decidedly antiquated, and consisted simply of a thickly-walled room in a
building which contained several offices and living apartments.
It was as extensive a jail as Bowerton needed, and was fully strong
enough to hold the few drunken and quarrelsome people who were
occasionally lodged in it.
But Beigh, _alias_ Bay Billy, _alias_ Handsome, was no ordinary and
vulgar jail-bird, the officers told him, and, that he and they might
sleep securely, they considered it advisable to carefully iron his
hands.
A couple of hours rolled away, and left Beigh still sitting moody and
silent on the single bedstead in the Bowerton jail.
Suddenly the train of his thoughts was interrupted by a low "stt--stt"
from the one little, high, grated window of the jail.
The prisoner looked up quickly, and saw the shadow of a man's head
outside the grating.
"Hello!" whispered Beigh, hurrying under the window.
"Are you alone?" inquired the shadow.
"Yes," replied the prisoner.
"All right, then," whispered the voice. "There _are_ secrets which no
vulgar ears should hear. My name is Guzzy. I have been in love with your
wife. I hadn't any idea she was married; but I've brought you my
apology."
"I'll forgive you," whispered the criminal; "but--"
"'Tain't that kind of apology," whispered Guzzy. "It's a steel one--a
tool--one of those things that gunsmiths shorten gun-barrels with. If
they can saw a rifle-barrel in two in five minutes, you ought to get out
of here inside of an hour."
"Not quite," whispered Beigh. "My hands and feet are ironed."
"Then I'll do the job myself," whispered Guzzy, as he applied the tool
to one of the bars; "for it will be daylight within two hours."
The unaccustomed labor--for Guzzy was a bookkeeper--made his arms ache
severely, but still he sawed away.
He wondered what his employer would say should he be found out, but
still he sawed.
Visions of the uplifted hands and horror-struck countenances of his
brother Church-members came before his eyes, and the effect of his
example upon his Sunday-school class, should he be discovered, tormented
his soul; but neither of these influences affected his saw.
Bar after bar disappeared, and when Guzzy finally stopped to rest, Beigh
saw a small square of black sky, unobstructed by any bars whatever.
"Now," whispered Guzzy, "I'll drop in a small box you can stand on, so
you can put your hands out and let me file off your irons. I brought a
file or two, thinking they might come handy."
Five minutes later the convict, his hands unbound, crawled through the
window, and was helped to the ground by Guzzy.
[Illustration]
Seizing the file from the little bookkeeper, Beigh commenced freeing his
feet. Suddenly he stopped and whispered:
"You'd better go now. I can take care of myself, but if those cursed
officers should take a notion to look around, it would go hard with
_you_. Run, God bless you, run!"
But little Guzzy straightened himself and folded his arms.
The convict rasped away rapidly, and finally dropped the file and the
fragments of the last fetter. Then he seized little Guzzy's hand.
"My friend," said he, "criminal though I am, I am man enough to
appreciate your manliness and honor. I think I am smart enough to keep
myself free, now I am out of jail. But, if ever you want a friend, tell
Helen, _she_ will know where I am, and I will serve you, no matter what
the risk and pain."
"Thank you," said Guzzy; "but the only favor I'll ever ask of you might
as well be named now, and you ought to be able to do it without risk or
pain either. It's only this; be an honest man, for Helen's sake."
Beigh dropped his head.
"There _are_ men who would die daily for the sake of making her happy,
but you've put it out of their power, seeing you've married her,"
continued Guzzy. "_I'm_ nothing to her, and can't be, but for her sake
to-night I've broken open the gunsmith's shop, broken a jail, and"--here
he stooped, and picked up a bundle--"robbed my own employer's store of a
suit of clothes for you, so you mayn't be caught again in those prison
stripes. If I've made myself a criminal for her sake: can't her husband
be an honest man for the same reason?"
The convict wrung the hand of his preserver. He seemed to be trying to
speak, but to have some great obstruction in his throat.
Suddenly a bright light shone on the two men, and a voice was heard
exclaiming, in low but very ferocious tones:
"Do it, you scoundrel, or I'll put a bullet through your head!"
Both men looked up to the window of the cell, and saw a bull's-eye
lantern, the muzzle of a pistol, and the face of the Bowerton constable.
The constable's right eye, the sights of his pistol and the breast of
the convict were on the same visual line.
Without altering his position or that of his weapon, the constable
whispered:
"I've had you covered for the last ten minutes. I only held in to find
out who was helping you; but I heard too much for _my_ credit as a
faithful officer. Now, what are you going to do?"
"Turn over a new leaf," said the convict, bursting into tears.
"Then get out," whispered the officer, "and be lively, too--it's almost
daybreak."
"I'll tell you what to do," said little Guzzy, when the constable
hurriedly whispered:
"Wait until _I_ get out of hearing."
* * * * *
The excitement which possessed Bowerton the next morning, when the
events of the previous night were made public, was beyond the
descriptive powers of the best linguists in the village.
Helen Wyett a burglar's wife!
At first the Bowertonians scarcely knew whether it would be proper to
recognize her at all, and before they were able to arrive at a
conclusion the intelligence of the convict's escape, the breaking open
of the gunsmith's shop, the finding of the front door of Cashing's store
ajar, and the discovery by Cashing that at least one suit of valuable
clothing had been taken, came upon the astonished villagers and rendered
them incapable of reason, and of every other mental attribute except
wonder.
That the prisoner had an accomplice seemed certain, and some suspicious
souls suggested that the prisoner's wife _might_ have been the person;
but as one of the officers declared he had watched her house all night
for fear of some such attempt, that theory was abandoned.
Under the guidance of the constable, who zealously assisted them in
every possible manner, the officers searched every house in Bowerton
that might seem likely to afford a hiding-place, and then departed on
what they considered the prisoner's most likely route.
For some days Helen Wyett gave the Bowertonians no occasion to modify
their conduct toward her, for she kept herself constantly out of sight.
When, however, she did appear in the street again, she met only the
kindest looks and salutations, for the venerable Squire Jones had talked
incessantly in praise of her courage and affection, and the Squire's
fellow-townsmen knew that when their principal magistrate was affected
to tenderness and mercy, it was from causes which would have simply
overwhelmed any ordinary mortal.
It was months before Bowerton gossip descended again to its normal
level; for a few weeks after the escape of Beigh, little Guzzy, who had
never been supposed to have unusual credit, and whose family certainly
hadn't any money, left his employer and started an opposition store.
Next to small scandal, finance was the favorite burden of conversation
at Bowerton, so the source of Guzzy's sudden prosperity was so
industriously sought and surmised that the gossips were soon at needles'
points about it.
Then it was suddenly noised abroad that Mrs. Baggs, Sr., who knew
everybody, had given Guzzy a letter of introduction to the Governor of
the State.
Bowerton was simply confounded. What _could_ he want? The Governor had
very few appointments at his disposal, and none of them were fit for
Guzzy, except those for which Guzzy was not fit.
Even the local politicians became excited, and both sides consulted
Guzzy.
Finally, when Guzzy started for the State capital, and Helen Wyett, as
people still called her, accompanied him, the people of Bowerton put on
countenances of hopeless resignation, and of a mute expectation which
nothing could astonish.
It might be an elopement--it might be that they were going as
missionaries; but no one expressed a positive opinion, and every one
expressed a perfect willingness to believe anything that was supported
by even a shadow of proof.
Their mute agony was suddenly ended, for within forty-eight hours Guzzy
and his traveling companion returned.
The latter seemed unusually happy for the wife of a convict, while the
former went straight to Squire Jones and the constable's.
Half an hour later all Bowerton knew that William Beigh, _alias_ Bay
Billy, _alias_ Handsome, had received a full and free pardon from the
Governor.
The next day Bowerton saw a tall, handsome stranger, with downcast eyes,
walk rapidly through the principal street and disappear behind Mrs.
Wyett's gate.
A day later, and Bowerton was electrified by the intelligence that the
ex-burglar had been installed as a clerk in Guzzy's store.
People said that it was a shame--that nobody knew how soon Beigh might
take to his old tricks again. Nevertheless, they crowded to Guzzy's
store, to look at him, until shrewd people began to wonder whether Guzzy
hadn't really taken Beigh as a sort of advertisement to draw trade.
A few months later, however, they changed their opinions, for the
constable, after the expiration of his term of office, and while under
the influence of a glass too much, related the whole history of the
night of Beigh's first arrival at Bowerton.
The Bowertonians were law-abiding people; but, somehow, Guzzy's
customers increased from that very day, and his prosperity did not
decline even after "Guzzy & Beigh" was the sign over the door of the
store which had been built and stocked with Mrs. Wyett's money.
A ROMANCE OF HAPPY REST.
Happy Rest is a village whose name has never appeared in gazetteer or
census report. This remark should not cause any depreciation of the
faithfulness of public and private statisticians, for Happy Rest
belonged to a class of settlements which sprang up about as suddenly as
did Jonah's Gourd, and, after a short existence, disappeared so quickly
that the last inhabitant generally found himself alone before he knew
that anything unusual was going on.
When the soil of Happy Rest supported nothing more artificial than a
broken wagon wheel, left behind by some emigrants going overland to
California, a deserter from a fort near by discovered that the soil was
auriferous.
His statement to that effect, made in a bar-room in the first town he
reached thereafter, led to his being invited to drink, which operation
resulted in certain supplementary statements and drinks.
Within three hours every man within five miles of that barroom knew that
the most paying dirt on the continent had been discovered not far away,
and three hours later a large body of gold-hunters, guided by the
deserter, were _en route_ for the auriferous locality; while a
storekeeper and a liquor-dealer, with their respective stocks-in-trade,
followed closely after.
The ground was found; it proved to be tolerably rich; tents went up,
underground residences were burrowed, and the grateful miners ordered
the barkeeper to give unlimited credit to the locality's discoverer. The
barkeeper obeyed the order, and the ex-warrior speedily met his death
in a short but glorious contest with John Barleycorn.
There was no available lumber from which to construct a coffin, and the
storekeeper had no large boxes; but as the liquor-seller had already
emptied two barrels, these were taken, neatly joined in the centre, and
made to contain the remains of the founder of the hamlet. The method of
his death and origin of his coffin led a spirituous miner to suggest
that he rested happily, and from this remark the name of the town was
elaborated.
Of course, no ladies accompanied the expedition. Men who went West for
gold did not take their families with them, as a rule, and the settlers
of new mining towns were all of the masculine gender.
When a town had attained to the dignity of a hotel, members of the
gentler sex occasionally appeared, but--with the exception of an
occasional washerwoman--their influence was decidedly the reverse of
that usually attributed to woman's society.
For the privileges of their society, men fought with pistols and knives,
and bought of them disgrace and sorrow for gold. But at first Happy Rest
was unblessed and uncursed by the presence of any one who did not wear
pantaloons.
On the fifth day of its existence, however, when the arrival of an
express agent indicated that Capital had formally acknowledged the
existence of Happy Rest, there was an unusual commotion in the
never-quiet village.
An important rumor had spread among the tents and gopher-holes, and, one
after another, the citizens visited the saloon, took the barkeeper
mysteriously aside, and, with faces denoting the greatest concern,
whispered earnestly to him. The barkeeper felt his importance as the
sole custodian of all the village news, but he replied with affability
to all questions:
"Well, yes; there _had_ a lady come; come by the same stage as the
express agent. What kind?--Well, he really couldn't say--some might
think one way, an' some another. _He_ thought she was a real lady,
though she wouldn't 'low anything to be sent her from the bar, and she
hedn't brought no baggage. Thought so--_knowed_ she was a lady--in fact,
would bet drinks for the crowd on it. 'Cos why?--'Cos nobody heerd her
cuss or seed her laugh. H'd bet three to two she was a lady--_might_ bet
two to one, ef he got his dander up on the subject. Then, on t'other
hand, she'd axed for Major Axel, and the major, ez everybody know'd,
was--well, he wasn't 'xactly a saint. Besides, as the major hedn't come
to Happy Rest, nohow, it looked ez if he was dodgin' her for somethin'.
Where was she stopping?--up to Old Psalmsinger's. Old Psalm bed turned
himself out of house an' home, and bought her a new tea-kettle to boot.
If anybody know'd anybody that wanted to take three to two, send him
along."
A few men called to bet, and bets were exchanged all over the camp, but
most of the excitement centred about the storekeeper's.
Argonauts, pioneers, heroes, or whatever else the early gold-seekers
were, they were likewise mortal men, so they competed vigorously for the
few blacking-brushes, boxes of blacking, looking-glasses, pocket-combs
and neckties which the store contained. They bought toilet-soap, and
borrowed razors; and when they had improved their personal appearance to
the fullest possible extent, they stood aimlessly about, like unemployed
workmen in the market-place. Each one, however, took up a position which
should rake the only entrance to old Psalmsinger's tent.
Suddenly, two or three scores of men struck various attitudes, as if to
be photographed, and exclaimed in unison:
"There she is!"
From the tent of old Psalmsinger there had emerged the only member of
the gentler sex who had reached Happy Rest.
For only a moment she stood still and looked about her, as if uncertain
which way to go; but before she had taken a step, old Psalmsinger raised
his voice, and said:
"I thort it last night, when I only seed her in the moonlight, but I
_know_ it now--she's a lady, an' no mistake. Ef I was a bettin' man, I'd
bet all my dust on it, an' my farm to hum besides!"
A number of men immediately announced that they would bet, in the
speaker's place, to any amount, and in almost any odds. For, though old
Psalm, by reason of non-participation in any of the drinks, fights, or
games with which the camp refreshed itself, was considered a mere
nonentity, it was generally admitted that men of his style could tell a
lady or a preacher at sight.
The gentle unknown finally started toward the largest group of men,
seeing which, several smaller groups massed themselves on the larger
with alacrity.
As she neared them, the men could see that she was plainly dressed, but
that every article of attire was not only neat but tasteful, and that
she had enough grace of form and carriage to display everything to
advantage. A few steps nearer, and she displayed a set of sad but
refined features, marred only by an irresolute, purposeless mouth.
Then an ex-reporter from New York turned suddenly to a graceless young
scamp who had once been a regular ornament to Broadway, and exclaimed:
"Louise Mattray, isn't it?"
"'Tis, by thunder!" replied the young man. "I knew I'd seen her
somewhere. Wonder what she's doing here?"
The reporter shrugged his shoulders.
"Some wild-goose speculation, I suppose. Smart and gritty--if _I_ had
her stick I shouldn't be here--but she always slips up--can't keep all
her wires well in hand. Was an advertising agent when I left the
East--picked up a good many ads, too, and made folks treat her
respectfully, when they'd have kicked a man out of doors if he'd come on
the same errand."
"Say she's been asking for Axel," remarked the young man.
"That so!" queried the reporter, wrinkling his brow, and hurrying
through his mental notebook. "Oh, yes--there was some talk about them at
one time. Some said they were married--_she_ said so, but she never took
his name. She had a handsome son, that looked like her and the major,
but she didn't know how to manage him--went to the dogs, or worse,
before he was eighteen."
"Axell here?" asked the young man.
"No," replied the reporter; "and 'twouldn't do her any good if he was.
The major's stylish and good-looking, and plays a brilliant game, but he
hasn't any more heart than is absolutely necessary to his circulation.
Besides, his--"
The reporter was interrupted by a heavy hand falling on his shoulder,
and found, on turning, that the hand belonged to "The General."
The general was not a military man, but his title had been conferred in
recognition of the fact that he was a born leader. Wherever he went the
general assumed the reins of government, and his administration had
always been popular as well as judicious.
But at this particular moment the general seemed to feel unequal to what
was evidently his duty, and he, like a skillful general, sought a
properly qualified assistant, and the reporter seemed to him to be just
the man he wanted.
"Spidertracks," said the general, with an air in which authority and
supplication were equally prominent, "you've told an awful sight of lies
in your time. Don't deny it, now--nobody that ever reads the papers will
b'leeve you. Now's yer chance to put yer gift of gab to a respectable
use. The lady's bothered, and wants to say somethin' or ask somethin',
and she'll understand your lingo better'n mine. Fire away now, lively!"
The ex-shorthand-writer seemed complimented by the general's address,
and stepping forward and raising the remains of what had once been a
hat, said:
"Can I serve you in any way, madame?"
The lady glanced at him quickly and searchingly, and then, seeming
assured of the reporter's honesty, replied:
"I am looking for an old acquaintance of mine--one Major Axell."
"He is not in camp, ma'am," said Spidertracks. "He was at Rum Valley a
few days ago, when our party was organized to come here."
"I was there yesterday," said the lady, looking greatly disappointed,
"and was told he started for here a day or two before."
"Some mistake, ma'am, I assure you," replied Spidertracks. "I should
have known of his arrival if he had come. I'm an old newspaper man,
ma'am, and can't get out of the habit of getting the news."
The lady turned away, but seemed irresolute. The reporter followed her.
"If you will return to Rum Yalley, ma'am, I'll find the major for you,
if he is hereabouts," said he. "You will be more comfortable there, and
I will be more likely than you to find him."
The lady hesitated for a moment longer; then she drew from her pocket a
diary, wrote a line or two on one of its leaves, tore it out and handed
it to the reporter.
"I will accept your offer, and be very grateful for it, for I do not
bear this mountain traveling very well. If you find him, give him this
scrawl and tell him where I am--that will be sufficient."
"Trust me to find him, ma'am," replied Spidertracks. "And as the stage
is just starting, and there won't be another for a week, allow me to see
you into it. Any baggage?"
"Only a small hand-bag in the tent," said she.
They hurried off together, Spidertracks found the bag, and five minutes
later was bowing and waving his old hat to the cloud of dust which the
departing stage left behind it. But when even the dust itself had
disappeared, he drew from his pocket the paper the fair passenger had
given him.
"'Tain't sealed," said he, reasoning with himself, "so there can't be
any secrets in it. Let's see--hello! 'Ernest is somewhere in this
country; I wish to see you about _him_--and about nothing else.'
Whew-w-w! What splendid material for a column, if there was only a live
paper in this infernal country! Looking for that young scamp, eh? There
_is_ something to her, and I'll help her if I can. Wonder if I'd
recognize him if I saw him again? I _ought_ to, if he looks as much like
his parents as he used to do. 'Twould do my soul good to make the poor
woman smile once; but it's an outrageous shame there's no good daily
paper here to work the whole thing up in. With the chase, and fighting,
and murder that _may_ come of it, 'twould make the leading sensation for
a week!"
The agonized reporter clasped his hands behind him and walked slowly
back to where he had left the crowd. Most of the citizens had, on seeing
the lady depart, taken a drink as a partial antidote to dejection, and
strolled away to their respective claims, regardless of the occasional
mud which threatened the polish on their boots; but two or three
gentlemen of irascible tempers and judicial minds lingered, to decide
whether Spidertracks had not, by the act of seeing the lady to the
stage, made himself an accessory to her departure, and consequently a
fit subject for challenge by every disappointed man in camp.
The reporter was in the midst of a very able and voluble defense, when
the attention of his hearers seemed distracted by something on the trail
by which the original settlers had entered the village.
Spidertracks himself looked, shaded his eyes, indulged in certain
disconnected fragments of profanity, and finally exclaimed:
"Axell himself, by the white coat of Horace Greeley! Wonder who he's got
with him! They seem to be having a difficulty about something!"
The gentlemen who had arraigned Spidertracks allowed him to be acquitted
by default. Far better to them was a fight near by than the most
interesting lady afar off.
They stuck their hands into their pockets, and stared intently. Finally
one of them, in a tone of disgusted resignation, remarked:
"Axell ought to be ashamed of hisself; he's draggin' along a little
feller not half the size _he_ is. Blamed if he ain't got his match,
though; the little feller's jest doin' some gellorious chawin' an'
diggin'."
The excitement finally overcame the inertia of the party, and each man
started deliberately to meet the major and his captive. Spidertracks,
faithful to his profession, kept well in advance of the others. Suddenly
he exclaimed to himself:
"Good Lord! don't they know each other? The major didn't wear that beard
when in New York; but the boy--he's just the same scamp, in spite of his
dirt and rags. If _she_ were to see them now--but, pshaw! 'twould all
fall flat--no live paper to take hold of the matter and work it up."