Passing the hat.Thompson gracefully concluded his service bypassing the hat.
Passing the hat.Thompson gracefully concluded his service bypassing the hat.
Hanney's had been fairly excited for a week, for the Judge had arrived the week before, and his points had been carefully scrutinized and weighed, time and again, by every man in the camp. There seemed nothing unusual about him—he was of middle size, and long hair and beard, a not unpleasant expression, and very dirty clothes; he never jumped a claim, always took his whisky straight, played as fair a game of poker as the average of the boys, and never stole a mule from any one whiter than a Mexican. The boys had just about ascertained all this, and made their "blind" bets on the result of the next fight, when the whole camp was convulsed with the intelligence that Billy Bent had also arrived. Work immediately ceased, except in the immediate vicinity of the champions, and the boys stuck close to the chapel, that being the spot where the encounter should naturally take place. Miners thronged in from fifty miles around, and nothing but a special mule express saved the camp from the horror of Pentecost's bar being inadequate to the demand. Between "straight bets" and "hedging" most of the gold dust in camp had been "put up," for a bet is the only California backing of an opinion. As the men did not seem to seek each other, the boys had ample time to "grind things down to a pint," as the camp concisely expressed it, and the matter had given excuse for a dozen minor fights, when order was suddenly restored one afternoon by the entrance of Billy and his neighbors, just as the Judge andhisneighbors were finishing a drink.
The boys immediately and silently formed a ring, on the outer edge of which were massed all the men who had been outside, and who came pouring in like flies before a shower. No one squatted or hugged the wall, for it was understood that these two men fought only with knives, so the spectators were in a state of abject safety.
The Judge, after settling for the drinks, turned, and saw for the first time his enemy.
"Hello, Billy!" said he, pleasantly; "let's take a drink first."
Billy, who was a red-haired man, with a snapping-turtle mouth, but not a vicious-looking man for all that, briefly replied, "All right," and these two determined enemies clinked their glasses with the unconcern of mere social drinkers.
But, after this, they proceeded promptly to business; the Judge, who was rather slow on his guard, was the owner of a badly cut arm within three minutes by the bar-keeper's watch, but not until he had given Billy, who was parrying a thrust, an ugly gash in his left temple.
There was a busy hum during the adjustment of bets on "first blood," and the combatants very considerately refrained from doing serious injury during this temporary distraction; but within five minutes more they had exchanged chest wounds, but too slight to be dangerous.
Betting became furious—each man fought so splendidly, that the boys were wild with delight and enthusiasm. Bets were roared back and forth, and when Pentecost, by virtue of his universally conceded authority, commanded silence, there was a great deal of finger-telegraphy across the circle, and head-shaking in return.
Such exquisite carving had never before been seen at Hanney's—that was freely admitted by all. Men pitied absent miners all over the State, and wondered why this delightful lingering, long-drawn-out system of slaughter was not more popular than the brief and commonplace method of the revolver. The Webfoot rapturously and softly quoted the good Doctor Watt's:
"My willing soul would stayIn such a place as this,And—"
"My willing soul would stayIn such a place as this,And—"
when suddenly his cup of bliss was clashed to the ground, for Billy, stumbling, fell upon his own knife, and received a severe cut in the abdomen.
Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience enough in such matters to know it. In an instant the men who had been calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help the sufferer. Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter; half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded man. No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded man at exactly the right moment. After a brief examination, he gave his opinion in the following professional style:
"No go, Billy; you're done for."
"Good God!" exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with breathless interest; "ain't ther' no chance?"
"Nary," replied the Doctor, decidedly.
"I'm a ruined man—I'm a used-up cuss," said the Judge, with a look of bitter anguish. "I wish I'd gone under, too."
"Easy, old hoss," suggested one of the boys; "youdidn't do him, yer know."
"That's what's the matter!" roared the Judge, savagely; "nobody'll ever know which of us whipped."
And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to drink.
Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person. Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out:
"I don't want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you fellers, but—is ther' a—a preacher in the camp?"
The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front. But none appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to another, gave a smothered cry.
"Oh, God, hez a miserable wretch got to cut hisself open, and then flicker out, without anybody to say a prayer for him?"
The boys looked sorrowful—if gold-dust could have bought prayers, Billy would have had a first-class assortment in an instant.
"There's Deacon Adams over to Pattin's," suggested a bystander; "an' they do say he's a reg'lar rip-roarer at prayin'! But 'twould take four hours to go and fetch him."
"Too long," said the Doctor.
"Down in Mexico, at the cathedral," said another, "they pray for a feller after he's dead, when yer pay 'em fur it, an' they say it's jist the thing—sure pop. I'll give yer my word, Billy, an' no go back, that I'll see the job done up in style fur yer, ef that's any comfort."
"I want to hear it myself," groaned the sufferer; "I don't feel right; can't nobody pray—nobody in the crowd?"
Again the boys looked inquiringly at each other, but this time it was a little shyly. If he had asked for some one to go out and steal a mule, or kill a bear, or gallop a buck-jumping mustang to 'Frisco, they would have fought for the chance; but praying—praying was entirely out of their line.
The silence became painful: soon slouched hats were hauled down over moist eyes, and shirt-sleeves and bare arms seemed to find something unusual to attend to in the boys' faces. Big Brooks commenced to blubber aloud, and was led out by old Thompson, who wanted a chance to get out of doors so he might break down in private. Finally matters were brought to a crisis by Mose—no one knew his other name. Mose uncovered a sandy head, face and beard, and remarked:
"I don't want to put on airs in this here crowd, but ef nobody else ken say a word to the Lord about Billy Bent, I'm a-goin' to do it myself. It's a bizness I've never bin in, but ther's nothin' like tryin'. This meetin' 'll cum to order to wunst."
"Hats off in church, gentlemen!" commanded Pentecost.
Off came every hat, and some of the boys knelt down, as Mose knelt beside the bench, and said:
"Oh, Lord, here's Billy Bent needs 'tendin' to! He's panned out his last dust, an' he seems to hev a purty clear idee that this is his last chance. He wants you to give him a lift, Lord, an' it's the opinion of this house thet he needs it. 'Tain't none of our bizness what he's done, an' ef it wuz, you'd know more about it than we cud tell yer; but it's mighty sartin that a cuss that's been in the digging fur years needs a sight of mendin' up before he kicks the bucket."
"That's so," responded two or three, very emphatically.
"Billy's down, Lord, an' no decent man b'lieves that the Lord 'ud hit a man when he's down, so there's one or two things got to be done—either he's got to be let alone, or he's got to be helped. Lettin' him alone won't do him or anybody else enny good, so helpin's the holt, an' as enny one uv us tough fellers would help ef we knew how to, it's only fair to suppose thet the Lord'll do it a mighty sight quicker. Now, what Billy needs is to see the thing in thet light, an' you ken make him do it a good deal better thanweken. It's, mighty little fur the Lord to do, but it's meat an' drink an' clothes to Billy just now. When we wuz boys, sum uv us read some promises ef you'rn in thet Book thet wes writ a good spell ago by chaps in the Old Country, an' though Sunday-school teachers and preachers mixed the matter up in our minds, an' got us all tangle-footed, we know they're dar, an' you'll know what we mean. Now, Lord, Billy's jest the boy—he's a hard case, so you can't find no better stuff to work on—he's in a bad fix, thet we can't do nuthin' fur, so it's jest yer chance. He ain't exactly the chap to make an A Number One Angel ef, but he ain't the man to forget a friend, so he'll be a handy feller to hev aroun'."
"Feel any better, Billy?" said Mose, stopping the prayer for a moment.
"A little," said Billy, feebly; "but you want to tell the whole yarn. I'm sorry for all the wrong I've done."
"He's sorry for all his deviltry, Lord—"
"An' I ain't got nothin' agin the Judge," continued the sufferer.
"An' he don't bear no malice agin the Judge, which he shouldn't, seein' he generally gin as good as he took. An' the long an' short of it, Lord, is jest this—he's a dyin', an' he wants a chance to die with his mind easy, an' nobody else can make it so, so we leave the whole job in your hands, only puttin' in, fur Billy's comfort, thet we recollect hearing how yer forgiv' a dyin' thief, an' thet it ain't likely yer a-goin' to be harder on a chap thet's alwas paid fur what he got. Thet's the whole story. Amen."
Billy's hand, rapidly growing cold, reached for that of Mose, and he said, with considerable effort:
"Mose, yer came in ez handy as a nugget in a gone-up claim. God bless yer, Mose. I feel better inside. Ef I get through the clouds, an' hev a livin' chance to say a word to them as is the chiefs dar, thet word'll be furyou, Mose. God bless yer, Mose, an' ef my blessin's no account, it can't cuss yer, ennyhow. This claim's washed out, fellers, an' here goes the last shovelful, to see ef ther's enny gold in it er not."
And Billy departed this life, and the boys drank to the repose of his soul.
THE NEW SHERIFF OF BUNKER COUNTY.
THE NEW SHERIFF OF BUNKER COUNTY.
He suited the natives exactly. What they would have done had he not been available, they shuddered to contemplate. The county was so new a one that but three men had occupied the sheriff's office before Charley Mansell was elected. Of the three, the first had not collected taxes with proper vigor; the second was so steadily drunk that aggrieved farmers had to take the law in their own hands regarding horse-thieves; the third was, while a terrible man on the chase or in a fight, so good-natured and lazy at other times, that the county came to be overrun with rascals. But Charley Mansell fulfilled every duty of his office with promptness and thoroughness. He was not very well known, to be sure, but neither was any one else among the four or five thousand inhabitants of the new county. He had arrived about a year before election-day, and established himself as repairer of clocks and watches—an occupation which was so unprofitable at Bunkerville, the county town, that Charley had an immense amount of leisure time at his disposal. He never hung about the stores or liquor-shop after dark; he never told doubtful stories, or displayed unusual ability with cards; neither did he, on the other hand, identify himself with either of the Bunkerville churches, and yet every one liked him. Perhaps it was because, although short, he was straight and plump, whereas the other inhabitants were thin and bent from many discouraging tussles with ague; perhaps it was because he was always the first to see the actual merits and demerits of any subject of conversation; perhaps it was because he was more eloquent in defense of what he believed to be right than the village pastors were in defense of the holy truths to which they were committed; perhaps it was because he argued Squire Backett out of foreclosing a mortgage on the Widow Worth when every one else feared to approach the squire on the subject; but, no matter what the reason was, Charley Mansell became every one's favorite, and gave no one an excuse to call him enemy. He took no interest in politics, but one day when a brutal ruffian, who had assaulted a lame native, escaped because the easy-going sheriff was too slow in pursuing, Charley was heard to exclaim, "Oh, if I were sheriff!" The man who heard him was both impressionable and practical. He said that Charley's face, when he made that remark, looked like Christ's might have looked when he was angry, but the hearer also remembered that the sheriff-incumbent's term of office had nearly expired, and he quietly gathered a few leading spirits of each political party, with the result that Charley was nominated and elected on a "fusion" ticket. When elected, Charley properly declined, on the ground that he could not file security bonds; but, within half an hour of the time the county clerk received the letter of declination, at least a dozen of the most solid citizens of the county waited upon the sheriff-elect and volunteered to go upon his bond, so Charley became sheriff in spite of himself.
And he acquitted himself nobly. He arrested a murderer the very day after his sureties were accepted, and although Charley was by far the smaller and paler of the two, the murderer submitted tamely, and dared not look into Charley's eye. Instead of scolding the delinquent tax-payers, the new sheriff sympathized with them, and the county treasury filled rapidly. The self-appointed "regulators" caught a horse-thief a week or two after Charley's installment into office, and were about to quietly hang him, after the time-honored custom of Western regulators, when Charley dashed into the crowd, pointed his pistol at the head of Deacon Bent, the leader of the enraged citizens, remarked thatallsorts of murder were contrary to the law he had sworn to maintain, and then led the thief off to jail. The regulators were speechless with indignation for the space of five minutes—then they hurried to the jail; and when Charley Mansell, with pale face but set teeth, again presented his pistol, they astonished him with three roaring cheers, after which each man congratulated him on his courage.
In short, Bunkerville became a quiet place. The new sheriff even went so far as to arrest the disturbers of camp-meetings; yet the village boys indorsed him heartily, and would, at his command, go to jail in squads of half a dozen with no escort but the sheriff himself. Had it not been that Charley occasionally went to prayer-meetings and church, not a rowdy at Bunkerville could have found any fault with him.
But not even in an out-of-the-way, malarious Missouri village, could a model sheriff be for ever the topic of conversation. Civilization moved forward in that part of the world in very queer conveyances sometimes, and with considerable friction. Gamblers, murderers, horse-thieves, counterfeiters, and all sorts of swindlers, were numerous in lands so near the border, and Bunkerville was not neglected by them. Neither greenbacks nor national bank-notes were known at that time, and home productions, in the financial direction, being very unpopular, there was a decided preference exhibited for the notes of Eastern banks. And no sooner would the issues of any particular bank grow very popular in the neighborhood of Bunkerville than merchants began to carefully examine every note bearing the name of said bank, lest haply some counterfeiter had endeavored to assist in supplying the demand. At one particular time the suspicions had numerous and well-founded grounds; where they came from nobody knew, but the county was full of them, and full, too, of wretched people who held the doubtful notes. It was the usual habit of the Bunkerville merchants to put the occasional counterfeits which they received into the drawer with their good notes, and pass them when unconscious of the fact; but at the time referred to the bad notes were all on the same bank, and it was not easy work to persuade the natives to accept even the genuine issues. The merchants sent for the sheriff, and the sheriff questioned hostlers, liquor-sellers, ferry-owners, tollgate-keepers, and other people in the habit of receiving money; but the questions were to no effect. These people had all suffered, but at the hands of respectable citizens, and no worse by one than by another.
Suddenly the sheriff seemed to get some trace of the counterfeiters. An old negro, who saw money so seldom that he accurately remembered the history of all the currency in his possession, had received a bad note from an emigrant in payment for some hams. A fortnight later, he sold some feathers to a different emigrant, and got a note which neither the store-keeper or liquor-seller would accept; the negro was sure the wagon and horses of the second emigrant were the same as those of the first. Then the sheriff mounted his horse and gave chase. He needed only to ask the natives along the road leading out of Bunkerville to show him any money they had received of late, to learn what route the wagon had taken on its second trip.
About this time the natives of Bunkerville began to wonder whether the young sheriff was not more brave than prudent. He had started without associates (for he had never appointed a deputy); he might have a long chase, and into counties where he was unknown, and might be dangerously delayed. The final decision—or the only one of any consequence—was made by four of the "regulators," who decided to mount and hurry after the sheriff and volunteer their aid. By taking turns in riding ahead of their own party, these volunteers learned, at the end of the first day, that Charley could not be more than ten miles in advance. They determined, therefore, to push on during the night, so long as they could be sure they were on the right track.
An hour more of riding brought them to a cabin where they received startling intelligence. An emigrant wagon, drawn by very good horses, had driven by at a trot which was a gait previously unheard of in the case of emigrant horses; then a young man on horseback had passed at a lively gallop; a few moments later a shot had been heard in the direction of the road the wagon had taken. Why hadn't the owner of the house hurried up the road to see what was the matter?—Because he minded his own business and staid in the house when he heard shooting, he said.
"Come on, boys!" shouted Bill Braymer, giving his panting horse a touch with his raw-hide whip; "perhaps, the sheriff's needin' help this minute. An' there's generally rewards when counterfeiters are captured—mebbe sheriff'll give us a share."
The whole quartet galloped rapidly off. It was growing dark, but there was no danger of losing a road which was the only one in that part of the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type.
"There they are!" shouted Bill Braymer; "but where's sheriff? Good Lord! The shot must have hithim!"
"Reckon it did," said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward; "there's some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an' it don't enjoy bein' led along, for it's kickin' mighty lively—shouldn't wonder if 'twas Mansell's own pony."
"Hoss-thieves too, then?" inquired Braymer; "then mebbe there'll betworewards!"
"Yes," said Williamson's younger brother, "an' mebbe we're leavin' poor Charley a-dyin' along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who'll go back an' help hunt for him!"
The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson remarking:
"That boy alwuswasthe saint of the family—look out for long shot, boys!—and if there's any money in this job, he's to have a fair share of—that is sheriff's horse, sure as shootin'—he shall have half of whatImake out of it. How'll we take 'em, boys?—Bill right, Sam left, and me the rear? If I should get plugged, an' there's any money for the crowd, I'll count on you two to see that brother Jim gets my share—he's got more the mother in him than all four of us other brothers, and—why don't they shoot, do you s'pose?"
"P'r'aps ther ain't nobody but the driver, an' he's got his hands full, makin' them hosses travel along that lively," suggested Bill Braymer. "Or mebbe he hain't got time to load. Like enough he's captured the sheriff, an' is a-takin him off. We've got to be keerful howweshoot."
The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure enough to shout:
"Halt, or we'll fire!"
The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the same instant the challenger's horse fell dead.
"Hangkeerfulness about firin'!" exclaimed Braymer. "I'ma-goin' to blaze away."
Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson's horse uttered a genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily dismounted, and exclaimed:
"It's mighty kind of 'em not to shootus, but they know how to get away all the same."
"They know too much about shootin' formeto foller 'em any more," remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the shadow caused by a tree.
"They can't keep up that gait for ever," said Bill Braymer. "I'm goin' to foller 'em on foot, if it takes all night; I'll get even with em for that hoss they've done me out of."
"I'm with you, Bill," remarked Pete Williamson, "an' mebbe we can snatchtheirhosses, just to show'em how it feels."
The third man lifted up his voice. "I 'llow I've had enough of this here kind of thing," said he, "an' I'll get back to the settlement while there's anything for me to get there on. I reckon you'll make a haul, but—I don't care—I'd rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter's money."
And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse, dashed up, exclaiming:
"No signs of him back yonder, but there's blood-tracks beginnin' in the middle of the road, an' leanin' along this way. Come on!"
And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion:
"'Efheshould have luck, an' get the reward, you be sure to tell him all the good things I've said about him, won't you?"
Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly off the road, and apparently into the forest.
Following as closely as he could under cover of the timber, he found that, after picking its way among the trees for a mile, it stopped before a small log cabin, of whose existence Jim had never known before.
There were some groans plainly audible as Jim saw one man get out of the wagon and half carry and half drag another man into the hut. A moment later, and a streak of light appeared under the door of the hut, and there seemed to be no windows in the structure; if there were, they were covered.
Jim remained behind a sheltering tree for what seemed two hours, and then stealthily approached the wagon. No one was in it. Then he removed his boots and stole on tiptoe to the hut. At first he could find no chink or crevice through which to look, but finally, on one side of the log chimney, he spied a ray of light. Approaching the hole and applying his eye to it, Jim beheld a picture that startled him into utter dumbness.
On the floor of the hut, which was entirely bare, lay a middle-aged man, with one arm bandaged and bleeding. Seated on the floor, holding the head of the wounded man, and raining kisses upon it, sat Bunker County's sheriff!
Then Jim heard some conversation which did not in the least allay his astonishment.
"Don't cry, daughter," said the wounded man, faintly, "I deserve to be shot by you—I haven't wronged any one else half so much as I have you."
Again the wounded man received a shower of kisses, and hot tears fell rapidly upon his face.
"Arrest me—take me back—send me to State's prison," continued the man; "nobody has so good a right. Then I'll feel as if your mother was honestly avenged. I'll feel better if you'll promise to do it."
"Father, dear," said the sheriff, "I might have suspected it was you—oh! if Ihadhave done! But I thought—I hoped I had got away from the roach of the cursed business for ever. I've endured everything—I've nearly died of loneliness, to avoid it, and then to think that I should have hurt my own father."
"You're your mother's own daughter, Nellie," said the counterfeiter; "it takes all the pain away to know that I haven't ruinedyou—thatsomemember of my wretched family is honest. I'd be happy in a prisoner's box if I could look at you and feel that you put me there."
"You sha'n't be made happy in that way," said the sheriff. I've got you again, and I'm going to keep you to myself. I'll nurse you here—you say that nobody ever found this hut but—but the gang, and when you're better the wagon shall take us both to some place where we can live or starve together. The county can get another sheriff easy enough."
"And they'll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters," said the father.
"They may suspect me of anything they like!" exclaimed the sheriff, "so you love me and be—be your own best self and my good father. But this bare hut—not a comfort that you need—no food—nothing—oh, if there was only some one who had a heart, and could help us!"
"There is!" whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both occupants started, and the wounded man's eyes glared like a wolf's.
"Don't be frightened," whispered Jim; "I'm yours, body and soul—the devil himself would be, if he'd been standin' at this hole the last five minutes. I'm Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss—sheriff."
The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim, led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—blushed. Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed himself—then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after which he said:
"Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody'll never find you here—I've hunted through all these woods, but never sawthiscabin before. Arm broke?"
"No," said the counterfeiter, "but—but it runs in the family to shoot ugly."
Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly.
"Then you can move in two or three days," said Jim, "if you're taken care of rightly. Nobody'll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef he don't turn up again right away. I'll go back to town, throw everybody off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable."
Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered:
"Swear—ask God to send you to hell if you play false—swear by everything you love and respect and hope for, that you won't let my daughter be disgraced because she happened to have a rascal for her father!"
Jim hesitated for a moment; then he seized the sheriff's hand.
"I ain't used to swearin' except on somethin' I can see," said he, "an' the bizness is only done in one way," with this he kissed the little hand in his own, and dashed out of the cabin with a very red face.
Within ten minutes Jim met his brother and Braymer.
"No use, boys," said he, "might as well go back, There ain't no fears but what the sheriff'll be smart enough to do 'em yet, if he's alive, an' if he's dead we can't helphimany."
"If he's dead," remarked Bill Braymer, "an' there's any pay due him, I hope part of it'll come for these horses. Mine's dead, an' Pete's might as well be."
"Well," said Jim, "I'll go on to town. I want to be out early in the mornin' an' see ef I can't get a deer, an' it's time I was in bed." And Jim galloped off.
The horse and man which might have been seen threading the woods at early daybreak on the following morning, might have set for a picture of one of Sherman's bummers. For a month afterward Jim's mother bemoaned the unaccountable absence of a tin pail, a meal-bag, two or three blankets, her only pair of scissors, and sundry other useful articles, while her sorrow was increased by the fact that she had to replenish her household stores sooner than she had expected.
The sheriff examined so eagerly the articles which Jim deposited in rapid succession on the cabin-floor, that Jim had nothing to do but look at the sheriff, which he did industriously, though not exactly to his heart's content. At last the sheriff looked up, and Jim saw two eyes full of tears, and a pair of lips which parted and trembled in a manner very unbecoming in a sheriff.
"Don't, please," said Jim, appealingly. "I wish I could have done better foryou, but somehow I couldn't think of nothin' in the house that was fit for a woman, except the scissors."
"Don't think about me at all," said the sheriff, quickly.
"I care for nothing for myself. Forget that I'm alive."
"I—I can't," stammered Jim, looking as guilty as forty counterfeiters rolled into one. The sheriff turned away quickly, while the father called Jim to his side.
"Young man," said he, "you've been as good as an angel could have been, but if you suspecthera minute of being my accomplice, may heaven blast you! I taught her engraving, villain that I was, but when she found out what the work really was, I thought she'd have died. She begged and begged that I'd give the business up, and I promised and promised, but it isn't easy to get out of a crowd of your own kind, particularly when you're not so much of a man as you should be. At last she got sick of waiting, and ran away—then I grew desperate and worse than ever. I've been searching everywhere for her; you don't suppose a smart—smart counterfeiter has to get rid of his money in the way I've been doing, do you? I traced her to this part of the State, and I've been going over the roads again and again trying to find her; but I never saw her until she put this hole through my arm last night."
"I hadn't any idea who you were," interrupted the sheriff, with a face so full of mingled indignation, pain and tenderness, that Jim couldn't for the life of him take his eyes from it.
"Don't let any one suspect her, young man," continued the father. "I'll stay within reach—deliver me up, if it should be necessary to clearher."
"Trust to me," said Jim. "I know a man when I see him, even if heisa woman."
Two days later the sheriff rode into town, leading behind him the counterfeiter's horses, with the wagon and its contents, with thousands of dollars in counterfeit money. The counterfeiter had escaped, he said, and he had wounded him.
Bunkerville ran wild with enthusiasm, and when the sheriff insisted upon paying out of his own pocket the value of Braymer's and Williamson's horses, men of all parties agreed that Charley Mansell should be run for Congress on an independent ticket.
But the sheriff declined the honor, and, declaring that he had heard of the serious illness of his father, insisted upon resigning and leaving the country. Like an affectionate son, he purchased some dress-goods, which he said might please his mother, and then he departed, leaving the whole town in sorrow.
There was one man at Bunkerville who did not suffer so severely as he might have done by the sheriff's departure, had not his mind been full of strange thoughts. Pete Williamson began to regard his brother with suspicion, and there seemed some ground for his feeling. Jim was unnaturally quiet and abstracted; he had been a great deal with the sheriff before that official's departure, and yet did not seem to be on as free and pleasant terms with him as before. So Pete slowly gathered a conviction that the sheriff was on the track of a large reward from the bank injured by the counterfeiter; that Jim was to have a share for his services on the eventful night; that there was some disagreement between them on the subject, and that Jim was trying the unbrotherly trick of keeping his luck a secret from the brother who had resolved to fraternally share anything he might have obtained by the chase. Finally, when Pete charged his brother with the unkindness alluded to, and Jim looked dreadfully confused, Pete's suspicions were fully confirmed.
The next morning Jim and his horse were absent, ascertaining which fact, the irate Peter started in pursuit. For several days he traced his brother, and finally learned that he was at a hotel on the Iowa border. The landlord said that he couldn't be seen; he, and a handsome young fellow, with a big trunk, and a tall, thin man, and ex-Judge Bates, were busy together, and had left word they weren't to be disturbed for a couple of hours on any account. Could Pete hang about the door of the room, so as to see him as soon as possible?—he was his brother. Well, yes; the landlord thought there wouldn't be any harm in that.
The unscrupulous Peter put his eye to the keyhole; he saw the sheriff daintily dressed, and as pretty a lady as ever was, in spite of her short hair; he heard the judge say:
"By virtue of the authority in me vested by the State of Iowa, I pronounce you man and wife;" and then, with vacant countenance, he sneaked slowly away, murmuring:
"That'sthe sort of reward he got, is it? And," continued Pete, after a moment, which was apparently one of special inspiration, "I'll bet that's the kind ofdeerhe said he was goin' fur on the morning after the chase."
MAJOR MARTT'S FRIEND.
MAJOR MARTT'S FRIEND.
East Patten was one of the quietest places in the world. The indisposition of a family horse or cow was cause for animated general conversation, and the displaying of a new poster or prospectus on the post-office door was the signal for a spirited gathering of citizens.
Why, therefore, Major Martt had spent the whole of three successive leaves-of-absence at East Patten, where he hadn't a relative, and where no other soldier lived, no one could imagine. Even professional newsmakers never assigned any reason for it, for although their vigorous and experienced imaginations were fully capable of forming some plausible theory on the subject of the major's fondness for East Patten, they shrank from making public the results of any such labors.
It was perfectly safe to circulate some purely original story about any ordinary citizen, but there was no knowing how a military man might treat such a matter when it reached his ears, as it was morally sure to do.
Live military men had not been seen in East Patten since the Revolutionary War, three-quarters of a century before the villagers first saw Major Martt; and such soldiers as had been revealed to East Patten through the medium of print were as dangerously touchy as the hair-triggers of their favorite weapons.
So East Patten let the major's private affairs alone, and was really glad to see the major in person. There was a scarcity of men at East Patten—of interesting men, at least, for the undoubted sanctity of the old men lent no special graces to their features or manners; while the young men were merely the residuum of an active emigration which had for some years been setting westward from East Patten.
East Patten.East Patten was one of the quietest placesin the world.
East Patten.East Patten was one of the quietest placesin the world.
When, therefore, the tall, straight, broad-shouldered, clear-eyed, much-whiskered major appeared on the street, looking (as he always did) as if he had just been shaved, brushed and polished, the sight was an extremely pleasing one, except to certain young men who feared for the validity of their titles to their respective sweethearts should the major chance to be affectionate.
But the major gave no cause for complaint. When he first came to the village he bought Rose Cottage, opposite the splendid Wittleday property, and he spent most of his time (his leave-of-absence always occurring in the Summer season) in his garden, trimming his shrubs, nursing his flowering-plants, growing magnificent roses, and in all ways acting utterly unlike a man of blood. Occasionally he played a game of chess with Parson Fisher, the jolly ex-clergyman, or smoked a pipe with the sadler-postmaster; he attended all the East Patten tea-parties, too, but he made himself so uniformly agreeable to all the ladies that the mothers in Israel agreed with many sighs, that the major was not a marrying man.
It may easily be imagined, then, that when one Summer the major reappeared at East Patten with a brother officer who was young and reasonably good-looking, the major's popularity did not diminish.
The young man was introduced as Lieutenant Doyson, who had once saved the major's life by a lucky shot, as that chieftain, with empty pistols, was trying to escape from a well-mounted Indian; and all the young ladies in town declared theyknewthe lieutenantmusthave done something wonderful, he wassosplendid.
But, with that fickleness which seems in some way communicable from wicked cities to virtuous villages, East Patten suddenly ceased to exhibit unusual interest in the pair of warriors, for a new excitement had convulsed the village mind to its very centre.
It was whispered that Mrs. Wittleday, the sole and widowed owner of the great Wittleday property, had wearied of the mourning she wore for the husband she had buried two years previously, and that she would soon publicly announce the fact by laying aside her weeds and giving a great entertainment, to which every one was to be invited.
There was considerable high-toned deprecation of so early a cessation of Mrs. Wittleday's sorrowing, she being still young and handsome, and there was some fault found on the economic ground that the widow couldn't yet have half worn out her mourning-garments; but as to the propriety of her giving an entertainment, the voices of East Patten were as one in the affirmative.
Such of the villagers as had chanced to sit at meat with the late Scott Wittleday, had reported that dishes with unremembered foreign names were as plenty as were the plainer viands on the tables of the old inhabitants; such East Pattenites as had not been entertained at the Wittleday board rejoiced in a prospect of believing by sight as well as by faith.
The report proved to have unusually good foundation. Within a fortnight each respectable householder received a note intimating that Mrs. Wittleday would be pleased to see self and family on the evening of the following Thursday.
The time was short, and the resources of the single store at East Patten were limited, but the natives did their best, and the eventful evening brought to Mrs. Wittleday's handsome parlors a few gentlemen and ladies, and a large number of good people, who, with all the heroism of a forlorn hope, were doing their best to appear at ease and happy.
The major and lieutenant were there, of course, and both in uniform, by special request of the hostess. The major, who had met Mrs. Wittleday in city society before her husband's death, and who had maintained a bowing-acquaintance with her during her widowhood, gravely presented the lieutenant to Mrs. Wittleday, made a gallant speech about the debt society owed to her for again condescending to smile upon it, and then presented his respects to the nearest of the several groups of ladies who were gazing invitingly at him.
Then he summoned the lieutenant (whose reluctance to leave Mrs. Wittleday's side was rendered no less by a bright smile which that lady gave him as he departed), and made him acquainted with ladies of all ages, and of greatly varying personal appearance. The young warrior went through the ordeal with only tolerable composure, and improved his first opportunity to escape and regain the society of the hostess. Two or three moments later, just as Mrs. Wittleday turned aside to speak to stately old Judge Bray, the lieutenant found himself being led rapidly toward the veranda. The company had not yet found its way out of the parlors to any extent, so the major locked the lieutenant's arm in his own, commenced a gentle promenade, and remarked:
"Fred, my boy, you're making an ass of yourself."
"Oh, nonsense, major," answered the young man, with considerable impatience. "I don't want to know all these queer, old-fashioned people; they're worse than a lot of plebes at West Point."
"I don't mean that, Fred, though, if you don't want to make talk, you must make yourself agreeable. But you're too attentive to Mrs. Wittleday."
"By George," responded the lieutenant, eagerly, "how can I help it? She's divine!"
"A great many others think so, too, Fred—I do myself—but they don't make it so plagued evident on short acquaintance. Behave yourself, now—your eyesight is good—sit down and play the agreeable to some old lady, and look at Mrs. Wittleday across the room, as often as you like."
The lieutenant was young; his face was not under good control, and he had no whiskers, and very little mustache to hide it, so, although he obeyed the order of his superior, it was with a visage so mournful that the major imagined, when once or twice he caught Mrs. Wittleday's eye, that that handsome lady was suffering from restrained laughter.
Humorous as the affair had seemed to the major before, he could not endure to have his preserver's sorrow the cause of merriment in any one else; so, deputing Parson Fisher to make their excuse to the hostess when it became possible to penetrate the crowd which had slowly surrounded her, the major took his friend's arm and returned to the cottage.
"Major!" exclaimed the subaltern, "I—I half wish I'd let that Indian catch you; then you wouldn't have spoiled the pleasantest evening I ever had—everbeganto have, I should say."
"You wouldn't have had an evening at East Patten then, Fred," said the major, with a laugh, as he passed the cigars, and lit one himself. "Seriously, my boy, you must be more careful. You came here to spend a pleasant three months with me, and the first time you're in society you act, to a lady you never saw before, too, in such a way, that if it had been any one but a lady of experience, she would have imagined you in love with her."
"Iamin love with her," declared the young man, with a look which was intended to be defiant, but which was noticeably shamedfaced. "I'm going to tell her so, too—that is, I'm going to write her about it."
"Steady, Fred—steady!" urged the major, kindly. "She'd be more provoked than pleased. Don't you suppose fifty men have worshiped her at first sight? They have, and she knows it, too—but it hasn't troubled her mind at all: handsome women know they turn men's heads in that way, and they generally respect the men who are sensible enough to hold their tongues about it, at least until there's acquaintance enough between them to justify a little confidence."
"Major," said poor Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, "don't—don't you suppose Icouldmake her care something for me?"
The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:
"My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who's lost one husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of another isn't in the hands of some villainous Apache?"
The unhappy lieutenant hid his face in heavy clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Well," said he, springing to his feet, and pacing the floor like a caged animal, "I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll write her, and throw my heart at her feet. Of course she won't care. It's just as you say. Why should she? But I'll do it, and then I'll go back to the regiment. I hate to spoilyourfun, major, if it's any fun to you to have such a fool in your quarters; but the fact is, the enemy's too much for me. I wouldn't feel worse if I was facing a division. I'll write her to morrow. I'd rather be refused by her than loved by any other woman."
"Put it off a fortnight, Fred," suggested the major; "it's the polite thing to call within a week after this party; you'll have a chance then to become better acquainted with her. She's delightful company, I'm told. Perhaps you'll make up your mind it's better to enjoy her society, during our leave, than to throw away everything in a forlorn hope. Wait a fortnight, that's a sensible youth."
"I can't, major!" cried the excited boy. "Hang it! you're an old soldier—don't you know how infernally uncomfortable it is to stand still and be shot at?"
"Ido, my boy," said the major, with considerable emphasis, and a far-away look at nothing in particular.
"Well, that'll be my fix as long as I stay here and keep quiet," replied the lieutenant.
"Wait a week, then," persisted the major. "You don't want to be 'guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,' eh? Don't spoil her first remembrances of the first freedom she's known for a couple of years."
"Well, call it a week, then," moodily replied the love-sick brave, lighting a candle, and moving toward his room. "I suppose it will take me a week, anyway, to make up a letter fit to send to such an angel."
The major sighed, put on an easy coat and slippers, and stepped into his garden.
"Poor Fred!" he muttered to himself, as he paced the walk in front of the piazza; "can't wait a fortnight, eh? Wonder what he would say if he knew I'd been waiting for seven or eight years—if he knew I fell in love with her as easily as he did, and that I've never recovered myself? Wonder what he'd do if some one were to marry her almost before his very eyes, as poor Wittleday did while I was longing for her acquaintance? Wonder what sort of fool he'd call me if he knew that I came to East Patten, time after time, just for a chance of looking at her—that I bought Rose Cottage merely to be near her—that I'd kept it all to myself, and for a couple of years had felt younger at the thought that I might, perchance, win her after all? Poor Fred! And yet, why shouldn't she marry him?—women have done stranger things; and he's a great deal more attractive-looking than an old campaigner like myself. Well, God bless 'em both, and have mercy on an old coward!"
The major looked toward the Wittleday mansion. The door was open; the last guests were evidently departing, and their beautiful entertainer was standing in the doorway, a flood of light throwing into perfect relief her graceful and tastefully dressed figure. She said something laughingly to the departing guests; it seemed exquisite music to the major. Then the door closed, and the major, with a groan, retired within his own door, and sorrowfully consumed many cigars.
The week that followed was a very dismal one to the major. He petted his garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and his whistling—sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression—was restricted to the execution of dead-marches alone. He jeopardized his queen so often at chess that Parson Fisher deemed it only honorable to call the major's attention to his misplays, and to allow him to correct them.
The saddler post-master noticed that the major—usually a most accomplished smoker—now consumed a great many matches in relighting each pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to meet Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and raised hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober herself for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any way have given the major offense.
As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major's desk for many sorrowful hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless, collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a flute.
The major complained—rather frequently for a man who had spent years on the Plains—of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest but unskilled amateur.
For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the only happy moments that were his during the week.
The week drew very near its close. The major had, with a heavy but desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points for discussion—he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern remained faithful and obdurate.
Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the major's surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned air.
"Major," said he, "I wouldn't mention it under any other circumstances, but—I saved your life once?"
"You did, my boy. God bless you!" responded the major, promptly.
"Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I'll never ask another. It's no use for me to try to write to her—the harder I try the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this:youwrite me a rough draft of what's fit to send to such an incomparable being, and I'll copy it and send it over. I don't expect any answer—all I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it handsomely, and—hang it, I don't know how. Write just as if you were doing it for yourself. Will you do it?"
The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him his self-command, and he replied:
"I'll do it, Fred, right away."
"Don't spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do," said the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.
"Write just as if you were doing it for yourself."
The young man's words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked to do.
This silly performance of the lieutenant's would, of course, put an end to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over the subaltern's name, all that he had for years been hoping for an opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the real author of the letter—it would still be an unspeakable comfort to write the words and know that her eyes would read them—that her heart would perhaps—probably, in fact—pity the writer.
The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which nearly a page was covered with the major's very characteristic chirography.
"By gracious, major!" exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, "that's magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it's plaguy like marching under some one else's colors."
"Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don't hope too much."
The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then dispatched the missive by the major's servant, laying the rough draft away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.
The morning hours lagged dreadfully. Both warriors smoked innumerable cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.
The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow. Dinner was set at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to consider it advisable to produce.
The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o'clock; newspapers by the noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an attempted game of cribbage speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual consent.
Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet, looked out of the window, and exclaimed:
"It's her darkey—he's got an answer—oh, major!"
"Steady, boy, steady!" said the major, arising hastily and laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, as that excited person was hastening to the door. "'Officer and gentleman,' you know. Let Sam open the door."
The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two servants, and Mrs. Wittleday's coachman appeared in the dining-room, holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable carrier grinned politely, said:
"It's for de major, sar—wuz told to give it right into his han's, and nobody else," fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.
"Hurry up, major—do, please," whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday's envelope. As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of puzzled wonder.
"Fred," said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, "what in creation did you write Mrs. Wittleday?"
"Just what you gave me to write," replied the young man, evidently astonished.
"Let me see my draft of it," said the major.
The lieutenant opened a drawer in the major's desk, took out a sheet of paper, looked at it, and cried:
"I sent her your draft!Thisis my letter!"
"And she imaginedIwrote it, and has acceptedme!" gasped the major.
The wretched Frederick turned pale, and tottered toward a chair. The major went over to him and spoke to him sympathizingly, but despite his genial sorrow for the poor boy, the major's heart was so full that he did not dare to show his face for a moment; so he stood behind the lieutenant, and looked across his own shoulder out of the window.
"Oh, major," exclaimed Fred, "isn't it possible that you're mistaken?"
"Here's her letter, my boy," said the major; "judge for yourself."
The young man took the letter in a mechanical sort of way, and read as follows: