injected the undiluted liquid into a hole drilled in the lock of a
safe, and had destroyed, with one dull explosion, the machinery that
controlled the movement of the bolts. He now purposed, with the same
means, to shiver the prime machinery of a human being - to rend its
heart - and each shock was for the sake of the money to follow.
The same means, but in a different guise. Whereas, that was the giant in
its rude, primary dynamic strength, this was the courtier, whose no less
deadly arms were concealed by velvet and lace. For the liquid in the
tumbler and in the syringe that the physician carefully filled was now a
solution of glonoin, the most powerful heart stimulant known to medical
science. Two ounces had riven the solid door of the iron safe; with one
fiftieth part of a minim he was now about to still forever the intricate
mechanism of a human life.
But not immediately. It was not so intended. First there would be a
quick increase of vitality; a powerful impetus given to every organ and
faculty. The heart would respond bravely to the fatal spur; the blood in
the veins return more rapidly to its source.
But, as Doctor James well knew, over-stimulation in this form of heart
disease means death, as sure as by a rifle shot. When the clogged
arteries should suffer congestion from the increased flow of blood
pumped into them by the power of the burglar's "oil," they would rapidly
become "no thoroughfare," and the fountain of life would cease to flow.
The physician bared the chest of the unconscious Chandler. Easily and
skilfully he injected, subcutaneously, the contents of the syringe into
the muscles of the region over the heart. True to his neat habits in
both professions, he next carefully dried his needle and re-inserted the
fine wire that threaded it when not in use.
In three minutes Chandler opened his eyes, and spoke, in a voice faint
but audible, inquiring who attended upon him. Doctor James again
explained his presence there.
"Where is my wife?" asked the patient.
"She is asleep - from exhaustion and worry," said the doctor. "I would
not awaken her, unless - "
"It isn't - necessary." Chandler spoke with spaces between his words
caused by his short breath that some demon was driving too fast. "She
wouldn't - thank you to disturb her - on my - account."
Doctor James drew a chair to the bedside. Conversation must not be
squandered.
"A few minutes ago," he began, in the grave, candid tones of his other
profession, "you were trying to tell me something regarding some
money. I do not seek your confidence, but it is my duty to advise
you that anxiety and worry will work against your recovery. If you
have any communication to make about this - to relieve your mind about
this - twenty thousand dollars, I think was the amount you mentioned - you
would better do so."
Chandler could not turn his head, but he rolled his eyes in the
direction of the speaker.
"Did I - say where this - money is?"
"No," answered the physician. "I only inferred, from your scarcely
intelligible words, that you felt a solicitude concerning its safety.
If it is in this room - "
Doctor James paused. Did he only seem to perceive a flicker of
understanding, a gleam of suspicion upon the ironical features of his
patient? Had he seemed too eager? Had he said too much? Chandler's next
words restored his confidence.
"Where - should it be," he gasped, "but in - the safe - there?"
With his eyes he indicated a corner of the room, where now, for the
first time, the doctor perceived a small iron safe, half-concealed by
the trailing end of a window curtain.
Rising, he took the sick man's wrist. His pulse was beating in great
throbs, with ominous intervals between.
"Lift your arm," said Doctor James.
"You know - I can't move, Doctor."
The physician stepped swiftly to the hall door, opened it, and listened.
All was still. Without further circumvention he went to the safe, and
examined it. Of a primitive make and simple design, it afforded little
more security than protection against light-fingered servants. To his
skill it was a mere toy, a thing of straw and paste-board. The money was
as good as in his hands. With his clamps he could draw the knob, punch
the tumblers and open the door in two minutes. Perhaps, in another way,
he might open it in one.
Kneeling upon the floor, he laid his ear to the combination plate, and
slowly turned the knob. As he had surmised, it was locked at only a "day
com." - upon one number. His keen ear caught the faint warning click as
the tumbler was disturbed; he used the clue - the handle turned. He swung
the door wide open.
The interior of the safe was bare - not even a scrap of paper rested
within the hollow iron cube.
Doctor James rose to his feet and walked back to the bed.
A thick dew had formed upon the dying man's brow, but there was a
mocking, grim smile on his lips and in his eyes.
"I never - saw it before," he said, painfully, "medicine and - burglary
wedded! Do you - make the - combination pay - dear Doctor?"
Than that situation afforded, there was never a more rigorous test of
Doctor James's greatness. Trapped by the diabolic humor of his victim
into a position both ridiculous and unsafe, he maintained his dignity as
well as his presence of mind. Taking out his watch, he waited for the
man to die.
"You were - just a shade - too - anxious - about that money. But it never
was - in any danger - from you, dear Doctor. It's safe. Perfectly safe.
It's all - in the hands - of the bookmakers. Twenty - thousand - Amy's
money. I played it at the races - lost every - cent of it. I've been a
pretty bad boy, Burglar - excuse me - Doctor, but I've been a square
sport. I don't think - I ever met - such an - eighteen-carat rascal as you
are, Doctor - excuse me - Burglar, in all my rounds. Is it contrary - to
the ethics - of your - gang, Burglar, to give a victim - excuse
me - patient, a drink of water?"
Doctor James brought him a drink. He could scarcely swallow it. The
reaction from the powerful drug was coming in regular, intensifying
waves. But his moribund fancy must have one more grating fling.
"Gambler - drunkard - spendthrift - I've been those, but - a
doctor-burglar!"
The physician indulged himself to but one reply to the other's caustic
taunts. Bending low to catch Chandler's fast crystallizing gaze,
he pointed to the sleeping lady's door with a gesture so stern and
significant that the prostrate man half-lifted his head, with his
remaining strength, to see. He saw nothing; but he caught the cold words
of the doctor - the last sounds hie was to hear:
"I never yet - struck a woman."
It were vain to attempt to con such men. There is no curriculum that can
reckon with them in its ken. Thev are offshoots from the types whereof
men say, "He will do this," or "He will do that." We only know that they
exist; and that we can observe them, and tell one another of their bare
performances, as children watch and speak of the marionettes.
Yet it were a droll study in egoism to consider these two - one an
assassin and a robber, standing above his victim; the other baser in his
offences, if a lesser law-breaker, lying, abhorred, in the house of the
wife he had persecuted, spoiled, and smitten, one a tiger, the other
a dog-wolf - to consider each of them sickening at the foulness of the
other; and each flourishing out of the mire of his manifest guilt his
own immaculate standard - of conduct, if not of honor.
The one retort of Doctor James must have struck home to the other's
remaining shreds of shame and manhood, for it proved the _coup de
grâce_. A deep blush suffused his face - an ignominious _rosa mortis_;
the respiration ceased, and, with scarcely a tremor, Chandler expired.
Close following upon his last breath came the negress, bringing the
medicine. With a hand gently pressing upon the closed eyelids, Doctor
James told her of the end. Not grief, but a hereditary rapprochement
with death in the abstract, moved her to a dismal, watery snuffling,
accompanied by her usual jeremiad.
"Dar now! It's in de Lawd's hands. He am de jedge ob de transgressor,
and de suppo't of dem in distress. He gwine hab suppo't us now. Cindy
done paid out de last quarter fer dis bottle of physic, and it nebber
come to no use."
"Do I understand," asked Doctor James, "that Mrs. Chandler has no
money?"
"Money, suh? You know what make Miss Amy fall down and so weak?
Stahvation, sub. Nothin' to eat in dis house but some crumbly crackers
in three days. Dat angel sell her finger rings and watch mont's ago.
Dis fine house, suh, wid de red cyarpets and shiny bureaus, it's all
hired; and de man talkin' scan'lous about de rent. Dat debble - 'scuse
me, Lawd - he done in Yo' hands fer jedgment, now - he made way wid
everything."
The physician's silence encouraged her to continue. The history that he
gleaned from Cindy's disordered monologue was an old one, of illusion,
wilfulness, disaster, cruelty and pride. Standing out from the blurred
panorama of her gabble were little clear pictures - an ideal home in
the far South; a quickly repented marriage; an unhappy season, full of
wrongs and abuse, and, of late, an inheritance of money that promised
deliverance; its seizure and waste by the dog-wolf during a two
months' absence, and his return in the midst of a scandalous carouse.
Unobtruded, but visible between every line, ran a pure white thread
through the smudged warp of the story - the simple, all-enduring, sublime
love of the old negress, following her mistress unswervingly through
everything to the end.
When at last she paused, the physician spoke, asking if the house
contained whiskey or liquor of any sort. There was, the old woman
informed him, half a bottle of brandy left in the sideboard by the
dog-wolf.
"Prepare a toddy as I told you," said Doctor James. "Wake your mistress;
have her drink it, and tell her what has happened."
Some ten minutes afterward, Mrs. Chandler entered, supported by old
Cindy's arm. She appeared to be a little stronger since her sleep and
the stimulant she had taken. Doctor James had covered, with a sheet, the
form upon the bed.
The lady turned her mournful eyes once, with a half-frightened look,
toward it, and pressed closer to her loyal protector. Her eyes were dry
and bright. Sorrow seemed to have done its utmost with her. The fount of
tears was dried; feeling itself paralyzed.
Doctor James was standing near the table, his overcoat donned, his hat
and medicine case in his hand. His face was calm and impassive - practice
had inured him to the sight of human suffering. His lambent brown eyes
alone expressed a discreet professional sympathy.
He spoke kindly and briefly, stating that, as the hour was late, and
assistance, no doubt, difficult to procure, he would himself send the
proper persons to attend to the necessary finalities.
"One matter, in conclusion," said the doctor, pointing to the safe with
its still wide-open door. "Your husband, Mrs. Chandler, toward the end,
felt that he could not live; and directed me to open that safe, giving
me the number upon which the combination is set. In case you may need
to use it, you will remember that the number is forty-one. Turn several
times to the right; then to the left once; stop at forty-one. He would
not permit me to waken you, though he knew the end was near.
"In that safe he said he had placed a sum of money - not large - but
enough to enable you to carry out his last request. That was that you
should return to your old home, and, in after days, when time shall have
made it easier, forgive his many sins against you."
He pointed to the table, where lay an orderly pile of banknotes,
surmounted by two stacks of gold coins.
"The money is there - as he described it - eight hundred and thirty
dollars. I beg to leave my card with you, in case I can be of any
service later on."
So, he had thought of her - and kindly - at the last! So late! And yet the
lie fanned into life one last spark of tenderness where she had thought
all was turned to ashes and dust. She cried aloud "Rob! Rob!" She
turned, and, upon the ready bosom of her true servitor, diluted her
grief in relieving tears. It is well to think, also, that in the years
to follow, the murderer's falsehood shone like a little star above the
grave of love, comforting her, and gaining the forgiveness that is good
in itself, whether asked for or no.
Hushed and soothed upon the dark bosom, like a child, by a crooning,
babbling sympathy, at last she raised her head - but the doctor was gone.
[Illustration: "Will you go in?" (cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)]
THE MARQUIS AND MISS SALLY
[Originally published in _Everybody's Magazine_, June, 1903.]
Without knowing it, Old Bill Bascom had the honor of being overtaken by
fate the same day with the Marquis of Borodale.
The Marquis lived in Regent Square, London. Old Bill lived on Limping
Doe Creek, Hardeman County, Texas. The cataclysm that engulfed the
Marquis took the form of a bursting bubble known as the Central and
South American Mahogany and Caoutchouc Monopoly. Old Bill's Nemesis was
in the no less perilous shape of a band of civilized Indian cattle
thieves from the Territory who ran off his entire herd of four hundred
head, and shot old Bill dead as he trailed after them. To even up the
consequences of the two catastrophes, the Marquis, as soon as he found
that all he possessed would pay only fifteen shillings on the pound of
his indebtedness, shot himself.
Old Bill left a family of six motherless sons and daughters, who found
themselves without even a red steer left to eat, or a red cent to buy
one with.
The Marquis left one son, a young man, who had come to the States and
established a large and well-stocked ranch in the Panhandle of Texas.
When this young man learned the news he mounted his pony and rode to
town. There he placed everything he owned except his horse, saddle,
Winchester, and fifteen dollars in his pockets, in the hands of his
lawyers, with instructions to sell and forward the proceeds to London to
be applied upon the payment of his father's debts. Then he mounted his
pony and rode southward.
One day, arriving about the same time, but by different trails, two
young chaps rode up to the Diamond-Cross ranch, on the Little Piedra,
and asked for work. Both were dressed neatly and sprucely in cowboy
costume. One was a straight-set fellow, with delicate, handsome
features, short, brown hair, and smooth face, sunburned to a golden
brown. The other applicant was stouter and broad-shouldered, with fresh,
red complexion, somewhat freckled, reddish, curling hair, and a rather
plain face, made attractive by laughing eyes and a pleasant mouth.
The superintendent of the Diamond-Cross was of the opinion that he could
give them work. In fact, word had reached him that morning that the camp
cook - a most important member of the outfit - had straddled his broncho
and departed, being unable to withstand the fire of fun and practical
jokes of which he was, ex officio, the legitimate target.
"Can either of you cook?" asked the superintendent.
"I can," said the reddish-haired fellow, promptly. "I've cooked in camp
quite a lot. I'm willing to take the job until you've got something else
to offer."
"Now, that's the way I like to hear a man talk," said the
superintendent, approvingly. "I'll give you a note to Saunders, and
he'll put you to work."
Thus the names of John Bascom and Charles Norwood were added to the
pay-roll of the Diamond-Cross. The two left for the round-up camp
immediately after dinner. Their directions were simple, but sufficient:
"Keep down the arroyo for fifteen miles till you get there." Both being
strangers from afar, young, spirited, and thus thrown together by chance
for a long ride, it is likely that the comradeship that afterward
existed so strongly between them began that afternoon as they meandered
along the little valley of the Canada Verda.
They reached their destination just after sunset. The main camp of the
round-up was comfortably located on the bank of a long water-hole, under
a fine mott of timber. A number of small A tents pitched upon grassy
spots and the big wall tent for provisions showed that the camp was
intended to be occupied for a considerable length of time.
The round-up had ridden in but a few moments before, hungry and tired,
to a supperless camp. The boys were engaged in an emulous display of
anathemas supposed to fit the case of the absconding cook. While they
were unsaddling and hobbling their ponies, the newcomer rode in and
inquired for Pink Saunders. The boss ol the round-up came forth and was
given the superintendent's note.
Pink Saunders, though a boss during working hours, was a humorist in
camp, where everybody, from cook to superintendent, is equal. After
reading the note he waved his hand toward the camp and shouted,
ceremoniously, at the top of his voice, "Gentlemen, allow me to present
to you the Marquis and Miss Sally."
At the words both the new arrivals betray confusion. The newly employed
cook started, with a surprised look on his face, but, immediately
recollecting that "Miss Sally" is the generic name for the male cook in
every west Texas cow camp, he recovered his composure with a grin at his
own expense.
His companion showed little less discomposure, even turning angrily,
with a bitten lip, and reaching for his saddle pommel, as if to remount
his pony; but "Miss Sally" touched his arm and said, laughingly, "Come
now. Marquis; that was quite a compliment from Saunders. It's that
distinguished air of yours and aristocratic nose that made him call you
that."
He began to unsaddle, and the Marquis, restored to equanimity, followed
his example. Rolling up his sleeves, Miss Sally sprang for the grub
wagon, shouting: "I'm the new cook b'thunder! Some of you chaps rustle a
little wood for a fire, and I'll guarantee you a hot square meal inside
of thirty minutes." Miss Sally's energy and good-humor, as he ransacked
the grub wagon for coffee, flour, and bacon, won the good opinion of the
camp instantly.
And also, in days following, the Marquis, after becoming better
acquainted, proved to be a cheerful, pleasant fellow, always a little
reserved, and taking no part in the rough camp frolics; but the boys
gradually came to respect this reserve - which fitted the title Saunders
had given him - and even to like him for it. Saunders had assigned him to
a place holding the herd during the cuttings. He proved to be a skilful
rider and as good with the lariat or in the branding pen as most of
them.
The Marquis and Miss Sally grew to be quite close comrades. After supper
was over, and everything cleaned up, you would generally find them
together, Miss Sally smoking his brier-root pipe, and the Marquis
plaiting a quirt or scraping rawhide for a new pair of hobbles.
The superintendent did not forget his promise to keep an eye on the
cook. Several times, when visiting the camp, he held long talks with
him. He seemed to have taken a fancy to Miss Sally. One afternoon he
rode up, on his way back to the ranch from a tour of the camps, and said
to him:
"There'll be a man here in the morning to take your place. As soon as he
shows up you come to the ranch. I want you to take charge of the ranch
accounts and correspondence. I want somebody that I can depend upon to
keep things straight when I'm away. The wages'll be all right. The
Diamond-Cross'll hold its end up with a man who'll look after its
interests."
"All right," said Miss Sally, as quietly as if he had expected the
notice all along. "Any objections to my bringing my wife down to the
ranch?"
"You married?" said the superintendent, frowning a little. "You didn't
mention it when we were talking."
"Because I'm not," said the cook. "But I'd like to be. Thought I'd wait
till I got a job under roof. I couldn't ask her to live in a cow camp."
"Right," agreed the superintendent. "A camp isn't quite the place for a
married man - but - well, there's plenty of room at the house, and if you
suit us as well as I think you will you can afford it. You write to her
to come on."
"All right," said Miss Sally again, "I'll ride in as soon as I am
relieved to-morrow."
It was a rather chilly night, and after supper the cow-punchers were
lounging about a big fire of dried mesquite chunks.
Their usual exchange of jokes and repartee had dwindled almost to
silence, but silence in a cow camp generally betokens the brewing of
mischief.
Miss Sally and the Marquis were seated upon a log, discussing the
relative merits of the lengthened or shortened stirrup in long-distance
riding. The Marquis arose presently and went to a tree near by to
examine some strips of rawhide he was seasoning for making a lariat.
Just as he left a little puff of wind blew some scraps of tobacco from a
cigarette that Dry-Creek Smithers was rolling, into Miss Sally's eyes.
While the cook was rubbing at them, with tears flowing, "Phonograph"
Davis - so called on account of his strident voice - arose and began a
speech.
"Fellers and citizens! I desire to perpound a interrogatory. What is the
most grievous spectacle what the human mind can contemplate?"
A volley of answers responded to his question.
"A busted flush!"
"A Maverick when you ain't got your branding iron!"
"Yourself!"
"The hole in the end of some other feller's gun!"
"Shet up, you ignoramuses," said old Taller, the fat cow-puncher. "Phony
knows what it is. He's waitin' for to tell us."
"No, fellers and citizens," continued Phonograph. "Them spectacles
you've e-numerated air shore grievious, and way up yonder close to the
so-lution, but they ain't it. The most grievious spectacle air that" - he
pointed to Miss Sally, who was still rubbing his streaming eyes - "a
trustin' and a in-veegled female a-weepin' tears on account of her heart
bein' busted by a false deceiver. Air we men or air we catamounts to
gaze upon the blightin' of our Miss Sally's affections by a
a-risto-crat, which has come among us with his superior beauty and his
glitterin' title to give the weeps to the lovely critter we air bound to
pertect? Air we goin' to act like men, or air we goin' to keep on eaten'
soggy chuck from her cryin' so plentiful over the bread-pan?"
"It's a gallopin' shame," said Dry-Creek, with a sniffle. "It ain't
human. I've noticed the varmint a-palaverin' round her frequent. And him
a Marquis! Ain't that a title, Phony?"
"It's somethin' like a king," the Brushy Creek Kid hastened to explain,
"only lower in the deck. Guess it comes in between the Jack and the
ten-spot."
"Don't miscontruct me," went on Phonograph, "as undervaluatin' the
a-ristocrats. Some of 'em air proper people and can travel right along
with the Watson boys. I've herded some with 'em myself. I've viewed the
elephant with the Mayor of Fort Worth, and I've listened to the owl with
the gen'ral passenger agent of the Katy, and they can keep up with the
percession from where you laid the chunk. But when a Marquis monkeys
with the innocent affections of a cook-lady, may I inquire what the case
seems to call for?"
"The leathers," shouted Dry-Creek Smithers.
"You hearn 'er, Charity!" was the Kid's form of corroboration.
"We've got your company," assented the cow-punchers, in chorus.
Before the Marquis realized their intention, two of them seized him by
each arm and led him up to the log. Phonograph Davis, self-appointed to
carry out the sentence, stood ready, with a pair of stout leather
leggings in his hands.
It was the first time they had ever laid hands on the Marquis during
their somewhat rude sports.
"What are you up to?" he asked, indignantly, with flashing eyes.
"Go easy, Marquis," whispered Rube Fellows, one of the boys that held
him. "It's all in fun. Take it good-natured and they'll let you off
light. They're only goin' to stretch you over the log and tan you eight
or ten times with the leggin's. 'Twon't hurt much."
The Marquis, with an exclamation of anger, his white teeth gleaming,
suddenly exhibited a surprising strength. He wrenched with his arms so
violently that the four men were swayed and dragged many yards from the
log. A cry of anger escaped him, and then Miss Sally, his eyes cleared
of the tobacco, saw, and he immediately mixed with the struggling group.
But at that moment a loud "Hallo!" rang in their ears, and a buckboard
drawn by a team of galloping mustangs spun into the campfire's circle of
light. Every man turned to look, and what they saw drove from their
minds all thoughts of carrying out Phonograph Davis's rather time-worn
contribution to the evening's amusement. Bigger game than the Marquis
was at hand, and his captors released him and stood staring at the
approaching victim.
The buckboard and team belonged to Sam Holly, a cattleman from the Big
Muddy. Sam was driving, and with him was a stout, smooth-faced man,
wearing a frock coat and a high silk hat. That was the county judge, Mr.
Dave Hackett, candidate for reëlection. Sam was escorting him about the
county, among the camps, to shake up the sovereign voters.
The men got out, hitched the team to a mesquite, and walked toward the
fire.
Instantly every man in camp, except the Marquis, Miss Sally, and Pink
Saunders, who had to play host, uttered a frightful yell of assumed
terror and fled on all sides into the darkness.
"Heavens alive!" exclaimed Hackett, "are we as ugly as that? How do you
do, Mr. Saunders? Glad to see you again. What are you doing to my hat,
Holly?"
"I was afraid of this hat," said Sam Holly, meditatively. He had taken
the hat from Hackett's head and was holding it in his hand, looking
dubiously around at the shadows beyond the firelight where now absolute
stillness reigned. "What do you think, Saunders?"
Pink grinned.
"Better elevate it some," he said, in the tone of one giving
disinterested advice. "The light ain't none too good. I wouldn't want it
on my head."
Holly stepped upon the hub of a hind wheel of the grub wagon and hung
the hat upon a limb of a live-oak. Scarcely had his foot touched the
ground when the crash of a dozen six-shooters split the air, and the hat
fell to the ground riddled with bullets.
A hissing noise was heard as if from a score of rattlesnakes, and now
the cow-punchers emerged on all sides from the darkness, stepping high,
with ludicrously exaggerated caution, and "hist"-ing to one another to
observe the utmost prudence in approaching. They formed a solemn, wide
circle about the hat, gazing at it in manifest alarm, and seized every
few moments by little stampedes of panicky flight.
"It's the varmint," said one in awed tones, "that flits up and down in
the low grounds at night, saying, 'Willie-wallo!'"
"It's the venomous Kypootum," proclaimed another. "It stings after it's
dead, and hollers after it's buried."
"It's the chief of the hairy tribe," said Phonograph Davis. "But it's
stone dead, now, boys."
"Don't you believe it," demurred Dry-Creek. "It's only 'possumin'.' It's
the dreaded Highgollacum fantod from the forest. There's only one way to
destroy its life."
He led forward Old Taller, the 240-pound cow-puncher. Old Taller placed
the hat upright on the ground and solemnly sat upon it, crushing it as
flat as a pancake.
Hackett had viewed these proceedings with wide-open eyes. Sam Holly saw
that his anger was rising and said to him:
"Here's where you win or lose, Judge. There are sixty votes on the
Diamond Cross. The boys are trying your mettle. Take it as a joke, and I
don't think you'll regret it." And Hackett saw the point and rose to the
occasion.
Advancing to where the slayers of the wild beast were standing above its
remains and declaring it to be at last defunct, he said, with deep
earnestness:
"Boys, I must thank you for this gallant rescue. While driving through
the arroyo that cruel monster that you have so fearlessly and repeatedly
slaughtered sprang upon us from the tree tops. To you I shall consider
that I owe my life, and also, I hope, reëlection to the office for which
I am again a candidate. Allow me to hand you my card."
The cow-punchers, always so sober-faced while engaged in their
monkey-shines, relaxed into a grin of approval.
But Phonograph Davis, his appetite for fun not yet appeased, had
something more up his sleeve.
"Pardner," he said, addressing Hackett with grave severity, "many a camp
would be down on you for turnin' loose a pernicious varmint like that in
it; but, bein' as we all escaped without loss of life, we'll overlook
it. You can play square with us if you'll do it."
"How's that?" asked Hackett suspiciously.
"You're authorized to perform the sacred rights and lefts of mattermony,
air you not?"
"Well, yes," replied Hackett. "A marriage ceremony conducted by me would
be legal."
"A wrong air to be righted in this here camp," said Phonography,
virtuously. "A a-ristocrat have slighted a 'umble but beautchoos female
wat's pinin' for his affections. It's the jooty of the camp to drag
forth the haughty descendant of a hundred - or maybe a hundred and
twenty-five - earls, even so at the p'int of a lariat, and jine him to
the weepin' lady. Fellows! roundup Miss Sally and the Marquis; there's
goin' to be a weddin'."
This whim of Phonograph's was received with whoops of appreciation. The
cow-punchers started to apprehend the principals of the proposed
ceremony.
"Kindly prompt me," said Hackett, wiping his forehead, though the night
was cool, "how far this thing is to be carried. And might I expect any
further portions of my raiment to be mistaken for wild animals and
killed?"
"The boys are livelier than usual to-night," said Saunders. "The ones
they are talking about marrying are two of the boys - a herd rider and
the cook. It's another joke. You and Sam will have to sleep here
to-night anyway; p'rhaps you'd better see 'em through with it. Maybe
they'll quiet down after that."
The matchmakers found Miss Sally seated on the tongue of the grub wagon,
calmly smoking his pipe. The Marquis was leaning idly against one of the
trees under which the supply tent was pitched.
Into this tent they were both hustled, and Phonograph, as master of
ceremonies, gave orders for the preparations.
"You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller - hump yourselves to the
wildwood and rustle flowers for the blow-out - mesquite'll do - and get
that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the
bride to pack. You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your'n
for Miss Sally's skyirt. Marquis, you'll do 'thout fixin'; nobody don't
ever look at the groom."
During their absurd preparation, the two principals were left alone for
a few moments in the tent. The Marquis suddenly showed wild
perturbation.
"This foolishness must not go on," he said, turning to Miss Sally a face
white in the light of the lantern, hanging to the ridge-pole.
"Why not?" said the cook, with an amused smile. "It's fun for the boys;
and they've always let you off pretty light in their frolics. I don't
mind it."
"But you don't understand," persisted the Marquis, pleadingly. "That man
is county judge, and his acts are binding. I can't - oh, you don't
know - "
The cook stepped forward and took the Marquis's hands.
"Sally Bascom," he said, "I KNOW!"
"You know!" faltered the Marquis, trembling. "And you - want to - "
"More than I ever wanted anything. Will you - here come the boys!"
The cow-punchers crowded in, laden with armfuls of decorations.
"Perfifious coyote!" said Phonograph, sternly, addressing the Marquis.
"Air you willing to patch up the damage you've did this ere slab-sided
but trustin' bunch o' calico by single-footin' easy to the altar, or
will we have to rope ye, and drag you thar?"
The Marquis pushed back his hat, and leaned jauntily against some
high-piled sacks of beans. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were
shining.
"Go on with the rat killin'," said he.
A little while after a procession approached the tree under which
Hackett, Holly, and Saunders were sitting smoking.
Limpy Walker was in the lead, extracting a doleful tune from his
concertina. Next came the bride and groom. The cook wore the gorgeous
Navajo blanket tied around his waist and carried in one band the
waxen-white Spanish dagger blossom as large as a peck-measure and
weighing fifteen pounds. His hat was ornamented with mesquite branches
and yellow ratama blooms. A resurrected mosquito bar served as a veil.
After them stumbled Phonograph Davis, in the character of the bride's
father, weeping into a saddle blanket with sobs that could be heard a
mile away. The cow-punchers followed by twos, loudly commenting upon the
bride's appearance, in a supposed imitation of the audiences at
fashionable weddings.
Hackett rose as the procession halted before him, and after a little
lecture upon matrimony, asked:
"What are your names?"
"Sally and Charles," answered the cook.
"Join hands, Charles and Sally."
Perhaps there never was a stranger wedding. For, wedding it was, though
only two of those present knew it. When the ceremony was over, the
cow-punchers gave one yell of congratulation and immediately abandoned
their foolery for the night. Blankets were unrolled and sleep became the
paramount question.
The cook (divested of his decorations) and the Marquis lingered for a
moment in the shadow of the grub wagon. The Marquis leaned her head
against his shoulder.
"I didn't know what else to do," she was saying. "Father was gone, and
we kids had to rustle. I had helped him so much with the cattle that I
thought I'd turn cowboy. There wasn't anything else I could make a
living at. I wasn't much stuck on it though, after I got here, and I'd
have left only - "
"Only what?"
"You know. Tell me something. When did you first - what made you - "
"Oh, it was as soon as we struck the camp, when Saunders bawled out 'The
Marquis and Miss Sally!' I saw how rattled you got at the name, and I
had my sus - "
"Cheeky!" whispered the Marquis. "And why should you think that I
thought he was calling me 'Miss Sally'?"
"Because," answered the cook, calmly, "I was the Marquis. My father was
the Marquis of Borodale. But you'll excuse that, won't you, Sally? It
really isn't my fault, you know."
[Illustration: "Here we have Kate and John." (cartoon from _The Rolling
Stone_)]
A FOG IN SANTONE
[Published in _The Cosmopolitan_, October, 1912. Probably
written in 1904, or shortly after O. Henry's first successes
in New York.]
The drug clerk looks sharply at the white face half concealed by the
high-turned overcoat collar.
"I would rather not supply you," he said doubtfully. "I sold you a dozen
morphine tablets less than an hour ago."
The customer smiles wanly. "The fault is in your crooked streets. I
didn't intend to call upon you twice, but I guess I got tangled up.
Excuse me."
He draws his collar higher, and moves out, slowly. He stops under an
electric light at the corner, and juggles absorbedly with three or four
little pasteboard boxes. "Thirty-six," he announces to himself. "More
than plenty." For a gray mist had swept upon Santone that night, an
opaque terror that laid a hand to the throat of each of the city's
guests. It was computed that three thousand invalids were hibernating
in the town. They had come from far and wide, for here, among these
contracted river-sliced streets, the goddess Ozone has elected to
linger.
Purest atmosphere, sir, on earth! You might think from the river
winding through our town that we are malarial, but, no, sir! Repeated
experiments made both by the Government and local experts show that our
air contains nothing deleterious - nothing but ozone, sir, pure ozone.
Litmus paper tests made all along the river show - but you can read it
all in the prospectuses; or the Santonian will recite it for you, word
by word.
We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us. Santone, then,
cannot be blamed for this cold gray fog that came and kissed the lips of
the three thousand, and then delivered them to the cross. That night the
tubercles, whose ravages hope holds in check, multiplied. The writhing
fingers of the pale mist did not go thence bloodless. Many of the wooers
of ozone capitulated with the enemy that night, turning their faces to
the wall in that dumb, isolated apathy that so terrifies their watchers.
On the red stream of Hemorrhagia a few souls drifted away, leaving
behind pathetic heaps, white and chill as the fog itself. Two or three
came to view this atmospheric wraith as the ghost of impossible joys,
sent to whisper to them of the egregious folly it is to inhale breath
into the lungs, only to exhale it again, and these used whatever came
handy to their relief, pistols, gas or the beneficent muriate.
The purchaser of the morphia wanders into the fog, and at length, finds
himself upon a little iron bridge, one of the score or more in the heart
of the city, under which the small tortuous river flows. He leans on
the rail and gasps, for here the mist has concentrated, lying like a
foot-pad to garrote such of the Three Thousand as creep that way. The
iron bridge guys rattle to the strain of his cough, a mocking phthisical
rattle, seeming to say to him: "Clickety-clack! just a little rusty
cold, sir - but not from our river. Litmus paper all along the banks and
nothing but ozone. Clacket-y-clack!"
The Memphis man at last recovers sufficiently to be aware of another
overcoated man ten feet away, leaning on the rail, and just coming out
of a paroxysm. There is a freemasonry among the Three Thousand that
does away with formalities and introductions. A cough is your card; a
hemorrhage a letter of credit. The Memphis man, being nearer recovered,
speaks first.
"Goodall. Memphis - pulmonary tuberculosis - guess last stages." The Three
Thousand economize on words. Words are breath and they need breath to
write checks for the doctors.
"Hurd," gasps the other. "Hurd; of T'leder. T'leder, Ah-hia. Catarrhal
bronkeetis. Name's Dennis, too - doctor says. Says I'll live four weeks
if I - take care of myself. Got your walking papers yet?"
"My doctor," says Goodall of Memphis, a little boastingly, "gives me
three months."
"Oh," remarks the man from Toledo, filling up great gaps in his
conversation with wheezes, "damn the difference. What's months! Expect
to - cut mine down to one week - and die in a hack - a four wheeler, not a
cough. Be considerable moanin' of the bars when I put out to sea. I've
patronized 'em pretty freely since I struck my - present gait. Say,
Goodall of Memphis - if your doctor has set your pegs so close - why don't
you - get on a big spree and go - to the devil quick and easy - like I'm
doing?"
"A spree," says Goodall, as one who entertains a new idea, "I never did
such a thing. I was thinking of another way, but - "
"Come on," invites the Ohioan, "and have some drinks. I've been at
it - for two days, but the inf - ernal stuff won't bite like it used to.
Goodall of Memphis, what's your respiration?"
"Twenty-four."
"Daily - temperature?"
"Hundred and four."
"You can do it in two days. It'll take me a - week. Tank up, friend
Goodall - have all the fun you can; then - off you go, in the middle of
a jag, and s-s-save trouble and expense. I'm a s-son of a gun if this