The Passing of the “Chief-Light”
Rebecca Carver was primly seated at one end of a well-upholstered
couch. Her slight form was very erect, very much supported in
garments that seemed somehow strange to it. Her dark eyes were
steadily fixed upon the work in her hands, and the expression of
them was carefully concealed. Her greying hair was neatly dressed
for the occasion, and she looked to be holding herself schooled for
the moment, and the unaccustomed surroundings in which she found
herself.
It was a seat she rarely enough occupied. But then the parlour
of her frame home had no appeal for her. She somehow felt she
belonged to other spheres, to another life than that to which the
adventurous genius of her daughter Claire had so suddenly elevated
her. Still, she did her best staunchly enough for all there were
times when she wondered, times when she had been almost terrified
at the thought of the crash in their fortunes which must inevitably
come. But perhaps the greatest strain of all was her thought for
Claire herself, her dread for her moral undoing. Hers was the
mother’s lot when the reins pass from her hands, and advancing
years bring the slow decay of her authority.
Her black silk gown left her feeling wholly self-conscious.
Never in her hard-lived life had she possessed anything quite so
splendid. And somehow the rustle of it was pleasant to her simple
mind, and she hoped fervently that a prolonged sitting would not
completely “muss” it. A silk workbag was beside her on the couch,
and her hard-worn hands were busily plying knitting-needles whose
homely click afforded her no small measure of encouragement.
Len Stern was talking from a highly polished chair opposite her.
He had been talking for some time, and seemed to be addressing her
particularly. The play of his dark eyes was vividly expressive of
the thrilling details of the long story he had had to tell to the
mother of his dead friend, while the two others in the room seemed,
for the time being, to have no claim upon him.
Ivor McLagan was standing at a window with his back turned,
labouring under a feeling that his presence was something of an
intrusion upon that which should have been sacred to the bereaved
mother. But he knew he must be there for clear and definite
reasons, and so he persisted. Claire was near to him. There could
be no question of her greed for the story she was listening to. Her
blue eyes were wide with almost painful interest. Her hands, those
slender hands which were the admiration of all at the Speedway,
were tightly clasped in her lap. She was leaning forward eagerly,
and hanging intently upon every word the man uttered.
Len Stern had told all the story of the gold discovery, and of the
drear life of that fever-ridden coast. He had told of his desperate
journey to secure a man and a ship to serve their purpose. He had
told of the great day when the shipment was made, and he bade
farewell to the loyal creature, who was thrilling with the thought
of all that their wealth would mean to his women-folk at home, and
had reached the point of his narrative where he was standing on the
beach watching the breaking out of the vessel’s sails as she put to
sea.
“It was a great day, ma’am,” he said, with a smile that was deeply
reminiscent. “You just can’t think the greatness of it. That boy,
he was good grit. Gold? Yes, he wanted that gold, his share. But it
was only for the folks at home. The mother and the sister he’d left
behind. His whole thought, ma’am, all the time was for you.”
The mother sniffed violently, and a work-worn hand brushed aside a
tear that blurred the stitches of her knitting. The next moment the
click of her needles came more rapidly.
“I got back to work--alone,” Len went on. Then he drew a deep sigh
which ended in an expletive. “Gee! How I worked.” He laughed. “It’s
queer how hard a boy can work when he’s alone, an’ trying to keep
from going crazy. That’s how it was with me. Why, I must have got
out an’ washed a million dollars of stuff before it happened. Gold?
Why, the whole of that river bed was gold from end to end. There’s
the gold of the world there, an’ one day some bunch’ll get around
and clear out the fever, and just snow the world’s market right
under with the stuff. But it wasn’t for me--or Jim. That fever hit
me within two weeks of Jim’s quitting. It came slow, it made me
sick, and I was wise to it. You see, the Chink had told us. Well,
it didn’t take me two jumps to reckon the thing I must do. I knew
I must get out right away. I must beat it in that shell of a smack
of ours down the coast to Perth, the same as I’d done before. I’d
just have to get there and wait around for Jim to get back. It was
a big chance, I was getting sicker every hour. But I had to take
it. So I loaded all the dust I could take, cached the rest, stowed
my kit, and--drove out to sea.”
He drew a deep breath as the memory of things stirred him.
McLagan had turned regarding him. Even Claire, who had sat almost
immovable, stirred restlessly. Then he went on to the accompaniment
of the click of the mother’s needles.
“Maybe it saved me. I don’t know. Y’see, the sea air’s clean, and
likely it helped. Anyway I was full of fever and pains, and wanted
to lie around all the while, but I didn’t. I had to make the course
I knew, and the will of it all drove me. I can’t reckon even now
how long it was, or how I ever reached Perth right. But I reached
it in the end after storm, and calm, and sickness. But I’d lost a
big bunch of my stuff. You see, I had to fight myself as well as
the weather. I was swamped out and nearly plumb wrecked a dozen
times. When I did get in I was nigher dead than alive, and they set
me right into hospital.
“It was tough. And before they were through with me it had cost
me most of my stuff. Still I wasn’t worried with that, there was
plenty more, and, when Jim came back and I was feeling good, why,
it would be easy. Quite easy for all I was scared to death of that
coast.”
He passed a hand back over his dark hair.
“But time went on an’ I never heard a word. And then--and then came
word of--Jim’s ship. It set me nigh crazy. I waited, and thought,
and worried. I never got another word. Then I thought to send you
folks word. Then I was scared to do it. Ma’am, you don’t know the
way I felt. Jim gone----”
“Drowned. Drowned right in mid-ocean.”
McLagan’s voice broke in harshly, and Len glanced round quickly.
Claire, too, turned. She looked up, a sharp question in her eyes.
McLagan nodded.
“It hit you, Len boy, to know Jim was--drowned. It hit us folks,
too.”
Len turned again to the mother who was gazing at him from behind a
mist of tears.
“Say, ma’am, it hit us all bad, to know Jim was drowned with the
sinking of that ship in mid-ocean. It hurts me now to think of it.
An’ God knows the way it must hurt you folks. But I didn’t get
along to stir up bad memories. I came to tell Jim’s mother of the
wonderful boy Jim was, and make her feel pride in his grit, an’
honesty, and--and the hell of a fine partner he was to me. He was
plumb gold all through. Bright shining gold. He’d got just one
notion in the world, ma’am. It was for his mother and his sister.
After them came his partner. You know, ma’am, someways I feel, and
I’d be glad to know you feel it, too, Jim came by his death doing
one great big act. He’d sweated and laboured, and he was carrying
home all the fruit of the love of his big heart to his--mother.
Does it make you feel good? Yes, sure it does. I can see----”
The mother had flung her knitting aside. Her work-worn hands were
thrust up covering her tear-streaming eyes. She sprang to her feet
and stood sobbing for a moment. Then Claire came to her side, and
with one warm arm flung about the older woman’s shaking shoulders,
she led her from the room.
* * * * *
Claire and McLagan were walking down the dusty, unpaved road in
the direction of the city’s main highway. Len Stern had already
departed to transact his business at Victor Burns’ bank. The mother
had gone back to the work that always claimed her, comforted far
more than she knew by the revelation of the staunch devotion of her
dead son.
Once clear of the house Claire raised her wide questioning eyes to
the face of the man beside her.
“Why did you jump in while Len was talking?” she asked abruptly.
“Why did you remind him that Jim was--drowned?”
McLagan’s reply came on the instant.
“Because he wasn’t drowned, and--Len knows it.”
“Murdered?”
“Sure.”
“Then why not say it? Why----”
“Say, Claire,” McLagan broke in with that roughness she knew so
well, “do you think I’d brought Len along to tell your Mum that Jim
was foully murdered and robbed? No. I know it. You know it. We’re
young and strong, and it’s not going to hurt us, seeing poor Jim
is dead anyway. But she’s his mother. Think, my dear, just think.
Len and I fixed it up to say that. I jumped, scared he might blurt
out the truth. Jim’s mother is some one we both love. Right deep in
her heart now is the swell thought of all that boy was trying to
do for her. He died doing it. To her there’s no picture of a foul
murder with the murderer standing over him and robbing him. Don’t
you see? Sure you do. For all her tears I guess we’ve left Jim’s
mother a mighty happy woman. An’ she’ll never be told the thing
that really happened.”
The girl made no reply. Somehow the man’s harshly spoken rebuke
thrilled her as no word of his had ever thrilled her before. Her
love for him rose to something like worship as she regarded his
plain face and thought of the world of kindly sympathy lying behind
it. Her next words were almost humble.
“And the murderer?”
“Is dead. Hanged by the neck, and--dead.”
The intensity, the biting ruthlessness of the man’s tone, was in
flat contradiction of his recent mood.
“Then what you thought--what you hoped of Len’s coming--proved out?”
“Surely.”
“Does Len know? Did he--help?”
“Len has my assurance. That’s all.”
“Will I ever know the whole thing--you know?”
McLagan smiled upon the dingy habitations about him.
“Maybe some day,” he said. “But--not right now. It’s a bad story.”
They had turned out of the side road, and on to the sidewalk of the
main thoroughfare. It was still within the business hours of the
place, and as Claire gazed about her a certain unusual movement was
observable among the people. She drew a deep sigh.
“Sometimes I think it awful in me,” she said, a little desperately.
“He’s dead. Hanged. The man who murdered Jim. I’m--glad. Yes,” she
went on a little defiantly, “I’m glad. And Jim’s gold?”
“Recovered--most of it. And passed to the feller it rightly
belongs. Len Stern. That boy needs it. You don’t, Claire. Your
mother don’t. You’re both--my affair.”
“Yes. We don’t need it--anyway.”
McLagan smiled at the little touch of independence in the girl’s
words.
They were approaching the Plaza with its balcony and its loungers.
He could see the face of Jubilee Hurst leaning out gazing in their
direction. And he knew the thing that was coming.
Jubilee’s challenge came on the instant of their approach. It came
full of all that irresponsible lightness which masked the real
seriousness of the man.
“Ho, Mac!” he cried. “Is it true? Is it real, or have I got a bad
nightmare? I’ve turned over a couple of times but it’s still the
same. I can’t get away from the messy sight of crude oil streaming
all through the streets of Beacon. Is it true? Or are you yearning
to see us poor folk plumb bug?”
Claire and McLagan smiled up into eager face. They realised the
presence of the others on the veranda. There was Abe Cranfield.
And Burt Riddell was gloomily inquiring as he leant over the rail
beside his partner.
“It’s all true.”
It was Claire who replied. She nodded laughingly. And in her eyes
was a gladness that illuminated her whole countenance. Then she
indicated the man beside her.
“You see, Ivor’s got the close habit, and I guess it isn’t easy for
him to say ‘yes.’ Maybe now I’ve saved you getting bug he can hand
you the rest.”
McLagan nodded.
“I guessed you’d be wise in a half-hour. That’s why I chose Doc
Finch to hand out the news. He’s better than a hundred telephones.
Yes, boy, it’s all true. There’s oil enough to float a ship. Get
in, if you’ve two cents to buy with. Maybe there’s weeks of grace
while my folks play the market. So get in, or our stocks’ll jump
sky high. You’ll find it more profitable than a hand at Claire’s
table.”
Jubilee eyed the girl. He realised the wonderful light shining in
her pretty eyes. But it was the sad voice of Burt Riddell that
answered him.
“Maybe it’s more profitable. But me for the hand at Claire’s table.
Say, you ain’t going to rob us of that?”
McLagan laughed outright.
“When it comes to guessing I’d say you’ve Jubilee beat a mile.”
“What d’you mean?” Jubilee looked from one to the other and
grinned. “Burt got me beat guessing?” He shook his head. “Not on
your life, Mac. I didn’t have to guess. I--knew. Say, it beats
hell. My best to you both, Claire. The Speedway’ll be hell without
you, but--Gee, I must go count my cents. It don’t seem right,
buying oil with ’em when I’m yearning to hand you a swell bouquet.
Say, look down the sidewalk. See the folks? Doc’s sure been busy.
Well, so long. Will you be around at the Speedway to-night?
‘_Bon_,’ as we used to say in France,” he cried, as the engineer
nodded. “It’ll beat Max’s festival to the bone. Come on, Burt.
Let’s get a look at our cents and see how best we can roll Victor
to help things out.”
Claire and McLagan passed on, and the sight of the engineer caused
a commotion and excitement that had been unknown in Beacon since
the early days of the boom. It was as McLagan had said it would be.
The town was already oil-crazy. The man’s progress was something
in the nature of a triumphal procession. There were smiles, and
greeting, and handshakes, almost every step of the way, till
McLagan felt something like serious regret that he had utilised the
rotund doctor as a medium for disseminating his news.
As they came to the bank, McLagan’s patience had well-nigh
exhausted itself.
“We’ll get right inside for shelter, kid,” he said in desperation.
“This popularity makes me sick. This darn handwagging with folks I
don’t know from a bunch of fence posts couldn’t be worse if I was
President of the United States. Say----”
He laughed as he discovered that Victor Burns was standing in the
doorway of the bank obviously waiting for him to come up.
* * * * *
They were safe for the moment in Victor’s private office. The
banker was sitting behind his desk while Claire was occupying the
most comfortable chair the place afforded. McLagan was propped on
the corner of the desk listening to the thing the banker had to
tell.
“I’m glad for you, McLagan,” he said. “I’m glad for Beacon. And
it didn’t take me two seconds to guess my own feelings the moment
Doc blew in and handed me his story of an oil flood that nearly
wrecked your camp. I’ve a private bunch of dollars that’s going to
be changed into your Corporation’s stock right away. Yes, boy, I’m
glad, but I’m worried.”
“How?”
“How?” The banker looked from one to the other. Then he raised a
clenched fist and brought it heavily down on his desk. A frown of
unusual ill-temper had suddenly depressed his pleasant face. “It’s
this boy, Cy Liskard, a customer of mine, you’ll remember him. It’s
that guy with the gold I showed you awhile back. The feller that
you spread out on the Speedway floor on the night of the festival.
They’ve hanged him, they’ve hanged him clean out of hand. It’s
these boys, the Aurora bunch. And they ticketed him with their
fancy label with the signature of the Chief Light.”
He snorted as he sat gazing into McLagan’s face. Claire sat up in
her chair, a startled look in her eyes as she watched the unsmiling
face of the man she loved.
“That don’t seem a thing to worry for,” McLagan said coldly. “Where
did they hang him? What for?”
“Where? What for?” The banker shook his head. “They hanged him
right here just beyond the town limits on the lakeside. What for? I
haven’t a notion, unless it was a hold-up for his stuff. Here, you
don’t get me----”
“It hasn’t been their way to hold a boy up for his stuff,” McLagan
broke in quickly. “Was he coming in with a bunch of dust?”
The banker shook his head. He spread out a pair of helpless hands.
“I can’t say a thing,” he declared peevishly. “Here, I’ll tell
you. Goodchurch came along this morning; he jumped in on me and I
asked him things; he said he was guessing as badly as I was. One
of his men come in and brought him word a feller was hanging under
the spread of a Western Cedar, and was labelled by this precious
bunch. Looked like he’d been hanging there days. He sent out to
investigate and found it was this boy from the Lias, who’s been
toting dust in since last fall. He asked me what I knew, and I told
him of his credit here. He’s set a government ‘hold-up’ on it, and
went off cursing these Aurora folk in a way I’d hate to repeat
before a lady. I’m sick, I’m good an’ sick. I’m not worried for the
boy. He was a sure tough, and I’d say he’s the sort to be a deal
safer off the earth. But it’s the trade. It’s the stuff. He was
reckoning to bring more along. Say, Mac, does it look good to you?
I’ve heard you say you’d a hunch for these boys, setting out to
clean things up. Well? Is this cleaning up? Or is it the thing I’ve
been scared of right along--a hold-up?”
McLagan shook his head. His face was mask-like in its seriousness.
Claire, watching him, felt at that moment she would have given much
to read the thing passing behind it.
“You can’t rightly tell, Victor,” he said. “But I wouldn’t reckon
that way without knowing more. There was sure something queer about
that boy. And he was a tough, anyway.” Then he smiled, “It’s queer,
here I bring you word of such wealth coming to Beacon as no gold
can ever hand it. I’m showing you how to get in and help yourself,
yet you’re worried for a bunch of dust that won’t be a circumstance
in Beacon when we open out.”
He turned to the girl, who was regarding him so earnestly.
“You know, kid,” he said, “these men who handle gold can’t see a
thing but gold. They just love it to death.”
He turned again to the banker.
“I wouldn’t worry with the Aurora bunch, Victor,” he said. “The
oil boom coming is going to clean up most things. Maybe they’ll
go along with the rest. You see, when the government realises the
thing Beacon can hand them there’ll be no room for white shirts and
hanging bees.”
* * * * *
Outside the bank the girl made no further effort to restrain the
questions that were flooding her mind.
“Tell me, Ivor,” she cried, the moment they reached the sidewalk
again. “This man? This Cy Liskard? Oh, I remember him. I’m never
likely to forget him, and the way you smashed him that night for
his insult to me. Who is he? Why did they hang him? I’ve got to
know things now. Is he----?”
“The man who killed your brother Jim. The man who murdered and
robbed him. Julian Caspar, the man who was trading Jim’s gold into
that bank.”
Claire drew a deep breath. They had turned into one of the almost
undefined side roads, which was little better than a track, in
order to avoid the crowd on the main street. They were making their
way in the direction of the girl’s home again. McLagan observed her
closely. Then a half smile lit his eyes.
“It’s time you knew things,” he said. Then he asked gently, almost
anxiously: “What does that just mean, kid? Are you worried?”
Claire looked up. Her gaze was full of trust, full of confidence,
full of pride in the big creature who had laboured so hard to
capture her heart. She shook her head.
“No, dear, I’m not worried--now,” she said. Then a smile full of
radiant love replaced the seriousness in her eyes. “Like you, I’ve
a hunch for those white-robed folk. I sort of feel there’s no harm
in them for those running straight. There’s no ‘hold-up’ in them.
But I’m wondering. When your folk have got along, and you go down
country----”
“We go down country,” the man corrected.
“When we go down country, how’ll they get on without their--Chief
Light?”
McLagan threw back his head in a great, unrestrained laugh. He
suddenly took possession of the girl’s arm, and patted the hand
that, for the moment, rested in his.
“Guess they’ll need to elect a--new one,” he said.
“Jubilee?”
The girl’s eyes were shining with the delight it gave her to show
this great creature how deeply she had penetrated his secret.
“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know, and--Psha! So long as I’ve got
you, kid, I don’t care a darn.”
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been maintained, i.e.:
up-standing/upstanding, get-away/get away, etc.
Page 28, Period added after “ordinary sort of engineer”.
Page 142, Period added after “faithful servant, too”.
Page 298, “Casper” changed to “Caspar”.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Saint of the Speedway, by Ridgwell Cullum