Elder Conklin and Other Stories by Frank Harris

F >> Frank Harris >> Elder Conklin and Other Stories

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

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

Sheriff took the proffered hand as if mechanically, and turned to the
bar with "Whisky--straight." Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height,
sturdily built. A broad forehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met
everything fairly, testified in his favour. The nose, however, was
fleshy and snub. The mouth was not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at,
so thickly did the brown moustache and beard grow; but the short beard
seemed rather to exaggerate than conceal an extravagant outjutting of
the lower jaw, that gave a peculiar expression of energy and
determination to the face. His manner was unobtrusively quiet and
deliberate.

It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to the bar-
lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among the puritanical
or middle-class section of the community. No one, however, seemed to pay
any further attention to him or to remark the unusual cordiality of
Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed before anything of note
occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know, a farmer, by his
dress, drew a copy of the "Kiota Tribune" from his pocket, and,
stretching it towards Johnson, asked with a very marked Yankee twang:

"Sheriff, hev yeou read this 'Tribune'?"

Wheeling half round towards his questioner, the Sheriff replied:

"Yes, sir, I hev." A pause ensued, which was made significant to me by
the fact that the bar-keeper suspended his hand and did not pour out the
whisky he had just been asked to supply--a pause during which the two
faced each other; it was broken by the farmer saying:

"Ez yeou wer out of town to-day, I allowed yeou might hev missed seein'
it. I reckoned yeou'd come straight hyar before yeou went to hum."

"No, Crosskey," rejoined the Sheriff, with slow emphasis; "I went home
first and came on hyar to see the boys."

"Wall," said Mr. Crosskey, as it seemed to me, half apologetically,
"knowin' yeou I guessed yeou ought to hear the facks," then, with some
suddenness, stretching out his hand, he added, "I hev some way to go,
an' my old woman 'ull be waitin' up fer me. Good night, Sheriff." The
hands met while the Sheriff nodded: "Good night, Jim."

After a few greetings to right and left Mr. Crosskey left the bar. The
crowd went on smoking, chewing, and drinking, but the sense of
expectancy was still in the air, and the seriousness seemed, if
anything, to have increased. Five or ten minutes may have passed when a
man named Reid, who had run for the post of Sub-Sheriff the year before,
and had failed to beat Johnson's nominee Jarvis, rose from his chair and
asked abruptly:

"Sheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you to-morrow?"

With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriff
answered:

"I guess not, Mr. Reid."

Quickly Reid replied: "Then I reckon there's no use in us stayin';" and
turning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he added,
"Let's go, boys!"

The men got up and filed out after their leader without greeting the
Sheriff in any way. With the departure of this group the shadow lifted.
Those who still remained showed in manner a marked relief, and a moment
or two later a man named Morris, whom I knew to be a gambler by
profession, called out lightly:

"The crowd and you'll drink with me, Sheriff, I hope? I want another
glass, and then we won't keep you up any longer, for you ought to have a
night's rest with to-morrow's work before you."

The Sheriff smiled assent. Every one moved towards the bar, and
conversation became general. Morris was the centre of the company, and
he directed the talk jokingly to the account in the "Tribune," making
fun, as it seemed to me, though I did not understand all his allusions,
of the editor's timidity and pretentiousness. Morris interested and
amused me even more than he amused the others; he talked like a man of
some intelligence and reading, and listening to him I grew light-hearted
and careless, perhaps more careless than usual, for my spirits had been
ice-bound in the earlier gloom of the evening.

"Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted,"
some one said.

"Mark that 'fortunately,' Sheriff," laughed Morris. "The editor was
afraid to mention you alone, so he hitched the State on with you to
lighten the load."

"Ay!" chimed in another of the gamblers, "and the 'aid and succour of
each and every citizen,' eh, Sheriff, as if you'd take the whole town
with you. I guess two or three'll be enough fer Williams."

This annoyed me. It appeared to me that Williams had addressed a
personal challenge to the Sheriff, and I thought that Johnson should so
consider it. Without waiting for the Sheriff to answer, whether in
protest or acquiescence, I broke in:

"Two or three would be cowardly. One should go, and one only." At once I
felt rather than saw the Sheriff free himself from the group of men; the
next moment he stood opposite to me.

"What was that?" he asked sharply, holding me with keen eye and out-
thrust chin--repressed passion in voice and look.

The antagonism of his bearing excited and angered me not a little. I
replied:

"I think it would be cowardly to take two or three against a single man.
I said one should go, and I say so still."

"Do you?" he sneered. "I guess you'd go alone, wouldn't you? to bring
Williams in?"

"If I were paid for it I should," was my heedless retort. As I spoke his
face grew white with such passion that I instinctively put up my hands
to defend myself, thinking he was about to attack me. The involuntary
movement may have seemed boyish to him, for thought came into his eyes,
and his face relaxed; moving away he said quietly:

"I'll set up drinks, boys."

They grouped themselves about him and drank, leaving me isolated. But
this, now my blood was up, only added to the exasperation I felt at his
contemptuous treatment, and accordingly I walked to the bar, and as the
only unoccupied place was by Johnson's side I went there and said,
speaking as coolly as I could:

"Though no one asks me to drink I guess I'll take some whisky, bar-
keeper, if you please." Johnson was standing with his back to me, but
when I spoke he looked round, and I saw, or thought I saw, a sort of
curiosity in his gaze. I met his eye defiantly. He turned to the others
and said, in his ordinary, slow way:

"Wall, good night, boys; I've got to go. It's gittin' late, an' I've had
about as much as I want."

Whether he alluded to the drink or to my impertinence I was unable to
divine. Without adding a word he left the room amid a chorus of "Good
night, Sheriff!" With him went Martin and half-a-dozen more.

I thought I had come out of the matter fairly well until I spoke to some
of the men standing near. They answered me, it is true, but in
monosyllables, and evidently with unwillingness. In silence I finished
my whisky, feeling that every one was against me for some inexplicable
cause. I resented this and stayed on. In a quarter of an hour the rest
of the crowd had departed, with the exception of Morris and a few of the
same kidney.

When I noticed that these gamblers, outlaws by public opinion, held away
from me, I became indignant. Addressing myself to Morris, I asked:

"Can you tell me, sir, for you seem to be an educated man, what I have
said or done to make you all shun me?"

"I guess so," he answered indifferently. "You took a hand in a game
where you weren't wanted. And you tried to come in without ever having
paid the _ante,_ which is not allowed in any game--at least not in
any game played about here."

The allusion seemed plain; I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner;
that must be my offence. With a "Good night, sir; good night, bar-
keeper!" I left the room.

* * * * *

The next morning I went as usual to the office. I may have been seated
there about an hour--it was almost eight o'clock--when I heard a knock
at the door.

"Come in," I said, swinging round in the American chair, to find myself
face to face with Sheriff Johnson.

"Why, Sheriff, come in!" I exclaimed cheerfully, for I was relieved at
seeing him, and so realized more clearly than ever that the
unpleasantness of the previous evening had left in me a certain
uneasiness. I was eager to show that the incident had no importance:

"Won't you take a seat? and you'll have a cigar?--these are not bad."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14