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

As his voice broke over the last words, there was scarcely a dry eye in
the church. Many of the women were sobbing audibly, and Mrs. Hooper had
long ago given up the attempt "to pull her tears down the back way." She
expressed the general sentiment of her sex when she said afterwards, "It
was just too lovely for anythin'." And the men were scarcely less
affected, though they were better able to control their emotion. The
joyous renunciation of five thousand dollars a year struck these hard
men of business as something almost uncanny. They would have considered
it the acme of folly in an ordinary man, but in a preacher they felt
vaguely that it was admirable.

When Deacon Hooper met his brother Deacons before the platform where the
collection-plates were kept, he whispered, "The meetin' is at my house
at three o'clock. Be on time." His tone was decided, as were also the
nods which accepted the invitation.

After the service Mr. Letgood withdrew quietly without going, as usual,
amongst his congregation. This pleased even Mrs. Parton, whose husband
was a judge of the Supreme Court. She said: "It was elegant of him."

* * * * *

Mr. Hooper received the twelve Deacons in his drawing-room, and when the
latest comer was seated, began:

"There ain't no need for me to tell you, brethren, why I asked you all
to come round here this afternoon. After that sermon this mornin' I
guess we're all sot upon showin' our minister that we appreciate him.
There are mighty few men with five thousand dollars a year who'd give up
ten thousand. It seems to me a pretty good proof that a man's a
Christian ef he'll do that. 'Tain't being merely a Christian: it's
Christ-like. We must keep Mr. Letgood right here: he's the sort o' man
we want. If they come from Chicago after him now, they'll be comin' from
New York next, an' he oughtn't to be exposed to sich great temptation.

"I allow that we'll be able to raise the pew-rents from the first of
January next, to bring in another two thousand five hundred dollars a
year, and I propose that we Deacons should jest put our hands deep down
in our pockets and give Mr. Letgood that much anyway for this year, and
promise the same for the future. I'm willin', as senior Deacon, though
not the richest, to start the list with three hundred dollars."

In five minutes the money was subscribed, and it was agreed that each
man should pay in his contribution to the name of Mr. Hooper at the
First National Bank next day; Mr. Hooper could then draw his cheque for
the sum.

"Wall," said the Deacon, again getting up, "that's settled, but I've
drawn that cheque already. Mrs. Hooper and me talked the thing over," he
added half apologetically, and as if to explain his unbusinesslike
rashness; "an' she thinks we oughter go right now to Mr. Letgood as a
sort of surprise party an' tell him what we hev decided--that is, ef
you're all agreed."

They were, although one or two objected to a "surprise party" being held
on Sunday. But Deacon Hooper overruled the objection by saying that he
could find no better _word_, though of course 'twas really not a
"surprise party." After this explanation, some one proposed that Deacon
Hooper should make the presentation, and that Mrs. Hooper should be
asked to accompany them. When Mr. Hooper went into the dining-room to
find his wife she was already dressed to go out, and when he expressed
surprise and delivered himself of his mission, she said simply:

"Why, I only dressed to go and see Mrs. Jones, who's ill, but I guess
I'll go along with you first."

* * * * *

The same afternoon Mr. Letgood was seated in his study considering a
sermon for the evening--it would have to be very different from that of
the morning, he felt, or else it would fall flat.

He still avoided thinking of his position. The die was cast now, and
having struggled hard against the temptation he tried to believe that he
was not chiefly responsible. In the back of his mind was the knowledge
that his responsibility would become clear to him some time or other,
but he confined it in the furthest chamber of his brain with repentance
as the guardian.

He had just decided that his evening address must be doctrinal and
argumentative, when he became aware of steps in the drawing-room.
Opening the door he found himself face to face with his Deacons. Before
he could speak, Deacon Hooper began:

"Mr. Letgood! We, the Deacons of your church, hev come to see you. We
want to tell you how we appreciate your decision this mornin'. It was
Christ-like! And we're all proud of you, an' glad you're goin' to stay
with us. But we allow that it ain't fair or to be expected that you
should refuse ten thousand dollars a year with only five. So we've made
a purse for this year among ourselves of two thousand five hundred
dollars extry, which we hope you'll accept. Next year the pew-rents can
be raised to bring in the same sum; anyway, it shall be made up.

"There ain't no use in talkin'; but you, sir, hev jest sot us an example
of how one who loves the Lord Jesus, and Him only, should act, and we
ain't goin' to remain far behind. No, sir, we ain't. Thar's the cheque."

As he finished speaking, tears stood in the kind, honest, blue eyes.

Mr. Letgood took the cheque mechanically, and mechanically accepted at
the same time the Deacon's outstretched hand; but his eyes sought Mrs.
Hooper's, who stood behind the knot of men with her handkerchief to her
face. In a moment or two, recalled to himself by the fact that one after
the other all the Deacons wanted to shake his hand, he tried to sustain
his part in the ceremony. He said:

"My dear brothers, I thank you each and all, and accept your gift, in
the spirit in which you offer it. I need not say that I knew nothing of
your intention when I preached this morning. It is not the money that
I'm thinking of now, but your kindness. I thank you again."

After a few minutes' casual conversation, consisting chiefly of praise
of the "wonderful discourse" of the morning, Mr. Letgood proposed that
they should all have iced coffee with him; there was nothing so
refreshing; he wanted them to try it; and though he was a bachelor, if
Mrs. Hooper would kindly give her assistance and help him with his cook,
he was sure they would enjoy a glass. With a smile she consented.
Stepping into the passage after her and closing the door, he said
hurriedly, with anger and suspicion in his voice:

"You didn't get this up as my answer? You didn't think I'd take money
instead, did you?"

Demurely, Mrs. Hooper turned her head round as he spoke, and leaning
against him while he put his arms round her waist, answered with arch
reproach:

"You are just too silly for anythin'."

Then, with something like the movement of a cat loath to lose the
contact of the caressing hand, she turned completely towards him and
slowly lifted her eyes. Their lips met.

21 APRIL, 1891.

* * * * *

EATIN' CROW

The evening on which Charley Muirhead made his first appearance at
Doolan's was a memorable one; the camp was in wonderful spirits. Whitman
was said to have struck it rich. Garotte, therefore, might yet become
popular in the larger world, and its evil reputation be removed.
Besides, what Whitman had done any one might do, for by common consent
he was a "derned fool." Good-humour accordingly reigned at Doolan's,
and the saloon was filled with an excited, hopeful crowd. Bill Bent,
however, was anything but pleased; he generally was in a bad temper, and
this evening, as Crocker remarked carelessly, he was "more ornery than
ever." The rest seemed to pay no attention to the lanky, dark man with
the narrow head, round, black eyes, and rasping voice. But Bent would
croak: "Whitman's struck nothin'; thar ain't no gold in Garotte; it's
all work and no dust." In this strain he went on, offending local
sentiment and making every one uncomfortable.

Muirhead's first appearance created a certain sensation. He was a fine
upstanding fellow of six feet or over, well made, and good-looking. But
Garotte had too much experience of life to be won by a stranger's
handsome looks. Muirhead's fair moustache and large blue eyes counted
for little there. Crocker and others, masters in the art of judging men,
noticed that his eyes were unsteady, and his manner, though genial,
seemed hasty. Reggitt summed up their opinion in the phrase, "looks as
if he'd bite off more'n he could chaw." Unconscious of the criticism,
Muirhead talked, offered drinks, and made himself agreeable.

At length in answer to Bent's continued grumbling, Muirhead said
pleasantly: "'Tain't so bad as that in Garotte, is it? This bar don't
look like poverty, and if I set up drinks for the crowd, it's because
I'm glad to be in this camp."

"P'r'aps you found the last place you was in jes' a leetle too warm,
eh?" was Bent's retort.

Muirhead's face flushed, and for a second he stood as if he had been
struck. Then, while the crowd moved aside, he sprang towards Bent,
exclaiming, "Take that back--right off! Take it back!"

"What?" asked Bent coolly, as if surprised; at the same time, however,
retreating a pace or two, he slipped his right hand behind him.

Instantly Muirhead threw himself upon him, rushed him with what seemed
demoniac strength to the open door and flung him away out on his back
into the muddy ditch that served as a street. For a moment there was a
hush of expectation, then Bent was seen to gather himself up painfully
and move out of the square of light into the darkness. But Muirhead did
not wait for this; hastily, with hot face and hands still working with
excitement, he returned to the bar with:

"That's how I act. No one can jump me. No one, by God!" and he glared
round the room defiantly. Reggitt, Harrison, and some of the others
looked at him as if on the point of retorting, but the cheerfulness was
general, and Bent's grumbling before a stranger had irritated them
almost as much as his unexpected cowardice. Muirhead's challenge was not
taken up, therefore, though Harrison did remark, half sarcastically:

"That may be so. You jump them, I guess."

"Well, boys, let's have the drink," Charley Muirhead went on, his manner
suddenly changing to that of friendly greeting, just as if he had not
heard Harrison's words.

The men moved up to the bar and drank, and before the liquor was
consumed, Charley's geniality, acting on the universal good-humour,
seemed to have done away with the discontent which his violence and
Bent's cowardice had created. This was the greater tribute to his
personal charm, as the refugees of Garotte usually hung together, and
were inclined to resent promptly any insult offered to one of their
number by a stranger. But in the present case harmony seemed to be
completely reestablished, and it would have taken a keener observer than
Muirhead to have understood his own position and the general opinion. It
was felt that the stranger had bluffed for all he was worth, and that
Garotte had come out "at the little end of the horn."

A day or two later Charley Muirhead, walking about the camp, came upon
Dave Crocker's claim, and offered to buy half of it and work as a
partner, but the other would not sell; "the claim was worth nothin'; not
good enough for two, anyhow;" and there the matter would have ended, had
not the young man proposed to work for a spell just to keep his hand in.
By noon Crocker was won; nobody could resist Charley's hard work and
laughing high spirits. Shortly afterwards the older man proposed to
knock off; a day's work, he reckoned, had been done, and evidently
considering it impossible to accept a stranger's labour without
acknowledgment, he pressed Charley to come up to his shanty and eat. The
simple meal was soon despatched, and Crocker, feeling the obvious
deficiencies of his larder, produced a bottle of Bourbon, and the two
began to drink. Glass succeeded glass, and at length Crocker's reserve
seemed to thaw; his manner became almost easy, and he spoke half
frankly.

"I guess you're strong," he remarked. "You threw Bent out of the saloon
the other night like as if he was nothin'; strength's good, but 'tain't
everythin'. I mean," he added, in answer to the other's questioning
look, "Samson wouldn't have a show with a man quick on the draw who
meant bizness. Bent didn't pan out worth a cent, and the boys didn't
like him, but--them things don't happen often." So in his own way he
tried to warn the man to whom he had taken a liking.

Charley felt that a warning was intended, for he replied decisively: "It
don't matter. I guess he wanted to jump me, and I won't be jumped, not
if Samson wanted to, and all the revolvers in Garotte were on me."

"Wall," Crocker went on quietly, but with a certain curiosity in his
eyes, "that's all right, but I reckon you were mistaken. Bent didn't
want to rush ye; 'twas only his cussed way, and he'd had mighty bad luck.
You might hev waited to see if he meant anythin', mightn't ye?" And he
looked his listener in the face as he spoke.

"That's it," Charley replied, after a long pause, "that's just it. I
couldn't wait, d'ye see!" and then continued hurriedly, as if driven to
relieve himself by a full confession: "Maybe you don't _sabe_. It's
plain enough, though I'd have to begin far back to make you understand.
But I don't mind if you want to hear. I was raised in the East, in Rhode
Island, and I guess I was liked by everybody. I never had trouble with
any one, and I was a sort of favourite.... I fell in love with a girl,
and as I hadn't much money, I came West to make some, as quick as I knew
how. The first place I struck was Laramie--you don't know it? 'Twas a
hard place; cowboys, liquor saloons, cursin' and swearin', poker and
shootin' nearly every night. At the beginning I seemed to get along all
right, and I liked the boys, and thought they liked me. One night a
little Irishman was rough on me; first of all I didn't notice, thought
he meant nothin', and then, all at once, I saw he meant it--and more.

"Well, I got a kind of scare--I don't know why--and I took what he said
and did nothin'. Next day the boys sort of held off from me, didn't
talk; thought me no account, I guess, and that little Irishman just rode
me round the place with spurs on. I never kicked once. I thought I'd get
the money--I had done well with the stock I had bought--and go back East
and marry, and no one would be any the wiser. But the Irishman kept
right on, and first one and then another of the boys went for me, and I
took it all. I just," and here his voice rose, and his manner became
feverishly excited, "I just ate crow right along for months--and tried
to look as if 'twas quail.

"One day I got a letter from home. She wanted me to hurry up and come
back. She thought a lot of me, I could see; more than ever, because I
had got along--I had written and told her my best news. And then, what
had been hard grew impossible right off. I made up my mind to sell the
stock and strike for new diggings. I couldn't stand it any longer--not
after her letter. I sold out and cleared.... I ought to hev stayed in
Laramie, p'r'aps, and gone for the Irishman, but I just couldn't. Every
one there was against me."

"I guess you oughter hev stayed.... Besides, if you had wiped up the
floor with that Irishman the boys would hev let up on you."

"P'r'aps so," Charley resumed, "but I was sick of the whole crowd. I
sold off, and lit out. When I got on the new stage-coach, fifty miles
from Laramie, and didn't know the driver or any one, I made up my mind
to start fresh. Then and there I resolved that I had eaten all the crow
I was going to eat; the others should eat crow now, and if there was any
jumpin' to be done, I'd do it, whatever it cost. And so I went for Bent
right off. I didn't want to wait. 'Here's more crow,' I thought, 'but I
won't eat it; he shall, if I die for it,' and I just threw him out
quick."

"I see," said Crocker, with a certain sympathy in his voice, "but you
oughter hev waited. You oughter make up to wait from this on, Charley.
'Tain't hard. You don't need to take anythin' and set under it. I'm not
advisin' that, but it's stronger to wait before you go fer any one. The
boys," he added significantly, "don't like a man to bounce, and what
they don't like is pretty hard to do."

"Damn the boys," exclaimed Charley vehemently, "they're all alike out
here. I can't act different. If I waited, I might wait too long--too
long, d'you _sabe?_ I just can't trust myself," he added in a
subdued tone.

"No," replied Crocker meditatively. "No, p'r'aps not. But see here,
Charley, I kinder like you, and so I tell you, no one can bounce the
crowd here in Garotte. They're the worst crowd you ever struck in your
life. Garotte's known for hard cases. Why," he went on earnestly, as if
he had suddenly become conscious of the fact, "the other night Reggitt
and a lot came mighty near goin' fer you--and Harrison, Harrison took up
what you said. You didn't notice, I guess; and p'r'aps 'twas well you
didn't; but you hadn't much to spare. You won by the odd card.

"No one can bounce this camp. They've come from everywhere, and can only
jes' get a livin' here--no more. And when luck's bad they're"--and he
paused as if no adjective were strong enough. "If a man was steel, and
the best and quickest on the draw ever seen, I guess they'd bury him if
he played your way."

"Then they may bury me," retorted Charley bitterly, "but I've eaten my
share of crow. I ain't goin' to eat any more. Can't go East now with the
taste of it in my mouth. I'd rather they buried me."

And they did bury him--about a fortnight after.

July, 1892.

* * * * *

THE BEST MAN IN GAROTTE.

Lawyer Rablay had come from nobody knew where. He was a small man,
almost as round as a billiard ball. His body was round, his head was
round; his blue eyes and even his mouth and chin were round; his nose
was a perky snub; he was florid and prematurely bald--a picture of good-
humour. And yet he was a power in Garotte. When he came to the camp, a
row was the only form of recreation known to the miners. A "fuss" took
men out of themselves, and was accordingly hailed as an amusement;
besides, it afforded a subject of conversation. But after Lawyer
Rablay's arrival fights became comparatively infrequent. Would-be
students of human nature declared at first that his flow of spirits was
merely animal, and that his wit was thin; but even these envious ones
had to admit later that his wit told, and that his good-humour was
catching.

Crocker and Harrison had nearly got to loggerheads one night for no
reason apparently, save that each had a high reputation for courage, and
neither could find a worthier antagonist. In the nick of time Rablay
appeared; he seemed to understand the situation at a glance, and broke
in:

"See here, boys. I'll settle this. They're disputin'--I know they are.
Want to decide with bullets whether 'Frisco or Denver's the finest city.
'Frisco's bigger and older, says Crocker; Harrison maintains Denver's
better laid out. Crocker replies in his quiet way that 'Frisco ain't
dead yet." Good temper being now re-established, Rablay went on: "I'll
decide this matter right off. Crocker and Harrison shall set up drinks
for the crowd till we're all laid out. And I'll tell a story," and he
began a tale which cannot be retold here, but which delighted the boys
as much by its salaciousness as by its vivacity.

Lawyer Rablay was to Garotte what novels, theatres, churches, concerts
are to more favoured cities; in fact, for some six months, he and his
stories constituted the chief humanizing influence in the camp.
Deputations were often despatched from Doolan's to bring Rablay to the
bar. The miners got up "cases" in order to give him work. More than once
both parties in a dispute, real or imaginary, engaged him, despite his
protestations, as attorney, and afterwards the boys insisted that, being
advocate for both sides, he was well fitted to decide the issue as
judge. He had not been a month in Garotte before he was christened
Judge, and every question, whether of claim-boundaries, the suitability
of a nickname, or the value of "dust," was submitted for his decision.
It cannot be asserted that his enviable position was due either to
perfect impartiality or to infallible wisdom. But every one knew that
his judgments would be informed by shrewd sense and good-humour, and
would be followed by a story, and woe betide the disputant whose
perversity deferred that pleasure. So Garotte became a sort of
theocracy, with Judge Rablay as ruler. And yet he was, perhaps, the only
man in the community whose courage had never been tested or even
considered.

One afternoon a man came to Garotte, who had a widespread reputation.
His name was Bill Hitchcock. A marvellous shot, a first-rate poker-
player, a good rider--these virtues were outweighed by his desperate
temper. Though not more than five-and-twenty years of age his courage
and ferocity had made him a marked man. He was said to have killed half-
a-dozen men; and it was known that he had generally provoked his
victims. No one could imagine why he had come to Garotte, but he had not
been half an hour in the place before he was recognized. It was
difficult to forget him, once seen. He was tall and broad-shouldered;
his face long, with well-cut features; a brown moustache drooped
negligently over his mouth; his heavy eyelids were usually half-closed,
but when in moments of excitement they were suddenly updrawn, one was
startled by a naked hardness of grey-green eyes.

Hitchcock spent the whole afternoon in Doolan's, scarcely speaking a
word. As night drew down, the throng of miners increased. Luck had been
bad for weeks; the camp was in a state of savage ill-humour. Not a few
came to the saloon that night intending to show, if an opportunity
offered, that neither Hitchcock nor any one else on earth could scare
them. As minute after minute passed the tension increased. Yet Hitchcock
stood in the midst of them, drinking and smoking in silence, seemingly
unconcerned.

Presently the Judge came in with a smile on his round face and shot off
a merry remark. But the quip didn't take as it should have done. He was
received with quiet nods and not with smiles and loud greetings as
usual. Nothing daunted, he made his way to the bar, and, standing next
to Hitchcock, called for a drink.

"Come, Doolan, a Bourbon; our only monarch!"

Beyond a smile from Doolan the remark elicited no applause. Astonished,
the Judge looked about him; never in his experience had the camp been in
that temper. But still he had conquered too often to doubt his powers
now. Again and again he tried to break the spell--in vain. As a last
resort he resolved to use his infallible receipt against ill-temper.

"Boys! I've just come in to tell you one little story; then I'll have to
go."

From force of habit the crowd drew towards him, and faces relaxed.
Cheered by this he picked up his glass from the bar and turned towards
his audience. Unluckily, as he moved, his right arm brushed against
Hitchcock, who was looking at him with half-opened eyes. The next moment
Hitchcock had picked up his glass and dashed it in the Judge's face.
Startled, confounded by the unexpected suddenness of the attack, Rablay
backed two or three paces, and, blinded by the rush of blood from his
forehead, drew out his handkerchief. No one stirred. It was part of the
unwritten law in Garotte to let every man in such circumstances play his
game as he pleased. For a moment or two the Judge mopped his face, and
then he started towards his assailant with his round face puckered up
and out-thrust hands. He had scarcely moved, however, when Hitchcock
levelled a long Navy Colt against his breast:

"Git back, you ---- "

The Judge stopped. He was unarmed but not cowed. All of a sudden those
wary, long eyes of Hitchcock took in the fact that a score of revolvers
covered him.

With lazy deliberation Dave Crocker moved out of the throng towards the
combatants, and standing between them, with his revolver pointing to the
ground, said sympathetically:

"Jedge, we're sorry you've been jumped, here in Garotte. Now, what would
you like?"

"A fair fight," replied Rablay, beginning again to use his handkerchief.

"Wall," Crocker went on, after a pause for thought. "A square fight's
good but hard to get. This man," and his head made a motion towards
Hitchcock as he spoke, "is one of the best shots there is, and I reckon
you're not as good at shootin' as at--other things." Again he paused to
think, and then continued with the same deliberate air of careful
reflection, "We all cotton to you, Jedge; you know that. Suppose you
pick a man who kin shoot, and leave it to him. That'd be fair, an' you
kin jes' choose any of us, or one after the other. We're all willin'."

"No," replied the Judge, taking away the handkerchief, and showing a
jagged, red line on his forehead. "No! he struck _me_. I don't want
any one to help me, or take my place."

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