A quarter to one! Next morning--no; that very morning at nine o'clock, Peterson would step up to the window of the land-office in Meander and file on Claim Number One--_his_ claim--Dr. Warren Slavens' claim, the seed of his dead hope. That is, if the long chance that lay between him and that hour should be allowed to pa.s.s unimproved.

"Do you want to sell that watch?" asked the doctor suddenly.

The old man looked up at him sharply, the shadow of his nose falling long upon his slanting paper.

"You go to thunder!" said he.

"No," said Slavens without showing offense. "I want that watch for a few hours, and I'll pay you for it if you want to let me have it."

He drew out a roll of money as thick as the old man's thin neck, and stood with it in his hand. The old man slipped the leather thong from his b.u.t.tonhole and laid the watch on the board in front of him.

"It cost me a dollar two or three years ago"--what was a year to him in his fruitless life, anyway?--"and if you want to give me a dollar for it now you can take it."

Slavens took up the timepiece after putting down the required price.

"I paid for my bed in advance, you remember?" said he.

The old clerk nodded, his dull eye on the pocket into which all that money had disappeared.

"Well, I'm going out for a while, and I may not be back. That's all."

With that the doctor pa.s.sed out into the street.

Eight hours between him and the last chance at Claim Number One--eight hours, and sixty miles. That was not such a mighty stretch for a good horse to cover in eight hours--nothing heroic; very ordinary in truth, for that country.

With a clearly defined purpose, Slavens headed for the corral opposite the Hotel Metropole, beside which the man camped who had horses for hire. A lantern burned at the closed flap of the tent. After a little shaking of the pole and rough shouting, the man himself appeared, overalled and booted and ready for business.

"You must weigh a hundred and seventy?" said he, eying his customer over after he had been told what a horse was wanted for. "What's your hurry to git to Meander?"

"A hundred and eighty," corrected the doctor, "and none of your business! If you want to hire me a horse, bring him out. If you don't, talk fast."

"I ain't got one I'd hire you for that ride, heavy as you are," said the man; "but I've got one a feller left here for me to sell that I'd sell you."

"Let me see him," said the doctor.

The man came out of the straw-covered shed presently, leading a pretty fair-looking creature. He carried a saddle under his arm. While the doctor looked the beast over with the lantern the man saddled it.

"Well, how much?" demanded the doctor.

"Hundred and fifty," said the man.

"I'll give you a hundred, and that's fifty more than he's worth," the doctor offered.

"Oh, well, seein' you're in such a rush," the man sighed.

As he pocketed the price he gave the directions asked.

"They's two roads to Meander," he explained; "one the freighters use that runs over the hills and's solid in most all kinds of weather, and the stage-road, that follows the river purty much. It's shorter by a few miles and easier to foller; but it's got some purty loose ground here and there."

"Much obliged," said the doctor, striking his heels to his horse's sides and galloping off, following the road which he had seen the stages take to Meander, in the days when Claim Number One was farther off even than eight hours and sixty miles.

CHAPTER XI

NUMBER ONE

In Meander that morning people began to gather early at the land-office, for it was the first day for filing, and a certain designated number, according to the rules laid down and understood before the drawing, must appear and make entry on their chosen tracts.

There had been a good deal of talk and excitement over the nonappearance in Meander of the man who drew the first chance. The story had gone around, from what source n.o.body knew, that he would lapse, in which case Number Two would become Number One, and all along the line would advance. Number One would have to be there to file first, as Number Two could not be entered ahead of him, and if he did not step up to the window when it opened, his chance was gone forever.

The United States Government would accept no excuses; the machinery of its vast, admirable business could not be thrown out of gear for an hour or a day, and stand idle while the clerks waited for the holder of Claim Number One to come from some distant part and step into his own. So there was a good deal of nervousness and talking, and speculating and crowding forward in the waiting line, as the hour for opening the office drew near.

At the head of the line, holding a card with certain figures on it, stood Axel Peterson, a bony-faced man with lean, high shoulders, engineer in the flour-mill at Meander. Peterson strained his long neck and lifted his chin as if his loose collar bound him and choked his aspirations.

It was a racking hour for Axel Peterson, who had been offered a sum which was riches to him if he would file on the land described by the figures on the card, pay its purchase price to the government on the spot with the money provided him for that purpose, and then step out.

Already he had signed an agreement to make a deed to it. However, the land was yet in the mists of uncertainty just ahead, beyond his grasp.

For it was stipulated in his agreement that if the-holder of the first choice should appear in time to file, then Peterson was to hand over the money which he carried in his pocket to purchase immediate t.i.tle to the claim. In that case, Jerry Boyle, the Governor's son, who stood side by side with Peterson before the window and held Peterson's agreement to deed certain described lands in his hand; in that case Jerry Boyle would be free to open negotiations with the holder of the first chance.

There was no secret among those gathered to file regarding what was going forward at the head of the line. It was generally understood, also, that others were on hand to grab the same piece of land as that which Boyle was so eager to get into his possession. Gold, some said.

Others were strong in the statement that it was coal and oil. At any rate there was another man present who had been active with Peterson, but he had arrived too late. Boyle already had the Scandinavian down in writing.

Milo Strong was in his place, hoping in his heart that Dr. Slavens would not appear, as the physician's lapse would set him one forward. Off to one side, among hundreds gathered to witness the filing on lands which would mean the development of a great stretch of country around Meander, and thereby add to its prosperity and importance, were William and Horace Bentley and Agnes.

They watched the clerks in the land-office arrive and enter through the side door. A shelf had been arranged in one of the front windows of the office, past which the entrants could file without going into the building. At nine o'clock this window would be opened. It was before it that Peterson and Jerry were standing.

William Bentley looked at his watch.

"Seven minutes more," he announced.

"He'll never come," said Agnes, shaking her head sadly. "His chance is slipping away."

"I've hoped right up to this minute that he would come," said William, "but I drop out now. It would have been such easy money for him, too."

"Yes; Boyle's got that fellow tied up to relinquish to him the minute the entry is made," Horace added. "I know the lawyer who drew up the papers. It's illegal all through, but they say Boyle's got such a pull through his father that anything he wants will go."

Until that hour Agnes had kept her faith in Dr. Slavens and her hope that he would appear in time to save his valuable claim. Now hope was gone, and faith, perhaps, had suffered a tarnishment of l.u.s.ter.

For that is the way of human judgment. When one whom we have expected to rise up out of the smoke of obscurity or the fog of calumniation fails in what we feel to be his obligation to the world and ourselves--especially ourselves--faith falters in its place, and gives way to reproach, bitter words, hot arraignments. There is no scorn like the scorn of one who has been a friend.

And still Agnes kept her faith that Dr. Slavens was blameless for his unexplained disappearance and prolonged absence deep-anch.o.r.ed in her heart. But there was a surface irritation at that moment, a disposition to censure and scold. For nothing short of death should keep a man away from the main chance of his career, thought she, and she could not believe that he was dead.

It was altogether disappointing, depressing. He should have come; he should have moved the enc.u.mbering obstacles out of his way, no matter what their bulk. Not so much for his own sake maybe, when all was refined to its base of thought, as for the redemption of her faith and trust.

"I don't care to stay and see them file," said she, turning away. "I'll get enough of it, I suppose, when my turn comes, waiting in line that way in the sun."