one of those adventures which had been familiar enough in his past
life. But it was the writing of a man, and of a well educated one,
too. Finally, after some hesitation, he determined to see the matter
through.
Miller Hill is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the
town. In summer it is a favourite resort of the people; but in winter
it is desolate enough. From the top of it one has a view not only of
the whole straggling, grimy town, but of the winding valley beneath,
with its scattered mines and factories blackening the snow on each
side of it, and of the wooded and white-capped ranges flanking it.
McMurdo strolled up the winding path hedged in with evergreens until
he reached the deserted restaurant which forms the centre of summer
gaiety. Beside it was a bare flagstaff, and underneath it a man, his
hat drawn down and the collar of his overcoat turned up. When he
turned his face McMurdo saw that it was Brother Morris, he who had
incurred the anger of the Bodymaster the night before. The lodge sign
was given and exchanged as they met.
"I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo," said the older man,
speaking with a hesitation which showed that he was on delicate
ground. "It was kind of you to come."
"Why did you not put your name to the note?"
"One has to be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like these
how a thing may come back to one. One never knows either who to trust
or who not to trust."
"Surely one may trust brothers of the lodge."
"No, no, not always," cried Morris with vehemence. "Whatever we say,
even what we think, seems to go back to that man McGinty."
"Look here!" said McMurdo sternly. "It was only last night, as you
know well, that I swore good faith to our Bodymaster. Would you be
asking me to break my oath?"
"If that is the view you take," said Morris sadly, "I can only say
that I am sorry I gave you the trouble to come and meet me. Things
have come to a bad pass when two free citizens cannot speak their
thoughts to each other."
McMurdo, who had been watching his companion very narrowly, relaxed
somewhat in his bearing. "Sure I spoke for myself only," said he. "I
am a newcomer, as you know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for
me to open my mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well to say
anything to me I am here to hear it."
"And to take it back to Boss McGinty!" said Morris bitterly.
"Indeed, then, you do me injustice there," cried McMurdo. "For myself
I am loyal to the lodge, and so I tell you straight; but I would be a
poor creature if I were to repeat to any other what you might say to
me in confidence. It will go no further than me; though I warn you
that you may get neither help nor sympathy."
"I have given up looking for either the one or the other," said
Morris. "I may be putting my very life in your hands by what I say;
but, bad as you are--and it seemed to me last night that you were
shaping to be as bad as the worst--still you are new to it, and your
conscience cannot yet be as hardened as theirs. That was why I
thought to speak with you."
"Well, what have you to say?"
"If you give me away, may a curse be on you!"
"Sure, I said I would not."
"I would ask you, then, when you joined the Freeman's society in
Chicago and swore vows of charity and fidelity, did ever it cross
your mind that you might find it would lead you to crime?"
"If you call it crime," McMurdo answered.
"Call it crime!" cried Morris, his voice vibrating with passion. "You
have seen little of it if you can call it anything else. Was it crime
last night when a man old enough to be your father was beaten till
the blood dripped from his white hairs? Was that crime--or what else
would you call it?"
"There are some would say it was war," said McMurdo, "a war of two
classes with all in, so that each struck as best it could."
"Well, did you think of such a thing when you joined the Freeman's
society at Chicago?"
"No, I'm bound to say I did not."
"Nor did I when I joined it at Philadelphia. It was just a benefit
club and a meeting place for one's fellows. Then I heard of this
place--curse the hour that the name first fell upon my ears!--and I
came to better myself! My God! to better myself! My wife and three
children came with me. I started a dry goods store on Market Square,
and I prospered well. The word had gone round that I was a Freeman,
and I was forced to join the local lodge, same as you did last night.
I've the badge of shame on my forearm and something worse branded on
my heart. I found that I was under the orders of a black villain and
caught in a meshwork of crime. What could I do? Every word I said to
make things better was taken as treason, same as it was last night. I
can't get away; for all I have in the world is in my store. If I
leave the society, I know well that it means murder to me, and God
knows what to my wife and children. Oh, man, it is awful--awful!" He
put his hands to his face, and his body shook with convulsive sobs.
McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "You were too soft for the job," said
he. "You are the wrong sort for such work."
"I had a conscience and a religion; but they made me a criminal among
them. I was chosen for a job. If I backed down I knew well what would
come to me. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe it's the thought of my poor
little woman and the children that makes me one. Anyhow I went. I
guess it will haunt me forever.
"It was a lonely house, twenty miles from here, over the range
yonder. I was told off for the door, same as you were last night.
They could not trust me with the job. The others went in. When they
came out their hands were crimson to the wrists. As we turned away a
child was screaming out of the house behind us. It was a boy of five
who had seen his father murdered. I nearly fainted with the horror of
it, and yet I had to keep a bold and smiling face; for well I knew
that if I did not it would be out of my house that they would come
next with their bloody hands and it would be my little Fred that
would be screaming for his father.
"But I was a criminal then, part sharer in a murder, lost forever in
this world, and lost also in the next. I am a good Catholic; but the
priest would have no word with me when he heard I was a Scowrer, and
I am excommunicated from my faith. That's how it stands with me. And
I see you going down the same road, and I ask you what the end is to
be. Are you ready to be a cold-blooded murderer also, or can we do
anything to stop it?"
"What would you do?" asked McMurdo abruptly. "You would not inform?"
"God forbid!" cried Morris. "Sure, the very thought would cost me my
life."
"That's well," said McMurdo. "I'm thinking that you are a weak man
and that you make too much of the matter."
"Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the
valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I
tell you that the cloud of murder hangs thicker and lower than that
over the heads of the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of
Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from the dusk to the
dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself."
"Well, I'll let you know what I think when I have seen more," said
McMurdo carelessly. "What is very clear is that you are not the man
for the place, and that the sooner you sell out--if you only get a
dime a dollar for what the business is worth--the better it will be
for you. What you have said is safe with me; but, by Gar! if I
thought you were an informer--"
"No, no!" cried Morris piteously.
"Well, let it rest at that. I'll bear what you have said in mind, and
maybe some day I'll come back to it. I expect you meant kindly by
speaking to me like this. Now I'll be getting home."
"One word before you go," said Morris. "We may have been seen
together. They may want to know what we have spoken about."
"Ah! that's well thought of."
"I offer you a clerkship in my store."
"And I refuse it. That's our business. Well, so long, Brother Morris,
and may you find things go better with you in the future."
That same afternoon, as McMurdo sat smoking, lost in thought beside
the stove of his sitting-room, the door swung open and its framework
was filled with the huge figure of Boss McGinty. He passed the sign,
and then seating himself opposite to the young man he looked at him
steadily for some time, a look which was as steadily returned.
"I'm not much of a visitor, Brother McMurdo," he said at last. "I
guess I am too busy over the folk that visit me. But I thought I'd
stretch a point and drop down to see you in your own house."
"I'm proud to see you here, Councillor," McMurdo answered heartily,
bringing his whisky bottle out of the cupboard. "It's an honour that
I had not expected."
"How's the arm?" asked the Boss.
McMurdo made a wry face. "Well, I'm not forgetting it," he said; "but
it's worth it."
"Yes, it's worth it," the other answered, "to those that are loyal
and go through with it and are a help to the lodge. What were you
speaking to Brother Morris about on Miller Hill this morning?"
The question came so suddenly that it was well that he had his answer
prepared. He burst into a hearty laugh. "Morris didn't know I could
earn a living here at home. He shan't know either; for he has got too
much conscience for the likes of me. But he's a good-hearted old
chap. It was his idea that I was at a loose end, and that he would do
me a good turn by offering me a clerkship in a dry goods store."
"Oh, that was it?"
"Yes, that was it."
"And you refused it?"
"Sure. Couldn't I earn ten times as much in my own bedroom with four
hours' work?"
"That's so. But I wouldn't get about too much with Morris."
"Why not?"
"Well, I guess because I tell you not. That's enough for most folk in
these parts."
"It may be enough for most folk; but it ain't enough for me,
Councillor," said McMurdo boldly. "If you are a judge of men, you'll
know that."
The swarthy giant glared at him, and his hairy paw closed for an
instant round the glass as though he would hurl it at the head of his
companion. Then he laughed in his loud, boisterous, insincere
fashion.
"You're a queer card, for sure," said he. "Well, if you want reasons,
I'll give them. Did Morris say nothing to you against the lodge?"
"No."
"Nor against me?"
"No."
"Well, that's because he daren't trust you. But in his heart he is
not a loyal brother. We know that well. So we watch him and we wait
for the time to admonish him. I'm thinking that the time is drawing
near. There's no room for scabby sheep in our pen. But if you keep
company with a disloyal man, we might think that you were disloyal,
too. See?"
"There's no chance of my keeping company with him; for I dislike the
man," McMurdo answered. "As to being disloyal, if it was any man but
you he would not use the word to me twice."
"Well, that's enough," said McGinty, draining off his glass. "I came
down to give you a word in season, and you've had it."
"I'd like to know," said McMurdo, "how you ever came to learn that I
had spoken with Morris at all?"
McGinty laughed. "It's my business to know what goes on in this
township," said he. "I guess you'd best reckon on my hearing all that
passes. Well, time's up, and I'll just say--"
But his leavetaking was cut short in a very unexpected fashion. With
a sudden crash the door flew open, and three frowning, intent faces
glared in at them from under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang
to his feet and half drew his revolver; but his arm stopped midway as
he became conscious that two Winchester rifles were levelled at his
head. A man in uniform advanced into the room, a six-shooter in his
hand. It was Captain Marvin, once of Chicago, and now of the Mine
Constabulary. He shook his head with a half-smile at McMurdo.
"I thought you'd be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo of
Chicago," said he. "Can't keep out of it, can you? Take your hat and
come along with us."
"I guess you'll pay for this, Captain Marvin," said McGinty. "Who are
you, I'd like to know, to break into a house in this fashion and
