races embrace and weep, and all goes well; but among Saxons tears are
a horrid event. Jones never knew what to do when it was a woman, but
this was truly disgusting. He was well seasoned by the frontier, had
tried a little of everything: town and country, ranches, saloons,
stage-driving, marriage occasionally, and latterly mines. He had
sundry claims staked out, and always carried pieces of stone in his
pockets, discoursing upon their mineral-bearing capacity, which was
apt to be very slight. That is why he was called Specimen Jones. He
had exhausted all the important sensations, and did not care much
for anything any more. Perfect health and strength kept him from
discovering that he was a saddened, drifting man. He wished to kick the
boy for his baby performance, and yet he stepped carefully away from
the ditch so the boy should not suspect his presence. He found himself
standing still, looking at the dim, broken desert.
“Why, hell,” complained Specimen Jones, “he played the little man to
start with. He did so. He scared that old horse-thief, Adams, just
about dead. Then he went to kill me, that kep’ him from bein’ buried
early to-morrow. I’ve been wild that way myself, and wantin’ to shoot
up the whole outfit.” Jones looked at the place where his middle finger
used to be, before a certain evening in Tombstone. “But I never--” He
glanced towards the ditch, perplexed. “What’s that mean? Why in the
world does he git to cryin’ for _now_, do you suppose?” Jones took to
singing without knowing it. “‘Ye shepherds, tell me, have you seen my
Flora pass this way?’” he murmured. Then a thought struck him. “Hello,
kid!” he called out. There was no answer. “Of course,” said Jones.
“Now he’s ashamed to hev me see him come out of there.” He walked with
elaborate slowness round the corral and behind a shed. “Hello, you
kid!” he called again.
“I was thinking of going to sleep,” said the boy, appearing quite
suddenly. “I--I’m not used to riding all day. I’ll get used to it, you
know,” he hastened to add.
“‘Ha-ve you seen my Flo’--Say, kid, where y’u bound, anyway?”
“San Carlos.”
“San Carlos? Oh. Ah. ‘Flo-ra pass this way?’”
“Is it far, sir?”
“Awful far, sometimes. It’s always liable to be far through the
Arivaypa Cañon.”
“I didn’t expect to make it between meals,” remarked Cumnor.
“No. Sure. What made you come this route?”
“A man told me.”
“A man? Oh. Well, it is kind o’ difficult, I admit, for an Arizonan
not to lie to a stranger. But I think I’d have told you to go by Tres
Alamos and Point of Mountain. It’s the road the man that told you would
choose himself every time. Do you like Injuns, kid?”
Cumnor snapped eagerly.
“Of course y’u do. And you’ve never saw one in the whole
minute-and-a-half you’ve been alive. I know all about it.”
“I’m not afraid,” said the boy.
“Not afraid? Of course y’u ain’t. What’s your idea in going to Carlos?
Got town lots there?”
“No,” said the literal youth, to the huge internal diversion of Jones.
“There’s a man there I used to know back home. He’s in the cavalry.
What sort of a town is it for sport?” asked Cumnor, in a gay Lothario
tone.
“_Town?_” Specimen Jones caught hold of the top rail of the corral.
“_Sport?_ Now I’ll tell y’u what sort of a town it is. There ain’t no
streets. There ain’t no houses. There ain’t any land and water in the
usual meaning of them words. There’s Mount Turnbull. It’s pretty near
a usual mountain, but y’u don’t want to go there. The Creator didn’t
make San Carlos. It’s a heap older than Him. When He got around to it
after slickin’ up Paradise and them fruit-trees, He just left it to be
as He found it, as a sample of the way they done business before He
come along. He ’ain’t done any work around that spot at all, He ’ain’t.
Mix up a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and jam scorpions and
rattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on stones, and heat yer
stones red-hot, and set the United States army loose over the place
chasin’ Apaches, and you’ve got San Carlos.”
Cumnor was silent for a moment. “I don’t care,” he said. “I want to
chase Apaches.”
“Did you see that man Ephraim found by the cañon?” Jones inquired.
“Didn’t get here in time.”
“Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But there’s no
harm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn’t, y’u see. You heard
Ephraim tell about it. They’d done a number of things to the man before
he could die. Roastin’ was only one of ’em. Now your road takes you
through the mountains where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along to
Tucson with me,” urged Jones, suddenly.
Again Cumnor was silent. “Is my road different from other people’s?” he
said, finally.
“Not to Grant, it ain’t. These Mexicans are hauling freight to Grant.
But what’s the matter with your coming to Tucson with me?”
“I started to go to San Carlos, and I’m going,” said Cumnor.
“You’re a poor chuckle-headed fool!” burst out Jones, in a rage. “And
y’u can go, for all I care--you and your Christmas-tree pistol. Like as
not you won’t find your cavalry friend at San Carlos. They’ve killed a
lot of them soldiers huntin’ Injuns this season. Goodnight.”
Specimen Jones was gone. Cumnor walked to his blanket-roll, where his
saddle was slung under the shed. The various doings of the evening had
bruised his nerves. He spread his blankets among the dry cattle-dung,
and sat down, taking off a few clothes slowly. He lumped his coat
and overalls under his head for a pillow, and, putting the despised
pistol alongside, lay between the blankets. No object showed in the
night but the tall freight-wagon. The tenderfoot thought he had made
altogether a fool of himself upon the first trial trip of his manhood,
alone on the open sea of Arizona. No man, not even Jones now, was his
friend. A stranger, who could have had nothing against him but his
inexperience, had taken the trouble to direct him on the wrong road.
He did not mind definite enemies. He had punched the heads of those
in Pennsylvania, and would not object to shooting them here; but this
impersonal, surrounding hostility of the unknown was new and bitter:
the cruel, assassinating, cowardly Southwest, where prospered those
jail-birds whom the vigilantes had driven from California. He thought
of the nameless human carcass that lay near, buried that day, and of
the jokes about its mutilations. Cumnor was not an innocent boy, either
in principles or in practice, but this laughter about a dead body had
burned into his young, unhardened soul. He lay watching with hot,
dogged eyes the brilliant stars. A passing wind turned the windmill,
which creaked a forlorn minute, and ceased. He must have gone to sleep
and slept soundly, for the next he knew it was the cold air of dawn
that made him open his eyes. A numb silence lay over all things, and
the tenderfoot had that moment of curiosity as to where he was now
which comes to those who have journeyed for many days. The Mexicans had
already departed with their freight-wagon. It was not entirely light,
and the embers where these early starters had cooked their breakfast
lay glowing in the sand across the road. The boy remembered seeing a
wagon where now he saw only chill, distant peaks, and while he lay
quiet and warm, shunning full consciousness, there was a stir in the
cabin, and at Ephraim’s voice reality broke upon his drowsiness, and
he recollected Arizona and the keen stress of shifting for himself. He
noted the gray paling round the grave. Indians? He would catch up with
the Mexicans, and travel in their company to Grant. Freighters made
but fifteen miles in the day, and he could start after breakfast and
be with them before they stopped to noon. Six men need not worry about
Apaches, Cumnor thought. The voice of Specimen Jones came from the
cabin, and sounds of lighting the stove, and the growling conversation
of men getting up. Cumnor, lying in his blankets, tried to overhear
what Jones was saying, for no better reason than that this was the only
man he had met lately who had seemed to care whether he were alive
or dead. There was the clink of Ephraim’s whiskey-bottles, and the
cheerful tones of old Mr. Adams, saying, “It’s better ’n brushin’ yer
teeth”; and then further clinking, and an inquiry from Specimen Jones.
“Whose spurs?” said he.
“Mine.” This from Mr. Adams.
“How long have they been yourn?”
“Since I got ’em, I guess.”
“Well, you’ve enjoyed them spurs long enough.” The voice of Specimen
Jones now altered in quality.
“And you’ll give ’em back to that kid.”
Muttering followed that the boy could not catch.
“You’ll give ’em back,” repeated Jones. “I seen y’u lift ’em from under
that chair when I was in the corner.”
“That’s straight, Mr. Adams,” said Ephraim. “I noticed it myself,
though I had no objections, of course. But Mr. Jones has pointed out--”
“Since when have you growed so honest, Jones?” cackled Mr. Adams,
seeing that he must lose his little booty. “And why didn’t you raise
yer objections when you seen me do it?”
“I didn’t know the kid,” Jones explained. “And if it don’t strike you
that game blood deserves respect, why it does strike me.”
Hearing this, the tenderfoot, outside in his shed, thought better of
mankind and life in general, arose from his nest, and began preening
himself. He had all the correct trappings for the frontier, and his
toilet in the shed gave him pleasure. The sun came up, and with a
stroke struck the world to crystal. The near sand-hills went into rose,
the crabbed yucca and the mesquite turned transparent, with lances and
pale films of green, like drapery graciously veiling the desert’s face,
and distant violet peaks and edges framed the vast enchantment beneath
the liquid exhalations of the sky. The smell of bacon and coffee from
open windows filled the heart with bravery and yearning, and Ephraim,
putting his head round the corner, called to Cumnor that he had better
come in and eat. Jones, already at table, gave him the briefest nod;
but the spurs were there, replaced as Cumnor had left them under a
chair in the corner. In Arizona they do not say much at any meal, and
at breakfast nothing at all; and as Cumnor swallowed and meditated, he
noticed the cream-colored lady and the chain, and he made up his mind
he should assert his identity with regard to that business, though how
and when was not clear to him. He was in no great haste to take up
his journey. The society of the Mexicans whom he must sooner or later
overtake did not tempt him. When breakfast was done he idled in the
cabin, like the other guests, while Ephraim and his assistant busied
about the premises. But the morning grew on, and the guests, after a
season of smoking and tilted silence against the wall, shook themselves
and their effects together, saddled, and were lost among the waste
thorny hills. Twenty Mile became hot and torpid. Jones lay on three
consecutive chairs, occasionally singing, and, old Mr. Adams had not
gone away either, but watched him, with more tobacco running down his
beard.
“Well,” said Cumnor, “I’ll be going.”
“Nobody’s stopping y’u,” remarked Jones.
“You’re going to Tucson?” the boy said, with the chain problem still
unsolved in his mind. “Good-bye, Mr. Jones. I hope I’ll--we’ll--”
“That’ll do,” said Jones; and the tenderfoot, thrown back by this
severity, went to get his saddle-horse and his burro.
Presently Jones remarked to Mr. Adams that he wondered what Ephraim was
doing, and went out. The old gentleman was left alone in the room, and
he swiftly noticed that the belt and pistol of Specimen Jones were left
alone with him. The accoutrement lay by the chair its owner had been
lounging in. It is an easy thing to remove cartridges from the chambers
of a revolver, and replace the weapon in its holster so that everything
looks quite natural. The old gentleman was entertained with the notion
that somewhere in Tucson Specimen Jones might have a surprise, and he
did not take a minute to prepare this, drop the belt as it lay before,
and saunter innocently out of the saloon. Ephraim and Jones were
criticising the tenderfoot’s property as he packed his burro.
“Do y’u make it a rule to travel with ice-cream?” Jones was inquiring.
“They’re for water,” Cumnor said. “They told me at Tucson I’d need to
carry water for three days on some trails.”
It was two good-sized milk-cans that he had, and they bounced about on
the little burro’s pack, giving him as much amazement as a jackass can
feel. Jones and Ephraim were hilarious.
“Don’t go without your spurs, Mr. Cumnor,” said the voice of old Mr.
Adams, as he approached the group. His tone was particularly civil.
The tenderfoot had, indeed, forgotten his spurs, and he ran back to get
them. The cream-colored lady still had the chain hanging upon her, and
Cumnor’s problem was suddenly solved. He put the chain in his pocket,
and laid the price of one round of drinks for last night’s company on
the shelf below the chromo. He returned with his spurs on, and went
to his saddle that lay beside that of Specimen Jones under the shed.
After a moment he came with his saddle to where the men stood talking
by his pony, slung it on, and tightened the cinches; but the chain was
now in the saddle-bag of Specimen Jones, mixed up with some tobacco,
stale bread, a box of matches, and a hunk of fat bacon. The men at
Twenty Mile said good-day to the tenderfoot, with monosyllables and
indifference, and watched him depart into the heated desert. Wishing
for a last look at Jones, he turned once, and saw the three standing,
and the chocolate brick of the cabin, and the windmill white and idle
in the sun.
“He’ll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.
“I ain’t buryin’ him, then,” said Ephraim.
“Nor I,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it’s time I was getting to Tucson.”
He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and rode away.
Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and here is the final
conclusion they came to after three hours of discussion as to who took
the chain and who had it just then:
_Ephraim._ Jones, he hadn’t no cash.
_Mr. Adams._ The kid, he hadn’t no sense.
_Ephraim._ The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.
_Mr. Adams._ Jones, he goes off with his chain.
_Both._ What damn fools everybody is, anyway!
And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention his relations
with Jones’s pistol. Let it be said, in extenuation of that
performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going to Tucson, where
he said he was going, and where a job and a salary were awaiting him.
In Tucson an unloaded pistol in the holster of so handy a man on the
drop as was Specimen would keep people civil, because they would not
know, any more than the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere
possession of it would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten--though
it was undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope.
But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in his mind as
to whether he would do what was good for himself, or what was good for
another, had kept him sullen ever since he got up. Now it was settled,
and Jones in serene humor again. Of course he had started on the Tucson
road, for the benefit of Ephraim and Mr. Adams.
The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon the deadly
silence, and the world was no longer of crystal, but a mesa, dull and
gray and hot. The pony’s hoofs grated in the gravel, and after a time
the road dived down and up among lumpy hills of stone and cactus,
always nearer the fierce glaring Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so
abruptly in and out of the shallow sudden ravines that, on coming up
from one of these into sight of the country again, the tenderfoot’s
heart jumped at the close apparition of another rider quickly bearing
in upon him from gullies where he had been moving unseen. But it was
only Specimen Jones.
“Hello!” said he, joining Cumnor. “Hot, ain’t it?”
“Where are you going?” inquired Cumnor.
“Up here a ways.” And Jones jerked his finger generally towards the
Sierra, where they were heading.
“Thought you had a job in Tucson.”
“That’s what I have.”
Specimen Jones had no more to say, and they rode for a while, their
ponies’ hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the milk-cans lightly
clanking on the burro’s pack. The bunched blades of the yuccas bristled
steel-stiff, and as far as you could see it was a gray waste of mounds
and ridges sharp and blunt, up to the forbidding boundary walls of the
Tortilita one way and the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered
if Jones had found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it for
several weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.
“You’ll excuse my meddling with your business?” the boy hazarded.
Jones looked inquiring.
“Something’s wrong with your saddle-pocket.”
Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it, but perceiving Cumnor
was grinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at the boy rapidly, and
looked away again, and as he rode, still in silence, he put the chain
back round his neck below the flannel shirt-collar.
“Say, kid,” he remarked, after some time, “what does J stand for?”
“J? Oh, my name! Jock.”
“Well, Jock, will y’u explain to me as a friend how y’u ever come to
be such a fool as to leave yer home--wherever and whatever it was--in
exchange for this here God-forsaken and iniquitous hole?”
“If you’ll explain to me,” said the boy, greatly heartened, “how you
come to be ridin’ in the company of a fool, instead of goin’ to your
job at Tucson.”
The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had framed his
reply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismembered human stumps lay
in the road. This was what had happened to the Miguels and Serapios
and the concertina. Jones and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles
to exclude all expressions of growing mutual esteem from their speech,
had forgotten their journey, and a sudden bend among the rocks where
the road had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring them
in the face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its splintered,
blazing boards slid down as they burned into the fiery heap on the
ground; packages of soda and groceries and medicines slid with them,
bursting into chemical spots of green and crimson flame; a wheel
crushed in and sank, spilling more packages that flickered and hissed;
the garbage of combat and murder littered the earth, and in the air
hung an odor that Cumnor knew, though he had never smelled it before.
Morsels of dropped booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians
had gone, and one horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in
his belly.
“We’ll just kill him,” said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly, and
snapped again, as his eye caught a motion--a something--two hundred
yards up among the bowlders on the hill. He whirled round. The enemy
was behind them also. There was no retreat. “Yourn’s no good!” yelled
Jones, fiercely, for Cumnor was getting out his little, foolish
revolver. “Oh, what a trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse,
kid; drop, and do like me. Shootin’s no good here, even if I was
loaded. _They_ shot, and look at them now. God bless them ice-cream
freezers of yourn, kid! Did y’u ever see a crazy man? If you ’ain’t,
_make it up as y’u go along!_”
[Illustration: The milk-cans clashed, and Jones thought he felt the
boy’s strokes weakening. _Page 339._]
More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones ripped off the
burro’s pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the ground. The burro began
grazing quietly, with now and then a step towards new patches of grass.
The horses stood where their riders had left them, their reins over
their heads, hanging and dragging. From two hundred yards on the hill
the ambushed Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figures appearing
cautiously one by one, watching with suspicion. Specimen Jones seized
up one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.