



Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: Wah-na-gi.]




                           *THE SILENT CALL*


                                   BY

                          *EDWIN MILTON ROYLE*

         AUTHOR OF "THE SQUAW-MAN," "THE STRUGGLE EVERLASTING,"
                            "FRIENDS," ETC.



                              ILLUSTRATED



                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                         PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK

         Published by arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons




                          COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
                           EDWIN MILTON ROYLE

                          Published May, 1910




                                   To

                          MY FATHER AND MOTHER

            WHOSE YOUNG HEARTS HAVE PRESERVED THE IDEALS OF
           OLD-FASHIONED ROMANCE THROUGH FIFTY-THREE YEARS OF
         WEDDED LIFE, THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY

                               THE AUTHOR

                            April 12th, 1910




                           *THE SILENT CALL*



                              *CHAPTER I*


Not even snow is as white as these great masses of congealed foam
floating in a deep blue sky, six thousand feet above the sea, and yet
somewhere out of this deep cool infinity flamed a sun that searched the
mesa until it blistered and cracked.  The alkali plain quivered and
burst into spirals of heat that were visible to the eye.  A cloud of
dust hung like white smoke above the fiery trail over which a band of
Indian police was slowly and painfully crawling. This dust is very
penetrating and very irritating. The reins hung limp on the ponies'
necks and their heads swung low as though they looked for a place to
sink down.

As far as the eye could see you would have known that they were Indians.
The uniform furnished them by the government is a dark purplish blue
with a red piping down the trousers.  It's a plain affair, but each
Indian wears it with a difference and adds a decorative touch that is
his own, and that is always pictorial and Indian.  One had encircled his
broad-brimmed black hat with a wide purple ribbon, lapped by a narrow
pink ribbon.  A yellow neckerchief rested on his green silk shirt, and
about his waist was a sash braided of many  worsteds, and,
strange to say, the result was pleasing if rather brilliant. Another had
a pink feather apparently plucked from the tail of the domestic duster
tied loosely to his hat, which lent to the changing airs a graceful note
of color.  Some wore cowboy boots, yellow and elaborately stitched in
fancy designs; others adhered to the ever beautiful moccasins.  Most of
them wore brown or drab cowboy hats, but made them their own by
beautifully beaded hat-bands.  Here and there gleamed gauntlets heavy
with a stiff beaded deer which seemed trying to jump away from the
cuffs, but couldn't because it was so obviously and eternally stiff and
beaded.  Some had beaded sleeve bands and all sported guns hung in
holsters elaborately outlined in brass.  No one wore a coat except a
tall elderly man with glasses who, in spite of the torture, felt that
his out-of-date captain's uniform enhanced his straight unbending
dignity.

The police had no prisoner in charge, nor even an air of expectancy, or
remote or possible interest. Horse and man were as near sleep as it was
possible to be in the quivering heat.  The pack animals were loaded with
surveyors' instruments, and there was evidently nothing more warlike or
strenuous on foot than to creep across the table-land and reach the
Agency.  To the close observer even at a distance there was a difference
in the figures as they straggled through the sage-brush.  The man who
rode behind was well set up and sat his horse like a cavalryman. He wore
khaki that fitted well his close-knit and athletic figure, and he
carried the suggestion of authority.  He was the chief of Indian police.
"Calthorpe," as he called himself, hadn't explained himself and nothing
had as yet explained him.  He had been from the first a mild mystery to
his neighbors, in a country where neighbors were few and far between,
and as he had a gift for silence, and it did not appear to be any one's
business in particular to unravel him, a task which might, too, involve
risk as well as trouble, he had remained a mystery.  Oscar Wilde once
expressed great astonishment at finding a miner in Leadville reading
Darwin's "Origin of Species," but in this Western country one ought to
be surprised at nothing.

On closer observation, there was a certain resemblance between the
leader and his men.  He might have been one of them with his swarthy
skin and coarse black hair, but that a startling pair of frank blue eyes
flashed out from their dark surroundings. They were friendly eyes set in
a strong, immobile face.  He glanced at his companions, at the burning
plateau, then at his companions again.

"And they expect the hunter and warrior to turn farmer in a country like
this," he thought.  A horned toad startled by the intrusion darted
across the trail from the shelter of one sage-brush to another--"In a
country that raises sage-brush, horned toads, and hell," and he laughed
softly to himself.  "The Indian only gets the land the white man
wouldn't have."  Then his eyes fell on the pack mules, and again the
blue eyes gleamed with amusement.  "And sometimes valuable minerals are
found on land the white man refused, and then he wants even the
God-forsaken remnant he promised by solemn treaty never to take from the
red man and his children's children."  "God-forsaken" was a stock phrase
for that country and Calthorpe reflected, "And it _is_ the last word in
desolation, the last word, but _I_ like it. Yes, I like it."  And he was
amused with himself.

He didn't understand it or try to, but something in him responded to the
crimson and yellow glory of the cactus flower, the purple of the
thistle, the dull red of the "Indian's paintbrush," or, as the mountain
children call them, "bloody noses."  He knew a secret joy when the pale
greens of the sage-brush and greasewood, and the live shimmer of the
scrub oak were relieved by the larkspur, wild roses, the white columbine
and sago lillies, and the flashing black and white of the magpie's wing,
and somehow he knew that these things were more appealing because set in
wide spaces and in silence and desolation.

By chance or telepathy something like this was passing through the mind
of another, a man in middle life who sat in front of a tent pitched on
the bank of a clear mountain stream that separated the Agency from the
rest of the Reservation.  He was a big framed man, stoop shouldered,
with the face of a scholar and a saint.  His clothes hung loosely on
him, and he sat as though it would be an exertion for him to rise.  Near
by was the blasted trunk of a hollow tree.  It had been fired by the
cigarette of some careless smoker, and it was afire within and
smouldering.  A look at the man's pensive eyes showed that he too was
afire within and smouldering.

"Fine boy, strange boy," he mused.  Then he caught the vibration of the
thought of the young chief of police who was riding toward him on the
dusty trail.

"Some sins," he thought, "are magnificent.  Milton's villain is superb,
but"--and his eyes rested on the rather pretty cottage of the agent
nestling in a grove of trees below--"small sins are really inexcusable."
Rather an unusual reflection for a clergyman, who ought surely to be
irreconcilable to sin in any form.  But then he _was_ unusual, the Rev.
Dr. John McCloud.  "We send these wild children to our great cities, and
show them how hopeless it would be to resist our countless millions, but
we never show them righteousness.  We only make the Indian hopeless.
And who of the countless millions knows or cares what happens to this
bewildered anachronism, this forlorn child of a day that is gone?  With
really generous and noble purposes we hand him over to the spoiler, and
so a great people becomes _particeps criminis_ in petty larcenies and
other pitiful and ignoble wrongs.  I wish I could awaken our people to
their privileges, their divine opportunities--not so much for the sake
of the Indian, but for our own sakes."  And he coughed and sank deeper
into his camp chair.  "Why should a great, mighty, enlightened people
stoop to crush such obviously harmless and helpless ones?  Is it because
they have no votes, no lobby in Washington, are unorganized, obscure,
and ignorant?"  And his eyes drooped to the book open on his lap and
rested on these figures: "7,000,000 families on a medium wage of $436 a
year, and 5,000,000 farmers with an average income of $350 a year.
Which means that 60,000,000 people must think before buying a penny
newspaper, that they must save and plan for months to get a yearly
holiday, that sickness means debt or charity, that things that make for
comfort or beauty in a home are out of the question."

"Yes, yes," he reflected, "that is it.  Why should we trouble to save
the Indian?  We are not even troubled to save our own.  At least the Red
Man has the fresh air, the light, the sun," and his mind wandered back
to the crowded cities, with their gaunt men, slatternly women, and
pallid children.

Between this middle-aged man sitting under the flap of his tent and the
young man riding across the desert there had been from the first, quick,
instantaneous sympathy and understanding.  And now the thought of each
jumped from the general to the particular.

"She's a fine woman," clicked the instrument in the elder man's head.
"It's very tragic, her situation. I wonder if the boy realizes its full
significance? I wonder if he knows his own peril?"

"She's a fine woman," was the response in the younger man's
consciousness.  "I must speak to the agent about her.  I've given her
such protection as I could, but he _is_ the man; it is _his_ duty.  Duty
isn't Ladd's strong point, but perhaps I can ram it gently down his
throat.  If he doesn't do it, it will lead to trouble," and he looked
grim and his teeth set.

He reined in his horse for a moment to take in the beauties of the view.
His men had already descended from the mesa into the huge basin that
opened out suddenly at their feet, disclosing a dreary waste that was
beautiful and absolute, for not a dwarfed tree or a sage-brush or a twig
lived there.  The wind and rain had cut and carved the hills and mounds
into strange and sometimes grotesque shapes, and merged and blended the
 sands, so that they presented versions of the spectrum, sand
rainbows, giving brilliancy and color to this dead desolation.

The Bad Lands were buttressed by a ring of sandstone battlements,
twisted, tortured, pock-marked, broken away here and there in huge
masses, weird and fantastic.  Time had painted them the Indian colors--a
dull red at the top blending into a faded yellow, then half-way to the
valley the dirty drab of earth, looking as if it had been polished with
sandpaper, escarped to the plain.  He had crossed this trail many times,
but never failed to pause on this brink to wonder and admire.  It was
lucky for the chief of police that just at that moment he raised his hat
to wipe his dripping brow, for the report of a rifle rang out, and
reverberated again and again among the hills, pockets, and gullies of
the Bad Lands.  Instantly every policeman sat erect, unslung his rifle
from the pommel of his saddle, but with unanimity that told of unusual
discipline, they turned and waited for their commander's orders. The
latter made a gesture which in the sign language meant "Wait."  The men
deployed and waited, their eyes sweeping the broken ground before them.
Calthorpe looked at his hat, and laughed as he replaced it on his head.

"By Jove," he muttered; "he picked his place. What a mark I was on this
sky-line!  Don't know how he could have missed me!"

When he had rejoined his men in the valley below, he called to his
interpreter:

"Chavanaugh, I think these boys savey my English pretty well by now, but
you make sure; explain it again to them when I am not by.  You savey
Wah-na-gi?"

Chavanaugh signified that he did.

"Well, I want some of my men always near her, pretty close by.  Good
woman, Wah-na-gi.  Pretty bad men all time round loose.  No father, no
mother, Wah-na-gi!  No harm come to Wah-na-gi, savey? Bad come to
Wah-na-gi?  Well, you kill 'em, kill 'em; anybody; me too!  I do wrong,
_me_ too.  You savey me?"

Chavanaugh paused for a long while, then wiped his brow with painful
deliberation, and they rode on.




                              *CHAPTER II*


With a whoop and on the run, they dashed into the water, throwing the
spray high into the air, and the weary animals buried their noses in the
stream and drank so greedily that the water ran out of their nostrils,
the men leaning over and drinking out of their hands, and throwing it
over their heads and faces.

"Hello, Calthorpe," joyously called McCloud from the bank above.
"You're late."

Calthorpe made no reply, but having allowed his horse another gulp, with
quirt and spur drove him through the stream to the further bank.

"Hold my horse, will you?" throwing him the reins.  "And don't let him
get back into the stream."

"What in the world are you doing?"

But to this the young man did not trouble to reply, but tore his clothes
off as if they burnt him.

"See here, you can't bathe here at this ford; some of the women might
come this way."

"Well, you stand there and shoo them away."

The other smiled good-humoredly as Calthorpe lurched down the bank above
the ford and slid into the water with complete abandon.

"Oh, Lord," he sighed, "how heavenly."

Standing Bear "river," except in the spring, was a "crik."  The young
man lay where he fell, on a beautiful clean pebbly bed, with just enough
water to cover him, eyes closed, blissfully inert.

"Bless the chap who invented water," he murmured feebly.  "Parson, my
throat's lined with alkali dust; say a few words for me to fit the
occasion, won't you?"

A beautiful smile lit up the pallid face of the preacher as he said
simply: "Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all His benefits,
who preserveth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with loving
kindness and tender mercy."

"That's it.  That's me.  Thanks!--I could drink it dry, _this_; but I
mustn't."  Then he managed energy enough to spurt a mouthful into the
air.  "If I put this into my boiler I'd explode.  I'm taking it in
through the skin.  See the steam?  Now if I had a 'horse's neck' with
cracked ice--oh, a yard long, and a soup plate full of Maillard's ice
cream and the Savoy Hotel orchestra to play to me, and I could eat and
drink and sleep at the same time--but it's pretty good as it is."

"We've been expecting you for the last two or three days."  McCloud had
descended to the brink of the stream and was sitting under a willow with
a towel in his hand.  "Mr. Ladd's been getting nervous about you."

At the mention of the agent's name the lids of the young man's eyes
dropped half over his eyes in a peculiar way.

"Yes?  What's up?"

"A powwow over the asphalt lands! all the interests are to be
represented.  You're just in time. The agent has been very anxious to
see you before it took place."

The young man sat up with a sudden accession of life.  "Yes, I ought to
see the agent before that.  All right, I'm alive again, and as good as
new," and he shook himself and clambered out on the bank, catching the
towel McCloud tossed to him.

"Thanks.  This _is_ luxury.  One dries by evaporation in this climate."

"Mr. Ladd seems to think your report of the highest importance in the
settlement of this dispute."

"Well, what I don't know now about the asphalt lands isn't worth
knowing.  If information is what is wanted, I'm dripping with it.
There!" as he threw the towel aside, "I'm not clothed, but I'm in my
right mind, and I am a human being once more."  Offering his brawny hand
to the older man--"How is the good doctor, eh?"

"Oh, not complaining, my boy; not complaining."

The other was quick to detect the subtle shade of over-emphasis, and
immediately met it with a jocularity and buoyancy that did not
altogether conceal its anxiety.

"By Jove!  Why, you're getting fat.  I'll wager you're gaining every
day!"  And then realizing that his tone had not carried complete
conviction with it, he hurriedly began to throw his dusty clothes on.

"No, my dear fellow," said the clergyman with a plaintive smile and
sinking into the camp chair before his tent.  "No, I'm losing,
gradually, but steadily losing every day."

"Nonsense," laughed the other with a determination not to be impressed.
"Nonsense.  Look at _me_. Almost forgotten I ever had a cough.  When
you've been here as long as I have----"

"You came in time.  I'm afraid I came a little late--just a little
late."  And the smouldering eyes dreamed off to the snow-capped
mountains in the distance.

"Better grub, that's all you need, John."

Calthorpe was not a demonstrative man and McCloud realized the affection
that the use of his first name implied.

"You're coming to live with _me_.  I'll make a new man of you."

"You?" interjected the other with some surprise. "You and Big Bill
haven't enough room for yourselves, much less for----"

"No, not at this exact moment, but, as you public speakers would say, we
are on the verge of momentous changes, fellow citizens.  Say nothing,
look wise, and wait for the dinner-bell.  And when my ship comes in, why
you sit at the captain's table--savey? Ladd doesn't cater to you."

A shade of annoyance crossed the brow of the elder man.

"The agent has been exceedingly kind to me since I've been here."

"I know," protested Calthorpe.  "You brought letters of introduction
from the Secretary of War, and----"

"Who was one of my former parishioners, that's all."

"That's all," mocked the impertinent youngster, "and other people of
influence, social and political, and you have been ostensibly the
agent's honored guest, but Ladd likes you, John; yes, he likes you, just
about as much as a burglar likes dodging a search-light.  The fact of
the matter is that you're an infernal nuisance around here, and when I
get ready I'll have no difficulty in kidnapping you and having you all
to myself."  And the blue eyes laughed impudently into the obvious
disapproval of the grave eyes opposite.

"You ought not to make me listen to reflections on my host.  By the way,
he has asked me to preside at the conference this afternoon."

"Really?" said the other seriously.  "What have _you_ to do with it?"

"That is just it.  Presumably a disinterested party may help along."

"I'm rather sorry."

"Why?"

"Well, they're a rough lot, quick, passionate, not too scrupulous----"

"Why, this is a peace affair, isn't it?"

"Yes," dryly; "so make every son-of-a-gun disarm before he becomes a
part of it."

With this the young man, now dressed, flung into his saddle with an
alert grace that spoke favorably of the regeneration of his bath.

Perhaps the most significant thing about this interview was that neither
had spoken of what was uppermost in the mind of each--Wah-na-gi!

"Hello!" exclaimed the chief of police as he settled in his saddle;
"here come McShay and his pals. Howdy, boys," he shouted down to the
three men who had halted their horses in mid-stream. "By the way,
McShay, I've just had a chat with our chairman.  Perhaps you'd like a
word with him before we confer this afternoon."

"Sure," called back a thick-set man with a meaty face; "sure, only ain't
got nuthin' to say nobody couldn't hear."

"Well, so long, see you later," and Calthorpe whirled his pinto and shot
off to the agency.  Pinto is the local word for piebald.  There is taste
in horse-flesh just as much as in neckties or hose, and evidently the
owner's taste was a little loud.  At all events, he shared the Indian
prejudice in favor of the calico horse.  The Indians regard the pinto as
"good medicine," good luck.

"Glad to see you, Mr. McShay," said the preacher heartily as the burly
figure of McShay disengaged itself from his saddle in a lumbering way.
In the saddle McShay was at home, but for purposes of embarking or
disembarking, his weight was badly distributed.

"You know Orson Lee and 'Silent' Smith, don't you?" said the Irishman.

"If we had a church over our way these two scoundrels would be deacons
or whatever you call the fellers that's on the inside of the inside
ring, you can bet on that.  They're two of our most influential
citizens.  Couldn't pass your wickiup without sayin' hello."

The preacher greeted the two awkward cattlemen and made them feel at
ease at once.

"I hope you won't ever pass by my tent.  I should feel hurt if you did.
I'm rather lonesome at times and it's a great pleasure to see friends.
Sit down, won't you?"

He got another camp stool for McShay, and Lee and Smith sat on a
decaying log near by.  McShay had already noted that the gaunt figure
was a bit gaunter, so he said with pleased surprise,

"Why, you're lookin' well, Parson--you're lookin' fine."

Like most active men forced by ill-health to think too often of
themselves, McCloud disliked any allusion to his condition or
appearance, but he replied gently and without irritation,

"Thank you, Mr. McShay, I've nothing to complain of."

"That's good," said the other heartily.  "Have a torch?  You needn't
hesitate.  I smoke 'em myself," he added with a laugh, as he offered the
preacher a cigar.  "Wouldn't throw 'em away on them longhorns," with a
jerk of his head toward Smith and Lee.  "They just's leave smoke
alfalfa."

"No, Mr. McShay, thank you.  I used to smoke a little, very mild cigars,
but had to give up even that dissipation."

"Honest?" said the other, with an awkward smile, almost incredulous.
McShay was built after the bulldog style of architecture, and with a
physical equipment and adjustment that left such things as ill-health in
the category of objective phenomena, but he had a sort of respect for
it, as for a form of culture he didn't and couldn't possess.  He had
always been a smoker since he could remember.  The only objection he had
to sleep was that no one had yet discovered a method of smoking during
sleep.  He had sometimes felt that even this difficulty might be
overcome if he had time to "go after it."  McShay was a man who was in
the habit of getting things he "went after."  The fact that he couldn't
at all measure the dimensions of the preacher's sacrifice gave him a
painful impression, and he shot a covert but searching look at the
other, and then he said with uneasy gentleness:

"We sure got a superior brand of climate out here, parson, but you
mustn't git discouraged if the improvement don't come by special
delivery.  Takes a little coaxin' sometimes, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure I am as well here as I should be anywhere, Mr. McShay."

"Sure," and the cattleman was strangely conscious of a peculiar feeling
in his throat, and he coughed, spat, sat down, and became unduly busy
with his cigar.

"You know," he said, changing the subject, "it's some spunky of you to
preside at these festivities to-day, Parson.  Ladd says you're goin' to
take the chair."

"Why, you don't imagine there will be any trouble, do you?" said McCloud
lightly.

"No, don't know as there will.  You bein' in the saddle will have a
steadyin' and refinin' inflooence, because you're respected round here,
parson, and that's sayin' a good deal for a preacher.  Most of the
salvation experts we've been used to has inspired practical jokes."

"I'm glad the presumption is in my favor," said the preacher, greatly
amused, "but I didn't suppose any of my neighbors even knew that I was
here."

"Oh, it gits around, Doc; amazin' how it gits around.  Don't know as
we're much smarter'n ordinary folks--maybe we are, but any way we're on.
We got you tagged.  We're not only onto your present game, but we know
your record.  We got it pretty straight that you had to let go your holt
in Minneapolis just when the cards was a comin' fine, just when you was
the acknowledged pulpit champion of the Middle West, with standin' room
only at every performance.  Say, it must have been tough, just when you
had the Old Boy licked, just needin' an easy little punch to put him
out; say, it must have been tough to have to throw up the sponge and
crawl under the ropes."

The preacher smiled.  "It _was_ a bit tough, Mr. McShay."

Then, realizing that he might have called up painful memories, McShay
hastened to add:

"But you're all right, Parson; you're grit clean through.  Don't suppose
you could throw a lariat or pull a gun--parsons ain't supposed to be up
in the useful things, are they?--but we like you.  We like you, and the
feller as don't has got to explain it to us or put us out of business.
Personally, we ain't no better'n we ought to be, don't profess no
religion. We're on the make; we're in the little game of grab along with
all the rest of 'em, but we know the spiritual goods when we see 'em,
and you can touch us for anything we've got--in the pocket, on the
cards, or in the fryin' pan, and at any spot in the road. Now, I can't
make it stronger than that, can I?  I guess I've about expressed the
prevailing sentiment," and he turned to his two companions for the
approval of which he felt serenely certain, as befits an admitted
leader.

Neither Lee nor Smith had spoken up to this time, and even now neither
felt called upon to pass upon the subject of the great man's remarks.
That was obviously superfluous.

"Say, Silent," said Lee to that sphinx, with open admiration, "ain't he
a wonder?  Ain't Mike got a cinch on the language?  Why, when he wants a
word all he's got to do is to whistle to it, and it'll come up and eat
out of his hand.  He's got the English language broke to single or
double harness--in fact, he kin make it do tricks like a circus hoss.
Say, Parson, Mike's a orator."

"Oh, git out," protested McShay, obviously pleased.  "You're locoed."

"He sure is all right," insisted Lee.

"I'm sure of that," said the clergyman heartily, glad that the centre of
interest had been shifted to the other.

"Oh, shucks," laughed McShay, with good-humored toleration.  "When it
comes to savin' the nation or plantin' a prominent citizen, I kin
sprinkle a little language over the occasion, but I ain't a braggin'
about it, Orson, before a feller as is a artist. I have the savin' grace
to know where I come in, and it's at the back door, son.  I daresay,
Parson, you've heard that I keep a saloon over at 'Calamity'?"

"Yes, I've heard so," said the other simply, without a trace of
pharisaism even in the tone of his voice.

"Well, any time you want to keep your hand in at the preachin' game,
come right along, and I'll personally guarantee the character of the
proceedings. They tell me that as a preacher you're a stampede."

The big eyes in the pallid face glowed for a moment, then they suffused
with melancholy.  There was a sensible pause before he said:

"Thank you, Mr. McShay; thank you.  Perhaps I'll take advantage of your
offer some Sunday, but at present I've had to give up preaching: it
seems to exhaust my vitality."  He paused for a second and then added
with a shy little smile, as if he were confessing to a fault: "I like to
preach, too, and, as you say, it's been 'tough' to be compelled to give
it up, but, after all," suddenly alarmed at the thought that he was
bidding for sympathy, "living is more important than preaching, isn't
it?"

McShay filled in the pause, that threatened to be too obvious, by
jerking out his Waterbury.

"Hello, gitting on to the time!  Guess we'll be moseying along.  Well,
Parson, I've expressed myself pretty free, ain't I?  And in something of
a complimentary vein, not with a view to inflooincin' your attitude in
this approachin' conference.  Mind you, I ain't above doin' it if I
could.  I don't do it 'cause I know it wouldn't go, that's all," and he
laughed generously as he hoisted himself into the saddle. McShay was a
man with few illusions.  He fancied he was pretty familiar with the
ordinary phases of human nature, and his code of morality was a working
code; it would bear comparison, he felt sure, with that of the average
citizen, and it wasn't so high as to be inconvenient.  He had never felt
called upon to experiment with a code obviously theoretical. He wouldn't
hesitate at cards or in a trade to cheat one who was engaged in trying
to cheat him.  In fact he looked upon it as a joyous and holy duty to
skin the skinner.  He was not inexperienced in the ways of the world.
He knew more of Doctor McCloud than that worthy man dreamed of, for when
a very young man he had been a policeman in St. Paul and during the
uncomfortable times following a reform upheaval had felt obliged to
leave that saintly city.  Indeed, he had brought about the upheaval by
his own obstinacy, for there are degrees of graft, and the young
Irish-American wouldn't violate his own wholly illogical standards of
what was fair or decent any more than he would accept the standards of
the too-good.  He had come into his own in the cattle country, opened a
saloon, became a political leader, a boss, and a cattle king.  He had
prospered.  He was loved by his friends and feared by his enemies, and
he was fond of both.  And when the cowboys on one of their summer
round-ups found something that looked like coal or jet, and which,
unlike coal or jet