Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch

by Horace Annesley Vachell

  XII

  THE BABE

  One of the Britishers who came to Paradise was an Irishman, the son ofan archdeacon with a large family and a small income. He was astrapping fellow, strong and sturdy as a camel--and quite asobstinate. He always spoke affectionately of his people, but I fancythey were not deeply grieved when he left England. I dare say he wastroublesome at home; you know what that means. However, he was warmlywelcomed in Paradise, for he brought with him two hundred pounds incash, and a disposition to spend it as quickly as possible. Ajaxchristened him The Babe, because he had a milk-and-roses complexion,and a babe's capacity for, and love of, liquid refreshment. Perhapsthe archdeacon thought that the West was a sort of kindergarten, wherechildren like The Babe are given, at small expense, object-lessons andexercises peculiarly adapted to young and plastic minds. In CentralAmerica certain tribes living by the seaboard throw their childreninto the surf, wherein they sink or learn to swim, as the Fatesdecree. Some sink.

  When The Babe's two hundred pounds were spent, he came to us and askedfor a job. He said, I remember, that he was the son of an archdeacon,and that he could trust us to bear that in mind. We were so impressedby his guileless face and cock-a-hoop assurance, that we had not theheart to turn him away.

  At the end of a fortnight Ajax took pencil and paper, and computedwhat The Babe had cost us. He had staked a valuable horse; he hadsmashed a patent reaper; he had set fire to the ranch, and burnt upfive hundred acres of bunch grass; and he had turned some of our quietdomestic cows into wild beasts, because--as he put it--he wished tobecome a vaquero. He said that the billet of foreman would just suithis father's son.

  "The equivalent of what The Babe has destroyed," said my brother Ajax,"if put out at compound interest, five per cent., would in a hundredyears amount to more than fifty thousand pounds."

  "I'm awfully sorry," murmured The Babe.

  "I fear," observed Ajax to me later, "that we cannot afford to nursethis infant."

  I was of the same opinion; so The Babe departed, and for a season wesaw his chubby face no more. Then one day, like a bolt from the blue,came an unstamped letter from San Francisco. The Babe wrote to ask formoney. Such letters, as a rule, may be left unanswered, but notalways. Ajax and I read The Babe's ill-written lines, and filled inthe gaps in the text. Connoted and collated, it became a manuscript ofextraordinary interest and significance. We inferred that if the sumdemanded were not sent, the writer might be constrained to casthimself as rubbish to the void. Now The Babe had his little failings,but cowardice was not one of them. Indeed, his physical courageredeemed in a sense his moral and intellectual weakness.

  "There is only one thing to do," said Ajax; "we must rescue The Babe.We'll spin a dollar to determine who goes to the city to-morrowmorning."

  I nodded, for I was smelling the letter; the taint of opium was on it.

  "Awful--isn't it?" murmured Ajax. "Do you remember those loathsomedens in Chinatown? And the creatures on the mats, and in the bunks!And that missionary chap, who said how hard it was to reclaim them.Poor Babe!"

  Then we filled our pipes and smoked them slowly. We had plenty tothink about, for rescuing an opium-fiend is no easy job, andreclaiming him afterwards is as hard again. But The Babe's blue eyesand his pink skin--what did they look like now?--were pleading on hisbehalf, and we remembered that he had played in his school eleven, andcould run a quarter-mile in fifty-eight seconds, and was always cheeryand good-tempered. The woods of the Colonies and the West are full ofsuch Babes; and they all like to play with edged tools.

  Next day we both went north. Ajax said that two heads were better thanone, and that it was not wise to trust oneself alone in the stews ofSan Francisco. The police will not tell you how many white men areannually lost in those festering alleys that lie north of KearneyStreet, but if you are interested in such matters, I can refer you toa certain grim-faced guide, who has spent nearly twenty years inChinatown, and you can implicitly believe one quarter of what he says:that quarter will strain your credulity not a little.

  We walked to the address given in the letter--a low dive--not astone's-throw from one of the biggest hotels west of the RockyMountains. The man behind the bar said that he knew The Babe well,that he was a perfect gentleman, and a personal friend of his. Thefellow's glassy eyes and his grey-green skin told their own story. Amore villainous or crafty-looking scoundrel it has been my goodfortune not to see.

  "Where is your friend?" said Ajax.

  The man behind the bar protested ignorance. Then my brother laid afive-dollar gold piece upon the country, and repeated the question.The man's yellow fingers began to tremble. Gold to him was opium, andopium held all his world and the glory thereof.

  "I can't take you to him--now," he muttered sullenly.

  "You can," replied Ajax, "and you must."

  The man glared at us. Doubtless he guessed the nature of our errand,and wished to protect his friend from the interference of Philistines,Then he smiled evilly, and laughed.

  "All right; come on. I ain't goin' to take yer to the Palace Hotel."

  He opened the till and slipped some money into his pocket. Then he puton a ragged overcoat, and a hat which he drew down over his eyes witha furtive jerk of his yellow fingers. Then he went behind the bar andswallowed something; it was not whisky, but it brought a faint tingeof colour into his cheek, and seemed to stiffen his knees.

  "Shall we walk, boys, or shall I send for my carriage?"

  "Your carriage," repeated Ajax. "Are you speaking of the patrol-waggon? It is just round the corner."

  This allusion to the police was not wasted upon The Babe's friend, whoscowled and retorted glibly--

  "There's better men than you, mister, who ride in that."

  After this exchange of pleasantries we took the road, and followed ourguide across a great thorough-fare and into Kearney Street. Thenceinto the labyrinth of Chinatown.

  "Think ye could find yer way out of this?" asked our guide presently.

  We had passed through an abominable rookery, and were walking down anarrow alley, seemingly deserted. Yet I was sensible that eyes werefurtively watching us from behind barred windows, and I fancied that Iheard whispers--mere guttural sounds, that conveyed nothing to theear, save, perhaps, a warning that we were on unholy ground. The pathwe trod was foul with refuse; the stench was sickening; the mostforlorn cur would surely have slunk from such a kennel; and here,_here_, to this lazar-house of all that was unclean and infamous,came of his own free-will--The Babe!

  "My God!" exclaimed Ajax, in reply. "How can any man find his way_into_ it? And, hark ye, my friend, for reasons that we won'ttrouble you with, we have not asked the police to accompany us, but ifwe are not back at our hotel in two hours' time, the clerk hasinstructions to send a constable to your saloon."

  "Here we air," said our guide. "Duck yer heads."

  We stooped beneath a low arch, and entered a dark passage. At the endwas a rickety staircase; and already we could smell the pungent fumesof the opium, and taste its bitterness. As I groped my way down thestairs I was conscious of an uncanny silence, a silence eloquent of asleep that is as death, a sleep that always ends in death. It was easyto conceive death as a hideous personality lurking at the bottom ofthose rotten stairs, waiting patiently for his victims; notconstrained to go abroad for them, knowing that they were creeping tohim, creeping and crawling, unassoiled by priest, hindered by nophysician, unredeemed by love, deaf, and blind, and dumb!

  * * * * *

  At the foot of the stairs was another passage, darker and filthierthan the one above; the walls were streaming with moisture, and theatmosphere almost unendurable. At that time the traffic in opium wasreceiving the serious attention of the authorities. Certain scandalouscases of bribery at the Custom House had stirred the public mind, andthe police were instructed to raid all opium dens, and arrestwhomsoever might be found in them. The devotees of the "pipe" wereaccordingly compelled to lie snug in places without the pale of policesuperv
ision: and this awful den was one of them.

  It was now so dark that I could barely distinguish the outlines of ourguide, who walked ahead of me. Suddenly he stopped and asked me if Ihad any matches. I handed him my box, which he dropped, and thematches were scattered about in the mud at our feet. He gave me backmy box, and asked Ajax for his matches. I dare say older and wiser menwould have apprehended mischief, but we were still in our salad days.Ajax gave up his box without a protest; the man struck a match, aftersome fumbling lit a piece of candle, and returned to my brother hisbox. It was empty--for he had cleverly transferred the matches to hisown pocket--but we did not know that then. By the light of the candleI was able to take stock of my surroundings. We were facing a stoutdoor: a door that without doubt had been constructed for purposes ofdefence, and upon the centre of this our guide tapped softly--threetimes. It opened at once, revealing the big body of a Celestial,evidently the Cerberus of the establishment. Upon his fat impassiveface lay the seal of an unctuous secrecy, nothing more. Out of hisobliquely-set eyes he regarded us indifferently, but he nodded to ourguide, who returned the salutation with a sly laugh. For someinexplicable reason that laugh fired my suspicions. It was--so tospeak--an open sesame to a chamber of horrors, the more horriblebecause intangible and indescribable. Ajax said afterwards that he wassimilarly affected. The contagion of fear is a very remarkable thing,and one little understood by the physiologists. I remember I put myhand into my pocket, because it began to tremble, and I was ashamed ofit. And then, as I still stared at the fat Chinaman, his smooth maskseemed to drop from his face, and treachery, cunning, greed, hatred ofthe "white devil" were revealed to me.

  I was now convinced we had come on a fool's errand that was like toend evilly for us, but, being a fool, I held my peace and said nothingto Ajax, who confessed later that if I had spoken he would haveseconded a motion to retreat. We advanced, sensible that we were beingtrapped: a psychological fact not without interest.

  Opposite the door through which we had just passed was another door asstout as the first. The Chinaman unlocked this with a small key, andallowed us to enter, the guide with the candle leading the way. Andthen, in a jiffy, before we had time to glance round us, the candlewas extinguished; the door was closed; we heard the click of a patentlock; and we knew that we were alone and in darkness.

  The first thing that Ajax said, and his voice was not pleasant tohear, was: "This serves us right. Of all the confounded fools whomeddle with what does not concern them, we are the greatest."

  Then I heard him fumbling for his matchbox, and then, when hediscovered that it was empty, he made some more remarks not flatteringto himself or me. I was more frightened than angry; with him rage anddisgust were paramount.

  We stood there in that squalid darkness for about a hundred years (itwas really ten minutes), and then the voice of our guide seemed tofloat to us, as if from an immeasurable distance.

  "Boys," he said. "How air ye makin' it?"

  Ajax answered him quite coolly--

  "What do you want? Our money of course. What else?"

  The fellow did not reply at once. These opium fiends have no bowels ofcompassion. He was doubtless chuckling to himself at his own guile.When he did speak, the malice behind his words lent them point.

  "Your money? The five you gave me'll keep me a week, and after thatI'll come for more."

  With that the voice died away, and Ajax muttered: "It looks to me asif this were a case of putting up the shutters."

  We had forgotten all about The Babe, which is not surprising under thecircumstances.

  "Putting _up_ the shutters? Pulling them down, you mean! theremust be a window of sorts in this room."

  But after careful search we came to the conclusion that we weredirectly under the road-bed, and that the only opening of any kind wasthe door through which we had passed. I thought of that door and theface of the man behind it. For what purpose save robbery and murderwas such a room designed? I could not confront the certainty ofviolence with a jest, as Ajax did, but I was of his opinion otherwiseexpressed: we had been trapped like rats in a blind drain, and wouldbe knocked on the head--presently.

  The uncertainty began to gnaw at our vitals. We did not speak, fordarkness is the twin of silence, but our thoughts ran riot. I rememberthat I almost screamed when Ajax laid his hand on my shoulder, and yetI knew that he was standing by my side.

  "I shall try the heathen Chinee," he whispered. So we felt our way tothe door and tapped three times, very softly, on the centre panel. Tothe Oriental mind those taps spell bribery, but the door remainedshut.

  "What have you been thinking about?" said Ajax, after another silence.

  "My God--don't ask me."

  "Brace up!" said my brother. I confess that he has steadier nervesthan mine, but then, you see, he has not my imagination. I put my handinto his, and the grip he gave me was reassuring. I reflected that menbuilt upon the lines of Ajax are not easily knocked on the head.

  "It's a tight place," he continued. "But we've been in tight placesbefore, although none that smells as close as this infernal hole. Nowlisten: I'm prepared to lay odds that The Babe is not an opium fiendat all, and has never been near this den. He wrote that letter at thesaloon, didn't he? And ten to one he borrowed the paper from the bar-tender. That's why it smelled of opium. The handwriting was veryshaky. Why? because The Babe was only half alive after a prolongedspree. That accounted for the tone of the letter. The Babe wasthinking of the parsonage, and his mother's knee, and all that. Youfollow me--eh? Now then, I think it barely possible that instead ofour rescuing The Babe, he will rescue us. We got in late last night,but our names were chronicled in the morning papers, for I saw themthere. If The Babe sees a paper he will go to our hotel, and----"

  "If we're hanging by that thread to eternity, God help us," I repliedbitterly, for the grim humour of my brother's speech chilled mymarrow.

  "It _is_ a slim chance, but--hang it--a slim chance is betterthan none."

  So we hugged that sorry comfort to our hearts and fell again intosilence.

  * * * * *

  I remember that the folly, the fatuity of what we had done, oppressedme like an iron band around the skull. Common sense told me that theman who had decoyed us into Chinatown would not be satisfied withrobbery. And what were the lives of two "white devils" to the owner ofthis den? Suffered to escape, we might inform the police. The logicalconclusion of my reflections is not worth recording.

  "When that scoundrel emptied the till into his pocket he made up hismind there and then never to come back," said Ajax in my ear. Histhoughts had been travelling along the same lines as mine, and atabout the same pace. I was convinced of this when he added slowly:"Starvation may be their game. It would be the safest to play."

  Then the mad, riotous desire to fight got hold of both of us. We beganto search for a weapon: anything--a stick, a stone, a bit of iron. Butwe found nothing.

  We had never carried pistols, and our pocket knives were hardly keenor strong enough to sharpen a pencil.

  Despair was again gripping me when Ajax touched my arm. We hadexamined the filthy floor of the room very systematically, kneelingside by side in the darkness and groping with eager fingers in thedirty sand, for there was no floor.

  "I have something," he murmured. Then he seized my right hand in hisleft and guided it to some solid object lying deep in the sand.

  The object proved to be a log. San Francisco is built on sand dunes,and in early days the houses were log-cabins for the most part,constructed of logs that two stout men could handle. After manyminutes of silent but most vigorous excavation we joyfully decidedthat one of these very logs had come into our possession.

  We worked steadily for about half an hour, pausing now and again tolisten. We were practically certain that the opium fiend had gone tohis pipe, and it was more than probable that the fat Mongol was nolonger on guard, knowing that we were safe in a strong-box to which healone held the key. Events proved we were wrong
in both conjectures.

  When the log was ready for use as a battering-ram we held a council ofwar, which lasted about half a minute. If there is obviously only onething to be done, the sooner it is done the better. I grasped theforward end of our weapon, Ajax, being the heavier, took the other,and we charged that door with such hearty goodwill that at the firstassault it yielded, lock and hinges being torn from the woodwork, andthe door itself falling flat with a crash like the crack o' doom.Ajax, the log, and I rolled into the next room, and as we weregrovelling on the floor I saw that the room was full of Chinamen, andthat our late guide was in the middle of them. The light was so badthat I was unable to see more than this. It was plain that we had todeal with an organised gang of criminals. Thugs who practised theirtrade as a fine art. Despite all proverbs the foreseen is whatgenerally happens; and our amazing advent in their midst created asort of panic whereby we took advantage. The Celestials carriedknives, but they dared not use them, because the light was so dim andthe room so crowded. The first thing that I saw when I scrambled to myfeet was the fat dull face of the guard shining like a harvest moon,and presenting a mark for my fist as round and big as a punching-bag.I hit him once--and that was enough. Then I began to hear the measuredthud of my brother's blows, the blows of a workman who knows how tostrike and where to strike.

  At first they took their medicine without a whimper. Then they beganto squeal and chatter as the fear of the "white devils" got hold ofthem. Very soon I saw "red," as our Tommies say, and rememberednothing till I came to myself in the passage at the foot of the rottenstairs. We scurried up these and through the warren above like rabbitswhen the pole-cat pursueth, and finally found ourselves in the alley,where we called a halt.

  "By Jove!" said Ajax, "that was a ruction."

  I looked at him and burst out laughing: then he looked at me andlaughed louder than I. Our clothes were in rags; our faces were redand black with blood and grime; every bone and sinew and muscle in ourbodies ached and ached from the strain of strife.

  "It is not time to laugh yet," said my brother; and we ran on down thealley, out into a small by-street, and straight into the arms of apoliceman, who promptly arrested us.

  * * * * *

  The rest of the story was in the newspapers next day, although therewas no mention of our names. When the police reached the battlefieldthey found one dead man--the opium-eating and smoking bar-tender. Hehad died--so said the doctor--of heart failure. Few whites can smokethe "pipe" with impunity, and he was not of their number. The woundedhad been carried away, and, despite the strenuous endeavours of thepolice, not one was arrested, which proves that there is honouramongst these yellow-faced thieves, for a handful of gold-pieces and"no questions asked" was well known in Chinatown to be the priceoffered for any information that would lead to the capture of one ormore of the gang.

  When we reached our hotel we found The Babe patiently awaiting us. Hiscomplexion was slightly the worse for wear, but his eyes were as blueas ever and almost as guileless. How wide they opened when he listenedto our story! How indignant he waxed when he learned that we hadcondemned him, the son of an archdeacon, as an opium fiend. However,he was very penitent, and returned with us to the ranch, where he dugpost-holes for a couple of months, and behaved like a model babe. Ajaxwrote to the archdeacon, and in due season The Babe returned toEngland, where he wisely enlisted as a trooper in a smart cavalryregiment, a corps that his grandfather had commanded. The pipeclay wasin his marrow, and he became in time rough-riding sergeant of theregiment. I am told that soon he will be offered a commission.

  This story contains two morals: both so obvious that they need not berecorded.