“Mr. Foster,” the attorney's voice took a higher, more aggressive pitch, “were not many of those claims entered under names furnished by an agent of the Morganstein interests?”
“Well, yes.” Foster threw his head with something of his old boyish defiance. He was losing patience and skill. “Mr. Morganstein himself made a filing, and his father. That is the reason all our holdings are now classed as the Morganstein group.”
“And,” pursued the lawyer, “their entries were incidental with the consolidation of your company with the Prince William Development Company?”
Foster flushed hotly. “The Prince William Development Company was in need of coal; no enterprise can be carried on without it in Alaska. And the consolidation brought necessary capital to us; without it, our railroad was bankrupt. It meant inestimable benefit to the country, to every prospector, miner, homesteader, who must waste nerve-breaking weeks packing his outfit through those bleak mountains in order to reach the interior. But, before forty miles of track was completed, the executive withdrew all Alaska coal lands from entry, and we discontinued construction, pending an Act of Congress to allow our patents. The material carried in there at so great a cost is lying there still, rotting away.”
“Gentlemen, is it not all clear to you?” The prosecuting attorney flashed a glance of triumph over the jury. “Do you not see in this Prince William Development Company the long arm of the octopus that is strangling Alaska? That has reached out its tentacles everywhere, for gold here, copper there; for oil, coal, timber, anything in sight? That, but for the foresight of the executive and Gifford Pinchot, would possess most of Alaska today?”
The men on the jury looked thoughtful but not altogether convinced. One glanced at his neighbor with a covert smile. This man, whom the Government had selected to prosecute the coal fraud cases was undeniably able, often brilliant, but his statements showed he had brought his ideas of Alaska from the Atlantic coast; to him, standing in the Seattle courtroom, our outlying possession was still as remote. As his glance moved to the ranks of outside listeners, who overflowed the seats and crowded the aisles to the doors, he must have been conscious that the sentiment he had expressed was at least unpopular in the northwest. Faces that had been merely interested or curious grew suddenly lowering. The atmosphere of the place seemed surcharged.
The following morning Morganstein took the stand. Though in small matters that touched his personal comfort he was arrogantly irritable, under the cross-examination that assailed his commercial methods he proved suave and non-committal. As the day passed, the prosecutor's insinuations grew more open and vindictive. Judge Feversham sprang to his feet repeatedly to challenge his accusations, and twice the Court calmed the Government's attorney with a reprimand. The atmosphere of the room seemed to seethe hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Finally, during the afternoon session, Foster was recalled.
Through it all Tisdale waited, listening to everything, separating, weighing each point presented. It was beginning to look serious for Foster. Clearly, in his determination to win his suit, the prosecution was losing sight of the simple justice the Government desired. And a man less dramatic, less choleric, with less of a reputation for political intrigue than Miles Feversham might better have defended Stuart Foster. Foster was so frank, so honest, so eager to make the Alaska situation understood. And it was not an isolated case; there were hundreds of young men, who, like him, had cast their fortunes with that new and growing country, to find themselves, after years of hardship and privation of which the outside world had no conception, bound hand and foot in an intricate tangle of the Government's red tape.
The evening of the fourth day the attorney for the prosecution surprised Tisdale at his rooms. “Thank you,” he said, when Hollis offered his armchair, “but those windows open to the four winds of heaven are a little imprudent to a man who lives by his voice. Pretty, though, isn't it?” He paused a moment to look down on the harbor lights and the chains of electric globes stretching off to Queen Anne hill and far and away to Magnolia bluff, then seated himself between the screen and the table that held the shaded reading lamp. “Has it occurred to you, Mr. Tisdale,” he asked, “that a question may be raised as to the legality of your testimony in these coal cases?”
“No.” Hollis remained standing. He looked at his visitor in surprise. “Please make that clear, Mr. Bromley,” he said.
The attorney smiled. “This is a trial case,” he began. “A dozen others hinge on it. I was warned to be prepared for anything; so, when my attention was called to that article in Sampson's Magazine, my suspicions were instantly awake. It looked much like blackmail and, in connection with another story I heard in circulation at Washington, seemed a systematic preparation to attack the Government's witness. Possibly you do not know it was Mr. Jerold, your legal adviser and my personal friend, who put me in touch with the magazine. You had wired him to find out certain facts, but he was unable to go to New York at the time and, knowing I was there for the week, he got into communication with me by telephone and asked me to look the matter up. The publishers, fearing a libel suit which would ruin them, were very obliging. They allowed me to see not only the original manuscript, but Mrs. Feversham's letter, which I took the trouble to copy.”
“Mrs. Feversham's letter?” Tisdale exclaimed. “Do you mean it was Mrs. Feversham who was responsible for that story?”
“As it was published, yes. But Daniels was not a pen name. There really was such a writer—I have taken the trouble to find that out since I arrived in Seattle. He was on the staff of the Press and wrote a very creditable account of the catastrophe on the Great Northern railroad, in which glowing tribute was given you. But since then, and this is what makes the situation so questionable, he has left the paper and dropped completely out of sight.”
Tisdale drew forward his chair and settled himself comfortably. “There is no need to worry about Jimmie Daniels,” he said; “he is all right. I saw him at Cascade tunnel; he told me he was about to be married and go to the Wenatchee country to conduct a paper of his own. It's too bad there wasn't another reporter up there to tell about him. He worked like a Trojan, and it was a place to try a man's mettle. Afterwards, before he left, he came to me and introduced himself. He had been aboard the yacht that day I told the story. He had taken it down in his notebook behind an awning. He told me one of the ladies on board—he did not mention her name—who read his copy later, offered to dispose of it for him.”
“So,” said the lawyer slowly, “you did tell the story; there was a papoose; the unfortunate incident really occurred.”
“Yes,” responded Tisdale, “it happened in a canyon of those mountains across the Sound. You can barely make out their outline to-night; but watch for them at sunrise; it's worth waiting for.” Then, after a moment, he said, “I told the story to show the caliber of Weatherbee, the man who put himself in my place when the Indians came to our camp, looking for me; but, in editing, all mention of him was cut out. Daniels couldn't understand that. He said the manuscript was long, but if it was necessary to abridge in making up the magazine, why had they thrown out the finest part of the story?”
“Let me see,” said the attorney thoughtfully, “wasn't Weatherbee the name of the man you grub-staked in Alaska, and who discovered the Aurora mine?”
Tisdale bowed, then added, with the vibration playing softly in his voice: “And the name of the bravest and noblest man that ever fought the unequal fight of the north.”
“Which proves the story was not published to exploit a hero,” commented Bromley. “But now,” he went on brusquely, “we have arrived at the other story. Do you know, Mr. Tisdale, it is being said in Washington, and, too, I have heard it here in Seattle, that though your own half interest in the Aurora mine, acquired through the grub-stake you furnished Weatherbee, will make you a millionaire at least, you are withholding the widow's share.”
This time Tisdale did not express surprise. “I have had that suggested to me,” he a
nswered quietly. “But the stories of the Aurora are very much inflated. It is a comparatively new mine, and though it promises to be one of the great discoveries, the expense of operating so far has exceeded the output. Heavy machinery has been transported and installed, and Mrs. Weatherbee could not have met any part of these payments. In all probability she would have immediately disposed of an interest at a small price and so handicapped me with a partner with his own ideas of development. David Weatherbee paid for the Aurora with his life, and I have pledged myself to carry out his plans. But, Mr. Bromley, do not trouble about that last half interest. I bought it: the transfer was regularly recorded; Mr. Jerold has assured me it is legally mine.”
“I know what Mr. Jerold thinks,” replied the attorney. “It nettled him to hear me repeat that story. 'Why, it's incredible,'“ he said. “'There are documents I drew up last fall that refute it completely.'“ Mr. Bromley paused, then went on slowly: “Last fall you were in a hospital, Mr. Tisdale, beginning a long, all but hopeless fight for your life, and it was natural you should have called in Mr. Jerold to settle your affairs. I inferred from his remark that you had remembered Mrs. Weatherbee, at least, in your will.” He halted again, then added still more deliberately: “If I am right, I should like to be prepared, in case of emergency, to read such a clause in court.”
Tisdale was silent. He rose and turned to the west windows, where he stood looking down on the harbor lights.
“Am I right?” persisted the attorney.
Hollis thrust his hands into his pockets and swung around. He stood with his chin lowered, looking at the lawyer with his upward glance from under slightly frowning brows. “Well,” he said at last, “suppose you are. And suppose I refuse to have my private papers read in open court?”
“In that case,” answered Mr. Bromley, rising, “I must telegraph to Washington for one of the Alaska coal commission to take your place. I am sorry. You were named to me at the beginning as a man who knew more about Alaska coal, and, in fact, the whole Alaska situation, than any other employee of the Government.”
Still, having said this, Mr. Bromley did not seem in any hurry to go, but stood holding his hat and waiting for a word from Tisdale to redeem the situation. At last it came. “Is there no other way,” he asked, “than to drag my private affairs into court?”
The attorney gravely shook his head. “You never can tell what a jury will do,” he said. “Less than a prejudice against a witness has swung a decision sometimes.”
Hollis said no more. He went over to his safe and selected a package containing three documents held together by a rubber band. After a hesitating moment, he drew out one, which he returned to its place. The others he brought to the attorney, who carried them to the reading lamp to scan. One was a deed to the last half interest in the Aurora, the one which Weatherbee had had recorded, and the remaining paper was, as Mr. Bromley conjectured, Tisdale's will; but it contained a somewhat disconcerting surprise. However, the lawyer seated himself and, spreading the paper open on the table, copied this clause.
... “The Aurora mine, lying in an unsurveyed region of Alaska, accessible from Seward by way of Rainy Pass, and from the Iditarod district north by east, I bequeath to Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee, to be held for her in trust by Stuart Emory Poster for a period of five years, or until development, according to David Weatherbee's plans, shall have been fully carried out. The profits, above the cost of all improvements and all operating expenses—which shall include a superintendent's salary of four thousand dollars a year to said Stuart Emory Foster—to be paid in semi-annual dividends to said Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee.”
“Stuart Emory Foster,” repeated the lawyer meditatively, putting away his fountain pen. “You evidently have considerable confidence in his engineering skill, Mr. Tisdale.”
“Yes.” His voice mellowed, but he regarded the attorney with the upward, watchful look. “I have confidence in Stuart Emory Foster in every way. He is not only one of the most capable, reliable mining engineers, but also one of the most respected and most trusted men in the north.”
There was a silence, during which Mr. Bromley thoughtfully folded his copy and placed it in his pocket-book. “Thank you, Mr. Tisdale,” he said finally, and rose once more. “You may not be called for several days but when you are, it is advisable that you have the original documents at hand. Good night.”
CHAPTER XXXI. TISDALE OF ALASKA—AND WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was evident, after his interview with Hollis Tisdale, that Mr. Bromley was in no hurry to precipitate the side issue for which he had prepared. Every one who had taken coal land in the Morganstein group had been on the witness stand, and many more who had not filed claims had given testimony, yet the prosecution held him in reserve. Then came a day when Lucky Banks, recalled to tell what he knew about the Chugach trail, made some astonishing statements. He had traveled that route with a partner at the end of a season in the Copper River plateau. They had expected to finish the distance by the new railroad. The little man was brief but graphic. It seemed to have been a running fight with storms, glaciers, and glacial torrents to reach that narrow-gauge track before the first real September blizzard. “But we could have stood it,” he concluded in his high key, “my, yes, it wouldn't have amounted to much, if we could have had firewood.”
“Did you not know the fallen timber was at your service?” questioned Mr. Bromley. “Provided, of course, you conformed to the laws of the reserve in building your fire and in extinguishing it when you broke camp.”
“There wasn't any fallen timber,” responded Banks dryly; “and likely we would have took it green, if there had been a tree in sight. It was getting mighty cold, nights, and with the frost in his wet clothes, a man needs a warm supper to hearten him.”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Bromley sharply. “Do you mean you saw no trees? Remember you were in the Chugach forest; or did you lose your way?”
“No, sir. We struck the Chugach Railway just where we aimed to, but a mighty lot of the Chugach reserve is out of timber line. That's why we banked on Foster's new train to hurry us through. But we found she had quit running. The Government had got wind of the scheme and sent a bunch of rules and regulations. First came a heavy tax for operating the road; and next was an order to put spark arresters on all his engines. He only had two first-class ones and a couple of makeshifts to haul his gravel cars; and his sparks would have froze, likely, where they lit, but there he was, tied up on the edge of a fill he had counted on finishing up before his crew went out for the winter, and the nearest spark arrester farther off than Christmas.”
A ripple of amusement ran through the crowded room, but little Banks stood waiting frostily. When his glance caught the judge's smile, his eyes scintillated their blue light. “Likely Foster would have sent his order out and had those arresters shipped around Cape Horn from New York,” he added. “They'd probably been in time for spring travel; but he opened another bunch of mail and found there wouldn't be any more sparks. Washington, D.C., had shut down his coal mine.”
Mr. Bromley had no further questions to ask. He seemed preoccupied and passed the recess that followed the prospector's testimony in pacing the corridor. Lucky Banks had been suggested as an intelligent and honest fellow on whom the Government might rely; but his statements failed to dovetail with his knowledge of Alaska and the case, and after the intermission Tisdale was called.
The moment he was sworn, Miles Feversham was on his feet. He held in his hand a magazine, in which during the recess, he had been engrossed, and his forefinger kept the place.
“I object to this witness,” he said sonorously and waited while a stir, like a gust of wind in a wood, swept the courtroom, and the jury straightened, alert. “I object, not because he defrauded the widow of David Weatherbee out of her half interest in the Aurora mine, though, gentlemen, you know this to be an open fact, but for the reason that he is a criminal, self-confessed, who should be serving a prison sentence, and a criminal's testim
ony is not allowable in a United States court.”
Before he finished speaking, or the Court had recovered from the shock, Mr. Bromley had taken a bundle of papers from his pocket and stepped close to the jury box.
“This is an infamous fabrication,” he exclaimed. “It was calculated to surprise us, but it finds us prepared. In ten minutes we shall prove it was planned six months ago to defame the character of the Government's witness at this trial. I have here, gentlemen, a copy of the Alaska record showing the transfer of David Weatherbee's interest in the Aurora mine to Hollis Tisdale; it bears the signature of his wife. But this extract from Mr. Tisdale's will, which was drawn shortly after his return from Alaska, last year, and while he was dangerously ill in Washington, proves how far it was from his intention to defraud the widow of David Weatherbee.” Here Mr. Bromley read the clause.
Tisdale, standing at ease, with his hand resting on his chair, glanced from the attorney to Foster. No mask covered his transparent face; the dark circles under his fine, expressive eyes betrayed how nearly threadbare his hope was worn. Then, suddenly, in the moment he met Tisdale's look, wonder, swift intelligence, contrition, and the gratitude of his young, sorely tried spirit flashed from his countenance. To Hollis it became an illuminated scroll.
“As to the main charge,” resumed Mr. Bromley, “that is ridiculous. It is based on an unfortunate accident to an Indian child years ago. The distorted yarn was published in a late issue of a sensational magazine. No doubt, most of you have read it, since it was widely circulated. Different—isn't it?—from that other story of Mr. Tisdale which came down from Cascade tunnel. Gentlemen, I have the letter that was enclosed with the manuscript that was submitted to Sampson's Magazine. It was not written by the author, James Daniels, but by a lady, who had offered to dispose of the material for him, and who, without his knowledge, substituted a revised copy.”
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