THE Tuesday following the incident of the foot-race was election day. The Patriot prophesied that, out of the three thousand probable votes cast in the county, fully sixteen hundred would be for the Populist ticket.

In private conversation Major Hampton confessed to Hugh that he really had no idea how the election would go. “You see, Stanton,” said he, “I am not a politician, although many believe me to be one. No, I am simply trying to use a political organization as a vehicle to carry into practice certain ideas emanating from truth, and which, practically applied, would better the condition of the masses. Politics with me is only a means to an end.”

They were in Hugh’s room at the hotel when this conversation occurred. The major walked back and forth across the room, as he talked in confidence with Hugh about the probable result of the election.

Hugh noticed that the lines in his old friend’s face would deepen at times like veritable hillside gullies that had been plowed deep by the waters of a mountain torrent. Then, again, when he approached his one absorbing, altruistic idea of helping the poor, lifting up the suffering and benefiting mankind by surrounding them with conditions that would enable them to help themselves,—at such times the deep lines and furrows would almost wholly disappear from his face, and it seemed illuminated from some great light within, a phosphorescent reflection from some mighty reservoir of molten gold—perhaps from the old major’s heart.

Election day came, and Democrats, Republicans, and Populists all turned out in force to try to elect their different candidates. Crops of all kinds had been remarkably good in every township of the county, and both the Democrats and Republicans said that good crops argued well for their success. They contended that hot winds and poor crops were necessary adjuncts to a triumph of Populism at the polls. Each of the three parties, as is usual at election time, claimed that it would elect its own candidates by rousing pluralities.

The day after election, when the returns were all in, the astonishing fact was developed that the Democrats and Republicans had divided the elective offices about equally, while the Populists had polled in the entire county only fifty-five votes.

The Patriot came out the next day with a double-leaded editorial, in which Major Hampton scathed pretending Populists in unsparing terms. The article was as follows:

“FIFTY-FIVE TRUE MEN.”

“The remnant of the Spartan band numbers, all told, fifty-five souls. These do not glory in saying, ‘There are only a few of us left,’ but are bowed down in abject humiliation at the thought of the Pharisees and hypocrites, with whom, in the past, they have been associated. These traitors pledged their support at yesterday’s election. They sold out to the enemy—they have bartered their votes, their manhood, and their honor, like Judas of old, for a few pieces of silver. The bloated bondholder and coupon-clipper—even the millionaire, with his ill-gotten gains—are as princes compared with these Ishmaelites who have bartered away their very souls with their votes. Benedict Arnold, who attempted to betray his country, was not more despicable than the low, groveling traitor who sells his vote. The “Patriot” boldly proclaims the fact that if every one in the county who professed to believe in the doctrine of purity and progress had voted his avowed sentiments, the Populist ticket would have received a majority of the votes in the county. Instead, however, but fifty-five loyal men had the courage to cast ballots that upheld the ticket and platform of the people.

“The editor of the “Patriot” desires to announce that he is about to embark in the ship “Argo” for a trip up Salt River; and like Jason, of heathen mythology, with his fifty-four companions, he expects to sail away, not in quest of a ‘golden fleece,’ but simply with a desire to breathe the pure air of self-respect. His good ship “Argo” shall be anchored where minorities are frequency stranded, away from the turbulent vicissitudes of political warfare.

“LATER.”

“Since writing the above, the editor of the “Patriot” has been confronted with a condition that may seriously interfere with his contemplated trip in the ship “Argo”, as the bark is limited in its capacity. Over twelve hundred subscribers of the “Patriot” have called, each one solemnly assuring the editor, in strictest confidence, that he was of the immortal fifty-five. The facts conflict somewhat with the statements made by this cloud of witnesses, but as most of our callers have renewed their subscriptions to the “Patriot” for another year, we have concluded to go on making a valiant fight on the side of right, with a hope and a prayer that the returns of next year’s election may show a different result.”

A few evenings after the election, Bill Kinne-man and Dan Spencer and their three committeemen associates met in the old mill to divide their booty. As it was not the regular night for the Barley Hullers’ meeting, they had no fear of being molested.

“Say, Bill,” said one of the committeemen, “did you see the major’s editorial?”

“See it,” replied Kinneman, in a surly tone, “I surely did. Waal, Spencer, speekin’ wide-open like,” he continued, “it’s dang near time we hed thet report made.”

“All right,” replied he of the wabbling tooth, as he expectorated a vigorous pit-tew of tobacco juice toward a dark corner of the room, and stroked his short, stubby red beard with a greasy hand. “All right, boys. You see me an’ Bill onbosomed ourselves an’ whooped it up purty lively, an’ teched all the candidates as hard as we dared. All the Republican candidates an’ all the Democratic fellers snorted an’ cavorted ‘round an’ actooally threatened to stampede, but they fin’lly got genial an’ coughed up, or agreed to if they wuz ‘lected. When we come to the Populist candidates, nary a danged one of ‘em would give a cent, but some of ‘em talked mighty malignant like. You see they thought they had a spechul lead-pipe cinch, anyway, on the Barley Hullers’ votes, an’ put on superior airs, but that’s where they reckoned some porely an’ got left, see?” Whereupon all five of these stalwart committeemen laughed immoderately.

“Waal,” continued the tooth wabbler, “as soon as the returns of the ‘lection wuz in, me an’ Bill started out an’, bustin’ all over with p’liteness, tackled the fellers that wuz ‘lected,—part of ‘em Republicans an’ part of ‘em Democrats. You see we surely held a paper with their names to it, an’ they nach’ally had to cough up the money, ‘cause they’s afeard we’d blow on ‘em—leastways that’s what we told ‘em we’d do fur sure. Course we knowed too much to dun the fellers that wuz defeated. So here’s a thousan’ dollars fur you-alls, in long greens, to dervide up,—two hundred dollars apiece,—not so bad, eh?” The division was soon made, to the apparent satisfaction of all, and the conference broke up. When the other committeemen had gone, and Bill Kinneman and Dan Spencer were alone, Bill said:

“Look’e ‘ere, Dan, you reported a thousan’ dollars; how much did you sure’nuff git, now, on the squar? Be straight with yer pard, or somethin’ will happen. Yer personal’ty is liable to be scattered over the landscape. I’ve dun got the drap on you, an’ am feelin’ plenty hostile.” As he said this, he carelessly fingered his revolver.

“Course, Bill,” said Dan. “You see I collected sixteen hundred dollars. That leaves me an’ you three hundred dollars apiece more.”

“Waal, that’s more like it, an’ certainly prevents a misonderstandin’,” said Bill. “Course I nach’ally knew you wuz givin’ them jays a razzle-dazzle, but you cain’t razzle-dazzle me. I wish we could ‘a’ got along ‘thout ‘em, but as they usually do most of the kitchen work, an’ you an’ me git the big end of the boodle, I guess we’ve got no kick comin’.”

Presently they mounted their mustangs and started down the valley toward Meade.

“Say, Dan,” said Bill, “can you fur sure keep a secret?”

“Waal, if the court knows herself, I kin. What’s roamin’ ‘round permiscus-like on yer mind, Bill?”

“Waal, I ain’t got no partic’lar use fur thet Stanton feller. If I don’t miss my guess, he’s snoopin’ ‘round Major Hampton’s ranch.”

“What’s that to you, Bill?”

“Waal, speakin’ wide-open like, it’s a mighty sight to me, pard,” replied Bill. “I don’t intend Marie Hampton shall fall in love with thet highfalutin cuss, even if I’s got to scatter his nachalness over the landscape.”

“Put ‘er thar, Bill,” said Dan, extending his hand, and breathing hard on his restless tooth. “I don’t hev to hev a meetin’-house fall on me afore I see which way the wind’s a-blowin’. Thet Hugh Stanton is a kind o’ soopercilious, high-steppin’ chap, an’ if he goes to interferin’ with you, we’ll fix him as easy as rollin’ off a log. No use gettin’ peevish, Bill, but if his attitood is sort o’ pesterin’ you, jist say the word, an’ he’ll not be lustin’ fur trouble very long on this ‘ere range.”

“Do you mean it, pardner?”

“I surely do,” replied Dan.

“I don’t mind onbosomin’ myself,” said Kin-neman, “an’ sayin’ she’s the purtiest woman in the hull world, an’ I b’lieve the major ‘ill be favorable.”

“Course, Bill,” said Dan, “I’m married an’ hev nuthin’ to say, but if I wuz n’t you’d hev to speak up in meetin’ or you’d surely git left. Oh, I know a purty face when I sees it, an’ there ain’t nary a one on the range that compares with the major’s daughter.”

Kinneman’s swarthy face flushed with the greedy desire which he had long felt to possess Marie Hampton for his wife. Presently he said:

“Do you think I kin make it, Dan? I’m feelin’ a heap careless toward that ‘air Stanton feller.”

“Make it?” repeated Dan, “Course you kin. I’m assoomin’ you need n’t be afeerd of any man when it comes to sprucin’ up to a gal. If he’s got money an’ you ain’t, then it’s different agin,” and Dan Spencer leered at his companion with a wicked eye.

“Say, Dan,” Said Bill, “what would be yer attitood in a case of this ‘ere kind? Is moneybags to be respected more ‘n a man?”

“I’ll be hanged if I know fur sure,” replied Dan, as he scratched his chin, shut one eye, and breathed heavily against his big tooth. “If a man hangs ‘round an’ gits in the way betwixt you an’ sumthin’ you want, why, you’ve got to git him off the face of the airth, I reckon, even if an accidental shootin’ ensues.”

“Say, Dan,” said Bill, in a subdued voice, “I’ll bet big money you’re the nerviest feller I ever run agin’ on the range.”

“Waal,” said Dan, rather pleased at the compliment, “if there’s any money in it, jist try me.”

“Is that solid, Dan? Are you givin’ it to me straight?”

“Solid an’ straight, Bill, sure. Course it’s a heap o’ pressure to assoom; still, if the inducements are toomultuous ‘niff, I can sure git action on my artill’ry.”

“All right, I’ll not furgit yer promise. I may need you pow’rful suddin some o’ these ‘ere dark nights.”

“Waal, jist bring yer roll along when yer lookin’ fur me, an’ you’ll fin’ me dead game. Listen, what’s thet? Guess the major’s home sure ‘nuff, an’ playin’ on his fiddle.”

The two cowboys reined their ponies, and in silence listened to the melodious strains of the major’s violin. They were far down the valley from the major’s home, and the music seemed mellowed in the soft moonlight, and sweetened by the distance. He was playing “Home, Sweet Home,” with countless variations. The melody traveled lazily on the night currents, and, when it finally died away, trembled and rested like a benediction on the peace and quietude of the sleeping valley.

Soon Dan Spencer was galloping for his dug-out, east of Meade, and Bill Kinneman was heading his bronco across the prairie toward Horton’s ranch.