Ranching For Sylvia Volume-554 - Harold Bindloss (best black authors TXT) 📗

The Sachem Hotel Was Conducted By Its Owner,

Oliver Beamish.  George Had Only Once Entered The Place, But It Had

Struck Him As Being Badly Kept And Frequented By Rather Undesirable

Customers.

 

"Some Fool Temperance Folks Are Starting A Campaign--Want To Shut The

Hotels," His Visitor Explained.  "You'll Put Your Name To This."

 

"I'm Afraid You'll Have To Excuse Me, Mr. Beamish.  I Can't Form An

Opinion; I Haven't Heard The Other Side Yet."

 

"Do You Want To Hear Them?  Do You Like That Kind Of Talk?"

 

George Smiled, Though He Was Not Favorably Impressed By The Man.  His

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Tone Was Too Dictatorial; George Expected Civility When Asked A Favor.

 

"After All," He Said, "It Would Only Be Fair."

 

"Then You Won't Sign?"

 

"No."

 

Beamish Sat Silent A Moment Or Two, Regarding George Steadily.

 

"One Name More Or Less Doesn't Matter Much, But I'll Own That The

Opinion Of You Farmers Who Use My Hotel As A Stopping-Place Counts With

The Authorities," He Told Him.  "I've Got Quite A Few Signatures.  You

Want To Remember That It Won't Pay You To Go Against The General Wish."

 

There Was A Threat In His Manner, And George's Face Hardened.

 

"That Consideration Hasn't Much Weight With Me," He Said.

 

"Well," Returned Beamish, "I Guess You're Wrong; But As There's Nothing

Doing Here, I'll Get On."

 

He Rode Away, And George Thought No More Of The Matter For Several

Days.  Then As He Was Riding Home With Edgar From A Visit To A Neighbor

Who Had A Team To Sell, They Stopped To Rest A Few Minutes In The Shade

Of A Poplar Bluff.  It Was Fiercely Hot On The Prairie, But The Wood

Was Dim And Cool, And George Followed Edgar Through It In Search Of

Saskatoons.  The Red Berries Were Plentiful, And They Had Gone Farther

Than They Intended When George Stopped Waist-Deep In The Grass Of A Dry

Sloo, Where Shallow Water Had Lain In The Spring.  He Nearly Fell Over

Something Large And Hard.  Stooping Down, He Saw With Some Surprise

That It Was A Wooden Case.

 

"I Wonder What's In It?" He Said.

 

"Bottles," Reported Edgar, Pulling Up A Board Of The Lid.  "One Of The

Cure-Everything Tonics, According To The Labels.  It Strikes Me As A

Curious Place To Leave It In."

 

George Carefully Looked About.  He Could Distinguish A Faint Track,

Where The Grasses Had Been Disturbed, Running Straight Across The Sloo

Past The Spot He Occupied; But He Thought That The Person Who Had Made

The Track Had Endeavored To Leave As Little Mark As Possible.  Then He

Glanced Out Between The Poplar Trunks Across The Sunlit Prairie.  There

Was Not A House On It; Scarcely A Clump Of Timber Broke Its Even

Surface.  The Bluff Was Very Lonely; And George Remembered That A Trail

Which Ran Near By Led To An Indian Reservation Some Distance To The

North.  While He Considered, Edgar Broke In:

 

"As Neither Of Us Requires A Pick-Me-Up, It Might Be Better To Leave

The Thing Where It Is."

 

"That," Replied George, "Is My Own Idea."

 

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Edgar Looked Thoughtful.

 

"The Case Didn't Come Here By Accident; And One Wouldn't Imagine That

Tonics Are In Great Demand In This Locality.  I Have, However, Heard

The Liquor Laws Denounced; And As A Rule It's Wise To Leave Matters

That Don't Concern You Severely Alone."

 

"Just So," Said George.  "We'll Get On Again, If You Have Had Enough

Berries."

 

On Reaching The Homestead, They Found A Note From Miss Grant Inviting

Them To Come Over In The Evening; And Both Were Glad To Comply With It.

When They Arrived, The Girl Led Them Into A Room Where A Lady Of

Middle-Age And A Young Man In Clerical Attire Were Sitting With Her

Father.

 

"Mrs. Nelson Has Come Over From Sage Butte On A Mission," She Said,

When She Presented Them.  "Mr. Hardie, Who Is The Methodist Minister

There, Is Anxious To Meet You."

 

The Lady Was Short And Slight In Figure But Was Marked By A Most

Resolute Expression.

 

"The Mission Is Mr. Hardie's," She Said.  "I'm Merely His Assistant.  I

Suppose You're A Temperance Reformer, Mr. Lansing?"

 

"No," George Answered Meekly; "I Can't Say I Am."

 

"Then You'll Have To Become One.  How Long Is It Since You Indulged In

Drink?"

 

George Felt A Little Embarrassed, But Edgar, Seeing Flora's Smile And

The Twinkle In Her Father's Eyes, Hastily Came To His Rescue.

 

"Nearly A Month, To My Knowledge.  That Is, If You Don't Object To

Strong Green Tea, Consumed In Large Quantities."

 

"One Should Practise Moderation In Everything.  _Everything_!"

 

"It Has Struck Me," Said Edgar Thoughtfully, "That Moderation Is Now

And Then Desirable In Temperance Reform."

 

Mrs. Nelson Fixed Her Eyes On Him With A Severe Expression.

 

"Are You A Scoffer?"

 

"No," Said Edgar; "As A Matter Of Fact, I'm Open To Conviction,

Especially If You Intend To Reform The Butte.  In My Opinion, It Needs

It."

 

"Well," Responded The Lady, "You're A Signature, Anyway; And We Want As

Many As We Can Get.  But We'll Proceed To Business.  Will You State Our

Views, Mr. Hardie?"

 

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The Man Began Quietly, And George Was Favorably Impressed By Him.  He

Had A Pleasant, Sun-Burned Face, And A Well-Knit But Rather Thin

Figure, Which Suggested That He Was Accustomed To Physical Exertion.

As He Could Not Afford A Horse, He Made Long Rounds On Foot To Visit

His Scattered Congregation, Under Scorching Sun And In The Stinging

Frost.

 

"There Are Four Churches In Sage Butte, But I Sometimes Fear That Most

Of The Good They Do Is Undone In The Pool Room And The Saloons," He

Said.  "Of The Latter, One Cannot, Perhaps, Strongly Object To The

Queen's."

 

"One Should Always Object To A Saloon," Mrs. Nelson Corrected Him.

 

Hardie Smiled Good-Humoredly.

 

"After All, The Other's The More Pressing Evil.  There's No Doubt About

The Unfortunate Influence Of The Sachem."

 

"That's So," Grant Agreed.  "When I First Came Out From Ontario, There

Wasn't A Loafer In The Town.  When The Boys Were Through With Their

Day's Job, They Had A Quiet Talk And Smoke And Went To Bed; They Came

Here To Work.  Now The Sachem Bar's Full Of Slouchers Every Night, And

Quite A Few Of Them Don't Do Anything Worth Speaking Of In The Daytime,

Except Make Trouble For Decent Folks.  If The Boys Try To Put The Screw

On A Farmer At Harvest Or When He Has Extra Wheat To Haul, You'll Find

They Hatched The Mischief At Beamish's Saloon.  But I've No Use For

Giving Those Fellows Tracts With Warning Pictures."

 

"That," Said Mrs. Nelson, "Is By No Means What We Intend To Do."

 

"I'm Afraid That Admonition Hasn't Had Much Effect, And I Agree With

Mr. Grant That The Sachem Is A Gathering Place For Doubtful

Characters," Hardie Went On.  "What's Worse, I've Reasons For Supposing

That Beamish Gets Some Of Them To Help Him In Supplying The Indians On

The Reservation With Liquor."

 

This Was A Serious Offense, And There Was A Pause, During Which Edgar

Glanced Meaningly At George.  Then He Made A Pertinent Remark.

 

"Four Churches To Two Saloons Is Pretty Long Odds.  Why Do You Think It

Needful To Call In The Farmers?"

 

Hardie Looked Troubled, But He Showed That He Was Honest.

 

"The Churches Are Thinly Attended; I'm The Only Resident Clergyman, And

I'm Sorry I Must Confess That Some Of Our People Are Indifferent:

Reluctant, Or Perhaps Half Afraid, To Interfere.  They Want A Clear

Lead; If We Could Get A Big Determined Meeting It Might Decide The

Waverers."

 

"Then You're Not Sure Of Winning?" Asked Grant.

 

"No," Replied Hardie.  "There'll Be Strong And Well-Managed Opposition;

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In Fact, We Have Nearly Everything Against Us.  I've Been Urged To

Wait, But The Evil's Increasing; Those Against Us Are Growing Stronger."

 

"If You Lose, You And Your Friends Will Find The Butte Pretty Hot.  But

You Feel You Have A Chance, A Fighting Chance, And You Mean To Take It?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Then I'm With You,"' Grant Declared With A Grim Smile.  "Don't Mistake

Me: I Take My Glass Of Lager When I Feel Like It--There's Some Right

Here In The House--But, If It's Needful, I Can Do Without.  I'm Not

Going Into This Thing To Help You In Preaching To Whisky-Tanks And

Toughs--It's The Law I'm Standing For.  If What You Suspect Is Going

On, We'll Soon Have Our Colts Rebranded And Our Calves Missing.  We

Have Got To Clean Out Beamish's Crowd."

 

"Thanks," Said Hardie, With Keen Satisfaction.

 

He Turned To George.

 

"I'd Be Glad Of Your Support, Mr. Lansing."

 

George Sat Silent A Moment Or Two While Flora Watched Him.  Then He

Said Quietly:

 

"My Position's Much The Same As Mr. Grant's--I Can Do Without.  After

What You Have Said About The Sachem, I'll Join You."

 

"And You?" Hardie Asked Edgar.

 

The Lad Laughed.

 

"I Follow My Leader.  The Loungers About The Sachem Weren't Civil To

Me; Said Unpleasant Things About My Appearance And My English Clothes.

To Help To Make Them Abstainers Strikes Me As A Happy Thought."

 

Flora Glanced At Him In Amused Reproof, And Hardie Turned To Grant.

 

"What About Your Hired Men?"

 

"Count Them In; They Go With Me.  If You Have Brought Any Memorial

Along, I'll See They Sign It."

 

"I Wish All Our Supporters Had Your Determination," Mrs. Nelson

Remarked Approvingly.

 

Hardie Ventured A Protest.

 

"I Don't Want Any Pressure Put Upon Them, Mr. Grant."

 

"Pressure?" Queried The Farmer.  "I'll Just Ask Them To Sign."

 

"I Wonder If You're Quite Satisfied With The Purity Of All Your Allies'

Motives, Mr. Hardie?" Edgar Inquired.