CHAPTER XV
And yet on that day when the bobwhites had sounded and the blow hadfallen, Sim Colby was nowhere near the opportunity hound's house. Hesat tippling in a mining town two days' journey away, and he had noknowledge of what went on at home. His companion was ex-PrivateSeverance--once his comrade in arms.
The town was one of those places which discredit the march of industryby the mongrelized character of its outposts. The wild aloofness ofthe hills and valleys was marred there by the shacks of the camp andits sky soiled by a black reek of coke furnaces.
Filth physical and moral brooded along the unkempt streets where thefoul buzz of swarming flies sounded over refuse piles, and that spiritof degradation lay no less upon the unclean tavern, where the two menwho had once worn the uniform sat with a bottle of cheap whiskybetween them.
Colby, who had need to maintain his reputation for probity at home,made an occasional pilgrimage hither to foregather with his formercomrade and loosen the galling rein of restraint. Just about the timewhen the attack on Spurrier's house had begun, he had leaned forwardwith his elbows on the table, his face heavy and his eyes inflamed,pursuing some topic of conversation which had already gained headway.
"These hyar fellers that seeks ter git rid of Spurrier," he confided,"kinderly hinted 'round thet they'd like ter git me ter do ther jobfor 'em, but I pretended like I didn't onderstand what they wardrivin' at, no fashion at all."
"Why didn't ye hearken ter 'em?" questioned Severance practically."Hit hain't every day a man kin git paid fer doin' what he seeks terdo on his own hook."
But Colby grinned with a crafty gleam in his eye and poured anotherdrink.
"What fer would I risk ther penitenshery ter do a killin' fer themfellers when, ef I jest sets still on my hunkers they'll do _mine_ ferme," he countered.
For a time after that whatever enemies Spurrier had seemed to havelost their spirit of eagerness. One might have presumed that to therule of amity which apparently surrounded him, there was noexception--and so the mystery remained unsolved. Even blind Joe Givinsmade a detour in a journey to stop at Spurrier's house and sing aballad of his own composition anent the mysterious siege and toexpress his indignation at the "pizen meanness" of men who wouldfather and carry forward such infamies.
And Glory, who had penetrated so deeply into the shadow that life hadseemed ended for her, was recovering. Into her pale cheeks came a newblossoming and into the smile of her lips and eyes a new light thatwas serene and triumphant. She had been too happy to die.
While the summer waned and the beauties of autumn began to kindle, theyoung wife grew strong, and her husband, seemingly, had nothing to doexcept to wander about the hills with her and discover in her newcharms. Neighborly saws and hammers were ringing now as his place wastransformed from its simple condition to the "hugest log house onseven creeks."
In some respects he wished that his factitious indolence were real,for he felt no pride in the occult fashion in which he was directingthe activities of his henchmen. And yet a few months ago this progresswould have been food for satisfaction--almost triumph.
His plans, as outlined to Martin Harrison were by no means at astandstill. They were going forward with an adroit drawing in andknitting together of scattered strands, and the warp and woof of thisweaving were coming into definite order and pattern.
The dual necessity was: first to slip through a legislature which wassupposedly under the domination of American Oil and Gas, a charterwhich should wrest from that concern the sweet fruits of monopoly, andsecondly, to secure at paltry prices the land options that would givethe prospective pipe line its right of way.
As this campaign had been originally mapped and devised it had notbeen simple, but now it was complicated by a new and difficultelement. In those first dreams of conquest the native had been no moreconsidered than the red Indian was considered in the minds of the newworld settlers. Spurrier himself had brushed lightly aside this aspectof the affair. Every game has and must have its "suckers." And theirsorry destiny it is to be despoiled. Now the very term that he hadused in his thoughts, brought with it an amendment. It is not everygame that must have its suckers but every bunco game.
Martin Harrison did not know it, but his lieutenant had redrawn hisplans, and redrawn them in a fashion which the chief would haveregarded as insubordinate, impractical and sentimental.
Spurrier intended that when the smoke cleared from the field uponwhich the forces of Harrison and those of Trabue had been embattled,the Harrison banners should be victoriously afloat and the Trabuestandards dust trailed. But also he intended that the nativeland-holders, upon whom both combatants had looked as mere unfortunateonlookers raked by the cross fire of opposing artillery, should emergeas real and substantial gainers.
Of late the man had not escaped the penalty of one who facesresponsibility and wields power. He had abandoned as puerile his firstimpulse, after his marriage, to throw up his whole stewardship to theWall Street masters. That would have amounted only to an ostentationof virtue which would have surrendered the situation into themerciless hands of A. O. and G., and would have left the mountain folkunprotected.
Yet he could not escape the realization that he would stand with allthe seeming of a traitor and a plunderer to any of his simple friendswho learned of his activities--for as yet he could confide to no onethe plans he was maturing.
It was when the refurnished and enlarged place had been completed thatthe neighbors came from valley, slope, and cove to give their blessingat the housewarming which was also, belatedly, the "infaring."
That homely, pioneer observance with which the groom brings home hisbride, had not been possible after the wedding, but now Aunt ErieToppitt had come over and prepared entertainment on a lavish if homelyscale since Glory was not yet well.
To the husband as he stood greeting the guests who arrived in jeansand hodden-gray, in bright shawls and calicoes, came the feeling ofcontrast and unreality, as though this were all part of some playquaintly and exaggeratedly staged to reflect a medieval period. In thedrawing rooms of Martin Harrison and his confreres he had movedthrough a social atmosphere, quiet, contained, and reflecting such alife as the dramatist uses for background in a comedy of manners.Closing his eyes now he could see himself as he had been when,starting out for such an entertainment, he had paused before thecheval glass in his club bedroom, adding a straightening touch to hiswhite tie, adjusting the set of his waistcoat and casting a criticaleye over the impeccable black and white of his evening dress. Here,flannel shirted and booted, corduroy breeched and tanned brown, hestood by the door watching the arrival of guests who seemed to havestepped out of pioneer America or Elizabethan England. There werewomen riding mules or tramping long roads on foot and trailingprocessions of children who could not be left at home; men feelingoverdressed and uncomfortable because they had donned coats andbrushed their hats; even wagons plodding slowly behind yokes of oxenand one man riding a steer in lieu of a horse!
So they came to give Godspeed to his marriage--and they were the onlypeople on God's green earth who thought of him in any terms of regardsave that regard which sprung from self-interest in his ability toserve beyond others!
Men who were blood enemies met here as friends, because his roofcovered a zone of common friendship and under its protection theirhatreds could no more intrude on such a day than could pursuit in theMiddle Ages follow beyond the sanctuary gates of a cathedral. Insidesounded the minors of the native fiddlers and the scrape of feet"running the sets" of quaint square dances.
The labors of preparation had been onerous. Aunt Erie stood at theopen door constituting, with Spurrier and his wife, a "receiving line"of three, and her wrinkled old face bore an affectation of moroseexhaustion as to each guest she made the same declaration:
"I hopes an' prays ye all enjoys this hyar party--Gawd knows _my_back's broke."
But Spurrier had not in his letters to Harrison mentioned hismarriage, and to Vivien he had not written at all. He thought
theywould hardly understand, and he preferred to make his announcementwhen he stood face to face with them, relying on the force of his ownpersonality to challenge any criticism and proclaim his ownindependence of action. Just now there was no virtue in needlesslyantagonizing his chief.
Among the guests who came to that housewarming was one chance visitorwho was not expected. He came because the people under whose roof hewas being sheltered, had "fetched him along," and he was Wharton, theman whose purpose hereabouts had set gossip winging aforetime.
It seemed to some of the local visitors that despite his entirecourtesy, Spurrier did not evince any profound liking for this other"furriner," and since they had come to accept their host as atrustworthy oracle, they took the tip and were prepared to dislikeWharton, too.
That evening, while blind Joe Givins fiddled, and dancers "ran theirsets" on the smooth, new floor, a group of men gathered on the porchoutside and smoked. Among them for a time were both Spurrier andWharton.
The latter raised something of a laugh when he confidently predictedthat the oil prosperity, for all its former collapse and presentparalysis, was not permanently dead.
"The world needs oil and there's oil here," he declared with unctuousconviction. "Men who are willing to gamble on that proposition willwin out in the end."
"Stranger," responded Uncle Jimmy Litchfield, taking his pipestem frombetween his teeth and spitting contemptuously at the earth, "ye sees,settin' right hyar before ye a man that 'lowed he was a millionaireone time, 'count of this hyar same oil ye're discoursin' so hopefulabout. Thet man's me. I'd been dirt-pore all my days, oftentimeshurtin' fer ther plum' needcessities of life. I'm mighty nigh thetpore still."
"Did you strike oil in the boom days?" demanded Wharton as he benteagerly forward.
"I owned me a farm, them days, on t'other side ther mounting," went onthe narrator, "an' them oil men came along an' wanted ter buy therrights offen me."
"Did you sell?"
Uncle Billy chuckled. "They up an' offered me a royalty of one-eighthof ther whole production. They proved hit up ter me by 'rithmetic an'algebry how hit would make me rich over an' above all avarice--but Isaid no, I wouldn't take no eighth. I stud out fer a _sixteenth_ bycrickety!"
Both Spurrier and Wharton smothered their laughter as the latterinquired gravely: "Did they play one of them royalty games."
"They done better'n thet. They said, 'We'll give ye two sixteenths,'an' thet's when I 'lowed I was es good es a Pierpont Morgan. Iwouldn't nuver hurt fer no needcessity no more."
"And what was the outcome of it all?" asked Wharton.
Uncle Jimmy's face darkened. "The come-uppance of ther whole blamebusiness war thet a lot of pore devils what hed done been content withpoverty found hit twice as hard ter go on bein' pore because they'dgot to entertainin' crazy dreams ther same as me. Any man thet talksoil ter me now's got ter buy outright an' pay me spot cash. I ain'tplayin' no more of them royalty games."
"That's fair enough," said Wharton. "But it seems to me that youpeople are taking the wrong tack. Because the boom collapsed once, youare shutting the door against the possibility of its coming again--andit's going to come again."
"A man kin git stung once," volunteered another native, "an' hit'sjest tough luck or bewitchment. Ef he gits stung twicet on ther sametrumpery, he ain't no more then a plum', daft fool."
Wharton lighted a fresh cigar and turned toward Spurrier.
"Mr. Spurrier here, is a man you all know and trust----" he hazarded."I understand that he's seen oil fields in the West and Mexico. Iwonder what he thinks about it all."
On the dark porch Spurrier looked at his visitor for a few minutes insilence and his first reply was a quiet question.
"Did I tell you I'd seen oil fields in operation?" he inquired, andWharton stammered a little.
"I was under that impression," he said. "Possibly I am wrong."
"No--you are right enough," answered the other evenly. "I just didn'tremember mentioning it. What is your question exactly?"
"If I have a hunch that oil holds a future here and am willing to backthat hunch, don't you think I am acting wisely to do it?"
The host sat silent while he seemed to weigh the question withjudicial deliberation, and during the pause he realized that thelittle group of men were waiting intently for his utterance as for thevoice of the Delphic oracle.
"I have seen oil operation and oil development," he said at last. "Ihave lived here for some time and know the history of the former boom,but I have not bought a foot of ground. That ought to make my opinionclear."
"Then you don't believe in the future?"
"Don't you think, Mr. Wharton," inquired Spurrier coolly and, hislisteners thought, with a shaded note of contempt, "that what I'vealready said, answers your question? If I _did_ believe in it,wouldn't I be likely to seek investment at the present stage of landprices?"
John Spurrier was glad that it was dark out there. He knew that themountain men awaited his judgment as something carrying the sanctionof finality and he felt like a Judas. He himself knew that back of hisseeming betrayal was a determination to safeguard their rights, butthe whole game of maneuvering and dissembling was as impossible toplay proudly as it would have been to undertake the duties of a spy.
"I'll admit," observed Wharton modestly, "that if I lost some money,it wouldn't break me--and I'm a stubborn man when I get a hunch. Well,I'm going in to watch them dance."
He rose and went indoors and Uncle Jimmy, when he put a questionacted, in effect, as spokesman for them all.
"What does ye think of thet feller, Mr. Spurrier?"
"I think," said the opportunity hound crisply, "that he's a fool, andScripture says, 'a fool and his money are soon parted.'"
"An' ef he seeks ter buy?"
"Sell--by all means--if the price is right!"
The next day when they were alone Glory said:
"I don't like that man Wharton. He's got sneaky eyes."
Her husband laughed. "I can't say that he struck me pleasantly," headmitted. "We talked oil out on the porch. He was the optimist and Ithe pessimist."
And it was to happen that the first rift in Glory's lute of happinesswas to come out of Wharton's agency, though she did not recognize itas his.
For in these times, despite a happiness that made her sing through thedays, something like the panic of stage fright was settling over her:a thing yet of the future, but some day to be faced.
So long as life ran quietly, like the shaded streams that went downuntil they made the rivers of the greater and outer world, she wasconfident mistress of her life and had no forebodings. Spurrierloved her and she worshiped him--but out there beyond the ridges,the activities of his larger life were calling--or would call. Thenthey must leave here and she began to dread the thousand littlemistakes and the humiliations that might come to him because of herunfamiliarity with that life. Since the bearings of achievement aredelicate, she even feared that she might throw out of gear andpoise the whole machinery of his success, and in secret Glory wasporing over absurd books on etiquette and deportment. That thesestereotyped instructions would only hamper her own naturally plasticspirit, she did not know when she read and reread chapters headed,"How to Enter a Drawing-room" and "Hints upon Refined Conversation."
That Spurrier would suggest going without her to any field into whichhis work called him, she did not dream. That he would leave her towait for him here, as the companion only of his backwoods hours, herpride never contemplated.
Yet in the fall Spurrier did just that thing, and to the letter whichinduced its doing was signed the name of George Wharton. The latterwrote:
"We must begin to lay out lines for work with the next legislature. There are people in Louisville and Lexington whom you should meet and talk with. I think you had better make your headquarters at one of the Louisville clubs, and when you get here I will put you in touch with the proper bearings."
That much might have puzzled any of the mountaineers who had
takentheir own cues from Spurrier's thinly concealed manner of hostility toWharton, but the last part of the letter would have explained that,too:
"The little game down at your house was nothing short of masterly. Your acting was superb, and though you were the star, I think I may claim to have played up to you well. The device of gaining their confidence so that, of their own accord, they turned to you for counsel--and then seeming to gloom on me when I talked oil, was pretty subtle. I could openly preach buying and instead of turning away from me in suspicion, they fell on me for a sucker. I--and others acting for me--have, as the result, secured a good part of the options we need--and you appear to be of all men, the least interested."
Spurrier read the thing twice, then crushed it savagely in hisclenched hand and cursed under his breath. "The damned jackals," hemuttered. "That's the pack I'm running with--or rather I'm runningwith them and against them at once."
But when Spurrier had kissed Glory good-by and she had waved a smilingfarewell, she turned back into her house and covered her face with herhands.
"I don't want to believe it," she declared. "I won't believe it--butit looks like he's ashamed to take me with him. Not that I blamehim--only--only I've got to make myself over. He's _got_ to be proudof me!"