Chapter 9 GEORGE TURNS REFORMER

George was working in the summer fallow a few days after his return from Grant's homestead, when a man rode across the plowing and pulled up his horse beside him. He was on the whole a handsome fellow, well mounted and smartly dressed, but there was a hint of hardness in his expression. George recognized him as the landlord of a hotel at the settlement.

"Your crop's not looking too good," the stranger greeted him.

"No," returned George. "It was badly put in, and we've had unusually dry weather."

"I forgot," the other rejoined. "You're the fellow Jake Gillet had the trouble with. Beat him down on the price, didn't you? He's a bad man to bluff."

"The point that concerned me was that he asked a good deal more than his work was worth."

The man looked at George curiously.

"That's quite possible, but you might have let him down more gently than you did. As a newcomer, you don't want to kick too much or run up against things other folks put up with."

George wondered where the hint he had been given led.

"I rode over to bring this paper for you to sign," the man went on.

Glancing through it, George saw that it was a petition against any curtailment of the licenses at Sage Butte, and a testimonial to the excellent manner in which the Sachem Hotel was conducted by its owner, Oliver Beamish. George had only once entered the place, but it had struck him as being badly kept and frequented by rather undesirable customers.

"Some fool temperance folks are starting a campaign-want to shut the hotels," his visitor explained. "You'll put your name to this."

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Beamish. I can't form an opinion; I haven't heard the other side yet."

"Do you want to hear them? Do you like that kind of talk?"

George smiled, though he was not favorably impressed by the man. His tone was too dictatorial; George expected civility when asked a favor.

"After all," he said, "it would only be fair."

"Then you won't sign?"

"No."

Beamish sat silent a moment or two, regarding George steadily.

"One name more or less doesn't matter much, but I'll own that the opinion of you farmers who use my hotel as a stopping-place counts with the authorities," he told him. "I've got quite a few signatures. You want to remember that it won't pay you to go against the general wish."

There was a threat in his manner, and George's face hardened.

"That consideration hasn't much weight with me," he said.

"Well," returned Beamish, "I guess you're wrong; but as there's nothing doing here, I'll get on."

He rode away, and George thought no more of the matter for several days. Then as he was riding home with Edgar from a visit to a neighbor who had a team to sell, they stopped to rest a few minutes in the shade of a poplar bluff. It was fiercely hot on the prairie, but the wood was dim and cool, and George followed Edgar through it in search of saskatoons. The red berries were plentiful, and they had gone farther than they intended when George stopped waist-deep in the grass of a dry sloo, where shallow water had lain in the spring. He nearly fell over something large and hard. Stooping down, he saw with some surprise that it was a wooden case.

"I wonder what's in it?" he said.

"Bottles," reported Edgar, pulling up a board of the lid. "One of the cure-everything tonics, according to the labels. It strikes me as a curious place to leave it in."

George carefully looked about. He could distinguish a faint track, where the grasses had been disturbed, running straight across the sloo past the spot he occupied; but he thought that the person who had made the track had endeavored to leave as little mark as possible. Then he glanced out between the poplar trunks across the sunlit prairie. There was not a house on it; scarcely a clump of timber broke its even surface. The bluff was very lonely; and George remembered that a trail which ran near by led to an Indian reservation some distance to the north. While he considered, Edgar broke in:

"As neither of us requires a pick-me-up, it might be better to leave the thing where it is."

"That," replied George, "is my own idea."

Edgar looked thoughtful.

"The case didn't come here by accident; and one wouldn't imagine that tonics are in great demand in this locality. I have, however, heard the liquor laws denounced; and as a rule it's wise to leave matters that don't concern you severely alone."

"Just so," said George. "We'll get on again, if you have had enough berries."

On reaching the homestead, they found a note from Miss Grant inviting them to come over in the evening; and both were glad to comply with it. When they arrived, the girl led them into a room where a lady of middle-age and a young man in clerical attire were sitting with her father.

"Mrs. Nelson has come over from Sage Butte on a mission," she said, when she presented them. "Mr. Hardie, who is the Methodist minister there, is anxious to meet you."

The lady was short and slight in figure but was marked by a most resolute expression.

"The mission is Mr. Hardie's," she said. "I'm merely his assistant. I suppose you're a temperance reformer, Mr. Lansing?"

"No," George answered meekly; "I can't say I am."

"Then you'll have to become one. How long is it since you indulged in drink?"

George felt a little embarrassed, but Edgar, seeing Flora's smile and the twinkle in her father's eyes, hastily came to his rescue.

"Nearly a month, to my knowledge. That is, if you don't object to strong green tea, consumed in large quantities."

"One should practise moderation in everything. Everything!"

"It has struck me," said Edgar thoughtfully, "that moderation is now and then desirable in temperance reform."

Mrs. Nelson fixed her eyes on him with a severe expression.

"Are you a scoffer?"

"No," said Edgar; "as a matter of fact, I'm open to conviction, especially if you intend to reform the Butte. In my opinion, it needs it."

"Well," responded the lady, "you're a signature, anyway; and we want as many as we can get. But we'll proceed to business. Will you state our views, Mr. Hardie?"

The man began quietly, and George was favorably impressed by him. He had a pleasant, sun-burned face, and a well-knit but rather thin figure, which suggested that he was accustomed to physical exertion. As he could not afford a horse, he made long rounds on foot to visit his scattered congregation, under scorching sun and in the stinging frost.

"There are four churches in Sage Butte, but I sometimes fear that most of the good they do is undone in the pool room and the saloons," he said. "Of the latter, one cannot, perhaps, strongly object to the Queen's."

"One should always object to a saloon," Mrs. Nelson corrected him.

Hardie smiled good-humoredly.

"After all, the other's the more pressing evil. There's no doubt about the unfortunate influence of the Sachem."

"That's so," Grant agreed. "When I first came out from Ontario, there wasn't a loafer in the town. When the boys were through with their day's job, they had a quiet talk and smoke and went to bed; they came here to work. Now the Sachem bar's full of slouchers every night, and quite a few of them don't do anything worth speaking of in the daytime, except make trouble for decent folks. If the boys try to put the screw on a farmer at harvest or when he has extra wheat to haul, you'll find they hatched the mischief at Beamish's saloon. But I've no use for giving those fellows tracts with warning pictures."

"That," said Mrs. Nelson, "is by no means what we intend to do."

"I'm afraid that admonition hasn't had much effect, and I agree with Mr. Grant that the Sachem is a gathering place for doubtful characters," Hardie went on. "What's worse, I've reasons for supposing that Beamish gets some of them to help him in supplying the Indians on the reservation with liquor."

This was a serious offense, and there was a pause, during which Edgar glanced meaningly at George. Then he made a pertinent remark.

"Four churches to two saloons is pretty long odds. Why do you think it needful to call in the farmers?"

Hardie looked troubled, but he showed that he was honest.

"The churches are thinly attended; I'm the only resident clergyman, and I'm sorry I must confess that some of our people are indifferent: reluctant, or perhaps half afraid, to interfere. They want a clear lead; if we could get a big determined meeting it might decide the waverers."

"Then you're not sure of winning?" asked Grant.

"No," replied Hardie. "There'll be strong and well-managed opposition; in fact, we have nearly everything against us. I've been urged to wait, but the evil's increasing; those against us are growing stronger."

"If you lose, you and your friends will find the Butte pretty hot. But you feel you have a chance, a fighting chance, and you mean to take it?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm with you,"' Grant declared with a grim smile. "Don't mistake me: I take my glass of lager when I feel like it-there's some right here in the house-but, if it's needful, I can do without. I'm not going into this thing to help you in preaching to whisky-tanks and toughs-it's the law I'm standing for. If what you suspect is going on, we'll soon have our colts rebranded and our calves missing. We have got to clean out Beamish's crowd."

"Thanks," said Hardie, with keen satisfaction.

He turned to George.

"I'd be glad of your support, Mr. Lansing."

George sat silent a moment or two while Flora watched him. Then he said quietly:

"My position's much the same as Mr. Grant's-I can do without. After what you have said about the Sachem, I'll join you."

"And you?" Hardie asked Edgar.

The lad laughed.

"I follow my leader. The loungers about the Sachem weren't civil to me; said unpleasant things about my appearance and my English clothes. To help to make them abstainers strikes me as a happy thought."

Flora glanced at him in amused reproof, and Hardie turned to Grant.

"What about your hired men?"

"Count them in; they go with me. If you have brought any memorial along, I'll see they sign it."

"I wish all our supporters had your determination," Mrs. Nelson remarked approvingly.

Hardie ventured a protest.

"I don't want any pressure put upon them, Mr. Grant."

"Pressure?" queried the farmer. "I'll just ask them to sign."

"I wonder if you're quite satisfied with the purity of all your allies' motives, Mr. Hardie?" Edgar inquired.

A smile crept into the clergyman's face.

"I don't think a leader's often in that position, Mr. West; and considering what I'm up against, I can't refuse any support that's offered me. It's one reason why I've taken yours."

"Now that I've joined you, I'd better mention a little discovery West and I made this afternoon," said George.

Hardie's expression grew eager as he listened.

"It's certainly liquor-for the reservation Indians," he broke out. "If we can fix the thing on Beamish-I haven't a doubt that he's responsible-we can close the Sachem."

"Then we had better decide how it's to be done," Grant said curtly.

He ruled out several suggestions, and finally said:

"I expect the case will be sent for to-night, and we want two witnesses who'll lie by in the sloo. One of them ought to be a farmer; but we'll see about that. Guess your part is to find out how the liquor left the Butte, Mr. Hardie. What do you think of the plan, ma'am?"

"I leave it to you," said Mrs. Nelson, half reluctantly. "But be warned-if the men can't close the Sachem, the women of Sage Butte will undertake the thing."

"Then we have only to decide who is to watch the bluff," said Hardie.

"As I first mentioned the matter, I'll go, for one," George volunteered.

"You're the right man," declared Grant. "As a newcomer who's never been mixed up with local affairs, your word would carry more weight with the court. The opposition couldn't make you out a partizan. But you want to recognize what you're doing-after this, you'll find yourself up against all the Sachem toughs. It's quite likely they'll make trouble for you."

"I wonder whether such reasons count for much with Mr. Lansing?" Flora said suggestively.

George made no reply, but Edgar laughed.

"They don't, Miss Grant; you can set your mind at rest on that. You don't seem curious whether they count with me."

"You're not going," Grant told him. "We must have two men who can be relied on, and I can put my hand on another who's younger and a little more wiry than I am." He turned to George. "What you have to do is to lie close in the sloo grass until the fellows come for the liquor, when you'll follow them to the reservation, without their seeing you. Then you'll ride up and make sure you would know them again. They should get there soon after daylight, as they won't strike the bluff until it's dark, but there's thick brush in the ravine the trail follows for the last few miles. It won't matter if they light out, because Flett will pick up their trail. I'll send for him right off, but he could hardly get through before morning."

The party broke up shortly afterward, and George rode home, wondering why he had allowed himself to become involved in what might prove to be a troublesome matter. His ideas on the subject were not very clear, but he felt that Flora Grant had expected him to take a part. Then he had been impressed in Hardie's favor; the man was in earnest, ready to court popular hostility, but he was nevertheless genial and free from dogmatic narrow-mindedness. Behind all this, there was in George a detestation of vicious idleness and indulgence, and a respect for right and order. Since he had been warned that the badly-kept hotel sheltered a gang of loafers plotting mischief and willing to prey upon men who toiled strenuously, he was ready for an attempt to turn them out. He agreed with Grant: the gang must be put down.