The City of Numbered Days

by Francis Lynde

  XI

  The Feast of Hurrahs

  Mirapolis the marvellous was a hustling, roaring, wide-open mining-campof twenty thousand souls by the time the railroad, straining every nerveand crowding three shifts into the twenty-four-hour day, pushed itsrails along the foot-hill bench of Chigringo, tossed up its temporarystation buildings, and signalled its opening for business by running amammoth excursion from the cities of the immediate East.

  Busy as it was, the city took time to celebrate fittingly the eventwhich linked it to the outer world. By proclamation Mayor Cortwrightdeclared a holiday. There were lavish displays of bunting, an impromptutrades parade, speeches from the plaza band-stand, free lunches and freeliquor--a day of boisterous, hilarious triumphings, with, incidentally,much buying and selling and many transfers of the precious "front foot"or choice "corner."

  Yielding to pressure, which was no less imperative from below than fromabove, Brouillard had consented to suspend work on the great dam duringthe day of triumphs, and the Reclamation-Service force, smaller now thanat any time since the beginning of the undertaking, went to swell thecrowds in Chigringo Avenue.

  Of the engineering staff Grislow alone held aloof. Early in the morninghe trudged away with rod and trout-basket for the upper waters of theNiquoia and was seen no more. But the other members of the staff,following the example set by the chief, took part in the hilarities,serving on committees, conducting crowds of sightseers through thegovernment reservation and up to the mixers and stagings, and otherwiseidentifying themselves so closely with the civic celebration as to givethe impression, often commented upon by the visitors, that the buildingof the great dam figured only as another expression of the Mirapolitanactivities.

  For himself, Brouillard vaguely envied Grislow the solitudes of theupper Niquoia. But Mr. Cortwright had been inexorable. It was right andfitting that the chief executive of the Reclamation Service should havea part in the rejoicings, and Brouillard found himself discomfortinglyemphasized as chairman of the civic reception committee. Expostulationwas useless. Mr. Cortwright insisted genially, and Miss Genevieve addedher word. And there had been only Grislow to smile cynically when theprinted programmes appeared with the chief of the Buckskin reclamationproject down for an address on "Modern City Building."

  It was after his part of the speechmaking, and while the plaza crowdswere still bellowing their approval of the modest forensic effort, thathe went to sit beside Miss Cortwright in the temporary grand-stand,mopping his face and otherwise exhibiting the after effects of theunfamiliar strain.

  "I didn't know you could be so convincing," was Miss Genevieve'scomment. "It was splendid! Nobody will ever believe that you are goingto go on building your dam and threatening to drown us, after this."

  "What did I say?" queried Brouillard, having, at the moment, only thehaziest possible idea of what he had said.

  "As if you didn't know!" she laughed. "You congratulated everybody: usMirapolitans upon our near-city, the miners on their gold output, themanufacturers on their display in the parade, the railroad on its energyand progressive spirit, and the visitors on their perspicuity and goodsense in coming to see the latest of the seven wonders of the modernworld. And the funny thing about it is that you didn't say a single wordabout the Niquoia dam."

  "Didn't I? That shows how completely your father has converted me, howhelplessly I am carried along on the torrent of events."

  "But you are not," she said accusingly. "Deep down in your innerconsciousness you don't believe a little bit in Mirapolis. You are onlyplaying the game with the rest of us, Mr. Brouillard. Sometimes I ampuzzled to know why."

  Brouillard's smile was rather grim.

  "Your father would probably tell you that I have a stake in the game--aseverybody else has."

  "Not Mr. Grislow?" she said, laying her finger inerrantly upon thesingle exception.

  "No, not Grizzy; I forgot him."

  "Doesn't he want to make money?" she asked, with exactly the propershade of disinterest.

  "No; yes, I guess he does, too. But he is--er--well, I suppose you mightcall him a man of one idea."

  "Meaning that he is too uncompromisingly honest to be one of us? I thinkyou are right."

  Gorman, Mr. Cortwright's ablest trumpeter in the real-estate booming,was holding the plaza crowd spellbound with his enthusiastic periods,rising upon his toes and lifting his hands in angel gestures to highheaven in confirmation of his prophetic outlining of the Mirapolitanfuture.

  In the middle distance, and backgrounding the buildings on the oppositeside of the plaza, rose the false work of the great dam--a standingforest of sawed timbers, whose afternoon shadows were already pointinglike a many-fingered fate toward the city of the plain. But, though theface of the speaker was toward the shadowing forest, his words ignoredit. "The snow-capped Timanyonis," "the mighty Chigringo," and "thegolden-veined slopes of Jack's Mountain" all came in for eulogisticmention; but the massive wall of concrete, with its bristling parapet oftimbers, had no part in the orator's flamboyant descriptive.

  Brouillard broke the spell of the grandiloquent rantings, and came backto what Miss Genevieve was saying.

  "Yes, Murray is stubbornly honest," he agreed; adding: "He is too goodfor this world, or rather for this little cross-section of Pandemoniumnamed Mirapolis."

  "Which, inasmuch as we are making Mirapolis what it is, is more thancan be said for most of us," laughed Miss Cortwright. Then, with apurposeful changing of the subject: "Where is Miss Massingale? As theoriginal 'daughter of the Niquoia' she ought to have a place on theband-stand."

  "She was with Tig Smith and Lord Falkland when the parade formed,"rejoined the engineer. "I saw them on the balcony of the Metropole."

  "Since you are the chairman of the reception committee, I think youought to go and find her," said Miss Genevieve pointedly, so pointedlythat Brouillard rose laughing and said:

  "Thank you for telling me; whom shall I send to take my place here?"

  "Oh, anybody--Lord Falkland will do. By the way, did you know that he_is_ Lord Falkland now? His elder brother died a few weeks ago."

  "No, I hadn't heard it. I should think he would want to go home."

  "He does. But he, too, has contracted Mirapolitis. He has been investingany number of pounds sterling. If you find him send him to me. I want tosee how the real, simon-pure American brand of oratory affects a Britishtitle."

  Brouillard went, not altogether unwillingly. Loving Amy Massingale witha passion which, however blind it might be on the side of the highermoralities, was still keen-sighted enough to assure him that everyplunge he made in the Mirapolitan whirlpool was sweeping him fartheraway from her; he found himself drifting irresistibly into the innercircle of attraction of which Genevieve Cortwright was the centre.

  Whether Miss Cortwright's influence was for good or for evil, in his owncase, or was entirely disinterested, he could never quite determine.There were times, like this present instant of blatant rejoicings, whenshe was brightly cynical, flinging a mocking jest at all thingsMirapolitan. But at other times he had a haunting conviction that shewas at heart her father's open-eyed ally and abettor, taking up as shemight the burden of filial loyalty thrown down by her brother Van Bruce,who, in his short summer of Mirapolitan citizenship, had beenillustrating all the various methods by which a spoiled son of fortunemay go to the dogs.

  Brouillard faced the impossible brother and the almost equallyimpossible father when he thought of Genevieve Cortwright. But latterlythe barriers on that side had been crumbling more and more. Once, andonce only, had he mentioned the trusteeship debt to Genevieve, and onthat occasion she had laughed lightly at what she had called hisstrained sense of honor.

  The laugh had come at a critical moment. It was in the height of themadness following the discovery of the placers, in an hour whenBrouillard would have given his right hand to undo the love-prompteddisloyalty to his service, that Cortwright, whose finger was oneverybody's pulse, had offered to buy in the thousand shares of
powercompany's stock at par. Brouillard had seen freedom in a stroke of themillionaire's pen; but it was a distinct downward step that by this timehe was coming to look upon the payment of his father's honor debt as ahard necessity. He meant to pay it, but there was room for the grimdetermination that the payment should forever sever him from thehandicapped past.

  He had transferred the stock, minus a single share to cover his officialstanding on the power company's board, to Cortwright and had receivedthe millionaire's check in payment. It was in the evening of the sameeventful day, he remembered, that Genevieve Cortwright had laughed, andthe letter, which was already written to the treasurer of a certainIndianapolis trust company, was not mailed. Instead of mailing it he hadopened an account at the Niquoia National, and the ninety-nine thousandnine hundred dollars had since grown by speculative accretions to therounded first eighth of a million which all financiers agree in callingthe stepping-stone to fortune.

  He had regarded this money--was still regarding it--as a loan; his leverwith which to pry out something which he could really call his own. Butmore and more possession and use were dulling the keen edge ofaccountability and there were moments of insight when the grim irony oftaking the price of honor to pay an honor debt forced itself upon him.At such moments he plunged more recklessly, in one of them taking stockin a gold-dredge company which was to wash nuggets by the wholesale outof the Quadjenai bend, in another buying yet other options in the newestsuburb of Mirapolis.

  What was to come of all this he would not suffer himself to inquire; buttwo results were thrusting themselves into the foreground. Every addedstep in the way he had chosen was taking him farther from the ideals ofan ennobling love and nearer to a possibility which precluded allideals. Notwithstanding Grislow's characterization of her as a trophyhunter, Genevieve Cortwright was, after all, a woman, and as a womanshe was to be won. With the naive conceit of a man who has broken intothe heart of one woman, Brouillard admitted no insurmountable obstaclesother than those which the hard condition of being himself madly in lovewith another woman might interpose; and there were times when, to theleast worthy part of him, the possibility was alluring. MissCortwright's distinctive beauty, her keen and ready wit, the assurancethat she would never press the ideals beyond the purely conventionallimits; in the course of time these might happily smother the masterfulpassion which had thus far been only a blind force driving him to doevil that good might ensue.

  Some such duel of motives was fighting itself to an indecisiveconclusion in the young engineer's thoughts when he plunged into thesidewalk throngs in search of the Englishman, and it was not until afterhe had found Falkland and had delivered Miss Genevieve's summons thatthe duel paused and immediate and more disquieting impressions began torecord themselves.

  With the waning of the day of celebrations the temper of the streetthrongs was changing. It is only the people of the Latinized cities whocan take the carnival spirit lightly; in other blood liberty grows tolicense and the thin veneer of civilized restraints quickly disappears.From early dawn the saloons and dives had been adding fuel to theflames, and light-heartedness and good-natured horse-play were givingway to sardonic humor and brutality.

  In the short faring through the crowded street from the plaza to theMetropole corner Brouillard saw and heard things to make his blood boil.Women, those who were not a part of the unrestrained mob, weredisappearing from the streets, and it was well for them if they couldfind shelter near at hand. Twice before he reached Bongras's cafeentrance the engineer shouldered his way to the rescue of some badgerednucleus of excursionists, and in each instance there were frightenedwomen to be hurriedly spirited away to the nearest place of seclusionand safety.

  It was in front of Bongras's that Brouillard came upon the Reverend HughCastner, the hot-hearted young zealot who had been flung into Mirapolison the crest of the tidal wave of mining excitement. Though Hosford--whohad not been effaced, as Mr. Cortwright had promised he should be--andthe men of his clique called the young missionary a meddlesomevisionary, he stood in the stature of a man, and lower Chigringo Avenueloved him and swore by him; and sent for him now and then when somepoor soul, hastily summoned, was to be eased off into eternity.

  When Brouillard caught sight of him Castner was looking out over theseething street caldron from his commanding height of six feet ofathletic man stature, his strong face a mask of bitter humiliation andconcern.

  "Brouillard, this is simply hideous!" he exclaimed. "If this devils'carnival goes on until nightfall we shall have a revival of the oldRoman Saturnalia at its worst!" Then, with a swift blow at the heart ofthe matter: "You're the man I've been wanting to see; you are prettyclose in with the Cortwright junta--is it true that free whiskey hasbeen dealt out to the crowd over the bar in the Niquoia Building?"

  Brouillard said that he did not know, which was true, and that he couldnot believe it possible, which was not true. "The Cortwright people areas anxious to have the celebration pass off peaceably as even you canbe," he assured the young missionary, trying to buttress the thing whichwas not true. "When riot comes in at the door, business flies out at thewindow; and, after all, this feast of hurrahs is merely another bid forbusiness."

  But Castner was shaking his head.

  "I can't answer for Mr. Cortwright personally. He and Handley andSchermerhorn and a few of the others seem to stand for respectability ofa sort. But, Mr. Brouillard, I want to tell you this: somebody inauthority is grafting upon the vice of this community, not only to-daybut all the time."

  "The community is certainly vicious enough to warrant any charge you canmake," admitted Brouillard. Then he changed the topic abruptly. "Haveyou seen Miss Massingale since noon?"

  "Yes; I saw her with Smith, the cattleman, at the other end of theAvenue about an hour ago."

  "Heavens!" gritted the engineer. "Didn't Smith know better than to takeher down there at such a time as this?"

  The young missionary was frowning thoughtfully. "I think it was theother way about. Her brother has been drinking again, and I took it forgranted that she and Smith were looking for him."

  Brouillard buttoned his coat and pulled his soft hat over his eyes.

  "I'm going to look for her," he said. "Will you come along?"

  Castner nodded, and together they put their shoulders to the crowd. Theslow progress northward was nearly a battle. The excursion trainsreturning to Red Butte and Brewster were scheduled to leave early, andthe stream of blatant, uproarious humanity was setting strongly towardthe temporary railroad station.

  Again and again the engineer and his companion had to intervene by wordand blow to protect the helpless in the half-drunken, gibe-flingingcrush, and in these sallies Castner bore his part like a man,expostulating first and hitting out afterward in a fashion that left nodoubt in the mind of his antagonist of the moment.

  So, struggling, they came finally to the open square of the plaza. Herethe speechmaking was concluded and the crowd was thinning a little.There was a clamorous demonstration of some sort going on around theband-stand, but they left it behind and pushed on into the less noisybut more dangerous region of the lower Avenue.

  In one of the saloons, as they passed, a sudden crackling ofpistol-shots began, and a mob of terrorized Reclamation-Service workmenpoured into the street, sweeping all obstacles before it in a mad rushfor safety.

  "It was little less than a crime to turn your laborers loose on the townon such an occasion as this," said Castner, dealing out his words asfrankly and openly as he did his blows.

  Brouillard shrugged.

  "If I hadn't given them the day they would have taken it without leave.You'll have to pass the responsibility on to some one higher up."

  The militant one accepted the challenge promptly.

  "It lies ultimately at the door of those whose insatiate greed has builtthis new Gomorrah in the shadow of your dam." He wheeled suddenly andflung a long arm toward the half-finished structure filling the gapbetween the western shoulders of Chigringo and Jack's Mou
ntain. "Therestands the proof of God's wisdom in hiding the future from mankind, Mr.Brouillard. Because a little section of humanity here behind that greatwall knows the end of its hopes, and the manner and time of that end, itbecomes demon-ridden, irreclaimable!"

  At another time the engineer might have felt the force of the terselyeloquent summing up of the accusation against the Mirapolitan attitude.But now he was looking anxiously for Amy Massingale or her escort, orboth of them.

  "Surely Smith wouldn't let her stay down here a minute longer than ittook to get her away," he said impatiently as a pair of drunkenCornishmen reeled out of Haley's Place and usurped the sidewalk. "Wherewas it you saw them, Castner?"

  "They were in front of 'Pegleg John's', in the next block. MissMassingale was waiting for Smith, who was just coming out of Pegleg'sden shaking his head. I put two and two together and guessed they werelooking for Stephen."

  "If they went there Miss Amy had her reasons. Let's try it," saidBrouillard, and he was half-way across the street when Castner overtookhim.

  There was a dance-hall next door to Pegleg John's barrel-house andgambling rooms, and, though the daylight was still strong enough to makethe electrics garishly unnecessary, the orgy was in full swing, theraucous clanging of a piano and the shuffle and stamp of many feetdrowning the monotonous cries of the sidewalk "barker," who was invitingall and sundry to enter and join the dancers.

  Castner would have stopped to question the "barker"--was, in fact,trying to make himself heard--when the sharp crash of a pistol-shotdominated the clamor of the piano and the stamping feet. Brouillard madea quick dash for the open door of the neighboring barrel-house, andCastner was so good a second that they burst in as one man.

  The dingy interior of Pegleg John's, which was merely a barrel-linedvestibule leading to the gambling rooms beyond, staged a tragedy. Ahandsome young giant, out of whose face sudden agony had driven thebrooding passion of intoxication, lay, loose-flung, on thesawdust-covered floor, with Amy Massingale kneeling in stricken,tearless misery beside him. Almost within arm's-reach Van BruceCortwright, the slayer, was wrestling stubbornly with Tig Smith and thefat-armed barkeeper, who were trying to disarm him, his heavy face amask of irresponsible rage and his lips bubbling imprecations.

  "Turn me loose," he gritted. "I'll fix him so he won't give thegovernor's snap away! He'll pipe the story of the Coronida Grant off tothe papers?--not if I kill him till he's too dead to bury, I guess."

  Castner ignored the wrestling three and dropped quickly on his kneesbeside Stephen Massingale, bracing the misery-stricken girl with theneeded word of hope and directing her in low tones how to help himsearch for the wound.

  But Brouillard hurled himself with an oath upon young Cortwright, and itwas he, and neither the cattleman nor the fat-armed barkeeper, whowrenched the weapon out of Cortwright's grasp and with it menaced thebabbling murderer into silence.