“I’m moving from the hotel,” said she quickly, “to a room I’ve taken with a dear old lady in a funny little house among the trees. It’s cheaper for me while I wait to file. I’ll see you to say good-bye.”
She hurried away, leaving the two men standing looking after her, Horace smiling, for he did not altogether understand. William could see deeper. He knew that she was afraid lest her disappointment would burst out in tears if she remained to see Axel Peterson square his elbows on the shelf before the window and make entry on Claim Number One.
A clerk within the office was pounding on the window-sash, for the paint which the building had been treated to in honor of the occasion had gummed it fast. Axel Peterson, straining his long neck, swallowing dry gulps, looked to the right, the left, the rear. The ends of his 177 fingers were fairly on Claim Number One; nobody was pressing forward to supplant him and take away his chance.
Of course, in case Boyle could not induce the holder of the first chance, in the event that he might yet come, to file on the coveted land, then there would be a chance left for Peterson. So Peterson knew–Boyle had made that plain. But who could resist the amount Boyle was ready to give? Nobody, concluded Axel Peterson, feeling a chill of nervousness sweep him as the window-sash gave and the window opened, showing the two clerks ready, with their pens in hand.
The preliminary questions were being asked; the card with Peterson’s signature on it was taken out of the file for its identification–although he was personally known to everybody in the town–for no detail of caution and dignity could be omitted on an occasion so important as that; Axel Peterson was taking his breath in short bites, his hand trembling as he took up the pen to enter his name when that moment should arrive; his voice was shaking as he answered the questions put to him by the clerk.
There was a stirring down the line, and a crowding forward. From the outer rim of the people gathered to bear witness to the important ceremony there rose a subdued shout, like the expression of wonder or surprise. The volume of this sound increased as it swept toward the office. Those in the line, Axel Peterson first of all, saw a movement in the crowd, saw it part 178 and open a lane for a dusty man on a sweat-drenched horse to pass.
One of the clerks arranged the detail-map of the reservation before him with great deliberation, his pen ready to check off the parcel of land when the entrant should give its description. The other spread the blank on the desk, dipped his pen, and asked:
“What tract do you wish to file on, Mr. Peterson?”
The man on horseback had forged through the crowd and brought his stumbling beast to a stand not a rod away from Axel Peterson’s side. Peterson had viewed the proceeding with a disturbing qualm. Boyle, as talkative before as a washerwoman, now grew suddenly silent. His mouth stood open impotently; the gray of a sinking heart came over his face as he looked long at the battered man, who had dropped the reins to the ground and was coming toward them on unsteady legs.
Then, in a flash, Boyle recovered his poise.