The Candidate: A Political Romance
is great. We have suggested, we have advised, and we have even
threatened by indirection, but thus far it has all been futile.
"Now we mean to speak with the bluntness and decision demanded by
the circumstances. A committee of men, mature in years and solid in
judgment, some of whom we can name, must be put in control of the
campaign. Mr. Grayson must be kept within strict limits; he must
take advice before delivering his speeches, and he must not be
permitted to turn aside for irrelevant issues. And since the
_Monitor_ speaks reluctantly, and in the utmost kindness, we
suggest that he become a faithful reader of our columns. A word to
the wise is sufficient."
The day this issue of the _Monitor_ arrived Sylvia said to Churchill:
"Mr. Churchill, I want to thank you in behalf of my uncle for that
beautiful editorial in the _Monitor_. It was put in the very way that
would appeal to him most."
"Do you really think so, Miss Morgan?" said Churchill, blushing with
borrowed pride.
"Oh yes, but it was so typical, it had so much of a certain personal
quality in it, that I am sure you must have telegraphed it to the
_Monitor_ yourself."
"King" Plummer, who stood by and who had very little to say these days,
smiled sourly.
XVI
BY THE FIRELIGHT
The special train now entered one of the most mountainous portions of
Utah, and, as the strenuous nature of the campaign continued, its
exigencies permitted little time for other things. Personal feelings,
fears, and hopes had to be buried, or at least hidden for the time, and
Harley, like all the rest, was absorbed in work. Nevertheless, his
feeling of confidence, even exhilaration, remained. He believed that he
would yet discover a way.
He found this part of the campaign pleasant, physically as well as
mentally. The alternation of huge mountain and fertile valley was
grateful to the eye, and, however severe the day's journey might be,
they knew there would be good rest at the end.
It had been nearly a week since the episode of the dead city, when
Hobart bustled back to Harley and said:
"Harley, we shall have the noble red man to hear us to-night. We stop
just at the edge of the Indian reservation, and a lot of the braves,
with their squaws, too, I suppose, will attend. Of course they will be
duly impressed by Jimmy Grayson's oratory."
Sylvia Morgan was present when this news was announced, and Hobart
suddenly stopped short and glanced at her. She had turned pale, and
then, remembering that old tragedy in her life when she was a little
child, he ascribed her pallor to her horror at the mention of Indians.
But Hobart did not know that they were approaching the scene of the
memorable massacre.
The train now curved southward and entered a fertile valley lying like a
bowl among the high mountains. They saw here fields that had been golden
with wheat, ripe fruit yet hung from the trees, and the touch of green
was still visible, although autumn had come. By the railway track a
clear mountain stream flowed, sparkling in the thin, pure air, and there
was more than one full-grown man in the candidate's party who, with
memories of his youth before him, longed to pull off shoes and socks and
wade in it with bare feet.
The sight was most refreshing after so much mountain and arid expanse,
and the tired travellers brightened up visibly.
"One of the states has the motto, 'Here we rest'--I've forgotten which
it is--but it ought to be Utah," said Hobart, "and now's the time."
He was not disappointed. They came before noon to Belleville, the
metropolis of the valley, the place where the candidate was going to
speak, one of the prettiest little towns that ever built its nest in the
Rocky Mountains. They were all enthusiastic over it, with its trim
houses, its well-paved streets, the clear water flowing beside the
curbs, and its air of completion. The people, too, had all the Western
courage and energy, without its roughness and undue expression, and so
the candidate and his party luxuriated.
"You wouldn't think that this gem of a town was harried more by Indians
in its infancy than perhaps any other place in the West, would you?"
said Hobart to Harley.
"Hobart, what a nuisance you are!" replied Harley; "you are always
prowling around in search of useless facts. Now, I don't want to hear
anything about bloodshed and massacre, when Belleville is the picture of
neatness and comfort that it is to-day. Look at that little opera-house
over there! You couldn't find anything handsomer in a city of fifty
thousand in the East."
"Harley," said Hobart, with emphasis, "I wouldn't have your lack of
curiosity for anything in the world," and he wandered away in disgust to
pour his ancient history into the ears of a more willing listener.
At twilight they ate an admirable dinner, and then Harley, Hobart, who
had returned from his explorations, Blaisdell, and two or three others,
after their custom, filled in the interval between supper and the
speeches with a stroll through the village, Mr. Plummer going along as a
sort of mentor. The keeper of the hotel informed them that many of the
Indians already were in town and were "tanking up." Harley found this to
be true, and the red men failed to arouse in him either respect or
admiration. If they had ever had any nobility of the wilderness, it was
gone now, and they seemed to him a sodden, depressed, and repellent
race. A half-dozen or so, in various stages of drunkenness, through
whiskey surreptitiously obtained, increased the feeling of aversion.
In the dusk they stumbled over a figure lying squarely across the path,
and Harley drew back with a word of disgust. An old Indian, dilapidated
and in the last stages of intoxication, was stretched out on his face. A
local resident named Walker, who had joined them, laughed.
"That," said he, "is a chief, a great man, or at least he was once. It's
old Flying Cloud--poetical name, though he don't look poetical now by a
long shot. Here, get out of this; you're blocking up the road!"
With true Western directness he administered a kick to the prostrate
form, but the old chief, buried in a sodden dream, only stirred and
muttered; then the resident opened up a battery of kicks, and presently
the Indian rose to his feet and slunk off, muttering, in the darkness.
"They're no good at all," said Walker. "Only a lot of sots, whenever
they get the chance."
But Harley was thinking of the contrast between what he had just seen
and what he had imagined might be the freedom and nobility of the
wilderness.
It was a beautiful autumn night, and the candidate spoke in the open, in
the village square, with the mountains that circled about him as his
background. Sylvia Morgan was not among the listeners. Usually she
enjoyed these speeches in the evening, with the crowds, the enthusiasm,
and the encircling darkness. But to-night she would not come, nor would
she tell the reason to Harley or any of his friends. She merely said
that she wished to stay in her room at the hotel.
The audience was quiet and attentive, and Harley noticed here and there
on the outskirts the dark faces of the Indians. They interested him so
much that he left the platform presently to watch them. He was wondering
if they had any conception at all of Jimmy Grayson's words or of a
Presidential campaign. Nor did he gain any knowledge by his examination.
They listened gravely, and their faces were without expression.
The nearest of them all to the stand Harley recognized as the old chief,
Flying Cloud, whom Walker had kicked off the sidewalk. He seemed to have
recovered physical command of himself, and stood erect. There was a red
feather in his felt hat, and a shawl in brilliant stripes was drawn
across his shoulders.
The candidate spoke in a specially happy vein that night, and the
background of the mountains added impressiveness to his words. To
Harley, again the analyst, and seeking to put himself in the Indian's
place, there was a rhythm and power in what Jimmy Grayson said, although
he, as an Indian, might not understand a word. He could interpret it as
a chant of battle or victory, and such, he had no doubt, was the view of
Flying Cloud.
The chief, so Harley judged, was still half under the influence of
drink, but he was paying close attention to the speaker, and the
correspondent at last saw in his eyes what he took to be the stir of
some emotion. It was a light, as of memories of his own triumphs, and
the chief's figure began to sway gently to the music of Jimmy Grayson's
voice. They had built a bonfire near the speaker's stand, and by its
flare Harley clearly saw old Flying Cloud smile.
Hobart came up at that moment, and, Harley pointed out to him the
transformation in the old chief's appearance. Hobart's opinion agreed
with Harley's.
"It's a battle-song that Flying Cloud is hearing," he said. "It's Jimmy
Grayson that's stirring him up, though maybe the old fellow doesn't
understand it that way."
The speeches ended after a while, and the people began to leave.
Presently only a few were left in the square, and among them was
Harley, who felt no touch of sleepiness. He looked at the quiet town,
then up at the ridges and peaks, crested with snow and silhouetted
against the moonlit sky, and thought again of that little girl, alone
with her dead and in the night among the vast mountains.
The next moment he believed that it was a telepathic feeling, because at
his elbow was Sylvia Morgan herself, a red-striped shawl over her head
to protect her from the cold, and "King" Plummer, who had evidently
brought her from the hotel, not far away.
"Are they all gone?" she asked.
"No," replied Harley; "the Indians and a few more are left."
Harley, in the moonlight, clearly saw her shiver.
"I was restless, and I could not sleep," she said. "I came out for the
sake of the air. But I'll go back."
"No," said Harley, "don't go. Stay with us, please. Now what can that
mean?"
A wild, barbaric chant arose near the bonfire behind them.
"Come!" exclaimed Harley, keen to see and hear. "I think it's old Flying
Cloud, and he's ready to turn himself loose. We can't miss this!"
Sylvia was about to turn away, but as "King" Plummer came up on the
other side of her, and seemed to have a curiosity like Harley's, she
yielded at last, though with reluctance, and the three walked towards
the fire.
Harley's surmise was correct, as old Flying Cloud, jumping back and
forth, was singing some kind of war-song. There was a group about him,
and in it was Hobart, who Harley guessed had been a moving spirit in
this scene. Jimmy Grayson's fire and eloquence had done the rest.
The flames burned down a little, but they cast a weird light on the old
chief's face, bringing out like brown carving the high cheek-bones, the
great, hooked nose, and the seamed cheeks. The thin lips fell away from
long, yellow teeth, and heightened the effect of cruelty which his whole
expression gave.
Hobart came over to them, and said: "See how the old fellow is changing!
We've got him to sing one of his ancient war-songs, and I guess he
thinks he's beating Jimmy Grayson now!"
Sylvia Morgan shuddered, but she said nothing. She seemed to be held by
the fascination of the serpent.
The chief continued to make his queer little jumps back and forth, and
went on with his chant. As he had begun in English for his auditors, so
he continued, although he was now oblivious of their presence. Harley,
watching him, knew it, and he knew, too, that the chief's mind was far
back in the past. His was not the song of the broken derelict, but of
the barbarous and triumphant warrior, and as he sang he gathered fire
and strength.