“After what you’ve done for him. Don’t you think that will make a difference, Waring?”
His friend laughed without mirth. “What have I done for him? I left him in the snow to die, and while a good many thousand other people would bless me for it, probably he has a different point of view.”
“I was thinking of what you did for his wife.”
“You’ve said it exactly. I did it for her, not for him. I’ll accept nothing from Harley on that account. He is outside of the friendship between her and me, and he can’t jimmy his way in.”
Yesler shrugged his shoulders. “All right. I’ll order a rig hitched for you and drive you over myself. I want to talk over this senatorial fight anyhow. The way things look now it’s going to be the rottenest session of the legislature we’ve ever had. Sometimes I’m sick of being mixed up in the thing, but I got myself elected to help straighten out things, and I’m certainly going to try.”
“That’s right, Sam. With a few good fighters like you we can win out. Anything to beat the Consolidated.”
“Anything to keep our politics decent,” corrected the other. “I’ve got nothing against the Consolidated, but I won’t lie down and let it or any other private concern hog-tie this State—not if I can help it, anyhow.”
Behind wary eyes Ridgway studied him. He was wondering how far this man would go as his tool. Sam Yesler held a unique position in the State. His influence was commanding among the sturdy old-time population represented by the non-mining interests of the smaller towns and open plains. He must be won at all hazards to lend it in the impending fight against Harley. The mine-owner knew that no thought of personal gain would move him. He must be made to feel that it was for the good of the State that the Consolidated be routed. Ridgway resolved to make him see it that way.
CHAPTER VII.
BACK FROM ARCADIA
The president of the Mesa Ore-producing Company stepped from the parlor-car of the Limited at the hour when all wise people are taking life easy after a good dinner. He did not, however, drive to his club, but took a cab straight for his rooms, where he had telegraphed Eaton to meet him with the general superintendent of all his properties and his private secretary, Smythe. For nearly a week his finger had been off the pulse of the situation, and he wanted to get in touch again as soon as possible. For in a struggle as tense as the one between him and the trust, a hundred vital things might have happened in that time. He might be coming back to catastrophe and ruin, brought about while he had been a prisoner to love in that snow-bound cabin.