly, “I want to know--Do you think Mr. Bancroft's
strong, stronger than--Seth Stevens?”

The Elder gave his whole thought to the problem. “P'r'aps,” he said,
after a pause, in which he had vainly tried to discover how his daughter
wished him to answer, “p'r'aps; he's older and more sot. There ain't
much difference, though. In five or six years Seth'll be a heap
stronger than the schoolmaster; but now,” he added quickly, reading his
daughter's face, “he ain't man enough. He must fill out first.”

She looked up with bright satisfaction, and twining her hands round his
arm began coaxingly:

“I'm goin' to ask you for somethin', father. You know you told me
that on my birthday you'd give me most anythin' I wanted. Wall, I want
somethin' this month, not next, as soon as I can get it--a pianner. I
guess the settin'-room would look smarter-like, an' I'd learn to play.
All the girls do East,” she added, pouting.

“Yes,” the Elder agreed thoughtfully, doubting whether he should follow
her lead eastwards, “I reckon that's so. I'll see about it right off,
Loo. I oughter hev thought of it before. But now, right off,” and as
he spoke he laid his large hand with studied carelessness on her
shoulder--he was afraid that an intentional caress might be inopportune.

“I'm cert'in Mr. Bancroft's sisters play, an' I--” she looked down
nervously for a moment, and then, still blushing deeply, changed the
attack: “He's smart, ain't he, father? He'd make a good lawyer, wouldn't
he?”

“I reckon he would,” replied the Elder.

“I'm so glad,” the girl went on hurriedly, as if afraid to give herself
time to think of what she was about to say, “for, father, he wants to
study in an office East and he hain't got the money, and--oh, father!”
 she threw her arms round his neck and hid her face on his shoulder, “I
want to go with him.”

The Elder's heart seemed to stop beating, but he could not hold his
loved one in his arms and at the same time realize his own pain. He
stroked the bowed head gently, and after a pause:

“He could study with Lawyer Barkman in Wichita, couldn't he? and then
you'd be to hum still. No. Wall! Thar!” and again came a pause of
silence. “I reckon, anyhow, you knew I'd help you. Didn't you now?”

His daughter drew herself out of his embrace. Recalled thus to the
matter in hand he asked: “Did he say how much money 'twould take?”

“Two or three thousand dollars”--and she scanned his face
anxiously--“for studyin' and gettin' an office and everythin' in New
York. Things are dearer there.”

“Wall, I guess we kin about cover that with a squeeze. It'll be full all
I kin manage to onc't--that and the pianner. I've no one to think of but
you, Loo, only you. That's what I've bin workin' for, to give you a fair
start, and I'm glad I kin jess about do it. I'd sorter take it better if
he'd done the studyin' by himself before. No! wall, it don't make much
difference p'r'aps. Anyway he works, and Mr. Crew thinks him enough
eddicated even for the Ministry. He does, and that's a smart lot. I
guess he'll get along all right.” Delighted with the expression of
intent happiness in his daughter's eyes, he continued: “He's young
yet, and couldn't be expected to hev done the studyin' and law and
everythin'. You kin be sartin that the old man'll do all he knows to
help start you fair. All I kin. If you're sot upon it! That's enough fer
me, I guess, ef you're rale sot on it, and you don't think 'twould be
better like to wait a little. He could study with Barkman fer a year
anyway without losin' time. No! wall, wall. I'm right thar when you want
me. I'll go to work to do what I kin....

“P'r'aps we might sell off and go East, too. The farm's worth money now
it's all settled up round hyar. The mother and me and Jake could get
along, I reckon, East or West. I know more'n I did when I came out in
'59.

“I'm glad you've told me. I think a heap more of him now. There must
be a pile of good in any one you like, Loo. Anyhow he's lucky.” And he
stroked her crumpled dress awkwardly, but with an infinite tenderness.

“I've got to go now, father,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the
time. “But there!”--and again she threw her arms round his neck and
kissed him. “You've made me very happy. I've got to go right off, and
you've all the chores to do, so I mustn't keep you any longer.”

She hurried to the road along which Jake would have to come with the
news of the fight. When she reached the top of the bluff whence the road
fell rapidly to the creek, no one was in sight. She sat down and gave
herself up to joyous anticipations.

“What would George say to her news? Where should they be married?”----a
myriad questions agitated her. But a glance down the slope from time to
time checked her pleasure. At last she saw her brother running towards
her. He had taken off his boots and stockings; they were slung round his
neck, and his bare feet pattered along in the thick, white dust of the
prairie track. His haste made his sister's heart beat in gasps of fear.
Down the hill she sped, and met him on the bridge.

“Wall?” she asked quietly, but the colour had left her cheeks, and Jake
was not to be deceived so easily.

“Wall what?” he answered defiantly, trying to get breath. “I hain't said
nothin'.”

“Oh, you mean boy!” she cried indignantly. “I'll never help you again
when father wants to whip you--never! Tell me this minute what happened.
Is _he_ hurt?”

“Is who hurt?” asked her brother, glorying in superiority of knowledge,
and the power to tease with impunity.

“Tell me right off,” she said, taking him by the collar in her
exasperation, “or--”

“I'll tell you nothin' till you leave go of me,” was the sullen reply.
But then the overmastering impulse ran away with him, and he broke out:

“Oh, Loo! I jest seed everythin'. 'Twar a high old fight! They wuz
all there, Seth Stevens, Richards, Monkey Bill--all of 'em, when
schoolmaster rode up. He was still--looked like he wanted to hear a
class recite. He hitched up Jack and come to 'em, liftin' his hat. Oh,
'twas O.K., you bet! Then they took off their clo's. Seth Stevens jerked
hisn loose on the ground, but schoolmaster stood by himself, and folded
hisn up like ma makes me fold mine at night. Then they comed together
and Seth Stevens he jest drew off and tried to land him one, but
schoolmaster sorter moved aside and took him on the nose, an' Seth he
sot down, with the blood runnin' all over him. An'--an'--that's all.
Every time Seth Stevens hauled off to hit, schoolmaster was thar first.
It war bully!--That's all. An' I seed everythin'. You kin bet your life
on that! An' then Richards and the rest come to him an' said as how Seth
Stevens was faintin', an' schoolmaster he ran to the crick an' brought
water and put over him. An' then I runned to tell you--schoolmaster's
strong, I guess, stronger nor pappa. I seed him put on his vest, an'
Seth Stevens he was settin' up, all blood and water on his face, streaky
like; he did look bad. But, Loo----say, Loo! Why didn't schoolmaster
when he got him down the first time, jest stomp on his face with his
heels?--he had his boots on--an' that's how Seth Stevens broke Tom
Cooper's jaw when _they_ fit.”

The girl was white, and trembling from head to foot as the boy ended his
narrative, and looked inquiringly into her face. She could not answer.
Indeed, she had hardly heard the question. The thought of what might
have happened to her lover appalled her, and terror and remorse held her
heart as in a vice. But oh!--and the hot tears came into her eyes--she'd
tell him when they met how sorry she was for it all, and how bad she had
been, and how she hated herself. She had acted foolish, very; but she
hadn't meant it. She'd be more careful in future, much more careful. How
brave he was and kind! How like him it was to get the water! Oh! if he'd
only come.

All this while Jake looked at her curiously; at length he said, “Say,
Loo, s'pose he'd had his eye plugged out.”

“Go away--do!” she exclaimed angrily. “I believe you boys jest love
fightin' like dogs.”

Jake disappeared to tell and retell the tale to any one who cared to
listen.

Half an hour later Loo, who had climbed the bluff to command the view,
heard the sound of Jack's feet on the wooden bridge. A moment or two
more and the buggy drew up beside her; the schoolmaster bent forward and
spoke, without a trace of emotion in his voice:

“Won't you get in and let me drive you home, Miss Loo?” His victory
had put him in a good humour, without, however, altering his critical
estimate of the girl. The quiet, controlled tone of his voice chilled
and pained her, but her emotions were too recent and too acute to be
restrained.

“Oh, George!” she said, leaning forward against the buggy, and scanning
his face intently. “How can you speak so? You ain't hurt, are you?”

“No!” he answered lightly. “You didn't expect I should be, did you?” The
tone was cold, a little sarcastic even.

Again she felt hurt; she scarcely knew why; the sneer was too
far-fetched for her to understand it.

“Go and put the horse up, and then come back. I'll wait right here for
you.”

He did as he was told, and in ten minutes was by her side again. After a
long pause, she began, with quivering lips:

“George, I'm sorry--so sorry. 'Twas all my fault! But I didn't
know”--and she choked down a sob--“I didn't think.

“I want you to tell me how your sisters act and--an' what they wear and
do. I'll try to act like them. Then I'd be good, shouldn't I?

“They play the pianner, don't they?” He was forced to confess that one
of them did.

“An' they talk like you?”

“Yes.”

“An' they're good always? Oh, George, I'm jest too sorry for anythin',
an' now--now I'm too glad!” and she burst into tears. He kissed and
consoled her as in duty bound. He understood this mood as little as he
had understood her challenge to love. He was not in sympathy with her;
she had no ideal of conduct, no notion of dignity. Some suspicion
of this estrangement must have dawned upon the girl, or else she was
irritated by his acquiescence in her various phases of self-humiliation.
All at once she dashed the tears from her eyes, and winding herself out
of his arms, exclaimed:

“See here, George Bancroft! I'll jest learn all they know--pianner and
all. I ken, and I will. I'll begin right now. You'll see!” And her blue
eyes flashed with the glitter of steel, while her chin was thrown up in
defiant vanity and self-assertion.

He watched her with indifferent curiosity; the abrupt changes of mood
repelled him. His depreciatory thoughts of her, his resolution not to
be led away again by her beauty influencing him, he noticed the keen
hardness of the look, and felt, perhaps out of a spirit of antagonism,
that he disliked it.

After a few quieting phrases, which, though they sprang rather from
the head than the heart, seemed to achieve their aim, he changed the
subject, by pointing across the creek and asking:

“Whose corn is that?”

“Father's, I guess!”

“I thought that was the Indian territory?”

“It is!”

“Is one allowed to sow corn there and to fence off the ground? Don't the
Indians object?”

“'Tain't healthy for Indians about here,” she answered carelessly, “I
hain't ever seen one. I guess it's allowed; anyhow, the corn's there an'
father'll have it cut right soon.”

It seemed to Bancroft that they had not a thought in common. Wrong done
by her own folk did not even interest her. At once he moved towards
the house, and the girl followed him, feeling acutely disappointed
and humiliated, which state of mind quickly became one of rebellious
self-esteem. She guessed that other men thought big shucks of her
anyway. And with this reflection she tried to comfort herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

A week or ten days later, Bancroft came downstairs one morning early
and found the ground covered with hoar-frost, though the sun had already
warmed the air. Elder Conklin, in his shirt-sleeves, was cleaning his
boots by the wood pile. When he had finished with the brush, but not
a moment sooner, he put it down near his boarder. His greeting, a mere
nod, had not prepared the schoolmaster for the question:

“Kin you drive kyows?”

“I think so; I've done it as a boy.”

“Wall, to-day's Saturday. There ain't no school, and I've some cattle
to drive to the scales in Eureka. They're in the brush yonder, ef you'd
help. That is, supposin' you've nothin' to do.”

“No. I've nothing else to do, and shall be glad to help you if I can.”

Miss Loo pouted when she heard that her lover would be away the greater
part of the day, but it pleased her to think that her father had asked
him for his help, and she resigned herself, stipulating only that he
should come right back from Eureka.

After breakfast the two started. Their way lay along the roll of ground
which looked down upon the creek. They rode together in silence, until
the Elder asked:

“You ain't a Member, air you?”

“No.”

“That's bad. I kinder misdoubted it las' Sunday; but I wasn't sartin. Ef
your callin' and election ain't sure, I guess Mr. Crew oughter talk to
you.”

These phrases were jerked out with long pauses separating them, and then
the Elder was ominously silent.

In various ways Bancroft attempted to draw him into conversation--in
vain. The Elder answered in monosyllables, or not at all. Presently he
entered the woods on the left, and soon halted before the shoot-entrance
to a roughly-built corral.

“The kyows is yonder,” he remarked; “ef you'll drive them hyar, I'll
count them as they come in.”

The schoolmaster turned his horse's head in the direction pointed
out. He rode for some minutes through the wood without seeing a single
animal. Under ordinary circumstances this would have surprised him;
but now he was absorbed in thinking of Conklin and his peculiarities,
wondering at his habit of silence and its cause:

“Has he nothing to say? Or does he think a great deal without being able
to find words to express his thoughts?”

A prolonged moan, a lowing of cattle in pain, came to his ears. He made
directly for the sound, and soon saw the herd huddled together by the
snake-fence which zigzagged along the bank of the creek. He went on till
he came to the boundary fence which ran at right angles to the water,
and then turning tried to drive the animals towards the corral. He met,
however, with unexpected difficulties. He had brought a stock-whip with
him, and used it with some skill, though without result. The bullocks
and cows swerved from the lash, but before they had gone ten yards they
wheeled and bolted back. At first this manoeuvre amused him. The Elder,
he thought, has brought me to do what he couldn't do himself; I'll show
him I can drive. But no! in spite of all his efforts, the cattle would
not be driven. He grew warm, and set himself to the work. In a quarter
of an hour his horse was in a lather, and his whip had flayed one or
two of the bullocks, but there they stood again with necks outstretched
towards the creek, lowing piteously. He could not understand it.
Reluctantly he made up his mind to acquaint the Elder with the
inexplicable fact. He had gone some two hundred yards when his tired
horse stumbled. Holding him up, Bancroft saw he had tripped over a mound
of white dust. A thought struck him. He threw himself off the horse,
and tasted the stuff; he was right; it was salt! No wonder he could not
drive the cattle; no wonder they lowed as if in pain--the ground had
been salted.

He remounted and hastened to the corral. He found the Elder sitting on
his horse by the shoot, the bars of which were down.

“I can't move those cattle!”

“You said you knew how to drive.”

“I do, but they are mad with thirst; no one can do anything with them.
Besides, in this sun they might die on the road.”

“Hum.”

“Let them drink; they'll go on afterwards.”

“Hum.” And the Elder remained for some moments silent. Then he said, as
if thinking aloud: “It's eight miles to Eureka; they'll be thirsty again
before they get to the town.”

Bancroft, too, had had his wits at work, and now answered the other's
thought. “I guess so; if they're allowed just a mouthful or two they can
be driven, and long before they reach Eureka they'll be as thirsty as
ever.”

Without a word in reply the Elder turned his horse and started off at
a lope. In ten minutes the two men had taken down the snake fence for a
distance of some fifty yards, and the cattle had rushed through the gap
and were drinking greedily.

After they had had a deep draught or two, Bancroft urged his horse into
the stream and began to drive them up the bank. They went easily enough
now, and ahead of them rode the Elder, his long whitey-brown holland
coat fluttering behind him. In half an hour Bancroft had got the herd
into the corral. The Elder counted the three hundred and sixty-two
beasts with painstaking carefulness as they filed by.

The prairie-track to Eureka led along the creek, and in places ran close
to it without any intervening fence. In an hour under that hot October
sun the cattle had again become thirsty, and it needed all Bancroft's
energy and courage to keep them from dashing into the water. Once or
twice indeed it was a toss-up whether or not they would rush over him.
He was nearly exhausted when some four hours after the start they came
in sight of the little town. Here he let the herd into the creek. Glad
of the rest, he sat on his panting horse and wiped the perspiration from
his face. After the cattle had drunk their fill, he moved them quietly
along the road, while the water dripped from their mouths and bodies.
At the scales the Elder met the would-be purchaser, who as soon as he
caught sight of the stock burst into a laugh.

“Say, Conklin,” he cried out, “I guess you've given them cattle enough
to drink, but I don't buy water for meat. No, sir; you bet, I don't.”

“I didn't allow you would,” replied the Elder gravely; “but the track
was long and hot; so they drank in the crik.”

“Wall,” resumed the dealer, half disarmed by this confession, which
served the Elder's purpose better than any denial could have done, “I
guess you'll take off fifty pound a head for that water.”

“I guess not,” was the answer. “Twenty pound of water's reckoned to be
about as much as a kyow kin drink.”

The trading began and continued to Bancroft's annoyance for more than
half an hour. At last it was settled that thirty pounds' weight
should be allowed on each beast for the water it had drunk. When this
conclusion had been arrived at, it took but a few minutes to weigh the
animals and pay the price agreed upon.

The Elder now declared himself ready to go “to hum” and get somethin'
to eat. In sullen silence Bancroft remounted, and side by side they
rode slowly towards the farm. The schoolmaster's feelings may easily
be imagined. He had been disgusted by the cunning and hypocrisy of
the trick, and the complacent expression of the Elder's countenance
irritated him intensely. As he passed place after place where the cattle
had given him most trouble in the morning, anger took possession of him,
and at length forced itself to speech.

“See here, Elder Conklin!” he began abruptly, “I suppose you call
yourself a Christian. You look down on me because I'm not a Member.
Yet, first of all, you salt cattle for days till they're half mad with
thirst, then after torturing them by driving them for hours along this
road side by side with water, you act lies with the man you've sold them
to, and end up by cheating him. You know as well as I do that each of
those steers had drunk sixty-five pounds' weight of water at least; so
you got” (he couldn't use the word “stole” even in his anger, while the
Elder was looking at him) “more than a dollar a head too much. That's
the kind of Christianity you practise. I don't like such Christians, and
I'll leave your house as soon as I can. I am ashamed that I didn't tell
the dealer you were deceiving him. I feel as if I had been a party to
the cheat.”

While the young man was speaking the Elder looked at him intently. At
certain parts of the accusation Conklin's face became rigid, but he
said nothing. A few minutes later, having skirted the orchard, they
dismounted at the stable-door.

After he had unsaddled his horse and thrown it some Indian corn,
Bancroft hastened to the house; he wanted to be alone. On the stoop he
met Loo and said to her hastily:

“I can't talk now, Loo; I'm tired out and half crazy. I must go to my
room and rest. After supper I'll tell you everything. Please don't keep
me now.”

Supper that evening was a silent meal. The Elder did not speak once;
the two young people were absorbed in their own reflections, and Mrs.
Conklin's efforts to make talk were effectual only when she turned
to Jake. Mrs. Conklin, indeed, was seldom successful in anything she
attempted. She was a woman of fifty, or thereabouts, and her face still
showed traces of former good looks, but the light had long left her
round, dark eyes, and the colour her cheeks, and with years her figure
had grown painfully thin. She was one of the numerous class who delight
in taking strangers into their confidence. Unappreciated, as a rule,
by those who know them, they seek sympathy from polite indifference or
curiosity. Before he had been a day in the house Bancroft had heard
from Mrs. Conklin all about her early life. Her father had been a
large farmer in Amherst County, Massachusetts; her childhood had been
comfortable and happy: “We always kept one hired man right through the
winter, and in summer often had eight and ten; and, though you mightn't
think it now, I was the belle of all the parties.” Dave (her husband)
had come to work for her father, and she had taken a likin' to him,
though he was such a “hard case.” She told of Dave's gradual conversion
and of the Revivalist Minister, who was an Abolitionist as well, and had
proclaimed the duty of emigrating to Kansas to prevent it from becoming
a slave state. Dave, it appeared, had taken up the idea zealously, and
had persuaded her to go with him. Her story became pathetic in spite
of her self-pity as she related the hardships of that settlement in
the wilds, and described her loneliness, her shivering terror when her
husband was away hauling logs for their first home, and news came that
the slave-traders from Missouri had made another raid upon the scattered
Abolitionist farmers. The woman had evidently been unfit for such
rude transplanting. She dwelt upon the fact that her husband had never
understood her feelings. If he had, she wouldn't have minded so much.
Marriage was not what girls thought; she had not been happy since
she left her father's house, and so forth. The lament was based on
an unworthy and futile egoism, but her whining timidity appeared to
Bancroft inexplicable. He did not see that just as a shrub pales and
dies away under the branches of a great tree, so a weak nature is apt
to be further enfeebled by association with a strong and self-contained
character. In those early days of loneliness and danger the Elder's
steadfastness and reticence had prevented him from affording to his wife
the sympathy which might have enabled her to overcome her fears. “He
never talked anythin' over with me,” was the burden of her complaint.
Solitude had killed every power in her save vanity, and the form her
vanity took was peculiarly irritating to her husband, and in a lesser
degree to her daughter, for neither the Elder nor Loo would have founded
self-esteem on adventitious advantages of upbringing. Accordingly, Mrs.
Conklin was never more than an uncomfortable shadow in her own house,
and this evening her repeated attempts to bring about a semblance of
conversation only made the silence and preoccupation of the others
painfully evident.

As soon as the supper things were cleared away, Loo signalled to
Bancroft to accompany her to the stoop, where she asked him what had
happened.

“I insulted the Elder,” he said, “and I told him I should leave his
house as soon as I could.”

“You don't mean that!” she exclaimed. “You must take that back, George.
I'll speak to pappa; he'll mind me.”

“No,” he replied firmly; “speaking won't do any good. I've made up my
mind. It's impossible for me to stay here.”

“Then you don't care for me. But that's not so. Say it's not so, George.
Say you'll stay--and I'll come down this evening after the old folks
have gone to bed, and sit with you. There!”

Of course the man yielded to a certain extent, the pleading face
upturned to his was too seductive to be denied, but he would not promise
more than that he would tell her what had taken place, and consult with
her.

Shortly after nine o'clock, as usual, Mr. and Mrs. Conklin retired. Half
an hour later Bancroft and Loo were seated together in the corner of the
back stoop. They sat like lovers, his arm about her waist, while he told
his story. She expressed relief; she had feared it would be much worse;
he had only to say he didn't mean anythin', and she'd persuade her
father to forget and forgive. But the schoolmaster would not consent to
that. He had meant and did mean every word, and could take back nothing.
And when she appealed to his affection, he could only repeat that
he'd think it over. “You know I like you, Loo, but I can't do
impossibilities. It's unfortunate, perhaps, but it's done and can't be
undone.” And then, annoyed at being pressed further, he thought they
had better go in: it was very cold; she'd catch a chill if she stayed
longer, and there was no sense in that. The girl, seeing that her
pleading was of no avail, grew angry; his love was good enough to talk
about, but it could not be worth much if he denied her so little
a thing; it didn't matter, though, she'd get along somehow, she
guessed--here they were startled by the sound of a door opening. Loo
glided quickly round the corner of the stoop, and entered the house.
Bancroft following her heard the back door shut, and some one go down
the steps. He could not help looking to see who was on foot at such an
untimely hour, and to his surprise perceived the Elder in a night-shirt,
walking with bare feet towards the stables through the long grass
already stiff with frost. Before the white figure had disappeared
Bancroft assured himself that Loo had gone up to bed the front way.
Curiosity conquering his first impulse, which had been to follow her
example, he went after the Elder, without, however, intending to play
the spy. When he had passed through the stables and got to the top of
the slope overlooking the creek, he caught sight of the Elder twenty
yards away at the water's edge. In mute surprise he watched the old man
tie his night-shirt up under his armpits, wade into the ice-cold water,
kneel down, and begin what was evidently meant to be a prayer. His first
words were conventional, but gradually his earnestness and excitement
overcame his sense of the becoming, and he talked of what lay near his
heart in disjointed phrases.

“That young man to-day jes' jumped on me! He told me I'd plagued them
cattle half to death, and I'd acted lies and cheated Ramsdell out of
three hundred dollars. 'Twas all true. I s'pose I did plague the cattle,
though I've often been as thirsty as they were--after eatin' salt pork
and workin' all day in the sun. I didn't think of hurtin' them when I
salted the floor. But I did act to deceive Ramsdell, and I reckon I
made nigh on three hundred dollars out of the deal. 'Twas wrong. But,
O God!”--and unconsciously the old man's voice rose--“You know all my
life. You know everythin'. You know I never lied or cheated any one fer
myself. I've worked hard and honest fer more'n forty years, and always
been poor. I never troubled about it, and I don't now, but fer Loo.

“She's so pretty and young. Jes' like a flower wants sunshine, she wants
pleasure, and when she don't git it, she feels bad. She's so young and
soft. Now she wants a pile of money and a pianner, and I couldn't git it
fer her no other way. I had to cheat.

“O Lord, ef I could kneel down hyar and say I repented with godly
repentance fer sin and determination never to sin agen, I'd do it,
and ask you to pardon me for Jesus' sake, but I kain't repent--I jes'
kain't! You see my heart, O God! and you know I'll go on cheatin' ef
that'll get Loo what she wants. An' so I've come down hyar to say that
Loo ain't with me in the cheatin'; it's all my sin. I know you punish
sin. The stiff-necked sinner ought to be punished. Wall; I'll take the
punishment. Put it right on to me--that's justice. But, O Lord! leave
Loo out; she don't know nothin' about it. That's why I've come down hyar
into the water to show I'm willin' to bear what you send. Amen, O Lord
God! In Jesus' name, Amen.”

And he rose quietly, came out of the creek, wiped his dripping limbs
with his hand as well as he could, let down his night-shirt, and
prepared to climb the bank. Needless to say, Bancroft had slipped
through the stables and reached the house before the Elder could get
within sight of him.

When alone in his room the schoolmaster grew a little ashamed of
himself. There could be no doubt of the Elder's sincerity, and he had
insulted him. The Elder had sacrificed his principles; had done violence
to the habits of his life, and shame to his faith and practice--all
in order that his daughter might have her “pianner.” The grotesque
pronunciation of the word appeared pathetic to Bancroft now; it brought
moisture into his eyes. What a fine old fellow Conklin was! Of course he
wished to bear the whole burden of his sin and its punishment. It would
be easy to go to him on the morrow and beg his pardon. Wrong done as the
Elder did it, he felt, was more than right. What a Christian at heart!
And what a man!

But the girl who asked for such a sacrifice--what was she? All the
jealousy, all the humiliation he had suffered on her account, came back
to him; she would have her father steal provided she got her piano. How
vain she was and self-willed; without any fine moral feeling or proper
principle! He would be worse than a fool to give his life to such a
woman. If she could drive her father--and such a father--to theft, in
what wrongdoing might she not involve her husband? He was warned in
time; he would not be guilty of such irreparable folly. He would match
her selfishness with prudence. Who could blame him? That was what the
hard glitter in her eyes betokened--cold selfishness; and he had thought
of her as Hebe--a Hebe who would give poisoned wine to those who loved
her. He was well saved from that.

The old Greek word called her up before him, and the spell of her
physical charm stole over his astonished senses like perfumed summer
air. Sitting beside her that evening, his arm round her waist, he had
felt the soft, full curves of her form, and thinking of it his
pulses throbbed. How fair her face was! That appealing air made her
irresistible; and even when she was angry, how splendidly handsome! What
a pity she should be hard and vulgar! He felt estranged from her, yet
still cherished the bitterness of disappointment. She was detestably
vain, common and selfish; he would be on his guard.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next day at breakfast Mr. Morris came in. He was an ordinary young
Western farmer, rough but kindly, ill-educated but sensible. When his
appetite was satisfied he wanted to know whether they had heard the
news.

“No,” Mrs. Conklin replied eagerly, “we've heard nothing unless p'r'aps
the Elder in Eureka”--but her husband shook his head, and Morris went
on:

“Folks say the Government in Washington has sent General Custer out
with troops to pertect the Indian Territory. Away East they think the
settlers have been stealing the Reserve, an' the soldiers are coming
with surveyors to draw the line again.”

After a pause, “That seems right,” said the Elder; “thar' ain't nothin'
agen that.”

“But you've ploughed and raised crops on the Indian land across the
crik,” objected Morris; “we all hev. Air we to give it up?”

There was no answer.

“Anyway,” Morris continued, “Custer's at Wichita now. He'll be here in
a day or two, an' we've called a meetin' in the school-house for this
evenin' an' we hope you'll be on hand. 'Tain't likely we're goin' to
stand by an' see our crops destroyed. We must hold together, and all'll
come right.”

“That's true,” said the Elder, thinking aloud, “and good. Ef we all held
together there'd not be much wrong done.”

“Then I kin tell the boys,” resumed Morris, rising, “that you'll be with
us, Elder. All us young uns hold by you, an' what you say, we'll do,
every time.”

“Wall,” replied the Elder slowly, “I don't know. I kain't see my way
to goin'. I've always done fer myself by myself, and I mean to--right
through; but the meetin' seems a good idee. I'm not contradictin' that.
It seems strong. I don't go much though on meetin's; they hain't ever
helped me. But a meetin' seems strong--for them that likes it.”

With this assurance Morris was fain to be satisfied and go his way.

Bancroft had listened to the colloquy with new feelings. Prepared
to regard with admiration all that the Elder said or did, it was not
difficult for him now to catch the deeper meaning of the uncouth words.
He was drawn to the Elder by moral sympathy, and his early training
tended to strengthen this attraction. It was right, he felt, that the
Elder should take his own course, fearing nothing that man could do.

In the evening he met Loo. She supposed with a careless air that he was
goin' to pack them leather trunks of his.

“No, I've reconsidered it,” he answered. “I'm going to beg your father's
pardon, and take back all I said to him.”

“Oh! then you do care for me, George,” cried the girl enthusiastically,
“an' we ken be happy again. I've been real miserable since last night; I
cried myself to sleep, so I did. Now I know you love me I'll do anythin'
you wish, anythin'. I'll learn to play the pianner; you see if I don't.”

“Perhaps,” he replied harshly, the old anger growing bitter in him at
the mention of the “pianner”--“perhaps it would be better if you gave up
the idea of the piano; that _costs_ too much,” he added significantly,
“far too much. If you'd read good books and try to live in the thought
of the time, it would be better. Wisdom is to be won cheaply and by all,
but success in an art depends upon innate qualities.”

“I see,” she exclaimed, flaming up, “you think I can't learn to play
like your sister, and I'm very ignorant, and had better read and get
to know all other people have said, and you call that wisdom. I don't.
Memory ain't sense, I guess; and to talk like you ain't everythin'.”

The attack pricked his vanity. He controlled himself, however, and took
up the argument: “Memory is not sense, perhaps; but still one ought to
know the best that has been said and done in the world. It is easier to
climb the ladder when others have shown us the rungs. And surely to talk
correctly is better than to talk incorrectly.”

“It don't matter much, I reckon, so long as one gets your meanin', and
as for the ladder, a monkey could do that.”

The irrelevant retort puzzled him, and her tone increased his annoyance.
But why, he asked himself, should he trouble to lift her to a higher
level of thought? He relapsed into silence.

With wounded heart the girl waited; she was hurt, afraid he did not care
for her, could not even guess how she had offended him; but, as he would
not speak, her pride came to her aid, and she remarked:

“I'm asked out this evenin', so I'll have to get ready and go. Good
night, George Bancroft.”

“Good night, Miss Loo,” he replied calmly, though the pain he suffered
proved that jealousy may outlive love. “I think I shall go to this
meeting at the school-house.”

They parted. Loo went upstairs to her room to cry over her misery and
George's coldness; to wish she had been better taught, and had learned
her lessons in school carefully, for then he might have been kinder. She
wondered how she should get books to read. It was difficult. Besides,
couldn't he see that she was quick and would learn everythin' afterwards
if he'd be good to her. Why did he act so? Why!

Bancroft went to the meeting, and found the house crowded. A young
farmer from the next county was present, who told how a United States
officer with twelve men and a surveyor had come and drawn the boundary
line, torn up his fences, and trampled down the corn which he had
planted in the Indian Reserve. The meeting at once adopted the following
resolution:

“In view of the fact that the land cultivated by American citizens in
or upon the Indian Reserve has never been used or cultivated by the
Indians, who keep to the woods, and that it is God's will that land
should bring forth fruit for the sustenance of man, we are resolved to
stand upon our rights as citizens and to defend the same against all
aggressors.”

Every one signed this document, copies of which were to be sent to
General Custer, and also to the President, to the Senate, and to
Congress. It was arranged further to write to their own representatives
at Washington giving an account of the situation.

After this the meeting broke up, but not before all present had agreed
to stand by any of their number who should resist the troops.

When Bancroft returned home Mr. and Mrs. Conklin were still up, and he
related to them all that had taken place. The Elder rose and stretched
himself without having made a remark. In a whisper Bancroft asked Mrs.
Conklin to let him have a word with her husband. As soon as they were
alone, he began:

“Mr. Conklin, I insulted you yesterday. I am sorry for it. I hope you'll
forgive me.”

“Yes,” replied the Elder meditatively, overlooking the proffered hand,
“yes, that's Christian, I reckon. But the truth's the truth.” Turning
abruptly to leave the room, he added: “The corn's ripe, waitin' to be
cut; ef the United States troops don't eat it all up we'll have a
good year.” There was a light in his steady eyes which startled the
schoolmaster into all sorts of conjectures.

A day or two later, the Conklins and Bancroft were seated at dinner
when a knock came at the door. “Come in!” said Mrs. Conklin, and a young
officer appeared in the uniform of the United States cavalry. He paused
on the threshold, lifted his cap, and apologized for his intrusion:

“Elder Conklin, I believe?” The Elder nodded his head, but continued
eating. “My business isn't pleasant, I fear, but it needn't take long.
I'm sent by General Custer to draw the boundary line between the State
of Kansas and the Indian Reserve, to break down all fences erected by
citizens of the United States in the Territory, and to destroy such
crops as they may have planted there. I regret to say our surveyor tells
me the boundary line here is Cottonwood Creek, and I must notify you
that tomorrow about noon I shall be here to carry out my orders, and to
destroy the crops and fences found on the further side of the creek.”

Before withdrawing he begged pardon again, this time for the short
notice he was compelled to give--a concession apparently to Miss
Conklin's appearance and encouraging smiles.

“Oh, pappa!” cried Loo, as he disappeared, “why didn't you ask him
to have some dinner? He jest looked splendid, and that uniform's too
lovely.”

The Elder made no answer. Neither the courteous menace of the lieutenant
nor his daughter's reproach seemed to have had any effect upon him. He
went on with his dinner.

Loo's outspoken admiration of the officer did not move Bancroft as she
had anticipated. It simply confirmed his worst suspicions. His nature
was neither deep nor passionate; he had always lived in the conventions
which the girl constantly outraged, and they now exercised their
influence. Moreover, he had self-possession enough to see that she meant
to annoy him. He was exceedingly anxious to know what the Elder intended
to do, and what Loo might think or feel did not interest him greatly.

A few hours later a clue was given to him: Jake came and told him as a
piece of news that “Pa's shot-gun ain't in his room.” Bancroft could
not rid himself of the thought that the fact was significant. But the
evening passed away quietly; Loo busied herself with some work, and the
Elder seemed content to watch her.

At breakfast next morning nothing of moment happened. Bancroft took
occasion to say that he was coming home early to dinner. On his return
from school, some three hours after, he saw a troop of horsemen riding
up the valley a mile or so away. With quickened pulses he sprang up the
steps and met the Elder in the doorway.

“There they come!” he said involuntarily, pointing to the little cloud
of dust.

“Hum,” grunted the Elder, and left the stoop, going towards the
outhouses.

Bancroft turned into the parlour, where he found Mrs. Conklin. She
seemed to be irritated, and not at all anxious, as he had expected:

“Did you see the Elder?”

“Yes,” he replied. “He went to the barn. I thought of accompanying him,
but was afraid he wouldn't like it.”

“I guess he's worrying about that corn,” Mrs. Conklin explained. “When
he broke that land I told him 'twould bring trouble, but he never
minds what any one says to him. He should listen to his wife, though,
sometimes, shouldn't he? But bein' a man p'r'aps you'll take his part.
Anyway, it has all happened as I knew it would. And what'll he do now?
that's what I'd like to know. All that corn lost and the fences--he jest
worked himself to death on those logs--all lost now. We shall be bare
poor again. It's too bad. I've never had any money since I left home.”
 And here Mrs. Conklin's face puckered itself up as if she were about to
cry, but the impulse of vanity being stronger, she burst out angrily:
“I think it's real wicked of the Elder. I told him so. If he'd ask that
young man to let him cut the corn, I'm sure he wouldn't refuse. But
he'll never take my advice, or even answer me. It's too aggravatin' when
I know I'm right.”

He looked at her in astonishment. She had evidently no inkling of
what might occur, no vivid understanding of her husband's character.
Preferring to leave her in ignorance, he said lightly, “I hope it'll be
all right,” and, in order to change the subject, added, “I've not seen
Miss Loo, and Jake wasn't in school this morning.”

“Oh, Mr. Bancroft, if anythin' has happened to Jake!” and Mrs. Conklin
sank weakly into the nearest chair; “but thar ain't no swimmin' nor
skatin' now. When he comes in I'll frighten him; I'll threaten to tell
the Elder. He mustn't miss his schoolin', for he's real bright, ain't
he?--Loo? Her father sent her to the Morrises, about somethin'--I don't
know what.”

When Bancroft came downstairs, taking with him a small revolver, his
only weapon, he could not find the Elder either in the outbuildings or
in the stable. Remembering, however, that the soldiers could only get to
the threatened cornfield by crossing the bridge, which lay a few hundred
yards higher up the creek, he made his way thither with all speed.
When he reached the descent, he saw the Elder in the inevitable, long,
whitey-brown holland coat, walking over the bridge. In a minute or two
he had overtaken him. As the Elder did not speak, he began:

“I thought I'd come with you, Elder. I don't know that I'm much good,
but I sympathize with you, and I'd like to help you if I could.”

“Yes,” replied the Elder, acknowledging thereby the proffered aid. “But
I guess you kain't. I guess not,” he repeated by way of emphasis.

In silence the pair went on to the broad field of maize. At the corner
of the fence, the Elder stopped and said, as if speaking to himself:

“It runs, I reckon, seventy-five bushel to the acre, and there are two
hundred acres.” After a lengthened pause he continued: “That makes nigh
on three thousand dollars. I must hev spent two hundred dollars this
year in hired labour on that ground, and the half ain't cut yet. Thar's
a pile of money and work on that quarter-section.”

A few minutes more passed in silence. Bancroft did not know what to say,
for the calm seriousness of the Elder repelled sympathy. As he looked
about him there showed on the rise across the creek a knot of United
States cavalry, the young lieutenant riding in front with a civilian,
probably the surveyor, by his side. Bancroft turned and found that the
Elder had disappeared in the corn. He followed quickly, but as he
swung himself on to the fence the Elder came from behind a stook with a
burnished shot-gun in his right hand, and said decisively:

“Don't come in hyar. 'Tain't your corn and you've no cause to mix
yourself in this fuss.”

Bancroft obeyed involuntarily. The next moment he began to resent the
authority conveyed in the prohibition; he ought to have protested, to
have insisted--but now it was too late. As the soldiers rode up the
lieutenant dismounted and threw his reins to a trooper. He stepped
towards the fence, and touching his cap carelessly, remarked:

“Well, Mr. Conklin, here we are.” The earnestness of the Elder appeared
to have its effect, too, upon him, for he went on more respectfully: “I
regret that I've orders to pull down your fences and destroy the crop.
But there's nothing else to be done.”

“Yes,” said the Elder gravely, “I guess you know your orders. But you
mustn't pull down my fence,” and as he spoke he drew his shot-gun in
front of him, and rested his hands upon the muzzle, “nor destroy this
crop.” And the long upper lip came down over the lower, giving an
expression of obstinate resolve to the hard, tanned face.

“You don't seem to understand,” replied the lieutenant a little
impatiently; “this land belongs to the Indians; it has been secured to
them by the United States Government, and you've no business either to
fence it in or plant it.”

“That's all right,” answered Conklin, in the same steady, quiet,
reasonable tone. “That may all be jes' so, but them Indians warn't usin'
the land; they did no good with it. I broke this prairie ten years ago,
and it took eight hosses to do it, and I've sowed it ever sence till
the crops hev grown good, and now you come and tell me you're goin' to
tromple down the corn and pull up the fences. No sir, you ain't--that
ain't right.”

“Right or wrong,” the officer retorted, “I have to carry out my orders,
not reason about them. Here, sergeant, let three men hold the horses and
get to work on this fence.”

As the sergeant advanced and put his hand on the top layer of the heavy
snake-fence, the Elder levelled his shot-gun and said:

“Ef you pull down that bar I'll shoot.”

The sergeant took his hand from the bar quickly, and turned to his
commander as if awaiting further instructions.

“Mr. Conklin,” exclaimed the lieutenant, moving forward, “this is pure
foolishness; we're twelve to one, and we're only soldiers and have to
obey orders. I'm sorry, but I must do my duty.”

“That's so,” said the Elder, lowering his gun deliberately. “That's so,
I guess. You hev your duty--p'r'aps I hev mine. 'Tain't my business to
teach you yours.”

For a moment the lieutenant seemed to be undecided; then he spoke:

“Half-a-dozen of you advance and cover him with your rifles. Now, Mr.
Conklin, if you resist you must take the consequences. Rebellion against
the United States Government don't generally turn out well--for the
rebel. Sergeant, down with the bar.”

The Elder stood as if he had not heard what had been said to him, but
when the sergeant laid hold of the bar, the shot-gun went up again to
the old man's shoulder, and he said:

“Ef you throw down that bar I'll shoot _you_.” Again the sergeant
paused, and looked at his officer.

At this juncture Bancroft could not help interfering. The Elder's
attitude had excited in him more than mere admiration; wonder, reverence
thrilled him, and his blood boiled at the thought that the old man might
possibly be shot down. He stepped forward and said:

“Sir, you must not order your men to fire. You will raise the whole
country against you if you do. This is surely a law case, and not to
be decided by violence. Such a decision is not to be taken without
reflection and distinct instructions.”

“Those instructions I have,” replied the lieutenant, “and I've got to
follow them out--more's the pity,” he added between his teeth, while
turning to his troopers to give the decisive command. At this moment
down from the bluff and over the wooden bridge came clattering a crowd
of armed farmers, the younger ones whirling their rifles or revolvers as
they rode. Foremost among them were Morris and Seth Stevens, and between
these two young Jake Conklin on Jack. As they reached the corner of the
fence the crowd pulled up and Morris cried out:

“Elder, we're on time, I reckon.” Addressing the lieutenant he added
violently: “We don't pay United States soldiers to pull down our fences
and destroy our crops. That's got to stop right here, and right now!”

“My orders are imperative,” the officer declared, “and if you resist you
must take the consequences.” But while he spoke the hopelessness of his
position became clear to him, for reinforcements of farmers were still
pouring over the bridge, and already the soldiers were outnumbered two
to one. Just as Seth Stevens began with “Damn the consequences,” the
Elder interrupted him:

“Young man,” he said to the lieutenant, “you'd better go back to
Wichita. I guess General Custer didn't send you to fight the hull
township.” Turning to Stevens, he added, “Thar ain't no need fer any
cussin'.” Amid complete silence he uncocked his shot-gun, climbed over
the fence, and went on in the same voice:

“Jake, take that horse to the stable an' wipe him dry. Tell your mother
I'm coming right up to eat.”

Without another word he moved off homewards. His intervention had put
an end to the difficulty. Even the lieutenant understood that there was
nothing more to be done for the moment. Five minutes later the troopers
recrossed the bridge. Morris and a few of the older men held a brief
consultation. It was agreed that they should be on the same spot at six
o'clock on the morrow, and some of the younger spirits volunteered to
act as scouts in the direction of Wichita and keep the others informed
of what took place in that quarter.

When Bancroft reached the house with Morris--neither Stevens nor any of
the others felt inclined to trespass on the Elder's hospitality without
an express invitation--he found dinner waiting. Loo had not returned;
had, indeed, arranged, as Morris informed them, to spend the day with
his wife; but Jake was present and irrepressible; he wanted to tell all
he had done to secure the victory. But he had scarcely commenced when
his father shut him up by bidding him eat, for he'd have to go right
back to school.

There was no feeling of triumph in the Elder. He scarcely spoke, and
when Morris described the protective measures that had been adopted, he
merely nodded. In fact, one would have inferred from his manner that he
had had nothing whatever to do with the contest, and took no interest
in it. The only thing that appeared to trouble him was Loo's absence and
the fear lest she should have been “fussed;” but when Morris declared
that neither his wife nor Loo knew what was going on, and Bancroft
announced his intention of driving over to fetch her, he seemed to be
satisfied.

“Jack, I reckon, has had enough,” he said to his boarder. “You'd better
take the white mare; she's quiet.”

On their way home in the buggy, Bancroft told Loo how her father had
defied the United States troops, and with what unconcern he had taken
his victory:

“I think he's a great man, a hero. And if he had lived in another time,
or in another country, poets would have sung his courage.”

“Really,” she observed. Her tone was anything but enthusiastic, though
hope stirred in her at his unusual warmth. “Perhaps he cares for me
after all,” she thought.

“What are you thinking about, Loo?” he asked, surprised at her silence.

“I was just wonderin',” she answered, casting off her fit of momentary
abstraction, “how father made you like him. It appears as if I couldn't,
George,” and she turned towards him while she spoke her wistful eyes
seeking to read his face.

There was a suggestion of tears in her voice, and her manner showed
a submission and humility which touched Bancroft deeply. All his good
impulses had been called into active life by his admiration of the
Elder. He put his disengaged arm round her and drew her to him as he
replied:

“Kiss me, Loo dear, and let us try to get on better together in future.
There's no reason why we shouldn't,” he added, trying to convince
himself. The girl's vain and facile temperament required but little
encouragement to abandon itself in utter confidence. In her heart
of hearts she was sure that every man must admire her, and as her
companion's manner and words gave her hope, she chattered away in the
highest spirits till the homestead was reached. Her good-humour and
self-satisfaction made the evening pass merrily. Everything she said
or did delighted the Elder, Bancroft saw that clearly now. Whether she
laughed or talked, teased Jake, or mimicked the matronly airs of Mrs.
Morris, her father's eyes followed her with manifest pleasure and
admiration. On rising to go to bed the Elder said simply:

“It has been a good day--a good day,” he repeated impressively, while he
held his daughter in his arms and kissed her.

The next morning Bancroft was early afoot. Shortly after sunrise he went
down to the famous cornfield and found a couple of youths on watch. They
had been there for more than an hour, they said, and Seth Stevens and
Richards had gone scouting towards Wichita. “Conklin's corner's all
right,” was the phrase which sent the schoolmaster to breakfast with
a light heart. When the meal was over he returned to the centre of
excitement. The Elder had gone about his work; Mrs. Conklin seemed as
helplessly indifferent as usual; Loo was complacently careless; but
Bancroft, having had time for reflection, felt sure that all this was
Western presumption; General Custer could not accept defeat so easily.
At the “corner” he found a couple of hundred youths and men assembled.
They were all armed, but the general opinion was that Custer would do
nothing. One old farmer summed up the situation in the phrase, “Thar
ain't nothin' for him to do, but set still.”

About eight o'clock, however, Richards raced up, with his horse in a
lather, and announced that Custer, with three hundred men, had started
from Wichita before six.

“He'll be hyar in half an hour,” he concluded.

Hurried counsel was taken; fifty men sought cover behind the stooks of
corn, the rest lined the skirting woods. When all was in order, Bancroft
was deputed to go and fetch the Elder, whom he eventually discovered at
the wood pile, sawing and splitting logs for firewood.

“Make haste, Elder,” he cried, “Morris has sent me for you, and there's
no time to be lost. Custer, with three hundred men, left Wichita at six
o'clock this morning, and they'll be here very soon.”

The Elder paused unwillingly, and resting on his axe asked: “Is Morris
alone?”

“No!” replied Bancroft, amazed to think the Elder could have forgotten
the arrangements he had heard described the evening before. “There
are two hundred men down there in the corner and in the woods,” and he
rapidly sketched the position.

“It's all right then, I guess,” the Elder decided. “They'll get along
without me. Tell Morris I'm at my chores.” Beginning his work again, he
added, “I've something to _do_ hyar.”

From the old man's manner Bancroft was convinced that solicitation would
be a waste of time. He returned to the corner, where he found Morris
standing inside the fence.

“I guessed so,” was Morris's comment upon the Elder's attitude; “we'll
hev to do without him, I reckon. You and me'll stay hyar in the open;
we don't want to shoot ef we kin avoid it; there ain't no reason to as I
kin see.”

Ten minutes afterwards the cavalry crossed the bridge two deep, and
wound snake-like towards the corner. With the first files came General
Custer, accompanied by half-a-dozen officers, among whom Bancroft
recognized the young lieutenant. Singling Morris out, the General rode
up to the fence and addressed him with formal politeness:

“Mr. Conklin?”

“No,” replied Morris, “but I'm hyar fer him, I guess--an' about two
hundred more ef I'm not enough,” he added drily, waving his hand towards
the woods.

With a half-turn in his saddle and a glance at the line of trees on his
flank, General Custer took in the situation. Clearly there was nothing
to do but to retreat, with some show of dignity.

“Where shall I find Mr. Conklin? I wish to speak to him.”

“I'll guide you,” was Morris's answer, “ef you'll come alone; he
mightn't fancy so many visitors to onc't.”

As Morris and Bancroft climbed over the fence and led the way towards
the homestead, some of the armed farmers strolled from behind the stocks
into the open, and others showed themselves carelessly among the trees
on the bank of the creek. When the Elder was informed that General
Custer was at the front door, he laid down his axe, and in his
shirtsleeves went to meet him.

“Mr. Conklin, I believe?”

“That's my name, General.”

“You've resisted United States troops with arms, and now, it seems,
you've got up a rebellion.”

“I guess not, General; I guess not. I was Union all through the war; I
came hyar as an Abolitionist. I only want to keep my fences up as long
as they'll stand, an' cut my corn in peace.”

“Well,” General Custer resumed, after a pause, “I must send to
Washington for instructions and state the facts as I know them, but if
the Federal authorities tell me to carry out the law, as I've no doubt
they will, I shall be compelled to do so, and resistance on your part
can only cause useless bloodshed.”

“That's so,” was the quiet reply; but what the phrase meant was not
very clear save to Bancroft, who understood that the Elder was unable or
unwilling to discuss a mere hypothesis.

With a curt motion of his hand to his cap General Custer cantered off to
rejoin his men, who shortly afterwards filed again across the bridge on
their way back to camp.

When the coast was clear of soldiers some of the older settlers went up
to Conklin's to take counsel together. It was agreed to collect from all
the farmers interested two dollars a head for law expenses, and to send
at once for Lawyer Barkman of Wichita, in order to have his opinion
on the case. Morris offered to bring Barkman next day about noon to
Conklin's, and this proposal was accepted. If any other place had been
fixed upon, it would have been manifestly impossible to secure the
Elder's presence, for his refusal again to leave the wood pile had
converted his back-stoop into the council-chamber. Without more ado the
insurgents dispersed, every man to his house.

On returning home to dinner next day Bancroft noticed a fine buggy
drawn up outside the stable, and a negro busily engaged in grooming two
strange horses. When he entered the parlour he was not surprised to find
that Morris had already arrived with the lawyer. Barkman was about forty
years of age; above the medium height and very stout, but active. His
face was heavy; its outlines obscured by fat; the nose, however, was
thin and cocked inquisitively, and the eyes, though small, were restless
and intelligent. He was over-dressed; his black frockcoat was brand
new; the diamond stud which shone in the centre of a vast expanse of
shirt-front, was nearly the size of a five-cent piece--his appearance
filled Bancroft with contempt. Nevertheless he seemed to know his
business. As soon as he had heard the story he told them that an action
against the Elder would lie in the Federal Courts, and that the damages
would certainly be heavy. Still, something might be done; the act of
rebellion, he thought, would be difficult to prove; in fine, they must
wait on events.

At this moment Mrs. Conklin accompanied by Loo came in to announce that
dinner was ready. It was manifest that the girl's beauty made a deep
impression on Barkman. Before seeing her he had professed to regard the
position as hopeless, or nearly so; now he was ready to reconsider his
first opinion, or rather to modify it. His quick intelligence appeared
to have grown keener as he suddenly changed his line of argument, and
began to set forth the importance of getting the case fully and fairly
discussed in Washington.

“I must get clear affidavits from all the settlers,” he said, “and then,
I guess, we'll show the authorities in Washington that this isn't a
question in which they should interfere. But if I save you,” he went
on, with a laugh intended to simulate frank good-nature, “I s'pose I may
reckon on your votes when I run for Congress.”

It was understood at once that he had pitched upon the best possible
method of defence. Morris seemed to speak for all when he said:

“Ef you'll take the trouble now, I guess we'll ensure your election.”

“Never mind the election, that was only a jest,” replied the lawyer
good-humouredly; “and the trouble's not worth talkin' about. If Miss
Conklin,” and here he turned respectfully towards her, “would take a
seat in my buggy and show me the chief settlers' houses, I reckon I
could fix up the case in three or four days.”

The eyes of all were directed upon Loo. Was it Bancroft's jealousy that
made him smile contemptuously as he, too, glanced at her? If so, the
disdain was ill-timed. Flushing slightly, she answered, “I guess I'll be
pleased to do what I can,” and she met the schoolmaster's eyes defiantly
as she spoke.

       *       *       *       *       *

With the advent of Barkman upon the scene a succession of new
experiences began for Bancroft. He was still determined not to be
seduced into making Loo his wife. But now the jealousy that is born of
desire and vanity tormented him, and the mere thought that Barkman
might marry and live with her irritated him intensely. She was worthy of
better things than marriage with such a man. She was vain, no doubt, and
lacking in the finer sensibilities, the tremulous moral instincts which
are the crown and glory of womanhood; but it was not her fault that her
education had been faulty, her associates coarse--and after all she was
very beautiful.

On returning home one afternoon he saw Barkman walking with her in the
peach orchard. As they turned round the girl called to him, and came
at once to meet him; but his jealousy would not be appeased. Her
flower-like face, framed, so to speak, by the autumn foliage, only
increased his anger. He could not bear to _see_ her flirting. Were she
out of his sight, he felt for the first time, he would not care what she
did.

“You were goin' in without speakin',” she said reproachfully.

“You have a man with you whose trade is talk. I'm not needed,” was his
curt reply.

Half-incensed, half-gratified by his passionate exclamation, she drew
back, while Barkman, advancing, said:

“Good day, Mr. Bancroft, good day. I was just tryin' to persuade Miss
Conklin to come for another drive this evenin' in order to get this
business of ours settled as soon as possible.”

“Another drive.” Bancroft repeated the words to himself, and then
steadying his voice answered coolly: “You'll have no difficulty, lawyer.
I was just telling Miss Conklin that you talked splendidly--the result
of constant practice, I presume.”

“That's it, sir,” replied the lawyer seriously; “it's chiefly a matter
of practice added to gift--natural gift,” but here Barkman's conceit
died out as he caught an uneasy, impatient movement of Miss Conklin,
and he went on quietly with the knowledge of life and the adaptability
gained by long experience: “But anyway, I'm glad you agree with me, for
Miss Conklin may take your advice after rejectin' mine.”

Bancroft saw the trap, but could not restrain himself. With a
contemptuous smile he said:

“I'm sure no advice of mine is needed; Miss Conklin has already made up
her mind to gratify you. She likes to show the country to strangers,” he
added bitterly.

The girl flushed at the sarcasm, but her spirit was not subdued.

“Wall, Mr. Barkman,” she retorted, with a smiling glance at the lawyer,
“I guess I must give in; if Mr. Bancroft thinks I ought ter, there's no
more to be said. I'm willin'.”

An evening or two later, Barkman having gone into Wichita, Bancroft
asked Loo to go out with him upon the stoop. For several minutes he
stood in silence admiring the moonlit landscape; then he spoke as if to
himself:

“Not a cloud in the purple depths, no breath of air, no sound nor stir
of life--peace absolute that mocks at man's cares and restlessness.
Look, Loo, how the ivory light bathes the prairie and shimmers on the
sea of corn, and makes of the little creek a ribband of silver....

“Yet you seem to prefer a great diamond gleaming in a white shirt-front,
and a coarse, common face, and vulgar talk.

“You,” and he turned to her, “whose beauty is like the beauty of nature
itself, perfect and ineffable. When I think of you and that coarse
brute together, I shall always remember this moonlight and the hateful
zig-zagging snake-fence there that disfigures and defiles its beauty.”

The girl looked up at him, only half understanding his rhapsody, but
glowing with the hope called to life by his extravagant praise of her.
“Why, George,” she said shyly, because wholly won, “I don't think no
more of Lawyer Barkman than the moon thinks of the fence--an' I guess
that's not much,” she added, with a little laugh of complete content.

The common phrases of uneducated speech and the vulgar accent of what
he thought her attempt at smart rejoinder offended him. Misunderstanding
her literalness of mind, he moved away, and shortly afterwards
re-entered the house.

Of course Loo was dissatisfied with such incidents as these. When she
saw Bancroft trying to draw Barkman out and throw contempt upon him, she
never dreamed of objecting. But when he attacked her, she flew to her
weapons. What had she done, what was she doing, to deserve his sneers?
She only wished him to love her, and she felt indignantly that every
time she teased him by going with Barkman, he was merciless, and
whenever she abandoned herself to him, he drew back. She couldn't bear
that; it was cruel of him. She loved him, yes; no one, she knew, would
ever make him so good a wife as she would. No one ever could. Why,
there was nothin' she wouldn't do for him willingly. She'd see after
his comforts an' everythin'. She'd tidy all his papers an' fix up his
things. And if he ever got ill, she'd jest wait on him day and night--so
she would. She'd be the best wife to him that ever was.

Oh, why couldn't he be good to her always? That was all she wanted, to
feel he loved her; then she'd show him how she loved him. He'd be happy,
as happy as the day was long. How foolish men were! they saw nothin'
that was under their noses.

“P'r'aps he does love me,” she said to herself; “he talked the other
evenin' beautiful; I guess he don't talk like that to every one, and
yet he won't give in to me an' jest be content--once for all. It's their
pride makes 'em like that; their silly, stupid pride. Nothin' else. Men
air foolish things. I've no pride at all when I think of him, except I
know that no one else could make him as happy as I could. Oh my!” and
she sighed with a sense of the mysterious unnecessary suffering in life.

“An' he goes on bein' mad with Lawyer Barkman. Fancy, that fat old man.
He warn't jealous of Seth Stevens or the officer, no; but of him. Why,
it's silly. Barkman don't count anyway. He talks well, yes, an' he's
always pleasant, always; but he's jest not in it. Men air foolish
anyway.” She was beginning to acknowledge that all her efforts to gain
her end might prove unsuccessful.

Barkman, with his varied experience and the cooler blood of forty,
saw more of the game than either Bancroft or Loo. He had learnt that
compliments and attention count for much with women, and having studied
Miss Conklin he was sure that persistent flattery would go a long way
towards winning her. “I've gained harder cases by studying the jury,”
 he thought, “and I'll get her because I know her. That schoolmaster
irritates her; I won't. He says unpleasant things to her; I'll say
pleasant things and she'll turn to me. She likes to be admired; I guess
that means dresses and diamonds. Well, she shall have them, have all
she wants.... The mother ain't a factor, that's plain, and the father's
sittin' on the fence; he'll just do anythin' for the girl, and if he
ain't well off--what does that matter? I don't want money;” and his
chest expanded with a proud sense of disinterestedness.

“Why does the schoolmaster run after her? what would he do with such a
woman? He couldn't even keep her properly if he got her. It's a duty to
save the girl from throwin' herself away on a young, untried man like
that.” He felt again that his virtue ought to help him to succeed.

“What a handsome figure she has! Her arms are perfect, firm as marble;
and her neck--round, too, and not a line on it, and how she walks! She's
the woman I want--so lovely I'll always be proud of her. What a wife
she'll make! My first wife was pretty, but not to be compared to her.
Who'd ever have dreamt of finding such a beauty in this place? How lucky
I am after all. Yes, lucky because I know just what I want, and go for
it right from the start. That's all. That's what luck means.

“Women are won little by little,” he concluded. “Whoever knows them
and humours them right along, flattering their weak points, is sure to
succeed some time or other. And I can wait.”

He got his opportunity by waiting. As Loo took her seat in the buggy one
afternoon he saw that she was nervous and irritable. “The schoolmaster's
been goin' for her--the derned fool,” he said to himself, and at once
began to soothe her. The task was not an easy one. She was cold to him
at first and even spiteful; she laughed at what he said and promised,
and made fun of his pretensions. His kindly temper stood him in good
stead. He was quietly persistent; with the emollient of good-nature
he wooed her in his own fashion, and before they reached the first
settler's house he had half won her to kindliness. Here he made his
victory complete. At every question he appealed to her deferentially for
counsel and decision; he reckoned Miss Conklin would know, he relied on
her for the facts, and when she spoke he guessed that just settled the
matter; her opinion was good enough for him, and so forth.

Wounded to the soul by Bancroft's persistent, undeserved contempt, the
girl felt that now at last she had met some one who appreciated her, and
she gave herself up to the charm of dexterous flattery.

From her expression and manner while they drove homewards, Barkman
believed that the game was his own. He went on talking to her with the
reverence which he had already found to be so effective. There was no
one like her. What a lawyer she'd have made! How she got round the wife
and induced the husband to sign the petition--'twas wonderful! He had
never imagined a woman could be so tactful and winning. He had never met
a man who was her equal in persuading people.

The girl drank in the praise as a dry land drinks the rain. He meant
it all; that was clear. He had shown it in his words and acts--there,
before the Croftons. She had always believed she could do such
things; she didn't care much about books, and couldn't talk fine about
moonlight, but the men an' women she knew, she understood. She was sure
of that. But still, 'twas pleasant to hear it. He must love her or he
never could appreciate her as he did. She reckoned he was very clever;
the best lawyer in the State. Every one knew that. And he had said no
man was equal to her. Oh, if only the other, if only George had told her
so; but he was too much wrapped up in himself, and after all what was he
anyway? Yet, if he had--

At this point of her musings the lawyer, seeing the flushed cheeks and
softened glance, believed his moment had come, and resolved to use it.
His passion made him forget that it was possible to go too fast.

“Miss Conklin,” he began seriously, “if you'd join with me there's
nothin' we two couldn't do, nothin'! They call me the first lawyer in
the State, and I guess I'll get to Washington soon; but with you to
help me I'd be there before this year's out. As the wife of a Member of
Congress, you would show them all the way. I'm rich already; that is, I
can do whatever you want, and it's a shame for such genius as yours, and
such talent, to be hidden here among people who don't know how to value
you properly. In New York or in Washington you'd shine; become a social
power,” and as the words “New York” caused the girl to look at him with
eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching
triumph: “Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice
everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful
than any young man, and,” here he slipped his arm round her waist, “I
guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you,
Loo, as my wife?”

The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a
buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to
her the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she
answered, it was with full self-possession:

“I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to
marry--anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to
live in New York; but--I can't make up my mind all at once. You must
wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard.”

“Yes, it's hard,” Barkman replied, “very hard to feel uncertain of
winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,”
 he added, after a pause, “I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just
what you wish.”

“Well, then,” she resumed, mollified by his humility, “you'll go back
to Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return,
the day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?” and she
smiled up in his face.

“Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect,” he acknowledged. “Hope
from you is better than certainty from any other woman.” In this mood
they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow
Barkman even to get down; he was to go right off at once, but when he
returned she'd meet him. With a grave respectful bow he lifted his
hat, and drove away. On the whole, he had reason to be proud of his
diplomacy; reason, too, for saying to himself that at last he had got on
“the inside track.” Still, all the factors in the problem were not seen
even by his keen eyes.

The next morning, Loo began to reflect upon what she should do. It did
not occur to her that she had somewhat compromised herself with the
lawyer by giving him leave, and, in fact, encouragement to expect a
favourable answer. She was so used to looking at all affairs from the
point of view of her own self-interest and satisfaction, that such an
idea did not even enter her head. She simply wanted to decide on what
was best for herself. She considered the matter as it seemed to her,
from all sides, without arriving at any decision. Barkman was kind, and
good to her; but she didn't care for him, and she loved George still.
Oh, why wasn't he like the other, always sympathetic and admiring? She
sat and thought. In the depths of her nature she felt that she couldn't
give George up, couldn't make up her mind to lose him; and why should
she, since they loved each other? What could she do?

Of a sudden she paused. She remembered how, more than a year before, she
had been invited to Eureka for a ball. She had stayed with her friend
Miss Jennie Blood; by whose advice and with whose help she had worn for
the first time a low-necked dress. She had been uncomfortable in it at
first, very uncomfortable, but the men liked it, all of them. She had
seen their admiration in their eyes; as Jennie had said, it fetched
them. If only George could see her in a low-necked dress--she flushed
as she thought of it--perhaps he'd admire her, and then she'd be quite
happy. But there were never any balls or parties in this dead-and-alive
township! How could she manage it?

The solution came to her with a shock of half-frightened excitement. It
was warm still, very warm, in the middle of the day; why shouldn't she
dress as for a dance, somethin' like it anyway, and go into George's
room to put it straight just before he came home from school? Her heart
beat quickly as she reflected. After all, what harm was there in it? She
recollected hearing that in the South all the girls wore low dresses
in summer, and she loved George, and she was sure he loved her. Any one
would do it, and no one would know. She resolved to try on the dress,
just to see how it suited her. There was no harm in that. She took off
her thin cotton gown quickly, and put on the ball-dress. But when she
had dragged the chest of drawers before the window and had propped up
the little glass on it to have a good look at herself, she grew hot. She
couldn't wear that, not in daylight; it looked, oh, it looked--and she
blushed crimson. Besides, the tulle was all frayed and faded. No,
she couldn't wear it! Oh!--and her eyes filled with tears of envy and
vexation. If only she were rich, like lots of other girls, she could
have all sorts of dresses. 'Twas unfair, so it was. She became desperate
with disappointment, and set her wits to work again. She had plenty of
time still. George wouldn't be back before twelve. She must choose a
dress he had never seen; then he wouldn't know but what she often wore
it so. Nervously, hurriedly, she selected a cotton frock, and before the
tiny glass pinned and arranged it over her shoulders and bust, higher
than the ball-dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the
daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form
that a Parisian _couturière_ might have envied, and went to work. Her
nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and
then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision
of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue
ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and
round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of
colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of
her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely,
prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved
beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd
be pleased.

She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved.
After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed
a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the
feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders,
and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she
could throw it back or draw it round her at will.

At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for
the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her
so--and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides--why, she
couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he
must--why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of
her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other
men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out.
Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his
fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush
of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any man.

An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo
turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise,
drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight
across her breast.

“Oh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixin' up your things.” And
the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.

“Thank you,” he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of
expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: “Why,
Loo, how well you look! I like that dress; it suits you.” And he stepped
towards her.

She held out both hands as if to meet his, but by the gesture the
woollen scarf was thrown back, and her form unveiled. Once again her
mere beauty stung the young man to desire, but something of a conscious
look in her face gave him thought, and, scrutinizing her coldly, he
said:

“I suppose that dress was put on for Mr. Barkman's benefit.”

“Oh, George!” she cried, in utter dismay, “he hain't been here to-day.”
 And then, as the hard expression did not leave his face, she added
hurriedly: “I put it on for you, George. Do believe me.”

Still his face did not alter. Suddenly she understood that she had
betrayed her secret. She burst into bitter tears.

He took her in his arms and spoke perfunctory words of consolation; her
body yielded to his touch, and in a few moments he was soothing her
in earnest. Her grief was uncontrollable. “I've jest done everythin',
everythin' and it's all no use,” she sobbed aloud. When he found that
he could not check the tears, he grew irritated; he divined her little
stratagem, and his lip curled. How unmaidenly! In a flash, she stood
before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked. The pity of it did
not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt only contempt for
her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long, choking sob she moved
to the door and disappeared. She went blindly along the passage to her
room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried as if her heart would
break. Then followed a period of utter abject misery. She had lost
everythin'; George didn't care for her; she'd have to live all her life
without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.

The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was
intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her
in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his
eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd
tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated
him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded
her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she
must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could.
They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but
these tears relieved her, did her good.

She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her
away to New York. Marry him?--she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make
up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her.
Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do
that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd
go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet
kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid
time.

She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble--no
one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if
she told her anythin', she'd only set down an' cry. She'd write and
say she was comfortable; and her father?--he'd get over it. He was
kind always, but he never felt much anyway--leastwise, he never showed
anythin'. When they got her letter 'twould be all right. That was what
she'd do--and so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she
sat and thought, letting her imagination work.

A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly,
had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won
easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or
two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply:

“Hev you seen Loo yet?”

“No. Is she down?”

“I reckoned you'd know ef she had made out anythin' partikler to do
to-day.”

“No,” he repeated seriously, the Elder's manner impressing him. “No! she
told me nothing, but perhaps she hasn't got up yet.”

“She ain't in her room.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn't hear buggy-wheels last night--along towards two o'clock?”

“No, but--you don't mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!” And Bancroft started
up with horror in his look.

The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he
gradually took in the sincerity of the young man's excitement, he
turned, and left the room.

To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his
knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head
the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell.
At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips:

“Lord, Lord! 'Tain't right to punish her. She knowed nothin'. She's so
young. I did wrong, but I kain't bear her to be punished.

“P'r'aps You've laid this on me jes' to show I'm foolish and weak.
That's so, O Lord! I'm in the hollow of Your hand. But You'll save her,
O Lord! for Jesus' sake.

“I'm all broke up. I kain't pray. I'm skeered. Lord Christ, help her;
stan' by her; be with her. O Lord, forgive!”

JUNE AND JULY, 1891.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE SHERIFF AND HIS PARTNER.

One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locock's
law-office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York from
Liverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking in
vain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised to
let me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides,
for my services as a clerk. I was fairly satisfied with the prospect,
and the little town interested me. An outpost of civilization, it was
situated on the border of the great plains, which were still looked
upon as the natural possession of the nomadic Indian tribes. It owed its
importance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led from
the prairies of Texas through this no man's land to the railway system,
and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north could
find a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. For
some years they had made of Kiota a hell upon earth. But gradually the
land in the neighbourhood was taken up by farmers, emigrants chiefly
from New England, who were determined to put an end to the reign of
violence. A man named Johnson was their leader in establishing order
and tranquillity. Elected, almost as soon as he came to the town, to the
dangerous post of City Marshal, he organized a vigilance committee
of the younger and more daring settlers, backed by whom he resolutely
suppressed the drunken rioting of the cowboys. After the ruffians
had been taught to behave themselves, Johnson was made Sheriff of the
County, a post which gave him a house and permanent position. Though
married now, and apparently “settled down,” the Sheriff was a sort of
hero in Kiota. I had listened to many tales about him, showing desperate
determination veined with a sense of humour, and I often regretted that
I had reached the place too late to see him in action. I had little
or nothing to do in the office. The tedium of the long days was almost
unbroken, and Stephen's “Commentaries” had become as monotonous and
unattractive as the bare uncarpeted floor. The heat was tropical, and
I was dozing when a knock startled me. A negro boy slouched in with a
bundle of newspapers:

“This yer is Jedge Locock's, I guess?”

“I guess so,” was my answer as I lazily opened the third or fourth
number of the “Kiota Weekly Tribune.” Glancing over the sheet my eye
caught the following paragraph:

“HIGHWAY ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE.

“JUDGE SHANNON STOPPED.

“THE OUTLAW ESCAPES.

“HE KNOWS SHERIFF JOHNSON.

“Information has just reached us of an outrage perpetrated on the person
of one of our most respected fellow-citizens. The crime was committed in
daylight, on the public highway within four miles of this city; a crime,
therefore, without parallel in this vicinity for the last two years.
Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted,
and we have no sort of doubt that they can command, if necessary, the
succour and aid of each and every citizen of this locality in order to
bring the offending miscreant to justice.

“We now place the plain recital of this outrage before our readers.

“Yesterday afternoon, as Ex-Judge Shannon was riding from his law-office
in Kiota towards his home on Sumach Bluff, he was stopped about four
miles from this town by a man who drew a revolver on him, telling him
at the same time to pull up. The Judge, being completely unarmed and
unprepared, obeyed, and was told to get down from the buckboard, which
he did. He was then ordered to put his watch and whatever money he had,
in the road, and to retreat three paces.

“The robber pocketed the watch and money, and told him he might tell
Sheriff Johnson that Tom Williams had 'gone through him,' and that he
(Williams) could be found at the saloon in Osawotamie at any time. The
Judge now hoped for release, but Tom Williams (if that be the robber's
real name) seemed to get an afterthought, which he at once proceeded to
carry into effect. Drawing a knife he cut the traces, and took out of
the shafts the Judge's famous trotting mare, Lizzie D., which he mounted
with the remark:

“'Sheriff Johnson, I reckon, would come after the money anyway, but the
hoss'll fetch him----sure pop.'

“These words have just been given to us by Judge Shannon himself, who
tells us also that the outrage took place on the North Section Line,
bounding Bray's farm.

“After this speech the highway robber Williams rode towards the township
of Osawotamie, while Judge Shannon, after drawing the buckboard to the
edge of the track, was compelled to proceed homewards on foot.

“The outrage, as we have said, took place late last evening, and Judge
Shannon, we understand, did not trouble to inform the County authorities
of the circumstance till to-day at noon, after leaving our office.
What the motive of the crime may have been we do not worry ourselves to
inquire; a crime, an outrage upon justice and order, has been committed;
that is all we care to know. If anything fresh happens in this
connection we propose to issue a second edition of this paper. Our
fellow-citizens may rely upon our energy and watchfulness to keep them
posted.

“Just before going to press we learn that Sheriff Johnson was out of
town attending to business when Judge Shannon called; but Sub-Sheriff
Jarvis informs us that he expects the Sheriff back shortly. It is
necessary to add, by way of explanation, that Mr. Jarvis cannot leave
the jail unguarded, even for a few hours.”

As may be imagined this item of news awakened my keenest interest. It
fitted in with some things that I knew already, and I was curious to
learn more. I felt that this was the first act in a drama. Vaguely I
remembered some one telling in disconnected phrases why the Sheriff had
left Missouri, and come to Kansas:

“'Twas after a quor'll with a pardner of his, named Williams, who kicked
out.”

Bit by bit the story, to which I had not given much attention when I
heard it, so casually, carelessly was it told, recurred to my memory.

“They say as how Williams cut up rough with Johnson, and drawed a
knife on him, which Johnson gripped with his left while he pulled
trigger.--Williams, I heerd, was in the wrong; I hain't perhaps got the
right end of it; anyhow, you might hev noticed the Sheriff hes lost the
little finger off his left hand.--Johnson, they say, got right up and
lit out from Pleasant Hill. Perhaps the folk in Mizzoori kinder liked
Williams the best of the two; I don't know. Anyway, Sheriff Johnson's
a square man; his record here proves it. An' real grit, you bet your
life.”

The narrative had made but a slight impression on me at the time; I
didn't know the persons concerned, and had no reason to interest myself
in their fortunes. In those early days, moreover, I was often homesick,
and gave myself up readily to dreaming of English scenes and faces. Now
the words and drawling intonation came back to me distinctly, and with
them the question: Was the robber of Judge Shannon the same Williams who
had once been the Sheriff's partner? My first impulse was to hurry into
the street and try to find out; but it was the chief part of my duty to
stay in the office till six o'clock; besides, the Sheriff was “out of
town,” and perhaps would not be back that day. The hours dragged to an
end at last; my supper was soon finished, and, as night drew down, I
hastened along the wooden side-walk of Washington Street towards the
Carvell House. This hotel was much too large for the needs of the little
town; it contained some fifty bedrooms, of which perhaps half-a-dozen
were permanently occupied by “high-toned” citizens, and a billiard-room
of gigantic size, in which stood nine tables, as well as the famous bar.
The space between the bar, which ran across one end of the room, and
the billiard-tables, was the favourite nightly resort of the prominent
politicians and gamblers. There, if anywhere, my questions would be
answered.

On entering the billiard-room I was struck by the number of men who had
come together. Usually only some twenty or thirty were present, half
of whom sat smoking and chewing about the bar, while the rest watched a
game of billiards or took a “life” in pool. This evening, however, the
billiard-tables were covered with their slate-coloured “wraps,” while
at least a hundred and fifty men were gathered about the open space of
glaring light near the bar. I hurried up the room, but as I approached
the crowd my steps grew slower, and I became half ashamed of my eager,
obtrusive curiosity and excitement. There was a kind of reproof in the
lazy, cool glance which one man after another cast upon me, as I went
by. Assuming an air of indecision I threaded my way through the chairs
uptilted against the sides of the billiard-tables. I had drained a glass
of Bourbon whisky before I realized that these apparently careless men
were stirred by some emotion which made them more cautious, more silent,
more warily on their guard than usual. The gamblers and loafers, too,
had taken “back seats” this evening, whilst hard-working men of the
farmer class who did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell House
were to be seen in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious,
and was being taken seriously.

The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of no
interest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invited
the “crowd” to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moral
atmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew upon
me. These men “meant business.”

Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into the
room.

“Good evenin',” he said; and a dozen voices, one after another, answered
with “Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!” A big frontiersman, however,
a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had been on the old vigilance
committee, walked from the centre of the group in front of the bar to
the Sheriff, and held out his hand with:

“Shake, old man, and name the drink.” The

Sheriff took the proffered hand as if mechanically, and turned to the
bar with “Whisky--straight.” Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height,
sturdily built. A broad forehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met
everything fairly, testified in his favour. The nose, however, was
fleshy and snub. The mouth was not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at,
so thickly did the brown moustache and beard grow; but the short beard
seemed rather to exaggerate than conceal an extravagant outjutting
of the lower jaw, that gave a peculiar expression of energy and
determination to the face. His manner was unobtrusively quiet and
deliberate.

It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to the
bar-lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among the
puritanical or middle-class section of the community. No one, however,
seemed to pay any further attention to him or to remark the unusual
cordiality of Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed before
anything of note occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know,
a farmer, by his dress, drew a copy of the “Kiota Tribune” from his
pocket, and, stretching it towards Johnson, asked with a very marked
Yankee twang:

“Sheriff, hev yeou read this 'Tribune'?”

Wheeling half round towards his questioner, the Sheriff replied:

“Yes, sir, I hev.” A pause ensued, which was made significant to me by
the fact that the bar-keeper suspended his hand and did not pour out the
whisky he had just been asked to supply--a pause during which the two
faced each other; it was broken by the farmer saying:

“Ez yeou wer out of town to-day, I allowed yeou might hev missed seein'
it. I reckoned yeou'd come straight hyar before yeou went to hum.”

“No, Crosskey,” rejoined the Sheriff, with slow emphasis; “I went home
first and came on hyar to see the boys.”

“Wall,” said Mr. Crosskey, as it seemed to me, half apologetically,
“knowin' yeou I guessed yeou ought to hear the facks,” then, with some
suddenness, stretching out his hand, he added, “I hev some way to go,
an' my old woman 'ull be waitin' up fer me. Good night, Sheriff.” The
hands met while the Sheriff nodded: “Good night, Jim.”

After a few greetings to right and left Mr. Crosskey left the bar.
The crowd went on smoking, chewing, and drinking, but the sense
of expectancy was still in the air, and the seriousness seemed, if
anything, to have increased. Five or ten minutes may have passed when a
man named Reid, who had run for the post of Sub-Sheriff the year before,
and had failed to beat Johnson's nominee Jarvis, rose from his chair and
asked abruptly:

“Sheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you to-morrow?”

With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriff
answered:

“I guess not, Mr. Reid.”

Quickly Reid replied: “Then I reckon there's no use in us stayin';” and
turning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he added,
“Let's go, boys!”

The men got up and filed out after their leader without greeting the
Sheriff in any way. With the departure of this group the shadow lifted.
Those who still remained showed in manner a marked relief, and a
moment or two later a man named Morris, whom I knew to be a gambler by
profession, called out lightly:

“The crowd and you'll drink with me, Sheriff, I hope? I want another
glass, and then we won't keep you up any longer, for you ought to have a
night's rest with to-morrow's work before you.”

The Sheriff smiled assent. Every one moved towards the bar, and
conversation became general. Morris was the centre of the company, and
he directed the talk jokingly to the account in the “Tribune,” making
fun, as it seemed to me, though I did not understand all his allusions,
of the editor's timidity and pretentiousness. Morris interested and
amused me even more than he amused the others; he talked like a man of
some intelligence and reading, and listening to him I grew light-hearted
and careless, perhaps more careless than usual, for my spirits had been
ice-bound in the earlier gloom of the evening.

“Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted,”
 some one said.

“Mark that 'fortunately,' Sheriff,” laughed Morris. “The editor was
afraid to mention you alone, so he hitched the State on with you to
lighten the load.”

“Ay!” chimed in another of the gamblers, “and the 'aid and succour of
each and every citizen,' eh, Sheriff, as if you'd take the whole town
with you. I guess two or three'll be enough fer Williams.”

This annoyed me. It appeared to me that Williams had addressed a
personal challenge to the Sheriff, and I thought that Johnson should
so consider it. Without waiting for the Sheriff to answer, whether in
protest or acquiescence, I broke in:

“Two or three would be cowardly. One should go, and one only.” At once I
felt rather than saw the Sheriff free himself from the group of men; the
next moment he stood opposite to me.

“What was that?” he asked sharply, holding me with keen eye and
out-thrust chin--repressed passion in voice and look.

The antagonism of his bearing excited and angered me not a little. I
replied:

“I think it would be cowardly to take two or three against a single man.
I said one should go, and I say so still.”

“Do you?” he sneered. “I guess you'd go alone, wouldn't you? to bring
Williams in?”

“If I were paid for it I should,” was my heedless retort. As I spoke his
face grew white with such passion that I instinctively put up my hands
to defend myself, thinking he was about to attack me. The involuntary
movement may have seemed boyish to him, for thought came into his eyes,
and his face relaxed; moving away he said quietly:

“I'll set up drinks, boys.”

They grouped themselves about him and drank, leaving me isolated. But
this, now my blood was up, only added to the exasperation I felt at his
contemptuous treatment, and accordingly I walked to the bar, and as
the only unoccupied place was by Johnson's side I went there and said,
speaking as coolly as I could:

“Though no one asks me to drink I guess I'll take some whisky,
bar-keeper, if you please.” Johnson was standing with his back to me,
but when I spoke he looked round, and I saw, or thought I saw, a sort of
curiosity in his gaze. I met his eye defiantly. He turned to the others
and said, in his ordinary, slow way:

“Wall, good night, boys; I've got to go. It's gittin' late, an' I've had
about as much as I want.”

Whether he alluded to the drink or to my impertinence I was unable to
divine. Without adding a word he left the room amid a chorus of “Good
night, Sheriff!” With him went Martin and half-a-dozen more.

I thought I had come out of the matter fairly well until I spoke to
some of the men standing near. They answered me, it is true, but in
monosyllables, and evidently with unwillingness. In silence I finished
my whisky, feeling that every one was against me for some inexplicable
cause. I resented this and stayed on. In a quarter of an hour the rest
of the crowd had departed, with the exception of Morris and a few of the
same kidney.

When I noticed that these gamblers, outlaws by public opinion, held away
from me, I became indignant. Addressing myself to Morris, I asked:

“Can you tell me, sir, for you seem to be an educated man, what I have
said or done to make you all shun me?”

“I guess so,” he answered indifferently. “You took a hand in a game
where you weren't wanted. And you tried to come in without ever having
paid the _ante,_ which is not allowed in any game--at least not in any
game played about here.”

The allusion seemed plain; I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner;
that must be my offence. With a “Good night, sir; good night,
bar-keeper!” I left the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning I went as usual to the office. I may have been seated
there about an hour--it was almost eight o'clock--when I heard a knock
at the door.

“Come in,” I said, swinging round in the American chair, to find myself
face to face with Sheriff Johnson.

“Why, Sheriff, come in!” I exclaimed cheerfully, for I was relieved
at seeing him, and so realized more clearly than ever that the
unpleasantness of the previous evening had left in me a certain
uneasiness. I was eager to show that the incident had no importance:

“Won't you take a seat? and you'll have a cigar?--these are not bad.”

“No, thank you,” he answered. “No, I guess I won't sit nor smoke jest
now.” After a pause, he added, “I see you're studyin'; p'r'aps you're
busy to-day; I won't disturb you.”

“You don't disturb me, Sheriff,” I rejoined. “As for studying, there's
not much in it. I seem to prefer dreaming.”

“Wall,” he said, letting his eyes range round the walls furnished with
Law Reports bound in yellow calf, “I don't know, I guess there's a big
lot of readin' to do before a man gets through with all those.”

“Oh,” I laughed, “the more I read the more clearly I see that law is
only a sermon on various texts supplied by common sense.”

“Wall,” he went on slowly, coming a pace or two nearer and speaking with
increased seriousness, “I reckon you've got all Locock's business to see
after: his clients to talk to; letters to answer, and all that; and when
he's on the drunk I guess he don't do much. I won't worry you any more.”

“You don't worry me,” I replied. “I've not had a letter to answer in
three days, and not a soul comes here to talk about business or anything
else. I sit and dream, and wish I had something to do out there in the
sunshine. Your work is better than reading words, words--nothing but
words.”

“You ain't busy; hain't got anything to do here that might keep you?
Nothin'?”

“Not a thing. I'm sick of Blackstone and all Commentaries.”

Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder (moving half round in the
chair, I had for the moment turned sideways to him), and his voice was
surprisingly hard and quick:

“Then I swear you in as a Deputy-Sheriff of the United States, and of
this State of Kansas; and I charge you to bring in and deliver at the
Sheriff's house, in this county of Elwood, Tom Williams, alive or dead,
and--there's your fee, five dollars and twenty-five cents!” and he laid
the money on the table.

Before the singular speech was half ended I had swung round facing him,
with a fairly accurate understanding of what he meant. But the moment
for decision had come with such sharp abruptness, that I still did not
realize my position, though I replied defiantly as if accepting the
charge:

“I've not got a weapon.”

“The boys allowed you mightn't hev, and so I brought some along. You ken
suit your hand.” While speaking he produced two or three revolvers of
different sizes, and laid them before me.

Dazed by the rapid progress of the plot, indignant, too, at the trick
played upon me, I took up the nearest revolver and looked at it almost
without seeing it. The Sheriff seemed to take my gaze for that of an
expert's curiosity.

“It shoots true,” he said meditatively, “plumb true; but it's too small
to drop a man. I guess it wouldn't stop any one with grit in him.”

My anger would not allow me to consider his advice; I thrust the weapon
in my pocket:

“I haven't got a buggy. How am I to get to Osawotamie?”

“Mine's hitched up outside. You ken hev it.”

Rising to my feet I said: “Then we can go.”

We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped,
turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said:

“Don't play foolish. You've no call to go. Ef you're busy, ef you've
got letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, and
that'll be all; that'll let you out.”

Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: “You're young and a
tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the way
to do somethin'.--I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've just
got to get down and do it.”

“I've told you I had nothing to do,” I retorted angrily; “that's the
truth. Perhaps” (sarcastically) “this work chooses me.”

The Sheriff moved away from the door.

On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At that
hour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but now
it seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round the
entrance to Locock's office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tipped
up against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who sold
fruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few were
seated on the edge of the side-walk, with their feet in the dust of the
street. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figure
of Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriff's
buggy.

“Good morning,” I said in the air, but no one answered me. Mastering
my irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin,
divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him,
he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:

“Shoot off a joke quick. The boys'll let up on you then. It'll be all
right. Say somethin', for God's sake!”

The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart;
the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of my
self-confidence returned:

“I never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour can't be
produced to order.”

He fastened up the hitching-strap, while I gathered the reins together
and got into the buggy. When I was fairly seated he stepped to the
side of the open vehicle, and, holding out his hand, said, “Good day,”
 adding, as our hands clasped, “Wade in, young un; wade in.”

“Good day, Martin. Good day, Sheriff. Good day, boys!”

To my surprise there came a chorus of answering “Good days!” as I drove
up the street.

A few hundred yards I went, and then wheeled to the right past the post
office, and so on for a quarter of a mile, till I reached the descent
from the higher ground, on which the town was built, to the river.
There, on my left, on the verge of the slope, stood the Sheriff's house
in a lot by itself, with the long, low jail attached to it. Down the
hill I went, and across the bridge and out into the open country. I
drove rapidly for about five miles--more than halfway to Osawotamie--and
then I pulled up, in order to think quietly and make up my mind.

I grasped the situation now in all its details. Courage was the one
virtue which these men understood, the only one upon which they prided
themselves. I, a stranger, a “tenderfoot,” had questioned the courage
of the boldest among them, and this mission was their answer to my
insolence. The “boys” had planned the plot; Johnson was not to blame;
clearly he wanted to let me out of it; he would have been satisfied
there in the office if I had said that I was busy; he did not like to
put his work on any one else. And yet he must profit by my going. Were I
killed, the whole country would rise against Williams; whereas if I shot
Williams, the Sheriff would be relieved of the task. I wondered whether
the fact of his having married made any difference to the Sheriff.
Possibly--and yet it was not the Sheriff; it was the “boys” who had
insisted on giving me the lesson. Public opinion was dead against me. “I
had come into a game where I was not wanted, and I had never even paid
the _ante_”--that was Morris's phrase. Of course it was all clear now. I
had never given any proof of courage, as most likely all the rest had at
some time or other. That was the _ante_ Morris meant....

My wilfulness had got me into the scrape; I had only myself to thank.
Not alone the Sheriff but Martin would have saved me had I profited by
the door of escape which he had tried to open for me. Neither of them
wished to push the malice to the point of making me assume the Sheriff's
risk, and Martin at least, and probably the Sheriff also, had taken
my quick, half-unconscious words and acts as evidence of reckless
determination. If I intended to live in the West I must go through with
the matter.

But what nonsense it all was! Why should I chuck away my life in the
attempt to bring a desperate ruffian to justice? And who could say that
Williams was a ruffian? It was plain that his quarrel with the Sheriff
was one of old date and purely personal. He had “stopped” Judge Shannon
in order to bring about a duel with the Sheriff. Why should I fight the
Sheriff's duels? Justice, indeed! justice had nothing to do with this
affair; I did not even know which man was in the right. Reason led
directly to the conclusion that I had better turn the horse's head
northwards, drive as fast and as far as I could, and take the train as
soon as possible out of the country. But while I recognized that this
was the only sensible decision, I felt that I could not carry it into
action. To run away was impossible; my cheeks burned with shame at the
thought.

Was I to give my life for a stupid practical joke? “Yes!”--a voice
within me answered sharply. “It would be well if a man could always
choose the cause for which he risks his life, but it may happen that he
ought to throw it away for a reason that seems inadequate.”

“What ought I to do?” I questioned.

“Go on to Osawotamie, arrest Williams, and bring him into Kiota,”
 replied my other self.

“And if he won't come?”

“Shoot him--you are charged to deliver him 'alive or dead' at the
Sheriff's house. No more thinking, drive straight ahead and act as if
you were a representative of the law and Williams a criminal. It has to
be done.”

The resolution excited me, I picked up the reins and proceeded. At the
next section-line I turned to the right, and ten or fifteen minutes
later saw Osawotamie in the distance.

I drew up, laid the reins on the dashboard, and examined the revolver.
It was a small four-shooter, with a large bore. To make sure of its
efficiency I took out a cartridge; it was quite new. While weighing it
in my hand, the Sheriff's words recurred to me, “It wouldn't stop any
one with grit in him.” What did he mean? I didn't want to think, so
I put the cartridge in again, cocked and replaced the pistol in my
right-side jacket pocket, and drove on. Osawotamie consisted of a single
street of straggling frame-buildings. After passing half-a-dozen of
them I saw, on the right, one which looked to me like a saloon. It was
evidently a stopping-place. There were several hitching-posts, and
the house boasted instead of a door two green Venetian blinds put upon
rollers--the usual sign of a drinking-saloon in the West.

I got out of the buggy slowly and carefully, so as not to shift the
position of the revolver, and after hitching up the horse, entered the
saloon. Coming out of the glare of the sunshine I could hardly see in
the darkened room. In a moment or two my eyes grew accustomed to the dim
light, and I went over to the bar, which was on my left. The bar-keeper
was sitting down; his head and shoulders alone were visible; I asked him
for a lemon squash.

“Anythin' in it?” he replied, without lifting his eyes.

“No; I'm thirsty and hot.”

“I guessed that was about the figger,” he remarked, getting up leisurely
and beginning to mix the drink with his back to me.

I used the opportunity to look round the room. Three steps from me stood
a tall man, lazily leaning with his right arm on the bar, his fingers
touching a half-filled glass. He seemed to be gazing past me into
the void, and thus allowed me to take note of his appearance. In
shirt-sleeves, like the bar-keeper, he had a belt on in which were two
large revolvers with white ivory handles. His face was prepossessing,
with large but not irregular features, bronzed fair skin, hazel eyes,
and long brown moustache. He looked strong and was lithe of form, as if
he had not done much hard bodily work. There was no one else in the room
except a man who appeared to be sleeping at a table in the far corner
with his head pillowed on his arms.

As I completed this hasty scrutiny of the room and its inmates, the
bar-keeper gave me my squash, and I drank eagerly. The excitement had
made me thirsty, for I knew that the crisis must be at hand, but I
experienced no other sensation save that my heart was thumping and my
throat was dry. Yawning as a sign of indifference (I had resolved to
be as deliberate as the Sheriff) I put my hand in my pocket on the
revolver. I felt that I could draw it out at once.

I addressed the bar-keeper:

“Say, do you know the folk here in Osawotamie?”

After a pause he replied:

“Most on 'em, I guess.”

Another pause and a second question:

“Do you know Tom Williams?”

The eyes looked at me with a faint light of surprise in them; they
looked away again, and came back with short, half suspicious, half
curious glances.

“Maybe you're a friend of his'n?”

“I don't know him, but I'd like to meet him.”

“Would you, though?” Turning half round, the bar-keeper took down a
bottle and glass, and poured out some whisky, seemingly for his own
consumption. Then: “I guess he's not hard to meet, isn't Williams, ef
you and me mean the same man.”

“I guess we do,” I replied; “Tom Williams is the name.”

“That's me,” said the tall man who was leaning on the bar near me,
“that's my name.”

“Are you the Williams that stopped Judge Shannon yesterday?”

“I don't know his name,” came the careless reply, “but I stopped a man
in a buck-board.”

Plucking out my revolver, and pointing it low down on his breast, I
said:

“I'm sent to arrest you; you must come with me to Kiota.”

Without changing his easy posture, or a muscle of his face, he asked in
the same quiet voice:

“What does this mean, anyway? Who sent you to arrest me?”

“Sheriff Johnson,” I answered.

The man started upright, and said, as if amazed, in a quick, loud voice:

“Sheriff Johnson sent _you_ to arrest me?”

“Yes,” I retorted, “Sheriff Samuel Johnson swore me in this morning as
his deputy, and charged me to bring you into Kiota.”

In a tone of utter astonishment he repeated my words, “Sheriff Samuel
Johnson!”

“Yes,” I replied, “Samuel Johnson, Sheriff of Elwood County.”

“See here,” he asked suddenly, fixing me with a look of angry suspicion,
“what sort of a man is he? What does he figger like?”

“He's a little shorter than I am,” I replied curtly, “with a brown beard
and bluish eyes--a square-built sort of man.”

“Hell!” There was savage rage and menace in the exclamation.

“You kin put that up!” he added, absorbed once more in thought. I paid
no attention to this; I was not going to put the revolver away at his
bidding. Presently he asked in his ordinary voice:

“What age man might this Johnson be?”

“About forty or forty-five, I should think.”

“And right off Sam Johnson swore you in and sent you to bring me into
Kiota--an' him Sheriff?”

“Yes,” I replied impatiently, “that's so.”

“Great God!” he exclaimed, bringing his clenched right hand heavily down
on the bar. “Here, Zeke!” turning to the man asleep in the corner,
and again he shouted “Zeke!” Then, with a rapid change of manner, and
speaking irritably, he said to me:

“Put that thing up, I say.”

The bar-keeper now spoke too: “I guess when Tom sez you kin put it up,
you kin. You hain't got no use fur it.”

The changes of Williams' tone from wonder to wrath and then to quick
resolution showed me that the doubt in him had been laid, and that I
had but little to do with the decision at which he had arrived, whatever
that decision might be. I understood, too, enough of the Western spirit
to know that he would take no unfair advantage of me. I therefore
uncocked the revolver and put it back into my pocket. In the meantime
Zeke had got up from his resting-place in the corner and had made his
way sleepily to the bar. He had taken more to drink than was good for
him, though he was not now really drunk.

“Give me and Zeke a glass, Joe,” said Williams; “and this gentleman,
too, if he'll drink with me, and take one yourself with us.”

“No,” replied the bar-keeper sullenly, “I'll not drink to any damned
foolishness. An' Zeke won't neither.”

“Oh, yes, he will,” Williams returned persuasively, “and so'll you, Joe.
You aren't goin' back on me.”

“No, I'll be just damned if I am,” said the barkeeper, half-conquered.

“What'll you take, sir?” Williams asked me.

“The bar-keeper knows my figger,” I answered, half-jestingly, not yet
understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out
better than I had expected.

“And you, Zeke?” he went on.

“The old pizen,” Zeke replied.

“And now, Joe, whisky for you and me--the square bottle,” he continued,
with brisk cheerfulness.

In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the
glasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at
the same time:

“Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don't come
then, you kin clear; but I guess I'll be with you.”

“Good-bye, Joe.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” replied the bar-keeper, taking the proffered hand,
still half-unwillingly, “if you're stuck on it; but the game is to wait
for 'em here--anyway that's how I'd play it.”

A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:

“Now, sir, I'm ready if you are.” We were walking towards the door, when
Zeke broke in:

“Say, Tom, ain't I to come along?”

“No, Zeke, I'll play this hand alone,” replied Williams, and two minutes
later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.

We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very
quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:

“I don't want to make no mistake about this business--it ain't worth
while. I'm sure you're right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but,
maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There
might be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain't likely.”
 Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

“Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?”

“I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he left
after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's name
was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye,
there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized;
he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught
Williams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he
had to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first.”

“I'm satisfied now,” said my companion, “but I guess you hain't got that
story correct; maybe you don't know the cause of it nor how it began;
maybe Williams didn't draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way
through; maybe--but thar!--the first hand don't decide everythin'. Your
Sheriff's the man--that's enough for me.”

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge
leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing
about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a
little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length
of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men
lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain
the matter to myself, Williams spoke: “I guess he's got out all the
vigilantes;” and then bitterly: “The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn't
believe this ef I told it on him, the doggoned mean cuss.”

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over
the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders,
who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we
turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff's house, there
were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and
there, indeed, one of them went on whittling. I drew up at the sidewalk,
threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse.
My task was done.

I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of
something unusual behind me. I looked round--it was the stillness that
foreruns the storm.

Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, a
revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the
Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also
were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.

Williams spoke first:

“Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I've come.”

The Sheriff answered firmly, “I did!”

Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, three
or four or five reports--I don't know how many. At the first shots the
Sheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along the
side-walk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pass,
closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment he
stopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an empty
sack.

I hurried to him; he had fallen almost as a tailor sits, but his head
was between his knees. I lifted it gently; blood was oozing from a hole
in the forehead. The men were about me; I heard them say:

“A derned good shot! Took him in the back of the head. Jarvis kin
shoot!”

I rose to my feet. Jarvis was standing inside the fence supported by
some one; blood was welling from his bared left shoulder.

“I ain't much hurt,” he said, “but I guess the Sheriff's got it bad.”

The men moved on, drawing me with them, through the gate to where the
Sheriff lay. Martin turned him over on his back. They opened his shirt,
and there on the broad chest were two little blue marks, each in the
centre of a small mound of pink flesh.

4TH APRIL, 1891.

       *       *       *       *       *




A MODERN IDYLL.

“I call it real good of you, Mr. Letgood, to come and see me. Won't you
be seated?”

“Thank you. It's very warm to-day; and as I didn't feel like reading or
writing, I thought I'd come round.”

“You're just too kind for anythin'! To come an' pay me a visit when you
must be tired out with yesterday's preachin'. An' what a sermon you gave
us in the mornin'--it was too sweet. I had to wink my eyes pretty hard,
an' pull the tears down the back way, or I should have cried right
out--and Mrs. Jones watchin' me all the time under that dreadful
bonnet.”

Mrs. Hooper had begun with a shade of nervousness in the hurried words;
but the emotion disappeared as she took up a comfortable pose in the
corner of the small sofa.

The Rev. John Letgood, having seated himself in an armchair, looked at
her intently before replying. She was well worth looking at, this Mrs.
Hooper, as she leaned back on the cushions in her cool white dress,
which was so thin and soft and well-fitting that her form could be seen
through it almost as clearly as through water. She appeared to be about
eighteen years old, and in reality was not yet twenty. At first sight
one would have said of her, “a pretty girl;” but an observant eye on
the second glance would have noticed those contradictions in face and in
form which bear witness to a certain complexity of nature. Her features
were small, regular, and firmly cut; the long, brown eyes looked out
confidently under straight, well-defined brows; but the forehead was
low, and the sinuous lips a vivid red. So, too, the slender figure and
narrow hips formed a contrast with the throat, which pouted in soft,
white fulness.

“I am glad you liked the sermon,” said the minister, breaking the
silence, “for it is not probable that you will hear many more from me.”
 There was just a shade of sadness in the lower tone with which he ended
the phrase. He let the sad note drift in unconsciously--by dint of
practice he had become an artist in the management of his voice.

“You don't say!” exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, sitting up straight in her
excitement. “You ain't goin' to leave us, I hope?”

“Why do you pretend, Belle, to misunderstand me? You know I said three
months ago that if you didn't care for me I should have to leave this
place. And yesterday I told you that you must make up your mind at once,
as I was daily expecting a call to Chicago. Now I have come for your
answer, and you treat me as if I were a stranger, and you knew nothing
of what I feel for you.”

“Oh!” she sighed, languorously nestling back into the corner. “Is that
all? I thought for a moment the 'call' had come.”

“No, it has not yet; but I am resolved to get an answer from you to-day,
or I shall go away, call or no call.”

“What would Nettie Williams say if she heard you?” laughed Mrs. Hooper,
with mischievous delight in her eyes.

“Now, Belle,” he said in tender remonstrance, leaning forward and taking
the small cool hand in his, “what is my answer to be? Do you love me? Or
am I to leave Kansas City, and try somewhere else to get again into the
spirit of my work? God forgive me, but I want you to tell me to stay.
Will you?”

“Of course I will,” she returned, while slowly withdrawing her hand.
“There ain't any one wants you to go, and why should you?”

“Why? Because my passion for you prevents me from doing my work. You
tease and torture me with doubt, and when I should be thinking of my
duties I am wondering whether or not you care for me. Do you love me? I
must have a plain answer.”

“Love you?” she repeated pensively. “I hardly know, but--”

“But what?” he asked impatiently.

“But--I must just see after the pies; this 'help' of ours is Irish, an'
doesn't know enough to turn them in the oven. And Mr. Hooper don't like
burnt pies.”

She spoke with coquettish gravity, and got up to go out of the room. But
when Mr. Letgood also rose, she stopped and smiled--waiting perhaps for
him to take his leave. As he did not speak she shook out her frock
and then pulled down her bodice at the waist and drew herself up, thus
throwing into relief the willowy outlines of her girlish form. The
provocative grace, unconscious or intentional, of the attitude was not
lost on her admirer. For an instant he stood irresolute, but when she
stepped forward to pass him, he seemed to lose his self-control, and,
putting his arms round her, tried to kiss her. With serpent speed and
litheness she bowed her head against his chest, and slipped out of the
embrace. On reaching the door she paused to say, over her shoulder: “If
you'll wait, I'll be back right soon;” then, as if a new thought had
occurred to her, she added turning to him: “The Deacon told me he was
coming home early to-day, and he'd be real sorry to miss you.”

As she disappeared, he took up his hat, and left the house.

It was about four o'clock on a day in mid-June. The sun was pouring down
rays of liquid flame; the road, covered inches deep in fine white dust,
and the wooden side-walks glowed with the heat, but up and down the
steep hills went the minister unconscious of physical discomfort.

“Does she care for me, or not? Why can't she tell me plainly? The
teasing creature! Did she give me the hint to go because she was afraid
her husband would come in? Or did she want to get rid of me in order not
to answer?... She wasn't angry with me for putting my arms round her,
and yet she wouldn't let me kiss her. Why not? She doesn't love him.
She married him because she was poor, and he was rich and a deacon. She
can't love him. He must be fifty-five if he's a day. Perhaps she doesn't
love me either--the little flirt! But how seductive she is, and what a
body, so round and firm and supple--not thin at all. I have the feel of
it on my hands now--I can't stand this.”

Shaking himself vigorously, he abandoned his meditation, which, like
many similar ones provoked by Mrs. Hooper, had begun in vexation and
ended in passionate desire. Becoming aware of the heat and dust, he
stood still, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead.

The Rev. John Letgood was an ideal of manhood to many women. He was
largely built, but not ungainly--the coarseness of the hands being the
chief indication of his peasant ancestry. His head was rather round, and
strongly set on broad shoulders; the nose was straight and well formed;
the dark eyes, however, were somewhat small, and the lower part of the
face too massive, though both chin and jaw were clearly marked. A long,
thick, brown moustache partly concealed the mouth; the lower lip could
just be seen, a little heavy, and sensual; the upper one was certainly
flexile and suasive. A good-looking man of thirty, who must have been
handsome when he was twenty, though even then, probably, too much drawn
by the pleasures of the senses to have had that distinction of person
which seems to be reserved for those who give themselves to thought
or high emotions. On entering his comfortable house, he was met by his
negro “help,” who handed him his “mail”:

“I done brot these, Massa; they's all.”

“Thanks, Pete,” he replied abstractedly, going into his cool study. He
flung himself into an armchair before the writing-table, and began to
read the letters. Two were tossed aside carelessly, but on opening the
third he sat up with a quick exclamation. Here at last was the “call”
 he had been expecting, a “call” from the deacons of the Second Baptist
Church in Chicago, asking him to come and minister to their spiritual
wants, and offering him ten thousand dollars a year for his services.

For a moment exultation overcame every other feeling in the man. A light
flashed in his eyes as he exclaimed aloud: “It was that sermon did it!
What a good thing it was that I knew their senior deacon was in the
church on purpose to hear me! How well I brought in the apostrophe on
the cultivation of character that won me the prize at college! Ah, I
have never done anything finer than that, never! and perhaps never shall
now. I had been reading Channing then for months, was steeped in him;
but Channing has nothing as good as that in all his works. It has more
weight and dignity--dignity is the word--than anything he wrote. And
to think of its bringing me this! Ten thousand dollars a year and the
second church in Chicago, while here they think me well paid with five.
Chicago! I must accept it at once. Who knows, perhaps I shall get to New
York yet, and move as many thousands as here I move hundreds. No! not I.
I do not move them. I am weak and sinful. It is the Holy Spirit, and the
power of His grace. O Lord, I am thankful to Thee who hast been good to
me unworthy!” A pang of fear shot through him: “Perhaps He sends this to
win me away from Belle.” His fancy called her up before him as she had
lain on the sofa. Again he saw the bright malicious glances and the red
lips, the full white throat, and the slim roundness of her figure. He
bowed his head upon his hands and groaned. “O Lord, help me! I know not
what to do. Help me, O Lord!”

As if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he started to his feet. “Now
she must answer! Now what will she say? Here is the call. Ten thousand
dollars a year! What will she say to that?”

He spoke aloud in his excitement, all that was masculine in him glowing
with the sense of hard-won mastery over the tantalizing evasiveness of
the woman.

On leaving his house he folded up the letter, thrust it into the
breast-pocket of his frock-coat, and strode rapidly up the hill towards
Mrs. Hooper's. At first he did not even think of her last words, but
when he had gone up and down the first hill and was beginning to climb
the second they suddenly came back to him. He did not want to meet her
husband--least of all now. He paused. What should he do? Should he wait
till to-morrow? No, that was out of the question; he couldn't wait. He
must know what answer to send to the call. If Deacon Hooper happened
to be at home he would talk to him about the door of the vestry, which
would not shut properly. If the Deacon was not there, he would see her
and force a confession from her....

While the shuttle of his thought flew thus to and fro, he did not at all
realize that he was taking for granted what he had refused to believe
half an hour before. He felt certain now that Deacon Hooper would not
be in, and that Mrs. Hooper had got rid of him on purpose to avoid his
importunate love-making. When he reached the house and rang the bell his
first question was:

“Is the Deacon at home?”

“No, sah.”

“Is Mrs. Hooper in?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Please tell her I should like to see her for a moment. I will not keep
her long. Say it's very important.”

“Yes, Massa, I bring her shuah,” said the negress with a good-natured
grin, opening the door of the drawing-room.

In a minute or two Mrs. Hooper came into the room looking as cool and
fresh as if “pies” were baked in ice.

“Good day, _again_, Mr. Letgood. Won't you take a chair?”

He seemed to feel the implied reproach, for without noticing her
invitation to sit down he came to the point at once. Plunging his hand
into his pocket, he handed her the letter from Chicago.

She took it with the quick interest of curiosity, but as she read, the
colour deepened in her cheeks, and before she had finished it she broke
out, _“Ten thousand dollars a year!_”

As she gave the letter back she did not raise her eyes, but said
musingly: “That is a call indeed....” Staring straight before her she
added: “How strange it should come to-day! Of course you'll accept it.”

A moment, and she darted the question at him:

“Does she know? Have you told Miss Williams yet? But there, I suppose
you have!” After another pause, she went on:

“What a shame to take you away just when we had all got to know and like
you! I suppose we shall have some old fogey now who will preach against
dancin' an' spellin'-bees an' surprise-parties. And, of course, he won't
like me, or come here an' call as often as you do--makin' the other
girls jealous. I shall hate the change!” And in her innocent excitement
she slowly lifted her brown eyes to his.

“You know you're talking nonsense, Belle,” he replied, with grave
earnestness. “I've come for your answer. If you wish me to stay, if you
really care for me, I shall refuse this offer.”

“You don't tell!” she exclaimed. “Refuse ten thousand dollars a year
and a church in Chicago to stay here in Kansas City! I know I shouldn't!
Why,” and she fixed her eyes on his as she spoke, “you must be real good
even to think of such a thing. But then, you won't refuse,” she added,
pouting. “No one would,” she concluded, with profound conviction.

“Oh, yes,” answered the minister, moving to her and quietly putting both
hands on her waist, while his voice seemed to envelope and enfold her
with melodious tenderness.

“Oh, yes, I shall refuse it, Belle, if _you_ wish me to; refuse it as
I should ten times as great a prize, as I think I should refuse--God
forgive me!--heaven itself, if you were not there to make it beautiful.”

While speaking he drew her to him gently; her body yielded to his touch,
and her gaze, as if fascinated, was drawn into his. But when the flow
of words ceased, and he bent to kiss her, the spell seemed to lose its
power over her. In an instant she wound herself out of his arms, and
with startled eyes aslant whispered:

“Hush! he's coming! Don't you hear his step?” As Mr. Letgood went again
towards her with a tenderly reproachful and incredulous “Now, Belle,”
 she stamped impatiently on the floor while exclaiming in a low, but
angry voice, “Do take care! That's the Deacon's step.”

At the same moment her companion heard it too. The sounds were distinct
on the wooden side-walk, and when they ceased at the little gate four or
five yards from the house he knew that she was right. He pulled himself
together, and with a man's untimely persistence spoke hurriedly:

“I shall wait for your answer till Sunday morning next. Before then you
must have assured me of your love, or I shall go to Chicago--”

Mrs. Hooper's only reply was a contemptuous, flashing look that
succeeded in reducing the importunate clergyman to silence--just in
time--for as the word “Chicago” passed his lips the handle of the door
turned, and Deacon Hooper entered the room.

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Letgood?” said the Deacon cordially. “I'm glad
to see you, sir, as you are too, I'm sartin,” he added, turning to his
wife and putting his arms round her waist and his lips to her cheek in
an affectionate caress. “Take a seat, won't you? It's too hot to stand.”
 As Mrs. Hooper sank down beside him on the sofa and their visitor drew
over a chair, he went on, taking up again the broken thread of his
thought. “No one thinks more of you than Isabelle. She said only last
Sunday there warn't such a preacher as you west of the Mississippi
River. How's that for high, eh?”--And then, still seeking back like a
dog on a lost scent, he added, looking from his wife to the clergyman,
as if recalled to a sense of the actualities of the situation by a
certain constraint in their manner, “But what's that I heard about
Chicago? There ain't nothin' fresh--Is there?”

“Oh,” replied Mrs. Hooper, with a look of remonstrance thrown sideways
at her admirer, while with a woman's quick decision she at once cut the
knot, “I guess there is something fresh. Mr. Letgood, just think of it,
has had a 'call' from the Second Baptist Church in Chicago, and it's
ten thousand dollars a year. Now who's right about his preachin'? And he
ain't goin' to accept it. He's goin' to stay right here. At least,” she
added coyly, “he said he'd refuse it--didn't you?”

The Deacon stared from one to the other as Mr. Letgood, with a forced
half-laugh which came from a dry throat, answered: “That would be going
perhaps a little too far. I said,” he went on, catching a coldness in
the glance of the brown eyes, “I wished to refuse it. But of course I
shall have to consider the matter thoroughly--and seek for guidance.”

“Wall,” said the Deacon in amazement, “ef that don't beat everythin'.
I guess nobody would refuse an offer like that. _Ten thousand dollars
a year!_ Ten thousand. Why, that's twice what you're gettin' here. You
can't refuse that. I know you wouldn't ef you war' a son of mine--as
you might be. Ten thousand. No, sir. An' the Second Baptist Church in
Chicago is the first; it's the best, the richest, the largest. There
ain't no sort of comparison between it and the First. No, sir! There
ain't none. Why, James P. Willis, him as was here and heard you--that's
how it came about, that's how!--he's the senior Deacon of it, an' I
guess he can count dollars with any man this side of New York. Yes, sir,
with any man west of the Alleghany Mountains.” The breathless excitement
of the good Deacon changed gradually as he realized that his hearers
were not in sympathy with him, and his speech became almost solemn in
its impressiveness as he continued. “See here! This ain't a thing to
waste. Ten thousand dollars a year to start with, an' the best church
in Chicago, you can't expect to do better than that. Though you're young
still, when the chance comes, it should be gripped.”

“Oh, pshaw!” broke in Mrs. Hooper irritably, twining her fingers and
tapping the carpet with her foot, “Mr. Letgood doesn't want to leave
Kansas City. Don't you understand? Perhaps he likes the folk here just
as well as any in Chicago.” No words could describe the glance which
accompanied this. It was appealing, and coquettish, and triumphant, and
the whole battery was directed full on Mr. Letgood, who had by this time
recovered his self-possession.

“Of course,” he said, turning to the Deacon and overlooking Mrs.
Hooper's appeal, “I know all that, and I don't deny that the 'call' at
first seemed to draw me.” Here his voice dropped as if he were speaking
to himself: “It offers a wider and a higher sphere of work, but there's
work, too, to be done here, and I don't know that the extra salary
ought to tempt me. _Take neither scrip nor money in your purse_,” and he
smiled, “you know.”

“Yes,” said the Deacon, his eyes narrowing as if amazement were giving
place to a new emotion; “yes, but that ain't meant quite literally, I
reckon. Still, it's fer you to judge. But ef you refuse ten thousand
dollars a year, why, there are mighty few who would, and that's all I've
got to say--mighty few,” he added emphatically, and stood up as if to
shake off the burden of a new and, therefore, unwelcome thought.

When the minister also rose, the physical contrast between the two men
became significant. Mr. Letgood's heavy frame, due to self-indulgence
or to laziness, might have been taken as a characteristic product of the
rich, western prairies, while Deacon Hooper was of the pure Yankee type.
His figure was so lank and spare that, though not quite so tall as his
visitor, he appeared to be taller. His face was long and angular; the
round, clear, blue eyes, the finest feature of it, the narrowness of
the forehead the worst. The mouth-corners were drawn down, and the lips
hardened to a line by constant compression. No trace of sensuality. How
came this man, grey with age, to marry a girl whose appeal to the senses
was already so obvious? The eyes and prominent temples of the idealist
supplied the answer. Deacon Hooper was a New Englander, trained in the
bitterest competition for wealth, and yet the Yankee in him masked a
fund of simple, kindly optimism, which showed itself chiefly in his
devoted affection for his wife. He had not thought of his age when he
married, but of her and her poverty. And possibly he was justified. The
snow-garment of winter protects the tender spring wheat.

“It's late,” Mr. Letgood began slowly, “I must be going home now. I
thought you might like to hear the news, as you are my senior Deacon.
Your advice seems excellent; I shall weigh the 'call' carefully;
but”--with a glance at Mrs. Hooper--“I am disposed to refuse it.” No
answering look came to him. He went on firmly and with emphasis, _“I
wish_ to refuse it.--Good day, Mrs. Hooper, _till next Sunday_. Good
day, Deacon.”

“Good day, Mr. Letgood,” she spoke with a little air of precise
courtesy.

“Good day, sir,” replied the Deacon, cordially shaking the proffered
hand, while he accompanied his pastor to the street door.

The sun was sinking, and some of the glory of the sunset colouring
seemed to be reflected in Deacon Hooper's face, as he returned to the
drawing-room and said with profound conviction:--

“Isabelle, that man's jest about as good as they make them. He's what I
call a real Christian--one that thinks of duty first and himself last.
Ef that ain't a Christian, I'd like to know what is.”

“Yes,” she rejoined meditatively, as she busied herself arranging the
chairs and tidying the sofa into its usual stiff primness; “I guess he's
a good man.” And her cheek flushed softly.

“Wall,” he went on warmly, “I reckon we ought to do somethin' in this.
There ain't no question but he fills the church. Ef we raised the
pew-rents we could offer him an increase of salary to stay--I guess that
could be done.”

“Oh! don't do anything,” exclaimed the wife, as if awaking to the
significance of this proposal, “anyway not until he has decided. It
would look--mean, don't you think? to offer him somethin' more to stay.”

“I don't know but you're right, Isabelle; I don't know but you're
right,” repeated her husband thoughtfully. “It'll look better if he
decides before hearin' from us. There ain't no harm, though, in thinkin'
the thing over and speakin' to the other Deacons about it. I'll kinder
find out what they feel.”

“Yes,” she replied mechanically, almost as if she had not heard.
“Yes, that's all right.” And she slowly straightened the cloth on the
centre-table, given over again to her reflections.

Mr. Letgood walked home, ate his supper, went to bed and slept that
night as only a man does whose nervous system has been exhausted by
various and intense emotions. He even said his prayers by rote. And
like a child he slept with tightly-clenched fists, for in him, as in the
child, the body's claims were predominant.

When he awoke next morning, the sun was shining in at his bedroom
window, and at once his thoughts went back to the scenes and emotions
of the day before. An unusual liveliness of memory enabled him to review
the very words which Mrs. Hooper had used. He found nothing to regret.
He had certainly gained ground by telling her of the call. The torpor
which had come upon him the previous evening formed a complete contrast
to the blithesome vigour he now enjoyed. He seemed to himself to be a
different man, recreated, as it were, and endowed with fresh springs of
life. While he lay in the delightful relaxation and warmth of the bed,
and looked at the stream of sunshine which flowed across the room, he
became confident that all would go right.

“Yes,” he decided, “she cares for me, or she would never have wished me
to stay. Even the Deacon helped me--” The irony of the fact shocked him.
He would not think of it. He might get a letter from her by two o'clock.
With pleasure thrilling through every nerve, he imagined how she would
word her confession. For she had yielded to him; he had felt her body
move towards him and had seen the surrender in her eyes. While musing
thus, passion began to stir in him, and with passion impatience.

“Only half-past six o'clock,” he said to himself, pushing his watch
again under the pillow; “eight hours to wait till mail time. Eight
endless hours. What a plague!”

His own irritation annoyed him, and he willingly took up again the
thread of his amorous reverie: “What a radiant face she has, what fine
nervefulness in the slim fingers, what softness in the full throat!”
 Certain incidents in his youth before he had studied for the ministry
came back to him, bringing the blood to his cheeks and making his
temples throb. As the recollections grew vivid they became a torment. To
regain quiet pulses he forced his mind to dwell upon the details of his
“conversion”--his sudden resolve to live a new life and to give himself
up to the service of the divine Master. The yoke was not easy; the
burden was not light. On the contrary. He remembered innumerable
contests with his rebellious flesh, contests in which he was never
completely victorious for more than a few days together, but in which,
especially during the first heat of the new enthusiasm, he had struggled
desperately. Had his efforts been fruitless?...

He thought with pride of his student days--mornings given to books and
to dreams of the future, and evenings marked by passionate emotions, new
companions reinspiring him continually with fresh ardour. The time spent
at college was the best of his life. He had really striven, then, as few
strive, to deserve the prize of his high calling. During those years, it
seemed to him, he had been all that an earnest Christian should be.
He recalled, with satisfaction, the honours he had won in Biblical
knowledge and in history, and the more easily gained rewards for
rhetoric. It was only natural that he should have been immediately
successful as a preacher. How often he had moved his flock to tears! No
wonder he had got on.

Those first successes, and the pleasures which they brought with them of
gratified vanity, had resulted in turning him from a Christian into an
orator. He understood this dimly, but he thrust back the unwelcome truth
with the reflection that his triumphs in the pulpit dated from the time
when he began consciously to treat preaching as an art. After all, was
he not there to win souls to Christ, and had not Christ himself praised
the wisdom of the serpent? Then came the change from obscurity and
narrow living in the country to Kansas City and luxury. He had been wise
in avoiding that girl at Pleasant Hill. He smiled complacently as he
thought of her dress, manners, and speech. Yet she was pretty, very
pretty, and she had loved him with the exclusiveness of womanhood, but
still he had done right. He congratulated himself upon his intuitive
knowledge that there were finer girls in the world to be won. He had not
fettered himself foolishly through pity or weakness.

During his ten years of life as a student and minister he had been
chaste. He had not once fallen into flagrant sin. His fervour of
unquestioning faith had saved him at the outset, and, later, habit and
prudence. He lingered over his first meeting with Mrs. Hooper. He had
not thought much of her then, he remembered, although she had appeared
to him to be pretty and perfectly dressed. She had come before him as an
embodiment of delicacy and refinement, and her charm had increased, as
he began, in spite of himself, to notice her peculiar seductiveness.
Recollecting how insensibly the fascination which she exercised over
him had grown, and the sudden madness of desire that had forced him to
declare his passion, he moaned with vexation. If only she had not
been married. What a fatality! How helpless man was, tossed hither and
thither by the waves of trivial circumstance!

She had certainly encouraged him; it was her alternate moods of yielding
and reserve which had awakened his senses. She had been flattered by his
admiration, and had sought to call it forth. But, in the beginning, at
least, he had struggled against the temptation. He had prayed for help
in the sore combat--how often and how earnestly!--but no help had come.
Heaven had been deaf to his entreaties. And he had soon realized that
struggling in this instance was of no avail. He loved her; he desired
her with every nerve of his body.

There was hardly any use in trying to fight against such a craving as
that, he thought. But yet, in his heart of hearts, he was conscious that
his religious enthusiasm, the aspiration towards the ideal life and the
reverence for Christ's example, would bring about at least one supreme
conflict in which his passion might possibly be overcome. He dreaded the
crisis, the outcome of which he foresaw would be decisive for his whole
life. He wanted to let himself slide quietly down the slope; but all the
while he felt that something in him would never consent thus to endanger
his hopes of Heaven.

And Hell! He hated the thought! He strove to put it away from him, but
it would not be denied. His early habits of self-analysis reasserted
themselves. What if his impatience of the idea were the result of
obdurate sinfulness--sinfulness which might never be forgiven? He
compelled himself, therefore, to think of Hell, tried to picture it to
himself, and the soft, self-indulgent nature of the man shuddered as he
realized the meaning of the word. At length the torture grew too acute.
He would not think any longer; he could not; he would strive to do the
right. “O Lord!” he exclaimed, as he slipped out of bed on to his knees,
“O Christ! help Thy servant! Pity me, and aid!” Yet, while the words
broke from his lips in terrified appeal, he knew that he did not wish to
be helped. He rose to his feet in sullen dissatisfaction.

The happy alertness which he had enjoyed at his waking had disappeared;
the self-torment of the last few minutes had tired him; disturbed and
vexed in mind, he began to dress. While moving about in the sunlight
his thoughts gradually became more cheerful, and by the time he left his
room he had regained his good spirits.

After a short stroll he went into his study and read the daily paper.
He then took up a book till dinner-time. He dined, and afterwards forgot
himself in a story of African travels. It was only the discomfort of the
intense heat which at length reminded him that, though it was now past
two o'clock, he had received no letter from Mrs. Hooper. But he was
resolved not to think about her, for thoughts of her, he knew, would
lead to fears concerning the future, which would in turn force him to
decide upon a course of action. If he determined to commit the sin, his
guilt would thereby be increased, and he would not pledge himself to
refrain from it. “She couldn't write last night with the Deacon at her
elbow all the time,” he decided, and began to read again. Darkness had
fallen before he remembered that he owed an immediate answer to the
letter from Chicago. After a little consideration, he sat down and wrote
as follows:

“DEAR BROTHERS IN CHRIST,

“Your letter has just reached me. Needless to say it has touched me
deeply. You call me to a wider ministry and more arduous duties. The
very munificence of the remuneration which you offer leads me to doubt
my own fitness for so high a post. You must bear with me a little, and
grant me a few days for reflection. The 'call,' as you know, must
be answered from within, from the depths of my soul, before I can be
certain that it comes from Above, and this Divine assurance has not yet
been vouchsafed to me.

“I was born and brought up here in Missouri, where I am now labouring,
not without--to Jesus be the praise!--some small measure of success.
I have many ties here, and many dear friends and fellow-workers in
Christ's vineyard from whom I could not part without great pain. But I
will prayerfully consider your request. I shall seek for guidance where
alone it is to be found, at the foot of the Great White Throne, and
within a week or so at most I hope to be able to answer you with the
full and joyous certitude of the Divine blessing.

“In the meantime, believe that I thank you deeply, dear Brethren, for
your goodness to me, and that I shall pray in Jesus' Name that the
blessing of the Holy Ghost may be with you abundantly now and for
evermore.

“Your loving Servant in Christ,

“JOHN P. LETGOOD.”

He liked this letter so much that he read it over a great many times.
It committed him to nothing; it was dignified and yet sufficiently
grateful, and the large-hearted piety which appeared to inform it
pleased him even more than the alliteration of the words “born and
brought up.” He had at first written “born and reared;” but in spite
of the fear lest “brought up” should strike the simple Deacons of the
Second Baptist Church in Chicago as unfamiliar and far-fetched, he could
not resist the assonance. After directing the letter he went upstairs to
bed, and his prayers that night were more earnest than they had been of
late--perhaps because he avoided the dangerous topic. The exercise of
his talent as a letter-writer having put him on good terms with himself,
he slept soundly.

When he awoke in the morning his mood had changed. The day was cloudy;
a thunderstorm was brewing, and had somehow affected his temper. As soon
as he opened his eyes he was aware of the fact that Mrs. Hooper had not
written to him, even on Tuesday morning, when she must have been
free, for the Deacon always went early to his dry-goods store. The
consciousness of this neglect irritated him beyond measure. He tried,
therefore, to think of Chicago and the persons who frequented the Second
Baptist Church. Perhaps, he argued, they were as much ahead of the
people in Kansas City as Mrs. Hooper was superior to any woman he had
previously known. But on this way of thought he could not go far. The
houses in Chicago were no doubt much finer, the furniture more elegant;
the living, too, was perhaps better, though he could not imagine how
that could be; there might even be cleverer and handsomer women there
than Mrs. Hooper; but certainly no one lived in Chicago or anywhere else
in the world who could tempt and bewitch him as she did. She was formed
to his taste, made to his desire. As he recalled her, now laughing
at him; now admiring him; to-day teasing him with coldness, to-morrow
encouraging him, he realized with exasperation that her contradictions
constituted her charm. He acknowledged reluctantly that her odd turns of
speech tickled his intellect just as her lithe grace of movement excited
his senses. But the number and strength of the ties that bound him to
her made his anger keener. Where could she hope to find such love as
his? She ought to write to him. Why didn't she? How could he come to
a decision before he knew whether she loved him or not? In any case he
would show her that he was a man. He would not try to see her until she
had written--not under any circumstances.

After dinner and mail time his thoughts ran in another channel. In
reality she was not anything so wonderful. Most men, he knew, did
not think her more than pretty; “pretty Mrs. Hooper” was what she was
usually called--nothing more. No one ever dreamed of saying she was
beautiful or fascinating. No; she was pretty, and that was all. He was
the only person in Kansas City or perhaps in the world to whom she was
altogether and perfectly desirable. She had no reason to be so conceited
or to presume on her power over him. If she were the wonder she thought
herself she would surely have married some one better than old Hooper,
with his lank figure, grey hairs, and Yankee twang. He took a pleasure
in thus depreciating the woman he loved--it gave his anger vent, and
seemed to make her acquisition more probable. When the uselessness of
the procedure became manifest to him, he found that his doubts of her
affection had crystallized.

This was the dilemma; she had not written either out of coquetry or
because she did not really care for him. If the former were the true
reason, she was cruel; if the latter, she ought to tell him so at once,
and he would try to master himself. On no hypothesis was she justified
in leaving him without a word. Tortured alternately by fear, hope, and
anger, he paced up and down his study all the day long. Now, he said to
himself, he would go and see her, and forthwith he grew calm--that was
what his nature desired. But the man in him refused to be so servile.
He had told her that she must write; to that he would hold, whatever it
cost him. Again, he broke out in bitter blame of her.

At length he made up his mind to strive to forget her. But what if she
really cared for him, loved him as he loved her? In that case if he went
away she would be miserable, as wretched as he would be. How unkind it
was of her to leave him without a decided answer, when he could not help
thinking of her happiness! No; she did not love him. He had read enough
about women and seen enough of them to imagine that they never torture
the man they really love. He would give her up and throw himself again
into his work. He could surely do that. Then he remembered that she
was married, and must, of course, see that she would risk her
position--everything--by declaring her love. Perhaps prudence kept her
silent. Once more he was plunged in doubt.

He was glad when supper was ready, for that brought, at least for half
an hour, freedom from thought. After the meal was finished he realized
that he was weary of it all--heart-sick of the suspense. The storm
broke, and the flashing of the lightning and the falling sheets of rain
brought him relief. The air became lighter and purer. He went to bed and
slept heavily.

On the Thursday morning he awoke refreshed, and at once determined
not to think about Mrs. Hooper. It only needed resolution, he said to
himself, in order to forget her entirely. Her indifference, shown in not
writing to him, should be answered in that way. He took up his pocket
Bible, and opened it at the Gospels. The beautiful story soon exercised
its charm upon his impressionable nature, and after a couple of hours'
reading he closed the book comforted, and restored to his better self.
He fell on his knees and thanked God for this crowning mercy. From his
heart went forth a hymn of praise for the first time in long weeks. The
words of the Man of Sorrows had lifted him above the slough. The marvel
of it! How could he ever thank Him enough? His whole life should now be
devoted to setting forth the wonders of His grace. When he arose he felt
at peace with himself and full of goodwill to every one. He could even
think of Mrs. Hooper calmly--with pity and grave kindliness.

After his midday dinner and a brisk walk--he paid no attention to the
mail time--he prepared to write the sermon which he intended to preach
as his farewell to his congregation on the following Sunday. He was
determined now to leave Kansas City and go to Chicago. But as soon as he
began to consider what he should say, he became aware of a difficulty.
He could talk and write of accepting the “call” because it gave him “a
wider ministry,” and so forth, but the ugly fact would obtrude itself
that he was relinquishing five thousand dollars a year to accept ten,
and he was painfully conscious that this knowledge would be uppermost in
the minds of his hearers. Most men in his position would have easily
put the objection out of their minds. But he could not put it aside
carelessly, and it was characteristic of him to exaggerate its
importance. He dearly loved to play what the French call _le beau
rôle_, even at the cost of his self-interest. Of a sensitive, artistic
temperament, he had for years nourished his intellect with good books.
He had always striven, too, to set before his hearers high ideals of
life and conduct. His nature was now subdued to the stuff he had worked
in. As an artist, an orator, it was all but impossible for him to
justify what must seem like sordid selfishness. He moved about in his
chair uneasily, and strove to look at the subject from a new point of
view. In vain; ten thousand dollars a year instead of five--that was to
be his theme.

The first solution of the problem which suggested itself to him was to
express his very real disdain of such base material considerations, but
no sooner did the thought occur to him than he was fain to reject it.
He knew well that his hearers in Kansas City would refuse to accept that
explanation even as “high-falutin' bunkum!” He then tried to select
a text in order to ease for a time the strain upon his reflective
faculties. “Feed my sheep” was his first choice--“the largest flock
possible, of course.” But no, that was merely the old cant in new words.

He came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was no noble way out of
the difficulty. He felt this the more painfully because, before sitting
down to think of his sermon, he had immersed himself, to use his own
words, in the fountain-head of self-sacrificing enthusiasm. And now he
could not show his flock that there was any trace of self-denial in his
conduct. It was apparent that his acceptance of the call made a great
sermon an utter impossibility. He must say as little about the main
point as possible, glide quickly, in fact, over the thin ice. But his
disappointment was none the less keen; there was no splendid peroration
to write; there would be no eyes gazing up at him through a mist
of tears. His sensations were those of an actor with an altogether
uncongenial and stupid part.

After some futile efforts he abandoned the attempt to sketch out a
sermon. Some words would come to him at the time, and they would have
to do. In the evening a new idea presented itself to his over-excited
brain. Might not his dislike of that sermon be a snare set by the Devil
to induce him to reject the call and stay in Kansas City? No. A fine
sermon would do good--the Evil One could not desire that--perhaps even
more good than his sin would do harm? Puzzled and incapable of the
effort required to solve this fresh problem he went to bed, after
praying humbly for guidance and enlightenment.

On the Friday morning he rose from his knees with a burden of sorrow.
No kindly light had illumined the darkness of his doubtings. Yet he
was conscious of a perfect sincerity in his desires and in his prayers.
Suddenly he remembered that, when in a pure frame of mind, he had only
considered the acceptance of the call. But in order to be guided aright,
he must abandon himself entirely to God's directing. In all honesty of
purpose, he began to think of the sermon he could deliver if he resolved
to reject the call. Ah! that sermon needed but little meditation. With
such a decision to announce, he felt that he could carry his hearers
with him to heights of which they knew nothing. Their very vulgarity
and sordidness of nature would help instead of hindering him. No one in
Kansas City would doubt for a moment the sincerity of the self-sacrifice
involved in rejecting ten thousand dollars a year for five. That sermon
could be preached with effect from any text. “Feed my sheep” even would
do. He thrilled in anticipation, as a great actor thrills when reading a
part which will allow him to discover all his powers, and in which he
is certain to “bring down the house.” Completely carried away by his
emotions, he began to turn the sermon over in his head. First of all he
sought for a text; not this one, nor that one, but a few words breathing
the very spirit of Christ's self-abnegation. He soon found what he
wanted: “For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it; and whosoever
will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.” The unearthly beauty of
the thought and the divine simplicity of its expression took the orator
captive. As he imagined that Godlike Figure in Galilee, and seemed to
hear the words drop like pearls from His lips, so he saw himself in the
pulpit, and had a foretaste of the effect of his own eloquence. Ravished
by the vision, he proceeded to write and rewrite the peroration. Every
other part he could trust to his own powers, and to the inspiration
of the theme, but the peroration he meant to make finer even than his
apostrophe on the cultivation of character, which hitherto had been the
high-water mark of his achievement.

At length he finished his task, but not before sunset, and he felt weary
and hungry. He ate and rested. In the complete relaxation of mental
strain, he understood all at once what he had done. He had decided to
remain in Kansas City. But to remain meant to meet Mrs. Hooper day after
day, to be thrown together with her even by her foolishly confiding
husband; it meant perpetual temptation, and at last--a fall! And yet
God had guided him to choose that sermon rather than the other. He had
abandoned himself passively to His guidance--could _that_ lead to the
brink of the pit?... He cried out suddenly like one in bodily anguish.
He had found the explanation. God cared for no half-victories. Flight to
Chicago must seem to Him the veriest cowardice. God intended him to stay
in Kansas City and conquer the awful temptation face to face. When he
realized this, he fell on his knees and prayed as he had never prayed
in all his life before. If entreated humbly, God would surely temper the
wind to the shorn lamb; He knew His servant's weakness. “_Lead us not
into temptation_,” he cried again and again, for the first time in his
life comprehending what now seemed to him the awful significance of the
words. “_Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil_”--thus
he begged and wept. But even when, exhausted in body and in mind,
he rose from his knees, he had found no comfort. Like a child, with
streaming eyes and quivering features, he stumbled upstairs to bed and
fell asleep, repeating over and over again mechanically the prayer that
the cup might pass from him.

On the Saturday morning he awoke as from a hideous nightmare. Before
there was time for thought he was aware of what oppressed and frightened
him. The knowledge of his terrible position weighed him down. He was
worn out and feverishly ill; incapable of reflection or resolution,
conscious chiefly of pain and weariness, and a deep dumb revolt against
his impending condemnation. After lying thus for some time, drinking
the cup of bitterness to the very dregs, he got up, and went downstairs.
Yielding to habit he opened the Bible. But the Book had no message for
him. His tired brain refused, for minutes together, to take in the
sense of the printed words. The servant found him utterly miserable and
helpless when she went to tell him that “the dinner was a-gittin' cold.”

The food seemed to restore him, and during the first two hours of
digestion he was comparatively peaceful in being able to live without
thinking; but when the body had recovered its vigour, the mind grew
active, and the self-torture recommenced. For some hours--he never knew
how many--he suffered in this way; then a strange calm fell upon him.
Was it the Divine help which had come at last, or despair, or the
fatigue of an overwrought spirit? He knelt down and prayed once more,
but this time his prayer consisted simply in placing before his Heavenly
Father the exact state of the case. He was powerless; God should do
with him according to His purpose, only he felt unable to resist if
the temptation came up against him. Jesus, of course, could remove the
temptation or strengthen him if He so willed. His servant was in His
hands.

After continuing in this strain for some time he got up slowly, calm but
hopeless. There was no way of escape for him. He took up the Bible and
attempted again to read it; but of a sudden he put it down, and throwing
his outspread arms on the table and bowing his head upon them he cried:

“My God, forgive me! I cannot hear Thy voice, nor feel Thy presence. I
can only see her face and feel her body.”

And then hardened as by the consciousness of unforgivable blaspheming,
he rose with set face, lit his candle, and went to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The week had passed much as usual with Mrs. Hooper and her husband. On
the Tuesday he had seen most of his brother Deacons and found that they
thought as he did. All were agreed that something should be done to
testify to their gratitude, if indeed their pastor refused the “call.”
 In the evening, after supper, Mr. Hooper narrated to his wife all that
he had done and all that the others had said. When he asked for her
opinion she approved of his efforts. A little while later she turned
to him: “I wonder why Mr. Letgood doesn't marry?” As she spoke she laid
down her work. With a tender smile the Deacon drew her on to his knees
in the armchair, and pushing up his spectacles (he had been reading a
dissertation on the meaning of the Greek verb [Greek: baptizo]) said
with infinite, playful tenderness in his voice:

“'Tain't every one can find a wife like you, my dear.” He was rewarded
for the flattering phrase with a little slap on the cheek. He continued
thoughtfully: “'Taint every one either that wants to take care of a
wife. Some folks hain't got much affection in 'em, I guess; perhaps Mr.
Letgood hain't.” To the which Mrs. Hooper answered not in words, but her
lips curved into what might be called a smile, a contented smile as from
the heights of superior knowledge.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Letgood's state of mind on the Sunday morning was too complex for
complete analysis: he did not attempt the task. He preferred to believe
that he had told God the whole truth without any attempt at reservation.
He had thereby placed himself in His hands, and was no longer chiefly
responsible. He would not even think of what he was about to do, further
than that he intended to refuse the call and to preach the sermon the
peroration of which he had so carefully prepared. After dressing he sat
down in his study and committed this passage to memory. He pictured
to himself with pleasure the effect it would surely produce upon his
hearers. When Pete came to tell him the buggy was ready to take him to
church, he got up almost cheerfully, and went out.

The weather was delightful, as it is in June in that part of the Western
States. From midday until about four o'clock the temperature is that of
midsummer, but the air is exceedingly dry and light, and one breathes it
in the morning with a sense of exhilaration. While driving to church Mr.
Letgood's spirits rose. He chatted with his servant Pete, and even took
the reins once for a few hundred yards. But when they neared the church
his gaiety forsook him. He stopped talking, and appeared to be a little
preoccupied. From time to time he courteously greeted one of his flock
on the side-walk: but that was all. As he reached the church, the
Partons drove up, and of course he had to speak to them. After the usual
conventional remarks and shaking of hands, the minister turned up the
sidewalk which led to the vestry. He had not taken more than four or
five steps in this direction before he paused and looked up the street.
He shrugged his shoulders, however, immediately at his own folly, and
walked on: “Of course she couldn't send a messenger with a note. On
Sundays the Deacon was with her.”

As he opened the vestry door, and stepped into the little room,
he stopped short. Mrs. Hooper was there, coming towards him with
outstretched hand and radiant smile:

“Good mornin', Mr. Letgood, all the Deacons are here to meet you, and
they let me come; because I was the first you told the news to, and
because I'm sure you're not goin' to leave us. Besides, I wanted to
come.”

He could not help looking at her for a second as he took her hand and
bowed:

“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” Not trusting himself further, he began to
shake hands with the assembled elders. In answer to one who expressed
the hope that they would keep him, he said slowly and gravely:

“I always trust something to the inspiration of the moment, but I
confess I am greatly moved to refuse this call.”

“That's what I said,” broke in Mr. Hooper triumphantly

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