Chapter 5

At this point of her musings the lawyer, seeing the flushed cheeks and softened glance, believed his moment had come, and resolved to use it. His passion made him forget that it was possible to go too fast.

“Miss Conklin,” he began seriously, “if you'd join with me there's nothin' we two couldn't do, nothin'! They call me the first lawyer in the State, and I guess I'll get to Washington soon; but with you to help me I'd be there before this year's out. As the wife of a Member of Congress, you would show them all the way. I'm rich already; that is, I can do whatever you want, and it's a shame for such genius as yours, and such talent, to be hidden here among people who don't know how to value you properly. In New York or in Washington you'd shine; become a social power,” and as the words “New York” caused the girl to look at him with eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching triumph: “Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful than any young man, and,” here he slipped his arm round her waist, “I guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you, Loo, as my wife?”

The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to her the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she answered, it was with full self-possession:

“I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to marry--anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to live in New York; but--I can't make up my mind all at once. You must wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard.”

“Yes, it's hard,” Barkman replied, “very hard to feel uncertain of winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,” he added, after a pause, “I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just what you wish.”

“Well, then,” she resumed, mollified by his humility, “you'll go back to Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return, the day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?” and she smiled up in his face.

“Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect,” he acknowledged. “Hope from you is better than certainty from any other woman.” In this mood they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow Barkman even to get down; he was to go right off at once, but when he returned she'd meet him. With a grave respectful bow he lifted his hat, and drove away. On the whole, he had reason to be proud of his diplomacy; reason, too, for saying to himself that at last he had got on “the inside track.” Still, all the factors in the problem were not seen even by his keen eyes.

The next morning, Loo began to reflect upon what she should do. It did not occur to her that she had somewhat compromised herself with the lawyer by giving him leave, and, in fact, encouragement to expect a favourable answer. She was so used to looking at all affairs from the point of view of her own self-interest and satisfaction, that such an idea did not even enter her head. She simply wanted to decide on what was best for herself. She considered the matter as it seemed to her, from all sides, without arriving at any decision. Barkman was kind, and good to her; but she didn't care for him, and she loved George still. Oh, why wasn't he like the other, always sympathetic and admiring? She sat and thought. In the depths of her nature she felt that she couldn't give George up, couldn't make up her mind to lose him; and why should she, since they loved each other? What could she do?

Of a sudden she paused. She remembered how, more than a year before, she had been invited to Eureka for a ball. She had stayed with her friend Miss Jennie Blood; by whose advice and with whose help she had worn for the first time a low-necked dress. She had been uncomfortable in it at first, very uncomfortable, but the men liked it, all of them. She had seen their admiration in their eyes; as Jennie had said, it fetched them. If only George could see her in a low-necked dress--she flushed as she thought of it--perhaps he'd admire her, and then she'd be quite happy. But there were never any balls or parties in this dead-and-alive township! How could she manage it?

The solution came to her with a shock of half-frightened excitement. It was warm still, very warm, in the middle of the day; why shouldn't she dress as for a dance, somethin' like it anyway, and go into George's room to put it straight just before he came home from school? Her heart beat quickly as she reflected. After all, what harm was there in it? She recollected hearing that in the South all the girls wore low dresses in summer, and she loved George, and she was sure he loved her. Any one would do it, and no one would know. She resolved to try on the dress, just to see how it suited her. There was no harm in that. She took off her thin cotton gown quickly, and put on the ball-dress. But when she had dragged the chest of drawers before the window and had propped up the little glass on it to have a good look at herself, she grew hot. She couldn't wear that, not in daylight; it looked, oh, it looked--and she blushed crimson. Besides, the tulle was all frayed and faded. No, she couldn't wear it! Oh!--and her eyes filled with tears of envy and vexation. If only she were rich, like lots of other girls, she could have all sorts of dresses. 'Twas unfair, so it was. She became desperate with disappointment, and set her wits to work again. She had plenty of time still. George wouldn't be back before twelve. She must choose a dress he had never seen; then he wouldn't know but what she often wore it so. Nervously, hurriedly, she selected a cotton frock, and before the tiny glass pinned and arranged it over her shoulders and bust, higher than the ball-dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form that a Parisian _couturière_ might have envied, and went to work. Her nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely, prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd be pleased.

She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved. After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders, and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she could throw it back or draw it round her at will.

At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her so--and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides--why, she couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he must--why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out. Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any man.

An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise, drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight across her breast.

“Oh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixin' up your things.” And the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.

“Thank you,” he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: “Why, Loo, how well you look! I like that dress; it suits you.” And he stepped towards her.

She held out both hands as if to meet his, but by the gesture the woollen scarf was thrown back, and her form unveiled. Once again her mere beauty stung the young man to desire, but something of a conscious look in her face gave him thought, and, scrutinizing her coldly, he said:

“I suppose that dress was put on for Mr. Barkman's benefit.”

“Oh, George!” she cried, in utter dismay, “he hain't been here to-day.” And then, as the hard expression did not leave his face, she added hurriedly: “I put it on for you, George. Do believe me.”

Still his face did not alter. Suddenly she understood that she had betrayed her secret. She burst into bitter tears.

He took her in his arms and spoke perfunctory words of consolation; her body yielded to his touch, and in a few moments he was soothing her in earnest. Her grief was uncontrollable. “I've jest done everythin', everythin' and it's all no use,” she sobbed aloud. When he found that he could not check the tears, he grew irritated; he divined her little stratagem, and his lip curled. How unmaidenly! In a flash, she stood before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked. The pity of it did not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt only contempt for her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long, choking sob she moved to the door and disappeared. She went blindly along the passage to her room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried as if her heart would break. Then followed a period of utter abject misery. She had lost everythin'; George didn't care for her; she'd have to live all her life without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.

The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could. They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but these tears relieved her, did her good.

She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her away to New York. Marry him?--she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her. Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid time.

She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble--no one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if she told her anythin', she'd only set down an' cry. She'd write and say she was comfortable; and her father?--he'd get over it. He was kind always, but he never felt much anyway--leastwise, he never showed anythin'. When they got her letter 'twould be all right. That was what she'd do--and so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she sat and thought, letting her imagination work.

A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly, had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply:

“Hev you seen Loo yet?”

“No. Is she down?”

“I reckoned you'd know ef she had made out anythin' partikler to do to-day.”

“No,” he repeated seriously, the Elder's manner impressing him. “No! she told me nothing, but perhaps she hasn't got up yet.”

“She ain't in her room.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn't hear buggy-wheels last night--along towards two o'clock?”

“No, but--you don't mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!” And Bancroft started up with horror in his look.

The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he gradually took in the sincerity of the young man's excitement, he turned, and left the room.

To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell. At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips:

“Lord, Lord! 'Tain't right to punish her. She knowed nothin'. She's so young. I did wrong, but I kain't bear her to be punished.

“P'r'aps You've laid this on me jes' to show I'm foolish and weak. That's so, O Lord! I'm in the hollow of Your hand. But You'll save her, O Lord! for Jesus' sake.

“I'm all broke up. I kain't pray. I'm skeered. Lord Christ, help her; stan' by her; be with her. O Lord, forgive!”

JUNE AND JULY, 1891.

* * * * *

THE SHERIFF AND HIS PARTNER.

One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locock's law-office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York from Liverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking in vain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised to let me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides, for my services as a clerk. I was fairly satisfied with the prospect, and the little town interested me. An outpost of civilization, it was situated on the border of the great plains, which were still looked upon as the natural possession of the nomadic Indian tribes. It owed its importance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led from the prairies of Texas through this no man's land to the railway system, and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north could find a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. For some years they had made of Kiota a hell upon earth. But gradually the land in the neighbourhood was taken up by farmers, emigrants chiefly from New England, who were determined to put an end to the reign of violence. A man named Johnson was their leader in establishing order and tranquillity. Elected, almost as soon as he came to the town, to the dangerous post of City Marshal, he organized a vigilance committee of the younger and more daring settlers, backed by whom he resolutely suppressed the drunken rioting of the cowboys. After the ruffians had been taught to behave themselves, Johnson was made Sheriff of the County, a post which gave him a house and permanent position. Though married now, and apparently “settled down,” the Sheriff was a sort of hero in Kiota. I had listened to many tales about him, showing desperate determination veined with a sense of humour, and I often regretted that I had reached the place too late to see him in action. I had little or nothing to do in the office. The tedium of the long days was almost unbroken, and Stephen's “Commentaries” had become as monotonous and unattractive as the bare uncarpeted floor. The heat was tropical, and I was dozing when a knock startled me. A negro boy slouched in with a bundle of newspapers:

“This yer is Jedge Locock's, I guess?”

“I guess so,” was my answer as I lazily opened the third or fourth number of the “Kiota Weekly Tribune.” Glancing over the sheet my eye caught the following paragraph:

“HIGHWAY ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE.

“JUDGE SHANNON STOPPED.

“THE OUTLAW ESCAPES.

“HE KNOWS SHERIFF JOHNSON.

“Information has just reached us of an outrage perpetrated on the person of one of our most respected fellow-citizens. The crime was committed in daylight, on the public highway within four miles of this city; a crime, therefore, without parallel in this vicinity for the last two years. Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted, and we have no sort of doubt that they can command, if necessary, the succour and aid of each and every citizen of this locality in order to bring the offending miscreant to justice.

“We now place the plain recital of this outrage before our readers.

“Yesterday afternoon, as Ex-Judge Shannon was riding from his law-office in Kiota towards his home on Sumach Bluff, he was stopped about four miles from this town by a man who drew a revolver on him, telling him at the same time to pull up. The Judge, being completely unarmed and unprepared, obeyed, and was told to get down from the buckboard, which he did. He was then ordered to put his watch and whatever money he had, in the road, and to retreat three paces.

“The robber pocketed the watch and money, and told him he might tell Sheriff Johnson that Tom Williams had 'gone through him,' and that he (Williams) could be found at the saloon in Osawotamie at any time. The Judge now hoped for release, but Tom Williams (if that be the robber's real name) seemed to get an afterthought, which he at once proceeded to carry into effect. Drawing a knife he cut the traces, and took out of the shafts the Judge's famous trotting mare, Lizzie D., which he mounted with the remark:

“'Sheriff Johnson, I reckon, would come after the money anyway, but the hoss'll fetch him----sure pop.'

“These words have just been given to us by Judge Shannon himself, who tells us also that the outrage took place on the North Section Line, bounding Bray's farm.

“After this speech the highway robber Williams rode towards the township of Osawotamie, while Judge Shannon, after drawing the buckboard to the edge of the track, was compelled to proceed homewards on foot.

“The outrage, as we have said, took place late last evening, and Judge Shannon, we understand, did not trouble to inform the County authorities of the circumstance till to-day at noon, after leaving our office. What the motive of the crime may have been we do not worry ourselves to inquire; a crime, an outrage upon justice and order, has been committed; that is all we care to know. If anything fresh happens in this connection we propose to issue a second edition of this paper. Our fellow-citizens may rely upon our energy and watchfulness to keep them posted.

“Just before going to press we learn that Sheriff Johnson was out of town attending to business when Judge Shannon called; but Sub-Sheriff Jarvis informs us that he expects the Sheriff back shortly. It is necessary to add, by way of explanation, that Mr. Jarvis cannot leave the jail unguarded, even for a few hours.”

As may be imagined this item of news awakened my keenest interest. It fitted in with some things that I knew already, and I was curious to learn more. I felt that this was the first act in a drama. Vaguely I remembered some one telling in disconnected phrases why the Sheriff had left Missouri, and come to Kansas:

“'Twas after a quor'll with a pardner of his, named Williams, who kicked out.”

Bit by bit the story, to which I had not given much attention when I heard it, so casually, carelessly was it told, recurred to my memory.

“They say as how Williams cut up rough with Johnson, and drawed a knife on him, which Johnson gripped with his left while he pulled trigger.--Williams, I heerd, was in the wrong; I hain't perhaps got the right end of it; anyhow, you might hev noticed the Sheriff hes lost the little finger off his left hand.--Johnson, they say, got right up and lit out from Pleasant Hill. Perhaps the folk in Mizzoori kinder liked Williams the best of the two; I don't know. Anyway, Sheriff Johnson's a square man; his record here proves it. An' real grit, you bet your life.”

The narrative had made but a slight impression on me at the time; I didn't know the persons concerned, and had no reason to interest myself in their fortunes. In those early days, moreover, I was often homesick, and gave myself up readily to dreaming of English scenes and faces. Now the words and drawling intonation came back to me distinctly, and with them the question: Was the robber of Judge Shannon the same Williams who had once been the Sheriff's partner? My first impulse was to hurry into the street and try to find out; but it was the chief part of my duty to stay in the office till six o'clock; besides, the Sheriff was “out of town,” and perhaps would not be back that day. The hours dragged to an end at last; my supper was soon finished, and, as night drew down, I hastened along the wooden side-walk of Washington Street towards the Carvell House. This hotel was much too large for the needs of the little town; it contained some fifty bedrooms, of which perhaps half-a-dozen were permanently occupied by “high-toned” citizens, and a billiard-room of gigantic size, in which stood nine tables, as well as the famous bar. The space between the bar, which ran across one end of the room, and the billiard-tables, was the favourite nightly resort of the prominent politicians and gamblers. There, if anywhere, my questions would be answered.

On entering the billiard-room I was struck by the number of men who had come together. Usually only some twenty or thirty were present, half of whom sat smoking and chewing about the bar, while the rest watched a game of billiards or took a “life” in pool. This evening, however, the billiard-tables were covered with their slate-coloured “wraps,” while at least a hundred and fifty men were gathered about the open space of glaring light near the bar. I hurried up the room, but as I approached the crowd my steps grew slower, and I became half ashamed of my eager, obtrusive curiosity and excitement. There was a kind of reproof in the lazy, cool glance which one man after another cast upon me, as I went by. Assuming an air of indecision I threaded my way through the chairs uptilted against the sides of the billiard-tables. I had drained a glass of Bourbon whisky before I realized that these apparently careless men were stirred by some emotion which made them more cautious, more silent, more warily on their guard than usual. The gamblers and loafers, too, had taken “back seats” this evening, whilst hard-working men of the farmer class who did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell House were to be seen in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious, and was being taken seriously.

The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of no interest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invited the “crowd” to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moral atmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew upon me. These men “meant business.”

Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into the room.

“Good evenin',” he said; and a dozen voices, one after another, answered with “Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!” A big frontiersman, however, a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had been on the old vigilance committee, walked from the centre of the group in front of the bar to the Sheriff, and held out his hand with:

“Shake, old man, and name the drink.” The