Claim Number One

by George W. Ogden

  CHAPTER XI

  NUMBER ONE

  In Meander that morning people began to gather early at the land-office,for it was the first day for filing, and a certain designated number,according to the rules laid down and understood before the drawing, mustappear and make entry on their chosen tracts.

  There had been a good deal of talk and excitement over the nonappearancein Meander of the man who drew the first chance. The story had gonearound, from what source nobody knew, that he would lapse, in which caseNumber Two would become Number One, and all along the line wouldadvance. Number One would have to be there to file first, as Number Twocould not be entered ahead of him, and if he did not step up to thewindow when it opened, his chance was gone forever.

  The United States Government would accept no excuses; the machinery ofits vast, admirable business could not be thrown out of gear for an houror a day, and stand idle while the clerks waited for the holder of ClaimNumber One to come from some distant part and step into his own. Sothere was a good deal of nervousness and talking, and speculating andcrowding forward in the waiting line, as the hour for opening the officedrew 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 neckand lifted his chin as if his loose collar bound him and choked hisaspirations.

  It was a racking hour for Axel Peterson, who had been offered a sumwhich was riches to him if he would file on the land described by thefigures on the card, pay its purchase price to the government on thespot 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, theland 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 firstchoice should appear in time to file, then Peterson was to hand over themoney which he carried in his pocket to purchase immediate title to theclaim. In that case, Jerry Boyle, the Governor's son, who stood side byside with Peterson before the window and held Peterson's agreement todeed certain described lands in his hand; in that case Jerry Boyle wouldbe free to open negotiations with the holder of the first chance.

  There was no secret among those gathered to file regarding what wasgoing 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 thatwhich 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 anyrate there was another man present who had been active with Peterson,but he had arrived too late. Boyle already had the Scandinavian down inwriting.

  Milo Strong was in his place, hoping in his heart that Dr. Slavens wouldnot appear, as the physician's lapse would set him one forward. Off toone side, among hundreds gathered to witness the filing on lands whichwould mean the development of a great stretch of country around Meander,and thereby add to its prosperity and importance, were William andHorace Bentley and Agnes.

  They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through theside door. A shelf had been arranged in one of the front windows of theoffice, past which the entrants could file without going into thebuilding. At nine o'clock this window would be opened. It was before itthat 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 isslipping 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 minutethe entry is made," Horace added. "I know the lawyer who drew up thepapers. It's illegal all through, but they say Boyle's got such a pullthrough his father that anything he wants will go."

  Until that hour Agnes had kept her faith in Dr. Slavens and her hopethat he would appear in time to save his valuable claim. Now hope wasgone, and faith, perhaps, had suffered a tarnishment of luster.

  For that is the way of human judgment. When one whom we have expected torise up out of the smoke of obscurity or the fog of calumniation fails inwhat we feel to be his obligation to the world and ourselves--especiallyourselves--faith falters in its place, and gives way to reproach, bitterwords, hot arraignments. There is no scorn like the scorn of one who hasbeen a friend.

  And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr. Slavens was blameless for hisunexplained disappearance and prolonged absence deep-anchored in herheart. But there was a surface irritation at that moment, a dispositionto censure and scold. For nothing short of death should keep a man awayfrom the main chance of his career, thought she, and she could notbelieve that he was dead.

  It was altogether disappointing, depressing. He should have come; heshould have moved the encumbering obstacles out of his way, no matterwhat their bulk. Not so much for his own sake maybe, when all wasrefined to its base of thought, as for the redemption of her faith andtrust.

  "I don't care to stay and see them file," said she, turning away. "I'llget enough of it, I suppose, when my turn comes, waiting in line thatway in the sun."

  "There's a special stage out for Comanche at eleven," said William, hiswatch in his hand. "If I can get a seat I'll return on it. It's time Iwas back in the shop."

  "For," he might have added if he had expressed his thoughts, "no matterwhat I think of you, Agnes, I see that it would be useless for me tohang around and hope. Dr. Slavens has stepped into the door of yourheart, 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 takenwith a dear old lady in a funny little house among the trees. It'scheaper 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, Horacesmiling, for he did not altogether understand. William could see deeper.He knew that she was afraid lest her disappointment would burst out intears if she remained to see Axel Peterson square his elbows on theshelf before the window and make entry on Claim Number One.

  A clerk within the office was pounding on the window-sash, for the paintwhich the building had been treated to in honor of the occasion hadgummed it fast. Axel Peterson, straining his long neck, swallowing drygulps, looked to the right, the left, the rear. The ends of his fingerswere fairly on Claim Number One; nobody was pressing forward to supplanthim and take away his chance.

  Of course, in case Boyle could not induce the holder of the firstchance, in the event that he _might_ yet come, to file on the covetedland, then there would be a chance left for Peterson. So Petersonknew--Boyle had made that plain. But who could resist the amount Boylewas ready to give? Nobody, concluded Axel Peterson, feeling a chill ofnervousness 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'ssignature on it was taken out of the file for its identification--althoughhe was personally known to everybody in the town--for no detail of cautionand dignity could be omitted on an occasion so important as that; AxelPeterson was taking his breath in short bites, his hand trembling as hetook up the pen to enter his name when that moment should arrive; hisvoice 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 theouter rim of the people gathered to bear witness to the importantceremony there rose a subdued shout, like the expression of wonder orsurprise. The volume of this sound increased as it swept toward theoffice. Those in the line, Axel Peterson first of all, saw a movementin the crowd, saw it part and open a lane for a dusty man on asweat-drenched horse to pass.

  One of the clerks arranged the det
ail-map of the reservation before himwith great deliberation, his pen ready to check off the parcel of landwhen the entrant should give its description. The other spread the blankon 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 hisstumbling beast to a stand not a rod away from Axel Peterson's side.Peterson had viewed the proceeding with a disturbing qualm. Boyle, astalkative before as a washerwoman, now grew suddenly silent. His mouthstood open impotently; the gray of a sinking heart came over his face ashe looked long at the battered man, who had dropped the reins to theground 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 handthrough the window. "Give him the paper and let him sign; you can fillin the numbers afterward!"

  The clerk owed his appointment to Boyle's father when the latter was inCongress; so he was ready at heart to obey. But it was an irregularitywhich might rebound with uncomfortable result. Thus he hesitated a fewseconds, and as he hesitated the road-stained horseman pushed in betweenAxel Peterson and the window.

  "You're a little hasty," said the man. "It's a few seconds until nineyet, 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. JerryBoyle said nothing, but he put into his pocket the paper which he hadbeen holding ready in his hand for Axel Peterson's signature the minutethe entry should be made, and turned his back. A black-visaged man withshifting, greasy eyes shouldered, panting, through the press of peopleand put his hand on Slaven's arm.

  "I'd like to have a word with you before you file," he requested.

  Slavens looked at him severely from the shadow of his battered hat. Theman lacked the bearing of one who inspires confidence; Slavens frownedhis disapproval of the approach.

  "It means money to you," pressed the man, stretching out his hand andshowing a card with numbers penciled on it.

  Axel Peterson had stood gaping, his card with numbers on it also in hishand, held up at a convenient angle for his eyes. Dr. Slavens had readthem as he pushed Peterson aside, and the first two figures on the otherman's card--all that Slavens could hastily glimpse--were the same. And,stranger still, they were the same as Hun Shanklin had recorded intelegraphed reply to the request from Jerry that he repeat them.

  That was enough to show him that there was something afoot worth while,and to fortify him in his determination, strong in his mind every mileof that long night ride, to file on that identical tract of land, comeof it what might.

  "I'll talk to you after a while," said he.

  Boyle said nothing, although the look he gave the forward man wasblasting and not without effect. The fellow fell back; something whichlooked like a roll of bills passed from Boyle's hand to Axel Peterson's,and with a jerk of the shoulder, which might have been intended as adefiance to his rival or as an expression of resignation, Boyle movedback a little into the crowd, where he stood whispering with hisfriends. Peterson's face lit up again; he swallowed and stretched hisneck, wetting his dry lips with his tongue.

  The preliminaries were gone over again by the clerks with deliberatedignity; the card bearing the doctor's signature was produced, hisidentity established, and the chart of the reservation again drawnforward to check off the land as he gave the description.

  "What tract have you selected, Dr. Slavens?" asked the clerk with theblank.

  Dr. Slavens drew from the pocket of his coat a crumpled yellow paper,unfolded it, and spread it on the shelf.

  "The northwest quarter of Section Six, Township Twelve, RangeThirty-three," he replied, his eyes on Hun Shanklin's figures.

  Jerry Boyle almost jumped at the first word. As the doctor completed thedescription of the land he strode forward, cursing in smothered voice.

  "Where did you get that paper?" he demanded, his voice pitched an octaveabove its ordinary key by the tremulous heat of his anger.

  Dr. Slavens measured him coldly with one long, contemptuous look. Heanswered nothing, for the answer was obvious to all. It was none ofBoyle's business, and that was as plain as spoken words.

  Boyle seemed to wilt. He turned his back to the winner of Number One,but from that moment he stuck pretty close to Axel Peterson untilsomething passed between them again, this time from Peterson's hand toBoyle's. Peterson sighed as he gave it up, for hope went with it.

  Meantime a wave of information was running through the crowd.

  "It's Number One," men repeated to each other, passing the word along."Number One got here!"

  Hurrying to the hotel, Agnes was skirting through the thinner edges ofthe gathering at the very moment when Dr. Slavens turned from thewindow, his papers in his hand. As he went to his weary horse and tookup the reins, the creature greeted him with a little chuckling whinny,and the people gave him a loud and hearty cheer.

  When the cheering spread to the people around her, Agnes stopped andasked a man why they did that. She spoke a little irritably, for she wasout of humor with people who would cheer one man for taking somethingthat belonged to another. That was the way she looked at it, anyhow.

  "Why, haven't you heard?" asked the man, amazed, but enlarged withimportance, because he had the chance of telling somebody. "It's NumberOne. He rode up on a horse just in the nick of the second and saved hisclaim."

  "Number One!" said she. "A horse!"

  "Sure, ma'am," said her informant, looking at her queerly. "Here hecomes now."

  Dr. Slavens passed within a few feet of her, leading his horse towardthe livery stable. If it had not been that the wind was blowing sharply,turning back the flapping brim of his old hat, she would have repudiatedhim as an impostor. But there was no mistaking him, in spite of thestrange clothing which he wore, in spite of the bloody bandage about hishead.

  And at the sight of that bandage her heart felt a strange exultation, astirring leap of joy, even stronger than her pity and her pain. For itwas his vindication; it was the badge of his honor; it was hiscredentials which put him back in the right place in her life.

  He had come by it in no drunken squabble, she knew; and he had arisenfrom the sickness of it to mount horse and ride--desperately, as hiscondition told--to claim his own. Through the leagues of desert he hadcome, through the unfriendly night, with what dim hope in his breast noman might know. Now, sparing the horse that had borne him to histriumph, he marched past her, his head up, like one who had conquered,even though he limped in the soreness of bruised body.

  People standing near wondered to see the tall, pale woman put out herhands with more than a mother's pity in her eyes, and open her lips,murmuring a name beneath her breath.

  The Bentleys, who had seen Dr. Slavens arrive, had not been able toforce their way to him through the crowd. Now, with scores of others,they followed him, to have a word with him after he had stabled hishorse. As they passed Agnes, William made his way to her.

  "He arrived in time!" he cried triumphantly, the sparkle of gladness inhis honest eyes. "He has justified your faith, and your trust, andyour----"

  She put out both her hands, tears in her eyes, as he halted there,leaving unsaid what there was no need to say.

  "I'll tell him where to find you," said he, passing on.

  In her room at the hotel Agnes sat down to wait. Peace had come into hersoul again; its fevered alarms were quiet. Expectancy trembled in herbosom, where no fear foreshadowed what remained for him to say. Herconfidence was so complete in him, now that he had come, that she wouldhave been satisfied, so she believed at that hour, if he had said:

  "I was unable to come sooner; I am sorry."

  For love is content with little while it is young.

  Agnes thought of her prettiest dress, tucked away in the littlesteamer-trunk, and brought it out. It was not extremely gay, but it waslight
in color and fabric, and gave a softness to the lines of the body,and a freshness of youth. And one needs to look carefully to that whenone is seven-and-twenty, she reflected.

  Her fingers fluttered over her hair; she swayed and turned before theglass, bringing the lines of her neck into critical inspection. Therewas the turn of youth there yet, it comforted her to see, and somedegree of comeliness. He would come soon, and she must be at her best,to show him that she believed in him, and give him to understand thatshe was celebrating his triumph over the contrary forces which he hadwhipped like a man.

  Faith, thought she, as she sat by the window and looked down upon thecrowd which still hung about the land-office, was a sustaining food.Without it the business of all the world would cease. She had found needto draw heavily upon it in her years, which she passed in fleetingreview as she looked pensively upon the crowd, which seemed flounderingaimlessly in the sun.

  All at once the crowd seemed to resolve into one personality, or tobecome but the incidental background for one man; a tall man with aslight stoop, whose heavy eyebrows met above his nose like two blackcaterpillars which had clinched in a combat to contest the passage. Hereand there he moved as if seeking somebody, familiarly greeted,familiarly returning the salutations.

  That morning she had seen him at the head of the line of men waiting tofile on land, close beside Peterson, who believed himself to be NumberOne. She had wondered then what his interest might be, and it waslargely due to a desire to avoid being seen by him that she had hurriedaway. Now he turned as if her thoughts had burned upon his back like asunglass, looked directly toward her window, lifted his hat, andsmiled.

  As if his quest had come to an end at the sight of her, he pushed acrossthe street and came toward the hotel. She left the window, closing ithurriedly, a shadow of fear in her face, her hand pressed to her bosom,as if that meeting of eyes had broken the lethargy of some old pain. Shewaited, standing in the center of the room, as if for a summons whichshe dreaded to hear.

  The hotel at Meander had not at that day come to such modern contrivancesas telephones and baths. If a patron wanted to talk out on the onewire that connected Meander with the world and the railroad, he had togo to the stage-office; if he wanted a bath he must make a trip to thesteam laundry, where they maintained tubs for that purpose. But theseslight inconveniences were not all on one side of the house. For if amessage came to the office for a guest in his room, there was nothing forthe clerk to do but trot up with it.

  And so it came that when Agnes opened her door to the summons, herbearing had no touch of fear or timidity. In the hall she faced thepanting clerk, who had leaped up the stairs and was in a hurry to leapdown again.

  "Mr. Jerry Boyle asks if he may have the pleasure of seeing you in theparlor, Miss Horton," said the clerk.

  "Tell Mr. Boyle," she answered with what steadiness she could command,"that I have an appointment in a few minutes. I'm afraid that I shallnot be able to see him before--before--tomorrow afternoon."

  That was enough for the clerk, no matter how near or how far it came tosatisfying the desires of Jerry Boyle. He gave her a stubby bow andheeled it off downstairs again, kicking up quite a dust in his rapidflight over the carpet in the hall.

  As if numbed or dreaming, Agnes walked slowly about her room, touchinghere or there a familiar article of apparel, and seeking thus torecall herself to a state of conscious reasoning. The events of themorning--the scene before the land-office, her start back to thehotel, the passing of that worn, wounded, and jaded man--seemed to havedrawn far into the perspective of the past.

  In a little while William Bentley came up for his bag--for in that hotelevery man was his own porter--and called her to the door. He was offwith Horace on the eleven o'clock stage for Comanche. Next morning hewould take a train for the East. Dr. Slavens sent word that he wouldcome to the hotel as soon as he could make himself presentable with anew outfit.

  "Horace will stay at Comanche a while to look around," said William,giving her his card with his home address. "If there's anything that Ican do for you any time, don't wait to write if you can reach atelegraph-wire."

  If there was pain in his eyes she did not see it, or the yearning ofhope in his voice, she did not hear. She only realized that the man whofilled her life was coming soon, and that she must light again the firesof faith in her eyes to greet him.