MacDonald, the sheep rancher, who went out of his way to enforce the fair deal and the square deal, when he could very much more easily have remained safely at home, a fire-insurance, bread-and-b.u.t.ter, safety-guarantee Christian of the quiescent kind, MacDonald by all the tricks of the-be-good-and-you-will-prosper doctrines, ought not to have been shot down as he stood guard at the head of the mine shaft.

A very great many years ago, a very great Man, in fact, the very greatest moral teacher the world has ever known, declared that the milk-and-water, neither-hot-nor-cold, quiescent, safety-guarantee type of Christianity was a thing to be spewed out of the mouth; but that was a very great many years ago. Time has softened the edge of that pa.s.sion for right. Perhaps, He didn't mean it! Perhaps, we have permitted sentimentality to sand-paper down the fighting edge of militant righteousness that goes out beyond the Safety Line! To be sure, bread-and-b.u.t.ter goodness is an easier matter than risking hot shot beyond the Safety Line; and perhaps, a sentimental Deity may be persuaded to allow us a little jam on our bread and b.u.t.ter if we sit tight on the safe side with a fire-insurance policy in the shape of a creed! Personally, I wonder when we all take to joining the sit-tight, safety-guarantee brigade, who is to stand on the outside guard? Or is there any modern Fighting Line? Or does the Fighting Line belong to the old Shibboleth legends of Canaanite and Jebusite and Perizzite and G.o.d knows what other "ite"? I hear these ancient gentry preached about and the heroes who smote them hip and thigh extolled. Personally, I am a great deal more interested in the modern tussle for a promised land than in those old time frays for a fertile patch in a sterile wilderness; and I see the same call for the hero's fighting edge; and I like the MacDonalds, who jump out from behind the Safety Line to fight for right, though it bring but the b.l.o.o.d.y bullet holes in the soft of the temple; and I like the Waylands, who take up the game trail to run down crime though it bring the sword of dismissal dangling over their own heads; and I like best of all the Matthews, who throw aside their "skin-dicate contracts" to take up the game of playing as joyfully for right as they have for wrong, "rich" (I wish you could have heard the full way in which he said that word) "rich" on "thirty dollars a year for clothes," spending self without stint, joyfully, unknowing of self-pity, for the making of right into might, for the making of a patch of human weeds into a garden of goodness. Only, I would put on record the fact that each man's reward was not the hero's crown of laurel leaves, but the crown that their great prototype wore upon the Cross.

Eleanor could not understand why she had been formally notified to attend the coroner's inquest till the drift of the questions began to indicate that this investigation like many another was not an investigation to _find out_ but an investigation to _hush up_, not a following of the clues of evidence but a deliberate attempt to throw pursuit off on false clues. In fact, there were many things about that inquest which Eleanor could not fathom. Why, for instance was the local district attorney not present? Why had the Smelter c.o.king Company a special pleader present? Why was the great Federal Government not represented by an attorney of equal ability, instead of this downy-lipped silent and incredibly ignorant youth? Why was the first session of the inquest adjourned till the burial of her father?

Why did the sheriff act as a mentor at the ear of the chief coroner?

Why did the justice of the peace acting as coroner listen to all suggestions from the Smelter Company's attorney and the Sheriff, and reject all suggestions from her father's friends? Why was the stenographer instructed to erase some evidence and preserve other?

What was the ground of discrimination? If you doubt whether these things are ever done, dear reader; then, peruse with close scrutiny the first criminal trial that comes under your notice; and see if you think that the term of the Old Dispensation 'wresting the judgment' has become obsolete? You don't suppose those long-whiskered old patriarchs openly took the bribe in hand and right before the claimants, tucked the loose shekels into the wide phalacteries of holy skirts--do you?

Yet, there were certain features of that inquest which awakened strange hope in her breast. It was held in the county court room; and the crowd gathering to listen and hear somehow gave her a different impression from the unwashed rabble that usually infests public courts to feast on the carrion of criminal proceedings. Men predominated, of course; but they were decent men, men of standing, not idlers and blacklegs. As she pa.s.sed up the aisle with Matthews and Mrs. Williams to the front row of chairs where the news editor and Wayland and Brydges and the youth from Washington were already seated, she heard a man's voice say, "They've gone too far this time, by Jingo! It will take more than wind-jamming to win next fall's elections with this against them."

"You bet there's an awakening," returned another voice.

"The-dyed-in-the-woollies don't realize yet; but they will waken up after election day!"

The news editor had only finished giving evidence; on the whole immaterial testimony; for suspicions do not pa.s.s with juries and coroners.

"How was it you attended the examination of this mine?" was the last question asked him.

Considering the Smelter City lots, for which the news editor had yet to pay and the "kiddies" which he had to support, it would have been an easy matter for him 'to slink' that question. "A newspaper man's pursuit of a good story" would have been answer enough to satisfy any coroner; but the news editor did not give that answer. He took off his gla.s.ses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. Then, he put them back on his nose and looked straight at the gentleman presiding.

"May I answer that question in my own way, taking plenty of time?" he asked. "I take it this inquest is being held to get at the real truth."

The coroner said, "Go ahead!"

The attorney for the Smelter City c.o.king Company sat up and whispered something to Brydges. The handy man turned lazily round. "Yes," he said, "one of our staff."

The news editor cleared his throat, and a little sharp intersection of lines bridged above his nose.

"For some little time, it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on."

The attorney for the Smelter City c.o.king Company jumped to his feet.

"The witness should keep to a strict recital of fact, not rumors," he interjected; and the downy-lipped representative of the Federal Government said nothing about the privileges of a witness, or the impropriety of a special pleader opening his mouth at an inquest.

"Confine yourself to facts," ordered the coroner heavily.

Wayland and Eleanor suddenly leaned forward. The news editor rubbed his gla.s.ses and resumed in a low clear tense voice. How many of the listeners had the faintest idea of what the recital cost him?

"I take it the object of this inquest is to ascertain facts. If I am to relate facts, I must repeat that for some little time it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on between the people and certain interests which I do not need to name. It was well known in our office that the miners on Coal Hill had openly boasted no Washington man was going to get away with any facts about mining operations. O'Finnigan of Shanty Town had boasted he had been brought down from the Ridge for 'a surprise party' as he called it. For some little time, as news editor I had been dissatisfied with the reports of this whole struggle: they struck me as exceedingly biased and untruthful; in fact what the reporters call 'doped news'; 'news doped by outsiders for special reasons of their own.'"

Bat's boot came down with a clump on the floor. The attorney was up again, glaring at the coroner. The news editor cleared his throat.

"So I determined to go and see this thing for myself--"

"With the result," roared the attorney, "that you saw every facility afforded for the most thorough examination of the mine."

There was a shuffling of feet among the men at the back of the room.

More men seemed to be crowding in.

"That," said the news editor aloud, sitting back beside Wayland, "That effectually cooks my dough! See that you fellows do as well!"

Eleanor was next questioned, most considerately and courteously. Twice she was interrupted. The first time was when she repeated that her father had said he expected no trouble whatsoever.

"I would call your attention to the fact, Mr. Coroner, that the deceased gentleman a.s.sured his daughter he expected no trouble whatsoever," called out the attorney.

The Sheriff leaned over and whispered to the coroner.

"Did the half-breed woman known as Calamity leave the Ranch House the night before the examination of the mine?" asked the coroner.

It was when Eleanor was describing the mad look of Calamity that the attorney again interrupted:

"Mr. Coroner, out of respect to the memory of the deceased gentleman and to the member of his family present, I ask that the stenographer strike out the record of the insane woman's babblings! The fact is established on the word of Miss MacDonald that the Indian woman set out with the express intention of seeking her employer. What she intended to do when she found him, we cannot know; for the woman was plainly insane and her word is worthless."

Bat wore a tallow smile. The attorney's expression became inscrutable.

Sheriff Flood's face shone as a new moon. The other faces were a puzzled blank.

"You want to check that," whispered the news editor to Wayland.

Matthews was being questioned.

"Before A proceed t' answer y'r verra civil inquiries, Mr. Coroner, A wud ask the privilege o' puttin' three questions!"

"Go ahead, Sir!"

"Why is the man O'Finnigan not here?"

"Still drunk," answered the Sheriff.

"Then, if A commit a crime, if A cut y'r throat, Mr. Coroner, all A have t' do t' avoid awkward questions, is t' fill up? Verra well! Why is the woman Calamity, herself, not here?"

"Can't be found," called Wayland.

"So that if A'm accused of a crime A know no more about than th' babe unborn, all A've t' do t' rivet that crime on myself for life is not to be found? Verra well--"

"Sir," interrupted the coroner.

"A wud ask why is that little Irish la.s.sie not here?"

Mrs. Williams explained that Lizzie, having exhausted the Indian children with her boastings in two days, had lost interest in life and run back to the slums.

"A always did say if y' took a pig out o' a pen an' putt it in a parlor, 'twould feel lonesome for its hogwash," exclaimed the old frontiersman running a puzzled hand through his mop of white hair.

Matthews also was twice interrupted in his testimony. He was explaining that he antic.i.p.ated trouble about the mine from what had already happened on the Rim Rocks when Wayland trod forcibly and sharply on his foot; and all reference to the pursuit across the Desert was omitted. The coroner, it seemed, did not want any details about the Rim Rocks. The second interruption came when he began to quote Mistress Lizzie O'Finnigan's words those afternoons on the Ridge. The attorney sprang up:

"As the child is an incorrigible liar and her father an incorrigible drunkard, Mr. Coroner, I think it only fair to the Company that their aspersions and reference to us be stricken off the records;" and the coroner instructed the stenographer to erase all reference to Lizzie's babbling.

The old frontiersman sat back with a dazed feeling that while he had expressed antic.i.p.ation of trouble at the mine, he had failed to give proof or reason for that antic.i.p.ation.

Brydges' evidence was innocuous to the very end. The Sheriff had whispered something to the coroner.