rows of hollyhocks to one side and sweet-pease to the other. Amos
turned his head from side to side, against his will, subdued by the
tranquil beauty of the scene. The air was very still. Only afar, on the
river-bank, the cows were calling to the calves in the yard. A bell
tinkled, thin and sweet, as one cow waded through the shallow water under
the willows. After the dismal neutral tints of the prairie, the rich
green of corn-field and grass looked enchanting, dipped as they were in
the glaze of sunset. The purple-gray of the well-sweep was painted flatly
against a sky of deepest, lustreless blue—the sapphire without its gleam.
But the river was molten silver, and the tops of the trees reflected the
flaming west, below the gold and the tumbled white clouds. Turn one way,
the homely landscape held only cool, infinitely soft blues and greens and
grays; turn the other, and there burned all the sumptuous dyes of earth
and sky.
“It’s a pretty place,” said Brown, timidly.
“Very pretty,” Amos agreed, without emotion.
“I’ve worked awfully hard to pay for it. It’s all paid for now. You saw
my wife.”
“Nice lady,” said Amos.
“By ⸺, she is!” The other man swore with a kind of sob. “And she believes
in me. We’re happy. We’re trying to lead a good life.”
“I’m inclined to think you’re living as decently and lawfully as any
citizens of the United States.” The tone had not changed.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Brown burst forth, as if he could bear
the strain no longer.
“I’m going to do my duty, Harned, and take you to Iowa.”
“Will you listen to me first? All you know is, I killed—”
But the officer held up his hand, saying in the same steady voice, “You
know whatever you say may be used against you. It’s my duty to warn—”
“Oh, I know you, Mr. Wickliff. Come behind the gooseberry bushes where my
wife can’t see us—”
“It’s no use, Harned; if you talked like Bob Ingersoll or an angel, I
have to do my duty.” Nevertheless he followed, and leaned against the
wall of the little shed that did duty for a barn. Harned walked in front
of him, too miserably restless to stand still, nervously pulling and
breaking wisps of hay between his fingers, talking rapidly, with an
earnestness that beaded his forehead and burned in his imploring eyes.
“All you know about me”—so he began, quietly enough—“all you know about
me is that I was a dissipated, worthless photographer, who could sing
a song and had a cursed silly trick of mimicry which made him amusing
company; and so I was trying to keep company with rich fellows. You
don’t know that when I came to your town I was as innocent a country lad
as you ever saw, and had a picture of my dead mother in my Bible, and
wrote to my father every week. He was a good man, my father. Lucky he
died before he found out about _me_. And you don’t know, either, that at
first, keeping a little studio on the third story, with a folding-bed in
the studio, and doing my cooking on the gas-jet, I was a happy man. But
I was. I loved my art. Maybe you don’t call a photographer an artist.
I do. Because a man works with the sun instead of a brush or a needle,
can’t he create a picture? And do you suppose a photographer can’t
hunt for the soul in a sitter as well as a portrait-painter? Can’t a
photographer bring out light and shade in as exquisite gradations as an
etcher? Artist! Any man that can discover beauty, and can express it in
any shape so other men can see it and love it and be happy on account
of it—_he’s_ an artist! And I don’t give a damn for a critic who tries
to box up art in his own little hole!” Harned was excitedly tapping the
horny palm of one hand with the hard, grimy fingers of the other. Amos
thought of the white hands that he used to take such pains to guard, and
then he looked at the faded check shirt and the patched overalls. Harned
had been a little dandy, too fond of perfumes and striking styles.
“I was an artist,” said Harned. “I loved my art. I was happy. I had begun
to make reputation and money when the devil sent him my way. He was an
amateur photographer; that’s how we got acquainted. When he found I could
sing and mimic voices he was wild over me, flattered me, petted me,
taught me all kinds of fool habits; ruined me, body and soul, with his
friendship. Well, he’s dead; and God knows she wasn’t worth a man’s life;
but he did treat me mean about her, and when I flew at him he jeered at
me, and he took advantage of my being a little fellow and struck me and
cuffed me before them all; then I went crazy and shot him!” He stopped,
out of breath. Wickliff mused, frowning. The man at his mercy pleaded on,
gripping those slim, roughened hands of his hard together: “It ain’t
quite so bad as you thought, is it, Mr. Wickliff? For God’s sake put
yourself in my place! I went through hell after I shot him. You don’t
know what it is to live looking over your shoulder! Fear! fear! fear!
Day and night, fear! Waking up, maybe, in a cold sweat, hearing some
noise, and thinking it meant pursuit and the handcuffs. Why, my heart was
jumping out of my mouth if a man clapped me on the shoulder from behind,
or hollered across the street to me to stop. Then I met my wife. You
need not tell me I had no right to marry. I know it; I told myself so
a hundred times; but I couldn’t leave her alone with her poor old sick
father, could I? And then I found out that—that it would be hard for
her, too. And I was all wore out. Man, you don’t know what it is to be
frightened for two years? There wasn’t a nerve in me that didn’t seem to
be pulled out as far as it would go. I married her, and we hid ourselves
out here in the wilderness. You can say what you please, I have made her
happy; and she’s made me. If I was to die to-night, she’d thank God for
the happy years we’ve had together; just as she’s thanked Him every night
since we were married. The only thing that frets her is me giving up
photography. She thinks I could make a name like Wilson or Black. Maybe
I could; but I don’t dare; if I made a reputation I’d be gone. I have to
give it up, and do you suppose that ain’t a punishment? Do you suppose
it’s no punishment to sink into obscurity when you know you’ve got the
capacity to do better work than the men that are getting the money and
the praise? Do you suppose it doesn’t eat into my heart every day that I
can’t ever give my boy his grandfather’s honest name?—that I don’t even
dare to make his father’s name one he would be proud of? Yes, I took his
life, but I’ve given up all my chances in the world for it. My only hope
was to change as I grew older and be lost, and the old story would die
out—”
“It might; but you see he had a mother,” said Wickliff; “she offers five
thousand—”
“It was only one thousand,” interrupted Harned.
“One thousand first year. She’s raised a thousand every year. She’s a
thrifty old party, willing to pay, but not willing to pay any more than
necessary. When it got to five thousand I took the case.”
Harned looked wistfully about him. “I might raise four thousand—”
“Better stop right there. I refused fifty thousand once to let a man go.”
“Excuse me,” said Harned, humbly; “I remember. I’m so distracted I can’t
think of anything but Maggie and the baby. Ain’t there anything that will
move you? I’ve paid for that thing. I saved a boy’s life once—”
“I know; I’ve seen the boy.”
“Then you know I fought for his life; I fought awful hard. I said to
myself, if he lived I’d know it was the sign God had forgiven me. He did
live. I’ve paid, Mr. Wickliff, I’ve paid in the sight of God. And if it
comes to society, it seems to me I’m a good deal more use to it here than
I’d be in a State’s prison pegging shoes, and my poor wife—”
He choked; but there was no softening of the saturnine gloom of
Wickliff’s face.
“You ought to tell that all to the lawyer, not to me,” said Wickliff.
“I’m only a special officer, and my duty is to my employer, not to
society. What’s more, I am going to perform it. There isn’t anything that
can make it right for me to balk on my duty, no matter how sorry I feel
for you. No, Mr. Harned, if you live and I live, you go back to Iowa with
me.”
[Illustration: “HARNED HID HIS FACE”]
Harned in utter silence studied the impassive face, and it returned his
gaze; then he threw his arm up against the shed, and hid his own face in
the crook of his elbow. His shoulders worked as in a strong shudder,
but almost at once they were still, and when he turned his features were
blank and steady as the boards behind them.
“I’ve just one favor to ask,” said he; “don’t tell my wife. You have got
to stay here to-night; it will be more comfortable for you, if I don’t
say anything till after you’ve gone to bed. Give me a chance to explain
and say good-bye. It will be hard enough for her—”
“Will you give me your parole you won’t try to escape?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nor kill yourself?”
Harned started violently, and he laughed. “Do you think I’d kill myself
before poor Maggie? I wouldn’t be so mean. No, I promise you I won’t
either run away or kill myself or play any kind of trick on you to-night.
Does it go?”
“It goes,” responded Amos, holding out his hand; “and I’ll give you a
good reputation in court, too, for being a good citizen now. That will
have weight with the judge. And if you care to know it, I’m mighty sorry
for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wickliff,” said Harned; but he had not seemed to see the
hand; he was striding ahead.
“That man means to kill himself,” thought Amos; “he’s too blamed
resigned. He’s got it all planned before. And God help the poor beggar!
I guess it’s the best thing he can do for himself. Lord, but it’s hard
sometimes for a man to do his duty!”
The two men walked along, at first both mute, but no sooner did they come
well in view of the kitchen door than they began to talk. Amos hoped
there was nothing in the rumors of Indian troubles.
“There’s only one band could make trouble,” said Harned. “Red Horse is
a mean Indian, educated in the agency schools, and then relapsed. Say,
who’s that running up the river-bank? Looks like Mrs. Roby’s sister.
She’s got the baby.” His face and voice changed sharply, he crying out,
“There’s something wrong with that woman!” and therewith he set off
running to the house at the top of his speed. Half-way, Amos, running
behind him, could hear a clamor of women’s voices, rising and breaking,
and loud cries. Mrs. Brown came to the doorway, beckoning with both
hands, screaming for them to hurry.
When they reached the door they could see the new-comer. She was huddled
in a rocking-chair, a pitiful, trembling shape, wet to the skin, her dank
cotton skirts dripping, bareheaded, and her black hair blown about her
ghastly face; and on her breast a baby, wet as she, smiling and cooing,
but with a great crimson smouch on its tiny shoulder. Near her appeared
Johnny D.’s white head. He was pale under his freckles, but he kept
assuring her stoutly that uncle wouldn’t let the Indians get them.
The woman was so spent with running that her words came in gasps. “Oh,
git ready! Fly! They’ve killed the Robys. They’ve killed sister and
Tom. They killed the children. Oh, my Lord! children! They was clinging
to their mother, and crying to the Indians to please not to kill them.
Oh, they pretended to be friendly—so’s to git in; and we cooked ’em up
such a good supper; but they killed every one, little Mary and little
Jim—I heard the screeches. I picked up the baby and run. I jumped into
the river and swum to the boat—I don’t know how I done it—oh, be quick!
They’ll be coming! Oh, fly!”
Harned turned on Amos. “Flying’s no good on land, but maybe the
boat—you’ll help?”
“Of course,” said Amos. “Here, young feller, can you scuttle up to the
roof-tree and reconnoitre with this field-glass?—you’re considerably
lighter on your feet than me. Twist the wheel round here till you can see
plain. There’s a hole, I see, up to the loft. Is there one out on the
roof? Then scuttle!”
Mrs. Brown pushed the coffee back on the stove. “No use it burning,” said
she; and Amos admired her firm tones, though she was deadly pale. “If we
ain’t killed we’ll need it. Dave, don’t forget the camera. I’ll put up
some comforters to wrap the children in and something to eat.” She was
doing this with incredible quickness as she spoke, while Harned saw to
his gun and the loading of a pistol.
The pistol she took out of his hands, saying, in a low, very gentle
voice, “Give that to me, honey.”
He gave her a strange glance.
“They sha’n’t hurt little Davy or me, Dave,” she answered, in the same
voice.
Little Davy had gone to the woman and the baby, and was looking about
him with frightened eyes; his lip began to quiver, and he pointed to the
baby’s shoulder: “Injuns hurt Elly. Don’t let Injuns hurt Davy!”
The wretched father groaned.
“No, baby,” said the mother, kissing him.
“Hullo! up there,” called Amos. “What do you see?”
The shrill little voice rang back clearly, “They’re a-comin’, a terrible
sight of them.”
“How many? Twenty?”
“I guess so. Oh, uncle, the boat’s floated off!”
“Didn’t you fasten it?” cried Harned.
“God forgive me!” wailed the woman, “I don’t know!”
Harned sat down in the nearest chair, and his gun slipped between his
knees. “Maggie, give us a drink of coffee,” said he, quietly. “We’ll have
time for that before they come.”
“Can’t we barricade and fight?” said Amos, glaring about him.
“Then they’ll get behind the barn and fire that, and the wind is this
way.”
“We’ve _got_ to save the women and the kids!” cried Amos. At this moment
he was a striking and terrible figure. The veins of his temple swelled
with despair and impotent fury; his heavy features were transfigured in
the intensity of his effort to think—to see; his arms did not hang at his
sides; they were held tensely, with his fist clinched, while his burning
eyes roamed over every corner of the room, over every picture. In a flash
his whole condition changed, his muscles relaxed, his hands slid into his
pockets, he smiled the strangest and grimmest of smiles. “All right,”
said he. “Ah—Brown, you got any whiskey? Fetch it.” The women stared,
while Harned passively found a jug and placed it before him.
“Now some empty bottles and tumblers.”
“There are some empty bottles in the dark room; what do you mean to do?”
“Mean to save you. Brace up! I’ll get them. And you, Mrs. Brown, if
you’ve got any paregoric, give those children a dose that will keep them
quiet, and up in the loft with you all. We’ll hand up the kids. Listen!
You must keep quiet, and keep the children quiet, and not stir, no matter
what infernal racket you may hear down here. You _must_! To save the
children. You must wait till you hear one of us, Brown or me, call. See?
I depend on you, and you _must_ depend on me!”
Her eyes sought her husband’s; then, “I’m ready, sir,” she said, simply.
“I’ll answer for Johnny D., and the others I’ll make quiet.”
“That’s the stuff,” cried Amos, exultantly. “I’ll fix the red butchers.
Only for God’s sake _hustle_!”
He turned his back on the parting to enter the dark room, and when he
came back, with his hands full of empty bottles, Harned was alone.
“I told her it was our only chance,” said Harned; “but I’m damned if I
know what our only chance is!”
“Never mind that,” retorted Amos, briskly. He was entirely calm; indeed,
his face held the kind of grim elation that peril in any shape brings to
some natures. “You toss things up and throw open the doors, as if you all
had run away in a big fright, while I’ll set the table.” And, as Harned
feverishly obeyed, he carefully filled the bottles from the demijohn. The
last bottle he only filled half full, pouring the remains of the liquor
into a tumbler.
“All ready?” he remarked; “well, here’s how,” and he passed the tumbler
to Harned, who shook his head. “Don’t need a brace? I don’t know as you
do. Then shake, pardner, and whichever one of us gets out of this all
right will look after the women. And—it’s all right?”
“Thank you,” choked Harned; “just give the orders, and I’m there.”
“You get into the other room, and you keep there, still; those are the
orders. Don’t you come out, whatever you hear; it’s the women’s and the
children’s lives are at stake, do you hear? And no matter what happens
to _me_, you stay _there_, you stay _still_! But the minute I twist the
button on that door, let me in, and be ready with your hatchet—that will
be handiest. Savez?”
“Yes; God bless you, Mr. Wickliff!” cried Harned.
“Pardner it is, now,” said Wickliff. They shook hands. Then Harned shut
himself in the closet. He did not guess Wickliff’s plan, but that did not
disturb the hope that was pumping his heart faster. He felt the magnetism
of a born leader and an intrepid fighter, and he was Wickliff’s to the
death. He strained his ears at the door. A chair scraped the boards;
Wickliff was sitting down. Immediately a voice began to sing—Wickliff’s
voice changed into a tipsy man’s maudlin pipe. He was singing a war-song:
“‘We’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again,
Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom!’”
The sound did not drown the thud of horses’ hoofs outside. They sounded
nearer. Then a hail. On roared the song, all on one note. Wickliff
couldn’t carry a tune to save his soul, and no living man, probably, had
ever heard him sing.
“‘And we’ll drive the savage crew from the land we love the best,
Shouting the battle-cry—’
“Hullo! Who’s comin’? Injuns—mean noble red men? Come in, gen’lemen all.”
The floor shook. They were all crowding in. There was a din of guttural
monosyllables and sibilant phrases all fused together, threatening and
sinister to the listener; yet he could understand that some of them were
of pleasure. That meant the sight of the whiskey.
“P-play fair, gen’lemen,” the drunken voice quavered, “thas fine whiskey,
fire-water. Got lot. Know where’s more. Queer shorter place ever did see.
Aller folks skipped. Nobody welcome stranger. Ha, ha!—hic!—stranger found
the whiskey, and is shelerbrating for himself. Help yeself, gen’lemen. I
know where there’s shum—shum more—plenty.”
Dimly it came to Harned that here was the man’s bid for his life. They
wouldn’t kill him until he should get the fresh supply of whiskey.
“Where Black Blanket gone?” grunted Red Horse. Harned knew his voice.
“Damfino,” returned the drunken accents, cheerfully. “L-lit out, thas all
I know. Whas you mean, hitting each orrer with bottles? Plenty more. I’ll
go get it. You s-shay where you are.”
The blood pounded through Harned’s veins at the sound of the shambling
step on the floor. His own shoulders involuntarily hunched themselves,
quivering as if he felt the tomahawk between them. Would they wait,
or would they shy something at him and kill him the minute his back
was turned? God! what nerve the man had! He was not taking a step the
quicker—ah! Wickliff’s fingers were at the fastening. He flung the door
back. Even then he staggered, keeping to his rôle. But the instant he was
over the threshold the transformation came. He hurled the door back and
threw his weight against it, quick as a cat. His teeth were set in a grin
of hate, his eyeballs glittered, and he shook his pistol at the door.
“Come on now, damn you!” he yelled. “We’re ready.”
Like an echo to his defiance, there rose an awful and indescribable
uproar from the room beyond—screams, groans, yells, and simultaneously
the sound of a rush on the door. But for a minute the door held.
The clatter of tomahawk blades shook it, but the wood was thick; it held.
“Hatchet ready, pard?” said Wickliff. “When you feel the door give, slip
the bolt to let ’em tumble in, and then strike for the women and the
kids; strike hard. I’ll empty my pop into the heap. It won’t be such a
big one if the door holds a minute longer.”
“What are they doing in there?” gasped Harned.
[Illustration: “‘IT WON’T BE SUCH A BIG ONE IF THE DOOR HOLDS’”]
“They’re _dying_ in there, that’s what,” Wickliff replied, between his
teeth, “and dying fast. _Now!_”
The words stung Harned’s courage into a rush, like whiskey. He shot the
bolt, and three Indians tumbled on them, with more—he could not see how
many more—behind. Then the hatchet fell. It never faltered after that one
glimpse Harned had of the thing at one Indian’s belt. He heard the bark
of the pistol, twice, three times, the heap reeling; the three foremost
were on the floor. He had struck them down too; but he was borne back. He
caught the gleam of the knife lurching at him; in the same wild glance
he saw Wickliff’s pistol against a broad red breast, and Red Horse’s
tomahawk in the air. He struck—struck as Wickliff fired; struck not at
his own assailant, but at Red Horse’s arm. It dropped, and Wickliff fired
again. He did not see that; he had whirled to ward the other blow. But
the Indian knife made only a random, nerveless stroke, and the Indian
pitched forward, doubling up hideously in the narrow space, and thus
slipping down—dead.
“That’s over!” called Wickliff.
Now Harned perceived that they were standing erect; they two and only
they in the place. Directly in front of them lay Red Horse, the blood
streaming from his arm. He was dead; nor was there a single living
creature among the Indians. Some had fallen before they could reach the
door at which they had flung themselves in the last access of fury; some
lay about the floor, and one—the one with the knife—was stiff behind
Harned in the dark room.
“Look at that fellow,” called Harned. “I didn’t hit him; he may be
shamming.”
“I didn’t hit him either,” said Wickliff, “but he’s dead all the same.
So are the others. I’d been too, I guess, but for your good blow on that
feller’s arm. I saw him, but you can’t kill two at once.”
“How did you do it?”
“Doped the whiskey. Cyanide of potassium from your photographic drugs;
that was the quickest. Even if they had killed you and me, it would work
before they could get the women and children. The only risk was their
not taking it, and with an Indian that wasn’t so much. Now, pardner, you
better give a hail, and then we’ll hitch up and get them safe in the
settlement till we see how things are going.”
“And then?” said Harned, growing red.
Amos gnawed at the corners of his mustache in rather a shamefaced way.
“Then? Why, then I’ll have to leave you, and make the best story I can
honestly for the old lady. Oh yes, damn it! I know my duty; I never went
back on it before. But I never went back on a pardner either; and after
fighting together like we have, I’m not up to any Roman-soldier business;
nor I ain’t going to give you a pair of handcuffs for saving my life! So
run outside and holler to your frau.”
Left alone, Wickliff gazed about him in deep meditation, which at last
found outlet in a few pensive sentences. “Clean against the rules of war;
but rules of war are as much wasted on Injuns as ‘please’ on a stone-deaf
man! And I simply _had_ to save the women and children. Still it’s a
pretty sorry lay-out to pay five thousand dollars for the privilege of
seeing. But it’s a good deal worse to not do my duty. I shall never
forgive myself. But I never should forgive myself for going back on
a pardner either. I guess all it comes to is, duty’s a cursed blind
trail!”
THE HYPNOTIST
THE HYPNOTIST
There were not so many carriages in the little Illinois city with
chop-tailed horses, silver chains, and liveried coachmen that the clerks
in the big department shop should not know the Courtlandt landau, the
Courtlandt victoria, and the Courtlandt brougham (Miss Abbie Courtlandt’s
private equipage) as well as they knew Madam Courtlandt, Mrs. Etheridge,
or Miss Abbie. Two of the shop-girls promptly absorbed themselves in
Miss Abbie, one May morning, when she alighted from the brougham. For an
instant she stood, as if undecided, looking absently at the window, which
happened to be a huge kaleidoscope of dolls.
A tall man and two ragged little girls were staring at the dolls also.
Both the girls were miserably thin, and one of them had a bruise on her
cheek. The man was much too well clad and prosperous to belong to them.
He stroked a drooping black mustache, and said, in the voice of a man
accustomed to pet children, whether clean or dirty, “Like these dolls
better than yours, sissy?”—at the same time smiling at the girl with the
bruised cheek.
A sharp little pipe answered, “I ’ain’t got no doll, mister.”
“No, she ’ain’t,” added the other girl; “but _I_ got one, only it ’ain’t
got no right head. Pa stepped on its head. I let her play with it, and we
made a head outer a corn-cob. It ain’t a very good head.”
“I guess not,” said the man, putting some silver into her hand; “there,
you take that, little sister, and you go in and buy two dolls, one for
each of you; and you tell the young lady that waits on you just what you
told me. And if there is any money left, you go on over to that bakery
and fill up with it.”