TREASON AT HEART'S DESIRE
_Showing the Dilemma of Dan Anderson, the Doubt of Leading Citizens,
and the Artless Performance of a Pastoral Prevaricator_
"Learned Counsel," said Dan Anderson on the morning following the
preliminary survey of Heart's Desire, "I want you to take my case."
"What's up?" asked Learned Counsel. Dan Anderson pointed down the
street, where a group stood talking among themselves, casting
occasional side-long glances in his direction. "They're milling like a
bunch of scared longhorns," he said. "Something's wrong, and I know it
mighty well. I want you to take my case. Come along."
Contrary to the ancient custom of the forum at Whiteman's corral, the
group did not move apart to admit them to the circle. "The gentleman
from Kansas was addressing the meeting," said Dan Anderson. Doc
Tomlinson continued speaking, but still the circle made no move.
"Say it!" burst out Dan Anderson. "Tell it out! What's on your minds,
you fellows?"
"We don't like to believe it," McKinney began, facing toward him. "We
hope it ain't true."
"What's not true?" he demanded, looking from one averted face to
another. At length Doc Tomlinson resumed his office as spokesman.
"They say you've sold us out. They say you're bought by the railroad
to clean us out; that the scheme is to steal the town, and you're in
the steal. Is that so?"
"Is it true?" asked McKinney.
"We want to _know_ if it's true," insisted Doc Tomlinson. "You was
all over town with them fellers. Now they've let it out they're goin'
to grab the town site and make a re-survey."
"We know there wasn't ever any town site here," added Uncle Jim
Brothers, "but what need was there? Wasn't there plenty of room for
everybody?"
"You can't try any hurrah game on us fellers here," said McKinney,
facing Dan Anderson squarely.
"Nor you with me," retorted Dan Anderson. "Don't any of you undertake
that."
"Hold on there," called Learned Counsel, lifting his hand for
attention. "This man is my client! You're not hearing both sides."
"Tell the other side, Dan," said Uncle Jim Brothers. Dan Anderson
shook his head.
"Why can't you?" asked Uncle Jim.
"I can't!" broke from Dan Andersen's dry lips. "If you knew, you
wouldn't ask me to."
"That's no argument," exclaimed Doc Tomlinson. "What we do know is
that you were figurin' to run the street right past here, maybe through
my store and Uncle Jim's place, maybe takin' Tom's place for depot
yards. That outfit's been all over the hills lookin' for claims to
jump. It's a case of gobble and steal. They say you're hired to help
it on, and are gettin' a share of the steal. Now, if that's so, what
would you do if you was in our place?"
"I'd run the fellow out of town," said Dan Anderson. "If there was
that sort of a traitor here, by God! I'd kill him."
"We never did have no man go back on us here," Uncle Jim Brothers
remarked.
"Don't say that to me!" Dan Andersen's voice was shaken. "You've fed
me, Uncle Jim. Don't say that to me."
"Then what _shall_ we say, man?" replied Uncle Jim. "We want to be
fair with you. But let me tell you, _you_ don't own this valley.
_We_ own it. There's other places in the world besides the States,
and don't you forget that. We didn't think you'd ever try to bring
States ways in here."
"To hell with the States!" said McKinney, tersely.
"And States ways with them!" added Doc Tomlinson. "I'd like to see any
railroad, or any States, or any United States government, try to run
this place." Unconsciously he slapped his hand upon the worn scabbard
at his hip, and without thought others in the group eased their pistol
belts. It was the Free State of Heart's Desire.
"Well, by God!" said Uncle Jim Brothers, snapping and throwing away the
piñon twig which he had been fumbling, "if we don't want no railroad,
we don't _have_ it, and that goes!"
"Of course," broke in Learned Counsel. "We all know that. That's a
small thing. The big question is whether or not we've been fair to my
client. I've not had time yet to go fully into his case. We'll have
to continue this trial. We've got to have fair play."
"That's right enough," assented McKinney, and the others nodded.
"Then wait a while. You can't settle this thing until my client has
had time to talk with me. I'll find out what he ought to tell."
"All right for that, too," agreed Uncle Jim Brothers. "But about that
railroad, we'll hold court right here. We'll send out a summons to
them folks, and have a meetin' here, and we'll see which is which and
what is what in this town."
"That's fair enough," assented Learned Counsel. "We'll try the
railroad, and we'll try my client at the same time."
"Write out the summons," said Doc Tomlinson. "Send word down to them
railroad folks to come up here and be tried. It's time we knew who was
boss, them or us. Go ahead, you're a lawyer; fix it up."
They ignored Dan Anderson, their long-time leader in all matters of
public interest! Eventually it was Doc Tomlinson himself who drafted
the document, one of the most interesting of the Territorial records--a
summons whereby civilization was called before the bar of primitive
man. These presents being signed and sealed, a messenger was sought
for their delivery. None better offered than a half-witted sheepherder
commonly known as Willie, who chanced to be in town by buckboard from
the lower country. This much accomplished, the meeting at Whiteman's
corral broke up.
Learned Counsel took his client by the arm and led him away. "You need
not say much to your lawyer," he remarked; "but while I don't ask you
to incriminate yourself even with your counsel, I only want to say that
a Girl is, in a great many decisions of the upper courts, held to be an
extenuating circumstance." He watched the twitch of Dan Anderson's
face, but the latter would not speak.
"I don't know just where the girl exists now in this case," went on
Learned Counsel, "or how; but she's somewhere. It is not wholly
necessary that you should specify."
"My God!" broke out Dan Anderson. "I wanted--I hoped so much? It was
my opportunity, my first--"
"That's enough," said Learned Counsel. "You needn't say any more.
Every fellow has something of that sort in his life. What brought
McKinney here, and Doc Tomlinson, and all the rest?"
"Ribbons!" said Dan Anderson. "Tintypes!"
"Precisely. And who shall cast the first stone? If the boys knew--"
"But they don't know, they can't know. Do you think I'd uncover her
name, even among my friends--make her affairs public? No."
"Then your only defence cannot be brought into court."
"No. So what do you advise?"
"What do you advise your counsel to advise you?" asked Learned Counsel,
bitterly.
"Nothing. I'm done for, either way it goes."
Dan Anderson turned a drawn face. "What shall I do?" he asked at
length again.
For once Learned Counsel was wise. "In this sort of crisis," said he,
"one does not consult a lawyer. He decides for himself, and he lives
or dies, succeeds or fails, wins or loses forever, for himself and by
himself, without aid of counsel or benefit of clergy." He stood and
watched the iron go home into the soul of a game man. Dan Anderson was
white, but his reply came sharp and stern.
"You're right! Leave me alone. I'll take the case now myself."
They shook hands and separated, not to meet again for days; for Dan
Anderson shut himself up in his cabin and denied himself to all. Gloom
and uncertainty reigned among his friends. That a crisis of some sort
was imminent now became generally understood. At length the crisis
came.
There arrived in town, obedient to the summons of Heart's Desire, the
dusty buckboard driven by Willie the sheepherder. Upon the front seat
with him was Mr. Ellsworth; on the back seat sat Porter Barkley and
Constance. The chief actors in the impending drama were now upon the
stage, and all Heart's Desire knew that action of some sort must
presently follow.
With due decorum, however, all Heart's Desire stood apart, while the
three travellers, dusty and weary, buried themselves in the privacy of
Uncle Jim Brothers's best spare rooms. Then Heart's Desire sought out
Willie the sheepherder.
"Now, Willie," said Doc Tomlinson, "look here--you tell us the truth
for once. There's a heap of trouble goin' on here, and we want to get
at the bottom of it. Maybe you heard something. Now, say, is this
here railroad figurin' on comin' in here, or not?"
"Shore it'll come," said Willie, sagely. "Them folks has got money to
do just what they want. Railroad'll be here in a few days if they feel
like it."
"Maybe _we_ don't feel like it," said Doc Tomlinson, grimly. "We'll
see about that to-night."
"The girl, she's the one," said Willie, vaguely.
"What's that you mean?" commanded Doc Tomlinson.
"The funniest thing," said Willie, "is how things is mixed. Lord John,
he rides on the front seat; and Lord Peter Berkeley,--that's the lawyer
for the railroad,--he rides on the back seat with her, and he sues for
her hand, he does, all the way up from the Sacramentos. Says he to
Lord John, says he, 'Gimme the hand of this fair daughter of thine, and
the treasure shall be yours,' says he."
"Ah, ha!" said Doc Tomlinson. "I shore thought that girl was mixed up
in this somehow. But I didn't understand. Wonder if Dan Anderson told
us everything he knew?"
"They set on the back seat," continued Willie, glancing importantly at
the listeners to his romance, "a-lookin' into each other's eyes. And
says the bold juke, to her, says he, 'Constance!' like that.
'Constance,' says he, 'I've loved you these many years agone.'"
"What did she say then?"
"I didn't ketch what she said. But by'm by the proud earl--"
"You said the bold juke."
"It's the same thing. The proud earl laughs, scornful of restraint,
like earls always is, and says he agin, 'Lord John, the treasure shall
be thine, but the proudest treasure of me life is this fair daughter of
thine that sets here by me side, Lord John,' says he. From that I
thought maybe the Lady Constance had said something I didn't ketch. Of
course, I was busy drivin' the coach."
The men of Heart's Desire looked from one to the other. "Well, I'll be
damned!" said Doc Tomlinson.
Curly chewed tobacco vigorously. "To me," he said, "it looks like Dan
was throwed down. That girl was over to my house, too; and I didn't
think that of her."
"Throwed down hard," affirmed Uncle Jim Brothers; "but now, hold on
till we get all this straight. Maybe Dan wouldn't work for this outfit
if he knew all that's goin' on. Seems to me like, one way or another,
the girl's kind of up at auction. If she's part of the railroad's
comin' into Heart's Desire, why, then, we want to know about it. I
wish 't Dan Anderson was here,"
But Dan Anderson was not there, neither was he to be found at his
_casita_ across the _arroyo_. As fate would have it, he had caught
Willie in his wanderings and had done some questioning on his own
account. Willie escaped alive, and presently left town. Whereafter
Dan Anderson, half dazed, walked out into the foot-hills, seeking the
court of old Carrizo, to try there his own case, as he had promised;
and that of the woman as well.
At first his fairness, his fatal fairness, had its way with him.
Resolutely he slurred over in his own mind the consequences to himself,
and set himself to the old, old task of renunciation. Then, in his
loneliness and bitterness, there came to him thoughts unworthy of him,
conclusions unsupported by fair evidence.
Far up on the flank of Carrizo he sat and looked down upon the little
straggling town in the valley below. These hills, he thought, with all
their treasures, were to be sold and purchased for a price, for a
treasure greater than all their worth,--the hand of the woman whom he
loved. She had consented to the bargain. She had been true to the
States, and not to Heart's Desire. She had been true to her class, and
not to him, who had left her class. She had been true to her sex, and
not to him, her unready lover. Ah, he had not deserved her
remembrance; but still she ought to have remembered him! He had not
been worthy of her, but still she ought to have loved him! He had
offered her nothing, he had evaded her, shunned her, slighted her--but
in spite of that she ought to have waited for him, and to have loved
him through all, and believed in him in spite of all!
He sat, befooled and befuddled, arguing, accusing, denying, doubting,
until he knew not where treachery began or faith had ended. It was
late when he descended the mountain and walked dully down the street.
All this time Constance, in ignorance of everything except the absolute
truth, sat in the meagre room of the little stone hotel. She wondered
if there would ever be any change in her manner of life, if there would
ever be anything but this continuous following of her father from one
commercial battle into another. She wondered why Dan Anderson did not
come. Surely he was here. Surely his business was with his employers;
and more surely than all, and in spite of all, his place was here with
her; because her heart cried out for him. In spite of all, he was her
heart's desire. Why did he not come?
She arose, her hands clenched; she hated him, as much as she had longed
for him.