"We've concluded," said Bill, "as 'twouldn't hardly be right to leave you ditched."
Albeit Carter's eyes returned Hart's twinkle, he replied in kind. "I'm real tickled to think that you won't desert me."
And so, with this bit of diplomatic comedy, ended not only the strike, but also the bitter fight which he, like every village Hampden, had had to wage against the envious ignorance of his fellows. For a while, to be sure, their stiff necks would balk at the homage secret consciousness dictated as his meed. They would refuse it, indeed, till the world outside sealed his success; whereafter every man of them would proclaim himself as the particular prophet who had discerned greatness in his humble beginnings. But in the mean time they would refrain from further hostilities.
"What about that Red man?" Smythe said, as the delegation made its jubilant way back to its fellows. "You'll surely discharge him?"
"Michigan Red?" Carter said. "Not if he wants to stay. His team is worth any two in camp, and his teeth are drawn for good. But he won't stay."
"That's a cinch," Bender echoed. "He's due in Winnipeg to report his failure sometime in the next three days."
XXX
FIRE
Dawn saw the strikers going about their chores with a cheerful alacrity that was as gall to Michigan Red, who chewed the bitter cud of unsuccessful leadership as he sat drumming his heels on a block by the cook-house door. He had come to the end of his rope—rather, dangled there, an object of contemptuous pity in the eyes of his fellows. Had he doubted the fact, it was to be easily read in their studied avoidance; but he knew that he had failed—in what? He could hardly have answered the question himself; for whether or no he had plotted in the monopoly's interest, the strike was merely incidental to the persistent war he had waged against Carter, to the dogged opposition which had root in the turbulent anarchism of his nature. Sufficient that though his weird face held its usual bleak calm, he writhed, mentally, under defeat, while the few who ventured within range of his tongue sensed the lava beneath the crust.
"Not with this crowd. I draw the color line," he rasped, when Anderson inquired if he were not going to work, while Carrots Smith drew a curse along with the information, "It's me for a better job. I'm tired of herding sheep." So now he was left strictly alone, though speculative glances travelled often his way.