It was a false alarm which had startled Gabriel Druse, but it had
significance. The Orange funeral was not to take place until eleven
o’clock, and it was only eight o’clock when the Ry left his home. A
rifle-shot had, however, been fired across the Sagalac from the Manitou
side, and it had been promptly acknowledged from Lebanon. There was a
short pause, and then came another from the Lebanon side. It was merely
a warning and a challenge. The only man who could have controlled the
position was blind and helpless.
As Druse walked rapidly towards the bridge, he met Jowett. Jowett was
one of the few men in either town for whom the Ry had regard, and the
friendliness had had its origin in Jowett’s knowledge of horseflesh.
This was a field in which the Ry was himself a master. He had ever been
too high-placed among his own people to trade and barter horses except
when, sending a score of Romanys on a hunt for wild ponies on the hills
of Eastern Europe, he had afterwards sold the tamed herd to the highest
bidders in some Balkan town; but he had an infallible eye for a horse.
It was a curious anomaly also that the one man in Lebanon who would
not have been expected to love and pursue horse-flesh was the Reverend
Reuben Tripple to whom Ingolby had given his conge, but who loved a
horse as he loved himself.
He was indeed a greater expert in horses than in souls. One of the
sights of Lebanon had been the appearance in the field of the “Reverend
Tripple,” who owned a great, raw-boned bay mare of lank proportions, the
winner of a certain great trotting-race which had delighted the mockers.
For two years Jowett had eyed Mr. Tripple’s rawbone with a piratical
eye.
Though it had won only a single great race, that, in Jowett’s view,
was its master’s fault. As the Arabs say, however, Allah is with the
patient; and so it was that on the evening of the day in which Ingolby
met disaster, Mr. Tripple informed Jowett that he was willing to sell
his rawbone.
He was mounted on the gawky roadster when he met Gabriel Druse making
for the bridge. Their greeting was as cordial as hasty. Anxious as was
the Ry to learn what was going on in the towns, Jowett’s mount caught
his eye. It was but a little time since they had met at Ingolby’s
house, and they were both full of the grave events afoot, but here was a
horse-deal of consequence, and the bridle-rein was looseflung.
“Yes, I got it,” said Jowett, with a chuckle, interpreting the old
man’s look. “I got it for good--a wonder from Wonderville. Damned
queer-looking critter, but there, I guess we know what I’ve got.
Outside like a crinoline, inside like a pair of ankles of the Lady Jane
Plantagenet. Yes, I got it, Mr. Druse, got it dead-on!”
“How?” asked the Ry, feeling the clean fetlocks with affectionate
approval.
“He’s off East, so he says,” was the joyous reply; “sudden but sure,
and I dunno why. Anyway, he’s got the door-handle offered, and he’s off
without his camel.” He stroked the neck of the bay lovingly. “How much?”
Jowett held up his fingers. The old man lifted his eyebrows quizzically.
“That-h’m! Does he preach as well as that?” he asked.
Jowett chuckled. “He knows the horse-country better than the New
Jerusalem, I guess; and I wasn’t off my feed, nor hadn’t lost my head
neither. I wanted that dust-hawk, and he knew it; but I got in on him
with the harness and the sulky. The bridle he got from a Mexican that
come up here a year ago, and went broke and then went dead; and there
being no padre, Tripple did the burying, and he took the bridle as his
fee, I s’pose. It had twenty dollars’ worth of silver on it--look at
these conchs.”
He trifled with the big beautiful buttons on the head-stall. “The
sulky’s as good as new, and so’s the harness almost; and there’s the
nose-bag and the blankets, and a saddle and a monkey-wrench and two
bottles of horse-liniment, and odds and ends. I only paid that”--and he
held up his fingers again as though it was a sacred rite--“for the lot.
Not bad, I want to say. Isn’t he good for all day, this one?”
The old man nodded, then turned towards the bridge. “The
gun-shots--what?” he asked, setting forward at a walk which taxed the
rawbone’s stride.
“An invite--come to the wedding; that’s all. Only it’s a funeral this
time, and, if something good doesn’t happen, there’ll be more than one
funeral on the Sagalac to-morrow. I’ve had my try, but I dunno how it’ll
come out. He’s not a man of much dictionary is the Monseenoor.”
“The Monseigneur Lourde? What does he say?”
“He says what we all say, that he is sorry. ‘But why have the Orange
funeral while things are as they are?’ he says, and he asks for the red
flag not to be shook in the face of the bull.”
“That is not the talk of a fool, as most priests are,” growled the
other.
“Sure. But it wants a real wind-warbler to make them see it in Lebanon.
They’ve got the needle. They’ll pray to-day with the taste of blood in
their mouths. It’s gone too far. Only a miracle can keep things right.
The Mayor has wired for the mounted police--our own battalion of militia
wouldn’t serve, and there’d be no use ordering them out--but the Riders
can’t get here in time. The train’s due the very time the funeral’s to
start, but that train’s always late, though they say the ingine-driver
is an Orangeman! And the funeral will start at the time fixed, or I
don’t know the boys that belong to the lodge. So it’s up to We, Us & Co.
to see the thing through, or go bust. It don’t suit me. It wouldn’t have
been like this, if it hadn’t been for what happened to the Chief last
night. There’s no holding the boys in. One thing’s sure, the Gipsy that
give Ingolby away has got to lie low if he hasn’t got away, or there’ll
be one less of his tribe to eat the juicy hedgehog. Yes, sir-ee!”
To the last words of Jowett the Ry seemed to pay no attention, though
his lips shut tight and a menacing look came into his eyes. They were
now upon the bridge, and could see what was forward on both sides of the
Sagalac. There was unusual bustle and activity in the streets and on the
river-bank of both towns. It was noticeable also that though the mills
were running in Manitou, there were fewer chimneys smoking, and far
more men in the streets than usual. Tied up to the Manitou shore were
a half-dozen cribs or rafts of timber which should be floating eastward
down the Sagalac.
“If the Monseenoor can’t, or don’t, step in, we’re bound for a shindy
over a corpse,” continued Jowett after a moment.
“Can the Monseigneur cast a spell over them all?” remarked the Ry
ironically, for he had little faith in priests, though he had for this
particular one great respect.
“He’s a big man, that preelate,” answered Jowett quickly and forcibly.
“He kept the Crees quiet when they was going to rise. If they’d got up,
there’d have been hundreds of settlers massacreed. He risked his life
to do that--went right into the camp in face of levelled rifles, and
sat down and begun to talk. A minute afterwards all the chiefs was
squatting, too. Then the tussle begun between a man with a soul and
a heathen gang that eat dog, kill their old folks, their cripples and
their deformed children, and run sticks of wood through their bleeding
chests, just to show that they’re heathens. But he won out, this
Jesueete friend o’ man. That’s why I’m putting my horses and my land
and my pants and my shirt and the buff that’s underneath on the little
preelate.”
Gabriel Druse’s face did not indicate the same confidence. “It is not an
age of miracles; the priest is not enough,” he said sceptically.
By twos, by threes, by tens, men from Manitou came sauntering across the
bridge into Lebanon, until a goodly number were scattered at different
points through the town. They seemed to distribute themselves by a
preconceived plan, and they were all habitants. There were no Russians,
Finns, Swedes, Norwegians, or Germans among them. They were low-browed,
sturdy men, dressed in red or blue serge shirts, some with sashes around
their waists, some with ear-rings in their ears, some in knee-boots, and
some with the heavy spiked boots of the river-driver. None appeared
to carry any weapon that would shoot, yet in their belts was the
sheath-knife, the invariable equipment of their class. It would have
seemed more suspicious if they had not carried them. The railwaymen,
miners, carters, mill-hands, however, appeared to carry nothing save
their strong arms and hairy hands, and some were as hairy as animals.
These backwoodsmen also could, without weapons, turn a town into a
general hospital. In battle they fought not only with hands but also
with teeth and hoofs like wild stallions. Teeth tore off an ear or
sliced away a nose, hands smote like hammers or gouged out eyes,
and their nailed boots were weapons of as savage a kind as could be
invented. They could spring and strike an opponent with one foot in the
chest or in the face, and spoil the face for many a day, or for ever. It
was a gift of the backwoods and the lumber-camps, practised in hours of
stark monotony when the devils which haunt places of isolation devoid of
family life, where men herd together like dogs in a kennel, break loose.
There the man that dips his fingers “friendly-like” in the dish of his
neighbour one minute wants the eye of that neighbour the next not
so much in innate or momentary hatred, as in innate savagery and the
primeval sense of combat, the war which was in the blood of the first
man.
The unarmed appearance of these men did not deceive the pioneer folk
of Lebanon. To them the time had come when the reactionary forces
of Manitou must receive a check. Even those who thought the funeral
fanatical and provocative were ready to defend it.
The person who liked the whole business least was Rockwell. He was
subject to the same weariness of the flesh and fatigue of the spirit as
all men; yet it was expected of him that at any hour he should be at
the disposal of suffering humanity--of criminal or idiotic
humanity--patient, devoted, calm, nervestrung, complete. He was the one
person in the community who was the universal necessity, and yet for
whom the community had no mercy in its troubles or out of them. There
were three doctors in Lebanon, but none was an institution, none had
prestige save Rockwell, and he often wished that he had less prestige,
since he cared nothing for popularity.
He had made his preparations for possible “accidents” in no happy mood.
Fresh from the bedside of Ingolby, having had no sleep, and with many
sick people on his list, he inwardly damned the foolishness of
both towns. He even sharply rebuked the Mayor, who urged surgical
preparations upon him, for not sending sooner to the Government for a
force which could preserve order or prevent the procession.
It was while he was doing so that Jowett appeared with Gabriel Druse to
interview the Mayor.
“It’s like this,” said Jowett. “In another hour the funeral will start.
There’s a lot of Manitou huskies in Lebanon now, and their feet is
loaded, if their guns ain’t. They’re comin’ by driblets, and by-and-bye,
when they’ve all distributed themselves, there’ll be a marching column
of them from Manitou. It’s all arranged to make trouble and break the
law. It’s the first real organized set-to we’ve had between the towns,
and it’ll be nasty. If the preelate doesn’t dope them, there’ll be
pertikler hell to pay.”
He then gave the story of his visit to Monseigneur Lourde, and the
details of what was going forward in Manitou so far as he had learned.
Also the ubiquitous Osterhaut had not been idle, and his bulletin had
just been handed to Jowett.
“There’s one thing ought to be done and has got to be done,” Jowett
added, “if the Monseenoor don’t pull if off. The leaders have to be
arrested, and it had better be done by one that, in a way, don’t belong
to either Lebanon or Manitou.”
The Mayor shook his head. “I don’t see how I can authorize Marchand’s
arrest--not till he breaks the law, in any case.”
“It’s against the law to conspire to break the law,” replied Jowett.
“You’ve been making a lot of special constables. Make Mr. Gabriel Druse
here a special constable, then if the law’s broke, he can have a right
to take a hand in.”
The giant Ry had stood apart, watchful and ruminant, but he now stepped
forward, as the Mayor turned to him and stretched out a hand.
“I am for peace,” the old man said. “To keep the peace the law must be
strong.”
In spite of the gravity of the situation the Mayor smiled. “You wouldn’t
need much disguise to stand for the law, Mr. Druse,” he remarked. “When
the law is seven feet high, it stands well up.”
The Ry did not smile. “Make me the head of the constables, and I will
keep the peace,” he said. There was a sudden silence. The proposal had
come so quietly, and it was so startling, that even the calm Rockwell
was taken aback. But his eye and the eye of the Mayor met, and the look
in both their faces was the same.
“That’s bold play,” the Mayor said, “but I guess it goes. Yesterday
it couldn’t be done. To-day it can. The Chief Constable’s down with
smallpox. Got it from an Injun prisoner days ago. He’s been bad for
three days, but hung on. Now he’s down, and there’s no Chief. I was
going to act myself, but the trouble was, if anything happened to me,
there’d be no head of anything. It’s better to have two strings to
your bow. It’s a go-it’s a straight go, Mr. Druse. Seven foot of Chief
Constable ought to have its weight with the roughnecks.”
A look of hopefulness came into his face. This sage, huge, commanding
figure would have a good moral effect on the rude elements of disorder.
“I’ll have you read the Riot Act instead of doing it myself,” added
the Mayor. “It’ll be a good introduction for you, and as you live in
Manitou, it’ll be a knock-out blow to the toughs. Sometimes one man is
as good as a hundred. Come on to the Courthouse with me,” he continued
cheerfully. “We’ll fix the whole thing. All the special constables are
waiting there with the regular police. An extra foot on a captain’s
shoulders is as good as a battery of guns.”
“You’re sure it’s according to Hoyle?” asked Jowett quizzically.
He was so delighted that he felt he must “make the Mayor show off self,”
as he put it afterwards. He did not miscalculate; the Mayor rose to his
challenge.
“I’m boss of this show,” he said, “and I can go it alone if necessary
when the town’s in danger and the law’s being hustled. I’ve had a
meeting of the Council and I’ve got the sailing-orders I want. I’m boss
of the place, and Mr. Druse is my--” he stopped, because there was a
look in the eyes of the Ry which demanded consideration--“And Mr. Druse
is lawboss,” he added.
The old ineradicable look of command shone in the eyes of Gabriel Druse.
Leadership was written all over him. Power spoke in every motion. The
square, unbowed shoulders, the heavily lined face, with the patriarchal
beard, the gnarled hands, the rough-hewn limbs, the eye of bright,
brooding force proclaimed authority.
Indeed in that moment there came into the face of the old Nomad the look
it had not worn for many a day. The self-exiled ruler had paid a heavy
price for his daughter’s vow, though he had never acknowledged it to
himself. His self-ordained impotency, in a camp that was never moved,
within walls which never rose with the sunset and fell with the morning;
where his feet trod the same roadway day after day; where no man asked
for justice or sought his counsel or fell back on his protection; where
he drank from the same spring and tethered his horse in the same paddock
from morn to morn: all these things had eaten at his heart and bowed his
spirit in spite of himself.
He was not now of the Romany world, and he was not of the Gorgio world;
but here at last was the old thing come back to him in a new way, and
his bones rejoiced. He would entitle his daughter to her place among the
Gorgios. Perhaps also it would be given him, in the name of the law, to
deal with a man he hated.
“We’ve got Mister Marchand now,” said Jowett softly to the old
chieftain.
The Ry’s eyes lighted and his jaw set. He did not speak, but his hands
clenched, opened and clenched again. Jowett saw and grinned.
“The Mayor and the law-boss’ll win out, I guess,” he said to himself.