Part 23

At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that ground.

“Well,” said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, “how did the meeting go last night?”

“I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all.”

“Yes,” replied Daggett, “your men are all right in their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business.”

Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of the situation.

“There is something in what you say,” he conceded, “but--”

“Oh, come now,” interrupted Daggett, “you know better than that. This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to do nothing.”

“You seem to know all about it,” said Dick. “What's the good of your paper? Why don't you get after these men?”

“My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations that determine newspaper policy.”

Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. “It's true. It's terribly true,” he said. “The people don't want anything better than they have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take a hand.”

Daggett smiled a superior smile. “Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with a small g.”

“I tell you, Daggett,” said Dick hotly, “The Pioneer's day is past. I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, too, unless you change, out of existence.”

“Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?”

“I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick and running this library and clubroom business.”

“Yes,” replied Daggett thoughtfully, “I hear of him often. The railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this constituency?”

Dick laughed at him. “Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the game.”

Daggett was silenced for some moments.

“Hello!” said Daggett, looking out of the window, “here is our coming Member.” He opened the door. “Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle--Mr. Hull, the coming Member for this constituency.”

“I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent,” said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of the political parties or their representatives. “I must get along. But, Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell business.” With this he closed the door.

“Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon,” said Hull, “but a little unpractical, eh?”

“Yes,” agreed Daggett, “he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think he is on the right track.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see them, too.”

“Signs?” inquired Hull.

“Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,' too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's brother is taking a hand, I believe.”

“The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not well.”

“You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't forget it.”

Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for the tenderfoot.

“All right,” said Daggett, “you may sniff. I've watched him and I've discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer.”

“What's his game?”

“Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing clubrooms.”

“By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' think of it?”

“Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'”

“What about 'Mexico'?”

“Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit, divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting queer.”

Hull was at once on the alert. “That's interesting. You are sure of your facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to be considered.”

But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the saloon and “red light” influence to be easily emancipated. The business interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man “who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker.”

“He stays while I stay,” was Fahey's last word in reply to an influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine.

Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. “Mexico” and the organization of which he was the head were instructed to “run him out.” Receiving his orders, “Mexico” called his agents together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately developed, one party led by “Peachy” being strongly in favour of obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. “Mexico” sat silent, watchful, impassive. At length, “Peachy,” in full swing of an impassioned and sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief.

“Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do something.”

A grim laugh at “Peachy's” expense went round the company.

“Do somethin'?” snarled “Peachy,” stung to fury, “I'll do somethin' one of these days. I've stood you all I want.”

“Peachy's” oaths were crude in comparison with “Mexico's,” but his fury lent them force. “Mexico” turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him.

“Do something? Meaning?”

“Never mind,” growled “Peachy.”

“Git!” “Mexico” pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that meeting, but banishment from the company of which “Mexico” was head, and that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. “Peachy” was startled.

“You needn't be so blanked swift,” he growled apologetically. “I didn't mean for to--”

“You git!” repeated “Mexico,” turning the pointing finger from the door to the face of the startled wretch.

With a fierce oath “Peachy” reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. “Mexico” moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat over the piercing black eyes.

“You dog!” he ground out through his clenched teeth, “you know you can't bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!”

The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while “Mexico's” hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly “Peachy” rose and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage beast. At the door he paused.

“'Mexico,'” he said, “is this the last between you and me?”

“Mexico” kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man backing out of the door.

“Git out, you cur!” he said, with contemptuous deliberation.

“Take that, then.”

Like a flash, “Mexico” threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as one. A slight smile curled “Mexico's” lip.

“Got him that time, I reckon.”

“Hurt, 'Mexico'?” anxiously inquired his friends.

“Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight.” The bartender and some others came running in with anxious faces. “Never mind, boys,” said “Mexico.” “'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him some.”

“Say, there's blood here!” said the bartender. “He's been bleedin' bad.”

“Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business.”

The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired.

“Now, boys, listen to me,” said “Mexico” impressively, leaning over the table. “Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man that touches him touches me.” There was an ominous silence.

“Just as you say, 'Mexico,'” said one of the men, “but I see the finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you know he ain't the kind that quits.”

“You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay.”

As the meeting broke up, “Mexico's” friends warned him against “Peachy.”

“Pshaw! 'Peachy'!” said “Mexico” contemptuously. “He couldn't hold his gun steady at me.”

“He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round.”

But “Mexico” only spat out his contempt for anything that “Peachy” could do, and went calmly on his way, “keeping the boys in line.” But he began to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to “line up” at the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the “same old party.” There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all “Mexico” represented. They “lined up” still, but beyond this they did not go.

The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the polls. “It's that cursed doctor!” he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member for the district. “He's been working a deep game. Of course, his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm afraid of him.”

“Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing,” said McKenty.

“How?”

“Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without grease.” McKenty spoke out of considerable experience.

“That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys all round.”

“I've heard about it,” said McKenty. “I guess the Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too.”

“That's all right,” replied the editor. “Might do some good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says.”

McKenty thought deeply for some moments. “Well,” he said, finally, “something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?”

“'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. “There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.”

“Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of loosening up people.”

“But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's some religion in it.”

McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.

“I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting in question.

“Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. You've simply got to get after him.”

This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived “Mexico” sauntering down the other side of the street.

“There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! 'Mexico'!” he called, and “Mexico” came slouching across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?” said the editor. “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!”

“Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the editor and then to McKenty.

“How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most ingratiating manner.

“How?”

“How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know.”

“Comin' on soon?”

“Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be ready, though.”

“Can't be too soon,” said “Mexico.”

“How is that?”

“Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion,” with a glance at the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. “People beginnin' to go to meetin' in this country.”

“I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, facetiously.

“Mexico” turned his eyes slowly upon the Member.

“Anything to say agin it?”

“Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip.”

“Who says?”

“Oh, I hear it everywhere.”

“Guess it must be right, then,” replied “Mexico,” grimly.

“And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to the mourners' bench.”

“Do, eh?”

“Look here, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, “you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you, are you?”

“Don't know about that.”

“You don't?”

“No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon.”

“Well, do you imagine the doctor has?”

“Mexico” paused, then said thoughtfully, “Blanked if I can git on to his game!”

“Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You don't really think he has your interest at heart?”

“Can't quite tell.” “Mexico” wore a vexed and thoughtful air. “Wish I could. If I thought so I'd--”

“What?”

“Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!” There was a sudden gleam from under “Mexico's” heavy brows and a ring in his usually drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. “There ain't too many of that kind raound.”

“What do you think of that?” inquired the editor, as “Mexico” sauntered out of the door.

“Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it ought to be enforced.”

“That means war,” said the editor.

“Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country.”

But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous objection.

How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his return from Scotland.

“We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before,” grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret.

“It's the universal law,” replied Dick. “Some men must die for their nation. It's been the way from the first.”

“But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work yourself to death as you are doing?” said Margaret, anxiously. “You know you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came back.”

Barney only smiled. “That would be no great matter,” he said, lightly. “But there is no fear of me,” he added. “I don't pine for an early death, you know. I've got a lot to live for.”

There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return, and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend.

“It would be easier for me not to speak of her,” he had said on his return, “but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy.”

And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney. It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months, combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even in the most radiant moments of her life.