Part 67

"Get inside, sir, quick!"

For the first time in his life, Clark felt himself passed from hand to hand, and landed, fuming, on the other side of the big gates. The voice of the mob lifted to an infuriated howl. Simultaneously the rear ranks pressed forward.

Fighting began the next instant. Belding's revolver barked viciously, while he shot low at legs and feet. Three men went down to be engulfed in the oncoming tide. Baudette was standing firm, his cold blue eyes alight with the fire of battle. His broad axe was cutting swift circles around him, while he dodged a shower of missiles. To right and left of him fifty axe handles rose and fell like flails, and behind them was all the skill and sinew of those who dwell amongst big timber. Then a jagged fragment of iron casting took Baudette on the knee, and he went down.

The battle grew, while the faithful ranks thinned visibly. Just through the big gates lay the battlemented works, and toward them pressed the mob, now drunk with the hunger to destroy. At the moment when it seemed that the living barrier must collapse, the rioters wheeled to meet a new attack. With the sound of fighting, Manson pushed on and now struck hard. His thirty constables set their batons going, and there came the heavy crack of loaded wood on thick skulls. Fisette, his eyes gleaming, was tapping like a deadly woodpecker with his pick, and the impetus of this onslaught drove a formidable wedge into the surging mass. Manson's great voice bellowed unspeakable things in the lust of combat, his dark visage distorted, his mighty body gathered into a great, human battering ram.

Presently the constable too went down with a shattered arm, and the line of police shortened and curved. Fisette found himself throttled by a muscular arm which shot round his neck, and two minutes later they were surrounded and fighting for their lives.

The battle surged and palpitated. What remained of Baudette's axemen were behind the big gates, where Belding had dragged the prostrate foreman. Clark stood in absolute calmness, though he knew that presently this barrier would be battered down.

Belding drew a long breath and shot a fascinated glance at his chief. It flashed into his mind that Clark was getting punishment now, not only in the eyes of the world, but also in the eyes of the man from whom he had taken that which was dearest and best. But his leader's gaze was as clear as ever.

"It can't last much longer, sir," he shouted through the uproar. His automatic was empty, and he could only watch the front rank of rioters pick up a great baulk of timber and balance it opposite the gates. Then a sudden chill struck to his very soul. What would happen in St. Marys?

Clark, staring at him, just as suddenly perceived what was in his mind.

"Take my launch," he called into his ear. "You can land at the house. Hurry! Don't mind about me."

Belding hung for a moment in frantic uncertainty, and shook his head. He was next in command here, but a short mile away was his heart's desire, defenseless, save for what resistance could be hastily organized in the town. It was questionable what that was worth, and his whole soul commanded him to go to her. For an instant he felt sick, then over him flooded the cold conviction that, even though he saved Clark for Elsie, he must stay and see this thing through.

Suddenly from far down the road came a sharp rattle, that pierced the uproar and brought a grim, inflexible message. Clark heard it, and over his face stole an expression of relief. The mob heard it, and through their surging ranks ran that which sobered and cooled their fury. Manson, prostrate and bloody, heard it, and Fisette, and all the others who had fought, it seemed, their last fight. The rioters began to dissipate like blown leaves in autumn, and a rippling line of infantry in open formation moved rhythmically up the road from St. Marys.

Clark drew a long breath and looked curiously at his engineer.

"You saved my life, Belding." He hesitated a moment, and added thoughtfully, "Now, why should you want to do that?"

Belding stared and a lump rose in his throat. He had lost and yet he had won,--been defeated and yet had risen to something bigger than he had ever achieved before. He could face the future now, even though it were written that he should face it alone. He tried to speak, then turned on his heel and walked towards the dock, where Clark's fast launch lay glinting in the sun.

The gray eyes followed him in profound contemplation. Presently Clark smiled, it seemed a little sadly, and advanced to the officer commanding the troops. Baudette was sitting up. Manson, his face gray with pain, was nursing a dangling arm, and round them the derelicts of battle were strewn grotesquely. But it was Fisette who spoke first.

"By Gar!" he said with flashing teeth, "she's one big fight, eh!"

Silence spread again over the works. An armed picket was left at the big gates, while the rest of the troops patrolled suddenly deserted streets in Ironville. In the accounting office there began again the clicking of typewriters, and Clark, at his desk, dictated a dispatch to Philadelphia. This done, he fell into a mood of strange abstraction. The car of destiny was traveling fast.

Just then the telephone rang, and he took up the receiver automatically. As in a dream Elsie's voice came in, tremulous but very clear. He smiled wearily as he listened.

"Thank you very much," he said in answer. "There is really no serious damage done, except to a few foolish heads; and," he added, "please thank Mr. Belding again for me,--yes, he'll understand."

A hush fell in the office again, and he felt inexpressibly alone. He was not in any sense hopeless, being assured that in the vast machine of his own creation were inherent qualities of life that could never be extinguished. He was strong, since for himself he desired nothing. In this hour of uncertainty his imagination traveled far, but again and again it was captured by the remembrance of his days with the bishop. This had nothing to do with works, and yet in a way they were intimately connected. The bishop had demonstrated the operation of high and subtle forces to which he himself had not given much thought. The bishop had saved his life, just as Belding had saved it, and he still seemed to feel the working of big muscles under his twitching palms. There flashed back what the prelate had said about being prepared for the worst, which after all was sometimes the best, and, with half closed eyes, he wondered whether this was the occasion. There sounded a knock at the door, and the bishop himself came in.

Clark, getting up hastily, advanced to meet him. There were only three people in the world he would have cared to see at that moment, and here was one of them.

"Come in and sit down, sir. This is very good of you."

"It took me two hours to get here," said the big man, breathing a little hard. "It's rather difficult traveling to-day."

Clark stared at him. He had always thought of the bishop as an exemplar of peace, but he had arrived almost on the tail of the riot.

"I only reached town a short time ago," the visitor was smiling cheerfully, "and heard about the trouble. Now that I'm safely here, I'll only stay a minute."

Clark shook his head. "You are very welcome, sir."

The bishop nodded contentedly. "I just wanted to express my sympathy with your present anxiety, and my belief that everything will come all right."