Kitabı oku: «Gold», sayfa 18
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE RULE OF THE LAWLESS
No concerted attempt was made by the roughs to avenge the execution of their comrades. Whether they realized that such an attempt would be likely to solidify the decent element, or whether that sort of warfare was not their habit, the afternoon and night wore away without trouble.
“Danger’s over,” announced Johnny the following morning.
“What next?” I asked.
“We’ll go up to town,” said Johnny.
This they proceeded to do, negativing absolutely my desire to accompany them.
“You stay out of this,” said Johnny. “Go and wash gold as usual.”
I was immensely relieved that afternoon when they returned safe and sound. Afterward I heard that they had coolly visited every saloon and gambling place, had stopped in each to chat with the barkeepers and gamblers, had spent the morning seated outside the Bella Union, and had been in no manner molested.
“They’ll be all right as long as they stick together and keep in the open,” Yank assured me. “That gang will sooner assassinate than fight.”
Although for the moment held in check by the resolute front presented by these three boys, the rough element showed that it considered it had won a great victory, and was now entitled to run the town. Members of the gang selected what goods they needed at any of the stores, making no pretence of payment. They swaggered boldly about the streets at all times, infested the better places such as the Bella Union, elbowed aside insolently any inoffensive citizen who might be in their way, and generally conducted themselves as though they owned the place. Robberies grew more frequent. The freighters were held up in broad daylight; rumours of returning miners being relieved of their dust drifted up from the lower country; mysterious disappearances increased in number. Hardly an attempt was made to conceal the fact that the organized gang that conducted these operations had its headquarters at Italian Bar. Strange men rode up in broad daylight, covered with red dust, to confer with Morton or one of the other resident blackguards. Mysteriously every desperado in the place began to lay fifty-dollar octagonal slugs on the gaming tables, product of some lower country atrocity.
The camp soon had a concrete illustration of the opinion the roughs held of themselves. It was reported quietly among a few of us that several of our number had been “marked” by the desperadoes. Two of these were Joe Thompson, who had acted as counsel for the prosecution in the late trial, and Tom Cleveland, who had presided, and presided well, over the court. Thompson kept one of the stores, while Cleveland was proprietor of the butcher shop. No overt threats were made, but we understood that somehow these men were to be put out of the way. Of course they were at once warned.
The human mind is certainly a queer piece of mechanism. It would seem that the most natural thing to have done, in the circumstances, would have been to dog these men’s footsteps until an opportunity offered to assassinate them quietly. That is just what would have been done had the intended victims been less prominently in the public eye. The murder of court officials, however, was a very different matter from the finding of an unknown miner dead in his camp or along the trail. In the former case there could be no manner of doubt as to the perpetrators of the deed–the animus was too directly to be traced. And it is a matter for curious remark that in all early history, whether of California in the forties, or of Montana in the bloodier sixties, the desperadoes, no matter how strong they felt themselves or how arrogantly they ran the community, nevertheless must have felt a great uncertainty as to the actual power of the decent element. This is evidenced by the fact that they never worked openly. Though the identity of each of them as a robber and cut-throat was a matter of common knowledge, so that any miner could have made out a list of the members of any band, the fact was never formally admitted. And as long as it was not admitted, and as long as actual hard proof was lacking, it seemed to be part of the game that nothing could be done. Moral certainties did not count until some series of outrages resulted in mob action.
Now consider this situation, which seemed to me then as it seems to me now, most absurd in every way. Nobody else considered it so. Everybody knew that the rough element was out to “get” Thompson and Cleveland. Everybody, including both Thompson and Cleveland themselves, was pretty certain that they would not be quietly assassinated, the argument in that case being that the deed would be too apt to raise the community. Therefore it was pretty well understood that some sort of a quarrel or personal encounter would be used as an excuse. Personally I could not see that that would make much essential difference; but, as I said, the human mind is a curious piece of mechanism.
Among the occasional visitors to the camp was a man who called himself Harry Crawford. He was a man of perhaps twenty-five years, tall, rather slender, with a clear face and laughing blue eyes. Nothing in his appearance indicated the desperado; and yet we had long known him as one of the Morton gang. This man now took up his residence in camp; and we soon discovered that he was evidently the killer. The first afternoon he picked some sort of a petty quarrel with Thompson over a purchase, but cooled down instantly when unexpectedly confronted by a half dozen miners who came in at the opportune moment. A few days afterward in the slack time of the afternoon Thompson, while drinking at the bar of the Empire and conversing with a friend, was approached by a well-known sodden hanger-on of the saloons.
“What ’n hell you fellows talking about?” demanded this man impudently.
“None of your business,” replied Thompson impatiently, for the man was a public nuisance, and besides was deep in Thompson’s debt.
The man broke into foul oaths.
“I’ll dare you to fight!” he cried in a furious passion.
Facing about, Thompson saw Crawford standing attentively among the listeners, and instantly comprehended the situation.
“You have the odds of me with a pistol,” said Thompson, who notoriously had no skill with that weapon. “Why should I fight you?”
“Well, then,” cried the man, “put up your fists; that’ll show who is the best man!”
He snatched off his belt and laid it on the bar. Thompson did the same.
“Come on!” cried the challenger, backing away.
Thompson, thoroughly angry, reached over and slapped his antagonist. The latter promptly drew another revolver from beneath his coat, but before he could aim it Thompson jumped at his throat and disarmed him. At this moment Crawford interfered, apparently as peacemaker. Thompson was later told secretly by the barkeeper that the scheme was to lure him into a pistol fight in the street, when Crawford would be ready to shoot him as soon as the first shot was fired.
On the strength of his interference Crawford next pretended to friendship, and spent much of his time at Thompson’s store. Thompson was in no way deceived. This state of affairs continued for two days. It terminated in the following manner: Crawford, sitting half on the counter, and talking with all the great charm of which he was master, led the subject to weapons.
“This revolver of mine,” said he, at the same time drawing the weapon from its holster, “is one of the old navy model. You don’t often see them nowadays. It has a double lock.” He cocked it as though to illustrate his point, and the muzzle, as though by accident, swept toward the other man. He looked up from his affected close examination to find that Thompson had also drawn his weapon and that the barrel was pointing uncompromisingly in his direction.
For a moment the two stared each other in the eye. Then Crawford sheathed his pistol with an oath.
“What do you mean by that?” he cried.
“I mean,” said Thompson firmly, “that I do not intend you shall get the advantage of me. You know my opinion of you and your gang. I shall not be shot by any of you, if I can help it.”
Crawford withdrew quietly, but later in the day approached a big group of us, one of which was Thompson.
“There’s a matter between you and me has got to be settled!” he cried.
“Well, I can’t imagine what it is,” replied Thompson. “I’m not aware that I’ve said or done anything to you that needs settlement.”
“You needn’t laugh!” replied Crawford, with a string of insulting oaths. “You’re a coward; and if you’re anything of a man you will step out of doors and have this out.”
“I am, as you say, a coward,” replied Thompson quietly, “and I see no reason for going out of doors to fight you or anybody else.”
After blustering and swearing for a few moments Crawford withdrew. He made no attempt to fight, nor do I believe his outburst had any other purpose than to establish the purely personal character of the quarrel between Thompson and himself. At any rate, Thompson was next morning found murdered in his bunk, while Crawford had disappeared. I do not know whether Crawford had killed him or not; I think not.
About this time formal printed notices of some sort of election were posted on the bulletin board at Morton’s place. At least they were said to have been posted, and were pointed out to all comers the day after election. Perhaps they were there all the time, as claimed, but nobody paid much attention to them. At any rate, we one day awoke to the fact that we were a full-fledged community, with regularly constituted court officers, duly qualified officials, and a sheriff. The sheriff was Morton, and the most worthy judges were other members of his gang!
This move tickled Danny Randall’s sense of humour immensely.
“That’s good head work,” he said approvingly. “I didn’t think Morton had it in him.”
“It’s time something was done to run that gang out of town,” fumed Dr. Rankin.
“No; it is not time,” denied Danny, “any more than it was time when you and Johnny and the rest of you had your celebrated jury trial.”
“I’d like to know what you are driving at!” fretted the worthy doctor.
Danny Randall laughed in his gentle little fashion. I will confess that just at that time I was very decidedly wondering what Danny Randall was at. In fact, at moments I was strongly inclined to doubt his affiliations. He seemed to stand in an absolutely neutral position, inclining to neither side.
Tom Cleveland was killed in the open street by one of the Empire hangers-on. The man was promptly arrested by Morton in his capacity of sheriff, and confined in chains. Morton, as sheriff, selected those who were to serve on the jury. I had the curiosity to attend the trial, expecting to assist at an uproarious farce. All the proceedings, on the contrary, were conducted with the greatest decorum, and with minute attention to legal formalities. The assassin, however, was acquitted.
From that time the outrages increased in number and in boldness. No man known to be possessed of any quantity of gold was safe. It was dangerous to walk alone after dark, to hunt alone in the mountains, to live alone. Every man carried his treasure about with him everywhere he went. No man dared raise his voice in criticism of the ruling powers, for it was pretty generally understood that such criticism meant death.
It would be supposed, naturally, by you in our modern and civilized days, that such a condition of affairs would cast a fear and gloom over the life of the community. Not at all. Men worked and played and gambled and drank and joked and carried on the light-hearted, jolly existence of the camps just about the same as ever. Outside a few principals like Morton and his immediate satellites, there was no accurate demarkation between the desperadoes and the miners. Indeed, no one was ever quite sure of where his next neighbour’s sympathies lay. We all mingled together, joked, had a good time–and were exceedingly cautious. It was a polite community. Personal quarrels were the product of the moment, and generally settled at the moment or soon after. Enmities were matters for individual adjustment.
Randall’s express messengers continued to make their irregular trips with the gold dust. They were never attacked, though they were convinced, and I think justly, that on numerous occasions they had only just escaped attack. Certainly the sums of money they carried were more than sufficient temptation to the bandits. They knew their country, however, and were full of Indian-like ruses, twists, doublings and turns which they employed with great gusto. How long they would have succeeded in eluding what I considered the inevitable, I do not know; but at this time occurred the events that I shall detail in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LAST STRAW
This is a chapter I hate to write; and therefore I shall get it over with as soon as possible.
Yank had progressed from his bunk to the bench outside, and from that to a slow hobbling about near the Moreña cabin. Two of the three months demanded by Dr. Rankin had passed. Yank’s leg had been taken from the splint, and, by invoking the aid of stout canes, he succeeded in shifting around. But the trail to town was as yet too rough for him. Therefore a number of us were in the habit of spending our early evenings with him. We sat around the door, and smoked innumerable pipes, and talked sixty to the minute. Moreña had a guitar to the accompaniment of which he sang a number of plaintive and sweet-toned songs. Three or four of his countrymen occasionally came up from below. Then they, too, sang more plaintive songs; or played a strange game with especial cards which none of us “gringos” could ever fathom; or perhaps stepped a grave, formal sort of dance. Señora Moreña, the only woman, would sometimes join in this. She was a large woman, but extraordinarily light on her feet. In fact, as she swayed and balanced opposite her partner she reminded me of nothing so much as a balloon tugging gently at its string.
“But it ees good, the dance, eh, señores?” she always ended, her broad, kind face shining with pleasure.
We Americans reciprocated with a hoe-down or so, to jigging strains blasphemously evoked by one of our number from that gentle guitar; and perhaps a song or two. Oh, Susannah! was revived; and other old favourites; and we had also the innumerable verses of a brand-new favourite, local to the country. It had to do with the exploits and death of one Lame Jesse. I can recall only two of the many verses:
“Lame Jesse was a hard old case;
He never would repent.
He ne’er was known to miss a meal–
He never paid a cent!
“Lame Jesse, too, like all the rest,
He did to Death resign;
And in his bloom went up the flume
In the days of Forty-nine.”
When the evening chill descended, which now was quite early, we scattered to our various occupations, leaving Yank to his rest.
One Sunday in the middle of October two men trudged into town leading each a pack-horse.
I was at the time talking to Barnes at his hotel, and saw them from a distance hitching their animals outside Morton’s. They stayed there for some time, then came out, unhitched their horses, led them as far as the Empire, hesitated, finally again tied the beasts, and disappeared. In this manner they gradually worked along to the Bella Union, where at last I recognized them as McNally and Buck Barry, our comrades of the Porcupine. Of course I at once rushed over to see them.
I found them surrounded by a crowd to whom they were offering drinks free-handed. Both were already pretty drunk, but they knew me as soon as I entered the door, and surged toward me hands out.
“Well! well! well!” cried McNally delightedly. “And here’s himself! And who’d have thought of seeing you here! I made sure you were in the valley and out of the country long since. And you’re just in time! Make a name for it? Better call it whiskey straight. Drink to us, my boy! Come, join my friends! We’re all friends here! Come on, and here’s to luck, the best luck ever! We’ve got two horse-loads of gold out there–nothing but gold–and it all came from our old diggings. You ought to have stayed. We had no trouble. Bagsby was an old fool!” All the time he was dragging me along by the arm toward the crowd at the bar. Barry maintained an air of owlish gravity.
“Where’s Missouri Jones?” I inquired; but I might as well have asked the stone mountains. McNally chattered on, excited, his blue eyes dancing, bragging over and over about his two horse-loads of gold.
The crowd took his whiskey, laughed with him, and tried shrewdly to pump him as to the location of his diggings. McNally gave them no satisfaction there; but even when most hilarious retained enough sense to put them off the track.
As will be imagined, I was most uneasy about the whole proceeding, and tried quietly to draw the two men off.
“No, sir!” cried McNally, “not any! Jes’ struck town, and am goin’ to have a time!” in which determination he was cheered by all the bystanders. I did not know where to turn; Johnny was away on one of his trips, and Danny Randall was not to be found. Finally inspiration served me.
“Come down first and see Yank,” I urged. “Poor old Yank is crippled and can’t move.”
That melted them at once. They untied their long-suffering animals, and we staggered off down the trail.
On the way down I tried, but in vain, to arouse them to a sense of danger.
“You’ve let everybody in town know you have a lot of dust,” I pointed out.
McNally merely laughed recklessly.
“Good boys!” he cried; “wouldn’t harm a fly!” and I could veer him to no other point of view. Barry agreed to everything, very solemn and very owlish.
We descended on Yank like a storm. I will say that McNally at any time was irresistible and irrepressible, but especially so in his cups. We laughed ourselves sick that afternoon. The Moreñas were enchanted. Under instructions, and amply supplied with dust, Moreña went to town and returned with various bottles. Señora Moreña cooked a fine supper. In the meantime, I, as apparently the only responsible member of the party, unsaddled the animals, and brought their burdens into the cabin. Although McNally’s statement as to the loads consisting exclusively of gold was somewhat of an exaggeration, nevertheless the cantinas were very heavy. Not knowing what else to do with them, I thrust them under Yank’s bunk.
The evening was lively, I will confess it, and under the influence of it my caution became hazy. Finally, when I at last made my way back to my own camp, I found myself vastly surprised to discover Yank hobbling along by my side. I don’t know why he came with me, and I do not think he knew either. Probably force of habit. At any rate, we left the other four to sleep where they would. I remember we had some difficulty in finding places to lie.
The sun was high when we awoke. We were not feeling very fresh, to say the least; and we took some little time to get straightened around. Then we went down to the Moreña cabin.
I am not going to dwell on what we found there. All four of its inmates had been killed with buckshot, and the place ransacked from end to end. Apparently the first volley had killed our former partners and Señora Moreña as they lay. Moreña had staggered to his feet and halfway across the room.
The excitement caused by this frightful crime was intense. Every man quit work. A great crowd assembled. Morton as sheriff was very busy, and loud threats were uttered by his satellites as to the apprehension of the murderers. The temper of the crowd, however, was sullen. No man dared trust his neighbour, and yet every honest breast swelled with impotent indignation at this wholesale and unprovoked massacre. No clue was possible. Everybody remembered, of course, how broadcast and publicly the fact of the gold had been scattered. Nobody dared utter his suspicions, if he had any.
The victims were buried by a large concourse, that eddied and hesitated and muttered long after the graves had been filled in. Vaguely it was felt that the condition of affairs was intolerable; but no one knew how it was to be remedied. Nothing definite could be proved against any one, and yet I believe that every honest man knew to a moral certainty at least the captains and instigators of the various outrages. A leader could have raised an avenging mob–provided he could have survived the necessary ten minutes!
We scattered at last to our various occupations. I was too much upset to work, so I returned to where Yank was smoking over the fire. He had, as near as I can remember, said not one word since the discovery of the tragedy. On my approach he took his pipe from his mouth.
“Nothing done?” he inquired.
“Nothing,” I replied. “What is there to be done?”
“Don’t know,” said he, replacing his pipe; then around the stem of it, “I was fond of those people.”
“So was I,” I agreed sincerely. “Have you thought what a lucky escape you yourself had?”
Yank nodded. We sat for a long time in silence. My thoughts turned slowly and sullenly in a heavy, impotent anger. A small bird chirped plaintively from the thicket near at hand. Except for the tinkle of our little stream and the muffled roar of the distant river, this was the only sound to strike across the dead black silence of the autumn night. So persistently did the bird utter its single call that at last it aroused even my downcast attention, so that I remarked on it carelessly to Yank. He came out of his brown study and raised his head.
“It’s no bird, it’s a human,” he said, after listening a moment. “That’s a signal. Go see what it is. Just wander out carelessly.”
In the depths of the thicket I found a human figure crouched. It glided to me, and I made out dimly the squat form of Pete, Barnes’s negro slave, from the hotel.
“Lo’dee, massa,” whispered he, “done thought you nevah would come.”
“What is it, Pete?” I asked in the same guarded tones.
“I done got somefin’ to tell you. While I ketchin’ a lil’ bit of sleep ’longside that white trash Mo’ton’s place, I done heah dey all plannin’ to git out warrant for to arres’ Massa Fairfax and Massa Pine and Massa Ma’sh for a-killin’ dem men las’ week; and I heah dem say dey gwine fer to gib dem trial, and if dey fight dey gwine done shoot ’em.”
“That is serious news, Pete,” said I. “Who were talking?” But Pete, who was already frightened half to death, grew suddenly cautious.
“I don’ jest rightly know, sah,” he said sullenly. “I couldn’t tell. Jes’ Massa Mo’ton. He say he gwine sw’ar in good big posse.”
“I can believe that,” said I thoughtfully. “Pete,” I turned on him suddenly, “don’t you know they’d skin you alive if they found out you’d been here?”
Pete was shaking violently, and at my words a strong shudder went through his frame, and his teeth struck faintly together.
“Why did you do it?”
“Massa Fairfax is quality, sah,” he replied with a certain dignity. “I jest a pore nigger, but I knows quality when I sees it, and I don’t aim to have no pore white truck kill none of my folks if I can help it.”
“Pete,” said I, fully satisfied, “you are a good fellow. Now get along back.”
He disappeared before the words were fairly out of my mouth.
“Yank,” I announced, returning to the fire, “I’ve got to go uptown. That was Pete, Barnes’s nigger, to say that they’ve got out a legal warrant for the express messengers’ arrest for that killing last week. Neat little scheme.”
I found Danny Randall in his accustomed place. At a hint he sent for Dr. Rankin. To the two I unfolded the plot. Both listened in silence until I had quite finished. Then Danny leaped to his feet and hit the table with his closed fist.
“The fools!” he cried. “I gave them credit for more sense. Hit at Danny Randall’s men, will they? Well, they’ll find that Danny Randall can protect his own! Forgotten that little point, have they?”
The cool, impassive, mild little man had changed utterly. His teeth bared, the muscles of his cheeks tightened, two deep furrows appeared between his eyes, which sparkled and danced. From the most inoffensive looking creature possible to imagine he had become suddenly menacing and dangerous.
“What do you intend, Randall?” asked Dr. Rankin. He was leaning slightly forward, and he spoke in a gentle voice, but his hand was clenched on the table, and his figure was rigid.
“Do?” repeated Randall fiercely; “why, run that gang out of town, of course!”
“I thought you said the time was not ripe?”
“We’ll ripen it!” said Danny Randall.
