THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE
Silas Rocket's saloon was more than usually desirable just now. There
was so much news of an exciting nature going about. Of course, fertile
invention was brought to bear in its purveyance, but that only made it
the more exciting.
On the morning that brought Jim Thorpe into Barnriff many of the men
of the village were partaking of a general hash up of the overnight
dish of news, to which was added the delectable condiment of Jim's
sudden advent in their midst. From the windows of the saloon his
movements were closely watched, as, also, were they from many of the
village houses. Speculation was rife. Curious eyes and bitter thoughts
were in full play, while his meeting with Eve Henderson was
sufficiently significant to the scandalous minds of the more virtuous
women and the coarser men.
The saloon rang with a discordant blending of curses aimed at the head
of the unconscious visitor, and ribald jests at the expense of the
absent gold discoverer.
For the moment Anthony Smallbones had the floor. It was a position he
never failed to enjoy. He loved publicity. And, in his secret mind, he
firmly believed that, but for the presence of Doc Crombie in the
village, he would undoubtedly have held place and power, and have been
dictating the destiny of the village. Thus it was that, just now, a
considerable measure of his spleen was aimed at the absent doctor.
"It's clear as day. That's sure. Doc Crombie's hangin' back," he was
saying, in his curiously mean, high-pitched voice. "It ain't for me to
say he ain't got grit. No, folks. But it's easy to guess for why he
hangs back." He blinked truculently into the faces gathered about him,
mutely daring anybody else to state that reason. But few cared to
discuss the redoubtable doctor, so he was permitted to continue.
"Doc's a sight too friendly disposed toward sech a skunk as Jim
Thorpe. We've clear enough proof that feller is a cattle-rustler.
We've the evidence of our eyes, sure. There's the cattle; ther's his
brand--and--running with his own stock, hidden away up in the
foot-hills. Do we need more? Psha! No. At least no one with any
savvee. I've see fellers strung up on less evidence than that, an'
I've bin on the----"
"Rope?" inquired Gay, sarcastically.
"Not the rope, mister. Not the rope, but the committee as condemned
'em," retorted Smallbones, angrily.
"Wuss!" exclaimed the baker with profound contempt.
"Eh?" snarled the little man with an evil upward glance at the other.
"Jest this," cried Wilkes with heat. "The feller that hangs his feller
man on slim evidence is a lousy, yaller skunk. Say he'd orter hev his
belly tarred, an' a sky-rocket turned loose in his vitals. I sez right
here the evidence against Jim ain't 'nuff to condemn a gopher. It's
positive ridiculous. Wot needs provin' is, who set that brand on
McLagan's cattle? That's the question I'm astin'."
"Psha! You make me sick!" cried Smallbones, his ferret-eyes dancing
with rage. "Put your question. An' when you put it, who's got to get
busy answerin'? I tell you it's up to Jim Thorpe to prove he didn't
brand 'em. If he can't do that satisfact'ry, then he's got to swing."
But he had a divided audience. Gay shook his head, and two others
audibly disagreed with his methods. But, in spite of this, the weight
of opinion against Jim might easily have been carried had not the
carpenter suddenly swept the last chance clear from under Smallbones'
feet.
"Wal," cried the furious Jake, with such swift heat that even those
who knew him best were staggered, "I'd sooner call a cattle-rustler
friend than claim friendship, with such a low-down bum as Anthony
Smallbones. Say, you scrap-iron niggler," he cried, advancing
threateningly upon his victim. "I'll tell you something that ain't
likely leaked in that sieve head o' yours. Cattle-rustlers is mostly
men. Mebbe they're low-down, murderin' pirates, but they're men--as us
folks understands men. They ain't allus skunkin' behind Bible trac's
'cos they're scairt to git out in the open. They're allus ready to put
up a gamble, with their lives for the pot. An' when they gits it I
guess they're sure ready to take their med'cine wi'out squealin'.
Which needs grit an' nerve. Two things I don't guess Anthony
Smallbones has ever heerd tell of outside a dime fiction. No, sir, I
guess you got a foul, psalm-singin' tongue, but you ain't got no grit.
Say," he added witheringly, "I'd hate to see such a miser'ble
spectacle as you goin' to a man's death. I'd git sick feelin' sore I
belonged to the human race. Nope, you couldn't never be a man. Say,
you ain't even a--louse."
The laugh that followed ruined Smallbones' last chance of influencing
the public mind. He spluttered and shouted furiously, but no one would
listen. And, in the midst of his discomfiture, a diversion was created
by the entrance of a small man with a round, cheery face and bad feet.
He was a freighter. He walked to the bar, called for a drink, and
inquired where Mrs. Henderson lived. It was his inquiry that made him
the centre of interest at once.
"Mrs. Henderson?" said Silas, as he set the whiskey before his
customer. "Guess that's her shanty yonder." And he pointed through the
window nearest him. "Freight?" he inquired casually, after the little
man had taken his bearings.
"Sure. Harmonium."
"Eh?"
Rocket's astonishment was reflected in all the faces now crowding
round.
"Yep." Then the freighter perceived the interest he had created, and
promptly became expansive. "From the Æolian Musical Corporation,
Highfield, Californy. To order of William Henderson, shipped to wife
of same, Barnriff, Montana. Kind o' musical around these parts?"
"Wal, we're comin' on--comin' on nicely," observed Silas, winking at
his friends gathered round.
Gay nodded, and proceeded to support him.
"Y'see, most of our leddies has got higher than 'cordions an' sech
things. Though I 'lows a concertina takes a beatin'. Still, education
has got loose on Barnriff, an' I heerd tell as ther's some o' the
folks yearnin' fer piannys. I did hear one of our leadin' citizens,
Mr. Anthony Smallbones, was about to finance a brass band layout."
"Ther' ain't nuthin' to beat a slap-up band," agreed the freighter
politely. "But these yer harmoniums, they're kind o' cussed, some.
Guess my ma had one some years back, but she traded it off fer a new
cook-stove, with a line o' Chicago bacon thrown in. I won't say but
she had the best o' the deal, too. Y'see that ther' harmonium had its
drawbacks. You never could gamble if it had a cold in the head or a
mortal pain in its vitals. It wus kind o' passionate in some of its
keys, and wep' an' sniveled like a spanked kid in others. Then it
would yep like a hound if you happened to push the wrong button, an'
groan to beat the band if you didn't. Nope. They're cur'us things if
they ain't treat right, an' I guess my ma hadn't got the knack o'
pullin' them bolts right. Y'see she'd been trained hoein' kebbeges on
a farm in her early years, an' I guess ther' ain't nothin' more
calc'lated to fix a woman queer fer the doin's o' perlite sassiety
than hoein' kebbeges. Guess I'll get right on."
He paid for his drink, and, followed by the whole company, hobbled out
to his wagon. He was a queer figure, but, at the moment, his defects
were forgotten in the interest created by his mission to Barnriff.
What prosperity the possession of a harmonium suggested to those men
might have been judged by the attitude they took up the moment they
were outside. They crowded round the wagon and gazed at the
baize-covered instrument, caged within its protecting crate. They
reached out and felt it through the baize; they peeked in through the
gaping covering, and a hushed awe prevailed, until, with a cheery
wave of the hand, the teamster drove off in the direction of Eve's
house.
Then the chorus of comment broke out.
"Gee!" exclaimed Wilkes. "A--a harmonium!" Then, overpowered by his
emotion, he remained silent.
"Psha! Makes me sick!" cried Smallbones. "My sister in Iowa has got a
fiddle; an' I know she plays five toons on it--I've heerd her. She's
got a mouth organ, too, an' a musical-box--electric! One 'ud think
nobody had got nuthin' but Will Henderson." He strode back to the bar
in dudgeon, filled to the brim with malicious envy.
Others took quite a different tone.
"It's walnut," said Restless, his professional instincts fully alert.
"Yep," agreed Gay, "burr!"
"An' it's got pipes," cried Rust, impressively. "I see 'em sure,
stickin' up under its wrappin'."
"Most likely imitation," suggested Gay, with commercial wisdom. "Y'see
them things needs fakin' up to please the eye. If they please the eye,
they ain't like to hit the ear-drums so bad. Wimmin is cur'us that
aways."
"Mebbe," agreed Rust, bowing to the butcher's superior knowledge. "But
I guess it must 'a' cost a heap o' dollars. Say, Will must 'a' got it
rich. I'd like to savvee wher'," he added, with a sigh, as they
thoughtfully returned to the bar.
But nobody paid any attention to the blacksmith's regrets. They were
all too busy with their own. There was not a man amongst them but had
been duly impressed by the arrival of the harmonium. Gay, who was
prosperous, felt that a musical instrument was not altogether beyond
his means. In fact, then and there he got the idea of his wife
learning to play a couple of funeral hymns, so he'd be able to charge
more for interments, and, at the same time, make them more artistic.
Restless, too, was mildly envious. But being a carpenter, he got no
further in his admiration of Will's wealth than the fact that he could
decorate his home with burr walnut. He had always believed he had done
well for himself in possessing a second-hand mahogany bureau, and an
ash bedstead, but, after all, these were mere necessities, and their
glory faded before burr walnut.
Rust, being a mere blacksmith, considered the wood but little, while
the pipes fairly dazzled him. Henderson with a pipe organ! That was
the wonder. He had only the vaguest notion of the cost, but, somewhere
in the back of his head, he had a shadowy idea that such things ran
into thousands of dollars.
A sort of depression crowded down the bar-room after the arrival of
the harmonium. Nobody seemed inclined to drink, and talk was somehow
impossible. Nor was it until Smallbones suddenly started, and
gleefully pointed at the window, and informed the company that Jim
Thorpe and Eve had parted at last at the gate of her cabbage patch,
and that he was coming across to the saloon, that the gloom vanished,
and a rapidly rising excitement took its place. All eyes were at once
turned upon the window, and Smallbones again tasted the sweets of
public prominence.
"Say," he cried, "he's comin' right here. The nerve of it. I 'lows
it's up to us to get busy. I say he's a cattle-thief, an'----"
But Jake turned on him furiously.
"Shut your ugly face," he cried, "or--or I'll break it."
The baker's threat was effective. Smallbones relapsed into moody
silence, his beady eyes watching with the others the coming of the
horseman. As Jim drew near they backed from the window. But they lost
nothing of his movements. They watched him hitch his horse to the
tying-post. They watched him thoughtfully loosen his cinchas. They saw
that he had a roll of blankets at the cantle of his saddle, and
saddle-bags at its sides. They saw, also, that he was armed liberally.
A pair of guns on his saddle, and one attached to the cartridge belt
about his hips. Each mind was speculating, and each mind was puzzled
at the man's apparent unconcern.
A moment later the swing doors parted, and Jim strode in. His dark
eyes flashed a swift glance about the dingy interior. He noted the
familiar faces, and very evident attitudes of unconcern. He knew at
once that his coming had been witnessed, and that, in all probability,
he had been well discussed. He was in no mood to mince matters, and
intended to test the public feeling at once. With a cheery "Howdy,"
which included everybody, he walked to the bar.
"Guess we'll all drink, Silas," he said cheerily, and laid a
five-dollar bill on the counter.
But, for once in his life, the saloon-keeper felt it would be
necessary to ask his customers what they would drink. This he did,
while Jim turned to Jake and the butcher, who happened to be standing
nearest to him.
"I've quit the 'AZ's,'" he said, with a light laugh. "Or p'r'aps I'd
best say McLagan's quit me. Say, I'm out on the war-path, chasing
cattle-rustlers," he went on, with a smile. "That bunch of cattle
coming in with my brand on 'em has set my name stinking some with Mac,
and I guess it's up to me to--disinfect it. Eh?"
His final ejaculation was made at Rocket. There were three glasses set
out on the counter, and the saloon-keeper was handing him his change.
"Three drinks," that worthy was explaining. "The rest o' the boys
don't guess they're thirsty."
Jim stiffened his back, and coldly glanced over the faces about him.
He counted ten men, without including himself and Rocket. Of these,
only two, Jake and Gay, had accepted his invitation. Suddenly his eyes
rested on the triumphant face of Smallbones. Without a word he strode
across the room, and his hand fell heavily on the man's quaking
shoulder. In a moment he had dragged him to the centre of the room.
"Guess you'll do, Smallbones," he began, as he released the man's coat
collar. "No, don't move. You're going to stand right there and hand me
out the story I see dodging behind those wicked eyes of yours. You've
got it there, good and plenty, back of them, so get going, and--we'll
all listen. Whatever I've got to say you'll get after."
Smallbones' eyes snapped fire. He was furious at the rough handling,
and he longed more than ever to hurt this man.
"You're a strong man, an bein' strong, you're mighty free with your
hands," he snarled. "But you're up agin it. Up agin it bad, Jim
Thorpe." His face lit with a grin of venom. "Say, you don't need no
story from me. You'll get it plenty from--everywhere! McLagan's quit
you, because---- Wal, I'm a law-abidin' citizen, an' don't figger to
drink with folks suspected of--cattle-rustlin'."
Smallbones' challenge held the whole room silent. Jake, watching and
listening, was astonished at the man's moral courage. But the chief
interest was in the ex-ranch-foreman. What would he do?
The question was swiftly answered. Jim's head went up, and a light
laugh prefaced his words.
"So I'm up against it?" he said calmly. Then he gazed contemptuously
round on those who had rejected his hospitality. "So that's why all
you fellows refused to drink with me. Well, it's a nasty pill, and
it's likely to hand me indigestion." Then he deliberately turned his
back on Smallbones and glanced at the counter. The drinks he had
bought were still there. He looked up with a frank smile into the
faces of the two men who were willing to drink with him. "Gentlemen,"
he said, "it seems to me there are just two drinks between me and--the
rope. Will you honor a suspected man by clinking glasses with him?"
He raised his own glass to them, and Jake and Gay nearly fell over
each other in their frantic efforts to express their willingness, and
their disapproval of Smallbones. They clumsily clinked their glasses,
and drank to the last drop. Then, in silence, they set their glasses
down.
"Thanks, Jake. Thanks, Gay," said Jim, after a moment. Then he turned
to the saloon-keeper. "I'm sorry the order's so small," he said, with
a laugh.
"You can make it one bigger," grinned Silas, and Promptly held out his
hand.
The two men gripped.
"Thanks," murmured Jim. And at the same instant Smallbones' offensive
voice broke in.
"A real elegant scene," he sneered. "Most touchin'. Sort o' mothers'
meetin'." But in a second his tone changed to a furious rasp. "But
don't you mistake, Jim Thorpe; three drinks ain't buyin' you clear. If
you're the honest man you say, you'll hev to prove it. There's the
cattle with your brand on 'em. Whose hand set it on? Who keeps that
brand? Who runs his stock in hidin' up in the hills? Them's the
questions we're all astin', an' it's up to you to answer 'em right. Ef
you don't, then----" he finished with a suggestive motion of hanging.
But Jim had had enough. A moment of blind fury seized upon him, and he
swung round on his accuser. The heavy rawhide quirt hanging on his
wrist was raised aloft threateningly, and his eyes were the eyes of a
man at the limit of endurance.
"Another word from you and I'll flay you alive with this quirt," he
cried. "You've had your say, and now, I guess, I'll have mine. You
know just as much as all the rest of the folk here; no more and no
less. No more and no less than I do. When you or anybody else gets
definite proof that I'm a cattle-thief you are at liberty to talk,
but, until then, if I hear you, or of you, publicly charging me with
cattle stealing, I'll smash you, if I swing for it. Get right out,
now. Get right out, quick!"
Smallbones stood for a moment glaring at the threatening man. His
teeth were bared in a tigerish grin. He was the picture of ferocity,
but, as Jim took a step toward him, his dark face white with passion,
he dropped back and finally made for the door.
But the turn of fortune's wheel was still against Jim. For
Smallbones, the situation was saved by the advent of Doc Crombie. That
redoubtable man pushed his way in through the swing doors and promptly
hailed him back.
"Hold on, Smallbones," he cried, "I've a word for you fellows. How
many are there here?" He glanced round the bar swiftly, and finally
his eyes rested on Jim Thorpe.
"Ah!" He paused, while he mentally estimated the prevailing feeling.
Then he addressed himself to Silas behind the bar. "You'll help the
boys to drinks," he said. Then, pointedly, "All of 'em." After that,
he turned to Jim. "Jest in from the 'AZ's'?" he inquired casually.
"McLagan's quit me on account of those cattle," Jim admitted,
frankly.
"Those wi' your brand on?"
"Sure."
Doc smiled. He could not well have failed to become the leader of this
village. Power was written in every line of his hard, shrewd face.
The moment the drinks had been served and heartily consumed, he
addressed himself to the company generally. And, at his first words,
Smallbones flashed a wicked look of triumph into the face of Jim
Thorpe.
"It's this cattle-rustlin'," he said, coming to the point at once.
"It's got to quit, an' it's right up to us to see it does quit. I
ain't come here like a politician, nor a sky-pilot to talk the rights
an' wrongs of things. It's not in my line ladlin' out psalms an'
things. Ther's folks paid fer that sort o' hogwash. It's jest been
decided to run a gang o' vigilantes over this district, an' every
feller called upon's expected to roll up prompt. I've been around an'
located twelve of the boys from the ranges. I want eight more. With me
it'll make twenty-one. Smallbones," he proceeded, turning on the
hardware merchant with an authority that would not be denied, "you'll
make one. You two fellers, Jake, an' you, carpenter--that's three.
You, Rust--that's four. Long Pete an' you, Sam Purdy, an' Crook
Wilson; you three ain't doin' a heap hangin' around this bum
canteen--that's seven." His eyes suddenly sought Jim's, and a cold
command fell upon his victim even before his words came. "Guess, under
the circ's," he remarked pointedly, "you'd best make the eighth."
But Jim shook his head. A light of determination, as keen as the
doctor's own, shone in the smiling eyes that confronted the man of
authority.
"Not for mine, Doc," he said deliberately. "Not on your life. Here, I
don't want any mistake," he hastened on, as he watched the anger leap
into the other's face, and beheld the sparkle of malice lighting the
beady eyes of Smallbones. "Just listen to me. If you'll take a look
around you'll see a number of fellers, mostly good fellers, more than
half of 'em believing me to be the rustler they're all looking for.
Well, for one thing you can't put me on a vigilance committee with
folks suspecting me. It isn't fair either way, to me or them. Then, in
the second place, I've got a say. I tell you, Doc, straight up and
down, as man to man, I don't hunt with hounds that are snapping at my
shoulders in the run. I'm either a rustler or I'm not. I choose to say
I'm not. That being so I guess I'm the most interested in running
these gophers, who are, to their holes. Well, that's what I'm going to
do. But I'm going to do it in my own way, and not under any man's
command. I've got a few dollars by me and so long as they last, and my
horse lasts out, I'm going to get busy. You're a man of intelligence,
so I guess you'll see my point. Anyway, I hunt alone."
It was a lucky thing for Jim Thorpe that he was dealing with a really
strong man, and a fearless one. One weak spot in the character of Doc
Crombie, one trifling pettiness, which could have taken umbrage at the
defiance of his authority, one atom of small-mindedness, whereby he
could have been influenced by the curious evidence against this man,
and the yelping hounds of Barnriff would have been let loose, and set
raging at his heels. As it was, Doc Crombie, whatever may have been
his faults, was before all things a man.
He turned from Jim with a shrug.
"Plain speakin's good med'cine," he said, glancing coldly over his
shoulder. "You've spoke a heap plain. So will I. Hit your own trail,
boy. But remember, this dogone rustler's got to be rounded up and
finished off as neat as a rawhide rope'll do it. If he ain't
found--wal, we're goin' to clear Barnriff of this trouble anyways. I
don't guess you need a heap of extry-ordinary understandin' to get my
meaning. You're gettin' a big chanct--why, take it. Gay," he said,
turning abruptly to the butcher, "I guess you'll make the tally of the
committee. We start out to-night."