THE following evening Roderick called at the Major’s home, and found a visitor there, a stranger yet very well known to him by reputation. This was no other than the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the travelling parson, of whose fame as a doer of good deeds at the cost of complete self-sacrifice and self-denial, Roderick had often heard.

“Delighted to see you, Roderick,” said the Major. “Come right in. You know, of course, the most noted man in the camp—the man with the saddle bags. What? Never met yet? Well, it is a great pleasure to me to make you two acquainted.”

After cordial greetings had been exchanged Major Hampton continued: “We have just been discussing some of the great problems of humanity. Pardon me, my dear friend, but I wish to say to Mr. Warfield that if I were called upon today to name the greatest humanitarian with whom I am acquainted I certainly should say—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”

“You do me too much honor,” interposed the parson hastily. “You compliment me far too highly.” Major Hampton went on as if the Reverend Stephen Grannon had made no interruption: “The school of humanitarianism is small in number, but the combined results of their labors directed through the channels of service in the behalf of humanity bear the stamp of greatness. The sincere lover of his fellows recognizes that the poor of this world have borne and are still bearing the burdens of the race. The poor have built all the monuments along the world’s highway of civilization. They have produced all the wealth from the hills and from the soil The poor of the world have endured the hardships of conquering the wilds and erecting outposts on the border of civilization. Indeed they conquer everything except the fetters that bind them and hold them as an asset of great corporate power that is heartless and soulless and indifferent to the privations and sufferings of the individual.”

The Reverend Stephen Grannon gave it as his view that the mission of a humanitarian was not to hinder the world’s progress, nor even to prejudice anyone against the fortune gathering of the rich, but rather to dispell the darkness of injustice and assist the great army of the impoverished to a better understanding of their rights as well as their powers to conquer the evils that have throughout the ages crept into and clung to our civilization.

“Poverty,” he remarked, “is the cause of much misery and often the impelling motive to immorality and crime in many forms. Men often sell and barter their votes and birthrights in this free country to bribe givers—wily politicians—while our girls are not infrequently lured into selling their very souls for ribbons and the gaudiness and shams of the world.”

“What is the cure?” asked Roderick, greatly interested.

“The cure,” responded the preacher, “is the regeneration of mankind through the leavening and uplifting power of the principles taught by the humble humanitarian of Galilee, the great prince of righteousness.”

“Yes,” chimed in Major Hampton, “the Reverend Stephen Grannon has given you the solution for the problem. Add to this a higher education. The more highly educated the individual,” continued the Major, “the greater the crime if they break the law.”

“But,” said Roderick, “this is a free country and we have free schools. Why do not the poor have a better education?”

Reverend Grannon turned quickly to Roderick and replied: “You come with me to the twenty-odd mining camps, Mr. Warfield, surrounding this town of Encampment—come with me up in the hills where there are no schools—see the little children growing up in carelessness because of the impossibility on the part of their fathers and mothers to provide them with school privileges. In the school room the teacher becomes the overseer not alone of their studies but of their morals as well. Let me take you down in the mines,” he continued, speaking with great earnestness, “and see the boys from twelve years to twenty-one years working day after day, many of them never having had school privileges and therefore unable to read or write.”

He paused for just a moment, then resumed: “It brings to my mind what a very wise man once wrote. It was King Solomon, and among many other splendid truths he said: ‘The rich man’s wealth is his strong city; the destruction of the poor is their poverty.’.rdquo;

“Roderick,” said the Major as he lit his meerschaum and blew the smoke towards the ceiling, “my heart is very light tonight, for I have arranged with the assistance of the Reverend Stephen Grannon to help relieve this lamentable situation in those mining camps up in the mountains away from school privileges. I have recently taken the matter up with the county commissioners and have agreed to build twenty schoolhouses. Each schoolhouse will consist of two rooms. One will be for the smaller children during the day and also to serve as a night school for the young men and young women who are employed in manual labor during working hours. The other room is a library sufficiently large and spacious to accommodate the young men of each mining community and thus keep them away from saloons, brothels, and prize ring attractions. One hour each evening will be taken up by a reader and a regular course of entertaining books will be read aloud in a serial way. The books in the library will be loaned out on tickets and the usual library rules observed.”

“Splendid,” said Roderick, “that sounds practical to me.”

“It is practical,” said the Reverend Stephen Grannon, “and thanks to Major Buell Hampton this plan which I have cherished for so many years will soon be put into effect.”

Looking at his watch he turned to the Major and said: “By the way, Major, I have a couple of poor families to visit tonight. I have promised them, and they will be disappointed if I do not come.” He arose as he said this.

“My good friend,” replied Buell Hampton, “I am sorry you cannot remain longer with us, but I would not keep you from your duties.”

The Reverend Stephen Grannon put on his top coat, as the evenings were growing chilly, and after shaking hands took his departure.

When he was gone and the door closed, Major Hampton turned to Roderick and holding up one hand said reverently: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven. In all my lifetime, Roderick, I have never known another such splendid character. I have closely observed his work ever since I came to this camp. Perhaps in his entire lifetime he has not collected fifty dollars in money. He says he does not want money.”

“But he must have money to live on.”

“Above all money considerations,” said the Major, looking into the darkened corner of his living room, “he wants to save souls here on this earth so that he will have more jewels in his crown over yonder—these are his own words. There is not a family in the surrounding country that he is not acquainted with. If there is sickness he is the first one there. Where the greatest poverty abounds you will find him. He goes out and solicits alms for those in distress, but keeps nothing for himself excepting the frailest living. Go through the valley or up in the mountain gorges or still farther up in the mining camps where the snow never melts from the shady side of the log cabins, and you will find this noble character, Reverend Stephen Grannon, doing his good work for the poor—ministering to their wants and endeavoring to lift humanity into higher walks, physically, morally, and spiritually.”

“I am glad you have told me all this,” replied Roderick. “It increases my already high opinion of the parson.”

“He is a veritable shepherd among the people,” continued Major Hampton. “Reverend Grannon is the true flockmaster of Wyoming. The people are frequently unruly, boisterous, intemperate and immoral, yet he treats them with greatest consideration and seeks to persuade and lead them away from their sins and transgressions. Yes, he is a great flockmaster—he is well named The Flockmaster.”

Both were silent for a few moments. Then the Major, as if suddenly remembering something, looked up and said: “He tells me Scotty Meisch is getting along fine over in the Dillon Doublejack printing office.”

“I am glad to hear that,” exclaimed Roderick. “It is good to have saved at least one lad from going the way of those outlaws of Jack Creek. I have never forgotten that ghastly midnight scene—the massacred sheep and the burning herders’ wagons.”

“Well, what can you expect?” asked the Major. “When the social waters are poisoned at the fountain head, the whole course of the stream becomes pernicious. In this state of Wyoming the standard of political decency is not high. The people have no real leaders to look up to. The United States Senator, F. E. Greed, sets a pernicious example to the rising generation. He violates laws in scores of instances because of his greed and grafting proclivities, and his bribed supporters go on year after year supporting him. What the state needs is a leader. High-minded leaders are priceless. Their thoughts and their deeds are the richest legacy to a state or a community. Great leaders are beacon lights kindled upon the mountain peaks of the centuries, illuminating the mental and moral atmosphere of civilization. The history of the world—of a nation, of a state and of a community—is the story of their epochal deeds, while man’s advancement is only the lengthened shadow of their moral, spiritual and temporal examples. Leaders come up from the crowd, from among the poor and the lowly. They are immediately recognized by the great mass of the people and invariably crowned, although sometimes it is a crown of thorns that they are compelled to wear and endure for upholding priceless principles in their endeavor to lead humanity to a higher plane. However,” concluded the Major, “the world is growing better. The nimble-fingered, tilltapping, porch-climbing derelicts in politics and commercialism are becoming unpopular. The reprehensible methods in all avenues of life are being condemned instead of condoned—the goats are being cast out from among the sheep.”

“You interest me very much, Major,” said Roderick. “Your ideals are so high, your aims so decent and right, that it is a pleasure to hear you talk. I am a firm believer,” Roderick went on, “in the justice of the doctrine that all men are created free and equal.”

“It is a sad commentary,” replied Major Hampton, “in this land where liberty is cherished and our Government corner-stoned upon the theory that all men are free and equal, that even the soberest of us are compelled, my dear Roderick, to regard such affirmations as blasphemous. To illustrate: An employee in one of the big manufacturing combinations committed a burglary—almost petty larceny in its smallness—another case of Jean Valjean stealing bread for his children—and yet he was tried before an alleged court of justice and sent to the penitentiary for ten years. The head of the same institution pillaged multiplied millions from the poor in unjust and lawless extortions. When he was caught red-handed in his lawbreaking, instead of sharing a prison cell with the poor man our courts indulgently permitted this great highwayman six months’ time in which to reorganize and have legalized his methods of stealing.”

“Such rank injustice,” exclaimed Roderick, “makes my blood tingle with indignation. It is surely high time a determined crusade was led against the privileged classes.”

The Major made no reply but after a little, looking up from the open grate and turning to Roderick, he asked him if he was aware that the next day was the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Encampment Mine and Smelting Company.

“Oh, is it?” said Roderick. “Some time ago I noticed something in the newspapers about the meeting, but as it was of no particular moment to me I had forgotten it.”

“Yes,” said Major Hampton, “and I guess I will now tell you that I have been holding a secret from you.”

“That so?” exclaimed Roderick questioningly.

“You will remember,” the Major went on, “that I left you in Denver after we made the big ore shipment and that I was away for three or four weeks. Well, I went to New York, employed two or three big brokers down on Wall Street, and commenced buying Encampment Mine and Smelter Company stock on the exchange. Working jointly with a new friend I have discovered, a professional man of finance yet a true friend of humanity, I have absolute control of the stock today.”

“You have?” exclaimed Roderick. “You own a control of the stock in this great smelter and the Ferris-Haggerty mine?”

“Yes, the whole enterprise is virtually in our ownership. Well, something is going to happen tomorrow at the stockholders’ meeting which I fear will not be pleasant to certain individuals. But duty compels me to pursue a course I have mapped out. My chosen work in life is to serve the poor, yet in trying to fulfill this mission I harbor no resentful thoughts against the rich as a class nor do I intend for them any unfair treatment.”

“If the people only knew,” remarked Roderick, softly, “you are without doubt one of the richest men in this part of the country and yet you so honestly prefer the simple life.”

“There are two kinds of rich people,” continued the Major. “One class is arrogant and unfeeling; they hoard money by fair means or foul for money’s sake and for the power it brings. The other class use their wealth not to oppress but to relieve the worthy poor. Personally, Warfield, I do not regard the money which accident has made mine as being in any sense a personal possession. Rather do I hold it as a trust fund. Of course I am grateful. The money enlarges my opportunity to do things for my fellows that I wish to do.”

The Major paused a moment, then resumed: “Do you remember, Roderick, when I first told you, Jim Rankin and the others about my hidden mine that I said there were six men in the world whom I held in highest esteem?”

“I remember well,” assented Roderick.

“Well, five of you were present then—Tom Sun, Boney Earnest, and Grant Jones, with yourself and Jim. For the absent sixth one I specifically reserved a share in my prosperity, although at the time I withheld his name. Now you know it He is the one entitled to most consideration among us all—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”

“Of course he is,” concurred Roderick, with hearty conviction. “He can do more good in the world than all the rest of us together, yourself excepted, Major.”

“At present, perhaps,” said Buell Hampton. “But let his shining example be an incentive to you all—to us all. Well, in a confidential way, I will tell you, Roderick, that when in New York I also purchased a large block of bonds that yields an income of something like $20,000 per year. This income I have legally turned over with proper writings to the Reverend Stephen Grannon, and already I think you will discover a vast improvement in the mining camps and throughout the valleys among the poor. For Stephen Grannon is a godly man and a true humanitarian.”

“My word, but that’s great—that’s grand!” murmured Roderick with deep enthusiasm. And he gazed at Buell Hampton’s noble soul-lit face admiringly.

The Major rose to his feet—his usual method of intimating that he wished to be alone. Roderick grasped his hand, and would have spoken further, but Buell Hampton interrupted him.

“Say no more, my dear boy. I am glad that you have been interested in what I had to say tonight. The veil was lifted and you saw me as I am—anxious to be of benefit to my fellows. I shall indeed be proud if you find these doctrines not merely acceptable to yourself, but in some degree at least stimulative in your acts toward the worthy poor and lowly as the years come and go.”

As Roderick walked slowly along the street deep in thought over Buell Hampton’s words, he came suddenly upon W. B. Grady and several well dressed strangers at a street corner. The visitors, he surmised, were eastern directors of the big smelting company who had come to Encampment for the stockholders’ meeting on the morrow.