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Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch

by Horace Annesley Vachell · English · Gutenberg #10372 · 499,836 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch

Author: Horace Annesley Vachell


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #10372]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUNCH GRASS: A CHRONICLE OF LIFE ON A CATTLE RANCH ***

BUNCH GRASS

A CHRONICLE OF LIFE ON A CATTLE RANCH


BY HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL

AUTHOR OF "BROTHERS" "THE HILL" ETC. ETC.

1913




TO MY BROTHER

ARTHUR HONYWOOD VACHELL

I DEDICATE

THIS BOOK




FOREWORD

The author of _Bunch Grass_ ventures to hope that this book will
not be altogether regarded as mere flotsam and jetsam of English and
American magazines. The stories, it will be found, have a certain
continuity, and may challenge interest as apart from incident because
an attempt has been made to reproduce atmosphere, the atmosphere of a
country that has changed almost beyond recognition in three decades.
The author went to a wild California cow-country just thirty years
ago, and remained there seventeen years, during which period the land
from such pastoral uses as cattle and sheep-raising became subdivided
into innumerable small holdings. He beheld a new country in the
making, and the passing of the pioneer who settled vital differences
with a pistol. During those years some noted outlaws ranged at large
in the county here spoken of as San Lorenzo. The Dalton gang of train
robbers lived and died (some with their boots on) not far from the
village entitled Paradise. Stage coaches were robbed frequently. Every
large rancher suffered much at the hands of cattle and horse thieves.
The writer has talked to Frank James, the most famous of Western
desperados; he has enjoyed the acquaintance of Judge Lynch, who hanged
two men from a bridge within half-a-mile of the ranch-house; he
remembers the Chinese Riots; he has witnessed many a fight between the
hungry squatter and the old settler with no title to the leagues over
which his herds roamed, and so, in a modest way, he may claim to be a
historian, not forgetting that the original signification of the word
was a narrator of fables founded upon facts.

Apologies are tendered for the dialect to be found in these pages.
There is no Californian dialect. At the time of the discovery of gold,
the state was flooded with men from all parts of the world, and
dialects became inextricably mixed. Not even Bret Harte was able to
reproduce the talk of children whose fathers may have come from
Kentucky or Massachusetts, and their mothers from Louisiana.

Re-reading these chapters, with a more or less critical detachment,
and leaving them--good, bad and indifferent--as they were originally
printed, one is forced to the conclusion that sentiment--which would
seem to arouse what is most hostile in the cultivated dweller in
cities--is an all-pervading essence in primitive communities,
colouring and discolouring every phase of life and thought. One
instance among a thousand will suffice. Stage coaches, in the writer's
county, used to be held up, single-handed, by a highwayman, known as
Black Bart. All the foothill folk pleaded in extenuation of the robber
that he wrote a copy of verses, embalming his adventure, which he used
to pin to the nearest tree. Black Bart would have been shot on sight
had he presented his doggerel to any self-respecting Western editor;
nevertheless the sentiment that inspired a bandit to set forth his
misdeeds in execrable rhyme transformed him from a criminal into a
popular hero! The virtues that counted in the foothills during the
eighties were generosity, courage, and that amazing power of
recuperation which enables a man to begin life again and again,
undaunted by the bludgeonings of misfortune. Some of the stories in
this volume are obviously the work of an apprentice, but they have
been included because, however faulty in technique, they do serve to
illustrate a past that can never come back, and men and women who were
outwardly crude and illiterate but at core kind and chivalrous, and
nearly always humorously unconventional. The bunch grass, so beloved
by the patriarchal pioneers, has been ploughed up and destroyed; the
unwritten law of Judge Lynch will soon become an oral tradition; but
the Land of Yesterday blooms afresh as the Golden State of To-day--and
Tomorrow.


*       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS

CHAP.

I.   ALETHEA-BELLE

II.   THE DUMBLES

III.   PAP SPOONER

IV.   GLORIANA

V.   BUMBLEPUPPY

VI.   JASPERSON'S BEST GIRL

VII.   FIFTEEN FAT STEERS

VIII.   AN EXPERIMENT

IX.   UNCLE JAP'S LILY

X.   WILKINS AND HIS DINAH

XI.   A POISONED SPRING

XII.   THE BABE

XIII.   THE BARON

XIV.   JIM'S PUP

XV.   MARY

XVI.   OLD MAN BOBO'S MANDY

XVII.   MINTIE

XVIII.   ONE WHO DIED

XIX.   A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

XX.   DENNIS

*       *       *       *       *




I

ALETHEA-BELLE


In the early eighties, when my brother Ajax and I were raising cattle
in the foothills of Southern California, our ranch-house was used as a
stopping-place by the teamsters hauling freight across the Coast
Range; and after the boom began, while the village of Paradise was
evolving itself out of rough timber, we were obliged to furnish all
comers with board and lodging. Hardly a day passed without some
"prairie schooner" (the canvas-covered wagon of the squatter) creaking
into our corral; and the quiet gulches and cañons where Ajax and I had
shot quail and deer began to re-echo to the shouts of the children of
the rough folk from the mid-West and Missouri. These "Pikers," so
called, settled thickly upon the sage-brush hills to the south and
east of us, and took up all the land they could claim from the
Government. Before spring was over, we were asked to lend an old
_adobe_ building to the village fathers, to be used as a
schoolhouse, until the schoolhouse proper was built. At that time a
New England family of the name of Spafford was working for us. Mrs.
Spafford, having two children of her own, tried to enlist our
sympathies.

"I'm kinder sick," she told us, "of cookin' an' teachin'; an' the hot
weather's comin' on, too. You'd oughter let 'em hev that old
_adobe_."

"But who will teach the children?" we asked.

"We've fixed that," said Mrs. Spafford. "'Tain't everyone as'd want to
come into this wilderness, but my auntie's cousin, Alethea-Belle
Buchanan, is willin' to take the job."

"Is she able?" we asked doubtfully.

"She's her father's daughter," Mrs. Spafford replied. "Abram Buchanan
was as fine an' brave a man as ever preached the Gospel. An' clever,
too. My sakes, he never done but one foolish thing, and that was when
he merried his wife."

"Tell us about her," said that inveterate gossip, Ajax.

Mrs. Spafford sniffed.

"I seen her once--that was once too much fer me. One o' them
lackadaisical, wear-a-wrapper-in-the-mornin', soft, pulpy Southerners.
Pretty--yes, in a spindlin', pink an' white soon-washed-out pattern,
but without backbone. I've no patience with sech."

"Her daughter won't be able to halter-break these wild colts."

"Didn't I say that Alethea-Belle took after her father? She must hev
consid'able snap an' nerve, fer she's put in the last year, sence
Abram died, sellin' books in this State."

"A book agent?"

"Yes, sir, a book agent."

If Mrs. Spafford had said road agent, which means highwayman in
California, we could not have been more surprised. A successful book
agent must have the hide of a rhinoceros, the guile of a serpent, the
obstinacy of a mule, and the persuasive notes of a nightingale.

"If Miss Buchanan has been a book agent, she'll do," said Ajax.

*       *       *       *       *

She arrived at Paradise on the ramshackle old stage-coach late one
Saturday afternoon. Ajax and I carried her small hair-trunk into the
ranch-house; Mrs. Spafford received her. We retreated to the corrals.

"She'll never, never do," said Ajax.

"Never," said I.

Alethea-Belle Buchanan looked about eighteen; and her face was white
as the dust that lay thick upon her grey linen cloak. Under the cloak
we had caught a glimpse of a thin, slab-chested figure. She wore
thread gloves, and said "I thank you" in a prim, New England accent.

"Depend upon it, she's had pie for breakfast ever since she was born,"
said Ajax, "and it's not agreed with her. She'll keep a foothill
school in order just about two minutes--and no longer!"

At supper, however, she surprised us. She was very plain-featured, but
the men--the rough teamsters, for instance--could not keep their eyes
off her. She was the most amazing mixture of boldness and timidity I
had ever met. We were about to plump ourselves down at table, for
instance, when Miss Buchanan, folding her hands and raising her eyes,
said grace; but to our first questions she replied, blushing, in timid
monosyllables.

After supper, Mrs. Spafford and she washed up. Later, they brought
their sewing into the sitting-room. While we were trying to thaw the
little schoolmarm's shyness, a mouse ran across the floor. In an
instant Miss Buchanan was on her chair. The mouse ran round the room
and vanished; the girl who had been sent to Paradise to keep in order
the turbulent children of the foothills stepped down from her chair.

"I'm scared to death of mice," she confessed. My brother Ajax scowled.

"Fancy sending that whey-faced little coward--here!" he whispered to
me.

"Have you taught school before?" I asked.

"Oh yes, indeed," she answered; "and I know something of your foothill
folks. I've been a book agent. Oh, indeed? You know that. Well, I did
first-rate, but that was the book, which sold itself--a beautiful
book. Maybe you know it--_The Milk of Human Kindness_? When we're
better acquainted, I'd like to read you," she looked hard at Ajax,
"some o' my favourite passages."

"Thanks," said Ajax stiffly.

Next day was Sunday. At breakfast the schoolmarm asked Ajax if there
was likely to be a prayer-meeting.

"A prayer-meeting, Miss Buchanan?"

"It's the Sabbath, you know."

"Yes--er--so it is. Well, you see," he smiled feebly, "the cathedral
isn't built yet."

"Why, what's the matter with the schoolhouse? I presume you're all
church-members?"

Her grey eyes examined each of us in turn, and each made confession.
One of the teamsters was a Baptist; another a Latter-Day Adventist;
the Spaffords were Presbyterians; we, of course, belonged to the
Church of England.

"We ought to have a prayer-meeting," said the little schoolmarm.

"Yes; we did oughter," assented Mrs. Spafford.

"I kin pray first-rate when I git started," said the Baptist teamster.

The prayer-meeting took place. Afterwards Ajax said to me--

"She's very small, is Whey-face, but somehow she seemed to fill the
_adobe_."

In the afternoon we had an adventure which gave us further insight
into the character and temperament of the new schoolmarm.

We all walked to Paradise across the home pasture, for Miss Buchanan
was anxious to inspect the site--there was nothing else then--of the
proposed schoolhouse. Her childlike simplicity and assurance in taking
for granted that she would eventually occupy that unbuilt academy
struck us as pathetic.

"I give her one week," said Ajax, "not a day more."

Coming back we called a halt under some willows near the creek. The
shade invited us to sit down.

"Are there snakes--rattlesnakes?" Miss Buchanan asked nervously.

"In the brush-hills--yes; here--no," replied my brother.

By a singular coincidence, the words were hardly out of his mouth when
we heard the familiar warning, the whirring, never-to-be-forgotten
sound of the beast known to the Indians as "death in the grass."

"Mercy!" exclaimed the schoolmarm, staring wildly about her. It is not
easy to localise the exact position of a coiled rattlesnake by the
sound of his rattle.

"Don't move!" said Ajax. "Ah, I see him! There he is! I must find a
stick."

The snake was coiled some half-dozen yards from us. Upon the top coil
was poised his hideous head; above it vibrated the bony, fleshless
vertebræ of the tail. The little schoolmarm stared at the beast,
fascinated by fear and horror. Ajax cut a switch from a willow; then
he advanced.

"Oh!" entreated Miss Buchanan, "please don't go so near."

"There's no danger," said Ajax. "I've never been able to understand
why rattlers inspire such terror. They can't strike except at objects
within half their length, and one little tap, as you will see, breaks
their backbone. Now watch! I'm going to provoke this chap to strike;
and then I shall kill him."

He held the end of the stick about eighteen inches from the glaring,
lidless eyes. With incredible speed the poised head shot forth. Ajax
laughed. The snake was recoiling, as he struck it on the neck.
Instantly it writhed impotently. My brother set the heel of his heavy
boot upon the skull, crushing it into the ground.

"Now let's sit down," said he.

"Hark!" said the little schoolmarm.

Another snake was rattling within a yard or two of the first.

"It's the mate," said I. "At this time of year they run in pairs. We
ought to have thought of that."

"I'll have him in a jiffy," said my brother.

As he spoke I happened to be watching the schoolmarm. Her face was
painfully white, but her eyes were shining, and her lips set above a
small, resolute chin.

"Let me kill him," she said, in a low voice.

"You, Miss Buchanan?"

"Yes."

"It's easy enough, but one mustn't--er--miss."

"I shan't miss."

She took the willow stick from my brother's hand. Every movement of
his she reproduced exactly, even to the setting of her heel upon the
serpent's head. Then she smiled at us apologetically.

"I hated to do it. I was scared to death, but I wanted to conquer that
cowardly Belle. It's just as you say, they're killed mighty easy. If
we could kill the Old Serpent as easy----" she sighed, not finishing
the sentence.

Ajax, who has a trick of saying what others think, blurted out--

"What do you mean by conquering--Belle?"

We sat down.

"My name is Alethea-Belle, a double name. Father wanted to call me
Alethea; but mother fancied Belle. Father, you know, was a
Massachusetts minister; mother came from way down south. She died when
I was a child. She--she was not very strong, poor mother, but father,"
she spoke proudly, "father was the best man that ever lived."

All her self-consciousness had vanished. Somehow we felt that the
daughter of the New England parson was speaking, not the child of the
invertebrate Southerner.

"I had to take to selling books," she continued, speaking more to
herself than to us, "because of Belle. That miserable girl got into
debt. Father left her a little money. Belle squandered it sinfully on
clothes and pleasure. She'd a rose silk dress----"

"A rose silk dress?" repeated Ajax.

"It was just too lovely--that dress," said the little schoolmarm,
reflectively.

"Even Alethea could not resist it," said I.

She blushed, and her shyness, her awkwardness, returned.

"Alethea had to pay for it," she replied primly. "I ask your pardon
for speaking so foolishly and improperly of--myself."

After this, behind her back, Ajax and I invariably called her Alethea-
Belle.

*       *       *       *       *

School began at nine sharp the next morning. We expected a large
attendance, and were not disappointed. Some of the boys grinned
broadly when Alethea-Belle appeared carrying books and maps. She
looked absurdly small, very nervous, and painfully frail. The fathers
present exchanged significant glances; the mothers sniffed. Alethea-
Belle entered the names of her scholars in a neat ledger, and shook
hands with each. Then she made a short speech.

"Friends," she said, "I'm glad to make your acquaintance. I shall
expect my big boys and girls to set an example to the little ones by
being punctual, clean, and obedient. We will now begin our exercises
with prayer and a hymn. After that the parents will please retire."

That evening Alethea-Belle went early to bed with a raging headache.
Next morning she appeared whiter than ever, but her eyelids were red.
However, she seemed self-possessed and even cheerful. Riding together
across the range, Ajax said to me: "Alethea-Belle is scared out of her
life."

"You mean Belle. Alethea is as brave as her father was before her."

"You're right. Poor little Belle! Perhaps we'd better find some job or
other round the _adobe_ this afternoon. There'll be ructions."

But the ructions did not take place that day. It seems that Alethea-
Belle told her scholars she was suffering severely from headache. She
begged them politely to be as quiet as possible. Perhaps amazement
constrained obedience.

"These foothill imps will kill her," said Ajax.

Within a week we knew that the big boys were becoming unmanageable,
but no such information leaked from Alethea-Belle's lips. Each evening
at supper we asked how she had fared during the day. Always she
replied primly: "I thank you; I'm getting along nicely, better than I
expected."

Mrs. Spafford, a peeper through doors and keyholes, explained the
schoolmarm's methods.

"I jest happened to be passin' by," she told me, "and I peeked in
through--through the winder. That great big hoodlum of a George Spragg
was a-sassin' Miss Buchanan an' makin' faces at her. The crowd was a-
whoopin' him up. In the middle o' the uproar she kneels down. 'O
Lord,' says she, 'I pray Thee to soften the heart of pore George
Spragg, and give me, a weak woman, the strength to prevail against his
everlastin' ignorance and foolishness!' George got the colour of a
beet, but he quit his foolin'. Yes sir, she prays for 'em, and she
coaxes 'em, an' she never knows when she's beat; but they'll be too
much for her. She's losin' her appetite, an' she don't sleep good. We
won't be boardin' her much longer."

But that night, as usual, when I asked Alethea-Belle how she did, she
replied, in her prim, formal accents: "I'm doing real well, I thank
you; much, much better than I expected."

Two days later I detected a bruise upon her forehead. With great
difficulty I extracted the truth. Tom Eubanks had thrown an apple at
the schoolmarm.

"And what did you do?"

Her grey eyes were unruffled, her delicately cut lips never smiled, as
she replied austerely: "I told Thomas that I was sure he meant well,
but that if a boy wished to give an apple to a lady he'd ought to hand
it politely, and not throw it. Then I ate the apple. It was a Newtown
pippin, and real good. After recess Thomas apologised."

"What did the brute say?"

"He is not a brute. He said he was sorry he'd thrown the pippin so
hard."

Next day I happened to meet Tom Eubanks. He had a basket of Newtown
pippins for the schoolmarm. He was very red when he told me that Miss
Buchanan liked--apples. Apples at that time did not grow in the brush-
hills. Tom had bought them at the village store.

*       *       *       *       *

But Alethea-Belle grew thinner and whiter.

Just before the end of the term the climax came. I happened to find
the little schoolmarm crying bitterly in a clump of sage-brush near
the water-troughs.

"It's like this," she confessed presently: "I can't rid myself of that
weak, hateful Belle. She's going to lie down soon, and let the boys
trample on her; then she'll have to quit. And Alethea sees the
Promised Land. Oh, oh! I do despise the worst half of myself!"

"The sooner you leave these young devils the better."

"What do you say?"

She confronted me with flashing eyes. I swear that she looked
beautiful. The angularities, the lack of colour, the thin chest, the
stooping back were effaced. I could not see them, because--well,
because I was looking through them, far beyond them, at something
else.

"I love my boys, my foothill boys; and if they are rough, brutal at
times, they're strong." Her emphasis on the word was pathetic.
"They're strong, and they're young, and they're poised for flight--
now. To me, me, has been given the opportunity to direct that flight--
upward, and if I fail them, if I quit----" She trembled violently.

"You won't quit," said I, with conviction.

"To-morrow," said she, "they've fixed things for a real battle."

She refused obstinately to tell me more, and obtained a solemn promise
from me that I would not interfere.

*       *       *       *       *

Afterwards I got most of the facts out of George Spragg. Three of the
biggest boys had planned rank mutiny. Doubtless they resented a
compulsory attendance at school, and with short-sighted policy made
certain that if they got rid of Alethea-Belle the schoolhouse would be
closed for ever. And what chance could she have--one frail girl
against three burly young giants?

A full attendance warned her that her scholars expected something
interesting to happen. Boys and girls filed into the schoolroom
quietly enough, and the proceedings opened with prayer, but not the
usual prayer. Alethea-Belle prayed fervently that right might prevail
against might, now, and for ever. Amen.

Within a minute the three mutineers had marched into the middle of the
room. In loud, ear-piercing notes they began to sing "Pull for the
Shore." The girls giggled nervously; the boys grinned; several opened
their mouths to sing, but closed them again as Alethea-Belle descended
from the rostrum and approached the rebels. The smallest child knew
that a fight to a finish had begun.

The schoolmarm raised her thin hand and her thin voice. No attention
was paid to either. Then she walked swiftly to the door and locked it.
The old _adobe_ had been built at a time when Indian raids were
common in Southern California. The door was of oak, very massive; the
windows, narrow openings in the thick walls, were heavily barred. The
children wondered what was about to happen. The three rebels sang with
a louder, more defiant note as Alethea-Belle walked past them and on
to the rostrum. Upon her desk stood a covered basket. Taking this in
her hand, she came back to the middle of the room. The boys eyed her
movements curiously. She carried, besides the basket, a cane. Then she
bent down and placed the basket between herself and the boys. They
still sang "Pull for the Shore," but faintly, feebly. They stared hard
at the basket and the cane. Alethea-Belle stood back, with a curious
expression upon her white face; very swiftly she flicked open the lid
of the basket. Silence fell on the scholars.

Out of the basket, quite slowly and stealthily, came the head of a
snake, a snake well known to the smallest child--known and dreaded.
The flat head, the lidless, baleful eyes, the grey-green, diamond-
barred skin of the neck were unmistakable.

"It's a rattler!" shrieked one of the rebels.

They sprang back; the other children rose, panic-stricken. The
schoolmarm spoke very quietly--

"Don't move! The snake will not hurt any of you."

As she spoke she flicked again the lid of the basket. It fell on the
head of the serpent. Alethea-Belle touched the horror, which withdrew.
Then she picked up the basket, secured the lid, and spoke to the
huddled-up, terrified crowd--

"You tried to scare me, didn't you, and I have scared you." She
laughed pleasantly, but with a faint inflection of derision, as if she
knew, as she did, that the uncivilised children of the foothills, like
their fathers, fear nothing on earth so much as rattlers and--
ridicule. After a moment she continued: "I brought this here to-day as
an object-lesson. You loathe and fear the serpent in this basket, as I
loathe and fear the serpent which is in you." She caught the eyes of
the mutineers and held them. "And," her eyes shone, "I believe that I
have been sent to kill the evil in you, as I am going to kill this
venomous beast. Stand back!"

They shrank back against the walls, open-eyed, open-mouthed,
trembling. Alethea-Belle unfastened for the second time the lid of the
basket; once more the flat head protruded, hissing. Alethea-Belle
struck sharply.

"It is harmless now," she said quietly; "its back is broken."

But the snake still writhed. Alethea-Belle shuddered; then she set her
heel firmly upon the head.

"And now"--her voice was weak and quavering, but a note of triumph, of
mastery, informed it--"and now I am going to cane you three boys; I am
going to try to break your stubborn wills; but you are big and strong,
and you must let me do it. If you don't let me do it, you will break
my heart, for if I am too weak to command here, I must resign. Oh, I
wish that I were strong!"

The mutineers stared at each other, at the small white face
confronting them, at the boys and girls about them. It was a great
moment in their lives, an imperishable experience. The biggest spoke
first, sheepishly, roughly, almost defiantly--

"Come on up, boys; we'll hev to take a lickin' this time."

Alethea-Belle went back to the rostrum, trembling. She had never caned
a boy before, and she loathed violence. And yet she gave those three
lads a sound thrashing. When the last stroke was given, she tottered
and fell back upon her chair--senseless.

*       *       *       *       *

Later, I asked her how she had caught the snake.

"After you left me," she said, "I sat down to think. I knew that the
boys wanted to scare me, and it struck me what a splendid thing
'twould be to scare them. Just then I saw the snake asleep on the
rocks; and I remembered what one o' the cowboys had said about their
being stupid and sluggish at this time o' year. But my! when it came
to catching it alive--I--nearly had a fit, I'd chills and fever before
I was able to brace up. Well, sir, I got me a long stick, and I fixed
a noose at the end of it; and somehow--with the Lord's help--I got the
creature into my work-basket; and I carried it home, and put it under
my bed, with a big stone atop o' the lid. But I never slept a wink.
I'm teetotal, but I know now what it is to have the--the--"

"Jim-jams," said I.

"I believe that's what they call it in California. Yes, I saw snakes,
rattlers, everywhere!"

"You're the pluckiest little woman in the world," said I.

"Oh no! I'm a miserable coward, and always will be. Now it's over I
kind of wish I hadn't scared the little children quite so bad."

About a month later, when Alethea-Belle was leaving us and about to
take up new quarters in Paradise, near the just finished village
schoolhouse, Mrs. Spafford came to me. The schoolmarm, it seemed, had
stepped off our scales. She had gained nearly ten pounds since the day
of the great victory.

"Your good cooking, Mrs. Spafford--" Mrs. Spafford smiled scornfully.

"Did my good cooking help her any afore she whacked them boys? Not
much. No, sir, her scholars hev put the flesh on to her pore bones;
and I give them the credit. They air tryin' to pay for what their
schoolmarm's put into their heads and hearts."

"Miss Buchanan has taught us a thing or two," I suggested.

"Yes," Mrs. Spafford replied solemnly, "she hev."




II

THE DUMBLES


Looking back, I am quite sure that John Jacob Dumble's chief claim to
the confidence of our community--a confidence invariably abused--was
the fact that the rascal's family were such "nice folks," "so well-
raised," so clean, so respectable, such constant and punctual "church-
members." After the Presbyterian Church was built in Paradise, no more
edifying spectacle could be seen than the arrival on Sunday mornings
of the Dumble family in their roomy spring wagon. The old man--he was
not more than fifty-five--had two pretty daughters and a handsome son.
Mrs. Dumble, a comely woman, always wore grey clothes and grey thread
gloves. She had a pale, too impassive face, and her dark hair, tightly
drawn back from her brows, had curious white streaks in it. Ajax said
a thousand times that he should not sleep soundly until he had
determined whether or not Mrs. Dumble was a party to her husband's
misdemeanours. My brother's imagination, as I have said before, runs
riot at times. He was of opinion that the wearing of grey indicated a
character originally white, but discoloured by her husband's dirty
little tricks. Certainly Mrs. Dumble was a woman of silence,
secretive, with lips tightly compressed, as if--as Ajax remarked--she
feared that some of John Jacob's peccadilloes might escape from them.

The father was inordinately proud of his son, Quincey, who in many
respects took after the mother. He, too, was quiet, self-possessed,
and somewhat pale. He worked for us and other cattlemen, not for his
father, and after the lad left school Ajax fell to speculating about
him, as he speculated about the mother.

"Is Quincey on to the old man's games?" he would ask.

It must be recorded that John Jacob was very careful to keep within
the limits of the law, but he ploughed close to the line, where the
soil, as we all know, is richest and, comparatively speaking, virgin.
But no man in the county was louder than he in denouncing such crimes
as horse-stealing or cattle-lifting, crimes in those days
disgracefully common. He might ear-mark a wandering piglet, for
instance, or clap his iron upon an unbranded yearling; but who could
swear that these estrays were not the lawful property of him upon
whose land they were found?

At that time Ajax and I were breeding Cleveland Bays, and amongst our
colts we had two very promising animals likely to make a match team,
and already prize-winners at the annual county fair. One day in
October, Uncle Jake, our head vaquero, reported the colts to be
missing out of our back pasture. Careful examination revealed the
cutting of the fence. Obviously the colts had been stolen.

Ajax suggested that we should employ old man Dumble to help us to
recover the stolen property. He was shrewd and persevering, and he
knew every man, woman, and child within a radius of fifty miles.

"Why, boys," said he, when we asked him to undertake the job, "I'd do
more than this to help friends and neighbours. It's a dooty to hunt
down these scallywags, a dooty, yas--and a pleasure."

We took the trail that night. The thief, so far as we could
conjecture, had about twenty hours start, but then he would be obliged
to travel by night and by devious mountain-paths. According to old
Dumble, his objective would be Bakersfield, and to reach Bakersfield
some dry plains must be traversed. At the watering-places upon these
plains we might expect to hear from sheep-herders and vaqueros some
information respecting animals so handsome and so peculiarly marked as
our colts.

And so it proved. At a dismal saloon, where water was nearly as
expensive and quite as bad as the whisky, we learned that a bright bay
colt with a white star and stocking, and another with a white nose,
had been seen early that morning. Old man Dumble gleaned more.

"We're dealing with a tenderfoot and a stranger to the saloon-keeper,"
he said, as we struck into the sage-brush wilderness. "The fool didn't
know enough to spend a few dollars at the bar. He called for one
lemonade."

"Well," said Ajax, "you are teetotal yourself; you ought to respect a
man who calls for lemonade."

"I ain't a thief," said our neighbour. "If I was," he added, "I reckon
I'd cover my tracks around saloons with a leetle whisky. Boys, there's
another thing. This feller we're after is ridin' too fast. Them colts
won't stand it. Young things must feed an' rest. The saloon-keeper
allowed they were footsore a'ready, and kinder petered out. We must
keep our eyes skinned."

"You're a wonder," said Ajax. "How you divined that the thief would
travel this trail beats me."

"Wal," said old man Dumble, "it's this way. There's a big dealer comes
three times a year to Bakersfield; he pays good money for good stuff--
an' he asks no questions. I happened to hear he was a-comin' down only
las' Sunday."

Something in his voice, some sly gleam in his eye, aroused my
suspicions. As soon as we happened to be alone, I whispered to my
brother: "I say, what if the old man is playing hare and hound with
us?"

"Pooh!" said Ajax. "He's keen as mustard to collar this thief--the
keener, possibly, since he discovered that the fellow is a tenderfoot.
I've sized him up about right. He wants to establish a record. It's
like this teetotal business of his. The people here refuse to believe
evil of a man who drinks water, goes to church, and catches horse-
thieves. I'll add one word more. To give the old fraud his due, he
really holds in abhorrence any crime that might land him in the State
penitentiary. Hullo! There's a faint reek out yonder. I'll take a
squint through my glasses."

We called a halt. We were now on the alkaline plains beyond the San
Emigdio mountains. Riding all through the night, we had changed horses
at a ranch where we were known. Ajax stared through his binoculars.

"What we're after," said he quietly, "is in sight."

He handed his glasses to me. I could barely make out a horseman,
herding along two animals. The plains were blazing with heat. In the
distance a soft blue haze obscured the horizon; faintly outlined
against this were three spirals of what seemed to be white smoke:
three moving pillars of alkaline dust.

"He can't git away from us," said old man Dumble.

Looking at him, my suspicions took flight. He was, as Ajax said,
keener than we to arrest the thief. His small eyes sparkled with
excitement; his right index-finger was crooked, as if itching for the
trigger; his lips moved. In fancy he was rehearsing the "Stand and
deliver" of an officer of the law!

"We kin ride him down," he muttered.

"Yes," said Ajax.

We looked to our girths and our pistols. It was unlikely that the
thief would show fight, but--he might. Then we mounted, and galloped
ahead.

"Forrard--for-r-rard!" shouted Ajax.

Within a few minutes, a quarter of an hour at most, the man we were
hunting would see us; then the chase would really begin. He would
abandon the footsore colts, and make for the hills. And so it came to
pass. Presently, we saw the horseman turn off at right angles; the
jaded colts hesitated, trotted a few yards, and stood still. A faint
neigh floated down wind.

"Doggone it!" exclaimed old man Dumble, "his horse is fresh. He's got
friends in the hills."

We had left the trail, and were pounding over the sage-brush desert. I
could smell the sage, strongly pungent, and the alkaline dust began to
irritate my throat; the sun, if one stood still, was strong enough to
blister the skin of the hands.

For three-quarters of an hour it seemed to me that the distance
between us and our quarry remained constant; but Dumble said we were
falling behind. The thief was lighter than any of us, and his horse
was evidently a stayer. The hills rose out of the haze, bleak and
bare, seamed with gulches, a safe sanctuary for all wild things.

"If the cuss was within range, I'd try a shot," said the old man.

"I'd like to make out who he is," said Ajax.

Suddenly the horse of the thief fell. We discovered later that the
beast had plunged into a piece of ground honeycombed with squirrel-
holes. The man staggered to his feet; the horse struggled where he
fell, but did not rise. His shoulder was broken.

"We have him!" yelled Dumble.

"Yes; we have him," repeated my brother. "Suppose we take a look at
him?"

The thief had abandoned all idea of escape. He stood beside his horse,
waiting for us; but at the distance we could not determine whether he
intended to surrender quietly or to fight. Ajax adjusted his glasses,
and glanced through them. Then, with an exclamation, he handed them to
me.

"Kin ye make him out, boys?" asked our neighbour.

"Yes," said I, giving back the glasses to Ajax. He handed them in
silence to old man Dumble. Then, instinctively, both our right hands
went to our belts. We were not quite sure what a father might do.

He did what should have been expected--and avoided. He dropped the
binoculars. Then he turned to us, trembling, livid--a scarecrow of the
man we knew;

"It's my boy," he said hoarsely. "And I thought he was the best boy in
the county. Oh God!"

A minute may have passed, not more. One guesses that in that brief
time the unhappy father saw clearly the inevitable consequences of his
own roguery and sharp practice. He had sowed, broadcast, innumerable,
nameless little frauds; he reaped a big crime. I looked across those
dreary alkaline plains and out of the lovely blue haze beyond I seemed
to see the Dumbles' spring wagon rolling to church. Mrs. Dumble's
pale, impassive face was turned to the bleak plains. At last I read
her aright, that quiet woman of silence. She knew the father of her
children from the outer rind to the inmost core. I thought of the
pretty daughters, who did not know. And out yonder stood the son.

Ajax beckoned me aside. We whispered together for a moment or two.
Then my brother spoke--

"We're going to lead home our colts," he said curtly; "and you can
lead home yours. We shall take better care of ours after this
experience. They won't be allowed to run wild in the back pasture."

"Boys--Quincey an' me----"

"Shush-h-h!" said Ajax. "That fellow out there is a long way off. I
could not swear in a court of law that he is the person we take him to
be. Whom he looks like we know, who he is we don't know, and we don't
wish to know. So long."

We rode back to our colts.




III

PAP SPOONER


Pap Spooner was about sixty-five years old, and the greatest miser in
San Lorenzo County. He lived on less than a dollar a day, and allowed
the rest of his income to accumulate at the rate of one per cent, a
month, compound interest.

When Ajax and I first made his acquaintance he was digging post-holes.
The day, a day in September, was uncommonly hot. I said, indiscreetly:
"Mr. Spooner, why do you dig post-holes?"

With a queer glint in his small, dull grey eyes he replied, curtly:
"Why are you boys a-shootin' quail--hey? 'Cause ye like to, I reckon.
Fer the same reason I like ter dig post-holes. It's jest recreation--
to me."

When we were out of earshot Ajax laughed.

"Recreation!" said my brother. "Nothing will ever recreate him. Of all
the pinchers----"

"Shush-h-h!" said I. "It's too hot."

Our neighbours told many stories of Pap Spooner. Even that bland old
fraud, John Jacob Dumble, admitted sorrowfully that he was no match
for Pap in a horse, cattle, or pig deal; and George Leadham, the
blacksmith, swore that Pap would steal milk from a blind kitten. The
humorists of the village were of opinion that Heaven had helped Pap
because he had helped himself so freely out of other folks' piles.

In appearance Andrew Spooner was small, thin, and wiry, with the beak
of a turkey-buzzard, the complexion of an Indian, and a set of large,
white, very ill-fitting false teeth, which clicked like castanets
whenever the old man was excited.

Now, in California, "Pap" is a _nom de caresse_ for father. But,
so far as we knew, Pap had no children; accordingly we jumped to the
conclusion that Andrew Spooner got his nickname from a community who
had rechristened the tallest man in our village "Shorty" and the
ugliest "Beaut." The humorists knew that Pap might have been the
father of the foothills, the George Washington of Paradise, but he
wasn't.

Later we learned that Pap had buried a wife and child. And the child,
it seems, had called him "Pap." We made the inevitable deduction that
such paternal instincts as may have bloomed long ago in the miser's
heart were laid in a small grave in the San Lorenzo Cemetery. Our
little school-marm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, said (without any reason):
"I reckon Mr. Spooner must have thought the world of his little one."
Whereupon Ajax replied gruffly that as much could be said, doubtless,
of a--vulture.

The word "vulture" happened to be pat, apart from the shape of Andrew
Spooner's nose, because we were in the middle of the terrible spring
which succeeded the dry year. Even now one does not care to talk about
that time of drought. During the previous twelve months the relentless
sun had destroyed nearly every living thing, vegetable and animal, in
our county. Then, in the late fall and early winter, we had sufficient
rain to start the feed on our ranges and hope in our hearts. But
throughout February and March not a drop of water fell! Hills and
plains lay beneath bright blue skies, into which we gazed day after
day, week after week, looking for the cloud that never came. The thin
blades of wheat and barley were already frizzling; the tender leaves
of the orchards and vineyards turned a sickly yellow; the few cattle
and horses which had survived began to fall down and die by the empty
creeks and springs. And two dry years in succession meant black ruin
for all of us.

For all of us in the foothills except Pap Spooner. By some mysterious
instinct he had divined and made preparations for a long drought.
Being rich, with land in other counties, he was able to move his stock
to green pastures. We knew that he was storing up the money sucked by
the sun out of us. He was foreclosing mortgages, buying half-starved
horses and steers for a song, selling hay and straw at fabulous
prices. And we were reeling upon the ragged edge of bankruptcy! He,
the beast of prey, the vulture, was gorging on our carrion.

Men--gaunt, hollow-eyed men--looked at him as if he were an obscene
bird, looked at him with ever-increasing hate, with their fingers
itching for the trigger of a gun. Pap had his weakness. He liked to
babble of his own cuteness; he liked to sit upon a sugar barrel in the
village store and talk of savoury viands, so to speak, and sparkling
wines in the presence of fellow-citizens who lacked bread and water,
particularly water.

One day, in late March, he came into the store as the sun was setting.
In such a village as ours, at such a time, the store becomes the club
of the community. Misery, who loves company, spent many hours at the
store. There was nothing to do on the range.

Upon this particular afternoon we had listened to a new tale of
disaster. Till now, although most of us had lost stock, and many had
lost land as well, we had regarded health, the rude health of man
living the primal life, as an inalienable possession. Our cattle and
horses were dying, but we lived. We learned that diphtheria had
entered Paradise.

In those early days, before the antitoxin treatment of the disease,
diphtheria in Southern California was the deadliest of plagues. It
attacked children for the most part, and swept them away in
battalions. I have seen whole families exterminated.

And nothing, then as now, prevails against this scourge save prompt
and sustained medical treatment. In Paradise we had neither doctor,
nor nurse, nor drugs. San Lorenzo, the nearest town, lay twenty-six
miles away.

Pap shambled in, clicking his teeth and grinning.

"Nice evenin'," he observed, taking his seat on his sugar barrel.

"Puffec'ly lovely," replied the man who had brought the evil news.
"Everything," he stretched out his lean hand,--"everything smilin' an'
gay--an' merry as a marriage bell."

Pap rubbed his talon-like hands together.

"Boys," said he, "I done first-rate this afternoon--I done first-
rate. I've made money, a wad of it--and don't you forget it."

"You never allow us to forget it," said Ajax. "We all wish you would,"
he added pointedly.

"Eh?"

He stared at my brother. The other men in the store showed their teeth
in a sort of pitiful, snarling grin. Each was sensible of a secret
pleasure that somebody else had dared to bell the cat.

My brother continued, curtly: "This is not the time nor the place for
you to buck about what you've done and whom you've done. Under the
present circumstances--you're an old man--what you've left undone
ought to be engrossing your attention."

"Meanin'?"

Pap had glanced furtively from face to face, reading in each rough
countenance derision and contempt. The masks which the poor wear in
the presence of the rich were off.

"I mean," Ajax replied, savagely--so savagely that the old man
recoiled and nearly fell off the barrel--"I mean, Mr. Spooner, that
the diphtheria has come to Paradise, and is likely to stay here so
long as there is flesh for it to feed on."

"The diptheery?" exclaimed Pap.

Into his eyes--those dull grey eyes--flitted terror and horror. But
Ajax saw nothing but what had festered so long in his own mind.

"Aye--the diphtheria! You are rich, Mr. Spooner; you can follow your
cattle into a healthier country than this. My advice to you is--Get!"

The old man stared; then he slid off the barrel and shambled out of
the store as little Sissy Leadham entered it. The child looked
curiously at Andrew Spooner.

"What's the matter with Pap?" she asked, shrilly.

She was a pretty, tow-headed, rosy-cheeked creature, the daughter of
George Leadham, a widower, who adored her. He was looking at her now
with a strange light in his eyes. Not a man in the store but
interpreted aright the father's glance.

"What's the matter with pore old Pap?" she demanded.

The blacksmith caught her up, kissing her face, smoothing her curls.

"Just that, my pet," said he. "He's old, and he's poor--the poorest
man, ain't he, boys?--the very poorest man in Paradise."

The child looked puzzled. It would have taken a wiser head than hers
to understand the minds of the men about her.

"I thought old Pap was rich," she faltered.

"He ain't," said the blacksmith, hugging her tight. "He's poorer than
all of us poor folks put together."

"Oh, my!" said Sissy, opening her blue eyes. "No wonder he looks as if
someone'd hit him with a fence rail. Pore old Pap!" Then she whispered
some message, and father and child went out of the store.

We looked at each other. The storekeeper, who had children, blew his
nose with unnecessary violence. Ajax said, abruptly: "Boys, I've been
a fool. I've driven away the one man who might help us."

"That's all right," the storekeeper growled. "You done first-rate,
young man. You tole the ole cuss in plain words what we've bin a-
thinkin' fer a coon's age. Help us? Not he!"

Outside, our saddle-horses were hitched to the rail. We had managed to
save our horses. Ajax and I rode down the valley, golden with the
glory of the setting sun. Beyond, the bleak, brown hills were clothed
in an imperial livery of purple. The sky was amber and rose. But Ajax,
like Gallio, cared for none of these things. He was cursing his unruly
tongue. As we neared the big, empty barn, he turned in his saddle.

"Look here," said he, "we'll nip up to Pap's after supper. I shall ask
him to help us. I shall ask for a cheque."

"You expect me to go with you on this tomfool's errand?"

"Certainly. We must use a little tact. I'll beg his pardon--the doing
of it will make me sick--you shall ask for the cheque. Yes, we're
fools; otherwise we shouldn't be here in this forsaken wilderness."

*       *       *       *       *

Pap lived just outside the village in an _adobe_ built upon a
small hill to the north-west of our ranch. No garden surrounded it, no
pleasant live oaks spread their shade between the porch and the big
barns. Pap could sit on his porch and survey his domain stretching for
leagues in front of him, but he never did sit down in the daytime--
except on a saddle--and at night he went to bed early to save the
expense of oil. Knowing his habits, we rode up to the _adobe_
about eight. All was dark, and we could see, just below us, the
twinkling lights of Paradise. After thundering at the door twice, Pap
appeared, carrying a lantern. In answer to his first question, we told
him that we had business to discuss. Muttering to himself, he led us
into the house and lighted two candles in the parlour. We had never
entered the parlour before, and accordingly looked about with interest
and curiosity. The furniture, which had belonged to Pap's father-in-
law, a Spanish-Californian, was of mahogany and horsehair, very good
and substantial. In a bookcase were some ancient tomes bound in musty
leather. A strange-looking piano, with a high back, covered with faded
rose-coloured silk, stood in a corner. Some half a dozen
daguerreotypes, a case of stuffed humming-birds, and a wreath of
flowers embellished the walls. Upon everything lay the fine white dust
of the dry year, which lay also thick upon many hearts.

"Sit ye down," said Pap. "I reckon ye've come up to ask for a loan?"

"Yes," said Ajax. "But first I wish to beg your pardon. I had no right
to speak as I did in the store this evening. I'm sorry."

Pap nodded indifferently.

"'Twas good advice," he muttered. "I ain't skeered o' much, but
diptheery gives me cold feet. I calc'late to skin out o' this and into
the mountains to-morrer. How about this yere loan?"

"It's not for us," said I.

"I don't lend no good dollars on squatters' claims," said Pap. "Let's
git to business."

We explained what we wanted. Upon the top of Pap's head the sparse
grey hairs bristled ominously. His teeth clicked; his eyes snapped. He
was furiously angry--as I had expected him to be.

"You've a nerve," he jerked out. "You boys come up here askin' me fer
a thousand dollars. What air you goin' to do?"

"We've no money," said Ajax, "but we've leisure. I dare say we may dig
graves."

"You're two crazy fools."

"We know that, Mr. Spooner."

"I'm a-goin' to tell ye something. Diptheery in this yere country is
worse'n small-pox--and I've seen both." The look of horror came again
into his face. "My wife an' my child died o' diptheery nearly thirty-
five year ago." He shuddered. Then he pointed a trembling finger at
one of the daguerreotypes. "There she is--a beauty! And before she
died--oh, Heaven!" I thought I saw something in his eyes, something
human. Ajax burst out----

"Mr. Spooner, because of that, won't you help these poor people?"

"No! When she died, when the child died, something died in me. D'ye
think I don't know what ye all think? Don't I know that I'm the
ornariest, meanest old skinflint atween Point Sal and San Diego?
That's me, and I'm proud of it. I aim to let the hull world stew in
its own juice. The folks in these yere foothills need thinnin' anyway.
Halloa! What in thunder's this?" Through the door, which we had left
ajar, very timidly, all blushes and dimples, and sucking one small
thumb, came Sissy Leadham. She stood staring at us, standing on one
leg and scratching herself nervously with the other.

"Why, Sissy?" said Ajax.

She removed her thumb, reluctantly.

"Yas--it's me," she confessed. "Popsy don't know as I've comed up
here." Then, suddenly remembering the conventions, she said, politely,
"Good-evening, Mr. Spooner."

"Good-evening," said the astonished Pap.

"You wasn't expectin' me?"

"I didn't think it was very likely as you'd call in," said Pap,
"seein', Missy, as you'd never called in afore."

"My name's Sissy, not Missy. Well, I'll call again, Mr. Spooner, when
you've no comp'ny."

"Jee-roosalem! Call again--will ye? An' s'pose I ain't to home--hey?
No, Missy--wal, Sissy, then--no, Sissy, you speak out an' tell me what
brought you a-visitin'--me?"

She shuffled very uneasily.

"I felt so awful sorry for you, Mr. Spooner. I jest hed to come, but
I'll call again, early to-morrer."

"No, ye won't. Because I aim ter leave this yere ranch afore sun-up.
Jest you speak up an' out. If yer folks has sent you here"--his eyes
hardened and flashed--"to borrer money, why, you kin tell 'em I ain't
got none to loan."

Sissy laughed gaily.

"Why, I know that, Mr. Spooner. It's jest because, be-cause yer so
pore--so very, very pore, that I comed up."

"Is that so? Because I'm so very poor?"

"I heard that in the store this evenin'. I was a-comin' in as you was
a-comin' out. I heard Popsy say you was the porest man in the county,
porer than all of us pore folks put together."

She had lost her nervousness. She stood squarely before the old man,
lifting her tender blue eyes to his.

"Wal--an' what are you a-goin' to do about it?"

"I can't do overly much, Mr. Spooner, but fer a little girl I'm rich.
The dry year ain't hurt me any--yet. I've three dollars and sixty
cents of my own."

One hand had remained tightly clenched. Sissy opened it. In the moist
pink palm lay three dollars, a fifty-cent piece, and a dime. Never had
Pap's voice sounded so harsh in my ears as when he said: "Do I
understan' that ye offer this to--me?"

His tone frightened her.

"Yas, sir. Won't you p-p-please t-take it?"

"Did yer folks tell ye to give me this money?"

"Why, no. I'd oughter hev asked 'em, I s'pose, but I never thought o'
that. Honest Injun, Mr. Spooner, I didn't--and--and it's my own
money," she concluded, half defiantly, "an' Popsy said as how I could
do what I liked with it. Please take it."

"No," said Pap.

He stared at us, clicking his teeth and frowning. Then he said,
curtly, "Wal, I'll take the dime, Sissy--I kin make a dime go farther
than a dollar, can't I, boys?"

"You bet," said Ajax.

"And now, Sissy, you run along home," said Pap.

"We'll take her," I said, for Sissy was a sworn friend of ours. At
once she put her left hand into mine. We bade the old man good-night,
and took leave of him. On the threshold Ajax turned and asked a
question----

"Won't you reconsider your decision, Mr. Spooner?"

"No," he snapped, "I won't. I dunno as all this ain't a reg'lar plant.
Looks like it. And, as I say, the scallywags in these yere foothills
need thinnin'--they need thinnin'."

Ajax said something in a low voice which Sissy and I could not hear.
Later I asked him what it was, because Pap had clicked his teeth.

"I told him," said my brother, "that he needn't think his call was
coming, because I was quite certain that they did not want him either
in Heaven--or in the other place."

"Oh," said I, "I thought that you were going to use a little tact with
Pap Spooner."

*       *       *       *       *

Next morning, early, we had a meeting in the store. A young doctor, a
capital fellow, had come out from San Lorenzo with the intention of
camping with us till the disease was wiped out; but he shook his head
very solemnly when someone suggested that the first case, carefully
isolated, might prove the last.

There were two fresh cases that night!

I shall not attempt to describe the horrors that filled the next three
weeks. But, not for the first time, I was struck by the heroism and
self-sacrifice of these rude foothill folk, whose great qualities
shine brightest in the dark hours of adversity. My brother and I had
passed through the big boom, when our part of California had become of
a sudden a Tom Tiddler's ground, where the youngest and simplest could
pick up gold and silver. We had seen our county drunk with prosperity
--drunk and disorderly. And we had seen also these same revellers
chastened by low prices, dry seasons, and commercial stagnation. But
we had yet to witness the crowning sobering effect of a raging
pestilence.

The little schoolmarm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, organised the women
into a staff of nurses. Mrs. Dumble enrolled herself amongst the band.
Did she take comfort in the thought that she was wiping out John Jacob
Dumble's innumerable rogueries? Let us hope so.

Within a week yellow bunting waved from half a score of cottages in
and about Paradise. And then, one heavenly morning, as we were riding
into the village, we saw the hideous warning fluttering outside George
Leadham's door.

Sissy was down with it!

Poor George, his brown, weather-beaten face seamed with misery, met us
at the garden gate.

"She's awful bad," he muttered, "an' the doc. says she'll be worse
afore she's better."

Next door a man was digging two graves in his garden.

Meantime, Pap Spooner had disappeared. We heard that he had gone to a
mountain ranch of his about fifteen miles away. Nobody missed him;
nobody cared whether he went or stayed. In the village store it was
conceded that Pap's room, rain or shine, was better than his company.
His name was never mentioned till it began to fall from Sissy
Leadham's delirious lips.

The schoolmarm first told me that the child was asking for Andrew
Spooner, moaning, wailing, shrieking for "pore old Pap." George
Leadham was distracted.

"What in thunder she wants that ole cuss fer I can't find out. She's
drivin' me plum crazy." I explained.

"That's it," said George. "It's bin Pap an' her money night an' day
fer forty-eight hours. She wanted ter give him--him, by Jing!--her
money."

The doctor heard the story half an hour later. He had not the honour
of Andrew Spooner's acquaintance, and he had reason to believe that
all men in the foothills were devoid of fear.

"Fetch Pap," said he, in the same tone as he might have said, "Fetch
milk and water!" We made no remark.

"I think," said the doctor, gravely, "that if this man comes at once
the child may pull through."

"By Heaven! he shall come," said George Leadham to me. The doctor had
hurried away.

"He won't come," said Ajax.

"If he don't," said the father, fiercely, "the turkey-buzzards'll hev
a meal, for I'll shoot him in his tracks."

Ajax looked at me reflectively.

"George," said he, "shooting Pap wouldn't help little Sissy, would it?
You and I can't handle this job. My brother will go. But--but, my poor
old George, don't make ropes out of sand."

So I went.

When I started, the south-east wind, the rain-wind, had begun to blow,
and it sounds incredible, but I was not aware of it. The pestilence
had paralysed one's normal faculties. But riding due south-east I
became, sooner or later, sensible of the change in the atmosphere. And
then I remembered a chance remark of the doctor's. "We shall have this
diphtheria with us till the rain washes it away," and one of the
squatters had replied, bitterly, "Paradise'll be a cemetery an'
nothin' else before the rain comes."

Passing through some pine woods I heard the soughing of the tree-tops.
They were entreating the rain to come--to come quickly. How well I
knew that soft, sibilant invocation! Higher up the few tufts of bunch
grass that remained rustled in anticipation. On the top of the
mountain, in ordinary years a sure sign of a coming storm, floated a
veil of opaline sea mist ...

I found Pap and a greaser skinning a dead heifer. Pap nodded sulkily,
thinking of his hay and his beans and bacon.

"What's up?" he growled.

"It's going to rain," said I.

"Ye ain't ridden from Paradise to tell me that. An' rain's not a-
comin', either. 'Twould be a miracle if it did. How's folks? I heard
as things couldn't be worse."

"They are bad," said I. "Eubank's sister-in-law and two children are
dead. Judge Spragg has lost four. In all about sixteen children have
gone and five adults. That's Paradise alone; in the foothills----"

"What brings you here?"

It seemed hopeless to soften this hardened old man. I had thought of a
dozen phrases wherewith to soap the ways, so to speak, down which
might be launched my petition. I forgot them all, confronted by those
malicious, sneering eyes, by the derisive, snarling grin.

"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."

"What d'you say?"

"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."

For my life I could not determine whether the news moved him or not.

"Wal?"

"And she's asking for you."

"Askin'--fer me?"

At last I had gripped his attention and interest.

"Why?"

"She wants to give you her money."

"Then it wa'n't a plant? 'Twa'n't fixed up atween you boys an' her?"

"It was her own idea--an idea so strong that it has taken possession
of her poor wandering wits altogether."

"Is that so?" He moistened his lips. "And you--ye've come up here to
ask me to go down there, into that p'isonous Paradise, because a
little girl who ain't nothin' to me wants to give me three dollars and
a half?"

"If you get there in time it may save her life."

"An' s'pose I lose mine--hey?"

I shrugged my shoulders. He stared at me as if I were a strange
animal, clicking his teeth and twisting his fingers.

"Look ye here," he burst out, angrily, with a curious note of surprise
and petulance in his voice, "you an' that brother o' yours know me,
old Pap Spooner, purty doggoned well. Hev ye heard anyone ever speak a
good word fer me?"

"No one except--the schoolmarm."

"An' what did she say?"

"She reckoned you must have thought the world of your own little
girl."

He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--

"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in
thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?--
that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll
bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin'
me--hey?"

"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, the
doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."

"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to
death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give
me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give
yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."

We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was
still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown
into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of
eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap
and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small
porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone
in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried
forward.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never
seen before.

"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come
under such circumstances?"

"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.

"The child is as ill as she can be."

"I meant fer--me."

"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone
was dully contemptuous.

"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the
same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."

We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he
saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly
and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you
hear?"

She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you,
Pap?"

"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."

"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"

"Here, Sissy, right here."

She extended a thin, wasted hand.

"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in a
clearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an'
I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you pore
old Pap, so you must take it."

Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unable
to speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy stared
anxiously at Pap.

"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed.
"Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap's
hand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips.
Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook his
head. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.

"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has fallen
into a natural sleep."

But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's hand, and he sat
beside her patiently, refusing to budge. Who shall say what was
passing in his mind, so long absorbed in itself, and now, if one could
judge by his face, absorbed at last in this child?

When he came out of the room he spoke to the doctor in a new voice.

"If she wants anything--anything, you understan'--you get it--see?"

"Certainly."

"And look ye here; I shall be stayin' at my old _adobe_, but if
the others want fer anything, you understan', get it--see?"

"Certainly, Mr. Spooner. I shall not fail to call on you, sir, because
we want many things."

"That's all right; but," his tone grew hard and sharp, "if--if she--
dies, this contrack is broke. The rest kin die too; the sooner the
better."

"But she won't die, Mr. Spooner," said the young doctor, cheerfully.
"I feel in my bones, sir, that Sissy Leadham won't die."

And it may be added here that she didn't.

*       *       *       *       *

At the ranch-house that night Ajax and I sat up, watching, waiting,
praying for the rain that would wash the diphtheria from Paradise and
despair from our hearts. The south-east wind sang louder and louder in
the cotton woods by the creek; the parched live oaks crackled with
fear that the gathering clouds should roll by, the willows shivered
and bowed themselves low in supplication. From the parched earth and
every living thing thereon went up the passionate cry for water.

One by one we saw the stars fade out of the sky. The Dipper
disappeared; then the Pole Star was extinguished. Orion veiled his
triple splendours. The Milky Way ceased to be....

"It's coming," whispered Ajax.

Suddenly the wind died down; the trees became mute; only the frogs
croaked a final Hallelujah Chorus, because they alone knew. And then,
out of the heaven which had seemed to have forsaken us, coming slowly
at first, as if with the timid, halting step of a stranger; coming
quickly and gladly afterwards, as an old friend comes back to the
place where he is sure of a welcome; and lastly, with a sound of ten
thousand pattering feet, with a whirring of innumerable wings, with a
roar of triumph and ecstasy, Prosperity poured down upon Paradise.




IV

GLORIANA


For three weeks we had advertised for a cook--in vain! And ranch life,
in consequence, began to lose colour and coherence. Even the animals
suffered: the dogs, the chickens, and in particular the tame piglet,
who hung disconsolate about the kitchen door watching, and perchance
praying, for the hired girl that was not.

"This," said Ajax, "spells demoralisation."

He alluded to the plates which lay face downward upon the dining-room
table. We had agreed to wash up every other meal, saving time at the
expense of decency. One plate did double duty, for we used the top for
breakfast and the bottom for dinner. Before supper we scrubbed it
thoroughly and began again.

"And this bread of yours," I retorted warmly--the plate labour-saving
scheme was a happy thought of my own--"spells dyspepsia."

"True," he admitted forlornly. "I can make, but not bake bread. In a
domestic crisis like this many things must be left underdone. We must
find a cook. I propose that we ride to the village, and rope some aged
virgin."

We discussed the propriety of such a raid with spirit. I contended
that we might have reason to regret, at the end of another rope, so
high-handed a proceeding.

"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded
ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the
freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and
I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot
last. Something will turn up."

That afternoon Gloriana turned up.

We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans,
bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested
gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber-
coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling
with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose
the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon.
Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly
blue, a-quiver with light and heat.

"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.

The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right
angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.

"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never
ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."

Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting
upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with
almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.

"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.

"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."

"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones,
dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and
tell her we have never learned to read."

I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay
the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune
frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair.

"Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked
askance into her face.

"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."

"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"

"The lords?"

"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the
direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle-
ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see--
me."

A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun.

"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a
book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."

Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell-
tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer
lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but
not unpleasing.

"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word
from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's
perfectly lovely--in moroccy."

"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I
think he can read."

This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt
no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun-
baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and
blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's overalls and
tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a
frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him
for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus.
With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to
convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single
safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the
foot of the corral.

"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't,
why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye
hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I
bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I
ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."

We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose.
Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain
modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished
her eyes were full of tears.

"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy
your book."

Her hands trembled.

"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in
reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."

"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."

"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman,
compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."

"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the
cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother
cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."

"Ye must hev had awful nice mothers, both of ye," she said simply. "Do
I sell many books? No, sir. Farmer-folks in Californy ain't got the
money ter spend in readin' matter. They're in big luck these times if
they kin pay the interest on their mortgages. With wheat at eighty
cents a cental, an' barley not wuth the haulin', it seems most an
impertinence to ask grangers ter buy books."

"Do you make twenty dollars a month at the business?"

She shook her head sorrowfully.

"This is September," said Ajax, "and within six weeks the rains will
begin. What will you do then?"

She regarded him wistfully, but made no reply.

"Your mule," continued Ajax, "is about played out--poor beast. Will
you stay here this winter, and keep house for us? I daresay you cook
very nicely; and next spring, if you feel like it, you can start out
bookselling again."

"My cookin' is sech as white folks kin eat, but----"

"We will pay you twenty dollars a month."

"The wages air more'n enough, but----"

"And the work will be light."

"I ain't scar't o' work," she retorted valiantly, "but----"

"It's settled, then," said Ajax, in his masterful way. "If you'll get
down, I'll unhitch the mule and put him in the barn. My brother will
show you the house."

She descended, protesting, but we could not catch the words that fell
from her lips.

"You must tell us your name," said Ajax

"It's Gloriana," she faltered.

"Gloriana? Gloriana--what?"

"Jes--Gloriana."

*       *       *       *       *

"She is a type," said Ajax, a few days later.

"A type of what?"

"Of the women who suffer and are not strong There are many such in
this Western country. I'd like to hear her story. Is she married or
single? old or young? crazy or sane?"

"Gloriana," I answered, "satisfies our appetites but not our
curiosity."

As time passed, her reticence upon all personal matters became
exasperating. At the end of the first month she demanded and received
her salary. Moreover, refusing our escort, she tramped three dusty
miles to the village post-office, and returned penniless but jubilant.
At supper Ajax said--"It's more blessed to give than to receive--eh,
Gloriana?"

She compressed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling. After supper
Ajax commented upon her improved appearance in her presence. He
confessed himself at a loss to account for this singular
rejuvenescence.

Expecting company, Gloriana?"

"Mebbee-an' mebbee not."

"You brought home a large parcel," said Ajax. "A precious parcel. Why,
you held it as a woman holds her first baby."

She smiled, and bade us good-night.

"I've no call ter stan' aroun' gassin'," she assured us. "I've work
ter do--a plenty of it, too."

During the month of October she spent all her leisure hours locked up
in her own room; and, waiting upon us at meals, quoted freely that
famous book--_A Golden Word from Mother_. We often heard her
singing softly to herself, keeping time to the click of her needle.
When pay-day came she demanded leave of absence. The village, she told
us, was sadly behind the times, and with our permission she proposed
to drive her mule and buckboard to the county seat--San Lorenzo.

"I've business of importance," she said proudly, "ter transack."

She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the
first.

"I've bought a bonnet," she confessed shyly, "an' trimmins."

We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases: white satin ribbon,
jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of
Ravenswood. The "locating" of this splendid plume was no easy task.

"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an'
ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make
fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an
ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that
sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one
side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips. "Yes, sir, stuff ter
make a dress--a party dress, the finest kind o' goods."

Ajax stared helplessly at me. The mystery that encompassed this woman
was positively indecent.

"An' shoes," she concluded. "I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with
French tips--very dressy."

Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved. Our
head _vaquero_, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and
quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana's flesh-pots. He
lived in an old _adobe_ near the big corral, boarded himself and
a couple of Mexicans upon _tortillas_, _frijoles_ and bacon,
and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and
woman hater. We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he
seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle _slowly_. To him the
sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands: pies, "jell'" (compounded
according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the
laughter of children! What misogynist can withstand such arts? I
remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his
approval of our _cordon bleu_ in no measured terms.

"You've noted," he said, "that a greaser jest naterally hates ter
handle mares. He rides a horse, an' he's right. The best o' mares will
kick. Now, Glory Anne can't help bein' a woman, but I swear she's bin
mighty well broke. She works right up into the collar--quiet an'
steady, an' keeps her tongue, whar it belongs, shet up in her mouth.
I've seen a sight o' wimmen I thot less of than Glory Anne."

I repeated these words to Ajax. He admitted their significance, in
connection with bonnets and furbelows, and we both went to bed with a
sound of marriage-bells in our ears. We slept soundly, convinced that
neither Gloriana nor Uncle Jake would leave our service, and at
breakfast the next morning discoursed at length upon the subject of
wedding presents.

"What would you suggest, Gloriana," said Ajax, "as suitable for a
middle-aged bridegroom?"

She considered the question thoughtfully, a delightful smile upon her
lips.

"Ther's nothin' more interestin' than marryin', excep' mebbee the
courtin'," she replied softly, "an' a gift is, so ter speak, a message
o' love an' tenderness from one human heart t' another. With poor
folks, who ain't experts in the use o' words, a gift means more 'n
tongue kin tell. I'm sot myself on makin' things. Every stitch I put
into a piece o' fancy work fer--a friend makes me feel the happier.
Sech sewin' is a reel labour o' love, an' I kinder hate ter hurry over
it, because, as I was sayin', it means so much that I'd like ter say,
but bein' ignorant don't know how. A present fer a middle-aged
bridegroom? Well, now, if 'twas me, I'd make him a nice comfortable
bed-spread, with the best an' prettiest o' stitchin."

We both laughed. Uncle Jake under a gorgeous counterpane would make a
graven image smile. Gloriana laughed with us.

"It'd be most too dainty fer some," she said, with a surprising sense
of humour, "but I was thinkin' ye wanted a gift fer one o' yer high-
toned relations in the old country. No? Well, take yer time: a gift
ain't lightly chosen."

"I shall tackle Uncle Jake," said Ajax, as he rode over the ranch.
"Gloriana is too discreet, but she bought that bonnet for her own
wedding."

Uncle Jake, however, was cunning of fence.

"I don't feel lonesome," he declared. "Ye see I'm a cattle man, an' I
like the travelled trails. I ain't huntin' no quicksands. Many a
feller has mired down tryin' a new crossin'. No, sir, I calkilate ter
remain single."

"He's very foxy," commented Ajax, "but he means business. It really
bothers me that they won't confide in us."

The November rains were unusually heavy that year, and confined us to
the house. Gloriana had borrowed a sewing-machine from a neighbour,
and worked harder than ever, inflaming her eyes and our curiosity. We
speculated daily upon her past, present and future, having little else
to distract us in a life that was duller than a Chinese comedy. We
waxed fat in idleness, but the cook grew lean.

"You're are losing flesh, Gloriana," said I, noting her sunken cheeks
and glittering eyes.

"In a good cause," she replied fervently. "Anyways, ther ain't a
happier woman than me in the state of Californy! Well, I'm most thro'
with my sewing, an' I'd like ter show ye both what I've done, but----"

"We've have been waiting for this, Gloriana," said Ajax, tartly. "As a
member of the family you have not treated my brother and myself
fairly. This mysterious work of yours is not only wearing you to skin
and bone, it is consuming us with curiosity."

"Ye're jokin', Mr. Ajax."

"This is no joking matter, Gloriana."

She blushed, and glanced indecisively at two solemn faces.

"Ye've bin more 'n good ter me," she said slowly, "but a secret is a
secret till it's told. I hate ter tell my secret, an'--an' yer both
young unmarried men. It's really embarrassin'."

"Your secret is no secret," said my brutal brother. "Somebody,
Gloriana, is about to get married--eh?"

"Good land! How did ye come ter guess that?"

"Uncle Jake has not said a word."

"Well--why should he?"

"He's as close as a clam--the old sinner. So we can congratulate you,
Gloriana?"

"Ye kin indeed."

We shook hands, and she led the way to her own room. There, spread
upon her bed, lay some dainty garments, exquisitely fashioned,--a
regular trousseau! Even to our inexperienced eyes the beauty of the
workmanship was amazing.

"A woman," she murmured, "likes ter look at sech things. An' I do
think these air good enough."

"Good enough!" we repeated. "They're fit for a queen."

"An' a queen is goin' ter wear 'em," said Gloriana proudly--"a queen
o' beauty."

We stared blankly at each other. Had Cupid robbed his victim of her
wits?

"They air fer Miss Miriam Standish, who was queen o' beauty at the San
Lorenzy carnival. Miss Standish is the granddaughter of Doctor
Standish. Ye've heard o' him--of course?"

She glanced keenly at Ajax, who rose to the occasion with an alacrity
that I trust the recording angel appreciated.

"Of course," he said hastily. "Doctor Standish is a man of mark; as a
physician, he----"

"He ain't a physician," said Gloriana. "He's a doctor o' divinity--a
learned, godly man."

"And his granddaughter is about to marry----"

"Mr. Hubert Leadbetter. I should say _Professor_ Leadbetter, who
keeps the biggest drug-store in town."

We had bought drugs from the Professor, and were happily able to
testify to his personal charms. Gloriana beamed.

"Ther ain't a finer young man in the land, Mr. Ajax: he's jest as good
as his own sarsaparilla."

"You are going to attend the wedding?" said I, thinking of the
wonderful bonnet.

"If you please," said Gloriana. "I jest couldn't stay away. Why, I've
made things fer Miriam Standish ever since she was born. That is how I
learned ter sew as few women kin sew."

Ajax touched one of the garments lightly, as became a bachelor.

"This work will bring you many shekels, Gloriana. I had no idea you
were such a needlewoman."

"What!" she cried, her face crimson. "Do you think I'd take money from
Miriam Standish? Why----"

She stopped short in confusion, and covered her poor face with
trembling hands.

"I beg your pardon," said Ajax gravely, "I wouldn't hurt your
feelings, Gloriana, for the world."

She looked up, irresolutely.

"I reckon I've said too much or too little," she said slowly. "Ye're
both gen'lemen, an' ye've bin awful kind ter me. I kin trust ye with
my secret, an' I'm goin' ter do it. The Standishes, are New England
folk--high-toned an' mighty particler. It's as easy fer them ter be
virtuous as ter eat punkin pie fer breakfast. I come from Wisconsin,
where we think more of our bodies than our souls; an' 'twas in
Wisconsin that I first met Dr. Standish. He had a call to the town,
wher I lived with--with my sister. She, my sister, was a real pretty
girl then, but of a prettiness that soon fades. An' she hired out as
cook ter the Doctor. He was a good man, an' a kind one, but she paid
back his kindness by runnin' off with his only son."

"Surely," said Ajax gently, "the son was also to blame?"

"No, sir, my sister was ter blame, an' she knew it. We was common
folk, Mr. Ajax, what they would call in the South--white trash, an'
the Standishes was real quality. My sister knew that, an' refused to
marry the young man, tho' he asked her on his bended knees. Then he
died, an'--an' my sister died, an' nothin' was left but the sorrow an'
the shame, an'--Miriam."

The name fell softly on a silence that we respected. Presently she
continued--

"Doctor Standish offered to take the child, an' I dared not keep her.
His terms were awful hard, but just: the scandal'd broke up his home,
an' his heart. He tole me he'd take Miriam ter Californy, an' that she
must never know the story of her mother's sin. That was right, Mr.
Ajax--eh?"

"I don't know, Gloriana. Go on."

"I promised him never ter speak to the child, an' I've kept my word;
but he let me make her things. That was kind of him--very kind."

"Very kind, indeed," said Ajax.

"I followed 'em ter Californy, an' worked out, an' sold books an'
peddled fruit, but I've kep' track o' little Miriam."

"You have never spoken to her, you say?"

"Never. Doctor Standish kin trust me. He's posted me, too. He tole me
o' the wedding. I got word the night I first went ter the village, an'
that's why--" she smiled through her tears--"that's why I wore my
teeth. They cost me twenty dollars, an' I keep 'em fer high days an'
holidays."

Ajax began to pace up and down the room. I heard him swearing to
himself, and his fists were clenched. I felt certain that he was about
to interfere in matters that did not concern us.

"Miss Standish should be told the truth," said he at last.

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I'm a wicked woman to wish ter kiss her. I
done wrong in telling the secret, but yer sympathy jest twisted it
outer me. Promise me, Mr. Ajax, that ye'll never give me away."

We pledged our word, and left her.

*       *       *       *       *

"Gloriana's dun days must soon come to an end," said Ajax to me upon
the eve of the wedding.

"Why shouldn't she marry Uncle Jake? The old chap wants her. He
informed me this afternoon that a double team travelled farther than a
single horse. And he hangs about the kitchen door all the time, and
divides Gloriana's favours with the pig."

"Tell him to propose."

"I'll have to do it for him," replied my brother. "Uncle Jake has not
the gift of tongues."

We accompanied Gloriana to San Lorenzo; as we feared to trust our
friend--for so we had come to regard her--with the mule, a mischievous
beast, spoiled by prosperity. Ajax drove a skittish pair of colts.
Gloriana and I occupied the back seat of our big spring wagon.

"My brother is not Uncle Jake," said Ajax, as soon as the colts had
settled down to business, "but he'll tell you all the pretty things
the old man says about you."

"Uncle Jake is puffectly rediclous," replied Gloriana gaily. "His love
is cupboard love."

"He has mired down at last."

"Nonsense! Mr. Ajax."

"He is set on matrimony. You are the one woman in the world for him.
Take him, Gloriana; and then we'll all live together for ever and
ever."

"Mr. Ajax, you'd sooner joke than eat."

"I'm not joking now. Uncle Jake is an honest man, with money laid by.
He would make you comfortable for life, and such a marriage might pave
the way to--to a better understanding with Doctor Standish."

Her face flushed at these last words, and fire flooded her eyes.
Looking at her, I realised that long ago this worn woman must have
been a beautiful girl.

"No," she answered steadily. "I wouldn't say Yes to the Angel Gabriel.
Uncle Jake and I would make a baulky team. He's obstinate as my old
mule, an' so am I. An' there's another thing: I'm most petered out,
an' need a rest. Mattermony ain't rest."

My brother had tact enough to change the subject.

Descending the San Lorenzo grade, a sharp incline, Gloriana called our
attention to a view panoramic and matchless beneath the glamour of
sunset. Below us lay the mission town, its crude buildings aglow with
rosy light; to the left was the cañon, a frowning wilderness of
manzanita, cactus and chaparral; to the right towered the triune peak
of the Bishop, purple against an amber sky; in the distance were the
shimmering waters of the Pacific. Upon the face of the landscape
brooded infinite peace, and the soft shadows of evening.

"In Californy," said our passenger, "the glorious works o' the Lord
air revealed. There's the Bishop: he looks fine to-night. Ye kin see
the peak, but the sea fog's crawlin' in, an' shets off the main body
o' the mountain. That's wher the fogs air always thickest. An' that's
wher I lost my way, Mr. Ajax. Yes, sir, my feet stumbled on the dark
mountain, as the prophet says, but I clumb the stony places, an' now,
on the top, its clear."

"Gloriana," said Ajax, after a pause, "will you allow my brother, who
is a grave and learned signor, to plead your cause with Doctor
Standish? I know what lies nearest your heart."

In this impudent fashion he laid a grievous burden on me; for I have
no stomach for other folk's pastry, yet the hope that glistened upon
Gloriana's face whetted a strange appetite.

"I'll speak to him--if you wish it," said I.

"No," she returned, her eyes giving the lie to her lips. "It wouldn't
be right."

But a woman's brain is a sorry advocate against her heart. Ajax, as I
expected, put her scruples to rout. It was agreed that I should carry,
as credentials, Gloriana's present--the parcel she hugged to her
bosom, weighty with love and linen; that the interview should take
place after dinner; that the recognition of Gloriana as Miriam's
blood-relation should be not demanded but suggested with all deference
due to a doctor of divinity. The Standishes boarded at the Hotel Buena
Vista, where we always stayed; Gloriana was set down at a modest two-
bit house, some three-quarters of a mile distant.

As the hour of meeting the Doctor approached, my courage oozed from
every pore, distilling a malignant dew of mistrust that not even the
optimism of Ajax could evaporate. As we sat at meat I noted with
apprehension the stern features of Standish, who occupied an adjoining
table. He ate sparingly, as became an old man, and drank no wine. His
granddaughter, a charming girl, with eyes that reminded me of
Gloriana, chattered gaily to him, but he replied in monosyllables.
Doubtless he was thinking of the parting on the morrow.

Half-an-hour later he received me in his room, and asked courteously
in what way he could serve me.

I laid my credentials upon the table. They were flanked, I remarked,
by a Bible, and a well-worn book of prayer.

"This," I began lamely, "is a present from our housekeeper, Gloriana,
to your granddaughter. She asked me to deliver it into your hands."

"I thank you, sir," he replied stiffly. "You say this--er--woman is
your housekeeper?"

"Our housekeeper--and our friend."

"Indeed. Well, sir, I am obliged to you. Good-night."

"A present," said I, "demands an acknowledgment."

"An acknowledgment? You look at me very strangely, young man."

Upon this I spoke; explaining, in halting sentences, my mission. He
listened attentively, a frown upon his somewhat narrow forehead.

"How dare you interfere in such matters!" he asked, in a voice that
quavered with suppressed rage. "What right have you to come between me
and a woman, an ignorant, immoral creature, whose very presence is
contamination?"

"Ignorant, illiterate--yes; but a braver, truer, more loving spirit
never breathed. I count it a privilege to know her. Surely she has
suffered enough for a sister's sin!"

"My life has been poisoned," he muttered. "I was robbed at once of my
son and of my profession, for I dared not preach what I could not
practise--forgiveness. Leave me, sir."

"I beg your pardon," said I bitterly. "If you turn a deaf ear to this"
(I touched his Bible), "and these" (I tore open the parcel, and spread
Gloriana's handiwork upon the table), "how can I expect you to listen
to me?"

"You are in possession of all the facts, sir. Don't presume to judge
me. Go--and take these things with you. It has been the object of my
life to keep my granddaughter and this woman apart. I allowed her to
work for the child, but the clothes she has been sending I have given
to--others. Already, despite my efforts, she suspects that there is
some unhappy mystery about her birth."

*       *       *       *       *

Ajax met me on the threshold of our cheerless hotel parlour, and
listened confounded to my story. As we sat smoking and talking the
bell-boy ushered in Gloriana. When she caught sight of her precious
parcel she gasped with satisfaction.

"I'm most choked," she panted, "in trying ter get here in time. I
reckon I run most o' the way. Ever since ye set me down I've bin
tryin' studyin' an' worryin'. I don't want ye," she turned an anxious
face to mine, "ter speak ter Doctor Standish to-night, fer it might
onsettle Miriam. Good land o' Peter, how short my breath is! Ye see
ther couldn't be room in the child's heart jest now fer me an' the
_Pro_fessor. An' when that ther idee took aholt it seemed as if I
couldn't rest till I saw ye. I'm mighty glad I was in time."

The words fell from her lips in sobs and gasps.

"It's all right," said Ajax. "Sit down, Gloriana. You deserve a
scolding."

As he spoke she sank upon the couch, and tugged convulsively at the
white linen band around her throat.

"She is ill," whispered Ajax. "Run for assistance--quick!"

I chanced to meet the bell-boy, and dispatched him in search of a
physician. Unable to discriminate between doctors of medicine and
divinity, the youth summoned in hot haste Doctor Standish. His
granddaughter, learning that a woman was in sore distress, accompanied
him. They entered the room together. The Doctor motioned the girl
back, but she hastened forward, and, looking with infinite compassion
into the poor twisted face, took Gloriana's hands in hers. Some one
administered brandy and spirits of ammonia.

"How did this happen?" said the Doctor aside to me.

I spared him nothing in the recital, and his stern features softened
as I emphasised Gloriana's anxiety to save Miriam from worry. As I
finished, the faithful creature opened her eyes, which rested
naturally upon the face of Miriam.

"Why--it's my little girl," she said faintly. Doctor Standish bent
forward.

"If she mistakes you for one of her own kin, don't undeceive her. Play
the part."

Miriam nodded, and kissed the frail hands that fluttered round her
head.

"Gimme my parcel," she said presently, in a stronger voice. "Mercy
sakes! I'm awful weak; but I'd like ter show my little girl the things
I made for her."

The parcel was brought and untied. Gloriana touched the garments
tenderly.

"Nothin'," she murmured, "kin come closer to ye than these pretty
things, excep' the love I stitched into 'em. When you wear 'em you'll
think o' me, Miss Standish."

At the sound of her name the girl started, and looked askance at her
grandfather, who turned his head aside.

"Who is this woman!" she asked in a low voice.

The answer came from Gloriana, slowly and distinctly.

"I'm--nothin'--to--ye; but ye've bin the world an' all ter me. Well--I
said I'd never go ter my little girl, because I wasn't fit, but I
always thought that the Lord in His mercy would bring her ter me. Ye
wore the clothes I sent, an' mebbee ye wondered who made 'em. 'Twas
the happiness o' my life sewing on 'em, an' ter think you was wearin'
them. I've worked awful hard, but I kin take it easy--now. I feel reel
sleepy, too. Good-night, my pretty, good-night!"

We were quite unprepared for what happened, believing that our poor
friend was merely over-wrought and weary. But as the words "good-
night" fell softly upon our ears Gloriana sighed peacefully--and died.

"Who is this woman?" said Miriam for the second time, thinking that
Gloriana had fallen asleep.

The Doctor was not so deceived. He pressed forward, and laid his
trembling fingers upon the wrist of the dead, and then bent his head
till it rested upon the breast of her he had counted a scandalous
sinner. When he confronted us the tears were rolling down his face.

"May God forgive me!" he cried, falling upon his knees. "This woman,
Miriam, was your mother."




V

BUMBLEPUPPY


Bumblepuppy is a synonym of whist played in defiance of certain time-
honoured conventions and principles. Ajax said with reason that
Johnnie Kapus, the nephew of our neighbour, old man Kapus, played the
game of life in such a sorry, blundering fashion that he marvelled why
his uncle gave him house-room. Ajax christened Johnnie--Bumble-puppy.

Once we hired Johnnie to work for us at the rate of half-a-dollar a
day. A heavy rain-storm had just taken place, and my brother insisted
that Johnnie was the right man to fill up the "wash-outs" in and about
the corrals. He was strong, big, docile as a cow, and he lived within
a few hundred yards of the ranch-house.

Johnnie was provided with a spade and a wheelbarrow, and led to a
gaping hole beneath the barn. I explained that the rain had washed
away the soil and made the hole, which must be filled up before more
rain should fall.

"Wheer shall I git the dirt from?" Johnnie demanded.

"From the most convenient place," said I. Ajax and I returned to the
barn an hour later. The hole was filled; but another hole, from which
Johnnie had taken the dirt, as large as the first, seriously
threatened the under-pinning of the building.

Ajax swore. Johnnie looked at me, as he drawled out:

"The boss told me to git the dirt wheer 'twas mos' handy."

Ajax grinned.

"I see. It was the boss' fault, not yours. Now then, Johnnie, the work
must be done all over again."

"If you say so, boys, I'll do it."

As we moved away Ajax pointed out the propriety of giving explicit
directions. At dinner time we came back to the barn. Johnnie had taken
the earth out of the first hole and put it back again into the second!

"You star-spangled fool!" said Ajax.

"You tole me," replied Johnnie, "that the work mus' be did all over
agen--an' I done it."

"Directions," I remarked, "may be made too explicit."

After this incident, we always spoke of Johnnie as Bumblepuppy.

Some six months later Alethea-Belle told us that Johnnie Kapus was
doing "chores" for the widow Janssen; milking her cow, taking care of
the garden, and drawing water. Upon inquiry, however, we learned that
the cow was drying up, the well had caved in, and the garden produced
no weeds, it is true, and no vegetables!

"Why doesn't the widow sack him?" Ajax asked.

"Mis' Janssen is kinder sorry for Johnnie," replied the
schoolmistress; then she added irrelevantly, "There's no denyin' that
Johnnie Kapus has the loveliest curly hair."

About a fortnight after this, when the July sun was at its zenith and
the starch out of everything animate and inanimate, old man Kapus came
up to the ranch-house. Johnnie, he said, disappeared during the
previous night.

"And he's bin kidnapped, too," the uncle added.

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes, boys--hauled out o' winder! A man weighin' close onter two
hundred pounds 'd naterally prefer to walk out o' the door, but the
widder hauled Johnnie out o' winder."

"The widow?"

"Mis' Janssen. There was buggy tracks at the foot o' the melon patch,
and the widder's missin'. She's put it up to marry my Johnnie. I
suspicioned something, but I counted on Johnnie. I sez to myself:
'Others might be tempted by a plump, well-lookin' widder, but not
Johnnie.' Ye see, boys, Johnnie ain't quite the same as you an' me."

"Not quite," said Ajax.

"Mebbee ye've wondered why I sot sech store by Johnnie. Wal--I'll tell
ye. Johnnie's paw an' me was brothers an' pardners afore the war. An'
after Bull Run John sez to me: 'Abram,' he sez, 'we mustn't let Ole
Glory trail in the dust.' That's what he sez. 'John,' I answers, 'what
kin we do to prevent it?' '_Enlist_,' sez he. An' we done it. But
afore we go within smellin' distance o' the rebs, yes, boys, afore we
saw 'em, a bullet comes slam-bang into John's head."

The old man paused, overcome. We turned our eyes from his wrinkled,
troubled face, as Ajax entreated him to say no more.

"He died in defence of his flag," I muttered.

"Ah!" exclaimed Johnnie's uncle, "I thought you'd say that. No, boys,
John didn't die. A Kapus takes a heap o' killin.' John up an lived--
an' _married_! He married my girl, too, Susie Bunker. Susie felt
awful sorry for him, for that there rebel bullet had kinder made
scrambled eggs with pore John's brains. I let Susie marry John,
because I knew that he needed a good woman's keer. And then Johnnie
was born: a whoppin' baby, but with a leetle something missin' in his
purty head. Then John died, and soon enough Susie got peaked-face an'
lost her relish fer food. She tuk a notion that John needed her
t'otherside. Just afore she sent in her checks, she give me Johnnie,
an' she ast my pardon for marryin' John instead o' me. I tole her she
done right. An' I promised to look after Johnnie. Up to date, boys, I
hev. But now that darned widder woman has onexpectedly kidnapped him.
What kin I do?"

"The widow will look after both of you," I suggested.

"What! Share my Johnnie with her? Not much. She stole that there boy
from me by force. By Jing! I'll take him from her without liftin' a
finger. Ye see, Johnnie is mighty apt to disappint the widder.
Sometimes--more often than not--Johnnie _is_--disappintin'! I
allus jedge the pore boy by contrairies. Most o' men when they marry
air apt to forgit them as raised 'em, but Johnnie'll pine fer me. I
know it. Bless his heart, he can't git along nohow without me."

Listening to this simple talk, watching the old man's rough, honest
face, my own heart grew chill with apprehension. The widow had a small
income and many charms. It was certain that Johnnie's curly hair,
bright blue eyes, and stalwart figure had captivated her fancy. Pity
had bloomed into love. The pair must have driven--as fast as the
widow's steed could travel--into San Lorenzo. By this time, high noon,
the licence, doubtless, had been issued and the marriage solemnised by
parson or justice of the peace. Once married, no man--not even old man
Kapus--would be justified in tearing Bumblepuppy from the fond arms of
his bride.

We asked Johnnie's uncle to dine with us. He thanked us warmly.

"Boys, you surmise that I'm feelin' lonesome. And I am. But I won't be
lonesome long. The widder can't let that cow o' hers go without two
milkin's, an' her pigs an' chickens must be fed. She'll be back in the
village 'bout four or five; an' to-night, to-night, boys, my Johnnie
'll be home to supper."

Ajax discreetly descanted upon the widow's fine complexion, but old
man Kapus lent him but an indifferent ear.

"She's fat an' slick," he admitted, "but Johnnie's fat an' slick, too.
An' who made him so? Why--his uncle Abram. D'ye think now that I've
fed him up and got him into sech fine shape that he'll leave me? No,
sir. You might act that-a-way, but not my Johnnie."

After dinner, we accompanied Uncle Abram as far as the creek which
flows between the village and our domain. Here stand some fine
cottonwood trees and half-a-dozen lordly white-oaks. The spot is
famous as a picnicking ground, and in the heat of summer is as cool a
place as may be found in the county. And here, paddling in the brook
like an urchin, we found Bumblepuppy. His eyes sparkled as they fell
upon the face of his uncle.

"Ye've got back, Johnnie," said the old man.

"Yas. 'Twas hotter'n a red-hot stove on the road."

"Ye druv in with the widder woman?"

"Yas. I druv in with her; but I walked back. Guess I run the most o'
the way, too."

"An' Mis' Janssen--wheer is she?"

"I dunno', uncle Abram."

"Is she still a widder woman, Johnnie?"

"She was when I left her," said Bumblepuppy.

He had ascended the bank. Sitting down, he began to put on his socks.
I noted the admirable symmetry of calf and ankle; I thought of the
lungs and muscles which had sustained the superb body during a twenty-
six mile run between blazing earth and sky.

"What in thunder did ye go to town fer?" asked the old man. "Speak up,
Johnnie. Give us the cold facts."

Then Bumblepuppy made the speech of his life.

"Uncle Abram, you tole me to obey Mis' Janssen, an' do what she said."

"That's so, Johnnie."

"Yesday, she tole me to fix up an' be ready to go to San Lorenzy with
her. She said we'd travel by night 'cause o' the heat. An' she said I
was not to 'sturb you. She said she'd come to the winder an' tap. Then
I'd crawl out without 'sturbin' you. Wal--she come around about two,
jest as the roosters was a'crowin 'fer the second time. I slipped out
o' winder in my stockined feet. I hope I didn't 'sturb ye?"

"Ye didn't. Go on."

"In town Mis' Janssen said she'd fixed it up to marry me. She said I
needed a lovin' wife, and that me an' she'd have a Fourth o' July time
together. I said nothing, 'cause you'd tole me never to interrup' a
lady when she was a-talkin'. She kep' on a-talkin' till we got to the
Court House, where Mis' Janssen bought a licence. Then we hunted a
minister. Bimeby, he ast me if I was willin' to take Sairy Anne
Janssen to be my wife----"

"An' ye said NO, my own Johnnie?"

"That's what I done, Uncle Abram. And then she sez, kinder wheedlin':
'But you will marry yer Sairy Anne, Johnnie, won't ye?' And then,
gittin' scared, I kinder forgot my manners, fer I said: 'No--I'm d----
d if I will!' An' I disremember what she said nex', but I found myself
in the road, a-runnin' like a mad steer. Jee! that road was hotter'n a
red-hot stove!"

During the recital of this adventure Bumblepuppy's face had deepened
in tint till it glowed like an iron disc in the heart of a fire. As he
finished speaking, he knelt down and dipped his head into the cool,
bubbling creek. Lifting up his ruddy face, a ray of sunshine,
filtering through the tremulous leaves of the cottonwoods, fell full
upon his chestnut curls, and each drop of water on his hair became of
a sudden a gem of prismatic colour and most brilliant lustre.

"Phew-w-w!" said Bumblepuppy. "I hope Mis' Janssen ain't feelin' as
warm as I am."




VI

JASPERSON'S BEST GIRL


Jasperson came to the ranch at the time of the March branding, and it
was well understood between the contracting parties--Ajax and I of the
first part, and Jasper Jasperson of the second part, all of San
Lorenzo County, in the State of California--that the said Jasperson
came to us as a favour, and, so to speak, under protest. For he had
never worked out before, and was possessed of money in bank and some
four hundred acres of good arable land which, he carefully explained
to us, he was unwilling to farm himself. Indeed, his appearance
bespoke the man of independent means, for he wore a diamond collar-
stud--his tie was always pulled carefully down so as not to interfere
with this splendid gem--and two diamond rings. In Jasperson's hot
youth he had come into violent contact with a circular saw, and the
saw, as he admitted, had the best of the encounter--two fingers of his
left hand being left in the pit. A man of character and originality,
he insisted upon wearing the rings upon his maimed hand, both upon the
index finger; and once, when Ajax suggested respectfully that the
diamonds would shine to better advantage upon the right hand, he
retorted reasonably enough that the mutilated member "kind of needed
settin' off." He seized the opportunity to ask Ajax why we wore no
jewellery, and upon my brother replying that we considered diamonds
out of place upon a cattle ranch, he roundly asserted that in his
opinion a "gen'leman couldn't be too dressy."

During the first month he bought in San Lorenzo a resplendent black
suit, and an amazing dress shirt with an ivy pattern, worked in white
silk, meandering down and up the bosom. To oblige Ajax he tried on
these garments in our presence, and spoke hopefully of the future,
which he said was sure to bring to his wardrobe another shirt and
possibly a silk hat. We took keen interest in these important matters,
and assured Jasperson that it would afford us the purest pleasure to
see once more a silk hat. Then Ajax indiscreetly asked if he was about
to commit matrimony.

"Boys," he replied, blushing, "I'd ought to be engaged, but I ain't.
Don't give me away, but I ain't got no best girl--not a one.
Surprisin', yes, sir, considerin' how I'm fixed--most _sur_prisin'."

He took off his beautiful coat, and wrapped it carefully in tissue
paper. We were sitting on the verandah after supper, and were well
into our second pipes. The moonlight illumined the valley, but
Jasperson's small delicate face was in shadow. From the creek hard by
came the croaking of many frogs, from the cow pasture the shrilling of
the crickets. A cool breeze from the Pacific was stirring the leaves
of the willows and cottonwoods, and the wheat, now two feet high,
murmured praise and thanksgiving for the late rains. When nature is
eloquent, why should a mortal refrain from speech?

"Boys," continued Jasperson; "I'm a-goin' to tell ye something;
because--well, because I feel like it. I've never had no best girl!"
"Jasperson," said Ajax, "I can't believe that. What! you, a young
and----"

"I ain't young," interrupted the man of independent means. "I'm nigh
on to thirty-six. Don't flim-flam me, boys. I ain't young, and I ain't
beautiful, but fixed up I am--dressy, an' that should count."

"It does count," said my brother, emphatically. "I've seen you,
Jasperson, on Sundays, when I couldn't take my eyes off you. The girls
must be crazy."

"The girls, gen'lemen, air all right; the trouble ain't with them.
It's with me. Don't laugh: it ain't no laughin' matter. Boys--I'm
bashful. That's what ails Jasper Jasperson. The girls," he cried
scornfully; "you bet they know a soft snap when they see it, and I am
a soft snap, an' don't you forget it!

"I left my own land," he continued dreamily, in a soft, melancholy
voice, "because there ain't a lady within fifteen miles o' my barn,
and here there's a village, and----"

"Her name, please," said Ajax, with authority; "you must tell us her
name."

"Wal," he bent forward, and his face came out of the shadows; we could
see that his pale blue eyes, red-rimmed and short-sighted, were
suffused with tender light, and his pendulous lower lip was a-quiver
with emotion; even the hair of his head--tow-coloured and worn _à la
Pompadour_--seemed to bristle with excitement, "Wal," he whispered
"it's--it's Miss Birdie Dutton!"

In the silence that followed I could see Ajax pulling his moustache.
Miss Birdie Dutton! Why, in the name of the Sphinx, should Jasperson
have selected out of a dozen young ladies far more eligible Miss
Birdie Dutton? She was our postmistress, a tall, dark, not uncomely
virgin of some thirty summers. But, alas! one of her eyes was
fashioned out of glass; her nose was masculine and masterful; and her
chin most positive. Jasperson's chin was equally conspicuous--
negatively. Miss Birdie, be it added, was a frequent contributor to
the columns of the _San Lorenzo Banner_, and Grand Secretary of a
local temperance organisation. She boarded with the Swiggarts; and Mr.
Swiggart, better known as Old Smarty, told me in confidence that "she
wouldn't stand no foolishness"; and he added, reflectively, that she
was something of a "bull-dozer." I knew that Old Smarty had sold his
boarder an aged and foundered bronco for fifty dollars, and that
within twenty-four hours the animal had been returned to him and the
money refunded to Miss Birdie. Many persons had suffered grievously at
the hands of Mr. Swiggart, but none, saving Miss Dutton, could boast
of beating him in a horse-deal.

Presently I expressed surprise that Jasperson had the honour of Miss
Dutton's unofficial acquaintance.

"I was interdooced last fall," said our friend, "at a candy-pullin' up
to Mis' Swiggart's. Not that Miss Birdie was a-pullin' candy. No, sir;
she ain't built that a way, but she was settin' there kind of
scornful, but smilin' An' later she an' me sung some hymns together.
Mebbe, gen'lemen, ye've heard Miss Birdie sing?"

I shook my head regretfully, but Ajax spoke enthusiastically of the
lady's powers as a vocalist. He had previously described her voice to
me as "a full choke, warranted to kill stone-dead at sixty yards."

"It is a lovely voice," sighed Jasperson, "strong, an' full, an' rich.
Why, there ain't an organ in the county can down her high B!" Then,
warmed by my brother's sympathy, he fumbled in his pocket, and found a
sheet of note-paper. Upon this he had written a quatrain that he
proposed to read to us _au clair de la lune_. The lines were
addressed: "To My Own Blackbird."

"She's a pernounced brunette," explained the poet; "and her name is
Birdie. I thought some of entitlin' the pome: 'To a Mocking Bird'; but
I surmised that would sound too pussonal. She has mocked me, an'
others, more'n once."

He sighed, still smarting at the memory of a gibe; then he recited the
following in an effective monotone:--

      "Oh! scorn not the humble worm, proud bird,
           As you sing i' the top o' the tree;
       Though doomed to squirm i' the ground, unheard.
           He'll make a square meal for thee."

"It ain't Shakespeare," murmured the bard, "but the idee is O.K."

My brother commended the lines as lacking neither rhyme nor reason,
but he questioned the propriety of alluding to a lady's appetite, and
protested strongly against the use of that abject word--worm. He told
Jasperson that in comparing himself to a reptile he was slapping the
cheeks of his progenitors.

"But I do feel like a worm when Miss Birdie's around," objected the
man of acres. "It may be ondignified, but that there eye of hers does
make me wiggle."

"It's a thousand pities," said I softly, "that Miss Dutton has only
one eye."

Jasperson wouldn't agree with me. He replied, with ardour, that he
would never have dared to raise his two blue orbs to Miss Dutton's
brilliant black one, unless he had been conscious that his mistress,
like himself, had suffered mutilation.

"I'm two fingers short," he concluded, "an' she's lackin' an eye.
That, gen'lemen, makes it a stand-off. Say, shall I send her this yere
pome?"

"Most certainly not," said Ajax.

"Then for the Lord's sake, post me."

I touched Ajax with my foot, and coughed discreetly; for I knew my
brother's weakness. He is a spendthrift in the matter of giving
advice. If Jasperson had appealed to me, the elder and more
experienced, I should have begged politely, but emphatically, to be
excused from interference. I hold that a man and a maid must settle
their love affairs without help from a third party. Ajax, unhappily,
thinks otherwise.

"Miss Dutton," he began, tentatively, "is aware, Jasperson, of your--
er--passion for her?"

"She ain't no sech a thing," said the lover.

"Yet her eye," continued Ajax, "is keen--keen and penetrating."

"It's a peach," cried the enthusiastic poet. "There ain't another like
it in the land, but it can't see in the dark; an', boys, I've not
shown my hand--yet!"

"You've made no advances directly or indirectly?"

"Not a one. By golly! I--I dassn't. I jest didn't know how. I ain't up
to the tricks. You air, of course; but I'm not."

My brother somewhat confusedly hastened to assure Jasperson that his
knowledge of the sex was quite elementary, and gleaned for the most
part from a profound study of light literature.

The poet grinned derisively. "You ain't no tenderfoot," he said. "I
reckon that what you don't know about the girls ain't worth picklin'."

"Well, if you mean business," said Ajax didactically, "if nothing we
can say or do will divert your mind from courtship and matrimony--if,
my dear Jasperson, you are prepared to exchange the pleasant places,
the sunny slopes, and breezy freedom of bachelor life for the thorny
path that leads to the altar, and thence to--er--the cradle, if, in
short, you are determined to own a best girl, why, then the first and
obvious thing to do is to let her know discreetly that you're in love
with her."

"As how?" said Jasperson, breathlessly. "I told ye that when she was
around I felt like a worm."

"You spoke of wiggling," replied my brother; "and I suppose that
heretofore you have wiggled _from_ and not _to_ the bird.
Next time, wiggle up, my boy--as close as possible."

"You're dead right," murmured the disciple; "but look at here: when I
call on Miss Birdie, she sez, 'Mister Jasperson,' or, mebbe, 'Mister
Jasper, please be seated, an' let me take your hat.' Naterally, boys,
I take the chair she p'ints out, an' then, dog-gone it! she takes
_another_."

"Do you expect this young lady to sit down in your lap, sir? Maids,
Jasperson, must not be lightly put to confusion. They must be stalked,
and when at bay wooed with tender words and languishing glances. Now
listen to me. Next Sunday, when you call upon Miss Dutton, take the
chair she offers, but as soon as a suitable opportunity presents
itself, ask to see the album. Thus you will cleverly betray a warm
interest in her by showing a lively interest in her people. And to
look over an album two persons must----"

"You bet they must," interrupted the poet. "They must nestle up.
That's right! What kind of a chump am I not to have thought of that
before? Yes, boys, she's got an album, a beaut', too: crimson plush
an' nickel. And, of course, the pictures of her folks is inside. By
gum! I'll give the homeliest of 'em sech a send-off as----"

"You will not," said Ajax. "Remember, Jasperson, that a burning black
eye indicates jealousy, which you must beware of arousing. Don't
praise too wantonly the beauty of Miss Dutton's sisters and cousins;
but if the father is well-looking, pay your mistress the compliment of
saying that the children of true lovers always take after the father.
In turning the leaves of the album you might touch her hand, quite
accidentally. No less an authority than Mr. Pickwick commends a
respectful pressure."

"I'll do it," exclaimed Jasperson, "I'll do it, sure!"

"Has she a pretty hand?" I asked.

"Has she a pretty hand!" echoed the lover, in disdainful tones, "She
has the hand of a queen! The Empress of Roosia ain't got a whiter nor
a finer hand! Miss Birdie ain't done no harder work than smackin' a
kid that needs it."

"I've heard," said I, "that she can smack--hard."

"An' I'd be a liar if I denied it," replied Jasperson. "Wal,
gen'lemen, I'm obligated to ye. Next Sabbath I'll wade right in."

Upon the following Sunday our hero rose betimes, tubbed himself,
shaved himself, perfumed his small person with bergamot, and then
arrayed it in the ivy-bosomed shirt and the $75 suit of broadcloth.
His toilet occupied just two hours and seventeen minutes. Ajax
decorated the lapel of his coat with a handsome rosebud, and then the
impatient swain tied round his neck a new white silk handkerchief,
mounted his horse, and betook himself at a gallop to the village
church. Ajax remarked with regret that the pace was too hot at the
start, and feared that our colt would finish badly. As we walked back
to the verandah, I told my brother that he had assumed a big
responsibility; for I was convinced that Miss Dutton, albeit possessed
of many admirable qualities, was not the woman to make little
Jasperson either happy or comfortable. She, doubtless, being a wise
bird, would greedily snap up this nice worm who had waxed fat in the
richest soil. But how would the worm fare when swallowed up and
absorbed?

At five that afternoon the amorous poet rode slowly up to the corral.
As he sat limply upon his sorrel horse, smiling dismally at Ajax, we
could see that the curl was out of his moustache, and out of the brim
of his sombrero; upon his delicate face was inscribed failure.

"Boys," said he, throwing one leg over the horn of the saddle; "I
didn't get there. I--I mired down!"

Later, he gave us some interesting details. It transpired that he had
met his sweetheart, after Sabbath-school, and had sat beside her
during the regular service; after church he had accepted a warm
invitation from Mrs. Swiggart to join the family circle at dinner. At
table he had been privileged to supply Miss Birdie with many dainties:
pickled cucumbers, cup-custards, and root beer. He told us frankly
that he had marked nothing amiss with the young lady's appetite, but
that for his part he had made a sorry meal.

"My swaller," he said plaintively, "was in kinks before the boolyon
was served."

"You say," murmured Ajax, "that Miss Dutton's appetite was good?"

"It was just grand," replied the unhappy bard. "I never seen a lady
eat cup-custards with sech relish."

"We may infer, then," observed my brother, "that Miss Birdie is still
in happy ignorance of your condition; otherwise pity for you would
surely have tempered that craving for cup-custards."

"I dun'no', boys, about that. Me an' Miss Birdie sung out o' the same
hynm book, and--and I sort o' showed down. I reckon she knows what
ails Jasper Jasperson."

Ajax unwisely congratulated the lovelorn one upon this piece of news.
He said that the Rubicon was now passed, and retreat impossible. We
noted the absence of the rosebud, and Jasperson blushingly confessed
that he had presented the flower to his best girl after dinner, an act
of homage--so we presumed--in recognition of the lady's contempt of
danger in mixing pickled cucumbers with cup-custards.

"After that," said Jasperson, "I thought of the album, an' 'twas then
my feet begun to get cold. But I up and as't to see it, as bold as a
coyote in a hen-roost. Then she sez, kind of soft an' smilin': 'Why,
Mister Jasper, what d'you want to see my album for? you don't know my
folks.'"

"A glorious opportunity," said Ajax. "What did you reply, my buck?"

"Dog-gone it! I'd ought to have sailed right in, but I sot there,
shiverin', an' said:' Oh! because ...' jest like a school-girl. And I
could see that the answer made her squirm. She must ha' thought I was
the awflest fool. But to save me that's all I could stammer out--'Oh,
because ...'"

"Well," said Ajax, encouragingly, "the best of us may be confounded in
love and war."

"You do put heart into a man," murmured the little fellow. "Wal, sir,
we sot down an' looked through the album. And on the first page was
Miss Birdie's father, the mortician and arterialist."

"The what?" we exclaimed.

"Undertaker and _em_-bammer. He's an expert, too. Why, Miss
Birdie was a-tellin' me--"

I ventured to interrupt him. "I don't think, Jasperson, I should like
an undertaker for a father-in-law. Have you considered that point?"

"I have, gen'lemen. It might come in mighty handy. Wal, he was the
homeliest critter I ever seen. I dassn't ring in that little song an'
dance you give me. And on the nex' page was Mis' Dutton." He sighed
softly and looked upward.

"The mother," said Ajax briskly. "Now, I dare swear that she's a good-
looking woman. Nature attends to such matters. Beauty often marries
the b---- the homely man."

"Mis' Dutton," said Jasperson solemnly, "is now a-singing in the
heavenly choir, an' bein' dead I can't say nothing; but, gen'lemen,
ye'll understand me when I tell ye that Miss Birdie never got her fine
looks from her maw. Not on your life!"

"Doubtless," said Ajax sympathetically, "there was something in the
faces of Miss Dutton's parents that outweighed the absence of mere
beauty: intelligence, intellect, character."

"The old man's forehead is kind o' lumpy," admitted Jasperson, "but I
didn't use that. I sot there, as I say, a-shiverin', an' never opened
my face. She then showed me her cousins: daisies they were and no
mistake; but I minded what you said, an' when Miss Birdie as't me if
they wasn't beauties, I sez no--not even good-lookin'; an', by golly!
she got mad, an' when I tetched her hand, obedient to orders, she
pulled it away as if a tarantula had stung it. After that I made
tracks for the barn. I tell ye, gen'lemen, I'm not put up right for
love-makin'."

Ajax puffed at his pipe, deep in thought. I could see that he was
affected by the miscarriage of his counsels. Presently he removed the
briar from his lips, and said abruptly: "Jasperson, you assert that
you showed down in church. What d'you mean by that? Tell me exactly
what passed."

The man we believed to be a laggard in love answered confusedly that
he and Miss Dutton had been singing that famous hymn, "We shall meet
in the sweet By-and-by." The congregation were standing, but resumed
their seats at the end of the hymn. Under cover of much scraping of
feet and rustling of starched petticoats, Jasperson had assured his
mistress that the sweet By-and-by was doubtless a very pleasant place,
but that he hoped to meet her often in the immediate future. He told
us that Miss Birdie had very properly taken no notice whatsoever of
this communication; whereupon he had repeated it, lending emphasis to
what was merely a whisper by a sly pressure of the elbow. This, too,
the lady had neither approved nor resented.

Upon this Ajax assured our friend that he need not despair, and he
said that the vexed question of the fair's appetite had been set at
rest: a happy certainty was the sauce that had whetted her hunger.
Jasperson listened with sparkling eyes.

"Say," said he; "if you'll help me out, I'll write a letter to Miss
Birdie this very night."

I frowned and expostulated in vain. Within two minutes, pens, ink and
paper were produced, and both Jasperson and my brother were hard at
work. Between them the following composition was produced. Jasperson
furnished the manner, Ajax the matter.

"To Miss Birdie Dutton.

"Dear Friend,--Since leaving you this afternoon, _more abrupt than a
gentleman could wish_, I have taken up my pen to set forth that
which is in my heart, but which cannot leave my trembling lips. Dear
friend, there is too much _at steak_ for me to be calm in your
presence. When I sat by your side, and gazed with you at the noble
faces of your parents, reading there, dear friend, the names of those
great qualities which have been inherited by you, _with queenly
beauty thrown in_, then it was that a sudden sinking inside robbed
your lover of his powers of speech. And how could I see the loveliness
of your cousins when my eyes were dwelling with rapture upon the
stately form of her I trust to call my own? Be mine, dear friend, for
I love you and hope to marry you, to part neither here nor in the
sweet By-and-by.

"Yours respectfully,

"Jasper Jasperson.

"P.S.--_Important_. The ranch is four hundred and three acres,
_paid for_. And there's money somewhere to build a nice
residence, and to furnish it according to Hoyle. We'd keep a hired
girl.

"P.P.S.--_And a pianner_. J.J.(_A true lover_)."

This billet-doux was sealed and despatched, and in due time brought an
acceptance. The engagement was formally ratified at a banquet given by
the Swiggarts, and the health of the high contracting parties was
enthusiastically drunk in pink lemonade. The marriage was arranged to
take place during the summer vacation, and Pacific Grove was selected
as the best spot in California for the honeymoon.

Thus smoothly for a season ran the course of true love. But three
weeks later, when the landscape was wearing its imperial livery of
lupin and eschscholtizia, when the fields at night were white with
moonflowers, when a glorious harvest was assured, and all beasts and
birds and insects were garrulous of love and love's delight--upon May-
day, in short--was disclosed a terrible rift within poor Jasperson's
lute.

He had escorted his sweetheart to the annual picnic, and returning
late at night found Ajax and me enjoying a modest nightcap before
turning in. We asked him to join us, but he refused with some
asperity, and upon cross-examination confessed that he had promised
Miss Button to take the pledge at the next meeting of the lodge. Now,
we knew that Jasperson was the pink of sobriety, but one who
appreciated an occasional glass of beer, or even a mild cocktail; and
we had heard him more than once denounce the doctrines of the
Prohibitionists; so we were quite convinced that meek submission to
the dictates of the Grand Secretary of Corona Lodge was both
unnecessary and inexpedient. And we said so.

"Birdie knows I don't drink," stammered our hired man, "but she thinks
I'd ought to take the pledge as an example."

"An example," echoed Ajax. "To whom? To _us?_"

"She said an example, gen'lemen, jest--an example."

"But she meant us," said Ajax sternly. "Our names were mentioned.
Don't you deny it, Jasperson."

"They was," he admitted reluctantly. "She as't me, careless-like, if
you didn't drink wine with your meals, and I said yes. I'd ought to
have said no."

"What!" cried my brother, smiting the table till the decanter and
glasses reeled. "You think that you ought to have lied on our account.
Jasperson--I'm ashamed of you; I tremble for your future as the slave
of Miss Dutton."

"Wal--I didn't lie," said Jasperson defiantly; "I up and told her the
truth: that you had beer for supper, and claret wine, or mebbe sherry
wine, or mebbe both for dinner, and that you took a toddy when you
felt like it, an' that there was champagne down cellar, an' foreign
liquors in queer bottles, an' Scotch whisky, an'--_everything_.
She as't questions and I answered them--like an idiot! Gen'lemen, the
shame you feel for me is discounted by the shame I feel for myself.
I'd ought to have told Birdie that your affairs didn't concern her;
I'd ought to have said that you was honnerable gen'lemen whom I'm
proud to call my intimate friends; I'd ought to have said a thousand
things, but I sot there, and said-nothin'!"

He was standing as he spoke, emphasising his periods with semaphoric
motions of his right arm. When he had finished he sank quite overcome
upon the big divan, and covered his flushed face with a pair of small
hands. He was profoundly moved, and Ajax appeared less solidly
complacent than usual. I reflected, not without satisfaction, that I
had done what I could to keep Jasperson and the Grand Secretary apart.

"This is very serious," said Ajax, after a significant pause. "I--I
feel, Jasperson, that this engagement was brought about by--me."

"It's a fact," assented our hired man. "And that's what makes me feel
so mean right now. Boys, I love that woman so that I dassn't go agin
her."

Ajax rose in his might and confronted the trembling figure upon the
divan. My brother's nickname was given to him at school in virtue of
his great size and strength. Standing now above Jasperson, his
proportions seemed even larger than usual. The little dandy in his
smug black garments with his diamond stud gleaming in the ivy-bosomed
shirt (his rings had been given to Miss Birdie), with his features
wilting like the wild pansies in the lapel of his coat, dwindled to an
amorphous streak beneath the keen glance of my burly brother.

"Do you really love her?" said Ajax, in his deepest bass. "Or do you
_fear_ her, Jasperson? Answer honestly."

The small man writhed. "I dun'no'," he faltered at last. "By golly! I
dun'no'."

"Then I do know," replied my brother incisively: "you've betrayed
yourself, Jasperson. You're playing the worm. D'you hear? The
_worm_! I once advised you to wiggle up to the bird, now I tell
you solemnly to wiggle away, before it's too late. I've been a fool,
and so have you. For the past three weeks I've had my eye on you, and
I suspected that you'd fallen a victim to an ambitious and
unscrupulous woman. You've lost weight, man; and you've no flesh to
spare. Marry Miss Dutton, and you'll be a scarecrow within a year, and
require the services of the mortician within two! I got you into this
infernal scrape, and, by Heaven I I'll get you out of it."

"But what will the neighbours say?" stammered Jasperson, sitting
upright. At my brother's words his pendulous nether lip had stiffened,
and now his pale blue eyes were quickening with hope and vitality. He
arranged his white satin tie, that had slipped to one side, and
smoothed nervously the nap of the broadcloth pants, while Ajax clad in
rough grey flannels took a turn up and down our sitting-room.

My brother and I had lived together for many years, years of fat kine
and years of lean, but I couldn't recall a single instance when he had
considered the opinion of Mrs. Grundy. In coming to California, to a
rough life on a cattle ranch, we had virtually snapped our fingers
beneath the dame's nose. I mention this because it sheds light upon
what follows.

"The neighbours, Jasperson," replied Ajax, "will say some deuced
unpleasant things. But I think I can promise you the sympathy of the
men, and your ranch is fifteen miles from a petticoat."

"I dassn't break it off, gen'lemen, not by word of mouth; but--but we
might write."

"And lay yourself open to a breach of promise case and heavy damages.
No--I've a better plan than that. We'll make Miss Dutton release you.
She shall do the writing this time."

"Boys," said Jasperson solemnly, "she'll never do it--never! Her mind
is sot on merridge. I see it all now. She hypnotised me, by golly! I
swear she did! That eye of hers is a corker."

"What night are you to be initiated?" asked Ajax, with seeming
irrelevance.

"Next Toosday," replied the neophyte nervously.

"You have never, I believe, been on a spree?"

"Never, gen'lemen--never."

"They tell me," said Ajax softly, "that our village whisky, the sheep-
herders' delight, will turn a pet lamb into a roaring lion."

"It's pizon," said Jasperson,--"jest pizon."

"You, Jasperson, need a violent stimulant. On Tuesday afternoon, my
boy, you and I will go on a mild spree. I don't like sprees any more
than you do, but I see no other way of cutting this knot. Now, mark
me, not a word to Miss Dutton. It's late, so--good-night."

Between May-day and the following Tuesday but little transpired worth
recording. Miss Dutton sent the convert a bulky package of tracts,
with certain scathing passages marked--obviously for our benefit--in
red ink; and we learned from Alethea-Belle that the initiation of
Jasper Jasperson was to be made an occasion of much rejoicing, and
that an immense attendance was expected at Corona Lodge. The
storekeeper asked Ajax outright if there were truth in the rumour that
we were to be decorated with the blue ribbon, and my brother hinted
mysteriously that even stranger things than that might happen.
Jasperson complained of insomnia, but he said several times that he
would never forget what Ajax was doing on his behalf, and I don't
think he ever will. For my part I maintained a strict neutrality.
Ethically considered, I was sensible that my brother's actions were
open to severe criticism; at the same time, I was certain that mild
measures would not have prevailed.

The Grand Secretary, while I was in the post-office, invited me quite
informally to participate in the opening exercises, and to assist at
the banquet, the benediction, so to speak, of the secret rites. She
said that other prominent gentlemen would receive invitations, and
that she was certain the "work" would please and edify. She expressed
much chagrin when I tendered my regret, and amazed me by affirming
that Ajax had cordially consented to be present. This I considered an
outrageous breach of good manners upon his part: if he kept his
promise, a number of most worthy and respectable persons would
consider themselves insulted; so I advised Miss Birdie not to count
upon him.

"I like your big brother," she said, in her hard, metallic tones; "he
is such a man: he has made quite a conquest of me; for mercy's sake
don't tell him so."

I pledged myself to profound secrecy, but walking home the remembrance
of an uncanny gleam in her bold black eye put to flight my misgivings.
I decided that Ajax was justified in using "pizon."

Upon Tuesday afternoon I deemed it expedient to remain at the ranch-
house. About five, Jasperson, arrayed in his best, accompanied Ajax to
the village. The lodge was to open its doors at 7.30; and at ten my
brother returned alone, breathless and red in the face, the bearer of
extraordinary tidings. I shall let him tell the story in his own
words.

"The whole village," said he, "has been painted by Jasperson a lovely
pigeon-blood red!" Then he sat down and laughed in the most
uncontrollable and exasperating manner.

"By Jupiter!" he gasped; "I knew that whisky was wonderful stuff, but
I never believed it could turn a worm into a Malay running amok." Then
he laughed again till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Between the gusts and gurgles of laughter a few more details leaked
out. I present them connectedly. The kind reader will understand that
allowance must be made for my brother. He is a seasoned vessel, but no
man can drink our village nectar with impunity.

"Of course," he began, "I knew that, this being his last day, the boys
would ask Jasperson to celebrate. So, mindful, of your precious
reputation--I don't care a hang about my own--I kept in the
background. Upon inquiry you'll find that it is generally conceded
that I did my best to prevent what has happened. And Jasperson was
foxey, too. He hung back, said he was going to join the lodge, and
wouldn't indulge in anything stronger than Napa Soda. He had three
rounds of that. Then he was persuaded by Jake Williams to try a glass
of beer, and after that a bumper of strong, fruity port--the pure
juice of the Californian grape. That warmed him up! At a quarter to
six he took his first drink of whisky, and then the evil spirits of
all the devils who manufacture it seemed to possess him. In less than
half-an-hour he was the centre of a howling crowd, and none howled
louder than he. He set up the drinks again and again. I tried to drag
him away, and failed miserably. I'll be hanged if he didn't get hold
of a six-shooter, and threatened to fill me with lead if I interfered.
He told the boys he was going to join the lodge. That was the dominant
note. He was going to join the lodge. He had come to town on purpose.
How they cheered him! Then that scoundrel Jake Williams was inspired
by Satan to ask him if he was provided with an initiation robe. And he
actually persuaded Jasperson to remove his beautiful black clothes and
to array himself in a Sonora blanket. Then they striped his poor white
face with black and red paint, till he looked like an Apache.
Honestly, I did my level best to quash the proceedings: I might as
well have tried to bale out the Pacific with a pitchfork. At a
quarter-past seven the Swiggarts drove into Paradise, and I wish you
could have seen the Grand Secretary's face. She had no idea,
naturally, that her Jasper was the artist so busily engaged in
decorating the village. But she knew there was an awful row on, and I
fancy she rather gloried in her own saintliness. Presently the lodge
filled up, and I could see Miss Birdie standing on the porch looking
anxiously around for the candidate. Finally I felt so sorry for the
girl, that I made up my mind to give her a hint, so that she could
slip quietly away. She greeted me warmly, and said that she supposed
Mr. Jasperson was around 'somewheres,' and I said that he was. Then
she spoke about the riot, and asked if I had seen a number of brutal
cowboys abusing a poor Indian. She told me that her brothers and
sisters inside the lodge were very distressed about it. And as she
talked the yells grew louder, and I was convinced that the candidate
was about to present himself. So I tried to explain the facts. But,
confound it! she was so obtuse--for I couldn't blurt the truth right
out--that, before she caught on, the procession arrived. The catechumen
was seated upon an empty beer-barrel, placed upon a sort of float
dragged by the boys. They had with them a big drum, that terrible
bassoon of Uncle Jake's, and a cornet; the noise was something
terrific. Well, Miss Birdie's a good plucked one! She stood on the
steps and rebuked them. That voice of hers silenced the band. Before
she was through talking you might have heard a pin drop. She rated
them for a quarter of an hour, and all the good people in the lodge
came out to listen and applaud. I was jammed up against her, and
couldn't stir. At the end she invited them to come into the lodge to
see a good man--I quote her verbatim--an upright citizen, a credit to
his country and an ornament to society, take the pledge. When she
stopped, Jasperson began, in that soft, silky voice of his. He thanked
her, and said he was glad to know that he was held in such high
esteem; that he cordially hoped the boys would come in, as he was
paying for the banquet, and that after supper they might expect a real
sociable time!

"That's all, but it was enough for the Grand Secretary. She gave a
ghastly scream, and keeled over, right into my arms."

"And where," said I, "is Jasperson?"

"Jasperson," replied Ajax soberly, "is being removed in a spring-wagon
to his own ranch. To-morrow he will be a very sick man, but I think
I've got him out of his scrape."




VII

FIFTEEN FAT STEERS


"Uncle Jake says," murmured Ajax, "that Laban Swiggart has been
'milking' us ever since we bought this ranch."

Laban was our neighbour. A barbed-wire fence divided his sterile hills
from our fertile valleys, and emphasised sharply the difference
between a Government claim and a Spanish grant. The County Assessor
valued the Swiggart ranch at the rate of _one_, and our domain at
_six_ dollars per acre. We owned two leagues of land, our
neighbours but half a section. Yet, in consequence of dry seasons and
low prices, we were hardly able to pay our bills, whereas the
Swiggarts confounded all laws of cause and effect by living in
comparative splendour and luxury.

"Uncle Jake believes that he stole our steers," continued Ajax,
puffing slowly at his pipe.

Some two years before we had lost fifteen fat steers. We had employed
Laban to look for them, and he had charged us thirty dollars for
labours that were in vain.

"Ajax," said I, "we have eaten the Swiggarts' salt, not to mention
their fatted chicks, their pickled peaches, their jams and jellies.
It's an outrage to insinuate, as you do, that these kind neighbours
are common thieves."

My brother looked quite distressed. "Of course Mrs. Swiggart can know
nothing about it. She is a real good sort; the best wife and mother in
the county. And I'm only quoting Uncle Jake. He says that fifteen
steers at $30 a head make $450. Laban built a barn that spring, and
put up a tank and windmill."

With this Parthian shot my brother left me to some sorry reflections.
I cordially liked and respected Laban Swiggart and his family. He had
married a Skenk. No name in our county smelled sweeter than Skenk: a
synonym, indeed, for piety, deportment, shell-work, and the preserving
of fruits. The Widow Skenk lived in San Lorenzo, hard by the
Congregational Church; and it was generally conceded that the hand of
one of her daughters in marriage was a certificate of character to the
groom. No Skenk had been known to wed a drunkard, a blasphemer, or an
evil liver. Moreover, Laban had been the first to welcome us--two raw
Englishmen--to a country where inexperience is a sin. He had helped us
over many a stile; he had saved us many dollars. And he had an honest
face. Broad, benignant brows surmounted a pair of keen and kindly
eyes; his nose proclaimed a sense of humour; his mouth and chin were
concealed by a beard almost apostolic in its silky beauty. Could such
a man be a thief?

The very next day Laban rode down his steep slopes and asked us to
help him and his to eat a Christmas turkey. He said something, too,
about a fine ham, and a "proposition," a money-making scheme, to be
submitted to us after the banquet.

"Hard times are making you rich," said Ajax.

"My God!" he exclaimed passionately, "have I not been poor long
enough? Have I not seen my wife and children suffering for want of
proper food and clothing? If prosperity is coming my way, boys, I've
paid the price for it, and don't you forget it."

His eyes were suffused with tears, and Ajax took note of it. My
brother told me later that so tender a husband and father was
assuredly no cattle-thief.

Upon Christmas Day we sat at meat for nearly two hours. Mrs. Doctor
Tapper, the wife of the stout dentist of San Miguelito, was present.
Of the three Misses Skenk she had made the best match--from a worldly
point of view. She wore diamonds; she kept two hired girls; she
entertained on a handsome scale, and never failed to invite her less
fortunate sisters to her large and select parties--she was, in a word,
a most superior person, and a devout church-member. To this lady Ajax
made himself mightily agreeable.

"Now really," said she, "I do wish the doctor was here. He does so
dearly love badinage. That, and bridgework, is his forte."

"And why isn't he here?" demanded my brother.

"He's hunting our bay mare. It broke out of the barn this morning. I
told him that I wouldn't disappoint Alviry for an ark full of bay
mares. I knew she would count on me to help her entertain you
gentlemen."

"I hope your husband will find his mare," said Ajax. "We lost fifteen
fat steers once, but we never found them."

"That's so," observed Mr. Swiggart. "And I wore myself out a-hunting
'em. They was stolen--sure."

"The wickedness of some folk passes my understanding," remarked Mrs.
Tapper. "Well, we're told that the triumphing of the wicked is short,
but--good Land!--Job never lived in this State."

"He'd been more to home in New England," said Laban slily. The Skenks
were from Massachusetts, the Swiggarts from Illinois.

"There's a pit digged for such," continued Mrs. Tapper, ignoring the
interruption, "a pit full o' brimstone and fire. Yes, sister, I will
take one more slice of the ham. I never ate sweeter meat. Eastern, I
presume, my dear?"

"No, sister. Laban cured that ham. Pork-packing was his trade back
east."

Laban added: "Boys, I hope ye like that ham. I've a reason for
asking."

We assured our host that the ham was superlatively good. Mince and
pumpkin pies followed, coffee, then grace. As we rose from the table,
Laban said pleasantly, "Boys, here are some imported cigars. We'll
smoke outside."

Having, so to speak, soaped the ways, Mr. Swiggart launched his
"proposition." He wished to pack bacon. Hogs, he pointed out, were
selling at two cents a pound; bacon and hams at twelve and fifteen
cents. We had some two hundred and fifty hogs ready for market. These
Laban wanted to buy on credit. He proposed to turn them into lard,
hams, and bacon, to sell the same to local merchants (thereby saving
cost of transportation), and to divide the profits with us after the
original price of the hogs was paid. This seemed a one-sided bargain.
He was to do all the work; we should, in any case, get the market
price for the hogs, while the profits were to be divided. However, our
host explained that we took all the risk. If the bacon spoiled he
would not agree to pay us a cent. With the taste of that famous ham in
our mouths, this contingency seemed sufficiently remote; and we said
as much.

"Well, I could rob ye right and left. Ye've got to trust me, and
there's a saying: 'To trust is to bust.'"

He was so candid in explaining the many ways by which an unscrupulous
man might take advantage of two ignorant Britons, that Ajax, not
relishing the personal flavour of the talk, rose and strolled across
to the branding-corral. When he returned he was unusually silent, and,
riding home, he said thoughtfully: "I saw Laban's brand this
afternoon. It is 81, and the 8 is the same size as our S. His ear-mark
is a crop, which obliterates our swallow-fork. Queer--eh?"

"Not at all," I replied indignantly. "It's a social crime to eat, as
you did to-day, three large helpings of turkey, and then----"

"Bosh!" he interrupted. "If Laban is an honest man, no harm has been
done. If he stole our steers--and, mind you, I don't say he did--three
slices off the breast of a turkey will hardly offset my interest in
five tons of beef. As for this packing scheme, it sounds promising;
but we lack figures. To-morrow we will drive into San Lorenzo, and
talk to the Children of Israel. If Ikey Rosenbaum says that bacon is
likely to rise or stay where it is, we will accept Laban's
proposition."

The following morning we started early. The short cut to San Lorenzo
lay through the Swiggart claim, and the road passed within a few yards
of the house. We saw Mrs. Swiggart on the verandah, and offered to
execute any commissions that she cared to entrust to two bachelors. In
reply she said that she hated to ask favours, but--if we were going to
town in a two-seater, would we be so very kind as to bring back her
mother, Mrs. Skenk, who was ailing, and in need of a change.
"Gran'ma's hard on the springs," observed Euphemia, Mrs. Swiggart's
youngest girl, "but she'll tell you more stories than you can shake a
stick at; not 'bout fairies, Mr. Ajax, but reel folks." We assured
Mrs. Swiggart that we should esteem it a pleasure to give her mother a
lift. Ajax had met the old lady at a church social some six months
before, and, finding her a bonanza of gossip, had extracted some rich
and curious ore.

In San Lorenzo we duly found Isaac Rosenbaum, who proved an optimist
on the subject of bacon. Indeed, he chattered so glibly of rising
prices and better times that the packing scheme was immediately
referred to his mature judgment; and he not only recommended it
heartily, but offered to handle our "stuff" on commission, or to buy
it outright if it proved marketable. According to Ikey the conjunction
"if" could not be ignored. Packing bacon beneath the sunny skies of
Southern California was a speculation, he said. Swiggart, he added,
ought to know what good hams were, for he bought the very best Eastern
brand.

"What!" we cried simultaneously, "does Mr. Swiggart _buy_ hams?"

Yes; it seemed that only a few days previously Laban had carefully
selected the choicest ham in the store.

Ajax clutched my arm, and we fled.

"We have convicted the wretch," he said presently.

"The _wretches_," I amended.

The use of the plural smote him in the face.

"This is awful," he groaned. "Why, when you were away last summer, and
I broke my leg, she nursed me like a mother."

"Women throw such sops to a barking conscience."

I was positive now that Laban had stolen the steers, and that his wife
was privy to the theft. The lie about the ham had been doubtless
concocted for purposes of plunder. The kindness and hospitality of our
neighbours had been, after all, but a snare for tenderfeet.

*       *       *       *       *

We found Mrs. Skenk--whom we had seen on arrival--sitting on her front
porch, satchel in hand, patiently awaiting us. Ajax helped her to
mount--no light task, for she was a very heavy and enfeebled woman. I
drove. As we trotted down the long straggling street our passenger
spoke with feeling of the changes that had taken place in the old
mission town.

"I've lived here thirty years. Twenty mighty hard ones as a married
woman; and ten tol'able easy ones as a widder. Mr. Skenk was a saintly
man, but tryin' to live with on account o' deefness and the azmy. I
never see a chicken took with the gapes but I think o' Abram Skenk.
Yes, Mr. Ajax, my daughters was all born here, 'ceptin' Alviry. She
was born in Massachusetts. It did make a difference to the child. As a
little girl she kep' herself to herself. And though I'd rather cut out
my tongue than say a single word against Laban Swiggart, I do feel
that he'd no business to pick the best in the basket. Favourite? No,
sir; but I've said, many a time, that if Alviry went to her long home,
I could not tarry here. Most women feel that way about the first-born.
I've told Alviry to her face as she'd ought to have said 'No' to Laban
Swiggart. Oh, the suffering that dear child has endured! It did seem
till lately as if horse-tradin', cattle-raisin', and the butcher
business was industries against which the Lord had set his face. Sairy
married an undertaker; Samanthy _couldn't_ refuse Doctor Tapper.
And, rain or shine, folks must have teeth if they want to eat the
steaks they sell in Californy, and likewise they must have caskets
when their time comes. Yes, Alviry does take after me, Mr. Ajax.
You're reel clever to say so. She ain't a talker, but brainy. You've
seen her wax flowers? Yes; and the shell table with 'Bless our Home'
on it, in pink cowries? Mercy sakes! There's a big storm a'comin' up."

The rain began to fall as she spoke; at first lightly, then more
heavily as we began to cross the mountains. Long before we came to the
Salinas River it was pouring down in torrents--an inch of water to the
hour.

"It's a cloud-burst," said Mrs. Skenk, from beneath a prehistoric
umbrella. "This'll flush the creeks good."

I whipped up the horses, thinking of the Salinas and its treacherous
waters. In California, when the ground is well sodden, a very small
storm will create a very big freshet. At such times most rivers are
dangerous to ford on account of quicksands.

"I'll guess we'll make it," observed the old lady. "I've crossed when
it was bilin' from bank to bank. I mind me when Jim Tarburt was
drowned: No 'count, Jim. He'd no more sense than a yaller dog. 'Twas a
big streak o' luck for his wife and babies, for Susannah Tarburt
married old man Hopping, and when he died the very next year she was
left rich. Then there was that pore thin school-marm, Ireen Bunker.
She--"

And Mrs. Skenk continued with a catalogue, long as that of the ships
in the _Iliad_, of travellers who, in fording the Salinas, had
crossed that other grim river which flows for ever between time and
eternity. We had reached the banks before she had drained her memory
of those who had perished.

"'Tis bilin'," she muttered, as she peered up and down the yellow,
foam-speckled torrent that roared defiance at us; "but, good Land! we
can't go around now. Keep the horses' noses upstream, young man, and
use your whip."

We plunged in.

What followed took place quickly. In mid-stream the near horse
floundered into a quicksand and fell, swinging round the pole, and
with it the off horse. I lashed the poor struggling beasts
unmercifully, but the wagon settled slowly down--inch by inch. Death
grinned us in the teeth. Then I heard Mrs. Skenk say, quite
collectedly: "'Tis my fault, and my weight." Then Ajax roared out:
"For God's sake, sit down, ma'am, sit down. SIT DOWN!" he screamed,
his voice shrill above the bellowing, booming waters. A crash behind
told me that he had flung her back into her seat. At the same moment
the near horse found a footing; there was a mighty pull from both the
terrified animals, the harness held, and the danger was over. When we
reached the bank I looked round. Mrs. Skenk was smiling; Ajax was
white as chalk.

"She w-w-would have s-s-sacrificed her l-l-life," he stammered. "If I
hadn't grabbed her, she would be dead this minute."

"I reckon that's so," assented our passenger. "I took a notion to
jump. My weight and fool advice was like to cost three lives. Better
one, thinks I, than three. You saved my life, Mr. Ajax. Yes, you did.
Alviry, I reckon, will thank you."

The rest of the journey was accomplished in silence. We drove up to
the Swiggarts' house, and both Laban and his wife expressed great
surprise at seeing us.

"You're wet through, mother," said Mrs. Swiggart, "and all of a
tremble."

"Yes, Alviry, I've had a close call. This young man saved my life."

"Nonsense," said Ajax gruffly. "I did nothing of the sort, Mrs.
Skenk."

"Yes, you did," she insisted, grimly obstinate.

"Any ways," said Mrs. Swiggart, "you'll lose what has been saved,
mother, if you stand there in the rain."

For five days it rained steadily. Our creek, which for eleven months
in the year bleated sweetly at the foot of the garden, bellowed loudly
as any bull of Bashan, and kept us prisoners in the house, where we
had leisure to talk and reflect. We had been robbed and humbugged,
injured in pride and pocket, but the lagging hours anointed our
wounds. Philosophy touched us with healing finger.

"If we prosecute we advertise our own greenness," said Ajax. "After
all, if Laban did fleece us, he kept at bay other ravening wolves. And
there is Mrs. Skenk. That plucky old soul must never hear the story.
It would kill her."

So we decided to charge profit and loss with five hundred dollars, and
to keep our eyes peeled for the future. By this time the skies had
cleared, and the cataract was a creek again. The next day Mrs.
Swiggart drove up to the barn, tied her horse to the hitching-post,
and walked with impressive dignity up the garden path. We had time to
note that something was amiss. Her dark eyes, beneath darker brows,
intensified a curious pallor--that sickly hue which is seen upon the
faces of those who have suffered grievously in mind or body. Ajax
opened the door, and offered her a chair, but not his hand. She did
not seem to notice the discourtesy. We asked if her mother had
suffered from the effects of her wetting.

"Mother has been very sick," she replied, in a lifeless voice. "She's
been at death's door. For five days I've prayed to Almighty God, and I
swore that if He'd see fit to spare mother, I'd come down here, and on
my bended knees"--she sank on the floor--"ask for your forgiveness as
well as His. Don't come near me," she entreated; "let me say what must
be said in my own way. When I married Laban Swiggart I was an honest
woman, though full o' pride and conceit. And he was an honest man. To-
day we're thieves and liars."

"Mrs. Swiggart," said Ajax, springing forward and raising her to her
feet. "You must not kneel to us. There--sit down and say no more. We
know all about it, and it's blotted out so far as we're concerned."

Her sobs--the vehement, heart-breaking sobs of a man rather than of a
woman--gradually ceased. She continued in a softer voice: "It began
'way back, when I was a little girl. Mother set me on a pedestal;
p'r'aps I'd ought to say I set myself there. It's like me to be
blaming mother. Anyways, I just thought myself a little mite cleverer
and handsomer and better than the rest o' the family. I aimed to beat
Sarah and Samanthy at whatever they undertook, and Satan let me do it.
Well, I did one good thing. I married a poor man because I loved him.
I said to myself, 'He has brains, and so have I. The dollars will
come.' But they didn't come. The children came.

"Then Sarah and Samanthy married. They married men o' means, and the
gall and wormwood entered into my soul, and ate it away. Laban was
awful good. He laughed and worked, but we couldn't make it. Times was
too hard. I'd see Samanthy trailin' silks and satins in the dust, and
--and my underskirts was made o' flour sacks. Yes--flour sacks! And me a
Skenk!"

She paused. Neither Ajax nor I spoke. Comedy lies lightly upon all
things, like foam upon the dark waters. Beneath are tragedy and the
tears of time.

"Then you gentlemen came and bought land. They said you was lords,
with money to burn. I told Laban to help you in the buyin' o' horses,
and cattle, and barb-wire, and groceries. He got big commissions, but
he kept off the other blood-suckers. We paid some of our debts, and
Laban bought me a black silk gown. I couldn't rest till Samanthy had
felt of it. She'd none better. If we'd only been satisfied with that!

"Well, that black silk made everything else look dreadful mean. 'Twas
then you spoke to Laban about choosin' a brand. Satan put it into my
head to say--S. It scart Laban. He was butcherin' then, and he
surmised what I was after; I persuaded him 'twas for the children's
sake. The first steer paid for Emanuel's baby clothes and cradle. They
was finer than what Sarah bought for her child. Then we killed the
others--one by one. Laban let 'em through the fence and then clapped
our brand a-top o' yours. They paid for the tank and windmill. After
that we robbed you when and where we could. We put up that bacon
scheme meanin' to ship the stuff to the city and to tell you that it
had spoiled on us. We robbed none else, only you. And we actually
justified ourselves. We surmised 'twas fittin' that Britishers should
pay for the support o' good Americans."

"I've read some of your histories," said Ajax drily, "and can
understand that point of view."

"Satan fools them as fool themselves, Mr. Ajax. But the truth struck
me and Laban when we watched by mother. She was not scared o' death.
And she praised me to Laban, and said that I'd chosen the better part
in marryin' a poor man for love, and that money hadn't made Christian
women of Sarah and Samanthy. She blamed herself, dear soul, for
settin' store overly much on dollars and cents. And she said she could
die easier thinking that what was good in her had passed to me, and
not what was evil. And, Mr. Ajax, that talk just drove me and Laban
crazy. Well, mother ain't going to die, and we ain't neither--till
we've paid back the last cent, we stole from you. Laban has figgered
it out, principal and interest, and he's drawn a note for fifteen
hundred dollars, which we've both signed. Here it is."

She tendered us a paper. Ajax stuck his hands into his pockets, and I
did the same.

She misinterpreted the action. "You ain't going to prosecute?" she
faltered.

Ajax nodded to me. Upon formal occasions he expects me, being the
elder, to speak. If I say more or less than he approves I am severely
taken to task.

"Mrs. Swiggart," I began, lamely enough, "I am sure that your husband
can cure hams----"

Ajax looked at me indignantly. With the best of motives I had given a
sore heart a grievous twist.

"We bought that ham," she said sadly, "a-purpose."

"No matter. We have decided to go into this packing business with your
husband. When--er--experience goes into partnership with ignorance,
ignorance expects to pay a premium. We have paid our premium."

She rose, and we held out our hands.

"No, gentlemen; I won't take your hands till that debt is cancelled.
The piano and the team will go some ways towards it. Good-bye, and--
thank you."




VIII

AN EXPERIMENT


My brother and I had just ridden off the range, when Uncle Jake told
us that a tramp was hanging about the corrals and wished to speak with
us.

"He looks like hell," concluded Uncle Jake.

We found him, a minute later, curled up on a heap of straw on the
shady side of our big barn. He got up as we approached, and stared at
us with a curious derisive intentness of glance, slightly
disconcerting.

"You are Englishmen," he said quietly.

The man's voice was charming, with that unmistakable quality which
challenges attention even in Mayfair, and enthrals it in the
wilderness. We nodded, and he continued easily: "It is late, and some
twenty-six miles, so I hear, to the nearest town. May I spend the
night in your barn. I don't smoke--in barns."

While he was speaking, we had time to examine him. His appearance was
inexpressibly shocking. Dirty, with a ragged six weeks' growth of dark
hair upon his face, out at heel and elbows, shirtless and shiftless,
he seemed to have reached the nadir of misery and poverty. Obviously
one of the "broken brigade," he had seemingly lost everything except
his manners. His amazing absence of self-consciousness made a clown of
me. I blurted out a gruff "All right," and turned on my heel, unable
to face the derisive smile upon the thin, pale lips. As I walked
towards the house, I heard Ajax following me, but he did not speak
till we had reached our comfortable sitting-room. Then, as gruffly as
I, he said, "Humpty Dumpty--after the fall!"

We lit our pipes in silence, sensible of an extraordinary depression
in the moral atmosphere. Five minutes before we had been much elated.
The spring round-up of cattle was over; we had sold our bunch of
steers at the top price; the money lay in our small safe; we had been
talking of a modest celebration as we rode home over the foothills.
Now, to use the metaphor of a cow county, we had been brought up with
a sharp turn! Our prosperity, measured by the ill-fortune of a fellow-
countryman, dwindled. Ajax summed up the situation: "He made me feel
cheap."

"Why?" I asked, conscious of a similar feeling. Ajax smoked and
reflected.

"It's like this," he answered presently. "That chap has been to the
bottom of the pit, but he bobs up with a smile. Did you notice his
smile?"

I rang the bell for Quong, our Chinese servant. When he came in I told
him to prepare a hot bath. Ajax whistled; but as Quong went away,
looking rather cross, my brother added, "Our clothes will fit him."

The bath-house was outside. Quong carried in a couple of pails full of
boiling water; we laid out shaving tackle, an old suit of grey
flannel, a pair of brown shoes, and the necessary under-linen. A blue
bird's-eye tie, I remember, was the last touch. Then Ajax shrugged his
shoulders and said significantly, "You know what this means?"

"Rehabilitation."

"Exactly. It may be fun for us to rig out this poor devil, but we must
do more than feed and clothe him. Have you thought of that?"

I had not, and said so.

"This is an experiment. First and last, we're going to try to raise a
man from the dead. If we get him on to his pins, we'll have to supply
some crutches. Are you prepared to do that?"

"If you are."

"Right! Of course, he may refuse our help. It wouldn't surprise me a
little bit if he did refuse."

When our preparations were complete, we returned to the barn. In a few
words Ajax told the stranger of what had been done.

"After supper," he concluded, "we'll talk things over. Times are
rather good just now, and something can be arranged."

"You're very kind," replied the tramp; "but I think you had better
leave me in the barn."

"We can't," said my brother. "It's too beastly to think of you like
this."

Nevertheless, we had to argue the matter, and I ought to add that
although we prevailed in the end, both Ajax and I were aware that the
man's acceptance of what we offered imposed an obligation upon us
rather than upon him. As he was about to enter the bath-house, he
turned with the derisive smile on his lips--

"If it amuses you," he murmured, "I shall have earned my bath and
supper."

When he reappeared, nobody would have recognised him. So far, the
experiment had succeeded beyond expectation. A new man walked into our
sitting-room and glanced with intelligent interest at our household
gods. Over the mantel-piece hung an etching of the Grand Canal at
Venice. He surveyed it critically, putting up a pair of thin hands, as
so to shut off an excess of light.

"Jimmie Whistler taught that fellow a trick or two," he remarked.

"You knew Whistler?"

"Oh yes."

We left him with _Punch_ and a copy of an art journal. Ajax said
to me, as we went back to the barn--

"I'll bet he's an artist of sorts."

It happened that we had in our cellar some fine claret; a few magnums
of Léoville, '74, a present from a millionaire friend. We never drank
it except upon great occasions. Ajax suggested a bottle of this
elixir, not entirely out of charity. Such tipple would warm a graven
image into speech, and my brother is inordinately curious. Our guest
had nothing to give to us except his confidence, and that he had
withheld.

We decanted the claret very carefully. As soon as our guest tasted it,
he sighed and said quietly--

"I never expected to taste that again. It's Léoville, isn't it? And in
exquisite condition."

He sipped the wine in silence, while I thought of the bundle of foul
rags upon our rubbish heap. Ajax was talking shop, describing with
some humour our latest deal, and the present high price of fat steers.
Our guest listened politely, and when Ajax paused, he said
ironically--

"Yours is a gospel of hard work. I dare say you have ridden two horses
to a standstill to-day? Just so. I can't ride, or plough, or dig."

Ajax opened his lips to reply, and closed them. Our guest smiled.

"You are wondering what brought me to California. As a matter of fact,
a private car. No, thanks, no more claret."

Later, we hoped he might melt into confidence over tobacco and toddy.
He smoked one cigar slowly, and with evident appreciation; and, as he
smoked, he stroked the head of Conan, our Irish setter, an ultra-
particular person, who abominated tramps and strangers.

"Conan likes you," said Ajax abruptly.

"Is that his name? 'Conan,' eh? Good Conan, good dog!" Presently, he
threw away the stub of his cigar and crossed to a small mirror. With a
self-possession rather surprising, he began to examine himself.

"I am renewing acquaintance," he explained gravely, "with a man I have
not seen for some months."

"By what name shall we call that man?" said Ajax boldly.

There was a slight pause, and then our guest said quietly--

"Would 'Sponge' do? 'Soapy Sponge'!"

"No," said my brother.

"My father's Christian name was John. Call me 'Johnson.'"

Accordingly, we called him Johnson for the rest of the evening. While
the toddies were being consumed, Johnson observed the safe, a purchase
of my brother's, in which we kept our papers and accounts and any
money we might have. We had bought it, second-hand, and the vendor
assured us it was quite burglar-proof. Ajax mentioned this to our
guest. He laughed presently.

"No safe is burglar-proof," he said; "and most certainly not that
one." He continued in a slightly different tone: "I suppose you are
not imprudent enough to keep money in it. I mean gold. On a big,
lonely ranch like this all your money affairs should be transacted
with cheques."

"We are in the wilds," said Ajax, "and it may surprise you to learn
that not so very long ago the Spanish-Californians who owned most of
the land kept thousands of pounds in gold slugs. In the attic over
this old 'adobe,' Don Juan Soberanes, from whom we bought this ranch,
kept his cash in gold dust and slugs in a clothes-basket. His nephew
used to take a tile off the roof, drop a big lump of tallow attached
to a cord into the basket, and scoop up what he could. The man who
bought our steers yesterday has no dealings with banks. He paid us in
Uncle Sam's notes."

"Did he?"

Shortly afterwards we went to bed. As our guest turned into the spare
room, he said whimsically--

"Have I entertained you? You have entertained me."

Ajax held out his hand. Johnson hesitated a moment--I recalled his
hesitation afterwards--and then extended his hand, a singularly
slender, well-formed member.

"You have the hand of an artist," said the ever-curious Ajax.

"The most beautiful hand I ever saw," replied Johnson imperturbably,
"belonged to a--thief. Good-night."

Ajax frowned, turning down the corners of his lips in exasperation.

"I am eaten up with curiosity," he growled.

*       *       *       *       *

Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a few
necessaries. When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shrugged
his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to show
their emptiness.

"Why do you do this?" he asked, with a certain indescribable
peremptoriness.

Ajax answered simply--

"A man must have clean linen. In the town you are going to, a boiled
shirt is a credential. I should like to give you a letter to the
cashier of the bank. He is a Britisher, and a good fellow. You are not
strong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will find
you a billet."

"You positively overwhelm me," said Johnson. "You must be lineally
descended from the Good Samaritan."

Ajax wrote the letter. A neighbour was driving in to town, as we knew,
and I had arranged early that morning for our guest's transportation.

"And what am I to do in return for these favours?" Johnson demanded.

"Let us hear from you," said my brother.

"You shall," he replied.

Within half an hour Johnson had vanished in a buckboard and a cloud of
fine white dust.

Upon the following afternoon I made an alarming discovery. Our
burglar-proof safe had been opened, and the roll of notes was missing.
I sought Ajax and told him. He allowed one word only to escape his
lips--

"Johnson!"

"What tenderfeet we are!" I groaned.

"Lineal descendants of the Good Samaritan. Well, he has had a long
start, but we must catch him."

"If it should not be--Johnson?"

"Conan would have nailed anybody else."

This was unanswerable, for Conan guarded our safe whenever there was
anything in it worth guarding. Ajax never is so happy as when he can
prove himself a prophet.

"I said he was an artist," he remarked. "The truth is, we tried an
experiment upon the wrong man."

A few minutes later we took the road. We had not gone very far,
however, before we met the neighbour who had driven Johnson to town.
He pulled up and greeted us.

"Boys," said he. "I've a note for ye from that Britisher."

We took the note, but we did not open it till our Californian friend
had disappeared. We had been butchered, but as yet the abominable fact
that a compatriot had skinned us was something we wished to keep to
ourselves.

"Great Minneapolis!" said Ajax. "Look at this!"

I saw a bank receipt for the exact sum which represented our bunch of
steers.

"Is that all?" I asked.

Ajax ought to have shouted for joy, but he answered with a groan.

"Yes; there isn't a line of explanation. He said we should hear from
him."

"And we have," I replied.

We returned to the ranch very soberly. When Ajax placed the bank
receipt in the safe, he kicked that solid piece of furniture.

"We'll drive in comfortably to-morrow, and find out what we can," he
observed.

"I don't think we shall find Johnson," I murmured.

Nor did we. The cashier testified to receiving the roll of notes, but
not the letter of introduction. We hunted high and low for Johnson;
but he was not.

"How did he get away without money?" he asked.

"He had money. I stuck a twenty-dollar bill into his coat pocket."

Before leaving town, we visited our gunmaker, with the intention of
ordering some cartridges. By the merest chance, he spoke of Johnson.

"A Britisher was in here yesterday: somethin' o' the cut o' you boys."

"In a grey suit with a brown sombrero?"

"Sure enough."

"Did he buy cartridges?"

"He bought a six-shooter and a few cartridges."

"Oh!" said Ajax.

We found ourselves walking towards a secluded lot at the back of the
Old Mission Church. Ajax asked me for an opinion which I was too dazed
to express.

"We've done a silly thing, and perhaps a wicked thing," said my
brother. "If that poor devil is lying dead in the brush-hills, I shall
never forgive myself. We've given a starving man too heavy a meal."

"Bosh!" said I, believing every word he uttered--the echo, indeed, of
my own thoughts. "I feel in my bones we are going to see Johnson
again."

Twenty-four hours later we heard of him. The Santa Barbara stage had
been held up by one man. It happened, however, that a remarkably bold
and fearless driver was on the box. The stage had been stopped upon
the top of a hill, but not exactly on the crest of it. The driver
testified that the would-be robber had leaped out of a clump of
manzanita, just as the heavy, lumbering coach was beginning to roll
down the steep hill in front of it. To pull up at such a moment was
difficult. The driver saw his chance and took it. He lashed the
leaders and charged straight at the highwayman, who jumped aside to
avoid being run over, and then, being a-foot, abandoned his
enterprise. He was wearing a mask fashioned out of a gunny-sack, new
overalls, and _brown_ shoes! That same night, at Los Olivos, a
man wearing brown shoes was arrested by a deputy sheriff because he
refused to give a proper account of himself; but, on being searched, a
letter to the cashier of the San Lorenzo bank, signed (so ran the
paragraph) by a well-known and responsible Englishman, was found in
the pocket of his coat. Whereupon he was allowed to go his ways, with
many apologies from the over-zealous official.

"Johnson!" said Ajax.

"Did he hold up the stage?" I asked.

"Of course he did" replied my brother contemptuously.

After this incident, Johnson, who for a brief time had loomed so large
in our imaginations, faded into a sort of wraith. Years passed,
bringing with them great changes for me. I left California and settled
in England. I wrote a book which excited a certain amount of interest,
and inspired some of my old school-fellows to renew acquaintance with
me. By this time I had forgotten Johnson. He was part of a distant
country, where the fine white dust settles thickly upon all things and
persons. In England, where the expected, so to speak, comes to five
o'clock tea, such surprising individuals as Johnson appear--if they
ever do appear--as creatures of a disordered fancy or digestive
apparatus. Once I told the story at the Scribblers' Club to a couple
of journalists. They winked at each other, and said politely that I
spun a good yarn, for an amateur! "I never tell a story," said the
elder of my critics, "till I've worked out a climax. You leave us at
the top of a confounded hill in California, bang up in the clouds."

And then the climax flitted into sight, masquerading as a barrel of
claret. The claret came from Bordeaux. It was Léoville Poyferré, 1899.
Not a line of explanation came with it, but all charges were prepaid.
I wrote to the shippers. A Monsieur had bought the wine and ordered it
to be consigned to me. Readers of this story will say that I ought to
have thought of Johnson. I didn't. I thanked effusively half a dozen
persons in turn, who had not sent the claret; then, hopelessly
befogged, I had the wine bottled.

However, Johnson sent the wine, for he told me so. I had been passing
a few days at Blois, and was staring at the Fragonard which hangs in
the gallery of the château, when a languid voice said, "This is the
best thing here."

"Hullo, Johnson!" I exclaimed.

"Hullo!" said he.

He had recognised me first, and addressed the remark about the picture
to me. Nobody else was near us. We shook hands solemnly, eyeing each
other, noting the changes. Johnson appeared to be prosperous, but
slightly Gallicised.

"How is--Ajax?" he murmured.

"Ajax has grown fat. Can't you dine with me?"

"It's my turn. We must order a bottle of Léoville at once."

"You sent that wine," I exclaimed. There was no note of interrogation
in my voice. I knew.

"Yes," he said indifferently; "it will be worth drinking in about ten
years' time."

We had an admirable dinner upon a terrace overhanging the Loire, but
the measure of my enjoyment was stinted by Johnson's exasperating
reticence concerning himself. He talked delightfully of the châteaux
in Touraine; he displayed an intimate knowledge of French history and
archaeology, but I was tingling with impatience to transport myself
and him to California. And he knew this--the rogue!

Finally, as the soft silvery twilight encompassed us, he told what I
wanted to know.

"My father was a manufacturer who married a Frenchwoman. My brothers
have trodden carefully and securely in my father's footsteps. They are
all fairly prosperous--smug, respectable fellows. I resemble my
mother. After Eton and Christ Church I was pitchforked into the family
business. For a time it absorbed my attention. I will tell you why
later. Then, having mastered the really interesting part of it, I grew
bored. I wanted to study art. After several scenes with my father, I
was allowed to go my own way--a pleasant way, too, but it led
downhill, you understand. I spent three winters in Venice. Then my
father died, and I came into a small fortune, which I squandered. My
mother helped me; then she died. My brothers cut me, condemning me as
a Bohemian and a vagabond. I confess that I did take a malicious
pleasure in rubbing their sleek fur the wrong way. Then I crossed the
Atlantic as the guest of an American millionaire. He took me on in his
own car to California. I started a studio in San Francisco--and a life
class. That undid me, I found myself bankrupt. Then I fell desperately
ill. Each day I felt the quicksands engulfing me."

"But your friends?" I interrupted.

"My friends? Yes, I had friends; but perhaps you will understand me,
having seen to what depths I fell, that I couldn't bring myself to
apply to my friends. Well, I was at my last gasp when I crawled up to
your barn. I mean morally, for my strength was returning. You and your
brother rode up. By God! I could have killed you!"

"Killed us?"

"You looked so fit, so prosperous, and I could read you both, could
see in flaming capitals your pity, your contempt,--aye, and your
disgust that a fellow-Englishman should be festering before your eyes.
I asked for leave to spend the night in your barn, and you said, 'All
right.' All right, when everything was so cruelly, so pitilessly the
other way! Then you came back, taking for granted that I must accept
whatever you offered. I wanted to refuse, but the words stuck in my
throat. I followed you to the bath-house. Was I grateful? Not a bit. I
decided that for your own amusement, and perhaps to staunch your
English pride, which I had offended, you meant to lift a poor devil
out of hell, so as to drop him again into deeper depths when the
comedy was over----"

"Good heavens! You thought that?"

"My dear fellow, you write now, don't you? I'm giving you a bit of
psychology--showing you the point of view of the worm writhing beneath
the boot of lordly Man. But, always, I meant to turn, if I got the
chance. I washed myself; I shaved; I slipped into your nice clean
clothes. I'll admit that the warm water removed some encrusted mud
from my mind, but it sharpened rather then obscured my resolution to
make the most of what looked like a last chance. But when you uncorked
that Léoville, shame spoiled it for me."

"You drank only two glasses, I remember."

"It brought everything back--everything! If I had had one more glass,
I should have laid myself at your feet, whining and whimpering. The
cigar that I smoked afterwards was poppy and mandragora. Through a
cloud of smoke I saw all the pleasant years that were gone. Again I
weakened. I had aroused your interest. I could have sponged upon you
indefinitely. At that moment I saw the safe. Your brother imprudently
mentioned that a large sum of money lay inside it. I made up my mind
instantly to take the money, and did so that night. The dog was
licking my hand as I robbed you. But next morning----"

He paused, then he laughed lightly. "Next morning----"

"You appeared with the kit-bag! That disconcerted me terribly. It
proved what I had not perceived--that you two young Englishmen,
tenderfeet both of you, had realised what you were doing, had
seriously faced the responsibility of resurrecting the dead. The
letter to the cashier, the twenty-dollar bill I found in my coat-
pocket--these were as scorpions. But I hadn't the nerve to own up. So
I carried the money to the bank and deposited it to your account."

"Then you bought a six-shooter."

"Yes; I meant to try another world. I had had enough of this one. I
couldn't go back to my wallow."

"What restrained you?"

"The difficulty of finding a hiding-place. If my body were discovered,
I knew that it would be awful for you."

"Thanks."

"It's easy to find a hole, but it's not easy to pull a hole in after
one--eh? Still, I thought I should find some wild gulch on the Santa
Barbara trail, amongst those God-forsaken foothills. The buzzards
would pull the hole in within forty-eight hours."

"Ah! the buzzards." I shivered, seeing once more those grim sextons of
the Pacific seaboard.

"I found the right place; and just then I saw the stage crawling up
the grade. Immediately the excitement of a new sensation gripped me. I
had a taste of it when I opened your safe. It seized me again,
relentlessly. If I were successful, I might begin again; if I failed,
I could shoot myself without imposing an atrocious remorse upon you.
Well, the pluck of that driver upset my plans--the plans of an
amateur. I ought to have held them up on the upgrade."

"And after you failed----"

"Ah! after I failed I had a lucid interval. Don't laugh! I was hungry
and thirsty. The most pressing need of my nature at that moment was a
square meal. I walked to a hotel, and was nailed. Your brother's
letter to the cashier saved me. I realised dimly that I had become
respectable, that I looked--for the deputy sheriff told me so--an
English gentleman--Mr. Johnson, your friend. That's about all."

"All?" I echoed, in dismay.

"The rest is so commonplace. I got a small job as clerk in a fruit-
packing house. It led to better things. I suppose I am my father's
son. I failed to make a living, spoiling canvas, but as a business man
I have been a mild success."

"And what are you doing now?"

"I buy and sell claret. Any other question?"

"Yes. How did you open our burglar-proof safe?"

Johnson laughed.

"My father was a manufacturer of safes," he answered. "I know the
tricks of my trade."




IX

UNCLE JAP'S LILY


Jaspar Panel owned a section of rough, hilly land to the north-east of
Paradise. Everybody called him Uncle Jap. He was very tall, very thin,
with a face burnt a brick red by exposure to sun and wind, and, born
in Massachusetts, he had marched as a youth with Sherman to the sea.
After the war he married, crossed the plains in a "prairie schooner,"
and, eventually, took up six hundred and forty acres of Government
land in San Lorenzo County. With incredible labour, inspired and
sustained by his natural acuteness, he wrought a miracle upon a
singularly arid and sterile soil. I have been told that he was the
first of the foothill settlers to irrigate abundantly, the first to
plant out an orchard and vineyard, the first, certainly, to create a
garden out of a sage-brush desert. Teamsters hauling wheat from the
Carisa plains used to stop to shake the white alkaline dust from their
overalls under Uncle Jap's fig trees. They and the cowboys were always
made welcome. To such guests Uncle Jap would offer figs, water-melons,
peaches, a square meal at noon, and exact nothing in return except
appreciation. If a man failed to praise Uncle Jap's fruit or his
wife's sweet pickles, he was not pressed to "call again." The old
fellow was inordinately proud of his colts, his Poland-China pigs, his
"graded" bull, his fountain in the garden.

"Nice place you have, Mr. Panel," a stranger might say.

"Yas; we call it Sunny Bushes. Uster be nothin' but sun an' bushes
onst. It's nice, yas, and it's paid for."

"What a good-looking mare!"

"Yas; she's paid for, too."

Everything on the ranch, animal, vegetable, and mineral, was "paid
for." Uncle Jap was the last man to hurt anybody's feelings, but the
"paid for" rankled on occasion, for some of his visitors stood
perilously near the edge of bankruptcy, and, as a rule, had not paid
for either the land they occupied, or the cattle they branded, or the
clothes they wore. To understand this story you must grasp the fact
that Uncle Jap lived with credit and not on it.

His wife, also of New England parentage, had a righteous horror of
debt bred in her bone. Uncle Jap adored her. If he set an extravagant
value upon his other possessions, what price above rubies did he place
upon the meek, silent, angular woman, who had been his partner,
companion, and friend for more than a quarter of a century. Sun and
wind had burnt her face, also, to the exact tint of her husband's. Her
name was Lily.

"And, doggone it, she looks like a lily," Uncle Jap would say, in
moments of expansion. "Tall an' slim, yas, an' with a little droop of
her head. I'd ought ter be grateful to God fer givin' me sech a flower
outer heaven--an' I am, I am. Look at her now! What a mover!"

Uncle Jap's Lily chasing a hen certainly exhibited an activity
surprising in one of her years. By a hairbreadth she missed
perfection. Uncle Jap had been known to hint, nothing more, that he
would have liked a dozen or so of babies. The hint took concrete form
in: "I think a heap o' young things, colts, kittens, puppies--an' the
like." Then he would sigh.

We came to California in the eighties, and in '93, if my memory serves
me, Uncle Jap discovered bituminous rock in a corner of his ranch. He
became very excited over this find, and used to carry samples of ore
in his pocket which he showed to the neighbours.

"There's petroleum whar that ore is--_sure_. An' ef I could
strike it, boys, why, why I'd jest hang my Lily with di'monds from her
head to her feet, I would."

This, mind you, was before the discovery of the now famous oil fields.
Even in those early days experts were of opinion that oil might be
found below the croppings of bituminous rock by any pioneer
enterprising enough to bore for it.

About this time we began to notice that Uncle Jap was losing interest
in his ranch. Cattle strayed through the fence because he neglected to
mend it, calves escaping were caught and branded by unscrupulous
neighbours, a colt was found dead, cast in a deep gulch.

"What's the matter with Uncle Jap?" we asked, at the May-Day picnic.

Mrs. Fullalove, a friend of Mrs. Panel, answered the question.

"I'll tell ye," she said sharply. "Jaspar Panel has gotten a disease
common enough in Californy. He's sufferin' from a dose o' swelled
head."

Mrs. Panel sprang to her feet. Her face was scarlet; her pale eyes
snapped; the nostrils of her thin nose were dilated.

"Susan Jane Fullalove," she cried shrilly, "how dare you?"

Mrs. Fullalove remained calm.

"It's so, Lily. Yer so thin, I didn't see ye sittin' edgeways, but ye
needn't to ramp an' roar. Yer ranch _is_ flyin' to flinders
because Mr. Panel's tuk a notion that it's a-floatin' on a lake of
ile."

"An' mebbe it is," replied Mrs. Panel, subsiding.

Shortly afterwards we heard that Uncle Jap was frequenting saloons,
hanging about the hotels in the county town, hunting, of course, for a
capitalist who would bore for oil on shares, seeking the "angel" with
the dollars who would transport him and his Lily into the empyrean of
millionaires. When he confided as much to us, my brother Ajax
remarked--

"Hang it all, Uncle Jap, you've got all you want."

"That's so. I hev. But Lily----Boys, I don't like ter give her away--
this is between me an' you--she's the finest in the land, ain't she?
Yas. An' work? Great Minneapolis! Why, work come mighty near robbin'
her of her looks. It did, fer a fact. An' now, she'd ought ter take
things easy, an' hev a good time."

"She does have a good time."

"Ajax, yer talkin' through yer hat. What do you know of wimmenfolk?
Not a derned thing. They're great at pretendin'. I dessay you, bein' a
bachelor, think that my Lily kind o' wallers in washin' my ole duds,
an' cookin' the beans and bacon when the thermometer's up to a hundred
in the shade, and doin' chores around the hog pens an' chicken yards?
Wal--she don't. She pretends, fer my sake, but bein' a lady born an'
bred, her mind's naterally set on--silks an' satins, gems, a pianner--
an' statooary."

"I can't believe it," said my brother. "Mrs. Panel has always seemed
to me the most sensible woman----"

"Lady, _if_ you please."

"I beg pardon--the most sensible lady of my acquaintance, and the most
contented with the little home you've made for her."

"She helped make it. O' course, it's nateral, you bein' so young an'
innercent, that you should think you know more about Mis' Panel's
inside than I do, but take it from me that she's pined in secret for
what I'm a-goin' ter give her before I turn up my toes."

With that he rode away on his old pinto horse, smiling softly and
nodding his grizzled head.

Later, he travelled to San Francisco, where he interviewed presidents
of banks and other magnates. All and sundry were civil to Uncle Jap,
but they refused to look for a needle in a haystack. Uncle Jap
confessed, later, that he was beginning to get "cold feet," as he
expressed it, when he happened to meet an out-of-elbows individual who
claimed positively that he could discover water, gold, or oil, with no
tools or instruments other than a hazel twig. Uncle Jap, who forgot to
ask why this silver-tongued vagabond had failed to discover gold for
himself, returned in triumph to his ranch, bringing with him the
wizard, pledged to consecrate his gifts to the "locating" of the lake
of oil. In return for his services Uncle Jap agreed to pay him fifty
dollars a week, board and lodging included. When he told us of the
bargain he had made, his face shone with satisfaction and confidence.
He chuckled, as he added slyly--

"I peeked in to some o' them high-toned joolery stores on Montgomery
and Kearney Streets. Yas, I did. An' I priced what they call a ti-
airy, sort o' di'mond crown. They run up into the thousands o'
dollars. Think o' Mis' Panel in a _ti_-airy, boys; but shush-h-h-
h! Not a word to her--eh?"

We pledged ourselves to secrecy, but when Uncle Jap's back was turned,
Ajax cursed the wizard as the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims
cursed the jackdaw. When we saw Mrs. Panel, she seemed to be thinner
and more angular, but her lips were firmly compressed, as if she
feared that something better left unsaid might leak from them. An old
sunbonnet flapped about her red, wrinkled face, her hands, red and
wrinkled also, trembled when we inquired after the wizard and his
works.

"He's located the lake," she replied. Suppressed wrath boiled over, as
she added fiercely: "I wish 'twas a lake o' fire an' brimstone, an' him
a-bilin' in the middle of it." Then, reading the sympathy in our eyes,
she continued quickly: "I ain't denyin' that Jaspar has a right to do
what he pleases with what lies out o' doors. He never interfered with
me in my kitchen, never! Would you gen'lemen fancy a glass o'
lemonade? No? Wal--I'm glad you called in, fer I hev been feelin' kind
o' lonesome lately."

What Uncle Jap's Lily suffered when he mortgaged all his cattle to
sink a well nobody knows but herself, and she never told. The wizard
indicated a certain spot below the croppings of bituminous rock; a big
derrick was built; iron casing was hauled over the Coast Range; the
well was bored.

Then, after boring some two thousand feet, operations had to be
suspended, because Uncle Jap's dollars were exhausted, and his
patience. The wizard swore stoutly that the lake was there, millions
and millions of barrels of oil, but he deemed it expedient to leave
the country in a hurry, because Uncle Jap intimated to him in the most
convincing manner that there was not room in it for so colossal a
fraud. The wizard might have argued the question, but the sight of
Uncle Jap's old Navy six-shooter seemed to paralyse his tongue.

After this incident Uncle Jap ranched with feverish energy, and Mrs.
Fullalove said that the old man had gotten over a real bad dose of
swelled head.

*       *       *       *       *

Five years later came the oil boom!

Everybody knows now that it flowed in prodigious quantities into the
vats of one man, whom we shall speak of with the respect which the
billionaire inspires, as the Autocrat of Petroleum. Let us hasten to
add that we shall approach him in the person of his agent, who, so far
as Uncle Jap was concerned, doubtless acted in defiance of the will of
the greatest church builder and philanthropist in the world.

Oil was struck in pints, quarts, gallons, buckets, and finally in
thousands and tens of thousands of barrels! It flowed copiously in our
cow-county; it greased, so to speak, the wheels--and how ramshackle
some of them were!--of a score of enterprises, it saturated all things
and persons.

Now, conceive, if you can, the triumphant I-told-you-so-boys
expression of Uncle Jap. He swelled again visibly: head first, then
body and soul. The county kowtowed to him. Speculators tried to buy
his ranch, entreated him to name a price.

"I'll take half a million dollars, in cold cash," said Uncle Jap.

The speculators offered him instead champagne and fat cigars. Uncle
Jap refused both. He was not going to be "flimflammed," no, sir! Not
twice in his life, _no, Siree Bob_! He, by the Jumping Frog of
Calaveras, proposed to paddle his own canoe into and over the lake of
oil. If the boys wished him to forgo the delights of that voyage, let
'em pungle up half a million--or get.

They got.

Presently, after due consultation with a famous mining engineer, Uncle
Jap mortgaged his cattle for the second time, and sank another well.
He discovered oil sand, not a lake. Then he mortgaged his land, every
stick and stone on it, and sunk three more wells. It was a case of
Bernard Palissy. Was Bernard a married man? I forget. If so, did he
consult his wife before he burnt the one and only bed? Did she
protest? It is a fact that Uncle Jap's Lily did not protest. She
looked on, the picture of misery, and her mouth was a thin line of
silence across her wrinkled impassive countenance.

When every available cent had been raised and sunk, the oil spouted
out. Who looked at the fountain in the patch of lawn by the old fig
trees? Possibly Mrs. Panel. Not Uncle Jap. He, the most temperate of
men, became furiously drunk on petroleum. He exuded it from every
pore. Of course he was acclaimed by the county and the State (the
Sunday editions published his portrait) as the star-spangled epitome
of Yankee grit and get-there.

At this point we must present, with apologies, the agent of the
Autocrat, _the_ agent, the High-muck-a-muck of the Pacific Slope,
with a salary of a hundred thousand a year and _perks_! In his
youth Nat Levi smelt of fried fish, unless the smell was overpowered
by onions, and he changed his lodgings more often than he changed his
linen. Now you meet him as Nathaniel Leveson, Esquire, who travelled
in his private car, who assumed the God, when the God was elsewhere,
who owned a palace on Nob Hill, and some of the worst, and therefore
the most paying, rookeries in Chinatown, who never refused to give a
cheque for charitable purposes when it was demanded in a becomingly
public manner, who, like the Autocrat, had endowed Christian Churches,
and had successfully eliminated out of his life everything which
smacked of the Ghetto, except his nose.

Nathaniel Leveson visited our county, opened an office, and began to
lay his pulpy white hands upon everything which directly or indirectly
might produce petroleum. In due season he invited Uncle Jap to dine
with him at the Paloma Hotel, in San Lorenzo. The old man, with the
hayseed in his hair, and the stains of bitumen upon his gnarled hands,
ate and drank of the best, seeing a glorified vision of his Lily
crowned with diamonds at last. The vision faded somewhat when
Nathaniel began to talk dollars and cents. Even to Uncle Jap, unversed
in such high matters as finance, it seemed plain that Leveson &
Company were to have the dollars, and that to him, the star-spangled
epitome of Yankee grit and get-there were to be apportioned the cents.

"Lemme see," he said, with the slow, puzzled intonation of the man who
does not understand; "I own this yere oil----"

"Subject to the mortgage, Mr. Panel, I believe?"

"That don't amount to shucks," said Uncle Jap.

"Quite so. Forgive me for interrupting you."

"I own this yere oil-field, lake I call it, and, bar the mortgage,
it's bin paid for with the sweat of my--soul."

He brought out the word with such startling emphasis, that Nathaniel
nearly upset the glass of fine old cognac which he was raising to his
lips.

"Yas, my soul," continued Uncle Jap, meditatively. "I risked
everything I'd got. Man," he leant across the gaily decorated table,
with its crystal, its pink shades, its pretty flowers, and compelled
his host to meet his flaming eyes,--"man, I risked my wife's love and
respect. And," he drew a deep breath, "by God, I was justified. I got
there. If I hadn't," the fire died down in his mild blue eyes, and the
thin body seemed to wither and shrink,--"if I hadn't struck it, it
would hev killed her, the finest lady in the land, an' me too. It was
nip an' tuck with both of us. And now," his voice warmed into life
again,--"and now you offer me fifty thousand dollars."

"I am anxious to treat you 

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