Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We worked steadily for about half an hour, pausing now and again to listen. We were practically certain that the opium fiend had gone to his pipe, and it was more than probable that the fat Mongol was no longer on guard, knowing that we were safe in a strong-box to which he alone held the key. Events proved we were wrong in both conjectures.

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

At first they took their medicine without a whimper. Then they began to squeal and chatter as the fear of the "white devils" got hold of them. Very soon I saw "red," as our Tommies say, and remembered nothing till I came to myself in the passage at the foot of the rotten stairs. We scurried up these and through the warren above like rabbits when the pole-cat pursueth, and finally found ourselves in the alley, where we called a halt.

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

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

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

* * * * *

The rest of the story was in the newspapers next day, although there was no mention of our names. When the police reached the battlefield they found one dead man--the opium-eating and smoking bar-tender. He had died--so said the doctor--of heart failure. Few whites can smoke the "pipe" with impunity, and he was not of their number. The wounded had been carried away, and, despite the strenuous endeavours of the police, not one was arrested, which proves that there is honour amongst these yellow-faced thieves, for a handful of gold-pieces and "no questions asked" was well known in Chinatown to be the price offered for any information that would lead to the capture of one or more of the gang.

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

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

XIII

THE BARON

Of the many queer characters who took up land in the brush hills near our ranch none excited greater tongue-wagging than the Baron. The squatters called him the Baron. He signed his name--I had to witness his signature--Réné Bourgueil.

The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking a pretty lake which dried up in summer and smelled evilly. Also, he spent money in planting out a vineyard and orchard, and in making a garden. What he did not know about ranching in Southern California would have filled an encyclopaedia, but what he did know about nearly everything else filled us and our neighbours with an ever-increasing amazement and curiosity.

Why did such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San Lorenzo County?

More, he was past middle-age: sixty-five at least, not a sportsman, nor a naturalist, but obviously a _gentilhomme_, with the manners of one accustomed to the best society.

Of society, however, he spoke mordant words--

"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival, "ees a big monkey-house, and all ze monkeys are pulling each ozer's tails. I pull no tails, _moi_, and I allow no liberties to be taken wiz my person."

About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more-- _diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old world."

"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well-- eh?"

The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed foot and ankle.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg."

The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acres marched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or better than his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him that he preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit for telling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horse and saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees, the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs to perfection, but it wouldn't incubate them.

"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.

Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who would be charmed to make his acquaintance.

"San Francisco? _Jamais, jamais de la vie!_"

"Come with us to Del Monte?"

"Del Monte?"

We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovely gardens which ran down to the sea.

"_Jamais--jamais_," repeated the Baron.

"We don't like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," said Ajax.

"You have right. I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble."

We went home sorely puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private reasons, and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte. And it was significant--as Ajax said to me--that a man who could talk so admirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a word concerning himself.

At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul. From him we learned that there was a certain Réné, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy. The Château Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as Chaumont or Chénonceau. The Consul possessed an _Almanack de Gotha_. From this we gleaned two more facts. Réné, Comte de Bourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever.

"Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be somebody--you say he is _somebody_--well, somebody else!"

"Another Wilkins," said I.

"Pooh!" ejaculated Ajax.

"No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil's position and rank--he is a godson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord--would come to California without my knowledge," said the Consul.

The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how the Baron fared. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from the evil-smelling lake. Passing the bungalow, we had noted that six weeks' uninterrupted sunshine had played havoc with the Baron's garden. The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted. The sun had sucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks. Of a sudden, old age had overtaken him.

He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed our holiday. We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn't mention the French Consul. Then, in our turn, we begged for such news as he might have. He replied solemnly--

"I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles. Old man Dumble ees a fraud. _Moi_, I abominate frauds--_hein?_ He obtain my money onder false pretences, is it not so? Ah, yes; but I forgive 'im, because he is poor. But also, since you go, he obtain my secret--I haf a secret-- under false pretences. Oh, ze _canaille_! I tell 'im that if 'e were my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit 'im. Because 'e is _canaille_ I s-s-spit at 'im. _Voilà!_"

The old fellow was trembling with rage and indignation. Ajax said gravely--

"We foreigners mustn't spit at free-born American citizens. What spitting is done here, they do themselves."

"You have right. Ze _canaille_ say to me, to _me_, 'Come,' he say, 'come, Baron, I have one six-shooter, one shot-gun, two pitchfork, three spade, and one mowing-machine. Take your choice,' he say, 'and we can fight till ze cows come home!' He use zose words, _mes amis_, 'till ze cows come home!' _Tiens!_ Ze Frisian- Holstein cows, who go dry when zey do come home--_hein?_"

He was so furiously angry that we dared not laugh, but we were consumed with curiosity to know what secret Dumble had stolen. The Baron did not inform us.

Fortunately for our peace of mind, Dumble came to us early next morning. He went to the marrow of the matter at once.

"Boys," said he, "I want you to fix up things between me an' that crazy Frenchman. How's that? Your friend. Wal, he _is_ a Frenchy, an' he's crazy, as I'm prepared to prove. But I don't want no trouble with him. He's my neighbour, and there ought to be nothin' between me an' him."

"There'll always be a barbed wire fence," said Ajax.

"Boys, when that ther' pond o' the Baron's tuk to smellin' like dead cats, he come to me and asks me to find someone to take keer o' the bungalow. I undertook the job myself. I was to water them foreign plants o' his, do odd chores, and sleep in the house nights. He offered good pay, and I got a few dollars on account. I aimed to treat the Baron right, as I treat all my neighbours. I meant to do more, more than was agreed on. That's the right sperit--ain't it? Yas. An' so, when I found out that there was a room in that ther' bungalow locked up, by mistake as I presoomed, and that the key o' the little parlour opened it, why, naterally, boys, I jest peaked in to see if everything was O.K. As for pryin' and spyin', why sech an idee never entered my head. Wal, I peaked in an' I saw----"

"Hold on," said Ajax. "What you saw is something which the Baron wished to be kept secret."

"I reckon so, though why in thunder----"

"Then keep it secret----"

"But, mercy sakes! I saw nothing, not a thing, boys, save two picters and a few old sticks of furniture. An' seeing that things was O.K., I shet the door, but doggone it! the cussed key wouldn't lock it. Nex' morning the Baron found it open, and, Jeeroosalem! I never seen a man git so mad."

"And that's all?"

"That's all, but me an' the Baron ain't speakin'."

We promised to do what we could, more, it must be confessed, on the Baron's account than for the sake of old man Dumble. Accordingly, we tried to persuade the Baron that his secret at any rate was still inviolate. He listened incredulously.

"He says he saw nothing--but some pictures and old furniture."

"_Mon Dieu!_ an' zey tell 'im nossing. _Saperlipopette!_ Come wiz me. I can trust you. You shall know my secret, too."

We followed him in silence up the path which led to the bungalow, and into the house. The Baron unlocked a door and unbolted some shutters. We saw two portraits, splendid portraits of two handsome young men in uniform. Above the mantelpiece hung an emblazoned pedigree: the family tree of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy, peers of France. The Baron laid a lean finger upon one of the names.

"I am Réné de Bourgueil-Crotanoy," he said.

We waited. When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was the voice of a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.

"My boys," said he, indicating the two young men, "zey are dead; no one of ze old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me--and I, as you see, am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor tell me so, always. I was--I am still--proud of my race, of my château. I was not permitted to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys. They went to Tonquin; I remained at home, thinking of ze day when zey would return, and marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. Zey did--not-- return. Zey died. One in battle, one of fever in ze hospital. What was left for me, _mes amis_? Could I live on in ze place where I had seen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Paris ze pitying eyes of friends?"

* * * * *

Years afterwards, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We paid a pilgrimage to the Château de Bourgueil-Crotanoy, and entered the chapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A mural tablet records the names, and the manner of death, of the two sons. Also a line in Latin:

"'Tis better to die young than to live on to behold the misfortunes and emptiness of an ancient house."

XIV

JIM'S PUP

Jim Misterton was a quiet, reserved fellow, who had come straight to Paradise from a desk in some dingy London counting-house. He told us that something was wrong with his lungs, and that the simple life had been prescribed. He was very green, very sanguine, and engaged to be married--a secret confided to us later, when acquaintance had ripened into friendship. Every Sunday Jim would ride down to our ranch, sup with us, and smoke three pipes upon the verandah, describing at great length the process of transmuting the wilderness into a garden. He built a small board-and-batten house, planted a vineyard and orchard, bought a couple of cows and an incubator. Reserved about matters personal to himself, he never grew tired of describing his possessions, nor of speculating in regard to their possibilities. If ever a man counted his chickens before the eggs had been placed in the incubator, Jim Misterton was he.

Ajax and I listened in silence to these outpourings. Ajax contended-- perhaps rightly--that Misterton's optimism was part of the "cure." He bade me remark the young fellow's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.

"He calls that forsaken claim of his Eden," said my brother. "Shall we tell him what sort of a Hades it really is?"

One day, some months after this, we rode up to Eden. It presented the usual heart-breaking appearance so familiar to men who have lived in a wild country and witnessed, year after year, the furious struggle between Man and Nature. Misterton had cleared and planted about forty acres, enclosed with a barb-wire fence. Riding along this, we saw that many of his fruit trees had been barked and ruined by jack-rabbits. The month was September. A rainless summer had dried up a spring near his house, which, against our advice, he had attempted to develop by tunnelling. The new chicken-yards held no chickens.

Nevertheless, Jim welcomed us with a cheery smile. He had made mistakes, of course--who didn't? But he intended to come out on top, you bet your life! Western slang flowed freely from his lips. The blazing sun, which already had cracked the unpainted shingles on his roof, had bleached the crude blue of his jumper and overalls. His sombrero might have belonged to a veteran cowboy. Jim wore it with a rakish list to port, and round his neck fluttered a small, white silk handkerchief. He looked askance at our English breeches and saddles. Then he said pleasantly, "I've taken out my naturalisation papers."

After lunch, he told us about his Angela, and displayed her photograph.

"She's coming out," he added shyly, "as soon as I've got things fixed."

"Coming out?" we repeated in amazement.

"It's all settled," said Jim. "I'm to meet her in 'Frisco; we shall be married, and then I'm going to bring her here for the honeymoon. Won't it be larks?"

Ajax answered, without any enthusiasm, "Won't it?" and stared at the young, pretty face smiling up at him.

"Angela is as keen about this place as I am," continued the fond and beaming Jim. "It's going to be Eden for her too, God bless her!"

Ajax said thoughtfully, "Misterton, you're a lucky devil!"

We gleaned a few more details. Angela was the daughter of a doctor at Surbiton, and apparently a damsel of accomplishments. She could punt, play tennis, dance, sing, and make her own blouses; in a word, a "ripper," "top-hole," and no mistake! Ajax slightly raised his brows when we learned that the course of true love had run smooth; but the doctor's blessing was adequately accounted for--Angela had five sisters.

"But when your lungs went wrong----?"

Misterton laughed.

"Being a doctor, you see--and a devilish clever chap--he knew that I'd be as right as rain out here. 'If you want Angela,' he said, 'you must go full steam for fresh air and sunshine.'"

Riding home through the cactus and manzanita Ajax said irritably, "Is there any Paradise on earth without a fool in it?"

* * * * *

The following spring, Angela came out. We attended the wedding, Ajax assisting as best man. Afterwards, somewhat reluctantly, we agreed that Angela's photograph had aroused expectations not quite satisfied. She was very pretty, but her manners were neither of the town nor of the country. Ajax said, "There must be hundreds like her in Upper Tooting; that's where she ought to live."

Because I was more than half assured of this, I made a point of disputing it.

"She's plastic, anyway; a nice little thing."

"Is a nice little thing the right sort of a wife for a squatter?"

"If she loves him--"

"Of course she loves him--now."

"Look at her pluck in coming out!"

"Pluck? She has five sisters in Upper Tooting."

"Surbiton."

"I'm sure it's Upper Tooting."

"And she can make her own blouses."

"Can she cook, can she milk a cow, can she keep a house clean?"

"Give her time!"

"Time? I'd like to give her father six months. What's the use of jawing? We've been aiding and abetting a crime. We might have prevented this slaughter of the innocents. What will that skin be like in one year from now?"

"If she were sallow, you would be less excited."

We spent a few days in San Francisco; and then we returned to the ranch to give a luncheon in the bride's honour. The table was set under some splendid live-oaks in the home-pasture, which, in May, presents the appearance of a fine English park. A creek tinkled at our feet, and beyond, out of the soft, lavender-coloured haze, rose the blue peaks of the Santa Lucia mountains.

"Reminds one a little of the Old Country," I remarked to Angela, who was all smiles and quite conscious of being the most interesting object in the landscape.

"Oh, please, don't speak of England!"

Her pretty forehead puckered, and her mouth drooped piteously. Then she laughed, as she launched into a vivid description of her first attempt to bake bread. Whenever she spoke, I saw Jim's large, slightly prominent eyes fix themselves upon her face. His beaming satisfaction in everything she did or said would have been delightful had I been able to wean my thoughts from the place which he still believed to be --Eden. At intervals I heard him murmur, "This is rippin'!"

After luncheon, Angela asked to see the ranch-house, and almost as soon as we were out of hearing, she said with disconcerting abruptness--

"Does your ranch pay?" She added half-apologetically, "I do so want to know."

"It doesn't pay," I answered grimly.

"You are not going--behind?" she faltered, using the familiar phrase of the country in which she had spent as yet but three weeks.

"We are going behind," I answered, angry with her curiosity: not old enough or experienced enough to see beneath it fear and misery. Angela said nothing more till we passed into the house. Then, with lack- lustre eyes, she surveyed our belongings, murmuring endless commonplace phrases. Presently she stopped opposite a photograph of a girl in Court dress.

"What a lovely frock!" she exclaimed, with real interest. "I do wish I'd been presented at Court. Who is she? Oh, a cousin. I wonder you can bear to look at her."