Alexander Sangerly—“Lex” Sangerly, his friends called him—was a
democratic type of Californian, who did not believe that the fact of
his father being Western manager of the Mohave & Southwestern
Railroad system should of necessity mean that that father’s son must
take any exalted credit unto himself. So, notwithstanding the fact
that Lex held the important post of division superintendent of the
road, he was not above meeting the rank and file of his departments
on their own plane, mixing with them, addressing them by their given
names, and conducting himself generally in business as well as
social affairs very much like any red-blooded human.
Incidentally, it might be well to mention that, although only
twenty-seven years old, he was already blossoming out into a
prominent railroad figure, with the likelihood of making good future
presidential timber for some transcontinental road.
The gold camp of Geerusalem was Lex’s first acquaintance with a
desert bonanza settlement, that is, one in the high noon of its
prosperity, its mines giving up great fortunes, its people drunk
with success scattering their wealth prodigally, its night life
unlicensed, violent with rashness and lust; yet Geerusalem with all
its lawlessness gripped him with a compelling fascination, the
fascination one feels who looks for the first time on something
horribly real, incredible of human toleration, though tolerated and
upheld by a civilized population that drops back to the primitive
when the law is weak.
However, apart from his curiosity and interest in this wild, waspish
desert camp, Lex had by chance discovered, on the very day of his
arrival, a far more important reason why he was glad he had come to
Geerusalem. As he was driving his high-powered roadster up the main
street his eye alighted on a modest little signboard nailed above a
tiny store, crowded between two large adobe buildings. It read:
“Mrs. Agatha Liggs, Dry Goods.”
He had read that modest little sign, with a thrill of joy. There
could be but one Agatha Liggs in the whole wide world, he told
himself, and that was the dear little woman whom he had known far
back in his boyhood days—the mother of his chum and pal, Jerome
Liggs.
His earliest memory of Mrs. Liggs and her son dated back to when he
was five years old, living in the archaic town of San José, with his
parents, during the dark period of his father’s striving to rise out
of the rut of clerkship. The two families had been next-door
neighbors for a number of years, and he remembered Jerome’s father
as a big jovial man, who used to drive a truck by day and play cards
with the elder Sangerly by night.
Jerome and Lex attended the same school. Mrs. Liggs’ son was a
sturdy, fearless youngster, the dunce of his class. Lex, on the
other hand, was timid and delicate, studious and a star scholar.
Singularly enough, they had formed a great friendship, perhaps
because of their very contrariness of character one to the other and
their natural tendency to lean on each other, as it were. Lex never
really knew how many times doughty Jerome had stepped in and
thrashed a boy bully for him, but he did know that these services
more than amply repaid him for the innumerable times that he had
helped his champion with problems in arithmetic, grammar, spelling,
and the rest of the educational mysteries. Nor could he ever
remember the number of occasions he had shared Jerome’s bed
overnight; nor had he ever forgotten the countless fat slices of
Mrs. Liggs’ pumpkin pie he had devoured.
Up to the age of twelve, this Damon-Pythias comradeship had
continued uninterruptedly. Then came the day when Sangerly, senior,
had invented a cold-storage system that had promptly found marked
favor with the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad, with the result that,
besides purchasing his patents, it employed him to oversee the
installation of the apparatus in its refrigerator cars.
In the years following the departure of the Sangerlys from San José,
the Liggs’ family had dropped out of sight. Lex had once heard from
a mutual friend that Jerome’s father had been killed in an accident,
and that the widow had moved to the southern part of the State. But
though he had never found out what had become of him, he always
retained a tender memory of his boy chum, and there seemed nothing
that could ever blot out his respect for the lowly pumpkin pie. Now
here at last, he had suddenly discovered, in this uproarious
frontier settlement of Geerusalem, of all places, the motherly
little Mrs. Liggs.
It is scarcely to be wondered at then, that after his talk with
Lemuel Huntington in the U. & I. saloon, and before he began his
search for the vanished twenty thousand dollars, he must first pay a
visit to that diminutive dry-goods store on the main street. At the
very moment that Dot’s father was speeding out of town in the
automobile that was to take him and his daughter on the first leg of
their journey to San Francisco, Lex brought his roadster to a stop
before Mrs. Liggs’ establishment.
He found to his surprise that the place was to all appearances
closed for the day, the blind drawn down over the display window.
Nevertheless, he knocked sharply and peered into the dark interior
through the small glass panel in the upper half of the door.
Presently the door in the rear of the store opened, and, after a
short hesitation, the proprietress herself came walking slowly
forward, wiping her eyes on her apron, arranging her white hair and
smoothing out her immaculate, stiffly-starched dress. The next
moment she was standing in the doorway, looking inquiringly at him
through her spectacles.
“Mother Liggs! Bless your dear old heart!” he cried out in a voice
vibrant with feeling. “Don’t you know me? Lex Sangerly!” He beamed
on her, while she, squinting up at him, searched his face with
infinite gravity, a trace of suspicion in her look.
She was a tiny, tired-out mite of a woman, around sixty-five, her
hair like snowy silk, her eyes a faded blue, large, and just now
showing indications of recent tears. Her dress, muslin and rather
old-fashionedly made, was the most correct thing in feminine attire
worn in the camp; at least, so declared the godless population of
Geerusalem.
She studied her visitor for a few seconds, then her eyes lighted up
like twin stars. “Lex—Lex Sangerly! You dearest, dearest boy. Of all
things—Lex Sangerly! Oh, I’m so—so glad to see you, Lex. So awful
glad to see you——” She choked suddenly.
Clutching his hand, she led him inside, locked the door and,
chattering her joy, escorted him to the little living room back of
the store. She insisted on his occupying her best chair, fixed a
footstool for him under his feet, and sat close beside him, feasting
her gaze on him, listening hungrily while he talked. And this he
did, regaling her with a summary of what he and his family had been
doing since she last saw them. It was a dazzling recital of
achievement, with happiness and success through every portion of it,
one of those inspiring narratives that makes one’s failures seem
more prodigious than they really are.
“And now,” he concluded, “the old man has ordered me to camp out
here on this desert until I find out what Billy Gee—the notorious
outlaw who was captured last night—did with the twenty thousand
dollars he stole from our company. I guess you’ve heard all about
it.”
She had taken up her knitting while he talked, her fingers
manipulating the needles mechanically, though her eyes never left
his face. She stopped now to disentangle a snarl and bent her head
over it, plucking nervously at the yarn.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” she said, at last. “Have you any idea, Lex——”
“Not the slightest. I’m making a search of Mr. Huntington’s ranch.
That’s where he was caught, you know. By the way, you must know
Huntington—a rancher, south of here?”
She nodded as she resumed her knitting. “He made ten thousand
dollars mighty easy. The easiest money Lem Huntington ever
made—bringing in a dying man.” There was a strain of bitterness in
her tones.
“He has rendered the community a great service, Mother Liggs; we
can’t overlook that fact,” said Lex. “This wretched scoundrel, Billy
Gee, has held up M. & S. trains for the past three years, robbed
passengers, and laughed at every posse that ever took up his trail.
He’s always been invincible, I hear, managing to slip his pursuers
whenever he wanted to. He’s been a menace.”
“That might all be, Lex, but there’s some good in the worst of us.
You’ll admit that, won’t you?”
He smiled. “You’re not very familiar with this crook’s exploits, I
can see that, Mother Liggs. Why, trainmen who have brushed up
against him say he’d as soon kill a man as look at him.”
An audible gasp broke from her. Her thin face paled and set ever so
little, while into her faded eyes rose a flickering fire.
“It ain’t true. It’s—it’s sinful for any one to say such a thing.
Lex, I want to tell you something about Billy Gee that you can
believe, because I never lie, and that is—he’s given away every cent
he ever stole. Don’t ask me how I know. Ask any man on the street,
and he’ll tell you that there’ll be more broken hearts and empty
cupboards now that Billy Gee is—is gone, than if the Geerusalem
mines shut down to-morrow.” She paused, then added: “I know it don’t
sound just right, Lex, but I wish—I wish he’d never been caught.”
Sangerly regarded her curiously for a moment. Some appealing, subtle
sadness he saw in her face caused him to burst out with a merry
laugh and lean over and take her in his arms.
“I wouldn’t try to disillusion you for the world, you darling,” he
cried, as he kissed her. “You nor any other woman could condemn a
man of Billy Gee’s type. You all feel for the wayward man. You pity
him. You want to help him, for that is the blessed mission of this
wonderful mother love of yours.” He digressed, with a broad smile:
“Before I forget, I want to take you out for some real joy rides in
a new roadster I have; which means, of course, that you must
introduce me around among the first families of Geerusalem. I want
to be initiated into the mysteries of bacon and beans and sour dough
bread.”
She returned his smile and looked at him, admiration in her eyes.
“Did you meet Dot—Lem Huntington’s daughter?” she asked presently.
“No. She’s one of the belles of the camp, I suppose?”
“Dot Huntington is one of the finest girls in the West, Lex.”
“Whew! You’re some little booster. Pretty?”
“Pretty as a picture, and sensible. That’s a combination you don’t
often find, Lex, and you know it. She’s a girl any man would kneel
to,” she said solemnly.
“Mother Liggs, you interest me. You must tell me more about this
charming young lady. I want to meet her. You see, I’ve always
believed my San Francisco girl was the prize winner, but it just may
be that this fair daughter of Geerusalem is—well, I’ll tell you
after I see her.” He paused, then resumed seriously: “Right now, I
want to hear about your own affairs. How have you been getting along
all these years? And you haven’t even mentioned Jerome. Where is
he?”
It was very quiet in Mrs. Liggs’ living quarters, quite like a
sanctuary; the three rooms flanked on either side by drab adobe
walls and overlooking a back yard of some size, cut up into little
plots—the only flower garden in Geerusalem, with a patch of
vegetables growing in one corner. A gate opened into a narrow
alleyway that led to the rear street.
“Jerome?” echoed Mrs. Liggs, after a short silence. She was gazing
intently at her knitting. “Jerome is dead, Lex.” She spoke slowly,
haltingly.
“Dead!”
He looked hard at the snowy bowed head a moment. Then he drew her
gently to him again and laid his cheek against hers.
“I am so sorry to hear that,” he said in a voice that was tenderly
sympathetic. “How long ago——”
“Lex, deary!” she broke in sobbingly. “Don’t let’s talk about
it—please! The wound is too fresh, the pain in my heart is too—I
can’t explain. Some of these days maybe, I’ll tell you the story.
There ain’t many that would understand—that would believe. I know
you could, ’cos—’cos you and Jerome were such good friends. When I
saw you, you looking so—so happy and prosperous, I just—I just
couldn’t help thinking that my boy——” She couldn’t finish. Burying
her face in her apron, she wept disconsolately as if her heart would
break.
Some time afterward, she told him about herself from the day fifteen
years ago, that the Sangerlys moved from San José, and he remarked
that it was much the same tale of striving that any of thousands of
American mothers might relate—the indomitable, ceaseless struggle to
get ahead.
“Then, after Mr. Liggs’ death, we drifted north to Marysville,” she
concluded wearily. “I went into the delicatessen business and did
well. One day, Jerome—it was a hard battle alone, Lex, but I managed
to save money, and afterward I came to Geerusalem and opened this
store. I’m the only woman in business here, and every one patronizes
me. The boys won’t allow anybody to run opposition to me,” she
added, with a faint smile.
Two hours passed quickly, considering that Mrs. Liggs insisted that
Lex have lunch with her, disregarding his attempts to explain that
he had an appointment with his two detectives at one o’clock.
So it was early afternoon when he finally picked up his hat and
prepared to leave. At that juncture, a sharp knock sounded on the
kitchen door, and the following moment, Mrs. Liggs was ushering
forward an outlandish, shriveled-up, old fellow of seventy, who
halted suddenly in the center of the room and fastened a pair of
watery blue eyes suspiciously on Lex.
“This is Tinnemaha Pete, Lex,” said Mrs. Liggs. “He’s my prospector,
and some day we’re going to strike it rich. Ain’t we, Pete? This is
Mr. Sangerly. I knew him when he wore long curls, Pete, and he used
to cuddle up in my lap and go to sleep. Didn’t you, Lex?”
“I see that ornery skunk, Lem Huntington, sashayin’ round in a
ottermobile—too cussed lazy to drive hisself,” cackled the funny,
little old man. “Hell burn his rotten hide! I’d like to—— Hoo, hoo!
I’ll fix the stink-cat. See ef I don’t! What’s yore business, Mr.
Spangaree? You’re sorter high-toned, ain’t you? City duck, what?” He
tossed a bulging canvas sack he carried on his shoulder into a
corner of the room. “There’s some rock, Agatha—tol’rable good,
tol’rable good.”
Tinnemaha Pete was a horrible example of what the Southwestern
desert does to men who sneer at its death-dealing forces and flirt
with its snares too long. His body was warped, twisted, broken, his
skin dry and tough as weathered leather, his eyes rheumy, burned out
by sun glare. A pathetically few thin long hairs of beard still
remained to him, and a scanty rim of gray circling the back of his
bony, bald head, were the only evidences of a once shaggy brown
thatch with which nature had endowed him.
Tinnemaha Pete, however, knew the Mohave Desert from center to
circumference better than any man of those times, it was freely
conceded. Whatever that gaunt, fiery, dead land had done to him,
however hard it had striven to lay him a paralyzed heap to roast
alive on its molten bosom, it had not killed the questing spirit of
the prospector in him. Winter and summer, for a quarter of a century
and more, he had searched and searched and searched that vast
solitude for the undiscovered treasures which his experience told
him must be somewhere embedded in those countless, chromatic ranges
that crisscrossed that untrodden principality.
Through his years of wandering he had come to know the face of the
Mohave as intimately as he knew the vile, black, short-stemmed pipe
he smoked. What was equally, if not more, important, he had taught
Billy Gee what he knew of that desert, thereby making the bandit
invincible when fleeing over this no man’s land, with posses yelping
at his heels.
A few minutes after the arrival of Tinnemaha Pete, Lex took his
departure. Mrs. Liggs saw him to the street door and stood watching
him wistfully as he drove away up the street. Then she shuffled
tiredly back to the living room, dropped into a chair, and buried
her face in her hands. Tinnemaha Pete peered hard at her, his lips
moving, guttural sounds issuing from his throat.
“What ails ye?” he cried out. “What ails ye, Agatha?”
And because he surmised and was powerless to help her, he started a
wild falsettoed string of abuse leveled at Lemuel Huntington,
Sheriff Warburton, and that destiny to whose exactions all men must
yield themselves.
“Jerome, son!” sobbed Mrs. Liggs forlornly. “Why couldn’t you have
been like him? Dear God, what have I done that I should suffer like
this? My burden is so heavy. Lord, so awful heavy. Pete—Pete, that
was Jerome’s chum, his boyhood chum. And I—I had to tell him Jerome
was—was dead. I—I just couldn’t tell him the—the truth.”
The queer old desert rat broke into a gale of insane laughter. “Mark
me! Cuss-durn me, you mark me, Agatha!” he squeaked excitedly, his
watery eyes afire. He trotted up to her side and shook a dried claw
of a finger into her face. “Mark ye! Let Jerome boy git clear of
that scalawag politician sheriff, an’ he’ll be off like a
jackrabbit! Hain’t I learned him how to hide an’ go seek in that
sand pile? Eh, hain’t I? Glory be, she’s a grand sand pile, Agatha!
An’ he knows her, Jerome does—every hide-out, every water hole, the
ol’ Injun trails, the ornery tricks of her an’—an’ there’s scores on
scores of box cañons, that he knows, that he kin crawl out of an’
give Mr. Sheriff the hoss laugh. Yes, he kin. An’ nobody knows ’em,
but me an’ him. Wommin! He’ll be off like a jackrabbit, I tell ye,
wunst he’s in the clear.” He paused, glaring about the room. The
canvas sack he had thrown in the corner caught his eye. “There’s the
rock he asked you to have me git him, Agatha. It’s lousy—plumb lousy
with gold, d’ye mark? An’ the ledge’ll go down to hell, she’s that
true. I’ve called her the ‘Billy Geerusalem,’” he added in a furious
whisper.