Be that as it may, Swiftwater, after he had placed his properties on Cleary Creek in the hands of Phil Wilson, so that his creditors could not lay hands on any of his money or by any means satisfy their just debts, went down into Nevada and plunged heavily in Rawhide and Goldfield properties. Rumors reached me many times that Swiftwater has made another fortune, and the San Francisco papers printed such stories about him. His property on Number 6 Cleary is still a big producer of gold, and it seems that by merely turning his hands, Swiftwater could, within a few months, pile up enough money to make happy those who have innocently suffered such grievous wrong at his hands. And here my heart grows hard as I think of the farce of the law--how fine are its meshes if an innocent person is taken--how wide are its loop holes when the smooth and oily crook with money becomes entangled therein. For why is it, that the courts will suffer a lecherous monster to go abroad in the land, to marry and re-marry without paying the slightest heed to the restrictions of the law; to abduct, seduce and then abandon young girls and leave them penniless and deserted in unknown lands? And, why is it that such men can, by using heavy tips of gold, weigh down the hands of the sworn officers of the law, manage to slip unharmed and unhampered through counties and states where the processes in bankruptcy and in criminal proceeding, issued by the courts of law, are out against them? Why is it, then, that a man like Swiftwater could come to Seattle at night locked in the drawing room of a Pullman car, be taken swiftly in a closed carriage to a steamer bound for Valdez, and remain hidden in his stateroom on board the boat for two days before the ship sailed, while deputy sheriffs were scouring the town to compel him to provide from the ample money he had, food and clothing for the wife and babies he had deserted? Perhaps, after all, Swiftwater’s belief that the power of gold is omnipotent, may be the true and right one. Gold in the hands of such a man is a monstrous implement of crime, of degeneration to women and to innocent children. CHAPTER XIX. “MAMA, don’t you think you can have some fireworks on the Fourth of July and come out to the Brothers School so that we can celebrate?” Little Freddie Gates, Swiftwater’s youngest boy, looked up in my face with the dearest kind of a smile, and put his arm on my shoulder. The little fellow had just had his night bath in my room and had put on his fresh, clean, white pajamas, ready for bed. It was Saturday before the Fourth of July and Freddie knew that I might not be able to spend Sunday with him at the Brothers School--which was the first Sunday since Freddie was taken there that I had not spent the day with him.