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The door was still on its hinges, and it was still slightly ajar.Harley, peeping through the crack, saw the eight occupants of the roomby the faint light from the window, and because the man who did thetalking, and who showed himself so evidently the leader, had red hair,he knew him instinctively. It was Red Perkins and the remnant of hisgang, not scattered to the winds of the West, as Jim and everybody elsethought, but here in Montana, in their old haunts. And Harley, listeningto their talk, measured the extent of their knowledge, which was far toomuch; they knew who Jimmy Grayson was, they had known of his departurefrom Blue Earth, and they had followed him here; presently they wouldtake him away, and the whole world would be thrilled. No such prize hadever fallen into the hands of robbers in America, and it would be wortha million to them.
The stump was placed in the middle of the floor, and Jimmy Graysonstepped upon it. His face at that height was visible through the windowto any one outside, although the others would be hidden. Just as he tookhis place Harley thought he heard the soft crunch of a footstep on thesnow beneath the window. He felt a burning curiosity to rise and lookout, but he restrained it and did not move. The guide was staring at thecandidate in open-mouthed amazement, but he, too, did not speak. A fewbig white flakes drove in at the open window, but they did not reach themen before the fire that blazed so brightly. Harley again thought heheard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the snow outside, but then theburning wood crackled merrily, and Jimmy Grayson was about to speak.
Never had the candidate spoken to a more appreciative audience. Withfoot and hand and voice it thundered its applause; the building echoedwith it, and all the time the fire burned higher and higher, and themerry crackling of the wood was a minor note in the chorus of applause.But Jimmy Grayson's own voice was like an organ, every key of which heplayed; it expressed every human emotion; full and swelling, it roseabove the applause, and Harley, watching his expressive face, saw thathe felt these emotions. Once he believed that the candidate, carriedaway by his own feelings, had become oblivious of time and place, andthought now only of the troubles and needs of the mountain men.
"You must come at once, sir," he said to Harley. "Mr. Wymond hasn'tturned up. We don't know what's become of him. And Mr. Barr has tooksick, sudden and bad. The Pueblo manager says he'll get somebody here asquick as he can, but he can't do it under half an hour, anyway!"
They tell yet in Western telegraph circles of Charlie Moore's greatexploit. The candidate was in grand form that night, and his speech camerushing forth in a torrent. The missing Wymond was still missing, andthe luckless Barr was still ill, but the fledgling sat alone in the box,his face bent over the key, oblivious of the world around him, and sentit all. Through him ran the fire of battle and great endeavor. He heardthe call and replied. He never missed a word. He sent them hot acrossthe prairie, over the slopes and ridges, and across the brown plainsinto Denver. And there in the general office the manager muttered morethan once: "That fellow is doing great work! How he saves time!"
Although his house was only a few hundred yards away, Mr. Anderson tookthem there in his two-seated, highly polished carriage, drawn by a pairof seal-brown trotters. "Good horses," he said, as he cracked his whipcontentedly over them. "I brought them all the way from Kentucky. Costme a lot, too."
Nor was he sparing in speech when he reached Boisé. His words cracked soloud that the echo of them travelled several hundred miles and reachedMrs. Grayson, who was waiting vainly for a reply to a letter that shehad written nearly two weeks before. Now, no reply was necessary,because this news was what she had feared, but which she had hoped wouldnot come.
Into this packed mass of human