AN EVENING AT CURLAND'S.
By Alice Irene Nichols
CURLAND'S hotel has had an extra cleaning and is brilliantly lighted, for it is Saturday evening, and the men from the lumbering camps have received their month's wages. Curland himself is in high glee, and is giving commands to his bartender. “We will make a big pull this night. Is everything ready? Whew! won't the money flow! But you just keep an eye on that gang from Mayre's. They are a desperate set, and it won't answer to let them get the start of us.” “Good-evening, Tom. Brought your violin? You're the man.” The music soon draws a crowd, the majority of whom are rough-looking men. A few show that they have known “better days.” Apparently the toughest of all are the ones known as “Mayre's men.” Mayre, their boss, is one whom all fear. Tall, of commanding appearance, he is a born leader of men, and those from his camp have imbued that wild, reckless spirit which dominates their master. “Say,” exclaims one, “Mayre, you're lucky, you're taking all the money.” “No, he isn't. He is dishonest,” comes from a man who belongs to another gang. “Hold still, Harold Sard; what are you doing?” Drinks are had. Down go the cards. There is quarreling over cards and pool. What cares Curland? He is reaping a harvest. A storm has arisen, and it is nearly nine before the stage arrives from the nearest station. “Passenger to-night,” shouts the obliging stage-driver. Curland, remarkable for his graciousness, welcomes the newcomer. An old, feeble man is he, with a staring, wandering look. “Appears a little out,” remarks the stage-driver on entering. “Wonder what he is doing up here.” The old man sits by the stove with a forlorn, despondent gaze. His eyes keep roaming about from one to another. “Mister, have a drink?” The offer, tho frequently given, is refused. Somehow this doesn't please Curland. He is not in the habit of having any one about who does not drink. From the stage-driver he has learned that the old man seems to have plenty of money, and he is determined to have some of it. When drinks are again put up, he insists that the stranger shall have a treat. Slowly the old man walks toward the bar. “Men, will you have a story?” says he. “Yes, yes; story,” comes from the excited crowd. “He is crazy!” “Crazy as a loon!” “Look at his eyes!” are the various remarks. With outstretched hand the stranger leans forward and gazes at the crowd. Instantly they are silenced at the strange scene and the stranger tale. “Years ago,” says he, “I was a wealthy man of influence in a far-away Eastern State. A wife and son composed my family. We were proud of the boy, who was exceedingly bright, and at the time of the opening of my story was preparing for college. That year I was elected mayor of the town, which had been for a few years without saloons. I had been called a ‘temperance man,’ but when the vote was taken as to whether we should have saloons or not, I wanted to be popular, so I broke the tie, and the saloons were opened. Six months later checks were presented for payment, forged by my son, when gambling, under the influence of liquor. Angry and excited, I drove him from our home. Weary with sorrow, the mother lived only a few years and died moaning for her boy. Since then I have traveled from State to State searching for my son.” With eager, excited tones the old man again breaks the silence: “Have you seen him? Do you know Casper Mayre?” The hushed group are startled. The old man is grasped by strong arms; for the son is found. “Don't you know me, father? I am your son.” “No, no,” said the old man; “my boy is young. You are not my son.” “Boys, he is my father, but he is crazy, and I made him so. Who will help me take him to the camp? No, Curland, no more liquor to-night. I have had all I ever intend to have.” With sobered speech the men follow the father and son as they pass out into the night. The sparkle of the wine in the glass, the clink of the coin on the card table, has lost its fascination for the time. One by one they separate, some to go home to loved ones still watching and praying for the prodigal son, others to wander up and down the quiet streets, thinking, as they have not for many a day, of the old folks far away in some country home. The lights are out in the hotel. Curland's trade will decrease, for Casper Mayre's influence will be used in a better way.—Alice Irene Nichols, in Union Signal.