The Candidate: A Political Romance
The circle of white faces grew around the old chief. Every loiterer was
there, and others came back. Not one spoke. All were fascinated by the
singular and weird scene. The moon, low down on the mountain's crest,
still shed a pallid, grayish light that mingled with the fitful red
glare from the glowing coals, the two together casting an unearthly
tinge. But Harley's eyes never left the chief, as he saw his figure
continue to expand and grow with ancient memories of prowess, and the
eyes of Sylvia beside him, as she too listened, expressed many and
strong emotions.
Flying Cloud told of hunting triumphs, of the slaughter of the buffalo,
of fierce encounters with the mountain-lion, of hand-to-hand combat with
the grizzly bear, and then he glided into war. Now his voice rose, full
and prolonged, without any of the tremor or shrillness of age, and his
eccentric dancing grew more violent. His emotions, too, were shown on
his face in all their savagery as he told of the foray and the fight.
At first it was Indian against Indian, and never was any mercy
shown--always woe to the conquered; then it was the whites. An emigrant
train was coming over the mountains--men, women, and children. There was
danger in their path; a Ute war-band was abroad, but the fools knew it
not. They travelled on, and at night the children played and laughed by
the camp-fire, but the shadow of the Utes was always there. Flying Cloud
led the war-band, but held them back until the time should come. He was
waiting for a place that he knew. At last they reached it, a deep canon
with bushes on either side, and the train entered the defile.
Harley suddenly felt a hand upon his arm. It was the fingers of Sylvia
grasping him, but unconscious of the act. He looked up and saw her face
as white as death, and a yard away the eyes of "King" Plummer were
burning like two coals.
Flying Cloud's figure swayed, and his voice trembled with a curious joy
at the old memories. He was approaching the great moment of triumph. He
told how the warriors lay among the bushes, watching the foolish train
come on, how they looked at each other and rejoiced in advance over an
easy victory. Some would have fired too soon, but Flying Cloud would
not let them. His was the cunning mind, as well as the bold heart, and
he omitted nothing. The trap was perfect. The fools never suspected.
They stopped to make a camp, and still they did not know that a ring of
death was about them. They built their fires, and again the children
laughed and played by the coals. It was the last time.
The old chief was now wholly the wilderness slayer, the Indian of an
earlier time. His glittering eyes at times swept the circle of white
faces about him, but he did not see them, only that old massacre.
The narrative went on. Flying Cloud told each of his warriors to select
a victim, and fire true when he gave the word. He chose for himself a
large man who stood by one of the wagons, a man who had with him a woman
and a little boy and a little girl, and the little girl had long curls.
A groan burst from Plummer, and Harley saw his great figure gather as if
for a spring. But Harley, quick as lightning, seized the man in a
powerful grasp, and cried in his ear: "Not now, Mr. Plummer, not now,
for God's sake! Wait until the end!"
Harley felt the "King" quiver in his hands, and then cease to struggle.
Sylvia stood by, still as white as death and absolutely motionless. The
others, held by the old chief's song, did not see nor hear.
Flying Cloud's eyes were glittering with cruel triumph as he continued
his chant. The rifles were raised, the white fools yet suspected
nothing, but laughed and jested with each other as if there would be a
to-morrow.
Then he gave the word, and all the rifles were fired at once. The canon
was filled with smoke and the whistling of bullets. Most of the men in
the train were killed at once, and then the warriors sprang among those
who were left. Flying Cloud had shot the tall man by the wagon, and then
he sought the woman and the two children. He slew the woman and the
little boy, and he scalped them both. Then he sprang at the girl, but
the child of the Evil Spirit slipped among the bushes, and he could not
find her.
The old chief stopped a moment, and once more his glittering eyes swept
the circle of white faces, but saw them not. Then that fierce cry burst
again from Plummer. Suddenly he threw off Harley as if he had been a
child, and sprang through the ring of white faces into the circle of the
firelight. The tall, pale girl, still not saying a word, stood by, like
an avenging goddess.
"Murderer!" cried the "King." "It is not too late to punish you!"
He seized the old chief by the throat, but the white men threw
themselves upon him and tore him off.
Flying Cloud reeled back, gazed a moment at Plummer, and then drew a
knife.
"It was when there was war between us, and I will not swing at the end
of the white man's rope," he said.
So speaking, he plunged the blade into his own heart and fell dead,
almost at the feet of the woman whose kin he had slain.
"Whatever the red scoundrel was," said Hobart, later, "I shall always
use the old text for him, and say that nothing in this life became him
like the leaving of it."
But there were no such feelings in the heart of Sylvia Morgan. When
"King" Plummer sprang upon Flying Cloud, Harley turned involuntarily to
Sylvia, and he saw the pallor replaced by a sudden flush; then, when the
chief slew himself with his own knife, the flush passed, and whiter than
ever she sank down gently. But Harley caught her in his arms before she
fell, and in a moment or two she revived. It seemed to be her first
thought that she was held by him, and she struggled a little.
"Let me go," she said; "I can stand. I assure you I can. It was just a
passing weakness."
But Harley wished to make certain that it was not more than that before
he released her, and the friendly darkness and the interest of the crowd
centred on Flying Cloud aided him. A minute later Mrs. Grayson and the
wife of a local political leader, Mrs. Meadows, took her from him and
carried her to the hotel. Mrs. Grayson, who had heard the chief's chant,
understood the story, but Mrs. Meadows, who knew nothing of Sylvia's
relation to it, but who guessed something from the talk of the others,
was devoured by curiosity. However, she prevailed over it, for the time,
and was silent as she went with Sylvia back to the hotel, although she
made a vow which she kept--that she would find out the full truth in the
morning.
Harley lingered a little by the firelight and joined Hobart and the
crowd. The tragedy had cut deep into his thoughts--and he did not care
to talk, but the others had plenty to say.
"What a singular coincidence," said Tremaine, stroking his fine, white,
pointed mustache, of which he was very proud. "I call it very remarkable
that this savage should have told the story of that old tragedy the very
night when the only survivor of it was present."
"I do not call it remarkable at all," said Hobart. "It is not even a
coincidence in the usual meaning of the word. It came about naturally,
each chapter in the story being the logical sequence of the chapter that
preceded it."
"It may all be very clear to a man like you, one who makes a study of
crime and mysteries," said Tremaine, ironically, as he gave his mustache
an impatient tug, "but it is far from being so to me. I still call it a
coincidence."
"That is because you haven't taken time to think about it, Tremaine.
Your mind is entirely too good to accept such a theory as coincidence.
In the first place, Mr. Grayson is making a thorough tour of the West,
all the more thorough because these are supposed to be doubtful states.
Now what more natural than his coming to Belleville, which is one of the
most important towns in northern Utah, and, having come, what more
probable than the presence of the Indians at his speech, because such
attractions are rare in Belleville, and the Indian would come to see
what it is that stirs up so much his white friend and brother. Of
course, the Indian in his degenerate days, would take the chance to get
drunk, and, being in a whiskey stupor, he naturally supposed that Mr.
Grayson was chanting a chant of victory, and quite as naturally he
chanted in return his own chant, and also quite as naturally this chant
was about the deed that he considered the greatest of his life. So,
there you are; the chain is complete, the result is natural; any other
result would have been unnatural."
Tremaine laughed.
"You have worked it out pretty well, Hobart," he said, "but I have my
own opinion."
"You are entitled to it," rejoined Hobart, briskly, "but be sure you
keep it to yourself, and then you won't suffer from the criticisms of
the intelligent."
Tremaine laughed good-naturedly, and then avowed his concern about that
beautiful girl, Miss Morgan, who suddenly and under such peculiar
circumstances had been brought face to face with the slayer of her
people; he had perceived from the first her noble qualities, and he felt
for her the deepest sympathy. Tremaine, while a great lover of the
ladies, had in reality less perception than any of the others in affairs
of the heart. He was, perhaps, the only one in the group who did not
know what was going on, and for that reason he talked at length of
Sylvia, no one being able to stop him. He thought it a pity that Sylvia
should be wasted on "King" Plummer, who was a good man, a fine old Roman
soul, but then he had his doubts about Sylvia's love for him--that is,
as a husband. Mr. Plummer was too old for her. Tremaine, by a curious
inconsistency, never looked upon himself as old, and thought it
perfectly natural that he should carry on a mild flirtation with any
girl, provided she be handsome, although young enough to be his
daughter.
Harley was uneasy, and would have left them had not the act called
attention to himself too pointedly, and he was forced to listen to
Tremaine's rambling comment, knowing that all the others had him in
their thoughts as they heard. Fortunately, Tremaine did not require any
comment from others, preferring an unbroken stream of his own talk, and
Harley was able to regain his hotel in silence.
They were confronted the next morning by an announcement that sent
sorrow through the whole group. Mrs. Grayson felt that the events of the
night before were too much for a young girl, and unless she were
removed for a time to quieter scenes and a less arduous life they would
leave lasting effects. Moreover, the campaign was about to enter upon a
phase in which women would prove burdensome, hence she and Sylvia were
going to Salt Lake City for a stay of two weeks, and then they would
rejoin the party at some point in the Northwest.
It was with no counterfeit grief that they heard this news. The ladies
had added brightness and variety to a most toilsome campaign, and their
daily travel would seem very black indeed without them. Even Churchill
was loud in his regrets, because Churchill had some of the instincts of
a gentleman, and he never failed in what was due to Mrs. Grayson and
Sylvia. But he could not keep from making one nasty little stab at
Harley.
"Harley," he said, "do you know that they are going to have a very
stalwart escort to Salt Lake?"
"I do not," replied Harley, in some surprise. "I think they are quite
able to take care of themselves."
"Perhaps they are, but 'King' Plummer is going with them, nevertheless.
At his age it is well for a man to keep watch over a young girl whom he
expects to marry, or some husky youth may carry her off."
Harley was surprised at the strength of his desire to strike Churchill