into his room at the Mears House. "Mr. City Marshal," said Sir Charles,
in atone that implied secrecy, "I have given it out that I shall leave
the camp for home day after to-morrow."
"Yes, I had heerd talk," answered Jim Woppit. "You are going by the
stage."
"Certainly, by the stage," said Sir Charles, "but _not_ day after
to-morrow; I go to-morrow."
"To-morrow, sir?"
"To-morrow," repeated Sir Charles. "The coach leaves here, as I am told,
at eleven o' clock. At four we shall arrive at Wolcott Siding, there to
catch the down express, barring delay. I say 'barring delay,' and it is
with a view to evading the probability of delay that I have given out
that I am to leave on a certain day, whereas, in fact, I shall leave a
day earlier. You understand?"
"You bet I do," said Jim. "You are afraid of--of the robbers?"
"I shall have some money with me," answered Sir Charles, "but that alone
does not make me desirous of eluding the highwaymen. My daughter--a
fright of that kind might lead to the most disastrous results."
"Correct," said Jim.
"So I have planned this secret departure," continued Sir Charles. "No
one in the camp now knows of it but you and me, and I have a favor--a
distinct favor--to ask of you in pursuance of this plan. It is that you
and a posse of the bravest men you can pick shall accompany the coach,
or, what is perhaps better, precede the coach by a few minutes, so as to
frighten away the outlaws in case they may happen to be lurking in
ambush."
Jim signified his hearty approval of the proposition. He even expressed
a fervent hope that a rencontre with the outlaws might transpire, and
then he muttered a cordial "d---- 'em!"
"In order, however," suggested Sir Charles, "to avert suspicion here in
camp it would be wise for your men to meet quietly at some obscure point
and ride together, not along the main road, but around the mountain by
the Tin Cup path, coming in on the main road this side of Lone Pine
ranch. You should await our arrival, and then, everything being
tranquil, your posse can precede us as an advance guard in accordance
with my previous suggestion."
"It might be a pious idea," said Jim, "for me to give the boys a pointer.
They 'll be on to it, anyhow, and I know 'em well enough to trust 'em."
"You know your men; do as you please about apprising them of their
errand," said Sir Charles. "I have only to request that you assure each
that he will be well rewarded for his services."
This makes a rude break in our wooing; but I am narrating actual
happenings. Poor old Hoover's subtlety all for naught, Mary's friendly
offices incompleted, the pleasant visits to the cabin among the
hollyhocks suspended perhaps forever, Miss Woppit's lonely lot rendered
still more lonely by the departure of her sweet girl friend--all this was
threatened by the proposed flight--for flight it was--of Sir Charles and
Mary Lackington.
That May morning was a glorious one. Summer seemed to have burst upon
the camp and the noble mountain-sentinels about it.
"We are going to-day," said Sir Charles to his daughter. "Hush! not a
word about it to anybody. I have reasons for wishing our departure to be
secret."
"You have heard bad news?" asked Mary, quickly.
"Not at all," answered Sir Charles, smilingly. "There is absolutely no
cause for alarm. We must go quietly; when we reach home I will tell you
my reasons and then we will have a hearty laugh together."
Mary Lackington set about packing her effects, and all the time her
thoughts were of her lonely friend in the hill-side cabin. In this hour
of her departure she felt herself drawn even more strangely and tenderly
toward that weird, incomprehensible creature; such a tugging at her heart
the girl had never experienced till now. What would Miss Woppit
say--what would she think? The thought of going away with never so much
as a good-by struck Mary Lackington as being a wanton piece of
heartlessness. But she would write to Miss Woppit as soon as ever she
reached home--she would write a letter that would banish every suspicion
of unfeelingness.
Then, too, Mary thought of Hoover; what would the big, honest fellow
think, to find himself deserted in this emergency without a word of
warning? Altogether it was very dreadful. But Mary Lackington was a
daughter who did her father's bidding trustingly.
Three-fingered Hoover went with Jim Woppit that day. There were thirteen
in the posse--fatal number--mounted on sturdy bronchos and armed to the
teeth. They knew their business and they went gayly on their way.
Around the mountain and over the Tin Cup path they galloped, a good seven
miles, I 'll dare swear; and now at last they met up with the main road,
and at Jim Woppit's command they drew in under the trees to await the
approach of the party in the stage.
Meanwhile in camp the comedy was drawing to a close. Bill Merridew drove
stage that day; he was Steve Barclay's pardner--pretty near the only man
in camp that stood out for Steve when he was suspicioned of being in some
sort of cahoots with the robbers. Steve Barclay's arm was still useless
and Bill was reckoned the next best horseman in the world.
The stage drew up in front of the Mears House. Perhaps half a dozen
passengers were in waiting and the usual bevy of idlers was there to
watch the departure. Great was the astonishment when Sir Charles and
Mary Lackington appeared and stepped into the coach. Everybody knew Sir
Charles and his daughter, and, as I have told you, it had been given out
that they were not to leave the camp until the morrow. Forthwith there
passed around mysterious whisperings as to the cause of Sir Charles'
sudden departure.
It must have been a whim on Barber Sam's part. At any rate, he issued
just then from Casey's restaurant across the way, jaunty and chipper as
ever. He saw Sir Charles in the stage and Bill Merridew on the box. He
gave a low, significant whistle. Then he crossed the road.
"Bill," says he, quietly, "It 's a summerish day, and not feelin' just as
pert as I oughter I reckon I 'll ride a right smart piece with you for my
health!"
With these words Barber Sam climbed up and sat upon the box with Bill
Merridew. A moment later the stage was on its course along the main road.
"Look a' here, Bill Merridew," says Barber Sam, fiercely, "there 's a
lord inside and you outside, to-day--a mighty suspicious coincidence!
No, you need n't let on you don't tumble to my meenin'! I 've had my eye
on Steve Barclay an' you, and I 'm ready for a showdown. I 'm travelin'
for my health to-day, and so are you, Bill Merridew! I 'm fixed from the
ground up an' you know there ain't a man in the Red Hoss Mountain country
that is handier with a gun than me. Now I mean bizness; if there is any
onpleasantness to-day and if you try to come any funny bizness, why,
d---- me, Bill Merridew, if I don't blow your head off!"
Pleasant words these for Bill to listen to. But Bill knew Barber Sam and
he had presence of mind enough to couch his expostulatory reply in the
most obsequious terms. He protested against Barber Sam's harsh
imputations.
"I 've had my say," was Barber Sam's answer. "I ain't goin' to rub it
in. You understand that I mean bizness this trip; so don't forget it.
Now let's talk about the weather."
Mary Lackington had hoped that, as they passed The Bower, she would catch
a glimpse of Miss Woppit--perhaps have sufficient opportunity to call out
a hasty farewell to her. But Miss Woppit was nowhere to be seen. The
little door of the cabin was open, so presumably the mistress was not far
away. Mary was disappointed, vexed; she threw herself back and resigned
herself to indignant reflections.
The stage had proceeded perhaps four miles on its way when its progress
was arrested by the sudden appearance of a man, whose habit and gestures
threatened evil. This stranger was of short and chunky build and he was
clad in stout, dark garments that fitted him snugly. A slouch hat was
pulled down over his head and a half-mask of brown muslin concealed the
features of his face. He held out two murderous pistols and in a sharp
voice cried "Halt!" Instantaneously Barber Sam recognized in this bold
figure the mysterious outlaw who for so many months had been the terror
of the district, and instinctively he reached for his pistol-pocket.
"Throw up your hands!" commanded the outlaw. He had the drop on them.
Recalling poor Jake Dodsley's fate Barber Sam discreetly did as he was
bidden. As for Bill Merridew, he was shaking like a wine-jelly. The
horses had come to a stand, and the passengers in the coach were
wondering why a stop had been made so soon. Wholly unaware of what had
happened, Mary Lackington thrust her head from the door window of the
coach and looked forward up the road, in the direction of the threatening
outlaw. She comprehended the situation at once and with a scream fell
back into her father's arms.
Presumably, the unexpected discovery of a woman among the number of his
intended victims disconcerted the ruffian. At any rate, he stepped back
a pace or two and for a moment lowered his weapons. That moment was
fatal to him. Quick as lightning Barber Sam whipped out his unerring
revolver and fired. The outlaw fell like a lump of dough in the road.
At that instant Bill Merridew recovered his wits; gathering up the lines
and laying on the whip mercilessly he urged his horses into a gallop.
Over the body of the outlaw crunched the hoofs of the frightened brutes
and rumbled the wheels of the heavy stage.
"We 've got him this time!" yelled Barber Sam, wildly. "Stop your
horses, Bill--you 're all right, Bill, and I 'm sorry I ever did you
dirt--stop your horses, and let 's finish the sneakin' critter!"
There was the greatest excitement. The passengers fairly fell out of the
coach, and it seemed as if they had an arsenal with them. Mary
Lackington was as self-possessed as any of the rest.
"Are you sure he is dead?" she asked. "Don't let us go nearer till we
know that he is dead; he will surely kill us!"
The gamest man in the world would n't have stood the ghost of a show in
the face of those murderous weapons now brought to bear on the fallen and
crushed wretch.
"If he ain't dead already he 's so near it that there ain't no fun in
it," said Bill Merridew.
In spite of this assurance, however, the party advanced cautiously toward
the man. Convinced finally that there was no longer cause for alarm,
Barber Sam strode boldly up to the body, bent over it, tore off the hat
and pulled aside the muslin half-mask. One swift glance at the outlaw's
face, and Barber Sam recoiled.
"Great God!" he cried, "Miss Woppit!"
It was, indeed, Miss Woppit--the fair-haired, shy-eyed boy who for months
had masqueraded in the camp as a woman. Now, that masquerade disclosed
and the dreadful mystery of the past revealed, the nameless boy, fair in
spite of his crimes and his hideous wounds, lay dying in the dust and
gravel of the road.
Jim Woppit and his posse, a mile away, had heard the pistol-shot. It
seemed but a moment ere they swept down the road to the scene of the
tragedy; they came with the swiftness of the wind. Jim Woppit galloped
ahead, his swarthy face the picture of terror.
"Who is it--who 's killed--who 's hurt?" he asked.
Nobody made answer, and that meant everything to Jim. He leapt from his
horse, crept to the dying boy's side and took the bruised head into his
lap. The yellowish hair had fallen down about the shoulders; Jim stroked
it and spoke to the white face, repeating "Willie, Willie, Willie," over
and over again.
The presence and the voice of that evil brother, whom he had so bravely
served, seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The boy came slowly to,
opened his eyes and saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, not
reproach, in the dying eyes.
"It 's all up, Jim," said the boy, faintly, "I did the best I could."
All that Jim Woppit could answer was "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and
over again.
"This was to have been the last and we were going away to be decent
folks," this was what the boy went on to say; "I wish it could have been
so, for I have wanted to live ever since--ever since I knew her."
Mary Lackington gave a great moan. She stood a way off, but she heard
these words and they revealed much--so very much to her--more, perhaps,
than you and I can guess.
He did not speak her name. The boy seemed not to know that she was
there. He said no other word, but with Jim Woppit bending over him and
wailing that piteous "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again, the
boy closed his eyes and was dead.
Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, but no one spoke. If words were to
be said, it was Jim Woppit's place to say them, and that dreadful silence
seemed to cry: "Speak out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has come!"
Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood erect before them all and plucked
from his breast the star of his office and cast away from him the weapon
he had worn. He was magnificent in that last, evil hour!
"Men," said he. "I speak for him an' not for myself. Ez God is my
judge, that boy wuz not to blame. I made him do it all--the lyin', the
robbery, the murder; he done it because I told him to, an' because havin'
begun he tried to save me. Why, he wuz a kid ez innocent ez a leetle
toddlin' child. He wanted to go away from here an' be different from wot
he wuz, but I kep' at him an' made him do an' do agin wot has brought the
end to-day. Las' night he cried when I told him he must do the stage
this mornin; seemed like he wuz soft on the girl yonder. It wuz to have
been the las' time--I promised him that, an' so--an' so it is. Men, you
'll find the money an' everything else in the cabin--under the floor of
the cabin. Make it ez square all round ez you kin."
Then Jim Woppit backed a space away, and, before the rest could realize
what he was about, he turned, darted through the narrow thicket, and
hurled himself into the gulch, seven hundred feet down.
But the May sunlight was sweet and gracious, and there lay the dead boy,
caressed of that charity of nature and smiling in its glory.
Bill was the first to speak--Bill Merridew, I mean. He was Steve
Barclay's partner and both had been wronged most grievously.
"Now throw the other one over, too," cried Bill, savagely. "Let 'em both
rot in the gulch!"
But a braver, kindlier man said "No!" It was Three-fingered Hoover, who
came forward now and knelt beside the dead boy and held the white face
between his hard, brown hands and smoothed the yellowish hair and looked
with unspeakable tenderness upon the closed eyes.
"Leave her to me," said he, reverently. "It wuz ez near ez I ever come
to lovin' a woman, and I reckon it's ez near ez I ever _shell_ come. So
let me do with her ez pleases me."
It was their will to let Three-fingered Hoover have his way. With
exceeding tenderness he bore the body back to camp and he gave it into
the hands of womenfolk to prepare it for burial, that no man's touch
should profane that vestige of his love. You see he chose to think of
her to the last as she had seemed to him in life.
And it was another conceit of his to put over the grave, among the
hollyhocks on that mountain-side, a shaft of pure white marble bearing
simply the words "Miss Woppit."
THE TALISMAN
There was a boy named Wilhelm who was the only son of a widow. He was
so devoted and obedient that other people in the village used to be
saying always: "What a good son Wilhelm is; how kind he is to his
mother." So, while he was the example for all the other boys in the
village, he was the pride of his mother, who told him that some day he
would marry a princess for having been such a good and dutiful son.
When the time came for him to go out into the world and make his
living, his mother blessed him and said, "Here, my son, is a talisman,
which you are to hang about your neck and wear nearest your heart.
Whenever you are in trouble, look at this talisman and it will preserve
you from harm."
So, with his mother's kiss upon his lips and the talisman next his
heart, Wilhelm set out to make his fortune in the world. The talisman
was simply an old silver coin which had been smoothly polished upon one
side and inscribed with the word "Mother;" yet Wilhelm prized it above
all other earthly things--first, because his mother had given it to
him, and again because he believed it possessed a charm that would keep
him from harm.
Wilhelm travelled many days through the forests and over the hills in
search of a town where he might find employment, and the food with
which his mother had provided him for the journey was nearly gone. But
whenever he was inclined to sadness, he drew the talisman from his
bosom and the sight of the name of mother restored his spirits.
One evening as he climbed a hill, he beheld a great city about a league
distant.
"Here at last I shall find employment," thought he. But he had no
sooner uttered these words than he heard something like a sigh issuing
from the roadside and as he turned to discover whence it came, he saw a
dark and forbidding looking old castle standing back some way from the
road in a cluster of forest trees. The grounds belonging to this old
castle were surrounded by a single fence, between the palings of which
a white swan stretched out its neck and gave utterance to the sighs
which had attracted Wilhelm's attention.
The dismal noise made by the bird and its strange actions--for it
fluttered its wings wildly and waved its head as if it would have
Wilhelm approach--excited Wilhelm's curiosity, and he drew nearer the
fence and said, "Why do you act so strangely, white swan?"
But the swan made no answer except to sigh more dismally than before
and flap its wings still more widely. Then Wilhelm saw that the swan,
although a swan in every other particular, had the eyes of a human
being. He had scarcely recovered from the astonishment occasioned by
this discovery, when the first swan was joined by a full score of other
white swans that came running over the green sward, sighing very
dismally and many of them shedding tears from their human eyes.
It was only the approach of night that hastened Wilhelm on his journey
to the city, and, as he trudged along, he could not help thinking of
the singular adventure with the swans. Presently he came upon a
countryman sitting by the roadside, and to him he told the story of the
castle and the swans.
"Ah," said the countryman, "you are an innocent lad to be sure! That
was the castle of the old witch, and the swans you saw are unfortunate
princes whom she has enchanted."
Then Wilhelm begged him to tell him about the old witch and the poor
princes, and the countryman told him all from first to last, only I
will have to make it much shorter, as it was a long tale.
It seems that the old witch was once a princess who was famed for her
beauty and wit. She had a younger sister who was quite as beautiful,
but much more amiable and much less ambitious. These sister princesses
lived in the castle together, and the elder, whose name was Mirza,
guarded the younger very jealously lest the younger should be first
married. One time the Prince Joseph determined he would wed. He was
the handsomest and bravest prince in the land and all the princesses
set their caps for him, Mirza among the others. But it came to the
prince's ears that Mirza was learned in and practised witchcraft, so,
despite her beauty and her grace, he would have no thought of Mirza,
but chose her younger sister to wife.
When the prince wedded the younger princess, Mirza was enraged beyond
all saying, and forthwith she dismissed her court and gave up her life
to the singing of incantations and the dreadful practices of a witch;
and so constant was she in the practice of those black arts that her
back became bent, her hair white, and her face wrinkled, and she grew
to be the most hideous hag in the whole kingdom. Meanwhile, the prince
had become king; and his wife, the queen, had presented him with a
daughter, so beautiful that her like had never been seen on earth.
This little princess was named Mary, a name esteemed then, as now, as
the most beautiful of all names. Mary increased in loveliness each day
and when she was fifteen the fame of her beauty and amiability was
worldwide.
But one day, as the princess sat counting her pearls in her chamber,
the old witch Mirza flew in through the window on a broomstick and
carried the princess Mary off to her forlorn old castle, a league
beyond the city. The queen mother, who had witnessed this violence,
fell into a swoon from which she never recovered, and the whole court
was thrown into a vast commotion.
Having buried his fair queen, the bereaved king set about to recover
his daughter, the princess Mary, but this was found to be impossible,
since the witch had locked the girl in an upper chamber of the castle
and had set a catamaran and a boogaboo to guard the place. So,
whenever the king's soldiers attempted to rescue the princess, the
catamaran breathed fire from his nostrils upon them while the boogaboo
tore out their hearts with his fierce claws.
Finally the king sent word to the witch that he would bestow upon her
all the riches of his kingdom if she would restore his daughter, but
she replied that there was only one condition upon which she would give
up the princess and that was that some young man of the kingdom should
rightly answer three questions she would propound. At once the bravest
and handsomest knights in the kingdom volunteered to rescue the
princess, but having failed to answer the questions of the old witch,
they were transformed into swans and were condemned to eke out
miserable existences in the dreary park around the old witch's castle.
"This," said the countryman, "is the story of the princess, the witch
and the swans. Every once in a while, an adventuresome youth seeks to
restore the princess to her father, and he is as surely transformed
into a swan. So, while the court is in mourning, the princess pines in
the witch's castle and the swans wander about the castle yard."
This piteous tale awakened Wilhelm's sympathy, and although it was now
quite dark, he determined to go back to the witch's castle and catch a
glimpse of the beautiful princess.
"May luck attend thee," said the countryman, "but beware of the
catamaran and the boogaboo."
As he was plodding back to the witch's castle, Wilhelm drew his
talisman from his bosom and gazed tenderly upon it. It had never
looked so bright and shining. The moon beams danced upon its smooth
face and kissed it. Wilhelm was confident that this was an omen that
his dear mother approved the errand he was on. Then he knelt down by
the roadside and said a little prayer, and when he had finished, the
night zephyrs breathed their sweetest music in his ears, and Wilhelm
thought it was the heavenly Father whispering words of encouragement to
him. So Wilhelm went boldly toward the witch's castle.
As he drew nigh to the castle, he saw the old witch fly away on her
broomstick, accompanied by a bevy of snarling hobgoblins that were also
on broomsticks and looked very hideous. Then Wilhelm knew the witch
and her escort were off for the forest and would not return till
midnight.
The princess Mary was standing at the barred window of her chamber and
was weeping. As Wilhelm approached the castle, the swans rushed to
meet him, and the flapping of their wings and their piteous cries
attracted the attention of the princess, and she saw Wilhelm.
"Oh, fly from here, sweet prince," cried the princess; "for if the
witch were to return, she would kill you and boil your heart in her
cauldron!"
"I am no prince," replied Wilhelm, "and I do not fear the ugly old
witch."
Then Wilhelm told the princess who he was and how he was ready to serve
her, for, having perceived her rare beauty and amiability, he was madly
in love with her and was ready to die for her sake. But the princess,
who was most agreeably impressed by his manly figure, handsome face,
and honest valor, begged him not to risk his life for her.
"It is better that I should pass my existence here in prison," said
she, "than that you should be transformed as these other wretched
princes have been."
And when they heard these words, the swans craned their necks and gave
utterance to such heartrending sighs that the princess sobbed with
renewed vigor and even Wilhelm fell to weeping.
At this moment, hearing the commotion in the yard, the hideous
catamaran and the ugly boogaboo came out of the castle and regarded
Wilhelm with ferocious countenances. Never before had Wilhelm seen
such revolting monsters!