Chapter 17

We may add that the breaking of the sixth commandment in no wise affected Smoky. Jake Farge had been warned that he would be shot on sight if he made "trouble." Everybody in San Lorenzo County was well aware that it was no kind of use "foolin'" with Pap Ransom. Jake--in a word--deserved what he had got. Smoky would have drawn as true a bead upon a squatter disputing title to his land. We don't defend Mr. Short's ethics, we simply state them.

The 'Piker' said quietly--

"Anything to say, young feller?"

Smoky Jack made a gallant attempt to bluff a man who had played his first game of poker before Smoky was born.

"Yer dead right. It _is_ a relic of a big buck I killed with that ther gun las' week. Flopped into a mare's nest, you hev!"

"That shell was fired to-day," said the 'Piker,' authoritatively. "The powder ain't dry in it. Boys,"--he glanced round at the circle of grim faces--"let's take the San Lorenzy road."

* * * * *

The squatters, reinforced by half a dozen men who had not entered the adobe, escorted their prisoners down the hill till they came to a large live oak, a conspicuous feature of the meadow beyond the creek. The moon shone at the full as she rose majestically above the pines which fringed the eastern horizon. In the air was a smell of tar-weed, deliciously aromatic; and the only sounds audible were the whispering of the tremulous leaves of the cottonwoods and the tinkle of the creek on its way to the Pacific.

Smoky inhaled the fragrance of the tar-weed, and turned his blue eyes to the left, where, in the far distance, a tall pine indicated the north-west corner of his ranch. Neither he nor Ransom expected to reach San Lorenzo that night. They were setting out on a much longer journey.

Under the live oak Judge Lynch opened his court. No time was wasted. The squatters were impressed with the necessity of doing what had to be done quickly. The big 'Piker' spoke first.

"Boys, ain't it true that in this yere county there ain't bin a single man executed by the law fer murder in the first degree?"

"That's right. Not a one!"

"And if a man has a bit o' dough behind him, isn't it a fact that he don't linger overly long in San Quentin?"

"Dead sure snap."

"Boys, this is our affair. We're pore; we've neither money nor time to waste in law courts, but we've got to show some o' these fellers as is holding land as don't belong to 'em that we mean business first, last, and all the time."

There was a hoarse murmur of assent.

"The cold facts are these," continued the speaker. "We all know that Ransom and Jake Farge hev had trouble over the claim that Farge staked out inside o' Ransom's fence; an' we know that Ransom has no more right to the land he fenced than the coyotes that run on it. For twenty years he's enjoyed the use of what isn't his'n, an' I say he'd oughter be thankful. Anyways, we come down to the events of yesterday and to-day. Yesterday he tole Jake that he'd shoot him on sight if he, Jake, come on to the land which Uncle Sam says is his. Do you deny that?"

"That's 'bout what I tole him," drawled Ransom.

"To-day Jake was shot dead like a dog by somebody who was a-waitin' for him, hidden in the brush. The widder, pore soul, suspicioning trouble, follered Jake, and found him with a bullet plumb through his heart. She heard the shot, and she swore that it come from Ransom's side o' the fence. And she knows and we know that there isn't a man 'twixt Maine and Californy with a grudge agen Jake, always exceptin' this yere Ransom."

"That's so," growled the Court.

"Boys, Jake was murdered with a bullet of small bore--not with a bullet outer a Winchester, sech as most of us carry. Whar did that ther bullet come from, boys?"

"Outer a Sharp rifle."

"Jest so. Who fired it? Mebbe we'll never know that. But we know this. 'Twas fired by one o' these yere men. One was and is accessory to t'other. The boy admits he's sweet on Ransom's gal; an' mebbe he did this dirt to win her. And he swears that Pap was in his corral at six. That's a lie or it ain't, as may be. If he was in the corral, t'other wasn't. Boys--I won't detain ye any longer. Those in favour of hangin' Thomas Ransom an' John Short here and now hold up their hands!"

The men present held up their hands. One or two of the more bloodthirsty held up both hands.

"That'll do. Those in favour of takin' the prisoners to San Lorenzy hold up their hands. Nary a hand! Prisoners ye've bin tried by yer feller-men, and found guilty o' murder in the first degree. Have ye anything to say?"

Smoky answered huskily: "Nothin', 'cept that I'm not guilty."

"An' you, Mr. Ransom?" said the 'Piker,' with odd politeness.

"I've a lot ter say," drawled the old man. "Seemingly murder has been done, but Smoky here never done it; nor did I. I fired at a buck an' missed it. There ain't overly much o' the fool in me, but there's enough to make me hate ownin' up to a clean miss. When I got to the corral this evening, Smoky had bin there an hour or so at least. He arst me if I'd killed a buck and said he'd heard a shot. Wal, I lied, but I saw that he suspicioned me. Afterwards, I reckon he'd a look at the old gun, and found the shell in it. He must ha' got it into his fool head that he was God's appointed instrument to save _me_. He's as innercent as Mary's little lamb, and so am I."

The squatters gazed at each other in stupefaction. Not a man present but could lie fearlessly on occasion, but not with such consummate art as this.

"Anything more ter say?" inquired the 'Piker.'

"Wal, there's this: I tole Jake Farge that I'd shoot him on sight, and I'm mighty glad that someone else has saved me the trouble. You mean to do me up; I see that plain. I hated yer comin' into a country that won't support a crowd, and I've made things hot for more'n one of ye. But I wasn't thinkin' o' land when I warned Jake Farge not to set foot on my ranch."

"What was you thinkin' of?"

"Of my Mintie. That feller--a married man--has bin after her--and some of you know it. She kin take keer of herself can my Mints, but some things is a man's business. I meant to shoot him, but I didn't. I'm glad the low-down cuss is dead, but the bullet that stopped his crawlin' to my gal never come outer my rifle. Now string me up, and be derned to ye, but let this young feller go back to look after my daughter. That's all."

He faced them with a derisive smile upon his weather-beaten face.

Obviously, the Court was impressed, but the fact remained that Jake Farge was dead, and that someone must have killed him.

"What d'ye say, boys?"

"I say he's lyin'," observed a squatter, whom Thomas Ransom had discovered ear-marking an unbranded calf.

"Smoky knows that Pap done it," remarked another.

This bolt went home. Smoky's face during the preceding five minutes had been worth studying. He was quite sure that the old man was lying, and upon his ingenuous countenance such knowledge, illuminated by admiration and amazement, was duly inscribed.

"Pap's yarn is too thin," said a gaunt Missourian.

"It's thin as you air," said Ransom contemptuously. "Do you boys think that I'd spring so thin a tale on ye, if it wasn't true?"

At this they wriggled uneasily. The 'Piker,' with some experience of fickle crowds, said peremptorily--

"The old man done it, and the young 'un knows he done it. They're jest two of a kind. Those in favour of hangin' 'em both hold up their hands. One hand apiece will do."

Slowly, inexorably, the hands went up. The judge pronounced sentence--

"Ye've five minutes. Say yer prayers, if ye feel like it."

The simple preparations were made swiftly. Two raw-hide lariats were properly adjusted. The prisoners looked on with the stoical indifference of Red Indians. It might have been said of the pair that neither had known how to live, but each knew how to die.

"Ready?" said the 'Piker.'

"Hold on!" replied a high-pitched voice.

The crowd turned to behold Mintie. She had crawled up silently and stealthily. But now she stood upright, her small head thrown back, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"Got a rope fer me?" she asked. "I've heard everything."

Nobody answered. The girl laughed; then she said slowly--

"I shot Jake Farge--with this."

She threw a small revolver at the 'Piker,' who picked it up. "I killed him at five this afternoon. I knew that if I didn't do it Pap would, and that you'd hang him. Jake came after me agen an' agen, an' each time I warned him. To-day he came fer the last time. He was half- crazy, and I had to kill the beast to save myself. I did it, and"-- she looked steadfastly at Smoky Jack--"I ain't ashamed of it, neither. There's only one man in all the world can make love to me. I never knowed that I keered for him till to-night."

She pointed at Smoky, who remarked deprecatingly--

"I allus allowed you was a daughter o' the Golden West."

"If you ain't goin' to hang me," said Mintie, "don't you think you'd better skip?"

She laughed scornfully, and the men, without a word, skipped. Smoky, his hands loosed, seized Mintie in his arms, as the moon slipped discreetly behind a cloud.

XVIII

ONE WHO DIED

He was a remittance man, who received each month from his father, a Dorset parson, a letter and a cheque. The letter was not a source of pleasure to the son, and does not concern us; the cheque made five pounds payable to the order of Richard Beaumont Carteret, known to many men in San Lorenzo county, and some women, as Dick. Time was when Mr. Carteret cut what is called a wide swath, when indeed he was kowtowed to as Lord Carteret, who drove tandem, shot pigeons, and played all the games, including poker and faro. But the ten thousand pounds he inherited from his mother lasted only five years, and when the last penny was spent Dick wrote to his father and demanded an allowance. He knew that the parson was living in straitened circumstances, with two daughters to provide for, and he knew also that his mother's fortune should in equity have been divided among the family; but, as he pointed out to his dear old governor, a Carteret mustn't be allowed to starve; so the parson, who loved the handsome lad, put down his hack and sent the prodigal a remittance. He had better have sent him a hempen rope, for necessity might have made a man out of Master Dick; the remittance turned him into a moral idiot.

A Carteret, as you know, cannot do himself justice upon five pounds a month, so Dick was constrained to play the part of Mentor to sundry youthful compatriots, teaching them a short cut to ruin, and sharing the while their purses and affections. But, very unhappily for Dick, the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation was gone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittance man, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowly out of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.

Tidings must have come to the parson of his son's unhappy condition, or possibly he decided that the Misses Carteret were entitled to the remittance. It is certain that one dreadful day Dick's letter contained nothing but a sheet of note-paper.

"I can send you no more cheques" (wrote the parson), "not another penny will you receive from me. I pray to God that He may see fit to turn your heart, for He alone can do it. I have failed ..."

Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon, the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the 'Bishop.' The two digested the parson's words in a small cabin situated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; land irreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as "my place." Dick (he had a sense of humour) always called the cabin the rectory. It contained one unplastered, unpapered room, carpetless and curtainless; a bleak and desolate shelter that even a sheep-herder would be loth to describe as home. In the corners were two truckle beds, a stove, and a large demijohn containing some cheap and fiery whisky; in the centre of the floor was a deal table; on the rough redwood walls were shelves displaying many dilapidated pairs of boots and shoes, also some fly-specked sporting prints, and, upon a row of nails, a collection of shabby discoloured garments, ancient "hartogs," manifesting even in decay a certain jaunty, dissolute air, at once ludicrous and pathetic. Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out a garden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beer bottles, dead men denied decent interment. Behind the cabin was the dust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, of the 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasised his descent from Olympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato and sardine cans, whereas below, if you stirred the heap, might be found a nobler stratum of terrines, once savoury with _foie gras_ and Strasbourg _pâté_, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded in liqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves-- oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, and garden was legibly inscribed the grim word--ICHABOD.

"He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'm dead."

"You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are you going to do?"

This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. What could he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the 'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put it to his head, and clicked his tongue.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.

The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.

"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think. Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it, more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't you say something, you stupid fool?"

He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. God in heaven, what a fool he had been!

The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the whisky warmed him into speech.

"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is enough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times mend."

Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'

"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."

"Why, where are you going?"

"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."

Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had wit enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky and waited.

"It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner or later we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night. You can give me a decent funeral--the governor will stump up for that --and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service, 'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."

"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do the thing handsomely for half that."

"For God's sake, shut up."

"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us nicely in the saloon business, and----"

He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, and his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."

The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.

"What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip! Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man who was, and is, and is to be."

"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You mean to be your own undertaker."

"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an hour's peace."

But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop' watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows--

"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

"_September 1,_

"To the Rev. George Carteret.

"Dear Sir,--I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. You will find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report, and the undertaker's bill _paid and receipted_.

"I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a misspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enough to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against himself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the sacrifices you had made on his behalf--sacrifices that he confessed were far greater than his deserts.

"I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of a gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full, including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Should you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money; if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter drop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

"It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the grave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two hundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I will give it my earnest attention.

"I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road, Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

"Very truly yours,

"Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."

"There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The bills and other documents we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."

"I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. Tudor Crisp.

Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half the plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despite Dick's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was "tough" on the old gentleman.

"On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will assume that I died in the odour of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of a parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my future. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum, man. Here--hit the demijohn again."

But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to his blankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. Dick relighted his pipe, and refilled his glass. Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazed long and critically at three framed photographs of his father and two sisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It is significant from an ethical point of view that Dick kept these pictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, but they lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence was sensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the pictures of honourable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected Dick. He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charming face--one of those human documents whereon are inscribed honour, culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. The sisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to the family group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so far from such nice people. Dick had impetrated more than one loan, using these portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as he bade them farewell? Who can tell?

* * * * *

Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a cheque from distant Dorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in San Clemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, the business prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright (Dick deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no assistants, so there was no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor traffic was a shameful trade, but they pronounced themselves unable to follow any other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.' He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully other rules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading- room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in such matters when a curate at home; and the illustrated papers sent regularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand. Indeed, the mere reading about football matches and the like created an unquenchable thirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforced order and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned to curb obscene tongues in his presence. Dick marvelled at the change in his partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist to the gin-mill.

"Once a parson, always a parson," Dick would say; and the Rev. Tudor would blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but once Dick caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surplice and cassock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The 'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where Dick's dollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach for economies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the general drift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way and say in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought the cigars and liquors. Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner, for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work, and kept the books. Before two years had passed a capital restaurant was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price. Dick never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and begged her to send no more cheques. He told his kind auntie very modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told Dick that it would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small hotel then offered for sale. Dick told his old friend to go ahead. His reverence supplied Dick's share of the purchase-money, and the saloon knew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management, proved a tiny gold mine.

All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He feared that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read with quickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.