The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

CHAPTER LV In the Absence of Belle

Every citizen of South Chicago remembers the work of the Cedar Mountain House; how it grew and prospered, and how the old building became too small and an annex across the street was called for. How its greatest strength lay in the monthly free discussion of any subject approved in advance by the governors. How the rival parties of Skystein and Squeaks alternately pulled and pushed each other about. How musical genius was discovered in abundance and an orchestra formed as well as a monthly minstrel show. How pool tables were introduced and a restaurant started. How the movement to introduce beer was defeated by a small majority. How, after due discussion, they adopted some seemingly hard policies, such as the exclusion of all Negroes and Chinamen. How Squeaks led an abortive attempt to disqualify all Jews. How the gymnasium became the focal centre of all the boys in the neighbourhood. How they organized a strong-arm squad of a dozen club members who acted as police, and without offense, because they were of themselves. At the end of the first six months, the House had more than justified its existence. It had nearly four hundred members and was doing work that in a higher state of civilization would be the proper care of the government.

It would have been hard to say who was the chief. Belle had been the planner and executor and now was not only a governor, but secretary and head of the women's department, on a fair business basis. But the growth of power in Jim was obvious. It had all been very new to his ways of thinking and, after all, Links and Chicago have little in common. Belle had a business training that was essential, and her quick judgment helped at every turn for it is a fact that second-class judgment right now is better than first-class judgment to-morrow. The full measure of her helpfulness in bearing the burdens was made transparently clear by a sudden crisis in their affairs. A telegram from Cedar Mountain arrived for Belle.

Mother very ill. Come at once—Father.

It was impossible for both to go, so Belle set off alone for Cedar Mountain, leaving Jim in charge of the flock at the Mountain House. Alone—he didn't think it possible to feel alone in such a crowd. His work was doubled in the absence of Belle, although Dr. Mary Mudd gave not a little help in the mothers' department. It was a good thing for Jim to find out just how much he owed to his wife. There was a continuous stream of callers at the office with requests or complaints. These had all been met by Belle. She had an even poise, a gentle consideration for all, and certain helpful rules that reduced the strain, such as exact hours for work, one call at a time, and written complaints only. Jim's anxiety to placate and smooth out led him to undertake too much, and the result was a deluge of small matters of which he had previously known nothing. The exasperating accumulation of annoyances and attacks, in spite of all his best and kindest endeavours, invoked a new light.

"Oh, if Belle were only here!" was his repeated thought. "I don't know how she manages, but she does. It's mighty strange how few of these annoyances came up when she was in the office." He began to realize more and more her ability. "She has more judgment, more tact than any of us; she has been meeting these things all along, and saving me from them by settling them without me. Yes, she's wiser than I am in such matters."

So he wrote her of his troubles. He detailed many cases in point and added: "We miss you awfully; every one in the House complains. I haven't got your cleverness and tact. It seems as if I made enemies every time I tried to make friends. Come back as soon as you can." And if the truth must be told there was a little flush of pleasure and triumph in her soul. "Now he knows what I have known so long." And who shall blame her for gloating a little over the deacons who, in the beginning, were unwilling to recognize her? But she had to send a discouraging reply. For the angel of destiny said: "No, it is now time for him to walk alone" and the telegram ran:

Cannot come; Mother is very low.

After the first shock of disappointment he braced up, and, like a man who has been retreating and who knows in his heart that he never meant to make a stand as long as some one else could be depended on, he upbraided himself and turned to face the fight. "There is a way of doing it all, and I can do it." And in the resolve to win he found new strength. In many small, but puzzling matters, he got guidance in the practical sayings of men like Lincoln and Grant: "Be sure you are right, then go ahead"; "Every one has some rights"; "In case of doubt, go the gentle way"; "Never hunt for trouble." These were samples of the homely wisdom that helped him and proved that the old proverbs are old wisdom in shape for new use.

One man came to complain that a member had been drunk and disorderly at a certain other place the night before. A year ago, Jim would have said that it was a disgrace and that he would make a thorough investigation, which would have meant assuming a special guardianship of each and every member all the time. Wiser now, he said, "Since it was not on our premises, we have no knowledge of the matter." On the other hand, it was a serious affair when a member brought in a bottle of strong drink and treated a number of weak friends until there was a wild orgy going on in one of the rooms, in spite of official protests from those in charge. This was clearly high treason; and repressing a disposition to gloss it over, Hartigan expelled the principal and suspended the seconds for long periods.

During a boyish contest in the gymnasium, a man somewhat in liquor, shouted out a string of oaths at the youngsters. Jim rebuked him quietly for using such language there, whereupon the man turned upon him with a coarse insult and, misunderstanding the Preacher's gentleness, struck him a vicious blow, which Jim only partly warded off. "If you do that again, we may have to put you out," said Jim, inwardly boiling under the double insult. Fortunately, the man's friends interfered now and got the fellow away. For this Jim was most thankful. Afterward, he rejoiced still more that he had restrained himself; and he knew Belle would flush with pride at this victory over self, this proof of a growing self-control.

Another week went by and again came word that Belle could not return for perhaps ten days at the earliest. A dozen broils that Jim had been postponing for Belle to arbitrate had now to be considered. Dr. Mary Mudd was the leader of an indignant party of women to complain that though the men were not more in numbers than the women they had appropriated sixty out of the one hundred coat hangers.

Rippe, the tailor, was there to complain that Dr. Mary Mudd always walked up the middle of the stairs, unlawfully delaying the traffic, instead of keeping the proper right side. With his outstretched arms, he illustrated the formidable nature of the barrier. Dr. Mudd retorted that said Rippe had repeatedly smoked in the ladies' room, etc., etc. But these were small matters easily adjusted. Two, much more serious, came on him in one day.

First, he yielded to the temptation of having a beautiful banner hung on the wall, because it was contributed and very decorative. It bore a legend, "No popery." This was much in line with his private views, but it made a great stir and cost them a score of members, as well as incurring the dislike of Father O'Hara, hitherto friendly. His second blunder was to allow the cook in the restaurant to put scraps of pork in the soup, thereby raising a veritable storm among the many keen debaters of the kosher kind, and causing the resignation of Skystein from the board—temporarily at least.

It would have been much to Jim's taste to have an open war with Father O'Hara and his flock. His Ulster blood was ready for just such a row. And in his heart he believed pork and beans quite the best of foods. But his opinions were not law; he had been learning many things. Others had rights; and he won the disaffected back, one by one, by recognizing the justice of their claims and by making kindly personal calls on each of them.

Thus Jim Hartigan got a new knowledge of his own endowment and discovered unsuspected powers. He had held his peace and triumphed in a number of trying situations that two or three years before would have ended in an unprofitable brawl. He had controlled his temper, that was a step forward and he was learning to control those about him as well as manage an organization. He had begun to realize his prejudices and to learn to respect the beliefs of others even when he thought them wrong. The memory of Father Cyprian and the Sioux boy had helped him to deal kindly and respectfully with Skystein and Father O'Hara.

Strange to say, it was a travelling Hindu who supplied him with the biggest, broadest thought of all. This swarthy scholar was deeply imbued with the New Buddhism of Rammohan Roy and, when asked for his opinion of some Romanist practices, he remarked softly, but evasively, "My religion teaches me that if any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God and his action must be treated with respect, so long as he is not infringing the rights of others."

Jim took a long walk by the lake that day and turned over and over that saying of the Hindu in the library. The thing had surprised him—first, because of the perfect English in the mouth of a foreigner, and secondly, because of the breadth and tolerance of the thought. He wondered how he could ever have believed himself open-minded or fair when he had been so miserably narrow in all his ideas. Where was he headed? All his early days he had been taught to waste effort on scorning the ceremonials great and small of Jews, Catholics, yes, of Baptists even; and now the heathen—to whom he had once thought of going as a missionary—had come to Chicago and shown him the true faith.

Striding at top speed, he passed a great pile of lumber and sawdust. The fresh smell of the wet wood brought back Links—and his mother, and a sense of happiness, for he had given up "trying to reason it all out." He was no longer sure, as he once was, that he had omniscience for his guide. Indeed he was sure only of this, that the kindest way is the only way that is safe.

There was daylight dawning in his heart, and yet, across that dawn there was a cloud which grew momentarily more black, more threatening. Paradoxical as it seemed, Jim was intensely unhappy over the abandonment of the ministerial career. The enduring force of his word as a man was only another evidence of the authentic character of that deep emotional outburst which had pledged him openly to the service of Christ. The work at the Cedar Mountain House for a while satisfied the evangelical hunger of his ardent soul. It was good, it was successful, it was increasing in scope; but of its nature it could never be more than secular; it was social work in its best form—that was all. The work of which he dreamed, and to which he had consecrated his life was the preaching of the Gospel, and, as the months passed, an unrest—the like of which he had hardly known—took possession of him. These last weeks of Belle's absence had brought on one of his periodic soul-searchings and the gloom of it was as thick as a fog when the mail brought word of Belle's return. As he sat with her letter in his hand his mind went back to the hills and the free days and he longed to go back—to get away from the ponderous stolidity of this pavement world.

He met her at the station and her joyousness was as a shock to him. And yet, how hungry he was for every least word of that lost life.

"Oh, Jim, it was glorious to ride again, to smell the leather and the sagebrush. I just loved the alkali and the very ticks on the sagebrush. I didn't know how they could stir one's heart."

His eye glowed, his breath came fast, his nostrils dilated and, as Belle looked, it seemed to her that her simple words had struck far deeper than she meant.

"And the horses, which did you ride?" he queried. "How is Blazing Star? Are they going to race at Fort Ryan this year? And the Bylow boys, and the Mountain? Thank God, men may come and go, but Cedar Mountain will stand forever." He talked as one who has long kept still—as one whose thoughts long pent have dared at length to break forth.

And Belle, as she listened, saw a light. "He is far from forgetting the life of the Hills," she said to herself as she watched him. "He is keener than ever. All this steadfast devotion to club work is the devotion of duty. Now I know the meaning of those long vigils, those walks by the lake in the rain—of his preoccupation. His heart is in Cedar Mountain." And she honoured him all the more for that he had never spoken a word of the secret longing.

CHAPTER LVI The Defection of Squeaks

Michael Shay had come to the club in person once or twice, but did not desire to be conspicuous. It was clear now that the club was not to be the political weapon at first suspected. The boss had another organization through which to hold and make felt his power; but the fact that it pleased a number of his voters was enough to insure his support.

Squeaks, however, was quite conspicuous and present on all important occasions; it was generally supposed that he was there in the interests of Shay, but that was not clearly proven. It was obvious that the club was not in any way lined up for or against Shay. It was, however, believed by Belle that Squeaks was there in the interests of Squeaks and none other.

This strange, small person had a small, strange history—so far as it was known. A lawyer, he had been disbarred for disreputable practice, and was now a hanger-on of the boss, a shrewd person, quite purchasable. He was convinced that he was destined to be a great boss, and satisfied that Cedar Mountain House would help his plans—which lay in the direction of the legislature—hence he sought to identify himself with it. For the present, also, he stuck to Shay.

The approved boss system of the time rested on a regiment of absolutely obedient voters, who voted not once, but many times in as many different wards as needed. They were thoroughly organized, and part of their purpose was to terrorize independent voters, or even "remove" men who developed power or courage enough to oppose them; so the "reliable squad" was important. As their ranks contained many convicts or men qualified for life terms, they were a dangerous and desperate lot. They responded at once and cheerfully to any duty call, and one "removal" per night would have probably been less than average for a boss-ruled city in those days. For this they received protection; that is, the police and the Courts were so completely in the scheme that it was sufficient, on the arrest of a "reliable," if the boss sent word to the judge or State's attorney "to be keerful" as this was "one of our boys." Promptly a flaw would be discovered in the indictment and the case dropped.

The boss who derives power from such a machine must ever look out for the appearance of a rival, hence Shay's early watchfulness of the club; but that gave place to a friendly indifference. He was a man superior to his class, in some respects; for, though brutal and masterful on occasion, it was said that he never "removed" a rival. At most, he had applied pressure that resulted in their discreetly withdrawing. And he cared little for money. Most bosses are after either money or power or both. Shay loved power. The revenues he might have made out of tribute from those protected were not well developed, and most of what he received he disbursed in generous gifts to those in his ward who needed help. It was said that no man ever went hungry from Mike Shay's door, which was perfectly true; and the reward that he loved above all things was to be pointed out on the street or in the car as "Mike Shay." To overhear some one say, "That's Michael Shay, the big Boss of the South Ward," meant more to him a thousand fold than any decoration in the gift of the greatest of Old-World potentates.

Hartigan learned that he could go to Shay at any time for a reasonable contribution, after having made it clear that it was for some one in distress—not for a church. The only return Shay ever asked was that Jim come sometimes and put on the gloves with him in a friendly round. Most of Shay's legal finesse was done through Squeaks. That small, but active person was on the boards of at least twenty-five popular organizations, and it was understood that he was there to represent the boss. Extraordinary evidence of some one's pull was shown when one day Squeaks was elevated to the Bench. It was only as a police magistrate, but he was now Judge Squeaks, with larger powers than were by law provided, and he began to "dig himself in," entrench himself, make his position good with other powers, in anticipation of the inevitable conflict with Boss Shay. It became largely a line-up of political parties; Squeaks had made a deal with the party in power at Springfield, and gave excellent guarantees of substantial support—both electoral and financial—before the keen-eyed myrmidons of Shay brought to the boss the news that Squeaks had turned traitor.

Then the war was on; not openly, for Squeaks had scores of documents that would, before any impartial jury, have convicted Shay of manipulating election returns, intimidating voters, and receiving blackmail. It was important to get possession of these documents before they could be used. While the present party held power in State politics, there would be no chance for Shay to escape. There were two possibilities, however; one, that the election close at hand might reverse the sympathies of those in power; the other, that Squeaks might find it unwise to use the weapon in his hands.

Now was the Cedar Mountain House in peril, for Shay's support was essential. At a word from him, the police might call the club a disorderly house, and order it shut up. The fact that Squeaks was a governor strengthened the probability of drastic action. On the other hand, Squeaks as police magistrate, could restrain the police for a time or discover flaws in as many indictments as were brought up. The District Court could, of course, issue a warrant over the head of the police magistrate; but the Court of Appeals was friendly to Squeaks and would certainly quash the warrant; so that, for the time being the many unpleasant possibilities simply balanced each other, and the club went on in a sort of sulphurous calm like that before a storm.

Then came an exciting day at the club. By an unusual chance both Shay and Squeaks met there and the inevitable clash came. Angry words passed and Shay shouted: "Ye dirty little sneak, I'll fix ye yet!" Squeaks, cool and sarcastic, said: "Why don't ye do it now?" Shay rushed at him with a vigorous threat, and would have done him grievous bodily injury but for the interference of Hartigan and others. Shay waited at the gate for Squeaks, but the Judge slipped out the back way and disappeared.

It was Bud Towler who called on the Judge with a letter from Boss Shay, demanding the return of certain personal papers and authorizing said Bud to receive them. To which Judge Squeaks replied: "He better come for them himself. He knows where I live. I'll be home every night this week."

And thither that night with two friends went Shay. It was a very simple lodging. These men habitually avoid display. The janitor knew all too well who Shay was.

"Is Squeaks at home?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"I'm going up to see him, and if I lay him over my knee and spank him till he squeals, ye needn't worry; it's nothing." Then up went Shay, while his friends stayed below, one at the front of the house and the other in the lane that commanded the back.

The trembling janitor heard the heavy foot go up the wooden stairs; he heard a voice, then a crash as of a door forced open, then heavy steps and a pistol shot. A window was opened behind the house, and something was thumped down into the back yard. A little later, the boss came hurriedly down the stairs. The timid janitor and his trembling wife saw the big man step out with a bundle under his arm. Then all was still.

After twenty minutes of stupefaction, they began to realize that they should go up to the Judge's room. They mounted the stairs together, carrying a lamp. The door had, evidently, been forced. The room was in some disorder; the drawers of the desk were open, and papers scattered about. On one or two of the papers was fresh blood. The window was closed, but not fastened; the end of the curtain under it seemed to give proof that it had recently been opened. On the sill was more fresh blood.

There was no sign of the Judge.

As they gazed about in horror, they heard a noise in the back yard and looking out saw, very dimly, two men carrying off a heavy object, they lifted it over the back fence and then followed, to disappear.

Schmidt, the janitor, was terror-stricken. Evidently, the Judge had been murdered and his body was now being made away with. What was to be done? If he interfered, the murderers would wreak their vengeance on him; if he refrained, he would be blamed for the murder or at least for complicity.

"I tink, Johann, dere's only one ting, and dat is go straight an' tell de police," said his wife. As they stood, they heard a light foot on the stairs. Their hearts stood still, but they peered out to see a woman in a gray cloak step into the street, and they breathed more freely. Now they rushed to the station house and told their tale in tears and trembling.

The Police Captain was scornful and indifferent. Had there been but one witness, he might have ordered him away; but two witnesses, intensely in earnest, made some impression. He sent an inspector around to see. That official came back to report the truth of the statement made by the Schmidts, that the Judge's room was empty, upset, and had some blood stains; but he attached little importance to the matter. He had, however, locked up and sealed the door, pending examination.

Next morning, there was an attempt to hush the matter up, but a reporter appeared in the interests of a big paper, and by a clever combination of veiled threats and promises of support, got permission to see the room. The reporterial instinct and the detective instinct are close kin, and the newspaper published some most promising clues: The Judge was visited at midnight by a man whom he had robbed and who had threatened to kill him; a broken door, papers stolen, a scuffle, traces of human blood (the microscope said so) in several places, blood on the window sill, a heavy something thrown out of the window and carried off by two men, blood on the back fence, and no trace of the Judge.

It was a strong case, and any attempt to gloss it over was rendered impossible by the illustrated broadside with which the newspaper startled the public.

CHAPTER LVII The Trial

All Chicago remembers the trial of Michael Shay. It filled the papers for a month; it filled folk's minds and mouths for two. Many a worse murder had been quietly buried and forgotten, but this was too conspicuous. The boss, facing a decline of his power, had undoubtedly murdered the man he had begun to fear, and the parties in control of all the machinery of justice were against the accused.

The case was thoroughly threshed out. Shay had openly threatened the life of Squeaks; he had tried before to do him hurt; had gone with two men to Squeaks's lodgings; had warned Schmidt that there was going to be "a little fuss"; had broken open the door and got certain papers—his own property, undoubtedly, but now splashed with blood; a shot had been heard—a heavy something thrown from the back window and then carried off by two men; blood on the floor, the sill and the back fence; and the Judge had disappeared from the face of the earth. The case was clear, the jury retired, but quickly brought in a verdict of guilty, although at every point there was nothing but circumstantial evidence.

Jim Hartigan was one of the first friends to call on Shay after his arrest, and Belle came soon after. They heard his story, which was simple and straight: Squeaks was holding the papers which would be, at least, damaging to Shay's property and reputation; he got them in confidence and then defied Shay to come and take them. Shay decided it would be well to take two witnesses and went, as planned, to Squeaks's apartments. Finding the door locked and believing that Squeaks was inside, he forced it open; the room was dark and no one was there. He lighted the gas and rummaged through the desk for the papers that belonged to him, paying no attention to any others. He saw blood on some of the papers, but didn't know where it came from. As he was coming away, he heard a pistol shot, either upstairs or outside, he didn't know which. He knew nothing about anything thrown from the window. He got his own property and came away.

Although every particle of evidence adduced by the prosecuting attorney was circumstantial, it was very complete. Some juries would have felt reasonable doubt, but no one could get over the facts that Shay had threatened Squeaks's life and that Squeaks had disappeared after a visit from Shay which left traces of blood in Squeaks's apartment. The trial over, the verdict of guilty rendered, Shay was asked if he could offer any reason why he should not be condemned. He rose and said: "Only that I didn't do it. I never saw him from that time in the club a week before."

Then the judge pronounced the awful words: "...Hanged by the neck till you are dead." Shay sat stunned for a minute, then, when the jailor tapped his shoulder, rose and walked silently forth to the cell of the doomed.

It is the hour of trial that sifts out your friends. There were two at least who followed every move in that crowded court room—Hartigan and his wife. They had learned that the crude, brutal exterior of the prizefighter held a heart that was warm and true. They had learned that they could go to him with certainty of success when they wanted help for some struggling man or woman in their ward. They knew that he would not drive a bargain for his help, nor plaster his gift with religious conditions. It was enough for him to know that a fellow-being was in need and that he had the power to help him. Shay was a product of submergence and evil system; he was wrong in his theories, wrong in his methods, wrong in his life; but his was a big, strong spirit—ever kind. And out of the strange beginnings there had grown a silent but real friendship between the Hartigans and himself.

On the black day of the verdict and the sentence, Belle and Jim were sadly sitting at home. "Jim," she said, "I know he didn't do it; his story is so simple and sound. It's easy to get human blood if you have a friend in the hospital; he is innocent. We know that Squeaks could easily have access to a room upstairs; that bundle may have been thrown out from the window merely as a part of a plot. Everything is against Shay now because he is in wrong with the party; but, surely, there is something we can do."

"His attorney asked for an appeal, but I am afraid it won't be entertained; there is no new evidence—no reason for delay that they can see or wish to see."

"That attorney has behaved very suspiciously, I think. Don't you think the governor might intervene with at least a commutation?" she suggested.

"The governor! His worst enemy," said Jim. "The governor's been after him for years."

Hope seemed gone. They sat in silence; then she said: "Pray, Jim; maybe light will come." And together they prayed that the God of justice and mercy would send his light down among them and guide them in this awful time. It was a short and simple prayer, followed by a long silence.

Belle spoke: "There is only one thing that can be done; that is find Squeaks. I know he is living somewhere yet, gloating probably over the success of his plan to get rid of Shay. I know he is alive, and we must find him. We have one month to do it, Jim. We must find him."

Jim shook his head. "We've tried hard enough already. We've examined every corpse taken out of the river or exposed at the morgue."

"Well; doesn't that help to prove that he is alive?"

"We've advertised and notified every police station in the country," Jim continued.

"They don't want to find him, Jim; they're on the other side."

"I don't know what else to do."

"Jim, I've read enough and seen enough of human nature to know that, if Squeaks is alive, he's not hiding in California or Florida or London; he's right here in South Ward where he can watch things. It's my belief, Jim, that he's been in the court room watching the trial."

Jim shook his head; but she went on. "This much I'm sure; he would hang around his former haunts, and we should leave nothing undone to find him."

They went first to Shay's attorney, but he dismissed the idea as chimerical, so they dropped him from their plans. Together they set to work, with little hope indeed, but it was at least better to be up and doing. Judge Squeaks's office was small, easily entered and productive of nothing. The police would give no information and seemed little interested in the new theory. Squeaks's lodgings yielded nothing new, but they found that Belle's theory was right; he had also had a room on the floor above. The woman in the gray cloak had called on him once or twice in the previous month and had come once since. She was a sort of janitress, as she had a key and straightened up his room. There was no hint of help in this. There was only one of his haunts that they had not thoroughly examined, that was the club. There was no need for that, as they knew every one that came and went, at least by sight.

Mrs. Hartigan was sitting in the club office at the back of the building next day when Skystein came in, and sat down to go over some club letters, officially addressed to him. As he read he made a note on each and sorted them into three neat piles. Belle watched him with interest that was a little tinged with shame. It is so human to consider a man inferior if he does not speak your language fluently, and the early impression they had gotten of Skystein gave them a sense of lofty pity. But it did not last. At every board meeting they had found reason to respect the judgment and worldly knowledge of the little Hebrew; those keen black eyes stood for more than cunning, they were the lights of intellect. Belle turned to him now. If any one knew the underworld of the South Ward it was he, and what he didn't know he had means to find out.

She openly, frankly, told him all she knew and suspected. He heard her at first doubtingly, then with growing interest, then with a glare of intense attention and conviction at last. His eyes twinkled knowingly as she expressed her opinion of the attorney. Skystein uttered the single word "fixed." Then he tapped his white teeth with his slender forefinger and rose to get the membership roll. He looked over it, but got no help; there was no one entered within the last few months that they could not fully account for.

They sat gazing in silence through the window into the adjoining reading room when an elderly woman came in and sat down. She wore a gray cloak and large goggles.

"Who is she?" said Belle. "I've seen her often enough, but I don't remember her name."

"Dat's Mrs. Davis: she's been coming only about five months. She was one of Squeaks's members."

A ray of hope shot into Belle's brain. "This fits the description of Squeaks's cleaning woman. She knows where he is hidden; she takes him food and keeps him posted. She is here now for the news." The woman at the desk raised her face; through the goggles and through that inner window she saw the two gazing at her. She rose quickly, but without hurry, and left the building. Skystein turned after her, without actually running, but she had disappeared.

"That woman knows where Squeaks is hiding," said Belle. But what became of her was a puzzle. They were confronted now by a stone wall, for there was no trace of her. The old janitor at Squeaks's lodging had not seen her for two weeks and she did not again appear at the club.

Michael Shay's religion so far as he had any, was of the Ulster type, and Jim Hartigan was accepted as his spiritual adviser and allowed to see him often. Jim and Belle agreed that it was well to tell him everything in their minds, to keep alive the light of hope, or maybe get from him some clue. Two weeks passed thus without a hint. Then, one evening as Skystein came late to the club, he saw a woman go out. He went to the desk and asked who it was. The register showed a strange name, but the clerk thought it was the gray woman till she looked at the name. Skystein rushed out as fast as possible, just in time to see a gray-cloaked figure board the car. There was no hack in sight so he leaped on the next car and followed. He was able to watch the car most of the time, but saw only one woman leave it. She was in black. At length, he got a chance to run forward and mount the first car. He stayed on the platform and peered in. There was no gray-cloaked woman. He asked the conductor, and learned that a woman had got on and taken off her cloak till she went out again three blocks back. At once his Hebrew wit seized these two ideas: she had deliberately turned her cloak; she was eluding pursuit.

Skystein went back at once to the street where the black-cloaked woman had descended. Of course, he saw nothing of her, but there was a peanut vender of his own race, at the corner. Skystein stopped, bought a bag of peanuts and began to eat them. Casually he asked the merchant if that woman in gray bought peanuts there. The vender didn't seem to comprehend, so Skystein addressed him in Yiddish; told him the woman was a detective, and promised to give ten dollars for information as to where she lived or what she was after. The expression on the peanut man's face showed an eagerness to find out the facts with all possible speed. But a week went by and he had nothing to report.

Meanwhile, Jim was at Joliet in daily conference with Shay, reporting to him the success or ill success of the search; reporting, alas, how little help they got from those who were supposed to forward the ends of justice. Money was not lacking, but it would help little; if an open campaign were conducted to find the man they believed to be in hiding, it might put an insuperable obstacle in the way. The governor was approached, but he was little disposed to listen or order a stay, least of all when they had nothing but a vague theory to offer.

Four days more went by, and Skystein found the peanut man in high excitement. He had seen the gray woman; she passed down his street and, before he could follow, turned into a side street; he left his peanuts and ran to follow, but got no second glimpse. She must have gone into one of the near-by tenements. "Didn't Mr. Skystein orter pay for de peanuts stole by de boys, as well as de reward."

Two days of life remained to Shay. Hope had died out of their hearts. Hartigan was preparing him for the great change that is always a bitter change when so approached. Belle still clung to hope. She posted herself where she could view the street, and made judicious inquiries, but got no help. The gray mantle was not a complete identification; the woman might have a dozen mantles. She went to the police station to enlist their cooperation. The Precinct Captain took no stock in the story and refused to order a house-to-house search. Finally—for even police are human—he promised to search any particular house when it was indicated, and to give reasonable support to any move that was obviously in the cause of justice.

The morning of the execution came and nothing had developed to revive their hopes. Belle was on watch at the street corner when on the main avenue an excitement occurred. A Savoyard with a dancing bear was holding a public show and gathering in a few coins. An idea came to her; she made her way through the crowd and said: "Here, is a dollar, if you make him dance before every house on this street." The Savoyard smiled blandly, bowed, pocketed the dollar and, leading the bear into the side street that Belle had watched so long, began the droning song that caused the animal to rear up and sway his huge, heavy body round and round as he walked. All the world came forth to see, or peered from upper windows; all the world was watching the strange antics of the bear—all but one. Belle's keen brown eyes were watching the crowd, watching the doorways, and watching, at length, the windows with desperate eagerness for sign of the gray woman. There seemed to be no gray woman; but, of a sudden, she saw a thing that stopped her heart. Flat against the window of a second-floor room, and intently watching the bear, was the pale, wizened, evil face of Squeaks!

Belle's hand trembled as she noted the house, the number and the very room; then, passing quickly around the corner, she hailed a cab and drove for life to the telegraph office, where she telegraphed Jim:

"Hold up the execution for two hours; we have found Squeaks."

(Signed) "Belle"

Then away to the police station. "Captain, Captain, I've found Squeaks! Come, come at once and get him."

"I have to know about it first," said he, calmly.

"Oh, Captain, there is no time to lose. It is ten o'clock now; the execution is fixed for noon."

The Captain shook his head.

"Then telegraph the Governor," she begged.

"He wouldn't pay any attention to your say-so."

"Then come at once and see; I have a cab here."

The Captain and two men went with Belle. They entered the cab. "I'll give you double fare to go your fastest," Belle said through her white, compressed lips; and the kindly cabman, sensing something out of common, 'Said, "I'll do my best, miss."

In ten minutes, they were in the side street. The bear was gone, the crowd was gone. The police entered without knocking, went to the second floor, to the very door and then knocked. There was no answer. The Captain put his shoulder to the door and forced it in. There, sure enough, standing in an attitude of fear in a far corner was the thin woman of the gray cloak.

"Where is Judge Squeaks? He was seen in this room half an hour ago."

"I don't know what you mean," and she covered her face with her skinny hands and began to cry.

"You must come to the station at once," said the Captain. Then to Belle: "Will you testify that this is the woman?"

Belle was white and trembling, but she walked up and said: "I will testify that this is—" She reached forward, peering at the woman's hidden face. Then seizing the loose hair, Belle gave one jerk, the wig came off, and they were facing Judge Squeaks!

"My God!" was all the Captain had to say. "The telephone as quick as possible! You hold him." He dashed down the stairs and made for the nearest long distance wire. It was half an hour before they could connect with Springfield, only to learn that the Governor had left for Chicago and was expected to arrive there about noon.

CHAPTER LVIII In the Death House

Shay sat calmly waiting as the big clock ticked his life away that morning in the house of death at Joliet. At eleven o'clock, Hartigan received Belle's telegram: "We have found Squeaks." He rushed to the Sheriff with it. That officer was very sorry, but "no one except the Governor had any right to order a stay."

"Why, sir," said Jim, "you are not going to hang an innocent man, when here is proof of his innocence."

"There is no proof in that telegram. I don't know who "Belle" is. I get my orders from the Courts. No one but the Governor can order a reprieve."

Jim sent a telegram to Springfield only to learn, as Belle had done, that the Governor had left for Chicago. He sent telegrams to every one who had the power to help. He telegraphed Belle; he rushed to the Sheriff to beg for God's sake but one hour's reprieve. He hurried to the penitentiary to find another telegram from Belle:

Pray without ceasing for an hour's delay. We have Squeaks now.

But the clock ticked on. He literally ran to Michael's cell; the jailer opened the way. "Michael," he gasped, "we have found Squeaks; we know you are innocent."

Michael was the calmest of all. "Whatever is God's will I'll take without a grumble," he said, and sat smoking.

At a quarter to twelve the Sheriff appeared.

"Why, Sheriff, you are not going to—when you know the reprieve is on the way. You are not going to let a technicality lead you into murder?"

"I have no change in my instructions," said the Sheriff, "and no proof that any change is on the way."

"Why; this is monstrous," gasped Jim. "An hour's delay is all we ask, so the Governor can be reached."

The Sheriff motioned the guard to move on, and Shay walked firmly between the two officers. They came into the prison yard. There assembled were a score of officials and newspaper men.

"Have you any final statement to make?" asked the State officials.

"Nothing, only that I am innocent and Squeaks is alive at this moment."

That was an old story—an old trick to win time. The officers were preparing to act, when Hartigan pale and exultant, swinging the last telegram before the Sheriff, re-read it and for the first time truly got its meaning. He said: "Let us pray."

They kneeled down, all of them, in accordance with the ancient custom, and Jim began to pray. His voice was broken and husky, but it grew steadier as he appealed to the God of Justice and Mercy. He prayed and prayed; the clock struck twelve, but still he prayed. "Pray without ceasing," Belle's message had said. His gift of speech stood by him now; a quarter of an hour passed and still he was pouring out petitions to the throne of grace; another quarter of an hour and his voice was a little weary, but he prayed on. Still another, and another, and the clock struck one. All those men still kneeled, dead silent, except for a low, sobbing sound from the little group farther off. The Sheriff waited uneasily; he coughed a little and waited for a gap—but there was no gap; Jim bared his heart to God that day. He prayed as he never did before and all his bodily strength went into his prayer. At a quarter past one, when he was still calling on the God of Life for help, the Sheriff knew not what to do, for by the unwritten law the man of God had a right to finish his prayer. At half past one, the Sheriff moved uneasily and at length uttered a faint "Amen," as though to give the signal to stop. As it had no effect he realized for the first time just what Hartigan's desperation and iron will were leading him to do, he took cover under the technicality and played the game with him. Shay would have a chance as long as the Preacher's voice lasted. The party all stood, hats off, except those around the condemned one. They still kneeled, some of them, while others in bodily weariness, were frankly sitting on the scaffold. And the Preacher prayed on. His voice was thick and husky now; he could scarcely enunciate the words. The big clock ticked and two was struck. Still Jim prayed, as one who hopes and clings to any hope.

There were uneasy movements among the witnesses. The Sheriff said "Amen" twice again, quite loudly so that no one else should interrupt, but he was under a terrible strain. It was ten minutes after two when a shout was heard from the outer office and a warden with a paper came running, shrieking, "Reprieve! Reprieve!"

Jim turned to look and closed his prayer: "...and this we ask for Jesus's sake"; then he fell flat upon the scaffold.

"I knew she would, I knew she would; Belle never failed me yet," were the first words he uttered when he revived.

The Sheriff read the Governor's telegram to the crowd:

"Reprieve Michael Shay for three days."

As they led him back to the house of death, which was to him a house of resurrection, there was the whistle of a special train followed by the clatter of a carriage approaching the gate. Whoever it was had the right of entry. Hurried footsteps were heard, and short, low words. Then the doors swung wide for—the Governor himself, John Hopkins, and Belle. White fear was on their faces till they met a warder who knew.

"All right, sir; we got it in time."

"Thank God!"

"Yes, sir; two hours after the time fixed. But the minister was in the middle of his prayer and he didn't seem to finish till it came."

The party entered the death house, and at once were ushered into the room where Shay and Jim were sitting. Jim was weak and worn looking. The warden announced, "The Governor." Jim rose, and in a moment, Belle was in his arms. "I knew you would. I knew you would. I got your message. I prayed without ceasing. I would have been at it yet."

Mike Shay, calm until now, broke down. Tears ran from his small gray eyes, and clutching the soft hand of his deliverer, he murmured: "There ain't anything I got too good for the Hartigans. Ye—ye—ye—oh, God damn it! I can't talk about it!" and he sobbed convulsively.

The Governor shook his hand and said: "Michael Shay, I think the danger is over so far as you are concerned; all will be well now that Squeaks is found." Shay mumbled a "thank you." "Don't thank me," replied the man of power. "You may thank the loyal friends who found the trap and found the answer and found the Governor, when almost any other man or woman would have given up."

CHAPTER LIX The Heart Hunger

When the flood rushes over the meadow and tears the surface smoothness, it exposes the unmoved rock foundation; when the fire burns down the flimsy woodwork, it shows in double force the unchanged girders of steel. Storm and fire in double power and heat had been Jim's lot for weeks and, in less degree, for months. Now there was a breathing spell, a time to stop and look at the things beneath.

It was a little thing that gave Belle the real key to a puzzle. It occurred one afternoon in the apartment and Belle saw it from the inner room. Jim thought he was alone; he did not know she had returned. He stood before the picture of Blazing Star, and lifting down the bunch of sage he smelt it a long time, then sighed a little and put it back. Belle saw and understood. The rock foundation was unchanged; he loved and longed for the things he had always loved, and the experiences of these months had but exposed the granite beneath. The thought that had been in her heart since the day he put the ring on her finger, rose up with appalling strength. "He gave up everything for me. I taught him that his duty lay through college and then made him give that up for me." She had been quick enough to mark the little turnings of his spirit toward the West when there were times of relaxation or unguardedness. But she had hitherto set them down to a general wish to visit former scenes rather than to a deep, persistent, fundamental craving.

Many little things which she had noted in him came up before her now, not as accidental fragments, but as surface outcroppings of the deep, continuous, everlasting granite rock, the real longing of his nature; and the strength of its fixity appalled her. As she watched from the outer room on that epochal afternoon, she saw him kneel with his face to the western sky and pray that the way might be opened, that he yet might fulfil the vow he made to devote his life to bearing the message of the Gospel. "Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done."

He sat long facing the glowing West which filled his window and then rose and walked into the inner room. He was greatly astonished to find Belle there, lying on the bed, apparently asleep. He sat down beside her and took her hand. She opened her eyes slowly as though awakening—gentle hypocrite.

"I didn't know you were back," he said. She closed her eyes again as though they were heavy with sleep. It was a small fraud, but it set his mind at ease, as she meant it should.

After a time, she roused herself and began with enthusiasm: "Oh, Jim, I have had such a clear and lovely dream. I thought we were back at Cedar Mountain, riding again in the sagebrush, with the prairie wind blowing through our very souls."

She watched his face eagerly and saw the response she expected. It came in larger measure than she had looked for. "I felt as though I could do anything," she went on, "go anywhere or take any jump; and just as I was riding full tilt at the Yellowbank Canyon, you took me by the hand and held me back; then I awoke and you did have my hand. Isn't it queer the way dreams melt into reality?" She laughed happily and went on as if he were opposing the project: "Why not, Jim? You need a holiday; why shouldn't we go and drink a long deep draught of life in the hills and sage? I know we'll get a clearer vision of life from the top of Cedar Mountain than we can anywhere else."

"It seems too good to be true," he slowly answered, and his voice trembled. Less than half an hour ago he had prayed for this and suddenly the way seemed plain, if not yet open.

The winter and spring had gone, and the summer was dying. In all this time the Hartigans had carried their daily, hourly burden, without halt or change. Whatever of hardship there was, came in the form of thwarted plans, heart-cravings for things they felt they must give up. Jim made no mention of his disappointments and, so far as he could, he admitted his hunger neither to himself nor to Belle. It was merely a matter of form, applying for a month's leave; this had been agreed on from the beginning. The largest difficulty was in the fact that they must go together—the head and the second head both away at once. But there were two good understudies ready trained—Skystein and Dr. Mary Mudd—with Mr. Hopkins as chairman to balance their powers. Michael Shay too, came to offer gruffly and huskily his help: "If I can do anything, like puttin' up cash, or fixin' anybody that's workin' agin you, count on Mike." Then after a pause he added, a little wistfully: "I ain't got many real friends, but I want to have them know I'm real, and I know the real thing when I find it."

A conference was finally held and the management of the Club was turned over to the chairman and his aides for a month. Jim and Belle were like children on leave from boarding school. They packed in wild hilarity and took the first train the schedule afforded for Cedar Mountain.

CHAPTER LX The Gateway and the Mountain

August with its deadening heat was over; September, bright, sunny and tonic, was come to revive the world. Rank foliage was shaking off the summer dust, and a myriad noisy insects were strumming, chirping, fiddling, buzzing, screeping in the dense undergrowth. It was evening when they boarded the train for the West and took the trail that both had taken before, but never with such a background of events or such an eagerness for what was in the future. As the train roared through the fertile fields of Illinois, with their cornfields, their blackbirds and their myriads of cattle, red and white, the sun went down—a red beacon blaze, a bonfire welcome on their pathway just before the engine—a promise and a symbol.

It was near noon the next day when they reached the junction and took, the branch line for the north. The first prairie-dog town had set Jim ablaze with schoolboy eagerness; and when a coyote stood and gazed at the train, he rushed out on to the platform to give him the hunter's yell.

"My, how sleek he looked! I wonder how those prairie dogs feel as they see him stalk around their town, like a policeman among the South Chicago kids!"

When a flock of prairie chickens flew before the train he called, "Look, look, Belle! See how they sail, just as they used to do!" As though the familiar sights of ten months before were forty years in the past.

They were in the hills now, and the winding train went more slowly. Animal life was scarcer here, but the pine trees and the sombre peaks were all about. At five o'clock the train swung down the gorge with Cedar Mountain before it, and Jim cried in joy: "There's our mountain; there's our mountain!"

There was a crowd assembled at the station and as soon as Jim appeared a familiar voice shouted, "Here he is!" and, led by Shives, they gave a hearty cheer. All the world of Cedar Mountain seemed there. Pa Boyd and Ma Boyd came first to claim their own. Dr. Jebb and Dr. Carson forgot their religious differences in the good fellowship of the time, and when the inner circle had kissed Belle and manhandled Jim to the limit of custom, a quiet voice said: "Welcome back, Mr. Hartigan," and Charlie Bylow grasped the Preacher's hand. "I brought my team so I could take care of your trunks." There was only one small trunk, but he took the check and would have resented any other man having hand or say in the matter.

That evening the meal was a "welcome home," for a dozen of the nearer friends were there to hear the chapters of their hero's life. Jim was in fine feather and he told of their Chicago life as none other could have done, with jest and sly digs at himself and happy tributes to the one who had held his hand when comradeship meant the most.

A month of freedom, with youth, sounds like years. Many plans were offered to fill the time. An invitation came from Colonel and Mrs. Waller to spend three days at Fort Ryan. In a delicately worded postscript was the sentence: "Blazing Star is well and will be glad to feel your weight again."

"Blazing Star and Cedar Mountain!" shouted Jim as Belle read the letter the next morning at breakfast. And then, much to Pa Boyd's amusement he broke out in his lusty baritone:

"'Tis my ain countree, 'Tis my ain countree!' The fairest brightest land That the sun did ever see."

Midnight and the horse that had been Belle's were waiting in the stable.

"Now, where shall we go? Up Cedar Mountain, to Fort Ryan, or where?" asked Belle as they saddled their mounts. His answer was not what she expected. Cedar Mountain had ever been in his thought. "If only I could stand on Cedar Mountain!" had been his words so many times. And now, with Cedar Mountain close at hand, in sight, he said: "Let's ride nowhere in particular—just through the sage."

They set off and veered away from Fort Ryan and any other place where men might cross their path. The prairie larks sang about them their lovely autumn song—the short, sweet call that sounds like: "Hear me, hear me! I am the herald announcing the King." Fluttering in the air and floating for a moment above the riders they carolled a wild and glorious serenade that has no possible rendition into human notation. After a hard gallop they rode in silence side by side, hand in hand, while Jim gazed across the plain or watched the fat, fumbling prairie dogs. But ever he turned his face and heart away from Cedar Mountain.

At first it had been to him but a mighty pile of rocks; then it had grown to be a spot beloved for its sacred memories. It had become a symbol of his highest hopes—the blessed things he held too good for words. He was riding now in the lust of youthful force; he was dwelling not in the past; or the hopeful far-ahead; he was in the living now, and, high or low, his instinct bade him drink the cup that came.

As the sun went down, he drew rein and paused with Belle to gaze at the golden fringe that the cedars made on the mountain's edge in the glow. He knew it and loved it in every light—best of all, perhaps, in its morning mist, when the plains were yet gray and the rosy dawn was touching its gleaming sides. He was content as yet to look on it from afar. He would seek its pinnacle as he had done before, but something within him said: "No; not yet."

And the wise young person at his side kept silence; a little puzzled but content, and waiting, wisely waiting.

CHAPTER LXI Clear Vision on the Mountain

Kind friends and hearty greetings awaited the Hartigans at the Fort. Colonel Waller, Mrs. Waller, and the staff received them as long-lost son and daughter; and with the least delay by decency allowed they went to the stable to see Blazing Star, still Fort Ryan's pride. The whinnied welcome and the soft-lipped fumbling after sugar were the outward tokens of his gladness at the meeting.

"He's the same as ever, Jim," said the Colonel, "but we didn't race last summer. Red Cloud came as usual, but asked for a handicap of six hundred yards, which meant that they had not got a speeder they could trust. We had trouble, too, with the Indian Bureau over the whole thing, so the affair was called off. As far as we know now, Blazing Star is the racer of the Plains, with Red Rover making a good second. He's in his prime yet; he could still walk a stringer on a black night, and while you are here at the Fort he's yours as much as you want to use him."

Jim's cup was filled to overflowing.

Their midday meal over, a ride was in order; first around the Fort among the men—Captain Wayne, Osier Mike, Scout Al Rennie—then out over the sagebrush flat. "Here's the old battle ground of the horses; here's where you chased the coyote, and here's where Blazing Star took you over the single stringer bridge on that black night." It was less than a year he had been away, and yet Jim felt like one who was coming back to the scenes of his boyhood, long gone by. His real boyhood in far-away Links was of another world. Fightin' Bill Kenna, Whiskey Mason, the Rev. Obadiah Champ, the stable and the sawmills, his mother—they were dreams; even Chicago was less real than this; and he rode like a schoolboy and yelled whenever a jack rabbit jumped ahead of his horse and jerked its white tail in quick zigzags, exactly as its kind had done in the days when he lived in the saddle.

After dinner, by the log fire in the Colonel's dining room, Mrs. Waller raised the question of their plans. "Now, children" (she loved to be maternal), "what do you want to do to-morrow?"

There was a time when Belle would have spoken first, but there had been a subtle, yet very real, change in their relationship. Jim was a child three years before, dependent almost entirely on her; now she was less his leader than she had been. She waited.

Gazing at the fire, his long legs straight out and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped behind his head, he lounged luxuriously in a great arm chair. Without turning his gaze from the burning logs he began:

"If I could do exactly what I wished——"

"Which you may," interjected Mrs. Waller.

"I'd saddle Blazing Star and Red Rover at seven o'clock in the morning and ride with Belle and not come back till noon."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Waller and the Colonel. "You children! You two little, little ones! Well, we must remember that Belle is still a bride and will be for another month, so we'll bid you Godspeed on the new wedding trip and have your breakfast ready at half past six."

Early hours are the rule in a fort at the front, so the young folk were not alone at breakfast. And when they rode away on their two splendid horses, many eyes followed with delight the noble beauty of the pair—so fitly mounted, so gladly young and strong.

"Now, where, Jim?" said Belle, as they left the gate and thundered over the bridge at a mettlesome lope. And as she asked, she remembered that that was the very question he used always to put to her.

"Belle" (he reined in Blazing Star), "I have been waiting till it seemed just right—waiting for the very time, so we could stand again at our shrine. Sometimes I think I know my way and the trail I ought to seek, and sometimes I am filled with doubt; but I know I shall have the clear vision if we stand again as we used to stand, above our world, beside the Spirit Rock, on the high peak of our mountain."

And then, in the soft sign language of the rein let loose, the ribs knee-nudged, they bade their horses go. Side by side they rode and swung like newly mated honkers in the spring—like two centaurs, feeling in themselves the power, the blood rush of their every bound. In less than half an hour they passed the little town and were at the foot of Cedar Mountain. The horses would have gone up at speed, but the riders held them in, and the winding trail was slowly followed up.

The mountain jays flew round the pines before them as they climbed; an eagle swung in circles, watching keenly; while, close at hand, the squirrels dropped their cones to spring behind the trunks and chatter challenge.

At the half-way ledge they halted for a breathing. Belle looked keenly, gently into Jim's eyes. She was not sure what she saw. She wondered what his thoughts were. The brightness of the morning, the joy of riding and being, the fullness of freedom—these were in glowing reflex on his face, but she had seen these before; yet never before had she seen his face so tense and radiant. Only once, perhaps, that time when he came home walking in the storm.

He smiled back at her, but said nothing. They rode again and in ten minutes came to the end of the horse trail. He leaped from the saddle, lifted her down, and tied the horses. With his strong hand under her arm, he made it easy for her to climb the last steep path. A hundred feet above, they reached the top, above the final trees, above the nearer peaks, above all other things about them except the tall, gray Spirit Rock. Below spread a great golden world; behind them a world of green. The little wooden town seemed at the mountain's foot—Fort Ryan almost in shouting hail, though it was six miles off; beyond, was the open sea of sage, with heaving hills for billows and greasewood streaks for foam.

Jim gazed in utter silence so long that she looked a little shyly at him. His face was radiant, his eye was glistening, but he spoke no words. The seat they had used a year before was there and he gently drew her toward it. Seated there as of old, he put his arm about her and held her to him. She whispered, "Make a fire." She had indeed interpreted his thought. He rose, lighted a little fire on the altar at the foot of the Spirit Rock, and the smoke rose up straight in the still air. It ascended from the earth mystery of the fire to be lost in the mystery of the above. How truly has it been the symbol of prayer since first man kindled fire and prayed.

Jim took his Bible from his pocket and read from the metrical Psalm CXXI:

I to the hills will lift mine eyes, From whence doth come mine aid; My safety cometh from the Lord Who heaven and earth hath made.

"They always went up into the hills to pray, Belle, didn't they? The fathers of the faith never went down into the valley when they sought God's guidance. I don't know why, but I know that I don't feel the same, away down there on the plains as I do up here. I see things more clearly, I have more belief in Him and know He is near me.

"The clouds have been gathering in my mind pretty thick and dark; yes, darker the last half year, Belle. I began to doubt myself as I never did. Even when we were winning in our Chicago fight, I wondered whether I was doing right. I couldn't see clearly, Belle, and then my doubt grew stronger and even you could not understand; there was something within that told me to go back to Cedar Mountain. Ever since we got here I have been waiting for the moment when I could come to the mountain. From here, a mile above the sea, I know that I shall see the way of wisdom. I wonder if you know what that Rock means to me with that little thread of smoke going up?

"Belle, men called Bill Kenna a ruffian and a brute. I guess he was, too, but he had a brave, warm heart. His whole religion was to feed the hungry and honour his word as a man. That was about all he taught me; and he loved my mother—that's enough; it bit in deep. When I gave my word as a man on that wild night four years ago when I heard the call, I vowed that I would, from that time on, devote my strength to telling others what I had found and try to make them find it, too. That was my vow, Belle; I've tried to keep it. I gave up things out here because they seemed to come between. I may be doing right in the city slum work, but it is not what I set out to do; I am not keeping to the trail."

Poor Belle! The periods of vague unrest she had noted; that time of fervent prayer; the reasons she had urged upon him for returning to college, and the crisis in which she had forced him to give it up—all now came back to her in quick succession. She remembered the weakness that had so nearly ended all and how he had overmastered it—that craving for drink, so strong from inheritance and from the evil habits of his earliest manhood. Amid daily temptations of the Chicago life, it had not seemed to touch him even as temptation. The horses that he loved he had given up for principle. The surface plasticity he still showed was merely the velvet that concealed the rod of steel and why he seemed so weak she knew now, was that he was so young, so very immature, a man in stature, a little happy child at heart. And the sting of sudden iron hurt her soul.

To say that she was shamed by remorse would not be fair; but the sum of her feelings was that he had given up all for her; she owed him something to atone.

There is clear vision from the hilltop—the far-sight is in the high place. The prophets have ever gone up into the high places for their message. The uplift of Cedar Mountain was on his spirit and on hers. She spoke softly, gravely, and slowly: "Jim, God surely brought me into your life for a purpose and, if I am no help, then I have failed. As surely as He sent us to Chicago to fight that fight and overcome the things about as well as the things inside, He also sent us here to-day to show our inmost souls, to get light on ourselves, to learn the way we must go. I have learned, for my spirit's eyes are clearer now and here than they ever were in my life before, and some things have come to me so vividly that I take them as commands from Him who set this rock up here and brought us in this frame of mind to see it. Jim, you must go back to college; you must finish your course; you must carry out your vow and consecrate yourself to spreading the gospel of His love."

Jim stared with glowing eyes as Belle went on: "I've thought it all out, Jim. I know it is mine to open the way now, as once I closed it."

He clutched her in his arms and shook with a sudden storm of long pent-up feeling, now bursting all restraint. He had no words; he framed no speech; he was overwhelmed.

Why put it into words? They understood each other now. He had gone to the city because that seemed the open way. He had taken up the purely secular work of the club while his inmost soul cried out: "This is not what you vowed; this is not the way to which you consecrated all your life." It was for her sake he had turned aside, and now that she announced the way of return, they came together as they never had; now was she truly his in spirit as in law.

It was long before they spoke, and their words now were of other things. The noon train was sounding at the bend; from the ledge below them Blazing Star sent up a querulous whinny. Jim was calm again and Belle was gently smiling, though her eyes still brimmed.

"We shall be late for the noon meal," he said, rising. For a moment they stood before the Spirit Rock, and he said in words of the old, old Book:

"He carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain." "It is good for us to be here." "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

They walked hand in hand and silently down the crooked trail to the horses. He lifted her to the saddle and kissed her hand only; but their eyes met in a burning look and their souls met face to face. Then they turned and rode the downward trail, and on the level plain gave free rein to the horses so that they went like hounds unleashed and skimmed the plain and leaped the gulch nor stayed till they reached the Fort and the friendly door where the soldier grooms were waiting.

They rode again the next day, circling the plain where the Indian race had been run and pointing out familiar objects. Jim led the way to the cottonwoods near where Higginbotham's "Insurance Office" had stood.

He stopped at the very spot and said: "Little girl, do you know what happened here about a year ago?"

"What?" she answered, as though in doubt.

"Guess."

"I can't," she replied. She would not say it. If he wanted it said, he must say it himself.

"It was here that I met 'Two Strikes.' Oh, what a blind fool I have been! If God had only given me a little less body and a little more brain! But it's all right. He knows best. He gave me you and I am thankful for that."

"We understand each other better now, Jim, don't we? I know you were only a child when I first saw you. You are a boy yet, but you will soon be a man. Listen, Jim; I have not ceased to think it over since we stood by the Spirit Rock. Do you remember what I said—you must go back to college? I must open the way. And I will, Jim; I have it all planned out. You must go back, not to Coulter, there are better colleges. They do not all bar married men. There is one in Chicago; Chicago is our gateway still. The Western Theological College is there. They will accept your year at Coulter for entrance and one year's work. I think I can get Mr. Hopkins to let me keep on with the Mountain House. My salary and what we have saved will make us comfortable. I can help in all your studies. In two years you will be through; then the Methodist Church, or any other, will be glad to have you and the way will be open wide. I will not fail you. You shall not fail to keep your word. And when we know, as we cannot know now, you will see that God was guiding me. Maybe He took you from Coulter because you were too young; surely He planned for us and has led us at every turn in the trail. It seems crooked now, but every rider in the hills knows that the crooks in the trail up Cedar Mountain were made to elude some precipice or to win some height not otherwise attainable; no other trail could end at the Spirit Rock, the highest point, the calm and blessed outlook, the top of Cedar Mountain."

"Now, Belle, I understand. My heart told me to wait, then to go up the mountain and find the thing I needed. I knew you would not fail; I knew my mountain meant vision for you and me."

CHAPTER LXII When He Walked With the King

He must have been a huge, unwieldy egotistical brute who said, "Big men have ever big frames." He might have had Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott, Lincoln or Washington in mind; but, standing ready there to hurl the glib lie in his teeth, were Napoleon, Hamilton, St. Paul, Tamerlane, and the Rev. Dr. Jo. Belloc, President of the Western Theological College in Chicago. He was five feet high in his stockinged feet, thin and wiry, with a large gray head, a short gray beard and keen gray eyes of piercing intensity. When you saw him on the street, you hardly saw him at all; when you met him in a crowded room, you felt that the spirit behind those eyes was a strong one; and when you heard him speak, he grew tall and taller in your eyes—you instinctively removed your hat, for now you knew that a great man and teacher was here.

Why should such a one devote his power to mere denominationalism? Ah, you do not understand. He answered thus to a hostile critic: "My friend, the harvest is huge, the labourers are few; we need more, and many more than we have. If they be of simple sort and not too strong, we teach them the sweep and cut of the scythe, the width of the swathe, the height of the stubble, the knot of the sheaf-band, all that is safe, neither to waste the crop, nor their time, nor cut their fellow harvesters in the legs. But, if we find a giant with his own mode, who cuts a double swath, leaves ragged stubble, smashes oft his scythe, but saves a wondrous lot of grain, we say: 'Praise God! You're doing well; the rules are for the helpless as the fence is for the sheep; but you we judge by your results; keep on.'"

Dr. Belloc was in his office when there came for an interview a man who towered above him as they shook hands. The president motioned him to a seat; then as he turned those piercing eyes on the comely countenance of his caller, the prophet's description of the youthful David came to his mind, "Now, he was ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance and goodly to look to."

"What can I do for you?" asked the big little man who filled the room, but did not fill the chair.

Jim modestly stated that he believed he had a call to preach the Gospel and he wished to enter college. Then, in answer to questions, he told his story with simple sincerity and fervour. The keen gray eyes were glowing like coals, and although no word was spoken by the man whose soul looked through them, Jim felt his earnest, kindly spirit. He felt, as never before, that "here is one who understands. Here is one in whom I have absolute confidence. Here is one whom I should love to obey."

This leader stirred Jim to the depths. His best, his inmost soul came forth to speak in response to the master mind; and the older man smiled when he heard how the Preacher had hated the books at Coulter. "Coulter," he said, "is a good old college, we accept their entrance; but it is quite likely that our curriculum may more quickly win your interest than theirs did."

As the president pondered the question that had brought them together, the second part of the lines of Samuel's description of David rose in his mind: "Arise and anoint him, for this is he." But the college had its own way of saying these big things; documents, questions, boards, had each a bearing on the matter, or a drop of ink to spend, and each offered a delay to the decisive action that the President had then and there resolved on. But they slowly ran their course and in the early autumn Jim was back, a college boy, and Belle had taken up the ruler's post at the Club.

It was easier every month for Jim to fight the battle with the books, where before he had been badly beaten. No doubt he was helped by his determination to win the fight and by Belle; but the two great reasons were that he, himself, was more developed—had outgrown the childish restlessness of the first attempt; and last but strongest of all, was the compelling personality of the president. With what consummate tact had he first offered to Jim's wild spirit the concrete, the simple, the history of to-day, the things that clearly were of immediate use; and later—much later, and in lesser degree—the abstruse, the doctrinal. And when the younger mind of the student came to a place that seemed too hard, or met a teacher who was deadening in his dullness, it needed but a little heart-to-heart talk with the strong soul in the robe to brace him up, to spur him on.

The president soon discovered Jim's love for heroic verse and at once, by wise selection, made it possible to tie that up with books. When Jim betrayed his impatience of fine-split doctrines, the president bade him forget them and read the lives of Luther, Calvin, and Wesley—take in the facts; the principles, so far as they had value, would take care of themselves. Such methods were unknown to his former teachers. Such presentation—vivid, concrete, human—was what he could understand, and accept with joy.

Two years went by. The first six months seemed slow; The last eighteen all too rapid. Jim had won his fight, he had more than won, for he was valedictorian of his class. The graduation class was much like any other, as the world could see it, yet it differed, too. When the tall form of the student speaker was left standing alone on the platform, there were not lacking those who said: "Never before has one gone from these halls so laden with good gifts; all, all seems showered on him."

In the audience, bound by closer ties than kinship, was one whose heart was too full for any human utterance. For her it was the crowning of their lives; had she not helped to make it possible?

After the set programme was over, Dr. Belloc handed to Jim an official letter. It was a call to be the pastor of the church in Cedar Mountain. Jim could not see the typed words for his tears and the president took it from him to read aloud. As he listened to the words Jim's thought turned to his mother, and in his heart he prayed: "O, God, grant this: that she may see me now."

Reader of this tale, do you recall the history of Cedar Mountain—how the church grew strong in the newly given strength? Those of many diverse churches came, for they said: "We care not what the vessel's shape that draws the blessed water from the well, so long as it be always there and the water pure and plentiful." Then came the great gold strike in the near hills; and the Preacher was troubled till he learned that it had not touched his mountain. Another railway came, and the town grew big and bigger yet. There were those that feared that their Preacher might leave them, for the needs and calls of the great cities are ever loud and forceful. They said: "Our town is not big enough for such a man; he will surely go to the city." But it was not so; for the city came to the man and mightily grew about him.

Two years after the return to Cedar Mountain, late in the day, designedly late, two horses might have been seen ascending the crooked trail through the cedars that mantled the mountain. Familiar forms were these that rode. They had often taken this path before. The first was the Preacher; the second, the woman that had held his hand. But in her arms was another—the baby form of their first-born. This was their first long ride together since he came, this was the elected trail; and, as the big, red sun went down in the purple and gold of his curtains, Jim took the baby and led the way up the last rough trail, to the little upland, right to the Spirit Rock. The red symbols of the Indians had been recently renewed; in a crevice was a shred of tobacco wrapped in red-dyed grass. It was still a holy place, accounted so by those who knew it.

From the bundle that he carried on his back, Jim took a handful of firewood, a canteen of water, and a church baptismal bowl. He filled the bowl and set it on the lowest ledge of the Spirit Rock. Before the rock he lighted a little fire and, when it blazed, he dropped into the flames the tobacco from the crevice. "That is what they wished done with it," he said in reverence. When the thread of smoke went up nearly straight into the sky—an emblem of true prayer that has ever been—he kneeled, and Belle beside him with the little one kneeled, and he prayed to the God of the Mountain for continued help and guidance and returned thanks for the little one whom they had brought that day to consecrate to Him.

Jim wished it. Belle willed it. His mother, he knew, would have had it so. There seemed no better place than this, the holiest place his heart had ever known. There was no better time than this, the evening calm, with all the symbols of His Presence in their glory.

Belle handed the infant to Jim, who sprinkled water on its face, baptizing it in the form of the Church, and then added: "I consecrate thee to God's service, and I name thee William in memory of the friend of my childhood, a man of wayward life, but one who helped to build whatever there is in me of strength, for he never was afraid, and he ever held his simple word as a bond that might not be broken."

THE END