And when he said, his lips close to her ear, “But you’re not Arlene Warbuck at all; there’s not a drop of Warbuck blood in you,” the words sounded so fantastic as to be quite meaningless. He was telling her she wasn’t herself!
“Listen,” he said. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the Warbucks adopted that queer little creature, Miriam?”
Of course she had wondered all her life; it seemed the queerest thing in the world for Barton and Irene Warbuck, cold-blooded and selfish people, to adopt a little crooked thing like Miriam.
“What is it, Jeff?” she asked, and suddenly her heart was pounding like mad and she grew breathless.
He told her all that the old woman had told him, all that Sharpe would have told had Warbuck not killed him when his lips were beginning to move to the words. When, those twenty years ago, a baby was born to the Warbucks it was a wizened, crippled, repulsive Thing—just the sort of thing to come from their union. The doctor was Doc Sharpe. He came into the room just as Warbuck, taking the newborn baby in his big brutal hands, was about to strangle it. Sharpe saved that baby’s life—and that was Miriam.
And he saw a ready expedient, one of those answers to fate’s gibes that would work two ways, to Warbuck’s advantage and to his own. He chanced to know of a young woman who had just given birth to a child over at Fort Ryder, and who had died in childbirth. The young husband and father, racing for the doctor of a black winter night, driving a team of half-broken colts, starting on the return journey by the short cut of Cut Off Grade, had been killed; buggy, team and man on a sharp slippery turn had been catapulted to the depths of Ryder’s Gorge.
So there was an orphan, ready-made, for instant adoption. Why any adoption at all? Because even then the Warbucks, coming from the slime by way of beginnings, planned to go far, no matter the road, and were “putting on dog,” swelling themselves up with a queer sort of false pride which in the end was to bring them to their undoing. It was unthinkable that they should be parents to a warped and twisted Thing, such as little Miriam was. So they kept their baby hidden from all eyes but Doc Sharpe’s; with his connivance the little orphaned girl was brought to them, and adopted; then, some few weeks later when their baby was on display, they showed off the lovely, chubby Arlene as their own, and then told of having added to their household, out of the goodness of their hearts at this glad occasion, that poor little crooked waif born at Fort Ryder—and for once, and for a short while, folks said, “There’s some good in the worst of us; those Warbucks have got big, kind hearts.”
And so the Warbucks hid their shame. And so Doc Sharpe was for many a year a richly bribed Dr. Leech.
Arlene didn’t say a word. Her breast rose and fell, rose higher and fell again to her tumultuous breathing. She leaned backward in the saddle, tight against Young Jeff, and his arms closed about her as though never to let her go. He gave her full time to subdue the tempest of her thoughts. At last she spoke in a new voice, very quiet, very gentle, hushed.
“I am not one of them at all! Oh, thank God! Not the daughter of—I am not even Arlene! I feel newborn, Jeff! Not even Arlene at all!”
“No. Ah Lee now. Maybe after a while we can make you a new name—”
“I love ‘Ah Lee,’” murmured Ah Lee!
When they came to Devil-Take-It, Young Jeff and the girl he called Ah Lee were far behind. Suddenly they came up out of the magic world in which they had been riding; they saw several bonfires and scores of urgent men. The “party” was on, and many more had come hastening to it than either Still Jeff or his partner had dreamed would come. For Trigger Levine, going wholeheartedly on his errand, had stopped in Halcyon to get a much needed drink—and had had the luck to find the sheriff, Dan Hasbrook there. Hasbrook, forthright and not given to secretive ways, had acted as a channel through which the news might spread as fast as it listed, and it gushed out like long dammed up waters breaking through the dam that had held them back.
Several of the Wandering River men had ridden down to Halcyon, heeding the call that the old mining camp was making up and down through the mountains as with a golden trumpet. There were Ed Spurlock, Walt Jameson, Steve Bannister, Sam Harper, Hank Fellowes, the Bagby boys, old man Vetch and some others. They had swept out of town after Hasbrook in a running race. Old Judge Northcutt from Bender’s Gap had come along. So had several women, and among them were Chrystine Ward and Mrs. Sadie King and one of her daughters—and Miriam Warbuck. Devil-Take-It, with all its flaring fires and its visitors still pouring in was like a small village.
They were all, every single man and woman of them, amply repaid for their ride at the very first glimpse they had of the riders coming now to the old house at Devil-Take-It. For here came Still Jeff Cody and Red Shirt Bill Morgan, two men whom the countryside had waited upon for such an explosion as might have resulted in double murder, and these two came in like the two old friends they were, as cozily companionable as two ducks in a pond. Nor was that half of it: They herded along with them none other than Barton Warbuck, and behind Warbuck, on the same horse, came the old woman of Witch Woman’s Hollow, clinging to him that she might not fall, cursing him and pummeling his back with her hard-blenched bony fists. All those who saw and greeted them, shouted a resounding welcome.
As the crowd came surging forward, Dan Hasbrook made it his official business to be well at the fore.
“Take it easy, boys,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Let’s not step off in the dark until we know where we’re stepping. Let’s find out what it’s all about before we go making mistakes.” He looked up at Still Jeff Cody and Red Shirt Bill Morgan and Bart Warbuck, their faces ruddy in the nearest, biggest bonfire, their eyes showing. “Let’s have it, boys,” said Dan Hasbrook.
He asked for it and he got it. Red Shirt Bill Morgan could talk on most occasions, but never in all his born life had felt so full of words and the violent urge to unleash them. He pulled off his battered old hat and waved it above his head; he shouted at them, “You listen to me, boys, and you listen good!” And he told them.
He told them everything. He ran back across the years as lightly as a mountain goat over a gentle hillside; he went back to that time more than twenty years ago. He told them of himself, of his pardner Jeff Cody, of the third pardner, Hank Ryan; of how Hank Ryan had made off with the community pot of more than fifty thousand dollars, gold dust, and both Still Jeff and Bill Morgan were out to get him; how Hank Ryan was murdered, shot in the back, and the gold stolen and a gun left on the job that had come from their cabin in Pay Dirt; how Still Jeff and Bill Morgan were tricked into suspecting each other—and how, only tonight, after twenty years misspent, they had learned the truth: That was Bart Warbuck’s crime, and there was Bart Warbuck’s beginning as a rich and powerful man in Long Valley, in the Wandering River country, in the whole state.
Young Jeff slid down from his horse and stood at Arlene’s side—at Ah Lee’s side!—his hand on the saddle horn, her hand tight on his. He thought with an odd quirk of fancy, “Old Bill’s always had it in him to make a great oration; he’s got his chance tonight!” He looked the crowd over and his roving eyes were arrested by a small compact group: There, some standing stiffly erect, some drooping, with their arms bound behind them, were Jim Ogden and his crowd. Then for the first time, he saw the separate knot of womenfolk, a dozen of them, ranchers’ wives and daughters, and among them were Chrystine and Miriam and Sadie King with her daughter Aggie clutching her arm. The women, most of them, all perhaps save Chrystine who looked frightened and Miriam, who looked wickedly gleeful, were like battle-hardened Amazons, come to demand justice and retribution.
Dan Hasbrook cleared his throat. He did his level best to look austere, to pose as the stern representative of the law that would brook no monkey business. If there was a gleam in his eyes, it might have been the reflection of a fire burning high nearby. He cleared his throat a second time and spoke to Still Jeff.
“I got a message from Trigger Levine,” he said. “Trig said as how you’d sent it. That right, Jeff?”
An emphatic nod assured him that that was right. Then Still Jeff, this appearing to be his one night of extreme volubility, asked, “The tar, Dan? Here?”
“Yep. And the boys brought along all the buckets and kettles they could scare up; tar’s warming up now.”
“And feathers?” asked Still Jeff.
“Yep. A feather mattress; some of the ladies brought extra feather pillows.” Then he pulled off his hat, rumpled his hair and affected to scowl. “O’ course, Trig Levine didn’t tell me why you wanted all that truck or what you meant to do with it. It sort of begins to look like—Look here, Jeff; suppose you pile down off your horse and step aside for a word with me? I’m not going to have any law breaking, and you know it!” And those final words were said loud enough for all to hear.
Without the slightest hesitation Still Jeff slid down from the saddle—he knew how it was with a sheriff at a party like this!—and stepped aside with Hasbrook. Hasbrook led the way beyond the flickering circle of firelight to where he had tied his horse. He stopped there.
“I guess I’ve got most of it, Cody,” he said bluntly. “But if you ain’t afraid it’ll strain your throat you might let me know the high spots of all that’s happened. You ought to be able to spare a couple dozen words without feeling any bad effects tomorrow.”
This struck Still Jeff as a reasonable request. And Dan Hasbrook was an old friend. So he did not spare words, though he didn’t waste any, either. More concisely than most men could have done, he presented the sheriff with an epitome of both present and ancient history, which is to say he gave the events of the night and their relation to events of a score of years ago.
When he had done, Dan Hasbrook was nodding. What he said was, “What you boys intend to do is against law and order, Jeff. I can’t stand for it. I’m wearing two guns, and ’less they’re taken away from me, I’m apt to use ’em. Likewise there’s a spare coil of rope on my saddle. Unless I’m tied up proper, I’m going to bust this party all to hell.”
This, too, struck Still Jeff as reasonable. So he took Dan Hasbrook’s two guns away and slipped them down in his own belt; he reached up for the coil of rope and bound the sheriff hand and foot.
“Too tight, Dan?” he asked. “Hurt any?”
“Might make it a wee bit slacker on my wrists, Jeff. So’s I could get a hand free if I had to roll a smoke.”
When Still Jeff returned to the others grouped about Warbuck and Jim Ogden and their men as a center, he announced gently, “Hasbrook, being sheriff, was for stopping things. So I had to tie him up. Now we can get started.”
A few laughed. Most were not in a laughing mood.
Miriam Warbuck was one of those who laughed. She came through the still growing crowd to her adoptive sister where she stood close at Young Jeff’s side.
“Hello, darling,” she drawled mockingly. “Have a nice time?”
Startled, not having seen Miriam until now, the former “Arlene” put her two hands on the slight girl’s arms.
“Miriam! I have just learned—I am the adopted one! You are the real Warbuck—you’re their own flesh and blood daughter!”
Miriam’s eyes grew big with wonder, then blazed with light.
“Then I’m their heiress!” she cried eagerly. “No matter what they do, they can’t cheat me out of that! It is I, not you, you little fool, who will inherit—and from the looks of things it won’t be long to wait either! Had you thought of that before you told me?”
A ripple ran through the other girl. Had she thought of that! It was the first thing she did think of—though not in the same terms Miriam had in mind. She did not think of the Warbuck acres and stored up wealth; she did think of the Warbucks themselves, and was already devoutly thanking a good God that she inherited nothing from them. Neither their fortune, nor their hereditary traits.
“Yes,” she answered quite softly. “I had thought of that. I don’t want anything from them, Miriam.”
“Oho!” Miriam’s bright black eyes squinted; she saw how one of the hands that had been a moment ago on her arm had-slipped instinctively into the protective clasp of Young Jeff’s big hand. “So you’ve got all you want, have you?”
“Yes,” said Ah Lee softly, though at the moment she didn’t know what Miriam was talking about.
Voices were babbling all about them, men and women together exclaiming and demanding. Red Shirt Bill Morgan waved his hat over his head to draw attention and shouted at them. He’d tell ’em!
And he did.
Already he had read clear the titles of Bart Warbuck and his crowd. Now he mentioned something else and that something, spelled with a capital as it should be on such an occasion, was Gold.
“This I want everybody to know before we go any further,” said old Bill Morgan. “I want Warbuck to hear it, and Jim Ogden especially, and they won’t be in any mood and condition to listen after another ten minutes. Charlie Carter found gold, and so Warbuck had him killed. And Warbuck wouldn’t have done a thing like that unless he knew where the gold was, would he? He did know. He’d had men trailing Carter for months. Happens I know, too, and I’ve known about seven years. Happens old Jeff Cody knows, and he’s just told me tonight he’s known about eight-nine years!
“Poor old Charlie Carter, he didn’t know what to do about it when he found it; that was why he was so anxious to talk to Bud King. Well, Warbuck wiped ’em both out. And so now nobody knows but my pardner and me and Warbuck. And I’ll tell you.
“It’s right down in the good old town of Pay Dirt, that some heathens call Halcyon. Pay Dirt’s its rightful name. And who owns most of Pay Dirt? I do—unless it’s old Jeff Cody. And, since twenty years ago when we were pardners, the biggest part of Pay Dirt, town lots and houses and land around there, we bought up together, his and mine. And Charlie Carter’s gold strike was on a town lot that belonged to me and Jeff as pardners!”
He had to chuckle. “He knew there was gold on it and wouldn’t tell me, and I knew and wouldn’t tell him, and neither of us would sell out to the other and so for a good many years—we just let her slide. We own mineral rights and everything. And, come daylight, we’re goin’ to bust things wide open! Pay Dirt will be rip-roarin’ again—and there’ll be chances for a lot of you fellows to stake claims adjacent—and may the best man win!”
A cheer went up.
“Meet me and Jeff in Pay Dirt at sunup,” said Red Shirt Bill. “There’ll be free drinks at the hotel before we start off. Now, in the meanwhile, what’ll we do with Warbuck and Ogden and these small fry of theirs that think themselves gunmen, and that Young Jeff Cody single-handed tied up like tying your boot strings?”
“Tar’s hot!” shouted a voice. “Feathers are ready!” called another.
The clamor died down into utter silence as soon as they saw that Still Jeff Cody had a word to say.
“We don’t want to run afoul of the law,” he said mildly. “And we don’t want to make things tough for poor old Dan Hasbrook. So all you boys do like I say: Pull out your bandanas!”
Wondering, not knowing whether to laugh or swear at him, they obeyed, and many big bandana handkerchiefs, both bright red and bright blue, blossomed in the firelight like tropical flowers. One, almost a yard square and as red as blood, was in Still Jeff’s hands. He lifted it and tied it over his face, across his nose, leaving his shrewd old eyes clear to look over its top.
“The law will want to know who did what we’re going to do tonight,” he went on. “Now I’m going to call the roll; you boys will say whether you’re present or absent, and that will help the sheriff later on. I’ll begin with me. Old Jeff Cody, present or absent?” He remained silent a moment. Then he sang out, “Absent!”
They did roar then, but again his first word quieted them. He called, “Bill Morgan, pre
sent or absent?”
“Absent!” roared Bill Morgan in jovial thunder. “By the Lord, Jeff, you take the cake and me—Hell, man, I’m way down to Pay Dirt right now eatin’ my supper!”
Still Jeff went steadily on calling the roll; he’d look to see who was at hand, then call his name. The man would put on his bandana as a mask and answer, “Absent.”
“Ed Spurlock!” sang out Still Jeff. “Steve Bannister! Young Jeff Cody! Hank Fellowes!”
And so on and on. And every man made the same reply. “Now,” said Still Jeff, “that settles it. And it happens that Dan Hasbrook is close enough to hear. He’ll know that none of you boys are here, because you say you are not here, and who ought to know any better than you? Now somebody might bring on the tar.”
Sadie King came up, Aggie close at her side.
“There’s ladies present,” said Sadie King. “I expect they better go before you start getting these men ready for their new suits. First, we’ve got a small, ladylike chore to do. So you boys just wait.”
What they meant to do was to a lady and in ladylike manners. The women surrounded the screeching old hag from Witch Woman’s Hollow and drew her aside. All things considered, they treated her gently; they smeared only her hands and arms and head and hair with sticky tar, and to the tar they added generous handfuls of fluffy white feathers that stuck, all in a mess together, as tight as glue. Then they bade her good night—but they swore, every lady of them, that if they ever, ever, caught sight of her again as long as any one of them lived, they’d strip her naked and tar and feather her from top to toe. And she went scrambling and cursing, hooted out of camp, and she didn’t ever come back to that part of the country.
Then the ladies began to depart. Sadie King went over to where Dan Hasbrook was and talked with him a while. After that she and Aggie drove away in their old buckboard—and Dan Hasbrook went along with them, a highly contented prisoner. He showed them the ropes on his arms and legs! He just couldn’t help himself, could he?
The Fifth Western Novel Page 76