MONTANA WAS NO stranger to the atmosphere of a gold camp. The string of towns along the gulch in the Tobacco Hills, from Adobe Town to Highland, Bannack to the west in Grasshopper Gulch, Helena at Last Chance—if they had lost something of their roistering and swagger, Duarf had fallen full heir. Here there was not only the contagion of gold, but also the imminent coming of the railroad, in which stock could be purchased. A man could take his choice of several highroads to wealth.
Cattlemen jostled prospectors. New-made millionaires rubbed elbows with immigrants not alone from east and west, but from the far countries of the world. Duarf seemed the hub of the universe. If that hub creaked from a lack of grease, that was a minor matter and to be overlooked.
Construction was everywhere—expanding business houses, mansions to suit the importance of men who had struck it rich. An opera house, its raw boards still unpainted but the final proof of prosperity, stood cheek by jowl with the bank.
Stabling his horse at one of the several liveries, Montana was pleased to find an old friend in the proprietor. Jerry Loomis wore a wide grin, from which half of the teeth were missing.
“What you doing here, Montana?” he asked. “Coming to clean the town up or something?” He spat. “It could sure stand some of that.”
“Don’t you have law here?”
Loomis’ snort caused a horse to look up enviously. “We have a scarecrow who wears a hunk of tin. When you’ve said that, you’ve said it all. Why, man, this town’s not only wide open, but the outlaws are takin’ it over like Grant took Richmond. The express company is scared to send gold out, and as for private parties, they don’t dast even try it any longer. Money’s piling up in the bank, just waitin’ for the railroad, when it’ll be safe to move it. Gold is sure overloadin’ that mart of finance, if you ask me. Yeah, this town needs cleanin’ up, and I was hopin’ you might be aimin’ to do it.”
“That’s not my job,” Montana said thankfully. “I thought this was a cow town.”
“It was. Now it’s a hell town. Why, we even got us a Chinatown. Bunch of Chinks workin’ on the P and P. Oh, we got just about everything, includin’ trouble.”
Montana’s interest quickened. Somehow, the girl whom he could not get out of his mind was connected with the Chinese.
But to go looking for her, exploring that section of town, would be a dubious job for a white man under the best of conditions. Should his purpose be suspected – and it would be folly to delude himself about that – a man could disappear swiftly and completely.
The Miners and Cattlemen’s Bank and Trust Company had been newly lettered in place of the Cattlemen’s Bank. In the window of the adjoining opera house, daunting placards shouted for attention.
A list of plays were to be presented by The Oriental Players, starting that same evening. If the announcement could be believed, they were a distinguished company, having performed in San Francisco, Chicago, New York and Boston. The cast was under the direction of the noted Ho Hsueh Pin, and Lotus Flower was the leading lady.
The plays were “The Land of the Lotus,” “The Millionaire’s Daughter,” “A Dagger for the Prince” and “The Golden Dream.”
Montana studied the manifesto with interest, enhanced by his belief that he had perhaps encountered some members of the company under the railroad trestle. The Mandarin might be Ho Hsueh Pin. Was the girl Lotus Flower?
I’ll have to have a look when the curtain goes up, he decided, conscious of mounting excitement.
That was not all. A band had been more or less improvised and was playing, and a parade was forming, the occasion being the arrival of the big engine which he and O’Leary had helped save from disaster. The wagons came rolling, everybody crowding to witness this tangible evidence of a long-cherished dream. Here was proof that the railroad was at their door.
The officials who had indulged in the poker game were among the guests of honor to mark the occasion. Montana was invited to take a place with them at the ceremonies, but declined. He could look for trouble more effectively if he remained more or less a stranger in the town.
Until that day when the line of steel over which the trains would run should reach town, the engine was to stand at the corner of the busiest intersection. It would be partly on the sidewalk, partly within the bank. Workmen had removed a door and ripped out a section of front wall to make room.
The locomotive was unloaded from the wagons, then moved into place between the tall pillars which made an imposing façade for the bank. Montana observed that they helped support the upper stories not only of the bank but also of the adjoining hotel on one side and the opera house on the other. Once in position, the engine presented a startling sight, as though a train were emerging from the bank.
The tone of the speeches implied that the completion of the railroad was imminent. Certainly no doubt existed among the onlookers. The engine was final proof.
Montana shook his head. Until a few days ago, he had supposed that the western terminus to the line of track was still back at Council Bluffs—perhaps some distance beyond, but certainly a long way off. And what actual proof was there to the contrary?
He was working for the railroad, induced, almost compelled, by the enthusiasm of Mike McNamara. Was McNamara in a similar position, letting his hopes and dreams run ahead of reality? And what about the Prairie and Pacific? Apparently it was taken for granted that they had already lost out in the race. But some of their officials must be among the crowd, making plans of their own.
He wondered where they and the P and P really fitted in. Somehow they belonged to a never-never land where the pieces did not quite fit.
With most of the town gathered in one place, it might be a good time to have a look around. Montana edged away.
On the next street back, a crew of coolies, Chinese laborers, were at work, as detached as though nothing of importance were happening. They seemed to be digging back in the side of the hill. The dirt was being removed in wheelbarrows.
Others from Chinatown were busy in a different fashion. There had been no Celestials among the crowd. Theirs was a life removed, apart from the white man’s.
A funeral procession came, six men carrying a casket, while others went ahead and behind. Mourners with muffled faces chanted a dirge.
Montana stood in the recess of a doorway to attract as little attention as possible. He watched with increasing absorption. If some other events were strange, this bordered on the fantastic.
There was a considerable contingent of mourners, some clad in rich, elaborate robes. They drew together, a cluster in the otherwise empty street. From the background sounded the droning voice of the main speaker at the celebration.
The line of mourners moved slowly, so close together that now the casket was hidden. Then they widened the gap to their former positions, proceeding at the same decorous pace.
But the casket and those who carried it were no longer in the procession. They had vanished.