It was the fourth of February in the year 1875. It had beena severe winter, and the snow lay deep in the gorges of theGilmerton Mountains. The steam ploughs had, however, kept therailroad open, and the evening train which connects the long lineof coal-mining and iron-working settlements was slowly groaningits way up the steep gradients which lead from Stagville on theplain to Vermissa, the central township which lies at the head ofVermissa Valley. From this point the track sweeps downward toBartons Crossing, Helmdale, and the purely agricultural countyof Merton. It was a single track railroad; but at every siding—andthey were numerous—long lines of trucks piled with coal andiron ore told of the hidden wealth which had brought a rudepopulation and a bustling life to this most desolate corner of theUnited States of America.
For desolate it was! Little could the first pioneer who hadtraversed it have ever imagined that the fairest prairies and themost lush water pastures were valueless compared to this gloomyland of black crag and tangled forest. Above the dark and oftenscarcely penetrable woods upon their flanks, the high, bare crownsof the mountains, white snow, and jagged rock towered upon eachflank, leaving a long, winding, tortuous valley in the centre. Upthis the little train was slowly crawling.
The oil lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger car, along, bare carriage in which some twenty or thirty people wereseated. The greater number of these were workmen returningfrom their day’s toil in the lower part of the valley. At least adozen, by their grimed faces and the safety lanterns which theycarried, proclaimed themselves miners. These sat smoking in agroup and conversed in low voices, glancing occasionally at twomen on the opposite side of the car, whose uniforms and badgesshowed them to be policemen.
Several women of the labouring class and one or two travellerswho might have been small local storekeepers made up the restof the company, with the exception of one young man in a cornerby himself. It is with this man that we are concerned. Take a goodlook at him; for he is worth it.
He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far,one would guess, from his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd,humorous gray eyes which twinkle inquiringly from time to timeas he looks round through his spectacles at the people abouthim. It is easy to see that he is of a sociable and possibly simpledisposition, anxious to be friendly to all men. Anyone could pickhim at once as gregarious in his habits and communicative in hisnature, with a quick wit and a ready smile. And yet the man whostudied him more closely might discern a certain firmness of jawand grim tightness about the lips which would warn him thatthere were depths beyond, and that this pleasant, brown-hairedyoung Irishman might conceivably leave his mark for good or evilupon any society to which he was introduced.
Having made one or two tentative remarks to the nearestminer, and receiving only short, gruff replies, the traveller resignedhimself to uncongenial silence, staring moodily out of the windowat the fading landscape.
It was not a cheering prospect. Through the growing gloomthere pulsed the red glow of the furnaces on the sides of the hills.
Great heaps of slag and dumps of cinders loomed up on eachside, with the high shafts of the collieries towering above them.
Huddled groups of mean, wooden houses, the windows of whichwere beginning to outline themselves in light, were scattered hereand there along the line, and the frequent halting places werecrowded with their swarthy inhabitants.
The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resortsfor the leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signsof the crudest battle of life, the rude work to be done, and therude, strong workers who did it.
The young traveller gazed out into this dismal country witha face of mingled repulsion and interest, which showed that thescene was new to him. At intervals he drew from his pocket abulky letter to which he referred, and on the margins of whichhe scribbled some notes. Once from the back of his waist heproduced something which one would hardly have expected tofind in the possession of so mild-mannered a man. It was a navyrevolver of the largest size. As he turned it slantwise to the light,the glint upon the rims of the copper shells within the drumshowed that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored it to hissecret pocket, but not before it had been observed by a workingman who had seated himself upon the adjoining bench.
“Hullo, mate!” said he. “You seem heeled and ready.”
The young man smiled with an air of embarrassment.
“Yes,” said he, “we need them sometimes in the place I comefrom.”
“And where may that be?”
“I’m last from Chicago.”
“A stranger in these parts?”
“Yes.”
“You may find you need it here,” said the workman.
“Ah! is that so?” The young man seemed interested.
“Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?”
“Nothing out of the way.”
“Why, I thought the country was full of it. You’ll hear quickenough. What made you come here?”
“I heard there was always work for a willing man.”
“Are you a member of the union?”
“Sure.”
“Then you’ll get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?”
“Not yet; but I have the means of making them.”
“How’s that, then?”
“I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen. There’s no townwithout a lodge, and where there is a lodge I’ll find my friends.”
The remark had a singular effect upon his companion. Heglanced round suspiciously at the others in the car. The minerswere still whispering among themselves. The two police officerswere dozing. He came across, seated himself close to the youngtraveller, and held out his hand.
“Put it there,” he said.
A hand-grip passed between the two.
“I see you speak the truth,” said the workman. “But it’s well tomake certain.” He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow. Thetraveller at once raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.
