# The Fighting Edge (Smith's Magazine 1907)/Chapter 5

Extracted from Smith's magazine, July 1907, pp. 534–539.

#### CHAPTER V.

Stoneman’s genius for affairs was of the kind that takes infinite pains. In his political views he was radical beyond the verge of safety; in his methods, boldly drastic and indifferent to public opinion, as represented by established precedent. But, though he seemed to invite destruction, close observers noted that he neglected none of the usual precautions and ways of operating employed by the political boss.
For years his papers, of which he had a string across the State at every good-sized town, had been stirring up class jealousy, and playing upon it to serve his private ends. This had gained him a large following among the social malcontents, and this following he had greatly increased by championing various much-needed reforms, and by opposing in season and out of season the aggressions of corporate wealth.
Ostensibly a Democrat, Stoneman wore his party fealty very lightly, almost as a badge that could be put on or off at will.
His fight for a seat in the United States Senate had, of course, its inception years before his actual candidacy was announced. The ramification of his organization extended throughout the State, and in every town and village he controlled as many of the leading men as he could. Early in the year, through these agents, he had made a fight at the primaries to control the legislative nominees of the Democratic party. In this he had succeeded very incompletely, and had the mortification of knowing that the majority of his party nominees were unpledged to him.
But a harder blow had struck him when the State went Republican, and elected a legislature of that party. To most men this would have meant defeat irrevocable. But not to Stoneman. His papers came out after the election announcing boldly his candidacy for the Senate. They took the position that no legislator was bound to support a member of his party for the Senate if an outsider were better fitted to represent the State. That outsider, his papers claimed, was Jefferson B. Stoneman.
Since Schaffner, the Republican candidate for the Senate, was president of the company representing the most important mining and smelting interests in the West, and was entrenched behind the fact that his party controlled both branches of the legislature, Stoneman’s declared intention to continue the fight was at first regarded as mere vaporings of a disappointed man. Beaten at his own party primaries, beaten later in the election, what chance had he against an opponent already flushed with victory and secure in possession of a friendly assembly!
But the majority of Schaffner’s party in the legislature was only six, and Stoneman never forgot that the big smelting operator was thoroughly unpopular both on account of the odium of his connection with the trust, and by reason of a cold, unattractive personality. It would be hard, but he could shake seven votes from a candidate so handicapped. When Simon Schaffner returned from New York beaten in his struggle with Harlan for the control of the Three C’s, his rival could regard it only as a promise of victory in the approaching battle.
The Three C’s was a power in State politics, and even before the assembling of the legislature word had gone out that the company was lined up for Stoneman. Far and wide it had been flung on the wings of the wind that the session was to be a memorable one, and that no money would be spared by the Three C’s to defeat Schaffner. On his side the smelter trust candidate was at first disposed to rely upon his party majority, but it became very soon apparent that the party whip would not hold them all against the tempting offers that were being made to seduce them. Bribery and charges of bribery were in the air. It was whispered that the Three C’s had shipped out from New York nearly half a million dollars to defeat Harlan’s rival for the control of the road, and, on the other hand, that the smelter trust would back as heavily its candidate. A debauched legislature was inevitable, no matter which side won.
It would have been impossible for any intelligent man to be in the heart of this vortex of struggling humanity without knowing what was occurring. Even before the session opened, Devereux Blake knew that legislators hitherto considered all their lives beyond reproach, were being tampered with, and were succumbing to the pressure. The city seethed with a wave of corruption, the while Stoneman from his editorial pages denounced the disgraceful debauchery by which he intended to profit.
“Fudge” Connolly checked the last name with the stub of a lead-pencil held between fat, jeweled fingers not overclean. “Makes seventy-six. We're still four shy,” he announced.
Of that stubborn fact, Bulger was stolidly and Dalton irritably aware.
“Might as well be forty, for right there we stick,” dogmatized the political factotum of Stoneman, taking a big black cigar from his mouth and examining the lighted end morosely.
“I don’t see why you say that,” snapped Dalton, local political agent for the Three C system. “We’re two nearer a majority than the other fellows. Why can’t we get the votes we need?”
“Suppose you tell us where. Legislative votes don’t grow on blackberry bushes, I guess.”
Dalton paced the room nervously, his forehead twisted into a field of wrinkles. This was his first essay into politics, and for the railroad he represented it had been an expensive one. The price of votes had been high, and he had bidden for them recklessly, and almost openly. His superiors had given him a free hand, and success was the only justification he could offer them for his prodigality. He must succeed. To fail now would be to beggar his future as a railroad official, to have forfeited his good name in vain.
He came back to the table and drove his fist down so hard that the glasses jingled. “It amounts to this, then. We have to get Blake to win. Get him. I don’t care how you do it, but get his vote for Stoneman. Why, damn it, he’s a Democrat. He ought to vote with us.”
“He doesn’t seem to see it that way,” grinned Connolly.
“Make him see it, then. That’s what you are being paid for,” retorted Dalton sharply.
“I’m not all powerful,” growled the lobbyist.
“If we could get Blake, I believe we would land Kirby and McCune. I don’t know about Kreagh; of course, he’s a Republican, but they have all four been voting together, first for a Republican, then for a Democrat. I notice they’re mighty careful not to vote for either of the men that stands a chance of being elected,” said Bulger sourly.
“Well, which one of you is going to see Blake?” demanded Dalton.
“Let Bulger,” snapped Connolly viciously, “He knows so well how it ought to be done.”
“Yes,” decided Dalton. “Seek him out, Bulger. Approach him with a definite proposition.”
It was over the telephone Bulger caught Blake in the end. He had made two attempts earlier, but had been unable to get a word with him alone. Having seen his man safely through the doors of the University Club, he hurried to the nearest telephone.
“University Club? Is Mr. Blake there? Will you please tell him a gentleman wants to talk with him? No, just say a gentleman. I'll hold the phone.” Then, after a three minutes’ wait: “This Mr. Blake? I should like to make an appointment with you for this evening on very important business—Brackin my name is. I have a letter of introduction to you, Mr. Blake—eight-thirty, at your apartments at the Arlington, you say. Thank you, sir. Good-by.” Mr. Bulger hung up the receiver and executed a war-dance in pantomime before he left the booth. It would be hard lines, but that evening he would land the State senator from San Pedro County, and secure for himself the substantial bonus that went with the accomplishment of this feat.
The room at the Arlington into which Mr. Bulger found himself invited to “Come in” a few hours later did not present to his prominent, fishy eyes the display of luxury he had expected of Devereux Blake. The politician did not deny a certain subdued cheerfulness to the apartment, but for his part he preferred something brighter and more ornate. Dark leather furnishing was all right, and the green-shaded lamps threw, no doubt, a soft, pleasant glow that harmonized with the wall tints, but he could not see the use of whole walls of books, many of them rather shabbily bound. Neither good tooling nor old morocco was absent, and some of the shabbiest covers held first editions, but Mr. Bulger could not be expected to know that any more than he could be expected to appreciate the somewhat worn Turkish rugs that would have delighted an expert.
His first impression was, “What a rummy room!” and his second, “Guess he does need that wad he’s holding out for.”
Blake had apparently been taking his ease in a Morris chair before the open fire, but he at once got up and came forward easily to meet his visitor. As he passed the desk he tossed down the book he had been reading and shook hands with a reluctance he did not allow to reach the surface.
“Good evening, Mr.—Brackin. I’ve been expecting you,” he smiled.
“Got onto my little game, did you?” laughed the politician.
“Well, I thought I recognized the voice. Try that big chair.”
“A fellow can’t be too careful in an affair of this kind,” puffed Bulger complacently. “You can’t ever tell when the other fellow has his eye on you.”
“Just so. And the other fellow in this instance?”
Bulger leered confidentially at him. “Well, say Higgins.”
“Then I take it your business with me is political?”
“Center shot, Mr. Blake. I want to get you to vote for Stoneman.”
“Oh, you came to convert me. I hope you have brought more potent arguments than those I have heard up to date.”
The man’s narrowed eyes rested on the State senator. “I guess you'll find my arguments all right.” From his vest pocket he abstracted a fat, black cigar, and was about to light it, when Blake interposed.
“One moment, Mr. Bulger.” He stretched a hand to the revolving, liquor table, swung it round, and took a box of havanas from a shelf. “I think you'll like one of these.”
The black cigar went back into Bulger’s pocket, and his host gave a faint sigh of relief.
“Yes, sir, I’ve got good arguments. Uncle Sam guarantees them, and puts his stamp on them.” He struck a match on the oak chair beside him, and puffed his cigar to a heat. “Do youse reckon, Blake, you could get Kirby and those other guys to swing round to Stoneman?”
Blake looked at him in surprise. The change in the man, his cheap, insolent attempt at familiarity, the relapse into the ward-heeler’s patter, caught Devvie almost like a blow. He knew that the fellow thought he had bought him, and was revenging himself for the almost servile deference of the past few weeks he had felt it politic to maintain.
“If this interview is to continue, Mr. Bulger, I would suggest that it be carried on in another manner,” he suggested, with icy gentleness.
Bulger sulked. “Just as you say. I’m a plain man, I am. I call a spade a spade.” He gulped down his chagrin and tried again. “I was wondering whether you had any influence with your friends about their votes. If you could deliver all four of them to us it would elect Stoneman. Mr. Blake, you're ambitious. What’s the matter with a trade? Make Stoneman senator, and we'll make you governor next year.”
“But then I don’t want to be governor, Mr. Bulger,” laughed the other. “Try again.”
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Oh, you’re doing the guessing.”
“If you say so. Mr. Blake, the Three C’s needs that coal-yard property of yours for its switch tracks. What’s it worth?”
“I offered it to the railroad for fifteen thousand, but their appraiser thought it too much.”
“Well, property down there is going to boom. That’s a cinch. We think it worth sixty-five thousand.”
“Am I being offered sixty-five thousand dollars for my coal-yards?” asked Blake quietly.
“Bet your life you are.”
“For my coal-yards alone?” He permitted himself a little smile. “The railroad seems to want that property a good deal more than it did last month.”
“Of course, that is a fancy price, but I expect it won’t bankrupt the Three C system to do that much for a friend,” said Bulger largely. “Point is, what is that friend going to do for us?”
“Do you know it had crossed my mind that was in point,” said the other naively.
Mr. Bulger swore softly. “What the blazes——” He interrupted himself to begin in a more moderate tone: “Are you going to do business with us or are you not, Mr. Blake? I didn’t come here to have you make a fool of me.”
The legislator rose and crossed to the mantel. He looked down keenly into the coarse, heavy-jowled face that looked sourly up at him. “Just run over the agreement in plain words, Mr. Bulger. Tell me exactly what you want me to do, and what you will pay me for it.” His voice was crisp and sharp, without a trace of its native languor in it.
“That’s the way I like to hear a man talk. If you and your three friends will vote for Stoneman on Monday, and continue to vote for him until he is elected, the Three C’s will give you sixty-five thousand for your wood-yard.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Say seventy thousand, then.”
“And if I can’t deliver my friends’ votes?”
“We take off fifteen thousand from the purchase price for each vote you fail to deliver.”
“Make it seventy-five thousand.”
“That’s a heap more than votes are worth just now, but I’m willing to strain a point and call it seventy-five.”
“Done. Make out the papers, and bring them to me Monday before the joint session meets.”
“I'll have Dalton make out a preliminary agreement. None of us want the real purchase price to go on sale. I'll just bring a note from Dalton O.K.’ing the deal, and you can show it to your friends.”
“That won't do,” reflected Blake aloud. “Dalton isn’t fool enough to sign his name to any such note. You'll have to leave the cash in escrow somewhere.”
“In one of the banks, mebbe,” suggested Bulger sarcastically.
“With one of us.”
“That would be a business way of doing it.”
“Oh, come. You paid the other fellows down.”
“Guess again, Mr. Blake. We paid them half-down. The other half is to be paid when the election is determined.”
“Very well. I'll meet you here on Monday morning at ten-thirty. Mr. McCune will also be present, and the others if I can get them. You will then turn over to each of us ten thousand dollars in cash. Is that satisfactory?”
“Suits me all right.”
“In that case, Mr. Bulger, I'll not take any more of your time. I know how very busy you are these days,” said Blake suavely, helping the politician to his hat and stick.
Stoneman’s henchman reddened to a purpler tint. There were some things that wanted to come out very badly, but he decided to repress them till he had this insolent club-man where he wanted him. In a day or two he would have the whip-hand, and he promised himself to draw blood.
As Bulger strode irefully out he caromed on a messenger boy with a telegram for Blake, who promptly forgot the existence of the politician. He ripped open the yellow envelope and ran his eyes quickly over the message.
    Reach there 6 P. M. Sunday on the Rocky Mountain Limited. Expect you to eat dinner with us. Why are you not voting for our friend?
It was signed “Maisie,” and that signature brought a warm smile to the young man’s eyes. She was coming to play a week’s engagement on her way to the coast, and he promised himself to make the most of that week.
   [Illustration: “Tell me exactly what you want me to do, and what you will pay me for it.”]
He carried his pleasure back with him absently into his living-room, and was about to sit down again in his chair when the door of the bedroom opened to let out two men. One of them was a smooth-shaven young fellow with a stenographer’s note-book. The other was a broad-shouldered man of the plains, a good type of the outdoor Westerner usually associated with the cattle business.
“We've got both of them on record now. I reckon when we fire our little bomb Monday, something’s going up in the air. Eh, Devvie?”
Blake brought himself back to the distasteful present. “It’s a nasty business, Kreagh. I feel like a scoundrel and a traitor.”
“I don’t. It’s the only way to stop this wholesale bribery,” the cattleman answered promptly.
“I suppose so,” sighed his friend. “But it’s dirty work for a man that tries to believe himself a gentleman.”