Walking their horses down Geerusalem Gulch, they went, riding side
by side. Neither spoke. They passed the lonely, dilapidated rock hut
where Lennox, wounded, had applied for help on that exciting night
of his flight from camp, and crossed the monumented gravel bar that
was to be known thereafter as Quintell’s Unlucky Boy. Ahead of them
spread the great, gray floor of Soapweed Plains, looking under the
sheen of the moon like some placid ghostly sea. From out of the
immeasurable distances came the pitiful howl of a wild dog foraging
hopelessly for food.
As they reached the point in the gulch where it began to spill its
rocky bottom over the bosom of the plains, Dot turned her head and
looked at Billy Gee. Her face was pale, her lips drawn.
“Why did you ever do it, Jerome?” she asked in dead tones.
He bent a sharp glance at her. Her cheeks shone wet in the
moonlight.
“I’m glad now I did, Dot,” he said simply. “But he had me dead to
rights—arrested. I couldn’t help it. It was my only way out. An’ I
wanted to save you folks, an’ there was Lex bein’ swindled on that
placer proposition. I wouldn’t stand for——”
“How did you know?”
“I seen him. It was right out yonder,” he said, pointing back up the
wash where he had overheard Quintell and Harrison discussing the
salting of the Lucky Boy group the night before. He explained the
incident briefly to her. “He lit a match, an’ I got a look at his
face an’ knowed him. You can’t ever guess how I felt about it, Dot,”
he went on, in a harsh voice. “Here was the man who had made me a
bandit, the man I bin huntin’ and huntin’ for three years. When he
planted that evidence against me to clear himself an’ make me out
the thief, I was one of his clerks, an’ I’d already bin talked about
to run against him at the next election. That’s why he done it, I
reckon. Well, it’s all over now.”
“But Pete knew all about it. Oh, Jerome, why didn’t you let him
swear out a warrant for Quintell’s arrest!” cried Dot miserably.
“Poor ol’ Pete! He’s scary an’ funny, an’ more’n likely they’d think
he was jest imaginin’ things. No, Dot! It’s better the way it turned
out.” He paused, then continued in slow, plaintive tones: “After I
got away from them night riders this mornin’, I kept lookin’ back. I
was afraid they’d drop in at the ranch ag’in—an’ my mother was
there. An’—well, you was out yonder, too, Dot. Anyway, I was worried
an’ wasn’t watchin’ for Warburton. That’s how he come to git me.
“He took me over to Blue Mud Spring, an’ me an’ him an’ yore dad
rode back to the ranch together. Then I told him about the
Marysville robbery, an’ Pete tells his story of how he seen Miles
leavin’ the city hall with a valise, round one o’clock, the night
before the robbery. There was a lot more said, for instance, how
Miles, or Quintell, as he calls himself, was tryin’ to drive you
folks out o’ the country, an’ how he’d salted these claims to hold
up the railroad comp’ny. Then I got the idea to git Miles, myself. I
told Warburton I figgered that much was comin’ to me, seein’ as how
Miles had made me a criminal. Yore dad took sides with me, Dot. Yes,
he did. An’ Warburton agreed. He put me on my honor.”
He laughed. “Everything’s turned out dandy. An’ the Billy Geerusalem
claims is goin’ to be split three ways, between Pete, my mother, an’
yore dad. That’s all bin fixed, Dot, an’ better days are comin’.”
As he finished speaking, he reached out suddenly, and his hand
closed hard over hers. Her face was averted, streaming with silent
tears. She was gazing mutely toward the boundless stretches of
desolation beyond which lay the now invisible violet and yellow
scallop of range that had formed the background of all her past
romantic dreams. She faced him suddenly, a sob bursting from her,
clutching his hand spasmodically.
“It’s not too late, Jerome. It’s not too late,” she cried. “You can
escape. You have to! He must not take you. Do you know what it’ll
mean? The penitentiary for life! Dear God! Never to get free! To
count the long, long years passing, to grow old and wasted, to die
and find your freedom in the grave. Jerome, he must not take you.
You owe it to yourself, to your mother, to me! Jerome, for my sake,
if for no other reason!”
She jerked her horse to an abrupt stop. Gone was her restraint. She
was weeping passionately, appealingly, with hysterical abandon. He
reined in beside her, leaned out of the saddle, caught her in his
arms, and drew her to him. His breath was coming from him in great
gasps.
“Dot—darling!” he choked hoarsely.
Her heart opened then, and she poured into his ear the strength of
her love for him, all her secret hopes, her fears, her mounting
despair, in one desperate outpouring of entreaty.
“Don’t you remember, Jerome, dearest?” she sobbed distractedly.
“‘You poor, wounded wild animal,’ I called you. I wanted you then.
You wandered out of my dreamland, a part of my dreams. You came
living—dying, to me. You belonged to me. You belong to me now—now
that my heart is breaking for you, dear.” She stroked his face
fiercely with her hands. “To-night, I’ll speak to father. You must
be on your way to the Mexican border by midnight. We’ll sell the
ranch and the claims and follow, with your mother as soon as——”
She broke off. Through the dead silence, bearing down on them from
the rear, came the sound of mad hoofs, the pop of a quirt against an
animal’s flanks mingling with the wild, weird cries of a man. Then,
into view loomed a diminutive rider. It was Tinnemaha Pete astride
one of his little burros. Like some grotesque goblin of the night he
came speeding up to them, cackling and sputtering incoherently.
“They tell me ye give up—quit like a dollar watch. Quit like a——” he
screeched insanely, jerking his puffing burro to a stop. “Say it’s a
danged lie, Billy! Billy, d’ye hear? Don’t tell me ye ain’t got the
guts. Don’t tell me, my Billy boy ain’t got the guts. The son of
Agatha! D’ye mark that, Dot? D’ye want—d’ye want to—d’ye want to
kill me, Billy? To know—to know the buzzards’ll be peckin’ my
innards outer me, sooner’n they oughter?”
He waved his skinny arms, a curious spasm of emotion sweeping over
him, racking his shriveled little body.
“Jerome, did you hear? Oh, how can you refuse? How can you—— And
Sheriff Warburton would understand. He is so good and generous.
Please, Jerome, darling! Do as I say,” pleaded Dot passionately.
It was nearly midnight when Lemuel Huntington admitted them. Dot was
pale and drawn of face, her eyes filled with suffering. Tinnemaha
Pete puffed furiously at his old pipe and muttered endlessly to
himself. Billy Gee sat down, bowed his head, and stared at the
floor. Presently the girl brought up a chair and, taking her place
close beside him, leaned her cheek against his arm and wept.
Lemuel, clad in an old-fashioned night robe, stood and blinked at
them soberly. Throughout that day he had been repairing, where he
could, the damage wrought by the night riders, so that, lacking
certain pieces of furniture destroyed beyond all hope of
restoration, the interior of the house looked much the same as it
always had.
Standing thus, watching the trio, he presently nodded gravely to
himself; for he recalled the agreement Billy Gee had entered into
with Bob Warburton, and he knew without being told that Jule
Quintell’s activities were at an end. Moreover, he was witnessing
the verification of a long-standing suspicion that his Dot was in
love with this outlaw. Without a word, he tiptoed into the little
closet where Lennox lay and closed the door after him.
“It’s hell,” he whispered to the mining engineer, after they had
discussed the situation. “But she’ll ferget it, soon’s she gits back
to her edjucation. That’s one blessing. But ain’t it too bad,
Lennox? You see, he saved my life to-day, when them kiyotes were
takin’ me——”
“He saved mine, too,” broke in the other with a sigh.
The next day dawned finally. The sun rose, gloriously bright, and a
playful little breeze came frolicking merrily out of the northwest.
A lone mocking bird had lingered for one whole hour in the
elderberry tree in the garden, pouring out a beautiful pæan,
heralding to the desolate world its love of life and freedom.
Billy Gee was still at the ranch. He sat on the front porch with
Dot. They sat facing the distant island of chromatic hills where
nestled the camp of Geerusalem, watching the white thread of road
that led to it. Sheriff Warburton would come by that road. Now and
again, the girl would moan pitifully and wring her hands in silent
agony. Every little while, Billy Gee would clasp her close, and he
would kiss her hungrily and whisper fierce words of endearment into
her ear.
Seated on a bench at one end of the porch, was Tinnemaha Pete. Like
a faithful dog grown old and purblind and helpless, he kept his
rheumy eyes riveted on this youthful partner of his who was
determined to keep his promise with the “keys of the penitentiary.”
Never, never had Tinnemaha Pete felt so broken-hearted, so near
death, so desperate. A dark, awful resolution had found a sanctuary
in his fanatical old brain. In the back pocket of his voluminous
overalls lay a loaded revolver.
“An’ they kin hang me after,” he murmured to himself, over and over.
“An’ they kin hang me after. I’ve lived long enough—what? He ain’t.
An’ they kin hang me after. Betcha life, they kin—an’ I’ll laugh at
’em.”
From the direction of the barn came the sounds of Lemuel’s hammer,
restoring the ravages of the mob. He was unusually solemn and
thoughtful. Presently he threw down the hammer and perched himself
on the top rail of the corral and watched the road to Geerusalem.
The hours dragged by, heavy, tragic hours. Eight, nine, ten, eleven
o’clock came and went. At half past eleven, an automobile suddenly
made its appearance out of the far-away island of hills. It
approached at a wild rate. The driver proved to be Lex
Sangerly—alone. He brought the car to a stop, leaped out and dashed
up to the front porch. Tinnemaha Pete got to his feet and one
clawlike hand reached into his overalls pocket.
“Compliments from Sheriff Warburton,” cried Lex jubilantly. “He’s
attending to some official business and couldn’t get here at the
appointed hour. He asked me to deliver this message to Jerome
Liggs.” He flourished a yellow sheet of paper, a telegram, which he
read aloud as Lemuel came hurrying up:
“L. S. Sangerly, senior, Manager M. & S. R. R.
“Your wire relative to Billy Gee’s parole considered and approved.
Withdrawal of charges against him by your company and your
personal concern in his case make me feel keenly interested in his
redemption. Your views are directly in line with my own. As you
must know I am inaugurating the honor system in the penal
institutions of this State. Kindest regards to yourself and
family. I am informing the sheriff of San Buenaventura County of
my action.
“Hiram Bronson, Governor,
“State of California.”
A hysterical cry of joy burst from Dot. Tinnemaha Pete dropped the
revolver back into his pocket and staggered blindly to the bench and
made curious, choking noises in his throat.
Later that day, while Lemuel sat smoking on the porch and grinning
contentedly to himself, Billy Gee came out of the house and
confronted him.
“Huntington!” he said shortly. “You reckillect that mornin’ I told
you I was goin’ to pay you back for sellin’ me out to Sheriff
Warburton?”
The rancher took his pipe from his mouth and stared soberly at the
other. He did not reply.
“Well, you’re payin’, old sport. Me an’ Dot’s goin’ to git married
nex’ Sunday, whether you like it or not. That’s how I square up with
you.”
Before Lemuel could reply there was a heavy footfall in the hall and
a strident voice boomed heartily:
“Hold on there, a minute, kid! I got somepn to say about this.” They
turned to see Sheriff Warburton standing in the doorway, a bandage
around his head. Back of him stood Dot, her pretty face wreathed in
smiles. The sheriff got out his handcuffs and approached the two
men, his eye on Billy Gee. Lemuel catching the meaning of the action
grinned broadly.
“I always told myself, that I’d hang these nickel-plated doodads on
you some time, young feller,” said the sheriff gravely. “I’m goin’
to, right now—perticular on account of what you jest said. Come
here, Dot!” He reached out and took the girl by the arm and brought
her alongside of Billy Gee. With a deft movement, he handcuffed them
together. “After Sunday, Billy, that’s the awful fix you’ll be in,
an’ that’s how _I_ square up with _you_. He’s a lucky dog, Dot,” he
added laughingly.
Tinnemaha Pete, watching the proceedings with Mrs. Liggs, burst into
a loud cackle of mirth.
“Son of a gun, Agatha! Did ye mark that? He ain’t sech a measly
skunk, as I thought he was. What’re cryin’ about, Agatha?”
“I’m—I’m so happy, Pete,” she breathed, turning away.
In the months that followed, the Huntington ranch vanished, save for
two fenced-in acres that held the house, outbuildings, and the cool,
old-fashioned garden with the trim little grave in one corner. The
townsite of Liggs sprang up mushroomlike and took its proud place on
the map of San Buenaventura County. The Billy Geerusalem claims
blossomed out, bonanzas, and the camp of Geerusalem lost its ranking
as the metropolis of Soapweed Plains. It never knew a railroad—even
as the elder Sangerly had avowed to Jule Quintell, now languishing
in the State penitentiary.
Prosperity can never change the sterling members of the human
family, no more than may the powers of alchemy convert slag into
gold. They are still the same humble dwellers of the vast
Mohave—Tinnemaha Pete, quaint, timid old desert rat; Sheriff Bob
Warburton, big of soul and purposeful; achieving, ambitious Lex
Sangerly; Dick Lennox, mining engineer of merit.
The dark days of uncertainty still remain green in the mind of
Lemuel Huntington. They remain green, too, in the mind of his
daughter, whose romantic brain worked out the destiny of her own
happiness. Nor can the shy little mother, who lived and suffered for
her wayward son, ever forget; nor that son, who found the turning
point in the realization that the price for a hunted animal could
not tempt her compassionate heart.
All this and more has been narrated by Dot in her novel, which she
called “Billy Geerusalem,” and lovingly dedicated to the man who
came to her out of the violet and yellow scallop of hills which had
formed the background of all her romantic dreams.
THE END.