Not only did Leonidas know that this was not from the real Jim, but he
felt the vague contact of a new, charming, and original personality
that fascinated him. Of course, it was only natural that one of HER
friends--as he must be--should be equally delightful. There was no
jealousy in Leonidas's devotion; he knew only a joy in this fellowship
of admiration for her which he was satisfied that the other boy must
feel. And only the right kind of boy could know the importance of
his ravishing gift, and this Jim was evidently “no slouch”! Yet, in
Leonidas's new joy he did not forget HER! He ran back to the stockade
fence and lounged upon the road in view of the house, but she did not
appear.
Leonidas lingered on the top of the hill, ostentatiously examining a
young hickory for a green switch, but to no effect. Then it suddenly
occurred to him that she might be staying in purposely, and, perhaps
a little piqued by her indifference, he ran off. There was a mountain
stream hard by, now dwindled in the summer drouth to a mere trickling
thread among the boulders, and there was a certain “pot-hole” that he
had long known. It was the lurking-place of a phenomenal trout,--an
almost historic fish in the district, which had long resisted the
attempt of such rude sportsmen as miners, or even experts like himself.
Few had seen it, except as a vague, shadowy bulk in the four feet of
depth and gloom in which it hid; only once had Leonidas's quick eye
feasted on its fair proportions. On that memorable occasion Leonidas,
having exhausted every kind of lure of painted fly and living bait,
was rising from his knees behind the bank, when a pink five-cent stamp
dislodged from his pocket fluttered in the air, and descended slowly
upon the still pool. Horrified at his loss, Leonidas leaned over to
recover it, when there was a flash like lightning in the black depths, a
dozen changes of light and shadow on the surface, a little whirling wave
splashing against the side of the rock, and the postage stamp was gone.
More than that--for one instant the trout remained visible, stationary
and expectant! Whether it was the instinct of sport, or whether the fish
had detected a new, subtle, and original flavor in the gum and paper,
Leonidas never knew. Alas! he had not another stamp; he was obliged to
leave the fish, but carried a brilliant idea away with him. Ever since
then he had cherished it--and another extra stamp in his pocket. And
now, with this strong but gossamer-like snell, this new hook, and this
freshly cut hickory rod, he would make the trial!
But fate was against him! He had scarcely descended the narrow trail to
the pine-fringed margin of the stream before his quick ear detected an
unusual rustling through the adjacent underbrush, and then a voice that
startled him! It was HERS! In an instant all thought of sport had fled.
With a beating heart, half opened lips, and uplifted lashes, Leonidas
awaited the coming of his divinity like a timorous virgin at her first
tryst.
But Mrs. Burroughs was clearly not in an equally responsive mood. With
her fair face reddened by the sun, the damp tendrils of her unwound hair
clinging to her forehead, and her smart little slippers red with dust,
there was also a querulous light in her eyes, and a still more querulous
pinch in her nostrils, as she stood panting before him.
“You tiresome boy!” she gasped, holding one little hand to her side as
she gripped her brambled skirt around her ankles with the other. “Why
didn't you wait? Why did you make me run all this distance after you?”
Leonidas timidly and poignantly protested. He had waited before the
house and on the hill; he thought she didn't want him.
“Couldn't you see that THAT MAN kept me in?” she went on peevishly.
“Haven't you sense enough to know that he suspects something, and
follows me everywhere, dogging my footsteps every time the post comes
in, and even going to the post-office himself, to make sure that he sees
all my letters? Well,” she added impatiently, “have you anything for me?
Why don't you speak?”
Crushed and remorseful, Leonidas produced her letter. She almost
snatched it from his hand, opened it, read a few lines, and her face
changed. A smile strayed from her eyes to her lips, and back again.
Leonidas's heart was lifted; she was so forgiving and so beautiful!
“Is he a boy, Mrs. Burroughs?” asked Leonidas shyly.
“Well--not exactly,” she said, her charming face all radiant again.
“He's older than you. What has he written to you?”
Leonidas put his letter in her hand for reply.
“I wish I could see him, you know,” he said shyly. “That letter's
bully--it's just rats! I like him pow'ful.”
Mrs. Burroughs had skimmed through the letter, but not interestedly.
“You mustn't like him more than you like me,” she said laughingly,
caressing him with her voice and eyes, and even her straying hand.
“I couldn't do that! I never could like anybody as I like you,” said.
Leonidas gravely. There was such appalling truthfulness in the boy's
voice and frankly opened eyes that the woman could not evade it, and
was slightly disconcerted. But she presently started up with a vexatious
cry. “There's that wretch following me again, I do believe,” she said,
staring at the hilltop. “Yes! Look, Leon, he's turning to come down this
trail. What's to be done? He mustn't see me here!”
Leonidas looked. It was indeed Mr. Burroughs; but he was evidently
only taking a short cut towards the Ridge, where his men were working.
Leonidas had seen him take it before. But it was the principal trail on
the steep hillside, and they must eventually meet. A man might evade
it by scrambling through the brush to a lower and rougher trail; but a
woman, never! But an idea had seized Leonidas. “I can stop him,” he said
confidently to her. “You just lie low here behind that rock till I come
back. He hasn't seen you yet.”
She had barely time to draw back before Leonidas darted down the trail
towards her husband. Yet, in her intense curiosity, she leaned out
the next moment to watch him. He paused at last, not far from the
approaching figure, and seemed to kneel down on the trail. What was he
doing? Her husband was still slowly advancing. Suddenly he stopped. At
the same moment she heard their two voices in excited parley, and then,
to her amazement, she saw her husband scramble hurriedly down the trail
to the lower level, and with an occasional backward glance, hasten away
until he had passed beyond her view.
She could scarcely realize her narrow escape when Leonidas stood by her
side. “How did you do it?” she said eagerly.
“With a rattler!” said the boy gravely.
“With a what?”
“A rattlesnake--pizen snake, you know.”
“A rattlesnake?” she said, staring at Leonidas with a quick snatching
away of her skirts.
The boy, who seemed to have forgotten her in his other abstraction of
adventure, now turned quickly, with devoted eyes and a reassuring smile.
“Yes; but I wouldn't let him hurt you,” he said gently.
“But what did you DO?”
He looked at her curiously. “You won't be frightened if I show you?” he
said doubtfully. “There's nothin' to be afeerd of s'long as you're with
me,” he added proudly.
“Yes--that is”--she stammered, and then, her curiosity getting the
better of her fear, she added in a whisper: “Show me quick!”
He led the way up the narrow trail until he stopped where he had knelt
before. It was a narrow, sunny ledge of rock, scarcely wide enough for
a single person to pass. He silently pointed to a cleft in the rock, and
kneeling down again, began to whistle in a soft, fluttering way. There
was a moment of suspense, and then she was conscious of an awful gliding
something,--a movement so measured yet so exquisitely graceful that she
stood enthralled. A narrow, flattened, expressionless head was followed
by a footlong strip of yellow-barred scales; then there was a pause, and
the head turned, in a beautifully symmetrical half-circle, towards the
whistler. The whistling ceased; the snake, with half its body out of the
cleft, remained poised in air as if stiffened to stone.
“There,” said Leonidas quietly, “that's what Mr. Burroughs saw, and
that's WHY he scooted off the trail. I just called out William Henry,--I
call him William Henry, and he knows his name,--and then I sang out to
Mr. Burroughs what was up; and it was lucky I did, for the next moment
he'd have been on top of him and have been struck, for rattlers don't
give way to any one.”
“Oh, why didn't you let”--She stopped herself quickly, but could not
stop the fierce glint in her eye nor the sharp curve in her nostril.
Luckily, Leonidas did not see this, being preoccupied with his other
graceful charmer, William Henry.
“But how did you know it was here?” said Mrs. Burroughs, recovering
herself.
“Fetched him here,” said Leonidas briefly.
“What in your hands?” she said, drawing back.
“No! made him follow! I HAVE handled him, but it was after I'd first
made him strike his pizen out upon a stick. Ye know, after he strikes
four times he ain't got any pizen left. Then ye kin do anythin' with
him, and he knows it. He knows me, you bet! I've bin three months
trainin' him. Look! Don't be frightened,” he said, as Mrs. Burroughs
drew hurriedly back; “see him mind me. Now scoot home, William Henry.”
He accompanied the command with a slow, dominant movement of the hickory
rod he was carrying. The snake dropped its head, and slid noiselessly
out of the cleft across the trail and down the hill.
“Thinks my rod is witch-hazel, which rattlers can't abide,” continued
Leonidas, dropping into a boy's breathless abbreviated speech. “Lives
down your way--just back of your farm. Show ye some day. Suns himself on
a flat stone every day--always cold--never can get warm. Eh?”
She had not spoken, but was gazing into space with a breathless rigidity
of attitude and a fixed look in her eye, not unlike the motionless orbs
of the reptile that had glided away.
“Does anybody else know you keep him?” she asked.
“Nary one. I never showed him to anybody but you,” replied the boy.
“Don't! You must show me where he hides to-morrow,” she said, in her old
laughing way. “And now, Leon, I must go back to the house.”
“May I write to him--to Jim Belcher, Mrs. Burroughs?” said the boy
timidly.
“Certainly. And come to me to-morrow with your letter--I will have mine
ready. Good-by.” She stopped and glanced at the trail. “And you say that
if that man had kept on, the snake would have bitten him?”
“Sure pop!--if he'd trod on him--as he was sure to. The snake wouldn't
have known he didn't mean it. It's only natural,” continued Leonidas,
with glowing partisanship for the gentle and absent William Henry. “YOU
wouldn't like to be trodden upon, Mrs. Burroughs!”
“No! I'd strike out!” she said quickly. She made a rapid motion forward
with her low forehead and level head, leaving it rigid the next moment,
so that it reminded him of the snake, and he laughed. At which she
laughed too, and tripped away.
Leonidas went back and caught his trout. But even this triumph did not
remove a vague sense of disappointment which had come over him. He had
often pictured to himself a Heaven-sent meeting with her in the woods,
a walk with her, alone, where he could pick her the rarest flowers and
herbs and show her his woodland friends; and it had only ended in this,
and an exhibition of William Henry! He ought to have saved HER from
something, and not her husband. Yet he had no ill-feeling for Burroughs,
only a desire to circumvent him, on behalf of the unprotected, as he
would have baffled a hawk or a wildcat. He went home in dismal spirits,
but later that evening constructed a boyish letter of thanks to the
apocryphal Belcher and told him all about--the trout!
He brought her his letter the next day, and received hers to inclose.
She was pleasant, her own charming self again, but she seemed more
interested in other things than himself, as, for instance, the docile
William Henry, whose hiding-place he showed, and whose few tricks she
made him exhibit to her, and which the gratified Leonidas accepted as a
delicate form of flattery to himself. But his yearning, innocent spirit
detected a something lacking, which he was too proud to admit even to
himself. It was his own fault; he ought to have waited for her, and not
gone for the trout!
So a fortnight passed with an interchange of the vicarious letters, and
brief, hopeful, and disappointing meetings to Leonidas. To add to his
unhappiness, he was obliged to listen to sneering disparagement of his
goddess from his family, and criticisms which, happily, his innocence
did not comprehend. It was his own mother who accused her of shamefully
“making up” to the good-looking expressman at church last Sunday, and
declared that Burroughs ought to “look after that wife of his,”--two
statements which the simple Leonidas could not reconcile. He had seen
the incident, and only thought her more lovely than ever. Why should not
the expressman think so too? And yet the boy was not happy; something
intruded upon his sports, upon his books, making them dull and vapid,
and yet that something was she! He grew pale and preoccupied. If he had
only some one in whom to confide--some one who could explain his hopes
and fears. That one was nearer than he thought!
It was quite three weeks since the rattlesnake incident, and he was
wandering moodily over Casket Ridge. He was near the Casket, that abrupt
upheaval of quartz and gneiss, shaped like a coffer, from which the
mountain took its name. It was a favorite haunt of Leonidas, one of
whose boyish superstitions was that it contained a treasure of gold, and
one of whose brightest dreams had been that he should yet discover it.
This he did not do to-day, but looking up from the rocks that he was
listlessly examining, he made the almost as thrilling discovery that
near him on the trail was a distinguished-looking stranger.
He was bestriding a shapely mustang, which well became his handsome
face and slight, elegant figure, and he was looking at Leonidas with
an amused curiosity and a certain easy assurance that were difficult to
withstand. It was with the same fascinating self-confidence of smile,
voice, and manner that he rode up to the boy, and leaning lightly over
his saddle, said with exaggerated politeness: “I believe I have the
pleasure of addressing Mr. Leonidas Boone?”
The rising color in Leonidas's face was apparently a sufficient
answer to the stranger, for he continued smilingly, “Then permit me to
introduce myself as Mr. James Belcher. As you perceive, I have grown
considerably since you last saw me. In fact, I've done nothing else.
It's surprising what a fellow can do when he sets his mind on one thing.
And then, you know, they're always telling you that San Francisco is a
'growing place.' That accounts for it!”
Leonidas, dazed, dazzled, but delighted, showed all his white teeth in a
shy laugh. At which the enchanting stranger leaped from his horse like
a very boy, drew his arm through the rein, and going up to Leonidas,
lifted the boy's straw hat from his head and ran his fingers through his
curls. There was nothing original in that--everybody did that to him as
a preliminary to conversation. But when this ingenuous fine gentleman
put his own Panama hat on Leonidas's head, and clapped Leonidas's torn
straw on his own, and, passing his arm through the boy's, began to walk
on with him, Leonidas's simple heart went out to him at once.
“And now, Leon,” said the delightful stranger, “let's you and me have
a talk. There's a nice cool spot under these laurels; I'll stake out
Pepita, and we'll just lie off there and gab, and not care if school
keeps or not.”
“But you know you ain't really Jim Belcher,” said the boy shyly.
“I'm as good a man as he is any day, whoever I am,” said the stranger,
with humorous defiance, “and can lick him out of his boots, whoever HE
is. That ought to satisfy you. But if you want my certificate, here's
your own letter, old man,” he said, producing Leonidas's last scrawl
from his pocket.
“And HERS?” said the boy cautiously.
The stranger's face changed a little. “And HERS,” he repeated gravely,
showing a little pink note which Leonidas recognized as one of Mrs.
Burroughs's inclosures. The boy was silent until they reached the
laurels, where the stranger tethered his horse and then threw himself
in an easy attitude beneath the tree, with the back of his head upon his
clasped hands. Leonidas could see his curved brown mustaches and silky
lashes that were almost as long, and thought him the handsomest man he
had ever beheld.
“Well, Leon,” said the stranger, stretching himself out comfortably and
pulling the boy down beside him, “how are things going on the Casket?
All serene, eh?”
The inquiry so dismally recalled Leonidas's late feelings that his face
clouded, and he involuntarily sighed. The stranger instantly shifted his
head and gazed curiously at him. Then he took the boy's sunburnt hand in
his own, and held it a moment. “Well, go on,” he said.
“Well, Mr.--Mr.--I can't go on--I won't!” said Leonidas, with a sudden
fit of obstinacy. “I don't know what to call you.”
“Call me 'Jack'--'Jack Hamlin' when you're not in a hurry. Ever heard of
me before?” he added, suddenly turning his head towards Leonidas.
The boy shook his head. “No.”
Mr. Jack Hamlin lifted his lashes in affected expostulation to the
skies. “And this is Fame!” he murmured audibly.
But this Leonidas did not comprehend. Nor could he understand why the
stranger, who clearly must have come to see HER, should not ask about
her, should not rush to seek her, but should lie back there all the
while so contentedly on the grass. HE wouldn't. He half resented it, and
then it occurred to him that this fine gentleman was like himself--shy.
Who could help being so before such an angel? HE would help him on.
And so, shyly at first, but bit by bit emboldened by a word or two from
Jack, he began to talk of her--of her beauty--of her kindness--of his
own unworthiness--of what she had said and done--until, finding in this
gracious stranger the vent his pent-up feelings so long had sought, he
sang then and there the little idyl of his boyish life. He told of his
decline in her affections after his unpardonable sin in keeping her
waiting while he went for the trout, and added the miserable mistake of
the rattlesnake episode. “For it was a mistake, Mr. Hamlin. I oughtn't
to have let a lady like that know anything about snakes--just because I
happen to know them.”
“It WAS an awful slump, Lee,” said Hamlin gravely. “Get a woman and
a snake together--and where are you? Think of Adam and Eve and the
serpent, you know.”
“But it wasn't that way,” said the boy earnestly. “And I want to tell
you something else that's just makin' me sick, Mr. Hamlin. You know I
told you William Henry lives down at the bottom of Burroughs's garden,
and how I showed Mrs. Burroughs his tricks! Well, only two days ago I
was down there looking for him, and couldn't find him anywhere. There's
a sort of narrow trail from the garden to the hill, a short cut up to
the Ridge, instead o' going by their gate. It's just the trail any one
would take in a hurry, or if they didn't want to be seen from the road.
Well! I was looking this way and that for William Henry, and whistlin'
for him, when I slipped on to the trail. There, in the middle of it, was
an old bucket turned upside down--just the thing a man would kick away
or a woman lift up. Well, Mr. Hamlin, I kicked it away, and”--the boy
stopped, with rounded eyes and bated breath, and added--“I just had time
to give one jump and save myself! For under that pail, cramped down so
he couldn't get out, and just bilin' over with rage, and chockful of
pizen, was William Henry! If it had been anybody else less spry, they'd
have got bitten,--and that's just what the sneak who put it there knew.”
Mr. Hamlin uttered an exclamation under his breath, and rose to his
feet.
“What did you say?” asked the boy quickly.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Hamlin.
But it had sounded to Leonidas like an oath.
Mr. Hamlin walked a few steps, as if stretching his limbs, and then
said: “And you think Burroughs would have been bitten?”
“Why, no!” said Leonidas in astonished indignation; “of course not--not
BURROUGHS. It would have been poor MRS. Burroughs. For, of course, HE
set that trap for her--don't you see? Who else would do it?”
“Of course, of course! Certainly,” said Mr. Hamlin coolly. “Of course,
as you say, HE set the trap--yes--you just hang on to that idea.”
But something in Mr. Hamlin's manner, and a peculiar look in his eye,
did not satisfy Leonidas. “Are you going to see her now?” he said
eagerly. “I can show you the house, and then run in and tell her you're
outside in the laurels.”
“Not just yet,” said Mr. Hamlin, laying his hand on the boy's head
after having restored his own hat. “You see, I thought of giving her a
surprise. A big surprise!” he added slowly. After a pause, he went on:
“Did you tell her what you had seen?”
“Of course I did,” said Leonidas reproachfully. “Did you think I was
going to let her get bit? It might have killed her.”
“And it might not have been an unmixed pleasure for William Henry. I
mean,” said Mr. Hamlin gravely, correcting himself, “YOU would never
have forgiven him. But what did she say?”
The boy's face clouded. “She thanked me and said it was very
thoughtful--and kind--though it might have been only an accident”--he
stammered--“and then she said perhaps I was hanging round and coming
there a little too much lately, and that as Burroughs was very watchful,
I'd better quit for two or three days.” The tears were rising to his
eyes, but by putting his two clenched fists into his pockets, he managed
to hold them down. Perhaps Mr. Hamlin's soft hand on his head assisted
him. Mr. Hamlin took from his pocket a notebook, and tearing out a leaf,
sat down again and began to write on his knee. After a pause, Leonidas
said,--
“Was you ever in love, Mr. Hamlin?”
“Never,” said Mr. Hamlin, quietly continuing to write. “But, now you
speak of it, it's a long-felt want in my nature that I intend to supply
some day. But not until I've made my pile. And don't YOU either.” He
continued writing, for it was this gentleman's peculiarity to talk
without apparently the slightest concern whether anybody else spoke,
whether he was listened to, or whether his remarks were at all relevant
to the case. Yet he was always listened to for that reason. When he had
finished writing, he folded up the paper, put it in an envelope, and
addressed it.
“Shall I take it to her?” said Leonidas eagerly.
“It's not for HER; it's for him--Mr. Burroughs,” said Mr. Hamlin
quietly.
The boy drew back. “To get him out of the way,” added Hamlin
explanatorily. “When he gets it, lightning wouldn't keep him here. Now,
how to send it,” he said thoughtfully.
“You might leave it at the post-office,” said Leonidas timidly. “He
always goes there to watch his wife's letters.”
For the first time in their interview Mr. Hamlin distinctly laughed.
“Your head is level, Leo, and I'll do it. Now the best thing you can do
is to follow Mrs. Burroughs's advice. Quit going to the house for a day
or two.” He walked towards his horse. The boy's face sank, but he kept
up bravely. “And will I see you again?” he said wistfully.
Mr. Hamlin lowered his face so near the boy's that Leonidas could see
himself in the brown depths of Mr. Hamlin's eyes. “I hope you will,”
he said gravely. He mounted, shook the boy's hand, and rode away in the
lengthening shadows. Then Leonidas walked sadly home.
There was no need for him to keep his promise; for the next morning the
family were stirred by the announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs had
left Casket Ridge that night by the down stage for Sacramento, and that
the house was closed. There were various rumors concerning the reason of
this sudden departure, but only one was persistent, and borne out by
the postmaster. It was that Mr. Burroughs had received that afternoon an
anonymous note that his wife was about to elope with the notorious San
Francisco gambler, Jack Hamlin.
But Leonidas Boone, albeit half understanding, kept his miserable secret
with a still hopeful and trustful heart. It grieved him a little that
William Henry was found a few days later dead, with his head crushed.
Yet it was not until years later, when he had made a successful
“prospect” on Casket Ridge, that he met Mr. Hamlin in San Francisco,
and knew how he had played the part of Mercury upon that “heaven-kissing
hill.”