The Candidate: A Political Romance
it seemed that she could never remember his request; but she had warned
him.
"An old hand travellin' in the mountains always purvides for a snowy
day," said the guide, and he took from his saddle-bags much food and a
large bottle.
They drank a little, all except Sylvia, and ate heartily. The last touch
of cold departed, and the fire still sparkled with good cheer, casting
its comforting shadows across the stained floor.
"I've brought in the horse-blankets," said the guide, "an' with them
under us, our overcoats over us, an' the fire afore us, we ought to
sleep here as snug an' warm as a beaver in its house."
Sylvia was accustomed to camping in the mountains, and made no fuss, but
quietly leaned back against the saddle and the wall, and drew her heavy
cloak around her. She was soon half asleep, and the flames, moving off
into the distance, seemed to be dancing about in a queer, light-minded
fashion.
Harley walked to the window and looked out. The night was black, save
for the driving snow, and when he glanced back at the room it seemed a
very haven of delight. But the strangeness of their situation, the weird
effect of the dead city, with the ghost-like shapes of its houses
showing through the snow, was upon his nerves, and he did not feel
sleepy.
Muttering some excuse to the others, he went into the hall. It was dark,
and a gust of cold air from the open window at the end struck him in the
face. At the same moment Harley saw what he took to be a light farther
down the hall, but when he looked again it was gone.
It might be a delusion, but the matter troubled him; if a lone tramp or
miner were in the building, he wished to know. Any stranger would have a
right in the hotel, but there was comradeship and welcome in Jimmy
Grayson's party.
Harley's instinct said that all was not right, and, taking off his
boots, he crept down the hall and among the cross-halls with noiseless
feet. He did not see the light again, but he heard in another room the
hum of voices, softened so that they might not reach any one save those
for whom they were intended. But they reached Harley, crouching just
behind the edge of the door, and, hearing, he shuddered. A great danger
threatened the nominee for the Presidency of the United States. Such a
thing as the present had never before happened in the history of the
country.
And that same danger, but in a worse form, perhaps, threatened Sylvia.
It was not Harley's fault that a girl had then a greater place than a
Presidential nominee in his mind. He shuddered, and then closed his lips
firmly in resolve.
The door was still on its hinges, and it was still slightly ajar.
Harley, peeping through the crack, saw the eight occupants of the room
by the faint light from the window, and because the man who did the
talking, and who showed himself so evidently the leader, had red hair,
he knew him instinctively. It was Red Perkins and the remnant of his
gang, not scattered to the winds of the West, as Jim and everybody else
thought, but here in Montana, in their old haunts. And Harley, listening
to their talk, measured the extent of their knowledge, which was far too
much; they knew who Jimmy Grayson was, they had known of his departure
from Blue Earth, and they had followed him here; presently they would
take him away, and the whole world would be thrilled. No such prize had
ever fallen into the hands of robbers in America, and it would be worth
a million to them.
Harley was in a chill as he listened, because he heard them speak next
of Sylvia, and one of them laughed in a way that made the correspondent
want to spring at his throat. Sylvia and the candidate must be saved.
But Harley, thinking his hardest, could not think how. There were eight
men well armed in the room before him; the guide and Mr. Plummer,
probably, had pistols, but he had none, and he was sure that Jimmy
Grayson and Mr. Heathcote were without them. He paused there a long
time, undecided, and at last he crept down the hall again and towards
the great parlor. Then he put on his boots, re-entered the room, and
spoke in a low voice to his comrades.
The guide's fighting blood was on fire at once. "I've a revolver," he
said; "we kin barricade the room and hold 'em off. There are two windows
here, opening out on the snow, but they are so high they can hardly
reach 'em with their hands. We kin make a good fight of it."
"I've a pistol, too," said Mr. Plummer, "and we must make it a fight to
the death."
He spoke quietly, but with determination and a full knowledge of all the
danger that threatened. He glanced at Sylvia, who, coming back from her
half-dream, had risen to her feet. Then he walked to the door, because
the "King" was ever alert in the face of danger.
"What is it?" Sylvia asked of Harley. She knew by their manner that
something strange and terrifying had happened, and in such a situation
it was now an involuntary act with her to turn to Harley.
"Sylvia," he said--the others had followed "King" Plummer to the door
"you ought to know."
He noticed that, though pale, she was quiet and firm.
"If it is danger, I have faced it before," she said, proudly.
"As you will face it now, like the bravest woman in the West. 'Red'
Perkins's gang of outlaws are out there, and they mean to take Mr.
Grayson to hold for ransom, and you--"
Her eyes looked straight into his, and suddenly they shone with all the
fulness of love and confidence.
"They will not take me while you are here," she said.
"Not if we have to die together. Sylvia, I believed that your heart was
mine, and in this moment of danger I know it."
He spoke truly. In the crisis their souls were bare to each other. He
seized her hands, and the brilliant color flamed into her cheeks.
"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper.
"Hush!" she said. "The others are about to come back."
She gently withdrew her hands from his, and when "King" Plummer turned
away from the door he saw nothing.
"There's not a shot to be fired," said Jimmy Grayson, "because I've a
better plan. How long do you think it will be before they come for me,
Harley?"
"About fifteen minutes, I should say; at least that is what I gathered
from their talk."
"And they have not examined the building or the town?"
"No; they merely came down the trail behind us and slipped into that
room, waiting their chance."
"Very good. Jim, you told me a while ago that the Governor of Montana
once spoke to two hundred people in this room; it was a fortunate remark
of yours, because I shall speak to as many people to-night in this same
room. Shut the door there, put the saddles before it, and then build
the fire as high as possible."
The candidate's voice was sharp, decisive, and full of command. The born
leader of men was asserting himself, and the guide, without pausing to
reason, hastened to obey. He shut the door, put the saddles before it,
and heaped upon the fire all the remaining wood except a stump reserved
by Jimmy Grayson's express command. The fire leaped higher, and the room
was brilliantly lighted.
Jimmy Grayson stood by, erect, calm, and grave.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "you are a crowd come from Crow's Wing to
meet me here, and to hear what I have to say. I trust that you will like
it, and indicate your liking by your applause."
The stump was placed in the middle of the floor, and Jimmy Grayson
stepped upon it. His face at that height was visible through the window
to any one outside, although the others would be hidden. Just as he took
his place Harley thought he heard the soft crunch of a footstep on the
snow beneath the window. He felt a burning curiosity to rise and look
out, but he restrained it and did not move. The guide was staring at the
candidate in open-mouthed amazement, but he, too, did not speak. A few
big white flakes drove in at the open window, but they did not reach the
men before the fire that blazed so brightly. Harley again thought he
heard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the snow outside, but then the
burning wood crackled merrily, and Jimmy Grayson was about to speak.
Sylvia stood erect against the wall, her glowing eyes full of
admiration. Her quick mind had grasped the whole plan.
"Gentlemen of Crow's Wing," said the candidate, in his full,
penetrating voice, which the empty old building gave back in many an
echo, "it is, indeed, a pleasure to me to meet you here. The
circumstances, the situation, are such as to inspire any one who has
been so honored. I should like to have seen your little town, the home
of brave and honest men, nestling as it does among these mighty
mountains, and far from the rest of the world, but strong and
self-reliant. I appreciate, too, your kindness and your thought for me.
Seeing the advance of the storm, and knowing its dangers, you have come
to meet me in this place, once so full of life. I find something
singularly appealing and pathetic in this. Once again, if only for a
brief space, Queen City shall ring with human voices and the human
tread."
The candidate paused a moment, as if the end of a rounded period had
come and he were gathering strength for another. Then suddenly arose a
mighty chorus of applause. It was Harley, "King" Plummer, Heathcote, and
Jim, and their act was spontaneous, the inspiration of the moment, drawn
from Jimmy Grayson's own inspiration. The guide beat upon the floor with
both hands and both feet, and the other three were not less active.
Moreover, the guide opened his mouth and let forth a yell, rapid,
cumulative, and so full of volume that it sounded like the whoop of at
least a half-dozen men. The room resounded with the applause, and it
thundered down the halls of the great empty building. When it died,
Harley, listening again intently, heard once more the crunch of feet on
the snow outside, but now it was a rapid movement as if of surprise. But
the sound came to him only a moment, because the candidate was speaking
once more, and he was worth hearing. He only looked away to see Sylvia,
who still stood against the wall with her glowing eyes fixed in
admiration on her uncle. Once or twice she, too, glanced aside, and her
gaze was for Harley. But it was a different look that she gave him.
There was admiration in it, too, and also a love that no woman ever
gives to a mere uncle. In those moments the color in her cheeks
deepened.
As an orator Jimmy Grayson was always good, but sometimes he was better
than at other times, and this evening was one of his best times. The
audience from Crow's Wing, the consideration they had shown in meeting
him here in the dead city, and the wildness of the night outside seemed
to inspire him. He showed the greatest familiarity with the life of the
mountains and the needs of the miners; he was one of them, he
sympathized with them, he entered their homes, and if he could he would
make their lives brighter.
Never had the candidate spoken to a more appreciative audience. With
foot and hand and voice it thundered its applause; the building echoed
with it, and all the time the fire burned higher and higher, and the
merry crackling of the wood was a minor note in the chorus of applause.
But Jimmy Grayson's own voice was like an organ, every key of which he
played; it expressed every human emotion; full and swelling, it rose
above the applause, and Harley, watching his expressive face, saw that
he felt these emotions. Once he believed that the candidate, carried
away by his own feelings, had become oblivious of time and place, and
thought now only of the troubles and needs of the mountain men.
Harley's attention turned once more to the windows. He thought what a
lucky chance it was that no one standing on the ground outside was high
enough to look through them into the room. He blessed the unknown