Instead of the terminus of a great waterway—the port where gold was brought by the ton to be shipped East from the territorial diggings; the stage where moved explorer, trader, miner and soldier—instead of being the logical metropolis of the entire Northwest, Fort Benton lay a drowsy little village, embowered in cottonwoods and dependent upon the cattlemen who made it their headquarters for shipping.
The lusty bull-whacker's yell, the mule-skinner's cry and the pop of long, biting whips were heard no more in the broad, sweeping curve of the Missouri. The levees were no longer crowded with bales of merchandise, piles of buffalo hides and boxes of gold. No steamers tied up to the rotting snubbing-posts; the bustle of the roustabouts, the oaths of the mates, the trader's activity had vanished forever, as irrevocably as the buffalo on the plains. Nothing in the prospect before him suggested to Danvers the well-remembered past except the old adobe fort on the water's edge. One bastion and a part of a wall recalled to the Anglo-American his first homesick night in the Northwest. Even the trading-posts on the river between Bismarck and Fort Benton were abandoned.
The man had altered as well. It was evident that the shy reserve of the Kentish youth had changed to the dignity of the reticent man. The military bearing remained; the eyes were steady and observant, as of old; but the youthful red and white of his face had been replaced by a clear tan, marked by lines of thought. In a country of bearded and seldom-shaved men, Philip's clean face added not a little to that look of distinction which had impressed the passengers on the Far West and gained the first enmity of Robert Burroughs.
Danvers was still unmarried. At rare intervals he read the old clipping of the two souls separated and seeking each other, but the legend had grown dim. The romantic dreams of boyhood were gone. He doubted that his heart would ever be roused again; that the ph[oe]nix flame of love would rise from the ashes of what he knew had been but the stirring of adolescent blood when he fancied that he loved Eva Thornhill. The home life of others had not impressed him as a dream fulfilled. The gradual disillusionment of the many was disheartening, and Latimer's worn, unhappy face was a constant reminder. Arthur Latimer! That blithe Southerner—believer in men—and women! Philip knew what had made him seek forgetfulness in the law and politics. The success of his friend, who had reached his goal, on the supreme bench, had gratified Danvers, and Latimer's enthusiasm and persistent belief in the ultimate good, when the builders and founders of the newly formed State should merge personal desires into one—one that had the best good of all for its incentive, tempered his dislike for American politics.
Not long after the round-up, Philip Danvers received a call from Wild Cat Bill, now known in Montana as the Honorable William Moore. His ability to promote big enterprises, whether floating a mining company or electing a friend to the legislature, was publicly known, and Danvers wondered silently what had brought the politician from Helena to the semi-deserted town of Fort Benton, and induced him to favor him with a call.
"Yes, Danvers," volunteered the affable Moore, "I just thought I'd take a few days off and see what the old place looked like."
Danvers noticed that he had dropped the vernacular, though his speech was characteristic of the West.
"It's always a pleasure to go back to the early days, when we roughed it together," Bill went on.
Philip doubted the pleasure. He recognized this sentiment as a very recent acquisition in the Honorable William Moore, and waited for further enlightenment as to the real purpose of the visit.
"The old bunch turned out pretty well, after all," Moore commented. "Robert Burroughs is a millionaire! Your sister was in luck, all right! And Bob was tickled to death when a baby came. A big girl by this time!"