0369
When Morton hears of them remarks he re-gyards himse’f as wronged.
“An’ if Old Houston,” observes Morton, who’s a knife fighter an’ has sliced offensive gents from time to time; “an’ if Old Houston ain’t more gyarded in his remarks, I’ll take to disapprovin’ of his conduct with a bowie.”
As I intimates, Old Houston is that pride-blown that you-all couldn’t stay on the same range where he is. An’ he’s worried to a standstill for a openin’ to onload on the Texas public a speciment of his dignity. At last, seein’ the chances comin’ some slow, he ups an’ constructs the opportunity himse’f.
Old Houston’s home-camp, that a-way, is at a hamlet named Washin’ton down on the Brazos. It’s thar he squanders the heft of his leesure when not back of the game as President over to Austin. Thar’s a clause in the constitootion which, while pitchin’ onto Austin as the public’s home-ranche or capitol, permits the President in the event of perils onforeseen or invasions or sech, to round up the archives an’ move the capitol camp a whole lot. Old Houston, eager to be great, seizes onto this yere tenet.
“I’ll jest sort o’ order the capitol to come down, yere where I live at,” says Old Houston, “an’ tharby call the waverin’ attention of the Lone Star public to who I be.”
As leadin’ up to this atrocity an’ to come within the constitootion, Old Houston allows that Austin is menaced by Comanches. Shore, it ain’t menaced none; Austin would esteem the cleanin’ out of that entire Comanche tribe as the labors of a holiday. But it fills into Old Houston’s hand to make this bluff as a excuse. An’ with that, he issues the order to bring the whole gov’ment layout down to where he lives.
No, as I tells you-all before, Austin ain’t in no more danger of Comanches than she is of j’inin’ the church. Troo, these yere rannikaboo savages does show up in paint an’ feathers over across the Colorado once or twice; but beyond a whoop or two an’ a little permiscus shootin’ into town which nobody minds, them vis’tations don’t count.
To give you-all gents a idee how little is deemed of Comanches by them Texas forefathers, let me say a word of Bill Spence who keeps a store in Austin. Bill’s addin’ up Virg Horne’s accounts one afternoon in his books.
“One pa’r of yaller-top, copper-toe boots for Virg, joonior, three dollars; one red cal’co dress for Missis Virg, two dollars,” goes on Bill.
At this epock Bill hears a yowl; glancin’ out of the winder, he counts a couple of hundred Injuns who’s proselytin’ about over on t’other side of the river. Bill don’t get up none; he jests looks annoyed on account of that yellin’ puttin’ him out in his book-keepin’.
As a bullet from them savages comes singin’ in the r’ar door an’ buries itse’f in a ham, Bill even gets incensed.
“Hiram,” he calls to his twelve-year old son, who’s down cellar drawin’ red-eye for a customer; “Hiram, you-all take pop’s rifle, raise the hindsight for three hundred yards, an’ reprove them hostiles. Aim low, Hiram, an’ if you fetches one, pop’ll give you a seegyar an’ let you smoke it yourse’f.”
Bill goes back to Virg Horne’s account, an’ Hiram after slammin’ away with Bill’s old Hawkins once or twice comes in an’ gets his seegyar.
No; Old Houston does wrong when he flings forth this yere ukase about movin’ the capitol. Austin, even if a gent does have to dodge a arrer or duck a bullet as he prosecootes his daily tasks, is as safe as a camp-meetin’.
When Old Houston makes the order, one of his Brazos pards reemonstrates with him.
“Which Austin will simply go into the air all spraddled out,” says this pard.
“If Austin sails up in the air an’ stays thar,” says Old Houston, “still you-all can gamble that this yere order goes.”
“You hears,” says another, “Elder Peters when he tells of how a Mexican named Mohammed commands the mountain to come to him? But the mountain calls his bluff; that promontory stands pat, an’ Mohammed has to go to the mountain.”
“My name’s Sam Houston an’ it ain’t Mo-hommed,” retorts Old Houston. “Moreover, Mohammed don’t have no written constitootion.”
Nacherally, when Austin gets notice of Old Houston’s plan, that meetropolis r’ars back an’ screams. The faro-bank folks an’ the tavern folks is speshul malignant, an’ it ain’t no time before they-all convenes a meetin’ to express their views on Old Houston. Morton an’ Jedge Webb does the oratory. An’ you hear me! that assembly is shore sultry. Which the epithets they applies to Old Houston kills the grass for twenty rods about.
Austin won’t move.
Austin resolves to go to war first; a small army is organized with Morton in command to gyard the State House an’ the State books that a-way, an’ keep Old Houston from romancin’ over an’ packin’ ’em off a heap.
Morton is talkin’ an’ Webb is presidin’ over this yere convocation—which the said meetin’ is that large an’ enthoosiastic it plumb chokes up the hall an’ overflows into the street—when all of a sudden a party comes swingin’ through the open winder from the top of a scrub-oak that grows alongside the buildin’, an’ drops light as a cat onto the platform with Morton an’ Webb. At this yere interruption, affairs comes to a halt, an’ the local sports turns in to consider an’ count up the invader.
This gent who swoops through the winder is dark, big, bony an’ tall; his ha’r is lank an’ long as the mane of a hoss; his eyes is deep an’ black; his face, tanned like a Injun’s, seems hard as iron. He’s dressed in leather from foretop to fetlock, is shod with a pa’r of Comanche moccasins, an’ besides a ’leven inch knife in his belt, packs a rifle with a 48-inch bar’l. It will weigh twenty pounds, an’ yet this stranger handles it like it’s a willow switch.
As this darksome gent lands in among Morton an’ Webb, he stands thar without sayin’ a word. Webb, on his part, is amazed, while Morton glowers.
“Whatever do you-all regyard as a market price for your skelp?’” says Morton to the black interloper, at the same time loosenin’ his knife.
The black stranger makes no reply; his hand flashes to his bowie, while his face still wears its iron look.
Webb, some hurried, pushes in between Morton an’ the black stranger. Webb is more for peace an’ don’t believe in beginnin’ negotiations with a knife.
Webb dictates a passel of p’lite queries to this yere black stranger. Tharupon, the black stranger bows p’lite an’ formal, an’ goin’ over to the table writes down in good English, “I’m deef an’ dumb.” Next, he searches outen his war-bags a letter. It’s from Old Houston over on the Brazos. Old Houston allows that onless Austin comes trailin’ in with them records within three days, he’ll ride over a whole lot an’ make the round-up himse’f. Old Houston declar’s that Austin by virchoo of them Comanches is as on-safe as a Christian in Mississippi, an’ he don’t aim to face no sech dangers while performin’ his dooties as President of the Commonwealth.
After the black stranger flings the letter on the table, he’s organizin’ to go out through the winder ag’in. But Morton sort o’ detains him. Morton writes on the paper that now the black stranger is through his dooties as a postman, he will, if he’s a dead game sport, stay over a day, an’ him an’ Morton will entertain themse’fs by pullin’ off a war of their own. The idee strikes the black stranger as plenty good, an’ while his face still wears its ca’m, hard look, he writes onder Morton’s bluff:
“Rifles; no’th bank of the Colorado; sun-down, this evenin’.”
The next moment he leaps from the platform to the winder an’ from thar to the ground, an’ is gone.
“But Colonel Morton,” reemonstrates Webb, who’s some scand’lized at Morton hookin’ up for blood with this yere black stranger; “you-all shorely don’t aim to fight this party? He’s deef an’ dumb, which is next to bein’ locoed outright. Moreover, a gent of your standin’ can’t afford to go ramblin’ about, lockin’ horns with every on-known miscreant who comes buttin’ in with a missif from President Houston, an’ then goes stampedin’ through a winder by way of exit.”
“Onknown!” retorts Morton. “That letterpackin’ person is as well known as the Rio Grande. That’s Deef Smith.”
“Colonel Morton,” observes Webb, some horrified when he learns the name of the black stranger, “this yere Deef Smith is a shore shot. They say he can empty a Comanche saddle four times in five at three hundred yards.”
“That may be as it may,” returns Morton. “If I downs him, so much the more credit; if he gets me, at the worst I dies by a famous hand.”
The sun is restin’ on the sky-line over to the west. Austin has done crossed the Colorado an’ lined up to witness this yere dooel. Deef Smith comes ridin’ in from some’ers to the no’th, slides outen the saddle, pats his hoss on the neck, an’ leaves him organized an’ ready fifty yards to one side. Then Deef Smith steps to the center an’ touches his hat, mil’tary fashion, to Morton an’ Webb.
These yere cavaliers is to shoot it out at one hundred yards. As they takes their places, Morton says:
“Jedge Webb, if this Deef Smith party gets me, as most like he will, send my watch to my mother in Looeyville.”
Then they fronts each other; one in brown leather, the other in cloth as good as gold can buy. No one thinks of any difference between ’em, however, in a day when courage is the test of aristocracy.
Since one gent can’t hear, Webb is to give the word with a handkerchief. At the first flourish the rifles fall to a hor’zontal as still an’ steady as a rock. Thar’s a brief pause; then Webb drops his handkerchief.
Thar is a crack like one gun; Deef Smith’s hat half turns on his head as the bullet cuts it, while Morton stands a moment an’ then, without a sound, falls dead on his face. The lead from Deef Smith’s big rifle drills him through the heart. Also, since it perforates that gold repeater, an’ as the blood sort o’ clogs the works, the Austin folks decides it’s no use to send it on to Looeyville, but retains it that a-way as a keepsake.
With the bark of the guns an’ while the white smoke’s still hangin’ to mark the spot where he stands, Deef Smith’s hoss runs to him like a dog. The next instant Deef Smith is in the saddle an’ away. It’s jest as well. Morton’s plenty pop’lar with the Austin folks an’ mebby some sharp, in the first hysteria of a great loss, overlooks what’s doo to honor an’ ups an’ plugs this yere Deef Smith.
The Old Cattleman made a long halt as indicative that his story was at an end. There was a moment of silence, and then the Jolly Doctor spoke up.
“But how about the books and papers?” asked the Jolly Doctor.
“Oh, nothin’ partic’lar,” said the Old Cattleman. “It turns out like Old Houston prophesies. Three days later, vain an’ soopercilious, he rides in, corrals them archives, an’ totes ’em haughtily off to the Brazos.”
Following the Old Cattleman’s leaf from Lone Star annals, the Sour Gentleman prepared himself to give us his farewell page from the unwritten records of the Customs.
“On this, our last evening,” observed the Sour Gentleman, “it seems the excellent thing to tell you what was practically my final act of service or, if you will, disservice with the Customs. We may call the story ‘How the Filibusterer Sailed.’”
It will come to you as strange, my friends, to hear objection—as though against an ill trait—to that open-handed generosity which is held by many to be among the marks of supreme virtue. Generosity, whether it be evidenced by gifts of money, of sympathy, of effort or of time, is only another word for weakness. If one were to go into careful consideration of the life-failure of any man, it would be found most often that his fortunes were slain by his generosity; and while, without consideration, he gave to others his countenance, his friendship, his money, his toil or whatever he conferred, he in truth but parted with his own future—with those raw materials wherewith he would otherwise have fashioned a victorious career. Generosity, in a commonest expression, is giving more than one receives; it is to give two hundred and get one hundred; he is blind, therefore, who does not see that any ardor of generosity would destroy a Rothschild.
From birth, and as an attribute inborn, I have been ever too quick to give. For a first part of my life at least, and until I shackled my impulse of liberality, I was the constant victim of that natural readiness. And I was cheated and swindled with every rising sun. I gave friendship and took pretense; I parted with money for words; ever I rendered the real and received the false, and sold the substance for the shadow to any and all who came pleasantly to smile across my counter. I was not over-old, however, when these dour truths broke on me, and I began to teach myself the solvent beauty of saying “No.”
During those months of exile—for exile it was—which I spent in Washington Square, I cultivated misanthropy—a hardness of spirit; almost, I might say, I fostered a hatred of my fellow man. And more or less I had success. I became owner of much stiffness of sentiment and a proneness to be practical; and kept ever before me like a star that, no matter how unimportant I might be to others, to myself at least I was most important of mankind. Doubtless, I lost in grace by such studies; but in its stead I succeeded to safety, and when we are at a final word, we live by what we keep and die by what we quit, and of all loyalties there’s no loyalty like loyalty to one’s self.
While I can record a conquest of my generosity and its subjugation to lines of careful tit-for-tat, there were other emotions against which I was unable to toughen my soul. I became never so redoubtable that I could beat off the assaults of shame; never so puissant of sentiment but I was prey to regrets. For which weaknesses, I could not think on the affairs of The Emperor’s Cigars and The German Girl’s Diamonds, nor on the sordid money I pouched as their fruits, without the blush mounting; nor was I strong enough to consider the latter adventure and escape a stab of sore remorse. Later could I have found the girl I would have made her restitution. Even now I hear again that scream which reached me on the forward deck of the “Wolfgang” that September afternoon.
But concerning the Cuban filibusterer, his outsailing against Spain; and the gold I got for his going—for these I say, I never have experienced either confusion or sorrow. My orders were to keep him in; I opened the port’s gate and let him out; I pocketed my yellow profits. And under equal conditions I would do as much again. It was an act of war against Spain; yet why should one shrink from one’s interest for a reason like that? Where was the moral wrong? Nations make war; and what is right for a country, is right for a man. That is rock-embedded verity, if one will but look, and that which is dishonest for an individual cannot be honest for a flag. You may—if you so choose—make war on Spain, and with as much of justice as any proudest people that ever put to sea. The question of difference is but a question of strength; and so you be strong enough you’ll be right enough, I warrant! For what says the poet?
“Right follows might
Like tail follows kite.”
It is a merest truism; we hear it in the storm; the very waves are its witnesses. Everywhere and under each condition, it is true. The proof lies all about. We read it on every page of history; behold it when armies overthrow a throne or the oak falls beneath the axe of the woodman. Do I disfavor war? On the contrary, I approve it as an institution of greatest excellence. War slays; war has its blood. But has peace no victims? Peace kills thousands where war kills tens; and if one is to consider misery, why then there be more starvation, more cold, more pain, and more suffering in one year of New York City peace than pinched and gnawed throughout the whole four years of civil war. And human life is of comparative small moment. We say otherwise; we believe otherwise; but we don’t act otherwise. Action is life’s text. Humanity is itself the preacher; in that silent sermon of existence—an existence of world’s goods and their acquirement—we forever show the thing of least consequence to be the life of man. However, I am not myself to preach, I who pushed forth to tell a story. It is the defect of age to be garrulous, and as one’s power to do departs, its place is ever taken by a weakness to talk.
This filibusterer whom I liberated to sail against Spain, I long ago told you was called Ryan. That, however, is a fictitious name; there was a Ryan, and the Spaniards took his life at Santiago. And because he with whom I dealt was also put up against a wall and riddled with Spanish lead, and further, because it is not well to give his true name, I call him Ryan now. His ship rode on her rope in New York bay; I was given the Harriet Lane to hold him from sailing away; his owners ashore—merchants these and folk on ’change—offered me ten thousand dollars; the gold was in bags, forty pounds of it; I turned my back at evening and in the morning he was gone.
You have been told how I never thought on those adventures of The Emperor’s Cigars, and The German Girl’s Diamonds, without sensations of shame, and pain. Indeed! they were engagements of ignobility! Following the latter affair I felt a strongest impulse to change somewhat my occupation. I longed for an employment a bit safer and less foul. I counted my fortunes; I was rich with over seventy thousand dollars; that might do, even though I gained no more. And so it fell that I was almost ready to leave the Customs, and forswear and, if possible, forget, those sins I had helped commit in its name.
In the former days, my home tribe was not without consequence in Old Dominion politics. And while we could not be said to have strengthened ourselves by that part we took against the Union, still, now that peace was come, the family began little by little to regather a former weight. It had enough at this time to interfere for my advantage and rescue me from my present duty. I was detailed from Washington to go secretly to Europe, make the careless tour of her capitols, and keep an eye alive to the interests of both the Treasury and the State Department.
It was a gentleman’s work; this loafing from London to Paris, and from Paris to Berlin, with an occasional glance into Holland and its diamond cutting. And aside from expenses—which were paid by the government—I drew two salaries; one from the Customs and a second from the Secret Service. My business was to detect intended smuggling and cable the story, to the end that Betelnut Jack and Lorns and Quin and the others make intelligent seizures when the smugglers came into New York. The better to gain such news, I put myself on closest terms—and still keep myself a secret—with chief folk among houses of export; I went about with them, drank with them, dined with them; and I wheedled and lay in ambush for information of big sales. I sent in many a good story; and many a rich seizure came off through my interference. Also I lived vastly among legation underlings, and despatched what I found to the Department of State. There was no complaint that I didn’t earn my money from either my customs or my secret service paymaster. In truth! I stood high in their esteem.
At times, too, I was baffled. There was a lady, the handsome wife of a diamond dealer in Maiden Lane. She came twice a year to Europe. Obviously and in plain view—like the vulgarian she was not—this beautiful woman, as she went aboard ship in New York, would wear at throat and ears and on her hands full two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stones—apparently. And there they seemed to be when she returned; and, of course, never a dime of duty. We were morally sure this beautiful woman was a beautiful smuggler; we were morally sure those stones were paste when she sailed from New York; we were morally sure they were genuine, of purest water, when she returned; we were morally sure the shift was made in Paris, and that a harvest of thousands was garnered with every trip. But what might we do? We had no proof; we could get none; we could only guess.
And there were other instances when we slipped. More than once I tracked a would-be smuggler to his ship and saw him out of port. And yet, when acting on my cables, the smuggler coming down the New York gang-plank was snapped up by my old comrades and searched, nothing was found. This mystery, for mystery it was, occurred a score of times. At last we learned the trick. The particular room occupied by the smuggler was taken both ways for a round dozen trips ahead. There were seven members of the smuggling combine. When one left the room, his voyage ended, and came ashore in New York, another went duly aboard and took possession for the return trip. The diamonds had not gone ashore. They were hidden in a sure place somewhere about the room; he who took it to go to Europe knew where. And in those several times to follow when the outgoer was on and off the boat before she cleared, he found no difficulty in carrying the gems ashore. The Customs folk aren’t watching departures; their vigilance is for those who arrive. However, after a full score of defeats, we solved this last riddle, and managed a seizure which lost the rogues what profits they had gathered on all the trips before.
Also, as I pried about the smuggling industry, I came across more than one interesting bit of knowledge. I found a French firm making rubies—actual rubies. It was a great secret in my time, though more is known of it now. The ruby was real; stood every test save the one test—a hard one to enforce—of specific gravity. The made ruby was a shadow lighter, bulk for bulk, than the true ruby of the mines. This made ruby was called the “scientific ruby;” and indeed! it was scientific to such a degree of delusion that the best experts were for long deceived and rubies which cost no more than two hundred dollars to make, were sold for ten thousand dollars.
As a curious discovery of my ramblings, I stumbled on a diamond, the one only of its brood. It was small, no more than three-quarters of a carat. But of a color pure orange and—by day or by night—blazing like a spark of fire. That stone if lost could be found; it is the one lone member of its orange house. What was its fate? Set in the open mouth of a little lion’s head, one may now find it on the finger of a prince of the Bourse.
It was while in Madrid, during my European hunting, that those seeds were sown which a few months later grew into a smart willingness to let down the bars for my filibusterer’s escape. I was by stress of duty held a month in Madrid. And, first to last, I heard nothing from the natives when they spoke of America but malediction and vilest epithet. It kept me something warm, I promise, for all I had once ridden saber in hand to smite that same American government hip and thigh. I left Madrid when my work was done with never a moment’s delay; and I carried away a profound hate for Spain and all things Spanish.
As I was brought home by commands from my superiors at the end of my Madrid work, these anti-Spanish sentiments had by no means cooled when I made the New York wharf. Decidedly if I’d been searched for a sentiment, I would have been discovered hostile to Spanish interest when, within three weeks following my home-coming, I was given the Harriet Lane, shown the suspect and his ship, and told to have a sleepless eye and seize him if he moved.
It’s the Norse instinct to hate Spain; and I was blood and lineage, decisively Norse. That affair of instinct is a mighty matter. It is curious to note how one’s partisanship will back-track one’s racial trail and pick up old race feuds and friendships; hating where one’s forbears hated, loving where they loved. Even as a child, being then a devourer of history, I well recall how—while loathing England as the foe of this country—I still went with her in sympathy was she warring with France or Spain. I remember, too, that, in England’s civil wars, I was ever for the Roundhead and against the King. This, you say, sounds strangely for my theory, coming as I do from Virginia, that state of the Cavalier. One should reflect that Cavalierism—to invent a word—is naught save a Southern boast. Virginia, like most seaboard Southern states, was in its time a sort of Botany Bay whereunto, with other delinquents, political prisoners were condemned; my own ancestors coming, in good truth! by edict of the Bloody Jeffreys for the hand they took in Monmouth’s rebellion. It is true as I state, even as a child, too young for emotions save emotions of instinct, I was ever the friend, as I read history, first of my own country; and next of England, Germany, Holland, Denmark and Sweden-Nor-way—old race-camps of my forefathers, these—and like those same forefathers the uncompromising foe of France, Spain, Italy, and the entire Latin tribe, as soon as ever my reading taught me their existence.
My filibusterer swung on his cable down the bay from Governor’s Island. During daylight I held the Harriet Lane at decent distance; when night came down I lay as closely by him as I might and give the ships room as they swept bow for stern with the tide. Also, we had a small-boat patrol in the water.
It was the fourth day of my watch. I was ashore to stretch my legs, and at that particular moment, grown weary of walking, on a bench in Battery Park, from which coign I had both my filibusterer and the Harriet Lane beneath my eye, and could signal the latter whenever I would.
On the bench with me sat a well-dressed stranger; I had before observed him during my walk. With an ease that bespoke the trained gentleman, and in manner unobtrusive, my fellow bencher stole into talk with me. Sharpened of my trade, he had not discoursed a moment before I felt and knew his purpose; he was friend to my filibusterer whose black freeboard showed broadside on as she tugged and strove with her cable not a mile away.
He carried the talk to her at last.
“I don’t believe she’s a filibusterer,” he said. Her character was common gossip, and he had referred to that. “I don’t believe she’s a filibusterer. I’d be glad to see her get out if I thought she were,” and he turned on me a tentative eye.
Doubtless he observed a smile, and therein read encouragement. I told him my present business; not through vain jauntiness of pride, but I was aware that he well knew my mission before ever he sat down, and I thought I’d fog him up a bit with airs of innocence, and lead him to suppose I suspected him not.
After much tacking and going about, first port and then starboard—to use the nautical phrase—he came straight at me.
“Friend,” he said; “the cause of liberty—Cuban liberty, if you will—is dear to me. If that ship be a filibusterer and meant for Cuba’s aid, speaking as a humanitarian, I could give you ten thousand reasons, the best in the world, why you should let her sail.” This last, wistfully.
Thereupon I lighted a cigar, having trouble by reason of the breeze. Then getting up, I took my handkerchief and wig-wagged the Harriet Lane to send the gig ashore. As I prepared to go down to the water-front, I turned to my humanitarian who so loved liberty.
“Give your reasons to Betelnut Jack,” I said; “he delights in abstract deductions touching the rights of man as against the rights of states as deeply as did that Thetford Corset maker, Thomas Paine.”
“Betelnut Jack!” said my humanitarian. “He shall have every reason within an hour.”
“Should you convince him,” I retorted, “tell him as marking a fact in which I shall take the utmost interest to come to this spot at five o’clock and show me his handkerchief.”
Then I joined the Harriet Lane.
At the hour suggested, Betelnut Jack stood on the water’s edge and flew the signal. I put the captain’s glass on him to make sure. He had been given the reasons, and was convinced. There abode no doubt of it; the humanitarian was right and Cuba should be free. Besides, I remembered Madrid and hated Spain.
“Captain,” I observed, as I handed that dignitary the glasses, “we will, if you please, lie in the Narrows to-night. If this fellow leave—which he won’t—he’ll leave that way. And we’ll pinch him.”
The Captain bowed. We dropped down to the Narrows as the night fell black as pitch. The Captain and I cracked a bottle. As we toasted each other, our suspect crept out through the Sound, and by sunrise had long cleared Montauk and far and away was southward bound and safe on the open ocean.
“I believe,” observed the Jolly Doctor to the Sour Gentleman when the latter paused, “I believe you said that the Filibusterer was in the end taken and shot.”
“Seized when he made his landing,” returned the Sour Gentleman, “and killed against a wall in the morning.”
“It was a cheap finish for a 10,000-dollar start,” remarked the Red Nosed Gentleman, sententiously. “But why should this adventurer, Ryan, as you call him, go into the business of freeing Cuba? Where would lie his profit? I don’t suppose now it was a love of liberty which put him in motion.”
“The Cuban rebellionists,” said the Sour Gentleman, “were from first to last sustained by certain business firms in New York who had arranged to make money by their success. It is a kind of piracy quite common, this setting our Spanish-Americans to cutting throats that a profit may flow in Wall and Broad streets. Every revolution and almost every war in South and Central America have their inspirations in the counting-rooms of some great New York firm. I’ve known rival houses in New York to set a pair of South American republics to battling with each other like a brace of game cocks. Thousands were slain with that war. Sure, it is the merest blackest piracy; the deeds of Kidd or Morgan were milk-white by comparison.”
“It shows also,” observed the Jolly Doctor, “how little the race has changed. In our hearts we are the same vikings of savage blood and pillage, and with no more of ruth, we were in the day of Harold Fairhair.”
Sioux Sam, at the Old Cattleman’s suggestion, came now to relate the story of “How Moh-Kwa Saved the Strike Axe.”
This shall be the story of how Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear, saved Strike Axe from the medicine of Yellow Face, the bad medicine man, who would take his life an’ steal the Feather, his squaw. An’ it is a story good to show that you should never lose a chance to do a kind deed, since kind deeds are the steeps up which the Great Spirit makes you climb to reach the happiness at the top. When you do good, you climb up; when you do bad, you climb down; an’ at the top is happiness which is white, an’ at the bottom is pain which is black, an’ the Great Spirit says every man shall take his choice.
Strike Axe is of the war-clan an’ is young. Also he is a big fighter next to Ugly Elk who is the war chief. An’ Strike Axe for all he is only a young man an’ has been but four times on the war trail, has already taken five skelps—one Crow, one Blackfoot, three Pawnees. This makes big talk among all the Sioux along the Yellowstone, an’ Strike Axe is proud an’ gay, for he is held a great warrior next to Ugly Elk; an’ it is the Pawnees an’ Crows an’ Blackfeet who say this, which makes it better than if it is only the talk of the Sioux.
When Ugly Elk sets up the war-pole, an’ calls to his young men to make ready to go against the Pawnees to take skelps an’ steal ponies, Strike Axe is the first to beat the war-pole with his stone club, an’ his war pony is the first that is saddled for the start.
Strike Axe has a squaw an’ the name of the squaw is the Feather. Of the girls of the Sioux, the Feather is one of the most beautiful. Yet she is restless an’ wicked, an’ thinks plots an’ is hungry
Yellow Face, the bad medicine man, has made a spell over the Feather. Yellow Face hates Strike Axe because of so much big talk about him. Also, he loves the Feather an’ would have her for his squaw. He tells her she is like the sunset, but she will not hear; then he says she is like the sunrise, but still she shakes her head, only she shakes it slow; so at last Yellow Face tells her she is like the Wild Rose, an’ at that she laughs an’ listens.
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But the Feather will not leave Strike Axe an’ go with Yellow Face, for Strike Axe is a big fighter; an’ moreover, he kills many elk an’ buffalo, an’ his lodge is full of beef an’ robes, an’ the Feather is no fool. Besides, at this time her heart is not bad, but only restless.
Then Yellow Face sees he must give her a bad heart or he will never win the Feather. So Yellow Face kills the Great Rattlesnake of the Rocks, who is his brother medicine, an’ cooks an’ feeds his heart to the Feather. Then she loves Yellow Face an’ hates Strike Axe, an’ would help the Yellow Face slay him. For the heart of the Great Rattlesnake of the Rocks is evil, an’ evil breeds evil where it touches, an’ so the Feather’s heart turns black like the snake’s heart which she swallowed from the hand of Yellow Face.
Strike Axe does not know what the Feather an’ Yellow Face say an’ do, for he is busy sharpening his lance an’ making arrows to shoot against the Pawnees, an’ his ears an’ eyes have no time to run new trails. But Strike Axe can tell that the Feather’s heart is against him; an’ this makes him to wonder, because he is a big fighter; an’ besides he has more than any Sioux, meat an’ furs an’ beads an’ blankets an’ paint an’ feathers, all of which are good to the eyes of squaws, an’ the Feather is no fool. An’, remembering these things, Strike Axe wonders an’ wonders; but he cannot tell why the heart of the Feather is against him. An’ at last Strike Axe puts away the puzzle of the Feather’s heart.
“It is a trail in running water,” says Strike Axe, “an’ no one may follow it. The heart of a squaw is a bird an’ flies in the air an’ no one may trace it.” With that, Strike Axe washes his memory free of the puzzle of the Feather’s heart an’ goes away to the big trees by the Yellowstone to hunt.
Strike Axe tells the Feather he will be gone one moon; for now while her heart is against him his lodge is cold an’ his blankets hard an’ the fire no longer burns for Strike Axe, an’ his own heart is tired to be alone.
It is among the big trees by the Yellowstone that Strike Axe meets Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear, while Moh-Kwa is hunting for a bee tree. But he can’t find one, an’ he is sad an’ hungry an’ tells Strike Axe he fears the bees have gone far away to live with the Pawnees.
But Strike Axe says “No!” an’ takes Moh-Kwa to a bee-tree he has found; an’ Moh-Kwa sings in his joy, an’ climbs an’ eats until he is in pain; while Strike Axe stands a long way off, for the bees are angry an’ their knives are out.
Moh-Kwa is grateful to Strike Axe when his pain from much honey is gone, an’ says he will come each day, an’ eat an’ fight with the bees while there is honey left. An’ Moh-Kwa asks Strike Axe to remember that he is the Great Wise Bear of the Yellowstone, an’ to tell him what is evil with him so Moh-Kwa can do him good.
Strike Axe thinks very hard; then he tells Moh-Kwa how the Feather’s heart is against him an’ has left him; he would know what the Feather will do an’ where her heart has gone.
Moh-Kwa puts his paw above his eyes to keep out the sun so he can think better; an’ soon Moh-Kwa remembers that the wife of the Great Rattlesnake of the Rocks, when he met her hunting rats among the cliffs, told him she was now a widow, for Yellow Face had killed the Great Rattlesnake of the Rocks—who was his brother medicine—an’ fed his heart to the Feather.
Moh-Kwa tells Strike Axe how the Feather was bewitched by Yellow Face.
“Come now with me,” said Moh-Kwa to Strike Axe, “an’ I will show you what the Feather an’ Yellow Face do while you are gone. You are a young buck an’ a good buck, an’ because of your youth an’ the kind deed you did when you found for me the bees—to whom I shall go back an’ fight with for more honey to-morrow and every day while it lasts—I will show you a danger like a lance, an’ how to hold your shield so you may come safe from it.”
Moh-Kwa took Strike Axe by the hand an’ led him up a deep canyon an’ into his cavern where a big fire burned in the floor’s middle for light. An’ bats flew about the roof of Moh-Kwa’s cavern an’ owls sat on points of rock high up on the sides an’ made sad talks; but Strike Axe being brave an’ with a good heart, was not afraid an’ went close to the fire in the floor’s middle an’ sat down.
Moh-Kwa got him a fish to eat; an’ when it was baked on the coals an’ eaten, brought him a pipe with kinnikinick to smoke. When that was done, Moh-Kwa said:
“Now that your stomach is full an’ strong to stand grief, I will show you what the Feather an’ Yellow Face do while you are gone; for they make medicine against you an’ reach out to kill you an’ take your life.” Moh-Kwa then turned over a great stone with his black paws an’ took out of a hole which was under the stone, a looking glass. Moh-Kwa gave Strike Axe the looking glass an’ said, “Look; for there you shall see the story of what the Feather an’ the wicked Yellow Face do.”
Strike Axe looked, an’ saw that Yellow Face was wrapping up a log in a blanket. When he had done this, he belted it with the belts of Strike Axe; an’ then he put on its head the war-bonnet of Strike Axe which hung on the lodge pole. An’ now that it was finished, Yellow Face said the log in the blanket an’ wearing the belts an’ war-bonnet was Strike Axe—as Strike Axe saw truly in the looking glass—an’ Yellow Face stood up the log in its blanket an’ belts an’ war-bonnet, an’ made his bow ready to kill it with an arrow. As Yellow Face did these things, the Feather stood watching him with a smile on her face while the blood-hope shone in her eyes; for she had eaten the snake’s heart an’ all her spirit was black.
Strike Axe saw what went on with the Feather an’ Yellow Face, an’ told it as the glass told it, word for word to Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear, who sat by his side to listen.
Then Moh-Kwa, when he knew that now Yellow Face with three arrows in his left hand was stringing a bow to shoot against the log which he had dressed up an’ named “Strike Axe,” said there was little time to be lost; an’ Moh-Kwa hurried Strike Axe to the round deep spring of clear water which was in the cavern, an’ told him to stand on the edge of the spring an’ look hard in the looking glass an’ take sharp notice just as Yellow Face was to shoot the arrow against the log.
“An’ you must dive in the spring when Yellow Face shoots,” said Moh-Kwa to Strike Axe; “you must dive like the loon dives when you shoot at him on the river.”
Strike Axe looked hard in the looking glass like Moh-Kwa said, an’ dived in the spring when the arrow left the bow of Yellow Face.
When he came up, he looked again in the glass an’ saw that Yellow Face had missed the log. Yellow Face had a half-fear because he had missed, an’ Strike Axe looking in Moh-Kwa’s glass could see the half-fear rising up as a mist in his eyes like a morning fog lifts up from the Yellowstone. Also, the Feather stood watching Yellow Face, an’ her eyes, which were grown hard an’ little an’ bright, like a snake’s eyes, showed that she did not care what happened only so that it was evil.
But Moh-Kwa told Strike Axe to still watch closely, an’ would not let his mind pull up its pickets an’ stray; because Yellow Face would shoot twice more with the arrows which were left; an’ he must be quick an’ ready each time to dive like the loon dives, or he would surely die by the log’s wound.
Strike Axe, because he had eaten the fish an’ smoked, an’ had a full stomach an’ was bold an’ steady with a heart made brave with much food, again looked hard in the glass; an’ when the second arrow left the bow of Yellow Face he dived sharply in the spring like a loon; an’ when he came up an’ held the looking glass before his eyes he saw that Yellow Face had missed the log a second time.
An’ now there was a whole-fear in the eyes of Yellow Face—a white fear that comes when a man sees Pau-guk, the Death, walk into the lodge; an’ the hand of Yellow Face trembled as he made ready his last third arrow on the bow. But in the eyes of the Feather shone no fear; only she lapped out her tongue like the snake does, with the black pleasure of new evil at the door.
Moh-Kwa warned Strike Axe to look only at Yellow Face that he might be sure an’ swift as the loon to dive from the last arrow. Strike Axe did as Moh-Kwa counselled; an’ when the last arrow flew from the bow, Strike Axe with a big splash was safe an’ deep beneath the waters of the spring.
“An’ now,” said Moh-Kwa to Strike Axe, “look in the glass an’ laugh, for a blessing of revenge has been bestowed on you through the Great Spirit.”
Strike Axe looked an’ saw that not only did Yellow Face miss the log, but the arrow flew back an’ pierced the throat of Yellow Face, even up to the three eagle feathers on the arrow’s shaft. As Strike Axe looked, he saw Yellow Face die; an’ a feeling like the smell of new grass came about the heart of Strike Axe, for there is nothing so warm an’ sweet an’ quick with peace as revenge when it sees an’ smells the fresh blood of its enemy.
Moh-Kwa told Strike Axe to still look in the glass; for while the danger was gone he would know what the Feather did when now that Yellow Face was killed by the turning of his own medicine.
Strike Axe looked, an’ saw how the Feather dammed up the water in a little brook near the lodge; an’ when the bed of the brook was free of water the Feather dug a hole in the soft ground with her hands like a wolf digs with his paws. An’ the Feather made it deep an’ long an’ wide; an’ then she put the dead Yellow Face in this grave in the brook’s bed. When she had covered him with sand an’ stones, the Feather let the waters free; an’ the brook went back to its old trail which it loved, an’ laughed an’ ran on, never caring about the dead Yellow Face who lay under its wet feet.
Then the Feather went again into the lodge an’ undressed the log of its blankets, belts an’ war-bonnet; an’ the Feather burned the bow an’ the arrows of Yellow Face, an’ made everything as it was before. Only now Yellow Face lay dead under the brook; but no one knew, an’ the brook itself already had forgot—for the brook’s memory is slippery an’ thin an’ not a good memory, holding nothing beyond a moment—an’ the Feather felt safe an’ happy; for her heart fed on evil an’ evil had been done.
Strike Axe came out from the cave with Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear.
“You have given me life,” said Strike Axe.
“You have given me honey,” said Moh-Kwa.
Then Strike Axe was troubled in his mind, an’ he told Moh-Kwa that he knew not what he must do with the Feather when he returned. But Moh-Kwa said that he should make his breast light, an’ free his thought of the Feather as a burden, for one would be in his lodge before him with the answer to his question.
“It is the Widow,” said Moh-Kwa, “who was the wife of the Great Rattlesnake of the Rocks; she will go to your tepee to be close to the heart of her husband. In her mouth the Widow will bring a message from Yellow Face to the Feather for whom he died an’ was hid beneath the careless brook.”
Thus said Moh-Kwa. An’ Strike Axe found that Moh-Kwa spoke with but one tongue; for when he stood again in his lodge the Feather lay across the door, dead an’ black with the message of Yellow Face which was sent to her in the mouth of the Widow. An’ as Strike Axe looked on the Feather, the Widow rattled joyfully where she lay coiled on the Feather’s breast; for the Widow was glad because she was near to her husband’s heart.
But Moh-Kwa was not there to look; Moh-Kwa had gone early to the bee-tree, an’ now with his nose in a honey comb was high an’ hearty up among the angry bees.
There arose no little approbative comment on the folk-lore tales of Sioux Sam, and it was common opinion that his were by odds and away the best stories to be told among us. These hearty plaudits were not without pleasant effect on Sioux Sam, and one might see his dark cheek flush to a color darker still with the joy he felt.
And yet someone has said how the American Indian is stolid and cold.
It was the Red Nosed Gentleman, as the clock struck midnight on this our last evening and we threw our last log on the coals, who suggested that the Jolly Doctor, having told the first story, should in all propriety close in the procession by furnishing the last. There was but one voice for it, and the Jolly Doctor, who would have demurred for that it seemed to lack of modesty on his side, in the end conceded the point with grace.
“This,” said the Jolly Doctor, composing himself to a comfortable position in his great chair, “this, then, shall be the story of ‘The Flim Flam Murphy.’”