little corner of black rock in his hand. At first sight it seemed to be
merely a chip from the cliff; but near the base there was projecting
from it an object which Tom was now exultingly pointing out. It
looked at first something like a glass eye; but there was a depth and
brilliancy about it such as glass never exhibited. There was no mistake
this time; we had certainly got possession of a jewel of great value;
and with light hearts we turned from the valley, bearing away with us
the “fiend” which had so long reigned there.
There, sir; I’ve spun my story out too long, and tired you perhaps.
You see, when I get talking of those rough old days, I kind of see
the little cabin again, and the brook beside it, and the bush around,
and seem to hear Tom’s honest voice once more. There’s little for me
to say now. We prospered on the gem. Tom Donahue, as you know, has set
up here, and is well known about town. I have done well, farming and
ostrich-raising in Africa. We set old Dick Wharton up in business, and
he is one of our nearest neighbors. If you should ever be coming up our
way, sir, you’ll not forget to ask for Jack Turnbull--Jack Turnbull of
Sasassa Farm.
THE AMERICAN’S TALE.
“It air strange, it air,” he was saying as I opened the door of the
room where our social little semi-literary society met; “but I could
tell you queerer things than that ’ere--almighty queer things. You
can’t learn everything out of books, sirs, nohow. You see, it ain’t the
men as can string English together and as has had good eddications, as
finds themselves in the queer places I’ve been in. They’re mostly rough
men, sirs, as can scarce speak aright, far less tell with pen and ink
the things they’ve seen; but if they could they’d make some of your
Europeans’ har riz with astonishment. They would, sirs, you bet!”
His name was Jefferson Adams, I believe; I know his initials were J.
A., for you may see them yet deeply whittled on the right-hand upper
panel of our smoking-room door. He left us this legacy, and also some
artistic patterns done in tobacco juice upon our Turkey carpet; but
beyond these reminiscences our American story-teller has vanished from
our ken. He gleamed across our ordinary quiet conviviality like some
brilliant meteor, and then was lost in the outer darkness. That night,
however, our Nevada friend was in full swing; and I quietly lit my pipe
and dropped into the nearest chair, anxious not to interrupt his story.
“Mind you,” he continued, “I hain’t got no grudge against your men
of science. I likes and respects a chap as can match every beast and
plant, from a huckleberry to a grizzly with a jaw-breakin’ name; but
if you wants real interestin’ facts, something a bit juicy, you go to
your whalers and your frontiersmen, and your scouts and Hudson Bay men,
chaps who mostly can scarce sign their names.”
There was a pause here, as Mr. Jefferson Adams produced a long cheroot
and lit it. We preserved a strict silence in the room, for we had
already learned that on the slightest interruption our Yankee drew
himself into his shell again. He glanced round with a self-satisfied
smile as he remarked our expectant looks, and continued through a halo
of smoke:
“Now, which of you gentlemen has ever been in Arizona? None, I’ll
warrant. And of all English or Americans as can put pen to paper, how
many has been in Arizona? Precious few, I calc’late. I’ve been there,
sirs, lived there for years; and when I think of what I’ve seen there,
why, I can scarce get myself to believe it now.
“Ah, there’s a country! I was one of Walker’s filibusters, as they
chose to call us; and after we’d busted up, and the chief was shot,
some on us made tracks and located down there. A reg’lar English and
American colony, we was, with our wives and children, and all complete.
I reckon there’s some of the old folk there yet, and that they hain’t
forgotten what I’m agoing to tell you. No, I warrant they hain’t, never
on this side of the grave, sirs.
“I was talking about the country, though; and I guess I could astonish
you considerable if I spoke of nothing else. To think of such a land
being built for a few ‘Greasers’ and half-breeds! It’s a misusing of
the gifts of Providence, that’s what I calls it. Grass as hung over a
chap’s head as he rode through it, and trees so thick that you couldn’t
catch a glimpse of blue sky for leagues and leagues, and orchids
like umbrellas! Maybe some on you has seen a plant as they calls the
’fly-catcher,’ in some parts of the States?”
“Dianœa muscipula,” murmured Dawson, our scientific man _par
excellence_.
“Ah,‘Die near a municipal,’ that’s him! You’ll see a fly stand on
that ’ere plant, and then you’ll see the two sides of a leaf snap
up together and catch it between them, and grind it up and mash it
to bits, for all the world like some great sea squid with its beak;
and hours after, if you open the leaf, you’ll see the body lying
half-digested, and in bits. Well, I’ve seen those fly-traps in Arizona
with leaves eight and ten feet long, and thorns or teeth a foot or
more; why, they could--But darn it, I’m going too fast!
“It’s about the death of Joe Hawkins I was going to tell you; ’bout
as queer a thing, I reckon, as ever you heard tell on. There wasn’t
nobody in Montana as didn’t know of Joe Hawkins--’Alabama’ Joe, as he
was called there. A reg’lar out and outer, he was, ’bout the darndest
skunk as ever man clapt eyes on. He was a good chap enough, mind ye, as
long as you stroked him the right way; but rile him anyhow, and he were
worse nor a wild-cat. I’ve seen him empty his six-shooter into a crowd
as chanced to jostle him a-going into Simpson’s bar when there was a
dance on; and he bowied Tom Hooper ’cause he spilt his liquor over his
weskit by mistake. No, he didn’t stick at murder, Joe didn’t; and he
weren’t a man to be trusted further nor you could see him.
“Now, at the time I tell on, when Joe Hawkins was swaggerin’ about
the town and layin’ down the law with his shootin’-irons, there was
an Englishman there of the name of Scott--Tom Scott, if I rec’lects
aright. This chap Scott was a thorough Britisher (beggin’ the present
company’s pardon), and yet he didn’t freeze much to the British set
there, or they didn’t freeze much to him. He was a quiet, simple
man, Scott was--rather too quiet for a rough set like that; sneakin’
they called him, but he weren’t that. He kept hisself mostly apart,
and didn’t interfere with nobody so long as he were left alone. Some
said as how he’d been kinder ill-treated at home--been a Chartist, or
something of that sort, and had to up stick and run; but he never spoke
of it hisself, an’ never complained. Bad luck or good, that chap kept a
stiff lip on him.
“This chap Scott was a sort o’ butt among the men about Montana, for he
was so quiet an’ simple-like. There was no party either to take up his
grievances; for, as I’ve been saying, the Britishers hardly counted him
one of them, and many a rough joke they played on him. He never cut up
rough, but was polite to all hisself. I think the boys got to think he
hadn’t much grit in him till he showed ’em their mistake.
“It was in Simpson’s bar as the row got up, an’ that led to the queer
thing I was going to tell you of. Alabama Joe and one or two other
rowdies were dead on the Britishers in those days, and they spoke their
opinions pretty free, though I warned them as there’d be an almighty
muss. That partic’lar night Joe was nigh half drunk, an’ he swaggered
about the town with his six-shooter, lookin’ out for a quarrel. Then
he turned into the bar, where he know’d he’d find some o’ the English
as ready for one as he was hisself. Sure enough, there was half a
dozen lounging about, an’ Tom Scott standin’ alone before the stove.
Joe sat down by the table, and put his revolver and bowie down in
front of him.‘Them’s my arguments, Jeff,’ he says to me,‘if any
white-livered Britisher dares give me the lie.’ I tried to stop him,
sirs; but he weren’t a man as you could easily turn, an’ he began to
speak in a way as no chap could stand. Why, even a ‘Greaser’ would
flare up if you said as much of Greaserland! There was a commotion at
the bar, an’ every man laid his hands on his wepins; but afore they
could draw we heard a quiet voice from the stove: ‘Say your prayers,
Joe Hawkins; for, by Heaven, you’re a dead man!’ Joe turned round, and
looked like grabbin’ at his iron; but it weren’t no manner of use. Tom
Scott was standing up, covering him with his derringer; a smile on his
white face, but the very devil shining in his eye. ‘It ain’t that the
old country has used me over-well,’ he says, ‘but no man shall speak
agin’ it afore me, and live.’ For a second or two I could see his
finger tighten round the trigger, an’ then he gave a laugh, an’ threw
the pistol on the floor. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I can’t shoot a half-drunk
man. Take your dirty life, Joe, an’ use it better nor you have done.
You’ve been nearer the grave this night than you will be agin until
your time comes. You’d best make tracks now, I guess. Nay, never look
black at me, man; I’m not afeard at your shootin’-iron. A bully’s nigh
always a coward.’ And he swung contemptuously round, and relit his
half-smoked pipe from the stove; while Alabama slunk out o’ the bar,
with the laughs of the Britishers ringing in his ears. I saw his face
as he passed me, and on it I saw murder, sirs--murder, as plain as ever
I seed anything in my life.
“I stayed in the bar after the row, and watched Tom Scott as he shook
hands with the men about. It seemed kinder queer to me to see him
smilin’ and cheerful-like; for I knew Joe’s bloodthirsty mind, and
that the Englishman had small chance of ever seeing the morning. He
lived in an out-of-the-way sort of place, you see, clean off the trail,
and had to pass through the Flytrap Gulch to get to it. This here gulch
was a marshy gloomy place, lonely enough during the day even; for it
were always a creepy sort o’ thing to see the great eight- and ten-foot
leaves snapping up if aught touched them; but at night there were never
a soul near. Some parts of the marsh, too, were soft and deep, and a
body thrown in would be gone by the morning. I could see Alabama Joe
crouchin’ under the leaves of the great Flytrap in the darkest part of
the gulch, with a scowl on his face and a revolver in his hand; I could
see it, sirs, as plain as with my two eyes.
“’Bout midnight Simpson shuts up his bar, so out we had to go. Tom
Scott started off for his three-mile walk at a slashing pace. I just
dropped him a hint as he passed me, for I kinder liked the chap. ‘Keep
your derringer loose in your belt, sir,’ I says, ‘for you might chance
to need it.’ He looked round at me with his quiet smile, and then I
lost sight of him in the gloom. I never thought to see him again. He’d
hardly gone afore Simpson comes up to me and says, ‘There’ll be a nice
job in the Flytrap Gulch to-night, Jeff; the boys say that Hawkins
started half an hour ago to wait for Scott and shoot him on sight. I
calc’late the coroner’ll be wanted to-morrow.’
“What passed in the gulch that night? It were a question as were asked
pretty free next morning. A half-breed was in Ferguson’s store after
daybreak, and he said as he’d chanced to be near the gulch ’bout one in
the morning. It warn’t easy to get at his story, he seemed so uncommon
scared; but he told us, at last, as he’d heard the fearfullest screams
in the stillness of the night. There weren’t no shots, he said, but
scream after scream, kinder muffled, like a man with a serapé over his
head, an’ in mortal pain. Abner Brandon and me, and a few more, was in
the store at the time; so we mounted and rode out to Scott’s house,
passing through the gulch on the way. There weren’t nothing partic’lar
to be seen there--no blood nor marks of a fight, nor nothing; and when
we gets up to Scott’s house, out he comes to meet us as fresh as a
lark. ‘Hullo, Jeff!’ says he, ‘no need for the pistols after all. Come
in an’ have a cocktail, boys.’ ‘Did ye see or hear nothing as ye came
home last night?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he; ’all was quiet enough. An owl
kinder moaning in the Flytrap Gulch--that was all. Come, jump off and
have a glass.’ ‘Thank ye,’ says Abner. So off we gets, and Tom Scott
rode into the settlement with us when we went back.
“An allfired commotion was on in Main Street as we rode into it. The
’Merican party seemed to have gone clean crazed. Alabama Joe was gone,
not a darned particle of him left. Since he went out to the gulch nary
eye had seen him. As we got off our horses there was a considerable
crowd in front of Simpson’s, and some ugly looks at Tom Scott, I can
tell you. There was a clickin’ of pistols, and I saw as Scott had his
hand in his bosom too. There weren’t a single English face about.
’Stand aside, Jeff Adams,’ says Zebb Humphrey, as great a scoundrel
as ever lived, ‘you hain’t got no hand in this game. Say, boys, are
we, free Americans, to be murdered by any darned Britisher?’ It was
the quickest thing as ever I seed. There was a rush an’ a crack; Zebb
was down, with Scott’s ball in his thigh, and Scott hisself was on the
ground with a dozen men holding him. It weren’t no use struggling,
so he lay quiet. They seemed a bit uncertain what to do with him at
first, but then one of Alabama’s special chums put them up to it.
’Joe’s gone,’ he said; ‘nothing ain’t surer nor that, an’ there lies
the man as killed him. Some on you knows as Joe went on business to
the gulch last night; he never came back. That ’ere Britisher passed
through after he’d gone; they’d had a row, screams is heard ’mong the
great flytraps. I say agin he has played poor Joe some o’ his sneakin’
tricks, an’ thrown him into the swamp. It ain’t no wonder as the body
is gone. But air we to stan’ by and see English murderin’ our own
chums? I guess not. Let Judge Lynch try him, that’s what I say.’ ‘Lynch
him!’ shouted a hundred angry voices--for all the rag-tag an’ bobtail
o’ the settlement was round us by this time. ‘Here, boys, fetch a rope,
and swing him up. Up with him over Simpson’s door?’ ‘See here, though,’
says another, coming forrard; ‘let’s hang him by the great flytrap in
the gulch. Let Joe see as he’s revenged, if so be as he’s buried ’bout
theer.’ There was a shout for this, an’ away they went, with Scott
tied on his mustang in the middle, and a mounted guard, with cocked
revolvers, round him; for we knew as there was a score or so Britishers
about, as didn’t seem to recognize Judge Lynch, and was dead on a free
fight.
“I went out with them, my heart bleedin’ for Scott, though he didn’t
seem a cent put out, he didn’t. He were game to the backbone. Seems
kinder queer, sirs, hangin’ a man to a flytrap; but our’n were a
reg’lar tree, and the leaves like a brace of boats with a hinge between
’em and thorns at the bottom.
“We passed down the gulch to the place where the great one grows, and
there we seed it with the leaves, some open, some shut. But we seed
something worse nor that. Standin’ round the tree was some thirty
men, Britishers all, an’ armed to the teeth. They was waitin’ for us
evidently, an’ had a business-like look about ’em, as if they’d come
for something and meant to have it. There was the raw material there
for about as warm a scrimmidge as ever I seed. As we rode up, a great
red-bearded Scotchman--Cameron were his name--stood out afore the rest,
his revolver cocked in his hand.‘See here, boys,’ he says, ‘you’ve got
no call to hurt a hair of that man’s head. You hain’t proved as Joe
is dead yet; and if you had, you hain’t proved as Scott killed him.
Anyhow, it were in self-defence; for you all know as he was lying in
wait for Scott, to shoot him on sight; so I say agin, you hain’t got no
call to hurt that man; and what’s more, I’ve got thirty six-barrelled
arguments against your doin’ it.’ ‘It’s an interestin’ pint, and worth
arguin’ out,’ said the man as was Alabama Joe’s special chum. There was
a clickin’ of pistols, and a loosenin’ of knives, and the two parties
began to draw up to one another, an’ it looked like a rise in the
mortality of Montana. Scott was standing behind with a pistol at his
ear if he stirred, lookin’ quiet and composed as having no money on the
table, when sudden he gives a start an’ a shout as rang in our ears
like a trumpet. ‘Joe!’ he cried,‘Joe! Look at him! In the flytrap!’
We all turned an’ looked where he was pointin’. Jerusalem! I think we
won’t get that picter out of our minds agin. One of the great leaves
of the flytrap, that had been shut and touchin’ the ground as it lay,
was slowly rolling back upon its hinges. There, lying like a child in
its cradle, was Alabama Joe in the hollow of the leaf. The great thorns
had been slowly driven through his heart as it shut upon him. We could
see as he’d tried to cut his way out, for there was a slit in the thick
fleshy leaf, an’ his bowie was in his hand; but it had smothered him
first. He’d lain down on it likely to keep the damp off while he were
awaitin’ for Scott, and it had closed on him as you’ve seen your little
hothouse ones do on a fly; an’ there he were as we found him, torn and
crushed into pulp by the great jagged teeth of the man-eatin’ plant.
There, sirs, I think you’ll own as that’s a curious story.”
“And what became of Scott?” asked Jack Sinclair.
“Why, we carried him back on our shoulders, we did, to Simpson’s
bar, and he stood us liquors round. Made a speech too--a darned fine
speech--from the counter. Somethin’ about the British lion an’ the
’Merican eagle walkin’ arm in arm forever an’ a day. And now, sirs,
that yarn was long, and my cheroot’s out, so I reckon I’ll make tracks
afore it’s later;” and with a “Good-night!” he left the room.
* * * * *
“A most extraordinary narrative!” said Dawson. “Who would have thought
a Dianœa had such power!”
“Deuced rum yarn!” said young Sinclair.
“Evidently a matter-of-fact, truthful man,” said the doctor.
“Or the most original liar that ever lived,” said I. I wonder which he
was.
OUR DERBY SWEEPSTAKES.
“Bob!” I shouted.
No answer.
“Bob!”
A rapid crescendo of snores ending in a prolonged gasp.
“Wake up, Bob!”
“What the deuce is the row?” said a very sleepy voice.
“It’s nearly breakfast-time,” I explained.
“Bother breakfast-time!” said the rebellious spirit in the bed.
“And here’s a letter, Bob,” said I.
“Why on earth couldn’t you say so at once? Come on with it;” on which
cordial invitation I marched into my brother’s room and perched myself
upon the side of his bed.
“Here you are,” said I: “Indian stamp--Brindisi postmark. Who is it
from?”
“Mind your own business, Stumpy,” said my brother, as he pushed back
his curly tangled locks, and, after rubbing his eyes, proceeded to
break the seal. Now, if there is one appellation for which above all
others I have a profound contempt, it is this one of “Stumpy.” Some
miserable nurse, impressed by the relative proportions of my round
grave face and little mottled legs, had dubbed me with the odious
nickname in the days of my childhood. I am not really a bit more stumpy
than any other girl of seventeen. On the present occasion I rose in
all the dignity of wrath, and was about to dump my brother on the head
with the pillow by way of remonstrance, when a look of interest in his
face stopped me.
“Who do you think is coming, Nelly?” he said. “An old friend of yours.”
“What! from India? Not Jack Hawthorne?”
“Even so,” said Bob. “Jack is coming back and going to stay with us.
He says he will be here almost as soon as his letter. Now don’t dance
about like that. You’ll knock down the guns, or do some damage. Keep
quiet like a good girl, and sit down here again.” Bob spoke with all
the weight of the two-and-twenty summers which had passed over his
towsy head, so I calmed down and settled into my former position.
“Won’t it be jolly?” I cried. “But, Bob, the last time he was here he
was a boy, and now he is a man. He won’t be the same Jack at all.”
“Well, for that matter,” said Bob, “you were only a girl then--a nasty
little girl with ringlets, while now----”
“What now?” I asked.
Bob seemed actually on the eve of paying me a compliment.
“Well, you haven’t got the ringlets, and you are ever so much bigger,
you see, and nastier.”
Brothers are a blessing for one thing. There is no possibility of any
young lady getting unreasonably conceited if she be endowed with them.
I think they were all glad at breakfast-time to hear of Jack
Hawthorne’s promised advent. By “all” I mean my mother and Elsie and
Bob. Our cousin Solomon Barker looked anything but overjoyed when I
made the announcement in breathless triumph. I never thought of it
before, but perhaps that young man is getting fond of Elsie, and is
afraid of a rival; otherwise I don’t see why such a simple thing should
have caused him to push away his egg, and declare that he had done
famously, in an aggressive manner which at once threw doubt upon his
proposition. Grace Maberly, Elsie’s friend, seemed quietly contented,
as is her wont.
As for me, I was in a riotous state of delight. Jack and I had been
children together. He was like an elder brother to me until he became
a cadet and left us. How often Bob and he had climbed old Brown’s
apple-trees, while I stood beneath and collected the spoil in my little
white pinafore! There was hardly a scrape or adventure which I could
remember in which Jack did not figure as a prominent character. But he
was “Lieutenant” Hawthorne now, had been through the Afghan War, and
was, as Bob said, “quite the warrior.” Whatever would he look like?
Somehow the “warrior” had conjured up an idea of Jack in full armor
with plumes on his head, thirsting for blood, and hewing at somebody
with an enormous sword. After doing that sort of thing I was afraid
he would never descend to romps and charades and the other stock
amusements of Hatherley House.
Cousin Sol was certainly out of spirits during the next few days. He
could be hardly persuaded to make a fourth at lawn-tennis, but showed
an extraordinary love of solitude and strong tobacco. We used to
come across him in the most unexpected places, in the shrubbery and
down by the river, on which occasions, if there was any possibility
of avoiding us, he would gaze rigidly into the distance, and utterly
ignore feminine shouts and the waving of parasols. It was certainly
very rude of him. I got hold of him one evening before dinner, and
drawing myself up to my full height of five feet four and a half
inches, I proceeded to give him a piece of my mind, a process which Bob
characterizes as the height of charity, since it consists in my giving
away what I am most in need of myself.
Cousin Sol was lounging in a rocking-chair with the _Times_ before him,
gazing moodily over the top of it into the fire. I ranged up alongside
and poured in my broadside.
“We seem to have given you some offence, Mr. Barker,” I remarked, with
lofty courtesy.
“What do you mean, Nell?” asked my cousin, looking up at me in
surprise. He had a very curious way of looking at me, had cousin Sol.
“You appear to have dropped our acquaintance,” I remarked; and then
suddenly descending from my heroics, “You _are_ stupid, Sol! What’s
been the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Nell. At least, nothing of any consequence. You know my
medical examination is in two months, and I am reading for it.”
“Oh,” said I, in a bristle of indignation, “if that’s it, there’s
no more to be said. Of course, if you prefer bones to your female
relations, it’s all right. There are young men who would rather make
themselves agreeable than mope in corners and learn how to prod people
with knives.” With which epitome of the noble science of surgery, I
proceeded to straighten some refractory antimacassars with unnecessary
violence.
I could see Sol looking with an amused smile at the angry little
blue-eyed figure in front of him. “Don’t blow me up, Nell,” he said; “I
have been plucked once, you know. Besides,” looking grave, “you’ll have
amusement enough when this--what is his name?--Lieutenant Hawthorne
comes.”
“Jack won’t go and associate with mummies and skeletons, at any rate,”
I remarked.
“Do you always call him Jack?” asked the student.
“Of course I do, John sounds so stiff.”
“Oh, it does, does it?” said my companion, doubtfully.
I still had my theory about Elsie running in my head. I thought I might
try and set the matter in a more cheerful light. Sol had got up, and
was staring out of the open window. I went over to him and glanced up
timidly into his usually good-humored face, which was now looking very
dark and discontented. He was a shy man, as a rule, but I thought that
with a little leading he might be brought to confess.
“You’re a jealous old thing,” I remarked.
The young man colored and looked down at me.
“I know your secret,” said I, boldly.
“What secret?” said he, coloring even more.
“Never you mind. I know it. Let me tell you this,” I added, getting
bolder: “that Jack and Elsie never got on very well. There is far more
chance of Jack’s falling in love with me. We were always friends.”