The Coal War (46 page)

“Well, why don't you?” exclaimed Hal, at last. “I failed in my duty, but that's no reason you should fail in yours.”

“
You
failed in
your
duty?” echoed Harding, puzzled.

“Of course. Wasn't it my duty to shoot you? But I was a coward, and didn't do it.”

That point of view had evidently not occurred to the other. “May I ask why it was your duty to shoot me?”

“Because,” replied Hal, “I found you with arms in your hands, engaged in maintaining a regime of infamy which I had sworn to exterminate. But you were my cousin, and I hadn't the courage of my convictions.”

Captain Harding did not seem to know how to deal with such an argument. There was a pause, and then Hal added, “There are exponents of the class-war who say that only proletarians should be trusted in the movement. It would seem that I'm a proof of their contention.”

There was nothing to be gained by discussion with a lunatic. The officer began to pace up and down the floor, consumed by his own thoughts. Could he give Hal up to imprisonment and possible execution, with the frightful scandal it would involve? But on the other hand, if he let him go, what would become of discipline? How could he face his men? What would he say to his superiors?

After a while Hal looked at him, and realizing the torment he was inflicting upon himself, remarked, “Cut it out, Appie, and give me up. It won't make any difference. Nothing will come of it.”

“They would hang you!” cried the other.

Hal laughed. “Hang a millionaire's son in this state? You know they couldn't keep me in jail three days!”

“You're guilty of murder!” exclaimed the other.

“I am that, of course—guilty of several murders. I shot one of the men of your own company, I think—a big beefy animal in khaki—”

“
Hush!
” cried Captain Harding. He looked about him as if he thought the walls might have ears.

“I drilled a hole clean through his forehead. And I shot another one as he was running down the railroad-cut. I got two mine-guards at North Valley, and I think I winged a third at Sheridan. I did all that—and in spite of it, they couldn't keep me in jail three days!”

Captain Harding had resumed his pacing of the room. He was in a terrible condition of agitation.

“Make a test of it,” persisted Hal, defiantly. “You believe in the law—you're going to practice it, make your living out of it. Go tell Wrightman what I've just told you, and see what he'll do about it!”

“Hal,” protested the other, “you may please yourself by flouting the law, but surely you must realize that I am one of its officers—I have taken my oath to maintain it—”

And Hal laughed, a wild, half-hysterical laugh. “Poor fellow! He's a lover, and he believes in his mistress, and he wants to fight anyone who doubts her virtue! But I—I know her—the bedraggled old harlot! I have followed her about the streets at night—I have tracked her to the filthy dens where she makes her bed! I know that she will lie with any man that puts gold into her palm; so I pity the poor fool who believes in her and won't listen to the truth!”

So they had it back and forth; until little by little it became clear to Hal that his cousin's nerve had failed, like his own. He would not,
could
not do his duty!

He wanted Hal to go away, to go home; but Hal answered that he had enlisted for the war. Probably he had destroyed his influence with the strikers, but still, in a fresh emergency, he would have to do what he could to help them.

“Then you'll have to stay here!” exclaimed Captain Harding. “I'll hold you myself, since you make it necessary.”

“Your private prisoner?” laughed Hal.

“Yes, my private prisoner.”

“Well, you've exactly as much right as the General has to hold
his
prisoners. But be careful I don't fall out of the window.”

“Hal,” pleaded the other, “won't you give me your promise and quit fighting?”

The other considered, and then answered, “Suppose I asked
you
to promise and quit fighting?”

“As a matter of fact, I don't expect to do any more.”

“Indeed! What were you doing in that automobile?”

“I was on my way to see some members of the guard who are wanted as witnesses. You evidently haven't heard that I've been appointed on a committee to investigate the events at Horton.”

“No, I hadn't heard that.” Hal was interested, and his cousin told what had happened since that dreadful night of destruction. The sights he had seen had been too much for Harding; he had made up his mind that the murder of the three prisoners was an intolerable crime, and he had gone up to Western City with the intention of preparing a statement concerning the conduct of the militia, and giving it to the newspapers. But as fate would have it, on the train he met a fellow-officer, whom he told of his intention; this officer argued and pleaded with him, and when they got to Western City, he called in Major Cassels to help. They finally persuaded Harding to accept as a compromise the appointing of the three of them as a commission to go down and make an investigation into the conduct of the guard.

Hal was first thrilled with this story, and then made heartsick. If only he could have been on hand at the critical moment, to hold his cousin to his bold resolve! Now, of course, it was too late; they had got their nets about Appie, they would soon have a ring in his nose, and be leading him where they pleased. —And so in the event it proved. Before they got far in their “investigation”, Major Cassels was objecting to some of the witnesses Captain Harding produced, and to some of the questions he asked them; finally he was using his authority as Captain Harding's superior officer, to forbid him to summon certain witnesses at all!

[36]

The question of Hal's immediate fate was decided by a compromise. Captain Harding saw that he lay back in the chair with his eyes closed, and desperate weariness in his face. “Boy,” he said, in a different tone, “you're pretty nearly done up!”

“I know I am.”

“Don't you want to rest?”

“I don't know what I want.”

“Why not make an agreement to stay in this room for a few hours? So we'll both have a chance to think it over—”

“And you have a chance to get hold of Edward and Dad. Is that your plan?”

“Edward was here for two days, Hal—looking for you.”

“Where's he gone?”

“He went back home. What else could he do?”

There was a pause; then again the other began to press his proposition. Finally Hal gave his promise—he would stay in the room until six o'clock in the evening. And so Appie, relieved of his anxiety for the moment, became human and solicitous. Could he get a doctor for his cousin? Could he get him some food? Hal answered that he wanted nothing but to be let alone, and so the other went out, closing the door behind him.

During the past week Hal had had an experience which falls to men only in great crises of history. He had known the soul-shaking emotions of martyrdom. He had known what it was to be able and willing to throw his life away as he would a withered flower; to go with the clashing of cymbals and the blare of trumpets in his ears, to be blind, dizzy, walking upon air, transported out of himself, so possessed with rage that he might have been torn limb from limb without feeling it. He had forgotten that he had a body; he had gone on and on, living upon his nerve, consuming his own substance—

And now suddenly came reaction, as violent and extreme as the former excitement. Exhaustion possessed his body, despair possessed his mind. He who had set out to make people happier, to make the world better—he had killed several men, he had cruelly wounded others—and he had accomplished nothing, absolutely nothing! He saw his week's proceeding as an insane delirium, a drunken debauch; he saw all his two years of strife and pain from the point of view of his brother and his cousin—a thing of utter futility.

He flung himself down on the bed, where in the end the claims of a worn-out body took precedence, and he fell into a sleep. But it was a sleep tormented by nightmares. He was back in the burning tent-colony, and women and children were shrieking and rushing to him for help. He was holding Little Jerry in his arms, and as the child struggled, his burned flesh came off, and he fell to pieces in Hal's hands. And then came the sounds of cannon-firing; the reports beat upon his brain, there was a crash of shells about him, he struggled to run, but his legs would not move—

So, with beads of sweat on his forehead, he opened his eyes and realized that someone was knocking persistently on the door of the room. Before he could answer, the door began to open, and a face appeared. For a moment he thought he must still be dreaming. The face was that of Jessie Arthur!

[37]

She spoke his name, her voice a whisper. And so he realized that it was no dream, and started up—because he had his coat off, and his aspect and circumstances were not such as befitted the receiving of a young lady. Jessie, realizing this, stepped back, half closing the door; but it was only for a moment—when he had slipped into his coat, she appeared again. “Hal,” she whispered, “I must talk with you.”

“Come in,” he said; and she came, and summoning all her resolution, closed the door behind her. Then, still holding the knob, she stood gazing at him, intense excitement in her aspect.

“What is it?” he cried.

She answered, her voice still faint and trembling, “I have done what you asked me to.”

“What I asked you to?” Perhaps he should have known what she meant—but so much had happened since they had had their talk.

“I have given up everything, Hal! I have run away from home!”

“
Jessie!
”

There was dismay in his tone, rather than welcome, and she, with her woman's intuition, recognized it instantly, and turned even paler, and seemed to sway against the door. “You told me to do it, Hal! You said I must be willing to give up everything and follow you. So I did it!”

There was a silence. Then, “Sit down,” he said, and made a move as if to help her. But she went to a chair alone, and sat down, gazing at him out of frightened eyes.

“Hal!” she whispered. “You don't want me?”

“You don't understand, Jessie. I've been through such horrible things since you saw me! I can't think about—about us.”

“I know, Hal; and I've been so frightened. I was afraid you'd be killed. I've suffered agonies—simply agonies. I couldn't stand it any more, I had to come to you!”

Again there was a silence, a long, trying silence. The tears came suddenly into the girl's eyes, and she clasped her hands together. “Oh! You don't love me any more!”

“But Jessie, listen—I've ruined my life. I've been fighting, and I've killed men. I may be punished—sent to prison—”

“I know, Hal. I met Captain Harding—that's how I knew you were here. But I don't care—I can't do without you. I will share whatever happens.”

“They might hang me!” he exclaimed.

It was an attempt at evasion—and it availed not at all. “I don't care what they do, Hal! Don't you understand? I've run away! From Mamma and Papa—everyone and everything!”

There was desperation in her voice—but no more than in Hal's mind. “Jessie, I had no idea—” And he stopped.

“What is it, Hal? You don't trust me now? Answer me!”

“It isn't that, Jessie. But you see—something has happened. When you asked me if there was anybody else, I told you there was not—and that was true. But there has come to be since. When I thought you had given me up, I asked Mary Burke to marry me.”

She started from her chair, and horror came into her eyes. “Oh, Hal!” And she took a step towards him, her hands stretched out. “
Oh!
You can't mean it!”

“I mean it, Jessie.”

“Oh, surely, surely you couldn't marry that woman! It's too dreadful!”

“I don't know that I shall marry her, Jessie; she has not given me her answer.”

“Not given you your answer?”

“She told me to wait and think it over.”

Jesssie had to have time to grasp the meaning of this last incredible statement. Some instinct told her that this was not a situation to be handled by hysterics; she became suddenly calm, mistress of herself. “Hal,” she said, “sit down, won't you? There is so much I have to say to you.” And she came to him, and when he had seated himself in a chair, she knelt at his feet, gazing up into his eyes.

“Hal, I know that you've lost your faith in me; and I don't blame you—only you can have no idea how cruelly I've suffered, how hard it's been for me, without a soul to understand or help. I kept hoping and praying that this trouble would be over, and that you'd come back to me. I had no idea it could last so long, or be so serious. But Hal, don't you realize, I love you with all my heart, and I want to stand by you, I want to understand what you're doing, and why. You must know that I love you, Hal! You must know that you love me; it's just anger that has seized you, because I didn't come, because I left you alone in your trouble! And you were here with this other woman, you felt sorry for her—and I feel sorry for her, too, Hal, I know she's had a hard life—but oh, you can't love her as you love me! You must know that, surely, Hal! Think what it would mean if you married her—a common woman, that couldn't understand—”

He started to interrupt, but she would not let him; she caught his hand in hers, and rushed on, with desperate pleading in her voice: “Oh, maybe I'm mistaken, maybe I'm doing her an injustice, I don't really know her. But Hal, I know that
I
love you, and I knew you first—you were promised to me, Hal! And it isn't as if I didn't know that you love me. You do, and it's just a momentary misunderstanding—you're disgusted with me, and I don't blame you—I'm ashamed of the way I've behaved. But I'm going to be different now, Hal; I'm yours, and I'm going to do what you ask me to—anything, anything! Don't you understand, Hal—I'm yours, yours! I love you, I love you!”