incisively, "it don't look well that I should represent the law while my
wife figures" (he shook the morning paper) "as a public nuisance. And
one thing more: _Look out!_ For if I know this community, and I think I
do, you may raise something you don't bargain for."
"I can take care of myself, judge," said Amanda, always smiling. These
two never were angry both at once, and to-day it was the judge that
sailed out of the house. Amanda pounced instantly upon the paper. The
article was headed "Sweet Violets." But the editorial satire only
spurred the lady to higher efforts. She proceeded to the Lyceum, and
found that "Sweet Violets" had been there before her. Every woman held a
copy, and the fourteen rocking-chairs were swooping up and down like
things in a factory. In the presence of this blizzard, Mount Shasta,
Lucretia Mott, and even Leda and the Swan looked singularly serene on
their wall, although on the other side of the wall the "Fatinitza" march
was booming brilliantly. But Amanda quieted the storm. It was her gift
to be calm when others were not, and soon the rocking-chairs were merely
rippling.
"The way my boys scolded me--" began Mrs. Day.
"For men I care not," said Mrs. Parsons. "But when my own sister
upbraids me in a public place--" The lady's voice ceased, and she raised
her mournful eyes. It seemed she had encountered her unnatural relative
at the post-office. Everybody had a tale similar. Siskiyou had denounced
their humane act.
"Let them act ugly," said Mrs. Slocum. "We will not swerve."
"I sent roses this morning," said Mrs. Parsons.
"_Did_ you, dear?" said Mrs. Day. "My lilies shall go this afternoon."
"Here is a letter from the prisoner," said Amanda, producing the
treasure; and they huddled to hear it. It was very affecting. It
mentioned the violets blooming beside the hard couch, and spoke of
prayer.
"He had lovely hair," said Mrs. Slocum.
"_So_ brown!" said Mrs. Day.
"Black, my dear, and curly."
"Light brown. I was a good deal closer, Susan--"
"Never mind about his hair," said Amanda. "We are here not to flinch. We
must act. Our course is chosen, and well chosen. The prison fare is a
sin, and a beefsteak goes to them both at noon from my house."
"Oh, why didn't we ever think of that before?" cried the ladies, in an
ecstasy, and fell to planning a series of lunches in spite of what
Siskiyou might say or do. Siskiyou did not say very much; but it looked;
and the ladies waxed more enthusiastic, luxuriating in a sense of
martyrdom because now the prisoners were stopped writing any more
letters to them. This was doubtless a high-handed step, and it set
certain pulpits preaching about love. The day set for the trial was
approaching; Amanda and her flock were going. Prayer-meetings were held,
food and flowers for the two in jail increased in volume, and every day
saw some of the Lyceum waiting below the prisoners' barred windows till
the men inside would thrust a hand through and wave to them; then they
would shake a handkerchief in reply, and go away thrilled to talk it
over at the Lyceum. And Siskiyou looked on all the while, darker and
darker.
Then finally Amanda had a great thought. Listening to "Fatinitza" one
morning, she suddenly arose and visited Herr Schwartz, the band-master.
Herr Schwartz was a wise and well-educated German. They had a lengthy
conference.
"I don't pelief dot vill be very goot," said the band-master.
But at that Amanda talked a good deal; and the worthy Teuton was soon
bewildered, and at last gave a dubious consent, "since it would blease
de ladies."
The president of the Lyceum arranged the coming event after her own
heart. The voice of Woman should speak in Siskiyou. The helpless victims
of male prejudice and the law of the land were to be flanked with
consolation and encouragement upon the eve of their ordeal in court. In
their lonely cell they were to feel that there were those outside whose
hearts beat with theirs. The floral tribute was to be sumptuous, and
Amanda had sent to San Francisco for pound-cake. The special quality she
desired could not be achieved by the Siskiyou confectioner.
Miss Sissons was not a party to this enterprise, and she told its
various details to Jim Hornbrook, half in anger, half in derision. He
listened without comment, and his face frightened her a little.
"Jim, what's the matter?" said she.
"Are you going to be at that circus?" he inquired.
"I thought I might just look on, you know," said Miss Sissons. "Mrs.
Campbell and a brass-band--"
"You'll stay in the house that night, Louise."
"Why, the ring isn't on my finger yet," laughed the girl, "the fatal
promise of obedience--" But she stopped, perceiving her joke was not a
good one. "Of course, Jim, if you feel that way," she finished. "Only
I'm grown up, and I like reasons."
"Well--that's all right too."
"Ho, ho! All right! Thank you, sir. Dear me!"
"Why, it ain't to please me, Louise; indeed it ain't. I can't swear
everything won't be nice and all right and what a woman could be mixed
up in, but--well, how should you know what men are, anyway, when they've
been a good long time getting mad, and are mad all through? That's what
this town is to-day, Louise."
"I don't know," said Miss Sissons, "and I'm sure I'd rather not know."
And so she gave her promise. "But I shouldn't suppose," she added, "that
the men of Siskiyou, mad or not, would forget that women are women."
Jim laughed. "Oh no," he said, "they ain't going to forget that."
The appointed day came; and the train came, several hours late, bearing
the box of confectionery, addressed to the Ladies' Reform and Literary
Lyceum. Bill, the ticket-agent, held his lantern over it on the
platform.
"That's the cake," said he.
"What cake?" Abe inquired.
Bill told him the rumor.
"Cake?" repeated Abe. "Fer them?" and he tilted his head towards the
jail. "Will you say that again, friend? I ain't clear about it. _Cake_,
did ye say?"
"Pound-cake," said Bill. "Ordered special from San Francisco."
Now pound-cake for adults is considered harmless. But it is curious how
unwholesome a harmless thing can be if administered at the wrong time.
The gaunt, savage-looking Californian went up to the box slowly. Then he
kicked it lightly with his big boot, seeming to listen to its
reverberation. Then he read the address. Then he sat down on the box to
take a think. After a time he began speaking aloud. "They hold up a
stage," he said, slowly. "They lay up a passenger fer a month. And they
lame Bob Griffiths fer life. And then they do up Buck. Shoot a hole
through his spine. And I helped bury him; fer I liked Buck." The speaker
paused, and looked at the box. Then he got up. "I hain't attended their
prayer-meetin's," said he, "and I hain't smelt their flowers. Such
perfume's liable to make me throw up. But I guess I'll hev a look at
their cake."
He went to the baggage-room and brought an axe. The axe descended, and a
splintered slat flew across the platform. "There's a lot of cake," said
Abe. The top of the packing-case crashed on the railroad track, and
three new men gathered to look on. "It's fresh cake too," remarked the
destroyer. The box now fell to pieces, and the tattered paper wrapping
was ripped away. "Step up, boys," said Abe, for a little crowd was there
now. "Soft, ain't it?" They slung the cake about and tramped it in the
grime and oil, and the boards of the box were torn apart and whirled
away. There was a singular and growing impulse about all this. No one
said anything; they were very quiet; yet the crowd grew quickly, as if
called together by something in the air. One voice said, "Don't forgit
we're all relyin' on yer serenade, Mark," and this raised a strange
united laugh that broke brief and loud, and stopped, leaving the silence
deeper than before. Mark and three more left, and walked towards the
Lyceum. They were members of the Siskiyou band, and as they went one
said that the town would see an interesting trial in the morning. Soon
after they had gone the crowd moved from the station, compact and swift.
Meanwhile the Lyceum had been having disappointments. When the train was
known to be late, Amanda had abandoned bestowing the cake until morning.
But now a horrid thing had happened: the Siskiyou band refused its
services! The rocking-chairs were plying strenuously; but Amanda strode
up and down in front of Mount Shasta and Lucretia Mott.
Herr Schwartz entered. "It's all right, madam," said he. "My trombone
haf come back, und--"
"You'll play?" demanded the president.
"We blay for de ladies."
The rocking-chairs were abandoned; the Lyceum put on its bonnet and
shawl, and marshalled down-stairs with the band.
"Ready," said Amanda.
"Ready," said Herr Schwartz to his musicians. "Go a leedle easy mit der
Allegro, or we bust 'Fatinitza.'"
The spirited strains were lifted in Siskiyou, and the procession was
soon at the jail in excellent order. They came round the corner with the
trombone going as well as possible. Two jerking bodies dangled at the
end of ropes, above the flare of torches. Amanda and her flock were
shrieking.
"So!" exclaimed Herr Schwartz. "Dot was dose Healy boys we haf come to
gif serenade." He signed to stop the music.
"No you don't," said two of the masked crowd, closing in with pistols.
"You'll play fer them fellers till you're told to quit."
"Cerdainly," said the philosophical Teuton. "Only dey gif brobably very
leedle attention to our Allegro."
So "Fatinitza" trumpeted on while the two on the ropes twisted, and grew
still by-and-by. Then the masked men let the band go home. The Lyceum
had scattered and fled long since, and many days passed before it
revived again to civic usefulness, nor did its members find comfort from
their men. Herr Schwartz gave a parting look at the bodies of the
lynched murderers. "My!" said he, "das Ewigweibliche haf draw them apove
sure enough."
Miss Sissons next day was walking and talking off her shock and
excitement with her lover. "And oh, Jim," she concluded, after they had
said a good many things, "you hadn't anything to do with it, had you?"
The young man did not reply, and catching a certain expression on his
face, she hastily exclaimed: "Never mind! I don't want to know--ever!"
So James Hornbrook kissed his sweetheart for saying that, and they
continued their walk among the pleasant hills.
THE GENERAL'S BLUFF
The troops this day had gone into winter-quarters, and sat down to kill
the idle time with pleasure until spring. After two hundred and forty
days it is a good thing to sit down. The season had been spent in
trailing, and sometimes catching, small bands of Indians. These had
taken the habit of relieving settlers of their cattle and the tops of
their heads. The weather-beaten troops had scouted over some two
thousand aimless, veering miles, for the savages were fleet and mostly
invisible, and knew the desert well. So, while the year turned, and the
heat came, held sway, and went, the ragged troopers on the frontier were
led an endless chase by the hostiles, who took them back and forth over
flats of lime and ridges of slate, occasionally picking off a packer or
a couple of privates, until now the sun was setting at 4.28 and it froze
at any time of day. Therefore the rest of the packers and privates were
glad to march into Boise Barracks this morning by eleven, and see a
stove.
They rolled for a moment on their bunks to get the feel of a bunk again
after two hundred and forty days; they ate their dinner at a table;
those who owned any further baggage than that which partially covered
their nakedness unpacked it, perhaps nailed up a photograph or two, and
found it grateful to sit and do nothing under a roof and listen to the
grated snow whip the windows of the gray sandstone quarters. Such
comfort, and the prospect of more ahead, of weeks of nothing but post
duty and staying in the same place, obliterated Dry Camp, Cow Creek
Lake, the blizzard on Meacham's Hill, the horse-killing in the John Day
Valley, Saw-Tooth stampede, and all the recent evils of the past; the
quarters hummed with cheerfulness. The nearest railroad was some four
hundred miles to the southeast, slowly constructing to meet the next
nearest, which was some nine hundred to the southeast; but Boise City
was only three-quarters of a mile away, the largest town in the
Territory, the capital, not a temperance town, a winter resort; and
several hundred people lived in it, men and women, few of whom ever died
in their beds. The coming days and nights were a luxury to think of.
"Blamed if there ain't a real tree!" exclaimed Private Jones.
"Thet eer ain't no tree, ye plum; thet's the flag-pole 'n' th' Merrickin
flag," observed a civilian. His name was Jack Long, and he was
pack-master.
Sergeant Keyser, listening, smiled. During the winter of '64-65 he had
been in command of the first battalion of his regiment, but, on a theory
of education, had enlisted after the war. This being known, held the men
more shy of him than was his desire.
Jones continued to pick his banjo, while a boyish trooper with tough
black hair sat near him and kept time with his heels. "It's a
cottonwood-tree I was speakin' of," observed Jones. There was one--a
little, shivering white stalk. It stood above the flat where the
barracks were, on a bench twenty or thirty feet higher, on which were
built the officers' quarters. The air was getting dim with the fine,
hard snow that slanted through it. The thermometer was ten above out
there. At the mere sight and thought Mr. Long produced a flat bottle,
warm from proximity to his flesh. Jones swallowed some drink, and looked
at the little tree. "Snakes! but it feels good," said he, "to get
something inside y'u and be inside yerself. What's the tax at Mike's
dance-house now?"
"Dance 'n' drinks fer two fer one dollar," responded Mr. Long,
accurately. He was sixty, but that made no difference.
"You and me'll take that in, Jock," said Jones to his friend, the
black-haired boy. "'Sigh no more, ladies,'" he continued, singing. "The
blamed banjo won't accompany that," he remarked, and looked out again at
the tree. "There's a chap riding into the post now. Shabby-lookin'.
Mebbe he's got stuff to sell."
Jack Long looked up on the bench at a rusty figure moving slowly through
the storm. "Th' ole man!" he said.
"He ain't specially old," Jones answered. "They're apt to be older, them
peddlers."
"Peddlers! Oh, ye-es." A seizure of very remarkable coughing took Jack
Long by the throat; but he really had a cough, and, on the fit's leaving
him, swallowed a drink, and offered his bottle in a manner so cold and
usual that Jones forgot to note anything but the excellence of the
whiskey. Mr. Long winked at Sergeant Keyser; he thought it a good plan
not to inform his young friends, not just yet at any rate, that their
peddler was General Crook. It would be pleasant to hear what else they
might have to say.
The General had reached Boise City that morning by the stage, quietly
and unknown, as was his way. He had come to hunt Indians in the district
of the Owyhee. Jack Long had discovered this, but only a few had been
told the news, for the General wished to ask questions and receive
answers, and to find out about all things; and he had noticed that this
is not easy when too many people know who you are. He had called upon a
friend or two in Boise, walked about unnoticed, learned a number of
facts, and now, true to his habit, entered the post wearing no uniform,
none being necessary under the circumstances, and unattended by a single
orderly. Jones and the black-haired Cumnor hoped he was a peddler, and
innocently sat looking out of the window at him riding along the bench
in front of the quarters, and occasionally slouching his wide, dark
hat-brim against the stinging of the hard flakes. Jack Long, old and
much experienced with the army, had scouted with Crook before, and knew
him and his ways well. He also looked out of the window, standing behind
Jones and Cumnor, with a huge hairy hand on a shoulder of each, and a
huge wink again at Keyser.
"Blamed if he 'ain't stopped in front of the commanding officer's," said
Jones.
"Lor'!" said Mr. Long, "there's jest nothin' them peddlers won't do."
"They ain't likely to buy anything off him in there," said Cumnor.
"Mwell, ef he's purvided with any _kind_ o' Injun cur'os'tees, the
missis she'll fly right on to 'em. Sh' 'ain't been merried out yere only
haff'n year, 'n' when she spies feathers 'n' bead truck 'n' buckskin fer
sale sh' hollers like a son of a gun. Enthoosiastic, ye know."
"He 'ain't got much of a pack," Jones commented, and at that moment
"stables" sounded, and the men ran out to form and march to their
grooming. Jack Long stood at the door and watched them file through the
snow.
Very few enlisted men of the small command that had come in this morning
from its campaign had ever seen General Crook. Jones, though not new to
the frontier, had not been long in the army. He and Cumnor had enlisted
in a happy-go-lucky manner together at Grant, in Arizona, when the
General was elsewhere. Discipline was galling to his vagrant spirit, and
after each pay-day he had generally slept off the effects in the
guard-house, going there for other offences between-whiles; but he was
not of the stuff that deserts; also, he was excellent tempered, and his
captain liked him for the way in which he could shoot Indians. Jack Long
liked him too; and getting always a harmless pleasure from the mistakes
of his friends, sincerely trusted there might be more about the peddler.
He was startled at hearing his name spoken in his ear.
"_Nah!_ Johnny, how you get on?"
"Hello, Sarah! Kla-how-ya, six?" said Long, greeting in Chinook the
squaw interpreter who had approached him so noiselessly. "Hy-as kloshe
o-coke sun" (It is a beautiful day).
The interpreter laughed--she had a broad, sweet, coarse face, and
laughed easily--and said in English, "You hear about E-egante?"
Long had heard nothing recently of this Pah-Ute chieftain.
"He heap bad," continued Sarah, laughing broadly. "Come round ranch up
here--"
"Anybody killed?" Long interrupted.
"No. All run away quick. Meester Dailey, he old man, he run all same
young one. His old woman she run all same man. Get horse. Run away
quick. Hu-hu!" and Sarah's rich mockery sounded again. No tragedy had
happened this time, and the squaw narrated her story greatly to the
relish of Mr. Long. This veteran of trails and mines had seen too much
of life's bleakness not to cherish whatever of mirth his days might
bring.
"Didn't burn the house?" he said.
"Not burn. Just make heap mess. Cut up feather-bed hy-as ten-as (very
small) and eat big dinner, hu-hu! Sugar, onions, meat, eat all. Then
they find litt' cats walkin' round there."
"Lor'!" said Mr. Long, deeply interested, "they didn't eat _them_?"
"No. Not eat litt' cats. Put 'em two--man-cat and woman-cat--in
molasses; put 'em in feather-bed; all same bird. Then they hunt for
whiskey, break everything, hunt all over, ha-lo whiskey!" Sarah shook
her head. "Meester Dailey he good man. Hy-iu temperance. Drink water.
They find his medicine; drink all up; make awful sick."
"I guess 'twar th' ole man's liniment," muttered Jack Long.
"Yas, milinut. They can't walk. Stay there long time, then Meester
Dailey come back with friends. They think Injuns all gone; make noise,
and E-egante he hear him come, and he not very sick. Run away. Some more
run. But two Injuns heap sick; can't run. Meester Dailey he come round
the corner; see awful mess everywhere; see two litt' cats sittin' in
door all same bird, sing very loud. Then he see two Injuns on ground.
They dead now."
"Mwell," said Long, "none of eer'll do. We'll hev to ketch E-egante."
"A--h!" drawled Sarah the squaw, in musical derision. "Maybe no catch
him. All same jack rabbit."
"Jest ye wait, Sarah; Gray Fox hez come."
"Gen'l Crook!" said the squaw. "He come! Ho! He heap savvy." She
stopped, and laughed again, like a pleased child. "Maybe no catch
E-egante," she added, rolling her pretty brown eyes at Jack Long.
"You know E-egante?" he demanded.
"Yas, one time. Long time now. I litt' girl then." But Sarah remembered
that long time, when she slept in a tent and had not been captured and
put to school. And she remembered the tall young boys whom she used to
watch shoot arrows, and the tallest, who shot most truly--at least, he
certainly did now in her imagination. He had never spoken to her or
looked at her. He was a boy of fourteen and she a girl of eight. Now she
was twenty-five. Also she was tame and domesticated, with a white
husband who was not bad to her, and children for each year of wedlock,
who would grow up to speak English better than she could, and her own
tongue not at all. And E-egante was not tame, and still lived in a tent.
Sarah regarded white people as her friends, but she was proud of being
an Indian, and she liked to think that her race could outwit the soldier
now and then. She laughed again when she thought of old Mrs. Dailey
running from E-egante.
"What's up with ye, Sarah?" said Jack Long, for the squaw's laughter had
come suddenly on a spell of silence.
"He!" said she. "All same jack-rabbit. No catch him." She stood shaking
her head at Long, and showing her white, regular teeth. Then abruptly
she went away to her tent without any word, not because she was in
ill-humor or had thought of something, but because she was an Indian and
had thought of nothing, and had no more to say. She met the men
returning from the stables; admired Jones and smiled at him, upon which
he murmured "Oh fie!" as he passed her. The troop broke ranks and
dispersed, to lounge and gossip until mess-call. Cumnor and Jones were
putting a little snow down each other's necks with friendly profanity,
when Jones saw the peddler standing close and watching them. A high
collar of some ragged fur was turned up round his neck, disguising the
character of the ancient army overcoat to which it was attached, and
spots and long stains extended down the legs of his corduroys to the
charred holes at the bottom, where the owner had scorched them warming
his heels and calves at many camp-fires.
"Hello, uncle," said Jones. "What y'u got in your pack?" He and Cumnor
left their gambols and eagerly approached, while Mr. Jack Long, seeing
the interview, came up also to hear it. "'Ain't y'u got something to
sell?" continued Jones. "Y'u haven't gone and dumped yer whole outfit at
the commanding officer's, have y'u now?"
"I'm afraid I have." The low voice shook ever so little, and if Jones
had looked he would have seen a twinkle come and go in the gray-blue
eyes.
"We've been out eight months, y'u know, fairly steady," pursued Jones,
"and haven't seen nothing; and we'd buy most anything that ain't too
damn bad," he concluded, plaintively.
Mr. Long, in the background, was whining to himself with joy, and he now
urgently beckoned Keyser to come and hear this.
"If you've got some cheap poker chips," suggested Cumnor.
"And say, uncle," said Jones, raising his voice, for the peddler was
moving away, "decks, and tobacco better than what they keep at the
commissary. Me and my friend'll take some off your hands. And if you're
comin' with new stock to-morrow, uncle" (Jones was now shouting after
him), "why, we're single men, and y'u might fetch along a couple of
squaws!"
"Holy smoke!" screeched Mr. Long, dancing on one leg.
"What's up with you, y'u ape?" inquired Specimen Jones. He looked at the
departing peddler and saw Sergeant Keyser meet him and salute with
stern, soldierly aspect. Then the peddler shook hands with the sergeant,
seemed to speak pleasantly, and again Keyser saluted as he passed on.
"What's that for?" Jones asked, uneasily. "Who is that hobo?"
But Mr. Long was talking to himself in a highly moralizing strain. "It
ain't every young enlisted man," he was saying, "ez hez th' privilege of
explainin' his wants at headquarters."
"Jones," said Sergeant Keyser, arriving, "I've a compliment for you.
General Crook said you were a fine-looking man."