She was glad he liked the country, she said. It was wonderful. In the five years they had been here they had enjoyed it thoroughly—that was, of course, barring the trouble they had had with Dunlavey.
Of their trouble with Dunlavey Hollis would hear much later, he told himself. At present he was more interested in discovering something about her and her brother, though he did not wish to appear inquisitive. Therefore his voice was politely casual.
“Then you are not a Westerner?” he said.
She smiled mournfully. “No,” she returned; “we—Ed and I—were raised in Illinois, near Springfield. We came out here five years ago after—after mother died.” Her voice caught. “Sometimes it seems terribly lonesome out here,” she added; “when I get to thinking of—of our other home. But”—she smiled bravely through the sudden moisture that had come into her eyes—“since Ed got hurt I don’t have much time to think of myself. Poor fellow.”
Hollis was silent. He had never had a sister but he could imagine how she must feel over the misfortune that had come to her brother. It must be a sacrifice for her to remain in this country, to care for a brother who must be a great burden to her at times, to fight the solitude, the hardships, to bear with patience the many inconveniences which are inevitable in a new, unsettled country. He felt a new admiration for her and a profound sympathy.
“I think that you must be a very brave young woman,” he said earnestly.
“Oh!” she returned with a sudden, illuminating smile. “It isn’t hard to be brave. But at times I find it hard to be patient.”
“Patience is one of the cardinal virtues,” declared Hollis, “but it takes bravery of a rare sort to remain in this country, surrounded with the care―”
Her fingers were suddenly over her lips warningly, and he saw Ed Hazelton nearing the porch.
“I wouldn’t have him know for the world,” she said rapidly. “It isn’t a care to look after someone you love.”
Hollis smiled grimly at the reproach in her voice and rose to greet her brother.
The latter seemed to be quite recovered from the attack he had suffered in Devil’s Hollow and talked freely and intelligently of affairs in the country. Hollis found that on the whole he was a well informed young man—quiet, modest, and apparently well able to give a good account of himself in spite of his affliction. He was bitter against Dunlavey and thanked Hollis warmly for his defense of his sister.
At sundown Hollis departed, telling the Hazeltons that since he was their neighbor he would not neglect to see them occasionally. As he rode away into the dusk Nellie Hazelton stood on the porch smilingly waving her hand at him. As he threaded his way through the rapidly growing darkness he felt an unaccountable satisfaction over the fact that he had elected to remain in Union County; that henceforth his fortunes were to be linked with those of a brave young woman who had also accepted the robes of sacrifice and who was committed to war against their common enemy—Dunlavey. Curiously, during the past few days he had felt a decided change in his attitude toward life. His old ambition was no longer uppermost in his mind—it had been crowded out of his existence. In its place had been erected a new pinnacle of promise. A seat among the mighty was a worthy goal. Yet the lowly bench of sacrifice was not without its compensations.
CHAPTER VIII
CONCERNING THE “SIX-O’CLOCK”
On Friday evening previous to the Saturday on which the Kicker was to be issued for the fifth consecutive time by Hollis, Potter did not ride out to the Circle Bar. There still remained some type to be set and Potter had declared his intention of completing the work and staying overnight in town. Hollis had acquiesced and had departed for the Circle Bar alone.
When he reached Dry Bottom the following morning he found a small crowd of people in front of the Kicker office. During the night someone had posted a written notice on the front door, and when Hollis dismounted from his pony there were perhaps a dozen interested citizens grouped about the door, reading the notice. There were several of the town’s merchants and a number of cowboys—new arrivals and those who had remained overnight to gamble and participate in the festivities that were all-night features of the dives. There were also the usual loafers, who constitute an element never absent in any group of idlers in any street. All, however, gave way before Hollis and allowed him to reach the door without molestation, though in passing he observed significant grins on several faces.
The notice was written in a bold, legible hand.
“Mr. Hollis:”—it read, the prefix under-scored—“The express leaves town this afternoon at six o’clock—goin’ east. Better be on it.”
Signed—“Y. Z.”
Hollis read the notice and then turned and quietly surveyed his watchful, interested audience. He smiled grimly, seeing several faces which, though plainly expressing amusement, seemed quietly sympathetic. He felt that these were wishing him success, though doubting his ability to cope with his enemies. Other faces were plainly antagonistic in expression. He looked at both for an instant and then turned again to the notice and producing a pencil printed boldly on its face the slogan he had devised:
“We Herald the Coming of the Law! The Kicker is Here to Stay!”
And below he indulged in this sarcasm: “Don’t hold the express on my account!”
Signed—“KENT HOLLIS”
Leaving his audience to stare after him Hollis pushed open the door of the office and entered.
He found Potter bending over the imposing table, hard at work on one of the forms. Three other forms, locked and ready for the press, stood in a corner. Potter looked up and smiled as his chief entered.
“See the notice on the door?” he inquired.
“Some of Dunlavey’s work, I suppose,” returned Hollis.
“Well, yes. I suppose Dunlavey is back of it. But Yuma tacked the sign up.” He smiled soberly as Hollis flashed a grin at him. “They tried hard last night to get me to drink. Of course their purpose was to get me drunk so that I wouldn’t be able to get the paper out today. I am not going to tell you how hard I had to fight myself to resist the temptation to drink. But you can see for yourself that I succeeded. The Kicker will be ready to go to press in an hour.”
He felt Hollis’s hand patting his shoulder approvingly and he continued, a little hoarsely. “I took one drink at the Fashion last night after I got through here. Then I came back and went to sleep. I am a light sleeper and when some time after midnight I heard a sound at the door I got up and peered out of the window. I saw Yuma tacking up the notice. I suppose Dunlavey wrote it.” He looked at Hollis with a whimsical expression. “I suppose you are going to take the express?” he inquired.
“Tried to get you drunk, did they?” shaking his head negatively to Potter’s question, a smile on his face. “I can’t understand that game,” he continued, soberly. “Of course getting you drunk would have prevented the appearance of the paper on scheduled time. But if they wanted to do serious damage—of course I mean to the paper,” he apologized with a grim smile, “why didn’t they come down here—some of them—during your absence, and smash things up? That would have made the thing sure for them.”
Potter laughed mirthlessly. “Of course they could have done that,” he said; “it would have been easy—will be easy any time. But it wouldn’t be artistic, would be coarse in fact. Dunlavey doesn’t do things that way. If they smash your stuff, destroy your plant here, ruin your type and press, and so forth, they invite sympathy in your behalf. But if they prevent the appearance of your paper without having done any damage to your plant they accomplish something—they expose you to ridicule. And in this country ridicule is a potent weapon—even if it involves nothing more serious than a drunken printer.”
Hollis shook Potter’s hand in silence. He had expected violence from Dunlavey; long before this he had expected him to show his hand, to attempt some covert and damaging action. And he had been prepared to fight to get the Kicker out. He had not expected subtlety from Dunlavey.
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br /> He went to his desk and sat in the chair, looking out through the window at the crowd that still lingered in front of the office. Most of the faces wore grins. Plainly they were amused, but Hollis saw that the amusement was of a grim sort. They appreciated the situation and enjoyed its humor but felt the tragedy behind it. Probably most of them were acquainted with Dunlavey’s methods; some of them probably knew of the attempt that had been made to incapacitate Potter. Certainly those of them that did know had seen the failure of the attempt and were now speculating upon Dunlavey’s next move. Looking out of the window Hollis felt that some of his audience must be wondering whether the editor of the Kicker would pay any attention to the notice on the door. Would he scare?
Hollis had already decided that he would not “scare.” He grinned at several of the men who watched him and then turned and instructed Potter to take down a column of type on the first page of the paper to make room for an article that he intended to write. Then he seized a pen and wrote a red hot defiance directed at the authors of the notice, which Potter set up under the heading:
“Why the Editor of the Kicker Won’t Take the Express.”
In clear, terse language he told his audience his reasons. This was America; he was an American, and he didn’t purpose to allow the Cattlemen’s Association—or any other association, gang, or individual—to dictate the policy of his paper or influence his private actions. Least of all did he purpose to allow anyone to “run him out of town.” He printed the notice entire, adding his answer, assuring readers that he was sending copies of the Kicker to every newspaper in the East and that notices such as had been affixed to his door would react against the authors. He ended with the prophecy that the law would come into Union County and that meanwhile the Kicker purposed to fight.
At noon Hollis took the usual number of copies to the station and mailed them. Walking down the street on his return from the station he attracted much attention. Men stood in the open doorways of saloons watching him, a number openly jeered; others sent subtle jibes after him. Still others were silent, their faces expressing amusement.
But he looked at none of them. He swung along the board walk, his face a little pale, his lips tightly closed, determined to pay no attention to the jeers that reached his ears.
When he passed the Fashion there were a number of men draped along its front; and he was conscious of many grins. Passing the men he heard low laughter and profane reference which caused his cheeks to redden. But he walked steadily on. Near the Kicker office he met Jiggs Lenehan. Followed by the youth he reached the office to find that Potter had completed the press work and that several hundred copies of the paper, the ink still moist on its pages, were stacked in orderly array on the imposing stone. In a very brief time Jiggs burst out of the office door, a bundle of papers under his arm, and began the work of distribution. Standing back from the window with Potter, Hollis watched Jiggs until the latter reached the crowd in front of the Fashion saloon. Then all that Hollis could see of him was his red head. But that trade was brisk was proved by the press around Jiggs—the youth was passing out papers at a rapid rate and soon nearly every man in the crowd about the Fashion was engaged in reading, or,—if this important feature of his education had been neglected—in questioning his neighbor concerning the things that appeared in the paper.
Presently Jigg’s customers in front of the Fashion were all supplied. Then other purchasers appeared. Soon the Kicker was being read by—it seemed—nearly every grown person in Dry Bottom. Business was suspended. Down the street men were congregated about the doors of many of the stores; others were sitting in doorways, still others leaned against buildings; some, not taking time to search for support, read while walking, or stood motionless on the board sidewalks, satisfying their curiosity.
Hollis watched through the window until he began to be certain that every person in town was supplied with a paper. Then with a grim smile he left the window and sought his chair beside the desk. He was satisfied. Dunlavey had made the first aggressive movement and the fight was on.
CHAPTER IX
HOW A BAD MAN LEFT THE “KICKER” OFFICE
It was about one o’clock in the afternoon when the Kicker appeared on Dry Bottom’s street. At about five minutes after one, Potter left the front of the office and walked to the rear room where he halted at the imposing stone. There he proceeded to “take down” the four forms. This done he calmly began distributing type.
While Potter worked Hollis sat very quietly at his desk in the front office, his arms folded, one hand supporting his chin, his lips forming straight lines, his eyes narrowed with a meditative expression. Occasionally Potter glanced furtively at him, his eyes filled with mingled expressions of sympathy, admiration, and concern.
Potter appreciated his chief’s position. It meant something for a man of Hollis’s years and training to bury himself in this desolate sink-hole of iniquity; to elect to carry on an unequal war with interests that controlled the law machinery of the county and Territory—whose power extended to Washington. No doubt the young man was even now brooding over the future, planning his fight, pessimistically considering his chances of success. Potter’s sympathy grew. He thought of approaching his chief with a word of encouragement. But while he hesitated, mentally debating the propriety of such an action, Hollis turned quickly and looked fairly at him, his forehead perplexed.
“Potter,” he remarked, “I suppose there isn’t a good brain specialist in this section of the country?”
“Why—why―” began Potter. Then he stopped and looked at his chief in wordless astonishment. His sympathy had been wasted.
“No,” laughed Hollis, divining the cause of the compositor’s astonishment, “personally I have no use for a brain specialist. I was thinking of some other person.”
“Not me?” grinned Potter from behind his type case. He flushed a little at the thought of how near he had come to offering encouragement to a man who had not been in need of it, who, evidently, had not been thinking of the big fight at all. “Perhaps I need one,” he added, eyeing Hollis whimsically; “a moment ago I thought you were in the dumps on account of the situation here—you seemed rather disturbed. It surprised me considerably to find that you had not been thinking of Dunlavey at all.”
“No,” admitted Hollis gravely, “I was not thinking of Dunlavey. I was wondering if something couldn’t be done for Ed Hazelton.”
“Something ought to be done for him,” declared Potter earnestly. “I have watched that young man closely and I am convinced that with proper care and treatment he would recover fully. But I never heard of a specialist in this section—none, in fact, nearer than Chicago. And I’ve forgotten his name.”
“It is Hammond,” supplied Hollis. “I’ve been thinking of him. I knew his son in college. I am going to write to him.”
He turned to his desk and took up a pen, while Potter resumed his work of distributing type.
About half an hour later Jiggs Lenehan strolled into the office wearing a huge grin on his face. “’Pears like everybody in town wants to read the Kicker to-day,” he said with a joyous cackle. “Never had so much fun sellin’ them. Gimme some more,” he added breathlessly; “they’s a gang down to the station howlin’ for them. Say,” he yelled at Hollis as he went out of the door with a big bundle of Kickers under his arm, “you’re cert’nly some editor man!” He grinned admiringly and widely as he disappeared.
Hollis finished his letter to Hammond and then leaned back in his chair. For half an hour he sat there, looking gravely out into the street and then, answering a sudden impulse, he rose and strode to the door.
“Going down to the court house,” he informed Potter.
He found Judge Graney in his room, seated at the big table, a copy of the Kicker spread out in front of him. At his appearance the Judge pushed back his chair and regarded him with an approving smile.
“Well, Hollis,” he said, “I see Dunlavey has played the first card.”
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�He hasn’t taken the first trick,” was the young man’s quick reply.
“Fortunately not,” laughed the judge. He placed a finger on a column in the Kicker. “This article about the Cattlemen’s Association is a hummer—if I may be allowed the phrase. A straight, manly citation of the facts. It ought to win friends for you.”
“I’ve merely stated the truth,” returned Hollis, “and if the article seems good it is merely because it defends a principle whose virtue is perfectly obvious.”
“But only a man who felt strongly could have written it,” suggested the Judge.
“Perhaps. I admit feeling a deep interest in the question of cattle.”
“Your ambition?” slyly insinuated the Judge.
“Is temporarily in abeyance—perhaps permanently.”
“Then your original decision about remaining here has been—well, strengthened?”
Hollis nodded. The Judge grinned mysteriously. “There is an article on the first page of the Kicker which interested me greatly,” he said. “It concerns the six o’clock train—going east. Do you happen to know whether the editor of the Kicker is going to use the express?”
Hollis smiled appreciatively. “The editor of the Kicker is going to use the express,” he admitted, “though not in the manner some people are wishing. The usual number of copies of the Kicker are going to ride on the express, as are also some very forceful letters to the President of the United States and the Secretary of the Interior.”
“Good!” said the Judge. He looked critically at Hollis. “I know that you are going to remain in Dry Bottom,” he said slowly; “I have never doubted your courage. But I want to warn you to be careful. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the notice which you found on the door of the Kicker office this morning is a joke. They don’t joke like that out here. Of course I know that you are not afraid and that you won’t run. But be careful—there are men out here who would snuff out a human life as quickly as they would the flame of a candle, and with as little fear of the consequences. I shouldn’t like to hear of you using your revolver, but if you do have occasion to use it, use it fast and make a good job of it.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 141
