wouldn't come off, if a sense of a joke was left in the conspirators.
Mary was keen for a laugh, and saw the funny side of things as quick as
any man, yet those poor little devils all out of place and condition
didn't raise a smile on her face. It did on mine, though. I thought of
'em, happy in their fleas, sun, and dirt, and then looked at the
early-Christian-martyr expression on their faces and choked, but that
laugh rode on sorrow and anger at that. It was a downright wickedness to
the children. I looked at Mary, knowing her for a kind woman--one who
loved all innocent play. I hit myself on the head at the
dumb-foolishness of it. How in the devil's name could she bring herself
to approve of this? Why is it we lay a course for somebody else we'd
never think of following ourselves? Well, I sat there and echo continued
to answer "Why?" as usual, till the silence thickened.
She broke it with a lucky proposition. "You seem very serious this
morning, Will," she said.
I told her that was so; looking at the poor little revolutionists in
their white shirts of suffering, I made up my mind to let her have it.
"I wonder," I said, "if it's asking too much of you to listen to me for
awhile. I had a miserable time of it, as a boy, and now and then it sits
on me so hard I like to speak to a friend for comfort."
It was the surest way to claim her time. She caught my hand.
"Certainly," she said. "If you only knew, Will, how anxious I am to be
of some real service in this world, instead of being told that I'm--"
"Let it go!" I put in. "That you're good to look at, and so forth?"
She nodded. "I don't mean that I'm so lofty-minded that I don't like it
sometimes, yet I mustn't grow to like it and--"
"For my part I'm glad there's some beauty in this little old world,"
said I. "I love to trig myself out as you see--give the folks a treat.
Honest, I can't see the harm in brightening up the landscape all you're
able. But, though I ain't much of a professional beauty, I can
understand that too much sugar leads to seasickness."
"You're as handsome a young man as a young man should be!" says Mary,
indignant. "Don't attempt a foolish modesty. I wish I were strong, and
six-foot-three, and a man!"
"Throw in the red hair?"
"You have beautiful hair! I believe you know it, you vain boy, and let
it grow purposely. And now you're just leading me to sound your
praises!"
I laughed. "I'd stick at nothing, for that," I answered. "Oh, why ain't
I ten years older! I'd have you out of here in a minute!"
"I believe you would," she said; "I don't believe you'd care for my
protests nor prayers nor tears. You'd just selfishly pick me right up
and walk away with me and bully me for the rest of my days!"
"Just that--Heavens! But I'd make it awful for you! Captain Jesse would
be a lambkin beside me!"
We both laughed, thinking of Jesse the Terrible.
"The dear old _Matilda_!" she said,--almost whispered,--and her eyes
grew softer.
"Happy times, weren't they? And coming after what I'd left--" I shook my
head.
"Tell me, Will."
"I've wondered how much was my not understanding," I went on, "and how
much I had to kick about. I suppose if I was older, I'd be like
Sax--keep my troubles to myself--but I haven't learned how, yet. Still,
I don't want to spoil your morning."
She frowned a little at Saxton's name, not an ill-tempered, but a
thoughtful frown, as a new idea struck her. She put it away from her,
and turned.
"That you should come to me, Will, is a high compliment. I know you're
not the kind to give your woes to the world. If--" she smiled at me, "if
you won't think it heartless of me, I'll say I'll enjoy hearing 'em."
"I understand," I answered; "just as, in a way, I'll enjoy telling them.
Well, here we go."
So I put the facts to her as fair and calm as I could, patterning after
Saxton's method. I hadn't his nerve; gradually heat swept into my
discourse. I forgot where I was and who I was talking to, as the old
wrongs boiled up.
When I finished I remembered, and sat back.
Mary was also still.
I rolled a cigarette and played for airiness. "Of course," I said, "it's
all in a lifetime."
She put her hand on mine. "Don't," she said, "don't."
I shut up. The minutes slid by heavy-footed.
At last she spoke.
"For sheer inhumanity," she said, "I think that is without an equal."
"Oh, no!" I said. "I reckon the story's common enough wherever people
let an idea ride 'em bareback. Father was a good man, with bad notions,
that's all."
I purposely let my eye fall on the little revolutionists, standing in a
melancholy line--nothing to do, nothing to think, all balloon-juice to
them.
As I hoped, her eyes followed mine. She straightened, seeing the point.
Color came into her face. "Children!" she called sharply in Spanish,
"why do you not run and play?"
The line fell into embarrassment. They hooked the dirt with their feet
and looked at each other.
"Alfonso!" said Mary, "start some game!"
The biggest boy took off his hat and smiled his grave, polite smile.
"_Si_, Senorita!" he replied; "but what is 'game'?"
"I've been so busy with--more important things that I haven't thought of
amusements," Mary explained to me, aside. There was apology in the
explanation; I heard with glad ears. "Is it possible they know no
games?"
"Why, I suppose they do, of a kind," I answered; "but it seems to me the
chief lack of these kids is real play; they're all little old men and
women; the kid spring is knocked out of 'em; they've lived in war and
slaughter so much they don't believe in anything else."
"Well," said she promptly, "that's a poor state of affairs."
"The worst," said I. "What kind of nation can you grow out of children
who have no fun? Their God will look like a first cousin of our devil. I
_did_ manage to rake some sport out of my time, or else I'd gone to the
bad entirely, I reckon."
The color deepened in her face. She didn't have to be hit with a club.
"We wanted to furnish them a moral backbone, first," she apologized
again. "It seemed necessary to give them some standards of conduct."
"I'd give 'em a good time, first--they're a hint young for standards."
"Just see them stand there! Why, they seem without an idea--what shall I
do with them?" She was all at a loss. "It isn't right, poor children!"
She suddenly turned to me, with eagerness in her face. "Couldn't you
stir them up, Will?"
"Sure!" says I, throwing away the cigarette. "Come along! Tag, you're
it!" and I lit out at a gallop, Mary after me, and the revolutionists
watching, altogether too polite to appear astonished. My! but that girl
could run! Jump, too; I cleared the fountain, thinking she'd have to go
'round, but she gathered her skirts in her hand and was over it in a
flash of black and white, clean-motioned as a greyhound.
"_Qui dado, compadres!_" I yelled. "Here comes the government army!"
Instantly they understood and scattered. By hollering at them, they
finally got the idea. Tag wouldn't have interested them--revolution did.
We divided into sides. As soon as they got going good, Mary and I
dropped out of it.
"There," said I, watching 'em running and hollering and giggling, "I
like that better."
"It is better," agreed Mary, "and my thanks to you for the change. I'm
afraid one forgets the little needs in thinking of the great ones."
"Mary," I said, "it may sound strange coming from me; I hope you won't
take it wrong; but do you know that in reading the New Testament plumb
through, I can't remember coming on a place where it says anything about
big needs? Please don't think I'm talking too careless for decency;
Christ always acted like a kind friend, as I see it. I can't believe it
would hurt His feelings a particle to hear me talk this way. He was
above worrying about lots of things that bother the churches. He stopped
to take a glass of wine and have a talk with a saloon-keeper. Now, if He
was God, was that a little thing? Does God do little useless things?
Remember, I thought these things over when I was getting it hard--stop
me, if I seem disrespectful."
"No," she said, "it sounds queerly to me, but I know you are not
disrespectful, Will. I wouldn't accuse you of being the kind of fool
who'd play smart at the expense of the Almighty."
"All right--glad you understand me. Now, listen! Is it great to pull a
long face? Is it right to get melancholy about religion, when the head
of it always preached happiness? Is it sensible to try and make every
one do your way, when you're told the nearer like little children we
are, the better we are off? Don't you think you're acting as if you knew
better than Christ Himself? You don't imagine that those kids, as they
were ten minutes ago, was what He meant when He said, 'Suffer little
children to come unto Me'? Seems to me you've altered the text to read:
'Suffer, little children, to come unto Me.' They sure were suffering in
them starched white shirts, but I'm betting the words weren't meant to
read like that."
"Will," she said earnestly, "I think I've made the common mistake of
supposing that I alone cared. Even now, while I feel you have more the
real spirit than I, your way of speaking jars on me." She sat down as if
she had suddenly grown weak. "I have simply worshiped a certain way of
doing things and forgotten the results and the reason for doing
anything. Your straight way of putting it makes my life seem
ridiculous."
She stopped with a miserable face. I hadn't, in the least, thought to
convince her. Most people will hang on to a mistake of that kind harder
than they will to a life-preserver. It was like turning a Republican
into a Democrat by simply showing him he was wrong--who'd go into
politics with that idea?
I stared at her, not believing. "Why, Mary," I said, hedging, as a
person will in such circumstances, "it ain't a cinch that I'm right. I'm
only a boy, and of course things appear to me boy fashion."
She cut me short. "To be honest, doubts have troubled me before this.
Your history proves what can be done by extreme--"
Up to this she had spoken quite quietly. Now she put her head in her
hands and burst out crying; fortunately we were in a little summer-house
where no one could see us.
"Oh, Will!" she sobbed out, "the struggle for nothing at all! All fight,
fight, and no peace! I want to be a good woman, I _do_; but what is
there for me?"
"Listen to me again," says I, so sorry that I had another attack of
reason. "There's this for you--to be a man's wife, and make him twice a
man because you are his wife; to raise boys and girls that prove what's
right--there's a job for you."
She dried her tears and smiled at me, ashamed of showing so much
feeling. "Is this an offer?" she said.
I had to laugh. "You don't squirm out that way, young lady--you were in
earnest and you know it. I'll take you, if necessary--by the Prophet
Moses, I _will_, if some other feller doesn't show up soon--but I want
to speak of a more suitable man."
She looked at me. It was a try at being stern, but, as a result, it was
a good deal more scared.
"You can do a great deal with me, Will," she said, "but I'll not hear a
word of Arthur Saxton."
"Then," says I, stern in dead earnest, "you are a foolish and an unfair
woman. You've believed what was told you; now you _shall_ hear a
friend."
"I will _not_," she cried, rising.
I caught her arms and forced her back into the seat. "You will," I
answered.
"Very well," she said with quivering lips. "If you wish to take
advantage of the friendship I have shown you, and, because you are
strong, make me hear what I have forbidden you to say, I'm helpless."
"All the mean things you say sha'n't stop me. Now, as long as you _must_
listen, won't you pay attention?" I asked this in my most wheedling
tone. I knew I'd fetch her. She stayed stiff for about ten seconds. Then
the dimples came.
"It makes me so angry to think I can't get angry with you, I don't know
what to do," she snapped at me. "You have no _business_ to talk to me
this way. I shouldn't stand it for a minute. You're nothing but a great
bully, bullying a poor little woman, you nice boy! Who ever heard of
such an argument? Because you _make_ me listen, I must pay attention!
Well, to show you what a friend I am, I will."
"Thank you, Mary," I said, holding out my hand. "Thank you, dear. You'll
not be the worse for hearing the truth. It isn't like you to condemn a
man unheard."
"I heard him."
"You heard a lunatic--he told me; why will you call up the worst of him
and believe only in that?"
She sprang up, outraged. "I do _not_ call up the worst of him! That is a
cowardly excuse--he should be man enough to--"
"Wait: I never meant you did it intentionally. Can't you see how anxious
he might be to please you? Can't you believe that if he did something he
thought would please you greatly, and you called him a rascal for it,
that the worst of him would likely come on top?"
"Yes," she answered slowly; "I can see that--_I_ should, I know."
"Of course you would. Now listen. I have a story for you, that your love
of kindness and nobility will find pleasure in."
Again I tried Saxton's method--there isn't a better one, if it's real
stuff you have to tell. Very quietly I put it to her as he had to me.
She had less color when I finished.
"If that is the truth, it _was_ noble," she said, when I finished. The
breath fluttered in her throat.
"It _is_ the truth. Arthur isn't too good to lie, by any means, but he
has too much pride and courage to lie about a thing like that."
She nodded her head in assent. I got excited, seeing victory in sight,
but had sense enough to keep cool. I knew, even at that early age,
there's snags sometimes underneath the smoothest water.
She sighed as if the life of her went out.
"Impulse," she said, "a noble impulse--and then? an ignoble one,
followed with the same determination."
That had too much truth in it. I didn't approve of his drinking himself
to death, because he couldn't have what he wanted.
"Yes," I answered smoothly, "and what he needs is a strong excuse to
make them all good--he has the strength to do it, you don't deny that?"
"He has strength to do anything--there is the pity of it. There never
lived a man who so had his life in his own hand as Arthur Saxton. Would
you have me marry him to reform him? Have I no right to feel proud, on
my side?"
"No, to the first," says I, "and yes, to the second. He has waked up at
last, I feel sure--if only you could believe in him a little more."
"Oh, Will!" she said, "that is what I fear the most. I don't care if he
demands much, for so do I, but to be dependent that way--I cannot trust
him, till he trusts himself."
"Yes, Mary," I agreed; "but at the same time, he's lots more of a man
than the average, handicap him with all his faults!"
She answered me with a curious smile. "Mine is an unhappy nature in one
way," she said; "half a loaf is worse than no bread to me. I'd rather
never know of Paradise than see and lose it." She threw her hands out
suddenly, in a gesture that was little short of agony.
"Oh, I wish sometimes I had no moral sense at all--that I could just
live and be happy--and I _can't_ be very good if I wish that--that's a
comfort." She turned to me. "Now, Will, I have opened my heart to you as
I could not have done to my own mother; will you believe me if I say I
cannot talk about this any more?"
"Sure, sweetheart," I said, and kissed her. She let her head stay on my
shoulder.
"You are a great comfort, brother Will," she said. The tone made
something sting in my eyes. Poor little woman, fighting it out all
alone, so unhappy under the smiles, so born to be happy!
I couldn't speak to save me. She looked up at my face. "You are a brave
and noble gentleman, brother mine," she said. I think that would have
finished me up--I am such a darned woman at times, but she changed quick
as lightning.
"Let's play with the children," she said. "We've had enough of this."
I was glad to scamper around. One thing was certain. I'd hurt Sax none,
and proved the value of my plan. Another thing I wanted to know I
learned on leaving.
"Mary," I said, as if it was an understood thing between us, "why did
Mr. Belknap speak against Saxton?"
She fell into the trap, unthinking. "Because he wished to warn me, of
course. And in spite of all you say, Will--forgive me--he is a man of
such insight, I cannot believe him altogether wrong."
"It would be bad if Belknap didn't turn out the man you think him,
wouldn't it?" I asked, innocently.
"It would," she said. And with that I came away.
XIV
BROTHER BELKNAP'S REVOLUTION
The next thing needed in my calculations was time. My three-day vacation
ended Monday; I had to have an extension or a sure thing on another,
shortly. I was ready to throw up my job, but I felt it wouldn't come to
that, likely, so I pulled for home and Jim.
At the store Pedro told me Jim had been there yesterday afternoon, but
left at once in no pleasant frame of mind. Pedro didn't know where he
had gone. Took out toward the east, riding fast.
I didn't know what to do. If I went after him, it was likely I'd miss
him; if I waited, he mightn't be around again for days.
"What ailed him, Pede?" I asked.
"That is that which I am not to know," says Pedro. "He cuss and swear
mos' fiercily. He also es-strike one stranger _hombre_ who has been here
making conversation with the workers. _Si_, he strike heem verree
strong, so that the stranger does not know anything for one hour. He
also say he will to shoot that stranger if he put the foot on thees
groun' again. The men that are there make protestation and Senor Holton
say, 'You are fools.' And Pepe, the large one, say, 'I am not a fool,'
and Senor Holton say, 'No--you are a jackass,' and Pepe say, 'You have
abused us much.' I am astonish to hear that, for of all men I have seen
none is so kind to the people as Senor Holton; and I am moved to say,
'Pepe, you lie!' He thereupon strike me at the nose, as you see. I
say,'Pepe, you may strike my nose, but that does not make you not a
liar--a liar is what you are.' And Senor Holton say, 'Mind them not,
Pedro, you are an honest man; but now I shall to abuse them for the fair
if I do hear one cheep,' and he draw out his peestol and say, 'Yap, you
coyotes! Let me hear you!' and there is such silence that one may hear
his heart. Then Senor Holton say to me, 'Pedro, this is bad business.
Mind the store the best you can--I must ride. If they come at you h'run
away--I do not care for these goods, and you have spoken up like a
man.'" Pedro smote himself upon the lung with his clenched fist. "H'run
I shall not," says he. "Thees store can only be obtain by making the
es-step over my corpsey."
"Corpsey" sounded kind of frivolous for the occasion. However,
underneath all the rolling eye and fine large gestures, the sand of the
little man lay strong. I didn't understand the racket at all, but I knew
it meant business or Jim would never have taken such a stand.
"Why didn't you tell me this first, Pedro?" I asked. "I might have gone
away and left you alone."
"That was what I try to weesh," said he. "For you are young, and there
is life before you. These are b-a-a-d fallows, these; if they keel
Pedro, eet ees no harm, but you have been kin' to me, and I do not weesh
you hurt. So I say, I shall let him go; they mus' not harm Beel; and
then I feel so verree lonesome, and I think, He shall know and for
himself decide."
"Why, you darned old Guinea!" I yelled at him, "d'you suppose I'd leave
you to buck this through alone? I don't know what got into Jim not to
put some men in with you."
Pedro shrugged his shoulders. "Senor Holton had no time--what it ees,
ees emperative--and for those men, they are all mad, I think. They come
and es-swear at me, who never have done them injury--I, never! Who can
say Pedro harmed him? They only leave when you are to arrive."
I don't know why, but suddenly it came upon me that we were stacked
against a crowd of men--I mean it came right _real_ to me, and I sat
down in a chair, limp. I never admired a man more than I did Pedro, at
that moment. There he was, the little man I so often laughed at, quietly
going about his business, waiting for a crowd to come and kill him! I
didn't mind one or two, or perhaps a few more men, so much, but the
crowd threw a crimp into me. When you learn how much bigger a coward a
crowd is, than any one man in it, you are not so troubled, but then!
Well, it was the first time I'd been right down terrified in my life,
and it was awful. I raked the sweat off my forehead, steadied myself the
best I could, and says:
"Well, Pede, we're in for it!"
"_Tiene V. razon!_" says he; "but we will to do what we can. If I live,
always shall I remember how Beel stay with me."
I've heard it said that a good example will steady you when you're
scart. Out of my personal experience I beg to differ. I got mad at Pedro
for not being frightened; and the more I thought how well he behaved,
the worse rattled I got. I sat there, in a hot chill every time I heard
a noise outdoors, till at last some sense came back to me. "This won't
do!" says I. "Here, Pede, where's the hot-water bottle?"
He handed me a bottle of brandy. I put the neck to my neck and warmed my
poor soul. Lord! but it tasted good. Dutch courage ain't on the same
shelf with real courage, but it's a durned sight better than
scart-to-death in a rumpus.
I hadn't more than time to give a "hoo" of satisfaction and put the
bottle down, when there came a running and a yelling down the road. Pede
and I jumped for the door together. The valley lay flat between the
hills, north of us, and you could see a mile to the turn in the road.
Down the road two men were running for their lives, a screeching gang
after them, peppering 'em with rocks, clubs, and what not. Also there
was the shine of knives--the shine that always sickens me. I waited for
a gun-shot, but none came. The two had fifty yards' start, and they
weren't losing it, if they could help it. As they drew nearer I could
hear remarks about Papists from the crowd. In a second I saw the
play--Brother Belknap's revolution!
That braced me. The victims ran with their arms over their heads for
protection; when one dropped his arms and raised his head to cry for
help, I recognized Tony Gonzales, the squarest, nicest man in the place.
That steadied me more yet. Fifty men to the two!
"Come on, Pedro!" I hollered. We each grabbed a pick-handle, and with
that in one hand and a gun in the other, we went to the door.
"Beel," says Pedro, "let us to remain here. They cannot be hurt now, for
they run verree fas'. The es-store is a fort. If we stay, we do better."
I took in the situation. Tony and his mate were keeping distance nobly.
I suppose they drew a clip or two from a stone, but they were in no
deadly danger unless the crowd got hold of them. Pedro wasn't much of a
hand to sell groceries and truck, but he was a durned good general when
it came to war.
"Queeck, Beel!" says he. "For to defend us make closed the windows and
doors, but the one!"
We worked sharp, rolling barrels against the doors and slapping boxes of
canned goods against the window-shutters. The work did me a power of
good. Anger had driven out most of my fear, yet getting my muscles into
use was needed to remove the rest of the poison from my system.
Next I broke open a box of cartridges and spread them on the counter,
while Pedro loaded revolvers taken from the stock. By the time the feet
drew near, we were in fighting trim. Another cry for help sounded almost
at the door. Pede and I rushed out.
"Get in, boys," I said, "and grab a gun!" They ducked under my arm and
entered the store.
The rest drew up in a huddle, a ways off, and stopped.
"Now, gentlemen," I said in the best Spanish I could muster, "what's the
matter?"
I got no answer, but bad looks. They talked and muttered among
themselves, and shifted about, with ugly motions--as black and
treacherous a mob as a man would like to dream of.
My temperature went right up. I naturally despise not getting an answer
to a question. One lad shook his fist and growled something.
That was all. I waited. "Once more," says I, "what's the matter?" Same
performance. I shot a hole through the hat of the lad who shook his
fist. "Third and last call," says I, "what's the matter?" but they broke
and ran.
My play held 'em for a minute. Our best show was to take the top hand at
once, so I walked down to them.
"Now I want to know what ails you people," I said, getting the meaning
into Spanish, if the words were a little mixed, "and I want to know
quick, or there'll be a fuss right here."
A big feller jeered at me: "Put down the gun, and _I'll_ show you what's
the matter," he said.
"You will?" says I, parting with what sense I had. "You yellow-bellied
snake-in-the-grass! _You_ will show a white man, will you? Come on out
here, you that's so brave in a crowd!"