almost as round as a billiard ball. His body was round, his head was
round; his blue eyes and even his mouth and chin were round; his nose
was a perky snub; he was florid and prematurely bald--a picture of
good-humour. And yet he was a power in Garotte. When he came to the
camp, a row was the only form of recreation known to the miners. A
“fuss” took men out of themselves, and was accordingly hailed as an
amusement; besides, it afforded a subject of conversation. But after
Lawyer Rablay's arrival fights became comparatively infrequent. Would-be
students of human nature declared at first that his flow of spirits was
merely animal, and that his wit was thin; but even these envious ones
had to admit later that his wit told, and that his good-humour was
catching.
Crocker and Harrison had nearly got to loggerheads one night for no
reason apparently, save that each had a high reputation for courage,
and neither could find a worthier antagonist. In the nick of time Rablay
appeared; he seemed to understand the situation at a glance, and broke
in:
“See here, boys. I'll settle this. They're disputin'--I know they are.
Want to decide with bullets whether 'Frisco or Denver's the finest city.
'Frisco's bigger and older, says Crocker; Harrison maintains Denver's
better laid out. Crocker replies in his quiet way that 'Frisco ain't
dead yet.” Good temper being now re-established, Rablay went on: “I'll
decide this matter right off. Crocker and Harrison shall set up drinks
for the crowd till we're all laid out. And I'll tell a story,” and he
began a tale which cannot be retold here, but which delighted the boys
as much by its salaciousness as by its vivacity.
Lawyer Rablay was to Garotte what novels, theatres, churches, concerts
are to more favoured cities; in fact, for some six months, he and
his stories constituted the chief humanizing influence in the camp.
Deputations were often despatched from Doolan's to bring Rablay to the
bar. The miners got up “cases” in order to give him work. More than once
both parties in a dispute, real or imaginary, engaged him, despite his
protestations, as attorney, and afterwards the boys insisted that,
being advocate for both sides, he was well fitted to decide the issue
as judge. He had not been a month in Garotte before he was christened
Judge, and every question, whether of claim-boundaries, the suitability
of a nickname, or the value of “dust,” was submitted for his decision.
It cannot be asserted that his enviable position was due either to
perfect impartiality or to infallible wisdom. But every one knew that
his judgments would be informed by shrewd sense and good-humour,
and would be followed by a story, and woe betide the disputant
whose perversity deferred that pleasure. So Garotte became a sort of
theocracy, with Judge Rablay as ruler. And yet he was, perhaps, the
only man in the community whose courage had never been tested or even
considered.
One afternoon a man came to Garotte, who had a widespread reputation.
His name was Bill Hitchcock. A marvellous shot, a first-rate
poker-player, a good rider--these virtues were outweighed by his
desperate temper. Though not more than five-and-twenty years of age
his courage and ferocity had made him a marked man. He was said to have
killed half-a-dozen men; and it was known that he had generally provoked
his victims. No one could imagine why he had come to Garotte, but he
had not been half an hour in the place before he was recognized. It was
difficult to forget him, once seen. He was tall and broad-shouldered;
his face long, with well-cut features; a brown moustache drooped
negligently over his mouth; his heavy eyelids were usually half-closed,
but when in moments of excitement they were suddenly updrawn, one was
startled by a naked hardness of grey-green eyes.
Hitchcock spent the whole afternoon in Doolan's, scarcely speaking a
word. As night drew down, the throng of miners increased. Luck had been
bad for weeks; the camp was in a state of savage ill-humour. Not a
few came to the saloon that night intending to show, if an opportunity
offered, that neither Hitchcock nor any one else on earth could scare
them. As minute after minute passed the tension increased. Yet Hitchcock
stood in the midst of them, drinking and smoking in silence, seemingly
unconcerned.
Presently the Judge came in with a smile on his round face and shot off
a merry remark. But the quip didn't take as it should have done. He
was received with quiet nods and not with smiles and loud greetings as
usual. Nothing daunted, he made his way to the bar, and, standing next
to Hitchcock, called for a drink.
“Come, Doolan, a Bourbon; our only monarch!”
Beyond a smile from Doolan the remark elicited no applause. Astonished,
the Judge looked about him; never in his experience had the camp been
in that temper. But still he had conquered too often to doubt his powers
now. Again and again he tried to break the spell--in vain. As a last
resort he resolved to use his infallible receipt against ill-temper.
“Boys! I've just come in to tell you one little story; then I'll have to
go.”
From force of habit the crowd drew towards him, and faces relaxed.
Cheered by this he picked up his glass from the bar and turned towards
his audience. Unluckily, as he moved, his right arm brushed against
Hitchcock, who was looking at him with half-opened eyes. The next moment
Hitchcock had picked up his glass and dashed it in the Judge's face.
Startled, confounded by the unexpected suddenness of the attack, Rablay
backed two or three paces, and, blinded by the rush of blood from his
forehead, drew out his handkerchief. No one stirred. It was part of the
unwritten law in Garotte to let every man in such circumstances play his
game as he pleased. For a moment or two the Judge mopped his face, and
then he started towards his assailant with his round face puckered up
and out-thrust hands. He had scarcely moved, however, when Hitchcock
levelled a long Navy Colt against his breast:
“Git back, you ---- ”
The Judge stopped. He was unarmed but not cowed. All of a sudden those
wary, long eyes of Hitchcock took in the fact that a score of revolvers
covered him.
With lazy deliberation Dave Crocker moved out of the throng towards the
combatants, and standing between them, with his revolver pointing to the
ground, said sympathetically:
“Jedge, we're sorry you've been jumped, here in Garotte. Now, what would
you like?”
“A fair fight,” replied Rablay, beginning again to use his handkerchief.
“Wall,” Crocker went on, after a pause for thought. “A square fight's
good but hard to get. This man,” and his head made a motion towards
Hitchcock as he spoke, “is one of the best shots there is, and I reckon
you're not as good at shootin' as at--other things.” Again he paused
to think, and then continued with the same deliberate air of careful
reflection, “We all cotton to you, Jedge; you know that. Suppose you
pick a man who kin shoot, and leave it to him. That'd be fair, an' you
kin jes' choose any of us, or one after the other. We're all willin'.”
“No,” replied the Judge, taking away the handkerchief, and showing a
jagged, red line on his forehead. “No! he struck _me_. I don't want any
one to help me, or take my place.”
“That's right,” said Crocker, approvingly; “that's right, Jedge, we all
like that, but 'tain't square, and this camp means to hev it square.
You bet!” And, in the difficult circumstances, he looked round for the
approval which was manifest on every one of the serious faces. Again he
began: “I guess, Jedge, you'd better take my plan, 'twould be surer. No!
Wall, suppose I take two six-shooters, one loaded, the other empty, and
put them under a _capote_ on the table in the next room. You could both
go in and draw for weapons; that'd be square, I reckon?” and he waited
for the Judge's reply.
“Yes,” replied Rablay, “that'd be fair. I agree to that.”
“Hell!” exclaimed Hitchcock, “I don't. If he wants to fight, I'm here;
but I ain't goin' to take a hand in no sich derned game--with the cards
stocked agen me.”
“Ain't you?” retorted Crocker, facing him, and beginning slowly. “I
reckon _you'll_ play any game we say. _See_! any damned game _we_ like.
D'ye understand?”
As no response was forthcoming to this defiance, he went into the other
room to arrange the preliminaries of the duel. A few moments passed
in silence, and then he came back through the lane of men to the two
combatants.
“Jedge,” he began, “the six-shooters are there, all ready. Would you
like to hev first draw, or throw for it with him?” contemptuously
indicating Hitchcock with a movement of his head as he concluded.
“Let us throw,” replied Rablay, quietly.
In silence the three dice and the box were placed by Doolan on the bar.
In response to Crocker's gesture the Judge took up the box and rolled
out two fives and a three--thirteen. Every one felt that he had lost the
draw, but his face did not change any more than that of his adversary.
In silence Hitchcock replaced the dice in the box and threw a three, a
four, and a two--nine; he put down the box emphatically.
“Wall,” Crocker decided impassively, “I guess that gives you the draw,
Jedge; we throw fer high in Garotte--sometimes,” he went on, turning
as if to explain to Hitchcock, but with insult in his voice, and then,
“After you, Jedge!”
Rablay passed through the crowd into the next room. There, on a table,
was a small heap covered with a cloak. Silently the men pressed round,
leaving Crocker between the two adversaries in the full light of the
swinging lamp.
“Now, Jedge,” said Crocker, with a motion towards the table.
“No!” returned the Judge, with white, fixed face, “he won; let him draw
first. I only want a square deal.”
A low hum of surprise went round the room. Garotte was more than
satisfied with its champion. Crocker looked at Hitchcock, and said:
“It's your draw, then.” The words were careless, but the tone and face
spoke clearly enough.
A quick glance round the room and Hitchcock saw that he was trapped.
These men would show him no mercy. At once the wild beast in him
appeared. He stepped to the table, put his hand under the cloak, drew
out a revolver, dropped it, pointing towards Rablay's face, and pulled
the trigger. A sharp click. That revolver, at any rate, was unloaded.
Quick as thought Crocker stepped between Hitchcock and the table. Then
he said:
“It's your turn now, Jedge!”
As he spoke a sound, half of relief and half of content came from the
throats of the onlookers. The Judge did not move. He had not quivered
when the revolver was levelled within a foot of his head; he did not
appear to have seen it. With set eyes and pale face, and the jagged
wound on his forehead whence the blood still trickled, he had waited,
and now he did not seem to hear. Again Crocker spoke:
“Come, Jedge, it's your turn.”
The sharp, loud words seemed to break the spell which had paralyzed the
man. He moved to the table, and slowly drew the revolver from under the
cloak. His hesitation was too much for the crowd.
“Throw it through him, Jedge! Now's your chance. Wade in, Jedge!”
The desperate ferocity of the curt phrases seemed to move him. He raised
the revolver. Then came in tones of triumph:
“I'll bet high on the Jedge!”
He dropped the revolver on the floor, and fled from the room.
The first feeling of the crowd of men was utter astonishment, but in
a moment or two this gave place to half-contemptuous sympathy. What
expression this sentiment would have found it is impossible to say, for
just then Bill Hitchcock observed with a sneer:
“As he's run, I may as well walk;” and he stepped towards the bar-room.
Instantly Crocker threw himself in front of him with his face on fire.
“Walk--will ye?” he burst out, the long-repressed rage flaming
up--“walk! when you've jumped the best man in Garotte--walk! No, by God,
you'll crawl, d'ye hear? crawl--right out of this camp, right now!” and
he dropped his revolver on Hitchcock's breast.
Then came a wild chorus of shouts.
“That's right! That's the talk! Crawl, will ye! Down on yer hands and
knees. Crawl, damn ye! Crawl!” and a score of revolvers covered the
stranger.
For a moment he stood defiant, looking his assailants in the eyes. His
face seemed to have grown thinner, and his moustache twitched with the
snarling movement of a brute at bay. Then he was tripped up and thrown
forwards amid a storm of, “Crawl, damn ye--crawl!” And so Hitchcock
crawled, on hands and knees, out of Doolan's.
Lawyer Rablay, too, was never afterwards seen in Garotte. Men said his
nerves had “give out.”
JULY, 1892.
* * * * *
GULMORE, THE BOSS
The habits of the Gulmore household were in some respects primitive.
Though it was not yet seven o'clock two negro girls were clearing away
the breakfast things under the minute supervision of their mistress,
an angular, sharp-faced woman with a reedy voice, and nervously abrupt
movements. Near the table sat a girl of nineteen absorbed in a book. In
an easy-chair by the open bay-window a man with a cigar in his mouth
was reading a newspaper. Jonathan Byrne Gulmore, as he always signed
himself, was about fifty years of age; his heavy frame was muscular, and
the coarse dark hair and swarthy skin showed vigorous health. There was
both obstinacy and combativeness in his face with its cocked nose, low
irregular forehead, thick eyebrows, and square jaw, but the deep-set
grey eyes gleamed at times with humorous comprehension, and the usual
expression of the countenance was far from ill-natured. As he laid the
paper on his knees and looked up, he drew the eye. His size and strength
seemed to be the physical equivalents of an extraordinary power of
character and will. When Mrs. Gulmore followed the servants out of the
room the girl rose from her chair and went towards the door. She was
stopped by her father's voice:
“Ida, I want a talk with you. You'll be able to go to your books
afterwards; I won't keep you long.” She sat down again and laid her book
on the table, while Mr. Gulmore continued:
“The election's next Monday week, and I've no time to lose.” A moment's
silence, and he let his question fall casually:
“You know this--Professor Roberts--don't you? He was at the University
when you were there--eh?” The girl flushed slightly as she assented.
“They say he's smart, an' he ken talk. I heard him the other night;
but I'd like to know what you think. Your judgment's generally worth
havin'.”
Forced to reply without time for reflection, Miss Gulmore said as little
as possible with a great show of frankness:
“Oh, yes; he's smart, and knows Greek and Latin and German, and a great
many things. The senior students used to say he knew more than all the
other professors put together, and he--he thinks so too, I imagine,” and
she laughed intentionally, for, on hearing her own strained laughter,
she blushed, and then stood up out of a nervous desire to conceal her
embarrassment. But her father was looking away from her at the glowing
end of his cigar; and, as she resumed her seat, he went on:
“I'm glad you seem to take no stock in him, Ida, for he's makin' himself
unpleasant. I'll have to give him a lesson, I reckon, not in Greek or
Latin or them things--I never had nothin' taught me beyond the 'Fourth
Reader,' in old Vermont, and I've forgotten some of what I learned
then--but in election work an' business I guess I ken give Professor
Roberts points, fifty in a hundred, every time. Did you know he's always
around with Lawyer Hutchin's?”
“Is he? That's because of May--May Hutchings. Oh, she deserves him;” the
girl spoke with sarcastic bitterness, “she gave herself trouble enough
to get him. It was just sickening the way she acted, blushing every time
he spoke to her, and looking up at him as if he were everything. Some
people have no pride in them.”
Her father listened impassively, and, after a pause, began his
explanation:
“Wall, Ida, anyway he means to help Hutchin's in this city election.
'Tain't the first time Hutchin's has run for mayor on the Democratic
ticket and come out at the little end of the horn, and I propose to whip
him again. But this Professor's runnin' him on a new track, and I want
some points about _him_. It's like this. At the Democratic meetin'
the other night, the Professor spoke, and spoke well. What he said was
popcorn; but it took with the Mugwumps--them that think themselves too
highfalutin' to work with either party, jest as if organization was no
good, an' a mob was as strong as an army. Wall, he talked for an hour
about purity an' patriotism, and when he had warmed 'em up he
went bald-headed for me. He told 'em--you ken read it all in the
'Tribune'--that this town was run by a ring, an' not run honestly;
contracts were given only to members of the Republican party; all
appointments were made by the ring, and never accordin' to ability--as
if sich a ring could last ten years. He ended up by saying, though he
was a Republican, as his father is, he intended to vote Democratic--he's
domiciled here--as a protest against the impure and corrupt Boss-system
which was disgracin' American political life. 'Twas baby talk. But it's
like this. The buildin' of the branch line South has brought a lot
of Irish here--they're all Democrats--and there's quite a number of
Mugwumps, an' if this Professor goes about workin' them all up--what
with the flannel-mouths and the rest--it might be a close finish. I'm
sure to win, but if I could get some information about him, it would
help me. His father's all right. We've got him down to a fine point.
Prentiss, the man I made editor of the 'Herald,' knows him well; ken
tell us why he left Kaintucky to come West. But I want to know somethin'
about the Professor, jest to teach him to mind his own business, and
leave other folk to attend to theirs. Ken you help me? Is he popular
with the students and professors?”
She thought intently, while the colour rose in her cheeks; she was eager
to help.
“With the students, yes. There's nothing to be done there. The
professors--I don't think they like him much; he is too clever. When he
came into the class-room and talked Latin to Johnson, the Professor
of Latin, and Johnson could only stammer out a word or two, I guess he
didn't make a friend;” and the girl laughed at the recollection.
“I don't know anything else that could be brought against him. They say
he is an Atheist. Would that be any use? He gave a lecture on 'Culture
as a Creed' about three months ago which made some folk mad. The other
professors are Christians, and, of course, all the preachers took it
up. He compared Buddha with Christ, and said--oh, I remember!--that
Shakespeare was the Old Testament of the English-speaking peoples. That
caused some talk; they all believe in the Bible. He said, too, that
'Shakespeare was inspired in a far higher sense than St. Paul, who was
thin and hard, a logic-loving bigot.' And President Campbell--he's a
Presbyterian--preached the Sunday afterwards upon St. Paul as the great
missionary of Protestantism. I don't think the professors like him, but
I don't know that they can do anything, for all the students, the senior
ones, at least, are with him,” and the girl paused, and tried to find
out from her father's face whether what she had said was likely to be of
service.
“Wall! I don't go much on them things myself, but I guess somethin'
ken be done. I'll see Prentiss about it: send him to interview this
President Campbell, and wake him up to a sense of his duty. This is a
Christian country, I reckon,” the grey eyes twinkled, “and those who
teach the young should teach them Christian principles, or else--get
out. I guess it ken be worked. The University's a State institution. You
don't mind if he's fired out, do you?” And the searching eyes probed her
with a glance.
“Oh! I don't mind,” she said quickly, in a would-be careless tone,
rising and going towards him, “it has nothing to do with me. He belongs
to May Hutchings--let her help him, if she can. I think you're quite
right to give him a lesson--he needs one badly. What right has he to
come and attack you?” She had passed to her father's side, and was
leaning against his shoulder. Those grey eyes saw more than she cared to
reveal; they made her uncomfortable.
“Then I understand it's like this. You want him to get a real lesson? Is
that it? You ken talk straight to me, Ida. I'm with you every time. You
know that.”
The feminine instinct of concealment worked in her, but she knew this
father of hers would have plain speech, and some hidden feeling forced
her violent temper to an outburst of curiously mingled hatred of the
Professor and exultation in her power of injuring him.
“Why, father, it's all the same to me. I've no interest in it, except
to help you. You know I never said a word against him till you asked
me. But he has no business to come down and attack _you_,” and the voice
grew shrill. “It's shameful of him. If he were a man he'd never do it.
Yes--give him a _real_ lesson; teach him that those he despises are
stronger than he is. Let him lose his place and be thrown out of work,
then we'll see if May Hutchings,” and she laughed, “will go and help
him. We'll see who is--”
Her father interrupted her in the middle of a tirade which would have
been complete self-revelation; but it is not to be presumed that he did
this out of a delicate regard for his daughter's feelings. He had got
the information he required.
“That's all right, Ida. I guess he'll get the lesson. You ken count on
me. You've put me on the right track, I believe. I knew if any one could
help me, you'd be able to. Nobody knows what's in you better'n I do.
You're smarter'n any one I know, and I know a few who think they're real
smart--”
In this vein he continued soothing his daughter's pride, and yet
speaking in an even, impersonal tone, as if merely stating facts.
“Now I've got to go. Prentiss'll be waiting for me at the office.”
While driving to the office, Mr. Gulmore's thoughts, at first, were with
his daughter. “I don't know why, but I suspicioned that. That's why she
left the University before graduatin', an' talked of goin' East, and
makin' a name for herself on the stage. That Professor's foolish. Ida's
smart and pretty, and she'll have a heap of money some day. The ring
has a few contracts on hand still--he's a fool. How she talked: she
remembered all that lecture--every word; but she's young yet. She'd have
given herself away if I hadn't stopped her. I don't like any one to do
that; it's weak. But she means business every time, just as I do; she
means him to be fired right out, and then she'd probably go and cry over
him, and want me to put him back again. But no. I guess not. That's not
the way I work. I'd be willin' for him to stay away, and leave me alone,
but as she wants him punished, he shall be, and she mustn't interfere
at the end. It'll do her good to find out that things can't both be done
and undone, if she's that sort. But p'r'aps she won't want to undo
them. When their pride's hurt women are mighty hard--harder than men
by far.... I wonder how long it'll take to get this Campbell to move. I
must start right in; I hain't got much time.”