CHAPTER III
Unkempt, dusty and dirty, straggling its narrow length for a milealong the irrigating ditch, the village of Las Plumas lay sleepilyquiet under the hot, white, brooding spring sunshine. A fewtrim-looking places cuddled their yards and gardens close against thelife-giving channel, whose green banks, covered with vegetation andshaded by trees, bisected the town. Elsewhere, naked adobe wallsflanked the dusty streets and from their stark surfaces gave back thesunshine in a blinding glare. Here and there an umbrella tree, or alocust, made a welcome splotch of green and shade down the length ofthe barren, dusty streets, or the tiny yard of a house set back alittle from the adobe sidewalk held a few clumps of shrubs andflowers. A half dozen cross streets sprang up among the scatteredadobe houses that dotted the edge of the plain rising to the Hermosamountains on the east, crossed the bridges of the irrigating ditch,and ended in the one business street, which trailed a few closelybuilt blocks along the western edge of the town, near the railroad andits depot. On one of these cross streets a yard and orchard of goodlysize extended from the ditch a block or more to the east andsurrounded a flat-roofed, square adobe house. A wide veranda, itswhite pillars covered with rose and honeysuckle vines, ran around thehouse, and a square of lawn, with shrubs and flowers and trees, filledthe yard. A little boy, perhaps four years old, with flaxen curlsfloating about his neck, played in the shade of a fig tree beside theveranda.
Down the dusty road which wound a white strip over the pale,gray-green upland and merged into the street which passed this house,a man came riding at a leisurely lope. He was tall and broadshouldered, straight in the back and trim in the girth, and he sat hishorse with the easy, unconscious grace of a man who has lived much inthe saddle. His black sombrero shaded a dark-skinned face, tanned to arosy brown. An unshaven stubble of beard darkened his cheeks and asoft, drooping, black mustache covered his lip. A constant smileseemed lurking in the corners of his mouth and in his brown eyes. Buthis face was square, firm-jawed and resolute, and had in it the lookof a man accustomed to meet men on their own ground and to ask favorsof none.
He checked his horse to a slow trot and, without turning his head,searched with a sidewise glance the yard and veranda of the adobehouse. When he saw a flutter of pink inside a window he stopped at thegate and called to the child:
"Hello, little Bye-Bye! Don't you want a ride?"
The child ran to the gate with a shout of welcome.
"Better ask your sister if you can come."
"Daisy! Daisy! May I go?" the boy called, running back to the porch. Ayoung woman in a pale pink muslin gown came out and led the child tothe gate.
"Good morning, Miss Delarue. May I take little Bye-Bye for a ride?"
The roses in her cheeks deepened as she looked up and saw theadmiration in his eyes.
"Certainly, Mr. Mead. It is very kind of you, I'm sure. But pleasedon't take him far."
The boy, shouting with laughter, was lifted to the saddle in front ofthe rider, and the girl, smiling in sympathy with his delight, leanedagainst the gate watching them. She was tall, with the broadshoulders, deep bosom, slender waist, and clear, blooming complexionthat tell of English nativity. Her eyes were blue, the soft, dark blueof the cornflower, and her face, a long, thin oval, was gentle andsweet in expression. Her light brown hair, which shone with an elusiveglimmer of gold in the sunlight, was gathered on her neck in a loose,rippling mass. She took the child from Mead's hands when theyreturned, and her eyes went from the boy's laughing face to thesmiling one of the man. Then the roses deepened again and she lookedaway. The man said nothing and they both waited, silent and smiling,watching the antics of the child. Presently she turned to him again:
"Are you--do you expect to stay long in town, Mr. Mead?"
"I think--I--do not know. It will depend on business."
They were silent again, and after a moment he gravely said, "Goodmorning," and rode away. He frowned and bit his lip, muttered a mildoath under his breath, and then put spurs to his horse and rode on agallop up the main street. The girl glanced after him, still blushingand smiling. Then a frown wrinkled her forehead and she said, "Well!"under her breath with such emphasis that the child looked up at hercuriously. At that, she laughed with a little touch of embarrassmentin her manner, and, taking the boy in her arms, ran into the house.
In the busiest part of the main street, a flat-roofed adobe house witha narrow, covered porch forming the sidewalk in front, flanked thestreet for half a block. Offices and shops of various kinds filled itsmany rooms, and the open door of a saloon showed a cool and pleasantinterior. In front of this saloon Emerson Mead halted as Tuttle andEllhorn came out of a lawyer's office beside it. Ellhorn explained hisnon-appearance at the ranch and told the story of Tuttle's capture,over which they made jokes at his expense.
"The doctor says this is only a flesh wound," said Nick, touching hissling-swung arm and speaking in answer to Mead's question, "and thatI can use my gun again in another week."
"I'd have been out right away, Emerson," said Tuttle, "but Nick had tostay here for the doctor to take care of his arm, and I didn't dareleave him alone. He was bound he'd go on a spree, and he couldn'tshoot, and the Lord knows what trouble he'd have got into. Maybe Ihaven't had a time of it! I'd rather have had a fight with theFillmore outfit every day!"
"Yes," growled Ellhorn, "he put me to bed one night and sat on my necktill I went to sleep. And yesterday morning he planted himself againstthe door and held his six-shooter on me till I promised I wouldn'tdrink all day. Lord! the week's been long enough for theresurrection!"
"How's things at the ranch, Emerson?" asked Tuttle. "Have you had anyfightin' yet with the Fillmore outfit?"
"No, not real fightin'. I caught 'em puttin' a branded steer into oneof my herds, so they could say I stole it, about a week ago, and WillWhittaker and I exchanged compliments over the affair."
As he spoke a tall, gray-haired man, riding a sweating horse at a hardgallop, rushed up the street and dismounted on the opposite side. Histhin, pale face bore a look of angry excitement.
"What's the matter with Colonel Whittaker?" exclaimed Ellhorn. "Helooks as if he'd heard the devil behind him!"
Whittaker had spoken to a man in the doorway of an office bearing thesign, "Fillmore Cattle Company," and already several others hadgathered around the two and all were listening eagerly.
"Something's happened, boys," said Mead, as they watched the groupacross the way. "They told me in Muletown that Colonel Whittaker hadpassed through there the day before on his way to the ranch."
Just then Miss Delarue came up the sidewalk leading the flaxen-hairedchild, and as she passed the three men she smiled a pleasantrecognition to Ellhorn and Mead.
"Who's she?" Tuttle asked, gazing after her admiringly.
"Why, Frenchy Delarue's daughter!" Ellhorn answered. "Didn't you eversee her before? That's queer. You remember Delarue, the Frenchman whohas the store up the street a-ways and loves to hear himself talk sowell. He came here two years ago with a sick wife. She was anEnglishwoman and the girl looks just like her. She died in a littlewhile and the daughter has taken care of the kid ever since as if shewas its mother. She's a fine girl."
"She's mighty fine lookin', anyway," Tuttle declared.
"Well, boys," said Mead, "I'm goin' to my room to slick up. If youfind out what the excitement's about, come over and tell me."
"I reckon if Emerson was rich he'd be a dude," said Ellhorn, lookingmeditatively after Mead. "He keeps a room and his best duds here allthe time, and the first thing he does after he strikes town is to goand put on a bald-faced shirt and a long-tailed coat. He don't evenstop to take a drink first."
The crowd across the street had increased, and the men who composed itwere talking in low, excited tones. As Emerson Mead walked away manyturned to look at him, and significant glances were sent over the wayto Ellhorn and Tuttle, who still stood on the sidewalk. They stopped aman who was hurrying across the street and asked him what theexcitement was about.<
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"Will Whittaker has disappeared. His father thinks he's been killed.He left the ranch a week ago to come to town and nobody's seen himsince. I'm goin' after Sheriff Daniels."
"Gee-ee! Moses!" Ellhorn exclaimed, as his eyes, full of amazedinquiry, sought Tuttle's. But amazed inquiry of like sort was all thatflashed back at him from Tuttle's mild blue orbs, and after aninstant's pause he went on: "Whew! won't hell's horns be a-tootin'this afternoon! Confound this arm! Say, Tom, you-all go and tellEmerson about it and I'll skate around and find out what's goin' on."
Tuttle hesitated. "You won't go to drinkin'?"
"Not this time, Tommy! There'll be excitement enough here in anothertwo hours without me making any a-purpose, and don't you forget it!Things are a-goin' to be too serious for me to soak any of my wits inwhisky just now!"
"No, Nick," said Tuttle, looking at the other's helpless arm, "Ireckon I better go along with you-all, if there's likely to be anytrouble."
It was as Ellhorn predicted. Before night the town was buzzing withexcitement. Wild rumors flew from tongue to tongue, and with everyflight took new shape. Shops and offices were deserted and mengathered in knots on the sidewalk, discussing the quarrel between thecattlemen and Emerson Mead's possible connection with youngWhittaker's disappearance, and predicting many and varied tragicresults. All those who congregated on one side of the street scoutedthe idea that the young man had been murdered, indignantly denied thepossibility of Emerson Mead's connection with his disappearance,insisted that it was all a trick of the Republicans to throw discrediton the Democrats, and declared that Will Whittaker would show up againin a few days just as much alive as anybody. Nearly all the men whohad offices or stores in the long adobe building were Democrats, andthe saloon it contained, called the Palmleaf, was the place where themen of that party congregated when any unusual excitement arose. Onthe other side of the street were the offices of the Fillmore CattleCompany, the White Horse saloon, and Delarue's store, all gatheringplaces for the Republican clans. There it was declared thatundoubtedly Emerson Mead had killed young Whittaker, and had come intotown to kill the father, too, that other outrages against theRepublicans would probably follow, and that the thing ought to bestopped at once. But each party kept to its own side of the street,and each watched the other as a bulldog about to spring watches itsantagonist.
A man, whose manner and well-groomed appearance betokened cityresidence, mingled with the groups about the cattle company's office,listening with interest to everything that was said. He himself didnot often speak, but when he did every one listened with attention. Hewas of medium stature, of compact, wiry build, had large eyes of apale, brilliant gray, and a thin face with prominent features. Hejoined Miss Delarue when she came down the street on her way home.
"You get up very sudden storms in your quiet town, Miss Delarue," hesaid. "An hour ago Las Plumas was as sleepy and decorous--and dead--asthe graveyard on the hill over yonder. But a man rides up and says tenwords and, br-r-r, the whole population is agog and ready to spring atone another's throats."
"Yes," she assented, "when I went up town a little while agoeverything was as quiet as usual. What is the excitement all about?"
"Why, they are saying that Emerson Mead has killed Will Whittaker!"
"What!"
Her face suddenly went white, and she stared at him with wide,horrified eyes.
"It may not be true."
"Oh, I don't believe it can be true!"
He swept her face with a sudden, curious glance.
"Nobody seems to know, certainly, that Will is dead. He and Mead had aquarrel a week ago and Mead threatened to kill him. Will left theranch that day to come to town, and he hasn't been seen since. Ofcourse, he may have changed his mind and gone off to some other partof the range."
"Of course," she assented eagerly. "At this time of year he is verylikely to have been needed somewhere else on the range. I don'tbelieve he has--he is dead."
"There is much feeling about it on the street. And it seems to bequite as much a matter of politics as a personal quarrel."
"Oh, everything is politics here, Mr. Wellesly!" said the girl. "Ifthe people all over the United States take as much interest inpolitics as they do here, I don't see how they have found time tobuild railroads and cities."
Wellesly laughed. "They don't take it the same way, Miss Delarue. LasPlumas politics is a thing apart and of its own kind. Except in partynames, it has no connection with the politics of the states. Here itis merely a case of 'follow your leader,' of personal loyalty to someman who has run, or who expects to run, for office. Being sopersonal, of course, it is more virulent."
"Do you think there is likely to be any violence this time?" sheasked, with a tremor of anxiety in her voice.
"There is violent talk already. I heard more than one man say thatMead ought to be lynched"--he was watching her face as he talked--"andhis two friends, Ellhorn and Tuttle, along with him. There is a greatdeal of feeling against Mead, and the general idea seems to be that heis an inveterate cattle thief, and that the country would be betteroff without him."
She turned an indignant face and flashing eyes upon him and opened hermouth to reply. Then she blushed a little, caught her breath, andasked him if he thought her father was in any danger. When Welleslyleft her he said to himself: "That's an unusually fine girl. Handsome,too. Or she would be if she didn't wear English shoes and walk like anelephant. She seems to be interested in Emerson Mead, but old Delaruecertainly wouldn't permit anything serious. He's too ardently on ourside, or thinks he is, the old French windbag, though he's never evenbeen naturalized. I'll see her again while I'm here and find out ifthere is anything between them. It might have some consequence for usif there is. I wish the Colonel hadn't got the company so mixed up intheir political quarrels. But there may be an advantage in it, afterall, for I guess it will furnish the easiest way of getting rid ofthose one-horse outfits. The old man's got the upper hand now, and aslong as he keeps it we'll be all right."
Marguerite Delarue stood on her veranda looking after Wellesly as hewalked away. "What a nice looking man he is," ran her thoughts. "He isinteresting to talk with, too. The people here may be just as good ashe is, but--well, at least, he isn't tongue-tied."
Ellhorn and Tuttle met Emerson Mead as he stepped from his room,freshly shaven and clad in black frock coat and vest, gray trousersand newly polished shoes. As he listened to Ellhorn's account of thesudden storm that was already shaking the little town from end to end,a yellow light flashed in his brown eyes and there came into them anintent, defiant look, the look of battle, like that in the eyes of acaptured eagle. He went back into the room, buckled on a fullcartridge belt, and transferred his revolver from his waistband to itsusual holster.
"Now, boys," said Mead, "we'll go back up town and have a drink, andI'll talk with Judge Harlin about this matter."
The three friends walked leisurely up Main street, talking quietlytogether, and apparently unconscious of any unusual disturbance.Except that their eyes were restless and alert and that Mead's glowedwith the yellow light and the defiant look, they showed no sign ofthe excitement they felt. They were all three of nearly the same age,they were all Texan born and bred, and for many years had been theclosest of friends. Each one stood six feet and some inches in hisstockings, and their great stature, broad shoulders, deep chests andsinewy figures marked them for notice, even in the southwest, the landof tall, well-muscled men.
Thomson Tuttle was the tallest and by far the heaviest of the three--agreat, blond giant, with the round, frank, sincere face of anovergrown school-boy, glowing with the red tan which fair skins takeon in the hot, dry air of the southwest. From this red expanse a pairof serious blue eyes looked out, while a short, tawny mustache coveredhis lip, and auburn hair curled in close rings over his head. It wasnever necessary for Thomson Tuttle to do any swearing, for the colorsthat dwelt in his face kept up a constant profanity. There was astrain of German blood in him--his mother had come from Germany in
herchildhood--which showed in his impassive countenance and in the open,serious directness of his mental habit.
Ellhorn was the handsome one of the three friends. He was straight,slender, long of limb, clean of muscle, and remarkably quick andgraceful in his movements. His regular features were clear-cut and hisdancing eyes were bright and black and keen. His sweeping blackmustache curled up at the ends in a wide curve that shaded a dimplein each cheek. He was as proud of the fact that both of his maternalgrandparents had been born in Ireland as he was that he himself was anative of Texas. The vigorous Celtic strain, that in the clash ofnationalities can always hold its own against any blood with which itmingles, had dowered him well with Celtic characteristics. A trace ofthe brogue still lingered in his speech, along with the slurred r'sand the soft drawl of his southern tongue, while his spontaneousrebellion under restraint and his brilliant disregard of theconsequences of his behavior were as truly Celtic as was thehoney-sweet persuasiveness with which he could convince his friendsthat whatever he had done had been exactly right and the only thingpossible. He was all Irish that wasn't Texan, and all Texan thatwasn't Irish, and everybody he knew he either loved or hated, and wasready, according to his feeling, either to do anything for, or to "doup" on a moment's notice.
Emerson Mead's stronger and more sober intelligence harked back to NewEngland, whence his mother had come in her bridal days, and althoughthe Puritan characteristics showed less plainly in his nature than shewished, having been much warmed and mellowed by their transplantationto southern soil, no Puritan of them all could have outdone this tallTexan in dogged adherence to what he believed to be his rights. Hismother had kept faith with the land of her nativity, and as part ofher worship from afar at the shrine of its great sage had given hisname to her only son. By virtue of his stronger character and betterpoised intelligence, Emerson Mead had always been the leader of thethree friends. Tuttle yielded unquestioning obedience to "Emerson'sjudgment," and, if Emerson were not present, to what he imagined thatjudgment would be. Ellhorn, in whose nature dwelt the instinctiverebellion of the Irish blood, was less loyal in this respect, but nota whit behind in the whole-heartedness with which he threw himselfinto his friend's service. For years they had taken share and sharealike in one another's needs, and whenever one was in trouble theother two rushed to his help. Together they had gone through the usualroutine of southwestern occupations. They had prospected together, hadherded cattle together, together they had battled their way throughsudden quarrels and fore-planned gunfights, and together, withofficial warrants in their pockets, had helped to keep the peace inriotous frontier towns. Some years before, they had gone intopartnership in the cattle business, on the ranch which Mead stillowned. But Tuttle and Ellhorn had tired of it, had sold their interestto Mead, and ever since, as deputy United States marshals, had upheldthe arm of the law in its contests with the "bad men" of the frontier.All three men were known far and wide for the marvelous quickness andaccuracy with which they could handle their guns.
Main street was lined, in the vicinity of the two saloons, with knotsof men who talked in excited, repressed tones, as though they fearedto be overheard. These knots constantly broke up and reformed as menhurried from one to another, but there was no crossing the street.Each party kept to its own side, the Democrats on the east and theRepublicans on the west, and each constantly watched the other. Thewomen had all disappeared from Main street, gone scuttling home likefowls, rushing to cover from a hailstorm, and the whole town was in astate of strained expectancy, waiting for the battle to begin. Whenthe three friends came walking leisurely down the street, there werenods and meaning glances on the Republican side and excited whispersof "There they are!" "They are ready for work!" "That's what they areall here together for!" "We'd better get ready for them!"
On the Democratic side of the street it was declared that this was ascheme of the cattle company to get Mead away from his ranch, so theycould do as they liked at the round-up, and that the Republicans hadplanned the whole story of Will Whittaker's disappearance in orderthat they might arrest Mead, kill him if he resisted, and inaugurate ageneral slaughter of the Democrats if they should come to his help.
The three friends went at once to the office of Judge Harlin, who wasMead's lawyer, and Harlin and Mead had a long conference in private,while Ellhorn and Tuttle talked on the sidewalk with the changinggroups of men. Beyond the surprised inquiry which each had darted intothe eyes of the other when they were first told of Whittaker'sdisappearance, neither Tom Tuttle nor Nick Ellhorn had said a word toeach other, or exchanged a meaning look, as to the possibility ofMead's guilt. They did not know whether or not he had killed themissing man, and, except as a matter of curiosity, they did notparticularly care. If he had, they knew that either of them would havedone the same thing in his place. Whatever he might have done, he wastheir friend and in trouble, and they would have put on belts and gunsand rushed to his assistance, even though they had known they would bedropped in their tracks beside him.
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