A DEAL IN WHEAT

And Other Stories Of The New And Old West

By FRANK NORRIS

_Illustrated by Remington, Leyendecker, Hitchcock and Hooper_

1903

[Illustration: "'Sell A Thousand May At One-Fifty, ' Vociferated The BearBroker"]

CONTENTS

A Deal in Wheat

The Wife of Chino

A Bargain with Peg-Leg

The Passing of Cock-Eye Blacklock

A Memorandum of Sudden Death

Two Hearts That Beat as One

The Dual Personality of Slick Dick Nickerson

The Ship That Saw a Ghost

The Ghost in the Crosstrees

The Riding of Felipe

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"'Sell a Thousand May at One-Fifty, ' Vociferated the Bear Broker"

Caught in the Circle. The last stand of three troopers and a scoutovertaken by a band of hostile Indians. 

"'Ere's 'Ell to Pay!"

"'My Curse Is on Her Who Next Kisses You'"

A DEAL IN WHEAT

I. THE BEAR--WHEAT AT SIXTY-TWO

As Sam Lewiston backed the horse into the shafts of his backboard andbegan hitching the tugs to the whiffletree, his wife came out from thekitchen door of the house and drew near, and stood for some time at thehorse's head, her arms folded and her apron rolled around them. For along moment neither spoke. They had talked over the situation so longand so comprehensively the night before that there seemed to be nothingmore to say. 

The time was late in the summer, the place a ranch in southwesternKansas, and Lewiston and his wife were two of a vast population offarmers, wheat growers, who at that moment were passing through acrisis--a crisis that at any moment might culminate in tragedy. Wheatwas down to sixty-six. 

At length Emma Lewiston spoke. 

"Well, " she hazarded, looking vaguely out across the ranch toward thehorizon, leagues distant; "well, Sam, there's always that offer ofbrother Joe's. We can quit--and go to Chicago--if the worst comes. "

"And give up!" exclaimed Lewiston, running the lines through the torets. "Leave the ranch! Give up! After all these years!"

His wife made no reply for the moment. Lewiston climbed into thebuckboard and gathered up the lines. "Well, here goes for the last try, Emmie, " he said. "Good-by, girl. Maybe things will look better in townto-day. "

"Maybe, " she said gravely. She kissed her husband good-by and stood forsome time looking after the buckboard traveling toward the town in amoving pillar of dust. 

"I don't know, " she murmured at length; "I don't know just how we'regoing to make out. "

When he reached town, Lewiston tied the horse to the iron railing infront of the Odd Fellows' Hall, the ground floor of which was occupiedby the post-office, and went across the street and up the stairway of abuilding of brick and granite--quite the most pretentious structure ofthe town--and knocked at a door upon the first landing. The door wasfurnished with a pane of frosted glass, on which, in gold letters, wasinscribed, "Bridges & Co. , Grain Dealers. "

Bridges himself, a middle-aged man who wore a velvet skull-cap and whowas smoking a Pittsburg stogie, met the farmer at the counter and thetwo exchanged perfunctory greetings. 

"Well, " said Lewiston, tentatively, after awhile. 

"Well, Lewiston, " said the other, "I can't take that wheat of yours atany better than sixty-two. "

"Sixty-_two_. "

"It's the Chicago price that does it, Lewiston. Truslow is bearing thestuff for all he's worth. It's Truslow and the bear clique that stickthe knife into us. The price broke again this morning. We've just got awire. "

"Good heavens, " murmured Lewiston, looking vaguely from side to side. "That--that ruins me. I _can't_ carry my grain any longer--what withstorage charges and--and--Bridges, I don't see just how I'm going tomake out. Sixty-two cents a bushel! Why, man, what with this and withthat it's cost me nearly a dollar a bushel to raise that wheat, and nowTruslow--"

He turned away abruptly with a quick gesture of infinite discouragement. 

He went down the stairs, and making his way to where his buckboard washitched, got in, and, with eyes vacant, the reins slipping and slidingin his limp, half-open hands, drove slowly back to the ranch. His wifehad seen him coming, and met him as he drew up before the barn. 

"Well?" she demanded. 

"Emmie, " he said as he got out of the buckboard, laying his arm acrossher shoulder, "Emmie, I guess we'll take up with Joe's offer. We'll goto Chicago. We're cleaned out!"

II. THE BULL--WHEAT AT A DOLLAR-TEN

. .. ----_and said Party of the Second Part further covenants and agrees tomerchandise such wheat in foreign ports, it being understood and agreedbetween the Party of the First Part and the Party of the Second Partthat the wheat hereinbefore mentioned is released and sold to the Partyof the Second Part for export purposes only, and not for consumption ordistribution within the boundaries of the United States of America or ofCanada_. 

"Now, Mr. Gates, if you will sign for Mr. Truslow I guess that'll beall, " remarked Hornung when he had finished reading. 

Hornung affixed his signature to the two documents and passed them overto Gates, who signed for his principal and client, Truslow--or, as hehad been called ever since he had gone into the fight against Hornung'scorner--the Great Bear. Hornung's secretary was called in and witnessedthe signatures, and Gates thrust the contract into his Gladstone bag andstood up, smoothing his hat. 

"You will deliver the warehouse receipts for the grain, " began Gates. 

"I'll send a messenger to Truslow's office before noon, " interruptedHornung. "You can pay by certified check through the Illinois Trustpeople. "

When the other had taken himself off, Hornung sat for some momentsgazing abstractedly toward his office windows, thinking over the wholematter. He had just agreed to release to Truslow, at the rate of onedollar and ten cents per bushel, one hundred thousand out of the twomillion and odd bushels of wheat that he, Hornung, controlled, oractually owned. And for the moment he was wondering if, after all, hehad done wisely in not goring the Great Bear to actual financial death. He had made him pay one hundred thousand dollars. Truslow was good forthis amount. Would it not have been better to have put a prohibitivefigure on the grain and forced the Bear into bankruptcy? True, Hornungwould then be without his enemy's money, but Truslow would have beeneliminated from the situation, and that--so Hornung told himself--wasalways a consummation most devoutly, strenuously and diligently to bestriven for. Truslow once dead was dead, but the Bear was never moredangerous than when desperate. 

"But so long as he can't get _wheat_, " muttered Hornung at the end ofhis reflections, "he can't hurt me. And he can't get it. That I _know_. "

For Hornung controlled the situation. So far back as the February ofthat year an "unknown bull" had been making his presence felt on thefloor of the Board of Trade. By the middle of March the commercialreports of the daily press had begun to speak of "the powerful bullclique"; a few weeks later that legendary condition of affairs impliedand epitomized in the magic words "Dollar Wheat" had been attained, andby the first of April, when the price had been boosted to one dollar andten cents a bushel, Hornung had disclosed his hand, and in place of mererumours, the definite and authoritative news that May wheat had beencornered in the Chicago pit went flashing around the world fromLiverpool to Odessa and from Duluth to Buenos Ayres. 

It was--so the veteran operators were persuaded--Truslow himself who hadmade Hornung's corner possible. The Great Bear had for once over-reachedhimself, and, believing himself all-powerful, had hammered the pricejust the fatal fraction too far down. Wheat had gone to sixty-two--forthe time, and under the circumstances, an abnormal price. 

When the reaction came it was tremendous. Hornung saw his chance, seizedit, and in a few months had turned the tables, had cornered the product, and virtually driven the bear clique out of the pit. 

On the same day that the delivery of the hundred thousand bushels wasmade to Truslow, Hornung met his broker at his lunch club. 

"Well, " said the latter, "I see you let go that line of stuff toTruslow. "

Hornung nodded; but the broker added:

"Remember, I was against it from the very beginning. I know we'vecleared up over a hundred thou'. I would have fifty times preferred tohave lost twice that and _smashed Truslow dead_. Bet you what you likehe makes us pay for it somehow. "

"Huh!" grunted his principal. "How about insurance, and warehousecharges, and carrying expenses on that lot? Guess we'd have had to paythose, too, if we'd held on. "

But the other put up his chin, unwilling to be persuaded. "I won't sleepeasy, " he declared, "till Truslow is busted. "

III. THE PIT

Just as Going mounted the steps on the edge of the pit the great gongstruck, a roar of a hundred voices developed with the swiftness ofsuccessive explosions, the rush of a hundred men surging downward to thecentre of the pit filled the air with the stamp and grind of feet, ahundred hands in eager strenuous gestures tossed upward from out thebrown of the crowd, the official reporter in his cage on the margin ofthe pit leaned far forward with straining ear to catch the opening bid, and another day of battle was begun. 

Since the sale of the hundred thousand bushels of wheat to Truslow the"Hornung crowd" had steadily shouldered the price higher until on thisparticular morning it stood at one dollar and a half. That was Hornung'sprice. No one else had any grain to sell. 

But not ten minutes after the opening, Going was surprised out of allcountenance to hear shouted from the other side of the pit these words:

"Sell May at one-fifty. "

Going was for the moment touching elbows with Kimbark on one side andwith Merriam on the other, all three belonging to the "Hornung crowd. "Their answering challenge of "_Sold_" was as the voice of one man. Theydid not pause to reflect upon the strangeness of the circumstance. (Thatwas for afterward. ) Their response to the offer was as unconscious, asreflex action and almost as rapid, and before the pit was well aware ofwhat had happened the transaction of one thousand bushels was down uponGoing's trading-card and fifteen hundred dollars had changed hands. Buthere was a marvel--the whole available supply of wheat cornered, Hornungmaster of the situation, invincible, unassailable; yet behold a manwilling to sell, a Bear bold enough to raise his head. 

"That was Kennedy, wasn't it, who made that offer?" asked Kimbark, asGoing noted down the trade--"Kennedy, that new man?"

"Yes; who do you suppose he's selling for; who's willing to go short atthis stage of the game?"

"Maybe he ain't short. "

"Short! Great heavens, man; where'd he get the stuff?"

"Blamed if I know. We can account for every handful of May. Steady! Oh, there he goes again. "

"Sell a thousand May at one-fifty, " vociferated the bear-broker, throwing out his hand, one finger raised to indicate the number of"contracts" offered. This time it was evident that he was attacking theHornung crowd deliberately, for, ignoring the jam of traders that swepttoward him, he looked across the pit to where Going and Kimbark wereshouting _"Sold! Sold!"_ and nodded his head. 

A second time Going made memoranda of the trade, and either the Hornungholdings were increased by two thousand bushels of May wheat or theHornung bank account swelled by at least three thousand dollars of someunknown short's money. 

Of late--so sure was the bull crowd of its position--no one had eventhought of glancing at the inspection sheet on the bulletin board. Butnow one of Going's messengers hurried up to him with the announcementthat this sheet showed receipts at Chicago for that morning oftwenty-five thousand bushels, and not credited to Hornung. Some one hadgot hold of a line of wheat overlooked by the "clique" and was dumpingit upon them. 

"Wire the Chief, " said Going over his shoulder to Merriam. This onestruggled out of the crowd, and on a telegraph blank scribbled:

"Strong bear movement--New man--Kennedy--Selling in lots of fivecontracts--Chicago receipts twenty-five thousand. "

The message was despatched, and in a few moments the answer came back, laconic, of military terseness:

"Support the market. "

And Going obeyed, Merriam and Kimbark following, the new broker fairlythrowing the wheat at them in thousand-bushel lots. 

"Sell May at 'fifty; sell May; sell May. " A moment's indecision, aninstant's hesitation, the first faint suggestion of weakness, and themarket would have broken under them. But for the better part of fourhours they stood their ground, taking all that was offered, in constantcommunication with the Chief, and from time to time stimulated andsteadied by his brief, unvarying command:

"Support the market. "

At the close of the session they had bought in the twenty-five thousandbushels of May. Hornung's position was as stable as a rock, and theprice closed even with the opening figure--one dollar and a half. 

But the morning's work was the talk of all La Salle Street. Who was backof the raid?

What was the meaning of this unexpected selling? For weeks the pittrading had been merely nominal. Truslow, the Great Bear, from whom themost serious attack might have been expected, had gone to his countryseat at Geneva Lake, in Wisconsin, declaring himself to be out of themarket entirely. He went bass-fishing every day. 

IV. THE BELT LINE

On a certain day toward the middle of the month, at a time when themysterious Bear had unloaded some eighty thousand bushels upon Hornung, a conference was held in the library of Hornung's home. His brokerattended it, and also a clean-faced, bright-eyed individual whose nameof Cyrus Ryder might have been found upon the pay-roll of a ratherwell-known detective agency. For upward of half an hour after theconference began the detective spoke, the other two listeningattentively, gravely. 

"Then, last of all, " concluded Ryder, "I made out I was a hobo, andbegan stealing rides on the Belt Line Railroad. Know the road? It justcircles Chicago. Truslow owns it. Yes? Well, then I began to catch on. Inoticed that cars of certain numbers--thirty-one nought thirty-four, thirty-two one ninety--well, the numbers don't matter, but anyhow, thesecars were always switched onto the sidings by Mr. Truslow's mainelevator D soon as they came in. The wheat was shunted in, and they werepulled out again. Well, I spotted one car and stole a ride on her. Say, look here, _that car went right around the city on the Belt, and cameback to D again, and the same wheat in her all the time_. The grain wasreinspected--it was raw, I tell you--and the warehouse receipts made outjust as though the stuff had come in from Kansas or Iowa. "

"The same wheat all the time!" interrupted Hornung. 

"The same wheat--your wheat, that you sold to Truslow. "

"Great snakes!" ejaculated Hornung's broker. "Truslow never took itabroad at all. "

"Took it abroad! Say, he's just been running it around Chicago, like thesupers in 'Shenandoah, ' round an' round, so you'd think it was a newlot, an' selling it back to you again. "

"No wonder we couldn't account for so much wheat. "

"Bought it from us at one-ten, and made us buy it back--our ownwheat--at one-fifty. "

Hornung and his broker looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then all at once Hornung struck the arm of his chair with his fist andexploded in a roar of laughter. The broker stared for one bewilderedmoment, then followed his example. 

"Sold! Sold!" shouted Hornung almost gleefully. "Upon my soul it's asgood as a Gilbert and Sullivan show. And we--Oh, Lord! Billy, shake onit, and hats off to my distinguished friend, Truslow. He'll be Presidentsome day. Hey! What? Prosecute him? Not I. "

"He's done us out of a neat hatful of dollars for all that, " observedthe broker, suddenly grave. 

"Billy, it's worth the price. "

"We've got to make it up somehow. "

"Well, tell you what. We were going to boost the price to oneseventy-five next week, and make that our settlement figure. "

"Can't do it now. Can't afford it. "

"No. Here; we'll let out a big link; we'll put wheat at two dollars, andlet it go at that. "

"Two it is, then, " said the broker. 

V. THE BREAD LINE

The street was very dark and absolutely deserted. It was a district onthe "South Side, " not far from the Chicago River, given up largely towholesale stores, and after nightfall was empty of all life. The echoesslept but lightly hereabouts, and the slightest footfall, the faintestnoise, woke them upon the instant and sent them clamouring up and downthe length of the pavement between the iron shuttered fronts. The onlylight visible came from the side door of a certain "Vienna" bakery, where at one o'clock in the morning loaves of bread were given away toany who should ask. Every evening about nine o'clock the outcasts beganto gather about the side door. The stragglers came in rapidly, and theline--the "bread line, " as it was called--began to form. By midnight itwas usually some hundred yards in length, stretching almost the entirelength of the block. 

Toward ten in the evening, his coat collar turned up against the finedrizzle that pervaded the air, his hands in his pockets, his elbowsgripping his sides, Sam Lewiston came up and silently took his place atthe end of the line. 

Unable to conduct his farm upon a paying basis at the time when Truslow, the "Great Bear, " had sent the price of grain down to sixty-two cents abushel, Lewiston had turned over his entire property to his creditors, and, leaving Kansas for good, had abandoned farming, and had left hiswife at her sister's boarding-house in Topeka with the understandingthat she was to join him in Chicago so soon as he had found a steadyjob. Then he had come to Chicago and had turned workman. His brother Joeconducted a small hat factory on Archer Avenue, and for a time he foundthere a meager employment. But difficulties had occurred, times werebad, the hat factory was involved in debts, the repealing of a certainimport duty on manufactured felt overcrowded the home market with cheapBelgian and French products, and in the end his brother had assigned andgone to Milwaukee. 

Thrown out of work, Lewiston drifted aimlessly about Chicago, frompillar to post, working a little, earning here a dollar, there a dime, but always sinking, sinking, till at last the ooze of the lowest bottomdragged at his feet and the rush of the great ebb went over him andengulfed him and shut him out from the light, and a park bench becamehis home and the "bread line" his chief makeshift of subsistence. 

He stood now in the enfolding drizzle, sodden, stupefied with fatigue. Before and behind stretched the line. There was no talking. There was nosound. The street was empty. It was so still that the passing of acable-car in the adjoining thoroughfare grated like prolonged rollingexplosions, beginning and ending at immeasurable distances. The drizzledescended incessantly. After a long time midnight struck. 

There was something ominous and gravely impressive in this interminableline of dark figures, close-pressed, soundless; a crowd, yet absolutelystill; a close-packed, silent file, waiting, waiting in the vastdeserted night-ridden street; waiting without a word, without amovement, there under the night and under the slow-moving mists of rain. 

Few in the crowd were professional beggars. Most of them were workmen, long since out of work, forced into idleness by long-continued "hardtimes, " by ill luck, by sickness. To them the "bread line" was agodsend. At least they could not starve. Between jobs here in the endwas something to hold them up--a small platform, as it were, above thesweep of black water, where for a moment they might pause and takebreath before the plunge. 

The period of waiting on this night of rain seemed endless to thosesilent, hungry men; but at length there was a stir. The line moved. Theside door opened. Ah, at last! They were going to hand out the bread. 

But instead of the usual white-aproned under-cook with his crowdedhampers there now appeared in the doorway a new man--a young fellow wholooked like a bookkeeper's assistant. He bore in his hand a placard, which he tacked to the outside of the door. Then he disappeared withinthe bakery, locking the door after him. 

A shudder of poignant despair, an unformed, inarticulate sense ofcalamity, seemed to run from end to end of the line. What had happened?Those in the rear, unable to read the placard, surged forward, a senseof bitter disappointment clutching at their hearts. 

The line broke up, disintegrated into a shapeless throng--a throng thatcrowded forward and collected in front of the shut door whereon theplacard was affixed. Lewiston, with the others, pushed forward. On theplacard he read these words:

"Owing to the fact that the price of grain has been increased to twodollars a bushel, there will be no distribution of bread from thisbakery until further notice. "

Lewiston turned away, dumb, bewildered. Till morning he walked thestreets, going on without purpose, without direction. But now at lasthis luck had turned. Overnight the wheel of his fortunes had creaked andswung upon its axis, and before noon he had found a job in thestreet-cleaning brigade. In the course of time he rose to be firstshift-boss, then deputy inspector, then inspector, promoted to thedignity of driving in a red wagon with rubber tires and drawing a salaryinstead of mere wages. The wife was sent for and a new start made. 

But Lewiston never forgot. Dimly he began to see the significance ofthings. Caught once in the cogs and wheels of a great and terribleengine, he had seen--none better--its workings. Of all the men who hadvainly stood in the "bread line" on that rainy night in early summer, he, perhaps, had been the only one who had struggled up to the surfaceagain. How many others had gone down in the great ebb? Grim question; hedared not think how many. 

He had seen the two ends of a great wheat operation--a battle betweenBear and Bull. The stories (subsequently published in the city's press)of Truslow's countermove in selling Hornung his own wheat, supplied theunseen section. The farmer--he who raised the wheat--was ruined upon onehand; the working-man--he who consumed it--was ruined upon the other. But between the two, the great operators, who never saw the wheat theytraded in, bought and sold the world's food, gambled in the nourishmentof entire nations, practised their tricks, their chicanery and obliqueshifty "deals, " were reconciled in their differences, and went onthrough their appointed way, jovial, contented, enthroned, andunassailable. 

THE WIFE OF CHINO

I. CHINO'S WIFE

On the back porch of the "office, " young Lockwood--his boots, stainedwith the mud of the mines and with candle-drippings, on the rail--satsmoking his pipe and looking off down the cañon. 

It was early in the evening. Lockwood, because he had heard the laughterand horseplay of the men of the night shift as they went down the cañonfrom the bunk-house to the tunnel-mouth, knew that it was a little afterseven. It would not be necessary to go indoors and begin work on thecolumns of figures of his pay-roll for another hour yet. He knocked theashes out of his pipe, refilled and lighted it--stoppering with hismatch-box--and shot a wavering blue wreath out over the porch railing. Then he resettled himself in his tilted chair, hooked his thumbs intohis belt, and fetched a long breath. 

For the last few moments he had been considering, in that comfortablespirit of relaxed attention that comes with the after-dinner tobacco, two subjects: first, the beauty of the evening; second, the temperament, character, and appearance of Felice Zavalla. 

As for the evening, there could be no two opinions about that. It wascharming. The Hand-over-fist Gravel Mine, though not in the higherSierras, was sufficiently above the level of the mere foot-hills to bein the sphere of influence of the greater mountains. Also, it wasremote, difficult of access. Iowa Hill, the nearest post-office, was agood eight miles distant, by trail, across the Indian River. It wassixteen miles by stage from Iowa Hill to Colfax, on the line of theOverland Railroad, and all of a hundred miles from Colfax to SanFrancisco. 

To Lockwood's mind this isolation was in itself an attraction. Tuckedaway in this fold of the Sierras, forgotten, remote, the littlecommunity of a hundred souls that comprised the _personnel_ of theHand-over-fist lived out its life with the completeness of anindependent State, having its own government, its own institutions andcustoms. Besides all this, it had its own dramas as well--littlecomplications that developed with the swiftness of whirlpools, and thattrended toward culmination with true Western directness. Lockwood, college-bred--he was a graduate of the Columbia School of Mines--foundthe life interesting. 

On this particular evening he sat over his pipe rather longer thanusual, seduced by the beauty of the scene and the moment. It was veryquiet. The prolonged rumble of the mine's stamp-mill came to his ears ina ceaseless diapason, but the sound was so much a matter of course thatLockwood no longer heard it. The millions of pines and redwoods thatcovered the flanks of the mountains were absolutely still. No wind wasstirring in their needles. But the chorus of tree-toads, dry, staccato, was as incessant as the pounding of the mill. Far-off--thousands ofmiles, it seemed--an owl was hooting, three velvet-soft notes at exactintervals. A cow in the stable near at hand lay down with a long breath, while from the back veranda of Chino Zavalla's cabin came the clearvoice of Felice singing "The Spanish Cavalier" while she washed thedishes. 

The twilight was fading; the glory that had blazed in cloudlessvermilion and gold over the divide was dying down like receding music. The mountains were purple-black. From the cañon rose the night mist, pale blue, while above it stood the smoke from the mill, a motionlessplume of sable, shot through by the last ruddiness of the afterglow. 

The air was full of pleasant odours--the smell of wood fires from thecabins of the married men and from the ovens of the cookhouse, theammoniacal whiffs from the stables, the smell of ripening apples from"Boston's" orchard--while over all and through all came the perfume ofthe witch-hazel and tar-weed from the forests and mountain sides, aspungent as myrrh, as aromatic as aloes. 

 "And if I should fall, In vain I would call, "

sang Felice. 

Lockwood took his pipe from his teeth and put back his head to listen. Felice had as good a voice as so pretty a young woman should have had. She was twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, and was incontestablythe beauty of the camp. She was Mexican-Spanish, tall and very slender, black-haired, as lithe as a cat, with a cat's green eyes and with all ofa cat's purring, ingratiating insinuation. 

Lockwood could not have told exactly just how the first familiaritybetween him and Felice had arisen. It had grown by almost imperceptibledegrees up to a certain point; now it was a chance meeting on the trailbetween the office and the mill, now a fragment of conversation aproposof a letter to be mailed, now a question as to some regulation of thecamp, now a detail of repairs done to the cabin wherein Felice lived. Assaid above, up to a certain point the process of "getting acquainted"had been gradual, and on Lockwood's part unconscious; but beyond thatpoint affairs had progressed rapidly. 

At first Felice had been, for Lockwood, a pretty woman, neither more norless; but by degrees she emerged from this vague classification: shebecame a very pretty woman. Then she became a personality; she occupieda place within the circle which Lockwood called his world, his life. Forthe past months this place had, perforce, to be enlarged. Lockwoodallowed it to expand. To make room for Felice, he thrust aside, orallowed the idea of Felice to thrust aside, other objects which long hadsat secure. The invasion of the woman into the sphere of his existencedeveloped at the end into a thing veritably headlong. Deep-seatedconvictions, old-established beliefs and ideals, even the two landmarksright and wrong, were hustled and shouldered about as the invasionwidened and penetrated. This state of affairs was further complicated bythe fact that Felice was the wife of Chino Zavalla, shift-boss of No. 4gang in the new workings. 

II. MADNESS

It was quite possible that, though Lockwood could not have told when andhow the acquaintance between him and Felice began and progressed, theyoung woman herself could. But this is guesswork. Felice being a woman, and part Spanish at that, was vastly more self-conscious, moredisingenuous, than the man, the Anglo-Saxon. Also she had thatfearlessness that very pretty women have. In her more refined andcity-bred sisters this fearlessness would be called poise, or, at themost, "cheek. "

And she was quite capable of making young Lockwood, the superintendent, her employer, and nominally the ruler of her little world, fall in lovewith her. It is only fair to Felice to say that she would not do thisdeliberately. She would be more conscious of the business than the man, than Lockwood; but in affairs such as this, involving women like Felice, there is a distinction between deliberately doing a thing andconsciously doing it. 

Admittedly this is complicated, but it must be understood that Feliceherself was complex, and she could no more help attracting men to herthan the magnet the steel filings. It made no difference whether the manwas the "breed" boy who split logging down by the engine-house or theyoung superintendent with his college education, his white hands anddominating position; over each and all who came within range of herinfluence Felice, with her black hair and green eyes, her slim figureand her certain indefinite "cheek"--which must not by any manner ofmeans be considered as "boldness"--cast the weird of her kind. 

If one understood her kind, knew how to make allowances, knew just howseriously to take her eyes and her "cheek, " no great harm was done. Otherwise, consequences were very apt to follow. 

Hicks was one of those who from the very first had understood. Hicks wasthe manager of the mine, and Lockwood's chief--in a word, _the boss_. Hewas younger even than Lockwood, a boy virtually, but a wonderful boy--aboy such as only America, western America at that, could produce, masterful, self-controlled, incredibly capable, as taciturn as a sphinx, strong of mind and of muscle, and possessed of a cold gray eye that wasas penetrating as chilled steel. 

To this person, impersonal as force itself, Felice had once, by somemysterious feminine art, addressed, in all innocence, her littlemaneuver of fascination. One lift of the steady eyelid, one quiet glintof that terrible cold gray eye, that poniarded her every tissue ofcomplexity, inconsistency, and coquetry, had been enough. Felice hadfled the field from this young fellow, so much her junior, and thenafterward, in a tremor of discomfiture and distress, had kept herdistance. 

Hicks understood Felice. Also the great majority of theminers--shift-bosses, chuck-tenders, bed-rock cleaners, and thelike--understood. Lockwood did not. 

It may appear difficult of belief that the men, the crude, simpleworkmen, knew how to take Felice Zavalla, while Lockwood, with all hiseducation and superior intelligence, failed in his estimate of her. Theexplanation lies no doubt in the fact that in these man-and-womanaffairs instinct is a surer guide than education and intelligence, unless, indeed, the intelligence is preternaturally keen. Lockwood'sstudent life had benumbed the elemental instinct, which in the miners, the "men, " yet remained vigorous and unblunted, and by means of whichthey assessed Felice and her harmless blandishments at their true worth. For all Lockwood's culture, his own chuck-tenders, unlettered fellows, cumbersome, slow-witted, "knew women"--at least, women of their ownworld, like Felice--better than he. On the other hand, his intelligencewas no such perfected instrument as Hicks's, as exact as logarithms, aspenetrating as a scalpel, as uncoloured by emotions as a steel trap. 

Lockwood's life had been a narrow one. He had studied too hard atColumbia to see much of the outside world, and he had come straight fromhis graduation to take his first position. Since then his life had beenspent virtually in the wilderness, now in Utah, now in Arizona, now inBritish Columbia, and now, at last, in Placer County, California. Hislot was the common lot of young mining engineers. It might lead one dayto great wealth, but meanwhile it was terribly isolated. 

Living thus apart from the world, Lockwood very easily allowed hisjudgment to get, as it were, out of perspective. Class distinctions losttheir sharpness, and one woman--as, for instance, Felice--was very likeanother--as, for instance, the girls his sisters knew "back home" in NewYork. 

As a last result, the passions were strong. 

Things were done "for all they were worth" in Placer County, California. When a man worked, he worked hard; when he slept, he slept soundly; whenhe hated, he hated with primeval intensity; and when he loved he grewreckless. 

It was all one that Felice was Chino's wife. Lockwood swore between histeeth that she should be _his_ wife. He had arrived at this conclusionon the night that he sat on the back porch of his office and watched themoon coming up over the Hog Back. He stood up at length and thrust hispipe into his pocket, and putting an arm across the porch pillar, leanedhis forehead against it and looked out far in the purple shadows. 

"It's madness, " he muttered; "yet, I know it--sheer madness; but, by theLord! I _am_ mad--and I don't care. "

III. CHINO GOES TO TOWN

As time went on the matter became more involved. Hicks was away. ChinoZavalla, stolid, easy-going, came and went about his work on the nightshift, always touching his cap to Lockwood when the two crossed eachother's paths, always good-natured, always respectful, seeing nothingbut his work. 

Every evening, when not otherwise engaged, Lockwood threw a saddle overone of the horses and rode in to Iowa Hill for the mail, returning tothe mine between ten and eleven. On one of these occasions, as he drewnear to Chino's cabin, a slim figure came toward him down the road andpaused at his horse's head. Then he was surprised to hear Felice's voiceasking, "'Ave you a letter for me, then, Meester Lockwude?"

Felice made an excuse of asking thus for her mail each night thatLockwood came from town, and for a month they kept up appearances; butafter that they dropped even that pretense, and as often as he met herLockwood dismounted and walked by her side till the light in the cabincame into view through the chaparral. 

At length Lockwood made a mighty effort. He knew how very far he hadgone beyond the point where between the two landmarks called right andwrong a line is drawn. He contrived to keep away from Felice. He sentone of the men into town for the mail, and he found reasons to be in themine itself whole half-days at a time. Whenever a moment's leisureimpended, he took his shotgun and tramped the mine ditch for leagues, looking for quail and gray squirrels. For three weeks he so managed thathe never once caught sight of Felice's black hair and green eyes, neveronce heard the sound of her singing. 

But the madness was upon him none the less, and it rode and roweled himlike a hag from dawn to dark and from dark to dawn again, till in hiscomplete loneliness, in the isolation of that simple, primitive life, where no congenial mind relieved the monotony by so much as a word, morbid, hounded, tortured, the man grew desperate--was ready foranything that would solve the situation. 

Once every two weeks Lockwood "cleaned up and amalgamated"--that is tosay, the mill was stopped and the "ripples" where the gold was caughtwere scraped clean. Then the ore was sifted out, melted down, and pouredinto the mould, whence it emerged as the "brick, " a dun-colouredrectangle, rough-edged, immensely heavy, which represented anywhere fromtwo to six thousand dollars. This was sent down by express to thesmelting-house. 

But it was necessary to take the brick from the mine to the expressoffice at Iowa Hill. 

This duty devolved upon Lockwood and Chino Zavalla. Hicks had from thevery first ordered that the Spaniard should accompany the superintendentupon this mission. Zavalla was absolutely trustworthy, as honest as thedaylight, strong physically, cool-headed, discreet, and--to Hicks's minda crowning recommendation--close-mouthed. For about the mine it wasnever known when the brick went to town or who took it. Hicks hadimpressed this fact upon Zavalla. He was to tell nobody that he wasdelegated to this duty. "Not even"--Hicks had leveled a forefinger atChino, and the cold eyes drove home the injunction as the steam-hammerdrives the rivet--"not even your wife. " And Zavalla had promised. Hewould have trifled with dynamite sooner than with one of Hicks's orders. 

So the fortnightly trips to town in company with Lockwood were explainedin various fashions to Felice. She never knew that the mail-bag strappedto her husband's shoulders on those occasions carried some five thousanddollars' worth of bullion. 

On a certain Friday in early June Lockwood had amalgamated, and thebrick, duly stamped, lay in the safe in the office. The following nighthe and Chino, who was relieved from mine duty on these occasions, wereto take it in to Iowa Hill. 

Late Saturday afternoon, however, the engineer's boy brought word toChino that the superintendent wanted him at once. Chino found Lockwoodlying upon the old lounge in the middle room of the office, his foot inbandages. 

"Here's luck, Chino, " he exclaimed, as the Mexican paused on thethreshold. "Come in and--shut the door, " he added in a lower voice. 

"_Dios!_" murmured Chino. "An accident?"

"Rather, " growled Lockwood. "That fool boy, Davis's kid--the car-boy, you know--ran me down in the mine. I yelled at him. Somehow he couldn'tstop. Two wheels went over my foot--and the car loaded, too. "

Chino shuddered politely. 

"Now here's the point, " continued Lockwood. "Um--there's nobody roundoutside there? Take a look, Chino, by the window there. All clear, eh?Well, here's the point. That brick ought to go in to-night just thesame, hey?"

"Oh--of a surety, of a surety. " Chino spoke in Spanish. 

"Now I don't want to let any one else take my place--you never cantell--the beggars will talk. Not all like you, Chino. "

"_Gracias, sigñor_. It is an honour. "

"Do you think you can manage alone? I guess you can, hey? No reason whyyou couldn't. "

Chino shut his eyes tight and put up a palm. "Rest assured of that, Sigñor Lockwude. Rest assured of that. "

"Well, get around here about nine. "

"It is understood, sigñor. "

Lockwood, who had a passable knowledge of telegraphy, had wired to theHill for the doctor. About suppertime one appeared, and Lockwood borethe pain of the setting with such fortitude as he could command. He hadhis supper served in the office. The doctor shared it with him and kepthim company. 

During the early hours of the evening Lockwood lay on the sofa trying toforget the pain. There was no easier way of doing this than by thinkingof Felice. Inevitably his thoughts reverted to her. Now that he washelpless, he could secure no diversion by plunging into the tunnel, giving up his mind to his work. He could not now take down his gun andtramp the ditch. Now he was supine, and the longing to break through themesh, wrestle free from the complication, gripped him and racked himwith all its old-time force. 

Promptly at nine o'clock the faithful Chino presented himself at theoffice. He had one of the two horses that were used by Lockwood assaddle animals, and as he entered he opened his coat and tapped the hiltof a pistol showing from his trousers pocket, with a wink and a grin. Lockwood took the brick from the safe, strapped it into the mail-bag, and Chino, swinging it across his shoulders, was gone, leaving Lockwoodto hop back to the sofa, there to throw himself down and face once morehis trouble. 

IV. A DESPATCH FROM THE EXPRESS MESSENGER

What made it harder for Lockwood just now was that even on that veryday, in spite of all precaution, in spite of all good resolutions, hehad at last seen Felice. Doubtless the young woman herself had contrivedit; but, be that as it may, Lockwood, returning from a tour ofinspection along the ditch, came upon her not far from camp, but in aremote corner, and she had of course demanded why he kept away from her. What Lockwood said in response he could not now remember; nor, for thatmatter, was any part of the conversation very clear to his memory. Thereason for this was that, just as he was leaving her, something of moreimportance than conversation had happened. Felice had looked at him. 

And she had so timed her look, had so insinuated it into the little, brief, significant silences between their words, that its meaning hadbeen very clear. Lockwood had left her with his brain dizzy, his teethset, his feet stumbling and fumbling down the trail, for now he knewthat Felice wanted him to know that she regretted the circumstance ofher marriage to Chino Zavalla; he knew that she wanted him to know thatthe situation was as intolerable for her as for him. 

All the rest of the day, even at this moment, in fact, this new phase ofthe affair intruded its pregnant suggestions upon his mind, to theexclusion of everything else. He felt the drift strong around him; heknew that in the end he would resign himself to it. At the same time hesensed the abyss, felt the nearness of some dreadful, namelesscataclysm, a thing of black shadow, bottomless, terrifying. 

"Lord!" he murmured, as he drew his hand across his forehead, "Lord! Iwonder where this thing is going to fetch up. "

As he spoke, the telegraph key on his desk, near at hand, began all atonce to click off his call. Groaning and grumbling, Lockwood heavedhimself up, and, with his right leg bent, hobbled from chair-back tochair-back over to the desk. He rested his right knee on his desk chair, reached for his key, opened the circuit, and answered. There was aninstant's pause, then the instrument began to click again. The messagewas from the express messenger at Iowa Hill. 

Word by word Lockwood took it off as follows:

 "Reno--Kid--will--attempt--hold-up--of-- brick--on--trail-to-night--do--not--send-- till--advised--at--this--end. "_

Lockwood let go the key and jumped back from the desk, lips compressed, eyes alight, his fists clenched till the knuckles grew white. The wholefigure of him stiffened as tense as drawn wire, braced rigid like afinely bred hound "making game. "

Chino was already half an hour gone by the trail, and the Reno Kid was adesperado of the deadliest breed known to the West. How he came to turnup here there was no time to inquire. He was on hand, that was thepoint; and Reno Kid always "shot to kill. " This would be no merehold-up; it would be murder. 

Just then, as Lockwood snatched open a certain drawer of his desk wherehe kept his revolver, he heard from down the road, in the direction ofChino's cabin, Felice's voice singing:

 "To the war I must go, To fight for my country and you, dear. "

Lockwood stopped short, his arm at full stretch, still gripping tightthe revolver that he had half pulled from the drawer--stopped short andlistened. 

The solution of everything had come. 

He saw it in a flash. The knife hung poised over the knot--even at thatmoment was falling. Nothing was asked of him--nothing but inertia. 

For an instant, alone there in that isolated mining-camp, high above theworld, lost and forgotten in the gloom of the cañons and redwoods, Lockwood heard the crisis of his life come crashing through the air uponhim like the onslaught of a whirlwind. For an instant, and no more, heconsidered. Then he cried aloud:

"No, no; I can't, I _can't_--not this way!" And with the words he threwthe belt of the revolver about his hips and limped and scampered fromthe room, drawing the buckle close. 

How he gained the stable he never knew, nor how he backed the horse fromthe building, nor how, hopping on one leg, he got the headstall on anddrew the cinches tight. 

But the wrench of pain in his foot as, swinging up at last, he tried tocatch his off stirrup was reality enough to clear any confusion ofspirit. Hanging on as best he might with his knees and one foot, Lockwood, threshing the horse's flanks with the stinging quirt thattapered from the reins of the bridle, shot from the camp in a swirl ofclattering hoofs, flying pebbles and blinding clouds of dust. 

V. THE TRAIL

The night was black dark under the redwoods, so impenetrable that hecould not see his horse's head, and braced even as he was for greaterperils it required all his courage to ride top-speed at this vast slabof black that like a wall he seemed to charge head down with every leapof his bronco's hoofs. 

For the first half-hour the trail mounted steadily, then, by the oldgravel-pits, it topped the divide and swung down over more open slopes, covered only with chaparral and second growths. Here it was lighter, andLockwood uttered a fervent "Thank God!" when, a few moments later, themoon shouldered over the mountain crests ahead of him and melted theblack shadows to silver-gray. Beyond the gravel-pits the trail turnedand followed the flank of the slope, level here for nearly a mile. Lockwood set his teeth against the agony of his foot and gave the broncothe quirt with all his strength. 

In another half-hour he had passed Cold Cañon, and twenty minutes afterthat had begun the descent into Indian River. He forded the river at agallop, and, with the water dripping from his very hat-brim, drovelabouring under the farther slope. 

Then he drew rein with a cry of bewilderment and apprehension. Thelights of Iowa Hill were not two hundred yards distant. He had coveredthe whole distance from the mine, and where was Chino?

There was but one answer: back there along the trail somewhere, at somepoint by which Lockwood had galloped headlong and unheeding, lying upthere in the chaparral with Reno's bullets in his body. 

There was no time now to go on to the Hill. Chino, if he was not pasthelp, needed it without an instant's loss of time. Lockwood spun thehorse about. Once more the ford, once more the cañon slopes, once morethe sharp turn by Cold Cañon, once more the thick darkness under theredwoods. Steadily he galloped on, searching the roadside. 

Then all at once he reined in sharply, bringing the horse to astandstill, one ear turned down the wind. The night's silence was brokenby a multitude of sounds--the laboured breathing of the spent bronco, the saddle creaking as the dripping flanks rose and fell, the touch ofwind in the tree-tops and the chorusing of the myriad tree-toads. Butthrough all these, distinct, as precise as a clock-tick, Lockwood hadheard, and yet distinguished, the click of a horse's hoof drawing near, and the horse was at a gallop: Reno at last. 

Lockwood drew his pistol. He stood in thick shadow. Only some twentyyards in front of him was there any faintest break in the darkness; butat that point the blurred moonlight made a grayness across the trail, just a tone less deep than the redwoods' shadows. 

With his revolver cocked and trained upon this patch of grayness, Lockwood waited, holding his breath. 

The gallop came blundering on, sounding in the night's silence as loudas the passage of an express train; and the echo of it, flung back fromthe cañon side, confused it and distorted it till, to Lockwood's morbidalertness, it seemed fraught with all the madness of flight, all thehurry of desperation. 

Then the hoof-beats rose to a roar, and a shadow just darker than thedarkness heaved against the grayness that Lockwood held covered with hispistol. Instantly he shouted aloud:

"Halt! Throw up your hands!"

His answer was a pistol shot. 

He dug his heels to his horse, firing as the animal leaped forward. Thehorses crashed together, rearing, plunging, and Lockwood, as he felt thebody of a man crush by him on the trail, clutched into the clothes ofhim, and, with the pistol pressed against the very flesh, fired again, crying out as he did so:

"Drop your gun, Reno! I know you. I'll kill you if you move again!"

And then it was that a wail rose into the night, a wail of agony andmortal apprehension:

"Sigñor Lockwude, Sigñor Lockwude, for the love of God, don't shoot!'Tis I--Chino Zavalla. "

VI. THE DISCOVERY OF FELICE

An hour later, Felice, roused from her sleep by loud knocking upon herdoor, threw a blanket about her slim body, serape fashion, and openedthe cabin to two gaunt scarecrows, who, the one, half supported by theother, himself far spent and all but swooning, lurched by her across thethreshold and brought up wavering and bloody in the midst of the cabinfloor. 

"_Por Dios! Por Dios!_" cried Felice. "Ah, love of God! what misfortunehas befallen Chino!" Then in English, and with a swift leap of surpriseand dismay: "Ah, Meester Lockwude, air you hurt? Eh, tell me-a! Ah, itis too draidful!"

"No, no, " gasped Lockwood, as he dragged Chino's unconscious body to thebed Felice had just left. "No; I--I've shot him. We met--there on thetrail. " Then the nerves that had stood strain already surprisingly longsnapped and crisped back upon themselves like broken harp-strings. 

"_I've shot him! I've shot him!_" he cried. "Shot him, do youunderstand? Killed him, it may be. Get the doctor, quick! He's at theoffice. I passed Chino on the trail over to the Hill. He'd hid in thebushes as he heard me coming from behind, then when I came back I tookhim. Oh, I'll explain later. Get the doctor, quick. "

Felice threw on such clothes as came to her hand and ran over to theoffice, returning with the doctor, half dressed and blinking in thelantern-light. He went in to the wounded man at once, and Lockwood, atthe end of all strength, dropped into the hammock on the porch, stretching out his leg to ease the anguish of his broken foot. He leanedback and closed his eyes wearily, aware only of a hideous swirl of pain, of intolerable anxiety as to Chino's wound, and, most of all, of a mereblur of confusion wherein the sights and sounds of the last few hourstore through his brain with the plunge of a wild galloping such asseemed to have been in his ears for years and years. 

But as he lay thus he heard a step at his side. Then came the touch ofFelice's long brown hand upon his face. He sat up, opening his eyes. 

"You aisk me-a, " she said, "eef I do onderstaind, eh? Yais, Ionderstaind. You--" her voice was a whisper--"you shoot Chino, eh? Iknow. You do those thing' for me-a. I am note angri, no-a. You ver'sharp man, eh? All for love oaf Felice, eh? Now we be happi, maybe; nowwe git married soam day byne-by, eh? Ah, you one brave man, SigñorLockwude!"

She would have taken his hand, but Lockwood, the pain all forgot, theconfusion all vanishing, was on his feet. It was as though a curtainthat for months had hung between him and the blessed light of clearunderstanding had suddenly been rent in twain by her words. The womanstood revealed. All the baseness of her tribe, all the degraded savageryof a degenerate race, all the capabilities for wrong, for sordidtreachery, that lay dormant in her, leaped to life at this unguardedmoment, and in that new light, that now at last she had herself let in, stood pitilessly revealed, a loathsome thing, hateful as malevolenceitself. 

"What, " shouted Lockwood, "you think--think that I--that I_could_--oh-h, it's monstrous--_you_----" He could find no words tovoice his loathing. Swiftly he turned away from her, the last spark ofan evil love dying down forever in his breast. 

It was a transformation, a thing as sudden as a miracle, as conclusiveas a miracle, and with all a miracle's sense of uplift and power. In asecond of time the scales seemed to fall from the man's eyes, fettersfrom his limbs; he saw, and he was free. 

At the door Lockwood met the doctor:

"Well?"

"He's all right; only a superficial wound. He'll recover. But you--howabout you? All right? Well, that is a good hearing. You've had a luckyescape, my boy. "

"I _have_ had a lucky escape, " shouted Lockwood. "You don't know justhow lucky it was. "

A BARGAIN WITH PEG-LEG

"Hey, youse!" shouted the car-boy. He brought his trundling, jolting, loose-jointed car to a halt by the face of the drift. "Hey, youse!" heshouted again. 

Bunt shut off the Burly air-drill and nodded. 

"Chaw, " he remarked to me. 

We clambered into the car, and, as the boy released the brake, rolledout into the main tunnel of the Big Dipple, and banged and bumped downthe long incline that led to the mouth. 

"Chaw" was dinner. It was one o'clock in the morning, and the men on thenight shift were taking their midnight spell off. Bunt was back at hisold occupation of miner, and I--the one loafer of all that little worldof workers--had brought him a bottle of beer to go with the "chaw"; forBunt and I were ancient friends. 

As we emerged from the cool, cave-like dampness of the mine and ran outinto the wonderful night air of the Sierra foothills, warm, dry, redolent of witch-hazel, the carboy began to cough, and, after we hadclimbed out of the car and had sat down on the embankment to eat anddrink, Bunt observed:

"D'ye hear that bark? That kid's a one-lunger for fair. Which ain't nosalubrious graft for him--this hiking cars about in the bowels of theearth, Some day he'll sure up an' quit. Ought to go down to Yuma aspell. "

The engineer in the mill was starting the stamps. They got under waywith broken, hiccoughing dislocations, bumping and stumbling like thehoofs of a group of horses on the cattle-deck in a gale. Then theyjumped to a trot, then to a canter, and at last settled down to theprolonged roaring gallop that reverberated far off over the entirecañon. 

"I knew a one-lunger once, " Bunt continued, as he uncorked the bottle, "and the acquaintance was some distressful by reason of its bringing meinto strained relations with a cow-rustlin', hair-liftin', only-one-born-in-captivity, man-eatin' brute of a one-legged Greaserwhich he was named Peg-leg Smith. He was shy a leg because of a shotgunthat the other man thought wasn't loaded. And this here happens, lemmetell you, 'way down in the Panamint country, where they wasn't no doctorwithin twenty miles, and Peg-leg outs with his bowie and amputates thatleg hisself, then later makes a wood stump outa a ole halter and atable-leg. I guess the whole jing-bang of it turned his head, for hegoes bad and loco thereafter, and begins shootin' and r'arin' up an'down the hull Southwest, a-roarin' and a-bellerin' and a-takin' onamazin'. We dasn't say boo to a yaller pup while he's round. I never seesuch mean blood. Jus' let the boys know that Peg-leg was anywaysadjacent an' you can gamble they walked chalk. 

"Y'see, this Peg-leg lay it out as how he couldn't abide no cussin' an'swearin'. He said if there was any tall talkin' done he wanted to do it. And he sure could. I've seed him hold on for six minutes by the watchan' never repeat hisself once. An' shoot! Say, lemme tell you he did fortwo Greasers once in a barroom at La Paz, one in front o' him, t'otherstraight behind, _him_ standing between with a gun in each hand, andshootin' both guns _at the same time_. Well, he was just a terror, "declared Bunt, solemnly, "and when he was in real good form there wa'n'ta man south o' Leadville dared to call his hand. 

"Now, the way I met up with this skunkin' little dewdrop was this-likeIt was at Yuma, at a time when I was a kid of about nineteen. It was aSunday mornin'; Peg-leg was in town. He was asleep on a lounge in theback room o' Bud Overick's Grand Transcontinental Hotel. (I used toguess Bud called it that by reason that it wa'n't grand, nortranscontinental, nor yet a hotel--it was a bar. ) This was twenty yearago, and in those days I knowed a one-lunger in Yuma named Clarence. (Hecouldn't help that--he was a good kid--but his name _was_ Clarence. ) Wegot along first-rate. Yuma was a great consumptive place at that time. They used to come in on every train; yes, and go out, too--by freight. 

"Well, findin' that they couldn't do much else than jes' sit around an'bark and keep their shawls tight, these 'ere chaps kinda drew together, and lay it out to meet every Sunday morning at Bud's to sorta talk itover and have a quiet game. One game they had that they played steady, an' when I drifted into Bud's that morning they was about a dozen of 'emat it--Clarence, too. When I came in, there they be, all sittin' in acircle round a table with a cigar box on it. They'd each put four bitsinto the box. That was the pot. 

"A stranger wouldn't 'a' made nothin' very excitin' out of that game, nor yet would 'a' caught on to what it were. For them pore yaps jes' satthere, each with his little glass thermometer in his mouth, a-waitin'and a-waitin' and never sayin' a word. Then bime-by Bud, who's a-holdin'of the watch on 'em, sings out 'Time!' an' they all takes theirthermometers out an' looks at 'em careful-like to see where they stand. 

"'Mine's ninety-nine, ' says one. 

"An' another says:

"'Mine's a hundred. '

"An' Clarence pipes up--coughin' all the time:

"'Mine's a hundred 'n one 'n 'alf. '

"An', no one havin' a higher tempriture than that, Clarence captures thepot. It was a queer kind o' game. 

"Well, on that particular Sunday morning they's some unpleasantnessalong o' one o' the other one-lungers layin' it out as how Clarence haddone some monkey-business to make his tempriture so high. It was said ashow Clarence had took and drunk some hot tea afore comin' into the gameat Bud's. They all began to discuss that same p'int. 

"Naturally, they don't go at it polite, and to make their remarksp'inted they says a cuss-word occasional, and Clarence, bein' ahigh-steppin' gent as takes nobody's dust, slings it back some forceful. 

"Then all at once they hears Peg-leg beller from where's he layin' onthe lounge (they ain't figured on his bein' so contiguous), and he givesit to be understood, does Peg-leg, as how the next one-lunger thatindulges in whatsoever profanity will lose his voice abrupt. 

"They all drops out at that, bar the chap who had the next highesttempriture to Clarence. Him having missed the pot by only a degree or sois considerable sore. 

"'Why, ' says he, 'I've had a reg'lar _fever_ since yesterday afternoon, an' only just dodged a hem'rage by a squeak. I'm all legitimate, I am;an' if you-alls misdoubts as how my tempriture ain't normal you kin jes'ask the doctor. I don't take it easy that a strappin', healthy gesabewhose case ain't nowheres near the hopeless p'int yet steps in here witha scalded mouth and plays it low. '

"Clarence he r'ars right up at that an' forgits about Peg-leg an'expresses doubts, not to say convictions, about the one-lunger's chancesof salvation. He puts it all into about three words, an' just as quickas look at it we hears ol' Peg-leg's wooden stump a-comin'. We stampedesconsiderable prompt, but Clarence falls over a chair, an' before he kinget up Peg-leg has him by the windpipe. 

"Now I ain't billin' myself as a all-round star hero an' generalgrand-stand man. But I was sure took with Clarence, an' I'd 'a' beenreal disappointed if Peg-leg 'ud a-killed him that morning--which hesure was tryin' to do when I came in for a few chips. 

"I don' draw on Peg-leg, him being down on his knees over Clarence, an'his back turned, but without sensin' very much _what_ I'm a-doin' of Igrabs holt o' the first part o' Peg-leg that comes handy, which, so helpme, Bob, is his old wooden leg. I starts to pull him off o' Clarence, but instead o' that I pulls off the wooden leg an' goes a-staggerin'back agin the wall with the thing in my fist. 

"Y'know how it is now with a fightin' pup if you pull his tail whilehe's a-chawin' up the other pup. Ye can bat him over the head tillyou're tired, or kick him till you w'ars your boot out, an' he'll goright on chawin' the harder. But monkey with his tail an' he's thatsensitive an' techy about it that he'll take a interest right off. 

"Well, it were just so with Peg-leg--though I never knew it. Just byaccident I'd laid holt of him where he was tender; an' when he felt thatleg go--say, lemme tell you, he was some excited. He forgits all aboutClarence, and he lines out for me, a-clawin' the air. Lucky he'd lefthis gun in the other room. 

"Well, sir, y'ought to have seen him, a-hoppin' on one foot, and bangingagin the furniture, jes' naturally black in the face with rage, an'doin' his darnedest to lay his hands on me, roarin' all the whiles likea steer with a kinked tail. 

"Well, I'm skeered, and I remarks that same without shame. I'm skeered. I don't want to come to no grapples with Peg-leg in his wrath, an' Iknows that so long as he can't git his leg he can't take after me veryfast. Bud's saloon backs right up agin the bluff over the river. So whatdo I do but heave that same wooden leg through one o' the back windows, an' down she goes (as I _thought_) mebbe seventy feet into the cañon o'the Colorado? And then, mister man, _I skins out--fast_. 

"I takes me headlong flight by way o' the back room and _on-root_pitches Peg-leg's gun over into the cañon, too, an' then whips aroundthe corner of the saloon an' fetches out ag'in by the street in front. With his gun gone an' his leg gone, Peg-leg--so long's y'ain't withinarm's reach--is as harmless as a horned toad. So I kinda hangs 'roundthe neighbourhood jes' to see what-all mout turn up. 

"Peg-leg, after hoppin' back to find that his gun was gone, to look forhis leg, comes out by the front door, hoppin' from one chair to another, an' seein' me standin' there across the street makes remarks; an' heinforms me that because of this same little turn-up this mornin' I ain'tnever goin' to live to grow hair on my face. His observations are thatvigorous an' p'inted that I sure begin to see it that way, too, and Isays to myself:

"'Now you, Bunt McBride, you've cut it out for yourself good and hard, an' the rest o' your life ain't goin' to be free from nervousness. Either y'ought to 'a' let this here hell-roarin' maverick alone or elseyou should 'a' put him clean out o' business when you had holt o' hisshootin'-iron. An' I ain't a bit happy. ' And then jes' at this stage o'the proceedings occurs what youse 'ud call a diversion. 

"It seemed that that wood stump didn't go clean to the river as I firstfigured, but stuck three-fourths the way down. An' a-course there's afool half-breed kid who's got to chase after it, thinkin' to do Peg-lega good turn. 

"I don't know nothin' about this, but jes' stand there talkin' back toPeg-leg, an' pre-tendin' I ain't got no misgivings, when I sees this kidcomin' a-cavoortin' an' a-cayoodlin' down the street with the leg in hishands, hollerin' out:

"'Here's your leg, Mister Peg-leg! I went an' got it for you, MisterPeg-leg!'

"It ain't so likely that Peg-leg could 'a' caught me even if he'd hadhis leg, but I wa'n't takin' no chances. An' as Peg-leg starts for thekid I start, too--with my heart knockin' agin my front teeth, you canbet. 

"I never knew how fast a man could hop till that mornin', an', lookin'at Peg-leg with the tail o' my eye as I ran, it seemed to me as how hewas a-goin' over the ground like a ole he-kangaroo. But somehow he getsoff his balance and comes down all of a smash like a rickety table, an'I reaches the kid first an' takes the leg away from him. 

"I guess Peg-leg must 'a' begun to lay it out by then that I held astraight flush to his ace high, for he sits down on the edge of thesidewalk an', being some winded, too, he just glares. Then byme-by hesays:

"'You think you are some smart now, sonny, but I'm a-studyin' of yourface so's I'll know who to look for when I git a new leg; an' believeme, I'll know it, m'son--yours and your friend's too' (he meantClarence)--'an' I guess you'll both be kind o' sick afore I'm done withyou. _You!_' he goes on, tremendous disgustful. 'You! an' themone-lungers a-swearin' an' a-cussin' an' bedamnin' an' bedevilin' onea-other. Ain't ye just ashamed o' yourselves ?' (he thought I was aone-lunger, too); 'ain't ye ashamed--befoulin' your mouths, anddisturbin' the peace along of a quiet Sunday mornin', an' you-alls waistover in your graves? I'm fair sick o' my job, ' he remarks, goin' kind o'thoughtful. 'Ten years now I've been range-ridin' all this yere ranch, a-doin' o' my little feeble, or'nary best to clean out the mouths o' youmen an' purify the atmosphere o' God's own country, but I ain't made_one_ convert. I've pounded 'em an' booted 'em, an' busted 'em an' shot'em up, an' they go on cussin' each other out harder'n ever. I don'tknow w'at all to do an' I sometimes gets plumb discouraged-like. '

"Now, hearin' of him talk that-a-way, an' a-knowin' of his weakness, Igits a idea. It's a chanst and mebbee it don't pan out, but I puts it upas a bluff. I don't want, you see, to spend the rest o' my appointedtime in this yere vale o' tears a-dodgin' o' Peg-leg Smith, an' in theend, after all, to git between the wind and a forty-eight caliberdo-good, sure not. So I puts up a deal. Says I: 'Peg-leg, I'll make abargint along o' you. You lays it out as how you ain't never convertednobody out o' his swearin' habits. Now if you wants, 'ere's a chanst. You gimmee your word as a gent and a good-man-an'-true, as how you won'tnever make no play to shoot me up, in nowise whatsoever, so long as weboth do live, an' promise never to bust me, or otherwise, and promisenever to rustle me or interfere with my life, liberty and pursuit o'happiness, an' thereunto you set your seal an' may Lord 'a' mercy onyour soul--you promise that, an' I will agree an' covenant with theparty o' the first part to abstain an' abjure, early or late, dry ordrinkin', in liquor or out, out o' luck or in, rangin' or roundin', fromall part an' parcel o' profanity, cuss-words, little or big, several andseparate, bar none; this yere agreement to be considered as bindin' an'obligatory till the day o' your demise, decease or death. _There!_' saysI, 'there's a fair bargint put up between man an' man, an' I puts it toyou fair. You comes in with a strong ante an' you gets a genuine, guaranteed an' high-grade convert--the real article. You stays out, an'not only you loses a good chanst to cut off and dam up as vigorous astream o' profanity as is found between here and Laredo, but you loses ahandmade, copper-bound, steel-riveted, artificial limb--which in fiveminutes o' time, ' says I, windin' up, 'will sure feed the fire. There'sthe bargint. '

"Well, the ol' man takes out time for about as long as a thirstyhorse-rustler could put away half a dozen drinks an' he studies theproposition sideways and endways an' down side up. Then at last he upsand speaks out decided-like:

"'Son, ' he says, 'son, it's a bargint. Gimmee my leg. '

"Somehow neither o' us misdoubts as how the other man won't keep hisword; an' I gives him his stump, an' he straps her on joyful-like, justas if he'd got back a ole friend. Then later on he hikes out for Mojaveand I don' see him no more for mebbee three years. "

"And then?" I prompted. 

"Well, I'll tell you, " continued Bunt, between mouthfuls of pie, "I'lltell you. This yere prejudice agin profanity is the only thing aboutthis yere Peg-leg that ain't pizen bad, an' _that_ prejudice, you got toknow, was just along o' his being loco on that one subjeck. 'Twa'n't asif he had any real principles or convictions about the thing. It wasjust a loco prejudice. Just as some gesabes has feelin's agin cats an'snakes, or agin seein' a speckled nigger. It was just on-reasonable. Sowhat I'm aimin' to have you understand is the fact that it was extremelyappropriate that Peg-leg should die, that it was a blame good thing, andsomethin' to be celebrated by free drinks all round. 

"You can say he treated me white, an' took my unsupported word. Well, sohe did; but that was in spite o' what he really was hisself, 'way on theinside o' him. Inside o' him he was black-bad, an' it wa'n't a weekafter we had made our bargint that he did for a little Mojave kid in away I don't like to think of. 

"So when he took an' died like as how I'm a-going to tell you of, I wasplumb joyful, not only because I could feel at liberty to relieve mymind when necessary in a manner as is approved of and rightful amonggents--not only because o' that, but because they was one less bad eggin the cow-country. 

"Now the manner o' Peg-leg's dying was sure hilarious-like. I didn't gitover laughin' about it for a month o' Sundays--an' I ain't done yet. Itwas sure a joke on Peg-leg. The cutest joke that ever was played off onhim. 

"It was in Sonora--Sonora, Arizona, I mean. They'd a-been a kind o' goldexcitement there, and all the boys had rounded up. The town wasfull--chock-a-block. Peg-leg he was there too, drunk all the time an'bullyin' everybody, an' slambangin' around in his same old way. Thatvery day he'd used a friend o' his--his best friend--cruel hard: justmean and nasty, you know. 

"Well, I'm sitting into a little game o' faro about twelve o'clock atnight, me an' about a dozen o' the boys. We're good an' interested, andpretty much to the good o' the game, an' somebody's passin' drinks whenall at once there's a sure big rumpus out in the street, an' a gentsticks his head thro' the door an' yells out:

"'Hi, there, they's a fire! The Golden West Hotel is on fire!'

"We draws the game as soon as convenient and hikes out, an', my word, you'd 'a' thought from the looks o' things as how the whole town wasgoing. But it was only the hotel--the Golden West, where Peg-leg wasstayin'; an' when we got up we could hear the ol' murderer bellerin' an'ragin', an' him drunk--of course. 

"Well, I'm some excited. Lord love you, I'd as soon 'a' seen Peg-legshot as I would eat, an' when I remembers the little Mojave kid I'm gladas how his time is at hand. Saved us the trouble o' lynchin' that sooneror later had to come. 

"Peg-leg's room was in the front o' the house on the fourth floor, butthe fire was all below, and what with the smoke comin' out thethird-story winders he couldn't see down into the street, no more'n theboys could see him--only they just heard him bellerin'. 

"Then some one of 'em sings out:

"'Hey, Peg-leg, jump! We got a blanket here. '

"An' sure enough he does jump!"

Here Bunt chuckled grimly, muttering, "Yes, sir, sure enough he didjump. "

"I don't quite see, " I observed, "where the laugh comes in. What was thejoke of it?"

"The joke of it was, " finished Bunt, "that they hadn't any blanket. "

THE PASSING OF COCK-EYE BLACKLOCK

"Well, m'son, " observed Bunt about half an hour after supper, "if yourprovender has shook down comfortable by now, we might as well jar looseand be moving along out yonder. "

We left the fire and moved toward the hobbled ponies, Bunt complainingof the quality of the outfit's meals. "Down in the Panamint country, " hegrowled, "we had a Chink that was a sure frying-pan expert; but _this_Dago--my word! That ain't victuals, that supper. That's just a'ingenious device for removing superfluous appetite. Next time Iassimilate nutriment in this camp I'm sure going to take chloroformbeforehand. Careful to draw your cinch tight on that pinto bronc' ofyours. She always swells up same as a horned toad soon as you begin tosaddle up. "

We rode from the circle of the camp-fire's light and out upon thedesert. It was Bunt's turn to ride the herd that night, and I hadvolunteered to bear him company. 

Bunt was one of a fast-disappearing type. He knew his West as thecockney knows his Piccadilly. He had mined with and for Ralston, hadsoldiered with Crook, had turned cards in a faro game at Laredo, and hadknown the Apache Kid. He had fifteen separate and different times driventhe herds from Texas to Dodge City, in the good old, rare old, wild olddays when Dodge was the headquarters for the cattle trade, and as nearto heaven as the cowboy cared to get. He had seen the end of gold andthe end of the buffalo, the beginning of cattle, the beginning of wheat, and the spreading of the barbed-wire fence, that, in the end, will takefrom him his occupation and his revolver, his chaparejos and hisusefulness, his lariat and his reason for being. He had seen the rise ofa new period, the successive stages of which, singularly enough, tallyexactly with the progress of our own world-civilization: first the nomadand hunter, then the herder, next and last the husband-man. He hadpassed the mid-mark of his life. His mustache was gray. He had fourfriends--his horse, his pistol, a teamster in the Indian TerritoryPanhandle named Skinny, and me. 

The herd--I suppose all told there were some two thousand head--we foundnot far from the water-hole. We relieved the other watch and took up ournight's vigil. It was about nine o'clock. The night was fine, calm. 

There was no cloud. Toward the middle watches one could expect a moon. But the stars, the stars! In Idaho, on those lonely reaches of desertand range, where the shadow of the sun by day and the courses of theconstellations by night are the only things that move, these stars are adifferent matter from those bleared pin-points of the city after dark, seen through dust and smoke and the glare of electrics and the hot hazeof fire-signs. On such a night as that when I rode the herd with Bunt_anything_ might have happened; one could have believed in fairies then, and in the buffalo-ghost, and in all the weirds of the craziest Apache"Messiah" that ever made medicine. 

One remembered astronomy and the "measureless distances" and the showyproblems, including the rapid moving of a ray of light and the longyears of its travel between star and star, and smiled incredulously. Why, the stars were just above our heads, were not much higher than theflat-topped hills that barred the horizons. Venus was a yellow lamp hungin a tree; Mars a red lantern in a clock-tower. 

One listened instinctively for the tramp of the constellations. Orion, Cassiopeia and Ursa Major marched to and fro on the vault like cohortsof legionaries, seemingly within call of our voices, and all without asound. 

But beneath these quiet heavens the earth disengaged multitudinoussounds--small sounds, minimized as it were by the muffling of the night. Now it was the yap of a coyote leagues away; now the snapping of a twigin the sage-brush; now the mysterious, indefinable stir of theheat-ridden land cooling under the night. But more often it was theconfused murmur of the herd itself--the click of a horn, the friction ofheavy bodies, the stamp of a hoof, with now and then the low, complaining note of a cow with a calf, or the subdued noise of a steeras it lay down, first lurching to the knees, then rolling clumsily uponthe haunch, with a long, stertorous breath of satisfaction. 

Slowly at Indian trot we encircle the herd. Earlier in the evening aprairie-wolf had pulled down a calf, and the beasts were still restless. 

Little eddies of nervousness at long intervals developed here and therein the mass--eddies that not impossibly might widen at any time withperilous quickness to the maelstrom of a stampede. So as he rode Buntsang to these great brutes, literally to put them to sleep--sang an oldgrandmother's song, with all the quaint modulations of sixty, seventy, ahundred years ago:

 "With her ogling winks And bobbling blinks, Her quizzing glass, Her one eye idle, Oh, she loved a bold dragoon, With his broadsword, saddle, bridle. _Whack_, fol-de-rol!"

I remember that song. My grandmother--so they tell me--used to sing itin Carolina, in the thirties, accompanying herself on a harp, if youplease:

 "Oh, she loved a bold dragoon, With his broadsword, saddle, bridle. "

It was in Charleston, I remembered, and the slave-ships used todischarge there in those days. My grandmother had sung it then to herbeaux; officers they were; no wonder she chose it--"Oh, she loved a bolddragoon"--and now I heard it sung on an Idaho cattle-range to quiet twothousand restless steers. 

Our talk at first, after the cattle had quieted down, ran upon allmanner of subjects. It is astonishing to note what strange things menwill talk about at night and in a solitude. That night we coveredreligion, of course, astronomy, love affairs, horses, travel, history, poker, photography, basket-making, and the Darwinian theory. But at lastinevitably we came back to cattle and the pleasures and dangers ofriding the herd. 

"I rode herd once in Nevada, " remarked Bunt, "and I was caught into ablizzard, and I was sure freezing to death. Got to where I couldn't keepmy eyes open, I was that sleepy. Tell you what I did. Had someeating-tobacco along, and I'd chew it a spell, then rub the juice intomy eyes. Kept it up all night. Blame near blinded me, but I comethrough. Me and another man named Blacklock--Cock-eye Blacklock wecalled him, by reason of his having one eye that was some out of line. Cock-eye sure ought to have got it that night, for he went badafterward, and did a heap of killing before he _did_ get it. He was abad man for sure, and the way he died is a story in itself. "

There was a long pause. The ponies jogged on. Rounding on the herd, weturned southward. 

"He did 'get it' finally, you say, " I prompted. 

"He certainly did, " said Bunt, "and the story of it is what a man witha' imaginary mind like you ought to make into one of your frictiontales. "

"Is it about a treasure?" I asked with apprehension. For ever since Ionce made a tale (of friction) out of one of Bunt's stories of reallife, he has been ambitious for me to write another, and is foreversuggesting motifs which invariably--I say invariably--imply thediscovery of great treasures. With him, fictitious literature mustalways turn upon the discovery of hidden wealth. 

"No, " said he, "it ain't about no treasure, but just about the origin, hist'ry and development--and subsequent decease--of as mean a Greaser asever stole stock, which his name was Cock-eye Blacklock. 

"You see, this same Blacklock went bad about two summers after ourmeet-up with the blizzard. He worked down Yuma way and over into NewMexico, where he picks up with a sure-thing gambler, and the two beginto devastate the population. They do say when he and his running mategot good and through with that part of the Land of the Brave, men usedto go round trading guns for commissary, and clothes for ponies, andcigars for whisky and such. There just wasn't any money left _anywhere_. Those sharps had drawed the landscape clean. Some one found a dollar ina floor-crack in a saloon, and the barkeep' gave him a gallon offorty-rod for it, and used to keep it in a box for exhibition, and thecrowd would get around it and paw it over and say: 'My! my! Whatever inthe world is this extremely cu-roos coin?'

"Then Blacklock cuts loose from his running mate, and plays a lone handthrough Arizona and Nevada, up as far as Reno again, and there he stacksup against a kid--a little tenderfoot kid so new he ain't cracked thegreen paint off him--and _skins_ him. And the kid, being foolish andimpulsive-like, pulls out a peashooter. It was a _twenty-two_, " saidBunt, solemnly. "Yes, the kid was just that pore, pathetic kind to carrya dinky twenty-two, and with the tears runnin' down his cheeks begins totalk tall. Now what does that Cockeye do? Why, that pore kid that he hadskinned couldn't 'a' hurt him with his pore little bric-à-brac. DoesCock-eye take his little parlour ornament away from him, and spank him, and tell him to go home? No, he never. The kid's little tin pop-shooterexplodes right in his hand before he can crook his forefinger twice, andwhile he's a-wondering what-all has happened Cock-eye gets his two gunson him, slow and deliberate like, mind you, and throws forty-eights intohim till he ain't worth shooting at no more. Murders him like themud-eating, horse-thieving snake of a Greaser that he is; but beingwithin the law, the kid drawing on him first, he don't stretch hemp theway he should. 

"Well, fin'ly this Blacklock blows into a mining-camp in Placer County, California, where I'm chuck-tending on the night-shift. This here campis maybe four miles across the divide from Iowa Hill, and it sure isnamed a cu-roos name, which it is Why-not. They is a barn contiguous, where the mine horses are kep', and, blame me! if there ain't aweathercock on top of that same--a golden trotting-horse--_upside down_. When the stranger an' pilgrim comes in, says he first off: 'Why'n snakesthey got that weathercock horse upside down--why?' says he. 'Why-not, 'says you, and the drinks is on the pilgrim. 

"That all went very lovely till some gesabe opens up a placer drift onthe far side the divide, starts a rival camp, an' names her Because. TheBoss gets mad at that, and rights up the weathercock, and renames thecamp Ophir, and you don't work no more pilgrims. 

"Well, as I was saying, Cock-eye drifts into Why-not and beginsdiffusing trouble. He skins some of the boys in the hotel over in town, and a big row comes of it, and one of the bed-rock cleaners cuts loosewith both guns. Nobody hurt but a quarter-breed, who loses a' eye. Butthe marshal don't stand for no short-card men, an' closes Cock-eye upsome prompt. Him being forced to give the boys back their money isbusted an' can't get away from camp. To raise some wind he beginsdepredating. 

"He robs a pore half-breed of a cayuse, and shoots up a Chink who'spanning tailings, and generally and variously becomes too pronounced, till he's run outen camp. He's sure stony-broke, not being able to turna card because of the marshal. So he goes to live in a ole cabin up bythe mine ditch, and sits there doing a heap o' thinking, and hatchingtrouble like a' ole he-hen. 

"Well, now, with that deporting of Cock-eye comes his turn of bad luck, and it sure winds his clock up with a loud report. I've narrated specialof the scope and range of this 'ere Blacklock, so as you'll understandwhy it was expedient and desirable that he should up an' die. You see, he always managed, with all his killings and robbings and general andsundry flimflamming, to be just within the law. And if anybody took anotion to shoot him up, why, his luck saw him through, and the otherman's shooting-iron missed fire, or exploded, or threw wild, or suchlike, till it seemed as if he sure did bear a charmed life; and so hedid till a pore yeller tamale of a fool dog did for him what the law ofthe land couldn't do. Yes, sir, a fool dog, a pup, a blame yeller pupnamed Sloppy Weather, did for Cock-eye Blacklock, sporting character, three-card-monte man, sure-thing sharp, killer, and general bedeviler. 

"You see, it was this way. Over in American Cañon, some five miles maybeback of the mine, they was a creek called the American River, and it wassure chock-a-block full of trouts. The Boss used for to go over therewith a dinky fish-pole like a buggy-whip about once a week, and scoutthat stream for fish and bring back a basketful. He was sure keen on it, and had bought some kind of privilege or other, so as he could keepother people off. 

"Well, I used to go along with him to pack the truck, and one Saturday, about a month after Cock-eye had been run outen camp, we hiked up overthe divide, and went for to round up a bunch o' trouts. When we got tothe river there was a mess for your life. Say, that river was full ofdead trouts, floating atop the water; and they was some even on thebank. Not a scratch on 'em; just dead. The Boss had the papsy-lals. Inever _did_ see a man so rip-r'aring, snorting mad. _I_ hadn't a guessabout what we were up against, but he knew, and he showed down. He saidsomebody had been shooting the river for fish to sell down Sacramentoway to the market. A mean trick; kill more fish in one shoot than youcan possibly pack. 

"Well, we didn't do much fishing that day--couldn't get a bite, for thatmatter--and took on home about noon to talk it over. You see, the Boss, in buying the privileges or such for that creek, had made himselfresponsible to the Fish Commissioners of the State, and 'twasn't a weekbefore they were after him, camping on his trail incessant, and wantingto know how about it. The Boss was some worried, because the fish werebeing killed right along, and the Commission was making him weary ofliving. Twicet afterward we prospected along that river and found thesame lot of dead fish. We even put a guard there, but it didn't do nomanner of good. 

"It's the Boss who first suspicions Cock-eye. But it don't take noseventh daughter of no seventh daughter to trace trouble whereBlack-lock's about. He sudden shows up in town with a bunch ofsimoleons, buying bacon and tin cows [Footnote: Condensed milk. ] andsuch provender, and generally giving it away that he's come into money. The Boss, who's watching his movements sharp, says to me one day:

"'Bunt, the storm-centre of this here low area is a man with a cock-eye, an' I'll back that play with a paint horse against a paper dime. '

"'No takers, ' says I. 'Dirty work and a cock-eyed man are two heels ofthe same mule. '

"'Which it's a-kicking of me in the stummick frequent and painful, ' heremarks, plenty wrathful. 

"'On general principles, ' I said, 'it's a royal flush to a pair ofdeuces as how this Blacklock bird ought to stop a heap of lead, and Iknow the man to throw it. He's the only brother of my sister, and tendschuck in a placer mine. How about if I take a day off and drop round tohis cabin and interview him on the fleetin' and unstable nature of humanlife?'

"But the Boss wouldn't hear of that. 

"'No, ' says he; 'that's not the bluff to back in this game. You an' mean' 'Mary-go-round'--that was what we called the marshal, him being somuch all over the country--'you an' me an' Mary-go-round will have tostock a sure-thing deck against that maverick. '

"So the three of us gets together an' has a talky-talk, an' we lays itout as how Cock-eye must be watched and caught red-handed. 

"Well, let me tell you, keeping case on that Greaser sure did lack acertain indefinable charm. We tried him at sun-up, an' again at sundown, an' nights, too, laying in the chaparral an' tarweed, an' scouting upan' down that blame river, till we were sore. We built surreptitious alot of shooting-boxes up in trees on the far side of the cañon, overlooking certain an' sundry pools in the river where Cock-eye wouldbe likely to pursue operations, an' we took turns watching. I'll be aChink if that bad egg didn't put it on us same as previous, an' we'dfind new-killed fish all the time. I tell you we were _fitchered_; andit got on the Boss's nerves. The Commission began to talk of withdrawingthe privilege, an' it was up to him to make good or pass the deal. We_knew_ Blacklock was shooting the river, y' see, but we didn't have noevidence. Y' see, being shut off from card-sharping, he was up againstit, and so took to pot-hunting to get along. It was as plain as redpaint. 

"Well, things went along sort of catch-as-catch-can like this for maybethree weeks, the Greaser shooting fish regular, an' the Boss b'ilingwith rage, and laying plans to call his hand, and getting bluffed outevery deal. 

"And right here I got to interrupt, to talk some about the pup dog, Sloppy Weather. If he hadn't got caught up into this Blacklock game, noone'd ever thought enough about him to so much as kick him. But after itwas all over, we began to remember this same Sloppy an' to recall whathe was; no big job. He was just a worthless fool pup, yeller at that, everybody's dog, that just hung round camp, grinning and giggling andplaying the goat, as half-grown dogs will. He used to go along with thecar-boys when they went swimmin' in the resevoy, an' dash along in an'yell an' splash round just to show off. He thought it was a keen stuntto get some gesabe to throw a stick in the resevoy so's he could paddleout after it. They'd trained him always to bring it back an' fetch it towhichever party throwed it. He'd give it up when he'd retrieved it, an'yell to have it throwed again. That was his idea of fun--just like afool pup. 

"Well, one day this Sloppy Weather is off chasing jack-rabbits an' don'tcome home. Nobody thinks anything about that, nor even notices it. Butwe afterward finds out that he'd met up with Blacklock that day, an'stopped to visit with him--sorry day for Cockeye. Now it was the verynext day after this that Mary-go-round an' the Boss plans another scout. I'm to go, too. It was a Wednesday, an' we lay it out that the Cockeyewould prob'ly shoot that day so's to get his fish down to the railroadThursday, so they'd reach Sacramento Friday--fish day, see. It wasn'tmuch to go by, but it was the high card in our hand, an' we allowed todraw to it. 

"We left Why-not afore daybreak, an' worked over into the cañon aboutsun-up. They was one big pool we hadn't covered for some time, an' wemade out we'd watch that. So we worked down to it, an' clumb up into ourtrees, an' set out to keep guard. 

"In about an hour we heard a shoot some mile or so up the creek. They'sno mistaking dynamite, leastways not to miners, an' we knew that shootwas dynamite an' nothing else. The Cock-eye was at work, an' we shookhands all round. Then pretty soon a fish or so began to go by--bigfellows, some of 'em, dead an' floatin', with their eyes popped 'way outsame as knobs--sure sign they'd been shot. 

"The Boss took and grit his teeth when he see a three-pounder go by, an'made remarks about Blacklock. 

"''Sh!' says Mary-go-round, sudden-like. 'Listen!'

"We turned ear down the wind, an' sure there was the sound of some onescrabbling along the boulders by the riverside. Then we heard a pup yap. 

"'That's our man, ' whispers the Boss. 

"For a long time we thought Cock-eye had quit for the day an' hadcoppered us again, but byne-by we heard the manzanita crack on the farside the cañon, an' there at last we see Blacklock working down towardthe pool, Sloppy Weather following an' yapping and cayoodling just as afool dog will. 

"Blacklock comes down to the edge of the water quiet-like. He lays hisbig scoop-net an' his sack--we can see it half full already--down behinda boulder, and takes a good squinting look all round, and listens maybetwenty minutes, he's that cute, same's a coyote stealing sheep. We lieslow an' says nothing, fear he might see the leaves move. 

"Then byne-by he takes his stick of dynamite out his hip pocket--he wasjust that reckless kind to carry it that way--an' ties it careful to acouple of stones he finds handy. Then he lights the fuse an' heaves herinto the drink, an' just there's where Cock-eye makes the mistake of hislife. He ain't tied the rocks tight enough, an' the loop slips off justas he swings back his arm, the stones drop straight down by his feet, and the stick of dynamite whirls out right enough into the pool. 

"Then the funny business begins. 

"Blacklock ain't made no note of Sloppy Weather, who's been sizing upthe whole game an' watchin' for the stick. Soon as Cock-eye heaves thedynamite into the water, off goes the pup after it, just as he'd beentaught to do by the car-boys. 

"'Hey, you fool dog!' yells Blacklock. 

"A lot that pup cares. He heads out for that stick of dynamite same asif for a veal cutlet, reaches it, grabs hold of it, an' starts back forshore, with the fuse sputterin' like hot grease. Blacklock heaves rocksat him like one possessed, capering an' dancing; but the pup comes righton. The Cock-eye can't stand it no longer, but lines out. But the pup'sgot to shore an' takes after him. Sure; why not? He think's it's allpart of the game. Takes after Cock-eye, running to beat a' express, while we-all whoops and yells an' nearly falls out the trees forlaffing. Hi! Cock-eye did scratch gravel for sure. But 'tain't no mannerof use. He can't run through that rough ground like Sloppy Weather, an'that fool pup comes a-cavartin' along, jumpin' up against him, an' hima-kickin' him away, an' r'arin', an' dancin', an' shakin' his fists, an'the more he r'ars the more fun the pup thinks it is. But all at oncesomething big happens, an' the whole bank of the cañon opens out like abig wave, and slops over into the pool, an' the air is full of trees an'rocks and cart-loads of dirt an' dogs and Blacklocks and rivers an'smoke an' fire generally. The Boss got a clod o' river-mud spang in theeye, an' went off his limb like's he was trying to bust a bucking bronc'an' couldn't; and ol' Mary-go-round was shooting off his gun on generalprinciples, glarin' round wild-eyed an' like as if he saw a' Injundevil. 

"When the smoke had cleared away an' the trees and rocks quit falling, we clumb down from our places an' started in to look for Black-lock. Wefound a good deal of him, but they wasn't hide nor hair left of SloppyWeather. We didn't have to dig no grave, either. They was a big enoughhole in the ground to bury a horse an' wagon, let alone Cock-eye. So weplanted him there, an' put up a board, an' wrote on it:

 Here lies most of C. BLACKLOCK, who died of a' entangling alliance with a stick of dynamite. 

 Moral: A hook and line is good enough fish-tackle for any honest man. 

"That there board lasted for two years, till the freshet of '82, whenthe American River--Hello, there's the sun!"

All in a minute the night seemed to have closed up like a great book. The East flamed roseate. The air was cold, nimble. Some of thesage-brush bore a thin rim of frost. The herd, aroused, the dewglistening on flank and horn, were chewing the first cud of the day, andin twos and threes moving toward the water-hole for the morning's drink. Far off toward the camp the breakfast fire sent a shaft of blue smokestraight into the moveless air. A jack-rabbit, with erect ears, limpedfrom the sage-brush just out of pistol-shot and regarded us a moment, his nose wrinkling and trembling. By the time that Bunt and I, puttingour ponies to a canter, had pulled up by the camp of the Bar-circle-Zoutfit, another day had begun in Idaho. 

A MEMORANDUM OF SUDDEN DEATH

The manuscript of the account that follows belongs to a harness-maker inAlbuquerque, Juan Tejada by name, and he is welcome to whatever ofadvertisement this notice may bring him. He is a good fellow, and hispatented martingale for stage horses may be recommended. I understand hegot the manuscript from a man named Bass, or possibly Bass left it withhim for safe-keeping. I know that Tejada has some things of Bass'snow--things that Bass left with him last November: a mess-kit, a lanternand a broken theodolite--a whole saddle-box full of contraptions. Iforgot to ask Tejada how Bass got the manuscript, and I wish I had doneso now, for the finding of it might be a story itself. The probabilitiesare that Bass simply picked it up page by page off the desert, blownabout the spot where the fight occurred and at some little distance fromthe bodies. Bass, I am told, is a bone-gatherer by profession, and onecan easily understand how he would come across the scene of theencounter in one of his tours into western Arizona. My interest in theaffair is impersonal, but none the less keen. Though I did not knowyoung Karslake, I knew his stuff--as everybody still does, when you cometo that. For the matter of that, the mere mention of his pen-name, "Anson Qualtraugh, " recalls at once to thousands of the readers of acertain world-famous monthly magazine of New York articles and storieshe wrote for it while he was alive; as, for instance, his admirabledescriptive work called "Traces of the Aztecs on the Mogolon Mesa, " inthe October number of 1890. Also, in the January issue of 1892 there aretwo specimens of his work, one signed Anson Qualtraugh and the otherJustin Blisset. Why he should have used the Blisset signature I do notknow. It occurs only this once in all his writings. In this case it issigned to a very indifferent New Year's story. The Qualtraugh "stuff" ofthe same number is, so the editor writes to me, a much shortenedtranscript of a monograph on "Primitive Methods of Moki Irrigation, "which are now in the archives of the Smithsonian. The admirable novel, "The Peculiar Treasure of Kings, " is of course well known. Karslakewrote it in 1888-89, and the controversy that arose about the incidentof the third chapter is still--sporadically and intermittently--continued. 

The manuscript that follows now appears, of course, for the first timein print, and I acknowledge herewith my obligations to Karslake'sfather, Mr. Patterson Karslake, for permission to publish. 

I have set the account down word for word, with all the hiatuses andbreaks that by nature of the extraordinary circumstances under which itwas written were bound to appear in it. I have allowed it to endprecisely as Karslake was forced to end it, in the middle of a sentence. God knows the real end is plain enough and was not far off when the poorfellow began the last phrase that never was to be finished. 

The value of the thing is self-apparent. Besides the narrative ofincidents it is a simple setting forth of a young man's emotions in thevery face of violent death. You will remember the distinguished victimof the guillotine, a lady who on the scaffold begged that she might bepermitted to write out the great thoughts that began to throng her mind. She was not allowed to do so, and the record is lost. Here is a casewhere the record is preserved. But Karslake, being a young man not verymuch given to introspection, his work is more a picture of things seenthan a transcription of things thought. However, one may read betweenthe lines; the very breaks are eloquent, while the break at the endspeaks with a significance that no words could attain. 

The manuscript in itself is interesting. It is written partly in pencil, partly in ink (no doubt from a fountain pen), on sheets of manila papertorn from some sort of long and narrow account-book. In two or threeplaces there are smudges where the powder-blackened finger and thumbheld the sheets momentarily. I would give much to own it, but Tejadawill not give it up without Bass's permission, and Bass has gone to theKlondike. 

As to Karslake himself. He was born in Raleigh, in North Carolina, in1868, studied law at the State University, and went to the Bahamas in1885 with the members of a government coast survey commission. Gave upthe practice of law and "went in" for fiction and the study of theethnology of North America about 1887. He was unmarried. 

The reasons for his enlisting have long been misunderstood. It was knownthat at the time of his death he was a member of B Troop of the SixthRegiment of United States Cavalry, and it was assumed that because ofthis fact Karslake was in financial difficulties and not upon good termswith his family. All this, of course, is untrue, and I have every reasonto believe that Karslake at this time was planning a novel of militarylife in the Southwest, and, wishing to get in closer touch with the_milieu_ of the story, actually enlisted in order to be able to writeauthoritatively. He saw no active service until the time when hisnarrative begins. The year of his death is uncertain. It was in thespring probably of 1896, in the twenty-eighth year of his age. 

There is no doubt he would have become in time a great writer. A youngman of twenty-eight who had so lively a sense of the value of accurateobservation, and so eager a desire to produce that in the very face ofdeath he could faithfully set down a description of his surroundings, actually laying down the rifle to pick up the pen, certainly waspossessed of extraordinary faculties. 

"They came in sight early this morning just after we had had breakfastand had broken camp. The four of us--'Bunt, ' 'Idaho, ' Estorijo andmyself--were jogging on to the southward and had just come up out of thedry bed of some water-hole--the alkali was white as snow in thecrevices--when Idaho pointed them out to us, three to the rear, two onone side, one on the other and--very far away--two ahead. Five minutesbefore, the desert was as empty as the flat of my hand. They seemedliterally to have _grown_ out of the sage-brush. We took them in throughmy field-glasses and Bunt made sure they were an outlying band ofHunt-in-the-Morning's Bucks. I had thought, and so had all of us, thatthe rest of the boys had rounded up the whole of the old man's hostileslong since. We are at a loss to account for these fellows here. Theyseem to be well mounted. 

"We held a council of war from the saddle without halting, but thereseemed very little to be done--but to go right along and wait fordevelopments. At about eleven we found water--just a pocket in the bedof a dried stream--and stopped to water the ponies. I am writing thisduring the halt. 

"We have one hundred and sixteen rifle cartridges. Yesterday was Friday, and all day, as the newspapers say, 'the situation remained unchanged. 'We expected surely that the night would see some rather radical change, but nothing happened, though we stood watch and watch till morning. Ofyesterday's eight only six are in sight and we bring up reserves. We nowhave two to the front, one on each side, and two to the rear, all farout of rifle-range. 

[_The following paragraph is in an unsteady script and would appear tohave been written in the saddle. The same peculiarity occurs from timeto time in the narrative, and occasionally the writing is so broken asto be illegible_. ]

"On again after breakfast. It is about eight-fifteen. The other two havecome back--without 'reserves, ' thank God. Very possibly they did not goaway at all, but were hidden by a dip in the ground. I cannot see thatany of them are nearer. I have watched one to the left of us steadilyfor more than half an hour and I am sure that he has not shortened thedistance between himself and us. What their plans are Hell only knows, but this silent, persistent escorting tells on the nerves. I do notthink I am afraid--as yet. It does not seem possible but that we willride into La Paz at the end of the fortnight exactly as we had planned, meet Greenock according to arrangements and take the stage on to therailroad. Then next month I shall be in San Antonio and report atheadquarters. Of course, all this is to be, of course; and this businessof to-day will make a good story to tell. It's an experience--good'material. ' Very naturally I cannot now see how I am going to get out ofthis" [_the word "alive" has here been erased_], "but of course I_will_. Why 'of course'? I don't know. Maybe I am trying to deceivemyself. Frankly, it looks like a situation insoluble; but the solutionwill surely come right enough in good time. 

"Eleven o'clock. --No change. 

"Two-thirty P. M. --We are halted to tighten girths and to take a singleswallow of the canteens. One of them rode in a wide circle from the rearto the flank, about ten minutes ago, conferred a moment with his fellow, then fell back to his old position. He wears some sort of red cloth orblanket. We reach no more water till day after to-morrow. But we havesufficient. Estorijo has been telling funny stories en route. 

"Four o'clock P. M. --They have closed up perceptibly, and we have beendebating about trying one of them with Idaho's Winchester. No use;better save the ammunition. It looks. .. . " [_the next words areundecipherable, but from the context they would appear to be_ "_as ifthey would attack to-night_"]". .. We have come to know certain of themnow by nicknames. We speak of the Red One, or the Little One, or the Onewith the Feather, and Idaho has named a short thickset fellow on ourright 'Little Willie. ' By God, I wish something would turn up--relief orfight. I don't care which. How Estorijo can cackle on, reeling off hissenseless, pointless funny stories, is beyond me. Bunt is almost as bad. They understand the fix we are in, I _know_, but how they can take it soeasily is the staggering surprise. I feel that I am as courageous aseither of them, but levity seems horribly inappropriate. I could killEstorijo joyfully. 

"Sunday morning. --Still no developments. We were so sure of somethingturning up last night that none of us pretended to sleep. But nothingstirred. There is no sneaking out of the circle at night. The moon isfull. A jack-rabbit could not have slipped by them unseen last night. 

"Nine o'clock (in the saddle). --We had coffee and bacon as usual atsunrise; then on again to the southeast just as before. For half an hourafter starting the Red One and two others were well within rifle-shot, nearer than ever before. They had worked in from the flank. But beforeIdaho could get a chance at them they dipped into a shallow arroyo, andwhen they came out on the other side were too far away to think ofshooting. 

"Ten o'clock. --All at once we find there are nine instead of eight;where and when this last one joined the band we cannot tell. He wears asombrero and army trousers, but the upper part of his body is bare. Idaho calls him 'Half-and-half. ' He is riding a---- They're coming. 

"Later. --For a moment we thought it was the long-expected rush. The RedOne--he had been in the front--wheeled quick as a flash and camestraight for us, and the others followed suit. Great Heavens, how theyrode! We could hear them yelling on every side of us. We jumped off ourponies and stood behind them, the rifles across the saddles. But at fourhundred yards they all pivoted about and cantered off again leisurely. Now they followed us as before--three in the front, two in the rear andtwo on either side. I do not think I am going to be frightened when therush does come. I watched myself just now. I was excited, and I rememberBunt saying to me, 'Keep your shirt on, m'son'; but I was not afraid ofbeing killed. Thank God for that! It is something I've long wished tofind out, and now that I know it I am proud of it. Neither side fired ashot. I was not afraid. It's glorious. Estorijo is all right. 

"Sunday afternoon, one-thirty. --No change. It is unspeakably hot. 

"Three-fifteen. --The One with the Feather is walking, leading his pony. It seems to be lame. " [_With this entry Karslake ended page five, andthe next page of the manuscript is numbered seven. It is very probable, however, that he made a mistake in the numerical sequence of his pages, for the narrative is continuous, and, at this point at least, unbroken. There does not seem to be any sixth page_. ]

"Four o'clock. --Is it possible that we are to pass another night ofsuspense? They certainly show no signs of bringing on the crisis, andthey surely would not attempt anything so late in the afternoon as this. It is a relief to feel that we have nothing to fear till morning, butthe tension of watching all night long is fearful. 

"Later. --Idaho has just killed the Little One. 

"Later. --Still firing. 

"Later. --Still at it. 

"Later, about five. --A bullet struck within three feet of me. 

"Five-ten. --Still firing. 

"Seven-thirty P. M. , in camp. --It happened so quickly that it was allover before I realized. We had our first interchange of shots with themlate this afternoon. The Little One was riding from the front to theflank. Evidently he did not think he was in range--nor did any of us. All at once Idaho tossed up his rifle and let go without aiming--or soit seemed to me. The stock was not at his shoulder before the reportcame. About six seconds after the smoke had cleared away we could seethe Little One begin to lean backward in the saddle, and Idaho saidgrimly, 'I guess I got _you_. ' The Little One leaned farther and farthertill suddenly his head dropped back between his shoulder-blades. He heldto his pony's mane with both hands for a long time and then all at oncewent off feet first. His legs bent under him like putty as his feettouched the ground. The pony bolted. 

"Just as soon as Idaho fired the others closed right up and began ridingaround us at top speed, firing as they went. Their aim was bad as arule, but one bullet came very close to me. At about half-past five theydrew off out of range again and we made camp right where we stood. Estorijo and I are both sure that Idaho hit the Red One, but Idahohimself is doubtful, and Bunt did not see the shot. I could swear thatthe Red One all but went off his pony. However, he seems active enoughnow. 

"Monday morning. --Still another night without attack. I have not sleptsince Friday evening. The strain is terrific. At daybreak this morning, when one of our ponies snorted suddenly, I cried out at the top of myvoice. I could no more have repressed it than I could have stopped myblood flowing; and for half an hour afterward I could feel my fleshcrisping and pringling, and there was a sickening weakness at the pit ofmy stomach. At breakfast I had to force down my coffee. They are stillin place, but now there are two on each side, two in the front, two inthe rear. The killing of the Little One seems to have heartened us allwonderfully. I am sure we will get out--somehow. But oh! the suspense ofit. 

"Monday morning, nine-thirty. --Under way for over two hours. There is nonew development. But Idaho has just said that they seem to be edging in. We hope to reach water to-day. Our supply is low, and the ponies arebeginning to hang their heads. It promises to be a blazing hot day. There is alkali all to the west of us, and we just commence to see therise of ground miles to the southward that Idaho says is the San JacintoMountains. Plenty of water there. The desert hereabout is vast andlonesome beyond words; leagues of sparse sage-brush, leagues ofleper-white alkali, leagues of baking gray sand, empty, heat-ridden, theabomination of desolation; and always--in whichever direction I turn myeyes--always, in the midst of this pale-yellow blur, a single figure inthe distance, blanketed, watchful, solitary, standing out sharp anddistinct against the background of sage and sand. 

"Monday, about eleven o'clock. --No change. The heat is appalling. Thereis just a----

"Later. --I was on the point of saying that there was just a mouthful ofwater left for each of us in our canteens when Estorijo and Idaho bothat the same time cried out that they were moving in. It is true. Theyare within rifle range, but do not fire. We, as well, have decided toreserve our fire until something more positive happens. 

"Noon. --The first shot--for to-day--from the Red One. We are halted. Theshot struck low and to the left. We could see the sand spout up in acloud just as though a bubble had burst on the surface of the ground. 

"They have separated from each other, and the whole eight of them arenow in a circle around us. Idaho believes the Red One fired as a signal. Estorijo is getting ready to take a shot at the One with the Feather. Wehave the ponies in a circle around us. It looks as if now at last thiswas the beginning of the real business. 

Later, twelve-thirty-five. --Estorijo missed. Idaho will try with theWinchester as soon as the One with the Feather halts. He is gallopingtoward the Red One. 

"All at once, about two o'clock, the fighting began. This is the firstlet-up. It is now--God knows what time. They closed up suddenly andbegan galloping about us in a circle, firing all the time. They rodelike madmen. I would not have believed that Indian ponies could run soquickly. What with their yelling and the incessant crack of their riflesand the thud of their ponies' feet our horses at first became veryrestless, and at last Idaho's mustang bolted clean away. We all stood toit as hard as we could. For about the first fifteen minutes it was hotwork. The Spotted One is hit. We are certain of that much, though we donot know whose gun did the work. My poor old horse is bleedingdreadfully from the mouth. He has two bullets in the stomach, and I donot believe he can stand much longer. They have let up for the last fewmoments, but are still riding around us, their guns at 'ready. ' Everynow and then one of us fires, but the heat shimmer has come up over theground since noon and the range is extraordinarily deceiving. 

"Three-ten. --Estorijo's horse is down, shot clean through the head. Minehas gone long since. We have made a rampart of the bodies. 

"Three-twenty. --They are at it again, tearing around us incredibly fast, every now and then narrowing the circle. The bullets are strikingeverywhere now. I have no rifle, do what I can with my revolver, and tryto watch what is going on in front of me and warn the others when theypress in too close on my side. " [_Karslake nowhere accounts for theabsence of his carbine. That a U. S. Trooper should be without his gunwhile traversing a hostile country is a fact difficult to account for_. ]

"Three-thirty. --They have winged me--through the shoulder. Not bad, butit is bothersome. I sit up to fire, and Bunt gives me his knee on whichto rest my right arm. When it hangs it is painful. 

"Quarter to four. --It is horrible. Bunt is dying. He cannot speak, theball having gone through the lower part of his face, but back, near theneck. It happened through his trying to catch his horse. The animal wasstruck in the breast and tried to bolt. He reared up, backing away, andas we had to keep him close to us to serve as a bulwark Bunt followedhim out from the little circle that we formed, his gun in one hand, hisother gripping the bridle. I suppose every one of the eight fired at himsimultaneously, and down he went. The pony dragged him a little waysstill clutching the bridle, then fell itself, its whole weight rollingon Bunt's chest. We have managed to get him in and secure his rifle, buthe will not live. None of us knows him very well. He only joined usabout a week ago, but we all liked him from the start. He never spoke ofhimself, so we cannot tell much about him. Idaho says he has a wife inTorreon, but that he has not lived with her for two years; they did notget along well together, it seems. This is the first violent death Ihave ever seen, and it astonishes me to note how _unimportant_ it seems. How little anybody cares--after all. If I had been told of hisdeath--the details of it, in a story or in the form of fiction--it iseasily conceivable that it would have impressed me more with itsimportance than the actual scene has done. Possibly my mental vision isscaled to a larger field since Friday, and as the greater issues loom upone man more or less seems to be but a unit--more or less--in an eternalseries. When he was hit he swung back against the horse, still holdingby the rein. His feet slid from under him, and he cried out, 'My _God_!'just once. We divided his cartridges between us and Idaho passed me hiscarbine. The barrel was scorching hot. 

"They have drawn off a little and for fifteen minutes, though they stillcircle us slowly, there has been no firing. Forty cartridges left. Bunt's body (I think he is dead now) lies just back of me, and alreadythe gnats--I can't speak of it. "

[_Karslake evidently made the next few entries at successive intervalsof time, but neglected in his excitement to note the exact hour asabove. We may gather that "They" made another attack and then repeatedthe assault so quickly that he had no chance to record it properly. Itranscribe the entries in exactly the disjointed manner in which theyoccur in the original. The reference to the "fire" is unexplainable_. ]

"I shall do my best to set down exactly what happened and what I do andthink, and what I see. 

"The heat-shimmer spoiled my aim, but I am quite sure that either

"This last rush was the nearest. I had started to say that though theheat-shimmer was bad, either Estorijo or myself wounded one of theirponies. We saw him stumble. 

"Another rush----

"Our ammunition

"Only a few cartridges left. 

"The Red One like a whirlwind only fifty yards away. 

"We fire separately now as they sneak up under cover of our smoke. 

"We put the fire out. Estorijo--" [_It is possible that Karslake hadbegun here to chronicle the death of the Mexican_. ]

"I have killed the Spotted One. Just as he wheeled his horse I saw himin a line with the rifle-sights and let him have it squarely. It tookhim straight in the breast. I could _feel_ that shot strike. He wentdown like a sack of lead weights. By God, it was superb!

"Later. --They have drawn off out of range again, and we are allowed abreathing-spell. Our ponies are either dead or dying, and we havedragged them around us to form a barricade. We lie on the ground behindthe bodies and fire over them. There are twenty-seven cartridges left. 

"It is now mid-afternoon. Our plan is to stand them off if we can tillnight and then to try an escape between them. But to what purpose? Theywould trail us so soon as it was light. 

[Illustration: CAUGHT IN THE CIRCLE. 

The last stand of three troopers and a scout overtaken by a band ofhostile Indians

_Drawn by Frederic Remington. Courtesy of Collier's Weekly. _]

"We think now that they followed us without attacking for so longbecause they were waiting till the lay of the land suited them. Theywanted--no doubt--an absolutely flat piece of country, with nodepressions, no hills or stream-beds in which we could hide, but whichshould be high upon the edges, like an amphitheatre. They would get usin the centre and occupy the rim themselves. Roughly, this is the bit ofdesert which witnesses our 'last stand. ' On three sides the groundswells a very little--the rise is not four feet. On the third side it isopen, and so flat that even lying on the ground as we do we can see(leagues away) the San Jacinto hills--'from whence cometh no help. ' Itis all sand and sage, forever and forever. Even the sage is sparse--abad place even for a coyote. The whole is flagellated with anintolerable heat and--now that the shooting is relaxed--oppressed with abenumbing, sodden silence--the silence of a primordial world. Such asilence as must have brooded over the Face of the Waters on the Eve ofCreation--desolate, desolate, as though a colossal, invisible pillar--apillar of the Infinitely Still, the pillar of Nirvana--rose forever intothe empty blue, human life an atom of microscopic dust crushed under itsbasis, and at the summit God Himself. And I find time to ask myself why, at this of all moments of my tiny life-span, I am able to write as I do, registering impressions, keeping a finger upon the pulse of the spirit. But oh! if I had time now--time to write down the great thoughts that dothrong the brain. They are there, I feel them, know them. No doubt thesupreme exaltation of approaching death is the stimulus that one neverexperiences in the humdrum business of the day-to-day existence. Suchmighty thoughts! Unintelligible, but if I had time I could spell themout, _and how I could write then_! I feel that the whole secret of Lifeis within my reach; I can almost grasp it; I seem to feel that in justanother instant I can see it all plainly, as the archangels see it allthe time, as the great minds of the world, the great philosophers, haveseen it once or twice, vaguely--a glimpse here and there, after years ofpatient study. Seeing thus I should be the equal of the gods. But it isnot meant to be. There is a sacrilege in it. I almost seem to understandwhy it is kept from us. But the very reason of this withholding is initself a part of the secret. If I could only, only set it down!--forwhose eyes? Those of a wandering hawk? God knows. But never mind. Ishould have spoken--once; should have said the great Word for which theWorld since the evening and the morning of the First Day has listened. God knows. God knows. What a whirl is this? Monstrous incongruity. Philosophy and fighting troopers. The Infinite and dead horses. There'shumour for you. The Sublime takes off its hat to the Ridiculous. Send acartridge clashing into the breech and speculate about the Absolute. Keep one eye on your sights and the other on Cosmos. Blow the reek ofburned powder from before you so you may look over the edge of the abyssof the Great Primal Cause. Duck to the whistle of a bullet and communewith Schopenhauer. Perhaps I am a little mad. Perhaps I am supremelyintelligent. But in either case I am not understandable to myself. How, then, be understandable to others? If these sheets of paper, thisincoherence, is ever read, the others will understand it about as muchas the investigating hawk. But none the less be it of record that I, Karslake, SAW. It reads like Revelations: 'I, John, saw. ' It is justthat. There is something apocalyptic in it all. I have seen a vision, but cannot--there is the pitch of anguish in the impotence--bear record. If time were allowed to order and arrange the words of description, thisexaltation of spirit, in that very space of time, would relax, and thedescriber lapse back to the level of the average again before he couldset down the things he saw, the things he thought. The machinery of themind that could coin the great Word is automatic, and the very forcethat brings the die near the blank metal supplies the motor power of thereaction before the impression is made . .. I stopped for an instant, looking up from the page, and at once the great vague panorama faded. Ilost it all. Cosmos has dwindled again to an amphitheatre of sage andsand, a vista of distant purple hills, the shimmer of scorching alkali, and in the middle distance there, those figures, blanketed, beaded, feathered, rifle in hand. 

"But for a moment I stood on Patmos. 

"The Ridiculous jostles the elbow of the Sublime and shoulders it fromplace as Idaho announces that he has found two more cartridges inEstorijo's pockets. 

"They rushed again. Eight more cartridges gone. Twenty-one left. Theyrush in this manner--at first the circle, rapid beyond expression, onefigure succeeding the other so swiftly that the dizzied vision losescount and instead of seven of them there appear to be seventy. Thensuddenly, on some indistinguishable signal, they contract this circle, and through the jets of powder-smoke Idaho and I see them whirling pastour rifle-sights not one hundred yards away. Then their fire suddenlyslackens, the smoke drifts by, and we see them in the distance again, moving about us at a slow canter. Then the blessed breathing-spell, while we peer out to know if we have killed or not, and count ourcartridges. We have laid the twenty-one loaded shells that remain in arow between us, and after our first glance outward to see if any of themare down, our next is inward at that ever-shrinking line of brass andlead. We do not talk much. This is the end. We know it now. All of asudden the conviction that I am to die here has hardened within me. Itis, all at once, absurd that I should ever have supposed that I was toreach La Paz, take the east-bound train and report at San Antonio. Itseems to me that I _knew_, weeks ago, that our trip was to end thus. Iknew it--somehow--in Sonora, while we were waiting orders, and I tellmyself that if I had only stopped to really think of it I could haveforeseen today's bloody business. 

"Later. --The Red One got off his horse and bound up the creature's leg. One of us hit him, evidently. A little higher, it would have reached theheart. Our aim is ridiculously bad--the heat-shimmer----

"Later. --Idaho is wounded. This last time, for a moment, I was sure theend had come. They were within revolver range and we could feel thevibration of the ground under their ponies' hoofs. But suddenly theydrew off. I have looked at my watch; it is four o'clock. 

"Four o'clock. --Idaho's wound is bad--a long, raking furrow in the rightforearm. I bind it up for him, but he is losing a great deal of bloodand is very weak. 

"They seem to know that we are only two by now, for with each rush theygrow bolder. The slackening of our fire must tell them how scant is ourammunition. 

"Later. --This last was magnificent. The Red One and one other with linesof blue paint across his cheek galloped right at us. Idaho had beenlying with his head and shoulders propped against the neck of his deadpony. His eyes were shut, and I thought he had fainted. But as he heardthem coming he struggled up, first to his knees and then to his feet--tohis full height--dragging his revolver from his hip with his left hand. The whole right arm swung useless. He was so weak that he could onlylift the revolver half way--could not get the muzzle up. But though itsagged and dropped in his grip, he _would_ die fighting. When he firedthe bullet threw up the sand not a yard from his feet, and then he fellon his face across the body of the horse. During the charge I fired asfast as I could, but evidently to no purpose. They must have thoughtthat Idaho was dead, for as soon as they saw him getting to his feetthey sheered their horses off and went by on either side of us. I havemade Idaho comfortable. He is unconscious; have used the last of thewater to give him a drink. He does not seem----

"They continue to circle us. Their fire is incessant, but very wild. Solong as I keep my head down I am comparatively safe. 

"Later. --I think Idaho is dying. It seems he was hit a second time whenhe stood up to fire. Estorijo is still breathing; I thought him deadlong since. 

"Four-ten. --Idaho gone. Twelve cartridges left. Am all alone now. 

"Four-twenty-five. --I am very weak. " [_Karslake was evidently woundedsometime between ten and twenty-five minutes after four. His notes makeno mention of the fact_. ] "Eight cartridges remain. I leave my libraryto my brother, Walter Patterson Karslake; all my personal effects to myparents, except the picture of myself taken in Baltimore in 1897, whichI direct to be" [_the next lines are undecipherable_] ". .. AtWashington, D. C. , as soon as possible. I appoint as my literary--

"Four forty-five. --Seven cartridges. Very weak and unable to move lowerpart of my body. Am in no pain. They rode in very close. The Red Oneis---- An intolerable thirst----

"I appoint as my literary executor my brother, Patterson Karslake. Thenotes on 'Coronado in New Mexico' should be revised. 

"My death occurred in western Arizona, April 15th, at the hands of aroving band of Hunt-in-the-Morning's bucks. They have----

"Five o'clock. --The last cartridge gone. 

"Estorijo still breathing. I cover his face with my hat. Their fire isincessant. Am much weaker. Convey news of death to Patterson Karslake, care of Corn Exchange Bank, New York City. 

"Five-fifteen--about. --They have ceased firing, and draw together in abunch. I have four cartridges left" [_see conflicting note dated fiveo'clock_], "but am extremely weak. Idaho was the best friend I had inall the Southwest. I wish it to be known that he was a generous, open-hearted fellow, a kindly man, clean of speech, and absolutelyunselfish. He may be known as follows: Sandy beard, long sandy hair, scar on forehead, about six feet one inch in height. His real name isJames Monroe Herndon; his profession that of government scout. NotifyMrs. Herndon, Trinidad, New Mexico. 

"The writer is Arthur Staples Karslake, dark hair, height five feeteleven, body will be found near that of Herndon. 

"Luis Estorijo, Mexican----

"Later. --Two more cartridges. 

"Five-thirty. --Estorijo dead. 

"It is half-past five in the afternoon of April fifteenth. They followedus from the eleventh--Friday--till to-day. It will

[_The MS. Ends here_. ]

TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE

"Which I puts it up as how you ain't never heard about that time thatHardenberg and Strokher--the Englisher--had a friendly go with bareknuckles--ten rounds it was--all along o' a feemale woman?"

It is a small world and I had just found out that my friend, BuntMcBride--horse-wrangler, miner, faro-dealer and bone-gatherer--whoseworld was the plains and ranges of the Great Southwest, was known of theThree Black Crows, Hardenberg, Strokher and Ally Bazan, and had evenforegathered with them on more than one of their ventures for CyrusRyder's Exploitation Agency--ventures that had nothing of the desert inthem, but that involved the sea, and the schooner, and the taste of thegreat-lunged canorous trades. 

"Ye ain't never crossed the trail o' that mournful history?"

I professed my ignorance and said:

"They fought?"

"Mister Man, " returned Bunt soberly, as one broaching a subject not tobe trifled with, "They sure did. Friendly-like, y'know--like as how twohigh-steppin', sassy gents figures out to settle any little strainedrelations--friendly-like but considerable keen. "

He took a pinch of tobacco from his pouch and a bit of paper and rolleda cigarette in the twinkling of an eye, using only one hand, in trueMexican style. 

"Now, " he said, as he drew the first long puff to the very bottom of theleathern valves he calls his lungs. "Now, I'm a-goin' for to relate thatsame painful proceedin' to you, just so as you kin get a line on theconsumin' and devourin' foolishness o' male humans when they's a womanin the wind. Woman, " said Bunt, wagging his head thoughtfully at thewater, "woman is a weather-breeder. Mister Dixon, they is three thingsI'm skeered of. The last two I don't just rightly call to mind at thismoment, but the first is woman. When I meets up with a feemale woman onmy trail, I sheers off some prompt, Mr. Dixon; I sheers off. An'Hardenberg, " he added irrelevantly, "would a-took an' married thiswoman, so he would. Yes, an' Strokher would, too. "

"Was there another man?" I asked. 

"No, " said Bunt. Then he began to chuckle behind his mustaches. "Yes, they was. " He smote a thigh. "They sure was another man for fair. Well, now, Mr. Man, lemmee tell you the whole '_how_. '

"It began with me bein' took into a wild-eyed scheme that that maverick, Cy Ryder, had cooked up for the Three Crows. They was a row downGortamalar way. Same gesabe named Palachi--Barreto Palachi--findin'times dull an' the boys some off their feed, ups an' says to hisself, 'Exercise is wot I needs. I will now take an' overthrow the blameGover'ment. ' Well, this same Palachi rounds up a bunch o' _insurrectos_an' begins pesterin' an' badgerin' an' hectorin' the Gover'ment; an'r'arin' round an' bellerin' an' makin' a procession of hisself, till hesure pervades the landscape; an' before you knows what, lo'n beholt, here's a reel live Revolution-Thing cayoodlin' in the scenery, an' theGover'ment is plum bothered. 

"They rounds up the gesabe at last at a place on the coast, but heescapes as easy as how-do-you-do. He can't, howsomever, git back to his_insurrectos_; the blame Gover'ment being in possession of all thetrails leadin' into the hinterland; so says he, 'What for a game wouldit be for me to hyke up to 'Frisco an' git in touch with my financialbackers an' conspirate to smuggle down a load o' arms?' Which the samehe does, and there's where the Three Black Crows an' me begin to take ahand. 

"Cy Ryder gives us the job o' taking the schooner down to a certainpoint on the Gortamalar coast and there delivering to the agent o' thegazabo three thousand stand o' forty-eight Winchesters. 

"When we gits this far into the game Ryder ups and says:

"'Boys, here's where I cashes right in. You sets right to me for theschooner and the cargo. But you goes to Palachi's agent over 'crost thebay for instructions and directions. '

"'But, ' says the Englisher, Strokher, 'this bettin' a blind play don'tsuit our hand. Why not' says he, 'make right up to Mister Palachihisself?'

"'No, ' says Ryder, 'No, boys. Ye can't. The Sigñor is lying as low as atoad in a wheeltrack these days, because o' the pryin' and meddlin'disposition o' the local authorities. No, ' he says, 'ye must have yourpalaver with the agent which she is a woman, ' an' thereon I groans lowand despairin'. 

"So soon as he mentions 'feemale' I _knowed_ trouble was in theatmosphere. An' right there is where I sure looses my presence o' mind. What I should a-done was to say, 'Mister Ryder, Hardenberg and gentsall: You're good boys an' you drinks and deals fair, an' I loves you allwith a love that can never, never die for the terms o' your naturallives, an' may God have mercy on your souls; _but_ I ain't keepin' caseon this 'ere game no longer. Woman and me is mules an' music. We ain'tnever made to ride in the same go-cart Good-by. ' That-all is wot Ishould ha' said. But I didn't. I walked right plum into the sloo, likethe mudhead that I was, an' got mired for fair--jes as I might a-knowedI would. 

"Well, Ryder gives us a address over across the bay an' we fair hykesover there all along o' as crool a rain as ever killed crops. We findsthe place after awhile, a lodgin'-house all lorn and loony, set down allby itself in the middle o' some real estate extension like a tepee in a'barren'--a crazy 'modern' house all gimcrack and woodwork and frostin', with never another place in so far as you could hear a coyote yelp. 

"Well, we bucks right up an' asks o' the party at the door if theSigñorita Esperanza Ulivarri--that was who Ryder had told us to askfor--might be concealed about the premises, an' we shows Cy Ryder'snote. The party that opened the door was a Greaser, the worst looking Iever clapped eyes on--looked like the kind wot 'ud steal the coppers offhis dead grandmother's eyes. Anyhow, he says to come in, gruff-like, an'to wait, _poco tiempo_. 

"Well, we waited _moucho tiempo--muy moucho_, all a-settin' on the edgeof the sofy, with our hats on our knees, like philly-loo birds on arail, and a-countin' of the patterns in the wall-paper to pass the timealong. An' Hardenberg, who's got to do the talkin', gets the fidgetsbyne-by; and because he's only restin' the toes o' his feet on thefloor, his knees begin jiggerin'; an' along o' watchin' him, _my_ kneesbegin to go, an' then Strokher's and then Ally Bazan's. An' there we satall in a row and jiggered an' jiggered. Great snakes, it makes me sickto the stummick to think o' the idjeets we were. 

"Then after a long time we hears a rustle o' silk petticoats, an' we allgrabs holt o' one another an' looks scared-like, out from under oureyebrows. An' then--then, Mister Man, they walks into that bunk-houseparlour the loveliest-lookin' young feemale woman that ever wore hair. 

"She was lovelier than Mary Anderson; she was lovelier than Lotta. Shewas tall, an' black-haired, and had a eye . .. Well, I dunno; when shegave you the littlest flicker o' that same eye, you felt it was abouttime to take an' lie right down an' say, 'I would esteem it, ma'am, asure smart favour if you was to take an' wipe your boots on mywaistcoat, jus' so's you could hear my heart a-beatin'. That's the kindo' feemale woman _she_ was. 

"Well, when Hardenberg had caught his second wind, we begins to talkbusiness. 

"'An' you're to take a passenger back with you, ' says Esperanza afterawhile. 

"'What for a passenger might it be?' says Hardenberg. 

"She fished out her calling-card at that and tore it in two an' gaveHardenberg one-half. 

"'It's the party, ' she says, 'that'll come aboard off San Diego on yourway down an' who will show up the other half o' the card--the half Ihave here an' which the same I'm goin' to mail to him. An' you be surethe halves fit before you let him come aboard. An' when that party comesaboard, ' she says, 'he's to take over charge. '

"'Very good, ' says Hardenberg, mincing an' silly like a chessy catlappin' cream. 'Very good, ma'am; your orders shall be obeyed. ' He suresaid it just like that, as if he spoke out o' a story-book. An' I kickedhim under the table for it. 

"Then we palavers a whole lot an' settles the way the thing is to berun, an' fin'ly, when we'd got as far as could be that day, theSigñorita stood up an' says:

"'Now me good fellows. ' 'Twas Spanish she spoke. 'Now, me good fellows, you must drink a drink with me. ' She herds us all up into thedining-room and fetches out--not whisky, mind you--but a great, fat, green-and-gold bottle o' champagne, an' when Ally Bazan has fired itoff, she fills our glasses--dinky little flat glasses that looked likeflower vases. Then she stands up there before us, fine an' tall, all inblack silk, an' puts her glass up high an' sings out----

"'To the Revolution!'

"An' we all solemn-like says, 'To the Revolution, ' an' crooks ourelbows. When we-all comes to, about half an hour later, we're in thestreet outside, havin' jus' said good-by to the Sigñorita. We-all aresome quiet the first block or so, and then Hardenberg says--stoppin'dead in his tracks:

"'I pauses to remark that when a certain young feemale party havin'black hair an' a killin' eye gets good an' ready to travel up the centreaisle of a church, I know the gent to show her the way, which he is sixfeet one in his stocking-feet, some freckled across the nose, an' shootswith both hands. '

"'Which the same observations, ' speaks up Strokher, twirlin' his yellerlady-killer, 'which the same observations, ' he says, 'has my heartyindorsement an' cooperation savin' in the particular of the descriptiono' the gent. The gent is five foot eleven high, three feet thick, is theonly son of my mother, an' has yeller mustaches and a buck tooth. '

"'He don't qualify, ' puts in Hardenberg. 'First, because he's aEnglisher, and second, because he's up again a American--and besides, hehas a tooth that's bucked. '

"'Buck or no buck, ' flares out Strokher, 'wot might be the meanin' o'that remark consernin' being a Englisher?'

"'The fact o' his bein' English, ' says Hardenberg, 'is only half thehoe-handle. 'Tother half being the fact that the first-named gent is allAmerican. No Yank ain't never took no dust from aft a Englisher, whetherit were war, walkin'-matches, or women. '

"'But they's a Englisher, ' sings out Strokher, 'not forty miles fromhere as can nick the nose o' a freckled Yank if so be occasion require. '

"Now ain't that plum foolish-like, " observed Bunt, philosophically. "Ain't it plum foolish-like o' them two gesabes to go flyin' up in theair like two he-hens on a hot plate--for nothin' in the world butbecause a neat lookin' feemale woman has looked at 'em some soft?

"Well, naturally, we others--Ally Bazan an' me--we others throws it into'em pretty strong about bein' more kinds of blame fools than a pup witha bug; an' they simmers down some, but along o' the way home I kin seeas how they're a-glarin' at each other, an' a-drawin' theirselves upproud-like an' presumptchoous, an' I groans again, not loud but deep, asthe Good Book says. 

"We has two or three more palavers with the Sigñorita Esperanza andstacks the deck to beat the harbor police and the Customs people an'all, an' to nip down the coast with our contraband. An' each time wechins with the Sigñorita there's them two locoes steppin' and sidle'n'around her, actin' that silly-like that me and Ally Bazan takes an'beats our heads agin' the walls so soon as we're alone just becausewe're that pizen mortified. 

"Fin'ly comes the last talky-talk an' we're to sail away next day an'mebbee snatch the little Joker through or be took an' hung by the _CostaGuardas_. 

"An' 'Good-by, ' says Hardenberg to Esperanza, in a faintin', die-awayvoice like a kitten with a cold. 'An' ain't we goin' to meet no more?'

"'I sure hopes as much, ' puts in Strokher, smirkin' so's you'd think hewas a he-milliner sellin' a bonnet. 'I hope, ' says he, 'our delightfulacquaintanceship ain't a-goin' for to end abrupt this-a-way. '

"'Oh, you nice, big Mister Men, ' pipes up the Sigñorita in English, 'wewill meet down there in Gortamalar soon again, yes, because I go down bythe vapour carriages to-morrow. '

"'Unprotected, too, ' says Hardenberg, waggin' his fool head. 'An' soyoung!'

"Holy Geronimo! I don't know what more fool drivelin' they had, but theyfin'ly comes away. Ally Bazan and me rounds 'em up and conducts 'em tothe boat an' puts 'em to bed like as if they was little--or drunk, an'the next day--or next night, rather--about one o'clock, we slips theheel ropes and hobbles o' the schooner quiet as a mountain-lion stalkinga buck, and catches the out-tide through the gate o' the bay. Lord, wewas some keyed up, lemmee tell you, an' Ally Bazan and Hardenberg was atthe fore end o' the boat with their guns ready in case o' bein' askedimpert'nent questions by the patrol-boats. 

"Well, how-some-ever, we nips out with the little Jokers (they was writin the manifest as minin' pumps) an' starts south. This 'ere _pasear_down to Gortamalar is the first time I goes a-gallying about on what theThree Crows calls 'blue water'; and when that schooner hit the bar Ibegins to remember that my stummick and inside arrangements ain't madeo' no chilled steel, nor yet o' rawhide. First I gits plum sad, andshivery, and I feels as mean an' pore as a prairie-dog w'ich 'as eat ahorned toad back'ards. I goes to Ally Bazan and gives it out as how I'mgoing for to die, an' I puts it up that I'm sure sad and depressed-like;an' don't care much about life nohow; an' that present surroundin's lackthat certain undescribable charm. I tells him that I _knows_ the ship isgoin' to sink afore we git over the bar. Waves!--they was higher'n themasts; and I've rode some fair lively sun-fishers in my time, but Iain't never struck anythin' like the r'arin' and buckin' andhigh-an'-lofty tumblin' that that same boat went through with thosefirst few hours after we had come out. 

"But Ally Bazan tells me to go downstairs in the boat an' lie up quiet, an' byne-by I do feel better. By next day I kin sit up and take solidfood again. An' then's when I takes special notice o' the everlastin'foolishness o' Strokner and Hardenberg. 

"You'd a thought each one o' them two mush-heads was tryin' to act thepart of a ole cow which has had her calf took. They goes a-moonin' aboutthe boat that mournful it 'ud make you yell jus' out o' sheernervousness. First one 'ud up an' hold his head on his hand an' lean onthe fence-rail that ran around the boat, and sigh till he'd raise hispants clean outa the top o' his boots. An' then the other 'ud go off inanother part o' the boat an' _he'd_ sigh an' moon an' take on fit tosicken a coyote. 

"But byne-by--we're mebbee six days to the good o' 'Frisco--byne-by theytwo gits kind o' sassy along o' each t'other, an' they has aheart-to-heart talk and puts it up as how either one o' 'em 'ud stand towin so only the t'other was out o' the game. 

"'It's double or nothing, ' says Hardenberg, who is somethin' o' a cardsharp, 'for either you or me, Stroke; an' if you're agreeable I'll playyou a round o' jacks for the chance at the Sigñorita--the loser to pullout o' the running for good an' all. '

"No, Strokher don't come in on no such game, he says. He wins her, hesays, as a man, and not as no poker player. No, nor he won't throw nodice for the chance o' winnin' Esperanza, nor he won't flip no coin, noryet 'rastle. 'But, ' says he all of a sudden, 'I'll tell you which I'lldo. You're a big, thick, strappin' hulk o' a two-fisted dray-horse, Hardie, an' I ain't no effete an' digenerate one-lunger myself. Here'swot I propose--that we-all takes an' lays out a sixteen-foot ring on thequarterdeck, an' that the raw-boned Yank and the stodgy Englisher stripsto the waist, an' all-friendly-like, settles the question by Queensburyrules an' may the best man win. '

"Hardenberg looks him over. 

"'An' wot might be your weight?' says he. 'I don't figure on hurtin' ofyou, if so be you're below my class. '

"'I fights at a hunder and seventy, ' says Strokher. 

"'An' me, ' says Hardenberg, 'at a hunder an' seventy-five. We'rematched. '

"'Is it a go?' inquires Strokher. 

"'You bet your great-gran'mammy's tortis-shell chessy cat it's a go, 'says Hardenberg, prompt as a hop-frog catching flies. 

"We don't lose no time trying to reason with 'em, for they is sure keenon havin' the go. So we lays out a ring by the rear end o' the deck, an'runs the schooner in till we're in the lee o' the land, an' she ridin'steady on her pins. 

"Then along o' about four o'clock on a fine still day we lays the boatto, as they say, an' folds up the sail, an' havin' scattered resin inthe ring (which it ain't no ring, but a square o' ropes on posts), wesays all is ready. 

"Ally Bazan, he's referee, an' me, I'm the time-keeper which I has toring the ship's bell every three minutes to let 'em know to quit an'that the round is over. 

"We gets 'em into the ring, each in his own corner, squattin' on abucket, the time-keeper bein' second to Hardenberg an' the referee beingsecond to Strokher. An' then, after they has shuk hands, I climbs up on'the chicken-coop an' hollers 'Time' an' they begins. 

"Mister Man, I've saw Tim Henan at his best, an' I've saw Sayres when hewas a top-notcher, an' likewise several other irregler boxin' sharpsthat were sure tough tarriers. Also I've saw two short-horn bullsarguin' about a question o' leadership, but so help me Bob--the fight Isaw that day made the others look like a young ladies' quadrille. Oh, Iain't goin' to tell o' that mill in detail, nor by rounds. Rounds! Afterthe first five minutes they _wa'n't_ no rounds. I rung the blame belltill I rung her loose an' Ally Bazan yells 'break-away' an' 'time's up'till he's black in the face, but you could no more separate them twothan you could put the brakes on a blame earthquake. 

"At about suppertime we pulled 'em apart. We could do it by then, theywas both so gone; an' jammed each one o' 'em down in their corners. Irings my bell good an' plenty, an' Ally Bazan stands up on a bucket inthe middle o' the ring an' says:

"'I declare this 'ere glove contest a draw. '

"An' draw it sure was. They fit for two hours stiddy an' never a one gotno better o' the other. They give each other lick for lick as fast an'as steady as they could stand to it. 'Rastlin', borin' in, boxin'--allwas alike. The one was just as good as t'other. An' both willin' to thevery last. 

"When Ally Bazan calls it a draw, they gits up and wobbles toward eachother an' shakes hands, and Hardenberg he says:

"'Stroke, I thanks you a whole lot for as neat a go as ever I mixed in. '

"An' Strokher answers up:

"'Hardie, I loves you better'n ever. You'se the first man I've met upwith which I couldn't do for--an' I've met up with some scraggypropositions in my time, too. '

"Well, they two is a sorry-lookin' pair o' birds by the time we runsinto San Diego harbour next night. They was fine lookin' objects forfair, all bruises and bumps. You remember now we was to take on a partyat San Diego who was to show t'other half o' Esperanza's card, an'thereafterward to boss the job. 

"Well, we waits till nightfall an' then slides in an' lays to off acertain pile o' stone, an' shows two green lights and one white everythree and a half minutes for half a hour--this being a signal. 

"They is a moon, an' we kin see pretty well. After we'd signaled about ahour, mebbee, we gits the answer--a one-minute green flare, andthereafterward we makes out a rowboat putting out and comin' towards us. They is two people in the boat. One is the gesabe at the oars an' theother a party sitting in the hinder end. 

"Ally Bazan an' me, an' Strokher an' Hardenberg, we's all leanin' overthe fence a-watchin'; when all to once I ups an' groans some sad. Theparty in the hinder end o' the boat bein' feemale. 

"'Ain't we never goin' to git shut of 'em?' says I; but the words ain'tno more'n off my teeth when Strokher pipes up:

"'It's _she_, ' says he, gaspin' as though shot hard. 

"'Wot!' cries Hardenberg, sort of mystified, 'Oh, I'm sure a-dreamin'!he says, just that silly-like. 

"'An' the mugs we've got!' says Strokher. 

"An' they both sets to swearin' and cussin' to beat all I ever heard. 

"'I can't let her see me so bunged up, ' says Hardenberg, doleful-like, 'Oh, whatever is to be done?'

"'An' _I_ look like a real genuine blown-in-the-bottle pug, ' whimpersStrokher. 'Never mind, ' says he, 'we must face the music. We'll tell herthese are sure honourable scars, got because we fit for her. '

"Well, the boat comes up an' the feemale party jumps out and comes upthe let-down stairway, onto the deck. Without sayin' a word she handsHardenberg the half o' the card and he fishes out his half an' matchesthe two by the light o' a lantern. 

"By this time the rowboat has gone a little ways off, an' then at lastHardenberg says:

"'Welkum aboard, Sigñorita. '

"And Strokher cuts in with----

"'We thought it was to be a man that 'ud join us here to take command, but _you_, ' he says--an' oh, butter wouldn't a-melted in his mouth--'But_you_ he says, 'is always our mistress. 

"'Very right, _bueno_. Me good fellows, ' says the Sigñorita, 'but don'tyou be afraid that they's no man is at the head o' this business. ' An'with that the party chucks off hat an' skirts, _and I'll be Mexican ifit wa'n't a man after all!_

"'I'm the Sigñor Barreto Palachi, gentlemen, ' says he. 'The gringopolice who wanted for to arrest me made the disguise necessary. Gentlemen, I regret to have been obliged to deceive such gallant_compadres_; but war knows no law. '

"Hardenberg and Strokher gives one look at the Sigñor and another attheir own spiled faces, then:

"'Come back here with the boat!' roars Hardenberg over the side, andwith that--(upon me word you'd a-thought they two both were moved withthe same spring)--over they goes into the water and strikes out handsover hands for the boat as hard as ever they kin lay to it. The boatmeets 'em--Lord knows what the party at the oars thought--they climbs inan' the last I sees of 'em they was puttin' for shore--each havin' takena oar from the boatman, an' they sure was makin' that boat _hum_. 

"Well, we sails away eventually without 'em; an' a year or moreafterward I crosses their trail again in Cy Ryder's office in 'Frisco. "

"Did you ask them about it all?" said I. 

"Mister Man, " observed Bunt. "I'm several kinds of a fool; I know it. But sometimes I'm wise. I wishes for to live as long as I can, an' diewhen I can't help it. I does _not_, neither there, nor thereafterward, ever make no joke, nor yet no alloosion about, or concerning theSigñorita Esperanza Palachi in the hearin' o' Hardenberg an' Strokher. I've seen--(ye remember)--both those boys use their fists--an' likewiseHardenberg, as he says hisself, shoots with both hands. "

THE DUAL PERSONALITY OF SLICK DICK NICKERSON

I. 

On a certain morning in the spring of the year, the three men who wereknown as the Three Black Crows called at the office of "The President ofthe Pacific and Oriental Flotation Company, " situated in an obscurestreet near San Francisco's water-front. They were Strokher, the tall, blond, solemn, silent Englishman; Hardenberg, the American, dry ofhumour, shrewd, resourceful, who bargained like a Vermonter and sailed aschooner like a Gloucester cod-fisher; and in their company, as everinseparable from the other two, came the little colonial, nicknamed, foroccult reasons, "Ally Bazan, " a small, wiry man, excitable, vociferous, who was without fear, without guile and without money. 

When Hardenberg, who was always spokesman for the Three Crows, had sentin their names, they were admitted at once to the inner office of the"President. " The President was an old man, bearded like a prophet, witha watery blue eye and a forehead wrinkled like an orang's. He spoke tothe Three Crows in the manner of one speaking to friends he has not seenin some time. 

"Well, Mr. Ryder, " began Hardenberg. "We called around to see if you hadanything fer us this morning. I don't mind telling you that we're atliberty jus' now. Anything doing?"

Ryder fingered his beard distressfully. "Very little, Joe; very little. "

"Got any wrecks?"

"Not a wreck. "

Hardenberg turned to a great map that hung on the wall by Ryder's desk. It was marked in places by red crosses, against which were writtencertain numbers and letters. Hardenberg put his finger on a small islandsouth of the Marquesas group and demanded: "What might be H. 33, Mr. President?"

"Pearl Island, " answered the President. "Davidson is on that job. "

"Or H. 125?" Hardenberg indicated a point in the Gilbert group. 

"Guano deposits. That's promised. "

"Hallo! You're up in the Aleutians. I make out. 20 A. --what's that?"

"Old government telegraph wire--line abandoned--finest drawn-copperwire. I've had three boys at that for months. "

"What's 301? This here, off the Mexican coast?"

The President, unable to remember, turned to his one clerk: "Hyers, what's 301? Isn't that Peterson?"

The clerk ran his finger down a column: "No, sir; 301 is the WhiskyShip. "

"Ah! So it is. I remember. _You_ remember, too, Joe. Little schooner, the _Tropic Bird_--sixty days out from Callao--five hundred cases ofwhisky aboard--sunk in squall. It was thirty years ago. Think of fivehundred cases of thirty-year-old whisky! There's money in that if I canlay my hands on the schooner. Suppose you try that, you boys--on atwenty per cent. Basis. Come now, what do you say?"

"Not for _five_ per cent. , " declared Hardenberg. "How'd we raise her?How'd we know how deep she lies? Not for Joe. What's the matter withlanding arms down here in Central America for Bocas and his gang?"

"I'm out o' that, Joe. Too much competition. "

"What's doing here in Tahiti--No. 88? It ain't lettered. "

Once more the President consulted his books. 

"Ah!--88. Here we are. Cache o' illicit pearls. I had it looked up. Nothing in it. "

"Say, Cap'n!"--Hardenberg's eye had traveled to the upper edge of themap--"whatever did you strike up here in Alaska? At Point Barrow, s'elpme Bob! It's 48 B. "

The President stirred uneasily in his place. "Well, I ain't quite workedthat scheme out, Joe. But I smell the deal. There's a Russian post alongthere some'eres. Where they catch sea-otters. And the skins o'sea-otters are selling this very day for seventy dollars at any port inChina. "

"I s'y, " piped up Ally Bazan, "I knows a bit about that gyme. They's abally kind o' Lum-tums among them Chinese as sports those syme skins ontheir bally clothes--as a mark o' rank, d'ye see. "

"Have you figured at all on the proposition, Cap'n?" inquiredHardenberg. 

"There's risk in it, Joe; big risk, " declared the President nervously. "But I'd only ask fifteen per cent. "

"You _have_ worked out the scheme, then. "

"Well--ah--y'see, there's the risk, and--ah--" Suddenly Ryder leanedforward, his watery blue eyes glinting: "Boys, it's a _jewel_. It's justyour kind. I'd a-sent for you, to try on this very scheme, if you hadn'tshown up. You kin have the _Bertha Millner_--I've a year's charter o'her from Wilbur--and I'll only ask you fifteen per cent. Of the _net_profits--_net_, mind you. "

"I ain't buyin' no dead horse, Cap'n, " returned Hardenberg, "but I'llsay this: we pay no fifteen per cent. "

"Banks and the Ruggles were daft to try it and give me twenty-five. "

"An' where would Banks land the scheme? I know him. You put him on thatGerman cipher-code job down Honolulu way, an' it cost you about athousand before you could pull out. We'll give you seven an' a half. "

"Ten, " declared Ryder, "ten, Joe, at the very least. Why, how much doyou suppose just the stores would cost me? And Point Barrow--why, Joe, that's right up in the Arctic. I got to run the risk o' you getting the_Bertha_ smashed in the ice. "

"What do _we_ risk?" retorted Hardenberg; and it was the monosyllabicStrokher who gave the answer:

"Chokee, by Jove!"

"Ten is fair. It's ten or nothing, " answered Hardenberg. 

"Gross, then, Joe. Ten on the gross--or I give the job to the Rugglesand Banks. "

"Who's your bloomin' agent?" put in Ally Bazan. 

"Nickerson. I sent him with Peterson on that _Mary Archer_ wreck scheme. An' you know what Peterson says of him--didn't give him no trouble atall. One o' my best men, boys. "

"There have been, " observed Strokher stolidly, "certain stories toldabout Nickerson. Not that _I_ wish to seem suspicious, but I put it toyou as man to man. "

"Ay, " exclaimed Ally Bazan. "He was fair nutty once, they tell me. Threwsome kind o' bally fit an' come aout all skew-jee'd in his mind. Forgothis nyme an' all. I s'y, how abaout him, anyw'y?"

"Boys, " said Ryder, "I'll tell you. Nickerson--yes, I know the yarnsabout him. It was this way--y'see, I ain't keeping anything from you, boys. Two years ago he was a Methody preacher in Santa Clara. Well, hewas what they call a revivalist, and he was holding forth one blazin'hot day out in the sun when all to once he goes down, _flat, _ an' don'tcome round for the better part o' two days. When he wakes up he's_another person;_ he'd forgot his name, forgot his job, forgot the wholeblamed shooting-match. _And he ain't never remembered them since. _ Thedoctors have names for that kind o' thing. It seems it does happen nowand again. Well, he turned to an' began sailoring first off--soon as thehospitals and medicos were done with him--an' him not having any friendsas you might say, he was let go his own gait. He got to be third mate ofsome kind o' dough-dish down Mexico way; and then I got hold o' him an'took him into the Comp'ny. He's been with me ever since. He ain't gotthe faintest kind o' recollection o' his Methody days, an' believes he'salways been a sailorman. Well, that's _his_ business, ain't it? If hetakes my orders an' walks chalk, what do I care about his Methody game?There, boys, is the origin, history and development of Slick DickNickerson. If you take up this sea-otter deal and go to Point Barrow, naturally Nick has got to go as owner's agent and representative of theComp'ny. But I couldn't send a easier fellow to get along with. Honest, now, I couldn't. Boys, you think over the proposition between now andtomorrow an' then come around and let me know. "

And the upshot of the whole matter was that one month later the _BerthaMillner_, with Nickerson, Hardenberg, Strokher and Ally Bazan on board, cleared from San Francisco, bound--the papers were beautifullyprecise--for Seattle and Tacoma with a cargo of general merchandise. 

As a matter of fact, the bulk of her cargo consisted of some oddhundreds of very fine lumps of rock--which as ballast is cheap by theton--and some odd dozen cases of conspicuously labeled champagne. 

The Pacific and Oriental Flotation Company made this champagne out ofRhine wine, effervescent salts, raisins, rock candy and alcohol. It wasfrom the same stock of wine of which Ryder had sold some thousand casesto the Coreans the year before. 

II

"Not that I care a curse, " said Strokher, the Englishman. "But I put itto you squarely that this voyage lacks that certain indescribablecharm. "

The _Bertha Millner_ was a fortnight out, and the four adventurers--or, rather, the three adventurers and Nickerson--were lame in every joint, red-eyed from lack of sleep, half-starved, wholly wet and unequivocallydisgusted. They had had heavy weather from the day they bade farewell tothe whistling buoy off San Francisco Bay until the moment when evenpatient, docile, taciturn Strokher had at last--in his ownfashion--rebelled. 

"Ain't I a dam' fool? Ain't I a proper lot? Gard strike me if I don'tchuck fer fair after this. Wot'd I come to sea fer--an' this 'ere go isthe worst I _ever_ knew--a baoat no bigger'n a bally bath-tub, headseas, livin' gyles the clock 'round, wet food, wet clothes, wet bunks. Caold till, by cricky! I've lost the feel o' mee feet. An' wat for? Forthe bloomin' good chanst o' a slug in mee guts. That's wat for. " Atlittle intervals the little vociferous colonial, Ally Bazan--he wasred-haired and speckled--capered with rage, shaking his fists. 

But Hardenberg only shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth. He knew Ally Bazan, and knew that the little fellow would have jeered atthe offer of a first-cabin passage back to San Francisco in theswiftest, surest, steadiest passenger steamer that ever wore paint. Sohe remarked: "I ain't ever billed this promenade as a Coney Islandpicnic, I guess. "

Nickerson--Slick Dick, the supercargo--was all that Hardenberg, whocaptained the schooner, could expect. He never interfered, neverquestioned; never protested in the name or interests of the Company whenHardenberg "hung on" in the bleak, bitter squalls till the _Bertha_ wasrail under and the sails hard as iron. 

If it was true that he had once been a Methody revivalist no one, toquote Alia Bazan, "could a' smelled it off'n him. " He was ablack-bearded, scrawling six-footer, with a voice like a steam siren anda fist like a sledge. He carried two revolvers, spoke of the Russians atPoint Barrow as the "Boomskys, " and boasted if it came to _that_ he'dengage to account for two of them, would shove their heads into theirboot-legs and give them the running scrag, by God so he would!

Slowly, laboriously, beset in blinding fogs, swept with, icy rains, buffeted and mauled and man-handled by the unending assaults of the sea, the _Bertha Millner_ worked her way northward up that iron coast--tillsuddenly she entered an elysium. 

Overnight she seemed to have run into it: it was a world of green, wooded islands, of smooth channels, of warm and steady winds, ofcloudless skies. Coming on deck upon the morning of the _Bertha's_ firstday in this new region, Ally Bazan gazed open-mouthed. Then: "I s'y!" heyelled. "Hey! By crickey! Look!" He slapped his thighs. "S'trewth! Thisis 'eavenly. "

Strokher was smoking his pipe on the hatch combings. "Rather, " heobserved. "An' I put it to you--we've deserved it. "

In the main, however, the northward flitting was uneventful. Every fifthday Nickerson got drunk--on the Company's Corean champagne. Now that theweather had sweetened, the Three Black Crows had less to do in the wayof handling and nursing the schooner. Their plans when the "Boomskys"should be reached were rehearsed over and over again. Then came spellsof card and checker playing, story-telling, or hours of silent inertiawhen, man fashion, they brooded over pipes in a patch of sun, somnolent, the mind empty of all thought. 

But at length the air took on a keener tang; there was a bite to thebreeze, the sun lost his savour and the light of him lengthened tillHardenberg could read off logarithms at ten in the evening. Great-coatsand sweaters were had from the chests, and it was no man's work to reefwhen the wind came down from out the north. 

Each day now the schooner was drawing nearer the Arctic Circle. Atlength snow fell, and two days later they saw their first iceberg. 

Hardenberg worked out their position on the chart and bore to theeastward till he made out the Alaskan coast--a smudge on the horizon. For another week he kept this in sight, the schooner dodging the bergsthat by now drove by in squadrons, and even bumping and butling throughdrift and slush ice. 

Seals were plentiful, and Hardenberg and Strokher promptly revived thequarrel of their respective nations. Once even they slew a mammoth bullwalrus--astray from some northern herd--and played poker for the tusks. Then suddenly they pulled themselves sharply together, and, as it were, stood "attention. "

For more than a week the schooner, following the trend of thefar-distant coast, had headed eastward, and now at length, looming outof the snow and out of the mist, a somber bulwark, black, vast, ominous, rose the scarps and crags of that which they came so far to see--PointBarrow. 

Hardenberg rounded the point, ran in under the lee of the land andbrought out the chart which Ryder had given him. Then he shortened sailand moved west again till Barrow was "hull down" behind him. To thenorth was the Arctic, treacherous, nursing hurricanes, ice-sheathed; butclose aboard, not a quarter of a mile off his counter, stretched a grayand gloomy land, barren, bleak as a dead planet, inhospitable as themoon. 

For three days they crawled along the edge keeping their glasses trainedupon every bay, every inlet. Then at length, early one morning, AllyBazan, who had been posted at the bows, came scrambling aft toHardenberg at the wheel. He was gasping for breath in his excitement. 

"Hi! There we are, " he shouted. "O Lord! Oh, I s'y! Now we're in fer it. That's them! That's them! By the great jumpin' jimminy Christmas, that'sthem fer fair! Strike me blind for a bleedin' gutter-cat if it eyent. OLord! S'y, I gotta to get drunk. S'y, what-all's the first jump in thebally game now?"

"Well, the first thing, little man, " observed Hardenberg, "is for yourmother's son to hang the monkey onto the safety-valve. Keep y'r steamand watch y'r uncle. "

"Scrag the Boomskys, " said Slick Dick encouragingly. 

Strokher pulled the left end of his viking mustache with the fingers ofhis right hand. 

"We must now talk, " he said. 

A last conference was held in the cabin, and the various parts of thecomedy rehearsed. Also the three looked to their revolvers. 

"Not that I expect a rupture of diplomatic relations, " commentedStrokher; "but if there's any shooting done, as between man and man, Ichoose to do it. "

"All understood, then?" asked Hardenberg, looking from face to face. "There won't be no chance to ask questions once we set foot ashore. "

The others nodded. 

It was not difficult to get in with the seven Russian sea-otterfishermen at the post. Certain of them spoke a macerated English, andthrough these Hardenberg, Ally Bazan and Nickerson--Strokher remained onboard to look after the schooner--told to the "Boomskys" a lamentabletale of the reported wreck of a vessel, described by Hardenberg, withlaborious precision, as a steam whaler from San Francisco--the _Tiber_by name, bark-rigged, seven hundred tons burden, Captain Henry WardBeecher, mate Mr. James Boss Tweed. They, the visitors, were theofficers of the relief-ship on the lookout for castaways and survivors. 

But in the course of these preliminaries it became necessary to restrainNickerson--not yet wholly recovered from a recent incursion into thestore of Corean champagne. It presented itself to his consideration asfacetious to indulge (when speaking to the Russians) in strange andelaborate distortions of speech. 

"And she sunk-avitch in a hundred fathom o' water-owski. "

"--All on board-erewski. "

"--hell of dam' bad storm-onavna. "

And he persisted in the idiocy till Hardenberg found an excuse fortaking him aside and cursing him into a realization of his position. 

In the end--inevitably--the schooner's company were invited to dine atthe post. 

It was a strange affair--a strange scene. The coast, flat, gray, drearybeyond all power of expression, lonesome as the interstellar space, andquite as cold, and in all that limitless vastness of the World's Edge, two specks--the hut, its three windows streaming with light, and thetiny schooner rocking in the offing. Over all flared the pallidincandescence of the auroras. 

The Company drank steadily, and Strokher, listening from the schooner'squarterdeck, heard the shouting and the songs faintly above the wash andlapping under the counter. Two hours had passed since the moment heguessed that the feast had been laid. A third went by. He grew uneasy. There was no cessation of the noise of carousing. He even fancied heheard pistol shots. Then after a long time the noise by degrees woredown; a long silence followed. The hut seemed deserted; nothing stirred;another hour went by. 

Then at length Strokher saw a figure emerge from the door of the hut andcome down to the shore. It was Hardenberg. Strokher saw him wave his armslowly, now to the left, now to the right, and he took down the wig-wagas follows: "Stand--in--closer--we--have--the--skins. "

III

During the course of the next few days Strokher heard the differentversions of the affair in the hut over and over again till he knew itssmallest details. He learned how the "Boomskys" fell upon Ryder'schampagne like wolves upon a wounded buck, how they drank it from"enameled-ware" coffee-cups, from tin dippers, from the bottlesthemselves; how at last they even dispensed with the tedium of removingthe corks and knocked off the heads against the table-ledge and drankfrom the splintered bottoms; how they quarreled over the lees and dregs, how ever and always fresh supplies were forthcoming, and how at lastHardenberg, Ally Bazan and Slick Dick stood up from the table in themidst of the seven inert bodies; how they ransacked the place for thepriceless furs; how they failed to locate them; how the conviction grewthat this was the wrong place after all, and how at length Hardenbergdiscovered the trap-door that admitted to the cellar, where in the dimlight of the uplifted lanterns they saw, corded in tiny bales andpackages, the costliest furs known to commerce. 

Ally Bazan had sobbed in his excitement over that vision and did notregain the power of articulate speech till the "loot" was safely stowedin the 'tween-decks and Hardenberg had given order to come about. 

"Now, " he had observed dryly, "now, lads, it's Hongkong--or bust. "

The tackle had fouled aloft and the jib hung slatting over the spritlike a collapsed balloon. 

"Cast off up there, Nick!" called Hardenberg from the wheel. 

Nickerson swung himself into the rigging, crying out in a mincing voiceas, holding to a rope's end, he swung around to face the receding hut:"By-bye-skevitch. We've had _such_ a charming evening. _Do_ hope-skywe'll be able to come again-off. " And as he spoke the lurch of the_Bertha_ twitched his grip from the rope. He fell some thirty feet tothe deck, and his head carromed against an iron cleat with a resoundingcrack. 

"Here's luck, " observed Hardenberg, twelve hours later, when Slick Dick, sitting on the edge of his bunk, looked stolidly and with fishy eyesfrom face to face. "We wa'n't quite short-handed enough, it seems. "

"Dotty for fair. Dotty for fair, " exclaimed Ally Bazan; "clean off 'isnut. I s'y, Dick-ol'-chap, wyke-up, naow. Buck up. Buck up. _'Ave_ adrink. "

But Nickerson could only nod his head and murmur: "A fewmore--consequently--and a good light----" Then his voice died down tounintelligible murmurs. 

"We'll have to call at Juneau, " decided Hardenberg two days later. "Idon't figure on navigating this 'ere bath-tub to no Hongkong whatsoever, with three hands. We gotta pick up a couple o' A. B. 's in Juneau, if sobe we can. "

"How about the loot?" objected Strokher. "If one of those hands getsbetween decks he might smell--a sea-otter, now. I put it to you hemight. "

"My son, " said Hardenberg, "I've handled A. B. 's before;" and thatsettled the question. 

During the first part of the run down, Nickerson gloomed silently overthe schooner, looking curiously about him, now at his comrades' faces, now at the tumbling gray-green seas, now--and this by the hour--at hisown hands. He seemed perplexed, dazed, trying very hard to get hisbearings. But by and by he appeared, little by little, to come tohimself. One day he pointed to the rigging with an unsteady forefinger, then, laying the same finger doubtfully upon his lips, said to Strokher:"A ship?"

"Quite so, quite so, me boy. "

"Yes, " muttered Nickerson absently, "a ship--of course. "

Hardenberg expected to make Juneau on a Thursday. Wednesday afternoonSlick Dick came to him. He seemed never more master of himself. "How didI come aboard?" he asked. 

Hardenberg explained. 

"What have we been doing?"

"Why, don't you remember?" continued Hardenberg. He outlined the voyagein detail. "Then you remember, " he went on, "we got up there to PointBarrow and found where the Russian fellows had their post, where theycaught sea-otters, and we went ashore and got 'em all full and liftedall the skins they had----"

"'Lifted'? You mean _stole_ them. "

"Come here, " said the other. Encouraged by Nickerson's apparentconvalescence, Hardenberg decided that the concrete evidence of thingsdone would prove effective. He led him down into the 'tween-decks. "Seenow, " he said. "See this packing-case"--he pried up a board--"see these'ere skins. Take one in y'r hand. Remember how we found 'em all in thecellar and hyked 'em out while the beggars slept?"

"_Stole_ them? You say we got--that is _you_ did--got somebodyintoxicated and stole their property, and now you are on your way todispose of it. "

"Oh, well, if you want to put it thataway. Sure we did. "

"I understand----Well----Let's go back on deck. I want to think thisout. "

The _Bertha Millner_ crept into the harbour of Juneau in a fog, withships' bells tolling on every side, let go her anchor at last indesperation and lay up to wait for the lifting. When this came the ThreeCrows looked at one another wide-eyed. They made out the drenched townand the dripping hills behind it. The quays, the custom house, the onehotel, and the few ships in the harbour. There were a couple of whalersfrom 'Frisco, a white, showily painted passenger boat from the sameport, a Norwegian bark, and a freighter from Seattle grimy withcoal-dust. These, however, the _Bertha's_ company ignored. Another boatclaimed all their attention. In the fog they had let go not apistol-shot from her anchorage. She lay practically beside them. She wasthe United States revenue cutter _Bear. _

"But so long as they can't _smell_ sea-otter skin, " remarked Hardenberg, "I don't know that we're any the worse. "

"All the syme, " observed Ally Bazan, "I don't want to lose no bloomin'tyme a-pecking up aour bloomin' A. B. 's. "

"I'll stay aboard and tend the baby, " said Hardenberg with a wink. "Youtwo move along ashore and get what you can--Scoovies for choice. TakeSlick Dick with you. I reckon a change o' air might buck him up. "

When the three had gone, Hardenberg, after writing up the painfullydoctored log, set to work to finish a task on which the adventurers hadbeen engaged in their leisure moments since leaving Point Barrow. Thiswas the counting and sorting of the skins. The packing-case had beenbroken open, and the scanty but precious contents littered an improvisedtable in the hold. Pen in hand, Hardenberg counted and ciphered andcounted again. He could not forbear a chuckle when the net result wasreached. The lot of the skins--the pelt of the sea-otter is ridiculouslysmall in proportion to its value--was no heavy load for the average man. But Hardenberg knew that once the "loot" was safely landed at theHongkong pierhead the Three Crows would share between them close uponten thousand dollars. Even--if they had luck, and could dispose of theskins singly or in small lots--that figure might be doubled. 

"And I call it a neat turn, " observed Hardenberg. He was aroused by thenoise of hurried feet upon the deck, and there was that in their soundthat brought him upright in a second, hand on hip. Then, after a second, he jumped out on deck to meet Ally Bazan and Strokher, who had justscrambled over the rail. 

"Bust. B-u-s-t!" remarked the Englishman. 

"'Ere's 'ell to pay, " cried Ally Bazan in a hoarse whisper, glancingover at the revenue cutter. 

"Where's Nickerson?" demanded Hardenberg. 

"That's it, " answered the colonial. "That's where it's 'ell. Listennaow. He goes ashore along o' us, quiet and peaceable like, neverbattin' a eye, we givin' him a bit o' jolly, y' know, to keep himchirked up as ye might s'y. But so soon as ever he sets foot on shore, abaout faice he gaoes, plumb into the Custom's orfice. I s'ys, 'Wot allnaow, messmite? Come along aout o' that. ' But he turns on me like abloomin' babby an s'ys he: 'Hands orf, wretch!' Ay, them's just hiswords. Just like that, 'Hands orf, wretch!' And then he nips into theorfice an' marches fair up to the desk an' sy's like this--we heerd him, havin' followed on to the door--he s'ys, just like this:

"'Orfficer, I am a min'ster o' the gospel, o' the Methodis'denomineye-tion, an' I'm deteyined agin my will along o' a pirate shipwhich has robbed certain parties o' val-able goods. Which syme I'mpre-pared to attest afore a no'try publick, an' lodge informeye-tion o'crime. An', ' s'ys he, 'I demand the protection o' the authorities an'arsk to be directed to the American consul. '

"S'y, we never wyted to hear no more, but hyked awye hot foot. S'y, wotall now. Oh, mee Gord! eyen't it a rum gao for fair? S'y, let's getaout o' here, Hardy, dear. "

"Look there, " said Hardenberg, jerking his head toward the cutter, "howfar'd we get before the customs would 'a' passed the tip to _her_ andshe'd started to overhaul us? That's what they feed her for--to round upthe likes o' us. "

"We got to do something rather soon, " put in Strokher. "Here comes thecustom house dinghy now. "

As a matter of fact, a boat was putting off from the dock. At her sternfluttered the custom house flag. 

"Bitched--bitched for fair!" cried Ally Bazan. 

[Illustration: "'ERE'S 'ELL TO PAY!"

From a drawing by Lucius Hitchcock _Courtesy of Collier's Weekly_. ]

"Quick, now!" exclaimed Hardenberg. "On the jump! Overboard with thatloot!--or no. Steady! That won't do. There's that dam' cutter. They'dsee it go. Here!--into the galley. There's a fire in the stove. Get amove on!"

"Wot!" wailed Ally Bazan. "Burn the little joker. Gord, I _can't, _Hardy, I _can't. _ It's agin human nature. "

"You can do time in San Quentin, then, for felony, " retorted Strokher ashe and Hardenberg dashed by him, their arms full of the skins. "You cando time in San Quentin else. Make your choice. I put it to you asbetween man and man. "

With set teeth, and ever and again glancing over the rail at theoncoming boat, the two fed their fortune to the fire. The pelts, partially cured and still fatty, blazed like crude oil, the haircrisping, the hides melting into rivulets of grease. For a minute theschooner reeked of the smell and a stifling smoke poured from the galleystack. Then the embers of the fire guttered and a long whiff of sea windblew away the reek. A single skin, fallen in the scramble, stillremained on the floor of the galley. Hardenberg snatched it up, tossedit into the flames and clapped the door to. "Now, let him squeal, " hedeclared. "You fellows, when that boat gets here, let _me_ talk; keepyour mouths shut or, by God, we'll all wear stripes. "

The Three Crows watched the boat's approach in a silence broken onlyonce by a long whimper from Ally Bazan. "An' it was a-workin' out aslovely as Billy-oh, " he said, "till that syme underbred costermonger'sswipe remembered he was Methody--an' him who, only a few d'ys back, wentraound s'yin' 'scrag the "Boomskys"!' A couple o' thousand pounds goneas quick as look at it. Oh, I eyn't never goin' to git over this. "

The boat came up and the Three Crows were puzzled to note that nobrass-buttoned personage sat in the stern-sheets, no harbour policeglowered at them from the bow, no officer of the law fixed them with theeye of suspicion. The boat was manned only by a couple offreight-handlers in woolen Jerseys, upon the breasts of which wereaffixed the two letters "C. H. "

"Say, " called one of the freight-handlers, "is this the _BerthaMillner?"_

"Yes, " answered Hardenberg, his voice at a growl. "An' what might youwant with her, my friend?"

"Well, look here, " said the other, "one of your hands came ashore mad asa coot and broke into the house of the American Consul, and resistedarrest and raised hell generally. The inspector says you got to send aprovost guard or something ashore to take him off. There's been severalmix-ups among ships' crews lately and the town----"

The tide drifted the boat out of hearing, and Hardenberg sat down on thecapstan head, turning his back to his comrades. There was a longsilence. Then he said:

"Boys, let's go home. I--I want to have a talk with President Ryder. "

THE SHIP THAT SAW A GHOST

Very much of this story must remain untold, for the reason that if itwere definitely known what business I had aboard the trampsteam-freighter _Glarus_, three hundred miles off the South Americancoast on a certain summer's day, some few years ago, I would very likelybe obliged to answer a great many personal and direct questions put byfussy and impertinent experts in maritime law--who are paid to beinquisitive. Also, I would get "Ally Bazan, " Strokher and Hardenberginto trouble. 

Suppose on that certain summer's day, you had asked of Lloyds' agencywhere the _Glarus_ was, and what was her destination and cargo. Youwould have been told that she was twenty days out from Callao, boundnorth to San Francisco in ballast; that she had been spoken by the bark_Medea_ and the steamer _Benevento_; that she was reported to have blownout a cylinder head, but being manageable was proceeding on her wayunder sail. 

That is what Lloyds would have answered. 

If you know something of the ways of ships and what is expected of them, you will understand that the _Glarus_, to be some half a dozen hundredmiles south of where Lloyds' would have her, and to be still goingsouth, under full steam, was a scandal that would have made her brothersand sisters ostracize her finally and forever. 

And that is curious, too. Humans may indulge in vagaries innumerable, and may go far afield in the way of lying; but a ship may not so much asquibble without suspicion. The least lapse of "regularity, " the leastdifficulty in squaring performance with intuition, and behold she is onthe black list, and her captain, owners, officers, agents andconsignors, and even supercargoes, are asked to explain. 

And the _Glarus_ was already on the black list. From the beginning herstars had been malign. As the _Breda_, she had first lost herreputation, seduced into a filibustering escapade down the SouthAmerican coast, where in the end a plain-clothes United Statesdetective--that is to say, a revenue cutter--arrested her off BuenosAyres and brought her home, a prodigal daughter, besmirched anddisgraced. 

After that she was in some dreadful black-birding business in a farquarter of the South Pacific; and after that--her name changed finallyto the _Glarus_--poached seals for a syndicate of Dutchmen who lived inTacoma, and who afterward built a club-house out of what she earned. 

And after that we got her. 

We got her, I say, through Ryder's South Pacific Exploitation Company. The "President" had picked out a lovely little deal for Hardenberg, Strokher and Ally Bazan (the Three Black Crows), which he swore wouldmake them "independent rich" the rest of their respective lives. It is apromising deal (B. 300 it is on Ryder's map), and if you want to knowmore about it you may write to ask Ryder what B. 300 is. If he choosesto tell you, that is his affair. 

For B. 300--let us confess it--is, as Hardenberg puts it, as crooked asa dog's hind leg. It is as risky as barratry. If you pull it off youmay--after paying Ryder his share--divide sixty-five, or possiblysixty-seven, thousand dollars between you and your associates. If youfail, and you are perilously like to fail, you will be sure to have aman or two of your companions shot, maybe yourself obliged to pistolcertain people, and in the end fetch up at Tahiti, prisoner in a Frenchpatrol-boat. 

Observe that B. 300 is spoken of as still open. It is so, for the reasonthat the Three Black Crows did not pull it off. It still stands markedup in red ink on the map that hangs over Ryder's desk in the SanFrancisco office; and any one can have a chance at it who will meetCyrus Ryder's terms. Only he can't get the _Glarus_ for the attempt. 

For the trip to the island after B. 300 was the last occasion on whichthe _Glarus_ will smell blue water or taste the trades. She will neverclear again. She is lumber. 

And yet the _Glarus_ on this very blessed day of 1902 is riding to herbuoys off Sausalito in San Francisco Bay, complete in every detail (bara broken propeller shaft), not a rope missing, not a screw loose, not aplank started--a perfectly equipped steam-freighter. 

But you may go along the "Front" in San Francisco from Fisherman's Wharfto the China steamships' docks and shake your dollars under the seamen'snoses, and if you so much as whisper _Glarus_ they will edge suddenlyoff and look at you with scared suspicion, and then, as like as not, walk away without another word. No pilot will take the _Glarus_ out; nocaptain will navigate her; no stoker will feed her fires; no sailor willwalk her decks. The _Glarus_ is suspect. She has seen a ghost. 

 * * * * *

It happened on our voyage to the island after this same B. 300. We hadstood well off from shore for day after day, and Hardenberg had shapedour course so far from the track of navigation that since the_Benevento_ had hulled down and vanished over the horizon no stitch ofcanvas nor smudge of smoke had we seen. We had passed the equator longsince, and would fetch a long circuit to the southard, and bear upagainst the island by a circuitous route. This to avoid being spoken. Itwas tremendously essential that the _Glarus_ should not be spoken. 

I suppose, no doubt, that it was the knowledge of our isolation thatimpressed me with the dreadful remoteness of our position. Certainly thesea in itself looks no different at a thousand than at a hundred milesfrom shore. But as day after day I came out on deck at noon, afterascertaining our position on the chart (a mere pin-point in a reach ofempty paper), the sight of the ocean weighed down upon me with aninfinitely great awesomeness--and I was no new hand to the high seaseven then. 

But at such times the _Glarus_ seemed to me to be threading a lonelinessbeyond all worlds and beyond all conception desolate. Even in morepopulous waters, when no sail notches the line of the horizon, thepropinquity of one's kind is nevertheless a thing understood, and to anunappreciated degree comforting. Here, however, I knew we were out, farout in the desert. Never a keel for years upon years before us hadparted these waters; never a sail had bellied to these winds. Perfunctorily, day in and day out we turned our eyes through long habittoward the horizon. But we knew, before the look, that the searchingwould be bootless. Forever and forever, under the pitiless sun and coldblue sky stretched the indigo of the ocean floor. The ether between theplanets can be no less empty, no less void. 

I never, till that moment, could have so much as conceived theimagination of such loneliness, such utter stagnant abomination ofdesolation. In an open boat, bereft of comrades, I should have gone madin thirty minutes. 

I remember to have approximated the impression of such empty immensityonly once before, in my younger days, when I lay on my back on atreeless, bushless mountainside and stared up into the sky for thebetter part of an hour. 

You probably know the trick. If you do not, you must understand that ifyou look up at the blue long enough, the flatness of the thing beginslittle by little to expand, to give here and there; and the eye travelson and on and up and up, till at length (well for you that it lasts butthe fraction of a second), you all at once see space. You generally stopthere and cry out, and--your hands over your eyes--are only too glad togrovel close to the good old solid earth again. Just as I, so often onshort voyage, was glad to wrench my eyes away from that horrid vacancy, to fasten them upon our sailless masts and stack, or to lay my grip uponthe sooty smudged taffrail of the only thing that stood between me andthe Outer Dark. 

For we had come at last to that region of the Great Seas where no shipgoes, the silent sea of Coleridge and the Ancient One, the unplumbed, untracked, uncharted Dreadfulness, primordial, hushed, and we were asmuch alone as a grain of star-dust whirling in the empty space beyondUranus and the ken of the greater telescopes. 

So the _Glarus_ plodded and churned her way onward. Every day and allday the same pale-blue sky and the unwinking sun bent over that movingspeck. Every day and all day the same black-blue water-world, untouchedby any known wind, smooth as a slab of syenite, colourful as an opal, stretched out and around and beyond and before and behind us, forever, illimitable, empty. Every day the smoke of our fires veiled the streakedwhiteness of our wake. Every day Hardenberg (our skipper) at noonpricked a pin-hole in the chart that hung in the wheel-house, and thatshowed we were so much farther into the wilderness. Every day the worldof men, of civilization, of newspapers, policemen and street-railwaysreceded, and we steamed on alone, lost and forgotten in that silent sea. 

"Jolly lot o' room to turn raound in, " observed Ally Bazan, thecolonial, "withaout steppin' on y'r neighbour's toes. "

"We're clean, clean out o' the track o' navigation, " Hardenberg toldhim. "An' a blessed good thing for us, too. Nobody ever comes down intothese waters. Ye couldn't pick no course here. Everything leads tonowhere. "

"Might as well be in a bally balloon, " said Strokher. 

I shall not tell of the nature of the venture on which the _Glarus_ wasbound, further than to say it was not legitimate. It had to do with anill thing done more than two centuries ago. There was money in theventure, but it was not to be gained by a violation of metes and boundswhich are better left intact. 

The island toward which we were heading is associated in the minds ofmen with a Horror. 

A ship had called there once, two hundred years in advance of the_Glarus_--a ship not much unlike the crank high-prowed caravel ofHudson, and her company had landed, and having accomplished the evilthey had set out to do, made shift to sail away. And then, just afterthe palms of the island had sunk from sight below the water's edge, theunspeakable had happened. The Death that was not Death had arisen fromout the sea and stood before the ship, and over it, and the blight ofthe thing lay along the decks like mould, and the ship sweated in theterror of that which is yet without a name. 

Twenty men died in the first week, all but six in the second. These six, with the shadow of insanity upon them, made out to launch a boat, returned to the island and died there, after leaving a record of whathad happened. 

The six left the ship exactly as she was, sails all set, lanterns alllit--left her in the shadow of the Death that was not Death. 

She stood there, becalmed, and watched them go. She was never heard ofagain. 

Or was she--well, that's as may be. 

But the main point of the whole affair, to my notion, has always beenthis. The ship was the last friend of those six poor wretches who madeback for the island with their poor chests of plunder. She was theirguardian, as it were, would have defended and befriended them to thelast; and also we, the Three Black Crows and myself, had no right underheaven, nor before the law of men, to come prying and peeping into thisbusiness--into this affair of the dead and buried past. There wassacrilege in it. We were no better than body-snatchers. 

 * * * * *

When I heard the others complaining of the loneliness of oursurroundings, I said nothing at first. I was no sailor man, and I was onboard only by tolerance. But I looked again at the maddening sameness ofthe horizon--the same vacant, void horizon that we had seen now forsixteen days on end, and felt in my wits and in my nerves that sameformless rebellion and protest such as comes when the same note isreiterated over and over again. 

It may seem a little thing that the mere fact of meeting with no othership should have ground down the edge of the spirit. But let theincredulous--bound upon such a hazard as ours--sail straight intonothingness for sixteen days on end, seeing nothing but the sun, hearingnothing but the thresh of his own screw, and then put the question. 

And yet, of all things, we desired no company. Stealth was our one greataim. But I think there were moments--toward the last--when the ThreeCrows would have welcomed even a cruiser. 

Besides, there was more cause for depression, after all, than mereisolation. 

On the seventh day Hardenberg and I were forward by the cat-head, adjusting the grain with some half-formed intent of spearing theporpoises that of late had begun to appear under our bows, andHardenberg had been computing the number of days we were yet to run. 

"We are some five hundred odd miles off that island by now, " he said, "and she's doing her thirteen knots handsome. All's well so far--but doyou know, I'd just as soon raise that point o' land as soon asconvenient. "

"How so?" said I, bending on the line. "Expect some weather?"

"Mr. Dixon, " said he, giving me a curious glance, "the sea is a queerproposition, put it any ways. I've been a seafarin' man since I was bigas a minute, and I know the sea, and what's more, the Feel o' the sea. Now, look out yonder. Nothin', hey? Nothin' but the same ol' skylinewe've watched all the way out. The glass is as steady as a steeple, andthis ol' hooker, I reckon, is as sound as the day she went off the ways. But just the same if I were to home now, a-foolin' about Gloucester wayin my little dough-dish--d'ye know what? I'd put into port. I surewould. Because why? Because I got the Feel o' the Sea, Mr. Dixon. I gotthe Feel o' the Sea. "

I had heard old skippers say something of this before, and I cited toHardenberg the experience of a skipper captain I once knew who hadturned turtle in a calm sea off Trincomalee. I ask him what this Feel ofthe Sea was warning him against just now (for on the high sea anypremonition is a premonition of evil, not of good). But he was notexplicit. 

"I don't know, " he answered moodily, and as if in great perplexity, coiling the rope as he spoke. "I don't know. There's some blame thing orother close to us, I'll bet a hat. I don't know the name of it, butthere's a big Bird in the air, just out of sight som'eres, and, " hesuddenly exclaimed, smacking his knee and leaning forward, "I--don't--like--it--one--dam'--bit. "

The same thing came up in our talk in the cabin that night, after thedinner was taken off and we settled down to tobacco. Only, at this time, Hardenberg was on duty on the bridge. It was Ally Bazan who spokeinstead. 

"Seems to me, " he hazarded, "as haow they's somethin' or other a-goin'to bump up pretty blyme soon. I shouldn't be surprised, naow, y'know, ifwe piled her up on some bally uncharted reef along o' to-night and wentstrite daown afore we'd had a bloomin' charnce to s'y 'So long, gen'lemen all. '"

He laughed as he spoke, but when, just at that moment, a pan clatteredin the galley, he jumped suddenly with an oath, and looked hard aboutthe cabin. 

Then Strokher confessed to a sense of distress also. He'd been having itsince day before yesterday, it seemed. 

"And I put it to you the glass is lovely, " he said, "so it's no blow. Iguess, " he continued, "we're all a bit seedy and ship-sore. "

And whether or not this talk worked upon my own nerves, or whether invery truth the Feel of the Sea had found me also, I do not know; but Ido know that after dinner that night, just before going to bed, a queersense of apprehension came upon me, and that when I had come to mystateroom, after my turn upon deck, I became furiously angry with nobodyin particular, because I could not at once find the matches. But herewas a difference. The other man had been merely vaguely uncomfortable. 

I could put a name to my uneasiness. I felt that we were being watched. 

 * * * * *

It was a strange ship's company we made after that. I speak only of theCrows and myself. We carried a scant crew of stokers, and there was alsoa chief engineer. But we saw so little of him that he did not count. TheCrows and I gloomed on the quarterdeck from dawn to dark, silent, irritable, working upon each other's nerves till the creak of a blockwould make a man jump like cold steel laid to his flesh. We quarreledover absolute nothings, glowered at each other for half a word, and eachone of us, at different times, was at some pains to declare that neverin the course of his career had he been associated with such adisagreeable trio of brutes. Yet we were always together, and soughteach other's company with painful insistence. 

Only once were we all agreed, and that was when the cook, a Chinaman, spoiled a certain batch of biscuits. Unanimously we fell foul of thecreature with so much vociferation as fishwives till he fled the cabinin actual fear of mishandling, leaving us suddenly seized with noisyhilarity--for the first time in a week. Hardenberg proposed a round ofdrinks from our single remaining case of beer. We stood up and formed anElk's chain and then drained our glasses to each other's health withprofound seriousness. 

That same evening, I remember, we all sat on the quarterdeck till lateand--oddly enough--related each one his life's history up to date; andthen went down to the cabin for a game of euchre before turning in. 

We had left Strokher on the bridge--it was his watch--and had forgottenall about him in the interest of the game, when--I suppose it was aboutone in the morning--I heard him whistle long and shrill. I laid down mycards and said:

"Hark!"

In the silence that followed we heard at first only the muffled lope ofour engines, the cadenced snorting of the exhaust, and the ticking ofHardenberg's big watch in his waistcoat that he had hung by the arm-holeto the back of his chair. Then from the bridge, above our deck, prolonged, intoned--a wailing cry in the night--came Strokher's voice:

"Sail oh-h-h. "

And the cards fell from our hands, and, like men turned to stone, we satlooking at each other across the soiled red cloth for what seemed animmeasurably long minute. 

Then stumbling and swearing, in a hysteria of hurry, we gained the deck. 

There was a moon, very low and reddish, but no wind. The sea beyond thetaffrail was as smooth as lava, and so still that the swells from thecutwater of the _Glarus_ did not break as they rolled away from thebows. 

I remember that I stood staring and blinking at the empty ocean--wherethe moonlight lay like a painted stripe reaching to the horizon--stupidand frowning, till Hardenberg, who had gone on ahead, cried:

"Not here--on the bridge!"

We joined Strokher, and as I came up the others were asking:

"Where? Where?"

And there, before he had pointed, I saw--we all of us saw--And I heardHardenberg's teeth come together like a spring trap, while Ally Bazanducked as though to a blow, muttering:

"Gord 'a' mercy, what nyme do ye put to' a ship like that?"

And after that no one spoke for a long minute, and we stood there, moveless black shadows, huddled together for the sake of the blessedelbow touch that means so incalculably much, looking off over our portquarter. 

For the ship that we saw there--oh, she was not a half-mile distant--wasunlike any ship known to present day construction. 

She was short, and high-pooped, and her stern, which was turned a littletoward us, we could see, was set with curious windows, not unlike ahouse. And on either side of this stern were two great iron cressetssuch as once were used to burn signal-fires in. She had three masts withmighty yards swung 'thwart ship, but bare of all sails save a fewrotting streamers. Here and there about her a tangled mass of riggingdrooped and sagged. 

And there she lay, in the red eye of the setting moon, in that solitaryocean, shadowy, antique, forlorn, a thing the most abandoned, the mostsinister I ever remember to have seen. 

Then Strokher began to explain volubly and with many repetitions. 

"A derelict, of course. I was asleep; yes, I was asleep. Gross neglectof duty. I say I was asleep--on watch. And we worked up to her. When Iwoke, why--you see, when I woke, there she was, " he gave a weak littlelaugh, "and--and now, why, there she is, you see. I turned around andsaw her sudden like--when I woke up, that is. "

He laughed again, and as he laughed the engines far below our feet gavea sudden hiccough. Something crashed and struck the ship's sides till welurched as we stood. There was a shriek of steam, a shout--and thensilence. 

The noise of the machinery ceased; the _Glarus_ slid through the stillwater, moving only by her own decreasing momentum. 

Hardenberg sang, "Stand by!" and called down the tube to theengine-room. 

"What's up?"

I was standing close enough to him to hear the answer in a small, faintvoice:

"Shaft gone, sir. "

"Broke?"

"Yes, sir. "

Hardenberg faced about. 

"Come below. We must talk. " I do not think any of us cast a glance atthe Other Ship again. Certainly I kept my eyes away from her. But as westarted down the companion-way I laid my hand on Strokher's shoulder. The rest were ahead. I looked him straight between the eyes as I asked:

"Were you asleep? Is that why you saw her so suddenly?"

It is now five years since I asked the question. I am still waiting forStrokher's answer. 

Well, our shaft was broken. That was flat. We went down into theengine-room and saw the jagged fracture that was the symbol of ourbroken hopes. And in the course of the next five minutes' conversationwith the chief we found that, as we had not provided against such acontingency, there was to be no mending of it. We said nothing about themishap coinciding with the appearance of the Other Ship. But I know wedid not consider the break with any degree of surprise after a fewmoments. 

We came up from the engine-room and sat down to the cabin table. 

"Now what?" said Hardenberg, by way of beginning. 

Nobody answered at first. 

It was by now three in the morning. I recall it all perfectly. The portsopposite where I sat were open and I could see. The moon was all butfull set. The dawn was coming up with a copper murkiness over the edgeof the world. All the stars were yet out. The sea, for all the red moonand copper dawn, was gray, and there, less than half a mile away, stilllay our consort. I could see her through the portholes with each slowcareening of the _Glarus_. 

"I vote for the island, " cried Ally Bazan, "shaft or no shaft. We rigs abit o' syle, y'know----" and thereat the discussion began. 

For upward of two hours it raged, with loud words and shakenforefingers, and great noisy bangings of the table, and how it wouldhave ended I do not know, but at last--it was then maybe five in themorning--the lookout passed word down to the cabin:

"Will you come on deck, gentlemen?" It was the mate who spoke, and theman was shaken--I could see that--to the very vitals of him. We startedand stared at one another, and I watched little Ally Bazan go slowlywhite to the lips. And even then no word of the ship, except as it mightbe this from Hardenberg:

"What is it? Good God Almighty, I'm no coward, but this thing is gettingone too many for me. "

Then without further speech he went on deck. 

The air was cool. The sun was not yet up. It was that strange, queermid-period between dark and dawn, when the night is over and the day notyet come, just the gray that is neither light nor dark, the dim deadblink as of the refracted light from extinct worlds. 

We stood at the rail. We did not speak; we stood watching. It was sostill that the drip of steam from some loosened pipe far below wasplainly audible, and it sounded in that lifeless, silent graynesslike--God knows what--a death tick. 

"You see, " said the mate, speaking just above a whisper, "there's nomistake about it. She is moving--this way. "

"Oh, a current, of course, " Strokher tried to say cheerfully, "sets hertoward us. "

Would the morning never come?

Ally Bazan--his parents were Catholic--began to mutter to himself. 

Then Hardenberg spoke aloud. 

"I particularly don't want--that--out--there--to cross our bows. I don'twant it to come to that. We must get some sails on her. "

"And I put it to you as man to man, " said Strokher, "where might be yourwind. "

He was right. The _Glarus_ floated in absolute calm. On all that slab ofocean nothing moved but the Dead Ship. 

She came on slowly; her bows, the high, clumsy bows pointed toward us, the water turning from her forefoot. She came on; she was near at hand. We saw her plainly--saw the rotted planks, the crumbling rigging, therust-corroded metal-work, the broken rail, the gaping deck, and I couldimagine that the clean water broke away from her sides in refluentwavelets as though in recoil from a thing unclean. She made no sound. Nosingle thing stirred aboard the hulk of her--but she moved. 

We were helpless. The _Glarus_ could stir no boat in any direction; wewere chained to the spot. Nobody had thought to put out our lights, andthey still burned on through the dawn, strangely out of place in theirred-and-green garishness, like maskers surprised by daylight. 

And in the silence of that empty ocean, in that queer half-light betweendawn and day, at six o'clock, silent as the settling of the dead to thebottomless bottom of the ocean, gray as fog, lonely, blind, soulless, voiceless, the Dead Ship crossed our bows. 

I do not know how long after this the Ship disappeared, or what was thetime of day when we at last pulled ourselves together. But we came tosome sort of decision at last. This was to go on--under sail. We weretoo close to the island now to turn back for--for a broken shaft. 

The afternoon was spent fitting on the sails to her, and when afternightfall the wind at length came up fresh and favourable, I believe weall felt heartened and a deal more hardy--until the last canvas wentaloft, and Hardenberg took the wheel. 

We had drifted a good deal since the morning, and the bows of the_Glarus_ were pointed homeward, but as soon as the breeze blew strongenough to get steerageway Hardenberg put the wheel over and, as thebooms swung across the deck, headed for the island again. 

We had not gone on this course half an hour--no, not twentyminutes--before the wind shifted a whole quarter of the compass and tookthe _Glarus_ square in the teeth, so that there was nothing for it butto tack. And then the strangest thing befell. 

I will make allowance for the fact that there was no centre-board norkeel to speak of to the _Glarus_. I will admit that the sails upon anine-hundred-ton freighter are not calculated to speed her, nor steadyher. I will even admit the possibility of a current that set from theisland toward us. All this may be true, yet the _Glarus_ should haveadvanced. We should have made a wake. 

And instead of this, our stolid, steady, trusty old boat was--what shallI say?

I will say that no man may thoroughly understand a ship--after all. Iwill say that new ships are cranky and unsteady; that old and seasonedships have their little crochets, their little fussinesses that theirskippers must learn and humour if they are to get anything out of them;that even the best ships may sulk at times, shirk their work, growunstable, perverse, and refuse to answer helm and handling. And I willsay that some ships that for years have sailed blue water as soberly andas docilely as a street-car horse has plodded the treadmill of the'tween-tracks, have been known to balk, as stubbornly and asconclusively as any old Bay Billy that ever wore a bell. I know this hashappened, because I have seen it. I saw, for instance, the _Glarus_ doit. 

Quite literally and truly we could do nothing with her. We will say, ifyou like, that that great jar and wrench when the shaft gave way shookher and crippled her. It is true, however, that whatever the cause mayhave been, we could not force her toward the island. Of course, we allsaid "current"; but why didn't the log-line trail?

For three days and three nights we tried it. And the _Glarus_ heaved andplunged and shook herself just as you have seen a horse plunge and rearwhen his rider tries to force him at the steam-roller. 

I tell you I could feel the fabric of her tremble and shudder from bowto stern-post, as though she were in a storm; I tell you she fell offfrom the wind, and broad-on drifted back from her course till thesensation of her shrinking was as plain as her own staring lights and athing pitiful to see. 

We roweled her, and we crowded sail upon her, and we coaxed and bulliedand humoured her, till the Three Crows, their fortune only a plain sailtwo days ahead, raved and swore like insensate brutes, or shall we saylike mahouts trying to drive their stricken elephant upon the tiger--andall to no purpose. "Damn the damned current and the damned luck and thedamned shaft and all, " Hardenberg would exclaim, as from the wheel hewould catch the _Glarus_ falling off. "Go on, you old hooker--you tub ofjunk! My God, you'd think she was scared!"

Perhaps the _Glarus_ was scared, perhaps not; that point is debatable. But it was beyond doubt of debate that Hardenberg was scared. 

A ship that will not obey is only one degree less terrible than amutinous crew. And we were in a fair way to have both. The stokers, whomwe had impressed into duty as A. B. 's, were of course superstitious; andthey knew how the _Glarus_ was acting, and it was only a question oftime before they got out of hand. 

That was the end. We held a final conference in the cabin and decidedthat there was no help for it--we must turn back. 

And back we accordingly turned, and at once the wind followed us, andthe "current" helped us, and the water churned under the forefoot of the_Glarus_, and the wake whitened under her stern, and the log-line ranout from the trail and strained back as the ship worked homeward. 

We had never a mishap from the time we finally swung her about; and, considering the circumstances, the voyage back to San Francisco waspropitious. 

But an incident happened just after we had started back. We were perhapssome five miles on the homeward track. It was early evening and Strokherhad the watch. At about seven o'clock he called me up on the bridge. 

"See her?" he said. 

And there, far behind us, in the shadow of the twilight, loomed theOther Ship again, desolate, lonely beyond words. We were leaving herrapidly astern. Strokher and I stood looking at her till she dwindled toa dot. Then Strokher said:

"She's on post again. "

And when months afterward we limped into the Golden Gate and cast anchoroff the "Front" our crew went ashore as soon as discharged, and in halfa dozen hours the legend was in every sailors' boarding-house and inevery seaman's dive, from Barbary Coast to Black Tom's. 

It is still there, and that is why no pilot will take the _Glarus_ out, no captain will navigate her, no stoker feed her fires, no sailor walkher decks. The _Glarus_ is suspect. She will never smell blue wateragain, nor taste the trades. She has seen a Ghost. 

THE GHOST IN THE CROSSTREES

I

Cyrus Ryder, the President of the South Pacific Exploitation Company, had at last got hold of a "proposition"--all Ryder's schemes were, inhis vernacular, "propositions"--that was not only profitable beyondprecedent or belief, but that also was, wonderful to say, more or lesslegitimate. He had got an "island. " He had not discovered it. Ryder hadnot felt a deck under his shoes for twenty years other than thepromenade deck of the ferry-boat _San Rafael_, that takes him home toBerkeley every evening after "business hours. " He had not discovered it, but "Old Rosemary, " captain of the barkentine _Scottish Chief_, ofBlyth, had done that very thing, and, dying before he was able toperfect the title, had made over his interest in it to his best friendand old comrade, Cyrus Ryder. 

"Old Rosemary, " I am told, first landed on the island--it is calledPaa--in the later '60's. 

He established its location and took its latitude and longitude, but asminutes and degrees mean nothing to the lay reader, let it be said thatthe Island of Paa lies just below the equator, some 200 miles west ofthe Gilberts and 1, 600 miles due east from Brisbane, in Australia. It issix miles long, three wide, and because of the prevailing winds andprecipitous character of the coast can only be approached from the westduring December and January. 

"Old Rosemary" landed on the island, raised the American flag, had thecrew witness the document by virtue of which he made himself thepossessor, and then, returning to San Francisco, forwarded to theSecretary of State, at Washington, application for title. This waswithheld till it could be shown that no other nation had a prior claim. While "Old Rosemary" was working out the proof, he died, and the wholematter was left in abeyance till Cyrus Ryder took it up. By then therewas a new Secretary in Washington and times were changed, so that theGovernment of Ryder's native land was not so averse toward acquiringEastern possessions. The Secretary of State wrote to Ryder to say thatthe application would be granted upon furnishing a bond for $50, 000; andyou may believe that the bond was forthcoming. 

For in the first report upon Paa, "Old Rosemary" had used the magic word"guano. "

He averred, and his crew attested over their sworn statements, that Paawas covered to an average depth of six feet with the stuff, so that thislast and biggest of "Cy" Ryder's propositions was a vast slab of anextremely marketable product six feet thick, three miles wide and sixmiles long. 

But no sooner had the title been granted when there came a dislocationin the proceedings that until then had been going forward so smoothly. Ryder called the Three Black Crows to him at this juncture, one certainafternoon in the month of April. They were his best agents. The plumsthat the "Company" had at its disposal generally went to the trio, andif any man could "put through" a dangerous and desperate piece of work, Strokher, Hardenberg and Ally Bazan were those men. 

Of late they had been unlucky, and the affair of the contraband arms, which had ended in failure of cataclysmic proportions, yet rankled inRyder's memory, but he had no one else to whom he could intrust thepresent proposition and he still believed Hardenberg to be the best bosson his list. 

If Paa was to be fought for, Hardenberg, backed by Strokher and AllyBazan, was the man of all men for the job, for it looked as though Ryderwould not get the Island of Paa without a fight after all, and nitratebeds were worth fighting for. 

"You see, boys, it's this way, " Ryder explained to the three as they sataround the spavined table in the grimy back room of Ryder's "office. ""It's this way. There's a scoovy after Paa, I'm told; he says he wasthere before 'Rosemary, ' which is a lie, and that his Gov'ment has givenhim title. He's got a kind of dough-dish up Portland way and starts forPaa as soon as ever he kin fit out. He's got no title, in course, but ifhe gits there afore we do and takes possession it'll take fifty years o'lawing an' injunctioning to git him off. So hustle is the word for youfrom the word 'go. ' We got a good start o' the scoovy. He can't put tosea within a week, while over yonder in Oakland Basin there's the _IdahoLass_, as good a schooner, boys, as ever wore paint, all ready but tofit her new sails on her. Ye kin do it in less than no time. The storeswill be goin' into her while ye're workin', and within the week I expectto see the _Idaho Lass_ showing her heels to the Presidio. You see thepoint now, boys. If ye beat the scoovy--his name is Petersen, and hisboat is called the _Elftruda_--we're to the wind'ard of a pretty pot o'money. If he gets away before you do--well, there's no telling; weprob'ly lose the island. "

II

About ten days before the morning set for their departure I went over tothe Oakland Basin to see how the Three Black Crows were getting on. 

Hardenberg welcomed me as my boat bumped alongside, and extending agreat tarry paw, hauled me over the rail. The schooner was a wildernessof confusion, with the sails covering, apparently, nine-tenths of thedecks, the remaining tenth encumbered by spars, cordage, tangledrigging, chains, cables and the like, all helter-skeltered together insuch a haze of entanglements that my heart misgave me as I looked on it. Surely order would not issue from this chaos in four days' time withonly three men to speed the work. 

But Hardenberg was reassuring, and little Ally Bazan, the colonial, toldme they would "snatch her shipshape in the shorter end o' two days, ifso be they must. "

I stayed with the Three Crows all that day and shared their dinner withthem on the quarterdeck when, wearied to death with the strain ofwrestling with the slatting canvas and ponderous boom, they at lastthrew themselves upon the hamper of "cold snack" I had brought off withme and pledged the success of the venture in tin dippers full ofPilsener. 

"And I'm thinking, " said Ally Bazan, "as 'ow ye might as well turn inalong o' us on board 'ere, instead o' hykin' back to town to-night. There's a fairish set o' currents up and daown 'ere about this time o'dye, and ye'd find it a stiff bit o' rowing. "

"We'll sling a hammick for you on the quarterdeck, m'son, " urgedHardenberg. 

And so it happened that I passed my first night aboard the _Idaho Lass_. 

We turned in early. The Three Crows were very tired, and only Ally Bazanand I were left awake at the time when we saw the 8:30 ferryboatnegotiating for her slip on the Oakland side. Then we also went to bed. 

And now it becomes necessary, for a better understanding of what is tofollow, to mention with some degree of particularization the places andmanners in which my three friends elected to take their sleep, as wellas the condition and berth of the schooner _Idaho Lass_. 

Hardenberg slept upon the quarterdeck, rolled up in an army blanket anda tarpaulin. Strokher turned in below in the cabin upon the fixed loungeby the dining-table, while Ally Bazan stretched himself in one of thebunks in the fo'c's'le. 

As for the location of the schooner, she lay out in the stream, somethree or four cables' length off the yards and docks of a ship-buildingconcern. No other ship or boat of any description was anchored nearerthan at least 300 yards. She was a fine, roomy vessel, three-masted, about 150 feet in length overall. She lay head up stream, and from whereI lay by Hardenberg on the quarterdeck I could see her tops sharplyoutlined against the sky above the Golden Gate before I went to sleep. 

I suppose it was very early in the morning--nearer two than three--whenI awoke. Some movement on the part of Hardenberg--as I afterward foundout--had aroused me. But I lay inert for a long minute trying to findout why I was not in my own bed, in my own home, and to account for therushing, rippling sound of the tide eddies sucking and chuckling aroundthe _Lass's_ rudder-post. 

Then I became aware that Hardenberg was awake. I lay in my hammock, facing the stern of the schooner, and as Hardenberg had made up his bedbetween me and the wheel he was directly in my line of vision when Iopened my eyes, and I could see him without any other movement than thatof raising the eyelids. Just now, as I drifted more and more intowakefulness, I grew proportionately puzzled and perplexed to account fora singularly strange demeanour and conduct on the part of my friend. 

He was sitting up in his place, his knees drawn up under the blanket, one arm thrown around both, the hand of the other arm resting on theneck and supporting the weight of his body. He was broad awake. I couldsee the green shine of our riding lantern in his wide-open eyes, andfrom time to time I could hear him muttering to himself, "What is it?What is it? What the devil is it, anyhow?" But it was not his attitude, nor the fact of his being so broad awake at the unseasonable hour, noryet his unaccountable words, that puzzled me the most. It was the man'seyes and the direction in which they looked that startled me. 

His gaze was directed not upon anything on the deck of the boat, norupon the surface of the water near it, but upon something behind me andat a great height in the air. I was not long in getting myself broadawake. 

III

I rolled out on the deck and crossed over to where Hardenberg sathuddled in his blankets. 

"What the devil--" I began. 

He jumped suddenly at the sound of my voice, then raised an arm andpointed toward the top of the foremast. 

"D'ye see it?" he muttered. "Say, huh? D'ye see it? I thought I saw itlast night, but I wasn't sure. But there's no mistake now. D'ye see it, Mr. Dixon?"

I looked where he pointed. The schooner was riding easily to anchor, thesurface of the bay was calm, but overhead the high white sea-fog wasrolling in. Against it the foremast stood out like the hand of anilluminated town clock, and not a detail of its rigging that was not asdistinct as if etched against the sky. 

And yet I saw nothing. 

"Where?" I demanded, and again and again "where?"

"In the crosstrees, " whispered Hardenberg. "Ah, look there. "

He was right. Something was stirring there, something that I hadmistaken for the furled tops'l. At first it was but a formless bundle, but as Hardenberg spoke it stretched itself, it grew upright, it assumedan erect attitude, it took the outlines of a human being. From head toheel a casing housed it in, a casing that might have been anything atthat hour of the night and in that strange place--a shroud, if you like, a winding-sheet--anything; and it is without shame that I confess to acreep of the most disagreeable sensation I have ever known as I stood atHardenberg's side on that still, foggy night and watched the stirring ofthat nameless, formless shape standing gaunt and tall and grisly andwrapped in its winding-sheet upon the crosstrees of the foremast of the_Idaho Lass_. 

We watched and waited breathless for an instant. Then the creature onthe foremast laid a hand upon the lashings of the tops'l and undid them. Then it turned, slid to the deck by I know not what strange process, and, still hooded, still shrouded, still lapped about by itsmummy-wrappings, seized a rope's end. In an instant the jib was set andstood on hard and billowing against the night wind. The tops'l followed. Then the figure moved forward and passed behind the companionway of thefo'c's'le. 

We looked for it to appear upon the other side, but looked in vain. Wesaw it no more that night. 

What Hardenberg and I told each other between the time of thedisappearing and the hour of breakfast I am now ashamed to recall. Butat last we agreed to say nothing to the others--for the time being. Justafter breakfast, however, we two had a few words by the wheel on thequarterdeck. Ally Bazan and Strokher were forward. 

"The proper thing to do, " said I--it was a glorious, exhilaratingmorning, and the sunlight was flooding every angle and corner of theschooner--"the proper thing to do is to sleep on deck by the foremastto-night with our pistols handy and interview the--party if it walksagain. "

"Oh, yes, " cried Hardenberg heartily. "Oh, yes; that's the proper thing. Of course it is. No manner o' doubt about that, Mr. Dixon. Watch for theparty--yes, with pistols. Of course it's the proper thing. But I knowone man that ain't going to do no such thing. "

"Well, " I remember to have said reflectively, "well--I guess I knowanother. "

But for all our resolutions to say nothing to the others about thenight's occurrences, we forgot that the tops'l and jib were both set andboth drawing. 

"An' w'at might be the bloomin' notion o' setting the bloomin' kite andjib?" demanded Ally Bazan not half an hour after breakfast. ShamelesslyHardenberg, at a loss for an answer, feigned an interest in the grummetsof the life-boat cover and left me to lie as best I might. 

But it is not easy to explain why one should raise the sails of ananchored ship during the night, and Ally Bazan grew very suspicious. Strokher, too, had something to say, and in the end the whole mattercame out. 

Trust a sailor to give full value to anything savouring of thesupernatural. Strokher promptly voted the ship a "queer old hookeranyhow, and about as seaworthy as a hen-coop. " He held forth at greatlength upon the subject. 

"You mark my words, now, " he said. "There's been some fishy doin's inthis 'ere vessel, and it's like somebody done to death crool hard, an''e wants to git away from the smell o' land, just like them as is killedon blue water. That's w'y 'e takes an' sets the sails between dark an'dawn. "

But Ally Bazan was thoroughly and wholly upset, so much so that at firsthe could not speak. He went pale and paler while we stood talking itover, and crossed himself--he was a Catholic--furtively behind thewater-butt. 

"I ain't never 'a' been keen on ha'nts anyhow, Mr. Dixon, " he told meaggrievedly at dinner that evening. "I got no use for 'em. I ain't neverknown any good to come o' anything with a ha'nt tagged to it, an' we'remakin' a ill beginnin' o' this island business, Mr. Dixon--a blyme illbeginnin'. I mean to stye awyke to-night. "

But if he was awake the little colonial was keeping close to his bunk atthe time when Strokher and Hardenberg woke me at about three in themorning. 

I rolled out and joined them on the quarterdeck and stood beside themwatching. The same figure again towered, as before, gray and ominous inthe crosstrees. As before, it set the tops'l; as before, it came down tothe deck and raised the jib; as before, it passed out of sight amid theconfusion of the forward deck. 

But this time we all ran toward where we last had seen it, stumblingover the encumbered decks, jostling and tripping, but keepingwonderfully close together. It was not twenty seconds from the time thecreature had disappeared before we stood panting upon the exact spot wehad last seen it. We searched every corner of the forward deck in vain. We looked over the side. The moon was up. This night there was no fog. We could see for miles each side of us, but never a trace of a boat wasvisible, and it was impossible that any swimmer could have escaped themerciless scrutiny to which we subjected the waters of the bay in everydirection. 

Hardenberg and I dived down into the fo'c's'le. Ally Bazan was soundasleep in his bunk and woke stammering, blinking and bewildered by thelantern we carried. 

"I sye, " he cried, all at once scrambling up and clawing at our arms, "D'd the bally ha'nt show up agyne?" And as we nodded he went on moreaggrievedly than ever--"Oh, I sye, y' know, I daon't like this. I eyen'tshipping in no bloomin' 'ooker wot carries a ha'nt for supercargo. Theywaon't no good come o' this cruise--no, they waon't. It's a sign, that'swot it is. I eyen't goin' to buck again no signs--it eyen't humannature, no it eyen't. You mark my words, 'Bud' Hardenberg, we clear thisport with a ship wot has a ha'nt an' we waon't never come back agyne, myhearty. "

That night he berthed aft with us on the quarterdeck, but though westood watch and watch till well into the dawn, nothing stirred about theforemast. So it was the next night, and so the night after that. Whenthree successive days had passed without any manifestation the keen edgeof the business became a little blunted and we declared that an end hadbeen made. 

Ally Bazan returned to his bunk in the fo'c's'le on the fourth night, and the rest of us slept the hours through unconcernedly. 

But in the morning there were the jib and tops'l set and drawing asbefore. 

IV

After this we began experimenting--on Ally Bazan. We bunked him forwardand we bunked him aft, for some one had pointed out that the "ha'nt"walked only at the times when the colonial slept in the fo'c's'le. Wefound this to be true. Let the little fellow watch on the quarterdeckwith us and the night passed without disturbance. As soon as he took uphis quarters forward the haunting recommenced. Furthermore, it began toappear that the "ha'nt" carefully refrained from appearing to him. He ofus all had never seen the thing. He of us all was spared the chills andthe harrowings that laid hold upon the rest of us during these stillgray hours after midnight when we huddled on the deck of the _IdahoLass_ and watched the sheeted apparition in the rigging; for by nowthere was no more charging forward in attempts to run the ghost down. Wehad passed that stage long since. 

But so far from rejoicing in this immunity or drawing courage therefrom, Ally Bazan filled the air with his fears and expostulations. Just thefact that he was in some way differentiated from the others--that he wassingled out, if only for exemption--worked upon him. And that he wasunable to scale his terrors by actual sight of their object excited themall the more. 

And there issued from this a curious consequence. He, the very one whohad never seen the haunting, was also the very one to unsettle whatlittle common sense yet remained to Hardenberg and Strokher. He neverallowed the subject to be ignored--never lost an opportunity ofreferring to the doom that o'erhung the vessel. By the hour he pouredinto the ears of his friends lugubrious tales of ships, warned as thisone was, that had cleared from port, never to be seen again. He recalledto their minds parallel incidents that they themselves had heard; heforetold the fate of the _Idaho Lass_ when the land should lie behindand she should be alone in midocean with this horrid supercargo thattook liberties with the rigging, and at last one particular morning, twodays before that which was to witness the schooner's departure, he cameout flatfooted to the effect that "Gaw-blyme him, he couldn't stand thegaff no longer, no he couldn't, so help him, that if the owners werewishful for to put to sea" (doomed to some unnamable destruction) "hefor one wa'n't fit to die, an' was going to quit that blessed day. " Forthe sake of appearances, Hardenberg and Strokher blustered and fumed, but I could hear the crack in Strokher's voice as plain as in a brokenship's bell. I was not surprised at what happened later in the day, whenhe told the others that he was a very sick man. A congenital stomachtrouble, it seemed--or was it liver complaint--had found him out again. He had contracted it when a lad at Trincomalee, diving for pearls; itwas acutely painful, it appeared. Why, gentlemen, even at that verymoment, as he stood there talking--Hi, yi! O Lord !--talking, it wasa-griping of him something uncommon, so it was. And no, it was no mannerof use for him to think of going on this voyage; sorry he was, too, forhe'd made up his mind, so he had, to find out just what was wrong withthe foremast, etc. 

And thereupon Hardenberg swore a great oath and threw down the capstanbar he held in his hand. 

"Well, then, " he cried wrathfully, "we might as well chuck up the wholebusiness. No use going to sea with a sick man and a scared man. "

"An' there's the first word o' sense, " cried Ally Bazan, "I've heardthis long day. 'Scared, ' he says; aye, right ye are, me bully. "

"It's Cy Rider's fault, " the three declared after a two-hours' talk. "Nobusiness giving us a schooner with a ghost aboard. Scoovy or no scoovy, island or no island, guano or no guano, we don't go to sea in thehaunted hooker called the _Idaho Lass_. "

No more they did. On board the schooner they had faced the supernaturalwith some kind of courage born of the occasion. Once on shore, and nomoney could hire, no power force them to go aboard a second time. 

The affair ended in a grand wrangle in Cy Rider's back office, and justtwenty-four hours later the bark _Elftruda_, Captain Jens Petersen, cleared from Portland, bound for "a cruise to South Pacific ports--inballast. "

 * * * * *

Two years after this I took Ally Bazan with me on a duck-shootingexcursion in the "Toolies" back of Sacramento, for he is a handy manabout a camp and can row a boat as softly as a drifting cloud. 

We went about in a cabin cat of some thirty feet over all, the rowboattowing astern. Sometimes we did not go ashore to camp, but slept aboard. On the second night of this expedient I woke in my blankets on the floorof the cabin to see the square of gray light that stood for the cabindoor darkened by--it gave me the same old start--a sheeted figure. Itwas going up the two steps to the deck. Beyond question it had been inthe cabin. I started up and followed it. I was too frightened not to--ifyou can see what I mean. By the time I had got the blankets off and hadthrust my head above the level of the cabin hatch the figure was alreadyin the bows, and, as a matter of course, hoisting the jib. 

I thought of calling Ally Bazan, who slept by me on the cabin floor, butit seemed to me at the time that if I did not keep that figure in sightit would elude me again, and, besides, if I went back in the cabin I wasafraid that I would bolt the door and remain under the bedclothes tillmorning. I was afraid to go on with the adventure, but I was much moreafraid to go back. 

So I crept forward over the deck of the sloop. The "ha'nt" had its backtoward me, fumbling with the ends of the jib halyards. I could hear thecreak of new ropes as it undid the knot, and the sound was certainlysubstantial and commonplace. I was so close by now that I could seeevery outline of the shape. It was precisely as it had appeared on thecrosstrees of the _Idaho_, only, seen without perspective, and broughtdown to the level of the eye, it lost its exaggerated height. 

It had been kneeling upon the deck. Now, at last, it rose and turnedabout, the end of the halyards in its hand. The light of the earliestdawn fell squarely on the face and form, and I saw, if you please, AllyBazan himself. His eyes were half shut, and through his open lips camethe sound of his deep and regular breathing. 

At breakfast the next morning I asked, "Ally Bazan, did you ever walk inyour sleep. "

"Aye, " he answered, "years ago, when I was by wye o' being a lad, I usedallus to wrap the bloomin' sheets around me. An' crysy things I'd do thetimes. But the 'abit left me when I grew old enough to tyke me whiskystrite and have hair on me fyce. "

I did not "explain away" the ghost in the crosstrees either to AllyBazan or to the other two Black Crows. Furthermore, I do not now referto the Island of Paa in the hearing of the trio. The claims and title ofNorway to the island have long since been made good and conceded--evenby the State Department at Washington--and I understand that CaptainPetersen has made a very pretty fortune out of the affair. 

THE RIDING OF FELIPE

I. FELIPE

As young Felipe Arillaga guided his pony out of the last intricacies ofPacheco Pass, he was thinking of Rubia Ytuerate and of the scene he hadhad with her a few days before. He reconstructed it now very vividly. Rubia had been royally angry, and as she had stood before him, her armsfolded and her teeth set, he was forced to admit that she was ashandsome a woman as could be found through all California. 

There had been a time, three months past, when Felipe found nocompulsion in the admission, for though betrothed to Buelna Martiarenahe had abruptly conceived a violent infatuation for Rubia, and hadremained a guest upon her rancho many weeks longer than he had intended. 

For three months he had forgotten Buelna entirely. At the end of thattime he had remembered her--had awakened to the fact that hisinfatuation for Rubia _was_ infatuation, and had resolved to end theaffair and go back to Buelna as soon as it was possible. 

But Rubia was quick to notice the cooling of his passion. First shefixed him with oblique suspicion from under her long lashes, thenavoided him, then kept him at her side for days together. Then atlast--his defection unmistakable--turned on him with furious demands forthe truth. 

Felipe had snatched occasion with one hand and courage with the other. 

"Well, " he had said, "well, it is not my fault. Yes, it is the truth. Itis played out. "

He had not thought it necessary to speak of Buelna; but Rubia divinedthe other woman. 

"So you think you are to throw me aside like that. Ah, it is played out, is it, Felipe Arillaga? You listen to me. Do not fancy for one momentyou are going back to an old love, or on to a new one. You listen tome, " she had cried, her fist over her head. "I do not know who she is, but my curse is on her, Felipe Arillaga. My curse is on her who nextkisses you. May that kiss be a blight to her. From that moment may evilcling to her, bad luck follow her; may she love and not be loved; mayfriends desert her, enemies beset her, her sisters shame her, herbrothers disown her, and those whom she has loved abandon her. May herbody waste as your love for me has wasted; may her heart be broken asyour promises to me have been broken; may her joy be as fleeting as yourvows, and her beauty grow as dim as your memory of me. I have said it. "

[Illustration: "'My Curse Is On Her Who Next Kisses You'"]

"So be it!" Felipe had retorted with vast nonchalance, and had flung outfrom her presence to saddle his pony and start back to Buelna. 

But Felipe was superstitious. He half believed in curses, had seentwo-headed calves born because of them, and sheep stampeded over cliffsfor no other reason. 

Now, as he drew out of Pacheco Pass and came down into the valley theidea of Rubia and her curse troubled him. At first, when yet three days'journey from Buelna, it had been easy to resolve to brave it out. Butnow he was already on the Rancho Martiarena (had been traveling over itfor the last ten hours, in fact), and in a short time would be at the_hacienda_ of Martiarena, uncle and guardian of Buelna. He would seeBuelna, and she, believing always in his fidelity, would expect to kisshim. 

"Well, this is to be thought about, " murmured Felipe uneasily. Hetouched up the pony with one of his enormous spurs. 

"Now I know what I will do, " he thought. "I will go to San Juan Bautistaand confess and be absolved, and will buy candles. Then afterward willgo to Buelna. "

He found the road that led to the Mission and turned into it, pushingforward at a canter. Then suddenly at a sharp turning reined up just intime to avoid colliding with a little cavalcade. 

He uttered an exclamation under his breath. 

At the head of the cavalcade rode old Martiarena himself, and behind himcame a _peon_ or two, then Manuela, the aged housekeeper and--after afashion--duenna. Then at her side, on a saddle of red leather withsilver bosses, which was cinched about the body of a very small whiteburro, Buelna herself. 

She was just turned sixteen, and being of the best blood of the motherkingdom (the strain dating back to the Ostrogothic invasion), was fair. Her hair was blond, her eyes blue-gray, her eyebrows and lashes darkbrown, and as he caught sight of her Felipe wondered how he ever couldhave believed the swarthy Rubia beautiful. 

There was a jubilant meeting. Old Martiarena kissed both his cheeks, patting him on the back. 

"Oh, ho!" he cried. "Once more back. We have just returned from thefeast of the Santa Cruz at the Mission, and Buelna prayed for your safereturn. Go to her, boy. She has waited long for this hour. "

Felipe, his eyes upon those of his betrothed, advanced. She was lookingat him and smiling. As he saw the unmistakable light in her blue eyes, the light he knew she had kept burning for him alone, Felipe could haveabased himself to the very hoofs of her burro. Could it be possible hehad ever forgotten her for such a one as Rubia--have been unfaithful tothis dear girl for so much as the smallest fraction of a minute?

"You are welcome, Felipe, " she said. "Oh, very, very welcome. " She gavehim her hand and turned her face to his. But it was her hand and not herface the young man kissed. Old Martiarena, who looked on, shook withlaughter. 

"Hoh! a timid lover this, " he called. "We managed different when I was alad. Her lips, Felipe. Must an old man teach a youngster gallantry?"

Buelna blushed and laughed, but yet did not withdraw her hand nor turnher face away. 

There was a delicate expectancy in her manner that she neverthelesscontrived to make compatible with her native modesty. Felipe had beenher acknowledged lover ever since the two were children. 

"Well?" cried Martiarena as Felipe hesitated. 

Even then, if Felipe could have collected his wits, he might have savedthe situation for himself. But no time had been allowed him to think. Confusion seized upon him. All that was clear in his mind were the lastwords of Rubia. It seemed to him that between his lips he carried apoison deadly to Buelna above all others. Stupidly, brutally heprecipitated the catastrophe. 

"No, " he exclaimed seriously, abruptly drawing his hand from Buelna's, "no. It may not be. I cannot. "

Martiarena stared. Then:

"Is this a jest, señor?" he demanded. "An ill-timed one, then. "

"No, " answered Felipe, "it is not a jest. "

"But, Felipe, " murmured Buelna. "But--why--I do not understand. "

"I think I begin to, " cried Martiarena. "Señor, you do not, " protestedFelipe. "It is not to be explained. I know what you believe. On myhonour, I love Buelna. "

"Your actions give you the lie, then, young man. Bah! Nonsense. Whatfool's play is all this? Kiss him, Buelna, and have done with it. "

Felipe gnawed his nails. 

"Believe me, oh, believe me, Señor Martiarena, it must not be. "

"Then an explanation. "

For a moment Felipe hesitated. But how could he tell them the truth--thetruth that involved Rubia and his disloyalty, temporary though that was. They could neither understand nor forgive. Here, indeed, was an_impasse_. One thing only was to be said, and he said it. "I can giveyou no explanation, " he murmured. 

But Buelna suddenly interposed. 

"Oh, please, " she said, pushing by Felipe, "uncle, we have talked toolong. Please let us go. There is only one explanation. Is it not enoughalready?"

"By God, it is not!" vociferated the old man, turning upon Felipe. "Tellme what it means. Tell me what this means. "

"I cannot. "

"Then I will tell _you_!" shouted the old fellow in Felipe's face. "Itmeans that you are a liar and a rascal. That you have played withBuelna, and that you have deceived me, who have trusted you as a fatherwould have trusted a son. I forbid you to answer me. For the sake ofwhat you were I spare you now. But this I will do. Off of my rancho!" hecried. "Off my rancho, and in the future pray your God, or the devil, towhom you are sold, to keep you far from me. "

"You do not understand, you do not understand, " pleaded Felipe, thetears starting to his eyes. "Oh, believe me, I speak the truth. I loveyour niece. _I love Buelna_. Oh, never so truly, never so devoutly asnow. Let me speak to her; she will believe me. "

But Buelna, weeping, had ridden on. 

II. UNZAR

A fortnight passed. Soon a month had gone by. Felipe gloomed about hisrancho, solitary, taciturn, siding the sheep-walks and cattle-ranges fordays and nights together, refusing all intercourse with his friends. Itseemed as if he had lost Buelna for good and all. At times, as thecertainty of this defined itself more clearly, Felipe would fling hishat upon the ground, beat his breast, and then, prone upon his face, hishead buried in his folded arms, would lie for hours motionless, whilehis pony nibbled the sparse alfalfa, and the jack-rabbits limping fromthe sage peered at him, their noses wrinkling. 

But about a month after the meeting and parting with Buelna, word wentthrough all the ranches that a hide-roger had cast anchor in MontereyBay. At once an abrupt access of activity seized upon the rancheros. Rodeos were held, sheep slaughtered, and the great tallow-pits began tofill up. 

Felipe was not behind his neighbours, and, his tallow once in hand, sentit down to Monterey, and himself rode down to see about disposing of it. 

On his return he stopped at the wine shop of one Lopez Catala, on theroad between Monterey and his rancho. 

It was late afternoon when he reached it, and the wine shop wasdeserted. Outside, the California August lay withering and suffocatingover all the land. The far hills were burnt to dry, hay-like grass andbrittle clods. The eucalyptus trees in front of the wine shop (the firsttrees Felipe had seen all that day) were coated with dust. The plains ofsagebrush and the alkali flats shimmered and exhaled pallid mirages, glistening like inland seas. Over all blew the trade-wind; prolonged, insistent, harassing, swooping up the red dust of the road and the whitepowder of the alkali beds, and flinging it--white-and-red banners in asky of burnt-out blue--here and there about the landscape. 

The wine shop, which was also an inn, was isolated, lonely, but it wascomfortable, and Felipe decided to lay over there that night, then inthe morning reach his rancho by an easy stage. 

He had his supper--an omelet, cheese, tortillas, and a glass ofwine--and afterward sat outside on a bench smoking innumerablecigarettes and watching the sun set. 

While he sat so a young man of about his own age rode up from theeastward with a great flourish, and giving over his horse to the_muchacho_, entered the wine shop and ordered dinner and a room for thenight. Afterward he came out and stood in front of the inn and watchedthe _muchacho_ cleaning his horse. 

Felipe, looking at him, saw that he was of his own age and about his ownbuild--that is to say, twenty-eight or thirty, and tall and lean. But inother respects the difference was great. The stranger was flamboyantlydressed: skin-tight pantaloons, fastened all up and down the leg withround silver buttons; yellow boots with heels high as a girl's, set offwith silver spurs; a very short coat faced with galloons of gold, and avery broad-brimmed and very high-crowned sombrero, on which the silverbraid alone was worth the price of a good horse. Even for a SpanishMexican his face was dark. Swart it was, the cheeks hollow; a tiny, tight mustache with ends truculently pointed and erect helped out thebelligerency of the tight-shut lips. The eyes were black as bitumen, andflashed continually under heavy brows. 

"Perhaps, " thought Felipe, "he is a _toreador_ from Mexico. "

The stranger followed his horse to the barn, but, returning in a fewmoments, stood before Felipe and said:

"Señor, I have taken the liberty to put my horse in the stall occupiedby yours. Your beast the _muchacho_ turned into the _corrale_. Mine isan animal of spirit, and in a _corrale_ would fight with the otherhorses. I rely upon the señor's indulgence. "

At ordinary times he would not have relied in vain. But Felipe's nerveswere in a jangle these days, and his temper, since Buelna's dismissal ofhim, was bitter. His perception of offense was keen. He rose, his eyesupon the stranger's eyes. 

"My horse is mine, " he observed. "Only my friends permit themselvesliberties with what is mine. "

The other smiled scornfully and drew from his belt a little pouch ofgold dust. 

"What I take I pay for, " he remarked, and, still smiling, tenderedFelipe a few grains of the gold. 

Felipe struck the outstretched palm. 

"Am I a _peon_?" he vociferated. 

"Probably, " retorted the other. 

"I _will_ take pay for that word, " cried Felipe, his face blazing, "butnot in your money, señor. "

"In that case I may give you more than you ask. "

"No, by God, for I shall take all you have. "

But the other checked his retort. A sudden change came over him. 

"I ask the señor's pardon, " he said, with grave earnestness, "forprovoking him. You may not fight with me nor I with you. I speak thetruth. I have made oath not to fight till I have killed one whom now Iseek. "

"Very well; I, too, spoke without reflection. You seek an enemy, then, señor?"

"My sister's, who is therefore mine. An enemy truly. Listen, you shalljudge. I am absent from my home a year, and when I return what do Ifind? My sister betrayed, deceived, flouted by a fellow, a nobody, whomshe received a guest in her house, a fit return for kindness, forhospitality! Well, he answers to me for the dishonour. "

"Wait. Stop!" interposed Felipe. "Your name, señor. "

"Unzar Ytuerate, and my enemy is called Arillaga. Him I seek and----"

"Then you shall seek no farther!" shouted Felipe. "It is to RubiaYtuerate, your sister, whom I owe all my unhappiness, all my suffering. She has hurt not me only, but one--but----Mother of God, we wastewords!" he cried. "Knife to knife, Unzar Ytuerate. I am Felipe Arillaga, and may God be thanked for the chance that brings this quarrel to myhand. "

"You! You!" gasped Unzar. Fury choked him; his hands clutched andunclutched--now fists, now claws. His teeth grated sharply while aquivering sensation as of a chill crisped his flesh. "Then the soonerthe better, " he muttered between his set teeth, and the knives flashedin the hands of the two men so suddenly that the gleam of one seemedonly the reflection of the other. 

Unzar held out his left wrist. 

"Are you willing?" he demanded, with a significant glance. 

"And ready, " returned the other, baring his forearm. 

Catala, keeper of the inn, was called. 

"Love of the Virgin, not here, señors. My house--the _alcalde_--"

"You have a strap there. " Unzar pointed to a bridle hanging from a pegby the doorway. "No words; quick; do as you are told. "

The two men held out their left arms till wrist touched wrist, andCatala, trembling and protesting, lashed them together with a strap. 

"Tighter, " commanded Felipe; "put all your strength to it. "

The strap was drawn up to another hole. 

"Now, Catala, stand back, " commanded Unzar, "and count three slowly. Atthe word 'three, ' Señor Arillaga, we begin. You understand. "

"I understand. "

"Ready. .. . Count. "

"One. "

Felipe and Unzar each put his right hand grasping the knife behind hisback as etiquette demanded. 

"Two. "

They strained back from each other, the full length of their left arms, till the nails grew bloodless. 

"_Three!_" called Lopez Catala in a shaking voice. 

III. RUBIA

When Felipe regained consciousness he found that he lay in an upperchamber of Catala's inn upon a bed. His shoulder, the right one, wasbandaged, and so was his head. He felt no pain, only a little weak, butthere was a comfortable sense of brandy at his lips, an arm supportedhis head, and the voice of Rubia Ytuerate spoke his name. He sat up on asudden. 

"Rubia, _you_!" he cried. "What is it? What happened? Oh, I remember, Unzar--we fought. Oh, my God, how we fought! But you----What brought youhere?"

"Thank Heaven, " she murmured, "you are better. You are not so badlywounded. As he fell he must have dragged you with him, and your headstruck the threshold of the doorway. "

"Is he badly hurt? Will he recover?"

"I hope so. But you are safe. "

"But what brought you here?"

"Love, " she cried; "my love for you. What I suffered after you had gone!Felipe, I have fought, too. Pride was strong at first, and it was pridethat made me send Unzar after you. I told him what had happened. Ihounded him to hunt you down. Then when he had gone my battle began. Ah, dearest, dearest, it all came back, our days together, the life we led, knowing no other word but love, thinking no thoughts that were not ofeach other. And love conquered. Unzar was not a week gone before Ifollowed him--to call him back, to shield you, to save you from hisfury. I came all but too late, and found you both half dead. My brotherand my lover, your body across his, your blood mingling with his own. But not too late to love you back to life again. Your life is mine now, Felipe. I love you, I love you. " She clasped her hands together andpressed them to her cheek. "Ah, if you knew, " she cried; "if you couldonly look into my heart. Pride is nothing; good name is nothing; friendsare nothing. Oh, it is a glory to give them all for love, to give upeverything; to surrender, to submit, to cry to one's heart: 'Take me; Iam as wax. Take me; conquer me; lead me wherever you will. All is welllost so only that love remains. ' And I have heard all that hashappened--this other one, the Señorita Buelna, how that she for bade youher lands. Let her go; she is not worthy of your love, cold, selfish----"

"Stop!" cried Felipe, "you shall say no more evil of her. It is enough. "

"Felipe, you love her yet?"

"And always, always will. "

"She who has cast you off; she who disdains you, who will not suffer youon her lands? And have you come to be so low, so base and mean as that?"

"I have sunk no lower than a woman who could follow after a lover whohad grown manifestly cold. "

"Ah, " she answered sadly, "if I could so forget my pride as to followyou, do not think your reproaches can touch me now. " Then suddenly shesank at the bedside and clasped his hand in both of hers. Her beautifulhair, unbound, tumbled about her shoulders; her eyes, swimming withtears, were turned up to his; her lips trembled with the intensity ofher passion. In a voice low, husky, sweet as a dove's, she addressedhim. "Oh, dearest, come back to me; come back to me. Let me love youagain. Don't you see my heart is breaking? There is only you in all theworld for me. I was a proud woman once. See now what I have broughtmyself to. Don't let it all be in vain. If you fail me now, think how itwill be for me afterward--to know that I--I, Rubia Ytuerate, have beggedthe love of a man and begged in vain. Do you think I could live knowingthat?" Abruptly she lost control of herself. She caught him about theneck with both her arms. Almost incoherently her words rushed from hertight-shut teeth. 

"Ah, I can _make_ you love me. I can make you love me, " she cried. "Youshall come back to me. You are mine, and you cannot help but come back. "

"_Por Dios_, Rubia, " he ejaculated, "remember yourself. You are out ofyour head. "

"Come back to me; love me. "

"No, no. "

"Come back to me. "

"No. "

"You cannot push me from you, " she cried, for, one hand upon hershoulder, he had sought to disengage himself. "No, I shall not let yougo. You shall not push me from you! Thrust me off and I will embrace youall the closer. Yes, _strike_ me if you will, and I will kiss you. "

And with the words she suddenly pressed her lips to his. 

Abruptly Felipe freed himself. A new thought suddenly leaped to hisbrain. 

"Let your own curse return upon you, " he cried. "You yourself have freedme; you yourself have broken the barrier you raised between me and mybetrothed. You cursed her whose lips should next touch mine, and you arepoisoned with your own venom. "

He sprang from off the bed, and catching up his _serape_, flung it abouthis shoulders. 

"Felipe, " she cried, "Felipe, where are you going?"

"Back to Buelna, " he shouted, and with the words rushed from the room. Her strength seemed suddenly to leave her. She sank lower to the floor, burying her face deep upon the pillows that yet retained the impress ofhim she loved so deeply, so recklessly. 

Footsteps in the passage and a knocking at the door aroused her. Awoman, one of the escort who had accompanied her, entered hurriedly. 

"Señorita, " cried this one, "your brother, the Señor Unzar, he isdying. "

Rubia hurried to an adjoining room, where upon a mattress on the floorlay her brother. 

"Put that woman out, " he gasped as his glance met hers. "I never sentfor her, " he went on. "You are no longer sister of mine. It was you whodrove me to this quarrel, and when I have vindicated you what do you do?Your brother you leave to be tended by hirelings, while all your thoughtand care are lavished on your paramour. Go back to him. I know how todie alone, but as you go remember that in dying I hated and disownedyou. "

He fell back upon the pillows, livid, dead. 

Rubia started forward with a cry. 

"It is you who have killed him, " cried the woman who had summoned her. The rest of Rubia's escort, _vaqueros_, _peons_, and the old _alcalde_of her native village, stood about with bared heads. 

"That is true. That is true, " they murmured. The old _alcalde_ steppedforward. 

"Who dishonours my friend dishonours me, " he said. "From this day, Señorita Ytuerate, you and I are strangers. " He went out, and one byone, with sullen looks and hostile demeanour, Rubia's escort followed. Their manner was unmistakable; they were deserting her. 

Rubia clasped her hands over her eyes. 

"Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios, " she moaned over and over again. Then ina low voice she repeated her own words: "May it be a blight to her. Fromthat moment may evil cling to her, bad luck follow her; may she love andnot be loved; may friends desert her, her sisters shame her, herbrothers disown her----"

There was a clatter of horse's hoofs in the courtyard. 

"It is your lover, " said her woman coldly from the doorway. "He isriding away from you. "

"----and those, " added Rubia, "whom she has loved abandon her. "

IV. BELUNA

Meanwhile Felipe, hatless, bloody, was galloping through the night, hispony's head turned toward the _hacienda_ of Martiarena. The RanchoMartiarena lay between his own rancho and the inn where he had metRubia, so that this distance was not great. He reached it in about anhour of vigorous spurring. 

The place was dark though it was as yet early in the night, and anominous gloom seemed to hang about the house. Felipe, his heart sinking, pounded at the door, and at last aroused the aged superintendent, whowas also a sort of _major-domo_ in the household, and who in Felipe'sboyhood had often ridden him on his knee. 

"Ah, it is you, Arillaga, " he said very sadly, as the moonlight struckacross Felipe's face. "I had hoped never to see you again. "

"Buelna, " demanded Felipe. "I have something to say to her, and to the_padron_. "

"Too late, señor. "

"My God, dead?"

"As good as dead. "

"Rafael, tell me all. I have come to set everything straight again. Onmy honour, I have been misjudged. Is Buelna well?"

"Listen. You know your own heart best, señor. When you left her ourlittle lady was as one half dead; her heart died within her. Ah, sheloved you, Arillaga, far more than you deserved. She drooped swiftly, and one night all but passed away. Then it was that she made a vow thatif God spared her life she would become the bride of the church--wouldforever renounce the world. Well, she recovered, became almost wellagain, but not the same as before. She never will be that. So soon asshe was able to obtain Martiarena's consent she made all thepreparations--signed away all her lands and possessions, and spent thedays and nights in prayer and purifications. The Mother Superior of theConvent of Santa Teresa has been a guest at the _hacienda_ thisfortnight past. Only to-day the party--that is to say, Martiarena, theMother Superior and Buelna--left for Santa Teresa, and at midnight ofthis very night Buelna takes the veil. You know your own heart, SeñorFelipe. Go your way. "

"But not _till_ midnight!" cried Felipe. 

"What? I do not understand. "

"She will not take the veil till midnight. "

"No, not till then. "

"Rafael, " cried Felipe, "ask me no questions now. Only _believe_ me. Ialways have and always will love Buelna. I swear it. I can stop thisyet; only once let me reach her in time. Trust me. Ah, for this oncetrust me, you who have known me since I was a lad. "

He held out his hand. The other for a moment hesitated, then impulsivelyclasped it in his own. 

"_Bueno_, I trust you then. Yet I warn you not to fool me twice. "

"Good, " returned Felipe. "And now _adios_. Unless I bring her back withme you'll never see me again. "

"But, Felipe, lad, where away now?"

"To Santa Teresa. "

"You are mad. Do you fancy you can reach it before midnight?" insistedthe _major-domo_. 

"I _will_, Rafael; I _will_. "

"Then Heaven be with you. "

But the old fellow's words were lost in a wild clatter of hoofs, asFelipe swung his pony around and drove home the spurs. Through the nightcame back a cry already faint:

"_Adios, adios_. "

"_Adios_, Felipe, " murmured the old man as he stood bewildered in thedoorway, "and your good angel speed you now. "

When Felipe began his ride it was already a little after nine. Could hereach Santa Teresa before midnight? The question loomed grim before him, but he answered only with the spur. Pépe was hardy, and, as Felipe wellknew, of indomitable pluck. But what a task now lay before the littleanimal. He might do it, but oh! it was a chance!

In a quarter of a mile Pépe had settled to his stride, the dogged, evengallop that Felipe knew so well, and at half-past ten swung through themain street of Piedras Blancas--silent, somnolent, dark. 

"Steady, little Pépe, " said Felipe; "steady, little one. Soh, soh. There. "

The little horse flung back an ear, and Felipe could feel along thelines how he felt for the bit, trying to get a grip of it to ease thestrain on his mouth. 

The _De Profundis_ bell was sounding from the church tower as Felipegalloped through San Anselmo, the next village, but by the time heraised the lights of Arcata it was black night in very earnest. He sethis teeth. Terra Bella lay eight miles farther ahead, and here from thetown-hall clock that looked down upon the plaza he would be able to knowthe time. 

"Hoopa, _Pépe; pronto_!" he shouted. 

The pony responded gallantly. His head was low; his ears in constantmovement, twitched restlessly back and forth, now laid flat on his neck, now cocked to catch the rustle of the wind in the chaparral, thescurrying of a rabbit or ground-owl through the sage. 

It grew darker, colder, the trade-wind lapsed away. Low in the sky uponthe right a pale, dim belt foretold the rising of the moon. Theincessant galloping of the pony was the only sound. 

The convent toward which he rode was just outside the few scattered hutsin the valley of the Rio Esparto that by charity had been invested withthe name of Caliente. From Piedras Blancas to Caliente between twilightand midnight! What a riding! Could he do it? Would Pépe last under him?

"Steady, little one. Steady, Pépe. "

Thus he spoke again and again, measuring the miles in his mind, husbanding the little fellow's strength. 

Lights! Cart lanterns? No, Terra Bella. A great dog charged out at himfrom a dobe, filling the night with outcry; a hayrick loomed by like aship careening through fog; there was a smell of chickens and farmyards. Then a paved street, an open square, a solitary pedestrian dodging justin time from under Pépe's hoofs. All flashed by. The open country again, unbroken darkness again, and solitude of the fields again. Terra Bellapast. 

But through the confusion Felipe retained one picture, that of themoon-faced clock with hands marking the hour of ten. On again with Pépeleaping from the touch of the spur. On again up the long, shallow slopethat rose for miles to form the divide that overlooked the valley of theEsparto. 

"Hold, there! Madman to ride thus. Mad or drunk. Only desperadoes gallopat night. Halt and speak!"

The pony had swerved barely in time, and behind him the Monterey stagelay all but ditched on the roadside, the driver fulminating oaths. ButFelipe gave him but an instant's thought. Dobe huts once more abruptlyranged up on either side the roadway, staggering and dim under thenight. Then a wine shop noisy with carousing _peons_ darted by. Pavements again. A shop-front or two. A pig snoring in the gutter, a doghowling in a yard, a cat lamenting on a rooftop. Then the smell offields again. Then darkness again. Then the solitude of the opencountry. Cadenassa past. 

But now the country changed. The slope grew steeper; it was the lastlift of land to the divide. The road was sown with stones and scoredwith ruts. Pépe began to blow; once he groaned. Perforce his speeddiminished. The villages were no longer so thickly spread now. The crestof the divide was wild, desolate, forsaken. Felipe again and againsearched the darkness for lights, but the night was black. 

Then abruptly the moon rose. By that Felipe could guess the time. Hisheart sank. He halted, recinched the saddle, washed the pony's mouthwith brandy from his flask, then mounted and spurred on. 

Another half-hour went by. He could see that Pépe was in distress; hisspeed was by degrees slacking. Would he last! Would he last? Would theminutes that raced at his side win in that hard race?

Houses again. Plastered fronts. All dark and gray. No soul stirring. Sightless windows stared out upon emptiness. The plaza bared itsdesolation to the pitiless moonlight. Only from an unseen window aguitar hummed and tinkled. All vanished. Open country again. Thesolitude of the fields again; the moonlight sleeping on the vast sweepof the ranchos. Calpella past. 

Felipe rose in his stirrups with a great shout. 

At Calpella he knew he had crossed the divide. The valley lay beneathhim, and the moon was turning to silver the winding courses of the RioEsparto, now in plain sight. 

It was between Calpella and Proberta that Pépe stumbled first. Felipepulled him up and ceased to urge him to his topmost speed. But fivehundred yards farther he stumbled again. The spume-flakes he tossed fromthe bit were bloody. His breath came in labouring gasps. 

But by now Felipe could feel the rising valley-mists; he could hear thepiping of the frogs in the marshes. The ground for miles had slopeddownward. He was not far from the river, not far from Caliente, not farfrom the Convent of Santa Teresa and Buelna. 

But the way to Caliente was roundabout, distant. If he should follow theroad thither he would lose a long half-hour. By going directly acrossthe country from where he now was, avoiding Proberta, he could save muchdistance and precious time. But in this case Pépe, exhausted, stumbling, weak, would have to swim the river. If he failed to do this Felipe wouldprobably drown. If he succeeded, Caliente and the convent would be closeat hand. 

For a moment Felipe hesitated, then suddenly made up his mind. Hewheeled Pépe from the road, and calling upon his last remainingstrength, struck off across the country. 

The sound of the river at last came to his ears. 

"Now, then, Pépe, " he cried. 

For the last time the little horse leaped to the sound of his voice. Still at a gallop, Felipe cut the cinches of the heavy saddle, shook hisfeet clear of the stirrups, and let it fall to the ground; his coat, belt and boots followed. Bareback, with but the headstall and bridleleft upon the pony, he rode at the river. 

Before he was ready for it Pépe's hoofs splashed on the banks. Then thewater swirled about his fetlocks; then it wet Felipe's bare ankles. Inanother moment Felipe could tell by the pony's motion that his feet hadleft the ground and that he was swimming in the middle of the current. 

He was carried down the stream more than one hundred yards. Once Pépe'sleg became entangled in a sunken root. Freed from that, his hoofs caughtin grasses and thick weeds. Felipe's knee was cut against a rock; but atlength the pony touched ground. He rose out of the river trembling, gasping and dripping. Felipe put him at the steep bank. He took itbravely, scrambled his way--almost on his knees--to the top, thenstumbled badly and fell prone upon the ground. Felipe twisted from underhim as he fell and regained his feet unhurt. He ran to the brave littlefellow's head. 

"Up, up, my Pépe. Soh, soh. "

Suddenly he paused, listening. Across the level fields there came to hisears the sound of the bell of the convent of Santa Teresa tolling formidnight. 

 * * * * *

Upon the first stroke of midnight the procession of nuns entered thenave of the church. There were some thirty in the procession. The firstranks swung censers; those in the rear carried lighted candles. TheMother Superior and Buelna, the latter wearing a white veil, walkedtogether. The youngest nun followed these two, carrying upon heroutspread palms the black veil. 

Arrived before the altar the procession divided into halves, fifteenupon the east side of the chancel, fifteen upon the west. The organbegan to drone and murmur, the censers swung and smoked, thecandle-flames flared and attracted the bats that lived among the raftersoverhead. Buelna knelt before the Mother Superior. She was pale and alittle thin from fasting and the seclusion of the cells. But, try as shewould, she could not keep her thoughts upon the solemn office in whichshe was so important a figure. Other days came back to her. A littlegirl gay and free once more, she romped through the hallways and kitchenof the old _hacienda_ Martiarena with her playmate, the young Felipe; ayoung schoolgirl, she rode with him to the Mission to the instruction ofthe _padre_; a young woman, she danced with him at the _fête_ of AllSaints at Monterey. Why had it not been possible that her romance shouldrun its appointed course to a happy end? That last time she had seen himhow strangely he had deported himself. Untrue to her! Felipe! HerFelipe; her more than brother! How vividly she recalled the day. Theywere returning from the Mission, where she had prayed for his safe andspeedy return. Long before she had seen him she heard the gallop of ahorse's hoofs around the turn of the road. Yes, she remembered that--thegallop of a horse. Ah! how he rode--how vivid it was in her fancy. Almost she heard the rhythmic beat of the hoofs. They came nearer, nearer. Fast, furiously fast hoof-beats. How swift he rode. Gallop, gallop--nearer, on they came. They were close by. They swept swiftlynearer, nearer. What--what was this? No fancy. Nearer, nearer. No fancythis. Nearer, nearer. These--ah, Mother of God--are real hoof-beats. They are coming; they are at hand; they are at the door of the church;they are _here_!

She sprang up, facing around. The ceremony was interrupted. Thefrightened nuns were gathering about the Mother Superior. The organceased, and in the stillness that followed all could hear that furiousgallop. On it came, up the hill, into the courtyard. Then a shout, hurried footsteps, the door swung in, and Felipe Arillaga, ragged, dripping, half fainting, hatless and stained with mud, sprang towardBuelna. Forgetting all else, she ran to meet him, and, clasped in eachother's arms, they kissed one another upon the lips again and again. 

The bells of Santa Teresa that Felipe had heard that night on the blanksof the Esparto rang for a wedding the next day. 

Two days after they tolled as passing bells. A beautiful woman had beenfound drowned in a river not far from the house of Lopez Catala, on thehigh road to Monterey. 

THE END