A MILLION DOLLARS RANSOM
In giving my own account of this unpleasantness which happened between
the Du Chesnay and Ryan families I've just grabbed Truth by the tail and
tried to stay right with her. But Truth runs swift, and raises plenty
dust of lies around her heels, so, maybe, whirling along I missed good
facts. Happens I've been poorly provided with one eye and a lot of
prejudice to see the trail ahead; likely I've not been the only party
interested. Anyways, outsiders could watch the stampede without getting
choked with dust.
Now these conclusions struck me abrupt like a bat in the eye when I sat
down to rest in camp at Echo Spring. Before leaving Grave City, while
thinking of other worries, I had caught a copy of a local paper, stuffed
the same in my rear pocket, and disremembered having such possessions. I
never thought of it until my tigers, hungering for news, caught sight of
the bulging paper and rushed my camp to grab. Then I unfolded the
_Weekly Obituary_ to these boys, all setting around on their tails and
pointing their ears for instruction. I read to them about a certain
Chalkeye Davies, who seemed to be a most astonishing outrageous villain,
performing simultaneous crimes in several places at once. My tigers
purred for more.
Then came a whole page of revelations concerning "the kidnapped
Croesus," otherwise styled "the stolen millionaire" and the "brigands'
prey." It was clearly proved that the Chalkeye villain, Jim du
Chesnay--described as "a broken-down swell"--and Captain McCalmont had
joined together in purloining Michael Ryan and hiding him up in a cave,
the place being well known to the authorities. This cave was
inaccessible by land and water, guarded with machine-guns, and supplied
with all modern conveniences, especially searchlights. "Our special
representative" had been there, "but declined to give particulars for
fear of driving the bandits to still more desperate measures."
Then came the _Weekly Obituary_ gallery of fine portraits. We knew them
all well, because they were served up frequent to represent murderers,
politicians, actresses, preachers, scandalous British duchesses, and
other notorious persons. Now they represented McCalmont, Curly,
Chalkeye, Jim, Michael Ryan, Mrs. Michael, and old Mrs. Ryan. The
_Weekly Obituary_ said it was wishful with these identifications to
assist the ends of justice.
After this the next page was all quotations from leading papers
throughout the Republic, proving how plumb depraved the robbers were,
how wicked it was to purloin the rich and good out of their private
cars, and how the Federal Government ought to act in this shocking
catastrophe. The New York papers just burned themselves with wrath
because Michael's present engagements prevented him a whole lot from
attending to railroad business. His financial combine was due to
collapse complete unless he took hold at once.
Last came "our special supplement," with the very latest news. It seems
that Michael had written to his wife in New York; likewise that somebody
stole the letter from her and sold it to the New York _Megaphone_. Then
all the papers copied Michael's letter and laid the blame on the
_Megaphone_. Here is the letter:--
"_September 8th, 1900._
"DEAR KATHLEEN,
"On 28th ult. I was abducted at Grave City out of my car by
brigands and carried blindfold, lashed on to the back of a horse,
for several hundred miles through frightful country, arriving here
4th instant. When I got here I weighed ninety-eight pounds! Indeed
I was nearly dead; but now the robbers are feeding me up, so that
I'm gaining flesh, although I'm still kept prisoner in close
confinement.
"I don't know the whereabouts of this house, but it's a large
ranche building of logs in the middle of pine woods. At nights I'm
almost frozen, so it must be high up in some range of mountains.
The country looks flat from the window. A robber told me once that
the place is in California.
"Now, dearest, you will take this as my authority, and raise the
sum of one million dollars to pay my ransom, and save me from being
murdered. You know who to go to, and offer securities for the loan,
getting the best terms you can. This money must be paid one-tenth
in U. S. gold currency, and the balance in notes of ($50) fifty
dollars and under. Bring it to Flagstaff, in Arizona, and ask for
military escort. There you will charter a waggon, and have the
treasure delivered at the point where the Tuba trail from Flagstaff
crosses the Little Colorado River, right in the middle of the
Painted Desert. The waggon must then be abandoned, and the escort
to withdraw to Cañon Diablo, leaving no spies behind. The chief of
the robbers tells me that the man he sends with a team to get this
waggon will be a perfectly innocent farmer, and that any parties
attempting to molest, join, or follow him will be killed so quick
they'll never know what struck them.
"I must earnestly warn you, as you value my life, to prevent any
attempt whatever to watch or track the waggon; or prior to my
release to permit any hostile movement against the robbers; or to
deliver any money short of the full ransom; or to mark any coin or
note for future identification. If the terms are not absolutely
complied with in every detail, within forty days from date--that
is, by noon of 18th October, I shall be murdered. If the ransom is
delivered as per instructions by 18th October and found correct,
the robbers will then disperse, and have no further use for me.
They promise then to deliver me at the nearest ranche or farm on or
before 1st November.
"_Private._--Now, dearest, of my own free will, and without
compulsion from the robbers, I want to ease my mind of a great
burden, by confessing to you as I shall to Holy Church if ever I
get the chance. Under this dreadful visitation I see things in
their true light which before were hid.
"I guess there's not the slightest doubt that Lord Balshannon was
one of the blackest scoundrels that ever disgraced this earth.
Apart from his odious crimes in Ireland, his later life was steeped
in villainy. For years at Holy Cross ranche he was in open league
with this gang of robbers who have captured me. One of them,
Chalkeye Davies, the notorious horse-thief, was his foreman, and
Captain McCalmont's son went there to get educated in crime. Once
Balshannon actually hired the gang to rob my father of $75,000.
"Under such circumstances I am awed by the sublime courage of my
father in this single-handed war against Balshannon and his
outlaws. I stood at father's side in the last fight when Balshannon
murdered him; I fired first in the fusillade which avenged the old
man's death; and untrained as I am to such wild warfare of the
Frontier, I tried to be worthy of my blood.
"But when I think of Balshannon's son, I realize now that he fought
for his father as I fought for mine. Afterwards, blinded with
passion, I brought a charge against him, and swore that he alone
was guilty of my father's death. I had no right to do that; the
young chap was innocent, the charge was a put-up job. But the evil
one must have possessed me entirely, for when several witnesses
thought they could please me by swearing Jim's life away, I was a
party to their perjuries. More, I was induced to help them with
money to leave the country, and so escape arrest.
"If I sinned, I am punished, for as the robbers were Balshannon's
partners, so they took sides with his son. Because I attacked the
lad they abducted me. That is my punishment, Kathleen, and it is
just.
"In one thing I am puzzled, because I expected to find Balshannon's
son with the robbers. I have not seen him, and McCalmont swears
that Jim du Chesnay took no part in this outrage.
"Kathleen, we've got to do right in this business. I want the
charge against James du Chesnay withdrawn right now. When I am free
I shall give him back his home and lands, all that father seized,
and ask him to forget that there was ever a quarrel between our
families.
"Dear love, it breaks my heart to think of your anxiety. As for my
business interests, I dare not think of what may be involved by my
long absence. Mavourneen, you must save me quick, or worse will
happen yet.
"Your distracted lover,
"MICHAEL."
It made me sorry to think of that poor devil. You see, he tended strict
to business first, then strutted awhile to show himself off to his
woman, before he unfolded his crooked little soul in the part marked
"Private." His letter gave me plenty to think about.
Still, I had my own concerns to worry me, for Monte took me round our
herd, which had grown in surprising ways during my absence. The mares,
it seemed, had gotten more prolific than usual, giving birth to
full-grown horses, ready branded. On the whole I concluded that if any
of the neighbours happened around, my boys would find that pasture
unhealthy with symptoms of lead poisoning. I advised them to quit, so
they agreed to shift the herd along eastward, and sell out in Texas.
Meanwhile, I cut out Curly's buckskin mare, and a few of my own pet
runners who knew how to show their tails to any pursuers. We took twelve
good stayers from the herd, and a little wall-eyed pack mule who had
fallen dead in love with Curly's mare. So Curly and I were ready for our
march.
As to that young person, from the moment she hit the trail out of Grave
City the wound in her arm healed rapid, and she sure forgot to be an
invalid. Two days we fed and rested her, but then she began to act
warlike, oppressing me for sloth. On the third morning I loaded the pack
mule, told the boys good-bye, and trailed off with Curly, pointing for
Robbers' Roost.
When water won't cure thirst, but the juice in your mouth turns to slime
caking in lumps on your lips, when the skin dries up because there's no
more sweat, when your eyes ache and your brain mills round--that's
Arizona. The air shakes in waves like a mist of cobwebs, and through
that quiver the landscape goes all skeweye, for some of the mountains
float up clear of the land, and some turn upside down standing on rows
of pillars along the skyline. Then the hollows of the land fill with
blue mist--blue lakes and cactus bushes change into waving palm trees by
the waterside. How can a man keep his head when the world goes raving
crazy all round him? You have just to keep on remembering that your eyes
have quit being responsible, that your nose is a liar, that your ears
are fooled, then keep a taut rein on yourself for fear your wits
stampede, and your legs go chasing visions down the trail to death.
That Valley of Central Arizona got me plumb bewildered; a country of
bare earth and mesquite brush like mist, with huge big trees of cactus
standing in one grove a hundred miles across. Then came a hillside of
black cinders lifting a hundred miles; but the top was a level mesa,
surely the first place I ever seen with good grass under pine trees. I
had never seen woods before, and this coconino forest is the sort of
pasture I'd want to go to after this present life. I hunger none for
golden pavements or any desert lay-out, nor am I wishful for a
harp--having a taste for guitars--nor for flopping around on wings, nor
a crown of glory--the same being ostentatious a whole lot. Pasture like
this, a horse, a camp, a spring--such promises as them would lure me to
being good.
Right in the heart of this forest there's a bunch of dead volcanoes
called the San Francisco peaks, lifting their frosty heads into the sky,
and round the skirts of lava at their feet lies broken country. Curly
showed good judgment in making camps, but hereabouts I thought she had
lost her wits, for she led me over broken lava flows, heart-breaking
ground for the horses, where we had to dismount and climb. Then all of a
sudden we dropped down, hid from all the world, into a meadow walled
around with lava. This tract had escaped when the rest was overflowed;
so happened there was grass among the bull pines, and right at the head
of the field a little cave with space of floor for camping beside a
bubbling spring. We struck the place at noon and camped, my partner
concluding to lie over until she could make a night scout in search of
news. She slept through the afternoon while I stood guard outside.
Up to that time we had been scared to make a fire at night or show a
smoke by day, except for the minutes we needed boiling coffee. Besides
that, we could never camp within ten miles of a water-hole, but had to
ride on after drinking to win the nearest grass, this country being all
ate up around the pools. Here we had grass and water, the cave to hide
our fire, and certainty besides of not being caught without warning. It
was mighty fine to set around the fire after supper.
"You Chalkeye"--Curly lit up a cigarette and broke into silence which
had lasted days--"what does it feel like, being safe?"
"We're safe enough here, lil' partner."
"Till I hit the trail for this scouting. But I mean, to live safe day
after day without nobody ever wanting to kill you. Ain't it some
monotonous?"
"Not to hurt."
"It must feel sort of--neglected. I read a book onced about folks in
England, which I kep' on readin' and readin' to see if anythin' happened
'cept meals and go-to-bed and get-up-in-the-mawning. The girl was a sure
enough fool, and as to the boy--well, he wore government socks, and
didn't love the Lawd. Then he mar'ied a widow by mistake, which she had
a forked tongue, a bad eye, and parted her ha'r on one side lookin'
rather cute. That boy just aimed to cut his throat for seventy-three
pages, then didn't after all, which was plumb discouraging. 'Stead of
that he got a government job inspectin' the clouds and drawin' salary.
Then the widdy she talked herself to death, and quit out. Afterwards
that boy took sixty-one pages to get a kiss from the heroine. Thar was a
deanery in it and a funny parrot--I reckon that's all the story."
"They mar'ied?"
"Sure, and nothin' happened ever afterwards, 'cept kids. Them characters
was awful safe from gettin' excited. Will it be that a-way when I get
tame enough to mar'y Jim?"
Feeling that said Jim was a lot unworthy of her, I strayed out to study
how much our camp was visible. It seemed like we couldn't be attacked
without our visitors cussing around first in the lava. They'd bark their
shins, and we'd hear gentle protests.
When I came back, Curly was brooding still about her Jim.
"He'll be a dook like the old patrone," says she, "and sure as I'm a
lady I'll be tired of life. Robes goes with that job, and a golden crown
such as the angels wear."
"I reckon that's only for Sunday best," I told her.
"To go to church? Wall, now, ain't that jest fine? And how my wolves
would laugh to see!" She stood up swaggering before the fire, her hand
on her revolver, her laugh ringing echoes round the cave. "Jest you
think," says she, "of me--a lady! Footman at the church door to
announce us 'Lord and Lady Balshannon!' and Jim and me goes buttin'
along to our pew. Then the preacher he rears up to talk his sermon. 'My
lord, my lady, and you common or'nary brethren.' Cayn't you see Jim spit
on his crown and give it a rub with his sleeve, and me snarled up in my
robe like a roped hawss? Then we ride off home to the castle, and Jim
says, 'Be-shrew thee! go to, thou varlet, and wrastle the grub pile
'fore I shoot the cook!' Then the valet says there's a deputy-marshal
come to arrest us both for stealin' cows, so Jim has him hung in the
moat. Afterwards we put in the hull afternoon shootin' foxes, and other
British sports until it's time for supper, then play stud poker beside
the parlour stove. You're to come and stop with us, Chalkeye."
"Sing to me, Curly," says I, because her voice was sweet enough to
gentle a grizzly bear, and it always smoothed my fur. It seems to me I
can see her now, her eyes green and flame in the firelight, her face--I
can't describe her face.
"Here's a moccasin track in the drifts,
It's no more than the length of me hand,
An' her instep--just see how it lifts--
If that ain't jest the best in the land!
For the maid ran as free as the wind,
And her foot was as light as the snow,
Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find
Me a kiss whar her red blushes grow.
"Here's two small little feet and a skirt,
Here's a soft little heart all aglow;
See me trail down the dear little flirt
By the sign which she left in the snow!
Did she run? 'Twas a hint to make haste,
An' why, bless her!--I'm sure she won't mind!
If she's got any kisses to waste,
Why, she knew that a man was behind!
"Did she run 'cause she's only afraid?
No, for sure 'twas to set me the pace!
And I've fallen in love with a maid
When I ain't had a sight of her face.
There she is! And I knew she was near;
Will she pay me a kiss to be free?
Will she hate? will she love? will she fear?
Why, the darling! she's waiting to see!"
In all the thousands of camp fires dotted along the trail of my life,
that one is best to think of. Surely I believe that the Big Spirit sent
us poor little spirits loose on the earth to be kicked and educated, not
to have nice times. Looking around at present facts, we see how Life is
a cold, hard, business proposition, so we have to keep a mighty sharp
look-out for fear of being kicked off the premises. The future glows
with hope gay as a sunrise, the past is full of memories shining
glorious like the setting sun. Seems to me that in Eternity, when the
cold present is mixed up with all the rainbow colours of Past and
Future--why, then I'll hear Curly's voice come soft through the pines,
and see her face in the fire where I camp.
So in my poor way I dream in this lone camp where I sit at present.
Perhaps, says you, I'd better wake up right now and tend to my story.
At midnight Curly rode into the town of Flagstaff. Afterwards, following
the Grand Cañon trail at daybreak, she happened by accident on a
stage-coach broken down with a load of tourists. The driver chanced to
be a retired robber, gone tame with rheumatism, so she helped him to fix
his linch pin which had snapped. As to the tourists, they were plumb
content to find a "real live cowboy" who would talk to them. Most
punchers steer shy of tourists, but Curly enjoyed them. She was always
curious as a young antelope at anything unusual in the way of game, so
she borrowed all their newspapers "to read to her dying mother"--which
was me. Then she told them good advice about keeping alert at night to
watch for robbers. On that the teamster cheered them up by divulging how
robbers drink human blood to keep their courage boiling, and how they
like a baby when they are staled on pork. Curly imparted a few
particulars and rode away with a high tail.
I was still asleep when she came whirling into camp, whooping for
breakfast ravenous.
"Show a laig," says she, "and set out the grub pile swift while I go
wrangle the hawsses. We get a move on ourselves right after breakfast!"
There was something unusual, I thought, about the way she talked, a
sort of high-strung excitement. As to her face, that was pale as ashes.
By the time I'd cooked bacon and slapjacks she had the horses in, and
fresh mounts saddled.
"How's Flagstaff?" I asked, while she washed herself at the spring.
"Ain't this just purty?" she said to the bubbling water. "Flagstaff?
Why, it sure is the craziest town I ever seen." Her laugh was harsh to
hear.
"You been showin yo' face in the street?"
"Wall partly, but I covered up half my complexion to look like the
toothache--so!" She stuffed a ball of a handkerchief into her near
cheek, bound the towel around her jaw, and looked most miserable. "Oh,
throw me a dentist!" she howled, then broke out laughing. "I shorely did
act pitiful."
"And why for is this town locoed?" I felt the girl was laughing so as
not to cry.
"Well," says she, "there's Joe Beef, the Utah sheriff, and a lot of lil'
no-account sheriffs, there's a fat United States Marshal with a chin
whisker and a heap of deputies, there's cowboys, scouts, and trackers,
reporters, ambulances, dawgs, pony-soldiers----"
"Has the Navajos broke out?"
"No, the pale-face has broke out; it's a hull epidemic, and there's an
outfit on the war trail in Utah, another on the San Juan in
Colorado--and they're going to eat up Robbers' Roost--and you,
Chalkeye, lookin' glum as a new-laid widow! Scat, you!"
"Has they gawn mad?" I asked. "The moment they make a break for Robbers'
Roost, McCalmont will kill this Ryan, scatter his wolves, and vanish.
This must be only the escort for Ryan's ransom."
"It's plumb ridiculous, but--there ain't no ransom."
"Yo're dreaming, Curly. This projeck of troops is sure death to Ryan.
They'd risk the killin' of a common or'nary man--but a millionaire!"
"That's where the joke comes--he ain't a millionaire!"
I saw her quit her breakfast all untasted.
"Cayn't you be serious, child, for once?" I asked, but it made me ache
to see her face that way.
"I daren't be serious, I daren't think, I daren't. Just you look at them
papers."
I snatched at the nearest paper, opened it, and thought I must have been
locoed. There were the headlines:--
"Ryan Combine Smashed. Collapse of the Trust."--"Panic on 'Change. The
Kidnapped Millionaire, a Confessed Perjurer and Corrupter of Witnesses,
admits that He swore away the Life of an Innocent Man."--"Behold thy
Financial Gods, O Israel!"
I read on, dazed with the news. "Public Confidence at an
End."--"Investors jump from Under."--"Ryan Debentures a Frost."--"Shares
thrown on the Ash-heap."--"Petition in Bankruptcy."--"Mrs. Ryan
abandons all Hope of a Ransom."--"Federal Government pledged to wipe out
the Bandits."--"Movement of Troops."--"Sheriff Joe Beef interviewed on
the Situation."--"Forces taking the Field."--"One of the Robbers offers
Himself as a Guide."
Curly was pulling my sleeve. "Come here," she said, and there was surely
something awful in her voice. "Look, see that dragon-fly," she
whispered, "and all them flowers usin' the spring for a mirror, bendin'
low. And hear the bull pines whisper, smell the great strong scent, look
thar at the blue sky, and the cloud herds grazin'. That's like my home,
ole Chalkeye--sech sounds, sech good smells, sech woods, and sech a
heaven overhead. The boys air gentlin' hawsses in the big corral, or
ridin' out to get a deer for supper. My fatheh sets in the doorway
strummin' hymns on his old guitar, his dawgs around him, his lil' small
cat pawin' around to help. And Jim is thar, my Jim--cayn't I be serious?
Don't I think? Ain't I seein' that, all blackened ruins--bloody
ground--daid corpses rotting down by the corrals--shadows of black wings
acrost the yard? Oh, God of Mercy, spare 'em, spare my wolves, my home,
my fatheh! And Jim is thar!"
She turned against me raging. "What air you waiting for? Has you jest
got to stand round all day? Yo're scart--that's what's the matter with
you-all--afraid to even carry a warning! What d'ye want to pack the
kitchen for? I'm shut of you. Stay thar!"
She jumped to her horse, she sprang to the saddle, she lashed her spurs
for blood, and whirled away to the northward.