And as he went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As "Mexico" said, they "couldn't get onto his game." And none of them was more completely puzzled than was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same time, however, "Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when "Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and "Mexico" was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it difficult for "Mexico" to accept it as being sincere.
"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery deepened. "What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?"
One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with a wrathful affection.
"What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" asked him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto you. It's all just d--, that is, cursed foolishness!"
"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before "Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for some time." He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story of the two debtors. "Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?" "Mexico" nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. "I had a big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going.
"That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a great thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night like this. And don't you think that's good enough?"
Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:
"You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want."
"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I haven't, have I?"
"Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't."
"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my friend." He put out his hand, which "Mexico" gripped and held fast. "But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants you more than I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend."
"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess not. That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that mountain there."
"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor, quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!"
"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet."
"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a good thing and I want my friend to have it."
When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at the door. "I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of yours for a spell?"
The doctor took it out of his bag. "It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can bank on it."
