prisoner a push which threw him into the reporter's arms. "Now we're in
a civilized community, and you'll have a chance of learning the opinions
of gentlemen on such irregularities. Tried to kill me, gentlemen, upon
my honor!--did it after I had shared my eatables and pocket-pistol with
him, too. Did it to get my dust. Got me at a disadvantage for a moment,
and made a formal demand for the dust, and backed his request with a
pistol--my own pistol, gentlemen! I've only just reached here; I don't
yet know who's here, but I imagine there's public spirit enough to
discourage treachery. Will some one see to him while I take something?"
Spidertracks drew his revolver, mildly touched the young man on the
shoulder, and remarked:
"Come on."
The ex-knight of the pencil bowed his prisoner into an abandoned
gopher-hole (_i.e._, an artificial cave,) cocked his revolver, and then
stretched himself on the ground and devoted himself to staring at the
unfortunate youth. To a student of human nature Ernest Mattray was
curious, fascinating, and repulsive. Short, slight, handsome, delicate,
nervous, unscrupulous, selfish, effeminate, dishonest, and cruel, he was
an excellent specimen of what city life could make of a boy with no
father and an irresolute mother.
The reporter, who had many a time studied faces in the Tombs, felt
almost as if at his old vocation again as he gazed into the restless
eyes and sullen features of the prisoner.
Meanwhile Happy Rest was becoming excited. There had been some little
fighting done since the settlement of the place, but as there had been
no previous attempt at highway robbery and murder made in the vicinity,
the prisoner was an object of considerable interest.
In fact, the major told so spirited a story, that most of the
inhabitants strolled up, one after another, to look at the innovator,
while that individual himself, with the modesty which seems inseparable
from true greatness, retired to the most secluded of the three
apartments into which the cave was divided, and declined all the
attentions which were thrust upon him.
The afternoon had faded almost into evening, when a decrepit figure, in
a black dress and bonnet, approached the cave, and gave Spidertracks a
new element for the thrilling report he had composed and mentally
rearranged during his few hours of duty as jailer.
"Beats the dickens," muttered the reporter to himself, "how these
Sisters of Charity always know when a tough case has been caught.
Natural enough in New York. But where did _she_ come from? Who told her?
Cross, beads, and all. Hello! Oh, Louise Mattray, you're a deep one; but
it's a pity your black robe isn't quite long enough to hide the very
tasty dress you wore this morning? Queer dodge, too--wonder what it
means? Wonder if she's caught sight of the major, and don't want to be
recognized?"
The figure approached.
"May I see the prisoner?" she asked.
"No one has a better right, Mrs. Mattray," said the guardian of the
cave, with a triumphant smile, while the poor woman started and
trembled. "Don't be frightened--no one is going to hurt you. Heard all
about it, I suppose?--know who just missed being the victim?"
"Yes," said the unhappy woman, entering the cave.
When she emerged it was growing quite dark. She passed the reporter with
head and vail down, and whispered:
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it," said the reporter, quickly. "Going to stay until you
see how things go with him?"
She shook her head and passed on.
The sky grew darker. The reporter almost wished it might grow so dark
that the prisoner could escape unperceived, or so quickly that a random
shot could not find him. There were strange noises in camp.
The storekeeper, who never traveled except by daylight, was apparently
harnessing his mules to the wagon--he was moving the wagon itself to the
extreme left of the camp, where there was nothing to haul but wood, and
even that was still standing in the shape of fine old trees.
There seemed to be an unusual clearness in the air, for Spidertracks
distinctly heard the buzz of some earnest conversation. There seemed
strange shadows floating in the air--a strange sense of something moving
toward him--something almost shapeless, yet tangible--something that
approached him--that gave him a sense of insecurity and then of alarm.
Suddenly the indefinable something uttered a yell, and resolved itself
into a party of miners, led by the gallant and aggrieved major himself,
who shouted:
"Lynch the scoundrel, boys--that's the only thing to do!"
The excited reporter sprang to his feet in an agony of genuine humanity
and suppressed itemizing, and screamed:
"Major, wait a minute--you'll be sorry if you don't!"
But the gallant major had been at the bar for two or three hours,
preparing himself for this valorous deed, and the courage he had there
imbibed knew not how to brook delay--not until the crowd had reached the
mouth of the cave and found it dark, and had heard one unduly prudent
miner suggest that it might be well to have a light, so as to dodge
being sliced in the dark.
"Bring a light quick, then," shouted the major. "_I'll_ drag him out
when it comes; he knows _my_ grip, curse him!"
A bunch of dried grass was hastily lighted and thrown into the cave, and
the major rapidly followed it, while as many miners as could crowd in
after him hastened to do so. They found the major, with white face and
trembling limbs, standing in front of the lady for whose sake they had
done so much elaborate dressing in the morning, and who they had
afterwards wrathfully seen departing in the stage.
The major rallied, turned around, and said:
"There's some mistake here, gentlemen. Won't you have the kindness to
leave us alone?"
Slowly--very slowly--the crowd withdrew. It seemed to them that, in the
nature of things, the lady ought to have it out with the major with
pistols or knives for disturbing her, and that they, who were in all the
sadness of disappointment at failure of a well-planned independent
execution, ought to see the end of the whole affair. But a beseeching
look from the lady herself finally cleared the cave, and the major
exclaimed:
"Louise, what does this mean?"
"It means," said the lady, with most perfect composure, "that, thanks to
a worthless father and a bad bringing-up by an incapable mother, Ernest
has found his way into this country. I came to find him, and I found him
in this hole, to which his affectionate father brought him to-day. It is
about as well, I imagine, that I helped him to escape, seeing to what
further kind attentions you had reserved him."
"Please don't be so icy, Louise," begged the major. "He attempted to rob
and kill me, the young rascal; besides, I had not the faintest idea of
who he was."
"Perhaps," said the lady, still very calm, "you will tell me from whom
he inherited the virtues which prompted his peculiar actions towards
you? His _mother_ has always earned her livelihood honorably."
"Louise," said the major, with a humility which would have astonished
his acquaintance, "won't you have the kindness to reserve your sarcasm
until I am better able to bear it? You probably think I have no heart--I
acknowledge I have thought as much myself--but _something_ is making me
feel very weak and tender just now."
The lady looked critically at him for a moment, and then burst into
tears.
"Oh, God!" she sobbed, "what else is there in store for this poor,
miserable, injured life of mine?"
"Restitution," whispered the major softly--"if you will let me make it,
or try to make it."
The weeping woman looked up inquiringly, and said only the words:
"And she?"
"My first wife?" answered the major. "Dead--_really_ dead, Louise, as I
hope to be saved. She died several years ago, and I longed to do you
justice then, but the memory of our parting was too much for my cowardly
soul. If you will take me as I am, Louise, I will, as long as I live,
remember the past, and try to atone for it."
She put her hand in his, and they left the gopher-hole together. As they
disappeared in the outer darkness, there emerged from one of the
compartments of the cave an individual whose features were
indistinguishable in the darkness, but who was heard to emphatically
exclaim:
"If I had the dust, I'd start a live daily here, just to tell the whole
story; though the way he got out didn't do _me_ any particular credit."
* * * * *
For days the residents of Happy Rest used all available mental
stimulants to aid them in solving the mystery of the major and the
wonderful lady; but, as the mental stimulants aforesaid were all
spirituous, the results were more deplorable than satisfactory. But
when, a few days later, the couple took the stage for Rum Valley, the
enterprising Spidertracks took an outside passage, and at the end of the
route had his persistency rewarded by seeing, in the Bangup House, a
Sister of Charity tenderly embrace the major's fair charge, start at the
sight of the major, and then, after some whispering by the happy mother,
sullenly extend a hand, which the major grasped heartily, and over which
there dropped something which, though a drop of water, was not a
rain-drop. Then did Spidertracks return to the home of his adoption, and
lavish the stores of his memory; and for days his name was famous, and
his liquor was paid for by admiring auditors.
[Illustration]
TWO POWERFUL ARGUMENTS.
"Got him?"
"You bet!"
The questioner looked pleased, yet not as if his pleasure engendered any
mental excitement. The man who answered spoke in an ordinary, careless
tone, and with unmoved countenance, as if he were merely signifying the
employment of an additional workman, or the purchase of a desirable
rooster.
Yet the subject of the brief conversation repeated above was no other
than Bill Bowney, the most industrious and successful of the
horse-thieves and "road-agents" that honored the southern portion of
California with their presence.
Nor did Bowney restrict himself to the duty of redistributing the
property of other people. Perhaps he belonged to that class of political
economists which considers superfluous population an evil; perhaps he
was a religious enthusiast, and ardently longed that all mankind should
speedily see the pearly gates of the New Jerusalem.
Be his motives what they might, it is certain that when an unarmed man
met Bowney, entered into a discussion with him, and lived verbally to
report the same, he was looked upon with considerably more interest than
a newly-made Congressman or a ten-thousand-acre farmer was able to
inspire.
The two men whose conversation we have recorded studied the ears of
their own horses for several minutes, after which the first speaker
asked:
"How did you do it?"
"Well," replied the other man, "ther' wasn't anything p'tickler 'bout
it. Me an' him wuzn't acquainted, so he didn't suspect me. But I know'd
his face--he wuz p'inted out to me once, durin' the gold-rush to Kern
River, an' I never forgot him. I wuz on a road I never traveled
before--goin' to see an old greaser, ownin' a mighty pretty piece of
ground I wanted--when all of a sudden I come on a cabin, an' thar stood
Bill in front of it, a-smokin'. I axed him fur a light, an' when he came
up to give it to me, I grabbed him by the shirt-collar an' dug the spur
into the mare. 'Twus kind of a mean trick, imposin' on hospitality
that-a-way; but 'twuz Bowney, you know. He hollered, an' I let him walk
in front, but I kep' him covered with the revolver till I met some
fellers, that tied him good an' tight. 'Twuzn't excitin' wurth a
durn--that is, ixcep' when his wife--I s'pose 'twuz--hollered, then I
a'most wished I'd let him go."
"Sheriff got him?" inquired the first speaker.
"Well, no," returned the captor. "Sheriff an' judge mean well, I s'pose;
but they're slow--mighty slow. Besides, he's got friends, an' they might
be too much fur the sheriff some night. We tuk him to the Broad Oak, an'
we thought we'd ax the neighbors over thar to-night, to talk it over. Be
thar?"
"You bet!" replied the first speaker. "And I'll bring my friends;
nothing like having plenty of witnesses in important legal cases."
"Jus' so," responded the other. "Well, here's till then;" and the two
men separated.
The Broad Oak was one of those magnificent trees which are found
occasionally through Southern California, singly or dispersed in
handsome natural parks.
The specimen which had so impressed people as to gain a special name for
itself was not only noted for its size, but because it had occasionally
been selected as the handiest place in which Judge Lynch could hold his
court without fear of molestation by rival tribunals.
Bill Bowney, under favorable circumstances, appeared to be a very
homely, lazy, sneaking sort of an individual; but Bill Bowney, covered
with dust, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and feet
tightly bound, had not a single attractive feature about him.
He stared earnestly up into the noble tree under whose shadow he lay;
but his glances were not of admiration--they seemed, rather, to be
resting on two or three fragments of rope which remained on one of the
lower limbs, and to express sentiments of the most utter loathing and
disgust.
The afternoon wore away, and the moon shone brilliantly down from the
cloudless sky.
The tramp of a horse was heard at a distance, but rapidly growing more
distinct, and soon Bowney's captor galloped up to the tree.
Then another horse was heard, then others, and soon ten or a dozen men
were gathered together.
Each man, after dismounting, walked up to where the captive lay, and
gave him a searching look, and then they joined those who had already
preceded them, and who were quietly chatting about wheat, cattle,
trees--everything but the prisoner.
Suddenly one of the party separated himself from the others, and
exclaimed:
"Gentlemen, there don't seem to be anybody else a-comin'--we might as
well 'tend to bizness. I move that Major Burkess takes the chair, if
there's no objections."
No objections were made, and Major Burkess--a slight, peaceable,
gentlemanly-looking man--stepped out of the crowd, and said:
"You all know the object of this meeting, gentlemen. The first thing in
order is to prove the identity of the prisoner."
"Needn't trouble yourself 'bout that," growled the prisoner. "I'm Bill
Bowney; an' yer too cowardly to untie me, though ther _be_ a dozen uv
yer."
"The prisoner admits he is Bill Bowney," continued the major, "but of
course no gentleman will take offense at his remarks. Has any one any
charge to make against him?"
"Charges?" cried an excitable farmer. "Didn't I catch him untying my
horse, an' ridin' off on him from Budley's? Didn't I tell him to drop
that anamile, an' didn't he purty near drop _me_ instead?
Charges?--here's the charge!" concluded the farmer, pointing
significantly to a scar on his own temple.
"Pity I didn't draw a better bead!" growled the prisoner. "The hoss only
fetched two ounces."
"Prisoner admits stealing Mr. Barke's horse, and firing on Mr. Barke.
Any further evidence?"
"Rather," drawled an angular gentleman. "I was goin' up the valley by
the stage, an' all of a sudden the driver stopped where there wasn't no
station. There was fellers had hold of the leaders, an' there was
pistols p'inted at the driver an' folks in general. Then our money an'
watches was took, an' the feller that took mine had a cross-cut scar on
the back of his hand--right hand; maybe somebody'll look at Bill's."
The prisoner was carried into the moonlight, and the back of his right
hand was examined by the major. The prisoner was again placed under the
tree.
"The cut's there, as described," said the major. "Anything else?"
"Ther's this much," said another. "I busted up flat, you all know, on
account of the dry season, last year, an' I hadn't nothin' left but my
hoss. Bill Bowney knowed it as well's anybody else, yet he come and
stole that hoss. It pawed like thunder, an' woke me up--fur 'twas night,
an' light as 'tis now--an' I seed Bowney a-ridin' him off. 'Twas a
sneakin', mean, cowardly trick."
The prisoner hung his head; he would plead guilty to theft and attempt
to kill, and defy his captors to do their worst; but when meanness and
cowardice were proved against him, he seemed ashamed of himself.
"Prisoner virtually admits the charge," said the major, looking
critically at Bowney.
"Gentlemen," said Caney, late of Texas, "what's the use of wastin' time
this way? Everybody knows that Bowney's been at the bottom of all the
deviltry that's been done in the county this three year. Highway
robbery's a hangin' offense in Texas an' every other well-regilated
State; so's hoss-stealin', an' so's shootin' a man in the back, an' yit
Bowney's done ev'ry one of 'em over an' over agin. Ev'rybody knows what
we come here fur, else what's the reason ev'ry man's got a nice little
coil o' rope on his saddle fur? The longer the bizness is put off, the
harder it'll be to do. I move we string him up instanter."
"Second the motion!" exclaimed some one.
"I move we give him a chance to save himself," said a quiet farmer from
New England. "When he's in the road-agent business, he has a crowd to
help him. Now, 'twould do us more good to clean _them_ out than him
alone, so let's give him a chance to leave the State if he'll tell who
his confederates are. Somebody'll have to take care of him, of course,
till we can catch them, and make sure of it."
"'Twon't cost the somebody much, then," said the prisoner, firmly; "an'
I'd give a cool thousand for a shot at any low-lived coyote that 'ud ax
me to do sich an ungentlemanly thing."
"Spoke like a man," said Caney, of Texas. "I hope ye'll die easy for
that, Bill."
"The original motion prevails," said the major; "all in favor will say
ay."
A decided "ay" broke from the party.
"Whoever has the tallest horse will please lead him up and unsaddle
him," said the major, after a slight pause. "The witnesses will take the
prisoner in charge."
A horse was brought under the limb, with the fragments of rope upon it,
and the witnesses, one of them bearing a piece of rope, approached the
prisoner.
The silence was terrible, and the feelings of all present were greatly
relieved when Bill Bowney--placed on the horse, and seeing the rope
hauled taught and fastened to a bough by a man in the tree--broke into a
frenzy of cursing, and displayed the defiant courage peculiar to an
animal at bay.
"Has the prisoner anything to say?" asked the major, as Bowney stopped
for breath.
"Better own up, and save yourself and reform, and help rid the world of
those other scoundrels," pleaded the New Englander.
"Don't yer do it, Bill--don't yer do it!" cried Caney, of Texas. "Stick
to yer friends, an' die like a man!"
"That's me!" said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at
the New Englander. "It's ben said here that I wuz sneakin' an' cowardly;
ther's _one_ way of givin' that feller the lie--hurry up an' do it!"
"When I raise my hand," said the major, "lead the horse away; and may
the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!"
"Amen!" fervently exclaimed the New Englander.
Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind
swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on
the air a sigh and a shudder.
Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.
"Somebody's comin'!" whispered one of the party. "Sheriff's got wind of
the arrangements, maybe!"
"Comes from the wrong direction," cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. "It's
somebody on foot--an' tired--an' light-footed--ther's two or
three--dunno what kind o' bein's they _ken_ be. Thunder an' lightnin'!"
Caney's concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a
woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly
about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner's feet,
and uttered a low, pitiful cry.
There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried:
"Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she
doesn't untie him."
[Illustration: "TAKE HIM DOWN; GIVE HIM FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH HIS WIFE."]
The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed
on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside
him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully. The judge and jury
fidgeted about restlessly. Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon
three came through the oats--three children, all crying.
As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened,
staring at their parents.
They were not pretty--they were not even interesting. Mother and
children were alike--unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty,
faded calico. The children were all girls--the oldest not more than ten
years old, and the youngest scarce five. None of them pleaded for the
prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood
staring in dumb piteousness.
The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch. There was not
in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the
minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen
minutes, when he exclaimed:
"Time's up!"
The men approached the prisoner--the woman threw her arms around him,
and cried:
"My husband! Oh, God!"
"Madam," said the major, "your husband's life is in his own hands. He
can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the
State."
"I'll tell you who they are?" cried the woman.
"God curse yer if yer do!" hissed Bowney from between his teeth.
"Better let him be, madam," argued Caney, of Texas. He'd better die like
a man than go back on his friends. Might tell us which of 'em was man
enough to fetch you and the young uns here? We'll try to be easy on him
when we ketch him."
"None of 'em," sobbed the woman. "We walked, an' I took turns totin' the
young uns. My husband! Oh, God! my husband!"
"Beg yer pardon, ma'am," said Bowney's captor, "but nobody can't b'leeve
that; it's nigh onto twenty mile."
"I'd ha' done it ef it had been fifty," cried the woman, angrily, "when
_he_ wuz in trouble. Oh, God! Oh, God! Don't yer b'leeve it? Then look
here!" She picked up the smallest child as she spoke, and in the dim
light the men saw that its little feet were torn and bleeding. "'Twas
their blood or his'n," cried the woman, rapidly, "an' I didn't know how
to choose between 'em. God hev mercy on me! I'm nigh crazy!"
Caney, of Texas, took the child from its mother and carried it to where
the moonlight was unobstructed. He looked carefully at its feet, and
then shouted:
"Bring the prisoner out here."
Two men carried Bowney to where Caney was standing, and the whole party,
with the woman and remaining children, followed.
"Bill," said Caney, "_I_ ain't a askin' yer to go back on yer friends,
but _them_ is--look at 'em."
And Caney held the child's feet before the father's eyes, while the
woman threw her arms around his neck, and the two older children crept
up to the prisoner, and laid their faces against his legs.
"They're a-talkin' to yer, Bill," resumed Caney, of Texas, "an' they're
the convincenist talkers _I_ ever seed."
The desperado turned his eyes away; but Caney moved the child so its
bleeding feet were still before its father's eyes.
The remaining men all retired beneath the shadow of the tree, for the
tender little feet were talking to them, too, and they were ashamed of
the results.
Suddenly Bowney uttered a deep groan.
"'Tain't no use a-tryin'," said he, in a resigned tone. "Everybody'll be
down on me, an' after all I've done, too! But yer ken hev their names,
curse yer!"
The woman went into hysterics; the children cried; Caney, of Texas,
ejaculated, "Bully!" and then kissed the poor little bruised feet.
The New Englander fervently exclaimed, "Thank God!"
"I'll answer fur him till we get 'em," said Caney, after the major had
written down the names Bowney gave him; "an'," continued Caney,
"somebody git the rest of these young uns an' ther mother to my cabin
powerful quick. Good Lord, don't I jist wish they wuz boys! I'd adopt
the hull family."
The court informally adjourned _sine die_, but had so many meetings
afterward at the same place to dispose of Bowney's accomplices, that his
freedom was considered fairly purchased, and he and his family were
located a good way from the scenes of his most noted exploits.
[Illustration]
MR. PUTCHETT'S LOVE.
Just after two o'clock, on a July afternoon, Mr. Putchett mounted
several steps of the Sub-Treasury in Wall Street, and gazed inquiringly
up and down the street.