The conversation which Johnny Filgee had overheard between Uncle Ben and
the gorgeous stranger, although unintelligible to his infant mind, was
fraught with some significance to the adult settlers of Indian Spring.
The town itself, like most interior settlements, was originally a
mining encampment, and as such its founders and settlers derived their
possession of the soil under the mining laws that took precedence of all
other titles. But although that title was held to be good even after
the abandonment of their original occupation, and the establishment of
shops, offices, and dwellings on the site of the deserted places, the
suburbs of the town and outlying districts were more precariously held
by squatters, under the presumption of their being public land open to
preemption, or the settlement of school-land warrants upon them. Few of
the squatters had taken the trouble to perfect even these easy titles,
merely holding “possession” for agricultural or domiciliary purposes,
and subject only to the invasion of “jumpers,” a class of adventurers
who, in the abeyance of recognized legal title, “jumped” or forcibly
seized such portions of a squatter's domains as were not protected by
fencing or superior force. It was therefore with some excitement that
Indian Spring received the news that a Mexican grant of three square
leagues, which covered the whole district, had been lately confirmed by
the Government, and that action would be taken to recover possession. It
was understood that it would not affect the adverse possessions held
by the town under the mining laws, but it would compel the adjacent
squatters like McKinstry, Davis, Masters, and Filgee, and jumpers like
the Harrisons, to buy the legal title, or defend a slow but
losing lawsuit. The holders of the grant--rich capitalists of San
Francisco--were open to compromise to those in actual possession, and
in the benefits of this compromise the unscrupulous “jumper,” who had
neither sown nor reaped, but simply dispossessed the squatter who had
done both, shared equally with him.
A diversity of opinion as to the effect of the new claim naturally
obtained; the older settlers still clung to their experiences of an
easy aboriginal holding of the soil, and were sceptical both as to
the validity and justice of these revived alien grants; but the newer
arrivals hailed this certain tenure of legal titles as a guarantee to
capital and an incentive to improvement. There was also a growing and
influential party of Eastern and Northern men, who were not sorry to see
a fruitful source of dissension and bloodshed removed. The feuds of the
McKinstrys and Harrisons, kept alive over a boundary to which neither
had any legal claim, would seem to bring them hereafter within
the statute law regarding ordinary assaults without any ethical
mystification. On the other hand McKinstry and Harrison would each be
able to arrange any compromise with the new title holders for the
lands they possessed, or make over that “actual possession” for a
consideration. It was feared that both men, being naturally lawless,
would unite to render any legal eviction a long and dangerous process,
and that they would either be left undisturbed till the last, or would
force a profitable concession. But a greater excitement followed when it
was known that a section of the land had already been sold by the owners
of the grant, that this section exactly covered the debatable land of
the McKinstry-Harrison boundaries, and that the new landlord would at
once attempt its legal possession. The inspiration of genius that had
thus effected a division of the Harrison-McKinstry combination at its
one weak spot excited even the admiration of the sceptics. No one in
Indian Spring knew its real author, for the suit was ostensibly laid in
the name of a San Francisco banker. But the intelligent reader of
Johnny Filgee's late experience during the celebration will have already
recognized Uncle Ben as the man, and it becomes a part of this
veracious chronicle at this moment to allow him to explain, not only
his intentions, but the means by which he carried them out, in his own
words.
It was one afternoon at the end of his usual solitary lesson, and the
master and Uncle Ben were awaiting the arrival of Rupert. Uncle Ben's
educational progress lately, through dint of slow tenacity, had somewhat
improved, and he had just completed from certain forms and examples in
a book before him a “Letter to a Consignee” informing him that he, Uncle
Ben, had just shipped “2 cwt. Ivory Elephant Tusks, 80 peculs of rice
and 400bbls. prime mess pork from Indian Spring;” and another beginning
“Honored Madam,” and conveying in admirably artificial phraseology the
“lamented decease” of the lady's husband from yellow fever, contracted
on the Gold Coast, and Uncle Ben was surveying his work with critical
satisfaction when the master, somewhat impatiently, consulted his watch.
Uncle Ben looked up.
“I oughter told ye that Rupe didn't kalkilate to come to day.”
“Indeed--why not?”
“I reckon because I told him he needn't. I allowed to--to hev a little
private talk with ye, Mr. Ford, if ye didn't mind.”
Mr. Ford's face did not shine with invitation. “Very well,” he said,
“only remember I have an engagement this afternoon.”
“But that ain't until about sundown,” said Uncle Ben quietly. “I won't
keep ye ez long ez that.”
Mr. Ford glanced quickly at Uncle Ben with a rising color. “What do you
know of my engagements?” he said sharply.
“Nothin', Mr. Ford,” returned Uncle Ben simply; “but hevin' bin layin'
round, lookin' for ye here and at the hotel for four or five days allus
about that time and not findin' you, I rather kalkilated you might hev
suthin' reg'lar on hand.”
There was certainly nothing in his face or manner to indicate the least
evasion or deceit, or indeed anything but his usual naivete, perhaps a
little perturbed and preoccupied by what he was going to say. “I had an
idea of writin' you a letter,” he continued, “kinder combinin' practice
and confidential information, you know. To be square with you, Mr. Ford,
in pint o' fact, I've got it HERE. But ez it don't seem to entirely gibe
with the facts, and leaves a heap o' things onsaid and onseen, perhaps
it's jest ez wall ez I read it to you myself--putten' in a word here and
there, and explainin' it gin'rally. Do you sabe?”
The master nodded, and Uncle Ben drew from his desk a rude portfolio
made from the two covers of a dilapidated atlas, and took from between
them a piece of blotting-paper, which through inordinate application
had acquired the color and consistency of a slate, and a few pages
of copy-book paper, that to the casual glance looked like sheets
of exceedingly difficult music. Surveying them with a blending of
chirographic pride, orthographic doubt, and the bashful consciousness of
a literary amateur, he traced each line with a forefinger inked to the
second joint, and slowly read aloud as follows:--
“'Mr. Ford, Teacher.
“'DEAR SIR,--Yours of the 12th rec'd and contents noted.'” (“I did'nt,”
explained Uncle Ben parenthetically, “receive any letter of yours, but I
thought I might heave in that beginning from copy for practice. The
rest is ME.”) “'In refference to my having munney,”' continued Uncle Ben
reading and pointing each word as he read, “'and being able to buy Ditch
Stocks an' Land'”--
“One moment,” said Mr. Ford interrupting, “I thought you were going to
leave out copy. Come to what you have to say.”
“But I HEV--this is all real now. Hold on and you'll see,” said Uncle
Ben. He resumed with triumphant emphasis:--
“'When it were gin'rally allowed that I haddent a red cent, I want to
explain to you Mister Ford for the first time a secret. This here is how
it was done. When I first came to Injian Spring, I settled down into
the old Palmetto claim, near a heap of old taillings. Knowin' it were
against rools, and reg'lar Chinyman's bizness to work them I diddn't
let on to enyboddy what I did--witch wos to turn over some of the quarts
what I thought was likely and Orrifferus. Doing this I kem uppon some
pay ore which them Palmetto fellers had overlookt, or more likely had
kaved in uppon them from the bank onknown. Workin' at it in od times by
and large, sometimes afore sun up and sometimes after sundown, and all
the time keeping up a day's work on the clame for a show to the boys, I
emassed a honist fortun in 2 years of 50,000 dolers and still am. But
it will be askd by the incredjulos Reeder How did you never let out
anything to Injian Spring, and How did you get rid of your yeald? Mister
Ford, the Anser is I took it twist a month on hoss back over to La
Port and sent it by express to a bank in Sacramento, givin' the name of
Daubigny, witch no one in La Port took for me. The Ditch Stok and the
Land was all took in the same name, hens the secret was onreviled to
the General Eye--stop a minit,'” he interrupted himself quickly as the
master in an accession of impatient scepticism was about to break in
upon him, “it ain't all.” Then dropping his voice to a tremulous and
almost funereal climax, he went on:--
“'Thus we see that pashent indurstry is Rewarded in Spite of Mining
Rools and Reggylashuns, and Predgudisses agin Furrin Labor is played out
and fleeth like a shad-or contenueyeth not long in One Spot, and that a
Man may apear to be off no Account and yet Emass that witch is far abov
rubles and Fadith not Away.
“'Hoppin' for a continneyance
“'of your fevors I remain,
“'Yours to command,
“'BENJ D'AUBIGNY.”'
The gloomy satisfaction with which Uncle Ben regarded this peroration--a
satisfaction that actually appeared to be equal to the revelation
itself--only corroborated the master's indignant doubts.
“Come,” he said, impulsively taking the paper from Uncle Ben's reluctant
hand, “how much of this is a concoction of yours and Rupe's--and how
much is a true story? Do you really mean?”--
“Hold on, Mr. Ford!” interrupted Uncle Ben, suddenly fumbling in the
breast-pocket of his red shirt, “I reckoned on your being a little hard
with me, remembering our first talk 'bout these things--so I allowed I'd
bring you some proof.” Slowly extracting a long legal envelope from his
pocket, he opened it, and drew out two or three crisp certificates of
stock, and handed them to the master.
“Ther's one hundred shares made out to Benj Daubigny. I'd hev brought
you over the deed of the land too, but ez it's rather hard to read
off-hand, on account of the law palaver, I've left it up at the shanty
to tackle at odd times by way of practising. But ef you like we'll go up
thar, and I'll show it to you.”
Still haunted by his belief in Uncle Ben's small duplicities, Mr. Ford
hesitated. These were certainly bona fide certificates of stock made out
to “Daubigny.” But he had never actually accepted Uncle Ben's
statement of his identity with that person, and now it was offered as a
corroboration of a still more improbable story. He looked at Uncle Ben's
simple face slightly deepening in color under his scrutiny--perhaps with
conscious guilt.
“Have you made anybody your confidant? Rupe, for instance?” he asked
significantly.
“In course not,” replied Uncle Ben with a slight stiffening of wounded
pride. “On'y yourself, Mr. Ford, and the young feller Stacey from the
bank--ez was obligated to know it. In fact, I wos kalkilatin' to ask you
to help me talk to him about that yer boundary land.”
Mr. Ford's scepticism was at last staggered. Any practical joke or
foolish complicity between the agent of the bank and a man like
Uncle Ben was out of the question, and if the story were his own sole
invention, he would have scarcely dared to risk so accessible and
uncompromising a denial as the agent had it in his power to give.
He held out his hand to Uncle Ben. “Let me congratulate you,” he said
heartily, “and forgive me if your story really sounded so wonderful I
couldn't quite grasp it. Now let me ask you something more. Have you had
any reason for keeping this a secret, other than your fear of confessing
that you violated a few bigoted and idiotic mining rules--which, after
all, are binding only upon sentiment--and which your success has proved
to be utterly impractical?”
“There WAS another reason, Mr. Ford,” said Uncle Ben, wiping away an
embarrassed smile with the back of his hand, “that is, to be square with
you, WHY I thought of consultin' you. I didn't keer to have McKinstry,
and”--he added hurriedly, “in course Harrison, too, know that I bought
up the title to thur boundary.”
“I understand,” nodded the master. “I shouldn't think you would.”
“Why shouldn't ye?” asked Uncle Ben quickly.
“Well--I don't suppose you care to quarrel with two passionate men.”
Uncle Ben's face changed. Presently, however, with his hand to his face,
he managed to manipulate another smile, only it appeared for the purpose
of being as awkwardly wiped away.
“Say ONE passionate man, Mr. Ford.”
“Well, one if you like,” returned the master cheerfully. “But for the
matter of that, why any? Come--do you mind telling me why you bought
the land at all? You know it's of little value to any but McKinstry and
Harrison.”
“Soppose,” said Uncle Ben slowly, with a great affectation of wiping his
ink-spotted desk with his sleeve, “soppose that I had got kinder tired
of seein' McKinstry and Harrison allus fightin' and scrimmagin' over
their boundary line. Soppose I kalkilated that it warn't the sort o'
thing to induce folks to settle here. Soppose I reckoned that by gettin'
the real title in my hands I'd have the deadwood on both o' them, and
settle the thing my own way, eh?”
“That certainly was a very laudable intention,” returned Mr. Ford,
observing Uncle Ben curiously, “and from what you said just now about
one passionate man, I suppose you have determined already WHO to favor.
I hope your public spirit will be appreciated by Indian Spring at
least--if it isn't by those two men.”
“You lay low and keep dark and you'll see,” returned his companion with
a hopefulness of speech which his somewhat anxious eagerness however did
not quite bear out. “But you're not goin' yet, surely,” he added, as the
master again absently consulted his watch. “It's on'y half past four.
It's true thar ain't any more to tell,” he added simply, “but I had an
idea that you might hev took to this yer little story of mine more than
you 'pear to be, and might be askin' questions and kinder bedevlin' me
with jokes ez to what I was goin' to do--and all that. But p'raps it
don't seem so wonderful to you arter all. Come to think of it--squarely
now,” he said, with a singular despondency, “I'm rather sick of it
myself--eh?”
“My dear old boy,” said Ford, grasping both his hands, with a swift
revulsion of shame at his own utterly selfish abstraction, “I am
overjoyed at your good luck. More than that, I can say honestly, old
fellow, that it couldn't have fallen in more worthy hands, or to any one
whose good fortune would have pleased me more. There! And if I've been
slow and stupid in taking it in, it is because it's so wonderful, so
like a fairy tale of virtue rewarded--as if you were a kind of male
Cinderella, old man!” He had no intention of lying--he had no belief
that he was: he had only forgotten that his previous impressions
and hesitations had arisen from the very fact that he DID doubt the
consistency of the story with his belief in Uncle Ben's weakness. But he
thought himself now so sincere that the generous reader, who no doubt
is ready to hail the perfect equity of his neighbor's good luck, will
readily forgive him.
In the plenitude of this sincerity, Ford threw himself at full length
on one of the long benches, and with a gesture invited Uncle Ben to make
himself equally at his ease. “Come,” he said with boyish gayety, “let's
hear your plans, old man. To begin with, who's to share them with
you? Of course there are 'the old folks at home' first; then you have
brothers--and perhaps sisters?” He stopped and glanced with a smile
at Uncle Ben; the idea of there being a possible female of his species
struck his fancy.
Uncle Ben, who had hitherto always exercised a severe restraint--partly
from respect and partly from caution--over his long limbs in the
school-house, here slowly lifted one leg over another bench, and sat
himself astride of it, leaning forward on his elbow, his chin resting
between his hands.
“As far as the old folks goes, Mr. Ford, I'm a kind of an orphan.”
“A KIND of orphan?” echoed Ford.
“Yes,” said Uncle Ben, leaning heavily on his chin, so that the action
of his jaws with the enunciation of each word slightly jerked his head
forward as if he were imparting confidential information to the bench
before him. “Yes, that is, you see, I'm all right ez far as the old man
goes--HE'S dead; died way back in Mizzouri. But ez to my mother, it's
sorter betwixt and between--kinder unsartain. You see, Mr. Ford, she
went off with a city feller--an entire stranger to me--afore the old
man died, and that's wot broke up my schoolin'. Now whether she's here,
there, or yon, can't be found out, though Squire Tompkins allowed--and
he were a lawyer--that the old man could get a divorce if he wanted, and
that you see would make me a whole orphan, ef I keerd to prove title,
ez the lawyers say. Well--thut sorter lets the old folks out. Then
my brother was onc't drowned in the North Platt, and I never had any
sisters. That don't leave much family for plannin' about--does it?”
“No,” said the master reflectively, gazing at Uncle Ben, “unless you
avail yourself of your advantages now and have one of your own. I
suppose now that you are rich, you'll marry.”
Uncle Ben slightly changed his position, and then with his finger and
thumb began to apparently feed himself with certain crumbs which had
escaped from the children's luncheon-baskets and were still lying on
the bench. Intent on this occupation and without raising his eyes to the
master, he returned slowly, “Well, you see, I'm sorter married already.”
The master sat up quickly.
“What, YOU married--now?”
“Well, perhaps that's a question. It's a good deal like my beein' an
orphan--oncertain and onsettled.” He paused to pursue an evasive crumb
to the end of the bench and having captured it, went on: “It was when I
was younger than you be, and she warn't very old neither. But she knew
a heap more than I did; and ez to readin' and writin', she was thar,
I tell you, every time. You'd hev admired to see her, Mr. Ford.” As
he paused here as if he had exhausted the subject, the master said
impatiently, “Well, where is she now?”
Uncle Ben shook his head slowly. “I ain't seen her sens I left Mizzouri,
goin' on five years ago.”
“But why haven't you? What was the matter?” persisted the master.
“Well--you see--I runned away. Not SHE, you know, but I--I scooted,
skedaddled out here.”
“But what for?” asked the master, regarding Uncle Ben with hopeless
wonder. “Something must have happened. What was it? Was she”--
“She WAS a good schollard,” said Uncle Ben gravely, “and allowed to be
sech, by all. She stood about so high,” he continued, indicating with
his hand a medium height. “War little and dark complected.”
“But you must have had some reason for leaving her?”
“I've sometimes had an idea,” said Uncle Ben cautiously, “that mebbee
runnin' away ran in some fam'lies. Now, there war my mother run off with
an entire stranger, and yer's me ez run off by myself. And what makes
it the more one-like is that jest as dad allus allowed he could get a
devorce agin mother, so my wife could hev got one agin me for leavin'
her. And it's almost an evenhanded game that she hez. It's there where
the oncertainty comes in.”
“But are you satisfied to remain in this doubt? or do you propose, now
that you are able, to institute a thorough search for her?”
“I was kalkilatin' to look around a little,” said Uncle Ben simply.
“And return to her if you find her?” continued the master.
“I didn't say that, Mr. Ford.”
“But if she hasn't got a divorce from you that's what you'll have to do,
and what you ought to do--if I understand your story. For by your own
showing, a more causeless, heartless, and utterly inexcusable desertion
than yours, I never heard of.”
“Do you think so?” said Uncle Ben with exasperating simplicity.
“Do I think so?” repeated Mr. Ford, indignantly. “Everybody'll think so.
They can't think otherwise. You say you deserted her, and you admit she
did nothing to provoke it.”
“No,” returned Uncle Ben quickly, “nothin'. Did I tell you, Mr. Ford,
that she could play the pianner and sing?”
“No,” said Mr. Ford, curtly, rising impatiently and crossing the room.
He was more than half convinced that Uncle Ben was deceiving him. Either
under the veil of his hide-bound simplicity he was an utterly selfish,
heartless, secretive man, or else he was telling an idiotic falsehood.
“I'm sorry I can neither congratulate you nor condole with you on what
you have just told me. I cannot see that you have the least excuse for
delaying a single moment to search for your wife and make amends for
your conduct. And if you want my opinion it strikes me as being a much
more honorable way of employing your new riches than mediating in your
neighbors' squabbles. But it's getting late and I'm afraid we must
bring our talk to an end. I hope you'll think this over before we meet
again--and think differently.”
Nevertheless, as they both left the schoolhouse, Mr. Ford lingered over
the locking of the door to give Uncle Ben a final chance for further
explanation. But none came. The new capitalist of Indian Spring regarded
him with an intensification of his usual half sad, half embarrassed
smile, and only said: “You understand this yer's a secret, Mr. Ford?”
“Certainly,” said Ford with ill-concealed irritation.
“'Bout my bein' sorter married?”
“Don't be alarmed,” he responded dryly; “it's not a taking story.”
They separated; Uncle Ben, more than ever involved in his usual
unsatisfactory purposes, wending his way towards his riches; the master
lingering to observe his departure before he plunged, in virtuous
superiority, into the woods that fringed the Harrison and McKinstry
boundaries.