THE Emporium of Crawley was not quite a trading-place as the Greek
root of the word would indicate, unless transactions in which the
unwary bartered his gain for experience, and the great unscrubbed of the
Southwest pitted their wage against the riot of dissipation, could be
held to partake of the nature of commerce. It was a fad with Crawley to
assert that his Emporium was a clearinghouse,--a rather grim jest, heavy
with truth. Indeed, all the currency of this primitive land seemed to
pass, sooner or later, through the mammoth establishment of First Class
Crawley, and in season and out of season as the dollar went through, a
portion paused and remained in the fingers of the proprietor. And for
this, also,--as the common-law pleader would put it,--truth clung to the
pet declaration of Crawley.
When the population gathered night after night under the roof of his
Emporium, their troubles came also; and when the smoke grew thick and
the tanglefoot whiskey began to assert itself, there were other things
to clear up beside matters of currency. Matters of consequence and
matters of no consequence were cleared by the same rapid, drastic
measures. Bad men here decided who was the worst or the best, as they
were pleased with the term. The henchmen of rival cattle kings submitted
the vexatious question of a brand on a stray heifer to this court of
instant resort and quick decision, and other concerns of the citizen,
affecting perhaps his truth, or honor, or ability for a vice, were
determined suddenly and for all time without the wrangling of counsel or
the tedium of courts.
If a Mexican was so short sighted as to slip his knife into a
tenderfoot, some one shot the Mexican, and the crowd “lickered up.” If
the faro dealer killed his man, it was usually because the man needed
killing, and certainly the faro dealer was the best judge of this.
On the contrary, if one shot the dealer, this was considered a public
calamity, demanding an explanation, since the dealer was a _quasi_
public functionary, and the convenience of the citizen required that the
game should continue. One's life was perhaps the cheapest thing below
the Central Pacific Railroad, and it was entirely the duty of the
individual to see that it was maintained. If one was unsteady on the
trigger, or caught napping on the draw, one was held to have died by
virtue of contributory negligence.
To be sure there was law, and machinery for its execution; but the
machinery was liberal, and had ideas of its own, and the law adhered
with supreme unconcern to its maxim--_De minimis non curat lex_.
First Class Crawley had been splendidly trained for the duties of his
position. If Fortune had been moving of design, she could not have
schooled him better for such a life. Some thirty years before, he had
been a sutler with the Army of the Potomac--not the sutler of romance,
but the sutler of reality; following the army bravely, but at such a
distance to the rear as to be at all times extremely safe, and exacting
for his valuable public service every gain that human ingenuity could
discover. It was no wrong in the mind of Crawley to cheat the common
soldier out of his eyes; belike the soldier would be shot on the
morrow, and then all opportunity to cheat him would cease, and if prior
opportunity had not been seized and enjoyed, Crawley would regret.
When the “bitterness of death” had passed, Crawley became a justice
of the peace in Ohio. Here the field for his talent was broader, and
Crawley arose and spread like the bay tree of Biblical record. Crawley
held it as a basic principle that the machinery of human justice could
not be maintained without ample sinews of war. It was best, to be sure,
if these sinews could be wrested from the wrong-doer, but, failing that,
the innocent must contribute. Every litigant was presumed to proceed at
the peril of costs. The matter of costs was one vital to Crawley, and
loomed constantly. The right or justice of a cause was never for a
moment permitted to obscure it. If the plaintiff was impecunious, then
the decision must be against the defendant, else the costs could not be
had, and _vice versa_ as it had pleased Providence to place substance.
This was a high conception of human justice; since it passed by the
trivial controversy of the litigants, and placed the burden of legal
procedure upon the one best able to support It. First Class Crawley
maintained further that it was the part of wisdom in a government
promptly to release the criminal who “shelled out,” since the revenues
of the State arose largely from the fines imposed upon the evildoer, and
it was certainly quite useless to retain the criminal at public expense
after having squeezed him thoroughly, when he could be returned to
society and squeezed again later on.
Crawley might have been the father of a school, had he not found the
school in Ohio established to his uses. Consequently his fame was local,
and his methods being of ancient origin in this Commonwealth, provoked
no comment, and indeed he might have passed on, with the usual career
of such ambitious spirits, to a seat in the legislature, had he not
unwittingly crossed into a neighboring State in order to attend a
reunion of the Grand Army of the Republic. Here one, smarting from a
hurt, pounced down upon him with a warrant for a felony, and that same
night the visiting justice was a guest of the State. But First Class
Crawley was no man of feeble resources, and two days later he gave a
straw bond and vanished like a newspaper war cloud.
In the Southwest, Crawley was a person of importance--a court of last
resort on all matters, barring none. If bets were made, Crawley was
umpire. If questions w ere argued, Crawley was judge. If one wanted
advice, one went to him. If one wanted information, one went to him; and
if one needed money, one went always to First Class Crawley, and put up
everything but his life. No function was complete without the presence
of this celebrity, be it bull tight or prize fight, or dog fight, or a
prearranged resort to the arbitration of the Winchester. Crawley was a
great man, in counterdistinction to a bad man. Personally, he neither
quarrelled nor fought, and one would have no more considered shooting at
Crawley than he would have considered shooting at his grandmother. This
proprietor of the Emporium maintained his position, not by virtue of
arms and skill in their use, but by virtue of an interesting something
which passed with him for an intellect.
Consequently, when he and Hiram Martin, of the Golden Horn Mining
Company, sat down in the private gambling room of the Emporium to a
private interview with the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan, they were
expecting to realize from the time expended. They were both attentive
and interested, since the reckless Secretary of State was known in the
lingo of the guild as an “easy member.” If he had money, or could obtain
money, it would eventually fall into their clutches as it had always
done. Hence their interest was genuine.
“Boys,” said the Secretary of State, “I have a scheme to make a stake,
and I want you in on it. I have been over in the East, and I have got it
all figured out, and it's a cinch.”
The owner of the Golden Horn folded his hands over the vast expanse of
his stomach and smiled benignly. He knew all about the usual combination
of circumstances set down in the elegant diction of the gambler as a
“cinch.”
He was an expert upon things of this sort, but he volunteered no
information, and no comment. He merely smiled and murmured “Yes,” in a
voice which reminded one of oil being poured from a very full barrel.
“You see,” continued the Honorable Ambercrombie
Hergan, “it's this way. There is a broker in Chicago who is a friend of
mine. I saved him from the jug when he was a kid, and he never forgot
it. Well, he went to Chicago, raked together a bunch of money, and
bought a seat in the Stock Exchange. He was lucky, and now he is away
up. He is on the inside, and he says that there is going to be a big
raise in oil stocks; that the Standard Oil Company has been forcing it
down in order to squeeze out the little dealers, and that they are right
now at the bottom, and when they let go, it will fly back to a dollar.”
At this point in the narrative, Crawley murmured “Yes,” then leaned back
in his chair and closed his eyes. He was not quite ready to puncture
Mr. Hergan's balloon, and it was not his way to offer objections to
unfinished propositions.
“Now,” said Hergan, leaning over and resting his arms on the table, “the
plan is to form a big pool and buy oil, and make enough at one haul to
go back to civilization and live like a king. That is the scheme, boys.
It's good.” First Class Crawley opened his eyes slowly, and putting out
his fat hand, began to caress the green cloth on the little round poker
table.
“Billy,” he said slowly, “I expect that is a good scheme, and I expect
there is money in it,--may be tubs of money, but me and Martin aint
speculators; we never so much as saw a ticking machine in our life. We
don't know anything about new-fangled ways to get rich. We're both old
fogies,--just common old fogies, and I reckon we had better stay out. Of
course, I aint knocking on the scheme. It looks good, mighty good, but
me and Martin aint young any longer; we're getting old and heavy on
our pins, and we aint got no nerve like we used to have. Still I aint
knocking. Me and Martin would like to see you make a pile of money,
would n't we, Martin?”
“Yes,” gurgled the owner of the Golden Horn, “we would that.”
The Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan straightened up and thrust his hands
into his pockets. “Of course, boys,” he said, “it's a gamble, but it's
a ten-to-one shot better than a faro bank. If it goes our way, we will
have all kinds of money; if it goes the other way, we are skinned to a
standstill. I am tired of little gambles, and I am going to make one big
play if I eat snowballs for the next twenty years. I would like to have
you boys in, but if you don't believe that the thing is easy to beat,
you can stay out.”
An inspiration came to First Class Crawley, and he seized it with the
avidity of a shark. “Billy,” he said, with amiable confidence, “you
have no better friends in this here country' than me and Martin--has he,
Martin?”
“No,” muttered the fat owner of the oleaginous voice, “he aint.”
“And me and Martin,” the proprietor went on, “would go in anything
in the world that you wanted us to go in, and it would n't make no
difference to us what it was, if you said it was a good thing. But me
and Martin are pretty nigh sixty, and if we would go broke, we could
never get on our feet no more. We are skeery, Billy; me and Martin are
skeery, but we are ready to do anything for you that we can. We are
ready to help you any way you want to be helped, because you are dead
game, Billy,--that's what you are--you're dead game.”
The wary Hiram Martin was totally in the dark as to what Crawley was
probing for, but he had unlimited confidence in the proprietor of the
Emporium, and he assented blandly. Crawley, he knew, followed no cold
trail; Crawley worked no salted lead, and if he stooped to “crook the
pregnant hinges of the knee,” there was something in it for Crawley, and
at no great distance.
“Well,” responded the Secretary of State,
“I am obliged to you both, but I guess there is nothing I need just now.
Of course, I, have got to raise a bunch of money for this deal, but I
sort of arranged that in New York.”
The ulterior motive of Crawley was now quite clear to the owner of the
Golden Horn. Hergan would require money,--perhaps a large sum for his
venture. If good security could be given, there was no reason why they
should not advance the cash at a large and comfortable discount.
The officer of the Commonwealth moved his chair back from the table as
an indication that the secret conference was at an end. As he did so,
the proprietor of the Emporium leaned over and spread out his fat hands
on the green cloth.
“Billy, old man,” he said, in a voice that indicated gentle reproach,
“there was no necessity for you to go among strangers to raise any money
you wanted; me and Martin have saved up a little, and me and Martin
would be glad to let you have it if it is any accommodation, would n't
we, Martin?”
First Class Crawley failed to add that both he and Martin would require
the trifling detail of a substantial surety, but they concluded shrewdly
that if Hergan could raise money in New York, he had obtained some
first-class support, and if this security were sufficient for an Eastern
bank, it was amply sufficient for all purposes known to commerce. Hence
the apparently unconcerned Martin consented most amiably.
The Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan settled back in his chair and grew
thoughtful. “I aint closed the loan,” he said, after some little
consideration, “and I would just as leave borrow it of you, boys. The
fact is, I would a little rather borrow it of you. I am paying pretty
stiff for the money, and I would rather pay my friends than the Yankees
in the East.”
“Yes,” observed the unctuous mining magnate, although he had not
intended to speak at all.
“But,” continued the Secretary of State, “I reckon you would n't like to
put up as much as I need. I am going to crowd the bank this once.”
“Well, Billy,” drawled the proprietor of the Emporium, “I expect me and
Martin can make it up for you. If we aint got enough, we can get some
around and piece out. Least ways, we will try. About what sum might you
need?”
“I reckon,” responded Hergan, “that I shall want about fifty thousand.”
The hands of Hiram Martin tightened over his stomach, and for a moment
Crawley studied the ceiling with placid indifference. He had turned
Hergan into his own channel, and the transaction being assured, it was
now the part of wisdom to affect gravity. Presently he spoke, slowly
and anxiously: “That's a powerful big wad of money. Still, me and
Martin----” Here he stopped short and turned to his companion.
“Powerful big,” echoed the mine owner, and volunteered no further
observation. He understood First Class Crawley as few men are
understood, and such observations were quite useless between them,
except for the effect upon the victim at hand.
“Still,” continued the proprietor of the Emporium, “I expect we can
raise it some way. About what terms do you allow on?”
“I guess thirty days will be long enough,” responded Hergan. “Thirty
days at twelve per cent, is how I have been figuring it.”
“Yes,” drawled the gambling king, “and the security?”
“Well,” said the Secretary of State, “I have calculated to give the
Governor and Culverson.”
“They are good, I reckon,” observed the wary Crawley. “Aint they good,
Martin?”
“Might be worse,” responded the oily owner of the Golden Horn, “but it
aint that. It's the rate. Seems like mighty little on a short loan.”
“It is mighty little,” continued Crawley, after a silence of some
moments. “We would have to give more than that for what we borrowed
'round. There would n't be nothing in it for us, Billy,--not a cent to
me and Martin.”
“I tell you what I'll do,” put in the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan,
abruptly, as though the idea was new and sudden in its coming, “I'll
give you twelve per cent, for the money for a month, and I will enter
into an agreement to turn over to you two one-eighth of what I win on
the gamble.”
Crawley was very grave. The proposition pleased him hugely, but emotions
found no expression with him. To loan fifty thousand dollars on good
security at an enormous rate of interest, and in addition to have a
substantial share in a speculation without standing to lose a cent, was
a condition of affairs not likely to arise with much regularity in the
span of a gambler's precarious life. Yet Crawley was not anxious. To
the spectator he was sad and unconcerned. He knew quite well that this
proposition was Hergan's ultimatum, and he was going to accept, but
desired to appear to accept rather as a matter of kindly feeling toward
Hergan than by reason of the fact that the inducement had increased.
“Billy,” he said slowly, almost sadly, “me and Martin don't want to make
anything off of you, and we will try to fix it any way you want it. If
you want to arrange the thing that way, why it suits us--it suits me and
Martin.”
“All right,” responded the Secretary of State, getting up from the
table. “I'll go over to the Governor's house and have Al fix the papers.
The sooner I get it, the better chance I'll have to win a stake.”
“Billy,” called the proprietor of the Emporium, as the official of
the Commonwealth was passing out through the door, “just make the note
payable to Martin.”
The Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan nodded his assent, and departed,
leaving the fat gambling kings of the Southwest to prolong the secret
session.
When the door was closed, First Class Crawley turned to his companion,
his little gray eyes slipping around in their puffy sockets.
“Martin,” he said, “aint he a mark?”
The stomach of the rotund Martin undulated like a rubber bag filled with
fluid. “Of all damn fools,” he gurgled.
“Were it clear?” inquired the proprietor of the Emporium.
“Plain as a speckled pup,” responded Martin, “except the note.”
“You see,” said First Class Crawley, turning around in his chair, “you
live in New Mexico, and I wanted the note in your name so that if we had
to sue we could get it in the United States court. You can't ever tell
what the State courts are going to do with you, but old Uncle Sam's
courts don't stand no flim-flam.”
“Crawley,” announced the owner of the Golden Horn, “Crawley, you are
built like a white man, but you have got a head on you like a Yankee.”
When the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan returned to the Governor's
residence he found that celebrated official and Major Culverson in the
library. The irrepressible Major was engaged in presenting a lurid
and highly dramatic history of how he had straightened the tangled
exigencies of the Commonwealth during the absence of his associates,
and how, by virtue of his magnificent personality, the entire Southwest,
from the borders of lower Utah to the Rio Grande, was now the placid
abode of peace and fraternal good-will. He stopped short as the
Secretary of State entered, and bowed. Then thrusting his hand into
the front of his coat, he exclaimed, with the affected manner of a
tenth-rate actor, “Good morrow, good gambler.”
“Top chop,” responded the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan. “And a
favorite.”
“I opine,” continued the Major, “I opine, sir, from your gladsome tone
that the fat sharks have been successfully harpooned.”
“Gentlemen,” said the Secretary of State, dropping into a chair by the
table, “the reports of this race will announce that Hiram Martin and
First Class Crawley 'also ran.'”
“Which being translated,” observed the Governor, “means that these
gentlemen will advance you the money on the line suggested by your New
York lawyer.”
“Yes,” said the gambler. “You are to fix up the papers, and I am to go
down there to-night. Everything turned out just like Randolph Mason
said it would. If the rest goes through as slick, we will be riding in
carriages.”
“Produce the sealed orders,” said the Governor, partaking of the mock
dramatic atmosphere.
The Secretary of State drew a big envelope from his pocket and threw
it down on the table. The Executive leaned over, opened the paper, and,
after having examined it carefully, took up a pen and began to write.
Major Culverson wandered over to the window and looked out at the hot,
monotonous, sterile country. “I wonder,” he murmured, “if this is really
the passing of the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan?”