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As the stage rattles around dizzy heights, below massy cliffs, swinging under the forest arches, the Missouri champion reasons out that Hardin's hands are tied personally as regards a bloody public quarrel, by the coming senatorial fight. To pluck the honors of the Senate at last from a divided State, is a testimony to the lawyer's great abilities.
Replying some days later to Seddon's innuendo, Bissell, competent by his presence on the battle-field to bear witness, retorted that when the 2d Indiana gave way, it was McKee's 2d Kentucky, Hardin's 1st Illinois, and Bissell's 2d Illinois which had retrieved the fortunes of the hour, and that the vaunted Mississippi regiment was not within a mile and a half of the scene of action.
There are such things as insane asylums in California, if she makes any hubbub. But he has a "coup d'etat" in his mind. The old schemer will bring Natalie to terms. Flattery first; fear afterwards. "And they are face to face once more." Ushered into a private room, the soulless Hardin's iron nerves fail him. His heart leaps up wildly when royal "Madame de Santos" approaches silently. Heavens!
Joe's taste in creature comforts is excellent, and better than his grammar. On the ferry, Joe surveys San Francisco complacently from the steamer. "I've got those documents in the vaults. I'll have Peyton's evidence. I rather fancy Captain Lee's biography will interest that dame in Paris. I will prospect my friend Hardin's surroundings. He must have some devil to do his dirty work.
Hardin has struggled to his feet. In his hand, flashes a pistol. Joe Woods smiles. "Trying the old El Dorado dodge, Judge, won't work. Sit down now. Listen to me. Put up that shooting iron, or I'll nail you to the wall." His bowie knife presses a keen point to Hardin's breast. It is checkmate. Natalie Santos is buried in the cushions of her chair. She is sobbing wildly.
They have guides, leaders, scouts, and spies from the Southern refugees pouring over the Gila. Every golden day has its gloomy sunset. Hardin's brow furrows with deep lines. His sagacity tells him that the time has passed for the movement to succeed. And he is right. Sibley wearies out the winter in Texas. The magnet of Eastern fields of glory draws the fiery Texans across the Mississippi.
That is not the question, however. But the padre and the colonel are now sworn allies. Joseph is the bearer of a letter to the Archbishop of California. It carries the heart and soul of Pere Francois. The great Church acts now. "My dear old friend," says Woods in parting, "I propose to keep away from Paris for a couple of years and watch Philip Hardin's handling of this great estate.
Hardin's full account dispels any suspicion of foul play. After a visit to the interior, the count went to see some interesting underground workings. By a hazard of mining life, a broken rope caused the death of the visitor, with several workmen, and a mine superintendent who was doing the honors. Death waited at the foot of the shaft for the noble stranger.
"Stop your nonsense," says the happy Joe, ringing for the waiter to clear away the wreck of his cyclonic fist. "The clothes are O.K." "Where did she come from to take that boat?" demands Woods. "From Hardin's house," says Lee. A light breaks in on Colonel Joe's brain. "And that woman with her?"
Riding over the billowing fields, mounting the grassy hills, threading the matchless forests of uncut timber, he sees all. He sits plotting and dreaming on the porch by the lake side. Thousands of horses and cattle, now crossed and improved, are wealth wandering at will on every side. Hardin's dark eyes grow eager and envious. He gazes excitedly on this lordly domain.
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