earth. I opened my mouth, and instead of the usual vibrating words
of love and compliment, there came forth a faint wheeze such as
a baby with croup might emit. Not a word - not a syllable - not an
intelligible sound. I had caught cold in my laryngeal regions when
I took my injudicious bath.
"For two hours I sat trying to entertain Anabela. She talked a
certain amount, but it was perfunctory and diluted. The nearest
approach I made to speech was to formulate a sound like a clam
trying to sing 'A Life on the Ocean Wave' at low tide. It seemed
that Anabela's eyes did not rest upon me as often as usual. I had
nothing with which to charm her ears. We looked at pictures and she
played the guitar occasionally, very badly. When I left, her parting
manner seemed cool - or at least thoughtful.
"This happened for five evenings consecutively.
"On the sixth day she ran away with Fergus McMahan.
"It was known that they fled in a sailing yacht bound for Belize. I
was only eight hours behind them in a small steam launch belonging
to the Revenue Department.
"Before I sailed, I rushed into the _botica_ of old Manuel Iquito, a
half-breed Indian druggist. I could not speak, but I pointed to my
throat and made a sound like escaping steam. He began to yawn. In
an hour, according to the customs of the country, I would have been
waited on. I reached across the counter, seized him by the throat,
and pointed again to my own. He yawned once more, and thrust into my
hand a small bottle containing a black liquid.
"'Take one small spoonful every two hours,' says he.
"I threw him a dollar and skinned for the steamer.
"I steamed into the harbour at Belize thirteen seconds behind the
yacht that Anabela and Fergus were on. They started for the shore in
a dory just as my skiff was lowered over the side. I tried to order
my sailormen to row faster, but the sounds died in my larynx before
they came to the light. Then I thought of old Iquito's medicine, and
I got out his bottle and took a swallow of it.
"The two boats landed at the same moment. I walked straight up to
Anabela and Fergus. Her eyes rested upon me for an instant; then she
turned them, full of feeling and confidence, upon Fergus. I knew I
could not speak, but I was desperate. In speech lay my only hope. I
could not stand beside Fergus and challenge comparison in the way of
beauty. Purely involuntarily, my larynx and epiglottis attempted to
reproduce the sounds that my mind was calling upon my vocal organs
to send forth.
"To my intense surprise and delight the words rolled forth
beautifully clear, resonant, exquisitely modulated, full of power,
expression, and long-repressed emotion.
"'Señorita Anabela,' says I, 'may I speak with you aside for a
moment?'
"You don't want details about that, do you? Thanks. The old
eloquence had come back all right. I led her under a cocoanut palm
and put my old verbal spell on her again.
"'Judson,' says she, 'when you are talking to me I can hear nothing
else - I can see nothing else - there is nothing and nobody else in
the world for me.'
"Well, that's about all of the story. Anabela went back to Oratama
in the steamer with me. I never heard what became of Fergus. I never
saw him any more. Anabela is now Mrs. Judson Tate. Has my story
bored you much?"
"No," said I. "I am always interested in psychological studies.
A human heart - and especially a woman's - is a wonderful thing to
contemplate."
"It is," said Judson Tate. "And so are the trachea and bronchial
tubes of man. And the larynx too. Did you ever make a study of the
windpipe?"
"Never," said I. "But I have taken much pleasure in your story.
May I ask after Mrs. Tate, and inquire of her present health and
whereabouts?"
"Oh, sure," said Judson Tate. "We are living in Bergen Avenue,
Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn't suit Mrs. T. I
don't suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the
epiglottis, did you?"
"Why, no," said I, "I am no surgeon."
"Pardon me," said Judson Tate, "but every man should know enough of
anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his own health. A sudden cold
may set up capillary bronchitis or inflammation of the pulmonary
vesicles, which may result in a serious affection of the vocal
organs."
"Perhaps so," said I, with some impatience; "but that is neither
here nor there. Speaking of the strange manifestations of the
affection of women, I - "
"Yes, yes," interrupted Judson Tate; "they have peculiar ways. But,
as I was going to tell you: when I went back to Oratama I found out
from Manuel Iquito what was in that mixture he gave me for my lost
voice. I told you how quick it cured me. He made that stuff from the
_chuchula_ plant. Now, look here."
Judson Tate drew an oblong, white pasteboard box from his pocket.
"For any cough," he said, "or cold, or hoarseness, or bronchial
affection whatsoever, I have here the greatest remedy in the world.
You see the formula, printed on the box. Each tablet contains
licorice, 2 grains; balsam tolu, 1/10 grain; oil of anise, 1/20
minim; oil of tar, 1/60 minim; oleo-resin of cubebs, 1/60 minim;
fluid extract of _chuchula_, 1/10 minim.
"I am in New York," went on Judson Tate, "for the purpose of
organizing a company to market the greatest remedy for throat
affections ever discovered. At present I am introducing the lozenges
in a small way. I have here a box containing four dozen, which I am
selling for the small sum of fifty cents. If you are suffering - "
I got up and went away without a word. I walked slowly up to the
little park near my hotel, leaving Judson Tate alone with his
conscience. My feelings were lacerated. He had poured gently upon me
a story that I might have used. There was a little of the breath of
life in it, and some of the synthetic atmosphere that passes, when
cunningly tinkered, in the marts. And, at the last it had proven to
be a commercial pill, deftly coated with the sugar of fiction. The
worst of it was that I could not offer it for sale. Advertising
departments and counting-rooms look down upon me. And it would
never do for the literary. Therefore I sat upon a bench with other
disappointed ones until my eyelids drooped.
I went to my room, and, as my custom is, read for an hour stories in
my favourite magazines. This was to get my mind back to art again.
And as I read each story, I threw the magazines sadly and
hopelessly, one by one, upon the floor. Each author, without one
exception to bring balm to my heart, wrote liltingly and sprightly
a story of some particular make of motor-car that seemed to control
the sparking plug of his genius.
And when the last one was hurled from me I took heart.
"If readers can swallow so many proprietary automobiles," I said to
myself, "they ought not to strain at one of Tate's Compound Magic
Chuchula Bronchial Lozenges."
And so if you see this story in print you will understand that
business is business, and that if Art gets very far ahead of
Commerce, she will have to get up and hustle.
I may as well add, to make a clean job of it, that you can't buy the
_chuchula_ plant in the drug stores.
VI
ART AND THE BRONCO
Out of the wilderness had come a painter. Genius, whose coronations
alone are democratic, had woven a chaplet of chaparral for the brow
of Lonny Briscoe. Art, whose divine expression flows impartially
from the fingertips of a cowboy or a dilettante emperor, had chosen
for a medium the Boy Artist of the San Saba. The outcome, seven feet
by twelve of besmeared canvas, stood, gilt-framed, in the lobby of
the Capitol.
The legislature was in session; the capital city of that great
Western state was enjoying the season of activity and profit that
the congregation of the solons bestowed. The boarding-houses were
corralling the easy dollars of the gamesome lawmakers. The greatest
state in the West, an empire in area and resources, had arisen and
repudiated the old libel or barbarism, lawbreaking, and bloodshed.
Order reigned within her borders. Life and property were as safe
there, sir, as anywhere among the corrupt cities of the effete
East. Pillow-shams, churches, strawberry feasts and _habeas corpus_
flourished. With impunity might the tenderfoot ventilate his
"stovepipe" or his theories of culture. The arts and sciences
received nurture and subsidy. And, therefore, it behooved the
legislature of this great state to make appropriation for the
purchase of Lonny Briscoe's immortal painting.
Rarely has the San Saba country contributed to the spread of the
fine arts. Its sons have excelled in the solider graces, in the
throw of the lariat, the manipulation of the esteemed .45, the
intrepidity of the one-card draw, and the nocturnal stimulation of
towns from undue lethargy; but, hitherto, it had not been famed as
a stronghold of æsthetics. Lonny Briscoe's brush had removed that
disability. Here, among the limestone rocks, the succulent cactus,
and the drought-parched grass of that arid valley, had been born the
Boy Artist. Why he came to woo art is beyond postulation. Beyond
doubt, some spore of the afflatus must have sprung up within him in
spite of the desert soil of San Saba. The tricksy spirit of creation
must have incited him to attempted expression and then have sat
hilarious among the white-hot sands of the valley, watching its
mischievous work. For Lonny's picture, viewed as a thing of art,
was something to have driven away dull care from the bosoms of the
critics.
The painting - one might almost say panorama - was designed to portray
a typical Western scene, interest culminating in a central animal
figure, that of a stampeding steer, life-size, wild-eyed, fiery,
breaking away in a mad rush from the herd that, close-ridden by
a typical cowpuncher, occupied a position somewhat in the right
background of the picture. The landscape presented fitting and
faithful accessories. Chaparral, mesquit, and pear were distributed
in just proportions. A Spanish dagger-plant, with its waxen blossoms
in a creamy aggregation as large as a water-bucket, contributed
floral beauty and variety. The distance was undulating prairie,
bisected by stretches of the intermittent streams peculiar to the
region lined with the rich green of live-oak and water-elm. A richly
mottled rattlesnake lay coiled beneath a pale green clump of prickly
pear in the foreground. A third of the canvas was ultramarine and
lake white - the typical Western sky and the flying clouds, rainless
and feathery.
Between two plastered pillars in the commodious hallway near the
door of the chamber of representatives stood the painting. Citizens
and lawmakers passed there by twos and groups and sometimes crowds
to gaze upon it. Many - perhaps a majority of them - had lived the
prairie life and recalled easily the familiar scene. Old cattlemen
stood, reminiscent and candidly pleased, chatting with brothers of
former camps and trails of the days it brought back to mind. Art
critics were few in the town, and there was heard none of that
jargon of colour, perspective, and feeling such as the East loves to
use as a curb and a rod to the pretensions of the artist. 'Twas a
great picture, most of them agreed, admiring the gilt frame - larger
than any they had ever seen.
Senator Kinney was the picture's champion and sponsor. It was
he who so often stepped forward and asserted, with the voice of
a bronco-buster, that it would be a lasting blot, sir, upon the
name of this great state if it should decline to recognize in a
proper manner the genius that had so brilliantly transferred to
imperishable canvas a scene so typical of the great sources of our
state's wealth and prosperity, land - and - er - live-stock.
Senator Kinney represented a section of the state in the extreme
West - 400 miles from the San Saba country - but the true lover of
art is not limited by metes and bounds. Nor was Senator Mullens,
representing the San Saba country, lukewarm in his belief that
the state should purchase the painting of his constituent. He was
advised that the San Saba country was unanimous in its admiration
of the great painting by one of its own denizens. Hundreds of
connoisseurs had straddled their broncos and ridden miles to view
it before its removal to the capital. Senator Mullens desired
reëlection, and he knew the importance of the San Saba vote. He also
knew that with the help of Senator Kinney - who was a power in the
legislature - the thing could be put through. Now, Senator Kinney had
an irrigation bill that he wanted passed for the benefit of his own
section, and he knew Senator Mullens could render him valuable aid
and information, the San Saba country already enjoying the benefits
of similar legislation. With these interests happily dovetailed,
wonder at the sudden interest in art at the state capital must,
necessarily, be small. Few artists have uncovered their first
picture to the world under happier auspices than did Lonny Briscoe.
Senators Kinney and Mullens came to an understanding in the matter
of irrigation and art while partaking of long drinks in the café of
the Empire Hotel.
"H'm!" said Senator Kinney, "I don't know. I'm no art critic, but it
seems to me the thing won't work. It looks like the worst kind of a
chromo to me. I don't want to cast any reflections upon the artistic
talent of your constituent, Senator, but I, myself, wouldn't give
six bits for the picture - without the frame. How are you going
to cram a thing like that down the throat of a legislature that
kicks about a little item in the expense bill of six hundred and
eighty-one dollars for rubber erasers for only one term? It's
wasting time. I'd like to help you, Mullens, but they'd laugh us out
of the Senate chamber if we were to try it."
"But you don't get the point," said Senator Mullens, in his
deliberate tones, tapping Kinney's glass with his long forefinger.
"I have my own doubts as to what the picture is intended to
represent, a bullfight or a Japanese allegory, but I want this
legislature to make an appropriation to purchase. Of course, the
subject of the picture should have been in the state historical
line, but it's too late to have the paint scraped off and changed.
The state won't miss the money and the picture can be stowed away in
a lumber-room where it won't annoy any one. Now, here's the point to
work on, leaving art to look after itself - the chap that painted the
picture is the grandson of Lucien Briscoe."
"Say it again," said Kinney, leaning his head thoughtfully. "Of the
old, original Lucien Briscoe?"
"Of him. 'The man who,' you know. The man who carved the state out
of the wilderness. The man who settled the Indians. The man who
cleaned out the horse thieves. The man who refused the crown. The
state's favourite son. Do you see the point now?"
"Wrap up the picture," said Kinney. "It's as good as sold. Why
didn't you say that at first, instead of philandering along about
art. I'll resign my seat in the Senate and go back to chain-carrying
for the county surveyor the day I can't make this state buy a
picture calcimined by a grandson of Lucien Briscoe. Did you ever
hear of a special appropriation for the purchase of a home for the
daughter of One-Eyed Smothers? Well, that went through like a motion
to adjourn, and old One-Eyed never killed half as many Indians as
Briscoe did. About what figure had you and the calciminer agreed
upon to sandbag the treasury for?"
"I thought," said Mullens, "that maybe five hundred - "
"Five hundred!" interrupted Kinney, as he hammered on his glass for
a lead pencil and looked around for a waiter. "Only five hundred for
a red steer on the hoof delivered by a grandson of Lucien Briscoe!
Where's your state pride, man? Two thousand is what it'll be. You'll
introduce the bill and I'll get up on the floor of the Senate and
wave the scalp of every Indian old Lucien ever murdered. Let's see,
there was something else proud and foolish he did, wasn't there? Oh,
yes; he declined all emoluments and benefits he was entitled to.
Refused his head-right and veteran donation certificates. Could have
been governor, but wouldn't. Declined a pension. Now's the state's
chance to pay up. It'll have to take the picture, but then it
deserves some punishment for keeping the Briscoe family waiting so
long. We'll bring this thing up about the middle of the month, after
the tax bill is settled. Now, Mullens, you send over, as soon as you
can, and get me the figures on the cost of those irrigation ditches
and the statistics about the increased production per acre. I'm
going to need you when that bill of mine comes up. I reckon we'll
be able to pull along pretty well together this session and maybe
others to come, eh, Senator?"
Thus did fortune elect to smile upon the Boy Artist of the San Saba.
Fate had already done her share when she arranged his atoms in the
cosmogony of creation as the grandson of Lucien Briscoe.
The original Briscoe had been a pioneer both as to territorial
occupation and in certain acts prompted by a great and simple heart.
He had been one of the first settlers and crusaders against the wild
forces of nature, the savage and the shallow politician. His name
and memory were revered, equally with any upon the list comprising
Houston, Boone, Crockett, Clark, and Green. He had lived simply,
independently, and unvexed by ambition. Even a less shrewd man than
Senator Kinney could have prophesied that his state would hasten to
honour and reward his grandson, come out of the chaparral at even so
late a day.
And so, before the great picture by the door of the chamber of
representatives at frequent times for many days could be found the
breezy, robust form of Senator Kinney and be heard his clarion voice
reciting the past deeds of Lucien Briscoe in connection with the
handiwork of his grandson. Senator Mullens's work was more subdued
in sight and sound, but directed along identical lines.
Then, as the day for the introduction of the bill for appropriation
draws nigh, up from the San Saba country rides Lonny Briscoe and a
loyal lobby of cowpunchers, bronco-back, to boost the cause of art
and glorify the name of friendship, for Lonny is one of them, a
knight of stirrup and chaparreras, as handy with the lariat and .45
as he is with brush and palette.
On a March afternoon the lobby dashed, with a whoop, into town. The
cowpunchers had adjusted their garb suitably from that prescribed
for the range to the more conventional requirements of town. They
had conceded their leather chaparreras and transferred their
six-shooters and belts from their persons to the horns of their
saddles. Among them rode Lonny, a youth of twenty-three, brown,
solemn-faced, ingenuous, bowlegged, reticent, bestriding Hot
Tamales, the most sagacious cow pony west of the Mississippi.
Senator Mullens had informed him of the bright prospects of the
situation; had even mentioned - so great was his confidence in the
capable Kinney - the price that the state would, in all likelihood,
pay. It seemed to Lonny that fame and fortune were in his hands.
Certainly, a spark of the divine fire was in the little brown
centaur's breast, for he was counting the two thousand dollars as
but a means to future development of his talent. Some day he would
paint a picture even greater than this - one, say, twelve feet by
twenty, full of scope and atmosphere and action.
During the three days that yet intervened before the coming of the
date fixed for the introduction of the bill, the centaur lobby
did valiant service. Coatless, spurred, weather-tanned, full of
enthusiasm expressed in bizarre terms, they loafed in front of
the painting with tireless zeal. Reasoning not unshrewdly, they
estimated that their comments upon its fidelity to nature would be
received as expert evidence. Loudly they praised the skill of the
painter whenever there were ears near to which such evidence might
be profitably addressed. Lem Perry, the leader of the claque, had a
somewhat set speech, being uninventive in the construction of new
phrases.
"Look at that two-year-old, now," he would say, waving a
cinnamon-brown hand toward the salient point of the picture.
"Why, dang my hide, the critter's alive. I can jest hear him,
'lumpety-lump,' a-cuttin' away from the herd, pretendin' he's
skeered. He's a mean scamp, that there steer. Look at his eyes
a-wallin' and his tail a-wavin'. He's true and nat'ral to life. He's
jest hankerin' fur a cow pony to round him up and send him scootin'
back to the bunch. Dang my hide! jest look at that tail of his'n
a-wavin'. Never knowed a steer to wave his tail any other way, dang
my hide ef I did."
Jud Shelby, while admitting the excellence of the steer, resolutely
confined himself to open admiration of the landscape, to the end
that the entire picture receive its meed of praise.
"That piece of range," he declared, "is a dead ringer for Dead Hoss
Valley. Same grass, same lay of land, same old Whipperwill Creek
skallyhootin' in and out of them motts of timber. Them buzzards on
the left is circlin' 'round over Sam Kildrake's old paint hoss that
killed hisself over-drinkin' on a hot day. You can't see the hoss
for that mott of ellums on the creek, but he's thar. Anybody that
was goin' to look for Dead Hoss Valley and come across this picture,
why, he'd just light off'n his bronco and hunt a place to camp."
Skinny Rogers, wedded to comedy, conceived a complimentary little
piece of acting that never failed to make an impression. Edging
quite near to the picture, he would suddenly, at favourable moments
emit a piercing and awful "Yi-yi!" leap high and away, coming
down with a great stamp of heels and whirring of rowels upon the
stone-flagged floor.
"Jeeming Cristopher!" - so ran his lines - "thought that rattler was a
gin-u-ine one. Ding baste my skin if I didn't. Seemed to me I heard
him rattle. Look at the blamed, unconverted insect a-layin' under
that pear. Little more, and somebody would a-been snake-bit."
With these artful dodges, contributed by Lonney's faithful coterie,
with the sonorous Kinney perpetually sounding the picture's merits,
and with the solvent prestige of the pioneer Briscoe covering it
like a precious varnish, it seemed that the San Saba country could
not fail to add a reputation as an art centre to its well-known
superiority in steer-roping contests and achievements with the
precarious busted flush. Thus was created for the picture an
atmosphere, due rather to externals than to the artist's brush, but
through it the people seemed to gaze with more of admiration. There
was a magic in the name of Briscoe that counted high against faulty
technique and crude colouring. The old Indian fighter and wolf
slayer would have smiled grimly in his happy hunting grounds had he
known that his dilettante ghost was thus figuring as an art patron
two generations after his uninspired existence.
Came the day when the Senate was expected to pass the bill of
Senator Mullens appropriating two thousand dollars for the purchase
of the picture. The gallery of the Senate chamber was early
preempted by Lonny and the San Saba lobby. In the front row of
chairs they sat, wild-haired, self-conscious, jingling, creaking,
and rattling, subdued by the majesty of the council hall.
The bill was introduced, went to the second reading, and then
Senator Mullens spoke for it dryly, tediously, and at length.
Senator Kinney then arose, and the welkin seized the bellrope
preparatory to ringing. Oratory was at that time a living thing; the
world had not quite come to measure its questions by geometry and
the multiplication table. It was the day of the silver tongue, the
sweeping gesture, the decorative apostrophe, the moving peroration.
The Senator spoke. The San Saba contingent sat, breathing hard,
in the gallery, its disordered hair hanging down to its eyes, its
sixteen-ounce hats shifted restlessly from knee to knee. Below,
the distinguished Senators either lounged at their desks with the
abandon of proven statesmanship or maintained correct attitudes
indicative of a first term.
Senator Kinney spoke for an hour. History was his theme - history
mitigated by patriotism and sentiment. He referred casually to the
picture in the outer hall - it was unnecessary, he said, to dilate
upon its merits - the Senators had seen for themselves. The painter
of the picture was the grandson of Lucien Briscoe. Then came the
word-pictures of Briscoe's life set forth in thrilling colours.
His rude and venturesome life, his simple-minded love for the
commonwealth he helped to upbuild, his contempt for rewards and
praise, his extreme and sturdy independence, and the great services
he had rendered the state. The subject of the oration was Lucien
Briscoe; the painting stood in the background serving simply as a
means, now happily brought forward, through which the state might
bestow a tardy recompense upon the descendent of its favourite son.
Frequent enthusiastic applause from the Senators testified to the
well reception of the sentiment.
The bill passed without an opening vote. To-morrow it would be taken
up by the House. Already was it fixed to glide through that body on
rubber tires. Blandford, Grayson, and Plummer, all wheel-horses and
orators, and provided with plentiful memoranda concerning the deeds
of pioneer Briscoe, had agreed to furnish the motive power.
The San Saba lobby and its _protégé_ stumbled awkwardly down the
stairs and out into the Capitol yard. Then they herded closely and
gave one yell of triumph. But one of them - Buck-Kneed Summers it
was - hit the key with the thoughtful remark:
"She cut the mustard," he said, "all right. I reckon they're goin'
to buy Lon's steer. I ain't right much on the parlyment'ry, but I
gather that's what the signs added up. But she seems to me, Lonny,
the argyment ran principal to grandfather, instead of paint. It's
reasonable calculatin' that you want to be glad you got the Briscoe
brand on you, my son."
That remarked clinched in Lonny's mind an unpleasant, vague
suspicion to the same effect. His reticence increased, and he
gathered grass from the ground, chewing it pensively. The picture
as a picture had been humiliatingly absent from the Senator's
arguments. The painter had been held up as a grandson, pure and
simple. While this was gratifying on certain lines, it made art
look little and slab-sided. The Boy Artist was thinking.
The hotel Lonny stopped at was near the Capitol. It was near to the
one o'clock dinner hour when the appropriation had been passed by
the Senate. The hotel clerk told Lonny that a famous artist from New
York had arrived in town that day and was in the hotel. He was on
his way westward to New Mexico to study the effect of sunlight upon
the ancient walls of the Zuñis. Modern stones reflect light. Those
ancient building materials absorb it. The artist wanted this effect
in a picture he was painting, and was traveling two thousand miles
to get it.
Lonny sought this man out after dinner and told his story. The
artist was an unhealthy man, kept alive by genius and indifference
to life. He went with Lonny to the Capitol and stood there before
the picture. The artist pulled his beard and looked unhappy.
"Should like to have your sentiments," said Lonny, "just as they run
out of the pen."
"It's the way they'll come," said the painter man. "I took three
different kinds of medicine before dinner - by the tablespoonful. The
taste still lingers. I am primed for telling the truth. You want to
know if the picture is, or if it isn't?"
"Right," said Lonny. "Is it wool or cotton? Should I paint some more
or cut it out and ride herd a-plenty?"
"I heard a rumour during pie," said the artist, "that the state is
about to pay you two thousand dollars for this picture."
"It's passed the Senate," said Lonny, "and the House rounds it up
to-morrow."
"That's lucky," said the pale man. "Do you carry a rabbit's foot?"
"No," said Lonny, "but it seems I had a grandfather. He's
considerable mixed up in the colour scheme. It took me a year
to paint that picture. Is she entirely awful or not? Some says,
now, that the steer's tail ain't badly drawed. They think it's
proportioned nice. Tell me."
The artist glanced at Lonny's wiry figure and nut-brown skin.
Something stirred him to a passing irritation.
"For Art's sake, son," he said, fractiously, "don't spend any more
money for paint. It isn't a picture at all. It's a gun. You hold up
the state with it, if you like, and get your two thousand, but don't
get in front of any more canvas. Live under it. Buy a couple of
hundred ponies with the money - I'm told they're that cheap - and
ride, ride, ride. Fill your lungs and eat and sleep and be happy. No
more pictures. You look healthy. That's genius. Cultivate it." He
looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to three. Four capsules and one
tablet at three. That's all you wanted to know, isn't it?"
At three o'clock the cowpunchers rode up for Lonny, bringing Hot
Tamales, saddled. Traditions must be observed. To celebrate the
passage of the bill by the Senate the gang must ride wildly through
the town, creating uproar and excitement. Liquor must be partaken
of, the suburbs shot up, and the glory of the San Saba country
vociferously proclaimed. A part of the programme had been carried
out in the saloons on the way up.
Lonny mounted Hot Tamales, the accomplished little beast prancing
with fire and intelligence. He was glad to feel Lonny's bowlegged
grip against his ribs again. Lonny was his friend, and he was
willing to do things for him.
"Come on, boys," said Lonny, urging Hot Tomales into a gallop with
his knees. With a whoop, the inspired lobby tore after him through
the dust. Lonny led his cohorts straight for the Capitol. With a
wild yell, the gang endorsed his now evident intention of riding
into it. Hooray for San Saba!
Up the six broad, limestone steps clattered the broncos of the
cowpunchers. Into the resounding hallway they pattered, scattering
in dismay those passing on foot. Lonny, in the lead, shoved Hot
Tamales direct for the great picture. At that hour a downpouring,
soft light from the second-story windows bathed the big canvas.
Against the darker background of the hall the painting stood out
with valuable effect. In spite of the defects of the art you could
almost fancy that you gazed out upon a landscape. You might well
flinch a step from the convincing figure of the life-size steer
stampeding across the grass. Perhaps it seemed thus to Hot Tamales.
The scene was in his line. Perhaps he only obeyed the will of his
rider. His ears pricked up; he snorted. Lonny leaned forward in
the saddle and elevated his elbows, wing-like. Thus signals the
cowpuncher to his steed to launch himself full speed ahead. Did Hot
Tamales fancy he saw a steer, red and cavorting, that should be
headed off and driven back to the herd? There was a fierce clatter
of hoofs, a rush, a gathering of steely flank muscles, a leap to the
jerk of the bridle rein, and Hot Tamales, with Lonny bending low in
the saddle to dodge the top of the frame, ripped through the great
canvas like a shell from a mortar, leaving the cloth hanging in
ragged shreds about a monstrous hole.
Quickly Lonny pulled up his pony, and rounded the pillars.
Spectators came running, too astounded to add speech to the
commotion. The sergeant-at-arms of the House came forth, frowned,
looked ominous, and then grinned. Many of the legislators crowded
out to observe the tumult. Lonny's cowpunchers were stricken to
silent horror by his mad deed.
Senator Kinney happened to be among the earliest to emerge. Before
he could speak Lonny leaned in his saddle as Hot Tamales pranced,
pointed his quirt at the Senator, and said, calmly:
"That was a fine speech you made to-day, mister, but you might as
well let up on that 'propriation business. I ain't askin' the state
to give me nothin'. I thought I had a picture to sell to it, but it
wasn't one. You said a heap of things about Grandfather Briscoe that
makes me kind of proud I'm his grandson. Well, the Briscoes ain't
takin' presents from the state yet. Anybody can have the frame that
wants it. Hit her up, boys."
Away scuttled the San Saba delegation out of the hall, down the
steps, along the dusty street.
Halfway to the San Saba country they camped that night. At bedtime
Lonny stole away from the campfire and sought Hot Tamales, placidly
eating grass at the end of his stake rope. Lonny hung upon his neck,
and his art aspirations went forth forever in one long, regretful
sigh. But as he thus made renunciation his breath formed a word or
two.
"You was the only one, Tamales, what seen anything in it. It _did_
look like a steer, didn't it, old hoss?"
VII
PHOEBE
"You are a man of many novel adventures and varied enterprises," I
said to Captain Patricio Maloné. "Do you believe that the possible
element of good luck or bad luck - if there is such a thing as
luck - has influenced your career or persisted for or against you
to such an extent that you were forced to attribute results to the
operation of the aforesaid good luck or bad luck?"
This question (of almost the dull insolence of legal phraseology)
was put while we sat in Rousselin's little red-tiled café near Congo
Square in New Orleans.
Brown-faced, white-hatted, finger-ringed captains of adventure came
often to Rousselin's for the cognac. They came from sea and land,
and were chary of relating the things they had seen - not because
they were more wonderful than the fantasies of the Ananiases of
print, but because they were so different. And I was a perpetual
wedding-guest, always striving to cast my buttonhole over the finger
of one of these mariners of fortune. This Captain Maloné was a
Hiberno-Iberian creole who had gone to and fro in the earth and
walked up and down in it. He looked like any other well-dressed man
of thirty-five whom you might meet, except that he was hopelessly
weather-tanned, and wore on his chain an ancient ivory-and-gold
Peruvian charm against evil, which has nothing at all to do with
this story.
"My answer to your question," said the captain, smiling, "will be to
tell you the story of Bad-Luck Kearny. That is, if you don't mind
hearing it."
My reply was to pound on the table for Rousselin.
"Strolling along Tchoupitoulas Street one night," began Captain
Maloné, "I noticed, without especially taxing my interest, a small
man walking rapidly toward me. He stepped upon a wooden cellar door,
crashed through it, and disappeared. I rescued him from a heap of
soft coal below. He dusted himself briskly, swearing fluently in a
mechanical tone, as an underpaid actor recites the gypsy's curse.
Gratitude and the dust in his throat seemed to call for fluids
to clear them away. His desire for liquidation was expressed so
heartily that I went with him to a café down the street where we had
some vile vermouth and bitters.
"Looking across that little table I had my first clear sight of
Francis Kearny. He was about five feet seven, but as tough as a
cypress knee. His hair was darkest red, his mouth such a mere slit
that you wondered how the flood of his words came rushing from it.
His eyes were the brightest and lightest blue and the hopefulest
that I ever saw. He gave the double impression that he was at bay
and that you had better not crowd him further.
"'Just in from a gold-hunting expedition on the coast of Costa
Rica,' he explained. 'Second mate of a banana steamer told me the
natives were panning out enough from the beach sands to buy all
the rum, red calico, and parlour melodeons in the world. The day I
got there a syndicate named Incorporated Jones gets a government
concession to all minerals from a given point. For a next choice I
take coast fever and count green and blue lizards for six weeks in
a grass hut. I had to be notified when I was well, for the reptiles
were actually there. Then I shipped back as third cook on a
Norwegian tramp that blew up her boiler two miles below Quarantine.
I was due to bust through that cellar door here to-night, so I
hurried the rest of the way up the river, roustabouting on a lower
coast packet that made up a landing for every fisherman that wanted
a plug of tobacco. And now I'm here for what comes next. And it'll
be along, it'll be along,' said this queer Mr. Kearny; 'it'll be
along on the beams of my bright but not very particular star.'
"From the first the personality of Kearny charmed me. I saw in him
the bold heart, the restless nature, and the valiant front against
the buffets of fate that make his countrymen such valuable comrades
in risk and adventure. And just then I was wanting such men. Moored
at a fruit company's pier I had a 500-ton steamer ready to sail the
next day with a cargo of sugar, lumber, and corrugated iron for a
port in - well, let us call the country Esperando - it has not been
long ago, and the name of Patricio Maloné is still spoken there
when its unsettled politics are discussed. Beneath the sugar and
iron were packed a thousand Winchester rifles. In Aguas Frias,
the capital, Don Rafael Valdevia, Minister of War, Esperando's
greatest-hearted and most able patriot, awaited my coming. No
doubt you have heard, with a smile, of the insignificant wars and
uprisings in those little tropic republics. They make but a faint
clamour against the din of great nations' battles; but down there,
under all the ridiculous uniforms and petty diplomacy and senseless
countermarching and intrigue, are to be found statesmen and
patriots. Don Rafael Valdevia was one. His great ambition was to
raise Esperando into peace and honest prosperity and the respect of
the serious nations. So he waited for my rifles in Aguas Frias. But
one would think I am trying to win a recruit in you! No; it was
Francis Kearny I wanted. And so I told him, speaking long over our
execrable vermouth, breathing the stifling odour from garlic and
tarpaulins, which, as you know, is the distinctive flavour of cafés
in the lower slant of our city. I spoke of the tyrant President
Cruz and the burdens that his greed and insolent cruelty laid upon
the people. And at that Kearny's tears flowed. And then I dried
them with a picture of the fat rewards that would be ours when the
oppressor should be overthrown and the wise and generous Valdevia
in his seat. Then Kearny leaped to his feet and wrung my hand with
the strength of a roustabout. He was mine, he said, till the last
minion of the hated despot was hurled from the highest peaks of the
Cordilleras into the sea.
"I paid the score, and we went out. Near the door Kearny's elbow
overturned an upright glass showcase, smashing it into little bits.
I paid the storekeeper the price he asked.
"'Come to my hotel for the night,' I said to Kearny. 'We sail
to-morrow at noon.'
"He agreed; but on the sidewalk he fell to cursing again in the dull
monotonous way that he had done when I pulled him out of the coal
cellar.
"'Captain,' said he, 'before we go any further, it's no more than
fair to tell you that I'm known from Baffin's Bay to Terra del Fuego
as "Bad-Luck" Kearny. And I'm It. Everything I get into goes up in
the air except a balloon. Every bet I ever made I lost except when I
coppered it. Every boat I ever sailed on sank except the submarines.
Everything I was ever interested in went to pieces except a patent