States Mail Department was an inksplashed desk holding a hotel register, likewise inksplashed. Beyond the storeroom was a long, narrow dining room on one side and a few little cell-like rooms on the other with a crack of a hall between them leading back to the kitchen, the whole structure, only one story high, having more vertical boards than horizontal in its making. But the lettering over the front door bore the brave information that this was the Post Office, the General Merchandise Store, and the Jacobs House, all in one.
The rain of the night had shifted to a light snow that whiffed about in little white pellets, adding nothing to the land in the way of moisture, or beauty, or protection from cold. Just a chill fraying out of the rain’s end that matched the bitterness of the wind’s long sweep from out of the vast northwest. A gray sky was clamped down over all, so dull and monotonous, it seemed that no rainbow tint could ever again brighten the world.
“The stage is late again,” observed one of the men.
“Always is when you want her particular.” This from a large man who held the door open long enough to stare up the open street for the sign of the coming stage and to let in a surge of cold air at the same time.
“Well, shut the door, Champers. The stage doesn’t come inside. It stops at Hans Wyker’s saloon first, anyhow,” one of the men behind a counter declared.
“If you’d open a bar here you’d do some business and run that Wyker fellow out. Steward, you and Jacobs are too danged satisfied with yourselves. We need some business spirit in this town if we want to get the county seat here,” Champers declared.
“That may help your real estate, but it’s not my kind of business, and no bar is going into this tavern,” Jacobs replied, leaning his elbow against the back of Stewart, who was bending over the desk.
Stewart and Jacobs were young men, the former a finely built, fair-haired Scotchman from whom good nature, good health, and good morals fairly radiated; not the kind of man to become a leader, but rather to belong to the substantial following of a leader.
Jacobs was short, and slender, and dark – unmistakably of Jewish blood – with a keen black eye, quick motions, and the general air of a shrewd business man, letting no dollar escape him. He had also the air of a gentleman. Nobody in Carey’s Crossing had ever heard him swear – the language of the frontier always – nor seen him drink, nor had taken a parcel from his store that had been tied up with soiled fingers.
The Jacobs House register might be splashed with ink, but the ledger records of the business concern were a joy to the eye.
At Stewart’s words Champers shut the door with a slam and blustered toward the stove, crowding smaller men out of their places before it.
“I am glad I don’t have to run other men’s affairs – ”he began, when the rear door flew open and a slender young Negro hurried in with the announcement:
“De stage done sighted approachin’ from de east, gen’lemen. Hit’s done comin’ into town right now.”
“All right, Bo Peep; take care of the team,” Stewart responded, and a general re-swarming of the crowd followed.
Just before the stage – a covered wagon drawn by two Indian ponies – reached the Jacobs House a young man crossed the street and entered the door. Some men are born with a presence that other men must recognize everywhere. To this man’s quiet, “Hello, gentlemen,” the crowd responded, almost to a man:
“Good morning, Doctor.”
“Hello, Carey.”
“Hello, Doc.”
Each man felt the wish to be recognized by such greeting, and a place was given him at once. Only Champers, the big man, turned away with a scowl.
“Always gets the best of everything, even to the first chance to get his mail,” he muttered under his breath.
But the mail was soon of secondary interest to the dealer in real estate. Letters were of less importance to him than strangers, and a stranger had registered at the desk and was waiting while Stewart called out the mail in the postoffice department. Champers leaned over the shoulders of shorter men to read the entry in a cramped little hand, the plain name, “Thomas Smith, Wilmington, Delaware.” Then he looked at the man and drew his own conclusions.
Dr. Carey was standing beside the letter counter when Todd Stewart read out, “‘Mr. James Shirley,’” and, with a little scrutiny – “‘Southwest of Carey’s Crossing.’ Anybody here know Mr. James Shirley?”
The stranger made a hasty step forward, but Dr. Carey had already taken the letter.
“I’ll take care of that for you, Stewart,” he said quietly. And turning, he looked into the eyes of the stranger.
It was but a glance, and the latter stepped aside.
Men formed quick judgments on the frontier. As Carey passed the register he read the latest entry there, and like Champers he too drew his own conclusions. At the door he turned and said to Jacobs.
“Tell Bo Peep to have your best horse ready by one o’clock for a long ride.”
“All right, Doctor,” Jacobs responded.
Half an hour later the Jacobs House dining room was crowded for the midday meal. By natural selection men fell into their places. Stewart and Jacobs, with Dr. Carey and Pryor Gaines, the young minister school teacher, had a table to themselves. The other patrons sat at the long board, while the little side table for two was filled today with Champers, the real estate man, and the latest arrival, Mr. Thomas Smith, of Wilmington, Delaware.
“Who’s the man with the dark mustache up there?” Thomas Smith asked.
“Doc Carey,” Champers replied with a scowl.
“You don’t seem to need him?” There was a double meaning in the query, and Champers caught both.
“No ways,” he responded.
“Has some influence here?” the stranger asserted rather than questioned.
“A lot. Has the whole town under hoodoo. It’s named for him. He has all the doctoring he can do and won’t half charge, so’s no other doctor’ll come here. That’s no way to build up a town. He’d get up at one o’clock in the morning to doctor a widder’s cow. Now, sure he would, when he knows even a dead cow’d make business for the butcher to render up into grease and the cattle dealer to sell another cow.”
“Not your style of a man then?” the stranger observed.
“Oh, pshaw, no, but, as I say, he’s got the whole country hoodoo’d. Notice how everybody give him right of way to get his mail first? Why him? And hear him order the best horse? I’ll bet a tree claim in hades right now that he’s off somewhere to doctor some son of a gun out of cussed good will.”
“Who is this James Shirley whose mail he seems to look after?”
There was a half-tone lowering of the voice as Smith pronounced the name, which was not lost on Champers, whose business was to catch men at all corners.
“Jim Shirley lives out in one of the rich valleys west. Him and a fellow named Aydelot have some big notions of things out there. I don’t know the doc’s claim to control his mail, but nobody here would deny Carey any danged thing he wanted.” Champers twisted his
