THE PLUNGER FROM KANSAS.
Events of great importance were crowding themselves thick and fast upon
the attention of more people in the capital of Chihuahua than the leader
of his people, the Governor, and his able coworker, Guillermo Gonzales,
and Julio Murillo, his assistant.
Governor Lehumada had long been practicing to make his personal desires
subordinate to a very high standard of right. He had fixed his sole
purpose of thought upon a desire to bring about a means for the recovery
of memory.
He had received many impressions through the gift he had of placing the
spiritual world first in his thoughts and his actions.
Evil he believed to be the result of a microbic condition of matter. The
happy results obtained by the rise of the “Memory Fluid,” were turning
the tide of thought into a more spiritual channel, the fact of which was
in itself sufficient compensation for the years of labor the great men
had had in bringing about their scientific discovery of “Memory Fluid.”
The name of Don Francisco R. Cantu y Falomir had within the last ten
days become a household word. At first most every one looked upon his
ideas, as portrayed by the press, as a big joke; but now the clergy had
made bold (for they believed their staunch supporter had a big
following,) to attack “Memory Fluid” as an enemy of life, as a messenger
of evil. Yet they hailed it as their mascot, for they claimed to believe
that, though a great evil within itself, through it would come a
revolution which would result in the re-establishment of the Church and
the Mexican Republic, which would be controlled by the former.
The very audacity of such statements made the public stop to pant; and a
few stopped a little longer to _think_.
Governor Lehumada was reviewing the ideas advanced by Don Francisco R.
Cantu y Falomir, and hoped to be given the light which would enable him
to see the outcome. So intent was he with “_his feast with his soul_,”
as he termed his moments of abstraction, that he did not notice that Mr.
Niksab had returned to the reception-room. “Your Honor,” spoken in a
rather loud voice, caused the Governor to start and look around.
“Pardon me,” he said, “I did not hear you, so intent was I reflecting
upon all that we have just witnessed.”
Mr. Niksab bowed, and continued: “The scientist requests me to say to
you that the subject now under treatment is undergoing some wonderful
changes, and your Honor will do him a great favor by witnessing the
workings of ‘Memory Fluid.’”
“With much pleasure. We will enter at once. It is the eternal spirit
that is calling out to him. He hears, thank God, he hears.”
Guillermo Gonzales waved the Governor and Mr. Niksab to seats near the
table upon which J. Ecarg lay. His body was undergoing great pain;
convulsion after convulsion shook his frame. His face was ghastly and
his features contorted.
Mr. Niksab’s whole nervous system was wrought up to the highest pitch,
out of sympathy for his friend. Not able to sit by calmly and witness
the fearful convulsions, he arose:
“Great God!” he exclaimed. “It is death!”
“It is death,” quietly assented the scientist, Guillermo Gonzales, which
statement was approved by a nod from the heads of the Governor and Julio
Murillo.
Mr. Niksab knelt by the side of his friend, and cried aloud: “Great God,
spare him a while longer, that he may have time to repent.”
“Arise, my friend,” said the Governor—“This is not the passing away of
your friend. It is only the death of diseases which have been holding
him down to darkness more than two hundred years.”
“Give yourself no uneasiness,” added Guillermo Gonzales—“your friend is
only reaching the point where he can live.”
“Hark!” said Julio Murillo. “Victory is close at hand. Memory will
assert itself soon.”
The prophecy of the Mexican was soon to be fulfilled. J. Ecarg drew
himself up and said without the least hesitation: “I remember the
circumstances perfectly. I kept a hostelry of some repute in this city
then. That was in the fall of the year 1898. Being the largest city
within only a short distance of the Rio Grande, the beautiful and
progressive Mexican city had become known, and not without much regret
from the law-abiding Mexicans, as a rendezvous for many Americans who
were refugees from justice. As a rule I was not in favor of shielding my
countrymen; but my heart went out to a young man who was in such
distress, such great mental torture. He called upon me late the very
night of his arrival in Chihuahua, and on bended knee begged me to
shield him from the fury of the law. He had no remorse of conscience for
the wrongs he had committed. His only fear was the juzado. He most
likely would have committed the same offences upon Mexican soil the day
of his arrival, if there had been the slightest opportunity, and if he
had not felt sure that he would have to face the four bare walls of a
prison for the remainder of his life. There was a man in the city—an
American, of good birth and education, a prospector and railroad man—who
was my friend in every sense of the word. He spoke the Mexican tongue
without a flaw. I appealed to him to find a place of refuge on some
_hacienda_, for our distressed countryman. My friend said:
“‘Your will is mine. But tell me, John, what is the name of this refugee
from justice?’
“‘He is known,’ I replied, ‘as “The Plunger from Kansas.”’”
A cry rang out through the room, as if some animal of high mettle had
been wounded.
Every one jumped to his feet and the look of pain and surprise was quite
visible on each face.
From whence had the unearthly cry come? was the unspoken question on the
white lips of all save Mr. Niksab. They soon understood.
“He is my friend. John, do you not remember? It was I, Niksab, who took
‘The Plunger from Kansas’ in a coach, on a dark, rainy night, to a cabin
in the mountains on the _hacienda_ of Don Alberto Ulloa. I supplied him
with the necessities of life, and there he remained for many weeks in
fear and trembling. You know me, now, John, don’t you?”
John did not reply; he had lapsed into a cataleptic state, and his
anxious listeners were doomed to wait for further evidence, which would
help to conclude their test case.
Mr. Niksab walked the floor and wrung his hands: “He is dead now, I am
sure,” he cried; but the great author of “Memory Fluid” put his hand
upon his shoulder in a brotherly fashion, and in a quiet, reassuring
voice said:
“Again you are mistaken. It is only a further death of the millions of
microbes which breed disease in his body.”
“Ah, I forget,” said Mr. Niksab.
“You are not freed from the awful gnawings of the creatures yourself;
but it is not to _forget_ that you are here. It is, on the other hand,
_to remember_,” replied the Governor.
Marriet Motuble had entered the room unobserved by all, and now
astonished them by saying: “You’re right, Governor; you’re right. It is
memory we must cultivate while under your roof. It’s a good thing for
John that he has sunk into his present state of semiconsciousness, or I
am afraid I would be compelled to make him acknowledge his great sins by
means of physical force, which is a shorter route to punishment than
your ‘Memory Fluid.’ I think a good thumping would do John good; or a
bullet through his head might be better.”
These coarse remarks were not joined in by anyone, but she was in nowise
abashed. They pitied her for her coarse, vulgar mind. They knew her time
was not far distant, however. The scientists busied themselves quietly
with their chemical instruments, now and then glancing up (out of
courtesy) at some remark she made, to which, however, they made no
response.
Mr. Niksab sat in a corner of the same room, his head between his hands
in deep thought, lost, it seemed, to everything around him. The
fair-haired, aggressive señorita walked, or rather stalked back and
forth in the room, her thumbs in a pocket on either side of her short
coat.
“I remember, too, that blear-eyed reprobate, the _subject_ yonder—that
was the name by which the medical students called such people in years
gone by. They called them that in the year of 1898–’99, did they not,
friend Niksab?”
Mr. Niksab started from his reverie, looked at the señorita with a
strange look in his eyes, and said: “I believe so,” and at once lapsed
into another silence.
“You are correct,” said the Governor. “You have been, I believe, a
Subject here also. I am not mistaken, am I? For our ‘Memory Fluid’ we
can claim another victory, then.”
Marriet Motuble stood in her favorite position, a smile of amusement on
her face, listening to the Governor. She openly respected and secretly
admired him. All the impulses of her loving heart, which were many, went
out to the great man. Hers was a terrible love, and woe to the man who
aroused her love and failed to reciprocate it. She did not take her eyes
from his handsome face,—her eyes which spoke volumes of love, and shone
with the light of a furious passion.
In this frame of mind she approached him closely, and said: “Your Honor
is mistaken. I have never been a ‘subject’ in your illustrious
institution.”
“But,” interrupted the Governor, “you remember.”
“Yes, ’tis true; and more, perhaps, than many would care to hear,” she
replied.
“Can you explain how this great memory came to be a part of you? Aye, it
is possible you do remember many things which evil-doers in the great
life of the past, did those who are here again for a purpose by Divine
arrangement who would prefer not to have their past brought to light.
But the just management of all things eternal cannot be changed.
Physical man must be the adjuster of all evil, through the awakening of
his soul. It matters not how strongly they fight against it, it is the
inevitable. And it is a struggle often.”
“You are dead right there, Governor,” replied Marriet Motuble. “Our
friend John over there is undergoing a great struggle now,” and she
laughed a fiendish laugh, as she continued promenading back and forth in
the room. “Poor devil; if he were in his right mind now, he no doubt,
would prefer to die and go straight to that place the orthodox ministers
said existed, many years ago, to terrify their flocks into
submission—possibly, if he thought he would be allowed to stay there
forever, rather than be a ‘Subject’ and undergo what is now taking
place.”
In an earnest and serious tone Guillermo Gonzales said: “Your argument,
dear señorita, is false. A seeking for the Eternal—after the things not
comprehended by the senses—cannot be brought about by compulsion; no
physical force can make the change. It is the desire for a knowledge of
the Eternal; for a communion with spirits, which causes the change; the
death of disease; the return of memory, the final life.”
Marriet Motuble, on hearing this, was again convulsed with laughter; but
finally controlling herself, said: “That is all very fine, and sounds
well, and might apply very well to most every one, but to _John_—ha!
ha!—to John—never! The only way to cure him, to be sure of him, is to
put him into a yawning abyss of that Ebony Fluid you extract from the
‘Sun’s Rays,’ and which, I believe, you claim, if it can be produced in
sufficient quantities, would be able to destroy not only all things
physical, but those very things which are thought now by everybody,
except possibly your honored selves, to be Eternal.”
The three wise men dropped the instruments they were casually examining,
on the hard, polished floor, where they were broken into a thousand
pieces. Her statement confounded them. With questioning looks they gazed
into each other’s faces, and then at the implacable señorita. They knew
that besides themselves no one on earth had been told of the “Ebony
Fluid.” In fact, they had discussed the probable use to which it could
be put in hushed tones, in the sanctity of their most private study.
Julio Murillo was the first to gain control of himself, and addressing
the señorita, said: “If we were living in the year of 1898—at that time
when Hermannism was in vogue, when the ignorant, the credulous often
employed these delvers in mechanical spirits, and paid them large sums
to look into the future and disclose their fate—I say, if we were back
in that infant age of spiritualistic progress—I would at once avow that
you had been to see one of those prophets.”
Marriet Motuble replied: “You forget, friend Julio, that I, as well as
yourself, existed years ago. Then you were not so distinguished as now.
We lived in the very year about which you have just spoken. Women were
then said to be mysterious beings, as well as the beings who could
fathom all secrets. The Great One to whom you pay silent tribute, has
seen fit through all these years to perpetuate the gentler (?) sex, and
with much the same disposition she then had. But really, gentlemen, it
is unbecoming in me to be telling three renowned scientists, discoverers
of ‘Memory Fluid,’ about what existed at a previous age, or how I came
into possession of a knowledge of your ‘Ebony Fluid.’ Besides, I am
lingering longer than my time admits. Pour some more ‘Memory Fluid’ down
John, so he will call to mind his own offspring lying in a
semi-conscious state in the adjoining room.”
“What is the meaning of your words, Miss Motuble? Let me entreat you to
linger a few moments longer and explain. You can aid us materially in
making this affair clear.”
Miss Motuble’s eyes shone with love, and with outstretched hands she
started toward the object of her affection, and in a low voice, yet
plainly audible to all present, said: “Dearie!”
Her whole nature changed outwardly in an instant. She whirled her large
frame around as easily as if it worked on pivots, and walking to the
door, said: “There are other days, gentlemen, other days. Patience is a
necessary requisite to success. You will pardon me if I leave now.
Julio, thy mother’s seducer, thy father, is heading the present movement
against the State.”
“Impossible!” they exclaimed in one breath. “Retribution overtook him in
his first existence. Impossible!”
Again she gave way to a fit of laughter, and said: “Impossible, hey?
nothing is impossible. Don Francisco R. Cantu y Falomir has evidently
not been recognized by you. Ha! ha! Well, this is an age of discovery!”
Stepping up to Mr. Niksab (who still sat on a low chair, his face buried
in his hands, seemingly unconscious to everything taking place around
him), she slapped him soundly on the shoulder, a custom with men of bad
breeding, in the nineteenth century, who were very friendly with each
other and demonstrated their friendliness by this coarse greeting. He
sprang to his feet and looked in a bewildered way all around him. “Ha!
ha! ha! ha! Friend Niksab, you can have your hand in the righting of a
few other wrongs, if you say so.”
“I am aiding the great scientists,” he interrupted, “by helping to find
living proofs of the wrongs committed by the ‘Plunger from Kansas.’”
“The poor Plunger is getting it on every side; getting thumped by this
scientific hail,” she replied.
“In what way, Miss Motuble,” quietly asked the Governor, “can Mr. Niksab
be of further assistance to our scientific investigations?”
She made him no immediate reply, but laughingly said in a familiar tone:
“Nicky, the fellow who murdered your brother, rifled your safe, stole
all those _cántaras_ of _pulque_, and _mescal_, and skins of _tequila_,
when you ‘kept bar’ at the Palacio, is here now, less a notch or so as
things go in social affairs at present. You remember him, don’t you,
Nicky?”
“There seems to be coming over me a dim remembrance of the person you
speak of and the circumstance you relate; but I am not clear.”
“Governor, give him more ‘Memory Fluid,’ and he will nail the villain in
twenty-four hours.”
“What position does he now occupy?” asked Guillermo Gonzales. “I am
anxious to know, as you say he is a notch higher in the social scale
than in his other life.”
“He is president of the Maguey Paper Factory, and is as dishonest now,
in a polite way, as he was in that memorable year, in an uproarious
fashion. He is not contented with the immense profit he derives from the
sale of the superior paper he manufactures, but he takes the dry maguey
leaves, boils them for days—until they are in a pulp—strains it;
ferments the liquid and sells it for a kind of rum, which he claims will
cure insanity, and I, for one, believe him. I have personally known a
dozen or more credulous people—those who are always taking something to
aid digestion or strengthen the mind—I say, I believe in this
drink—because they lived only a few days after taking it ‘according to
directions.’ The poor demented creatures are now ‘cured’ for one
existence at least. It is called ‘Perpetuity Miel.’”
“Ah, let me think,” said the Governor; “let me think. I—have received
some samples of this rum, with a request to partake of it sparingly, and
recommend it to the public.” (He opened a small glass cabinet and took
out a large bottle). “Yes, here it is: ‘Perpetuity Miel.’ A strange
name, composed of a Latin and Anglo-Saxon word, meaning a sweet, endless
duration.”
“Do you, Miguey, recall the name of the president of the ‘Maguey Paper
Company’?”
“I do not; I do not. Strange, I do not know, he being so prominent a man
in the various commercial fields,” replied the Governor.
Julio Murillo said: “His name in a previous existence was Henry Lexort.”
Mr. Niksab cried, as he clutched his fists and fought at some unseen
foes in the air, “The same, the same; he was killed at the Jockey Club
for cheating in roulette. He had returned to the city, in disguise,
after successfully evading the _rurales_—for many months. The great
desire again to see the scene of his crime led him back to Chihuahua,
with the result I have just mentioned.”
“That is a strange truth,” said the Governor, “that criminals more often
than otherwise return to the scene of their crimes. More than one has
walked to his doom by such rash actions.”
“That is why I have such perfect confidence that the ‘Plunger from
Kansas,’ although living his third life since the date of his life in
which he committed his famous cattle robbery, will return to the scene
of his operations and to the city to which he fled to escape the
clutches of the law. But to return to the president of the Maguey Paper
Factory. It is quite unusual that the name of so prominent a man in our
midst is unknown to five people of intelligence and education.”
“I will ascertain at once,” said Julio. “I will speak over the fluid and
have his secretary to give me his full name and address. We may need it
for future reference.”
“Do not give yourself so much useless work, friend Julio. I know the
man’s genealogy as well as his present name. I make it my business to
find out the pedigree of all such animals, such scorpions, and to air
their old skeletons, in the hope of helping them to take on a new life;
to hide their dry, marrowless bones with new flesh and blood.”
The “Subject” on the table moved; then sat upright; rubbed his eyes;
looked beseechingly towards the door and cried out: “Marriet, Marriet,
have you forgotten that I loved you in that time long ago?”
The four other occupants of the room turned to face the woman he was
thus beseeching, and behold, she was gone.