by Wister, Owen
“Seven canvas sacks,” said Mrs. Sproud, standing in the road.
“Get in, madam. You can’t tell who may be within hearing. You will find it to your advantage to keep nothing—”
Mrs. Sproud laughed luxuriously, and I began to discern why black curly might at times have been loath to face her.
“I merely meant, madam—I desired to make it clear that—a—”
“I think I know what you meant. But I have no call to fear the law. It will save you trouble to believe that before we go any further.”
“Certainly, madam. Quite right.” The man was sweating. What with court-martial and Mrs. Sproud, his withers were wrung. “You are entirely sure, of course, madam—”
“I am entirely sure I know what I am about. That seems to be more than some do that are interested in this gold—the folks, for instance, that have hid it in my hay-stack.”
“Hay-stack! Then they’re not gone to Mexico!”
“Mexico, sir? They live right here in this valley. Now I’ll get in, and when I ask you, you will please to set me down.” She seated herself opposite us and struck a match. “Now we know what we all look like,” said she, holding the light up, massive and handsome. “This young man is the clerk, and we needn’t mind him. I have done nothing to fear the law, but what I am doing now will make me a traveller again. I have no friends here. I was acquainted with a young man.” She spoke in the serenest tone, but let fall the match more quickly than its burning made needful. “He was welcome in my home. He let them cook this up in my house and never told me. I live a good ways out on the road, and it was a safe place, but I didn’t think why so many met him, and why they sat around my stable. Once in a while this week they’ve been joking about winning the soldiers’ pay—they often win that—but I thought it was just cowboy games, till I heard horses coming quick at sundown this afternoon, and I hid. Will hunted around and said—and said I was on the stage coming from Solomonsville, and so they had half an hour yet. He thought so. And, you see, nobody lives in the cabin but—but me.” Mrs. Sproud paused a moment here, and I noticed her breathing. Then she resumed: “So I heard them talk some; and when they all left, pretty soon, I went to the hay-stack, and it was so. Then the stage came along and I rode to Thomas.”
“You left the gold there!” groaned the wretched Major, and leaned out of the ambulance.
“I’m not caring to touch what’s none of mine. Wait, sir, please; I get out here. Here are the names I’m sure of. Stop the driver, or I’ll jump.” She put a paper in the Major’s hand. “It is Mrs. Sproud’s hay-stack,” she added.
“Will you—this will never—can I find you to-morrow?” he said, helplessly, holding the paper out at her.
“I have told you all I know,” said Mrs. Sproud, and was gone at once.
Major Pidcock leaned back for some moments as we drove. Then he began folding his paper with care. “I have not done with that person,” said he, attempting to restore his crippled importance. “She will find that she must explain herself.”
Our wheels whirled in the sand and we came quickly to Thomas, to a crowd of waiting officers and ladies; and each of us had an audience that night—the cook, I feel sure, while I myself was of an importance second only to the Major’s. But he was at once closeted with the commanding officer, and I did not learn their counsels, hearing only at breakfast that the first step was taken. The detail sent out had returned from the hay-stack, bringing gold indeed—one-half sackful. The other six were gone, and so was Mrs. Sproud. It was useless to surmise, as we, however, did that whole forenoon, what any of this might mean; but in the afternoon came a sign. A citizen of the Gila Valley had been paying his many debts at the saloon and through the neighborhood in gold. In one well known for the past two years to be without a penny it was the wrong moment to choose for honest affluence, and this citizen was the first arrest. This further instance of how secure the robbers felt themselves to be outdid anything that had happened yet, and I marvelled until following events took from me the power of astonishment. The men named on Mrs. Sproud’s paper were fewer than I think fired upon us in the attack, but every one of them was here in the valley, going about his business. Most were with the same herd of cattle that I had seen driven by yellow and black curly near the sub-agency, and they two were there. The solvent debtor, I should say, was not arrested this morning. Plans that I, of course, had no part in delayed matters, I suppose for the sake of certainty. Black curly and his friends were watched, and found to be spending no gold yet; and since they did not show sign of leaving the region, but continued with their cattle, I imagine every effort was being made to light upon their hidden treasure. But their time came, and soon after it mine. Stirling, my friend, to whom I had finally gone at Carlos, opened the wire door of his quarters where I sat one morning, and with a heartless smile introduced me to a gentleman from Tucson.
“You’ll have a chance to serve your country,” said Stirling.
I was subpœnaed!
“Certainly not!” I said, with indignation. “I’m going East. I don’t live here. You have witnesses enough without me. We all saw the same thing.”
“Witnesses never see the same thing,” observed the man from Tucson. “It’s the government that’s after you. But you’ll not have to wait. Our case is first on the list.”
“You can take my deposition,” I began; but what need to dwell upon this interview? “When I come to visit you again,” I said to Stirling, “let me know.” And that pink-faced, gray-haired captain still shouted heartlessly.
“You’re an egotist,” said he. “Think of the scrape poor old Pidcock has got himself into.”
“The government needs all the witnesses it can get,” said the man from Tucson. “Luke Jenks is smart in some ways.”
“Luke Jenks?” I sat up in my canvas extension-chair.
“Territorial Delegate; firm of Parley and Jenks, Tucson. He’s in it.”
“By heavens!” I cried, in unmixed delight. “But I didn’t see him when they were shooting at us.”
The man from Tucson stared at me curiously. “He is counsel for the prisoners,” he explained.
“The Delegate to Washington defends these thieves who robbed the United States?” I repeated.
“Says he’ll get them off. He’s going to stay home from Washington and put it through in shape.”
It was here that my powers of astonishment went into their last decline, and I withheld my opinion upon the character of Mr. Jenks as a public man. I settled comfortably in my canvas chair.
“The prisoners are citizens of small means, I judge,” said I. “What fee can they pay for such a service?”
“Ah!” said Stirling,
“That’s about it, I guess,” said the man from Tucson. “Luke is mighty smart in his law business. Well, gents, good-day to you. I must be getting after the rest of my witnesses.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Sproud?” I asked him.
“She’s quit the country. We can’t trace her. Guess she was scared.”
“But that gold!” I exclaimed, when Sterling and I were alone. “What in the world have they done with those six other bags?”
“Ah!” said he, as before. “Do you want to bet on that point? Dollars to doughnuts Uncle Sam never sees a cent of that money again. I’ll stake my next quarter’s pay—”
“Pooh!” said I. “That’s poor odds against doughnuts if Pidcock has the paying of it.” And I took my turn at laughing at the humorous Stirling.
“That Mrs. Sproud is a sensible woman to have gone,” said he, reflectively. “They would know she had betrayed them, and she wouldn’t be safe in the valley. Witnesses who know too much sometimes are found dead in this country—but you’ll have government protection.”
“Thank you kindly,” said I. “That’s what I had on the hill.”
But Stirling took his turn at me again with freshened mirth.
Well, I think that we witnesses were worth government protection. At seasons of especial br
ightness and holiday, such as Christmas and Easter, the theatres of the variety order have a phrase which they sometimes print in capitals upon their bills—Combination Extraordinary; and when you consider Major Pidcock and his pride, and the old plantation cook, and my reserved Eastern self, and our coal-black escort of the hill, more than a dozen, including Sergeant Brown and the private, both now happily recovered of their wounds, you can see what appearance we made descending together from the mean Southern Pacific train at Tucson, under the gaze of what I take to have been the town’s whole population, numbering five thousand.
Stirling, who had come to see us through, began at his persiflage immediately, and congratulated me upon the house I should play to, speaking of box-office receipts and a benefit night. Tucson is more than half a Mexican town, and in its crowd upon the platform I saw the gaudy shawls, the ear-rings, the steeple straw hats, the old shrivelled cigarette-rolling apes, and the dark-eyed girls, and sifted with these the loungers of our own race, boots, overalls, pistols, hotel clerks, express agents, freight hands, waitresses, red-shirts, soldiers from Lowell Barracks, and officers, and in this mass and mess of color and dust and staring, Bishop Meakum, in his yellow duster, by the door of the Hotel San Xavier. But his stare was not, I think now, quite of the same idleness with the rest. He gave me a short nod, yet not unfriendly, as I passed by him to register my name. By the counter I found the wet-eyed Mowry standing.
“How’s business on the other side of the track?” I said to him.
“Fair to middlin’. Get them mines ye was after at Globe?”
“You’ve forgotten I told you they’re a property I don’t care for, Mr. Mowry. I suppose it’s interest in this recent gold discovery that brings you to Tucson.” He had no answer for me but a shrewd shirking glance that flattered my sense of acumen, and adding, pleasantly, “So many of your Arizona citizens have forsaken silver for gold just now,” I wrote my name in the hotel book, while he looked to remind himself what it was.
“Why, you’re not to stay here,” said Stirling, coming up. “You’re expected at the Barracks.”
He presented me at once to a knot of officers, each of whom in turn made me known to some additional by-stander, until it seemed to me that I shook a new hand sixty times in this disordered minute by the hotel book, and out of the sixty caught one name, which was my own.
These many meetings could not be made perfect without help from the saloon-keeper, who ran his thriving trade conveniently at hand in the office of the San Xavier. Our group remained near him, and I silently resolved to sleep here at the hotel, away from the tempting confusion of army hospitality upon this eve of our trial. We were expected, however, to dine at the post, and that I was ready to do. Indeed, I could scarcely have got myself out of it without rudeness, for the ambulance was waiting us guests at the gate. We went to it along a latticed passage at the edge of a tropical garden, only a few square yards in all, but how pretty! and what an oasis of calm in the midst of this teeming desolation of unrest! It had upon one side the railway station, wooden, sordid, congesting with malodorous packed humanity; on the next the rails themselves and the platform, with steam and bells and baggage trucks rolling and bumping; the hotel stood on the third, a confusion of tongues and trampings; while a wide space of dust, knee-deep, and littered with manœuvring vehicles, hemmed in this silent garden on the fourth side. A slender slow little fountain dropped inaudibly among some palms, a giant cactus, and the broad-spread shade of trees I did not know. This was the whole garden, and a tame young antelope was its inhabitant. He lay in the unchanging shade, his large eyes fixed remotely upon the turmoil of this world, and a sleepy charm touched my senses as I looked at his domain. Instead of going to dinner, or going anywhere, I should have liked to recline indefinitely beneath those palms and trail my fingers in the cool fountain. Such enlightened languor, however, could by no happy chance be the lot of an important witness in a Western robbery trial, and I dined and wined with the jovial officers, at least talking no business.
With business I was sated. Pidcock and the attorney for the United States—I can remember neither his name nor the proper title of his office, for he was a nobody, and I had forgotten his features each new time that we met—had mapped out the trial to me, preparing and rehearsing me in my testimony until they had pestered me into a hatred of them both. And when word was brought me here, dining at Lowell Barracks, where I had imagined myself safe from justice, that this same attorney was waiting to see me, I rose and I played him a trick. Possibly I should not have done it but for the saloon-keeper in the afternoon and this sustained dining now; but I sent him word I should be with him directly—and I wandered into Tucson by myself!
Faithful to my last strong impression there, I went straight to the tiny hotel garden, and in that darkness lay down in a delicious and torpid triumph. The attorney was most likely waiting still. No one on earth knew where I was. Pidcock could not trace me now. I could see the stars through the palms and the strange trees, the fountain made a little sound, somewhere now and then I could hear the antelope, and, cloaked in this black serenity, I lay smiling. Once an engine passed heavily, leaving the station utterly quiet again, and the next I knew it was the antelope’s rough tongue that waked me, and I found him nibbling and licking my hand. People were sitting in the latticed passage, and from the light in the office came Mr. Mowry, untying a canvas sack that he held. At this sight my truancy to discretion was over, and no head could be more wakeful or clear than mine instantly became.
“How much d’yer want this time, Mr. Jenks?” inquired Mowry.
I could not hear the statesman’s reply, but thought, while the sound of clinking came to me, how a common cause will often serve to reconcile the most bitter opponents. I did not dare go nearer to catch all their talk, and I debated a little upon my security even as it was, until my own name suddenly reached me.
“Him?” said Mowry; “that there tailor-made boy? They’ve got him sleepin’ at the Barracks.”
“Nobody but our crowd’s boarding here,” said some one.
“They think we’re laying for their witnesses,” said the voice of Jenks. And among the various mingled laughs rose distinct a big one that I knew.
“Oh, ho, ho! Well, yes. Tell you about witnesses. Here’s all there is to them: spot cash to their figure, and kissing the Book. You’ve done no work but what I told you?” he added, sharply.
“We haven’t needed to worry about witnesses in any shape, Bishop.”
“That’s good. That’s economy. That little Eastern toorist is harmless.”
“Leave him talk, Bishop. Leave ’em all tell their story.”
“It’s going to cost the whole stake, though,” said Jenks.
“Deserted Jericho!” remarked old Meakum.
“I don’t try cases for nothing, Bishop. The deal’s covered. My clients have publicly made over to me their horses and saddles.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” went the Bishop. But this last word about the horses was the only part of the talk I could not put a plain meaning upon.
Mr. Mowry I now saw re-enter the lighted door of the office, with his canvas sack in his hand. “This’ll be right here in the safe,” said he.
“All right,” answered Jenks. “I’ll not be likely to call on you any more for a day or so.”
“Hello!” said the office clerk, appearing in his shirt-sleeves. “You fellows have made me forget the antelope.” He took down a lantern, and I rose to my feet.
“Give us a drink before you feed him,” said Jenks. Then I saw the whole of them crowd into the door for their nightcap, and that was all I waited for.
I climbed the garden fence. My thoughts led me at random through quantities of soft dust, and over the rails, I think, several times, until I stood between empty and silent freight trains, and there sat down. Harmless! It seemed to me they would rate me differently in the morning. So for a while my mind was adrift in the turbulent cross-currents of my discovery; but it was with a smooth, inno
cent surface that I entered the hotel office and enjoyed the look of the clerk when he roused and heard me, who, according to their calculations, should have been in slumber at the Barracks, asking to be shown my room here. I was tempted to inquire if he had fed the antelope—such was the pride of my elation—and I think he must have been running over questions to put me; but the two of us marched up the stairs with a lamp and a key, speaking amiably of the weather for this time of year, and he unlocked my door with a politeness and hoped I would sleep well with a consideration that I have rarely met in the hotel clerk. I did not sleep well. Yet it seemed not to matter. By eight I had breakfast, and found the attorney—Rocklin I shall name him, and that will have to answer—and told him how we had become masters of the situation.
He made me repeat it all over, jotting memoranda this second time; and when my story was done, he sat frowning at his notes, with a cigar between his teeth.
“This ain’t much,” he said. “Luckily I don’t need anything more. I’ve got a dead open-and-shut case without it.”
“Why don’t you make it deader, then?” said I. “Don’t you see what it all means?”
“Well, what does it all mean?”
Either the man was still nettled at my treatment of him last evening, or had no liking for amateur opinions and help; otherwise I see no reason for the disparagement with which he regarded me while I interpreted what I had overheard, piece by piece, except the horse and saddle remark.
“Since that don’t seem clear, I’ll explain it to you,” he said, “and then you’ll know it all. Except their horses and saddles, the accused haven’t a red cent to their names—not an honest one, that is. So it looks well for them to be spending all they’ve apparently got in the world to pay counsel fees. Now I have this case worked up,” he pursued, complacently, “so that any such ambiguous stuff as yours is no good to me at all—would be harmful, in fact. It’s not good policy, my friend, to assail the character of opposing counsel. And Bishop Meakum! Are you aware of his power and standing in this section? Do you think you’re going to ring him in?”