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diff --git a/old/1390-0.txt b/old/1390-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0eebc66 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1390-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7742 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories, by Owen Wister + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories + +Author: Owen Wister + +Posting Date: August 22, 2008 [EBook #1390] +Release Date: July, 1998 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JIMMYJOHN BOSS *** + + + + +Produced by Bill Brewer + + + + + +THE JIMMYJOHN BOSS AND OTHER STORIES + +By Owen Wister + + + + +To Messrs. Harper & Bothers and Henry Mills Alden whose friendliness and +fair dealing I am glad of this chance to record + +Owen Wister + + + + +Preface + + It's very plain that if a thing's the fashion-- + Too much the fashion--if the people leap + To do it, or to be it, in a passion + Of haste and crowding, like a herd of sheep, + + Why then that thing becomes through imitation + Vulgar, excessive, obvious, and cheap. + + No gentleman desires to be pursuing + + What every Tom and Dick and Harry's doing. + + Stranger, do you write books? I ask the question, + Because I'm told that everybody writes + That what with scribbling, eating, and digestion, + And proper slumber, all our days and nights + + Are wholly filled. It seems an odd suggestion-- + But if you do write, stop it, leave the masses, + Read me, and join the small selected classes. + + + + +The Jimmyjohn Boss + + +I + +One day at Nampa, which is in Idaho, a ruddy old massive jovial man +stood by the Silver City stage, patting his beard with his left hand, +and with his right the shoulder of a boy who stood beside him. He had +come with the boy on the branch train from Boise, because he was a +careful German and liked to say everything twice--twice at least when it +was a matter of business. This was a matter of very particular business, +and the German had repeated himself for nineteen miles. Presently the +east-bound on the main line would arrive from Portland; then the Silver +City stage would take the boy south on his new mission, and the man +would journey by the branch train back to Boise. From Boise no one could +say where he might not go, west or east. He was a great and pervasive +cattle man in Oregon, California, and other places. Vogel and Lex--even +to-day you may hear the two ranch partners spoken of. So the veteran +Vogel was now once more going over his notions and commands to his +youthful deputy during the last precious minutes until the east-bound +should arrive. + +“Und if only you haf someding like dis,” said the old man, as he tapped +his beard and patted the boy, “it would be five hoondert more dollars +salary in your liddle pants.” + +The boy winked up at his employer. He had a gray, humorous eye; he was +slim and alert, like a sparrow-hawk--the sort of boy his father openly +rejoices in and his mother is secretly in prayer over. Only, this boy +had neither father nor mother. Since the age of twelve he had looked out +for himself, never quite without bread, sometimes attaining champagne, +getting along in his American way variously, on horse or afoot, across +regions of wide plains and mountains, through towns where not a soul +knew his name. He closed one of his gray eyes at his employer, and +beyond this made no remark. + +“Vat you mean by dat vink, anyhow?” demanded the elder. + +“Say,” said the boy, confidentially--“honest now. How about you and me? +Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've +got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many +dollars you gif me for dat bloom?” The sparrow-hawk sailed into a +freakish imitation of his master. + +“You are a liddle rascal!” cried the master, shaking with entertainment. +“Und if der peoples vas to hear you sass old Max Vogel in dis style they +would say, 'Poor old Max, he lose his gr-rip.' But I don't lose it.” His +great hand closed suddenly on the boy's shoulder, his voice cut clean +and heavy as an axe, and then no more joking about him. “Haf you +understand that?” he said. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“How old are you, son?” + +“Nineteen, sir.” + +“Oh my, that is offle young for the job I gif you. Some of dose man you +go to boss might be your father. Und how much do you weigh?” + +“About a hundred and thirty.” + +“Too light, too light. Und I haf keep my eye on you in Boise. You are +not so goot a boy as you might be.” + +“Well, sir, I guess not.” + +“But you was not so bad a boy as you might be, neider. You don't lie +about it. Now it must be farewell to all that foolishness. Haf you +understand? You go to set an example where one is needed very bad. If +those men see you drink a liddle, they drink a big lot. You forbid them, +they laugh at you. You must not allow one drop of whiskey at the whole +place. Haf you well understand?” + +“Yes, sir. Me and whiskey are not necessary to each other's happiness.” + +“It is not you, it is them. How are you mit your gun?” + +Vogel took the boy's pistol from its holster and aimed at an empty +bottle which was sticking in the thin Deceiver snow. “Can you do this?” + he said, carelessly, and fired. The snow struck the bottle, but the +unharming bullet was buried half an inch to the left. + +The boy took his pistol with solemnity. “No,” he said. “Guess I can't do +that.” He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. “Told you +I couldn't miss as close as you did,” said he. + +“You are a darling,” said Mr. Vogel. “Gif me dat lofely weapon.” + +A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white +snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them. + +“May I ask if anything is the matter?” inquired a mild voice from the +stage. + +“Stick that lily head in-doors,” shouted Vogel; and the face and +eye-glasses withdrew again into the stage. “The school-teacher he will +be beautifool virtuous company for you at Malheur Agency,” continued +Vogel, shooting again; and presently the large old German destroyed a +bottle with a crashing smack. “Ah!” said he, in unison with the smack. +“Ah-ha! No von shall say der old Max lose his gr-rip. I shoot it efry +time now, but the train she whistle. I hear her.” + +The boy affected to listen earnestly. + +“Bah! I tell you I hear de whistle coming.” + +“Did you say there was a whistle?” ventured the occupant of the stage. +The snow shone white on his glasses as he peered out. + +“Nobody whistle for you,” returned the robust Vogel. “You listen to me,” + he continued to the boy. “You are offle yoong. But I watch you plenty +this long time. I see you work mit my stock on the Owyhee and the +Malheur; I see you mit my oder men. My men they say always more and +more, 'Yoong Drake he is a goot one,' und I think you are a goot one +mine own self. I am the biggest cattle man on the Pacific slope, und I +am also an old devil. I have think a lot, und I like you.” + +“I'm obliged to you, sir.” + +“Shut oop. I like you, und therefore I make you my new sooperintendent +at my Malheur Agency r-ranch, mit a bigger salary as you don't get +before. If you are a sookcess, I r-raise you some more.” + +“I am satisfied now, sir.” + +“Bah! Never do you tell any goot business man you are satisfied mit vat +he gif you, for eider he don't believe you or else he think you are a +fool. Und eider ways you go down in his estimation. You make those men +at Malheur Agency behave themselves und I r-raise you. Only I do vish, I +do certainly vish you had some beard on that yoong chin.” + +The boy glanced at his pistol. + +“No, no, no, my son,” said the sharp old German. “I don't want gunpowder +in dis affair. You must act kviet und decisif und keep your liddle shirt +on. What you accomplish shootin'? You kill somebody, und then, pop! +somebody kills you. What goot is all that nonsense to me?” + +“It would annoy me some, too,” retorted the boy, eyeing the capitalist. +“Don't leave me out of the proposition.” + +“Broposition! Broposition! Now you get hot mit old Max for nothing.” + +“If you didn't contemplate trouble,” pursued the boy, “what was your +point just now in sampling my marksmanship?” He kicked some snow in the +direction of the shattered bottle. “It's understood no whiskey comes on +that ranch. But if no gunpowder goes along with me, either, let's call +the deal off. Buy some other fool.” + +“You haf not understand, my boy. Und you get very hot because I happen +to make that liddle joke about somebody killing you. Was you thinking +maybe old Max not care what happen to you?” + +A moment of silence passed before the answer came: “Suppose we talk +business?” + +“Very well, very well. Only notice this thing. When oder peoples talk +oop to me like you haf done many times, it is not they who does the +getting hot. It is me--old Max. Und when old Max gets hot he slings them +out of his road anywheres. Some haf been very sorry they get so slung. +You invite me to buy some oder fool? Oh, my boy, I will buy no oder fool +except you, for that was just like me when I was yoong Max!” Again the +ruddy and grizzled magnate put his hand on the shoulder of the boy, who +stood looking away at the bottles, at the railroad track, at anything +save his employer. + +The employer proceeded: “I was afraid of nobody und noding in those +days. You are afraid of nobody and noding. But those days was different. +No Pullman sleepers, no railroad at all. We come oop the Columbia in +the steamboat, we travel hoonderts of miles by team, we sleep, we eat +nowheres in particular mit many unexpected interooptions. There was +Indians, there was offle bad white men, und if you was not offle +yourself you vanished quickly. Therefore in those days was Max Vogel +hell und repeat.” + +The magnate smiled a broad fond smile over the past which he had kicked, +driven, shot, bled, and battled through to present power; and the boy +winked up at him again now. + +“I don't propose to vanish, myself,” said he. + +“Ah-ha! you was no longer mad mit der old Max! Of coorse I care what +happens to you. I was alone in the world myself in those lofely wicked +days.” + +Reserve again made flinty the boy's face. + +“Neider did I talk about my feelings,” continued Max Vogel, “but I nefer +show them too quick. If I was injured I wait, and I strike to kill. We +all paddles our own dugout, eh? We ask no favors from nobody; we must +win our spurs! Not so? Now I talk business with you where you interroopt +me. If cow-boys was not so offle scarce in the country, I would long ago +haf bounce the lot of those drunken fellows. But they cannot be spared; +we must get along so. I cannot send Brock, he is needed at Harper's. The +dumb fellow at Alvord Lake is too dumb; he is not quickly courageous. +They would play high jinks mit him. Therefore I send you. Brock he say +to me you haf joodgement. I watch, and I say to myself also, this boy +haf goot joodgement. And when you look at your pistol so quick, I tell +you quick I don't send you to kill men when they are so scarce already! +My boy, it is ever the moral, the say-noding strength what gets +there--mit always the liddle pistol behind, in case--joost in case. Haf +you understand? I ask you to shoot. I see you know how, as Brock told +me. I recommend you to let them see that aggomplishment in a friendly +way. Maybe a shooting-match mit prizes--I pay for them--pretty soon +after you come. Und joodgement--und joodgement. Here comes that train. +Haf you well understand?” + +Upon this the two shook hands, looking square friendship in each other's +eyes. The east-bound, long quiet and dark beneath its flowing clots of +smoke, slowed to a halt. A few valises and legs descended, ascended, +herding and hurrying; a few trunks were thrown resoundingly in and out +of the train; a woolly, crooked old man came with a box and a bandanna +bundle from the second-class car; the travellers of a thousand miles +looked torpidly at him through the dim, dusty windows of their Pullman, +and settled again for a thousand miles more. Then the east-bound, +shooting heavier clots of smoke laboriously into the air, drew its slow +length out of Nampa, and away. + +“Where's that stage?” shrilled the woolly old man. “That's what I'm +after.” + +“Why, hello!” shouted Vogel. “Hello, Uncle Pasco! I heard you was dead.” + +Uncle Pasco blinked his small eyes to see who hailed him. “Oh!” said he, +in his light, crusty voice. “Dutchy Vogel. No, I ain't dead. You guessed +wrong. Not dead. Help me up, Dutchy.” + +A tolerant smile broadened Vogel's face. “It was ten years since I see +you,” said he, carrying the old man's box. + +“Shouldn't wonder. Maybe it'll be another ten till you see me next.” He +stopped by the stage step, and wheeling nimbly, surveyed his old-time +acquaintance, noting the good hat, the prosperous watch-chain, the big, +well-blacked boots. “Not seen me for ten years. Hee-hee! No. Usen't to +have a cent more than me. Twins in poverty. That's how Dutchy and me +started. If we was buried to-morrow they'd mark him 'Pecunious' and me +'Impecunious.' That's what. Twins in poverty.” + +“I stick to von business at a time, Uncle,” said good-natured, +successful Max. + +A flicker of aberration lighted in the old man's eye. “H'm, yes,” said +he, pondering. “Stuck to one business. So you did. H'm.” Then, suddenly +sly, he chirped: “But I've struck it rich now.” He tapped his box. +“Jewelry,” he half-whispered. “Miners and cow-boys.” + +“Yes,” said Vogel. “Those poor, deluded fellows, they buy such stuff.” + And he laughed at the seedy visionary who had begun frontier life +with him on the bottom rung and would end it there. “Do you play that +concertina yet, Uncle?” he inquired. + +“Yes, yes. I always play. It's in here with my tooth-brush and socks.” + Uncle Pasco held up the bandanna. “Well, he's getting ready to start. I +guess I'll be climbing inside. Holy Gertrude!” + +This shrill comment was at sight of the school-master, patient within +the stage. “What business are you in?” demanded Uncle Pasco. + +“I am in the spelling business,” replied the teacher, and smiled, +faintly. + +“Hell!” piped Uncle Pasco. “Take this.” + +He handed in his bandanna to the traveller, who received it politely. +Max Vogel lifted the box of cheap jewelry; and both he and the boy came +behind to boost the old man up on the stage step. But with a nettled +look he leaped up to evade them, tottered half-way, and then, light as a +husk of grain, got himself to his seat and scowled at the schoolmaster. + +After a brief inspection of that pale, spectacled face, “Dutchy,” he +called out of the door, “this country is not what it was.” + +But old Max Vogel was inattentive. He was speaking to the boy, Dean +Drake, and held a flask in his hand. He reached the flask to his new +superintendent. “Drink hearty,” said he. “There, son! Don't be shy. Haf +you forgot it is forbidden fruit after now?” + +“Kid sworn off?” inquired Uncle Pasco of the school-master. + +“I understand,” replied this person, “that Mr. Vogel will not allow +his cow-boys at the Malheur Agency to have any whiskey brought there. +Personally, I feel gratified.” And Mr. Bolles, the new school-master, +gave his faint smile. + +“Oh,” muttered Uncle Pasco. “Forbidden to bring whiskey on the ranch? +H'm.” His eyes wandered to the jewelry-box. “H'm,” said he again; and +becoming thoughtful, he laid back his moth-eaten sly head, and spoke no +further with Mr. Bolles. + +Dean Drake climbed into the stage and the vehicle started. + +“Goot luck, goot luck, my son!” shouted the hearty Max, and opened and +waved both his big arms at the departing boy: He stood looking after the +stage. “I hope he come back,” said he. “I think he come back. If he come +I r-raise him fifty dollars without any beard.” + + +II + +The stage had not trundled so far on its Silver City road but that a +whistle from Nampa station reached its three occupants. This was the +branch train starting back to Boise with Max Vogel aboard; and the boy +looked out at the locomotive with a sigh. + +“Only five days of town,” he murmured. “Six months more wilderness now.” + +“My life has been too much town,” said the new school-master. “I am +looking forward to a little wilderness for a change.” + +Old Uncle Pasco, leaning back, said nothing; he kept his eyes shut and +his ears open. + +“Change is what I don't get,” sighed Dean Drake. In a few miles, +however, before they had come to the ferry over Snake River, the recent +leave-taking and his employer's kind but dominating repression lifted +from the boy's spirit. His gray eye wakened keen again, and he began +to whistle light opera tunes, looking about him alertly, like the +sparrow-hawk that he was. “Ever see Jeannie Winston in 'Fatinitza'?” he +inquired of Mr. Bolles. + +The school-master, with a startled, thankful countenance, stated that he +had never. + +“Ought to,” said Drake. + + “You a man? that can't be true! + Men have never eyes like you.” + +“That's what the girls in the harem sing in the second act. Golly whiz!” + The boy gleamed over the memory of that evening. + +“You have a hard job before you,” said the school-master, changing the +subject. + +“Yep. Hard.” The wary Drake shook his head warningly at Mr. Bolles to +keep off that subject, and he glanced in the direction of slumbering +Uncle Pasco. Uncle Pasco was quite aware of all this. “I wouldn't take +another lonesome job so soon,” pursued Drake, “but I want the money. +I've been working eleven months along the Owyhee as a sort of junior +boss, and I'd earned my vacation. Just got it started hot in Portland, +when biff! old Vogel telegraphs me. Well, I'll be saving instead of +squandering. But it feels so good to squander!” + +“I have never had anything to squander,” said Bolles, rather sadly. + +“You don't say! Well, old man, I hope you will. It gives a man a lot +he'll never get out of spelling-books. Are you cold? Here.” And despite +the school-master's protest, Dean Drake tucked his buffalo coat round +and over him. “Some day, when I'm old,” he went on, “I mean to live +respectable under my own cabin and vine. Wife and everything. But not, +anyway, till I'm thirty-five.” + +He dropped into his opera tunes for a while; but evidently it was +not “Fatinitza” and his vanished holiday over which he was chiefly +meditating, for presently he exclaimed: “I'll give them a shooting-match +in the morning. You shoot?” + +Bolles hoped he was going to learn in this country, and exhibited a +Smith & Wesson revolver. + +Drake grieved over it. “Wrap it up warm,” said he. “I'll lend you a +real one when we get to the Malheur Agency. But you can eat, anyhow. +Christmas being next week, you see, my programme is, shoot all A.M. and +eat all P.M. I wish you could light on a notion what prizes to give my +buccaroos.” + +“Buccaroos?” said Bolles. + +“Yep. Cow-punchers. Vaqueros. Buccaroos in Oregon. Bastard Spanish word, +you see, drifted up from Mexico. Vogel would not care to have me give +'em money as prizes.” + +At this Uncle Pasco opened an eye. + +“How many buccaroos will there be?” Bolles inquired. + +“At the Malheur Agency? It's the headquarters of five of our ranches. +There ought to be quite a crowd. A dozen, probably, at this time of +year.” + +Uncle Pasco opened his other eye. “Here, you!” he said, dragging at his +box under the seat. “Pull it, can't you? There. Just what you're after. +There's your prizes.” Querulous and watchful, like some aged, rickety +ape, the old man drew out his trinkets in shallow shelves. + +“Sooner give 'em nothing,” said Dean Drake. + +“What's that? What's the matter with them?” + +“Guess the boys have had all the brass rings and glass diamonds they +want.” + +“That's all you know, then. I sold that box clean empty through the +Palouse country last week, 'cept the bottom drawer, and an outfit on +Meacham's hill took that. Shows all you know. I'm going clean through +your country after I've quit Silver City. I'll start in by Baker City +again, and I'll strike Harney, and maybe I'll go to Linkville. I know +what buccaroos want. I'll go to Fort Rinehart, and I'll go to the Island +Ranch, and first thing you'll be seeing your boys wearing my stuff all +over their fingers and Sunday shirts, and giving their girls my stuff +right in Harney City. That's what.” + +“All right, Uncle. It's a free country.” + +“Shaw! Guess it is. I was in it before you was, too. You were wet behind +the ears when I was jammin' all around here. How many are they up at +your place, did you say?” + +“I said about twelve. If you're coming our way, stop and eat with us.” + +“Maybe I will and maybe I won't.” Uncle Pasco crossly shoved his box +back. + +“All right, Uncle. It's a free country,” repeated Drake. + +Not much was said after this. Uncle Pasco unwrapped his concertina from +the red handkerchief and played nimbly for his own benefit. At Silver +City he disappeared, and, finding he had stolen nothing from them, they +did not regret him. Dean Drake had some affairs to see to here before +starting for Harper's ranch, and it was pleasant to Bolles to find how +Drake was esteemed through this country. The school-master was to board +at the Malheur Agency, and had come this way round because the new +superintendent must so travel. They were scarcely birds of a feather, +Drake and Bolles, yet since one remote roof was to cover them, the +in-door man was glad this boy-host had won so much good-will from +high and low. That the shrewd old Vogel should trust so much in a +nineteen-year-old was proof enough at least of his character; but when +Brock, the foreman from Harper's, came for them at Silver City, Bolles +witnessed the affection that the rougher man held for Drake. Brock shook +the boy's hand with that serious quietness and absence of words which +shows the Western heart is speaking. After a look at Bolles and a silent +bestowing of the baggage aboard the team, he cracked his long whip and +the three rattled happily away through the dips of an open country where +clear streams ran blue beneath the winter air. They followed the Jordan +(that Idaho Jordan) west towards Oregon and the Owyhee, Brock often +turning in his driver's seat so as to speak with Drake. He had a long, +gradual chapter of confidences and events; through miles he unburdened +these to his favorite: + +The California mare was coring well in harness. The eagle over at +Whitehorse ranch had fought the cat most terrible. Gilbert had got a +mule-kick in the stomach, but was eating his three meals. They had a new +boy who played the guitar. He used maple-syrup an his meat, and claimed +he was from Alabama. Brock guessed things were about as usual in most +ways. The new well had caved in again. Then, in the midst of his gossip, +the thing he had wanted to say all along came out: “We're pleased about +your promotion,” said he; and, blushing, shook Drake's hand again. + +Warmth kindled the boy's face, and next, with a sudden severity, he +said: “You're keeping back something.” + +The honest Brock looked blank, then labored in his memory. + +“Has the sorrel girl in Harney married you yet?” said Drake. Brock +slapped his leg, and the horses jumped at his mirth. He was mostly +grave-mannered, but when his boy superintendent joked, he rejoiced with +the same pride that he took in all of Drake's excellences. + +“The boys in this country will back you up,” said he, next day; and +Drake inquired: “What news from the Malheur Agency?” + +“Since the new Chinaman has been cooking for them,” said Brock, “they +have been peaceful as a man could wish.” + +“They'll approve of me, then,” Drake answered. “I'm feeding 'em hyas +Christmas muck-a-muck.” + +“And what may that be?” asked the schoolmaster. + +“You no kumtux Chinook?” inquired Drake. “Travel with me and you'll +learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is +barred,” he added to Brock. + +“It's the only way,” said the foreman. “They've got those Pennsylvania +men up there.” + +Drake had not encountered these. + +“The three brothers Drinker,” said Brock. “Full, Half-past Full, and +Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them +from Klamath and Rogue River.” + +“I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades,” ventured Mr. +Bolles. + +“Chinamen don't have comrades in this country,” said Brock, briefly. +“They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman +could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick +about the whiskey rule?” he suggested to Drake. + +“Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City +when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have +cut up on me.” + +A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock. +Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his +favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters, +and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: “We'll +stand by you.” But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy +journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed +to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They +crossed through a world of pines and creviced streams and exhilarating +silence. The little waters fell tinkling through icicles in the +loneliness of the woods, and snowshoe rabbits dived into the brush. East +Oregon, the Owyhee and the Malheur country, the old trails of General +Crook, the willows by the streams, the open swales, the high woods +where once Buffalo Horn and Chief E-egante and O-its the medicine-man +prospered, through this domain of war and memories went Bolles the +school-master with Dean Drake and Brock. The third noon from Harper's +they came leisurely down to the old Malheur Agency, where once the +hostile Indians had drawn pictures on the door, and where Castle Rock +frowned down unchanged. + +“I wish I was going to stay here with you,” said Brock to Drake. “By +Indian Creek you can send word to me quicker than we've come.” + +“Why, you're an old bat!” said the boy to his foreman, and clapped him +farewell on the shoulder. + +Brock drove away, thoughtful. He was not a large man. His face was +clean-cut, almost delicate. He had a well-trimmed, yellow mustache, and +it was chiefly in his blue eye and lean cheek-bone that the frontiersman +showed. He loved Dean Drake more than he would ever tell, even to +himself. + +The young superintendent set at work to ranch-work this afternoon of +Brock's leaving, and the buccaroos made his acquaintance one by one and +stared at him. Villany did not sit outwardly upon their faces; they were +not villains; but they stared at the boy sent to control them, and they +spoke together, laughing. Drake took the head of the table at supper, +with Bolles on his right. Down the table some silence, some staring, +much laughing went on--the rich brute laugh of the belly untroubled by +the brain. Sam, the Chinaman, rapid and noiseless, served the dishes. + +“What is it?” said a buccaroo. + +“Can it bite?” said another. + +“If you guess what it is, you can have it,” said a third. + +“It's meat,” remarked Drake, incisively, helping himself; “and tougher +than it looks.” + +The brute laugh rose from the crowd and fell into surprised silence; but +no rejoinder came, and they ate their supper somewhat thoughtfully. The +Chinaman's quick, soft eye had glanced at Dean Drake when they laughed. +He served his dinner solicitously. In his kitchen that evening he and +Bolles unpacked the good things--the olives, the dried fruits, the +cigars--brought by the new superintendent for Christmas; and finding +Bolles harmless, like his gentle Asiatic self, Sam looked cautiously +about and spoke: + +“You not know why they laugh,” said he. “They not talk about my meat +then. They mean new boss, Misser Dlake. He velly young boss.” + +“I think,” said Bolles, “Mr. Drake understood their meaning, Sam. I have +noticed that at times he expresses himself peculiarly. I also think they +understood his meaning.” + +The Oriental pondered. “Me like Misser Dlake,” said he. And drawing +quite close, he observed, “They not nice man velly much.” + +Next day and every day “Misser Dlake” went gayly about his business, at +his desk or on his horse, vigilant, near and far, with no sign save a +steadier keenness in his eye. For the Christmas dinner he provided +still further sending to the Grande Ronde country for turkeys and other +things. He won the heart of Bolles by lending him a good horse; but the +buccaroos, though they were boisterous over the coming Christmas joy, +did not seem especially grateful. Drake, however, kept his worries to +himself. + +“This thing happens anywhere,” he said one night in the office to +Bolles, puffing a cigar. “I've seen a troop of cavalry demoralize itself +by a sort of contagion from two or three men.” + +“I think it was wicked to send you here by yourself,” blurted Bolles. + +“Poppycock! It's the chance of my life, and I'll jam her through or +bust.” + +“I think they have decided you are getting turkeys because you are +afraid of them,” said Bolles. + +“Why, of course! But d' you figure I'm the man to abandon my Christmas +turkey because my motives for eating it are misconstrued?” + +Dean Drake smoked for a while; then a knock came at the door. Five +buccaroos entered and stood close, as is the way with the guilty who +feel uncertain. + +“We were thinking as maybe you'd let us go over to town,” said Half-past +Full, the spokesman. + +“When?” + +“Oh, any day along this week.” + +“Can't spare you till after Christmas.” + +“Maybe you'll not object to one of us goin'?” + +“You'll each have your turn after this week.” + +A slight pause followed. Then Half-past Full said: “What would you do if +I went, anyway?” + +“Can't imagine,” Drake answered, easily. “Go, and I'll be in a position +to inform you.” + +The buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and +grinned. “Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss.” + +“That's not my name,” said Drake, “but it's what I am.” + +They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly +retreat--almost. + +Drake winked over to Bolles. “That was a graze,” said he, and smoked for +a while. “They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?” + + +III + +Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm. + +“I think you smoke too much,” said Bolles, whom three days had made +familiar and friendly. + +“Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They are +a half-breed lot, though,” the boy continued, returning to the buccaroos +and their recent visit. “Weaken in the face of a straight bluff, you +see, unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down on +that.” + +“Oh!” said Bolles, comprehending. + +“Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it.” + +“The flesh is all they seem to understand,” murmured Bolles. + +Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor +did any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were. +After the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm. +The children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about +whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No +work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the Malheur +Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed no longer +to frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly strength. +Except when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's journeys to +the school were all to show it was not some pioneer colony in a new, +white, silent world that heard only the playful shouts and songs of the +buccaroos. The sun overhead and the hard-crushing snow underfoot filled +every one with a crisp, tingling hilarity. + +Before the sun first touched Castle Rock on the morning of the feast +they were up and in high feather over at the bunk-house. They raced +across to see what Sam was cooking; they begged and joyfully swallowed +lumps of his raw plum-pudding. “Merry Christmas!” they wished him, and +“Melly Clismas!” said he to them. They played leap-frog over by the +stable, they put snow down each other's backs. Their shouts rang round +corners; it was like boys let out of school. When Drake gathered them +for the shooting-match, they cheered him; when he told them there were +no prizes, what did they care for prizes? When he beat them all the +first round, they cheered him again. Pity he hadn't offered prizes! He +wasn't a good business man, after all! + +The rounds at the target proceeded through the forenoon, Drake the +acclaimed leader; and the Christmas sun drew to mid-sky. But as its +splendor in the heavens increased, the happy shoutings on earth began +to wane. The body was all that the buccaroos knew; well, the flesh comes +pretty natural to all of us--and who had ever taught these men about +the spirit? The further they were from breakfast the nearer they were +to dinner; yet the happy shootings waned! The spirit is a strange thing. +Often it dwells dumb in human clay, then unexpectedly speaks out of the +clay's darkness. + +It was no longer a crowd Drake had at the target. He became aware that +quietness had been gradually coming over the buccaroos. He looked, and +saw a man wandering by himself in the lane. Another leaned by the stable +corner, with a vacant face. Through the windows of the bunk-house +he could see two or three on their beds. The children were tired of +shouting. Drake went in-doors and threw a great log on the fire. It +blazed up high with sparks, and he watched it, although the sun shown +bright on the window-sill. Presently he noticed that a man had come in +and taken a chair. It was Half-past Full, and with his boots stretched +to the warmth, he sat gazing into the fire. The door opened and another +buckaroo entered and sat off in a corner. He had a bundle of old +letters, smeared sheets tied trite a twisted old ribbon. While his +large, top-toughened fingers softly loosened the ribbon, he sat with his +back to the room and presently began to read the letters over, one +by one. Most of the men came in before long, and silently joined the +watchers round the treat fireplace. Drake threw another log on, and in +a short time this, too, broke into ample flame. The silence was long; +a slice of shadow had fallen across the window-sill, when a young man +spoke, addressing the logs: + +“I skinned a coon in San Saba, Texas, this day a year.” + +At the sound of a voice, some of their eyes turned on the speaker, but +turned back to the fire again. The spirit had spoken from the clay, +aloud; and the clay was uncomfortable at hearing it. + +After some more minutes a neighbor whispered to a neighbor, “Play you a +game of crib.” + +The man nodded, stole over to where the board was, and brought it across +the floor on creaking tip-toe. They set it between them, and now and +then the cards made a light sound in the room. + +“I treed that coon on Honey,” said the young man, after a while--“Honey +Creek, San Saba. Kind o' dry creek. Used to flow into Big Brady when it +rained.” + +The flames crackled on, the neighbors still played their cribbage. Still +was the day bright, but the shrinking wedge of sun had gone entirely +from the window-sill. Half-past Full had drawn from his pocket a +mouthorgan, breathing half-tunes upon it; in the middle of “Suwanee +River” the man who sat in the corner laid the letter he was beginning +upon the heap on his knees and read no more. The great genial logs lay +glowing, burning; from the fresher one the flames flowed and forked; +along the embered surface of the others ran red and blue shivers of +iridescence. With legs and arms crooked and sprawled, the buccaroos +brooded, staring into the glow with seldom-winking eyes, while deep +inside the clay the spirit spoke quietly. Christmas Day was passing, +but the sun shone still two good hours high. Outside, over the snow +and pines, it was only in the deeper folds of the hills that the blue +shadows had come; the rest of the world was gold and silver; and from +far across that silence into this silence by the fire came a tinkling +stir of sound. Sleighbells it was, steadily coming, too early for Bolles +to be back from his school festival. + +The toy-thrill of the jingling grew clear and sweet, a spirit of +enchantment that did not wake the stillness, but cast it into a deeper +dream. The bells came near the door and stopped, and then Drake opened +it. + +“Hello, Uncle Pasco!” said he. “Thought you were Santa Claus.” + +“Santa Claus! H'm. Yes. That's what. Told you maybe I'd come.” + +“So you did. Turkey is due in--let's see--ninety minutes. Here, boys! +some of you take Uncle Pasco's horse.” + +“No, no, I won't. You leave me alone. I ain't stoppin' here. I ain't +hungry. I just grubbed at the school. Sleepin' at Missouri Pete's +to-night. Got to make the railroad tomorrow.” The old man stopped his +precipitate statements. He sat in his sledge deeply muffled, blinking +at Drake and the buccaroos, who had strolled out to look at him, “Done a +big business this trip,” said he. “Told you I would. Now if you was only +givin' your children a Christmas-tree like that I seen that feller yer +schoolmarm doin' just now--hee-hee!” From his blankets he revealed the +well-known case. “Them things would shine on a tree,” concluded Uncle +Pasco. + +“Hang 'em in the woods, then,” said Drake. + +“Jewelry, is it?” inquired the young Texas man. + +Uncle Pasco whipped open his case. “There you are,” said he. “All what's +left. That ring'll cost you a dollar.” + +“I've a dollar somewheres,” said the young man, fumbling. + +Half-past Full, on the other side of the sleigh, stood visibly +fascinated by the wares he was given a skilful glimpse of down among the +blankets. He peered and he pondered while Uncle Pasco glibly spoke to +him. + +“Scatter your truck out plain!” the buccaroo exclaimed, suddenly. “I'm +not buying in the dark. Come over to the bunk-house and scatter.” + +“Brass will look just the same anywhere,” said Drake. + +“Brass!” screamed Uncle. “Brass your eye!” + +But the buccaroos, plainly glad for distraction, took the woolly old +scolding man with them. Drake shouted that if getting cheated cheered +them, by all means to invest heavily, and he returned alone to his fire, +where Bolles soon joined him. They waited, accordingly, and by-and-by +the sleigh-bells jingled again. As they had come out of the silence, +so did they go into it, their little silvery tinkle dancing away in the +distance, faint and fainter, then, like a breath, gone. + +Uncle Pasco's trinkets had audibly raised the men's spirits. They +remained in the bunkhouse, their laughter reaching Drake and Bolles more +and more. Sometimes they would scuffle and laugh loudly. + +“Do you imagine it's more leap-frog?” inquired the school-master. + +“Gambling,” said Drake. “They'll keep at it now till one of them wins +everything the rest have bought.” + +“Have they been lively ever since morning?” + +“Had a reaction about noon,” said Drake. “Regular home-sick spell. I +felt sorry for 'em.” + +“They seem full of reaction,” said Bolles. “Listen to that!” + +It was now near four o'clock, and Sam came in, announcing dinner. + +“All ready,” said the smiling Chinaman. + +“Pass the good word to the bunk-house,” said Drake, “if they can hear +you.” + +Sam went across, and the shouting stopped. Then arose a thick volley of +screams and cheers. + +“That don't sound right,” said Drake, leaping to his feet. In the next +instant the Chinaman, terrified, returned through the open door. Behind +him lurched Half-past Full, and stumbled into the room. His boot caught, +and he pitched, but saved himself and stood swaying, heavily looking at +Drake. The hair curled dense over his bull head, his mustache was spread +with his grin, the light of cloddish humor and destruction burned in his +big eye. The clay had buried the spirit like a caving pit. + +“Twas false jewelry all right!” he roared, at the top of his voice. “A +good old jimmyjohn full, boss. Say, boss, goin' to run our jimmyjohn off +the ranch? Try it on, kid. Come over and try it on!” The bull beat on +the table. + +Dean Drake had sat quickly down in his chair, his gray eye upon the +hulking buccaroo. Small and dauntless he sat, a sparrow-hawk caught in a +trap, and game to the end--whatever end. + +“It's a trifle tardy to outline any policy about your demijohn,” said +he, seriously. “You folks had better come in and eat before you're +beyond appreciating.” + +“Ho, we'll eat your grub, boss. Sam's cooking goes.” The buccaroo +lurched out and away to the bunk-house, where new bellowing was set up. + +“I've got to carve this turkey, friend,” said the boy to Bolles. + +“I'll do my best to help eat it,” returned the school-master, smiling. + +“Misser Dlake,” said poor Sam, “I solly you. I velly solly you.” + + +IV + +“Reserve your sorrow, Sam,” said Dean Drake. “Give us your soup for a +starter. Come,” he said to Bolles. “Quick.” + +He went into the dining-room, prompt in his seat at the head of the +table, with the school-master next to him. + +“Nice man, Uncle Pasco,” he continued. “But his time is not now. We have +nothing to do for the present but sit like every day and act perfectly +natural.” + +“I have known simpler tasks,” said Mr. Bolles, “but I'll begin by +spreading this excellently clean napkin.” + +“You're no schoolmarm!” exclaimed Drake; “you please me.” + +“The worst of a bad thing,” said the mild Bolles, “is having time to +think about it, and we have been spared that.” + +“Here they come,” said Drake. + +They did come. But Drake's alert strategy served the end he had tried +for. The drunken buccaroos swarmed disorderly to the door and halted. +Once more the new superintendent's ways took them aback. Here was the +decent table with lights serenely burning, with unwonted good things +arranged upon it--the olives, the oranges, the preserves. Neat as parade +drill were the men's places, all the cups and forks symmetrical along +the white cloth. There, waiting his guests at the far end, sat the slim +young boss talking with his boarder, Mr. Bolles, the parts in their +smooth hair going with all the rest of this propriety. Even the daily +tin dishes were banished in favor of crockery. + +“Bashful of Sam's napkins, boys?” said the boss. “Or is it the +bald-headed china?” + +At this bidding they came in uncertainly. Their whiskey was ashamed +inside. They took their seats, glancing across at each other in a +transient silence, drawing their chairs gingerly beneath them. Thus +ceremony fell unexpected upon the gathering, and for a while they +swallowed in awkwardness what the swift, noiseless Sam brought them. +He in a long white apron passed and re-passed with his things from his +kitchen, doubly efficient and civil under stress of anxiety for +his young master. In the pauses of his serving he watched from the +background, with a face that presently caught the notice of one of them. + +“Smile, you almond-eyed highbinder,” said the buccaroo. And the Chinaman +smiled his best. + +“I've forgot something,” said Half-past Full, rising. “Don't let 'em +skip a course on me.” Half-past left the room. + +“That's what I have been hoping for,” said Drake to Bolles. + +Half-past returned presently and caught Drake's look of expectancy. “Oh +no, boss,” said the buccaroo, instantly, from the door. “You're on to +me, but I'm on to you.” He slammed the door with ostentation and dropped +with a loud laugh into his seat. + +“First smart thing I've known him do,” said Drake to Bolles. “I am +disappointed.” + +Two buccaroos next left the room together. + +“They may get lost in the snow,” said the humorous Half-past. “I'll just +show 'em the trail.” Once more he rose from the dinner and went out. + +“Yes, he knew too much to bring it in here,” said Drake to Bolles. “He +knew none but two or three would dare drink, with me looking on.” + +“Don't you think he is afraid to bring it in the same room with you at +all?” Bolles suggested. + +“And me temperance this season? Now, Bolles, that's unkind.” + +“Oh, dear, that is not at all what--” + +“I know what you meant, Bolles. I was only just making a little merry +over this casualty. No, he don't mind me to that extent, except when +he's sober. Look at him!” + +Half-past was returning with his friends. Quite evidently they had all +found the trail. + +“Uncle Pasco is a nice old man!” pursued Drake. “I haven't got my gun +on. Have you?” + +“Yes,” said Bolles, but with a sheepish swerve of the eye. + +Drake guessed at once. “Not Baby Bunting? Oh, Lord! and I promised +to give you an adult weapon!--the kind they're wearing now by way of +full-dress.” + +“Talkin' secrets, boss?” said Half-past Full. + +The well-meaning Sam filled his cup, and this proceeding shifted the +buccaroo's truculent attention. + +“What's that mud?” he demanded. + +“Coffee,” said Sam, politely. + +The buccaroo swept his cup to the ground, and the next man howled +dismay. + +“Burn your poor legs?” said Half-past. He poured his glass over the +victim. They wrestled, the company pounded the table, betting hoarsely, +until Half-past went to the floor, and his plate with him. + +“Go easy,” said Drake. “You're smashing the company's property.” + +“Bald-headed china for sure, boss!” said a second of the brothers +Drinker, and dropped a dish. + +“I'll merely tell you,” said Drake, “that the company don't pay for this +china twice.” + +“Not twice?” said Half-past Full, smashing some more. “How about +thrice?” + +“Want your money now?” another inquired. + +A riot of banter seized upon all of them, and they began to laugh and +destroy. + +“How much did this cost?” said one, prying askew his three-tined fork. + +“How much did you cost yourself?” said another to Drake. + +“What, our kid boss? Two bits, I guess.” + +“Hyas markook. Too dear!” + +They bawled at their own jokes, loud and ominous; threat sounded beneath +their lightest word, the new crashes of china that they threw on the +floor struck sharply through the foreboding din of their mirth. The +spirit that Drake since his arrival had kept under in them day by day, +but not quelled, rose visibly each few succeeding minutes, swelling +upward as the tide does. Buoyed up on the whiskey, it glittered in their +eyes and yelled mutinously in their voices. + +“I'm waiting all orders,” said Bolles to Drake. + +“I haven't any,” said Drake. “New ones, that is. We've sat down to see +this meal out. Got to keep sitting.” + +He leaned back, eating deliberately, saying no more to the buccaroos; +thus they saw he would never leave the room till they did. As he had +taken his chair the first, so was the boy bound to quit it the last. The +game of prying fork-tines staled on them one by one, and they took to +songs, mostly of love and parting. With the red whiskey in their eyes +they shouted plaintively of sweethearts, and vows, and lips, and meeting +in the wild wood. From these they went to ballads of the cattle-trail +and the Yuba River, and so inevitably worked to the old coast song, made +of three languages, with its verses rhymed on each year since the first +beginning. Tradition laid it heavy upon each singer in his turn to keep +the pot a-boiling by memory or by new invention, and the chant went +forward with hypnotic cadence to a tune of larkish, ripping gayety. He +who had read over his old stained letters in the homesick afternoon had +waked from such dreaming and now sang: + + “Once jes' onced in the year o' 49, + I met a fancy thing by the name o' Keroline; + I never could persuade her for to leave me be; + She went and she took and she married me.” + +His neighbor was ready with an original contribution: + + “Once, once again in the year o' '64, + By the city of Whatcom down along the shore-- + I never could persuade them for to leave me be-- + A Siwash squaw went and took and married me.” + +“What was you doin' between all them years?” called Half-past Full. + +“Shut yer mouth,” said the next singer: + + “Once, once again in the year o' 71 + ['Twas the suddenest deed that I ever done)-- + I never could persuade them for to leave me be-- + A rich banker's daughter she took and married me.” + +“This is looking better,” said Bolles to Drake. + +“Don't you believe it,” said the boy. + +Ten or a dozen years were thus sung. + +“I never could persuade them for to leave me be” tempestuously brought +down the chorus and the fists, until the drunkards could sit no more, +but stood up to sing, tramping the tune heavily together. Then, just as +the turn came round to Drake himself, they dashed their chairs down and +herded out of the room behind Half-past Full, slamming the door. + +Drake sat a moment at the head of his Christmas dinner, the fallen +chairs, the lumpy wreck. Blood charged his face from his hair to his +collar. “Let's smoke,” said he. They went from the dinner through the +room of the great fireplace to his office beyond. + +“Have a mild one?” he said to the schoolmaster. + +“No, a strong one to-night, if you please.” And Bolles gave his mild +smile. + +“You do me good now and then,” said Drake. + +“Dear me,” said the teacher, “I have found it the other way.” + +All the rooms fronted on the road with doors--the old-time agency doors, +where the hostiles had drawn their pictures in the days before peace had +come to reign over this country. Drake looked out, because the singing +had stopped and they were very quiet in the bunk-house. He saw the +Chinaman steal from his kitchen. + +“Sam is tired of us,” he said to Bolles. + +“Tired?” + +“Running away, I guess. I'd prefer a new situation myself. That's where +you're deficient, Bolles. Only got sense enough to stay where you happen +to be. Hello. What is he up to?” + +Sam had gone beside a window of the bunkhouse and was listening there, +flat like a shadow. Suddenly he crouched, and was gone among the sheds. +Out of the bunk-house immediately came a procession, the buccaroos still +quiet, a careful, gradual body. + +Drake closed his door and sat in the chair again. “They're escorting +that jug over here,” said he. “A new move, and a big one.” + +He and Bolles heard them enter the next room, always without much noise +or talk--the loudest sound was the jug when they set it on the floor. +Then they seemed to sit, talking little. + +“Bolles,” said Drake, “the sun has set. If you want to take after Sam--” + +But the door of the sitting-room opened and the Chinaman himself came +in. He left the door a-swing and spoke clearly. “Misser Dlake,” said he, +“slove bloke” (stove broke). + +The superintendent came out of his office, following Sam to the kitchen. +He gave no look or word to the buccaroos with their demijohn; he merely +held his cigar sidewise in his teeth and walked with no hurry through +the sitting-room. Sam took him through to the kitchen and round to a +hind corner of the stove, pointing. + +“Misser Dlake,” said he, “slove no bloke. I hear them inside. They going +kill you.” + +“That's about the way I was figuring it,” mused Dean Drake. + +“Misser Dlake,” said the Chinaman, with appealing eyes, “I velly solly +you. They no hurtee me. Me cook.” + +“Sam, there is much meat in your words. Condensed beef don't class with +you. But reserve your sorrows yet a while. Now what's my policy?” he +debated, tapping the stove here and there for appearances; somebody +might look in. “Shall I go back to my office and get my guns?” + +“You not goin' run now?” said the Chinaman, anxiously. + +“Oh yes, Sam. But I like my gun travelling. Keeps me kind of warm. Now +if they should get a sight of me arming--no, she's got to stay here till +I come back for her. So long, Sam! See you later. And I'll have time to +thank you then.” + +Drake went to the corral in a strolling manner. There he roped the +strongest of the horses, and also the school-master's. In the midst of +his saddling, Bolles came down. + +“Can I help you in any way?” said Bolles. + +“You've done it. Saved me a bothering touch-and-go play to get you out +here and seem innocent. I'm going to drift.” + +“Drift?” + +“There are times to stay and times to leave, Bolles; and this is a case +of the latter. Have you a real gun on now?” + +Poor Bolles brought out guiltily his.22 Smith & Wesson. “I don't seem to +think of things,” said he. + +“Cheer up,” said Drake. “How could you thought-read me? Hide Baby +Bunting, though. Now we're off. Quietly, at the start. As if we were +merely jogging to pasture.” + +Sam stood at his kitchen door, mutely wishing them well. The horses were +walking without noise, but Half-past Full looked out of the window. + +“We're by, anyhow,” said Drake. “Quick now. Burn the earth.” The +horse sprang at his spurs. “Dust, you son of a gun! Rattle your hocks! +Brindle! Vamoose!” Each shouted word was a lash with his quirt. “Duck!” + he called to Bolles. + +Bolles ducked, and bullets grooved the spraying snow. They rounded a +corner and saw the crowd jumping into the corral, and Sam's door empty +of that prudent Celestial. + +“He's a very wise Chinaman!” shouted Drake, as they rushed. + +“What?” screamed Bolles. + +“Very wise Chinaman. He'll break that stove now to prove his innocence.” + +“Who did you say was innocent?” screamed Bolles. + +“Oh, I said you were,” yelled Drake, disgusted; and he gave over this +effort at conversation as their horses rushed along. + + +V + +It was a dim, wide stretch of winter into which Drake and Bolles +galloped from the howling pursuit. Twilight already veiled the base of +Castle Rock, and as they forged heavily up a ridge through the caking +snow, and the yells came after them, Bolles looked seriously at Dean +Drake; but that youth wore an expression of rising merriment. Bolles +looked back at the dusk from which the yells were sounding, then forward +to the spreading skein of night where the trail was taking him and the +boy, and in neither direction could he discern cause for gayety. + +“May I ask where we are going?” said he. + +“Away,” Drake answered. “Just away, Bolles. It's a healthy resort.” + +Ten miles were travelled before either spoke again. The drunken +buccaroos yelled hot on their heels at first, holding more obstinately +to this chase than sober ruffians would have attempted. Ten cold, dark +miles across the hills it took to cure them; but when their shootings, +that had followed over heights where the pines grew and down through +the open swales between, dropped off, and died finally away among the +willows along the south fork of the Malheur, Drake reined in his horse +with a jerk. + +“Now isn't that too bad!” he exclaimed. + +“It is all very bad,” said Bolles, sorry to hear the boy's tone of +disappointment. + +“I didn't think they'd fool me again,” continued Drake, jumping down. + +“Again?” inquired the interested Bolles. + +“Why, they've gone home!” said the boy, in disgust. + +“I was hoping so,” said the school-master. + +“Hoping? Why, it's sad, Bolles. Four miles farther and I'd have had them +lost.” + +“Oh!” said Bolles. + +“I wanted them to keep after us,” complained Drake. “Soon as we had a +good lead I coaxed them. Coaxed them along on purpose by a trail they +knew, and four miles from here I'd have swung south into the mountains +they don't know. There they'd have been good and far from home in the +snow without supper, like you and me, Bolles. But after all my trouble +they've gone back snug to that fireside. Well, let us be as cosey as we +can.” + +He built a bright fire, and he whistled as he kicked the snow from his +boots, busying over the horses and the blankets. “Take a rest,” he said +to Bolles. “One man's enough to do the work. Be with you soon to share +our little cottage.” Presently Bolles heard him reciting confidentially +to his horse, “Twas the night after Christmas, and all in the +house--only we are not all in the house!” He slapped the belly of his +horse Tyee, who gambolled away to the limit of his picket-rope. + +“Appreciating the moon, Bolles?” said he, returning at length to the +fire. “What are you so gazeful about, father?” + +“This is all my own doing,” lamented the school-master. + +“What, the moon is?” + +“It has just come over me,” Bolles continued. “It was before you got in +the stage at Nampa. I was talking. I told Uncle Pasco that I was glad no +whiskey was to be allowed on the ranch. It all comes from my folly!” + +“Why, you hungry old New England conscience!” cried the boy, clapping +him on the shoulder. “How in the world could you foresee the crookedness +of that hoary Beelzebub?” + +“That's all very well,” said Bolles, miserably. “You would never have +mentioned it yourself to him.” + +“You and I, Bolles, are different. I was raised on miscellaneous +wickedness. A look at my insides would be liable to make you say your +prayers.” + +The school-master smiled. “If I said any prayers,” he replied, “you +would be in them.” + +Drake looked moodily at the fire. “The Lord helps those who help +themselves,” said he. “I've prospered. For a nineteen-year-old I've +hooked my claw fairly deep here and there. As for to-day--why, that's +in the game too. It was their deal. Could they have won it on their own +play? A joker dropped into their hand. It's my deal now, and I have some +jokers myself. Go to sleep, Bolles. We've a ride ahead of us.” + +The boy rolled himself in his blanket skillfully. Bolles heard him say +once or twice in a sort of judicial conversation with the blanket--“and +all in the house--but we were not all in the house. Not all. Not a full +house--” His tones drowsed comfortably into murmur, and then to quiet +breathing. Bolles fed the fire, thatched the unneeded wind-break (for +the calm, dry night was breathless), and for a long while watched the +moon and a tuft of the sleeping boy's hair. + +“If he is blamed,” said the school-master, “I'll never forgive myself. +I'll never forgive myself anyhow.” + +A paternal, or rather maternal, expression came over Bolles's face, and +he removed his large, serious glasses. He did not sleep very well. + +The boy did. “I'm feeling like a bird,” said he, as they crossed through +the mountains next morning on a short cut to the Owybee. “Breakfast will +brace you up, Bolles. There'll be a cabin pretty soon after we strike +the other road. Keep thinking hard about coffee.” + +“I wish I could,” said poor Bolles. He was forgiving himself less and +less. + +Their start had been very early; as Drake bid the school-master observe, +to have nothing to detain you, nothing to eat and nothing to pack, is a +great help in journeys of haste. The warming day, and Indian Creek well +behind them, brought Drake to whistling again, but depression sat upon +the self-accusing Bolles. Even when they sighted the Owyhee road below +them, no cheerfulness waked in him; not at the nearing coffee, nor +yet at the companionable tinkle of sleigh-bells dancing faintly upward +through the bright, silent air. + +“Why, if it ain't Uncle Pasco!” said Drake, peering down through a gap +in the foot-hill. “We'll get breakfast sooner than I expected. Quick! +Give me Baby Bunting!” + +“Are you going to kill him?” whispered the school-master, with a beaming +countenance. And he scuffled with his pocket to hand over his hitherto +belittled weapon. + +Drake considered him. “Bolles, Bolles,” said he, “you have got the +New England conscience rank. Plymouth Rock is a pudding to your heart. +Remind me to pray for you first spare minute I get. Now follow me close. +He'll be much more useful to us alive.” + +They slipped from their horses, stole swiftly down a shoulder of the +hill, and waited among some brush. The bells jingled unsuspectingly +onward to this ambush. + +“Only hear 'em!” said Drake. “All full of silver and Merry Christmas. +Don't gaze at me like that, Bolles, or I'll laugh and give the whole +snap away. See him come! The old man's breath streams out so calm. He's +not worried with New England conscience. One, two, three” Just before +the sleigh came opposite, Dean Drake stepped out. “Morning, Uncle!” said +he. “Throw up your hands!” + +Uncle Pasco stopped dead, his eyes blinking. Then he stood up in the +sleigh among his blankets. “H'm,” said he, “the kid.” + +“Throw up your hands! Quit fooling with that blanket!” Drake spoke +dangerously now. “Bolles,” he continued, “pitch everything out of the +sleigh while I cover him. He's got a shot-gun under that blanket. Sling +it out.” + +It was slung. The wraps followed. Uncle Pasco stepped obediently down, +and soon the chattels of the emptied sleigh littered the snow. The old +gentleman was invited to undress until they reached the six-shooter that +Drake suspected. Then they ate his lunch, drank some whiskey that he had +not sold to the buccaroos, told him to repack the sleigh, allowed him +to wrap up again, bade him take the reins, and they would use his +six-shooter and shot-gun to point out the road to him. + +He had said very little, had Uncle Pasco, but stood blinking, obedient +and malignant. “H'm,” said he now, “goin' to ride with me, are you?” + +He was told yes, that for the present he was their coachman. Their +horses were tired and would follow, tied behind. “We're weary, too,” + said Drake, getting in. “Take your legs out of my way or I'll kick off +your shins. Bolles, are you fixed warm and comfortable? Now start her up +for Harper ranch, Uncle.” + +“What are you proposing to do with me?” inquired Uncle Pasco. + +“Not going to wring your neck, and that's enough for the present. +Faster, Uncle. Get a gait on. Bolles, here's Baby Bunting. Much obliged +to you for the loan of it, old man.” + +Uncle Pasco's eye fell on the 22-caliber pistol. “Did you hold me up +with that lemonade straw?” he asked, huskily. + +“Yep,” said Drake. “That's what.” + +“Oh, hell!” murmured Uncle Pasco. And for the first time he seemed +dispirited. + +“Uncle, you're not making time,” said Drake after a few miles. “I'll +thank you for the reins. Open your bandanna and get your concertina. +Jerk the bellows for us.” + +“That I'll not!” screamed Uncle Pasco. + +“It's music or walk home,” said the boy. “Take your choice.” + +Uncle Pasco took his choice, opening with the melody of “The Last Rose +of Summer.” The sleigh whirled up the Owyhee by the winter willows, and +the levels, and the meadow pools, bright frozen under the blue sky. +Late in this day the amazed Brock by his corrals at Harper's beheld +arrive his favorite, his boy superintendent, driving in with the +schoolmaster staring through his glasses, and Uncle Pasco throwing +out active strains upon his concertina. The old man had been bidden to +bellows away for his neck. + +Drake was not long in explaining his need to the men. “This thing must +be worked quick,” said he. “Who'll stand by me?” + +All of them would, and he took ten, with the faithful Brock. Brock would +not allow Gilbert to go, because he had received another mule-kick in +the stomach. Nor was Bolles permitted to be of the expedition. To all +his protests, Drake had but the single word: “This is not your fight, +old man. You've done your share with Baby Bunting.” + +Thus was the school-master in sorrow compelled to see them start back +to Indian Creek and the Malheur without him. With him Uncle Pasco would +have joyfully exchanged. He was taken along with the avengers. They +would not wring his neck, but they would play cat and mouse with him and +his concertina; and they did. But the conscience of Bolles still toiled. +When Drake and the men were safe away, he got on the wagon going for the +mail, thus making his way next morning to the railroad and Boise, where +Max Vogel listened to him; and together this couple hastily took train +and team for the Malheur Agency. + +The avengers reached Indian Creek duly, and the fourth day after his +Christmas dinner Drake came once more in sight of Castle Rock. + +“I am doing this thing myself, understand,” he said to Brock. “I am +responsible.” + +“We're here to take your orders,” returned the foreman. But as the +agency buildings grew plain and the time for action was coming, Brock's +anxious heart spoke out of its fulness. “If they start in to--to--they +might--I wish you'd let me get in front,” he begged, all at once. + +“I thought you thought better of me,” said Drake. + +“Excuse me,” said the man. Then presently: “I don't see how anybody +could 'a' told he'd smuggle whiskey that way. If the old man [Brock +meant Max Vogel] goes to blame you, I'll give him my opinion straight.” + +“The old man's got no use for opinions,” said Drake. “He goes on +results. He trusted me with this job, and we're going to have results +now.” + +The drunkards were sitting round outside the ranch house. It was +evening. They cast a sullen inspection on the new-comers, who returned +them no inspection whatever. Drake had his men together and took them +to the stable first, a shed with mangers. Here he had them unsaddle. +“Because,” he mentioned to Brock, “in case of trouble we'll be sure of +their all staying. I'm taking no chances now.” + +Soon the drunkards strolled over, saying good-day, hazarding a few +comments on the weather and like topics, and meeting sufficient answers. + +“Goin' to stay?” + +“Don't know.” + +“That's a good horse you've got.” + +“Fair.” + +But Sam was the blithest spirit at the Malheur Agency. “Hiyah!” he +exclaimed. “Misser Dlake! How fashion you come quick so?” And the +excellent Chinaman took pride in the meal of welcome that he prepared. + +“Supper's now,” said Drake to his men. “Sit anywhere you feel like. +Don't mind whose chair you're taking--and we'll keep our guns on.” + +Thus they followed him, and sat. The boy took his customary perch at the +head of the table, with Brock at his right. “I miss old Bolles,” he told +his foreman. “You don't appreciate Bolles.” + +“From what you tell of him,” said Brock, “I'll examine him more +careful.” + +Seeing their boss, the sparrow-hawk, back in his place, flanked with +supporters, and his gray eye indifferently upon them, the buccaroos grew +polite to oppressiveness. While Sam handed his dishes to Drake and +the new-comers, and the new-comers eat what was good before the old +inhabitants got a taste, these latter grew more and more solicitous. +They offered sugar to the strangers, they offered their beds; Half-past +Full urged them to sit companionably in the room where the fire was +burning. But when the meal was over, the visitors went to another room +with their arms, and lighted their own fire. They brought blankets from +their saddles, and after a little concertina they permitted the nearly +perished Uncle Pasco to slumber. Soon they slumbered themselves, with +the door left open, and Drake watching. He would not even share vigil +with Brock, and all night he heard the voices of the buccaroos, holding +grand, unending council. + +When the relentless morning came, and breakfast with the visitors again +in their seats unapproachable, the drunkards felt the crisis to be a +strain upon their sobered nerves. They glanced up from their plates, and +down; along to Dean Drake eating his hearty porridge, and back at one +another, and at the hungry, well-occupied strangers. + +“Say, we don't want trouble,” they began to the strangers. + +“Course you don't. Breakfast's what you're after.” + +“Oh, well, you'd have got gay. A man gets gay.” + +“Sure.” + +“Mr. Drake,” said Half-past Full, sweating with his effort, “we were +sorry while we was a-fogging you up.” + +“Yes,” said Drake. “You must have been just overcome by contrition.” + +A large laugh went up from the visitors, and the meal was finished +without further diplomacy. + +“One matter, Mr. Drake,” stammered Half-past Full, as the party rose. +“Our jobs. We're glad to pay for any things what got sort of broke.” + +“Sort of broke,” repeated the boy, eyeing him. “So you want to hold your +jobs?” + +“If--” began the buccaroo, and halted. + +“Fact is, you're a set of cowards,” said Drake, briefly. “I notice +you've forgot to remove that whiskey jug.” The demijohn still stood +by the great fireplace. Drake entered and laid hold of it, the crowd +standing back and watching. He took it out, with what remained in its +capacious bottom, set it on a stump, stepped back, levelled his gun, and +shattered the vessel to pieces. The whiskey drained down, wetting the +stump, creeping to the ground. + +Much potency lies in the object-lesson, and a grin was on the faces of +all present, save Uncle Pasco's. It had been his demijohn, and when the +shot struck it he blinked nervously. + +“You ornery old mink!” said Drake, looking at him. “You keep to the +jewelry business hereafter.” + +The buccaroos grinned again. It was reassuring to witness wrath turn +upon another. + +“You want to hold your jobs?” Drake resumed to them. “You can trust +yourselves?” + +“Yes, sir,” said Half-past Full. + +“But I don't trust you,” stated Drake, genially; and the buccaroos' +hopeful eyes dropped. “I'm going to divide you,” pursued the new +superintendent. “Split you far and wide among the company's ranches. +Stir you in with decenter blood. You'll go to White-horse ranch, just +across the line of Nevada,” he said to Half-past Full. “I'm tired of the +brothers Drinker. You'll go--let's see--” + +Drake paused in his apportionment, and a sleigh came swiftly round the +turn, the horse loping and lathery. + +“What vas dat shooting I hear joost now?” shouted Max Vogel, before he +could arrive. He did not wait for any answer. “Thank the good God!” he +exclaimed, at seeing the boy Dean Drake unharmed, standing with a gun. +And to their amazement he sped past them, never slacking his horse's +lope until he reached the corral. There he tossed the reins to the +placid Bolles, and springing out like a surefooted elephant, counted his +saddle-horses; for he was a general. Satisfied, he strode back to the +crowd by the demijohn. “When dem men get restless,” he explained to +Drake at once, “always look out. Somebody might steal a horse.” + +The boy closed one gray, confidential eye at his employer. “Just my +idea,” said he, “when I counted 'em before breakfast.” + +“You liddle r-rascal,” said Max, fondly, “What you shoot at?” + +Drake pointed at the demijohn. “It was bigger than those bottles at +Nampa,” said he. “Guess you could have hit it yourself.” + +Max's great belly shook. He took in the situation. It had a flavor that +he liked. He paused to relish it a little more in silence. + +“Und you have killed noding else?” said he, looking at Uncle Pasco, who +blinked copiously. “Mine old friend, you never get rich if you change +your business so frequent. I tell you that thirty years now.” Max's hand +found Drake's shoulder, but he addressed Brock. “He is all what you tell +me,” said he to the foreman. “He have joodgement.” + +Thus the huge, jovial Teuton took command, but found Drake had left +little for him to do. The buccaroos were dispersed at Harper's, at Fort +Rinehart, at Alvord Lake, towards Stein's peak, and at the Island Ranch +by Harney Lake. And if you know east Oregon, or the land where Chief +E-egante helped out Specimen Jones, his white soldier friend, when the +hostile Bannocks were planning his immediate death as a spy, you will +know what wide regions separated the buccaroos. Bolles was taken into +Max Vogel's esteem; also was Chinese Sam. But Max sat smoking in the +office with his boy superintendent, in particular satisfaction. + +“You are a liddle r-rascal,” said he. “Und I r-raise you fifty dollars.” + + + + +A Kinsman of Red Cloud + + +I + +It was thirty minutes before a June sundown at the post, and the first +call had sounded for parade. Over in the barracks the two companies +and the single troop lounged a moment longer, then laid their police +literature down, and lifted their stocking feet from the beds to get +ready. In the officers' quarters the captain rose regretfully from +after-dinner digestion, and the three lieutenants sought their helmets +with a sigh. Lieutenant Balwin had been dining an unconventional and +impressive guest at the mess, and he now interrupted the anecdote which +the guest was achieving with frontier deliberation. + +“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I'll have to hear the rest about +the half-breed when I get back.” + +“There ain't no more--yet. He got my cash with his private poker deck +that onced, and I'm fixing for to get his'n.” + +Second call sounded; the lines filed out and formed, the sergeant of +the guard and two privates took their station by the flag, and when +battalion was formed the commanding officer, towering steeple-stiff +beneath his plumes, received the adjutant's salute, ordered him to his +post, and began drill. At all this the unconventional guest looked on +comfortably from Lieutenant Balwin's porch. + +“I doubt if I could put up with that there discipline all the week,” he +mused. “Carry--arms! Present--Arms! I guess that's all I know of it.” + The winking white line of gloves stirred his approval. “Pretty good +that. Gosh, see the sun on them bayonets!” + +The last note of retreat merged in the sonorous gun, and the flag +shining in the light of evening slid down and rested upon the earth. +The blue ranks marched to a single bugle--the post was short of men and +officers--and the captain, with the released lieutenants, again sought +digestion and cigars. Balwin returned to his guest, and together they +watched the day forsake the plain. Presently the guest rose to take his +leave. He looked old enough to be the father of the young officer, but +he was a civilian, and the military man proceeded to give him excellent +advice. + +“Now don't get into trouble, Cutler.” + +The slouch-shouldered scout rolled his quid gently, and smiled at his +superior with indulgent regard. + +“See here, Cutler, you have a highly unoccupied look about you this +evening. I've been studying the customs of this population, and I've +noted a fact or two.” + +“Let 'em loose on me, sir.” + +“Fact one: When any male inhabitant of Fort Laramie has a few spare +moments, he hunts up a game of cards.” + +“Well, sir, you've called the turn on me.” + +“Fact two: At Fort Laramie a game of cards frequently ends in +discussion.” + +“Fact three: Mr. Calvin, in them discussions Jarvis Cutler has the last +word. You put that in your census report alongside the other two.” + +“Well, Cutler, if somebody's gun should happen to beat yours in an +argument, I should have to hunt another wagon-master.” + +“I'll not forget that. When was you expecting to pull out north?” + +“Whenever the other companies get here. May be three days--may be three +weeks.” + +“Then I will have plenty time for a game to-night.” + +With this slight dig of his civilian independence into the lieutenant's +military ribs, the scout walked away, his long, lugubrious frockcoat +(worn in honor of the mess) occasionally flapping open in the breeze, +and giving a view of a belt richly fluted with cartridges, and the ivory +handle of a pistol looking out of its holster. He got on his horse, +crossed the flat, and struck out for the cabin of his sociable friends, +Loomis and Kelley, on the hill. The open door and a light inside showed +the company, and Cutler gave a grunt, for sitting on the table was the +half-breed, the winner of his unavenged dollars. He rode slower, in +order to think, and arriving at the corral below the cabin, tied his +horse to the stump of a cottonwood. A few steps towards the door, and he +wheeled on a sudden thought, and under cover of the night did a crafty +something which to the pony was altogether unaccountable. He unloosed +both front and rear cinch of his saddle, so they hung entirely free in +wide bands beneath the pony's belly. He tested their slackness with his +hand several times, stopping instantly when the more and more surprised +pony turned his head to see what new thing in his experience might be +going on, and, seeing, gave a delicate bounce with his hind-quarters. + +“Never you mind, Duster,” muttered the scout. “Did you ever see a +skunk-trap? Oughts is for mush-rats, and number ones is mostly used +for 'coons and 'possums, and I guess they'd do for a skunk. But you and +we'll call this here trap a number two, Duster, for the skunk I'm after +is a big one. All you've to do is to act natural.” + +Cutler took the rope off the stump by which Duster had been tied +securely, wound and strapped it to the tilted saddle, and instead of +this former tether, made a weak knot in the reins, and tossed them over +the stump. He entered the cabin with a countenance sweeter than honey. + +“Good-evening, boys,” he said. “Why, Toussaint, how do you do?” + +The hand of Toussaint had made a slight, a very slight, movement towards +his hip, but at sight of Cutler's mellow smile resumed its clasp upon +his knee. + +“Golly, but you're gay-like this evening,” said Kelley. + +“Blamed if I knowed he could look so frisky,” added Loomis. + +“Sporting his onced-a-year coat,” Kelley pursued. “That ain't for our +benefit, Joole.” + +“No, we're not that high in society.” Both these cheerful waifs had +drifted from the Atlantic coast westward. + +Cutler looked from them to his costume, and then amiably surveyed the +half-breed. + +“Well, boys, I'm in big luck, I am. How's yourn nowadays, Toussaint?” + +“Pretty good sometime. Sometime heap hell.” The voice of the half-breed +came as near heartiness as its singularly false quality would allow, and +as he smiled he watched Cutler with the inside of his eyes. + +The scout watched nobody and nothing with great care, looked about him +pleasantly, inquired for the whiskey, threw aside hat and gloves, sat +down, leaning the chair back against the wall, and talked with artful +candor. “Them sprigs of lieutenants down there,” said he, “they're a +surprising lot for learning virtue to a man. You take Balwin. Why, he +ain't been out of the Academy only two years, and he's been telling me +how card-playing ain't good for you. And what do you suppose he's been +and offered Jarvis Cutler for a job? I'm to be wagon-master.” He +paused, and the half-breed's attention to his next words increased. +“Wagon-master, and good pay, too. Clean up to the Black Hills; and the +troops'll move soon as ever them reinforcements come. Drinks on it, +boys! Set 'em up, Joole Loomis. My contract's sealed with some of Uncle +Sam's cash, and I'm going to play it right here. Hello! Somebody coming +to join us? He's in a hurry.” + +There was a sound of lashing straps and hoofs beating the ground, and +Cutler looked out of the door. As he had calculated, the saddle had +gradually turned with Duster's movements and set the pony bucking. + +“Stampeded!” said the scout, and swore the proper amount called for by +such circumstances. “Some o' you boys help me stop the durned fool.” + +Loomis and Kelley ran. Duster had jerked the prepared reins from the +cottonwood, and was lurching down a small dry gulch, with the saddle +bouncing between his belly and the stones. + +Cutler cast a backward eye at the cabin where Toussaint had stayed +behind alone. “Head him off below, boys, and I'll head him off above,” + the scout sang out. He left his companions, and quickly circled round +behind the cabin, stumbling once heavily, and hurrying on, anxious lest +the noise had reached the lurking half-breed. But the ivory-handled +pistol, jostled from its holster, lay unheeded among the stones where he +had stumbled. He advanced over the rough ground, came close to the logs, +and craftily peered in at the small window in the back of the cabin. It +was evident that he had not been heard. The sinister figure within still +sat on the table, but was crouched, listening like an animal to the +shouts that were coming from a safe distance down in the gulch. Cutler, +outside of the window, could not see the face of Toussaint, but he saw +one long brown hand sliding up and down the man's leg, and its movement +put him in mind of the tail of a cat. The hand stopped to pull out a +pistol, into which fresh cartridges were slipped. Cutler had already +done this same thing after dismounting, and he now felt confident that +his weapon needed no further examination. He did not put his hand to his +holster. The figure rose from the table, and crossed the room to a set +of shelves in front of which hung a little yellow curtain. Behind it +were cups, cans, bottles, a pistol, counters, red, white, and blue, and +two fresh packs of cards, blue and pink, side by side. Seeing these, +Toussaint drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and unwrapped two further +packs, both blue; and at this Cutler's intent face grew into plain shape +close to the window, but receded again into uncertain dimness. From down +in the gulch came shouts that the runaway horse was captured. Toussaint +listened, ran to the door, and quickly returning, put the blue pack +from the shelf into his pocket, leaving in exchange one of his own. He +hesitated about altering the position of the cards on the shelf, but +Kelley and Loomis were unobservant young men, and the half-breed placed +the pink cards on top of his blue ones. The little yellow curtain again +hung innocently over the shelves, and Toussaint, pouring himself a drink +of whiskey, faced round, and for the first time saw the window that had +been behind his back. He was at it in an instant, wrenching its rusty +pin, that did not give, but stuck motionless in the wood. Cursing, +he turned and hurried out of the door and round the cabin. No one was +there. Some hundred yards away the noiseless Cutler crawled farther +among the thickets that filled the head of the gulch. Toussaint whipped +out a match, and had it against his trousers to strike and look if there +were footprints, when second thoughts warned him this might be seen, and +was not worth risking suspicion over, since so many feet came and went +by this cabin. He told himself no one could have been there to see him, +and slowly returned inside, with a mind that fell a hair's breadth short +of conviction. + +The boys, coming up with the horse, met Cutler, who listened to how +Duster had stood still as soon as he had kicked free of his saddle, +making no objection to being caught. They suggested that he would not +have broken loose had he been tied with a rope; and hearing this, Cutler +bit off a piece of tobacco, and told them they were quite right: a +horse should never be tied by his bridle. For a savory moment the scout +cuddled his secret, and turned it over like the tobacco lump under his +tongue. Then he explained, and received serenely the amazement of Loomis +and Kelley. + +“When you kids have travelled this Western country awhile you'll keep +your cards locked,” said he. “He's going to let us win first. You'll +see, he'll play a poor game with the pink deck. Then, if we don't call +for fresh cards, why, he'll call for 'em himself. But, just for the fun +of the thing, if any of us loses steady, why, we'll call. Then, when he +gets hold of his strippers, watch out. When he makes his big play, and +is stretchin' for to rake the counters in, you grab 'em, Joole; for by +then I'll have my gun on him, and if he makes any trouble we'll feed him +to the coyotes. I expect that must have been it, boys,” he continued, in +a new tone, as they came within possible ear-shot of the half-breed in +the cabin. “A coyote come around him where he was tied. The fool horse +has seen enough of 'em to git used to 'em, you'd think, but he don't. +There; that'll hold him. I guess he'll have to pull the world along with +him if he starts to run again.” + +The lamp was placed on the window-shelf, and the four took seats, Cutler +to the left of Toussaint, with Kelley opposite. The pink cards fell +harmless, and for a while the game was a dull one to see. Holding a pair +of kings, Cutler won a little from Toussaint, who remarked that luck +must go with the money of Uncle Sam. After a few hands, the half-breed +began to bet with ostentatious folly, and, losing to one man and +another, was joked upon the falling off of his game. In an hour's time +his blue chips had been twice reinforced, and twice melted from the neat +often-counted pile in which he arranged them; moreover, he had lost a +horse from his string down on Chug Water. + +“Lend me ten dollar,” he said to Cutler. “You rich man now.” + +In the next few deals Kelley became poor. “I'm sick of this luck,” said +he. + +“Then change it, why don't you? Let's have a new deck.” And Loomis rose. + +“Joole, you always are for something new,” said Cutler. “Now I'm doing +pretty well with these pink cards. But I'm no hog. Fetch on your fresh +ones.” + +The eyes of the half-breed swerved to the yellow curtain. He was by +a French trapper from Canada out of a Sioux squaw, one of Red Cloud's +sisters, and his heart beat hot with the evil of two races, and none of +their good. He was at this moment irrationally angry with the men who +had won from him through his own devices, and malice undisguised shone +in his lean flat face. At sight of the blue cards falling in the first +deal, silence came over the company, and from the distant parade-ground +the bugle sounded the melancholy strain of taps. Faint, far, solemn, +melodious, the music travelled unhindered across the empty night. + +“Them men are being checked off in their bunks now,” said Cutler. + +“What you bet this game?” demanded Toussaint. + +“I've heard 'em play that same music over a soldier's grave,” said +Kelley. + +“You goin' to bet?” Toussaint repeated. + +Cutler pushed forward the two necessary white chips. No one's hand was +high, and Loomis made a slight winning. The deal went its round several +times, and once, when it was Toussaint's, Cutler suspected that special +cards had been thrown to him by the half-breed as an experiment. He +therefore played the gull to a nicety, betting gently upon his three +kings; but when he stepped out boldly and bet the limit, it was not +Toussaint but Kelley who held the higher hand, winning with three aces. +Why the coup should be held off longer puzzled the scout, unless it was +that Toussaint was carefully testing the edges of his marked cards to +see if he controlled them to a certainty. So Cutler played on calmly. +Presently two aces came to him in Toussaint's deal, and he wondered how +many more would be in his three-card draw. Very pretty! One only, and he +lost to Loomis, who had drawn three, and held four kings. The hands +were getting higher, they said. The game had “something to it now.” But +Toussaint grumbled, for his luck was bad all this year, he said. Cutler +had now made sure that the aces and kings went where the half-breed +wished, and could be slid undetected from the top or the middle or the +bottom of the pack; but he had no test yet how far down the scale the +marking went. At Toussaint's next deal Cutler judged the time had come, +and at the second round of betting he knew it. The three white men +played their parts, raising each other without pause, and again there +was total silence in the cabin. Every face bent to the table, watching +the turn repeat its circle with obstinate increase, until new chips and +more new chips had been brought to keep on with, and the heap in the +middle had mounted high in the hundreds, while in front of Toussaint +lay his knife and a match-box--pledges of two more horses which he had +staked. He had drawn three cards, while the others took two, except +Cutler, who had a pair of kings again, and drawing three, picked up two +more. Kelley dropped out, remarking he had bet more than his hand was +worth, which was true, and Loomis followed him. Their persistence had +surprised Toussaint a little. He had not given every one suspicious +hands: Cutler's four kings were enough. He bet once more, was raised by +the scout, called, and threw down his four aces. + +“That beats me,” said Cutler, quietly, and his hand moved under his +frock-coat, as the half-breed, eyeing the central pile of counters in +triumph, closed his fingers over it. They were dashed off by Kelley, who +looked expectantly across at Cutler, and seeing the scout's face wither +into sudden old age, cried out, “For God's sake, Jarvis, where's your +gun?” Kelley sprang for the yellow curtain, and reeled backward at the +shot of Toussaint. His arm thrashed along the window-sill as he fell, +sweeping over the lamp, and flaring channels of oil ran over his body +and spread on the ground. But these could no longer hurt him. The +half-breed had leaped outside the cabin, enraged that Cutler should have +got out during the moment he had been dealing with Kelley. The scout was +groping for his ivory-handled pistol off in the darkness. He found +it, and hurried to the little window at a second shot he heard inside. +Loomis, beating the rising flame away, had seized the pistol from the +shelf, and aimlessly fired into the night at Toussaint. He fired again, +running to the door from the scorching heat. Cutler got round the house +to save him if he could, and saw the half-breed's weapon flash, and the +body pitch out across the threshold. Toussaint, gaining his horse, shot +three times and missed Cutler, whom he could not clearly see; and he +heard the scout's bullets sing past him as his horse bore him rushing +away. + + +II + +Jarvis Cutler lifted the dead Loomis out of the cabin. He made a try +for Kelley's body, but the room had become a cave of flame, and he was +driven from the door. He wrung his hands, giving himself bitter blame +aloud, as he covered Loomis with his saddle-blanket, and jumped bareback +upon Duster to go to the post. He had not been riding a minute when +several men met him. They had seen the fire from below, and on their way +up the half-breed had passed them at a run. + +“Here's our point,” said Cutler. “Will he hide with the Sioux, or +will he take to the railroad? Well, that's my business more than being +wagon-master. I'll get a warrant. You tell Lieutenant Balwin--and +somebody give me a fresh horse.” + +A short while later, as Cutler, with the warrant in his pocket, rode +out of Fort Laramie, the call of the sentinels came across the night: +“Number One. Twelve o'clock, and all's well.” A moment, and the refrain +sounded more distant, given by Number Two. When the fourth took it up, +far away along the line, the words were lost, leaving something like the +faint echo of a song. The half-breed had crossed the Platte, as if he +were making for his kindred tribe, but the scout did not believe in this +too plain trail. + +“There's Chug Water lying right the other way from where he went, and +I guess it's there Mr. Toussaint is aiming for.” With this idea Cutler +swung from north to southwest along the Laramie. He went slowly over +his shortcut, not to leave the widely circling Toussaint too much in his +rear. The fugitive would keep himself carefully far on the other side of +the Laramie, and very likely not cross it until the forks of Chug Water. +Dawn had ceased to be gray, and the doves were cooing incessantly among +the river thickets, when Cutler, reaching the forks, found a bottom +where the sage-brush grew seven and eight feet high, and buried himself +and his horse in its cover. Here was comfort; here both rivers could be +safely watched. It seemed a good leisure-time for a little fire and some +breakfast. He eased his horse of the saddle, sliced some bacon, and put +a match to his pile of small sticks. As the flame caught, he stood up to +enjoy the cool of a breeze that was passing through the stillness, and +he suddenly stamped his fire out. The smell of another fire had come +across Chug Water on the wind. It was incredible that Toussaint should +be there already. There was no seeing from this bottom, and if Cutler +walked up out of it the other man would see too. If it were Toussaint, +he would not stay long in the vast exposed plain across Chug Water, but +would go on after his meal. In twenty minutes it would be the thing +to swim or wade the stream, and crawl up the mud bank to take a look. +Meanwhile, Cutler dipped in water some old bread that he had and sucked +it down, while the little breeze from opposite hook the cottonwood +leaves and brought over the smell of cooking meat. The sun grew warmer, +and the doves ceased. Cutler opened his big watch, and clapped it shut +as the sound of mud heavily slopping into the other river reached +him. He crawled to where he could look at the Laramie from among his +sagebrush, and there was Toussaint leading his horse down to the water. +The half-breed gave a shrill call, and waved his hat. His call was +answered, and as he crossed the Laramie, three Sioux appeared, riding to +the bank. They waited till he gained their level, when all four rode up +the Chug Water, and went out of sight opposite the watching Cutler. The +scout threw off some of his clothes, for the water was still high, and +when he had crossed, and drawn himself to a level with the plain, there +were the four squatted among the sage-brush beside a fire. They sat +talking and eating for some time. One of them rose at last, pointed +south, and mounting his horse, dwindled to a dot, blurred, and +evaporated in the heated, trembling distance. Cutler at the edge of the +bank still watched the other three, who sat on the ground. A faint shot +came, and they rose at once, mounted, and vanished southward. There was +no following them now in this exposed country, and Cutler, feeling sure +that the signal had meant something about Toussaint's horses, made his +fire, watered his own horse, and letting him drag a rope where the feed +was green, ate his breakfast in ease. Toussaint would get a fresh mount, +and proceed to the railroad. With the comfort of certainty and tobacco, +the scout lolled by the river under the cottonwood, and even slept. In +the cool of the afternoon he reached the cabin of an acquaintance twenty +miles south, and changed his horse. A man had passed by, he was told. +Looked as if bound for Cheyenne. “No,” Cutler said, “he's known there”; +and he went on, watching Toussaint's tracks. Within ten miles they +veered away from Cheyenne to the southeast, and Cutler struck out on a +trail of his own more freely. By midnight he was on Lodge-Pole Creek, +sleeping sound among the last trees that he would pass. He slept +twelve hours, having gone to bed knowing he must not come into town +by daylight. About nine o'clock he arrived, and went to the railroad +station; there the operator knew him. The lowest haunt in the town had +a tent south of the Union Pacific tracks; and Cutler, getting his irons, +and a man from the saloon, went there, and stepped in, covering the room +with his pistol. The fiddle stopped, the shrieking women scattered, and +Toussaint, who had a glass in his hand, let it fly at Cutler's head, for +he was drunk. There were two customers besides himself. + +“Nobody shall get hurt here,” said Cutler, above the bedlam that was +now set up. “Only that man's wanted. The quieter I get him, the quieter +it'll be for others.” + +Toussaint had dived for his pistol, but the proprietor of the +dance-hall, scenting law, struck the half-breed with the butt of +another, and he rolled over, and was harmless for some minutes. Then +he got on his legs, and was led out of the entertainment, which resumed +more gayly than ever. Feet shuffled, the fiddle whined, and truculent +treble laughter sounded through the canvas walls as Toussaint walked +between Cutler and the saloon-man to jail. He was duly indicted, and +upon the scout's deposition committed to trial for the murder of Loomis +and Kelley. Cutler, hoping still to be wagon-master, wrote to Lieutenant +Balwin, hearing in reply that the reinforcements would not arrive for +two months. The session of the court came in one, and Cutler was the +Territory's only witness. He gave his name and age, and hesitated over +his occupation. + +“Call it poker-dealer,” sneered Toussaint's attorney. + +“I would, but I'm such a fool one,” observed the witness. “Put me down +as wagon-master to the military outfit that's going to White River.” + +“What is your residence?” + +“Well, I reside in the section that lies between the Missouri River and +the Pacific Ocean.” + +“A pleasant neighborhood,” said the judge, who knew Cutler perfectly, +and precisely how well he could deal poker hands. + +“It's not a pleasant neighborhood for some.” And Cutler looked at +Toussaint. + +“You think you done with me?” Toussaint inquired, upon which silence was +ordered in the court. + +Upon Cutler's testimony the half-breed was found guilty, and sentenced +to be hanged in six weeks from that day. Hearing this, he looked at the +witness. “I see you one day agin,” he said. + +The scout returned to Fort Laramie, and soon the expected troops +arrived, and the expedition started for White River to join Captain +Brent. The captain was stationed there to impress Red Cloud, and had +written to headquarters that this chief did not seem impressed very +deeply, and that the lives of the settlers were insecure. Reinforcements +were accordingly sent to him. On the evening before these soldiers left +Laramie, news came from the south. Toussaint had escaped from jail. The +country was full of roving, dubious Indians, and with the authentic news +went a rumor that the jailer had received various messages. These were +to the effect that the Sioux nation did not desire Toussaint to be +killed by the white man, that Toussaint's mother was the sister of Red +Cloud, and that many friends of Toussaint often passed the jailer's +house. Perhaps he did get such messages. They are not a nice sort to +receive. However all this may have been, the prisoner was gone. + + +III + +Fort Robinson, on the White River, is backed by yellow bluffs that break +out of the foot-hills in turret and toadstool shapes, with stunt pines +starving between their torrid bastions. In front of the fort the land +slants away into the flat unfeatured desert, and in summer the sky is a +blue-steel covet that each day shuts the sun and the earth and mankind +into one box together, while it lifts at night to let in the cool of the +stars. The White River, which is not wide, runs in a curve, and around +this curve below the fort some distance was the agency, and beyond it +a stockade, inside which in those days dwelt the settlers. All this was +strung out on one side of the White River, outside of the curve; and at +a point near the agency a foot-bridge of two cottonwood trunks crossed +to the concave of the river's bend--a bottom of some extent, filled with +growing cottonwoods, and the tepees of many Sioux families. Along the +river and on the plain other tepees stood. + +One morning, after Lieutenant Balwin had become established at Fort +Robinson, he was talking with his friend Lieutenant Powell, when Cutler +knocked at the wire door. The wagon-master was a privileged character, +and he sat down and commented irrelevantly upon the lieutenant's +pictures, Indian curiosities, and other well-meant attempts to conceal +the walk: + +“What's the trouble, Cutler?” + +“Don't know as there's any trouble.” + +“Come to your point, man; you're not a scout now.” + +“Toussaint's here.” + +“What! in camp?” + +“Hiding with the Sioux. Two Knives heard about it.” (Two Knives was a +friendly Indian.) “He's laying for me,” Cutler added. + +“You've seen him?” + +“No. I want to quit my job and go after him.” + +“Nonsense!” said Powell. + +“You can't, Cutler,” said Balwin. “I can't spare you.” + +“You'll be having to fill my place, then, I guess.” + +“You mean to go without permission?” said Powell, sternly. + +“Lord, no! He'll shoot me. That's all.” + +The two lieutenants pondered. + +“And it's to-day,” continued Cutler, plaintively, “that he should be +gettin' hanged in Cheyenne.” + +Still the lieutenants pondered, while the wagon-master inspected a +photograph of Marie Rose as Marguerite. + +“I have it!” exclaimed Powell. “Let's kill him.” + +“How about the commanding officer?” + +“He'd back us--but we'll tell him afterwards. Cutler, can you find +Toussaint?” + +“If I get the time.” + +“Very well, you're off duty till you do. Then report to me at once.” + +Just after guard-mounting two days later, Cutler came in without +knocking. Toussaint was found. He was down on the river now, beyond the +stockade. In ten minutes the wagon-master and the two lieutenants were +rattling down to the agency in an ambulance, behind four tall blue +government mules. These were handily driven by a seventeen-year-old boy +whom Balwin had picked up, liking his sterling American ways. He had +come West to be a cow-boy, but a chance of helping to impress Red Cloud +had seemed still dearer to his heart. They drew up at the agency store, +and all went in, leaving the boy nearly out of his mind with curiosity, +and pretending to be absorbed with the reins. Presently they came out, +Balwin with field-glasses. + +“Now,” said he, “where?” + +“You see the stockade, sir?” + +“Well?” said Powell, sticking his chin on Cutler's shoulder to look +along his arm as he pouted. But the scout proposed to be deliberate. + +“Now the gate of the stockade is this way, ain't it?” + +“Well, well?” + +“You start there and follow the fence to the corner--the left corner, +towards the river. Then you follow the side that's nearest the river +down to the other corner. Now that corner is about a hundred yards from +the bank. You take a bee-line to the bank and go down stream, maybe +thirty yards. No; it'll be forty yards, I guess. There's a lone +pine-tree right agin the edge.” The wagon-master stopped. + +“I see all that,” said Lieutenant Balwin, screwing the field-glasses. +“There's a buck and a squaw lying under the tree.” + +“Naw, sir,” drawled Cutler, “that ain't no buck. That's him lying in his +Injun blanket and chinnin' a squaw.” + +“Why, that man's an Indian, Cutler. I tell you I can see his braids.” + +“Oh, he's rigged up Injun fashion, fust rate, sir. But them braids of +his ain't his'n. False hair.” + +The lieutenants passed each other the fieldglasses three times, and +glared at the lone pine and the two figures in blankets. The boy on the +ambulance was unable to pretend any longer, and leaned off his seat till +he nearly fell. + +“Well,” said Balwin, “I never saw anything look more like a buck Sioux. +Look at his paint. Take the glasses yourself, Cutler.” + +But Cutler refused. “He's like an Injun,” he said. “But that's just what +he wants to be.” The scout's conviction bore down their doubt. + +They were persuaded. “You can't come with us, Cutler,” said Powell. “You +must wait for us here.” + +“I know, sir; he'd spot us, sure. But it ain't right. I started this +whole business with my poker scheme at that cabin, and I ought to stay +with it clear through.” + +The officers went into the agency store and took down two rifles hanging +at the entrance, always ready for use. “We're going to kill a man,” they +explained, and the owner was entirely satisfied. They left the rueful +Cutler inside, and proceeded to the gate of the stockade, turning there +to the right, away from the river, and following the paling round the +corner down to the farther right-hand corner. Looking from behind it, +the lone pine-tree stood near, and plain against the sky. The striped +figures lay still in their blankets, talking, with their faces to the +river. Here and there across the stream the smoke-stained peak of a +tepee showed among the green leaves. + +“Did you ever see a more genuine Indian?” inquired Baldwin. + +“We must let her rip now, anyhow,” said Powell, and they stepped out +into the open. They walked towards the pine till it was a hundred yards +from them, and the two beneath it lay talking all the while. Balwin +covered the man with his rifle and called. The man turned his head, and +seeing the rifle, sat up in his blanket. The squaw sat up also. Again +the officer called, keeping his rifle steadily pointed, and the man +dived like a frog over the bank. Like magic his blanket had left his +limbs and painted body naked, except for the breech-clout. Balwin's +tardy bullet threw earth over the squaw, who went flapping and +screeching down the river. Balwin and Powell ran to the edge, which +dropped six abrupt feet of clay to a trail, then shelved into the swift +little stream. The red figure was making up the trail to the foot-bridge +that led to the Indian houses, and both officers fired. The man +continued his limber flight, and they jumped down and followed, firing. +They heard a yell on the plain above, and an answer to it, and then +confused yells above and below, gathering all the while. The figure ran +on above the river trail below the bank, and their bullets whizzed after +it. + +“Indian!” asserted Balwin, panting. + +“Ran away, though,” said Powell. + +“So'd you run. Think any Sioux'd stay when an army officer comes gunning +for him?” + +“Shoot!” said Powell. “'S getting near bridge,” and they went on, +running and firing. The yells all over the plain were thickening. The +air seemed like a substance of solid flashing sound. The naked runner +came round the river curve into view of the people at the agency store. + +“Where's a rifle?” said Cutler to the agent. + +“Officers got 'em,” the agent explained. + +“Well, I can't stand this,” said the scout, and away he went. + +“That man's crazy,” said the agent. + +“You bet he ain't!” remarked the ambulance boy. + +Cutler was much nearer to the bridge than was the man in the +breech-clout, and reaching the bank, he took half a minute's keen +pleasure in watching the race come up the trail. When the figure +was within ten yards Cutler slowly drew an ivory-handled pistol. The +lieutenants below saw the man leap to the middle of the bridge, sway +suddenly with arms thrown up, and topple into White River. The current +swept the body down, and as it came it alternately lifted and turned and +sank as the stream played with it. Sometimes it struck submerged stumps +or shallows, and bounded half out of water, then drew under with nothing +but the back of the head in sight, turning round and round. The din of +Indians increased, and from the tepees in the cottonwoods the red Sioux +began to boil, swarming on the opposite bank, but uncertain what had +happened. The man rolling in the water was close to the officers. + +“It's not our man,” said Balwin. “Did you or I hit him?” + +“We're gone, anyhow,” said Powell, quietly. “Look!” + +A dozen rifles were pointing at their heads on the bank above. The +Indians still hesitated, for there was Two Knives telling them these +officers were not enemies, and had hurt no Sioux. Suddenly Cutler pushed +among the rifles, dashing up the nearest two with his arm, and their +explosion rang in the ears of the lieutenants. Powell stood grinning at +the general complication of matters that had passed beyond his control, +and Balwin made a grab as the head of the man in the river washed by. +The false braid came off in his hand! + +“Quick!” shouted Cutler from the bank. “Shove him up here!” + +Two Knives redoubled his harangue, and the Indians stood puzzled, while +the lieutenants pulled Toussaint out, not dead, but shot through the +hip. They dragged him over the clay and hoisted him, till Cutler caught +hold and jerked him to the level, as a new noise of rattling descended +on the crowd, and the four blue mules wheeled up and halted. The boy had +done it himself. Massing the officers' need, he had pelted down among +the Sioux, heedless of their yells, and keeping his gray eyes on his +team. In got the three, pushing Toussaint in front, and scoured away for +the post as the squaw arrived to shriek the truth to her tribe--what Red +Cloud's relation had been the victim. + +Cutler sat smiling as the ambulance swung along. “I told you I belonged +in this here affair,” he said. And when they reached the fort he was +saying it still, occasionally. + +Captain Brent considered it neatly done. “But that boy put the finishing +touches,” he said. “Let's have him in.” + +The boy was had in, and ate a dinner with the officers in glum +embarrassment, smoking a cigar after it without joy. Toussaint was given +into the doctor's hands, and his wounds carefully dressed. + +“This will probably cost an Indian outbreak,” said Captain Brent, +looking down at the plain. Blanketed riders galloped over it, and +yelling filled the air. But Toussaint was not destined to cause this +further harm. An unexpected influence intervened. + +All afternoon the cries and galloping went on, and next morning (worse +sign) there seemed to be no Indians in the world. The horizon was +empty, the air was silent, the smoking tepees were vanished from the +cottonwoods, and where those in the plain had been lay the lodge-poles, +and the fires were circles of white, cold ashes. By noon an interpreter +came from Red Cloud. Red Cloud would like to have Toussaint. If the +white man was not willing, it should be war. + +Captain Brent told the story of Loomis and Kelley. “Say to Red Cloud,” + he ended, “that when a white man does such things among us, he is +killed. Ask Red Cloud if Toussaint should live. If he thinks yes, let +him come and take Toussaint.” + +The next day with ceremony and feathers of state, Red Cloud came, +bringing his interpreter, and after listening until every word had been +told him again, requested to see the half-breed. He was taken to the +hospital. A sentry stood on post outside the tent, and inside lay +Toussaint, with whom Cutler and the ambulance-boy were playing +whiskey-poker. While the patient was waiting to be hanged, he might as +well enjoy himself within reason. Such was Cutler's frontier philosophy. +We should always do what we can for the sick. At sight of Red Cloud +looming in the doorway, gorgeous and grim as Fate, the game was +suspended. The Indian took no notice of the white men, and walked to the +bed. Toussaint clutched at his relation's fringe, but Red Cloud looked +at him. Then the mongrel strain of blood told, and the half-breed poured +out a chattering appeal, while Red Cloud by the bedside waited till it +had spent itself. Then he grunted, and left the room. He had not spoken, +and his crest of long feathers as it turned the corner was the last +vision of him that the card-players had. + +Red Cloud came back to the officers, and in their presence formally +spoke to his interpreter, who delivered the message: “Red Cloud says +Toussaint heap no good. No Injun, anyhow. He not want him. White man +hunt pretty hard for him. Can keep him.” + +Thus was Toussaint twice sentenced. He improved under treatment, played +many games of whiskey-poker, and was conveyed to Cheyenne and hanged. + +These things happened in the early seventies; but there are Sioux +still living who remember the two lieutenants, and how they pulled the +half-breed out of White River by his false hair. It makes them laugh to +this day. Almost any Indian is full of talk when he chooses, and when he +gets hold of a joke he never lets go. + + + + +Sharon's Choice + + +Under Providence, a man may achieve the making of many things--ships, +books, fortunes, himself even, quite often enough to encourage +others; but let him beware of creating a town. Towns mostly happen. No +real-estate operator decided that Rome should be. Sharon was an intended +town; a one man's piece of deliberate manufacture; his whim, his pet, +his monument, his device for immortally continuing above ground. He +planned its avenues, gave it his middle name, fed it with his railroad. +But he had reckoned without the inhabitants (to say nothing of nature), +and one day they displeased him. Whenever you wish, you can see Sharon +and what it has come to as I saw it when, as a visitor without local +prejudices, they asked me to serve with the telegraph-operator and the +ticket-agent and the hotel-manager on the literary committee of +judges at the school festival. There would be a stage, and flags, +and elocution, and parents assembled, and afterwards ice-cream with +strawberries from El Paso. + +“Have you ever awarded prizes for school speaking?” inquired the +telegraph-operator, Stuart. + +“Yes,” I told him. “At Concord in New Hampshire.” + +“Ever have a chat afterwards with a mother whose girl did not get the +prize?” + +“It was boys,” I replied. “And parents had no say in it.” + +“It's boys and girls in Sharon,” said he. “Parents have no say in it +here, either. But that don't seem to occur to them at the moment. We'll +all stick together, of course.” + +“I think I had best resign.” said I. “You would find me no hand at +pacifying a mother.” + +“There are fathers also,” said Stuart. “But individual parents are small +trouble compared with a big split in public opinion. We've missed that +so far, though.” + +“Then why have judges? Why not a popular vote?” I inquired. + +“Don't go back on us,” said Stuart. “We are so few here. And you know +education can't be democratic or where will good taste find itself? +Eastman knows that much, at least.” And Stuart explained that Eastman +was the head of the school and chairman of our committee. “He is from +Massachusetts, and his taste is good, but he is total abstinence. Won't +allow any literature with the least smell of a drink in it, not even +in the singing-class. Would not have 'Here's a health to King Charles' +inside the door. Narrowing, that; as many of the finest classics speak +of wine freely. Eastman is useful, but a crank. Now take 'Lochinvar.' +We are to have it on strawberry night; but say! Eastman kicked about it. +Told the kid to speak something else. Kid came to me, and I--” + +A smile lurked for one instant in the corner of Stuart's eye, and +disappeared again. Then he drew his arm through mine as we walked. + +“You have never seen anything in your days like Sharon,” said he. “You +could not sit down by yourself and make such a thing up. Shakespeare +might have, but he would have strained himself doing it. Well, Eastman +says 'Lochinvar' will go in my expurgated version. Too bad Sir Walter +cannot know. Ever read his Familiar Letters, Great grief! but he was a +good man. Eastman stuck about that mention of wine. Remember? + + 'So now am I come with this lost love of mine + To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.' + +'Well,' thought I, 'Eastman would agree to water. Water and daughter +would go, but is frequently used, and spoils the meter.' So I fiddled +with my pencil down in the telegraph office, and I fixed the thing up. +How's this? + + 'So now am I come with this beautiful maid + To lead but one measure, drink one lemonade.' + +Eastman accepts that. Says it's purer. Oh, it's not all sadness here!” + +“How did you come to be in Sharon?” I asked my exotic acquaintance. + +“Ah, how did I? How did all our crowd at the railroad? Somebody has got +to sell tickets, somebody has got to run that hotel, and telegraphs have +got to exist here. That's how we foreigners came. Many travellers change +cars here, and one train usually misses the other, because the two +companies do not love each other. You hear lots of language, especially +in December. Eastern consumptives bound for southern California get left +here, and drummers are also thick. Remarks range from 'How provoking!' +to things I would not even say myself. So that big hotel and depot has +to be kept running, and we fellows get a laugh now and then. Our lot is +better than these people's.” He made a general gesture at Sharon. + +“I should have thought it was worse,” said I. “No, for we'll be +transferred some day. These poor folks are shipwrecked. Though it is +their own foolishness, all this.” + +Again my eye followed as he indicated the town with a sweep of his hand; +and from the town I looked to the four quarters of heaven. I may have +seen across into Old Mexico. No sign labels the boundary; the vacuum +of continent goes on, you might think, to Patagonia. Symptoms of +neighboring Mexico basked on the sand heaps along Sharon's spacious +avenues--little torpid, indecent gnomes in sashes and open rags, with +crowning-steeple straw hats, and murder dozing in their small black +eyes. They might have crawled from holes in the sand, or hatched out +of brown cracked pods on some weeds that trailed through the broken +bottles, the old shoes, and the wire fences. Outside these ramparts +began the vacuum, white, gray, indigo, florescent, where all the year +the sun shines. Not the semblance of any tree dances in the heat; only +rocks and lumps of higher sand waver and dissolve and reappear in the +shaking crystal of mirage. Not the scar of any river-bed furrows the +void. A river there is, flowing somewhere out of the shiny violet +mountains to the north, but it dies subterraneously on its way to +Sharon, misses the town, and emerges thirty miles south across the +sunlight in a shallow, futile lake, a cienaga, called Las Palomas. Then +it evaporates into the ceaseless blue sky. + +The water you get in Sharon is dragged by a herd of wind-wheels from +the bowels of the sand. Over the town they turn and turn--Sharon's upper +story--a filmy colony of slats. In some of the homes beneath them you +may go up-stairs--in the American homes, not in the adobe Mexican +caves of song, woman, and knives; and brick and stone edifices occur. +Monuments of perished trade, these rise among their flatter neighbors +cubical and stark; under-shirts, fire-arms, and groceries for sale +in the ground-floor, blind dust-windows above. Most of the mansions, +however, squat ephemerally upon the soil, no cellar to them, and no +staircase, the total fragile box ready to bounce and caracole should the +wind drive hard enough. Inside them, eating, mending, the newspaper, and +more babies, eke out the twelvemonth; outside, the citizens loiter to +their errands along the brief wide avenues of Sharon that empty into +space. Men, women, and children move about in the town, sparse and +casual, and over their heads in a white tribe the wind-wheels on their +rudders veer to the breeze and indolently revolve above the gaping +obsoleteness. Through the dumb town the locomotive bell tolls +pervadingly when a train of freight or passengers trundles in from the +horizon or out along the dwindling fence of telegraph poles. No matter +where you are, you can hear it come and go, leaving Sharon behind, an +airy carcass, bleached and ventilated, sitting on the sand, with the sun +and the hot wind pouring through its bones. + +This town was the magnate's child, the thing that was to keep his memory +green; and as I took it in on that first walk of discovery, Stuart told +me its story: how the magnate had decreed the railroad shops should be +here; how, at that, corner lots grew in a night; how horsemen galloped +the streets, shooting for joy, and the hasty tents rose while the +houses were hammered together; how they had song, dance, cards, whiskey, +license, murder, marriage, opera--the whole usual thing--regular as the +clock in our West, in Australia, in Africa, in every virgin corner +of the world where the Anglo-Saxon rushes to spend his animal +spirits--regular as the clock, and in Sharon's case about fifteen +minutes long. For they became greedy, the corner-lot people. They ran +up prices for land which the railroad, the breath of their nostrils, +wanted. They grew ugly, forgetting they were dealing with a magnate, and +that a railroad from ocean to ocean can take its shops somewhere else +with appalling ease. Thus did the corner lots become sand again in a +night. “And in the words of the poet,” concluded Stuart, “Sharon has an +immense future behind it.” + +Our talk was changed by the sight of a lady leaning and calling over a +fence. + +“Mrs. Jeffries,” said she. “Oh, Mrs. Jeffries!” + +“Well?” called a voice next door. + +“I want to send Leola and Arvasita into your yard.” + +“Well?” the voice repeated. + +“Our tool-house blew over into your yard last night. It's jammed behind +your tank.” + +“Oh, indeed!” + +A window in the next house was opened, a head put out, and this +occasioned my presentation to both ladies. They were Mrs. Mattern +and Mrs. Jeffries, and they fell instantly into a stiff caution of +deportment; but they speedily found I was not worth being cautious +over. Stuart whispered to me that they were widows of high standing, and +mothers of competing favorites for the elocution prize; and I hastened +to court their esteem. Mrs. Mattern was in body more ample, standing +high and yellow and fluffy; but Mrs. Jeffries was smooth and small, and +behind her spectacles she had an eye. + +“You must not let us interrupt you, ladies,” said I, after some +civilities. “Did I understand that something was to be carried +somewhere?” + +“You did,” said Mrs. Jeffries (she had come out of her house); “and I am +pleased to notice no damage has been done to our fence--this time.” + +“It would have been fixed right up at my expense, as always, Mrs. +Jeffries,” retorted her neighbor, and started to keep abreast of Mrs. +Jeffries as that lady walked and inspected the fence. Thus the two +marched parallel along the frontier to the rear of their respective +territories. + +“You'll not resign?” said Stuart to me. “It is 'yours till death,' ain't +it?” + +I told him that it was. + +“About once a month I can expect this,” said Mrs. Jeffries, returning +along her frontier. + +“Well, it's not the only case in Sharon, Mrs. Jeffries,” said Mrs. +Mattern. “I'll remind you of them three coops when you kept poultry, and +they got away across the railroad, along with the barber's shop.” + +“But cannot we help you get it out?” said I, with a zealous wish for +peace. + +“You are very accommodating, sir,” said Mrs. Mattern. + +“One of the prize-awarding committee,” said Stuart. “An elegant judge of +oratory. Has decided many contests at Concord, the home of Emerson.” + +“Concord, New Hampshire,” I corrected; but neither lady heard me. + +“How splendid for Leola!” cried Mrs. Mattern, instantly. “Leola! Oh, +Leola! Come right out here!” + +Mrs. Jeffries has been more prompt. She was already in her house, and +now came from it, bringing a pleasant-looking boy of sixteen, it +might be. The youth grinned at me as he stood awkwardly, brought in +shirtsleeves from the performance of some household work. + +“This is Guy,” said his mother. “Guy took the prize last year. Guy +hopes--” + +“Shut up, mother,” said Guy, with entire sweetness. “I don't hope +twice--” + +“Twice or a dozen times should raise no hard feelings if my son is +Sharon's best speaker,” cried Mrs. Jeffries, and looked across the fence +viciously. + +“Shut up, mother; I ain't,” said Guy. + +“He is a master of humor recitations,” his mother now said to me. +“Perhaps you know, or perhaps you do not know, how high up that is +reckoned.” + +“Why, mother, Leola can speak all around me. She can,” Guy added to me, +nodding his head confidentially. + +I did not believe him, I think because I preferred his name to that of +Leola. + +“Leola will study in Paris, France,” announced Mrs. Mattern, arriving +with her child. “She has no advantages here. This is the gentleman, +Leola.” + +But before I had more than noted a dark-eyed maiden who would not look +at me, but stood in skirts too young for her figure, black stockings, +and a dangle of hair that should have been up, her large parent had +thrust into my hand a scrap-book. + +“Here is what the Santa Fe Observer says;” and when I would have read, +she read aloud for me. “The next is the Los Angeles Christian Home. And +here's what they wrote about her in El Paso: 'Her histrionic genius for +one so young'--it commences below that picture. That's Leola.” I now +recognized the black stockings and the hair. “Here's what a literary +lady in Lordsburg thinks,” pursued Mrs. Mattern. + +“Never mind that,” murmured Leola. + +“I shall.” And the mother read the letter to me. “Leola has spoke in +five cultured cities,” she went on. “Arvasita can depict how she was +encored at Albuquerque last Easter-Monday.” + +“Yes, sir, three recalls,” said Arvasita, arriving at our group by the +fence. An elder sister, she was, evidently. “Are you acquainted with +'Camill'?” she asked me, with a trifle of sternness; and upon my +hesitating, “the celebrated French drayma of 'Camill',” she repeated, +with a trifle more of sternness. “Camill is the lady in it who dies of +consumption. Leola recites the letter-and-coughing scene, Act Third. Mr. +Patterson of Coloraydo Springs pronounces it superior to Modjeska.” + +“That is Leola again,” said Mrs. Mattern, showing me another newspaper +cut--hair, stockings, and a candle this time. + +“Sleep-walking scene, 'Macbeth,'” said Arvasita. “Leola's great night +at the church fair and bazar, El Paso, in Shakespeare's acknowledged +masterpiece. Leola's repetwar likewise includes 'Catherine the Queen +before her Judges,' 'Quality of Mercy is not Strained,' 'Death of Little +Nell,' 'Death of Paul Dombey,' 'Death of the Old Year,' 'Burial of Sir +John Moore,' and other standard gems suitable for ladies.” + +“Leola,” said her mother, “recite 'When the British Warrior Queen' to +the gentleman.” + +“No, momma, please not,” said Leola, and her voice made me look at her; +something of appeal sounded in it. + +“Leola is that young you must excuse her,” said her mother--and I +thought the girl winced. + +“Come away, Guy,” suddenly snapped little Mrs. Jeffries. “We are wasting +the gentleman's time. You are no infant prodigy, and we have no pictures +of your calves to show him in the papers.” + +“Why, mother!” cried the boy, and he gave a brotherly look to Leola. + +But the girl, scarlet and upset, now ran inside the house. + +“As for wasting time, madam,” said I, with indignation, “you are wasting +yours in attempting to prejudice the judges.” + +“There!” said Guy. + +“And, Mrs. Mattern,” continued, “if I may say so without offense, +the age (real or imaginary) of the speakers may make a difference in +Albuquerque, but with our committee not the slightest.” + +“Thank you, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Mattern, bridling. + +“Eastern ideas are ever welcome in Sharon,” said Mrs. Jeffries. +“Good-morning.” And she removed Guy and herself into her house, while +Mrs. Mattern and Arvasita, stiffly ignoring me, passed into their own +door. + +“Come have a drink,” said Stuart to me. “I am glad you said it. Old +Mother Mattern will let down those prodigy skirts. The poor girl has +been ashamed of them these two years, but momma has bulldozed her into +staying young for stage effect. The girl's not conceited, for a wonder, +and she speaks well. It is even betting which of the two widows you have +made the maddest.” + +Close by the saloon we were impeded by a rush of small boys. They ran +before and behind us suddenly from barrels and unforeseen places, and +wedging and bumping between us, they shouted: “Chicken-legs! Ah, look at +the chicken-legs!” + +For a sensitive moment I feared they were speaking of me; but the +folding slat-doors of the saloon burst open outward, and a giant +barkeeper came among the boys and caught and shook them to silence. + +“You want to behave,” was his single remark; and they dispersed like a +Sunday-school. + +I did not see why they should thus describe him. He stood and nodded to +us, and jerked big thumb towards the departing flock. “Funny how a boy +will never think,” said he, with amiability. “But they'll grow up to be +about as good as the rest of us, I guess. Don't you let them monkey with +you, Josey!” he called. + +“Naw, I won't,” said a voice. I turned and saw, by a barrel, a youth in +knee-breeches glowering down the street at his routed enemies. He +was possibly eight, and one hand was bound in a grimy rag. This was +Chickenlegs. + +“Did they harm you, Josey?” asked the giant. + +“Naw, they didn't.” + +“Not troubled your hand any?” + +“Naw, they didn't.” + +“Well, don't you let them touch you. We'll see you through.” And as +we followed him in towards our drink through his folding slat-doors he +continued discoursing to me, the newcomer. “I am against interfering +with kids. I like to leave 'em fight and fool just as much as they see +fit. Now them boys ain't malicious, but they're young, you see, they're +young, and misfortune don't appeal to them. Josey lost his father last +spring, and his mother died last month. Last week he played with a +freight car and left two of his fingers with it. Now you might think +that was enough hardship.” + +“Indeed yes,” I answered. + +“But the little stake he inherited was gambled away by his stinking old +aunt.” + +“Well!” I cried. + +“So we're seeing him through.” + +“You bet,” said a citizen in boots and pistol, who was playing +billiards. + +“This town is not going to permit any man to fool with Josey,” stated +his opponent in the game. + +“Or women either,” added a lounger by the bar, shaggy-bearded and also +with a pistol. + +“Mr. Abe Hanson,” said the barkeeper, presenting me to him. “Josey's +father's partner. He's took the boy from the aunt and is going to see +him through.” + +“How 'r' ye?” said Mr. Hanson, hoarsely, and without enthusiasm. + +“A member of the prize-awarding committee,” explained Stuart, and waved +a hand at me. + +They all brightened up and came round me. + +“Heard my boy speak?” inquired one. “Reub Gadsden's his name.” + +I told him I had heard no speaker thus far; and I mentioned Leola and +Guy. + +“Hope the boy'll give us 'The Jumping Frog' again,” said one. “I near +bust.” + +“What's the heifer speakin' this trip?” another inquired. + +“Huh! Her!” said a third. + +“You'll talk different, maybe, this time,” retorted the other. + +“Not agin 'The Jumping Frog,' he won't,” the first insisted. “I near +bust,” he repeated. + +“I'd like for you to know my boy Reub,” said Mr. Gadsden to me, +insinuatingly. + +“Quit fixing' the judge, Al,” said Leola's backer. “Reub forgets his +words, an' says 'em over, an' balks, an' mires down, an' backs out, an +starts fresh, en' it's confusin' to foller him.” + +“I'm glad to see you take so much interest, gentlemen,” said I. + +“Yes, we're apt to see it through,” said the barkeeper. And Stuart and I +bade them a good-morning. + +As we neared the school-master's house, where Stuart was next taking me, +we came again upon the boys with Josey, and no barkeeper at hand to “see +him through.” But Josey made it needless. At the word “Chicken-legs” he +flew in a limber manner upon the nearest, and knocking him immediately +flat, turned with spirit upon a second and kicked him. At this they set +up a screeching and fell all together, and the school-master came out of +his door. + +“Boys, boys!” said he. “And the Sabbath too!” + +As this did not immediately affect them, Mr. Eastman made a charge, and +they fled from him then. A long stocking of Josey's was torn, and hung +in two streamers round his ankles; and his dangling shoe-laces were +trodden to fringe. + +“If you want your hand to get well for strawberry night--” began Mr. +Eastman. + +“Ah, bother strawberry night!” said Josey, and hopped at one of his +playmates. But Mr. Eastman caught him skilfully by the collar. + +“I am glad his misfortunes have not crushed him altogether,” said I. + +“Josey Yeatts is an anxious case, sir,” returned the teacher. “Several +influences threaten his welfare. Yesterday I found tobacco on him. +Chewing, sir.” + +“Just you hurt me,” said Josey, “and I'll tell Abe.” + +“Abe!” exclaimed Mr. Eastman, lifting his brow. “He means a man old +enough to be his father, sir. I endeavor to instill him with some few +notions of respect, but the town spoils him. Indulges him completely, I +may say. And when Sharon's sympathies are stirred sir, it will espouse a +cause very warmly--Give me that!” broke off the schoolmaster, and there +followed a brief wrestle. “Chewing again to-day, sir,” he added to me. + +“Abe lemme have it,” shrieked Josey. “Lemme go, or he'll come over and +fix you.” + +But the calm, chilly Eastman had ground the tobacco under his heel. “You +can understand how my hands are tied,” he said to me. + +“Readily,” I answered. + +“The men give Josey his way in everything. He has a--I may say an +unworthy aunt.” + +“Yes,” said I. “So I have gathered.” + +At this point Josey ducked and slid free, and the united flock vanished +with jeers at us. Josey forgot they had insulted him, they forgot he had +beaten them; against a common enemy was their friendship cemented. + +“You spoke of Sharon's warm way of espousing causes,” said I to Eastman. + +“I did, sir. No one could live here long without noticing it.” + +“Sharon is a quiet town, but sudden,” remarked Stuart. “Apt to be +sudden. They're beginning about strawberry night,” he said to Eastman. +“Wanted to know about things down in the saloon.” + +“How does their taste in elocution chiefly lie?” I inquired. + +Eastman smiled. He was young, totally bald, the moral dome of his skull +rising white above visionary eyes and a serious auburn beard. He +was clothed in a bleak, smooth slate-gray suit, and at any climax of +emphasis he lifted slightly upon his toes and relaxed again, shutting +his lips tight on the finished sentence. “Your question,” said he, “has +often perplexed me. Sometimes they seem to prefer verse; sometimes prose +stirs them greatly. We shall have a liberal crop of both this year. I am +proud to tell you I have augmented our number of strawberry speakers by +nearly fifty per cent.” + +“How many will there be?” said I. + +“Eleven. You might wish some could be excused. But I let them speak to +stimulate their interest in culture. Will you not take dinner with me, +gentlemen? I was just sitting down when little Josey Yeatts brought me +out.” + +We were glad to do this, and he opened another can of corned beef for +us. “I cannot offer you wine, sir,” said he to me, “though I am aware it +is a general habit in luxurious homes.” And he tightened his lips. + +“General habit wherever they don't prefer whiskey,” said Stuart. + +“I fear so,” the school-master replied, smiling. “That poison shall +never enter my house, gentlemen, any more than tobacco. And as I cannot +reform the adults of Sharon, I am doing what I can for their children. +Little Hugh Straight is going to say his 'Lochinvar' very pleasingly, +Mr. Stuart. I went over it with him last night. I like them to be word +perfect,” he continued to me, “as failures on exhibition night elicit +unfavorable comment.” + +“And are we to expect failures also?” I inquired. + +“Reuben Gadsden is likely to mortify us. He is an earnest boy, but +nervous; and one or two others. But I have limited their length. Reuben +Gadsden's father declined to have his boy cut short, and he will give +us a speech of Burke's; but I hope for the best. It narrows down, it +narrows down. Guy Jeffries and Leola Mattern are the two.” + +“The parents seem to take keen interest,” said I. + +Mr. Eastman smiled at Stuart. “We have no reason to suppose they have +changed since last year,” said he. “Why, sir,” he suddenly exclaimed, +“if I did not feel I was doing something for the young generation +here, I should leave Sharon to-morrow! One is not appreciated, not +appreciated.” + +He spoke fervently of various local enterprises, his failures, his +hopes, his achievements; and I left his house honoring him, but +amazed--his heart was so wide and his head so narrow; a man who would +purify with simultaneous austerity the morals of Lochinvar and of +Sharon. + +“About once a month,” said Stuart, “I run against a new side he is blind +on. Take his puzzlement as to whether they prefer verse or prose. Queer +and dumb of him that, you see. Sharon does not know the difference +between verse and prose.” + +“That's going too far,” said I. + +“They don't,” he repeated, “when it comes to strawberry night. If the +piece is about something they understand, rhymes do not help or hinder. +And of course sex is apt to settle the question.” + +“Then I should have thought Leola--” I began. + +“Not the sex of the speaker. It's the listeners. Now you take women. +Women generally prefer something that will give them a good cry. We men +want to laugh mostly.” + +“Yes,” said I; “I would rather laugh myself, I think.” + +“You'd know you'd rather if you had to live in Sharon. The laugh is one +of the big differences between women and men, and I would give you my +views about it, only my Sunday-off time is up, and I've got to go to +telegraphing.” + +“Our ways are together,” said I. “I'm going back to the railroad hotel.” + +“There's Guy,” continued Stuart. “He took the prize on 'The Jumping +Frog.' Spoke better than Leola, anyhow. She spoke 'The Wreck of +the Hesperus.' But Guy had the back benches--that's where the men +sit--pretty well useless. Guess if there had been a fire, some of +the fellows would have been scorched before they'd have got strength +sufficient to run out. But the ladies did not laugh much. Said they saw +nothing much in jumping a frog. And if Leola had made 'em cry good and +hard that night, the committee's decision would have kicked up more of a +fuss than it did. As it was, Mrs. Mattern got me alone; but I worked us +around to where Mrs. Jeffries was having her ice-cream, and I left them +to argue it out.” + +“Let us adhere to that policy,” I said to Stuart; and he replied +nothing, but into the corner of his eye wandered that lurking smile +which revealed that life brought him compensations. + +He went to telegraphing, and I to revery concerning strawberry night. +I found myself wishing now that there could have been two prizes; I +desired both Leola and Guy to be happy; and presently I found the matter +would be very close, so far at least as my judgment went. For boy and +girl both brought me their selections, begging I would coach them, and +this I had plenty of leisure to do. I preferred Guy's choice--the story +of that blue-jay who dropped nuts through the hole in a roof, expecting +to fill it, and his friends came to look on and discovered the hole went +into the entire house. It is better even than “The Jumping Frog”--better +than anything, I think--and young Guy told it well. But Leola brought a +potent rival on the tearful side of things. “The Death of Paul Dombey” + is plated pathos, not wholly sterling; but Sharon could not know this; +and while Leola most prettily recited it to me I would lose my recent +opinion in favor of Guy, and acknowledge the value of her performance. +Guy might have the men strong for him, but this time the women were +going to cry. I got also a certain other sort of entertainment out of +the competing mothers. Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Mattern had a way of being +in the hotel office at hours when I passed through to meals. They never +came together, and always were taken by surprise at meeting me. + +“Leola is ever so grateful to you,” Mrs. Mattern would say. + +“Oh,” I would answer, “do not speak of it. Have you ever heard Guy's +'Blue-Jay' story?” + +“Well, if it's anything like that frog business, I don't want to.” And +the lady would leave me. + +“Guy tells me you are helping him so kindly,” said Mrs. Jeffries. + +“Oh yes, I'm severe,”' I answered, brightly. “I let nothing pass. I only +wish I was as careful with Leola. But as soon as she begins 'Paul had +never risen from his little bed,' I just lose myself listening to her.” + +On the whole, there were also compensations for me in these mothers, and +I thought it as well to secure them in advance. + +When the train arrived from El Paso, and I saw our strawberries and our +ice-cream taken out, I felt the hour to be at hand, and that whatever +our decision, no bias could be laid to me. According to his prudent +habit, Eastman had the speakers follow each other alphabetically. This +happened to place Leola after Guy, and perhaps might give her the last +word, as it were, with the people; but our committee was there, and +superior to such accidents. The flags and the bunting hung gay around +the draped stage. While the audience rustled or resoundingly trod to +its chairs, and seated neighbors conferred solemnly together over the +programme, Stuart, behind the bunting, played “Silver Threads among the +Gold” upon a melodeon. + +“Pretty good this,” he said to me, pumping his feet. + +“What?” I said. + +“Tune. Sharon is for free silver.” + +“Do you think they will catch your allusion?” I asked him. + +“No. But I have a way of enjoying a thing by myself.” And he pumped +away, playing with tasteful variations until the hall was full and the +singing-class assembled in gloves and ribbons. + +They opened the ceremonies for us by rendering “Sweet and Low” very +happily; and I trusted it was an omen. + +Sharon was hearty, and we had “Sweet and Low” twice. Then the speaking +began, and the speakers were welcomed, coming and going, with mild and +friendly demonstrations. Nothing that one would especially mark went +wrong until Reuben Gadsden. He strode to the middle of the boards, and +they creaked beneath his tread. He stood a moment in large glittering +boots and with hair flat and prominently watered. As he straightened +from his bow his suspender-buttons came into view, and remained so for +some singular internal reason, while he sent his right hand down into +the nearest pocket and began his oratory. + +“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France,” he +said, impressively, and stopped. + +We waited, and presently he resumed: + +“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France.” He +took the right hand out and put the left hand in. + +“It is sixteen or seventeen years,” said he, and stared frowning at his +boots. + +I found the silence was getting on my nerves. I felt as if it were +myself who was drifting to idiocy, and tremulous empty sensations began +to occur in my stomach. Had I been able to recall the next sentence, I +should have prompted him. + +“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France,” said +the orator, rapidly. + +And down deep back among the men came a voice, “Well, I guess it must +be, Reub.” + +This snapped the tension. I saw Reuben's boots march away; Mr. Eastman +came from behind the bunting and spoke (I suppose) words of protest. I +could not hear them, but in a minute, or perhaps two, we grew calm, and +the speaking continued. + +There was no question what they thought of Guy and Leola. He conquered +the back of the room. They called his name, they blessed him with +endearing audible oaths, and even the ladies smiled at his pleasant, +honest face--the ladies, except Mrs. Mattern. She sat near Mrs. +Jeffries, and throughout Guy's “Blue-Jay” fanned herself, exhibiting a +well-sustained inattention. She might have foreseen that Mrs. Jeffries +would have her turn. When the “Death of Paul Dombey” came, and +handkerchiefs began to twinkle out among the audience, and various +noises of grief were rising around us, and the men themselves murmured +in sympathy, Mrs. Jeffries not only preserved a suppressed-hilarity +countenance, but managed to cough twice with a cough that visibly bit +into Mrs. Mattern's soul. + +But Leola's appealing cadences moved me also. When Paul was dead, +she made her pretty little bow, and we sat spellbound, then gave her +applause surpassing Guy's. Unexpectedly I found embarrassment of choice +dazing me, and I sat without attending to the later speakers. Was not +successful humor more difficult than pathos? Were not tears more cheaply +raised than laughter? Yet, on the other hand, Guy had one prize, and +where merit was so even--I sat, I say, forgetful of the rest of the +speakers, when suddenly I was aware of louder shouts of welcome, and I +awaked to Josey Yeatts bowing at us. + +“Spit it out, Josey!” a large encouraging voice was crying in the back +of the hall. “We'll see you through.” + +“Don't be scared, Josey!” yelled another. + +Then Josey opened his mouth and rhythmically rattled the following: + +“I love little pussy her coat is so warm And if I don't hurt her she'll +do me no harm I'll sit by the fi-yer and give her some food And pussy +will love me because I am good.” + +That was all. It had come without falter or pause, even for breath. +Josey stood, and the room rose to him. + +“Again! again!” they roared. “He ain't a bit scared!” “Go it, Josey!” + “You don't forgit yer piece!” And a great deal more, while they pounded +with their boots. + +“I love little pussy,” began Josey. + +“Poor darling!” said a lady next me. “No mother.” + +“I'll sit by the fi-yer.” + +Josey was continuing. But nobody heard him finish. The room was a Babel. + +“Look at his little hand!” “Only three fingers inside them rags!” + “Nobody to mend his clothes any more.” They all talked to each other, +and clapped and cheered, while Josey stood, one leg slightly advanced +and proudly stiff, somewhat after the manner of those military +engravings where some general is seen erect upon an eminence at the +moment of victory. + +Mr. Eastman again appeared from the bunting, and was telling us, I have +no doubt, something of importance; but the giant barkeeper now shouted +above the din, “Who says Josey Yeatts ain't the speaker for this night?” + +At that striking of the common chord I saw them heave, promiscuous and +unanimous, up the steps to the stage. Josey was set upon Abe Hanson's +shoulder, while ladies wept around him. What the literary committee +might have done I do not know, for we had not the time even to resign. +Guy and Leola now appeared, bearing the prize between them--a picture of +Washington handing the Bible out of clouds to Abraham Lincoln--and very +immediately I found myself part of a procession. Men and women we were, +marching about Sharon. The barkeeper led; four of Sharon's fathers +followed him, escorting Josey borne aloft on Abe Hanson's shoulder, +and rigid and military in his bearing. Leola and Guy followed with the +picture; Stuart walked with me, whistling melodies of the war--Dixie +and others. Eastman was not with us. When the ladies found themselves +conducted to the saloon, they discreetly withdrew back to the +entertainment we had broken out from. Josey saw them go, and shrilly +spoke his first word: + +“Ain't I going to have any ice-cream?” + +This presently caused us to return to the ladies, and we finished the +evening with entire unity of sentiment. Eastman alone took the incident +to heart; inquired how he was to accomplish anything with hands tied, +and murmured his constant burden once more: “One is not appreciated, not +appreciated.” + +I do not stop over in Sharon any more. My ranch friend, whose presence +there brought me to visit him, is gone away. But such was my virgin +experience of the place; and in later days fate led me to be concerned +with two more local competitions--one military and one civil--which +greatly stirred the population. So that I never pass Sharon on my long +travels without affectionately surveying the sandy, quivering, bleached +town, unshaded by its twinkling forest of wind-wheels. Surely the heart +always remembers a spot where it has been merry! And one thing I should +like to know--shall know, perhaps: what sort of citizen in our republic +Josey will grow to be. For whom will he vote? May he not himself come to +sit in Washington and make laws for us? Universal suffrage holds so many +possibilities. + + + + +Napoleon Shave-Tail + + +Augustus Albumblatt, young and new and sleek with the latest +book-knowledge of war, reported to his first troop commander at Fort +Brown. The ladies had watched for him, because he would increase the +number of men, the officers because he would lessen the number of +duties; and he joined at a crisis favorable to becoming speedily known +by them all. Upon that same day had household servants become an +extinct race. The last one, the commanding officer's cook, had told the +commanding officer's wife that she was used to living where she could +see the cars. She added that there was no society here “fit for man or +baste at all.” This opinion was formed on the preceding afternoon when +Casey, a sergeant of roguish attractions in G troop, had told her that +he was not a marrying man. Three hours later she wedded a gambler, +and this morning at six they had taken the stage for Green River, two +hundred miles south, the nearest point where the bride could see the +cars. + +“Frank,” said the commanding officer's wife, “send over to H troop for +York.” + +“Catherine,” he answered, “my dear, our statesmen at Washington say +it's wicked to hire the free American soldier to cook for you. It's too +menial for his manhood.” + +“Frank, stuff!” + +“Hush, my love. Therefore York must be spared the insult of twenty +more dollars a month, our statesmen must be re-elected, and you and I, +Catherine, being cookless, must join the general mess.” + +Thus did all separate housekeeping end, and the garrison began unitedly +to eat three times a day what a Chinaman set before them, when the +long-expected Albumblatt stepped into their midst, just in time for +supper. + +This youth was spic-and-span from the Military Academy, with a +top-dressing of three months' thoughtful travel in Germany. “I was +deeply impressed with the modernity of their scientific attitude,” he +pleasantly remarked to the commanding officer. For Captain Duane, silent +usually, talked at this first meal to make the boy welcome in this +forlorn two-company post. + +“We're cut off from all that sort of thing here,” said he. “I've not +been east of the Missouri since '69. But we've got the railroad across, +and we've killed some Indians, and we've had some fun, and we're glad +we're alive--eh, Mrs. Starr?” + +“I should think so,” said the lady. + +“Especially now we've got a bachelor at the post!” said Mrs. Bainbridge. +“That has been the one drawback, Mr. Albumblatt.” + +“I thank you for the compliment,” said Augustus, bending solemnly from +his hips; and Mrs. Starr looked at him and then at Mrs. Bainbridge. + +“We're not over-gay, I fear,” the Captain continued; “but the flat's +full of antelope, and there's good shooting up both canyons.” + +“Have you followed the recent target experiments at Metz?” inquired +the traveller. “I refer to the flattened trajectory and the obus +controversy.” + +“We have not heard the reports,” answered the commandant, with becoming +gravity. “But we own a mountain howitzer.” + +“The modernity of German ordnance--” began Augustus. + +“Do you dance, Mr. Albumblatt?” asked Mrs. Starr. + +“For we'll have a hop and all be your partners,” Mrs. Bainbridge +exclaimed. + +“I will be pleased to accommodate you, ladies.” + +“It's anything for variety's sake with us, you see,” said Mrs. Starr, +smoothly smiling; and once again Augustus bent blandly from his hips. + +But the commanding officer wished leniency. “You see us all,” he +hastened to say. “Commissioned officers and dancing-men. Pretty +shabby--” + +“Oh, Captain!” said a lady. + +“And pretty old.” + +“Captain!” said another lady. + +“But alive and kicking. Captain Starr, Mr. Bainbridge, the Doctor and +me. We are seven.” + +Augustus looked accurately about him. “Do I understand seven, Captain?” + +“We are seven,” the senior officer repeated. + +Again Mr. Albumblatt counted heads. “I imagine you include the ladies, +Captain? Ha! ha!” + +“Seven commissioned males, sir. Our Major is on sick-leave, and two of +our Lieutenants are related to the President's wife. She can't bear them +to be exposed. None of us in the church-yard lie--but we are seven.” + +“Ha! ha, Captain! That's an elegant double entendre on Wordsworth's +poem and the War Department. Only, if I may correct your addition--ha! +ha!--our total, including myself, is eight.” And Augustus grew as +hilarious as a wooden nutmeg. + +The commanding officer rolled an intimate eye at his wife. + +The lady was sitting big with rage, but her words were cordial still: +“Indeed, Mr. Albumblatt, the way officers who have influence in +Washington shirk duty here and get details East is something I +can't laugh about. At one time the Captain was his own adjutant and +quartermaster. There are more officers at this table to-night than +I've seen in three years. So we are doubly glad to welcome you at Fort +Brown.” + +“I am fortunate to be on duty where my services are so required, though +I could object to calling it Fort Brown.” And Augustus exhaled a new +smile. + +“Prefer Smith?” said Captain Starr. + +“You misunderstand me. When we say Fort Brown. Fort Russell, Fort Et +Cetera, we are inexact. They are not fortified.” + +“Cantonment Et Cetera would be a trifle lengthy, wouldn't it?” put in +the Doctor, his endurance on the wane. + +“Perhaps; but technically descriptive of our Western posts. The Germans +criticise these military laxities.” + +Captain Duane now ceased talking, but urbanely listened; and from time +to time his eye would scan Augustus, and then a certain sublimated +laugh, to his wife well known; would seize him for a single voiceless +spasm, and pass. The experienced Albumblatt meanwhile continued, +“By-the-way, Doctor, you know the Charite, of course?” + +Doctor Guild had visited that great hospital, but being now a goaded man +he stuck his nose in his plate, and said, unwisely: “Sharrity? What's +that?” For then Augustus told him what and where it was, and that +Krankenhaus is German for hospital, and that he had been deeply +impressed with the modernity of the ventilation. “Thirty-five cubic +metres to a bed in new wards,” he stated. “How many do you allow, +Doctor?” + +“None,” answered the surgeon. + +“Do I understand none, Doctor?” + +“You do, sir. My patients breathe in cubic feet, and swallow their doses +in grains, and have their inflation measured in inches.” + +“Now there again!” exclaimed Augustus, cheerily. “More antiquity to be +swept away! And people say we young officers have no work cut out for +us!” + +“Patients don't die then under the metric system?” said the Doctor. + +“No wonder Europe's overcrowded,” said Starr. + +But the student's mind inhabited heights above such trifling. “Death,” + he said, “occurs in ratios not differentiated from our statistics.” And +he told them much more while they booked at him over their plates. He +managed to say 'modernity' and 'differentiate' again, for he came from +our middle West, where they encounter education too suddenly, and it +would take three generations of him to speak clean English. But with +all his polysyllabic wallowing, he showed himself keen-minded, pat with +authorities, a spruce young graduate among these dingy Rocky Mountain +campaigners. They had fought and thirsted and frozen; the books that he +knew were not written when they went to school; and so far as war is to +be mastered on paper, his equipment was full and polished while theirs +was meagre and rusty. + +And yet, if you know things that other and older men do not, it is as +well not to mention them too hastily. These soldiers wished that they +could have been taught what he knew; but they watched young Augustus +unfolding himself with a gaze that might have seemed chill to a less +highly abstract thinker. He, however, rose from the table pleasantly +edified by himself, and hopeful for them. And as he left them, +“Good-night, ladies and gentlemen,” he said; “we shall meet again.” + +“Oh yes,” said the Doctor. “Again and again.” + +“He's given me indigestion,” said Bainbridge. + +“Take some metric system,” said Starr. + +“And lie flat on your trajectory,” said the Doctor. + +“I hate hair parted in the middle for a man,” said Mrs. Guild. + +“And his superior eye-glasses,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. + +“His staring conceited teeth,” hissed Mrs. Starr. + +“I don't like children slopping their knowledge all over me,” said the +Doctor's wife. + +“He's well brushed, though,” said Mrs. Duane, seeking the bright side. +“He'll wipe his feet on the mat when he comes to call.” + +“I'd rather have mud on my carpet than that bandbox in any of my +chairs,” said Mrs. Starr. + +“He's no fool,” mused the Doctor. “But, kingdom come, what an ass!” + +“Well, gentlemen,” said the commanding officer (and they perceived a +flavor of the official in his tone), “Mr. Albumblatt is just twenty-one. +I don't know about you; but I'll never have that excuse again.” + +“Very well, Captain, we'll be good,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. + +“And gr-r-ateful,” said Mrs. Starr, rolling her eyes piously. “I +prophecy he'll entertain us.” + +The Captain's demeanor remained slightly official; but walking home, his +Catherine by his side in the dark was twice aware of that laugh of his, +twinkling in the recesses of his opinions. And later, going to bed, a +little joke took him so unready that it got out before he could suppress +it. “My love,” said he, “my Second Lieutenant is grievously mislaid in +the cavalry. Providence designed him for the artillery.” + +It was wifely but not right in Catherine to repeat this strict +confidence in strictest confidence to her neighbor, Mrs. Bainbridge, +over the fence next morning before breakfast. At breakfast Mrs. +Bainbridge spoke of artillery reinforcing the post, and her husband +giggled girlishly and looked at the puzzled Duane; and at dinner Mrs. +Starr asked Albumblatt, would not artillery strengthen the garrison? + +“Even a light battery,” pronounced Augustus, promptly, “would be absurd +and useless.” + +Whereupon the mess rattled knives, sneezed, and became variously +disturbed. So they called him Albumbattery, and then Blattery, which is +more condensed; and Captain Duane's official tone availed him nothing +in this matter. But he made no more little military jokes; he disliked +garrison personalities. Civilized by birth and ripe from weather-beaten +years of men and observing, he looked his Second Lieutenant over, and +remembered to have seen worse than this. He had no quarrel with the +metric system (truly the most sensible), and thinking to leaven it with +a little rule of thumb, he made Augustus his acting quartermaster. But +he presently indulged his wife with the soldier-cook she wanted at home, +so they no longer had to eat their meals in Albumblatt's society; and +Mrs. Starr said that this showed her husband dreaded his quartermaster +worse than the Secretary of War. + +Alas for the Quartermaster's sergeant, Johannes Schmoll, that routined +and clock-work German! He found Augustus so much more German than he +had ever been himself, that he went speechless for three days. Upon his +lists, his red ink, and his ciphering, Augustus swooped like a bird +of prey, and all his fond red-tape devices were shredded to the winds. +Augustus set going new quadratic ones of his own, with an index and +cross-references. It was then that Schmoll recovered his speech and +walked alone, saying, “Mein Gott!” And often thereafter, wandering among +the piled stores and apparel, he would fling both arms heavenward and +repeat the exclamation. He had rated himself the unique human soul at +Fort Brown able to count and arrange underclothing. Augustus rejected +his laborious tally, and together they vigiled after hours, verifying +socks and drawers. Next, Augustus found more horseshoes than his papers +called for. + +“That man gif me der stomach pain efry day,” wailed Schmoll to Sergeant +Casey. “I tell him, 'Lieutenant, dose horseshoes is expendable. We don't +acgount for efry shoe like they was men's shoes, und oder dings dot is +issued.' 'I prefer to cake them cop!' says Baby Bismarck. Und he smile +mit his two beaver teeth.” + +“Baby Bismarck!” cried, joyfully, the rosy-faced Casey. “Yo-hanny, take +a drink.” + +“Und so,” continued the outraged Schmoll, “he haf a Board of Soorvey on +dree-pound horseshoes, und I haf der stomach pain.” + +“It was buckles the next month. The allowance exceeded the expenditure, +Augustus's arithmetic came out wrong, and another board sat on buckles. + +“Yo-hanny, you're lookin' jaded under Colonel Safetypin.” said Casey. +“Have something?” + +“Safetypin is my treat,” said Schmoll; “und very apt.” + +But Augustus found leisure to pervade the post with his modernity. He +set himself military problems, and solved them; he wrote an essay on +“The Contact Squadron”; he corrected Bainbridge for saying “throw back +the left flank” instead of “refuse the left flank”; he had reading-room +ideas, canteen' ideas, ideas for the Indians and the Agency, and +recruit-drill ideas, which he presented to Sergeant Casey. Casey gave +him, in exchange, the name of Napoleon Shave-Tail, and had his whiskey +again paid for by the sympathetic Schmoll. + +“But bless his educated heart,” said Casey, “he don't learn me nothing +that'll soil my innercence!” + +Thus did the sunny-humored Sergeant take it, but not thus the mess. +Had Augustus seen himself as they saw him, could he have heard Mrs. +Starr--But he did not; the youth was impervious, and to remove his +complacency would require (so Mrs. Starr said) an operation, probably +fatal. The commanding officer held always aloof from gibing, yet often +when Augustus passed him his gray eye would dwell upon the Lieutenant's +back, and his voiceless laugh would possess him. That is the picture I +retain of these days--the unending golden sun, the wide, gentle-colored +plain, the splendid mountains, the Indians ambling through the flat, +clear distance; and here, close along the parade-ground, eye-glassed +Augustus, neatly hastening, with the Captain on his porch, asleep you +might suppose. + +One early morning the agent, with two Indian chiefs, waited on the +commanding officer, and after their departure his wife found him +breakfasting in solitary mirth. + +“Without me,” she chided, sitting down. “And I know you've had some good +news.” + +“The best, my love. Providence has been tempted at last. The wholesome +irony of life is about to function.” + +“Frank, don't tease so! And where are you rushing now before the cakes?” + +“To set our Augustus a little military problem, dearest. Plain living +for to-day, and high thinking be jolly well--” + +“Frank, you're going to swear, and I must know!” + +But Frank had sworn and hurried out to the right to the Adjutant's +office, while his Catherine flew to the left to the fence. + +“Ella!” she cried. “Oh, Ella!” + +Mrs. Bainbridge, instantly on the other side of the fence, brought +scanty light. A telegram had come, she knew, from the Crow Agency in +Montana. Her husband had admitted this three nights ago; and Captain +Duane (she knew) had given him some orders about something; and could +it be the Crows? “Ella, I don't know,” said Catherine. “Frank talked all +about Providence in his incurable way, and it may be anything.” So the +two ladies wondered together over the fence, until Mrs. Duane, seeing +the Captain return, ran to him and asked, were the Crows on the +war-path? Then her Frank told her yes, and that he had detailed +Albumblatt to vanquish them and escort them to Carlisle School to learn +German and Beethoven's sonatas. + +“Stuff, stuff, stuff! Why, there he does go!” cried the unsettled +Catherine. “It's something at the Agency!” But Captain Duane was gone +into the house for a cigar. + +Albumblatt, with Sergeant Casey and a detail of six men, was in truth +hastening over that broad mile which opens between Fort Brown and the +Agency. On either side of them the level plain stretched, gray with +its sage, buff with intervening grass, hay-cocked with the smoky, +mellow-stained, meerschaum-like canvas tepees of the Indians, quiet as a +painting; far eastward lay long, low, rose-red hills, half dissolved in +the trembling mystery of sun and distance; and westward, close at hand +and high, shone the great pale-blue serene mountains through the vaster +serenity of the air. The sounding hoofs of the troops brought the +Indians out of their tepees to see. When Albumblatt reached the Agency, +there waited the agent and his two chiefs, who pointed to one lodge +standing apart some three hundred yards, and said, “He is there.” So +then Augustus beheld his problem, the military duty fallen to him from +Providence and Captain Duane. + +It seems elementary for him who has written of “The Contact Squadron.” + It was to arrest one Indian. This man, Ute Jack, had done a murder among +the Crows, and fled south for shelter. The telegram heralded him, but +with boundless miles for hiding he had stolen in under the cover of +night. No welcome met him. These Fort Brown Indians were not his friends +at any time, and less so now, when he arrived wild drunk among their +families. Hounded out, he sought this empty lodge, and here he was, +at bay, his hand against every man's, counting his own life worthless +except for destroying others before he must himself die. + +“Is he armed?” Albumblatt inquired, and was told yes. + +Augustus considered the peaked cone tent. The opening was on this side, +but a canvas drop closed it. Not much of a problem--one man inside a +sack with eight outside to catch him! But the books gave no rule for +this combination, and Augustus had met with nothing of the sort in +Germany. He considered at some length. Smoke began to rise through the +meeting poles of the tepee, leisurely and natural, and one of the chiefs +said: + +“Maybe Ute Jack cooking. He hungry.” + +“This is not a laughing matter,” said Augustus to the by-standers, who +were swiftly gathering. “Tell him that I command him to surrender,” he +added to the agent, who shouted this forthwith; and silence followed. + +“Tell him I say he must come out at once,” said Augustus then; and +received further silence. + +“He eat now,” observed the chief. “Can't talk much.” + +“Sergeant Casey,” bellowed Albumblatt, “go over there and take him out!” + +“The Lootenant understands,” said Casey, slowly, “that Ute Jack has got +the drop on us, and there ain't no getting any drop on him.” + +“Sergeant, you will execute your orders without further comment.” + +At this amazing step the silence fell cold indeed; but Augustus was in +command. + +“Shall I take any men along, sir?” said Casey in his soldier's machine +voice. + +“Er--yes. Er--no. Er--do as you please.” + +The six troopers stepped forward to go, for they loved Casey; but he +ordered them sharply to fall back. Then, looking in their eyes, he +whispered, “Good-bye, boys, if it's to be that way,” and walked to the +lodge, lifted the flap, and fell, shot instantly dead through the heart. +“Two bullets into him,” muttered a trooper, heavily breathing as the +sounds rang. “He's down,” another spoke to himself with fixed eyes; and +a sigh they did not know of passed among them. The two chiefs looked at +Augustus and grunted short talk together; and one, with a sweeping lift +of his hand out towards the tepee and the dead man by it, said, “Maybe +Ute Jack only got three--four--cartridges--so!” (his fingers counted +it). “After he kill three--four--men, you get him pretty good.” The +Indian took the white man's death thus; but the white men could not yet +be even saturnine. + +“This will require reinforcement,” said Augustus to the audience. “The +place must be attacked by a front and flank movement. It must be knocked +down. I tell you I must have it knocked down. How are you to see where +he is, I'd like to know, if it's not knocked down?” Augustus's voice was +getting high. + +“I want the howitzer,” he screeched generally. + +A soldier saluted, and Augustus chattered at him. + +“The howitzer, the mountain howitzer, I tell you. Don't you hear me? To +knock the cursed thing he's in down. Go to Captain Duane and give him my +compliments, and--no, I'll go myself. Where's my horse? My horse, I tell +you! It's got to be knocked down.” + +“If you please, Lieutenant,” said the trooper, “may we have the Red +Cross ambulance?” + +“Red Cross? What's that for? What's that?” + +“Sergeant Casey, sir. He's a-lyin' there.” + +“Ambulance? Certainly. The howitzer--perhaps they're only flesh wounds. +I hope they are only flesh wounds. I must have more men--you'll come +with me.” + +From his porch Duane viewed both Augustus approach and the man stop +at the hospital, and having expected a bungle, sat to hear; but at +Albumblatt's mottled face he stood up quickly and said, “What's the +matter?” And hearing, burst out: “Casey! Why, he was worth fifty of--Go +on, Mr. Albumblatt. What next did you achieve, sir?” And as the tale was +told he cooled, bitter, but official. + +“Reinforcements is it, Mr. Albumblatt?” + +“The howitzer, Captain.” + +“Good. And G troop?” + +“For my double flank movement I--” + +“Perhaps you'd like H troop as reserve?” + +“Not reserve, Captain. I should establish--” + +“This is your duty, Mr. Albumblatt. Perform it as you can, with what +force you need.” + +“Thank you, sir. It is not exactly a battle, but with a, so-to-speak, +intrenched--” + +“Take your troops and go, sir, and report to me when you have arrested +your man.” + +Then Duane went to the hospital, and out with the ambulance, hoping that +the soldier might not be dead. But the wholesome irony of life reckons +beyond our calculations; and the unreproachful, sunny face of his +Sergeant evoked in Duane's memory many marches through long heat and +cold, back in the rough, good times. + +“Hit twice, I thought they told me,” said he; and the steward surmised +that one had missed. + +“Perhaps,” mused Duane. “And perhaps it went as intended, too. What's +all that fuss?” + +He turned sharply, having lost Augustus among his sadder thoughts; and +here were the operations going briskly. Powder-smoke in three directions +at once! Here were pickets far out-lying, and a double line of +skirmishers deployed in extended order, and a mounted reserve, and men +standing to horse--a command of near a hundred, a pudding of pompous, +incompetent, callow bosh, with Augustus by his howitzer, scientifically +raising and lowering it to bear on the lone white tepee that shone in +the plain. Four races were assembled to look on--the mess Chinaman, two +black laundresses, all the whites in the place (on horse and foot, some +with their hats left behind), and several hundred Indians in blankets. +Duane had a thought to go away and leave this galling farce under the +eye of Starr for the officers were at hand also. But his second thought +bade him remain; and looking at Augustus and the howitzer, his laugh +would have returned to him; but his heart was sore for Casey. + +It was an hour of strategy and cannonade, a humiliating hour, which Fort +Brown tells of to this day; and the tepee lived through it all. For it +stood upon fifteen slender poles, not speedily to be chopped down by +shooting lead from afar. When low bullets drilled the canvas, the chief +suggested to Augustus that Ute Jack had climbed up; and when the bullets +flew high, then Ute Jack was doubtless in a hole. Nor did Augustus +contrive to drop a shell from the howitzer upon Ute Jack and explode +him--a shrewd and deadly conception; the shells went beyond, except one, +that ripped through the canvas, somewhat near the ground; and Augustus, +dripping, turned at length, and saying, “It won't go down,” stood +vacantly wiping his white face. Then the two chiefs got his leave to +stretch a rope between their horses and ride hard against the tepee. It +was military neither in essence nor to see, but it prevailed. The tepee +sank, a huge umbrella wreck along the earth, and there lay Ute Jack +across the fire's slight hollow, his knee-cap gone with the howitzer +shell. But no blood had flown from that; blood will not run, you know, +when a man has been dead some time. One single other shot had struck +him--one through his own heart. It had singed the flesh. + +“You see, Mr. Albumblatt,” said Duane, in the whole crowd's hearing, +“he killed himself directly after killing Casey. A very rare act for +an Indian, as you are doubtless aware. But if your manoeuvres with his +corpse have taught you anything you did not know before, we shall all be +gainers.” + +“Captain,” said Mrs. Starr, on a later day, “you and Ute Jack have ended +our fun. Since the Court of Inquiry let Mr. Albumblatt off, he has not +said Germany once--and that's three months to-morrow.” + + + + +Twenty Minutes for Refreshments + + +Upon turning over again my diary of that excursion to the Pacific, I +find that I set out from Atlantic waters on the 30th day of a backward +and forlorn April, which had come and done nothing towards making its +share of spring, but had gone, missing its chance, leaving the trees as +bare as it had received them from the winds of March. It was not bleak +weather alone, but care, that I sought to escape by a change of sky; +and I hoped for some fellow-traveller who might begin to interest my +thoughts at once. No such person met me in the several Pullmans which +I inhabited from that afternoon until the forenoon of the following +Friday. Through that long distance, though I had slanted southwestward +across a multitude of States and vegetations, and the Mississippi lay +eleven hundred miles to my rear, the single event is my purchasing +some cat's-eyes of the news-agent at Sierra Blanca. Save this, my diary +contains only neat additions of daily expenses, and moral reflections +of a delicate and restrained melancholy. They were Pecos cat's-eyes, he +told me, obtained in the rocky canyons of that stream, and destined to +be worth little until fashion turned from foreign jewels to become aware +of these fine native stones. And I, glad to possess the jewels of my +country, chose two bracelets and a necklace of them, paying but twenty +dollars for fifteen or sixteen cat's-eyes, and resolved to give them +a setting worthy of their beauty. The diary continues with moral +reflections upon the servility of our taste before anything European, +and the handwriting is clear and deliberate. It abruptly becomes +hurried, and at length well-nigh illegible. It is best, I think, +that you should have this portion as it comes, unpolished, unamended, +unarranged--hot, so to speak, from my immediate pencil, instead of cold +from my subsequent pen. I shall disguise certain names, but that is all. + +Friday forenoon, May 5.--I don't have to gaze at my cat's-eyes to kill +time any more. I'm not the only passenger any more. There's a lady. +She got in at El Paso. She has taken the drawing-room, but sits outside +reading newspaper cuttings and writing letters. She is sixty, I should +say, and has a cap and one gray curl. This comes down over her left ear +as far as a purple ribbon which suspends a medallion at her throat. She +came in wearing a sage-green duster of pongee silk, pretty nice, only +the buttons are as big as those largest mint-drops. “You porter,” she +said, “brush this.” He put down her many things and received it. Her +dress was sage green, and pretty nice too. “You porter,” said she, “open +every window. Why, they are, I declare! What's the thermometer in this +car?” “Ninety-five, ma'am. Folks mostly travelling--” “That will do, +porter. Now you go make me a pitcher of lemonade right quick.” She went +into the state-room and shut the door. When she came out she was dressed +in what appeared to be chintz bedroom curtains. They hang and flow +loosely about her, and are covered with a pattern of pink peonies. She +has slippers--Turkish--that stare up in the air, pretty handsome and +comfortable. But I never before saw any one travel with fly-paper. It +must be hard to pack. But it's quite an idea in this train. Fully a +dozen flies have stuck to it already; and she reads her clippings, +and writes away, and sips another glass of lemonade, all with the most +extreme appearance of leisure, not to say sloth. I can't imagine how she +manages to produce this atmosphere of indolence when in reality she is +steadily occupied. Possibly the way she sits. But I think it's partly +the bedroom curtains. + +These notes were interrupted by the entrance of the new conductor. +“If you folks have chartered a private car, just say so,” he shouted +instantly at the sight of us. He stood still at the extreme end and +removed his hat, which was acknowledged by the lady. “Travel is surely +very light, Gadsden,” she assented, and went on with her writing. But +he remained standing still, and shouting like an orator: “Sprinkle the +floor of this car, Julius, and let the pore passengers get a breath of +cool. My lands!” He fanned himself sweepingly with his hat. He seemed +but little larger than a red squirrel, and precisely that color. Sorrel +hair, sorrel eyebrows, sorrel freckles, light sorrel mustache, thin +aggressive nose, receding chin, and black, attentive, prominent eyes. +He approached, and I gave him my ticket, which is as long as a neck-tie, +and has my height, the color of my eyes and hair, and my general +description, punched in the margin. “Why, you ain't middle-aged!” + he shouted, and a singular croak sounded behind me. But the lady was +writing. “I have been growing younger since I bought that ticket,” I +explained. “That's it, that's it,” he sang; “a man's always as old as he +feels, and a woman--is ever young,” he finished. “I see you are true to +the old teachings and the old-time chivalry, Gadsden,” said the lady, +continuously busy. “Yes, ma'am. Jacob served seven years for Leah and +seven more for Rachel.” “Such men are raised today in every worthy +Louisiana home, Gadsden, be it ever so humble.” “Yes, ma'am. Give a +fresh sprinkle to the floor, Julius, soon as it goes to get dry. Excuse +me, but do you shave yourself, sir?” I told him that I did, but without +excusing him. “You will see that I have a reason for asking,” he +consequently pursued, and took out of his coat-tails a round tin box +handsomely labelled “Nat. Fly Paper Co.,” so that I supposed it was +thus, of course, that the lady came by her fly-paper. But this was pure +coincidence, and the conductor explained: “That company's me and a man +at Shreveport, but he dissatisfies me right frequently. You know what +heaven a good razor is for a man, and what you feel about a bad one. +Vaseline and ground shells,” he said, opening the box, “and I'm not +saying anything except it will last your lifetime and never hardens. Rub +the size of a pea on the fine side of your strop, spread it to an inch +with your thumb. May I beg a favor on so short a meeting? Join me in +the gentlemen's lavatory with your razorstrop in five minutes. I have +to attend to a corpse in the baggage-car, and will return at once.” + “Anybody's corpse I know, Gadsden?” said the lady. “No, ma'am. Just a +corpse.” + +When I joined him, for I was now willing to do anything, he was +apologetic again. “'Tis a short acquaintance,” he said, “but may I also +beg your razor? Quick as I get out of the National Fly I am going to +register my new label. First there will be Uncle Sam embracing the +world, signifying this mixture is universal, then my name, then the +word Stropine, which is a novelty and carries copyright, and I shall +win comfort and doubtless luxury. The post barber at Fort Bayard took a +dozen off me at sight to retail to the niggers of the Twenty-fourth, and +as he did not happen to have the requisite cash on his person I charged +him two roosters and fifty cents, and both of us done well. He's after +more Stropine, and I got Pullman prices for my roosters, the buffet-car +being out of chicken a la Marengo. There is your razor, sir, and I +appreciate your courtesy.” It was beautifully sharpened, and I bought +a box of the Stropine and asked him who the lady was. “Mrs. Porcher +Brewton!” he exclaimed. “Have you never met her socially? Why she--why +she is the most intellectual lady in Bee Bayou.” “Indeed!” I said. “Why +she visits New Orleans, and Charleston, and all the principal centres of +refinement, and is welcomed in Washington. She converses freely with our +statesmen and is considered a queen of learning. Why she writes po'try, +sir, and is strong-minded. But a man wouldn't want to pick her up for a +fool, all the samey.” “I shouldn't; I don't,” said I. “Don't you do it, +sir. She's run her plantation all alone since the Colonel was killed in +sixty-two. She taught me Sunday-school when I was a lad, and she used to +catch me at her pecan-trees 'most every time in Bee Bayou.” + +He went forward, and I went back with the Stropine in my pocket. The +lady was sipping the last of the lemonade and looking haughtily over the +top of her glass into (I suppose) the world of her thoughts. Her eyes +met mine, however. “Has Gadsden--yes, I perceive he has been telling +about me,” she said, in her languid, formidable voice. She set her glass +down and reclined among the folds of the bedroom curtains, considering +me. “Gadsden has always been lavish,” she mused, caressingly. “He seems +destined to succeed in life,” I hazarded. “ah n--a!” she sighed, with +decision. “He will fail.” As she said no more and as I began to resent +the manner in which she surveyed me, I remarked, “You seem rather sure +of his failure.” “I am old enough to be his mother, and yours,” said +Mrs. Porcher Brewton among her curtains. “He is a noble-hearted fellow, +and would have been a high-souled Southern gentleman if born to +that station. But what should a conductor earning $103.50 a month be +dispersing his attention on silly patents for? Many's the time I've +told him what I think; but Gadsden will always be flighty.” No further +observations occurring to me, I took up my necklace and bracelets from +the seat and put them in my pocket. “Will you permit a meddlesome old +woman to inquire what made you buy those cat's-eyes?” said Mrs. Brewton. +“Why--” I dubiously began. “Never mind,” she cried, archly. “If you were +thinking of some one in your Northern home, they will be prized because +the thought, at any rate, was beautiful and genuine. 'Where'er I roam, +whatever realms to see, my heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee.' +Now don't you be embarrassed by an old woman!” I desired to inform her +that I disliked her, but one can never do those things; and, anxious +to learn what was the matter with the cat's-eyes, I spoke amiably and +politely to her. “Twenty dollars!” she murmured. “And he told you they +came from the Pecos!” She gave that single melodious croak I had heard +once before. Then she sat up with her back as straight as if she was +twenty. “My dear young fellow, never do you buy trash in these trains. +Here you are with your coat full of--what's Gadsden's absurd razor +concoctions--strut--strop--bother! And Chinese paste buttons. Last +summer, on the Northern Pacific, the man offered your cat's-eyes to me +as native gems found exclusively in Dakota. But I just sat and mentioned +to him that I was on my way home from a holiday in China, and he went +right out of the car. The last day I was in Canton I bought a box of +those cat's-eyes at eight cents a dozen.” After this we spoke a little +on other subjects, and now she's busy writing again. She's on business +in California, but will read a paper at Los Angeles at the annual +meeting of the Golden Daughters of the West. The meal station is coming, +but we have agreed to-- + +Later, Friday afternoon.--I have been interrupted again. Gadsden +entered, removed his hat, and shouted: “Sharon. Twenty minutes for +dinner.” I was calling the porter to order a buffet lunch in the car +when there tramped in upon us three large men of such appearance that +a flash of thankfulness went through me at having so little ready-money +and only a silver watch. Mrs. Brewton looked at them and said, “Well, +gentlemen?” and they took off their embroidered Mexican hats. “We've got +a baby show here,” said one of them, slowly, looking at me, “and we'd +be kind of obliged if you'd hold the box.” “There's lunch put up in +a basket for you to take along,” said the next, “and a bottle of +wine--champagne. So losing your dinner won't lose you nothing.” “We're +looking for somebody raised East and without local prejudice,” said the +third. “So we come to the Pullman.” I now saw that so far from purposing +to rob us they were in a great and honest distress of mind. “But I am +no judge of a baby,” said I; “not being mar--” “You don't have to be,” + broke in the first, more slowly and earnestly. “It's a fair and secret +ballot we're striving for. The votes is wrote out and ready, and all +we're shy of is a stranger without family ties or business interests to +hold the box and do the counting.” His deep tones ceased, and he wiped +heavy drops from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “We'd be kind of +awful obliged to you,” he urged. “The town would be liable to make it +two bottles,” said the second. The third brought his fist down on the +back of a seat and said, “I'll make it that now.” “But, gentlemen,” said +I, “five, six, and seven years ago I was not a stranger in Sharon. If my +friend Dean Drake was still here--” “But he ain't. Now you might as well +help folks, and eat later. This town will trust you. And if you quit +us--” Once more he wiped the heavy drops away, while in a voice full of +appeal his friend finished his thought: “If we lose you, we'll likely +have to wait till this train comes in to-morrow for a man satisfactory +to this town. And the show is costing us a heap.” A light hand tapped +my arm, and here was Mrs. Brewton saying: “For shame! Show your +enterprise.” “I'll hold this yere train,” shouted Gadsden, “if +necessary.” Mrs. Brewton rose alertly, and they all hurried me out. “My +slippers will stay right on when I'm down the steps,” said Mrs. Brewton, +and Gadsden helped her descend into the blazing dust and sun of Sharon. +“Gracious!” said she, “what a place! But I make it a point to see +everything as I go.” Nothing had changed. There, as of old, lay the +flat litter of the town--sheds, stores, and dwellings, a shapeless +congregation in the desert, gaping wide everywhere to the glassy, +quivering immensity; and there, above the roofs, turned the slatted +wind-wheels. But close to the tracks, opposite the hotel, was an +edifice, a sort of tent of bunting, from which brass music issued, +while about a hundred pink and blue sun-bonnets moved and mixed near +the entrance. Little black Mexicans, like charred toys, lounged and lay +staring among the ungraded dunes of sand. “Gracious!” said Mrs. Brewton +again. Her eye lost nothing; and as she made for the tent the chintz +peonies flowed around her, and her step was surprisingly light. We +passed through the sunbonnets and entered where the music played. “The +precious blessed darlings!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “This +will do for the Golden Daughters,” she rapidly added; “yes, this will +distinctly do.” And she hastened away from me into the throng. + +I had no time to look at much this first general minute. I could see +there were booths, each containing a separate baby. I passed a whole +section of naked babies, and one baby farther along had on golden wings +and a crown, and was bawling frightfully. Their names were over the +booths, and I noticed Lucille, Erskine Wales, Banquo Lick Nolin, Cuba, +Manilla, Ellabelle, Bosco Grady, James J. Corbett Nash, and Aqua Marine. +There was a great sign at the end, painted “Mrs. Eden's Manna in the +Wilderness,” and another sign, labelled “Shot-gun Smith's twins.” In the +midst of these first few impressions I found myself seated behind a bare +table raised three feet or so, with two boxes on it, and a quantity +of blank paper and pencils, while one of the men was explaining me +the rules and facts. I can't remember them all now, because I couldn't +understand them all then, and Mrs. Brewton was distant among the +sun-bonnets, talking to a gathering crowd and feeling in the mouths of +babies that were being snatched out of the booths and brought to her. +The man was instructing me steadily all the while, and it occurred to me +to nod silently and coldly now and then, as if I was doing this sort of +thing every day. But I insisted that some one should help me count, and +they gave me Gadsden. + +Now these facts I do remember very clearly, and shall never forget them. +The babies came from two towns--Sharon, and Rincon its neighbor. Alone, +neither had enough for a good show, though in both it was every family's +pride to have a baby every year. The babies were in three classes: Six +months and under, one prize offered; eighteen months, two prizes; three +years, two prizes. A three-fourths vote of all cast was necessary to +a choice. No one entitled to vote unless of immediate family of a +competing baby. No one entitled to cast more than one vote. There were +rules of entry and fees, but I forget them, except that no one could +have two exhibits in the same class. When I read this I asked, how about +twins? “Well, we didn't kind of foresee that,” muttered my instructor, +painfully; “what would be your idea?” “Look here, you sir,” interposed +Mrs. Brewton, “he came in to count votes.” I was very glad to have her +back. “That's right, ma'am,” admitted the man; “he needn't to say a +thing. We've only got one twins entered,” he pursued, “which we're glad +of. Shot-gun--“, “Where is this Mr. Smith?” interrupted Mrs. Brewton. +“Uptown, drinking, ma'am.” “And who may Mr. Smith be?” “Most popular +citizen of Rincon, ma'am. We had to accept his twins because--well, +he come down here himself, and most of Rincon come with him, and as we +aimed to have everything pass off pleasant-like--” “I quite comprehend,” + said Mrs. Brewton. “And I should consider twins within the rule; or any +number born at one time. But little Aqua Marine is the finest single +child in that six months class. I told her mother she ought to take that +splurgy ring off the poor little thing's thumb. It's most unsafe. But +I should vote for that child myself.” “Thank you for your valuable +endorsement,” said a spruce, slim young man. “But the public is not +allowed to vote here,” he added. He was standing on the floor and +resting his elbows on the table. Mrs. Brewton stared down at him. “Are +you the father of the child?” she inquired. “Oh no! I am the agent. I--” + “Aqua Marine's agent?” said Mrs. Brewton, sharply. “Ha, ha!” went the +young man. “Ha, ha! Well, that's good too. She's part of our exhibit. +I'm in charge of the manna-feds, don't you know?” “I don't know,” said +Mrs. Brewton. “Why, Mrs. Eden's Manna in the Wilderness! Nourishes, +strengthens, and makes no unhealthy fat. Take a circular, and welcome. +I'm travelling for the manna. I organized this show. I've conducted +twenty-eight similar shows in two years. We hold them in every State +and Territory. Second of last March I gave Denver--you heard of it, +probably?” “I did not,” said Mrs. Brewton. “Well! Ha, ha! I thought +every person up to date had heard of Denver's Olympic Offspring Olio.” + “Is it up to date to loll your elbows on the table when you're speaking +to a lady?” inquired Mrs. Brewton. He jumped, and then grew scarlet +with rage. “I didn't expect to learn manners in New Mexico,” said he. +“I doubt if you will,” said Mrs. Brewton, and turned her back on him. He +was white now; but better instincts, or else business, prevailed in his +injured bosom. “Well,” said he, “I had no bad intentions. I was going +to say you'd have seen ten thousand people and five hundred babies at +Denver. And our manna-feds won out to beat the band. Three first medals, +and all exclusively manna-fed. We took the costume prize also. Of course +here in Sharon I've simplified. No special medal for weight, beauty, +costume, or decorated perambulator. Well, I must go back to our exhibit. +Glad to have you give us a call up there and see the medals we're +offering, and our fifteen manna-feds, and take a package away with you.” + He was gone. + +The voters had been now voting in my two boxes for some time, and I +found myself hoping the manna would not win, whoever did; but it seemed +this agent was a very capable person. To begin with, every family +entering a baby drew a package of the manna free, and one package +contained a diamond ring. Then, he had managed to have the finest babies +of all classes in his own exhibit. This was incontestable, Mrs. Brewton +admitted, after returning from a general inspection; and it seemed to us +extraordinary. “That's easy, ma'am,” said Gadsden; “he came around here +a month ago. Don't you see?” I did not see, but Mrs. Brewton saw at +once. He had made a quiet selection of babies beforehand, and then +introduced the manna into those homes. And everybody in the room was +remarking that his show was very superior, taken as a whole they all +added, “taken as a whole”; I heard them as they came up to vote for +the 3-year and the 18-month classes. The 6-month was to wait till +last, because the third box had been accidentally smashed by Mr. Smith. +Gadsden caught several trying to vote twice. “No, you don't!” he would +shout. “I know faces. I'm not a conductor for nothing.” And the victim +would fall back amid jeers from the sun-bonnets. Once the passengers +sent over to know when the train was going. “Tell them to step over here +and they'll not feel so lonesome!” shouted Gadsden; and I think a good +many came. The band was playing “White Wings,” with quite a number +singing it, when Gadsden noticed the voting had ceased, and announced +this ballot closed. The music paused for him, and we could suddenly hear +how many babies were in distress; but for a moment only; as we began +our counting, “White Wings” resumed, and the sun-bonnets outsang their +progeny. There was something quite singular in the way they had voted. +Here are some of the 3-year-old tickets: “First choice, Ulysses Grant +Blum; 2d choice, Lewis Hendricks.” “First choice, James Redfield; 2d, +Lewis Hendricks.” “First, Elk Chester; 2d, Lewis Hendricks.” “Can +it be?” said the excited Gadsden. “Finish these quick. I'll open the +18-monthers.” But he swung round to me at once. “See there!” he cried. +“Read that! and that!” He plunged among more, and I read: “First choice, +Lawrence Nepton Ford, Jr.; 2d, Iona Judd.” “First choice, Mary Louise +Kenton; 2d, Iona Judd.” “Hurry up!” said Gadsden; “that's it!” And as we +counted, Mrs. Brewton looked over my shoulder and uttered her melodious +croak, for which I saw no reason. “That young whipper-snapper will go +far,” she observed; nor did I understand this. But when they stopped the +band for me to announce the returns, one fact did dawn on me even +while I was reading: “Three-year-olds: Whole number of votes cast, 300; +necessary to a choice, 225. Second prize, Lewis Hendricks, receiving +300. First prize, largest number of votes cast, 11, for Salvisa van +Meter. No award. Eighteen-month class: Whole number of votes cast, 300; +necessary to a choice, 225. Second prize, Iona Judd, receiving 300. +Lillian Brown gets 15 for 1st prize. None awarded.” There was a very +feeble applause, and then silence for a second, and then the sun-bonnets +rushed together, rushed away to others, rushed back; and talk swept like +hail through the place. Yes, that is what they had done. They had all +voted for Lewis Hendricks and Iona Judd for second prize, and every +family had voted the first prize to its own baby. The Browns and van +Meters happened to be the largest families present. “He'll go far! he'll +go far!” repeated Mrs. Brewton. Sport glittered in her eye. She gathered +her curtains, and was among the sun-bonnets in a moment. Then it fully +dawned on me. The agent for Mrs. Eden's Manna in the Wilderness was +indeed a shrewd strategist, and knew his people to the roots of the +grass. They had never seen a baby-show. They were innocent. He came +among them. He gave away packages of manna and a diamond ring. He +offered the prizes. But he proposed to win some. Therefore he made that +rule about only the immediate families voting. He foresaw what they +would do; and now they had done it. Whatever happened, two prizes went +to his manna-feds. “They don't see through it in the least, which is +just as well,” said Mrs. Brewton, returning. “And it's little matter +that only second prizes go to the best babies. But what's to be done +now?” I had no idea; but it was not necessary that I should. + +“You folks of Rincon and Sharon,” spoke a deep voice. It was the first +man in the Pullman, and drops were rolling from his forehead, and his +eyes were the eyes of a beleaguered ox. “You fathers and mothers,” he +said, and took another breath. They grew quiet. “I'm a father myself, +as is well known.” They applauded this. “Salvisa is mine, and she got +my vote. The father that will not support his own child is not--does +not--is worse than if they were orphans.” He breathed again, while they +loudly applauded. “But, folks, I've got to get home to Rincon. I've +got to. And I'll give up Salvisa if I'm met fair.” “Yes, yes, you'll +be met,” said voices of men. “Well, here's my proposition: Mrs. Eden's +manna has took two, and I'm satisfied it should. We voted, and will stay +voted.” “Yes, yes!” “Well, now, here's Sharon and Rincon, two of the +finest towns in this section, and I say Sharon and Rincon has equal +rights to get something out of this, and drop private feelings, and +everybody back their town. And I say let this lady and gentleman, who +will act elegant and on the square, take a view and nominate the finest +Rincon 3-year-old and the finest Sharon 18-month they can cut out of the +herd. And I say let's vote unanimous on their pick, and let each town +hold a first prize and go home in friendship, feeling it has been +treated right.” + +Universal cheers endorsed him, and he got down panting. The band played +“Union Forever,” and I accompanied Mrs. Brewton to the booths. “You'll +remember!” shouted the orator urgently after us; “one apiece.” We +nodded. “Don't get mixed,” he appealingly insisted. We shook our heads, +and out of the booths rushed two women, and simultaneously dashed their +infants in our faces. “You'll never pass Cuba by!” entreated one. “This +is Bosco Grady,” said the other. Cuba wore an immense garment made of +the American flag, but her mother whirled her out of it in a second. +“See them dimples; see them knees!” she said. “See them feet! Only feel +of her toes!” “Look at his arms!” screamed the mother of Bosco. “Doubled +his weight in four months.” “Did he indeed, ma'am?” said Cuba's mother; +“well, he hadn't much to double.” “Didn't he, then? Didn't he indeed?” + “No at you; he didn't indeed and indeed! I guess Cuba is known to +Sharon. I guess Sharon'll not let Cuba be slighted.” “Well, and I guess +Rincon'll see that Bosco Grady gets his rights.” “Ladies,” said Mrs. +Brewton, towering but poetical with her curl, “I am a mother myself, and +raised five noble boys and two sweet peerless girls.” This stopped them +immediately; they stared at her and her chintz peonies as she put the +curl gently away from her medallion and proceeded: “But never did I +think of myself in those dark weary days of the long ago. I thought of +my country and the Lost Cause.” They stared at her, fascinated. “Yes, +m'm,” whispered they, quite humbly. “Now,” said Mrs. Brewton, “what is +more sacred than an American mother's love? Therefore let her not shame +it with anger and strife. All little boys and girls are precious gems to +me and to you. What is a cold, lifeless medal compared to one of them? +Though I would that all could get the prize! But they can't, you know.” + “No, m'm.” Many mothers, with their children in their arms, were now +dumbly watching Mrs. Brewton, who held them with a honeyed, convincing +smile. “If I choose only one in this beautiful and encouraging harvest, +it is because I have no other choice. Thank you so much for letting +me see that little hero and that lovely angel,” she added, with a yet +sweeter glance to the mothers of Bosco and Cuba. “And I wish them all +luck when their turn comes. I've no say about the 6-month class, you +know. And now a little room, please.” + +The mothers fell back. But my head swam slightly. The 6-month class, to +be sure! The orator had forgotten all about it. In the general joy over +his wise and fair proposition, nobody had thought of it. But they would +pretty soon. Cuba and Bosco were likely to remind them. Then we should +still be face to face with a state of things that--I cast a glance +behind at those two mothers of Sharon and Rincon following us, and I +asked Mrs. Brewton to look at them. “Don't think about it now,” said +she, “it will only mix you. I always like to take a thing when it comes, +and not before.” We now reached the 18-month class. They were the +naked ones. The 6-month had stayed nicely in people's arms; these were +crawling hastily everywhere, like crabs upset in the market, and +they screamed fiercely when taken upon the lap. The mother of Thomas +Jefferson Brayin Lucas showed us a framed letter from the statesman for +whom her child was called. The letter reeked with gratitude, and +said that offspring was man's proudest privilege; that a souvenir +sixteen-to-one spoon would have been cheerfully sent, but 428 babies had +been named after Mr. Brayin since January. It congratulated the swelling +army of the People's Cause. But there was nothing eminent about little +Thomas except the letter; and we selected Reese Moran, a vigorous Sharon +baby, who, when they attempted to set him down and pacify him, stiffened +his legs, dashed his candy to the floor, and burst into lamentation. We +were soon on our way to the 3-year class, for Mrs. Brewton was rapid +and thorough. As we went by the Manna Exhibit, the agent among his +packages and babies invited us in. He was loudly declaring that he would +vote for Bosco if he could. But when he examined Cuba, he became sure +that Denver had nothing finer than that. Mrs. Brewton took no notice of +him, but bade me admire Aqua Marine as far surpassing any other 6-month +child. I proclaimed her splendid (she was a wide-eyed, contented thing, +with a head shaped like a croquet mallet), and the agent smiled modestly +and told the mothers that as for his babies two prizes was luck enough +for them; they didn't want the earth. “If that thing happened to be +brass,” said Mrs. Brewton, bending over the ring that Aqua was still +sucking; and again remonstrating with the mother for this imprudence, +she passed on. The three-year-olds were, many of them, in costume, with +extraordinary arrangements of hair; and here was the child with gold +wings and a crown I had seen on arriving. Her name was Verbena M., and +she personated Faith. She had colored slippers, and was drinking +tea from her mother's cup. Another child, named Broderick McGowan, +represented Columbus, and joyfully shouted “Ki-yi!” every half-minute. +One child was attired as a prominent admiral; another as a prominent +general; and one stood in a boat and was Washington. As Mrs. Brewton +examined them and dealt with the mothers, the names struck me +afresh--not so much the boys; Ulysses Grant and James J. Corbett +explained themselves; but I read the names of five adjacent girls--Lula, +Ocilla, Nila, Cusseta, and Maylene. And I asked Mrs. Brewton how they +got them. “From romances,” she told me, “in papers that we of the upper +classes never see.” In choosing Horace Boyd, of Rincon, for his hair, +his full set of front teeth well cared for, and his general beauty, I +think both of us were also influenced by his good sensible name, and his +good clean sensible clothes. With both our selections, once they were +settled, were Sharon and Rincon satisfied. We were turning back to the +table to announce our choice when a sudden clamor arose behind us, +and we saw confusion in the Manna Department. Women were running and +shrieking, and I hastened after Mrs. Brewton to see what was the matter. +Aqua Marine had swallowed the ring on her thumb. “It was gold! it was +pure gold!” wailed the mother, clutching Mrs. Brewton. “It cost a whole +dollar in El Paso.” “She must have white of egg instantly,” said Mrs. +Brewton, handing me her purse. “Run to the hotel--” “Save your money,” + said the agent, springing forward with some eggs in a bowl. “Lord! you +don't catch us without all the appliances handy. We'd run behind the +trade in no time. There, now, there,” he added, comfortingly to the +mother. “Will you make her swallow it? Better let me--better let me--And +here's the emetic. Lord! why, we had three swallowed rings at the Denver +Olio, and I got 'em all safe back within ten minutes after time of +swallowing.” “You go away,” said Mrs. Brewton to me, “and tell them our +nominations.” The mothers sympathetically surrounded poor little Aqua, +saying to each other: “She's a beautiful child!” “Sure indeed she is!” + “But the manna-feds has had their turn.” “Sure indeed they've been +recognized,” and so forth, while I was glad to retire to the voting +table. The music paused for me, and as the crowd cheered my small +speech, some one said, “And now what are you going to do about me?” It +was Bosco Grady back again, and close behind him Cuba. They had escaped +from Mrs. Brewton's eye and had got me alone. But I pretended in the +noise and cheering not to see these mothers. I noticed a woman hurrying +out of the tent, and hoped Aqua was not in further trouble--she was +still surrounded, I could see. Then the orator made some silence, +thanked us in the names of Sharon and Rincon, and proposed our +candidates be voted on by acclamation. This was done. Rincon voted for +Sharon and Reese Moran in a solid roar, and Sharon voted for Rincon and +Horace Boyd in a roar equally solid. So now each had a prize, and the +whole place was applauding happily, and the band was beginning again, +when the mothers with Cuba and Bosco jumped up beside me on the +platform, and the sight of them produced immediate silence. + +“There's a good many here has a right to feel satisfied,” said Mrs. +Grady, looking about, “and they're welcome to their feelings. But if +this meeting thinks it is through with its business, I can tell it that +it ain't--not if it acts honorable, it ain't. Does those that have had +their chance and those that can take home their prizes expect us 6-month +mothers come here for nothing? Do they expect I brought my Bosco from +Rincon to be insulted, and him the pride of the town?” “Cuba is known +to Sharon,” spoke the other lady. “I'll say no more.” “Jumping Jeans!” + murmured the orator to himself. “I can't hold this train much longer,” + said Gadsden; “she's due at Lordsburg now.” “You'll have made it up by +Tucson, Gadsden,” spoke Mrs. Brewton, quietly, across the whole assembly +from the Manna Department. “As for towns,” continued Mrs. Grady, “that +think anything of a baby that's only got three teeth--” “Ha! Ha!” + laughed Cuba's mother, shrilly. “Teeth! Well, we're not proud of bald +babies in Sharon.” Bosco was certainly bald. All the men were looking +wretched, and all the women were growing more and more like eagles. +Moreover, they were separating into two bands and taking their husbands +with them--Sharon and Rincon drawing to opposite parts of the tent--and +what was coming I cannot say; for we all had to think of something else. +A third woman, bringing a man, mounted the platform. It was she I +had seen hurry out. “My name's Shot-gun Smith,” said the man, very +carefully, “and I'm told you've reached my case.” He was extremely +good-looking, with a blue eye and a blond mustache, not above thirty, +and was trying hard to be sober, holding himself with dignity. “Are you +the judge?” said he to me. “Hell--” I began. “N-not guilty, your honor,” + said he. At this his wife looked anxious. “S-self-defence,” he slowly +continued; “told you once already.” “Why, Rolfe!” exclaimed his wife, +touching his elbow. “Don't you cry, little woman,” said he; “this'll +come out all right. Where 're the witnesses?” “Why, Rolfe! Rolfe!” She +shook him as you shake a sleepy child. “Now see here,” said he, and +wagged a finger at her affectionately, “you promised me you'd not cry +if I let you come.” “Rolfe, dear, it's not that to-day; it's the twins.” + “It's your twins, Shot-gun, this time,” said many men's voices. “We +acquitted you all right last month.” “Justifiable homicide,” said +Gadsden. “Don't you remember?” “Twins?” said Shotgun, drowsily. “Oh yes, +mine. Why--” He opened on us his blue eyes that looked about as innocent +as Aqua Marine's, and he grew more awake. Then he blushed deeply, face +and forehead. “I was not coming to this kind of thing,” he explained. +“But she wanted the twins to get something.” He put his hand on her +shoulder and straightened himself. “I done a heap of prospecting before +I struck this claim,” said he, patting her shoulder. “We got married +last March a year. It's our first--first--first”--he turned to me with a +confiding smile--“it's our first dividend, judge.” “Rolfe! I never! You +come right down.” “And now let's go get a prize,” he declared, with his +confiding pleasantness. “I remember now! I remember! They claimed twins +was barred. And I kicked down the bars. Take me to those twins. They're +not named yet, judge. After they get the prize we'll name them fine +names, as good as any they got anywhere--Europe, Asia, Africa--anywhere. +My gracious! I wish they was boys. Come on, judge! You and me'll go give +'em a prize, and then we'll drink to 'em.” He hugged me suddenly and +affectionately, and we half fell down the steps. But Gadsden as suddenly +caught him and righted him, and we proceeded to the twins. Mrs. Smith +looked at me helplessly, saying: “I'm that sorry, sir! I had no idea +he was going to be that gamesome.” “Not at all,” I said; “not at all!” + Under many circumstances I should have delighted in Shot-gun's society. +He seemed so utterly sure that, now he had explained himself, everybody +would rejoice to give the remaining-medal to his little girls. But +Bosco and Cuba had not been idle. Shotgun did not notice the spread of +whispers, nor feel the divided and jealous currents in the air as he +sat, and, in expanding good-will, talked himself almost sober. To entice +him out there was no way. Several of his friends had tried it. But +beneath his innocence there seemed to lurk something wary, and I grew +apprehensive about holding the box this last time. But Gadsden relieved +me as our count began. “Shot-gun is a splendid man,” said he, “and he +has trailed more train-robbers than any deputy in New Mexico. But he has +seen too many friends to-day, and is not quite himself. So when he fell +down that time I just took this off him.” He opened the drawer, and +there lay a six-shooter. “It was touch and go,” said Gadsden; “but he's +thinking that hard about his twins that he's not missed it yet. 'Twould +have been the act of an enemy to leave that on him to-day.--Well, d'you +say!” he broke off. “Well, well, well!” It was the tickets we took out +of the box that set him exclaiming. I began to read them, and saw that +the agent was no mere politician, but a statesman. His Aqua Marine had a +solid vote. I remembered his extreme praise of both Bosco and Cuba. This +had set Rincon and Sharon bitterly against each other. I remembered his +modesty about Aqua Marine. Of course. Each town, unable to bear the +idea of the other's beating it, had voted for the manna-fed, who had 299 +votes. Shot-gun and his wife had voted for their twins. I looked towards +the Manna Department, and could see that Aqua Marine was placid once +more, and Mrs. Brewton was dancing the ring before her eyes. I hope I +announced the returns in a firm voice. “What!” said Shot-gun Smith; and +at that sound Mrs. Brewton stopped dancing the ring. He strode to our +table. “There's the winner,” said Gadsden, quickly pointing to the +Manna Exhibit. “What!” shouted Smith again; “and they quit me for that +hammer-headed son-of-a-gun?” He whirled around. The men stood ready, and +the women fled shrieking and cowering to their infants in the booths. +“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried Gadsden, “don't hurt him! Look here!” And +from the drawer he displayed Shot-gun's weapon. They understood in a +second, and calmly watched the enraged and disappointed Shot-gun. But he +was a man. He saw how he had frightened the women, and he stood in the +middle of the floor with eyes that did not at all resemble Aqua Marine's +at present. “I'm all right now, boys,” he said. “I hope I've harmed no +one. Ladies, will you try and forget about me making such a break? It +got ahead of me, I guess; for I had promised the little woman--” He +stopped himself; and then his eye fell upon the Manna Department. “I +guess I don't like one thing much now. I'm not after prizes. I'd not +accept one from a gold-bug-combine-trust that comes sneaking around +stuffing wholesale concoctions into our children's systems. My twins are +not manna-fed. My twins are raised as nature intended. Perhaps if they +were swelled out with trash that acts like baking-powder, they would +have a medal too--for I notice he has made you vote his way pretty often +this afternoon.” I saw the agent at the end of the room look very queer. +“That's so!” said several. “I think I'll clear out his boxes,” said +Shot-gun, with rising joy. “I feel like I've got to do something before +I go home. Come on, judge!” He swooped towards the manna with a yell, +and the men swooped with him, and Gadsden and I were swooped with them. +Again the women shrieked. But Mrs. Brewton stood out before the boxes +with her curl and her chintz. + +“Mr. Smith,” said she, “you are not going to do anything like that. You +are going to behave yourself like the gentleman you are, and not like +the wild beast that's inside you.” Never in his life before, probably, +had Shot-gun been addressed in such a manner, and he too became +hypnotized, fixing his blue eyes upon the strange lady. “I do not +believe in patent foods for children,” said Mrs. Brewton. “We agree +on that, Mr. Smith, and I am a grandmother, and I attend to what my +grandchildren eat. But this highly adroit young man has done you no +harm. If he has the prizes, whose doing is that, please? And who paid +for them? Will you tell me, please? Ah, you are all silent!” And she +croaked melodiously. “Now let him and his manna go along. But I have +enjoyed meeting you all, and I shall not forget you soon. And, Mr. +Smith, I want you to remember me. Will you, please?” She walked to Mrs. +Smith and the twins, and Shot-gun followed her, entirely hypnotized. She +beckoned to me. “Your judge and I,” she said, “consider not only your +beautiful twins worthy of a prize, but also the mother and father +that can so proudly claim them.” She put her hand in my pocket. “These +cat's-eyes,” she said, “you will wear, and think of me and the judge +who presents them.” She placed a bracelet on each twin, and the necklace +upon Mrs. Smith's neck. “Give him Gadsden's stuff,” she whispered to me. +“Do you shave yourself, sir?” said I, taking out the Stropine. “Vaseline +and ground shells, and will last your life. Rub the size of a pea on +your strop and spread it to an inch.” I placed the box in Shot-gun's +motionless hand. “And now, Gadsden, we'll take the train,” said Mrs. +Brewton. “Here's your lunch! Here's your wine!” said the orator, forcing +a basket upon me. “I don't know what we'd have done without you and your +mother.” A flash of indignation crossed Mrs. Brewton's face, but changed +to a smile. “You've forgot to name my girls!” exclaimed Shot-gun, +suddenly finding his voice. “Suppose you try that,” said Mrs. Brewton to +me, a trifle viciously. “Thank you,” I said to Smith. “Thank you. +I--” “Something handsome,” he urged. “How would Cynthia do for one?” I +suggested. “Shucks, no! I've known two Cynthias. You don't want that?” + he asked Mrs. Smith; and she did not at all. “Something extra, something +fine, something not stale,” said he. I looked about the room. There was +no time for thought, but my eye fell once more upon Cuba. This reminded +me of Spain, and the Spanish; and my brain leaped. “I have them!” + I cried. “'Armada' and 'Loyola.'” “That's what they're named!” said +Shot-gun; “write it for us.” And I did. Once more the band played, and +we left them, all calling, “Good-bye, ma'am. Good-bye, judge,” happy +as possible. The train was soon going sixty miles an hour through the +desert. We had passed Lordsburg, San Simon, and were nearly at Benson +before Mrs. Brewton and Gadsden (whom she made sit down with us) and I +finished the lunch and champagne. “I wonder how long he'll remember me?” + mused Mrs. Brewton at Tucson, where we were on time. “That woman is not +worth one of his boots.” + +Saturday afternoon, May 6.--Near Los Angeles. I have been writing all +day, to be sure and get everything in, and now Sharon is twenty-four +hours ago, and here there are roses, gardens, and many nice houses at +the way-stations. Oh, George Washington, father of your country, what a +brindled litter have you sired! + +But here the moral reflections begin again, and I copy no more diary. +Mrs. Brewton liked my names for the twins. “They'll pronounce it +Loyo'la,” she said, “and that sounds right lovely.” Later she sent me +her paper for the Golden Daughters. It is full of poetry and sentiment +and all the things I have missed. She wrote that if she had been sure +the agent had helped Aqua Marine to swallow the ring, she would have let +them smash his boxes. And I think she was a little in love with Shot-gun +Smith. But what a pity we shall soon have no more Mrs. Brewtons! The +causes that produced her--slavery, isolation, literary tendencies, +adversity, game blood--that combination is broken forever. I shall speak +to Mr. Howells about her. She ought to be recorded. + + + + +The Promised Land + + +Perhaps there were ten of them--these galloping dots were hard to +count--down in the distant bottom across the river. Their swiftly moving +dust hung with them close, thinning to a yellow veil when they halted +short. They clustered a moment, then parted like beads, and went wide +asunder on the plain. They veered singly over the level, merged in twos +and threes, apparently racing, shrank together like elastic, and broke +ranks again to swerve over the stretching waste. From this visioned +pantomime presently came a sound, a tiny shot. The figures were too +far for discerning which fired it. It evidently did no harm, and was +repeated at once. A babel of diminutive explosions followed, while the +horsemen galloped on in unexpected circles. Soon, for no visible reason, +the dots ran together, bunching compactly. The shooting stopped, the +dust rose thick again from the crowded hoofs, cloaking the group, and so +passed back and was lost among the silent barren hills. + +Four emigrants had watched this from the high bleak rim of the Big Bend. +They stood where the flat of the desert broke and tilted down in grooves +and bulges deep to the lurking Columbia. Empty levels lay opposite, +narrowing up into the high country. + +“That's the Colville Reservation across the river from us,” said the +man. + +“Another!” sighed his wife. + +“The last Indians we'll strike. Our trail to the Okanagon goes over a +corner of it.” + +“We're going to those hills?” The mother looked at her little girl and +back where the cloud had gone. + +“Only a corner, Liza. The ferry puts us over on it, and we've got to +go by the ferry or stay this side of the Columbia. You wouldn't want to +start a home here?” + +They had driven twenty-one hundred miles at a walk. Standing by them +were the six horses with the wagon, and its tunneled roof of canvas +shone duskily on the empty verge of the wilderness. A dry windless +air hung over the table-land of the Big Bend, but a sound rose from +somewhere, floating voluminous upon the silence, and sank again. + +“Rapids!” The man pointed far up the giant rut of the stream to where a +streak of white water twinkled at the foot of the hills. “We've struck +the river too high,” he added. + +“Then we don't cross here?” said the woman, quickly. + +“No. By what they told me the cabin and the ferry ought to be five miles +down.” + +Her face fell. “Only five miles! I was wondering, John--Wouldn't there +be a way round for the children to--” + +“Now, mother,” interrupted the husband, “that ain't like you. We've +crossed plenty Indian reservations this trip already.” + +“I don't want to go round,” the little girl said. “Father, don't make me +go round.” + +Mart, the boy, with a loose hook of hair hanging down to his eyes from +his hat, did not trouble to speak. He had been disappointed in the +westward journey to find all the Indians peaceful. He knew which way +he should go now, and he went to the wagon to look once again down the +clean barrel of his rifle. + +“Why, Nancy, you don't like Indians?” said her mother. + +“Yes, I do. I like chiefs.” + +Mrs. Clallam looked across the river. “It was so strange, John, the way +they acted. It seems to get stranger, thinking about it.” + +“They didn't see us. They didn't have a notion--” + +“But if we're going right over?” + +“We're not going over there, Liza. That quick water's the Mahkin Rapids, +and our ferry's clear down below from this place.” + +“What could they have been after, do you think?” + +“Those chaps? Oh, nothing, I guess. They weren't killing anybody.” + +“Playing cross-tag,” said Mart. + +“I'd like to know, John, how you know they weren't killing anybody. They +might have been trying to.” + +“Then we're perfectly safe, Liza. We can set and let 'em kill us all +day.” + +“Well, I don't think it's any kind of way to behave, running around +shooting right off your horse.” + +“And Fourth of July over too,” said Mart from the wagon. He was putting +cartridges into the magazine of his Winchester. His common-sense told +him that those horsemen would not cross the river, but the notion of a +night attack pleased the imagination of young sixteen. + +“It was the children,” said Mrs. Clallam. “And nobody's getting me any +wood. How am I going to cook supper? Stir yourselves!” + +They had carried water in the wagon, and father and son went for wood. +Some way down the hill they came upon a gully with some dead brush, and +climbed back with this. Supper was eaten on the ground, the horses were +watered, given grain, and turned loose to find what pickings they might +in the lean growth; and dusk had not turned to dark when the emigrants +were in their beds on the soft dust. The noise of the rapids dominated +the air with distant sonority, and the children slept at once, the boy +with his rifle along his blanket's edge. John Clallam lay till the moon +rose hard and brilliant, and then quietly, lest his wife should hear +from her bed by the wagon, went to look across the river. Where the +downward slope began he came upon her. She had been watching for some +time. They were the only objects in that bald moonlight. No shrub grew +anywhere that reached to the waist, and the two figures drew together on +the lonely hill. They stood hand in hand and motionless, except that the +man bent over the woman and kissed her. When she spoke of Iowa they had +left, he talked of the new region of their hopes, the country that lay +behind the void hills opposite, where it would not be a struggle to +live. He dwelt on the home they would make, and her mood followed his +at last, till husband and wife were building distant plans together. The +Dipper had swung low when he remarked that they were a couple of fools, +and they went back to their beds. Cold came over the ground, and their +musings turned to dreams. Next morning both were ashamed of their fears. + +By four the wagon was on the move. Inside, Nancy's voice was heard +discussing with her mother whether the school-teacher where they were +going to live now would have a black dog with a white tail, that could +swim with a basket in his mouth. They crawled along the edge of the vast +descent, making slow progress, for at times the valley widened and they +receded far from the river, and then circuitously drew close again where +the slant sank abruptly. When the ferryman's cabin came in sight, the +canvas interior of the wagon was hot in the long-risen sun. The lay of +the land had brought them close above the stream, but no one seemed to +be at the cabin on the other side, nor was there any sign of a ferry. +Groves of trees lay in the narrow folds of the valley, and the water +swept black between untenanted shores. Nothing living could be seen +along the scant levels of the bottom-land. Yet there stood the cabin as +they had been told, the only one between the rapids and the Okanagon; +and bright in the sun the Colville Reservation confronted them. They +came upon tracks going down over the hill, marks of wagons and horses, +plain in the soil, and charred sticks, with empty cans, lying where +camps had been. Heartened by this proof that they were on the right +road, John Clallam turned his horses over the brink. The slant steepened +suddenly in a hundred yards, tilting the wagon so no brake or shoe would +hold it if it moved farther. + +“All out!” said Clallam. “Either folks travel light in this country +or they unpack.” He went down a little way. “That's the trail too,” he +said. “Wheel marks down there, and the little bushes are snapped off.” + +Nancy slipped out. “I'm unpacked,” said she. “Oh, what a splendid hill +to go down! We'll go like anything.” + +“Yes, that surely is the trail,” Clallam pursued. “I can see away down +where somebody's left a wheel among them big stones. But where does he +keep his ferry-boat? And where does he keep himself?” + +“Now, John, if it's here we're to go down, don't you get to studying +over something else. It'll be time enough after we're at the bottom. +Nancy, here's your chair.” Mrs. Clallam began lifting the lighter things +from the wagon. + +“Mart,” said the father, “we'll have to chain lock the wheels after +we're empty. I guess we'll start with the worst. You and me'll take the +stove apart and get her down somehow. We're in luck to have open country +and no timber to work through. Drop that bedding mother! Yourself is all +you're going to carry. We'll pack that truck on the horses.” + +“Then pack it now and let me start first. I'll make two trips while +you're at the stove.” + +“There's the man!” said Nancy. + +A man--a white man--was riding up the other side of the river. Near the +cabin he leaned to see something on the ground. Ten yards more and he +was off the horse and picked up something and threw it away. He loitered +along, picking up and throwing till he was at the door. He pushed it +open and took a survey of the interior. Then he went to his horse, and +when they saw him going away on the road he had come, they set up a +shouting, and Mart fired a signal. The rider dived from his saddle and +made headlong into the cabin, where the door clapped to like a trap. +Nothing happened further, and the horse stood on the bank. + +“That's the funniest man I ever saw,” said Nancy. + +“They're all funny over there,” said Mart. “I'll signal him again.” But +the cabin remained shut, and the deserted horse turned, took a few first +steels of freedom, then trotted briskly down the river. + +“Why, then, he don't belong there at all,” said Nancy. + +“Wait, child, till we know something about it.” + +“She's liable to be right, Liza. The horse, anyway, don't belong, or +he'd not run off. That's good judgment, Nancy. Right good for a little +girl.” + +“I am six years old,” said Nancy, “and I know lots more than that.” + +“Well, let's get mother and the bedding started down. It'll be noon +before we know it.” + +There were two pack-saddles in the wagon, ready against such straits as +this. The rolls were made, balanced as side packs, and circled with the +swing-ropes, loose cloths, clothes, frying-pans, the lantern, and the +axe tossed in to fill the gap in the middle, canvas flung over the +whole, and the diamond-hitch hauled taut on the first pack, when a +second rider appeared across the river. He came out of a space between +the opposite hills, into which the trail seemed to turn, and he was +leading the first man's horse. The heavy work before them was forgotten, +and the Clallams sat down in a row to watch. + +“He's stealing it,” said Mrs. Clallam. + +“Then the other man will come out and catch him,” said Nancy. + +Mart corrected them. “A man never steals horses that way. He drives them +up in the mountains, where the owner don't travel much.” + +The new rider had arrived at the bank and came steadily along till +opposite the door, where he paused and looked up and down the river. + +“See him stoop,” said Clallam the father. “He's seen the tracks don't go +further.” + +“I guess he's after the other one,” added Clallam the son. + +“Which of them is the ferry-man?” said Mrs. Clallam. + +The man had got off and gone straight inside the cabin. In the black of +the doorway appeared immediately the first man, dangling in the grip of +the other, who kicked him along to the horse. There the victim mounted +his own animal and rode back down the river. The chastiser was returning +to the cabin, when Mart fired his rifle. The man stopped short, saw the +emigrants, and waved his hand. He dismounted and came to the edge of the +water. They could hear he was shouting to them, but it was too far for +the words to carry. From a certain reiterated cadence, he seemed to be +saying one thing. John and Mart tried to show they did not understand, +and indicated their wagon, walking to it and getting aboard. On that the +stranger redoubled his signs and shootings, ran to the cabin, where he +opened and shut the door several times, came back, and pointed to the +hills. + +“He's going away, and can't ferry us over,” said Mrs. Clallam. + +“And the other man thought he'd gone,” said Nancy, “and he came and +caught him in his house.” + +“This don't suit me,” Clallam remarked. “Mart, we'll go to the shore and +talk to him.” + +When the man saw them descending the hill, he got on his horse and swam +the stream. It carried him below, but he was waiting for them when they +reached the level. He was tall, shambling, and bony, and roved over them +with a pleasant, restless eye. + +“Good-morning,” said he. “Fine weather. I was baptized Edward Wilson, +but you inquire for Wild-Goose Jake. Them other names are retired and +pensioned. I expect you seen me kick him?” + +“Couldn't help seeing.” + +“Oh, I ain't blamin' you, son, not a bit, I ain't. He can't bile water +without burnin' it, and his toes turns in, and he's blurry round the +finger-nails. He's jest kultus, he is. Hev some?” With a furtive smile +that often ran across his lips, he pulled out a flat bottle, and all +took an acquaintanceship swallow, while the Clallams explained their +journey. “How many air there of yu' slidin' down the hill?” he inquired, +shifting his eye to the wagon. + +“I've got my wife and little girl up there. That's all of us.” + +“Ladies along! Then I'll step behind this bush.” He was dragging his +feet from his waterlogged boots. “Hear them suck now?” he commented. +“Didn't hev to think about a wetting onced. But I ain't young any more. +There, I guess I ain't caught a chill.” He had whipped his breeches off +and spread them on the sand. “Now you arrive down this here hill from +Ioway, and says you: 'Where's that ferry? 'Ain't we hit the right +spot?' Well, that's what you hev hit. You're all right, and the spot is +hunky-dory, and it's the durned old boat hez made the mistake, begosh! +A cloud busted in this country, and she tore out fer the coast, and the +joke's on her! You'd ought to hev heerd her cable snap! Whoosh, if that +wire didn't screech! Jest last week it was, and the river come round the +corner on us in a wave four feet high, same as a wall. I was up here +on business, and seen the whole thing. So the ferry she up and bid us +good-bye, and lit out for Astoria with her cargo. Beggin' pardon, +hev you tobacco, for mine's in my wet pants? Twenty-four hogs and the +driver, and two Sheeny drummers bound to the mines with brass jew'lry, +all gone to hell, for they didn't near git to Astoria. They sank in the +sight of all, as we run along the bank. I seen their arms wave, and them +hogs rolling over like 'taters bilin' round in the kettle.” Wild-Goose +Jake's words came slow and went more slowly as he looked at the river +and spoke, but rather to himself. “It warn't long, though. I expect it +warn't three minutes till the water was all there was left there. My +stars, what a lot of it! And I might hev been part of that cargo, easy +as not. Freight behind time was all that come between me and them that +went. So, we'd hev gone bobbin' down that flood, me and my piah-chuck.” + +“Your piah-chuck?” Mart inquired. + +The man faced the boy like a rat, but the alertness faded instantly from +his eye, and his lip slackened into a slipshod smile. “Why, yes, sonny, +me and my grub-stake. You've been to school, I'll bet, but they didn't +learn yu' Chinook, now, did they? Chinook's the lingo us white folks +trade in with the Siwashes, and we kinder falls into it, talking along. +I was thinkin' how but for delay me and my grubstake--provisions, ye +know--that was consigned to me clear away at Spokane, might hev been +drownded along with them hogs and Hebrews. That's what the good folks +calls a dispensation of the Sauklee Tyee!--Providence, ye know, in +Chinook. 'One shall be taken and the other left.' And that's what beats +me--they got left; and I'm a bigger sinner than them drummers, for I'm +ten years older than they was. And the poor hogs was better than any of +us. That can't be gainsaid. Oh no! oh no!” + +Mart laughed. + +“I mean it, son. Some day such thoughts will come to you.” He stared at +the river unsteadily with his light gray eyes. + +“Well, if the ferry's gone,” said John Clallam, getting on his legs, +“we'll go on down to the next one.” + +“Hold on! hold on! Did you never hear tell of a raft? I'll put you folks +over this river. Wait till I git my pants on,” said he, stalking nimbly +to where they lay. + +“It's just this way,” Clallam continued; “we're bound for the upper +Okanagon country, and we must get in there to build our cabin before +cold weather.” + +“Don't you worry about that. It'll take you three days to the next +ferry, while you and me and the boy kin build a raft right here by +to-morrow noon. You hev an axe, I expect? Well, here is timber close, +and your trail takes over to my place on the Okanagon, where you've got +another crossin' to make. And all this time we're keeping the ladies +waitin' up the hill! We'll talk business as we go along; and, see here, +if I don't suit yu', or fail in my bargain, you needn't to pay me a +cent.” + +He began climbing, and on the way they came to an agreement. Wild-Goose +Jake bowed low to Mrs. Clallam, and as low to Nancy, who held her +mother's dress and said nothing, keeping one finger in her mouth. +All began emptying the wagon quickly, and tins of baking-powder, with +rocking-chairs and flowered quilts, lay on the hill. Wild-Goose Jake +worked hard, and sustained a pleasant talk by himself. His fluency was +of an eagerness that parried interruption or inquiry. + +“So you've come acrosst the Big Bend! Ain't it a cosey place? Reminds me +of them medicine pictures, 'Before and After Using.' The Big Bend's the +way this world looked before using--before the Bible fixed it up, ye +know. Ever seen specimens of Big Bend produce, ma'am? They send +'em East. Grain and plums and such. The feller that gathered them +curiosities hed hunt forty square miles apiece for 'em. But it's +good-payin' policy, and it fetches lots of settlers to the Territory. +They come here hummin' and walks around the wilderness, and 'Where's the +plums?' says they. 'Can't you see I'm busy?' says the land agent; and +out they goes. But you needn't to worry, ma'am. The country where you're +goin' ain't like that. There's water and timber and rich soil and mines. +Billy Moon has gone there--he's the man run the ferry. When she wrecked, +he pulled his freight for the new mines at Loop Loop.” + +“Did the man live in the little house?” said Nancy. + +“Right there, miss. And nobody lives there any more, so you take it if +you're wantin' a place of your own.” + +“What made you kick the other man if it wasn't your house?” + +“Well, now, if it ain't a good one on him to hev you see that! I'll tell +him a little girl seen that, and maybe he'll feel the disgrace. Only +he's no account, and don't take any experience the reg'lar way. He's +nigh onto thirty, and you'll not believe me, I know, but he ain't never +even learned to spit right.” + +“Is he yours?” inquired Nancy. + +“Gosh! no, miss--beggin' pardon. He's jest workin' for me.” + +“Did he know you were coming to kick him when he hid?” + +“Hid? What's that?” The man's eyes narrowed again into points. “You +folks seen him hide?” he said to Clallam. + +“Why, of course; didn't he say anything?” + +“He didn't get much chance,” muttered Jake. “What did he hide at?” + +“Us.” + +“You, begosh!” + +“I guess so,” said Mart. “We took him for the ferry-man, and when he +couldn't hear us--” + +“What was he doin'?” + +“Just riding along. And so I fired to signal him, and he flew into the +door.” + +“So you fired, and he flew into the door. Oh, h'm.” Jake continued to +pack the second horse, attending carefully to the ropes. “I never knowed +he was that weak in the upper story,” he said, in about five minutes. +“Knew his brains was tenas, but didn't suspect he were that weak in the +upper story. You're sure he didn't go in till he heerd your gun?” + +“He'd taken a look and was going away,” said Mart. + +“Now ain't some people jest odd! Now you follow me, and I'll tell you +folks what I'd figured he'd been at. Billy Moon he lived in that cabin, +yu' see. And he had his stuff there, yu, see, and run the ferry, and a +kind of a store. He kept coffee and canned goods and star-plug and this +and that to supply the prospectin' outfits that come acrosst on his +ferry on the trail to the mines. Then a cloud-burst hits his boat and +his job's spoiled on the river, and he quits for the mines, takin' his +stuff along--do you follow me? But he hed to leave some, and he give me +the key, and I was to send the balance after him next freight team that +come along my way. Leander--that's him I was kickin'--he knowed about +it, and he'll steal a hot stove he's that dumb. He knowed there was +stuff here of Billy Moon's. Well, last night we hed some horses stray, +and I says to him, 'Andy, you get up by daylight and find them.' And he +gits. But by seven the horses come in all right of theirselves, and +Mr. Leander he was missin'; and says I to myself, 'I'll ketch you, yu' +blamed hobo.' And I thought I had ketched him, yu' see. Weren't that +reasonable of me? Wouldn't any of you folks hev drawed that conclusion?” + The man had fallen into a wheedling tone as he studied their faces. +“Jest put yourselves in my place,” he said. + +“Then what was he after?” said Mart. + +“Stealin'. But he figured he'd come again.” + +“He didn't like my gun much.” + +“Guns always skeers him when he don't know the parties shootin'. +That's his dumbness. Maybe he thought I was after him; he's jest that +distrustful. Begosh! we'll have the laugh on him when he finds he run +from a little girl.” + +“He didn't wait to see who he was running from,” said Mart. + +“Of course he didn't. Andy hears your gun and he don't inquire further, +but hits the first hole he kin crawl into. That's Andy! That's the kind +of boy I hev to work for me. All the good ones goes where you're goin', +where the grain grows without irrigation and the blacktail deer comes +out on the hill and asks yu' to shoot 'em for dinner. Who's ready for +the bottom? If I stay talkin' the sun'll go down on us. Don't yu' let +me get started agin. Just you shet me off twiced anyway each twenty-four +hours.” + +He began to descend with his pack-horse and the first load. All +afternoon they went up and down over the hot bare face of the hill, +until the baggage, heavy and light, was transported and dropped +piecemeal on the shore. The torn-out insides of their home littered the +stones with familiar shapes and colors, and Nancy played among them, +visiting each parcel and folded thing. + +“There's the red table-cover!” she exclaimed, “and the big +coffee-grinder. And there's our table, and the hole Mart burned in it.” + She took a long look at this. “Oh, how I wish I could see our pump!” she +said, and began to cry. + +“You talk to her, mother,” said Clallam. “She's tuckered out.” + +The men returned to bring the wagon. With chain-locked wheels, and +tilted half over by the cross slant of the mountain, it came heavily +down, reeling and sliding on the slippery yellow weeds, and grinding +deep ruts across the faces of the shelving beds of gravel. Jake guided +it as he could, straining back on the bits of the two hunched horses +when their hoofs glanced from the stones that rolled to the bottom; +and the others leaned their weight on a pole lodged between the spokes, +making a balance to the wagon, for it leaned the other way so far that +at any jolt the two wheels left the ground. When it was safe at the +level of the stream, dusk had come and a white flat of mist lay along +the river, striping its course among the gaunt hills. They slept without +moving, and rose early to cut logs, which the horses dragged to the +shore. The outside trunks were nailed and lashed with ropes, and sank +almost below the surface with the weight of the wood fastened crosswise +on top. But the whole floated dry with its cargo, and crossed clumsily +on the quick-wrinkled current. Then it brought the wagon; and the six +horses swam. The force of the river had landed them below the cabin, +and when they had repacked there was too little left of day to go on. +Clallam suggested it was a good time to take Moon's leavings over to +the Okanagon, but Wild-Goose Jake said at once that their load was heavy +enough; and about this they could not change his mind. He made a journey +to the cabin by himself, and returned saying that he had managed to lock +the door. + +“Father,” said Mart, as they were harnessing next day, “I've been up +there. I went awful early. There's no lock to the door, and the cabin's +empty.” + +“I guessed that might be.” + +“There has been a lock pried off pretty lately. There was a lot of +broken bottles around everywheres, inside and out.” + +“What do you make out of it?” said Mart. + +“Nothing yet. He wants to get us away, and I'm with him there. I want to +get up the Okanagon as soon as we can.” + +“Well, I'm takin' yu' the soonest way,” said Wild-Goose Jake, behind +them. From his casual smile there was no telling what he had heard. +“I'll put your stuff acrosst the Okanagon to-morrow mornin'. But +to-night yourselves'll all be over, and the ladies kin sleep in my +room.” + +The wagon made good time. The trail crossed easy valleys and over +the yellow grass of the hills, while now and then their guide took +a short-cut. He wished to get home, he said, since there could be no +estimating what Leander might be doing. While the sun was still well up +in the sky they came over a round knob and saw the Okanagon, blue in the +bright afternoon, and the cabin on its further bank. This was a roomier +building to see than common, and a hay-field was by it, and a bit +of green pasture, fenced in. Saddle-horses were tied in front, heads +hanging and feet knuckled askew with long waiting, and from inside an +uneven, riotous din whiffled lightly across the river and intervening +meadow to the hill. + +“If you'll excuse me,” said Jake, “I'll jest git along ahead, and see +what game them folks is puttin' up on Andy. Likely as not he's weighin' +'em out flour at two cents, with it costin' me two and a half on +freightin' alone. I'll hev supper ready time you ketch up.” + +He was gone at once, getting away at a sharp pace, till presently they +could see him swimming the stream. When he was in the cabin the sounds +changed, dropping off to one at a time, and expired. But when the riders +came out into the air, they leaned and collided at random, whirled their +arms, and, screaming till they gathered heart, charged with wavering +menace at the door. The foremost was flung from the sill, and he shot +along toppling and scraped his length in the dust, while the owner of +the cabin stood in the entrance. The Indian picked himself up, and at +some word of Jake's which the emigrants could half follow by the fierce +lift of his arm, all got on their horses and set up a wailing, like +vultures driven off. They went up the river a little and crossed, but +did not come down this side, and Mrs. Clallam was thankful when their +evil noise had died away up the valley. They had seen the wagon coming, +but gave it no attention. A man soon came over the river from the +cabin, and was lounging against a tree when the emigrants drew up at the +margin. + +“I don't know what you know,” he whined defiantly from the tree, “but +I'm goin' to Cornwall, Connecticut, and I don't care who knows it.” He +sent a cowed look at the cabin across the river. + +“Get out of the wagon, Nancy,” said Clallam. “Mart, help her down.” + +“I'm going back,” said the man, blinking like a scolded dog. “I ain't +stayin' here for nobody. You can tell him I said so, too.” Again his eye +slunk sidewise towards the cabin, and instantly back. + +“While you're staying,” said Mart, “you might as well give a hand here.” + +He came with alacrity, and made a shift of unhitching the horses. “I was +better off coupling freight cars on the Housatonic,” he soon remarked. +His voice came shallow, from no deeper than his throat, and a peevish +apprehension rattled through it. “That was a good job. And I've had +better, too; forty, fifty, sixty dollars better.” + +“Shall we unpack the wagon?” Clallam inquired. + +“I don't know. You ever been to New Milford? I sold shoes there. +Thirty-five dollars and board.” + +The emigrants attended to their affairs, watering the horses and driving +picket stakes. Leander uselessly followed behind them with conversation, +blinking and with lower lip sagged, showing a couple of teeth. “My +brother's in business in Pittsfield, Massachusetts,” said he, “and I can +get a salary in Bridgeport any day I say so. That a Marlin?” + +“No,” said Mart. “It's a Winchester.” + +“I had a Marlin. He's took it from me. I'll bet you never got shot at.” + +“Anybody want to shoot you?” Mart inquired. + +“Well and I guess you'll believe they did day before yesterday” + +“If you're talking about up at that cabin, it was me.” + +Leander gave Mart a leer. “That won't do,” said he. “He's put you up to +telling me that, and I'm going to Cornwall, Connecticut. I know what's +good for me, I guess.” + +“I tell you we were looking for the ferry, and I signalled you across +the river.” + +“No, no,” said Leander. “I never seen you in my life. Don't you be like +him and take me for a fool.” + +“All right. Why did they want to murder you?” + +“Why?” said the man, shrilly. “Why? Hadn't they broke in and filled +themselves up on his piah-chuck till they were crazy-drunk? And when I +came along didn't they--” + +“When you came along they were nowhere near there,” said Mart. + +“Now you're going to claim it was me drunk it and scattered all them +bottles of his,” screamed Leander, backing away. “I tell you I didn't. +I told him I didn't, and he knowed it well, too. But he's just that mean +when he's mad he likes to put a thing on me whether or no, when he never +seen me touch a drop of whiskey, nor any one else, neither. They were +riding and shooting loose over the country like they always do on a +drunk. And I'm glad they stole his stuff. What business had he to keep +it at Billy Moon's old cabin and send me away up there to see it was all +right? Let him do his own dirty work. I ain't going to break the laws on +the salary he pays me.” + +The Clallam family had gathered round Leander, who was stricken with +volubility. “It ain't once in a while, but it's every day and every +week,” he went on, always in a woolly scream. “And the longer he ain't +caught the bolder he gets, and puts everything that goes wrong on to me. +Was it me traded them for that liquor this afternoon? It was his squaw, +Big Tracks, and he knowed it well. He lets that mud-faced baboon run the +house when he's off, and I don't have the keys nor nothing, and never +did have. But of course he had to come in and say it was me just because +he was mad about having you see them Siwashes hollering around. And he +come and shook me where I was sittin', and oh, my, he knowed well the +lie he was acting. I bet I've got the marks on my neck now. See any red +marks?” Leander exhibited the back of his head, but the violence done +him had evidently been fleeting. “He'll be awful good to you, for he's +that scared--” + +Leander stood tremulously straight in silence, his lip sagging, as +Wild-Goose Jake called pleasantly from the other bank. “Come to supper, +you folks,” said he. “Why, Andy, I told you to bring them across, and +you've let them picket their horses. Was you expectin' Mrs. Clallam to +take your arm and ford six feet of water?” For some reason his voice +sounded kind as he spoke to his assistant. + +“Well, mother?” said Clallam. + +“If it was not for Nancy, John--” + +“I know, I know. Out on the shore here on this side would be a +pleasanter bedroom for you, but” (he looked up the valley) “I guess our +friend's plan is more sensible to-night.” + +So they decided to leave the wagon behind and cross to the cabin. The +horses put them with not much wetting to the other bank, where Jake, +most eager and friendly, hovered to meet his party, and when they were +safe ashore pervaded his premises in their behalf. + +“Turn them horses into the pasture, Andy,” said he, “and first feed 'em +a couple of quarts.” It may have been hearing himself say this, but +tone and voice dropped to the confidential and his sentences came with a +chuckle. “Quarts to the horses and quarts to the Siwashes and a skookum +pack of trouble all round, Mrs. Clallam! If I hedn't a-came to stop it a +while ago, why about all the spirits that's in stock jest now was bein' +traded off for some blamed ponies the bears hev let hobble on the range +unswallered ever since I settled here. A store on a trail like this +here, ye see, it hez to keep spirits, of course; and--well, well! here's +my room; you ladies'll excuse, and make yourselves at home as well as +you can.” + +It was of a surprising neatness, due all to him, they presently saw; the +log walls covered with a sort of bunting that was also stretched across +to make a ceiling below the shingles of the roof; fresh soap and towels, +china service, a clean floor and bed, on the wall a print of some white +and red village among elms, with a covered bridge and the water running +over an apron-dam just above; and a rich smell of whiskey everywhere. +“Fix up as comfortable as yu' can,” the host repeated, “and I'll see how +Mrs. Jake's tossin' the flapjacks. She's Injun, yu' know, and five years +of married life hadn't learned her to toss flapjacks. Now if I was you” + (he was lingering in the doorway) “I wouldn't shet that winder so quick. +It don't smell nice yet for ladies in here, and I'd hev liked to git the +time to do better for ye; but them Siwashes--well, of course, you folks +see how it is. Maybe it ain't always and only white men that patronizes +our goods. Uncle Sam is a long way off, and I don't say we'd ought to, +but when the cat's away, why the mice will, ye know--they most always +will.” + +There was a rattle of boards outside, at which he shut the door quickly, +and they heard him run. A light muttering came in at the window, and the +mother, peeping out, saw Andy fallen among a rubbish of crates and empty +cans, where he lay staring, while his two fists beat up and down like a +disordered toy. Wild-Goose Jake came, and having lifted him with great +tenderness, was laying him flat as Elizabeth Clallam hurried to his +help. + +“No, ma'am,” he sighed, “you can't do nothing, I guess.” + +“Just let me go over and get our medicines.” + +“Thank you, ma'am,” said Jake, and the pain on his face was miserable to +see; “there ain't no medicine. We're kind of used to this, Andy and me. +Maybe, if you wouldn't mind stayin' till he comes to--Why, a sick man +takes comfort at the sight of a lady.” + +When the fit had passed they helped him to his feet, and Jake led him +away. + +Mrs. Jake made her first appearance upon the guests sitting down to +their meal, when she waited on table, passing busily forth from the +kitchen with her dishes. She had but three or four English words, and +her best years were plainly behind her; but her cooking was good, +fried and boiled with sticks of her own chopping, and she served with +industry. Indeed, a squaw is one of the few species of the domestic wife +that survive today upon our continent. Andy seemed now to keep all +his dislike for her, and followed her with a scowling eye, while he +frequented Jake, drawing a chair to sit next him when he smoked by the +wall after supper, and sometimes watching him with a sort of clouded +affection upon his face. He did not talk, and the seizure had evidently +jarred his mind as well as his frame. When the squaw was about lighting +a lamp he brushed her arm in a childish way so that the match went out, +and set him laughing. She poured out a harangue in Chinook, showing the +dead match to Jake, who rose and gravely lighted the lamp himself, Andy +laughing more than ever. When Mrs. Clallam had taken Nancy with her +to bed, Jake walked John Clallam to the river-bank, and looking up and +down, spoke a little of his real mind. + +“I guess you see how it is with me. Anyway, I don't commonly hev use +for stranger-folks in this house. But that little girl of yourn started +cryin' about not havin' the pump along that she'd been used to seein' in +the yard at home. And I says to myself, 'Look a-here, Jake, I don't care +if they do ketch on to you and yer blamed whiskey business. They're not +the sort to tell on you.' Gee! but that about the pump got me! And I +says, 'Jake, you're goin' to give them the best you hev got.' Why, that +Big Bend desert and lonesome valley of the Columbia hez chilled my heart +in the days that are gone when I weren't used to things; and the little +girl hed came so fur! And I knowed how she was a-feelin'.” + +He stopped, and seemed to be turning matters over. + +“I'm much obliged to you,” said Clallam. + +“And your wife was jest beautiful about Andy. You've saw me wicked to +Andy. I am, and often, for I rile turruble quick, and God forgive me! +But when that boy gits at his meanness--yu've seen jest a touch of +it--there's scarcely livin' with him. It seems like he got reg'lar +inspired. Some days he'll lie--make up big lies to the fust man comes +in at the door. They ain't harmless, his lies ain't. Then he'll trick my +woman, that's real good to him; and I believe he'd lick whiskey up off +the dirt. And every drop is poison for him with his complaint. But I'd +ought to remember. You'd surely think I could remember, and forbear. +Most likely he made a big talk to you about that cabin.” + +John Clallam told him. + +“Well, that's all true, for onced. I did think he'd been up to stealin' +that whiskey gradual, 'stead of fishin', the times he was out all day. +And the salary I give him”--Jake laughed a little--“ain't enough to +justify a man's breaking the law. I did take his rifle away when he +tried to shoot my woman. I guess it was Siwashes bruck into that cabin.” + +“I'm pretty certain of it,” said Clallam. + +“You? What makes you?” + +John began the tale of the galloping dots, and Jake stopped walking to +listen the harder. “Yes,” he said; “that's bad. That's jest bad. They +hev carried a lot off to drink. That's the worst.” + +He had little to say after this, but talked under his tongue as they +went to the house, where he offered a bed to Clallam and Mart. They +would not turn him out, so he showed them over to a haystack, where they +crawled in and went to sleep. + +Most white men know when they have had enough whiskey. Most Indians +do not. This is a difference between the races of which government +has taken notice. Government says that “no ardent spirits shall be +introduced under any presence into the Indian country.” It also says +that the white man who attempts to break this law “shall be punished by +imprisonment for not more than two years and by a fine of not more than +three hundred dollars.” It further says that if any superintendent of +Indian affairs has reason to suspect a man, he may cause the “boats, +stores, packages, wagons, sleds, and places of deposit” of such person +to be searched, and if ardent spirits be found it shall be forfeit, +together with the boats and all other substances with it connected, one +half to the informer and the other half to the use of the United States. +The courts and all legal machines necessary for trial and punishment of +offenders are oiled and ready; two years is a long while in jail; three +hundred dollars and confiscation sounds heavy; altogether the penalty +looks severe on the printed page--and all the while there's no brisker +success in our far West than selling whiskey to Indians. Very few people +know what the whiskey is made of, and the Indian does not care. He +drinks till he drops senseless. If he has killed nobody and nobody him +during the process, it is a good thing, for then the matter ends with +his getting sober and going home to his tent till such happy time when +he can put his hand on some further possession to trade away. The white +offender is caught now and then; but Okanagon County lies pretty snug +from the arm of the law. It's against Canada to the north, and the empty +county of Stevens to the east; south of it rushes the Columbia, with +the naked horrible Big Bend beyond, and to its west rises a domain +of unfooted mountains. There is law up in the top of it at Conconully +sometimes, but not much even to-day, for that is still a new country, +where flow the Methow, the Ashinola, and the Similikameen. + +Consequently a cabin like Wild-Goose Jake's was a holiday place. The +blanketed denizens of the reservation crossed to it, and the citizens +who had neighboring cabins along the trail repaired here to spend what +money they had. As Mrs. Clallam lay in her bed she heard customers +arrive. Two or three loud voices spoke in English, and several Indians +and squaws seemed to be with the party, bantering in Chinook. The +visitors were in too strong force for Jake's word about coming some +other night to be of any avail. + +“Open your cellar and quit your talk,” Elizabeth heard, and next she +heard some door that stuck, pulled open with a shriek of the warped +timber. Next they were gambling, and made not much noise over it at +first; but the Indians in due time began to lose to the soberer whites, +becoming quarrelsome, and raising a clumsy disturbance, though it was +plain the whites had their own way and were feared. The voices rose, and +soon there was no moment that several were not shouting curses at once, +till Mrs. Clallam stopped her ears. She was still for a time, hearing +only in a muffled way, when all at once the smell of drink and tobacco, +that had sifted only a little through the cracks, grew heavy in the +room, and she felt Nancy shrink close to her side. + +“Mother, mother,” the child whispered, “what's that?” + +It had gone beyond card-playing with the company in the saloon; they +seemed now to be having a savage horse-play, those on their feet +tramping in their scuffles upon others on the floor, who bellowed +incoherently. Elizabeth Clallam took Nancy in her arms and told her that +nobody would come where they were. + +But the child was shaking. “Yes, they will,” she whispered, in terror. +“They are!” And she began a tearless sobbing, holding her mother with +her whole strength. + +A little sound came close by the bed, and Elizabeth's senses stopped so +that for half a minute she could not stir. She stayed rigid beneath the +quilt, and Nancy clung to her. Something was moving over the floor. It +came quite near, but turned, and its slight rustle crawled away towards +the window. + +“Who is that?” demanded Mrs. Clallam, sitting up. + +There was no answer, but the slow creeping continued, always close along +the floor, like the folds of stuff rubbing, and hands feeling their way +in short slides against the boards. She had no way to find where her +husband was sleeping, and while she thought of this and whether or not +to rush out at the door, the table was gently shaken, there was a drawer +opened, and some object fell. + +“Only a thief,” she said to herself, and in a sort of sharp joy cried +out her question again. + +The singular broken voice of a woman answered, seemingly in fear. +“Match-es,” it said; and “Match-es” said a second voice, pronouncing +with difficulty, like the first. She knew it was some of the squaws, and +sprang from the bed, asking what they were doing there. “Match-es,” + they murmured; and when she had struck a light she saw how the two were +cringing, their blankets huddled round them. Their motionless black eyes +looked up at her from the floor where they lay sprawled, making no offer +to get up. It was clear to her from the pleading fear in the one word +they answered to whatever she said, that they had come here to hide from +the fury of the next room; and as she stood listening to this she would +have let them remain, but their escape had been noticed. A man burst +into the room, and at sight of her and Nancy stopped, and was blundering +excuses, when Jake caught his arm and had dragged him almost out, but he +saw the two on the floor; at this, getting himself free, he half swept +the crouching figures with his boot as they fled out of the room, and +the door was swung shut. Mrs. Clallam heard his violent words to the +squaws for daring to disturb the strangers, and there followed the heavy +lashing of a quirt, with screams and lamenting. No trouble came from the +Indian husbands, for they were stupefied on the ground, and when their +intelligences quickened enough for them to move, the punishment was +long over and no one in the house awake but Elizabeth and Nancy, seated +together in their bed, watching for the day. Mother and daughter heard +them rise to go out one by one, and the hoof-beats of their horses grew +distant up and down the river. As the rustling trees lighted and turned +transparent in the rising sun, Jake roused those that remained and got +them away. Later he knocked at the door. + +“I hev a little raft fixed this morning,” said he, “and I guess we can +swim the wagon over here.” + +“Whatever's quickest to take us from this place,” Elizabeth answered. + +“Breakfast'll be ready, ma'am, whenever you say.” + +“I am ready now. I shall want to start ferrying our things--Where's Mr. +Clallam? Tell him to come here.” + +“I will, ma'am. I'm sorry--” + +“Tell Mr. Clallam to come here, please.” + +John had slept sound in his haystack, and heard nothing. “Well,” he +said, after comforting his wife and Nancy, “you were better off in the +room, anyway. I'd not blame him so, Liza. How was he going to help it?” + +But Elizabeth was a woman, and just now saw one thing alone: if selling +whiskey led to such things in this country, the man who sold it was much +worse than any mere law-breaker. John Clallam, being now a long time +married, made no argument. He was looking absently at the open drawer of +a table. “That's queer,” he said, and picked up a tintype. + +She had no curiosity for anything in that room, and he laid it in the +drawer again, his thoughts being taken up with the next step of their +journey, and what might be coming to them all. + +During breakfast Jake was humble about the fright the ladies had +received in his house, explaining how he thought he had acted for the +best; at which Clallam and Mart said that in a rough country folks must +look for rough doings, and get along as well as they can; but Elizabeth +said nothing. The little raft took all but Nancy over the river to the +wagon, where they set about dividing their belongings in loads that +could be floated back, one at a time, and Jake returned to repair some +of the disorder that remained from the night at the cabin. John and Mart +poled the first cargo across, and while they were on the other side, +Elizabeth looked out of the wagon, where she was working alone, and saw +five Indian riders coming down the valley. The dust hung in the air they +had rushed through, and they swung apart and closed again as she had +seen before; so she looked for a rifle; but the firearms had gone over +the Okanagon with the first load. She got down and stood at the front +wheel of the wagon, confronting the riders when they pulled up their +horses. One climbed unsteadily from his saddle and swayed towards her. + +“Drink!” said he, half friendly, and held out a bottle. + +Elizabeth shook her head. + +“Drink,” he grunted again, pushing the bottle at her. “Piah-chuck! +Skookurn!” He had a slugglish animal grin, and when she drew back, +tipped the bottle into his mouth, and directly choked, so that his +friends on their horses laughed loud as he stood coughing. “Heap good,” + he remarked, looking at Elizabeth, who watched his eyes swim with the +plot of the drink. “Where you come back?” he inquired, touching the +wagon. “You cross Okanagon? Me cross you; cross horses; cross all. Heap +cheap. What yes?” + +The others nodded. “Heap cheap,” they said. + +“We don't want you,” said Elizabeth. + +“No cross? Maybe he going cross you? What yes?” + +Again Elizabeth nodded. + +“Maybe he Jake?” pursued the Indian. + +“Yes, he is. We don't want you.” + +“We cross you all same. He not.” + +The Indian spoke loud and thick, and Elizabeth looked over the river +where her husband was running with a rifle, and Jake behind him, holding +a warning hand on his arm. Jake called across to the Indians, who +listened sullenly, but got on their horses and went up the river. + +“Now,” said Jake to Clallam, “they ain't gone. Get your wife over here +so she kin set in my room till I see what kin be done.” + +John left him at once, and crossed on the raft. His wife was stepping on +it, when the noise and flight of riders descended along the other bank, +where Jake was waiting. They went in a circle, with hoarse shouts, round +the cabin as Mart with Nancy came from the pasture. The boy no sooner +saw them than he caught his sister up and carried her quickly away among +the corrals and sheds, where the two went out of sight. + +“You stay here, Liza,” her husband said. “I'll go back over.” + +But Mrs. Clallam laughed. + +“Get ashore,” he cried to her. “Quick!” + +“Where you go, I go, John.” + +“What good, what good, in the name--” + +“Then I'll get myself over,” said she. And he seized her as she would +have jumped into the stream. + +While they crossed, the Indians had tied their horses and rambled into +the cabin. Jake came from it to stop the Clallams. + +“They're after your contract,” said he, quietly. “They say they're going +to have the job of takin' the balance of your stuff that's left acrosst +the Okanagon over to this side.” + +“What did you say?” asked Mrs. Clallam. + +“I set 'em up drinks to gain time.” + +“Do you want me there?” said Clallam. + +“Begosh, no! That would mix things worse.” + +“Can't you make them go away?” Elizabeth inquired. + +“Me and them, ye see, ma'am, we hev a sort of bargain they're to git +certain ferryin'. I can't make 'em savvy how I took charge of you. If +you want them--” He paused. + +“We want them!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “If you're joking, it's a poor +joke.” + +“It ain't no joke at all, ma'am.” Jake's face grew brooding. “Of course +folks kin say who they'll be ferried by. And you may believe I'd rather +do it. I didn't look for jest this complication; but maybe I kin steer +through; and it's myself I've got to thank. Of course, if them Siwashes +did git your job, they'd sober up gittin' ready. And--” + +The emigrants waited, but he did not go on with what was in his mind. +“It's all right,” said he, in a brisk tone. “Whatever's a-comin's +a-comin'.” He turned abruptly towards the door. “Keep yerselves away +jest now,” he added, and went inside. + +The parents sought their children, finding Mart had concealed Nancy in +the haystack. They put Mrs. Clallam also in a protected place, as a +loud altercation seemed to be rising at the cabin; this grew as they +listened, and Jake's squaw came running to hide herself. She could tell +them nothing, nor make them understand more than they knew; but she +touched John's rifle, signing to know if it were loaded, and was +greatly relieved when he showed her the magazine full of cartridges. +The quarrelling had fallen silent, but rose in a new gust of fierceness, +sounding as if in the open air and coming their way. No Indian appeared, +however, and the noise passed to the river, where the emigrants soon +could hear wood being split in pieces. + +John risked a survey. “It's the raft,” he said. “They're smashing it. +Now they're going back. Stay with the children, Liza.” + +“You're never going to that cabin?” she said. + +“He's in a scrape, mother.” + +John started away, heedless of his wife's despair. At his coming the +Indians shouted and surrounded him, while he heard Jake say, “Drop your +gun and drink with them.” + +“Drink!” said Andy, laughing with the same screech he had made at the +match going out. “We re all going to Canaan, Connecticut.” + +Each Indian held a tin cup, and at the instant these were emptied +they were thrust towards Jake, who filled them again, going and coming +through a door that led a step or two down into a dark place which was +half underground. Once he was not quick, or was imagined to be refusing, +for an Indian raised his cup and drunkenly dashed it on Jake's head. +Jake laughed good-humoredly, and filled the cup. + +“It's our one chance,” said he to John as the Indian, propping himself +by a hand on the wall, offered the whiskey to Clallam. + +“We cross you Okanagon,” he said. “What yes?” + +“Maybe you say no?” said another, pressing the emigrant to the wall. + +A third interfered, saying something in their language, at which the +other two disagreed. They talked a moment with threatening rage till +suddenly all drew pistols. At this the two remaining stumbled among the +group, and a shot went into the roof. Jake was there in one step with +a keg, that they no sooner saw than they fell upon it, and the liquor +jetted out as they clinched, wrestling over the room till one lay on +his back with his mouth at the open bung. It was wrenched from him, and +directly there was not a drop more in it. They tilted it, and when none +ran out, flung the keg out of doors and crowded to the door of the dark +place, where Jake barred the way. “Don't take to that yet!” he said to +Clallam, for John was lifting his rifle. + +“Piah-chuck!” yelled the Indians, scarcely able to stand. All other +thought had left them, and a new thought came to Jake. He reached for a +fresh keg, while they held their tin cups in the left hand and pistols +in the right, pushing so it was a slow matter to get the keg opened. +They were fast nearing the sodden stage, and one sank on the floor. Jake +glanced in at the door behind him, and filled the cups once again. While +all were drinking he went in the store-room and set more liquor open, +beckoning them to come as they looked up from the rims to which their +lips had been glued. They moved round behind the table, grasping it to +keep on their feet, with the one on the floor crawling among the legs +of the rest. When they were all inside, Jake leaped out and locked the +door. + +“They kin sleep now,” said he. “Gunpowder won't be needed. Keep wide +away from in front.” + +There was a minute of stillness within, and then a groveling noise and +struggle. A couple of bullets came harmless through the door. Those +inside fought together as well as they could, while those outside +listened as it grew less, the bodies falling stupefied without further +sound of rising. One or two, still active, began striking at the boards +with what heavy thing they could find, until suddenly the blade of an +axe crashed through. + +“Keep away!” cried Jake. But Andy had leaped insanely in front of the +door, and fell dead with a bullet through him. With a terrible scream, +Jake flung himself at the place, and poured six shots through the panel; +then, as Clallam caught him, wrenched at the lock, and they saw inside. +Whiskey and blood dripped together, and no one was moving there. It +was liquor with some, and death with others, and all of it lay upon the +guilty soul of Jake. + +“You deserve killing yourself,” said Clallam. + +“That's been attended to,” replied Jake, and he reeled, for during his +fire some Indian had shot once more. + +Clallam supported him to the room where his wife and Nancy had passed +the night, and laid him on the bed. “I'll get Mrs. Clallam,” said he. + +“If she'll be willin' to see me,” said the wounded man, humbly. + +She came, dazed beyond feeling any horror, or even any joy, and she did +what she could. + +“It was seein' 'em hit Andy,” said Jake. “Is Andy gone? Yes, I kin tell +he's gone from your face.” He shut his eyes, and lay still so long a +time that they thought he might be dying now; but he moved at length, +and looked slowly round the wall till he saw the print of the village +among the elms and the covered bridge. His hand lifted to show them +this. “That's the road,” said he. “Andy and me used to go fishin' +acrosst that bridge. Did you ever see the Housatonic River? I've fished +a lot there. Cornwall, Connecticut. The hills are pretty there. Then +Andy got worse. You look in that drawer.” John remembered, and when he +got out the tintype, Jake stretched for it eagerly. “His mother and him, +age ten,” he explained to Elizabeth, and held it for her to see, then +studied the faces in silence. “You kin tell it's Andy, can't yu'?” She +told him yes. “That was before we knowed he weren't--weren't goin' to +grow up like the other boys he played with. So after a while, when she +was gone, I got ashamed seein' Andy's friends makin' their way when +he couldn't seem to, and so I took him away where nobody hed ever been +acquainted with us. I was layin' money by to get him the best doctor in +Europe. I 'ain't been a good man.” + +A faintness mastered him, and Elizabeth would have put the picture +on the table, but his hand closed round it. They let him lie so, and +Elizabeth sat there, while John, with Mart, kept Nancy away till the +horror in the outer room was made invisible. They came and went quietly, +and Jake seemed in a deepening torpor, once only rousing suddenly to +call his son's name, and then, upon looking from one to the other, he +recollected, and his eyes closed again. His mind wandered, but very +little, for torpor seemed to be overcoming him. The squaw had stolen in, +and sat cowering and useless. Towards sundown John's heart sickened at +the sound of more horsemen; but it was only two white men, a sheriff and +his deputy. + +“Go easy,” said John. “He's not going to resist.” + +“What's up here, anyway? Who are you?” + +Clallam explained, and was evidently not so much as half believed. + +“If there are Indians killed,” said the sheriff, “there's still another +matter for the law to settle with him. We're sent to search for whiskey. +The county's about tired of him.” + +“You'll find him pretty sick,” said John. + +“People I find always are pretty sick,” said the sheriff, and pushed +his way in, stopping at sight of Mrs. Clallam and the figure on the bed. +“I'm arresting that man, madam,” he said, with a shade of apology. “The +county court wants him.” + +Jake sat up and knew the sheriff. “You're a little late, Proctor,” said +he. “The Supreme Court's a-goin' to call my case.” Then he fell back, +for his case had been called. + + + + +Hank's Woman + + +I + +Many fish were still in the pool; and though luck seemed to have left +me, still I stood at the end of the point, casting and casting my vain +line, while the Virginian lay and watched. Noonday's extreme brightness +had left the river and the plain in cooling shadow, but spread and +glowed over the yet undimmed mountains. Westward, the Tetons lifted +their peaks pale and keen as steel through the high, radiant air. Deep +down between the blue gashes of their canons the sun sank long shafts of +light, and the glazed laps of their snow-fields shone separate and white +upon their lofty vastness, like handkerchiefs laid out to dry. Opposite, +above the valley, rose that other range, the Continental Divide, not +sharp, but long and ample. It was bare in some high places, and below +these it stretched everywhere, high and low, in brown and yellow parks, +or in purple miles of pine a world of serene undulations, a great sweet +country of silence. + +A passing band of antelope stood herded suddenly together at sight of +us; then a little breeze blew for a moment from us to them, and +they drifted like phantoms away, and were lost in the levels of the +sage-brush. + +“If humans could do like that,” said the Virginian, watching them go. + +“Run, you mean?” said I. + +“Tell a foe by the smell of him,” explained the cow-puncher; “at fifty +yards--or a mile.” + +“Yes,” I said; “men would be hard to catch.” + +“A woman needs it most,” he murmured. He lay down again in his lounging +sprawl, with his grave eyes intently fixed upon my fly-casting. + +The gradual day mounted up the hills farther from the floor of earth. +Warm airs eddied in its wake slowly, stirring the scents of the plain +together. I looked at the Southerner; and there was no guessing what +his thoughts might be at work upon behind that drowsy glance. Then for a +moment a trout rose, but only to look and whip down again into the pool +that wedged its calm into the riffle from below. + +“Second thoughts,” mused the Virginian; and as the trout came no more, +“Second thoughts,” he repeated; “and even a fish will have them sooner +than folks has them in this mighty hasty country.” And he rolled over +into a new position of ease. + +At whom or what was he aiming these shafts of truth? Or did he moralize +merely because health and the weather had steeped him in that serenity +which lifts us among the spheres? Well, sometimes he went on from these +beginnings and told me wonderful things. + +“I reckon,” said he, presently, “that knowing when to change your mind +would be pretty near knowledge enough for plain people.” + +Since my acquaintance with him--this was the second summer of it--I had +come to understand him enough to know that he was unfathomable. Still, +for a moment it crossed my thoughts that perhaps now he was discoursing +about himself. He had allowed a jealous foreman to fall out with him at +Sunk Creek ranch in the spring, during Judge Henry's absence. The man, +having a brief authority, parted with him. The Southerner had chosen +that this should be the means of ultimately getting the foreman +dismissed and himself recalled. It was strategic. As he put it to me: +“When I am gone, it will be right easy for the Judge to see which of +us two he wants. And I'll not have done any talking.” All of which duly +befell in the autumn as he had planned: the foreman was sent off, +his assistant promoted, and the Virginian again hired. But this was +meanwhile. He was indulging himself in a several months' drifting, and +while thus drifting he had written to me. That is how we two came to be +on our way from the railroad to hunt the elk and the mountain-sheep, +and were pausing to fish where Buffalo Fork joins its waters with Snake +River. In those days the antelope still ran there in hundreds, the +Yellowstone Park was a new thing, and mankind lived very far away. Since +meeting me with the horses in Idaho the Virginian had been silent, even +for him. So now I stood casting my fly, and trusting that he was not +troubled with second thoughts over his strategy. + +“Have yu' studded much about marriage?” he now inquired. His serious +eyes met mine as he lay stretched along the ground. + +“Not much,” I said; “not very much.” + +“Let's swim,” he said. “They have changed their minds.” + +Forthwith we shook off our boots and dropped our few clothes, and +heedless of what fish we might now drive away, we went into the cool, +slow, deep breadth of backwater which the bend makes just there. As +he came up near me, shaking his head of black hair, the cowpuncher was +smiling a little. + +“Not that any number of baths,” he remarked, “would conceal a man's +objectionableness from an antelope--not even a she-one.” + +Then he went under water, and came up again a long way off. + +We dried before the fire, without haste. To need no clothes is better +than purple and fine linen. Then he tossed the flap-jacks, and I served +the trout, and after this we lay on our backs upon a buffalo-hide to +smoke and watch the Tetons grow more solemn, as the large stars opened +out over the sky. + +“I don't care if I never go home,” said I. + +The Virginian nodded. “It gives all the peace o' being asleep with all +the pleasure o' feeling the widest kind of awake,” said he. “Yu' might +say the whole year's strength flows hearty in every waggle of your +thumb.” We lay still for a while. “How many things surprise yu' any +more?” he next asked. + +I began considering; but his silence had at length worked round to +speech. + +“Inventions, of course,” said he, “these hyeh telephones an' truck yu' +see so much about in the papers--but I ain't speaking o' such things +of the brain. It is just the common things I mean. The things that a +livin', noticin' man is liable to see and maybe sample for himself. How +many o' them kind can surprise yu' still?” + +I still considered. + +“Most everything surprised me onced,” the cow-puncher continued, in his +gentle Southern voice. “I must have been a mighty green boy. Till I +was fourteen or fifteen I expect I was astonished by ten o'clock every +morning. But a man begins to ketch on to folks and things after a while. +I don't consideh that when--that afteh a man is, say twenty-five, it is +creditable he should get astonished too easy. And so yu've not examined +yourself that-away?” + +I had not. + +“Well, there's two things anyway--I know them for sure--that I expect +will always get me--don't care if I live to thirty-five, or forty-five, +or eighty. And one's the ways lightning can strike.” He paused. Then +he got up and kicked the fire, and stood by it, staring at me. “And the +other is the people that other people will marry.” + +He stopped again; and I said nothing. + +“The people that other people will marry,” he repeated. “That will +surprise me till I die.” + +“If my sympathy--” I began. + +But the brief sound that he gave was answer enough, and more than enough +cure for my levity. + +“No,” said he, reflectively; “not any such thing as a fam'ly for me, +yet. Never, it may be. Not till I can't help it. And that woman has +not come along so far. But I have been sorry for a woman lately. I keep +thinking what she will do. For she will have to do something. Do yu' +know Austrians? Are they quick in their feelings, like I-talians? Or +are they apt to be sluggish, same as Norwegians and them other +Dutch-speakin' races?” + +I told him what little I knew about Austrians. + +“This woman is the first I have ever saw of 'em,” he continued. “Of +course men will stampede into marriage in this hyeh Western country, +where a woman is a scanty thing. It ain't what Hank has done that +surprises me. And it is not on him that the sorrow will fall. For she is +good. She is very good. Do yu' remember little black Hank? From Texas he +claims he is. He was working on the main ditch over at Sunk Creek last +summer when that Em'ly hen was around. Well, seh, yu' would not have +pleasured in his company. And this year Hank is placer-mining on Galena +Creek, where we'll likely go for sheep. There's Honey Wiggin and a young +fello' named Lin McLean, and some others along with the outfit. But +Hank's woman will not look at any of them, though the McLean boy is a +likely hand. I have seen that; for I have done a right smart o' business +that-a-way myself, here and there. She will mend their clothes for them, +and she will cook lunches for them any time o' day, and her conduct gave +them hopes at the start. But I reckon Austrians have good religion.” + +“No better than Americans,” said I. + +But the Virginian shook his head. “Better'n what I've saw any Americans +have. Of course I am not judging a whole nation by one citizen, and +especially her a woman. And of course in them big Austrian towns the +folks has shook their virtuous sayin's loose from their daily doin's, +same as we have. I expect selling yourself brings the quickest returns +to man or woman all the world over. But I am speakin' not of towns, but +of the back country, where folks don't just merely arrive on the cyars, +but come into the world the natural way, and grow up slow. Onced a week +anyway they see the bunch of old grave-stones that marks their fam'ly. +Their blood and name are knowed about in the neighborhood, and it's not +often one of such will sell themselves. But their religion ain't to them +like this woman's. They can be rip-snortin' or'tn'ary in ways. Now she +is getting naught but hindrance and temptation and meanness from her +husband and every livin' thing around her--yet she keeps right along, +nor does she mostly bear any signs in her face. She has cert'nly come +from where they are used to believing in God and a hereafter mighty +hard, and all day long. She has got one o' them crucifixes, and Hank +can't make her quit prayin' to it. But what is she going to do?” + +“He will probably leave her,” I said. + +“Yes,” said the Virginian--“leave her. Alone; her money all spent; +knowin' maybe twenty words of English; and thousands of miles away +from everything she can understand. For our words and ways is all alike +strange to her.” + +“Then why did he want such a person?” I exclaimed. + +There was surprise in the grave glance which the cow-puncher gave me. +“Why, any man would,” he answered. “I wanted her myself, till I found +she was good.” + +I looked at this son of the wilderness, standing thoughtful and splendid +by the fire, and unconscious of his own religion that had unexpectedly +shone forth in these last words. But I said nothing; for words too +intimate, especially words of esteem, put him invariably to silence. + +“I had forgot to mention her looks to yu'.” he pursued, simply. “She is +fit for a man.” He stopped again. + +“Then there was her wages that Hank saw paid to her,” he resumed. “And +so marriage was but a little thing to Hank--agaynst such a heap of +advantages. As for her idea in takin' such as him--maybe it was that he +was small and she was big; tall and big. Or maybe it was just his white +teeth. Them ridiculous reasons will bring a woman to a man, haven't +yu' noticed? But maybe it was just her sorrowful, helpless state, left +stranded as she was, and him keeping himself near her and sober for a +week. + +“I had been seein' this hyeh Yellowstone Park, takin' in its geysers, +and this and that, for my enjoyment; and when I found what they claimed +about its strange sights to be pretty near so, I landed up at Galena +Creek to watch the boys prospectin'. Honey Wiggin, yu' know, and McLean, +and the rest. And so they got me to go down with Hank to Gardner for +flour and sugar and truck, which we had to wait for. We lay around the +Mammoth Springs and Gardner for three days, playin' cyards with friends. +And I got plumb interested in them tourists. For I had partly forgot +about Eastern people. And hyeh they came fresh every day to remind a man +of the great size of his country. Most always they would talk to yu' if +yu' gave 'em the chance; and I did. I have come mighty nigh regrettin' +that I did not keep a tally of the questions them folks asked me. And +as they seemed genu-winely anxious to believe anything at all, and the +worser the thing the believinger they'd grow, why I--well, there's times +when I have got to lie to keep in good health. + +“So I fooled and I fooled. And one noon I was on the front poach of the +big hotel they have opened at the Mammoth Springs for tourists, and the +hotel kid, bein' on the watchout, he sees the dust comin' up the hill, +and he yells out, 'Stage!' + +“Yu've not saw that hotel yet, seh? Well, when the kid says 'Stage,' the +consequences is most sudden. About as conspicuous, yu' may say, as when +Old Faithful Geyser lets loose. Yu' see, one batch o' tourists pulls +out right after breakfast for Norris Basin, leavin' things empty and +yawnin'. By noon the whole hotel outfit has been slumberin' in its +chairs steady for three hours. Maybe yu' might hear a fly buzz, but +maybe not. Everything's liable to be restin', barrin' the kid. He's +a-watchin' out. Then he sees the dust, and he says 'Stage!' and it +touches the folks off like a hot pokeh. The Syndicate manager he lopes +to a lookin'glass, and then organizes himself behind the book; and the +young photograph chap bounces out o' his private door like one o' them +cuckoo clocks; and the fossil man claws his specimens and curiosities +into shape, and the porters line up same as parade, and away goes the +piano and fiddles up-stairs. It is mighty conspicuous. So Hank he come +rennin' out from somewheres too, and the stage drives up. + +“Then out gets a tall woman, and I noticed her yello' hair. She was +kind o' dumb-eyed, yet fine to see. I reckon Hank noticed her too, right +away. And right away her trouble begins. For she was a lady's maid, and +her lady was out of the stage and roundin' her up quick. And it's +'Where have you put the keys, Willomene?' The lady was rich and stinkin' +lookin', and had come from New Yawk in her husband's private cyar. + +“Well, Willomene fussed around in her pockets, and them keys was not +there. So she started explaining in tanglefoot English to her lady how +her lady must have took them from her before leavin' the cyar. But the +lady seemed to relish hustlin' herself into a rage. She got tolerable +conspicuous, too. And after a heap o' words, 'You are discharged,' she +says; and off she struts. Soon her husband came out to Willomene, still +standin' like statuary, and he pays her a good sum of cash, and he goes +away, and she keeps a standing yet for a spell. Then all of a sudden +she says something I reckon was 'O, Jesus,' and sits down and starts a +cryin'. + +“I would like to have given her comfort. But we all stood around on the +hotel poach, and the right thing would not come into my haid. Then the +baggage-wagon came in from Cinnabar, and they had picked the keys up on +the road between Cinnabar and Gardner. So the lady and her toilet was +rescued, but that did no good to Willomene. They stood her trunk down +along with the rest--a brass-nailed little old concern--and there was +Willomene out of a job and afoot a long, long ways from her own range; +and so she kept sitting, and onced in a while she'd cry some more. We +got her a room in the cheap hotel where the Park drivers sleeps when +they're in at the Springs, and she acted grateful like, thanking the +boys in her tanglefoot English. Next mawnin' her folks druv off in a +private team to Norris Basin, and she seemed dazed. For I talked with +her then, and questioned her as to her wishes, but she could not say +what she wished, nor if it was East or West she would go; and I reckon +she was too stricken to have wishes. + +“Our stuff for Galena Creek delayed on the railroad, and I got to know +her, and then I quit givin' Hank cause for jealousy. I kept myself with +the boys, and I played more cyards, while Hank he sca'cely played at +all. One night I came on them--Hank and Willomene--walkin' among the +pines where the road goes down the hill. Yu' should have saw that pair +o' lovers. Her big shape was plain and kind o' steadfast in the moon, +and alongside of her little black Hank! And there it was. Of course it +ain't nothing to be surprised at that a mean and triflin' man tries to +seem what he is not when he wants to please a good woman. But why does +she get fooled, when it's so plain to other folks that are not givin' +it any special thought? All the rest of the men and women at the Mammoth +understood Hank. They knowed he was a worthless proposition. And I +cert'nly relied on his gettin' back to his whiskey and openin' her eyes +that way. But he did not. I met them next evening again by the Liberty +Cap. Supposin' I'd been her brother or her mother, what use was it me +warning her? Brothers and mothers don't get believed. + +“The railroad brought the stuff for Galena Creek, and Hank would +not look at it on account of his courtin'. I took it alone myself by +Yancey's and the second bridge and Miller Creek to the camp, nor +I didn't tell Willomene good-bye, for I had got disgusted at her +blindness.” + +The Virginian shifted his position, and jerked his overalls to a more +comfortable fit. Then he continued: + +“They was married the Tuesday after at Livingston, and Hank must +have been pow'ful pleased at himself. For he gave Willomene a wedding +present, with the balance of his cash, spending his last nickel on +buying her a red-tailed parrot they had for sale at the First National +Bank. The son-of-a-gun hollad so freely at the bank, the president +awde'd the cashier to get shed of the out-ragious bird, or he would +wring its neck. + +“So Hank and Willomene stayed a week up in Livingston on her money, and +then he fetched her back to Gardner, and bought their grub, and bride +and groom came up to the camp we had on Galena Creek. + +“She had never slep' out before. She had never been on a hawss, neither. +And she mighty near rolled off down into Pitchstone Canyon, comin' up by +the cut-off trail. Why, seh, I would not willingly take you through that +place, except yu' promised me yu' would lead your hawss when I said +to. But Hank takes the woman he had married, and he takes heavy-loaded +pack-hawsses. 'Tis the first time such a thing has been known of in the +country. Yu' remember them big tall grass-topped mountains over in the +Hoodoo country, and how they descends slam down through the cross-timber +that yu' can't scatcely work through afoot, till they pitches over into +lots an' lots o' little canyons, with maybe two inches of water runnin' +in the bottom? All that is East Fork water, and over the divide is +Clark's Fork, or Stinkin' Water, if yu' take the country yondeh to the +southeast. But any place yu' go is them undesirable steep slopes, and +the cut-off trail takes along about the worst in the business. + +“Well, Hank he got his outfit over it somehow, and, gentlemen, hush! +but yu'd ought t've seen him and that poor girl pull into our camp. Yu'd +cert'nly never have conjectured them two was a weddin' journey. He was +leadin', but skewed around in his saddle to jaw back at Willomene for +riding so ignorant. Suppose it was a thing she was responsible for, yu'd +not have talked to her that-a-way even in private; and hyeh was the +camp a-lookin', and a-listenin', and some of us ashamed. She was setting +straddleways like a mountain, and between him and her went the three +packanimals, plumb shiverin' played out, and the flour--they had two +hundred pounds--tilted over hellwards, with the red-tailed parrot +shoutin' landslides in his cage tied on top o' the leanin' sacks. + +“It was that mean to see, that shameless and unkind, that even a +thoughtless kid like the McLean boy felt offended, and favorable to some +sort of remonstrance. 'The son-of-a--!' he said to me. 'The son-of-a--! +If he don't stop, let's stop him.' And I reckon we might have. + +“But Hank he quit. 'Twas plain to see he'd got a genu-wine scare comin' +through Pitchstone Canyon, and it turned him sour, so he'd hardly talk +to us, but just mumbled 'How!' kind o' gruff, when the boys come up to +congratulate him as to his marriage. + +“But Willomene, she says when she saw me, 'Oh, I am so glad!' and we +shook hands right friendly. And I wished I'd told her good-bye that +day at the Mammoth. For she bore no spite, and maybe I had forgot her +feelings in thinkin' of my own. I had talked to her down at the +Mammoth at first, yu' know, and she said a word about old friends. +Our friendship was three weeks old that day, but I expect her new +experiences looked like years to her. And she told me how near she come +to gettin' killed. + +“Yu' ain't ever been over that trail, seh? Yu' cert'nly must see +Pitchstone Canyon. But we'll not go there with packs. And we will get +off our hawsses a good ways back. For many animals feels that there's +something the matter with that place, and they act very strange about +it. + +“The Grand Canyon is grand, and makes yu' feel good to look at it, and +a geyser is grand and all right, too. But this hyeh Pitchstone hole, +if Willomene had went down into that--well, I'll tell yu', that you may +judge. + +“She seen the trail a-drawin' nearer and nearer the aidge, between the +timber and the jumpin'-off place, and she seen how them little loose +stones and the crumble stuff would slide and slide away under the +hawss's feet. She could hear the stuff rattlin' continually from his +steps, and when she turned her haid to look, she seen it goin' down +close beside her, but into what it went she could not see. Only, there +was a queer steam would come up now and agayn, and her hawss trembled. +So she tried to get off and walk without sayin' nothin' to Hank. He kep' +on ahaid, and her hawss she had pulled up started to follo' as she was +half off him, and that gave her a tumble, but there was an old crooked +dead tree. It growed right out o' the aidge. There she hung. + +“Down below is a little green water tricklin', green as the stuff that +gets on brass, and tricklin' along over soft cream-colored formation, +like pie. And it ain't so far to fall but what a man might not be +too much hurt for crawlin' out. But there ain't no crawlin' out o' +Pitchstone Canyon, they say. Down in there is caves that yu' cannot see. +'Tis them that coughs up the stream now and agayn. With the wind yu' +can smell 'em a mile away, and in the night I have been layin' quiet and +heard 'em. Not that it's a big noise, even when a man is close up. +It's a fluffy kind of a sigh. But it sounds as if some awful thing +was a-makin' it deep down in the guts of the world. They claim there's +poison air comes out o' the caves and lays low along the water. They +claim if a bear or an elk strays in from below, and the caves sets up +their coughin', which they don't regular every day, the animals die. I +have seen it come in two seconds. And when it comes that-a-way risin' +upon yu' with that fluffy kind of a sigh, yu' feel mighty lonesome, seh. + +“So Hank he happened to look back and see Willomene hangin' at the aidge +o' them black rocks. And his scare made him mad. And his mad stayed +with him till they come into camp. She looked around, and when she seen +Hank's tent that him and her was to sleep in she showed surprise. And he +showed surprise when he see the bread she cooked. + +“'What kind of a Dutch woman are yu',' says he, strainin' for a joke, +'if yu' can't use a Dutch-oven?' + +“'You say to me you have a house to live in,' says Willomene. 'Where is +that house?' + +“'I did not figure on gettin' a woman when I left camp,' says Hank, +grinnin', but not pleasant, 'or I'd have hurried up with the shack I'm a +buildin'.' + +“He was buildin' one. When I left Galena Creek and come away from that +country to meet you, the house was finished enough for the couple to +move in. I hefted her brass-nailed trunk up the hill from their tent +myself, and I watched her take out her crucifix. But she would not let +me help her with that. She'd not let me touch it. She'd fixed it up +agaynst the wall her own self her own way. But she accepted some flowers +I picked, and set them in a can front of the crucifix. Then Hank he come +in, and seein', says to me, 'Are you one of the kind that squats before +them silly dolls?' 'I would tell yu', I answered him; 'but it would not +inter-est yu'.' And I cleared out, and left him and Willomene to begin +their housekeepin'. + +“Already they had quit havin' much to say to each other down in their +tent. The only steady talkin' done in that house was done by the parrot. +I've never saw any go ahaid of that bird. I have told yu' about Hank, +and how when he'd come home and see her prayin' to that crucifix he'd +always get riled up. He would mention it freely to the boys. Not that +she neglected him, yu' know. She done her part, workin' mighty hard, for +she was a willin' woman. But he could not make her quit her religion; +and Willomene she had got to bein' very silent before I come away. She +used to talk to me some at first, but she dropped it. I don't know +why. I expect maybe it was hard for her to have us that close in camp, +witnessin' her troubles every day, and she a foreigner. I reckon if she +got any comfort, it would be when we was off prospectin' or huntin', and +she could shut the cabin door and be alone.” + +The Virginian stopped for a moment. + +“It will soon be a month since I left Galena Creek,” he resumed. “But I +cannot get the business out o' my haid. I keep a studyin' over it.” + +His talk was done. He had unburdened his mind. Night lay deep and quiet +around us, with no sound far or near, save Buffalo Fork plashing over +its riffle. + + +II + +We left Snake River. We went up Pacific Creek, and through Two Ocean +Pass, and down among the watery willow-bottoms and beaverdams of the +Upper Yellowstone. We fished; we enjoyed existence along the lake. Then +we went over Pelican Creek trail and came steeply down into the giant +country of grasstopped mountains. At dawn and dusk the elk had begun to +call across the stillness. And one morning in the Hoodoo country, +where we were looking for sheep, we came round a jut of the strange, +organ-pipe formation upon a longlegged boy of about nineteen, also +hunting. + +“Still hyeh?” said the Virginian, without emotion. + +“I guess so,” returned the boy, equally matter-of-fact. “Yu' seem to be +around yourself,” he added. + +They might have been next-door neighbors, meeting in a town street for +the second time in the same day. + +The Virginian made me known to Mr. Lin McLean, who gave me a brief nod. + +“Any luck?” he inquired, but not of me. + +“Oh,” drawled the Virginian, “luck enough.” + +Knowing the ways of the country, I said no word. It was bootless to +interrupt their own methods of getting at what was really in both their +minds. + +The boy fixed his wide-open hazel eyes upon me. “Fine weather,” he +mentioned. + +“Very fine,” said I. + +“I seen your horses a while ago,” he said. “Camp far from here?” he +asked the Virginian. + +“Not specially. Stay and eat with us. We've got elk meat.” + +“That's what I'm after for camp,” said McLean. “All of us is out on a +hunt to-day--except him.” + +“How many are yu' now?” + +“The whole six.” + +“Makin' money?” + +“Oh, some days the gold washes out good in the pan, and others it's that +fine it'll float off without settlin'.” + +“So Hank ain't huntin' to-day?” + +“Huntin'! We left him layin' out in that clump o'brush below their +cabin. Been drinkin' all night.” + +The Virginian broke off a piece of the Hoodoo mud-rock from the weird +eroded pillar that we stood beside. He threw it into a bank of last +year's snow. We all watched it as if it were important. Up through the +mountain silence pierced the long quivering whistle of a bull-elk. It +was like an unearthly singer practising an unearthly scale. + +“First time she heard that,” said McLean, “she was scared.” + +“Nothin' maybe to resemble it in Austria,” said the Virginian. + +“That's so,” said McLean. “That's so, you bet! Nothin' just like Hank +over there, neither.” + +“Well, flesh is mostly flesh in all lands, I reckon,” said the +Virginian. “I expect yu' can be drunk and disorderly in every language. +But an Austrian Hank would be liable to respect her crucifix.” + +“That's so!” + +“He ain't made her quit it yet?” + +“Not him. But he's got meaner.” + +“Drunk this mawnin', yu' say?” + +“That's his most harmless condition now.” + +“Nobody's in camp but them two? Her and him alone?” + +“Oh, he dassent touch her.” + +“Who did he tell that to?” + +“Oh, the camp is backin' her. The camp has explained that to him several +times, you bet! And what's more, she has got the upper hand of him +herself. She has him beat.” + +“How beat?” + +“She has downed him with her eye. Just by endurin' him peacefully; and +with her eye. I've saw it. Things changed some after yu' pulled out. We +had a good crowd still, and it was pleasant, and not too lively nor yet +too slow. And Willomene, she come more among us. She'd not stay shut +in-doors, like she done at first. I'd have like to've showed her how to +punish Hank.” + +“Afteh she had downed yu' with her eye?” inquired the Virginian. + +Young McLean reddened, and threw a furtive look upon me, the stranger, +the outsider. “Oh, well,” he said, “I done nothing onusual. But that's +all different now. All of us likes her and respects her, and makes +allowances for her bein' Dutch. Yu' can't help but respect her. And she +shows she knows.” + +“I reckon maybe she knows how to deal with Hank,” said the Virginian. + +“Shucks!” said McLean, scornfully. “And her so big and him so puny! She'd +ought to lift him off the earth with one arm and lam him with a baste or +two with the other, and he'd improve.” + +“Maybe that's why she don't,” mused the Virginian, slowly; “because +she is so big. Big in the spirit, I mean. She'd not stoop to his +level. Don't yu' see she is kind o' way up above him and camp and +everything--just her and her crucifix?” + +“Her and her crucifix!” repeated young Lin McLean, staring at this +interpretation, which was beyond his lively understanding. “Her and her +crucifix. Turruble lonesome company! Well, them are things yu' don't +know about. I kind o' laughed myself the first time I seen her at it. +Hank, he says to me soft, 'Come here, Lin,' and I peeped in where she +was a-prayin'. She seen us two, but she didn't quit. So I quit, and Hank +came with me, sayin' tough words about it. Yes, them are things yu' +sure don't know about. What's the matter with you camping with us boys +tonight?” + +We had been going to visit them the next day. We made it to-day, +instead. And Mr. McLean helped us with our packs, and we carried our +welcome in the shape of elk meat. So we turned our faces down the +grass-topped mountains towards Galena Creek. Once, far through an +open gap away below us, we sighted the cabin with the help of our +field-glasses. + +“Pity we can't make out Hank sleepin' in that brush,” said McLean. + +“He has probably gone into the cabin by now,” said I. + +“Not him! He prefers the brush all day when he's that drunk, you bet!” + +“Afraid of her?” + +“Well--oneasy in her presence. Not that she's liable to be in there +now. She don't stay inside nowadays so much. She's been comin' round +the ditch, silent-like but friendly. And she'll watch us workin' for a +spell, and then she's apt to move off alone into the woods, singin' them +Dutch songs of hern that ain't got no toon. I've met her walkin' that +way, tall and earnest, lots of times. But she don't want your company, +though she'll patch your overalls and give yu' lunch always. Nor she +won't take pay.” + +Thus we proceeded down from the open summits into the close pines; +and while we made our way among the cross-timber and over the little +streams, McLean told us of various days and nights at the camp, and how +Hank had come to venting his cowardice upon his wife's faith. + +“Why, he informed her one day when he was goin' take his dust to town, +that if he come back and found that thing in the house, he'd do it up +for her. 'So yu' better pack off your wooden dummy somewheres,' says he. +And she just looked at him kind o' stone-like and solemn. For she don't +care for his words no more. + +“And while he was away she'd have us all in to supper up at the shack, +and look at us eatin' while she'd walk around puttin' grub on your +plate. Day time she'd come around the ditch, watchin' for a while, and +move off slow, singin' her Dutch songs. And when Hank comes back from +spendin' his dust, he sees the crucifix same as always, and he says, +'Didn't I tell yu' to take that down?' 'You did,' says Willomene, +lookin' at him very quiet. And he quit. + +“And Honey Wiggin says to him, 'Hank, leave her alone.' And Hank, bein' +all trembly from spreein' in town, he says, 'You're all agin me!' like +as if he were a baby.” + +“I should think you would run him out of camp,” said I. + +“Well, we've studied over that some,” McLean answered. “But what's to be +done with Willomene?” + +I did not know. None of us seemed to know. + +“The boys got together night before last,” continued McLean, “and after +holdin' a unanimous meetin', we visited her and spoke to her about goin' +back to her home. She was slow in corrallin' our idea on account of her +bein' no English scholar. But when she did, after three of us takin' +their turn at puttin' the proposition to her, she would not accept +any of our dust. And though she started to thank us the handsomest she +knowed how, it seemed to grieve her, for she cried. So we thought we'd +better get out. She's tried to tell us the name of her home, but yu' +can't pronounce such outlandishness.” + +As we went down the mountains, we talked of other things, but always +came back to this; and we were turning it over still when the sun had +departed from the narrow cleft that we were following, and shone only +on the distant grassy tops which rose round us into an upper world of +light. + +“We'll all soon have to move out of this camp, anyway,” said McLean, +unstrapping his coat from his saddle and drawing it on. “It gets chill +now in the afternoons. D' yu' see the quakin'-asps all turned yello', +and the leaves keeps fallin' without no wind to blow 'em down? We're +liable to get snowed in on short notice in this mountain country. If the +water goes to freeze on us we'll have to quit workin'. There's camp.” + +We had rounded a corner, and once more sighted the cabin. I suppose it +may have been still half a mile away, upon the further side of a ravine +into which our little valley opened. But field-glasses were not needed +now to make out the cabin clearly, windows and door. Smoke rose from it; +for supper-time was nearing, and we stopped to survey the scene. As we +were looking, another hunter joined us, coming from the deep woods to +the edge of the pines where we were standing. This was Honey Wiggin. He +had killed a deer, and he surmised that all the boys would be back soon. +Others had met luck besides himself; he had left one dressing an elk +over the next ridge. Nobody seemed to have got in yet, from appearances. +Didn't the camp look lonesome? + +“There's somebody, though,” said McLean. + +The Virginian took the glasses. “I reckon--yes, that's Hank. The cold +has woke him up, and he's comin' in out o' the brush.” + +Each of us took the glasses in turn; and I watched the figure go up the +hill to the door of the cabin. It seemed to pause and diverge to the +window. At the window it stood still, head bent, looking in. Then it +returned quickly to the door. It was too far to discern, even through +the glasses, what the figure was doing. Whether the door was locked, +whether he was knocking or fumbling with a key, or whether he spoke +through the door to the person within--I cannot tell what it was that +came through the glasses straight to my nerves, so that I jumped at a +sudden sound; and it was only the distant shrill call of an elk. I was +handing the glasses to the Virginian for him to see when the figure +opened the door and disappeared in the dark interior. As I watched the +square of darkness which the door's opening made, something seemed to +happen there--or else it was a spark, a flash, in my own straining eyes. + +But at that same instant the Virginian dashed forward upon his horse, +leaving the glasses in my hand. And with the contagion of his act the +rest of us followed him, leaving the pack animals to follow us as they +should choose. + +“Look!” cried McLean. “He's not shot her.” + +I saw the tall figure of a woman rush out of the door and pass quickly +round the house. + +“He's missed her!” cried McLean, again. “She's savin' herself.” + +But the man's figure did not appear in pursuit. Instead of this, +the woman returned as quickly as she had gone, and entered the dark +interior. + +“She had something,” said Wiggin. “What would that be?” + +“Maybe it's all right, after all,” said McLean. “She went out to get +wood.” + +The rough steepness of our trail had brought us down to a walk, and +as we continued to press forward at this pace as fast as we could, we +compared a few notes. McLean did not think he saw any flash. Wiggin +thought that he had heard a sound, but it was at the moment when the +Virginian's horse had noisily started away. + +Our trail had now taken us down where we could no longer look across and +see the cabin. And the half-mile proved a long one over this ground. At +length we reached and crossed the rocky ford, overtaking the Virginian +there. + +“These hawsses,” said he, “are played out. We'll climb up to camp afoot. +And just keep behind me for the present.” + +We obeyed our natural leader, and made ready for whatever we might be +going into. We passed up the steep bank and came again in sight of the +door. It was still wide open. We stood, and felt a sort of silence which +the approach of two new-comers could not break. They joined us. They +had been coming home from hunting, and had plainly heard a shot here. +We stood for a moment more after learning this, and then one of the +men called out the names of Hank and Willomene. Again we--or I at +least--felt that same silence, which to my disturbed imagination seemed +to be rising round us as mists rise from water. + +“There's nobody in there,” stated the Virginian. “Nobody that's alive,” + he added. And he crossed the cabin and walked into the door. + +Though he made no gesture, I saw astonishment pass through his body, as +he stopped still; and all of us came after him. There hung the crucifix, +with a round hole through the middle of it. One of the men went to it +and took it down; and behind it, sunk in the log, was the bullet. The +cabin was but a single room, and every object that it contained could be +seen at a glance; nor was there hiding-room for anything. On the floor +lay the axe from the wood-pile; but I will not tell of its appearance. +So he had shot her crucifix, her Rock of Ages, the thing which enabled +her to bear her life, and that lifted her above life; and she--but there +was the axe to show what she had done then. Was this cabin really empty? +I looked more slowly about, half dreading to find that I had overlooked +something. But it was as the Virginian had said; nobody was there. + +As we were wondering, there was a noise above our heads, and I was not +the only one who started and stared. It was the parrot; and we stood +away in a circle, looking up at his cage. Crouching flat on the floor of +the cage, his wings huddled tight to his body, he was swinging his head +from side to side; and when he saw that we watched him, he began a low +croaking and monotonous utterance, which never changed, but remained +rapid and continuous. I heard McLean whisper to the Virginian, “You bet +he knows.” + +The Virginian stepped to the door, and then he bent to the gravel +and beckoned us to come and see. Among the recent footprints at the +threshold the man's boot-heel was plain, as well as the woman's broad +tread. But while the man's steps led into the cabin, they did not lead +away from it. We tracked his course just as we had seen it through the +glasses: up the hill from the brush to the window, and then to the door. +But he had never walked out again. Yet in the cabin he was not; we tore +up the half-floor that it had. There was no use to dig in the earth. And +all the while that we were at this search the parrot remained crouched +in the bottom of his cage, his black eye fixed upon our movements. + +“She has carried him,” said the Virginian. “We must follow up +Willomene.” + +The latest heavy set of footprints led us from the door along the ditch, +where they sank deep in the softer soil; then they turned off sharply +into the mountains. + +“This is the cut-off trail,” said McLean to me. “The same he brought her +in by.” + +The tracks were very clear, and evidently had been made by a person +moving slowly. Whatever theories our various minds were now shaping, no +one spoke a word to his neighbor, but we went along with a hush over us. + +After some walking, Wiggin suddenly stopped and pointed. + +We had come to the edge of the timber, where a narrow black canyon +began, and ahead of us the trail drew near a slanting ledge, where the +footing was of small loose stones. I recognized the odor, the volcanic +whiff, that so often prowls and meets one in the lonely woods of that +region, but at first I failed to make out what had set us all running. + +“Is he looking down into the hole himself?” some one asked; and then +I did see a figure, the figure I had looked at through the glasses, +leaning strangely over the edge of Pitchstone Canyon, as if indeed he +was peering to watch what might be in the bottom. + +We came near. But those eyes were sightless, and in the skull the story +of the axe was carved. By a piece of his clothing he was hooked in the +twisted roots of a dead tree, and hung there at the extreme verge. I +went to look over, and Lin McLean caught me as I staggered at the sight +I saw. He would have lost his own foothold in saving me had not one of +the others held him from above. + +She was there below; Hank's woman, brought from Austria to the New +World. The vision of that brown bundle lying in the water will never +leave me, I think. She had carried the body to this point; but had she +intended this end? Or was some part of it an accident? Had she meant to +take him with her? Had she meant to stay behind herself? No word came +from these dead to answer us. But as we stood speaking there, a giant +puff of breath rose up to us between the black walls. + +“There's that fluffy sigh I told yu' about,” said the Virginian. + +“He's talkin' to her! I tell yu' he's talkin' to her!” burst out McLean, +suddenly, in such a voice that we stared as he pointed at the man in the +tree. “See him lean over! He's sayin', 'I have yu' beat after all.'” And +McLean fell to whimpering. + +Wiggin took the boy's arm kindly and walked him along the trail. He did +not seem twenty yet. Life had not shown this side of itself to him so +plainly before. + +“Let's get out of here,” said the Virginian. + +It seemed one more pitiful straw that the lonely bundle should be +left in such a vault of doom, with no last touches of care from its +fellow-beings, and no heap of kind earth to hide it. But whether the +place is deadly or not, man dares not venture into it. So they took Hank +from the tree that night, and early next morning they buried him near +camp on the top of a little mound. + +But the thought of Willomene lying in Pitchstone Canyon had kept sleep +from me through that whole night, nor did I wish to attend Hank's +burial. I rose very early, while the sunshine had still a long way to +come down to us from the mountain-tops, and I walked back along the +cut-off trail. I was moved to look once more upon that frightful place. +And as I came to the edge of the timber, there was the Virginian. He did +not expect any one. He had set up the crucifix as near the dead tree as +it could be firmly planted. + +“It belongs to her, anyway,” he explained. + +Some lines of verse came into my memory, and with a change or two I +wrote them as deep as I could with my pencil upon a small board that he +smoothed for me. + +“Call for the robin redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they +hover, And with flowers and leaves do cover The friendless bodies of +unburied men. Call to this funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and +the mole To rear her hillocks that shall keep her warm. + +“That kind o' quaint language reminds me of a play I seen onced in Saynt +Paul,” said the Virginian. “About young Prince Henry.” + +I told him that another poet was the author. + +“They are both good writers,” said the Virginian. And as he was +finishing the monument that we had made, young Lin McLean joined us. +He was a little ashamed of the feelings that he had shown yesterday, a +little anxious to cover those feelings with brass. + +“Well,” he said, taking an offish, man-of-the-world tone, “all this fuss +just because a woman believed in God.” + +“You have put it down wrong,” said the Virginian; “it's just because a +man didn't.” + + + + +Padre Ignazio + + +At Santa Ysabel del Mar the season was at one of its moments when the +air hangs quiet over land and sea. The old breezes had gone; the new +ones were not yet risen. The flowers in the mission garden opened wide, +for no wind came by day or night to shake the loose petals from their +stems. Along the basking, silent, many-colored shore gathered and +lingered the crisp odors of the mountains. The dust floated golden and +motionless long after the rider was behind the hill, and the Pacific lay +like a floor of sapphire, on which to walk beyond the setting sun into +the East. One white sail shone there. Instead of an hour, it had been +from dawn till afternoon in sight between the short headlands; and the +padre had hoped that it might be his ship. But it had slowly passed. +Now from an arch in his garden cloisters he was watching the last of it. +Presently it was gone, and the great ocean lay empty. The padre put his +glasses in his lap. For a short while he read in his breviary, but soon +forgot it again. He looked at the flowers and sunny ridges, then at +the huge blue triangle of sea which the opening of the hills let into +sight. “Paradise,” he murmured, “need not hold more beauty and peace. But +I think I would exchange all my remaining years of this for one sight +again of Paris or Seville. May God forgive me such a thought!” + +Across the unstirred fragrance of oleanders the bell for vespers began +to ring. Its tones passed over the padre as he watched the sea in his +garden. They reached his parishioners in their adobe dwellings near +by. The gentle circles of sound floated outward upon the smooth immense +silence--over the vines and pear-trees; down the avenues of the olives; +into the planted fields, whence women and children began to return; then +out of the lap of the valley along the yellow uplands, where the men +that rode among the cattle paused, looking down like birds at the map +of their home. Then the sound widened, faint, unbroken, until it met +Temptation riding towards the padre from the south, and cheered the +steps of Temptation's jaded horse. + +“For a day, one single day of Paris!” repeated the padre, gazing through +his cloisters at the empty sea. + +Once in the year the mother-world remembered him. Once in the year a +barkentine came sailing with news and tokens from Spain. It was in +1685 that a galleon had begun such voyages up to the lower country from +Acapulco, where she loaded the cargo that had come across Tehuantepec on +mules from Vera Cruz. By 1768 she had added the new mission of San Diego +to her ports. In the year that we, a thin strip of colonists away over +on the Atlantic edge of the continent, declared ourselves an independent +nation, that Spanish ship, in the name of Saint Francis, was unloading +the centuries of her own civilization at the Golden Gate. Then, slowly, +as mission after mission was planted along the soft coast wilderness, +she made new stops--at Santa Barbara, for instance; and by Point San +Luis for San Luis Obispo, that lay inland a little way up the gorge +where it opened among the hills. Thus the world reached these places +by water; while on land, through the mountains, a road came to lead to +them, and also to many more that were too distant behind the hills +for ships to serve--a long, lonely, rough road, punctuated with church +towers and gardens. For the fathers gradually so stationed their +settlements that the traveller might each morning ride out from one +mission and by evening of a day's fair journey ride into the next. A +long, rough road; and in its way pretty to think of now. + +So there, by-and-by, was our continent, with the locomotive whistling +from Savannah to Boston along its eastern edge, and on the other the +scattered chimes of Spain ringing among the unpeopled mountains. Thus +grew the two sorts of civilization--not equally. We know what has +happened since. To-day the locomotive is whistling also from the Golden +Gate to San Diego; but the old mission road goes through the mountains +still, and on it the steps of vanished Spain are marked with roses, and +white cloisters, and the crucifix. + +But this was 1855. Only the barkentine brought the world that he loved +to the padre. As for the new world which was making a rude noise to the +northward, he trusted that it might keep away from Santa Ysabel, and he +waited for the vessel that was overdue with its package containing his +single worldly indulgence. + +As the little, ancient bronze bell continued its swinging in the tower, +its plaintive call reached something in the padre's memory. Without +knowing, he began to sing. He took up the slow strain not quite +correctly, and dropped it, and took it up again, always in cadence with +the bell: + +[Musical Score Appears Here] + +At length he heard himself, and glancing at the belfry, smiled a little. +“It is a pretty tune,” he said, “and it always made me sorry for poor +Fra Diavolo. Auber himself confessed to me that he had made it sad +and put the hermitage bell to go with it because he too was grieved at +having to kill his villain, and wanted him to die, if possible, in a +religious frame of mind. And Auber touched glasses with me and said--how +well I remember it!--'Is it the good Lord, or is it merely the devil, +that makes me always have a weakness for rascals?' I told him it was the +devil. I was not a priest then. I could not be so sure with my answer +now.” And then Padre Ignazio repeated Auber's remark in French: “'Est-ce +le bon Dieu, on est-ce bien le diable, qui me fait tonjours aimer les +coquins?' I don't know! I don't know! I wonder if Auber has composed +anything lately? I wonder who is singing Zerlina now?” + +He cast a farewell look at the ocean, and took his steps between the +monastic herbs and the oleanders to the sacristy. “At least,” he said, +“if we cannot carry with us into exile the friends and the places that +we have loved, music will go where we go, even to such an end of the +world as this. Felipe!” he called to his organist. “Can they sing the +music I taught them for the Dixit Dominus to-night?” + +“Yes, father, surely.” + +“Then we will have that. And, Felipe--” The padre crossed the chancel to +the small shabby organ. “Rise, my child, and listen. Here is something +you can learn. Why, see now if you cannot learn it with a single +hearing.” + +The swarthy boy of sixteen stood watching his master's fingers, delicate +and white, as they played. So of his own accord he had begun to watch +them when a child of six; and the padre had taken the wild, half-scared, +spellbound creature and made a musician of him. + +“There, Felipe!” he said now. “Can you do it? Slower, and more softly, +muchacho. It is about the death of a man, and it should go with our +bell.” + +The boy listened. “Then the father has played it a tone too low,” said +he; “for our bell rings the note of sol, or something very near it, as +the father must surely know.” He placed the melody in the right key--an +easy thing for him; but the padre was delighted. + +“Ah, my Felipe,” he exclaimed, “what could you and I not do if we had a +better organ! Only a little better! See! above this row of keys would be +a second row, and many more stops. Then we would make such music as has +never been heard in California yet. But my people are so poor and so +few! And some day I shall have passed from them, and it will be too +late.” + +“Perhaps,” ventured Felipe, “the Americanos--” + +“They care nothing for us, Felipe. They are not of our religion--or of +any religion, from what I can hear. Don't forget my Dixit Dominus.” + And the padre retired once more to the sacristy, while the horse that +carried Temptation came over the hill. + +The hour of service drew near; and as he waited, the padre once again +stepped out for a look at the ocean; but the blue triangle of water lay +like a picture in its frame of land, empty as the sky. “I think, from +the color, though,” said he, “that a little more wind must have begun +out there.” + +The bell rang a last short summons to prayer. Along the road from the +south a young rider, leading one pack-animal, ambled into the mission +and dismounted. Church was not so much in his thoughts as food and, in +due time after that, a bed; but the doors stood open, and as everybody +was going into them, more variety was to be gained by joining this +company than by waiting outside alone until they should return from +their devotions. So he seated himself at the back, and after a brief, +jaunty glance at the sunburnt, shaggy congregation, made himself as +comfortable as might be. He had not seen a face worth keeping his eyes +open for. The simple choir and simple fold gathered for even-song, and +paid him no attention on their part--a rough American bound for the +mines was no longer anything but an object of aversion to them. + +The padre, of course, had been instantly aware of the stranger's +presence. For this is the sixth sense with vicars of every creed and +heresy; and if the parish is lonely and the worshippers few and seldom +varying, a newcomer will gleam out like a new book to be read. And a +trained priest learns to read shrewdly the faces of those who assemble +to worship under his guidance. But American vagrants, with no thoughts +save of gold-digging, and an overweening illiterate jargon for their +speech, had long ceased to interest this priest, even in his starvation +for company and talk from the outside world; and therefore after the +intoning, he sat with his homesick thoughts unchanged, to draw both pain +and enjoyment from the music that he had set to the Dixit Dominus. He +listened to the tender chorus that opens “William Tell”; and as the +Latin psalm proceeded, pictures of the past rose between him and the +altar. One after another came these strains which he had taken from the +operas famous in their day, until at length the padre was murmuring to +some music seldom long out of his heart--not the Latin verse which the +choir sang, but the original French words: + + “Ah, voile man envie, + Voila mon seul desir: + Rendez moi ma patrie, + Ou laissez moi mourir.” + + +Which may be rendered: + + But one wish I implore, + One wish is all my cry: + Give back my native land once more, + Give back, or let me die. + +Then it happened that he saw the stranger in the back of the church +again, and forgot his Dixit Dominus straightway. The face of the young +man was no longer hidden by the slouching position he had at first +taken. “I only noticed his clothes before,” thought the padre. +Restlessness was plain upon the handsome brow, and in the mouth there +was violence; but Padre Ignazio liked the eyes. “He is not saying any +prayers,” he surmised, presently. “I doubt if he has said any for a long +while. And he knows my music. He is of educated people. He cannot be +American. And now--yes, he has taken--I think it must be a flower, from +his pocket. I shall have him to dine with me.” And vespers ended with +rosy clouds of eagerness drifting across the padre's brain. + +But the stranger made his own beginning. As the priest came from the +church, the rebellious young figure was waiting. “Your organist tells +me,” he said, impetuously, “that it is you who--” + +“May I ask with whom I have the great pleasure of speaking?” said the +padre, putting formality to the front and his pleasure out of sight. + +The stranger reddened, and became aware of the padre's features, moulded +by refinement and the world. “I beg your lenience,” said he, with a +graceful and confident utterance, as of equal to equal. “My name is +Gaston Villere, and it was time I should be reminded of my manners.” + +The padre's hand waved a polite negative. + +“Indeed yes, padre. But your music has astonished me to pieces. If you +carried such associations as--Ah! the days and the nights!” he broke +off. “To come down a California mountain,” he resumed, “and find Paris +at the bottom! 'The Huguenots,' Rossini, Herold--I was waiting for 'Il +Trovatore.”' + +“Is that something new?” said the padre, eagerly. + +The young man gave an exclamation. “The whole world is ringing with it,” + he said. + +“But Santa Ysabel del Mar is a long way from the whole world,” said +Padre Ignazio. + +“Indeed it would not appear to be so,” returned young Gaston. “I think +the Comedie Francaise must be round the corner.” + +A thrill went through the priest at the theatre's name. “And have you +been long in America?” he asked. + +“Why, always--except two years of foreign travel after college.” + +“An American!” said the surprised padre, with perhaps a flavor of +disappointment in his voice. “But no Americans who have yet come this +way have been--have been”--he veiled the too blunt expression of his +thought--“have been familiar with 'The Huguenots,'” he finished, making +a slight bow. + +Villere took his under-meaning. “I come from New Orleans,” he returned. +“And in New Orleans there live many of us who can recognize a--who can +recognize good music wherever we meet it.” And he made a slight bow in +his turn. + +The padre laughed outright with pleasure, and laid his hand upon the +young man's arm. “You have no intention of going away tomorrow, I +trust?” said he. + +“With your leave,” answered Gaston, “I will have such an intention no +longer.” + +It was with the air and gait of mutual understanding that the two now +walked on together towards the padre's door. The guest was twenty-five, +the host sixty. + +“And have you been in America long?” inquired Gaston. + +“Twenty years.” + +“And at Santa Ysabel how long?” + +“Twenty years.” + +“I should have thought,” said Gaston, looking lightly at the empty +mountains, “that now and again you might have wished to travel.” + +“Were I your age,” murmured Padre Ignazio, “it might be so.” + +The evening had now ripened to the long after-glow of sunset. The sea +was the purple of grapes, and wine colored hues flowed among the high +shoulders of the mountains. + +“I have seen a sight like this,” said Gaston, “between Granada and +Malaga.” + +“So you know Spain!” said the padre. + +Often he had thought of this resemblance, but never heard it told to +him before. The courtly proprietor of San Fernando, and the other +patriarchal rancheros with whom he occasionally exchanged visits across +the wilderness, knew hospitality and inherited gentle manners, sending +to Europe for silks and laces to give their daughters; but their eyes +had not looked upon Granada, and their ears had never listened to +“William Tell.” + +“It is quite singular,” pursued Gaston, “how one nook in the world will +suddenly remind you of another nook that may be thousands of miles away. +One morning, behind the Quai Voltaire, an old yellow house with rusty +balconies made me almost homesick for New Orleans.” + +“The Quai Voltaire!” said the padre. + +“I heard Rachel in 'Valerie' that night,” the young man went on. +“Did you know that she could sing too? She sang several verses by an +astonishing little Jew musician that has come up over there.” + +The padre gazed down at his blithe guest. “To see somebody, somebody, +once again,” he said, “is very pleasant to a hermit.” + +“It cannot be more pleasant than arriving at an oasis,” returned Gaston. + +They had delayed on the threshold to look at the beauty of the evening, +and now the priest watched his parishioners come and go. “How can one +make companions--” he began; then, checking himself, he said: “Their +souls are as sacred and immortal as mine, and God helps me to help +them. But in this world it is not immortal souls that we choose for +companions; it is kindred tastes, intelligences, and--and so I and my +books are growing old together, you see,” he added, more lightly. “You +will find my volumes as behind the times as myself.” + +He had fallen into talk more intimate than he wished; and while the +guest was uttering something polite about the nobility of missionary +work, he placed him in an easy-chair and sought aguardiente for his +immediate refreshment. Since the year's beginning there had been no +guest for him to bring into his rooms, or to sit beside him in the high +seats at table, set apart for the gente fina. + +Such another library was not then in California; and though Gaston +Villere, in leaving Harvard College, had shut Horace and Sophocles +forever at the earliest instant possible under academic requirements, he +knew the Greek and Latin names that he now saw as well as he knew those +of Shakespeare, Dante, Moliere, and Cervantes. These were here also; nor +could it be precisely said of them, either, that they made a part of the +young man's daily reading. As he surveyed the padre's august shelves, +it was with a touch of the florid Southern gravity which his Northern +education had not wholly schooled out of him that he said: + +“I fear that I am no scholar, sir. But I know what writers every +gentleman ought to respect.” + +The subtle padre bowed gravely to this compliment. + +It was when his eyes caught sight of the music that the young man felt +again at ease, and his vivacity returned to him. Leaving his chair, he +began enthusiastically to examine the tall piles that filled one side of +the room. The volumes lay richly everywhere, making a pleasant +disorder; and as perfume comes out of a flower, memories of singers and +chandeliers rose bright from the printed names. “Norma,” “Tancredi,” + “Don Pasquale,” “La Vestale”--dim lights in the fashions of +to-day--sparkled upon the exploring Gaston, conjuring the radiant +halls of Europe before him. “'The Barber of Seville!'” he presently +exclaimed. “And I happened to hear it in Seville.” + +But Seville's name brought over the padre a new rush of home thoughts. +“Is not Andalusia beautiful?” he said. “Did you see it in April, when +the flowers come?” + +“Yes,” said Gaston, among the music. “I was at Cordova then.” + +“Ah, Cordova!” murmured the padre. + +“'Semiramide!'” cried Gaston, lighting upon that opera. “That was a +week! I should like to live it over, every day and night of it!” + +“Did you reach Malaga from Marseilles or Gibraltar?” said the padre, +wistfully. + +“From Marseilles. Down from Paris through the Rhone Valley, you know.” + +“Then you saw Provence! And did you go, perhaps, from Avignon to Nismes +by the Pont du Gard? There is a place I have made here--a little, little +place--with olive-trees. And now they have grown, and it looks something +like that country, if you stand in a particular position. I will take +you there to-morrow. I think you will understand what I mean.” + +“Another resemblance!” said the volatile and happy Gaston. “We both seem +to have an eye for them. But, believe me, padre, I could never stay here +planting olives. I should go back and see the original ones--and then +I'd hasten up to Paris.” And, with a volume of Meyerbeer open in his +hand, Gaston hummed: “'Robert, Robert, toi que j'aime.' Why, padre, +I think that your library contains none of the masses and all of the +operas in the world!” + +“I will make you a little confession,” said Padre Ignazio, “and then you +shall give me a little absolution.” + +“With a penance,” said Gaston. “You must play over some of these things +to me.” + +“I suppose that I could not permit myself this indulgence,” began the +padre, pointing to his operas; “and teach these to my choir, if the +people had any worldly associations with the music. But I have reasoned +that the music cannot do them harm--” + +The ringing of a bell here interrupted him. “In fifteen minutes,” he +said, “our poor meal will be ready for you.” The good padre was +not quite sincere when he spoke of a poor meal. While getting the +aguardiente for his guest he had given orders, and he knew how well such +orders could be carried out. He lived alone, and generally supped simply +enough, but not even the ample table at San Fernando could surpass his +own on occasions. And this was for him an occasion indeed! + +“Your half-breeds will think I am one of themselves,” said Gaston, +showing his dusty clothes. “I am not fit to be seated with you.” He, +too, was not more sincere than his host. In his pack, which an Indian +had brought from his horse, he carried some garments of civilization. +And presently, after fresh water and not a little painstaking with brush +and scarf, there came back to the padre a young guest whose elegance and +bearing and ease of the great world were to the exiled priest as sweet +as was his traveled conversation. + +They repaired to the hall and took their seats at the head of the long +table. For the stately Spanish centuries of custom lived at Santa Ysabel +del Mar, inviolate, feudal, remote. + +They were the only persons of quality present; and between themselves +and the gente de razon a space intervened. Behind the padre's chair +stood an Indian to wait upon him, and another stood behind the chair of +Gaston Villere. Each of these servants wore one single white garment, +and offered the many dishes to the gente fina and refilled their +glasses. At the lower end of the table a general attendant waited upon +the mesclados--the half-breeds. There was meat with spices, and roasted +quail, with various cakes and other preparations of grain; also the +black fresh olives, and grapes, with several sorts of figs and plums, +and preserved fruits, and white and red wine--the white fifty years +old. Beneath the quiet shining of candles, fresh-cut flowers leaned from +vessels of old Mexican and Spanish make. + +There at one end of this feast sat the wild, pastoral, gaudy company, +speaking little over their food; and there at the other the pale padre, +questioning his visitor about Rachel. The mere name of a street would +bring memories crowding to his lips; and when his guest would tell him +of a new play, he was ready with old quotations from the same author. +Alfred de Vigny they had, and Victor Hugo, whom the padre disliked. Long +after the dulce, or sweet dish, when it was the custom for the vaqueros +and the rest of the retainers to rise and leave the gente fina to +themselves, the host sat on in the empty hall, fondly telling the guest +of his bygone Paris, and fondly learning of the Paris that was to-day. +And thus the two lingered, exchanging their fervors, while the candles +waned, and the long-haired Indians stood silent behind the chairs. + +“But we must go to my piano,” the host exclaimed. For at length they had +come to a lusty difference of opinion. The padre, with ears critically +deaf, and with smiling, unconvinced eyes, was shaking his head, while +young Gaston sang “Trovatore” at him, and beat upon the table with a +fork. + +“Come and convert me, then,” said Padre Ignazio, and he led the way. +“Donizetti I have always admitted. There, at least, is refinement. +If the world has taken to this Verdi, with his street-band music--But +there, now! Sit down and convert me. Only don't crush my poor little +Erard with Verdi's hoofs. I brought it when I came. It is behind the +times too. And, oh, my dear boy, our organ is still worse. So old, so +old! To get a proper one I would sacrifice even this piano of mine in a +moment--only the tinkling thing is not worth a sou to anybody except its +master. But there! Are you quite comfortable?” And having seen to his +guest's needs, and placed spirits and cigars and an ash-tray within his +reach, the padre sat himself luxuriously in his chair to hear and expose +the false doctrine of “Il Trovatore.” + +By midnight all of the opera that Gaston could recall had been played +and sung twice. The convert sat in his chair no longer, but stood +singing by the piano. The potent swing and flow of tunes, the torrid, +copious inspiration of the South, mastered him. “Verdi has grown,” he +cried. “Verdi has become a giant.” And he swayed to the beat of the +melodies, and waved an enthusiastic arm. He demanded every crumb. Why +did not Gaston remember it all? But if the barkentine would arrive and +bring the whole music, then they would have it right! And he made Gaston +teach him what words he knew.“'Non ti scordar,'” he sang--“'non ti +scordar di me.' That is genius. But one sees how the world; moves when +one is out of it. 'A nostri monti ritorneremo'; home to our mountains. +Ah, yes, there is genius again.” And the exile sighed and his spirit +went to distant places, while Gaston continued brilliantly with the +music of the final scene. + +Then the host remembered his guest. “I am ashamed of my selfishness,” he +said. “It is already to-morrow.” + +“I have sat later in less good company,” answered the pleasant Gaston. +“And I shall sleep all the sounder for making a convert.” + +“You have dispensed roadside alms,” said the padre, smiling. “And that +should win excellent dreams.” + +Thus, with courtesies more elaborate than the world has time for at the +present day, they bade each other good-night and parted, bearing their +late candles along the quiet halls of the mission. To young Gaston in +his bed easy sleep came without waiting, and no dreams at all. Outside +his open window was the quiet, serene darkness, where the stars shone +clear, and tranquil perfumes hung in the cloisters. And while the guest +lay sleeping all night in unchanged position like a child, up and down +between the oleanders went Padre Ignazio, walking until dawn. + +Day showed the ocean's surface no longer glassy, but lying like a mirror +breathed upon; and there between the short headlands came a sail, +gray and plain against the flat water. The priest watched through his +glasses, and saw the gradual sun grow strong upon the canvas of the +barkentine. The message from his world was at hand, yet to-day he +scarcely cared so much. Sitting in his garden yesterday he could never +have imagined such a change. But his heart did not hail the barkentine +as usual. Books, music, pale paper, and print--this was all that was +coming to him, and some of its savor had gone; for the siren voice of +life had been speaking with him face to face, and in his spirit, deep +down, the love of the world was restlessly answering that call. Young +Gaston showed more eagerness than the padre over this arrival of the +vessel that might be bringing “Trovatore” in the nick of time. Now he +would have the chance, before he took his leave, to help rehearse the +new music with the choir. He would be a missionary too. A perfectly new +experience. + +“And you still forgive Verdi the sins of his youth?” he said to his +host. “I wonder if you could forgive mine?” + +“Verdi has left his behind him,” retorted the padre. + +“But I am only twenty-five,” explained Gaston, pathetically. + +“Ah, don't go away soon!” pleaded the exile. It was the plainest burst +that had escaped him, and he felt instant shame. + +But Gaston was too much elated with the enjoyment of each new day to +understand. The shafts of another's pain might scarcely pierce the +bright armor of his gayety. He mistook the priest's exclamation for +anxiety about his own happy soul. + +“Stay here under your care?” he said. “It would do me no good, padre. +Temptation sticks closer to me than a brother!” and he gave that laugh +of his which disarmed severer judges than his host. “By next week I +should have introduced some sin or other into your beautiful Garden of +Ignorance here. It will be much safer for your flock if I go and join +the other serpents at San Francisco.” + +Soon after breakfast the padre had his two mules saddled, and he and his +guest set forth down the hills together to the shore. And beneath the +spell and confidence of pleasant, slow riding, and the loveliness of +everything, the young man talked freely of himself. + +“And, seriously,” said he, “if I missed nothing else at Santa Ysabel, I +should long to hear the birds. At home our gardens are full of them, and +one smells the jasmine, and they sing and sing! When our ship from +the Isthmus put into San Diego, I decided to go on by land and see +California. Then, after the first days, I began to miss something. All +that beauty seemed empty, in a way. And suddenly I found it was the +birds. For these little scampering quail are nothing. There seems a sort +of death in the air where no birds ever sing.” + +“You will not find any birds at San Francisco,” said the padre. + +“I shall find life!” exclaimed Gaston. “And my fortune at the mines, I +hope. I am not a bad fellow, father. You can easily guess all the things +that I do. I have never, to my knowledge, harmed any one. I did not even +try to kill my adversary in an affair of honor. I gave him a mere flesh +wound, and by this time he must be quite recovered. He was my friend. +But as he came between me--” + +Gaston stopped; and the padre, looking keenly at him, saw the violence +that he had noticed in church pass like a flame over the young man's +handsome face. + +“There's nothing dishonorable,” said Gaston, answering the priest's +look. + +“I have not thought so, my son.” + +“I did what every gentleman would do,” said Gaston. + +“And that is often wrong!” cried the padre. “But I'm not your +confessor.” + +“I've nothing to confess,” said Gaston, frankly. “I left New Orleans at +once, and have travelled an innocent journey straight to you. And when I +make my fortune I shall be in a position to return and--” + +“Claim the pressed flower!” put in the padre, laughing. + +“Ah, you remember how those things are!” said Gaston; and he laughed +also and blushed. + +“Yes,” said the padre, looking at the anchored barkentine, “I remember +how those things are.” And for a while the vessel and its cargo and the +landed men and various business and conversations occupied them. But the +freight for the mission once seen to, there was not much else to hang +about here for. + +The barkentine was only a coaster like many others which now had begun +to fill the sea a little more of late years, and presently host and +guest were riding homeward. And guessing at the two men from their +outsides, any one would have got them precisely wrong; for within the +turbulent young figure of Gaston dwelt a spirit that could not be more +at ease, while revolt was steadily smouldering beneath the schooled and +placid mask of the padre. + +Yet still the strangeness of his being at such a place came back as +a marvel into the young man's lively mind. Twenty years in prison, he +thought, and hardly aware of it! And he glanced at the silent priest. +A man so evidently fond of music, of theatres, of the world, to whom +pressed flowers had meant something once--and now contented to bleach +upon these wastes! Not even desirous of a brief holiday, but finding +an old organ and some old operas enough recreation! “It is his age, I +suppose,” thought Gaston. And then the notion of himself when he should +be sixty occurred to him, and he spoke. + +“Do you know, I do not believe,” said he, “that I should ever reach such +contentment as yours.” + +“Perhaps you will,” said Padre Ignazio, in a low voice. + +“Never!” declared the youth. “It comes only to the few, I am sure.” + +“Yes. Only to the few,” murmured the padre. + +“I am certain that it must be a great possession,” Gaston continued; +“and yet--and yet--dear me! life is a splendid thing!” + +“There are several sorts of it,” said the padre. + +“Only one for me!” cried Gaston. “Action, men, women, things--to be +there, to be known, to play a part, to sit in the front seats; to have +people tell each other, 'There goes Gaston Villere!' and to deserve +one's prominence. Why, if I were Padre of Santa Ysabel del Mar for +twenty years--no! for one year--do you know what I should have done? +Some day it would have been too much for me. I should have left these +savages to a pastor nearer their own level, and I should have ridden +down this canyon upon my mule, and stepped on board the barkentine, and +gone back to my proper sphere. You will understand, sir, that I am far +from venturing to make any personal comment. I am only thinking what a +world of difference lies between men's natures who can feel alike as we +do upon so many subjects. Why, not since leaving New Orleans have I +met any one with whom I could talk, except of the weather and the brute +interests common to us all. That such a one as you should be here is +like a dream.” + +“But it is not a dream,” said the padre. + +“And, sir--pardon me if I do say this--are you not wasted at Santa +Ysabel del Mar? I have seen the priests at the other missions They +are--the sort of good men that I expected. But are you needed to save +such souls as these?” + +“There is no aristocracy of souls,” said the padre, almost whispering +now. + +“But the body and the mind!” cried Gaston. “My God, are they nothing? Do +you think that they are given to us for nothing but a trap? You cannot +teach such a doctrine with your library there. And how about all +the cultivated men and women away from whose quickening society the +brightest of us grow numb? You have held out. But will it be for long? +Do you not owe yourself to the saving of higher game henceforth? Are not +twenty years of mesclados enough? No, no!” finished young Gaston, hot +with his unforeseen eloquence; “I should ride down some morning and take +the barkentine.” + +Padre Ignazio was silent for a space. + +“I have not offended you?” said the young man. + +“No. Anything but that. You are surprised that I should--choose--to stay +here. Perhaps you may have wondered how I came to be here at all?” + +“I had not intended any impertinent--” + +“Oh no. Put such an idea out of your head, my son. You may remember that +I was going to make you a confession about my operas. Let us sit down in +this shade.” + +So they picketed the mules near the stream and sat down. + +“You have seen,” began Padre Ignazio, “what sort of a man I--was once. +Indeed, it seems very strange to myself that you should have been here +not twenty-four hours yet, and know so much of me. For there has come +no one else at all”--the padre paused a moment and mastered the +unsteadiness that he had felt approaching in his voice--“there has been +no one else to whom I have talked so freely. In my early days I had +no thought of being a priest. My parents destined me for a diplomatic +career. There was plenty of money and--and all the rest of it; for by +inheritance came to me the acquaintance of many people whose names +you would be likely to have heard of. Cities, people of fashion, +artists--the whole of it was my element and my choice; and by-and-by I +married, not only where it was desirable, but where I loved. Then +for the first time Death laid his staff upon my enchantment, and I +understood many things that had been only words to me hitherto. Looking +back, it seemed to me that I had never done anything except for myself +all my days. I left the world. In due time I became a priest and lived +in my own country. But my worldly experience and my secular education +had given to my opinions a turn too liberal for the place where my work +was laid. I was soon advised concerning this by those in authority over +me. And since they could not change me and I could not change them, +yet wished to work and to teach, the New World was suggested, and I +volunteered to give the rest of my life to missions. It was soon found +that some one was needed here, and for this little place I sailed, and +to these humble people I have dedicated my service. They are pastoral +creatures of the soil. Their vineyard and cattle days are apt to be like +the sun and storm around them--strong alike in their evil and in +their good. All their years they live as children--children with men's +passions given to them like deadly weapons, unable to measure the harm +their impulses may bring. Hence, even in their crimes, their hearts will +generally open soon to the one great key of love, while civilization +makes locks which that key cannot always fit at the first turn. And +coming to know this,” said Padre Ignazio, fixing his eyes steadily upon +Gaston, “you will understand how great a privilege it is to help such +people, and hour the sense of something accomplished--under God--should +bring contentment with renunciation.” + +“Yes,” said Gaston Villere. Then, thinking of himself, “I can understand +it in a man like you.” + +“Do not speak of me at all!” exclaimed the padre, almost passionately. +“But pray Heaven that you may find the thing yourself some day +--contentment with renunciation--and never let it go.” + +“Amen!” said Gaston, strangely moved. + +“That is the whole of my story,” the priest continued, with no more +of the recent stress in his voice. “And now I have talked to you about +myself quite enough. But you must have my confession.” He had now +resumed entirely his half-playful tone. “I was just a little mistaken, +you see too self-reliant, perhaps--when I supposed, in my first +missionary ardor, that I could get on without any remembrance of the +world at all. I found that I could not. And so I have taught the old +operas to my choir--such parts of them as are within our compass and +suitable for worship. And certain of my friends still alive at home are +good enough to remember this taste of mine, and to send me each year +some of the new music that I should never hear of otherwise. Then we +study these things also. And although our organ is a miserable affair, +Felipe manages very cleverly to make it do. And while the voices are +singing these operas, especially the old ones, what harm is there +if sometimes the priest is thinking of something else? So there's my +confession! And now, whether 'Trovatore' has come or not, I shall +not allow you to leave us until you have taught all you know of it to +Felipe.” + +The new opera, however, had duly arrived. And as he turned its pages +Padre Ignazio was quick to seize at once upon the music that could be +taken into his church. Some of it was ready fitted. By that afternoon +Felipe and his choir could have rendered “Ah! se l'error t' ingombra” + without slip or falter. + +Those were strange rehearsals of “Il Trovatore” upon this California +shore. For the padre looked to Gaston to say when they went too fast +or too slow, and to correct their emphasis. And since it was hot, the +little Erard piano was carried each day out into the mission garden. +There, in the cloisters among the oleanders, in the presence of the tall +yellow hills and the blue triangle of sea, the “Miserere” was slowly +learned. The Mexicans and Indians gathered, swarthy and black-haired, +around the tinkling instrument that Felipe played; and presiding over +them were young Gaston and the pale padre, walking up and down the +paths, beating time, or singing now one part and now another. And so it +was that the wild cattle on the uplands would hear “Trovatore” hummed by +a passing vaquero, while the same melody was filling the streets of the +far-off world. + +For three days Gaston Villere remained at Santa Ysabel del Mar; and +though not a word of the sort came from him, his host could read San +Francisco and the gold-mines in his countenance. No, the young man could +not have stayed here for twenty years! And the padre forbore urging his +guest to extend his visit. + +“But the world is small,” the guest declared at parting. “Some day it +will not be able to spare you any longer. And then we are sure to meet. +And you shall hear from me soon, at any rate.” + +Again, as upon the first evening, the two exchanged a few courtesies, +more graceful and particular than we, who have not time, and fight no +duels, find worth a man's while at the present day. For duels are gone, +which is a very good thing, and with them a certain careful politeness, +which is a pity; but that is the way in the general profit and loss. So +young Gaston rode northward out of the mission, back to the world and +his fortune; and the padre stood watching the dust after the rider had +passed from sight. Then he went into his room with a drawn face. But +appearances at least had been kept up to the end; the youth would never +know of the old man's discontent. + +Temptation had arrived with Gaston, but was going to make a longer stay +at Santa Ysabel del Mar. Yet it was something like a week before the +priest knew what guest he had in his house now. The guest was not always +present--made himself scarce quite often. + +Sail away on the barkentine? That was a wild notion, to be sure, +although fit enough to enter the brain of such a young scapegrace. The +padre shook his head and smiled affectionately when he thought of Gaston +Villere. The youth's handsome, reckless countenance would come before +him, and he repeated Auber's old remark, “Is it the good Lord, or is it +merely the devil, that always makes me have a weakness for rascals?” + +Sail away on the barkentine! Imagine taking leave of the people here--of +Felipe! In what words should he tell the boy to go on industriously with +his music? No, this could not be imagined. The mere parting alone would +make it forever impossible that he should think of such a thing. “And +then,” he said to himself each new morning, when he looked out at the +ocean, “I have given my life to them. One does not take back a gift.” + +Pictures of his departure began to shine and melt in his drifting fancy. +He saw himself explaining to Felipe that now his presence was wanted +elsewhere; that there would come a successor to take care of Santa +Ysabel--a younger man, more useful, and able to visit sick people at a +distance. “For I am old now. I should not be long here in any case.” He +stopped and pressed his hands together; he had caught his temptation in +the very act. Now he sat staring at his temptation's face, close to him, +while there in the triangle two ships went sailing by. + +One morning Felipe told him that the barkentine was here on its return +voyage south. “Indeed?” said the padre, coldly. “The things are ready to +go, I think.” For the vessel called for mail and certain boxes that +the mission sent away. Felipe left the room, in wonder at the padre's +manner. But the priest was laughing alone inside to see how little it +was to him where the barkentine was, or whether it should be coming +or going. But in the afternoon, at his piano, he found himself saying, +“Other ships call here, at any rate.” And then for the first time he +prayed to be delivered from his thoughts. Yet presently he left his seat +and looked out of the window for a sight of the barkentine; but it was +gone. + +The season of the wine-making passed, and the putting up of all +the fruits that the mission fields grew. Lotions and medicines were +distilled from the garden herbs. Perfume was manufactured from the +petals of the flowers and certain spices, and presents of it despatched +to San Fernando and Ventura, and to friends at other places; for the +padre had a special receipt. As the time ran on, two or three visitors +passed a night with him; and presently there was a word at various +missions that Padre Ignazio had begun to show his years. At Santa Ysabel +del Mar they whispered, “The padre is getting sick.” Yet he rode a great +deal over the hills by himself, and down the canyon very often, stopping +where he had sat with Gaston, to sit alone and look up and down, now at +the hills above, and now at the ocean below. Among his parishioners +he had certain troubles to soothe, certain wounds to heal; a home from +which he was able to drive jealousy; a girl whom he bade her lover set +right. But all said, “The padre is sick.” And Felipe told them that +the music seemed nothing to him any more; he never asked for his Dixit +Dominus nowadays. Then for a short time he was really in bed, feverish +with the two voices that spoke to him without ceasing. “You have given +your life,” said one voice. “And therefore,” said the other, “have +earned the right to go home and die.” “You are winning better rewards in +the service of God,” said the first voice. “God can be served in other +places than this,” answered the second. As he lay listening he saw +Seville again, and the trees of Aranhal, where he had been born. The +wind was blowing through them; and in their branches he could hear the +nightingales. “Empty! Empty!” he said, aloud. “He was right about the +birds. Death does live in the air where they never sing.” And he lay for +two days and nights hearing the wind and the nightingales in the trees +of Aranhal. But Felipe, watching, heard only the padre crying through +the hours: “Empty! Empty!” + +Then the wind in the trees died down, and the padre could get out of +bed, and soon could be in the garden. But the voices within him still +talked all the while as he sat watching the sails when they passed +between the headlands. Their words, falling forever the same way, beat +his spirit sore, like bruised flesh. If he could only change what they +said, he could rest. + +“Has the padre any mail for Santa Barbara?” said Felipe. “The ship bound +southward should be here to-morrow.” + +“I will attend to it,” said the priest, not moving. And Felipe stole +away. + +At Felipe's words the voices had stopped, a clock done striking. +Silence, strained like expectation, filled the padre's soul. But in +place of the voices came old sights of home again, the waving trees at +Aranhal; then would be Rachel for a moment, declaiming tragedy while a +houseful of faces that he knew by name watched her; and through all the +panorama rang the pleasant laugh of Gaston. For a while in the evening +the padre sat at his Erard playing “Trovatore.” Later, in his sleepless +bed he lay, saying now a then: “To die at home! Surely I may granted +at least this.” And he listened for the inner voices. But they were not +speaking any more, and the black hole of silence grew more dreadful to +him than their arguments. Then the dawn came in at his window, and he +lay watching its gray grow warm into color, us suddenly he sprang from +his bed and looked the sea. The southbound ship was coming. People were +on board who in a few weeks would be sailing the Atlantic, while he +would stand here looking out of the same window. “Merciful God!” he +cried, sinking on knees. “Heavenly Father, Thou seest this evil in my +heart. Thou knowest that my weak hand cannot pluck it out. My strength +is breaking, and still Thou makest my burden heavier than I can bear.” + He stopped, breathless and trembling. The same visions were flitting +across his closed eyes; the same silence gaped like a dry crater in his +soul. “There is no help in earth or heaven,” he said, very quietly; and +he dressed himself. + +It was so early still that none but a few of the Indians were stirring, +and one of them saddled the padre's mule. Felipe was not yet awake, and +for a moment it came in the priest's mind to open the boy's door softly, +look at him once more, and come away. But this he did not do, nor +even take a farewell glance at the church and organ. He bade nothing +farewell, but, turning his back upon his room and his garden, rode down +the caution. + +The vessel lay at anchor, and some one had landed from her and was +talking with other men on the shore. Seeing the priest slowly coming, +this stranger approached to meet him. + +“You are connected with the mission here?” he inquired. + +“I--am.” + +“Perhaps it is with you that Gaston Villere stopped?” + +“The young man from New Orleans? Yes. I am Padre Ignazio.” + +“Then you will save me a journey. I promised him to deliver these into +your own hands.” + +The stranger gave them to him. + +“A bag of gold-dust,” he explained, “and a letter. I wrote it from his +dictation while he was dying. He lived scarcely an hour afterwards.” + +The stranger bowed his head at the stricken cry which his news elicited +from the priest, who, after a few moments vain effort to speak, opened +the letter and read: + +“MY DEAR FRIEND,--It is through no man's fault but mine that I have come +to this. I have had plenty of luck, and lately have been counting the +days until I should return home. But last night heavy news from New +Orleans reached me, and I tore the pressed flower to pieces. Under the +first smart and humiliation of broken faith I was rendered desperate, +and picked a needless quarrel. Thank God, it is I who have the +punishment. My dear friend, as I lie here, leaving a world that no man +ever loved more, I have come to understand you. For you and your mission +have been much in my thoughts. It is strange how good can be done, not +at the time when it is intended, but afterwards; and you have done this +good to me. I say over your words, Contentment with renunciation, and +believe that at this last hour I have gained something like what you +would wish me to feel. For I do not think that I desire it otherwise +now. My life would never have been of service, I am afraid. You are the +last person in this world who has spoken serious words to me, and I want +you to know that now at length I value the peace of Santa Ysabel as I +could never have done but for seeing your wisdom and goodness. You spoke +of a new organ for your church. Take the gold-dust that will reach you +with this, and do what you will with it. Let me at least in dying have +helped some one. And since there is no aristocracy in souls--you said +that to me; do you remember?--perhaps you will say a mass for this +departing soul of mine. I only wish, since my body must go underground +in a strange country, that it might have been at Santa Ysabel del Mar, +where your feet would often pass.” + +“'At Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.'” The +priest repeated this final sentence aloud, without being aware of it. + +“Those are the last words he ever spoke,” said the stranger, “except +bidding good-bye to me.” + +“You knew him well, then?” + +“No; not until after he was hurt. I'm the man he quarrelled with.” + +The priest looked at the ship that would sail onward this afternoon. +Then a smile of great beauty passed over his face, and he addressed the +stranger. “I thank you,” said he. “You will never know what you have +done for me.” + +“It is nothing,” answered the stranger, awkwardly. “He told me you set +great store on a new organ.” + +Padre Ignazio turned away from the ship and rode back through the +gorge. When he reached the shady place where once he had sat with Gaston +Villere, he dismounted and again sat there, alone by the stream, for +many hours. Long rides and outings had been lately so much his custom, +that no one thought twice of his absence; and when he returned to the +mission in the afternoon, the Indian took his mule, and he went to his +seat in the garden. But it was with another look that he watched the +sea; and presently the sail moved across the blue triangle, and soon it +had rounded the headland. Gaston's first coming was in the padre's +mind; and as the vespers bell began to ring in the cloistered silence, a +fragment of Auber's plaintive tune passed like a sigh across his memory: + +[Musical Score Appears Here] + +But for the repose of Gaston's soul they sang all that he had taught +them of “Il Trovatore.” + +Thus it happened that Padre Ignazio never went home, but remained +cheerful master of the desires to do so that sometimes visited him, +until the day came when he was called altogether away from this world, +and “passed beyond these voices, where is peace.” + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories, by +Owen Wister + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JIMMYJOHN BOSS *** + +***** This file should be named 1390-0.txt or 1390-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/9/1390/ + +Produced by Bill Brewer + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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