Elder Conklin, Frank Harris [life books to read .TXT] 📗

“What’ll you take, sir?” Williams asked me.

“The barkeeper knows my figger,” I answered, half-jestingly, not yet understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out better than I had expected.

“And you, Zeke?” he went on.

“The old pizen,” Zeke replied.

“And now, Joe, whisky for you and me—the square bottle,” he continued, with brisk cheerfulness.

In silence the barkeeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the glasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at the same time:

“Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don’t come then, you kin clear; but I guess I’ll be with you.”

“Good-bye, Joe.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” replied the barkeeper, taking the proffered hand, still half-unwillingly, “if you’re stuck on it; but the game is to wait for ‘em here—anyway that’s how I’d play it.”

A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:

“Now, sir, I’m ready if you are.” We were walking towards the door, when Zeke broke in:

“Say, Tom, ain’t I to come along?”

“No, Zeke, I’ll play this hand alone,” replied Williams, and two minutes later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.

We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:

“I don’t want to make no mistake about this business—it ain’t worth while. I’m sure you’re right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There might be two of the name, the age, the looks—though it ain’t likely.” Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

“Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?”

“I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I’ve heard that he left after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner’s name was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught Williams’ bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he had to leave Missouri I don’t know, if Williams drew first.”

“I’m satisfied now,” said my companion, “but I guess you hain’t got that story correct; maybe you don’t know the cause of it nor how it began; maybe Williams didn’t draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way through; maybe—but thar!—the first hand don’t decide everythin’. Your Sheriff’s the man—that’s enough for me.”

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the matter to myself, Williams spoke: “I guess he’s got out all the vigilantes;” and then bitterly: “The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn’t believe this ef I told it on him, the doggoned mean cuss.”

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff’s house, there were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and there, indeed, one of them went on whittling. I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done.

I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of something unusual behind me. I looked round—it was the stillness that foreruns the storm.

Williams was standing on the sidewalk facing the low wooden fence, a revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.

Williams spoke first:

“Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I’ve come.”

The Sheriff answered firmly, “I did!”

Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, three or four or five reports—I don’t know how many. At the first shots the Sheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along the sidewalk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pass, closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment he stopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an empty sack.

I hurried to him; he had fallen almost as a tailor sits, but his head was between his knees. I lifted it gently; blood was oozing from a hole in the forehead. The men were about me; I heard them say:

“A derned good shot! Took him in the back of the head. Jarvis kin shoot!”

I rose to my feet. Jarvis was standing inside the fence supported by some one; blood was welling from his bared left shoulder.

“I ain’t much hurt,” he said, “but I guess the Sheriff’s got it bad.”

The men moved on, drawing me with them, through the gate to where the Sheriff lay. Martin turned him over on his back. They opened his shirt, and there on the broad chest were two little blue marks, each in the centre of a small mound of pink flesh.

4TH APRIL, 1891.

*

A MODERN IDYLL.

“I call it real good of you, Mr. Letgood, to come and see me. Won’t you be seated?”

“Thank you. It’s very warm to-day; and as I didn’t feel like reading or writing, I thought I’d come round.”

“You’re just too kind for anythin’! To come an’ pay me a visit when you must be tired out with yesterday’s preachin’. An’ what a sermon you gave us in the mornin’—it was too sweet. I had to wink my eyes pretty hard, an’ pull the tears down the back way, or I should have cried right out— and Mrs. Jones watchin’ me all the time under that dreadful bonnet.”

Mrs. Hooper had begun with a shade of nervousness in the hurried words; but the emotion disappeared as she took up a comfortable pose in the corner of the small sofa.

The Rev. John Letgood, having seated himself in an armchair, looked at her intently before replying. She was well worth looking at, this Mrs. Hooper, as she leaned back on the cushions in her cool white dress, which was so thin and soft and well-fitting that her form could be seen through it almost as clearly as through water. She appeared to be about eighteen years old, and in reality was not yet twenty. At first sight one would have said of her, “a pretty girl;” but an observant eye on the second glance would have noticed those contradictions in face and in form which bear witness to a certain complexity of nature. Her features were small, regular, and firmly cut; the long, brown eyes looked out confidently under straight, well-defined brows; but the forehead was low, and the sinuous lips a vivid red. So, too, the slender figure and narrow hips formed a contrast with the throat, which pouted in soft, white fulness.

“I am glad you liked the sermon,” said the minister, breaking the silence, “for it is not probable that you will hear many more from me.” There was just a shade of sadness in the lower tone with which he ended the phrase. He let the sad note drift in unconsciously—by dint of practice he had become an artist in the management of his voice.

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, sitting up straight in her excitement. “You ain’t goin’ to leave us, I hope?”

“Why do you pretend, Belle, to misunderstand me? You know I said three months ago that if you didn’t care for me I should have to leave this place. And yesterday I told you that you must make up your mind at once, as I was daily expecting a call to Chicago. Now I have come for your answer, and you treat me as if I were a stranger, and you knew nothing of what I feel for you.”

“Oh!” she sighed, languorously nestling back into the corner. “Is that all? I thought for a moment the ‘call’ had come.”

“No, it has not yet; but I am resolved to get an answer from you to-day, or I shall go away, call or no call.”

“What would Nettie Williams say if she heard you?” laughed Mrs. Hooper, with mischievous delight in her eyes.

“Now, Belle,” he said in tender remonstrance, leaning forward and taking the small cool hand in his, “what is my answer to be? Do you love me? Or am I to leave Kansas City, and try somewhere else to get again into the spirit of my work? God forgive me, but I want you to tell me to stay. Will you?”

“Of course I will,” she returned, while slowly withdrawing her hand. “There ain’t any one wants you to go, and why should you?”

“Why? Because my passion for you prevents me from doing my work. You tease and torture me with doubt, and when I should be thinking of my duties I am wondering whether or not you care for me. Do you love me? I must have a plain answer.”

“Love you?” she repeated pensively. “I hardly know, but—”

“But what?” he asked impatiently.

“But—I must just see after the pies; this ‘help’ of ours is Irish, an’ doesn’t know enough to turn them in the oven. And Mr. Hooper don’t like burnt pies.”

She spoke with coquettish gravity, and got up to go out of the room. But when Mr. Letgood also rose, she stopped and smiled—waiting perhaps for him to take his leave. As he did not speak she shook out her frock and then pulled down her bodice at the waist and drew herself up, thus throwing into relief the willowy outlines of her girlish form. The provocative grace, unconscious or intentional, of the attitude was not lost on her admirer. For an instant he stood irresolute, but when she stepped forward to pass him, he seemed to lose his self-control, and, putting his arms round her, tried to kiss her. With serpent speed and litheness she bowed her head against his chest, and slipped out of the embrace. On reaching the door she paused to say, over her shoulder: “If you’ll wait, I’ll be back right soon;” then, as if a new thought had occurred to her, she added turning to him: “The Deacon told me he was coming home early to-day, and he’d be real sorry to miss you.”

As she disappeared, he took up his hat, and left the house.

It was about four o’clock on a day in mid-June. The sun was pouring down rays of liquid flame; the road, covered inches deep in fine white dust, and the wooden sidewalks glowed with the heat, but up and down the steep hills went the minister unconscious of physical discomfort.

“Does she care for me, or not? Why can’t she tell me plainly? The teasing creature! Did she give me the hint to go because she was afraid her husband would come in? Or did she want to get rid of me in order not to answer?… She wasn’t angry with me for putting my