THE BEST WAY TO LEARN IS TO LOOK AND LISTEN.
After gliding through the thorn brake, Joe lowered himself to the very
ground. Fairly creeping, he seemed at a loss, clever as he had shown,
himself. But, after thrice scrutinising the ground, he saw something
dully gleaming. He crawled up to it. It was a piece of tinfoil, such as
is used for enveloping chewing tobacco. It was roughly shaped into the
form of a dart, the head pointing in the direction which he immediately
took. It led him to another thorny bush, guarding an airhole about a
yard square, almost impossible to discover even close by in broad day.
Joe knew that the guide had laid the indicator there, and with joy and
confidence he dived into this kind of wild animals' burrow. It was a
dry water course, a natural culvert, or drain, six feet wide in the
best parts, and sometimes twelve high, ragged with worn rock, but also
floored most smoothly with the finest yellow sand. Spite of his haste,
he could not help carrying a pinch--spread out artistically on his
palm--to his mouth; he tasted it for metallic traces, and grinned as
he murmured, "Copper, I guess; silver, dead sure; and some gold. These
rocks would pay blasting up some day."
But he was not after gold this time. So far the sand had glowed faintly
orange from an unknown light. But soon the tunnel grew perfectly
lightless.
"Whew!" muttered the Carcajieu, smiling, "In this place the King of
Shades himself would stub his toe!"
As he pushed on he employed the minutest care not to make even the
faintest noise that could betray him.
Ten minutes seemed an interminable period thus. Only then, though,
did a luminous streaking show that he had actually arrived under the
captain's tent.
He stopped, so anxious that he quivered convulsively. He was ashamed at
himself for being so unstrung. He breathed long and regularly till he
had calmed himself, and being confident, he examined the rocky side of
his concealment as far up as possible. There were many fissures, but
few went clean through straight. Two or three gave him views of the
tent interior, useless to him. One, however, about four or five feet
up, offered a capital spy hole. He applied his eye and gazed in. Almost
at once he drew himself violently back in surprise, and a grin of
delight hard to depict. He turned pale, and large beads of perspiration
formed on his brow and slowly trickled down.
"Good heavens!" he thought to himself, "Can it be? I must have seen
awry!" But, having another peep, he murmured, "It's the man, and no
mistake! Doubt is not allowable. He is not in the grave, then. Hang
me!" he went on, clenching his fists mechanically, "But the devil
will have to take you, or this time I shall. 'Tis he, the outlaw, the
villain who robbed the miners. Oh, you wretch! Are you still in this
world? But I have your inmost secret now, and you may well tremble!
This is a wide desert, old boy, but on three sides there are railroads
now; law officers and courts of justice on all four. You are a goner,
this trip, Mr. Harry Brown!"
After having thus given vent to anger and indignation long contained,
Corky Joe felt calmness return to his mind. He wiped his forehead dry,
smoothed his features, and, this time, it was the serene, steady eye
as of an astronomer that he set to the gap.
As far as appearances went, there was nothing to justify the strange
wrath which blazed up in the false lieutenant. The tent and cavern
formed half a circle, which, if completed, would have spanned over
twenty yards from the apex to the base. An iron folding bedstead,
on which was a flock mattress, and a quantity of buffalo robes and
other furs, was set up at the back, trunks being piled near it. On a
folding table in the centre, between a bottle lantern and a candle in
a tin dish, a travelling case was opened, more filled with papers than
shaving utensils and toilet implements. It was supplied with secret
pockets and false bottom, so that, though the captain always carried
it on his horse and kept it by him, Joe had never suspected it was a
receptacle for documents.
There was no doubt that so much care was only expended on proofs
against the villain whose identity with a former and criminal self Joe
could hereby establish.
On the table lay writing materials. By means of these a man, seated on
a campstool, was "making notes." Not the harmless memos of business,
or private details, but with a sureness of hand and dexterity in every
finger that proved an experienced forger was here; the writer was
imitating notes of hand such as the army officers get discounted by the
Indian traders in anticipation of their salary. This man in no wise
resembled Captain Kidd save in stature, and even in that point there
was a difference, as being slighter--he seemed more tall. It was hard
to tell his exact age, as in the case of actors who are clean shaven,
he being so, and all white or grey hairs scrupulously extracted. Most
beholders would have set him down as thirty, but he might still be ten
years older. His face was oval, with a broad forehead, but pressed in
at the temples. His hair, of that blueish black suggesting dye, rolled
in ample curls down upon his shoulders, enframing handsome lineaments.
Under thick brows, large, widely opened eyes were continually in
movement, the pupils having that power of deepening or lightening in
shade as emotions affected the owner; often they were veiled almost
entirely, and then again they shot out lightning glances of unwonted
magnetic force. His nose was straight, and yet a little curved at the
tip, with tremulous nostrils. The ruddy, sensual mouth was overlarge,
with sound teeth. The cheekbones stood out a trifle, and there was the
cleft of a wound, or, perhaps, a congenital hare split on the square
chin.
As the æsthetic rule runs out West, this was a handsome man. But after
even only a few minutes' view, one would shrink with terror, there was
such a stamp of tigerish ferocity in the deep fine wrinkles of the
brow, the restlessness of the gaze, the flutter of the nostrils, as
though scenting carnage, and the cruelly mocking smile playing on the
lips.
His face was clean shaven, we say--"shaved under" for a week, as
barbers word it, so that every line and trait could be traced, and
by them, by the olive complexion, and by the contour, the name of
Harry Brown, much too Anglo-Saxon, applied by Corky Joe, seemed very
unbefitting. He was rather of Mexican-Spanish and Indian race.
Whatever he was, and whatever Joe had mentioned in relation to him,
this was no vulgar rogue. He still was an enigma whose veil was not
entirely stripped away because one of his _aliases_ was known.
Several minutes passed during which the forger went on with his work,
which seemed mere amusement, with all the tranquillity of a nobleman
in his study, well aware that nobody durst disturb him. It would have
been difficult for his retreat to have been intruded upon without
his leave, so well closed in was it. Besides, he had a brace of
revolvers near to give a lesson to any imprudent person who presented
himself unannounced. Finally, the stranger pushed the papers away from
him, laid down the pen more carefully, with that respect which the
high-class artisan has for his tools, rested his elbow on the table and
his cheek in his hand, and yielded to deep meditation. The attentive
observer could read nothing on the visage, as smoothly cold as marble.
Over a dozen times the false lieutenant felt tempted to "settle" this
man by putting a bullet into his brain, an easy matter; but each time
his prompting was checked by a higher force, like that which causes a
police officer to take his man alive, though the reward is the same for
the body in any condition.
The man was not his property. He belonged to society, unto which he
would have to render up accounts of his crimes; society alone had a
right to try him and make an example of him.
For all but a quarter of an hour the musing man dwelt motionlessly
staring into vacancy. It was a mute dialogue with himself. At the
end he flung up his head sharply, sprang to his feet, and stalked to
and fro in the narrow walk, his hands behind his back, and his head
hanging. When he stopped, he was at the table anew. He actively busied
himself in packing up the notes and papers in the toilet case, closed
it with a secret spring, and put it under his pillow.
Like men who have no confidants, he talked in a low voice to himself
whilst so occupied. It was rather mumbling than even muttering; but
Lieutenant Carcajieu's "good day for hearing" was come. He overheard
pretty well all. Two singular things: not only did the voice differ
from Captain Kidd's in tone and accents, but the man, thought to be
English, spoke fluent Spanish.
"_¡Caray!_" he exclaimed, "That infernal Corky Joe was lucky this
time; it is long since I have had a solid house where I could feel
comfortable and, mainly, safe. This confounded disguise began to
choke me like a corset on the Fat Woman in the Show; Richard actually
yearned to be himself again! By St. Antonio! What a jolly thing it is
not to have to play a part. Even for an hour it is a luxury to be able
to stretch one's legs mentally and bodily. But, pshaw! Still a few
more days and we shall be at ease if this providential guide is to be
depended on! He's a capital blade, a little blunt, like all English,
quaint, novel, but the right stuff. I can't tell why, but I feel warm
towards him."
The lieutenant could not help smiling at this confession.
"Besides, he saved my life," went on the other, "there's something in
that. It is true that if he had known who I was, he would have let
the bears chew me up, more than likely. Ugh! It gives me creeping all
over again to remember that fix. However, I was saved to live many a
day yet in and out of the cover of Captain Kidd. Kidd! Ha, ha! There's
one who never suspected he would be useful after his death, when our
partnership was suddenly cleft asunder by an insertion of my knife in
his jugular as he was sleeping with liquor. But what's the sense of
bringing his memory up? He's out of the battle of life; the secret is
buried out of mortal ken."
As he spoke he performed his metamorphosis, the arraying himself in
the shell, so to say of Captain Kidd. He dressed and "made up" so
artistically, that Joe himself, who was no mean actor, could not help
admiring.
The disguise was complete, nothing being omitted to aid illusion. The
transformation was executed quickly too.
"A rainy night, ugh!" muttered the re-become Captain Kidd. "But
prudence is the mother of security, and you don't catch me lying down
without going the rounds of my camp!"
As the speaker began to break down the rampart which fended the
doorway, the lieutenant abandoned his peephole. He crawled back as he
had come, slipped forth from the opening, made his painful way through
the thorn brake and came out into the clear ground. Convincing himself
that nobody was on the lookout for him, he went over to the tent of
Doña Rosario. Leon's blanket was in a heap by the door. He wrapped
it around him, leaving his pistol arm free, like a Highlander in his
plaid, and lay down, feigning to steep.
He had not been thus placed ten minutes before the tent doorway flap
was lifted, and out stepped the captain with the bottle lantern.
The latter went the rounds conscientiously, rousing more than one
drowsy sentinel with a swing of the lantern or a boot smartly applied.
As the men growled he chuckled, and so worked himself up into a good
humour like a bulldog who had had several successful scuffles. His
promenade brought him round to Rosario's tent, but just as he was
drawing back his leg to awaken the presumedly sleeping figure, there
was the _ku-klux_ of a large revolver going on full cock, and, without
taking the trouble to rise, Joe challenged:
"No tricks on travellers. Who are you with a light, and so free with
your boot?"
"A friend, a friend! Hold hard," the leader hastened to cry. "Here is
one who keeps a good guard."
"The chief!" ejaculated the other, pretending surprise.
"You bet. And," here he lowered the lantern over the man, sitting up
nonchalantly, but with the revolver ready, "it's Corky Joe."
"Same man, cap."
"But how do I find you here when Foxface was set over this tent?"
"Oh, that's all right, chief. 'Want to know?"
"Go on, I'm listening."
"Why, that young ass, the Drudge, sent to give Lottery Paul a rub down
with the camphorated spirits, as you prescribed--"
"Quite right, I did."
"Well, he forgot the keg."
"Then I understand the rest," returned the gold seeker, laughing,
"Foxface caught the Frenchman's complaint, and both took the remedy
internally?"
"You've hit it, old man, they never left what would wet a fly's eye in
the keg; the consequences are, that they are drunk as David's sow, and
snoring away. But as I knew you wanted this tent well looked after,
women being fine as needles, I took up my station here till relief
comes."
"You are a trump, Joe, and did the proper thing. I am sorry it is so
blamed cold and damp--I am frozen like a snow wolf myself, and have a
fit of sleep on me. Try to keep your eyes open till you are relieved,
and with that good night, lieutenant."
"Oh, I am not sleepy now, boss. Out in the open I git wide awake. Rest
easy, anyway," he said, dropping down again in that favourite attitude
of the veteran frontiersman, who knows that the prowling Indian will
scarce resist the temptation to shoot an arrow at the sentry who is
visible upright.
Kidd went into his tent, and the light was put out there. This marking,
the lieutenant rose a little and whistled part of a tune in a low tone.
The Drudge crawled up to him around the lady's tent, finishing the air.
"Take my place here in your own blanket, and let me have the signal if
anything new happens."
So saying, the lieutenant vanished within the tent of Doña Rosario.