The Candidate: A Political Romance
for a few days, travelling by carriage, and here occurred the event
which created a great stir in its time.
IX
JIMMY GRAYSON'S SPELL
A night, after a beautiful, brown October day, came on dark and rainy,
with fierce winds off the Rocky Mountains; and Harley, who was in the
first carriage with the candidate, could barely see the heads of the
horses, gently rising and falling as they splashed through the mud.
Behind him he heard faintly the sound of wheels amid the wind and rain,
and he knew that the other correspondents and the politicians, who
always hung on the trail of Jimmy Grayson, shifting according to
locality, were following their leader in single file.
Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia had remained on the special car, and expected to
join them on the following day, although Sylvia was quite prepared to
take the carriage journey across the country and dare all the risks of
the darkness and possible bad weather. Indeed, with the fine spirit of
the West and her own natural high courage, she wanted to go, saying that
she could stand as much as a man, and only Mrs. Grayson's refusal to
accompany her and the consequent lack of a chaperone compelled her to
abandon the idea. Now Harley and Mr. Grayson were very glad that she was
not out in the storm.
Although the hood of the carriage was down and the collar of Harley's
heavy coat was turned up to his ears, the cold rain, lashed by the
wind, struck him in the face now and then.
"You don't do anything by halves out here on these Western plains," he
said.
"No," replied Jimmy Grayson, "we don't deal in disguises; when we're hot
we're hot, and when we're cold we're cold. Now, after a perfect day,
we're having the wildest kind of a night. It's our way."
It was then ten o'clock, and they had expected to reach Speedwell at
midnight, crossing the Platte River on the big wooden bridge; but the
rain, the darkness, and the singularly sticky quality of the black
Nebraska mud would certainly delay them until one o'clock in the
morning, and possibly much later. It was not a cheerful prospect for
tired and sleepy men.
"Mr. Grayson," said Harley, "without seeking to discredit you, I wish I
had gone to another war instead of coming out here with you. That would
have been less wearing."
The candidate laughed.
"But you are seeing the West as few men from New York ever see it," he
said.
The driver turned, and a little stream of water ran off his hat-brim
into Harley's face.
"It's the wind that holds us back, Mr. Grayson," he said; "if we leave
the road and cut across the prairie on the hard ground it will save at
least an hour."
"By all means, turn out at once," said the candidate, "and the others
will follow."
"Wise driver; considerate man!" remarked Harley.
There was marked relief the moment the wheels of the carriage struck the
brown grass. They rolled easily once more, and the off horse, lifting up
his head, neighed cheerfully.
"It means midnight, and not later, Harley," said the candidate, in a
reassuring tone.
Harley leaned back in his seat, and trusted all now to the wise and
considerate driver who had proposed such a plan. The night was just as
black as a hat, and the wind and rain moaned over the bleak and lonesome
plains. They were far out in Nebraska, and, although they were near the
Platte River, it was one of the most thinly inhabited sections of the
state. They had not seen a light since leaving the last speaking-place
at sundown. Harley wondered at the courage of the pioneers who crossed
the great plains amid such a vast loneliness. He and the candidate were
tired, and soon ceased to talk. The driver confined his attention to his
business. Harley fell into a doze, from which he was awakened after a
while by the sudden stoppage of the carriage. The candidate awoke at the
same time. The rain had decreased, there was a partial moonlight, and
the driver was turning upon them a shamefaced countenance.
"What's the matter?" asked the candidate.
"To tell you the truth, Mr. Grayson," replied the driver, in an
apologetic tone. "I've gone wrong somehow or other, and I don't know
just where we're at."
"Lost?" said Harley.
"If you wish to put it that way, I reckon you're right," said the
driver, with a touch of offence.
"What has become of the other carriages?" asked Harley, looking back for
them.
"I reckon they didn't see us when we turned out, and they kept on along
the road."
There was no doubt about the plight into which they had got themselves.
The plain seemed no less lonely than it was before the white man came.
"What's that line of trees across yonder?" asked the candidate.
"I guess it marks where the Platte runs," replied the driver.
"Then drive to it; if we follow the trees we must reach the bridge, and
then things will be simple."
The driver became more cheerful, the rain ceased and the moonlight
increased; but Harley lacked confidence. He had a deep distrust of the
Platte River. It seemed to him the most ridiculous stream in the United
States, making a presumptuous claim upon the map, and flowing often in a
channel a mile wide with only a foot of water. But he feared the marshes
and quicksands that bordered its shallow course.
They reached the line of gaunt trees, dripping with water and whipped by
the wind, and Harley's fears were justified. The river was there, but
they could not approach it, lest they be swallowed up in the sand, and
they turned back upon the prairie.
"We must find a house," said the candidate; "if it comes to the pinch we
can pass the night in the carriage, but I don't like to sleep sitting."
They bore away from the river, driving at random, and after an hour saw
a faint light under the dusky horizon.
"The lone settler!" exclaimed Harley, who began to cherish fond
anticipations of a bed. "Go straight for it, driver."
The driver was not loath, and even the horses, seeming to have renewed
hope, changed their sluggish walk to a trot. They had no hesitation in
seeking shelter at that hour, entire strangers though they were, such an
act being in perfect accordance with the laws of Western hospitality.
As they approached, a bare wooden house, unprotected by trees, rose out
of the plain. A wire fence enclosed a half-acre or so about it, and
apparently there had been a few rather futile attempts to make a lawn.
"Looks cheerless," said Harley.
"But it holds beds," said the candidate.
"You save your voice," said Harley; "I'll call the farmer, and I hope it
will be a man who can speak English, and not some new Russian or
Bohemian citizen."
He sprang out of the carriage, glad to relieve himself from his cramped
and stiff position, and walked towards the little gate in the wire
fence. There was a sudden rush of light feet, a stream of fierce barks
and snarls, and Harley sprang back in alarm as two large bull-dogs,
red-mouthed, flung themselves against the fence.
"I said you had no cause to regret that war," called the candidate from
the carriage.
The wires were strong, and they held the dogs; but the animals hung to
the fence, as fierce as wolves; and Harley, lifting up his voice, added
to the chorus with a "Hi! Hi! Mr. Farmer! Strangers want to stop with
you!"
The din was tremendous, and presently a window in the second story was
shoved up, and a man, fully dressed, carrying a long-barrelled rifle in
his hands, appeared at it. He called to the dogs, which ceased at once
their barking and snarling, and then he gazed down at the intruders in
no friendly manner. Harley saw him clearly, a tall, gaunt old man,
white-haired, but muscular and strong. He held the rifle as if he were
ready to use it--a most unusual thing in this part of the country, where
householders seldom kept fire-arms.
"What do you want?" he called, in a sharp, high voice.
"Beds!" cried Harley. "We are lost, and if you don't take us in we'll
have to sleep on the prairie, which is a trifle damp."
"Waal, I 'low it hez rained a right smart," said the old man, grimly.
Harley noticed at once the man's use of "right smart," an expression
with which he had been familiar in another part of the country, and it
encouraged him. He was sure now of hospitality.
"Who are you?" the old man called.
"Mr. Grayson, the nominee for President of the United States, is in the
carriage, and I am his friend, one of the newspaper correspondents
travelling with him."
"Wait a minute."
The window was closed, and in a few moments the old man came out at the
front door. He carried the rifle on his shoulder, but Harley attributed
the fact to his haste at the mention of Jimmy Grayson's name.
"My name is Simpson--Daniel Simpson," he said, hospitably. "Tell the
driver to put the horses in the barn."
He waved his hand towards a low building in the rear of his residence,
and then he invited the candidate and the correspondent to enter. He
looked curiously, but with reverence, at the candidate.
"You are really Jimmy Grayson," he said. "I'd know you off-hand by your
picture, which I guess hez been printed in ev'ry newspaper in the United
States. I 'low it's a powerful honor to me to hev you here."
"And it's a tremendous accommodation to us for you to take us," said
Jimmy Grayson, with his usual easy grace.
But Harley was looking at Simpson with a gaze no less intent than the
old man had bent upon Grayson. The accent and inflection of the host
were of a region far distant from Nebraska, but Harley, who was born
near that wild country, knew the long, lean, narrow type of face, with
the high cheek-bones and the watchful black eyes. Moreover, there was
something directly and personally familiar in the figure before him.
Under any circumstances the manner of the old man would have drawn the
attention of Harley, whose naturally keen observation was sharpened by
the training of his profession. The old man seemed abstracted. His
fingers moved absently on the stock of his rifle, and Harley inferred at
once that he had something of unusual weight on his mind.
"Me an' the ol' woman hev been settin' late," said Simpson. "When you
git ol' you don't sleep much. But it'll be a long time, Mr. Grayson,
before that fits you."
He led the way into a room better furnished than Harley had expected to
see. A coal fire smouldered on the hearth, and the arrangement of the
room showed some evidences of refinement and taste. An old woman was
bent over the fire, but she rose when the men entered, and turned upon
them a face which Harley knew at once to be that of one who had been
frightened by something. Her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping.
Harley looked from host to hostess with curious glance, but he was still
silent.
"This is Marthy, my wife, gen'lemen," said Simpson. "Marthy, this is Mr.
Grayson, the greatest man in this here United States, and the other is
one of the newspaper fellers that travels with him."
Jimmy Grayson bowed with great courtesy, and apologized so gracefully
for the intrusion that an ordinary person would have been glad to be
intruded upon in such a manner. The woman said nothing, but stared
vacantly at her guests. The old man came to her relief.
"Marthy ain't used to visitors, least of all a man like you, Mr.
Grayson, and it kind o' upsets her," he said. "You see, Marthy an' me
lives here all by ourselves."
The woman started and looked at him.
"All by ourselves," repeated the man, firmly; "but we'll do the best we
kin."
"Daniel," suddenly exclaimed the old woman, in high, shrill tones, "why
don't you put down your gun? Mr. Grayson'll think you're a-goin' to
shoot him."
The old man laughed, but the ever-watchful Harley saw that the laugh was
not spontaneous.
"I 'clar' to gracious," he said, "I clean forgot I had old Deadeye. You