The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

  Another week went by and again came word that Belle could not return for perhaps ten days at the earliest. A dozen broils that Jim had been postponing for Belle to arbitrate had now to be considered. Dr. Mary Mudd was the leader of an indignant party of women to complain that though the men were not more in numbers than the women they had appropriated sixty out of the one hundred coat hangers.

  Rippe, the tailor, was there to complain that Dr. Mary Mudd always walked up the middle of the stairs, unlawfully delaying the traffic, instead of keeping the proper right side. With his outstretched arms, he illustrated the formidable nature of the barrier. Dr. Mudd retorted that said Rippe had repeatedly smoked in the ladies' room, etc., etc. But these were small matters easily adjusted. Two, much more serious, came on him in one day.

  First, he yielded to the temptation of having a beautiful banner hung on the wall, because it was contributed and very decorative. It bore a legend, "No popery." This was much in line with his private views, but it made a great stir and cost them a score of members, as well as incurring the dislike of Father O'Hara, hitherto friendly. His second blunder was to allow the cook in the restaurant to put scraps of pork in the soup, thereby raising a veritable storm among the many keen debaters of the kosher kind, and causing the resignation of Skystein from the board—temporarily at least.

  It would have been much to Jim's taste to have an open war with Father O'Hara and his flock. His Ulster blood was ready for just such a row. And in his heart he believed pork and beans quite the best of foods. But his opinions were not law; he had been learning many things. Others had rights; and he won the disaffected back, one by one, by recognizing the justice of their claims and by making kindly personal calls on each of them.

  Thus Jim Hartigan got a new knowledge of his own endowment and discovered unsuspected powers. He had held his peace and triumphed in a number of trying situations that two or three years before would have ended in an unprofitable brawl. He had controlled his temper, that was a step forward and he was learning to control those about him as well as manage an organization. He had begun to realize his prejudices and to learn to respect the beliefs of others even when he thought them wrong. The memory of Father Cyprian and the Sioux boy had helped him to deal kindly and respectfully with Skystein and Father O'Hara.

  Strange to say, it was a travelling Hindu who supplied him with the biggest, broadest thought of all. This swarthy scholar was deeply imbued with the New Buddhism of Rammohan Roy and, when asked for his opinion of some Romanist practices, he remarked softly, but evasively, "My religion teaches me that if any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God and his action must be treated with respect, so long as he is not infringing the rights of others."

  Jim took a long walk by the lake that day and turned over and over that saying of the Hindu in the library. The thing had surprised him—first, because of the perfect English in the mouth of a foreigner, and secondly, because of the breadth and tolerance of the thought. He wondered how he could ever have believed himself open-minded or fair when he had been so miserably narrow in all his ideas. Where was he headed? All his early days he had been taught to waste effort on scorning the ceremonials great and small of Jews, Catholics, yes, of Baptists even; and now the heathen—to whom he had once thought of going as a missionary—had come to Chicago and shown him the true faith.

  Striding at top speed, he passed a great pile of lumber and sawdust. The fresh smell of the wet wood brought back Links—and his mother, and a sense of happiness, for he had given up "trying to reason it all out." He was no longer sure, as he once was, that he had omniscience for his guide. Indeed he was sure only of this, that the kindest way is the only way that is safe.

  There was daylight dawning in his heart, and yet, across that dawn there was a cloud which grew momentarily more black, more threatening. Paradoxical as it seemed, Jim was intensely unhappy over the abandonment of the ministerial career. The enduring force of his word as a man was only another evidence of the authentic character of that deep emotional outburst which had pledged him openly to the service of Christ. The work at the Cedar Mountain House for a while satisfied the evangelical hunger of his ardent soul. It was good, it was successful, it was increasing in scope; but of its nature it could never be more than secular; it was social work in its best form—that was all. The work of which he dreamed, and to which he had consecrated his life was the preaching of the Gospel, and, as the months passed, an unrest—the like of which he had hardly known—took possession of him. These last weeks of Belle's absence had brought on one of his periodic soul-searchings and the gloom of it was as thick as a fog when the mail brought word of Belle's return. As he sat with her letter in his hand his mind went back to the hills and the free days and he longed to go back—to get away from the ponderous stolidity of this pavement world.

  He met her at the station and her joyousness was as a shock to him. And yet, how hungry he was for every least word of that lost life.

  "Oh, Jim, it was glorious to ride again, to smell the leather and the sagebrush. I just loved the alkali and the very ticks on the sagebrush. I didn't know how they could stir one's heart."

  His eye glowed, his breath came fast, his nostrils dilated and, as Belle looked, it seemed to her that her simple words had struck far deeper than she meant.

  "And the horses, which did you ride?" he queried. "How is Blazing Star? Are they going to race at Fort Ryan this year? And the Bylow boys, and the Mountain? Thank God, men may come and go, but Cedar Mountain will stand forever." He talked as one who has long kept still—as one whose thoughts long pent have dared at length to break forth.

  And Belle, as she listened, saw a light. "He is far from forgetting the life of the Hills," she said to herself as she watched him. "He is keener than ever. All this steadfast devotion to club work is the devotion of duty. Now I know the meaning of those long vigils, those walks by the lake in the rain—of his preoccupation. His heart is in Cedar Mountain." And she honoured him all the more for that he had never spoken a word of the secret longing.

  * * *

  CHAPTER LVI

  The Defection of Squeaks

  Michael Shay had come to the club in person once or twice, but did not desire to be conspicuous. It was clear now that the club was not to be the political weapon at first suspected. The boss had another organization through which to hold and make felt his power; but the fact that it pleased a number of his voters was enough to insure his support.

  Squeaks, however, was quite conspicuous and present on all important occasions; it was generally supposed that he was there in the interests of Shay, but that was not clearly proven. It was obvious that the club was not in any way lined up for or against Shay. It was, however, believed by Belle that Squeaks was there in the interests of Squeaks and none other.

  This strange, small person had a small, strange history—so far as it was known. A lawyer, he had been disbarred for disreputable practice, and was now a hanger-on of the boss, a shrewd person, quite purchasable. He was convinced that he was destined to be a great boss, and satisfied that Cedar Mountain House would help his plans—which lay in the direction of the legislature—hence he sought to identify himself with it. For the present, also, he stuck to Shay.

  The approved boss system of the time rested on a regiment of absolutely obedient voters, who voted not once, but many times in as many different wards as needed. They were thoroughly organized, and part of their purpose was to terrorize independent voters, or even "remove" men who developed power or courage enough to oppose them; so the "reliable squad" was important. As their ranks contained many convicts or men qualified for life terms, they were a dangerous and desperate lot. They responded at once and cheerfully to any duty call, and one "removal" per night would have probably been less than average for a boss-ruled city in those days. For this they received protection; that is, the police and the Courts were so completely in the scheme that it was sufficient, on the arrest of a
"reliable," if the boss sent word to the judge or State's attorney "to be keerful" as this was "one of our boys." Promptly a flaw would be discovered in the indictment and the case dropped.

  The boss who derives power from such a machine must ever look out for the appearance of a rival, hence Shay's early watchfulness of the club; but that gave place to a friendly indifference. He was a man superior to his class, in some respects; for, though brutal and masterful on occasion, it was said that he never "removed" a rival. At most, he had applied pressure that resulted in their discreetly withdrawing. And he cared little for money. Most bosses are after either money or power or both. Shay loved power. The revenues he might have made out of tribute from those protected were not well developed, and most of what he received he disbursed in generous gifts to those in his ward who needed help. It was said that no man ever went hungry from Mike Shay's door, which was perfectly true; and the reward that he loved above all things was to be pointed out on the street or in the car as "Mike Shay." To overhear some one say, "That's Michael Shay, the big Boss of the South Ward," meant more to him a thousand fold than any decoration in the gift of the greatest of Old-World potentates.

  Hartigan learned that he could go to Shay at any time for a reasonable contribution, after having made it clear that it was for some one in distress—not for a church. The only return Shay ever asked was that Jim come sometimes and put on the gloves with him in a friendly round. Most of Shay's legal finesse was done through Squeaks. That small, but active person was on the boards of at least twenty-five popular organizations, and it was understood that he was there to represent the boss. Extraordinary evidence of some one's pull was shown when one day Squeaks was elevated to the Bench. It was only as a police magistrate, but he was now Judge Squeaks, with larger powers than were by law provided, and he began to "dig himself in," entrench himself, make his position good with other powers, in anticipation of the inevitable conflict with Boss Shay. It became largely a line-up of political parties; Squeaks had made a deal with the party in power at Springfield, and gave excellent guarantees of substantial support—both electoral and financial—before the keen-eyed myrmidons of Shay brought to the boss the news that Squeaks had turned traitor.

  Then the war was on; not openly, for Squeaks had scores of documents that would, before any impartial jury, have convicted Shay of manipulating election returns, intimidating voters, and receiving blackmail. It was important to get possession of these documents before they could be used. While the present party held power in State politics, there would be no chance for Shay to escape. There were two possibilities, however; one, that the election close at hand might reverse the sympathies of those in power; the other, that Squeaks might find it unwise to use the weapon in his hands.

  Now was the Cedar Mountain House in peril, for Shay's support was essential. At a word from him, the police might call the club a disorderly house, and order it shut up. The fact that Squeaks was a governor strengthened the probability of drastic action. On the other hand, Squeaks as police magistrate, could restrain the police for a time or discover flaws in as many indictments as were brought up. The District Court could, of course, issue a warrant over the head of the police magistrate; but the Court of Appeals was friendly to Squeaks and would certainly quash the warrant; so that, for the time being the many unpleasant possibilities simply balanced each other, and the club went on in a sort of sulphurous calm like that before a storm.

  Then came an exciting day at the club. By an unusual chance both Shay and Squeaks met there and the inevitable clash came. Angry words passed and Shay shouted: "Ye dirty little sneak, I'll fix ye yet!" Squeaks, cool and sarcastic, said: "Why don't ye do it now?" Shay rushed at him with a vigorous threat, and would have done him grievous bodily injury but for the interference of Hartigan and others. Shay waited at the gate for Squeaks, but the Judge slipped out the back way and disappeared.

  It was Bud Towler who called on the Judge with a letter from Boss Shay, demanding the return of certain personal papers and authorizing said Bud to receive them. To which Judge Squeaks replied: "He better come for them himself. He knows where I live. I'll be home every night this week."

  And thither that night with two friends went Shay. It was a very simple lodging. These men habitually avoid display. The janitor knew all too well who Shay was.

  "Is Squeaks at home?"

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "I'm going up to see him, and if I lay him over my knee and spank him till he squeals, ye needn't worry; it's nothing." Then up went Shay, while his friends stayed below, one at the front of the house and the other in the lane that commanded the back.

  The trembling janitor heard the heavy foot go up the wooden stairs; he heard a voice, then a crash as of a door forced open, then heavy steps and a pistol shot. A window was opened behind the house, and something was thumped down into the back yard. A little later, the boss came hurriedly down the stairs. The timid janitor and his trembling wife saw the big man step out with a bundle under his arm. Then all was still.

  After twenty minutes of stupefaction, they began to realize that they should go up to the Judge's room. They mounted the stairs together, carrying a lamp. The door had, evidently, been forced. The room was in some disorder; the drawers of the desk were open, and papers scattered about. On one or two of the papers was fresh blood. The window was closed, but not fastened; the end of the curtain under it seemed to give proof that it had recently been opened. On the sill was more fresh blood.

  There was no sign of the Judge.

  As they gazed about in horror, they heard a noise in the back yard and looking out saw, very dimly, two men carrying off a heavy object, they lifted it over the back fence and then followed, to disappear.

  Schmidt, the janitor, was terror-stricken. Evidently, the Judge had been murdered and his body was now being made away with. What was to be done? If he interfered, the murderers would wreak their vengeance on him; if he refrained, he would be blamed for the murder or at least for complicity.

  "I tink, Johann, dere's only one ting, and dat is go straight an' tell de police," said his wife. As they stood, they heard a light foot on the stairs. Their hearts stood still, but they peered out to see a woman in a gray cloak step into the street, and they breathed more freely. Now they rushed to the station house and told their tale in tears and trembling.

  The Police Captain was scornful and indifferent. Had there been but one witness, he might have ordered him away; but two witnesses, intensely in earnest, made some impression. He sent an inspector around to see. That official came back to report the truth of the statement made by the Schmidts, that the Judge's room was empty, upset, and had some blood stains; but he attached little importance to the matter. He had, however, locked up and sealed the door, pending examination.

  Next morning, there was an attempt to hush the matter up, but a reporter appeared in the interests of a big paper, and by a clever combination of veiled threats and promises of support, got permission to see the room. The reporterial instinct and the detective instinct are close kin, and the newspaper published some most promising clues: The Judge was visited at midnight by a man whom he had robbed and who had threatened to kill him; a broken door, papers stolen, a scuffle, traces of human blood (the microscope said so) in several places, blood on the window sill, a heavy something thrown out of the window and carried off by two men, blood on the back fence, and no trace of the Judge.

  It was a strong case, and any attempt to gloss it over was rendered impossible by the illustrated broadside with which the newspaper startled the public.

  * * *

  CHAPTER LVII

  The Trial

  All Chicago remembers the trial of Michael Shay. It filled the papers for a month; it filled folk's minds and mouths for two. Many a worse murder had been quietly buried and forgotten, but this was too conspicuous. The boss, facing a decline of his power, had undoubtedly murdered the man he had begun to fear, and the parties in control of all the machinery of justice we
re against the accused.

  The case was thoroughly threshed out. Shay had openly threatened the life of Squeaks; he had tried before to do him hurt; had gone with two men to Squeaks's lodgings; had warned Schmidt that there was going to be "a little fuss"; had broken open the door and got certain papers—his own property, undoubtedly, but now splashed with blood; a shot had been heard—a heavy something thrown from the back window and then carried off by two men; blood on the floor, the sill and the back fence; and the Judge had disappeared from the face of the earth. The case was clear, the jury retired, but quickly brought in a verdict of guilty, although at every point there was nothing but circumstantial evidence.

  Jim Hartigan was one of the first friends to call on Shay after his arrest, and Belle came soon after. They heard his story, which was simple and straight: Squeaks was holding the papers which would be, at least, damaging to Shay's property and reputation; he got them in confidence and then defied Shay to come and take them. Shay decided it would be well to take two witnesses and went, as planned, to Squeaks's apartments. Finding the door locked and believing that Squeaks was inside, he forced it open; the room was dark and no one was there. He lighted the gas and rummaged through the desk for the papers that belonged to him, paying no attention to any others. He saw blood on some of the papers, but didn't know where it came from. As he was coming away, he heard a pistol shot, either upstairs or outside, he didn't know which. He knew nothing about anything thrown from the window. He got his own property and came away.