O. Henry

by O. Henry

  “Finally, Cap Floyd got promoted to be a major-­general, or a knight commander of the main herd, or something like that. He pounded around on a white horse, all desecrated up with gold-­leaf and hen-­feathers and a Good Templar’s hat, and wasn’t allowed by the regulations to speak to us. And Willie Robbins was made captain of our company.

  “And maybe he didn’t go after the wreath of fame then! As far as I could see it was him that ended the war. He got eighteen of us boys—friends of his, too—killed in battles that he stirred up himself, and that didn’t seem to me necessary at all. One night he took twelve of us and waded through a little rill about a hundred and ninety yards wide, and climbed a couple of mountains, and sneaked through a mile of neglected shrubbery and a couple of rock-­quarries and into a rye-­straw village, and captured a Spanish general named, as they said, Benny Veedus. Benny seemed to me hardly worth the trouble, being a blackish man without shoes or cuffs, and anxious to surrender and throw himself on the commissary of his foe.

  “But that job gave Willie the big boost he wanted. The San Augustine News and the Galveston, St. Louis, New York, and Kansas City papers printed his picture and columns of stuff about him. Old San Augustine simply went crazy over its ‘gallant son.’ The News had an editorial tearfully begging the Government to call off the regular army and the national guard, and let Willie carry on the rest of the war single-­handed. It said that a refusal to do so would be regarded as a proof that the Northern jealousy of the South was still as rampant as ever.

  “If the war hadn’t ended pretty soon, I don’t know to what heights of gold braid and encomiums Willie would have climbed; but it did. There was a secession of hostilities just three days after he was appointed a colonel, and got in three more medals by registered mail, and shot two Spaniards while they were drinking lemonade in an ambuscade.

  “Our company went back to San Augustine when the war was over. There wasn’t anywhere else for it to go. And what do you think? The old town notified us in print, by wire cable, special delivery, and a nigger named Saul sent on a gray mule to San Antone, that they was going to give us the biggest blow-­out, complimentary, alimentary, and elementary, that ever disturbed the kildees on the sand-­flats outside of the immediate contiguity of the city.

  “I say ‘we,’ but it was all meant for ex-­Private, Captain de facto, and Colonel-­elect Willie Robbins. The town was crazy about him. They notified us that the reception they were going to put up would make the Mardi Gras in New Orleans look like an afternoon tea in Bury St. Edmunds with a curate’s aunt.

  “Well, the San Augustine Rifles got back home on schedule time. Everybody was at the depot giving forth Roosevelt-­Democrat—they used to be called Rebel—yells. There was two brass-­bands, and the mayor, and schoolgirls in white frightening the street-­car horses by throwing Cherokee roses in the streets, and—well, maybe you’ve seen a celebration by a town that was inland and out of water.

  “They wanted Brevet-­Colonel Willie to get into a carriage and be drawn by prominent citizens and some of the city aldermen to the armory, but he stuck to his company and marched at the head of it up Sam Houston Avenue. The buildings on both sides was covered with flags and audiences, and everybody hollered ‘Robbins!’ or ‘Hello, Willie!’ as we marched up in files of fours. I never saw a illustriouser-­looking human in my life than Willie was. He had at least seven or eight medals and diplomas and decorations on the breast of his khaki coat; he was sunburnt the color of a saddle, and he certainly done himself proud.

  “They told us at the depot that the court-house was to be illuminated at half-­past seven, and there would be speeches and chili-­con-­carne at the Palace Hotel. Miss Delphine Thompson was to read an original poem by James Whitcomb Ryan, and Constable Hooker had promised us a salute of nine guns from Chicago that he had arrested that day.

  “After we had disbanded in the armory, Willie says to me:

  “ ‘Want to walk out a piece with me?’

  “ ‘Why, yes,’ says I, ‘if it ain’t so far that we can’t hear the tumult and the shouting die away. I’m hungry myself,’ says I, ‘and I’m pining for some home grub, but I’ll go with you.’

  “Willie steered me down some side streets till we came to a little white cottage in a new lot with a twenty-­by-­thirty-­foot lawn decorated with brickbats and old barrel-­staves.

  “ ‘Halt and give the countersign,’ says I to Willie. ‘Don’t you know this dugout? It’s the bird’s-­nest that Joe Granberry built before he married Myra Allison. What you going there for?’

  “But Willie already had the gate open. He walked up the brick walk to the steps, and I went with him. Myra was sitting in a rocking-­chair on the porch, sewing. Her hair was smoothed back kind of hasty and tied in a knot. I never noticed till then that she had freckles. Joe was at one side of the porch, in his shirt-­sleeves, with no collar on, and no signs of a shave, trying to scrape out a hole among the brickbats and tin cans to plant a little fruit-­tree in. He looked up but never said a word, and neither did Myra.

  “Willie was sure dandy-­looking in his uniform, with medals strung on his breast and his new gold-­handled sword. You’d never have taken him for the little white-­headed snipe that the girls used to order about and make fun of. He just stood there for a minute, looking at Myra with a peculiar little smile on his face; and then he says to her, slow, and kind of holding on to his words with his teeth:

  “ ‘Oh, I don’t know! Maybe I could if I tried!’

  “That was all that was said. Willie raised his hat, and we walked away.

  “And, somehow, when he said that, I remembered, all of a sudden, the night of that dance and Willie brushing his hair before the looking-­glass, and Myra sticking her head in the door to guy him.

  “When we got back to Sam Houston Avenue, Willie says:

  “ ‘Well, so long, Ben. I’m going down home and get off my shoes and take a rest.’

  “ ‘You?’ says I. ‘What’s the matter with you? Ain’t the court-­house jammed with everybody in town waiting to honor the hero? And two brass-­bands, and recitations and flags and jags and grub to follow waiting for you?’

  “Willie sighs.

  “ ‘All right, Ben,’ says he. ‘Darned if I didn’t forget all about that.’

  “And that’s why I say,” concluded Ben Granger, “that you can’t tell where ambition begins any more than you can where it is going to wind up.”

  Buried Treasure

  * * *

  THERE ARE many kinds of fools. Now, will everybody please sit still until they are called upon specifically to rise?

  I had been every kind of fool except one. I had expended my patrimony, pretended my matrimony, played poker, lawn-­tennis, and bucket-­shops—parted soon with my money in many ways. But there remained one rôle of the wearer of cap and bells that I had not played. That was the Seeker after Buried Treasure. To few does the delectable furor come. But of all the would-­be followers in the hoof-­prints of King Midas none has found a pursuit so rich in pleasurable promise.

  But, going back from my theme a while—as lame pens must do—I was a fool of the sentimental sort. I saw May Martha Mangum, and was hers. She was eighteen, the color of the white ivory keys of a new piano, beautiful, and possessed by the exquisite solemnity and pathetic witchery of an unsophisticated angel doomed to live in a small, dull, Texas prairie-­town. She had a spirit and charm that could have enabled her to pluck rubies like raspberries from the crown of Belgium or any other sporty kingdom, but she did not know it, and I did not paint the picture for her.

  You see, I wanted May Martha Mangum for to have and to hold. I wanted her to abide with me, and put my slippers and pipe away every day in places where they cannot be found of evenings.

  May Martha’s father was a man hidden behind whiskers and spectacles. He lived for bugs and butterflies and all insects that fly or crawl or b
uzz or get down your back or in the butter. He was an etymologist, or words to that effect. He spent his life seining the air for flying fish of the June-­bug order, and then sticking pins through ’em and calling ’em names.

  He and May Martha were the whole family. He prized her highly as a fine specimen of the racibus humanus because she saw that he had food at times, and put his clothes on right side before, and kept his alcohol-­bottles filled. Scientists, they say, are apt to be absent-­minded.

  There was another besides myself who thought May Martha Mangum one to be desired. That was Goodloe Banks, a young man just home from college. He had all the attainments to be found in books—Latin, Greek, philosophy, and especially the higher branches of mathematics and logic.

  If it hadn’t been for his habit of pouring out this information and learning on every one that he addressed, I’d have liked him pretty well. But, even as it was, he and I were, you would have thought, great pals.

  We got together every time we could because each of us wanted to pump the other for whatever straws we could to find which way the wind blew from the heart of May Martha Mangum—rather a mixed metaphor; Goodloe Banks would never have been guilty of that. That is the way of rivals.

  You might say that Goodloe ran to books, manners, culture, rowing, intellect, and clothes. I would have put you in mind more of baseball and Friday-­night debating societies—by way of culture—and maybe of a good horseback rider.

  But in our talks together, and in our visits and conversation with May Martha, neither Goodloe Banks nor I could find out which one of us she preferred. May Martha was a natural-­born non-­committal, and knew in her cradle how to keep people guessing.

  As I said, old man Mangum was absent-­minded. After a long time he found out one day—a little butterfly must have told him—that two young men were trying to throw a net over the head of the young person, a daughter, or some such technical appendage, who looked after his comforts.

  I never knew scientists could rise to such occasions. Old Mangum orally labelled and classified Goodloe and myself easily among the lowest orders of the vertebrates; and in English, too, without going any further into Latin than the simple references to Orgetorix, Rex Helvetii—which is as far as I ever went, myself. And he told us that if he ever caught us around his house again he would add us to his collection.

  Goodloe Banks and I remained away five days, expecting the storm to subside. When we dared to call at the house again May Martha Mangum and her father were gone. Gone! The house they had rented was closed. Their little store of goods and chattels was gone also.

  And not a word of farewell to either of us from May Martha—not a white, fluttering note pinned to the hawthorn-­bush; not a chalk-­mark on the gate-­post nor a post-­card in the post-­office to give us a clew.

  For two months Goodloe Banks and I—separately—tried every scheme we could think of to track the runaways. We used our friendship and influence with the ticket-­agent, with livery-­stable men, railroad conductors, and our one lone, lorn constable, but without results.

  Then we became better friends and worse enemies than ever. We forgathered in the back room of Snyder’s saloon every afternoon after work, and played dominoes, and laid conversational traps to find out from each other if anything had been discovered. That is the way of rivals.

  Now, Goodloe Banks had a sarcastic way of displaying his own learning and putting me in the class that was reading “Poor Jane Ray, her bird is dead, she cannot play.” Well, I rather liked Goodloe, and I had a contempt for his college learning, and I was always regarded as good-­natured, so I kept my temper. And I was trying to find out if he knew anything about May Martha, so I endured his society.

  In talking things over one afternoon he said to me:

  “Suppose you do find her, Ed, whereby would you profit? Miss Mangum has a mind. Perhaps it is yet uncultured, but she is destined for higher things than you could give her. I have talked with no one who seemed to appreciate more the enchantment of the ancient poets and writers and the modern cults that have assimilated and expended their philosophy of life. Don’t you think you are wasting your time looking for her?”

  “My idea,” said I, “of a happy home is an eight-­room house in a grove of live-­oaks by the side of a charco on a Texas prairie. A piano,” I went on, “with an automatic player in the sitting-­room, three thousand head of cattle under fence for a starter, a buckboard and ponies always hitched at a post for ‘the missus’—and May Martha Mangum to spend the profits of the ranch as she pleases, and to abide with me, and put my slippers and pipe away every day in places where they cannot be found of evenings. That,” said I, “is what is to be; and a fig—a dried, Smyrna, dago-­stand fig—for your curriculums, cults, and philosophy.”

  “She is meant for higher things,” repeated Goodloe Banks.

  “Whatever she is meant for,” I answered, “just now she is out of pocket. And I shall find her as soon as I can without aid of the colleges.”

  “The game is blocked,” said Goodloe, putting down a domino; and we had the beer.

  Shortly after that a young farmer whom I knew came into town and brought me a folded blue paper. He said his grandfather had just died. I concealed a tear, and he went on to say that the old man had jealously guarded this paper for twenty years. He left it to his family as part of his estate, the rest of which consisted of two mules and a hypotenuse of non-­arable land.

  The sheet of paper was of the old, blue kind used during the rebellion of the abolitionists against the secessionists. It was dated June 14, 1863, and it described the hiding-­place of ten burro-­loads of gold and silver coin valued at three hundred thousand dollars. Old Rundle—grandfather of his grandson, Sam—was given the information by a Spanish priest who was in on the treasure-­burying, and who died many years before—no, afterward—in old Rundle’s house. Old Rundle wrote it down from dictation.

  “Why didn’t your father look this up?” I asked young Rundle.

  “He went blind before he could do so,” he replied.

  “Why didn’t you hunt for it yourself?” I asked.

  “Well,” said he, “I’ve only known about the paper for ten years. First there was the spring ploughin’ to do, and then choppin’ the weeds out of the corn; and then come takin’ fodder; and mighty soon winter was on us. It seemed to run along that way year after year.”

  That sounded perfectly reasonable to me, so I took it up with young Lee Rundle at once.

  The directions on the paper were simple. The whole burro cavalcade laden with the treasure started from an old Spanish mission in Dolores County. They travelled due south by the compass until they reached the Alamito River. They forded this, and buried the treasure on the top of a little mountain shaped like a pack-­saddle standing in a row between two higher ones. A heap of stones marked the place of the buried treasure. All the party except the Spanish priest were killed by Indians a few days later. The secret was a monopoly. It looked good to me.

  Lee Rundle suggested that we rig out a camping outfit, hire a surveyor to run out the line from the Spanish mission, and then spend the three hundred thousand dollars seeing the sights in Fort Worth. But, without being highly educated, I knew a way to save time and expense.

  We went to the State land-­office and had a practical, what they call a “working,” sketch made of all the surveys of land from the old mission to the Alamito River. On this map I drew a line due southward to the river. The length of lines of each survey and section of land was accurately given on the sketch. By these we found the point on the river and had a “connection” made with it and an important, well-­identified corner of the Los Animos five-­league survey—a grant made by King Philip of Spain.

  By doing this we did not need to have the line run out by a surveyor. It was a great saving of expense and time.

  So, Lee Rundle and I fitted out a two-­horse wagon team with
all the accessories, and drove a hundred and forty-­nine miles to Chico, the nearest town to the point we wished to reach. There we picked up a deputy county surveyor. He found the corner of the Los Animos survey for us, ran out the five thousand seven hundred and twenty varas west that our sketch called for, laid a stone on the spot, had coffee and bacon, and caught the mail-­stage back to Chico.

  I was pretty sure we would get that three hundred thousand dollars. Lee Rundle’s was to be only one-­third, because I was paying all the expenses. With that two hundred thousand dollars I knew I could find May Martha Mangum if she was on earth. And with it I could flutter the butterflies in old man Mangum’s dove-­cot, too. If I could find that treasure!

  But Lee and I established camp. Across the river were a dozen little mountains densely covered by cedar-­brakes, but not one shaped like a pack-­saddle. That did not deter us. Appearances are deceptive. A pack-­saddle, like beauty, may exist only in the eye of the beholder.

  I and the grandson of the treasure examined those cedar-­covered hills with the care of a lady hunting for the wicked flea. We explored every side, top, circumference, mean elevation, angle, slope, and concavity of every one for two miles up and down the river. We spent four days doing so. Then we hitched up the roan and the dun, and hauled the remains of the coffee and bacon the one hundred and forty-­nine miles back to Concho City.