Part 22

Bill Bowney, under favorable circumstances, appeared to be a very homely, lazy, sneaking sort of an individual; but Bill Bowney, covered with dust, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and feet tightly bound, had not a single attractive feature about him.

He stared earnestly up into the noble tree under whose shadow he lay; but his glances were not of admiration—they seemed, rather, to be resting on two or three fragments of rope which remained on one of the lower limbs, and to express sentiments of the most utter loathing and disgust.

The afternoon wore away, and the moon shone brilliantly down from the cloudless sky.

The tramp of a horse was heard at a distance, but rapidly growing more distinct, and soon Bowney’s captor galloped up to the tree.

Then another horse was heard, then others, and soon ten or a dozen men were gathered together.

Each man, after dismounting, walked up to where the captive lay, and gave him a searching look, and then they joined those who had already preceded them, and who were quietly chatting about wheat, cattle, trees—everything but the prisoner.

Suddenly one of the party separated himself from the others, and exclaimed:

“Gentlemen, there don’t seem to be anybody else a-comin’—we might as well ’tend to bizness. I move that Major Burkess takes the chair, if there’s no objections.”

No objections were made, and Major Burkess—a slight, peaceable, gentlemanly-looking man—stepped out of the crowd, and said:

“You all know the object of this meeting, gentlemen. The first thing in order is to prove the identity of the prisoner.”

“Needn’t trouble yourself ’bout that,” growled the prisoner. “I’m Bill Bowney; an’ yer too cowardly to untie me, though ther _be_ a dozen uv yer.”

“The prisoner admits he is Bill Bowney,” continued the major, “but of course no gentleman will take offense at his remarks. Has any one any charge to make against him?”

“Charges?” cried an excitable farmer. “Didn’t I catch him untying my horse, an’ ridin’ off on him from Budley’s? Didn’t I tell him to drop that anamile, an’ didn’t he purty near drop _me_ instead? Charges?—here’s the charge!” concluded the farmer, pointing significantly to a scar on his own temple.

“Pity I didn’t draw a better bead!” growled the prisoner. “The hoss only fetched two ounces.”

“Prisoner admits stealing Mr. Barke’s horse, and firing on Mr. Barke. Any further evidence?”

“Rather,” drawled an angular gentleman. “I was goin’ up the valley by the stage, an’ all of a sudden the driver stopped where there wasn’t no station. There was fellers had hold of the leaders, an’ there was pistols p’inted at the driver an’ folks in general. Then our money an’ watches was took, an’ the feller that took mine had a cross-cut scar on the back of his hand—right hand; maybe somebody’ll look at Bill’s.”

The prisoner was carried into the moonlight, and the back of his right hand was examined by the major. The prisoner was again placed under the tree.

“The cut’s there, as described,” said the major. “Anything else?”

“Ther’s this much,” said another. “I busted up flat, you all know, on account of the dry season, last year, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ left but my hoss. Bill Bowney knowed it as well’s anybody else, yet he come and stole that hoss. It pawed like thunder, an’ woke me up—fur ’twas night, an’ light as ’tis now—an’ I seed Bowney a-ridin’ him off. ’Twas a sneakin’, mean, cowardly trick.”

The prisoner hung his head; he would plead guilty to theft and attempt to kill, and defy his captors to do their worst; but when meanness and cowardice were proved against him, he seemed ashamed of himself.

“Prisoner virtually admits the charge,” said the major, looking critically at Bowney.

“Gentlemen,” said Caney, late of Texas, “what’s the use of wastin’ time this way? Everybody knows that Bowney’s been at the bottom of all the deviltry that’s been done in the county this three year. Highway robbery’s a hangin’ offense in Texas an’ every other well-regilated State; so’s hoss-stealin’, an’ so’s shootin’ a man in the back, an’ yit Bowney’s done ev’ry one of ’em over an’ over agin. Ev’rybody knows what we come here fur, else what’s the reason ev’ry man’s got a nice little coil o’ rope on his saddle fur? The longer the bizness is put off, the harder it’ll be to do. I move we string him up instanter.”

“Second the motion!” exclaimed some one.

“I move we give him a chance to save himself,” said a quiet farmer from New England. “When he’s in the road-agent business, he has a crowd to help him. Now, ’twould do us more good to clean _them_ out than him alone, so let’s give him a chance to leave the State if he’ll tell who his confederates are. Somebody’ll have to take care of him, of course, till we can catch them, and make sure of it.”

“’Twon’t cost the somebody much, then,” said the prisoner, firmly; “an’ I’d give a cool thousand for a shot at any low-lived coyote that ’ud ax me to do sich an ungentlemanly thing.”

“Spoke like a man,” said Caney, of Texas. “I hope ye’ll die easy for that, Bill.”

“The original motion prevails,” said the major; “all in favor will say ay.”

A decided “ay” broke from the party.

“Whoever has the tallest horse will please lead him up and unsaddle him,” said the major, after a slight pause. “The witnesses will take the prisoner in charge.”

A horse was brought under the limb, with the fragments of rope upon it, and the witnesses, one of them bearing a piece of rope, approached the prisoner.

The silence was terrible, and the feelings of all present were greatly relieved when Bill Bowney—placed on the horse, and seeing the rope hauled taught and fastened to a bough by a man in the tree—broke into a frenzy of cursing, and displayed the defiant courage peculiar to an animal at bay.

“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the major, as Bowney stopped for breath.

“Better own up, and save yourself and reform, and help rid the world of those other scoundrels,” pleaded the New Englander.

“Don’t yer do it, Bill—don’t yer do it!” cried Caney, of Texas. “Stick to yer friends, an’ die like a man!”

“That’s me!” said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at the New Englander. “It’s ben said here that I wuz sneakin’ an’ cowardly; ther’s _one_ way of givin’ that feller the lie—hurry up an’ do it!”

“When I raise my hand,” said the major, “lead the horse away; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!”

“Amen!” fervently exclaimed the New Englander.

Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on the air a sigh and a shudder.

Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.

“Somebody’s comin’!” whispered one of the party. “Sheriff’s got wind of the arrangements, maybe!”

“Comes from the wrong direction,” cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. “It’s somebody on foot—an’ tired—an’ light-footed—ther’s two or three—dunno what kind o’ bein’s they _ken_ be. Thunder an’ lightnin’!”

Caney’s concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner’s feet, and uttered a low, pitiful cry.

There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried:

“Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she doesn’t untie him.”

The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully. The judge and jury fidgeted about restlessly. Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon three came through the oats—three children, all crying.

As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened, staring at their parents.

They were not pretty—they were not even interesting. Mother and children were alike—unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty, faded calico. The children were all girls—the oldest not more than ten years old, and the youngest scarce five. None of them pleaded for the prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood staring in dumb piteousness.

The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch. There was not in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen minutes, when he exclaimed:

“Time’s up!”

The men approached the prisoner—the woman threw her arms around him, and cried:

“My husband! Oh, God!”

“Madam,” said the major, “your husband’s life is in his own hands. He can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the State.”

“I’ll tell you who they are?” cried the woman.

“God curse yer if yer do!” hissed Bowney from between his teeth.

“Better let him be, madam,” argued Caney, of Texas. “He’d better die like a man than go back on his friends. Might tell us which of ’em was man enough to fetch you and the young uns here? We’ll try to be easy on him when we ketch him.”

“None of ’em,” sobbed the woman. “We walked, an’ I took turns totin’ the young uns. My husband! Oh, God! my husband!”

“Beg yer pardon, ma’am,” said Bowney’s captor, “but nobody can’t b’leeve that; it’s nigh onto twenty mile.”

“I’d ha’ done it ef it had been fifty,” cried the woman, angrily, “when _he_ wuz in trouble. Oh, God! Oh, God! Don’t yer b’leeve it? Then look here!” She picked up the smallest child as she spoke, and in the dim light the men saw that its little feet were torn and bleeding. “’Twas their blood or his’n,” cried the woman, rapidly, “an’ I didn’t know how to choose between ’em. God hev mercy on me! I’m nigh crazy!”

Caney, of Texas, took the child from its mother and carried it to where the moonlight was unobstructed. He looked carefully at its feet, and then shouted:

“Bring the prisoner out here.”

Two men carried Bowney to where Caney was standing, and the whole party, with the woman and remaining children, followed.

“Bill,” said Caney, “_I_ ain’t a askin’ yer to go back on yer friends, but _them_ is—look at ’em.”

And Caney held the child’s feet before the father’s eyes, while the woman threw her arms around his neck, and the two older children crept up to the prisoner, and laid their faces against his legs.

“They’re a-talkin’ to yer, Bill,” resumed Caney, of Texas, “an’ they’re the convincenist talkers _I_ ever seed.”

The desperado turned his eyes away; but Caney moved the child so its bleeding feet were still before its father’s eyes.

The remaining men all retired beneath the shadow of the tree, for the tender little feet were talking to them, too, and they were ashamed of the results.

Suddenly Bowney uttered a deep groan.

“’Tain’t no use a-tryin’,” said he, in a resigned tone. “Everybody’ll be down on me, an’ after all I’ve done, too! But yer ken hev their names, curse yer!”

The woman went into hysterics; the children cried; Caney, of Texas, ejaculated, “Bully!” and then kissed the poor little bruised feet.

The New Englander fervently exclaimed, “Thank God!”

“I’ll answer fur him till we get ’em,” said Caney, after the major had written down the names Bowney gave him; “an’,” continued Caney, “somebody git the rest of these young uns an’ ther mother to my cabin powerful quick. Good Lord, don’t I jist wish they wuz boys! I’d adopt the hull family.”

The court informally adjourned _sine die_, but had so many meetings afterward at the same place to dispose of Bowney’s accomplices, that his freedom was considered fairly purchased, and he and his family were located a good way from the scenes of his most noted exploits.

MR. PUTCHETT’S LOVE.

JUST after two o’clock, on a July afternoon, Mr. Putchett mounted several steps of the Sub-Treasury in Wall Street, and gazed inquiringly up and down the street.

To the sentimental observer Mr. Putchett’s action, in taking the position we have indicated, may have seemed to signify that Mr. Putchett was of an aspiring disposition, and that in ascending the steps he exemplified his desire to get above the curbstone whose name was used as a qualifying adjective whenever Mr. Putchett was mentioned as a broker. Those persons, however, who enjoyed the honor of Mr. Putchett’s acquaintance immediately understood that the operator in question was in funds that day, and that he had taken the position from which he could most easily announce his moneyed condition to all who might desire assistance from him.

It was rather late in the day for business, and certain persons who had until that hour been unsuccessful in obtaining the accommodations desired were not at all particular whether their demands were satisfied in a handsome office, or under the only roof that can be enjoyed free of rent.

There came to Mr. Putchett oddly-clothed members of his own profession, and offered for sale securities whose numbers Mr. Putchett compared with those on a list of bonds stolen; men who deposited with him small articles of personal property—principally jewelry—as collaterals on small loans at short time and usurious rates; men who stood before him on the sidewalk, caught his eye, summoned him by a slight motion of the head, and disappeared around the corner, whither Mr. Putchett followed them only to promptly transact business and hurry back to his business-stand.

In fact, Mr. Putchett was very busy, and as in his case business invariably indicated profit, it was not wonderful that his rather unattractive face lightened and expressed its owner’s satisfaction at the amount of business he was doing. Suddenly, however, there attacked Mr. Putchett the fate which, in its peculiarity of visiting people in their happiest hours, has been bemoaned by poets of genuine and doubtful inspiration, from the days of the sweet singer of Israel unto those of that sweet singer of Erin, whose recital of experience with young gazelles illustrates the remorselessness of the fate alluded to.

Plainly speaking, Mr. Putchett went suddenly under a cloud, for during one of his dashes around the corner after a man who had signaled him, and at the same time commenced to remove a ring from his finger, a small, dirty boy handed Mr. Putchett a soiled card, on which was penciled:

“Bayle is after you, about that diamond.”

Despite the fact that Mr. Putchett had not been shaved for some days, and had apparently neglected the duty of facial ablution for quite as long a time, he turned pale and looked quickly behind him and across the street; then muttering “Just my luck!” and a few other words more desponding than polite in nature, he hurried to the Post-Office, where he penciled and dispatched a few postal-cards, signed in initials only, announcing an unexpected and temporary absence. Then, still looking carefully and often at the faces in sight, he entered a newspaper office and consulted a railway directory. He seemed in doubt, as he rapidly turned the leaves; and when he reached the timetable of a certain road running near and parallel to the seaside, the change in his countenance indicated that he had learned the whereabouts of a city of refuge.

An hour later Mr. Putchett, having to bid no family good-by, to care for no securities save those stowed away in his capacious pockets, and freed from the annoyance of baggage by reason of the fact that he had on his back the only outer garments that he owned, was rapidly leaving New York on a train, which he had carefully assured himself did not carry the dreaded Bayle.

Once fairly started, Mr. Putchett in some measure recovered his spirits. He introduced himself to a brakeman by means of a cigar, and questioned him until he satisfied himself that the place to which he had purchased a ticket was indeed unknown to the world, being far from the city, several miles from the railroad, and on a beach where boats could not safely land. He also learned that it was not a fashionable Summer resort, and that a few farmhouses (whose occupants took Summer boarders) and an unsuccessful hotel were the only buildings in the place.

Arrived at his destination, Mr. Putchett registered at the hotel and paid the week’s board which the landlord, after a critical survey of his new patron, demanded in advance.

Then the exiled operator tilted a chair in the barroom, lit an execrable cigar, and, instead of expressing sentiments of gratitude appropriate to the occasion, gave way to profane condemnations of the bad fortune which had compelled him to abandon his business.

He hungrily examined the faces of the few fishermen of the neighboring bay who came in to drink and smoke, but no one of them seemed likely to need money—certainly no one of them seemed to have acceptable collaterals about his person or clothing. On the contrary, these men, while each one threw Mr. Putchett a stare of greater or less magnitude, let the financier alone so completely that he was conscious of a severe wound in his self-esteem.

It was a strange experience, and at first it angered him so that he strode up to the bar, ordered a glass of best brandy, and defiantly drank alone; but neither the strength of the liquor nor the intensity of his anger prevented him from soon feeling decidedly lonely.

At the cheap hotel at which he lodged when in New York there was no one who loved him or even feared him, but there were a few men of his own kind who had, for purposes of mutual recreation, tabooed business transactions with each other, and among these he found a grim sort of enjoyment—of companionship, at least. Here, however, he was so utterly alone as to be almost frightened, and the murmuring and moaning of the surf on the beach near the hotel added to his loneliness a sense of terror.

Almost overcome by dismal forebodings, Mr. Putchett hurried out of the hotel and toward the beach. Once upon the sands, he felt better; the few people who were there were strangers, of course, but they were women and children; and if the expression of those who noticed him was wondering, it was inoffensive—at times even pitying, and Mr. Putchett was in a humor to gratefully accept even pity.

Soon the sun fell, and the people straggled toward their respective boarding-houses, and Mr. Putchett, to fight off loneliness as long as possible, rose from the bench on which he had been sitting and followed the party up the beach.

He had supposed himself the last person that left the beach, but in a moment or two he heard a childish voice shouting:

“Mister, mister! I guess you’ve lost something!”

Mr. Putchett turned quickly, and saw a little girl, six or seven years of age, running toward him. In one hand she held a small pail and wooden shovel, and in the other something bright, which was too large for her little hand to cover.

She reached the broker’s side, turned up a bright, healthy face, opened her hand and displayed a watch, and said:

“It was right there on the bench where you were sitting. I couldn’t think what it was, it shone so.”

Mr. Putchett at first looked suspiciously at the child, for he had at one period of his life labored industriously in the business of dropping bogus pocketbooks and watches, and obtaining rewards from persons claiming to be their owners.

Examining the watch which the child handed him, however, he recognized it as one upon which he had lent twenty dollars earlier in the day.

First prudently replacing the watch in the pocket of his pantaloons, so as to avoid any complication while settling with the finder, he handed the child a quarter.

“Oh, no, thank you,” said she, hastily; “mamma gives me money whenever I need it.”

The experienced operator immediately placed the fractional currency where it might not tempt the child to change her mind. Then he studied her face with considerable curiosity, and asked:

“Do you live here?”

“Oh, no,” she replied; “we’re only spending the Summer here. We live in New York.”

Mr. Putchett opened his eyes, whistled, and remarked:

“It’s very funny.”

“Why, I don’t think so,” said the child, very innocently. “Lots of people that board here come from New York. Don’t you want to see my well? I dug the deepest well of anybody to-day. Just come and see—it’s only a few steps from here.”

Mechanically, as one struggling with a problem above his comprehension, the financier followed the child, and gazed into a hole, perhaps a foot and a half deep, on the beach.

“That’s my well,” said she, “and that one next it is Frank’s. Nellie’s is way up there. I guess hers _would_ have been the biggest, but a wave came up and spoiled it.”

Mr. Putchett looked from the well into the face of its little digger, and was suddenly conscious of an insane desire to drink some of the water. He took the child’s pail, dipped some water, and was carrying it to his lips, when the child spoiled what was probably the first sentimental feeling of Mr. Putchett’s life by hastily exclaiming:

“You mustn’t drink that—it’s salty!”

The sentimentalist sorrowfully put the bitter draught away, and the child rattled on:

“If you’re down here to-morrow, I’ll show you where we find scallop-shells; maybe you can find some with pink and yellow spots on them. _I’ve_ got some. If you don’t find any, I’ll give you one.”

“Thank you,” said her companion.

Just then some one shouted “Alice!” and the child exclaiming, “Mamma’s calling me; good-by,” hurried away, while the broker walked slowly toward the hotel with an expression of countenance which would have hidden him from his oldest acquaintance.

Mr. Putchett spent the evening on the piazza instead of in the barroom, and he neither smoked nor drank. Before retiring he contracted with the colored cook to shave him in the morning, and to black his boots; and he visited the single store of the neighborhood and purchased a shirt, some collars, and a cravat.

When in the morning he was duly shaved, dressed and brushed, he critically surveyed himself in the glass, and seemed quite dissatisfied. He moved from the glass, spread a newspaper on the table, and put into it the contents of his capacious pockets. A second examination before the glass seemed more satisfactory in result, thus indicating that to the eye of Mr. Putchett his well-stuffed pockets had been unsightly in effect.

The paper and its contents he gave the landlord to deposit in the hotel safe; then he ate a hurried, scanty breakfast, and again sought the bench on the beach.

No one was in sight, for it was scarcely breakfast-time at the boarding-houses; so he looked for little Alice’s well, and mourned to find that the tide had not even left any sign of its location.

Then he seated himself on the bench again, contemplating his boots, looked up the road, stared out to sea, and then looked up the road again, tried to decipher some of the names carved on the bench, walked backward and forward, looking up the road at each turn he made, and in every way indicated the unpleasant effect of hope deferred.

Finally, however, after two hours of fruitless search, Mr. Putchett’s eyes were rewarded by the sight of little Alice approaching the beach with a bathing-party. He at first hurried forward to meet her, but he was restrained by a sentiment found alike in curbstone-brokers and in charming young ladies—a feeling that it is not well to give one’s self away without first being sufficiently solicited to do so.

He noticed, with a mingled pleasure and uneasiness, that little Alice did not at first recognize him, so greatly had his toilet altered his general appearance.

Even after he made himself known, he was compelled to submit to further delay, for the party had come to the beach to bathe, and little Alice must bathe, too.