AN EVENING WITH SOCRATES
How the Colonel had come to be reported dead it was easy enough now to
surmise. Some desperate fugitive, or rambling hobo miner seeking a
crosscut to the Borax Mines below, had raided his camp in his absence;
and, riding off on his burro, had met his death in a sandstorm. His
were the tracks that the Indians had followed and somewhere in Death
Valley he lay beneath the sand dunes in place of a better man. But the
Colonel--did he know that his family had mourned him as dead, and
bandied his stock back and forth? Did he know that the Paymaster had
been bonded and opened up, and lost again to Blount? And what would be
his answer if he knew the man before him was the son of Honest John
Holman? Wiley closed down his lips, then he took the outstretched hand
and looked the Colonel straight in the eye.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "that I can't give you my name or tell you
where I'm from; but I've got a bottle of whiskey that will more than
make up for the loss of that can of tomatoes!"
"Whiskey!" shrilled the Colonel and then he smiled benignly and laid a
fatherly hand upon his shoulder. "Never mind, my young friend, what you
have done or not done; because I'm sure it was nothing dishonorable--and
now if you will produce your bottle we'll drink to our better
acquaintance."
"I threw it away," answered Wiley apologetically, "but it can't be
very far down the trail. I was short of water and lost, you might say,
and--well, I guess I was a little wild."
"And well you might be," replied the Colonel heartily, "if you crossed
Death Valley afoot; and worn out and hungry, to boot. I'll just take
the liberty of going after that bottle myself, before some skulking
Shoo-shonnie gets hold of it."
"Do so," smiled Wiley, "and when you've had your drink, perhaps you'll
bring in my rifle and the rest."
"Whatever you've dropped," returned the Colonel cordially, "if it's only
a cartridge from your belt! And while I am gone, just make yourself at
home. You seem to be in need of rest."
"Yes, I am," agreed Wiley, and before the Colonel was out of sight he
was fast asleep on his bed.
It was dark when he awoke and the light of a fire played and flickered
on the walls of his cave. The wind brought to his nostrils the odor of
cooking beans and as he rose and looked out he saw the Colonel pacing up
and down by the fire. His hat was off, his fine head thrown back and he
was humming to himself and smiling.
"Come out, sir; come out!" he cried upon the moment. "I trust you have
enjoyed your day's rest. And now give me your hand, sir; I regret beyond
words my boorish conduct of this morning."
He shook hands effusively, still continuing his apologies for having
taken Wiley for less than a gentleman; and while they ate together it
became apparent to Wiley that the Colonel had had his drink. If there
was anything left of the pint bottle of whiskey no mention was made of
the fact; but even at that the liquor was well spent, for it had gained
him a friend for life.
"Young man," observed the Colonel, after looking at him closely, "I am a
fugitive in a way, myself, but I cannot believe, from the look on your
face, that your are anything else than honest. I shall respect your
silence, as you respect mine, for your past is nothing to me; but if at
any time I can assist you, just mention the fact and the deed is as good
as done. I am a man of my word and, since true friends are rare, I beg
of you not to forget me."
"I'll remember that," said Wiley, and went on with his eating as the
Colonel paced up and down. He was a noble-looking man of the Southern
type, tall and slender, with flashing blue eyes; and the look that he
gave him reminded Wiley of Virginia, only infinitely more kind and
friendly. He had been, in his day, a prince of entertainers, of the rich
and poor alike; and the kick of the whiskey had roused up those genial
qualities which had made him the first citizen of Keno. He laughed and
told stories and cracked merry jests, yet never for a moment did he
forget his incognito nor attempt to violate Wiley's. They were gentlemen
there together in the heart of the desert, and as such each was safe
from intrusion. The rifle and cartridge belt, Wiley's pistol and the
sack of food, were fetched and placed in his hands; and then at the end
the Colonel produced the flask of whiskey which had been slightly
diluted with water.
"Now," he said, "we will drink a toast, my far-faring-knight of the
desert. Shall it be that first toast: 'The Ladies--God bless them!'
or----"
"No!" answered Wiley, and the Colonel silently laughed.
"Well said, my young friend," he replied, nodding wisely. "Even at your
age you have learned something of life. No, let it be the toast that
Socrates drank, and that rare company who sat at the Banquet. To Love!
they drank; but not to love of woman. To love of mankind--of Man! To
Friendship! In short, here's to you, my friend, and may you never regret
this night!"
They drank it in silence, and as Wiley sat thinking, the Colonel became
reminiscent.
"Ah, there was a company," he said, smiling mellowly, "such as the world
will never see again. Agatho and Socrates, Aristophanes and Alcibiades,
the picked men of ancient Athens; lying comfortably on their couches
with the food before them and inviting their souls with wine. They began
in the evening and in the morning it was Socrates who had them all under
the table. And yet, of all men, he was the most abstemious--he could
drink or let it alone. Alcibiades, the drunkard, gave witness that night
to the courage and hardihood of Socrates--how he had carried him and his
armor from the battlefield of Potidaea, and outfaced the enemy at
Delium; how he marched barefoot through the ice while the others, well
shod, froze; and endured famine without complaining; yet again, in the
feasts at the military table, he was the only person that appeared to
enjoy them. There was a man, my friend, such as the world has never
seen, the greatest philosopher of all time; but do you know what
philosophy he taught?"
"No, I don't," admitted Wiley, and the Colonel sighed as he poured out a
small libation.
"And yet," he said, "you are a man of parts, with an education, very
likely, of the best. But our schools and Universities now teach a man
everything except the meaning and purpose of life. When I was in school
we read our Plato and Xenophon as you now read your German and French;
but what we learned, above the language itself, was the thought of that
ancient time. You learn to earn money and to fight your way through
life, but Socrates taught that friendship is above everything and that
Truth is the Ultimate Good. But, ah well; I weary you, for each age
lives unto itself, and who cares for the thoughts of an old man?"
"No! Go on!" protested Wiley, but the Colonel sighed wearily and shook
his head gloomily in thought.
"I had a friend once," he said at last, "who had the same rugged honesty
of Socrates. He was a man of few words but I truly believe that he never
told a lie. And yet," went on the Colonel with a rueful smile, "they
tell me that my friend recanted and deceived me at the last!"
"_Who_ told you?" put in Wiley, suddenly rousing from his silence
and the Colonel glanced at him sharply.
"Ah, yes; well said, my friend! Who told me? Why, all of them--except my
friend himself. I could not go to him with so much as a suggestion that
he had betrayed the friendship of a lifetime; and he, no doubt, felt
equally reluctant to explain what had never been charged. Yet I dared
not approach him, for it was better to endure doubt than to suffer the
certainty of his guilt. And so we drifted apart, and he moved away; and
I have never seen my good friend since."
Wiley sat in stunned silence, but his heart leapt up at this word of
vindication for Honest John. To be sure his father had refused him help,
and rebuked him for heckling the Widow, but loyalty ran strong in the
Holman blood and he looked up at the Colonel and smiled.
"Next time you go inside," he said at last, "take a chance and ask your
friend."
"I'll do that," agreed the Colonel, "but it won't be for some time
because--well, I'm hiding out."
"Here, too," returned Wiley, "and I'm _never_ going back. But say,
listen; I'll tell _you_ one now. You trusted your friend, and the
bunch told you that he'd betrayed you; I trusted my girl, and she told
me to my face that she'd sold me out for fifty thousand dollars. Fifty
thousand, at the most; and I lost about a million and killed a man over
it, to boot. You take a chance with your friends, but when you trust a
woman--you don't take any chance at all."
"Ah, in self defense?" inquired the Colonel politely. "I thought I
noticed a hole in your shirt. Yes, pretty close work--between your arm
and your ribs. I've had a few close calls, myself."
"Yes, but what do you think," demanded Wiley impatiently, "of a girl
that will throw you down like that? I gave her the stock and to make it
worth the money she turned around and ditched me. And then she looked me
in the face and laughed!"
"If you had studied," observed the Colonel, "the Republic of Plato you
would have been saved your initial mistake; for it was an axiom among
the Greeks that in all things women are inferior, and never to be
trusted in large affairs. The great Plato pointed out, and it has never
been controverted, that women are given to concealment and spite; and
that in times of danger they are timid and cowardly, and should
therefore have no voice in council. In fact, in the ideal State which he
conceived, they were to be herded by themselves in a community dwelling
and held in common by the state. There were to be no wives and no
husbands, with their quarrels and petty bickerings, but the women were
to be parceled out by certain controllers of marriage and required to
breed men for the state. That is going rather far, and I hardly
subscribe to it, but I think they should be kept in their place."
"Well, they are cowardly, all right," agreed Wiley bitterly, "but that's
better than when they fight. Because then, if you oppose them, everybody
turns against you; and if you don't, they've got you whipped!"
"Put it there!" exclaimed the Colonel, striking hands with him
dramatically. "I swear, we shall get along famously. There is nothing I
admire more than a gentle, modest woman, an ornament to her husband and
her home; but when she puts on the trousers and presumes to question and
dictate, what is there left for a gentleman to do? He cannot strike her,
for she is his wife and he has sworn to cherish and protect her; and
yet, by the gods, she can make his life more miserable than a dozen
quarrelsome men. What is there to do but what I have done--to close up
my affairs and depart? If there is such a thing as love, long absence
may renew it, and the sorrow may chasten her heart; but I agree with
Solomon that it is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top than
with a scolding woman in a wide house."
"You bet," nodded Wiley. "Gimme the desert solitude, every time. Is
there any more whiskey in that bottle?"
"And yet--" mused the Colonel, "--well, here's to our mothers! And may
we ever be dutiful sons! After all, my friend, no man can escape his
duty; and if duty should call us to endure a certain martyrdom we have
the example of Socrates to sustain us. If report is true he had a
scolding wife--the name of Xanthippe has become a proverb--and yet what
more noble than Socrates' rebuke to his son when he behaved undutifully
towards his mother? Where else in all literature will you find a more
exalted statement of the duty we all owe our parents than in Socrates'
dialogue with Lamprocles, his son, as recorded in the Memorabilia of
Xenophon? And if, living with Xanthippe and listening to her railings,
he could yet attain to such heights of philosophy is it not possible
that men like you and me might come, through his philosophy, to endure
it? It is that which I am pondering while I am alone here in the desert;
but my spirit is weak and that accursed camp robber made off with my
volume of Plato."
"Well, personally," stated Wiley, his mind on the Widow, "I think I
agree more with Plato. Let 'em keep in their place and not crush into
business with their talk and their double-barreled shotguns."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the Colonel, drawing himself up gravely,
"but did you happen to come through Keno?"
"Never mind;" grumbled Wiley, "you might be the Sheriff. Tell me more
about this married man, Socrates."