THE CONSPIRACY AT HEART'S DESIRE
_This being the Story of a Sheepherder, Two Warm Personal Friends, and
their Love-letter to a Beautiful Queen_
When Tom Osby came back to Heart's Desire, he drew Curly to one side,
and the two walked over to a shady spot at the side of Whiteman's
corral, seating themselves for what was evidently to be an executive
session.
Tom Osby continued to stuff tobacco into his pipe with a stubby
forefinger, and Curly's hat was pushed back from a forehead wrinkled in
deep thought.
"It's a good deal like you say, Tom," he assented; "I know that.
Unless we can get Dan Anderson and that girl to some sort of an
understandin', the jig's up, and there ain't a-goin' to be no railroad
at Heart's Desire. But how're you a-goin' to _do_ that?"
"Well, I done told you what I thought," said Tom Osby. "I'm a married
man, been married seven times, or maybe six. There's just two things I
understand, and them is horses and women, which I ought to, from
associatin' with them constant. Now, I tell you, if I'm any judge of
women, that girl thinks a heap of Dan Anderson, no matter what she lets
on. It's her that's got the railroad up her sleeve. The old man just
thinks she's a tin angel with fresh paint. Why, he's done _give_ her
the whole railroad. He don't want it. He's got money now that's
sinful. Now, I say, she's got the railroad. Dan Andersen's chances,
they go with the railroad. If she could just get _him_ to go with the
business _chances_, that'd about fix things; and I more'n half believe
she'd drop into line right free and gentle."
"Well, why don't she _say_ so, then," grumbled Curly, "and stop this
foolishness?"
"Now there you go!" replied Tom. "Can't you see that any woman on
earth, even a married woman, is four-thirds foolishness and the rest
human? With girls it's still worse'n that. If I'm any judge, she's
wishin' a certain feller'd come along and shake the tree. But she
ain't goin' to fall off until the tree's done shook. Consequently,
there she is, still up the tree, and our railroad with her."
"Looks like _he_ ought to make the first break," observed Curly,
sagely.
"Of course he ought. But _will_ he, that's the question."
"No, he won't," admitted Curly, pushing his hat still farther back on
his head. "He's took his stand, and done what he allowed was right.
After that, he ain't built to crawfish. He's passed up the girl, and
the railroad, too, and I reckon that settles it."
"And yet he thinks a heap of the girl."
"Natural? Of course he does. How can he help it? That's where the
trouble is. I tell you, Tom, these here things is sort of _personal_.
If these two folks is havin' trouble of their own, why, it's _their_
trouble, and it ain't for us to square it, railroad or no railroad."
"When two people is damn fools," commented Tom Osby, gravely, "it's all
right for foreign powers to mediate a-plenty."
"But what you goin' to do? She won't bat a eye at him, and he ain't
goin' to send for her."
"Oh, yes he _is_," corrected Tom Osby; and the forefinger, crowding
tobacco into his pipe, worked vigorously. "He's _got_ to send for
her."
"Looks to me like we can't do nothin'," replied his friend,
pessimistically. "I like that girl, too. Say, I'll braid her a nice
hair rope and take it down to her. Maybe that'll kind o' square things
with her for losin' out with Dan."
"Yes," scoffed Tom Osby, "that's all the brains a fool cow puncher has
got. Do you reckon a hair lariat, or a new pair of spurs, is any
decent remedy for a girl's wownded affections? No, sir, not none. No,
you go on down and take your old hair rope with you, and give it to the
girl. That's all right; but you're goin' to take something else along
with you at the same time."
"What's that?" "Why, you're goin' to take a letter to her,--a letter
from Dan Andersen's death-bed."
"Who--me? Death-bed? Why, he ain't _on_ no death-bed. He's eatin'
three squares a day and settin' up readin' novels. Death-bed nothin'!"
"Oh, no," said Tom Osby, "that's where you're mistaken. Dan Anderson
_is_ on his death-bed; and he writes his dyin' confession, his message
in such cases made and pervided. He sends his last words to his own
true love. Says he, 'All is forgiven.' Then she flies to receive his
dyin' words. You ain't got no brains, Curly. You ain't got no
imagi_na_tion. Why, if I left all this to you, she'd get here too
late for the funeral. You're a specialist, Curly. You can rope and
throw a two-thousand-pound steer, but you can't handle a woman that
don't weigh over a hundred and twenty-five. Now, you watch your Pa."
Curly sat and looked at him in silence for a few minutes, but at last a
light seemed to dawn upon him. "Oh, I _see_," said he, smiling
broadly. "You mean for us to get up a letter for him--write it out and
send it, like he done it hisself."
Tom Osby nodded. "Of course--that's the only way. There wouldn't
either of them write to the other one. That's the trouble with these
here States girls, and them men from the States, too. You have to take
care of 'em. You and me has got to be gardeens for these two folks.
If we don't, they're goin' to make all kinds of trouble for theirselves
and each other."
"Kin you disguise your handwritin' any, Tom?" asked Curly. "I can't.
Mine's kind of sot."
"Curly," answered Tom, with scorn, "what you call your brains is only a
oroide imitation of a dollar watch. Why, of course we can't write a
letter and sign his name to it deliberate. That's forgery, and we'd
get into the penitentiary for it. That ain't the way to do.
"Now look here. Dan Anderson may be lookin' right well for a dyin'
man, but he's on his death-bed just the same. That's needful for the
purposes of dramatic construction. He's a-layin' there, pale and wore
out. His right arm is busted permernent, and it's only a question of
time when he cashes in--though he _might_ live a few days if he was
plumb shore his own true love was a-hastenin' to his bedside."
"But it was his _left_ arm that got shot," argued Curly; "and it
didn't amount to a whole lot at that."
"There's you go," jeered Tom, in answer, "with them imitation brain
works of yours. It's his _right_ arm that's busted. Now, him
a-layin' there plumb helpless, his thoughts turns to his bride that
might 'a' been, but wasn't. With his last dyin' words he greets her.
If she would only hasten to his deathbed, he could die in peace.
That's what he writes to her. 'Dear Madam,' says he, 'Havin' loved you
all my life, I fain would gaze on you onct more. In that case,' says
he, 'the clouds certainly would roll away!'"
"That shorely would _fetch_ her," said Curly, admiringly, "but how you
goin' to fix it?"
"Why, how? There ain't but one way. The dyin' man has his dear friend
Curly, or Tom Osby, or some one, write his last words for him. That
ain't counterfeitin'. That's only actin' as his literary amanyensis,
and that's plumb legal."
"Things may be legal, and not _safe_," objected Curly. "Supposin' he
finds out?"
"Why, then, we'll be far, far away. This letter has got to be wrote.
I can't write it myself, and you can't; but maybe several of us could."
"I ain't in on writin' the letter," Curly decided; "I'll carry it, but
my writin' is too sot, and so's my thinker."
"Well, I ain't used my own thinker in this particular way for about
twenty years," said Tom Osby, "although I did co'te two of my wives by
perlite correspondence, something like this; and I couldn't see but
what them wives lasted as good as any."
"It's too bad Dan Anderson ain't in on this play hisself," Curly
resumed. "Now if it was us that was layin' dead, and him writin' the
letter, he'd have us both alive, and have the girl here by two o'clock
to-morrer, and everything 'd be lovely. But us! We don't know any
more about this than a pair of candy frogs."
"The fewer there is in on a woman deal the better," said Tom Osby, "and
yet it looks like we needed help right now!"
The two sat gazing gloomily down the long street of Heart's Desire, and
so intent were they that they did not see the shambling figure of
Willie the sheepherder coming up the street. Then Tom Osby's gaze
focussed him.
"Now there's that damned sheepherder that broke us up in business,"
said he. "It was him that got us into this fix. If he hadn't lied
like a infernal pirate, and got Dan Anderson to thinkin' that the girl
and this lawyer feller Barkley was engaged to each other on the side,
why Dan wouldn't have flared up and busted the railroad deal, and let
the girl get away, and gone and got hisself shot."
"S'posin' I shoot Willie up just for luck," suggested Curly. "He's got
it comin' to him, from the way that Gee-Whiz friend of his throwed lead
into our fellers, time we was arguin' with them over them sheep. This
country ain't got no use for sheep, nor sheepherders either, specially
the kind that makes trouble with railroads, and girls."
"No, hold on a minute," interrupted Tom Osby. "You wait--I've got a
idea."
"Well, what is it?"
"Wait a minute. How saith the psalmist? All men is liars; and
sheepherders special, natural, eighteen-karat, hand-curled liars--which
is just the sort we need right now in our business."
Curly slapped his thigh in sudden understanding. The two sat, still
watching Willie as he came rambling aimlessly up the street, staring
from side to side in his vacant fashion.
"A sheepherder, as you know, Curly," went on Tom, "has three stages in
his game. For a while he's human. In a few years, settin' round on
the hills in the sun, a-watchin' them damned woolly baa-baa's of his,
he gets right nutty. He sees things. Him a-gettin' so lonesome, and
a-readin' high-class New York literature all the time, he gets to
thinkin' of the Lady Eyemogene. You might think he's seein' cactus and
sheep, but what is really floatin' before him is proud knights, and
haughty barons, and royal monarchs, and Lady Eyemogenes.
"It ain't sinful for Willie to lie, like it is for us, because life is
one continuous lie to him. He's seen a swimmin' picture of
hand-painted palaces, and noble jukes, and stately dames out on the
Nogal flats every day for eight years. That ain't lyin'--that's
imagination.
"Now this feller's imagination is just about ripe. Usual, at the end
of about seven years, a sheepherder goes plumb dotty, and we either
have to shoot him, or send him to Leavenworth. Your Gee-Whiz man can
maybe take to cow punchin' and prosper, but not Willie. His long suit
is imaginin' things, from now on.
"Now, that feller is naturally pinin' to write this here particular
letter we've got on our minds. You watch Willie compose."
"Here you, Willie, come over here!" Curly called out.
The herder started in fright. Timid at best, he was all the more so
since the raid of the Carrizoso stock men. His legs trembled under
him, but he slowly approached in obedience.
"Willie," said Tom Osby, sternly, "I'm some hardened as a sinner my own
self, but the kind of way you do pains me. What made you tell that lie
about seein' the lady and that lawyer feller makin' love to each other,
on the back seat of the buckboard, behind the old man's back?"
"I _thought_ I seen 'em," pleaded Willie. "I--I _thought_ I heard
'em talkin'."
"Oh, sufferin' saints! Listen to that! You _thought_! Of course you
did. You and that Gee-Whiz friend of yours ought to turn yourselves
into a symposium and write for the papers. Now look here. Have you
got a copy of the 'Proud Earl's Revenge,' in your pocket?"
Willie tremulously felt in his clothing, and did produce a dog-eared
volume to somewhat that effect. Tom Osby turned over a few of the
pages thoughtfully, and then sat up with a happy smile. "There ain't
no trouble about that letter _now_!" said he.
"What--what--what do you want?" asked Willie. Then they told him.
Willie radiated happiness. He sat down beside them, his hands
trembling with joy and eagerness--conspirator number three for the
peace and dignity of Heart's Desire.
"Go get some paper, Curly," said Tom Osby, and Curly departed. Willie
remained wrapped in thought, his mind confused at this sudden
opportunity.
"It's all about Lancelot," said he.
"What brand did Lancelot ride under? Now, no foolin', Willie."
"Why--why--why," said Willie, "Lancelot, he's at a tournyment. Now, he
loves a beautiful queen."
"Shore he does! That goes. What's the queen's name?"
"Her name--her name--her name's Guinevere," replied Willie. "And the
proud king, he brooks it ill. The proud king's name is Arthur."
"Oh, no, it _ain't_!" said Tom Osby. "There ain't no man who's name
is _Arthur_ that has no scrap to him. It ain't _Arthur_ that goes on
no war-path."
"Yes, he did," insisted Willie. "Lancelot gets herded out. He gets
shot up some at the tournyment, so he leaves the beautiful queen, and
he rides off for the range all alone by himself. He's like a
sheepherder."
"Come on with the paper, Curly," called Tom Osby. "This feller's
thinker is workin' fine. Go on, Willie."
"Now, Lancelot, he's layin' at the point of death, and he's thinkin'
all the time of Guinevere. I reckon he writes her a letter, and he
says, says he, 'Dear Lady, I send thee my undyin' love,' says he. 'I
kiss the picture which is a-layin' on my breast,' says he; 'and with my
last breath,' says he, 'I shorely yearn for thee!'"
"Meanin' Guinevere?"
"Shore! Says Lancelot, 'Fair queen, thou didst me a injury onct; but
couldst thou but come and stand at my bedside, I hadst new zeal in
life,' says he."
"Meanin' he'd get well?" asked Curly. "That's the same as Dan
Anderson! _This_ feller's a peach!"
"Shut up!" admonished Tom Osby. "Go on, Willie."
"It's always that-a-way," said Willie. Tears stood in his eyes. He
looked vaguely out over the blue hills which hedged in the enchanted
valley of Heart's Desire. "It's always that-a-way," he repeated.
"Somehow, somewhere, there's always a beautiful queen, for every
fellow, just over the mountains. It's always that-a-way."
Tom Osby reached out a hand and gently shook him.
"Set up, Willie," said he. "Come down now, till we get this business
fixed. Now, what happens after that?"
Willie winked his eyes and smiled amiably. "The sick knight, he writes
a missive to the beautiful queen," he went on. "He sets his signet
ring on to the missive, and he hands it to his trusted henchman, and
his trusted henchman flies to do his bidding."
"That's you, Curly," nodded Tom Osby. "You're the trusted henchman."
"I'm damned if I am!" replied Curly. "I'm nothin' but a plain cow hand
from the Brazos; but I don't take 'henchman' from nobody!"
"Hush!" said his friend. "This feller's a genius. If he don't get
side-tracked on Dead Shot Dick, or something of that kind, this letter
is just as good as wrote, right now."
"The good knight presses his signet ring on to the missive," resumed
Willie, "and his trusted cow hand wraps the missive in the folds of his
cloak, and climbs on to his trusted steed, and flies far, far away, to
the side of the beautiful queen."
"That's good!"
"And the beautiful queen reads the missive, and clasps her hands, and
says she, 'My Gawd!'"
"Oh, _now_ we're gettin' at it!" said Tom Osby. "Say, this is pretty
_poor_, ain't it, Curly?"
"And then," went on Willie, frowning at the interruption, "the
beautiful queen sends for her milk-white palfrey, and she flies to the
distant bedside of the sufferin' knight."
"She'll take a milk-white buckboard, more likely," said Tom Osby. "You
got any palfreys on your ranch, Curly? But we'll let it go at that.
She's got to fly to the distant bedside somehow."
"Oh, that'll be all right," agreed Willie, sweetly. "She'll fly.
She'll come. It's always the same. It's always the same."
"Write it down, Willie," ordered Tom Osby, thrusting the paper before
him. Willie hesitated, and glanced up at Tom.
The latter balked in turn. "What! Have I got to start it for you?
Well, then, begin it, 'Dear Madam!'"
Curly shook his head. "You couldn't never marry a woman writin' to her
that-a-way." And Tom, rubbing a finger over his chin, had to admit the
justice of the assertion.
"Leave it to Willie," suggested Curly. "He'll get it started after a
while. Go ahead, Willie. How did he say it to her, now, when he sent
for the beautiful queen?"
Tom Osby's pencil followed rapidly as it might.
"He writes," said Willie, "like they always do. He says: 'Light of my
heart, I have loved you for these years, and they have seemed so long.
I could love no other woman after seeing you, and this you should know
with no proof but my word. If I have drawn apart from you, 'twas
through no fault of mine, and this I pray you to believe. If I have
not acted to my own heart the full part of a man, 'tis for that reason
I have hidden away; but believe me, my faith and my love have been the
same. If I have missed the dear sight of your face, 'twas because I
could not call it mine with honor, nor dare that vision with any plea
on my lips, or any feeling in my heart, but that of honor. Heart's
Heart, and life of my life, could you not see? I could not doom you to
a life unfit, and still ask you to love me as a man.'"
He passed his hand across his face, as though it were not himself he
heard speaking; but he went on.
"'Now I lie here hurt to death,' says the good knight Lancelot. 'This
is the end. Now, at the time when truth must come from the soul, I say
to you, my queen'--she's always queen to him--'I say to you, I have
loved you more than I have loved myself. But if you could come, if you
could stand at my bedside before it is too late, before it is too
late--too late--'" Willie's voice broke into a wail. The ray of light
was almost fading from his clouded brain.
"Go on," whispered Tom Osby.
"'My queen, my darling--' says Lancelot."
Willie's hands, trembling, fell into his lap. "It's always
that-a-way," he whimpered vaguely, coming now to himself.
"Willie," said Tom Osby, gently, "I ain't right sure I've got it all
down straight, but I think I have. You read her over, and touch her up
here and there where she needs it. Curly, look here. I don't believe
Dan Anderson would hesertate one minute to sign this if he saw it."
"They sign it with their hearts," said Willie, vaguely. "They always
do."
"He signs it with his heart," said Tom Osby, "and it goes!" He folded
the paper and handed it to Curly.
"Saddle up that Pinto horse, Curly, if you can," said he, "and make the
run to Sky Top as fast as God'll let you. This letter's all right, and
it goes!"
So presently there rode down the long sunlit street of Heart's Desire,
mounted upon the mad horse Pinto, this courier to the queen, bearing a
message from a mad brain and two simple hearts,--a courier bound upon a
strange and kindly errand.
The blue mountains, beyond whose rim lived the sovereign, looked gently
down, and the stern walls of the cañon seemed to widen and make room
for the messenger as he swept on, carrying the greetings of an absent
knight to his distant queen.
"It's like he said," mused Curly to himself, feeling in his pocket for
tobacco as he rode. "It's that-a-way, and I reckon it always has been.
I've felt like that myself sometimes. _Ola, Pinto_! _Vamos_!"