by Wister, Owen
“Oh yes!” said Mrs. Campbell, with impatience. “I saw the hole in his back. You needn’t tell me all that again. If he’d thrown out the express box quicker they wouldn’t have hurt a hair of his head. Wells and Fargo’s messengers know that perfectly. It was his own fault. Those boys had no employment, and they only wanted money. They did not seek human blood, and you needn’t tell me they did.”
“They shed it, however, Amanda. Quite a lot of it. Stage-driver and a passenger too.”
“Yes, you keep going back to that as if they’d all been murdered instead of only one, and you don’t care about those two poor boys locked in a dungeon, and their gray-haired father down in Fresno County who never did anything wrong at all, and he sixty-one in December.”
“The county isn’t thinking of hanging the old gentleman,” said the judge.
“That will do, Judge Campbell,” said his lady, rising. “I shall say no more. Total silence for the present is best for you and best for me. Much best. I will leave you to think of your speech, which was by no means silver. Not even life with you for twenty-five years this coming 10th of July has inured me to insult. I am capable of understanding whom they think of hanging, and your speaking to me as if I did not does you little credit; for it was a mere refuge from a woman’s just accusation of heartlessness which you felt, and like a man would not acknowledge; and therefore it is that I say no more but leave you to go down the street to the Ladies’ Lyceum where I shall find companions with some spark of humanity in their bosoms and milk of human kindness for those whose hasty youth has plunged them in misery and delivered them to the hands of those who treat them as if they were stones and sticks full of nothing but monstrosity instead of breathing men like themselves to be shielded by brotherhood and hope and not dashed down by cruelty and despair.”
It had begun stately as a dome, with symmetry and punctuation, but the climax was untrammelled by a single comma. The orator swept from the room, put on her bonnet and shawl, and the judge, still sitting with his eggs, heard the front door close behind her. She was president of the Ladies’ Reform and Literary Lyceum, and she now trod thitherward through Siskiyou.
“I think Amanda will find companions there,” mused the judge. “But her notions of sympathy beat me.” The judge had a small, wise blue eye, and he liked his wife more than well. She was sincerely good, and had been very courageous in their young days of poverty. She loved their son, and she loved him. Only, when she took to talking, he turned up a mental coat-collar and waited. But if the male sex did not appreciate her powers of eloquence her sister citizens did; and Mrs. Campbell, besides presiding at the Ladies’ Reform and Literary Lyceum in Siskiyou, often addressed female meetings in Ashland, Yreka, and even as far away as Tehama and Redding. She found companions this morning.
“To think of it!” they exclaimed, at her news of the capture, for none had read the paper. They had been too busy talking of the next debate, which was upon the question, “Ought we to pray for rain?” But now they instantly forgot the wide spiritual issues raised by this inquiry, and plunged into the fascinations of crime, reciting once more to each other the details of the recent tragedy. The room hired for the Lyceum was in a second story above the apothecary and book shop—a combined enterprise in Siskiyou—and was furnished with fourteen rocking-chairs. Pictures of Mount Shasta and Lucretia Mott ornamented the wall, with a photograph from an old master representing Leda and the Swan. This typified the Lyceum’s approval of Art, and had been presented by one of the husbands upon returning from a three days’ business trip to San Francisco.
“Dear! dear!” said Mrs. Parsons, after they had all shuddered anew over the shooting and the blood. “With so much suffering in the world, how fulsome seems that gay music!” She referred to the Siskiyou brass-band, which was rehearsing the march from “Fatinitza” in an adjacent room in the building. Mrs. Parsons had large, mournful eyes, a poetic vocabulary, and wanted to be president of the Lyceum herself.
“Melody has its sphere, Gertrude,” said Mrs. Campbell, in a wholesome voice. “We must not be morbid. But this I say to you, one and all: Since the men of Siskiyou refuse, it is for the women to vindicate the town’s humanity, and show some sympathy for the captive who arrives to-night.”
They all thought so too.
“I do not criticise,” continued their president, magnanimously, “nor do I complain of any one. Each in this world has his or her mission, and the most sacred is Woman’s own—to console!”
“True, true!” murmured Mrs. Slocum.
“We must do something for the prisoner, to show him we do not desert him in his hour of need,” Mrs. Campbell continued.
“We’ll go and meet the train!” Mrs. Slocum exclaimed, eagerly. “I’ve never seen a real murderer.”
“A bunch of flowers for him,” said Mrs. Parsons, closing her mournful eyes. “Roses.” And she smiled faintly.
“Oh, lilies!” cried little Mrs. Day, with rapture. “Lilies would look real nice.”
“Don’t you think,” said Miss Sissons, who had not spoken before, and sat a little apart from the close-drawn clump of talkers, “that we might send the widow some flowers too, some time?” Miss Sissons was a pretty girl, with neat hair. She was engaged to the captain of Siskiyou’s baseball nine.
“The widow?” Mrs. Campbell looked vague.
“Mrs. Montgomery, I mean—the murdered man’s wife. I—I went to see if I could do anything, for she has some children; but she wouldn’t see me,” said Miss Sissons. “She said she couldn’t talk to anybody.”
“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Campbell. “I dare say it was a dreadful shock to her. Yes, dear, we’ll attend to her after a while. We’ll have her with us right along, you know, whereas these unhappy boys may—may be—may soon meet a cruel death on the scaffold.” Mrs. Campbell evaded the phrase “may be hanged” rather skilfully. To her trained oratorical sense it had seemed to lack dignity.
“So young!” said Mrs. Day.
“And both so full of promise, to be cut off!” said Mrs. Parsons.
“Why, they can’t hang them both, I should think,” said Miss Sissons. “I thought only one killed Mr. Montgomery.”
“My dear Louise,” said Mrs. Campbell, “they can do anything they want, and they will. Shall I ever forget those ruffians who wanted to lynch the first one? They’ll be on the jury!”
The clump returned to their discussion of the flowers, and Miss Sissons presently mentioned she had some errands to do, and departed.
“Would that that girl had more soul!” said Mrs. Parsons.
“She has plenty of soul,” replied Mrs. Campbell, “but she’s under the influence of a man. Well, as I was saying, roses and lilies are too big.”
“Oh, why?” said Mrs. Day. “They would please him so.”
“He couldn’t carry them, Mrs. Day. I’ve thought it all out. He’ll be walked to the jail between strong men. We must have some small bokay to pin on his coat, for his hands will be shackled.”
“You don’t say!” cried Mrs. Slocum. “How awful! I must get to that train. I’ve never seen a man in shackles in my life.”
So violets were selected; Mrs. Campbell brought some in the afternoon from her own borders, and Mrs. Parsons furnished a large pin. She claimed also the right to affix the decoration upon the prisoner’s breast because she had suggested the idea of flowers; but the other ladies protested, and the president seemed to think that they all should draw lots. It fell to Mrs. Day.
“Now I declare!” twittered the little matron. “I do believe I’ll never dare.”
“You must say something to him,” said Amanda; “something fitting and choice.”
“Oh dear no, Mrs. Campbell. Why, I never—my gracious! Why, if I’d known I was expected—Really, I couldn’t think—I’ll let you do it!”
“We can’t hash up the ceremony that way, Mrs. Day,” said Amanda, severely. And as they all fell arguing, the whistle blew.
“There!” said Mrs. Slocum. “
Now you’ve made me late, and I’ll miss the shackles and everything.”
She flew down-stairs, and immediately the town of Siskiyou saw twelve members of the Ladies’ Reform and Literary Lyceum follow her in a hasty phalanx across the square to the station. The train approached slowly up the grade, and by the time the wide smoke-stack of the locomotive was puffing its wood smoke in clouds along the platform, Amanda had marshalled her company there.
“Where’s the gals all goin’, Bill?” inquired a large citizen in boots of the ticket-agent.
“Nowheres, I guess, Abe,” the agent replied. “Leastways, they ’ain’t bought any tickets off me.”
“Maybe they’re for stealin’ a ride,” said Abe.
The mail and baggage cars had passed, and the women watched the smoking-car that drew up opposite them. Mrs. Campbell had informed her friends that the sheriff always went in the smoker; but on this occasion, for some reason, he had brought his prisoner in the Pullman sleeper at the rear, some way down the track, and Amanda’s vigilant eye suddenly caught the group, already descended and walking away. The platoon of sympathy set off, and rapidly came up with the sheriff, while Bill, Abe, the train conductor, the Pullman conductor, the engineer, and the fireman abandoned their duty, and stared, in company with the brakemen and many passengers. There was perfect silence but for the pumping of the air-brake on the engine. The sheriff, not understanding what was coming, had half drawn his pistol; but now, surrounded by universal petticoats, he pulled off his hat and grinned doubtfully. The friend with him also stood bareheaded and grinning. He was young Jim Hornbrook, the muscular betrothed of Miss Sissons. The prisoner could not remove his hat, or he would have done so. Miss Sissons, who had come to the train to meet her lover, was laughing extremely in the middle of the road.
“Take these violets,” faltered Mrs. Day, and held out the bunch, backing away slightly at the same time.
“Nonsense,” said Amanda, stepping forward and grasping the flowers. “The women of Siskiyou are with you,” she said, “as we are with all the afflicted.” Then she pinned the violets firmly to the prisoner’s flannel shirt. His face, at first amazed as the sheriff’s and Hornbrook’s, smoothed into cunning and vanity, while Hornbrook’s turned an angry red, and the sheriff stopped grinning.
“Them flowers would look better on Buck Montgomery’s grave, madam,” said the officer. “Maybe you’ll let us pass now.” They went on to the jail.
“Waal,” said Abe, on the platform, “that’s the most disgustin’ fool thing I ever did see.”
“All aboa-rd!” said the conductor, and the long train continued its way to Portland.
The platoon, well content, dispersed homeward to supper, and Jim Hornbrook walked home with his girl.
“For Lord’s sake, Louise,” he said, “who started that move?”
She told him the history of the morning.
“Well,” he said, “you tell Mrs. Campbell, with my respects, that she’s just playing with fire. A good woman like her ought to have more sense. Those men are going to have a fair trial.”
“She wouldn’t listen to me, Jim, not a bit. And, do you know, she really didn’t seem to feel sorry—except just for a minute—about that poor woman.”
“Louise, why don’t you quit her outfit?”
“Resign from the Lyceum? That’s so silly of you, Jim. We’re not all crazy there; and that,” said Miss Sissons, demurely, “is what makes a girl like me so valuable!”
“Well, I’m not stuck on having you travel with that lot.”
“They speak better English than you do, Jim dear. Don’t! in the street!”
“Sho! It’s dark now,” said Jim. “And it’s been three whole days since—” But Miss Sissons escaped inside her gate and rang the bell. “Now see here, Louise,” he called after her, “when I say they’re playing with fire I mean it. That woman will make trouble in this town.”
“She’s not afraid,” said Miss Sissons. “Don’t you know enough about us yet to know we can’t be threatened?”
“You!” said the young man. “I wasn’t thinking of you.” And so they separated.
Mrs. Campbell sat opposite the judge at supper, and he saw at once from her complacent reticence that she had achieved some triumph against his principles. She chatted about topics of the day in terms that were ingeniously trite. Then a letter came from their son in Denver, and she forgot her rôle somewhat, and read the letter aloud to the judge, and wondered wistfully who in Denver attended to the boy’s buttons and socks; but she made no reference whatever to Siskiyou jail or those inside it. Next morning, however, it was the judge’s turn to be angry.
“Amanda,” he said, over the paper again, “you had better stick to socks, and leave criminals alone.”
Amanda gazed at space with a calm smile.
“And I’ll tell you one thing, my dear,” her husband said, more incisively, “it don’t look well that I should represent the law while my wife figures” (he shook the morning paper) “as a public nuisance. And one thing more: Look out! For if I know this community, and I think I do, you may raise something you don’t bargain for.”
“I can take care of myself, judge,” said Amanda, always smiling. These two never were angry both at once, and to-day it was the judge that sailed out of the house. Amanda pounced instantly upon the paper. The article was headed “Sweet Violets.” But the editorial satire only spurred the lady to higher efforts. She proceeded to the Lyceum, and found that “Sweet Violets” had been there before her. Every woman held a copy, and the fourteen rocking-chairs were swooping up and down like things in a factory. In the presence of this blizzard, Mount Shasta, Lucretia Mott, and even Leda and the Swan looked singularly serene on their wall, although on the other side of the wall the “Fatinitza” march was booming brilliantly. But Amanda quieted the storm. It was her gift to be calm when others were not, and soon the rocking-chairs were merely rippling.
“The way my boys scolded me—” began Mrs. Day.
“For men I care not,” said Mrs. Parsons. “But when my own sister upbraids me in a public place—” The lady’s voice ceased, and she raised her mournful eyes. It seemed she had encountered her unnatural relative at the post-office. Everybody had a tale similar. Siskiyou had denounced their humane act.
“Let them act ugly,” said Mrs. Slocum. “We will not swerve.”
“I sent roses this morning,” said Mrs. Parsons.
“Did you, dear?” said Mrs. Day. “My lilies shall go this afternoon.”
“Here is a letter from the prisoner,” said Amanda, producing the treasure; and they huddled to hear it. It was very affecting. It mentioned the violets blooming beside the hard couch, and spoke of prayer.
“He had lovely hair,” said Mrs. Slocum.
“So brown!” said Mrs. Day.
“Black, my dear, and curly.”
“Light brown. I was a good deal closer, Susan—”
“Never mind about his hair,” said Amanda. “We are here not to flinch. We must act. Our course is chosen, and well chosen. The prison fare is a sin, and a beefsteak goes to them both at noon from my house.”
“Oh, why didn’t we ever think of that before?” cried the ladies, in an ecstasy, and fell to planning a series of lunches in spite of what Siskiyou might say or do. Siskiyou did not say very much; but it looked; and the ladies waxed more enthusiastic, luxuriating in a sense of martyrdom because now the prisoners were stopped writing any more letters to them. This was doubtless a high-handed step, and it set certain pulpits preaching about love. The day set for the trial was approaching; Amanda and her flock were going. Prayer-meetings were held, food and flowers for the two in jail increased in volume, and every day saw some of the Lyceum waiting below the prisoners’ barred windows till the men inside would thrust a hand through and wave to them; then they would shake a handkerchief in reply, and go away thrilled to talk it over at the Lyceum. And Siskiyou looked on all the while, darker and darker.
Then finally Amanda had a g
reat thought. Listening to “Fatinitza” one morning, she suddenly arose and visited Herr Schwartz, the band-master. Herr Schwartz was a wise and well-educated German. They had a lengthy conference.
“I don’t pelief dot vill be very goot,” said the band-master.
But at that Amanda talked a good deal; and the worthy Teuton was soon bewildered, and at last gave a dubious consent, “since it would blease de ladies.”
The president of the Lyceum arranged the coming event after her own heart. The voice of Woman should speak in Siskiyou. The helpless victims of male prejudice and the law of the land were to be flanked with consolation and encouragement upon the eve of their ordeal in court. In their lonely cell they were to feel that there were those outside whose hearts beat with theirs. The floral tribute was to be sumptuous, and Amanda had sent to San Francisco for pound-cake. The special quality she desired could not be achieved by the Siskiyou confectioner.
Miss Sissons was not a party to this enterprise, and she told its various details to Jim Hornbrook, half in anger, half in derision. He listened without comment, and his face frightened her a little.
“Jim, what’s the matter?” said she.
“Are you going to be at that circus?” he inquired.
“I thought I might just look on, you know,” said Miss Sissons. “Mrs. Campbell and a brass-band—”
“You’ll stay in the house that night, Louise.”
“Why, the ring isn’t on my finger yet,” laughed the girl, “the fatal promise of obedience—” But she stopped, perceiving her joke was not a good one. “Of course, Jim, if you feel that way,” she finished. “Only I’m grown up, and I like reasons.”
“Well—that’s all right too.”
“Ho, ho! All right! Thank you, sir. Dear me!”
“Why, it ain’t to please me, Louise; indeed it ain’t. I can’t swear everything won’t be nice and all right and what a woman could be mixed up in, but—well, how should you know what men are, anyway, when they’ve been a good long time getting mad, and are mad all through? That’s what this town is to-day, Louise.”