III.
Denver, March 20, 1892.
My Dear Warman:—Yours of the 17th, after some unaccounted-for delay, has but just reached me. Perhaps your gifted postmistress had not time to read it at once, and so held it over till leisure should serve her curiosity; or she may have found unexpected difficulty in deciphering your ingeniously atrocious writing, which I can imagine would only increase the curiosity of a gifted woman.
I once lived where the postmaster, a man of intellectual inclinations, was very slow at reading manuscript, being obliged to spell out the words laboriously, and I found the delay occasioned by the interest he took in studying my epistolary style, to improve his mind, a great annoyance. But a bright thought struck me one day, and I employed a typewriter. After that there was but little delay, for he could read print very well. I offer you the value of this experience, not at all on my account, for I can generally manage to make out what you are writing about pretty closely, but to promote expedition in mail service. It occurs to me to mention, however, en passant, that if you fail in that newspaper enterprise, you still have a bright career for your pen before you in the Orient, marking tea-chests. Do not imagine that I am complaining when I say that your friends would find more time to love you if you would employ a typewriter.
But all this is neither here nor there. I am in despair at the devil-may-care tone in which you write about Miss Parsons, and I am really alarmed about her not having arrived. She certainly could not have had much money by her to make a leisurely trip of it, stopping off to see the towns and the scenery en route.
Her mother was in a few moments ago, and not having heard from her, is naturally anxious, but I affected to consider it nothing. As a matter of fact, I regard it as very strange and alarming, considering that she left Denver with a man I strongly suspect is a scamp, and if the Sure Thing Mining Company has no office there, the worst is to be feared. It looks very bad.
My hope is, that in your indifference to my request, not appreciating the seriousness of the case, you have not looked around. I suppose it is a matter of no little trouble to find any one, unless you happen upon him, in such a mad rush as has set in for Creede. I met Whitehead of the News, who is just back from there, and he says that not only are the platforms even of the cars crowded, but men actually ride on top from Alamosa over, in the craze to get there. What insanity! How can such a rush of people be housed and fed in a camp that contained but five little cabins ninety days ago! But it is all grist for your mill, of course.
Now, can I make you understand the seriousness of this case? You certainly know how easy it is for a villain to compromise a young and pretty girl like Miss Parsons in a place like Creede, and you know that a young girl compromised is already half ruined. As I have said, Polly is a pure-minded, honest girl of great force of character. I consider her taking up and mastering shorthand and typewriting and telegraphing, sufficient evidence of that; but she is inexperienced and unsuspicious, and may find herself undone before she realizes her danger. Besides, that fellow Ketchum is a handsome, unscrupulous man, with an oily tongue in his head.
I have to go to Chicago to-night and I shall be absent two or three weeks, otherwise I would run down to Creede myself—so great is my anxiety about this girl, whom I have known from her cradle.
I must leave the matter in your hands—if I can only make you look at it seriously. Her mother’s address is No. 1796 California street—Mrs. Matilda Parsons. Communicate with her if necessary. I have told her about writing to you, etc.
Probably, while in Chicago, I shall be able to look up her father and will talk with him about the matter. Now please take up this matter seriously and oblige me forever.
Au revoir, and good luck to you with the paper.
Fitz-Mac.
IV.
Creede, Colo., March 25, ’92.
My Dear Fitz:—Since receiving your second letter, I have left nothing undone in the way of keeping a constant lookout for Miss Parsons, for I see how terribly in earnest you are. Yesterday I took dinner at a little restaurant in Upper Creede, and when the girl came to take my order she almost took my breath. There was something about her that told me that she was new at the business; and I began to be hopeful that she might be the young lady for whom I had been looking for the past week. When the rest had left the table, I asked for a second cup of coffee, and when she brought it, I made an attempt to engage the girl in conversation.
“You are very busy here,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered, with a slight raise of the eyebrows, and just a hint of a smile playing round her mouth.
“I presume you get very tired by closing time,” I ventured.
“We never close,” she said; and again I noticed the same movement of the eyes.
I knew she thought I was endeavoring to build up an acquaintance, and it annoyed me. If there is one thing I dislike, it is to be taken for a masher when I am not trying to mash.
“Haven’t I seen you in Denver?”
“Perhaps.”
“Haven’t I seen you with Mr. Ketchum?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know Mr. Ketchum?” I asked with some embarrassment.
“Do you?”
“Well, not very intimately,” was my somewhat uncertain reply. “Is he in town?”
The girl laughed in real earnest. When she did compose herself, she asked, “Are you a reporter for the new paper?”
I told her I was not, and then I asked her if she could tell me where Mr. Ketchum’s office was.
It was down the street near the Holy Moses saloon, she said; and I congratulated myself upon having gotten a straight and lucid reply from her.
“Is he in town?” was my next question.
“He was at this table when you came in. Don’t you know him?”
“Not very well,” said I.
“Then how do you know you saw me with Mr. Ketchum?”
I said he must have changed.
“No,” said the girl, showing some spunk. “You don’t know him. You never saw him; but you are trying to be funny. Your name is Lon Hartigan, and I am dead onto you.”
“O, break!—break away!” said a chemical blonde, as she swept in from the kitchen, coming to the rescue of her “partner,” as she called her. “The girls from the Beebee put us onto you and that fellow from New York. You can’t come none of your monkey doodle business here. Mr. Ketchum is the nicest man ’at eats here and he always leaves a dollar under his plate.” And the drug-store blonde snapped her fingers under my nose, whirled on her heel, and banging a soiled towel into a barrel that stood by the door leading to the kitchen, she swept from the room.
“Will you bring me some hot coffee?” I said, softly, to the girl with her own hair.
“You misjudge me,” I began, as she set it down.
“I am sorry,” she replied with a hemi-smile that hinted of sympathy, but is worse than no sympathy.
“Now, see here,” I began, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours. My name is Warman.”
“My name is Boyd—Inez Boyd,” said the girl, “and I am sorry to have talked as I have, to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said I, as I left the room.
Outside I saw a sign which read: “The Sure Thing Mining and Milling Company, Capital Stock, $1,000,000.”
The next moment I stood in the outer office, saw a sign on a closed door: “F. I. Ketchum—Private.”
I opened a little wooden gate, stepped to the private entrance and knocked. A tall, good-looking man of thirty-five to forty, with soft gray hair, came out and closed the door quickly.
“Is this Mr. Ketchum?” I asked.
“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”
Now that was a sticker. It had not occurred to me that to call a man out of his private office one ought to have some business.
“I’m the editor of the Chronicle and I just dropped in to get acquainted. I have heard of your company.”
The man looked black. “We are not looking for newspaper notoriety,” he said, without offering me a seat. In short, he didn’t rave over me, as some of the real estate men did, and after asking how the property of the company was looking, I went away. Poor as I am, I would have given twenty to have seen into the “Private” room.
I write all this in detail, that you may know how hard I have tried to do my duty to you as a friend, and to the poor unfortunate girl, as a man. I shall have more time from now on, as I have for my superintendent and general master mechanic, Mr. J. D. Vaughan, who can make a newspaper, from the writing of the editorial page, to the mailing list. In the past, as now, he has always been with distinguished men. He was with Artemus Ward at Cleveland, Wallace Gruelle, at Louisville, Bartley Campbell, at New Orleans, Will L. Visscher when he ran the “Headlight,” on board the steamer Richmond running between Louisville and New Orleans, and with Field and Rothaker on the Denver Tribune.
We got out our first issue Monday, and I feel a great deal better. It has been the dream of my life to have a daily paper, and we have got one now that is all wool and as wide as the press will print. I have this line under the heading:
“Polities: Free Coinage; Religion: Creede.”
I think that line will last. It is what we must live for and hope for. Of course, we expect to lose money for a few months; but if the camp continues to grow, the Chronicle Publishing Company will be a good venture. There are many hardships to be endured in a mining camp. The printers had to stand in an uncovered house and set type while the snow drifted around their collars. They held a meeting in the rear office Sunday, organized a printers’ union, fixed a schedule to suit themselves—fifty cents a thousand; and, in order that I might not feel lonely, I was made an honorary member of the union.
Mr. George W. Childs was taken in at the same time. My salary is to be fifty dollars a week; but I don’t intend to draw my salary until the paper is on a paying basis.
We have not got our motor in place yet, and I had to pay two Mexicans twelve dollars for turning the press the first night. Coal is ten dollars a ton; coal oil sixty cents a gallon. We use a ton of coal every twenty-four hours and five gallons of oil every night. It was a novel sight to see the newsboys running here and there through the willows, climbing up the steep sides of the gulch to the tents and cabins crying “Morning Chronicle!” where the mountain lion and the grizzly bear had their homes but six months ago. The interesting feature in the first issue is a three-column account of Gambler Joe Simmons’ funeral. It tells how the gang stood at the grave and drank “To Joe’s soul over there—if there is any over there.”
Yours always,
Cy Warman.
IV.
Creede, Colo., March 28, 1892.
Dear Fitz:—Three days ago I wrote you that I had located Mr. Ketchum but failed to find the girl. Yesterday being Sunday, I went down to the hot springs at Wagon Wheel Gap to spend the day. At the hotel I met Mrs. McCleland, of Alamosa, and while we were conversing, a lady commenced to sing in the parlor. The soft notes that came from the piano mingled with a voice so full of soulful melody, that I stopped talking and listened. “Do you like music?” asked the good lady from the San Luis. “There is but one thing sweeter,” I said, “and that is poetry—the music of the soul. Take me in, won’t you?”
We entered so softly that the young woman at the piano failed to notice our coming, and sang on to the end of the piece.
“La Paloma!” How different from the strains I had heard during the past week, from the Umpah band in front of the Olympic Theater.
When she had finished, the singer turned, blushed, and rising, advanced toward my friend, holding out her hand; and I was surprised and pleased to hear Mrs. Mc. say: “Well, I want to know—are you here?”
The young lady acknowledged that she was, and went into a long explanation that she had concluded to stop at the springs until matters were in a little better shape at Creede.
“Where is Mr. ——, Mr. ——,” stammered Mrs. Mc.
“Oh, he’s in Creede,” said the young lady, as she shot a glance at me which was followed by a becoming blush. “He is so busy at the mines; they work a great many men, you know.”
All this time I had been looking over Mrs. McCleland’s shoulder into an exceedingly bright and interesting face.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the good lady, “this is Mr. Warman, Miss Parsons.”
I don’t know for the life of me, whether I said “Howdy,” or “Good-by,” I was dazed. I had forgotten the while I looked into that beautiful face, that such a person lived as Polly Parsons, and when it came to me all at once like the firing of a blast, it took the wind out of my sails and left me helpless in mid-ocean.
“Where did you meet Miss Parsons?” I asked, when the young lady had left the room.
“At Alamosa, some two weeks ago, she stopped at our hotel, and I didn’t like the looks of the man she was with; so I asked her to sleep in a spare room just off from my own.
“I heard him trying to persuade her to go to Creede with him the next day, but could not understand what her argument was, except that she would not go to Creede until there was something for her to do.”
“Who was this man?” I asked.
“His name is Ketchum; he is connected with the Sure Thing Mining Company.”
“At last!” I said with a sigh that was really a relief to me.
After luncheon, I gave the letter you sent, to Miss Parsons, and I watched her face while she read it.
Of one of two things I am convinced; either she loves you and was glad to see that letter, or she hates you and will do as much for me. That is as near as you can guess a pretty woman.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss Parsons—” “O, I am quite capable of getting along alone,” she said. “I thank you, of course, but there is nothing; I am promised a good position in Mr. Ketchum’s office as soon as they get things in shape. I have some ready money with me, enough to pay my expenses at the hotel.”
“You will not find so pleasant a hotel in Creede as this, Miss Parsons. The Pattons are nice people, and it would be better, I think, for you to remain here until a position is open for you,” I ventured by way of advice.
“Mr. Ketchum has engaged a room for me over the Albany Restaurant,” she said, “and he is to call here for me to-morrow.”
“But, Miss Parsons,” said I, “do you know what sort of a place that is?”
“I know, sir, that Mr. Ketchum would not take me to an improper place,” and she gave her head a twist that told me that my advice was not wanted.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Parsons,” said I, by way of explanation; “I was thinking of the Albany Theater building; the restaurant may be all right. But I was thinking only of your welfare.”
“Thank you,” she said, but she meant “Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Good-by, Miss Parsons,” I said, extending my hand. “Hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you in Creede.”
“I go to Creede to-morrow,” she said as she gave me a warm, plump hand and said “Good-by.”
Fitz, forgive me for being so slow; but you forgot to tell me how beautiful she was; the Poet of the Kansas City Star would say: “Her carriage, face and figure are perfection; and her smile is a shimmer-tangled day-dream, as she drifts adown the aisle.” Such eyes! like miniature seas, set about with weeping willows, and hair like ripening grain, with the sunlight sifting through it.
Good-by,
Cy Warman.