Can close with Peterson if you are sure he will be Number One.
Be certain on numbers N. W. quar. 6-12-33. Repeat.
Jerry.
The reply which Shanklin had written and perhaps sent, preserving a copy in his crafty, cautious way, was:
Peterson is Number One. N. W. quarter 6-12-33 is right.
There was neither name nor address on the telegram, but it was easy to see that it was for “Jerry” at Meander. Some deal was on foot, a crooked deal, no doubt, between Shanklin and somebody for something in which Peterson and Number One––
Hold on! Slavens sat up with a quickening of interest in those two words which he thought he never should feel again. Peterson! That was the name of the winner of Number One. Certainly! Queer that he didn’t put two and two together at the first glance, thought he. He wondered how much they were paying Peterson for his relinquishment, and what there was in the northwest quarter of Section Six, Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three, that Hun Shanklin wanted to get his hands on.
Well, it was interesting, at any rate, even though he didn’t draw himself. In a flash he thought of Agnes and of her hopes, and her high number, and wondered whether she had gone to Meander to file. Slavens held up Shanklin’s coat by the collar and ran through the pockets in the hope of finding something that would yield further particulars.
There was nothing else in the coat. It didn’t matter, he reflected; his interest in Claim Number One was gone forever. He didn’t care who had it, or what was done with it, or whether Hun Shanklin and the man called Jerry gave ten thousand dollars for it or ten cents.
But that was a pretty good coat. It was a great deal better and more respectable than the one he had on, and it looked as if it might come nearer fitting. True, Shanklin was a thin man; but he was wide.
The doctor put on the garment. It was a very comfortable fit; the sleeves were a little long, but there was room enough in the shoulders. Surprising, said he, how wide that old rascal was in the chest. He transferred his money to Hun Shanklin’s pockets, chuckling at the thought that he was returning it whence it came. In conscience, said he, if conscience required such a palliative, he had made restitution.
On the floor at his foot lay the extra. In falling it had presented to his view the other side of the fold. The ruled, double-column box, with the surrounding type lifted irregularly around it, attracted his attention. He picked it up, sat again on the edge of the bed, and read his own name printed there as the winner of Number One.
He couldn’t make it out. He turned the paper, looking again at the date. “Owing to a mistake in transmitting the news,” he read. He got up and walked the length of his compartment, the paper in his hand. How was that? Number One–he was the winner of Number One! How was that? How was that?
There was fortune’s caper for you! Number One! And the time past–or but a few hours between then and the limit–for stepping up and claiming it! And Hun Shanklin had a hand in it. Wait a minute–wait!
Hun Shanklin, and a man called Jerry, and Peterson, the Swede. But Shanklin, who sent telegrams assuring somebody that Peterson was Number One–Shanklin most of all. Slavens passed his hand with tentative pressure over the soiled bandage which bound his brow, feeling with finger and thumb along the dark stain which traced what it hid from sight. Shanklin! That would explain some things, many things. Perhaps all things.
He stood there, counting on his fingers like a schoolboy, frowning as he counted. One–two–three. The third day–that was the third day. And he was Number One. And he had lost!
* * *
Out in the office of the lodging-place a lamp burned smokily at the elbow of an old man who read a paper by its light.
“This should be the twenty-eighth, according to my reckoning,” said Slavens, appearing before him and speaking without prelude.
The old man looked up, unfriendly, severe.
“You’re purty good at figures,” said he.
He bumped his bony shoulders over his paper again.
Undaunted, Slavens asked him the hour. The old clerk drew out a cheap watch and held it close to his grizzled face.
“Time for all honest men but me and you to be in bed, I reckon. It’s a quarter to one.”
A quarter to one! Next morning–no; that very morning at nine o’clock, Peterson would step up to the window of the land-office in Meander and file on Claim Number One–his claim–Dr. Warren Slavens’ claim, the seed of his dead hope. That is, if the long chance that lay between him and that hour should be allowed to pass unimproved.
“Do you want to sell that watch?” asked the doctor suddenly.
The old man looked up at him sharply, the shadow of his nose falling long upon his slanting paper.
“You go to thunder!” said he.
“No,” said Slavens without showing offense. “I want that watch for a few hours, and I’ll pay you for it if you want to let me have it.”
He drew out a roll of money as thick as the old man’s thin neck, and stood with it in his hand. The old man slipped the leather thong from his buttonhole and laid the watch on the board in front of him.
“It cost me a dollar two or three years ago”–what was a year to him in his fruitless life, anyway?–“and if you want to give me a dollar for it now you can take it.”
Slavens took up the timepiece after putting down the required price.
“I paid for my bed in advance, you remember?” said he.
The old clerk nodded, his dull eye on the pocket into which all that money had disappeared.
“Well, I’m going out for a while, and I may not be back. That’s all.”
With that the doctor passed out into the street.
Eight hours between him and the last chance at Claim Number One–eight hours, and sixty miles. That was not such a mighty stretch for a good horse to cover in eight hours–nothing heroic; very ordinary in truth, for that country.
With a clearly defined purpose, Slavens headed for the corral opposite the Hotel Metropole, beside which the man camped who had horses for hire. A lantern burned at the closed flap of the tent. After a little shaking of the pole and rough shouting, the man himself appeared, overalled and booted and ready for business.
“You must weigh a hundred and seventy?” said he, eying his customer over after he had been told what a horse was wanted for. “What’s your hurry to git to Meander?”
“A hundred and eighty,” corrected the doctor, “and none of your business! If you want to hire me a horse, bring him out. If you don’t, talk fast.”
“I ain’t got one I’d hire you for that ride, heavy as you are,” said the man; “but I’ve got one a feller left here for me to sell that I’d sell you.”
“Let me see him,” said the doctor.
The man came out of the straw-covered shed presently, leading a pretty fair-looking creature. He carried a saddle under his arm. While the doctor looked the beast over with the lantern the man saddled it.
“Well, how much?” demanded the doctor.
“Hundred and fifty,” said the man.
“I’ll give you a hundred, and that’s fifty more than he’s worth,” the doctor offered.
“Oh, well, seein’ you’re in such a rush,” the man sighed.
As he pocketed the price he gave the directions asked.
“They’s two roads to Meander,” he explained; “one the freighters use that runs over the hills and’s solid in most all kinds of weather, and the stage-road, that follows the river purty much. It’s shorter by a few miles and easier to foller; but it’s got some purty loose ground here and there.”
“Much obliged,” said the doctor, striking his heels to his horse’s sides and galloping off, following the road which he had seen the stages take to Meander, in the days when Claim Number One was farther off even than eight hours and sixty miles.
* * *
CHAPTER XI
NUMBER ONE
In Meander that morning people began to gather early at the land-office, fo
r it was the first day for filing, and a certain designated number, according to the rules laid down and understood before the drawing, must appear and make entry on their chosen tracts.
There had been a good deal of talk and excitement over the nonappearance in Meander of the man who drew the first chance. The story had gone around, from what source nobody knew, that he would lapse, in which case Number Two would become Number One, and all along the line would advance. Number One would have to be there to file first, as Number Two could not be entered ahead of him, and if he did not step up to the window when it opened, his chance was gone forever.
The United States Government would accept no excuses; the machinery of its vast, admirable business could not be thrown out of gear for an hour or a day, and stand idle while the clerks waited for the holder of Claim Number One to come from some distant part and step into his own. So there was a good deal of nervousness and talking, and speculating and crowding forward in the waiting line, as the hour for opening the office drew near.
At the head of the line, holding a card with certain figures on it, stood Axel Peterson, a bony-faced man with lean, high shoulders, engineer in the flour-mill at Meander. Peterson strained his long neck and lifted his chin as if his loose collar bound him and choked his aspirations.
It was a racking hour for Axel Peterson, who had been offered a sum which was riches to him if he would file on the land described by the figures on the card, pay its purchase price to the government on the spot with the money provided him for that purpose, and then step out. Already he had signed an agreement to make a deed to it. However, the land was yet in the mists of uncertainty just ahead, beyond his grasp.
For it was stipulated in his agreement that if the-holder of the first choice should appear in time to file, then Peterson was to hand over the money which he carried in his pocket to purchase immediate title to the claim. In that case, Jerry Boyle, the Governor’s son, who stood side by side with Peterson before the window and held Peterson’s agreement to deed certain described lands in his hand; in that case Jerry Boyle would be free to open negotiations with the holder of the first chance.
There was no secret among those gathered to file regarding what was going forward at the head of the line. It was generally understood, also, that others were on hand to grab the same piece of land as that which Boyle was so eager to get into his possession. Gold, some said. Others were strong in the statement that it was coal and oil. At any rate there was another man present who had been active with Peterson, but he had arrived too late. Boyle already had the Scandinavian down in writing.
Milo Strong was in his place, hoping in his heart that Dr. Slavens would not appear, as the physician’s lapse would set him one forward. Off to one side, among hundreds gathered to witness the filing on lands which would mean the development of a great stretch of country around Meander, and thereby add to its prosperity and importance, were William and Horace Bentley and Agnes.
They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through the side door. A shelf had been arranged in one of the front windows of the office, past which the entrants could file without going into the building. At nine o’clock this window would be opened. It was before it that Peterson and Jerry were standing.
William Bentley looked at his watch.
“Seven minutes more,” he announced.
“He’ll never come,” said Agnes, shaking her head sadly. “His chance is slipping away.”
“I’ve hoped right up to this minute that he would come,” said William, “but I drop out now. It would have been such easy money for him, too.”
“Yes; Boyle’s got that fellow tied up to relinquish to him the minute the entry is made,” Horace added. “I know the lawyer who drew up the papers. It’s illegal all through, but they say Boyle’s got such a pull through his father that anything he wants will go.”
Until that hour Agnes had kept her faith in Dr. Slavens and her hope that he would appear in time to save his valuable claim. Now hope was gone, and faith, perhaps, had suffered a tarnishment of luster.
For that is the way of human judgment. When one whom we have expected to rise up out of the smoke of obscurity or the fog of calumniation fails in what we feel to be his obligation to the world and ourselves–especially ourselves–faith falters in its place, and gives way to reproach, bitter words, hot arraignments. There is no scorn like the scorn of one who has been a friend.
And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr. Slavens was blameless for his unexplained disappearance and prolonged absence deep-anchored in her heart. But there was a surface irritation at that moment, a disposition to censure and scold. For nothing short of death should keep a man away from the main chance of his career, thought she, and she could not believe that he was dead.
It was altogether disappointing, depressing. He should have come; he should have moved the encumbering obstacles out of his way, no matter what their bulk. Not so much for his own sake maybe, when all was refined to its base of thought, as for the redemption of her faith and trust.
“I don’t care to stay and see them file,” said she, turning away. “I’ll get enough of it, I suppose, when my turn comes, waiting in line that way in the sun.”
“There’s a special stage out for Comanche at eleven,” said William, his watch in his hand. “If I can get a seat I’ll return on it. It’s time I was back in the shop.”
“For,” he might have added if he had expressed his thoughts, “no matter what I think of you, Agnes, I see that it would be useless for me to hang around and hope. Dr. Slavens has stepped into the door of your heart, and there is no room for anybody else to pass.”
But he left it unsaid, standing with his head bent as if in meditation, his watch in his hand.
“Two minutes more,” he announced.
“I’m moving from the hotel,” said she quickly, “to a room I’ve taken with a dear old lady in a funny little house among the trees. It’s cheaper for me while I wait to file. I’ll see you to say good-bye.”
She hurried away, leaving the two men standing looking after her, Horace smiling, for he did not altogether understand. William could see deeper. He knew that she was afraid lest her disappointment would burst out in tears if she remained to see Axel Peterson square his elbows on the shelf before the window and make entry on Claim Number One.
A clerk within the office was pounding on the window-sash, for the paint which the building had been treated to in honor of the occasion had gummed it fast. Axel Peterson, straining his long neck, swallowing dry gulps, looked to the right, the left, the rear. The ends of his fingers were fairly on Claim Number One; nobody was pressing forward to supplant him and take away his chance.
Of course, in case Boyle could not induce the holder of the first chance, in the event that he might yet come, to file on the coveted land, then there would be a chance left for Peterson. So Peterson knew–Boyle had made that plain. But who could resist the amount Boyle was ready to give? Nobody, concluded Axel Peterson, feeling a chill of nervousness sweep him as the window-sash gave and the window opened, showing the two clerks ready, with their pens in hand.
The preliminary questions were being asked; the card with Peterson’s signature on it was taken out of the file for its identification–although he was personally known to everybody in the town–for no detail of caution and dignity could be omitted on an occasion so important as that; Axel Peterson was taking his breath in short bites, his hand trembling as he took up the pen to enter his name when that moment should arrive; his voice was shaking as he answered the questions put to him by the clerk.
There was a stirring down the line, and a crowding forward. From the outer rim of the people gathered to bear witness to the important ceremony there rose a subdued shout, like the expression of wonder or surprise. The volume of this sound increased as it swept toward the office. Those in the line, Axel Peterson first of all, saw a movement in the crowd, saw it part and open a lane for a dusty man on a sweat-drenched horse to pass.
One of the clerks arranged the detail-map of the reservation before him with great deliberation, his pen ready to check off the parcel of land when the entrant should give its description. The other spread the blank on the desk, dipped his pen, and asked:
“What tract do you wish to file on, Mr. Peterson?”
The man on horseback had forged through the crowd and brought his stumbling beast to a stand not a rod away from Axel Peterson’s side. Peterson had viewed the proceeding with a disturbing qualm. Boyle, as talkative before as a washerwoman, now grew suddenly silent. His mouth stood open impotently; the gray of a sinking heart came over his face as he looked long at the battered man, who had dropped the reins to the ground and was coming toward them on unsteady legs.
Then, in a flash, Boyle recovered his poise.
“Quick! Quick!” he called to the clerk, thrusting an impatient hand through the window. “Give him the paper and let him sign; you can fill in the numbers afterward!”
The clerk owed his appointment to Boyle’s father when the latter was in Congress; so he was ready at heart to obey. But it was an irregularity which might rebound with uncomfortable result. Thus he hesitated a few seconds, and as he hesitated the road-stained horseman pushed in between Axel Peterson and the window.
“You’re a little hasty,” said the man. “It’s a few seconds until nine yet, according to my time. My name is Slavens, and I am Number One.”
The people in the crowd pressed closer, closing around the tired horse, which stood with its head drooping, its flaccid sides heaving. Jerry Boyle said nothing, but he put into his pocket the paper which he had been holding ready in his hand for Axel Peterson’s signature the minute the entry should be made, and turned his back. A black-visaged man with shifting, greasy eyes shouldered, panting, through the press of people and put his hand on Slaven’s arm.
“I’d like to have a word with you before you file,” he requested.
Claim Number One Page 13