*CHAPTER XXI*
_*Re-enter--The Sheriff of Baker City*_
"Pardon the question," said Apache Kid, looking on me across the hoard,he sitting cross-legged upon one side, I sprawled upon the other, "butdo you feel no slightest desire stealing in upon you to possess this allfor yourself?"
I stared at him in astonishment, so serious he was.
"It does not even enter your head to regret my return from the dead?"
"Apache!" I exclaimed.
He chuckled to himself.
"I fear," said he, "that you are of too refined a nature for this hardworld. I predict that before you come to the age of thirty you will beaweary of its cruelty--always understanding when I say world that I meanthe men in the world. I have to thank you for not suggesting that thatwas the way in which I used the word. It wearies me to have the obviousalways iterated in my ears. So you feel no hankerings to see me dead?"
I made no reply, and he chuckled again and then looked upon our trove.
We made certain we had found it all--the first bag of small nuggets ofwhich I told you, the bag of turquoises, two more bags of largernuggets, and three separate rolls of dollar and five-dollar bills. Thebills amounted to a hundred and fifty dollars--a mere drop in thebucket, as Apache said. It was the two bags of larger nuggets and thebag of turquoises that were the real "trove," but Apache Kid would nothazard a guess of their value. All that he would say then, as heweighed them in his palm, was: "You are safe, Francis--you need no morerun with the pack." I did not at the moment understand his use of theword "pack," but his next words explained it.
"The only way," said he slowly, rolling a cigarette with the last thindust of tobacco that remained in his pouch, so that he had to shake itover his hand carefully, "the only way that I can see to prevent thatworld-weariness coming over you is for you to acquire a sufficiency tolive upon, a sufficiency that shall make it unnecessary for you toaccept the laws of the pack and rend and tear and practise cunning. Ithink, considering such a temperament as yours, I should call off withour old bargain and strike a new one with you--half shares."
I heaved a deep sigh. I saw myself returning home--and that rightspeedily--I saw already the blue sea break in white foam on the ultimaterocks of Ireland, the landing at Liverpool, the train journey north, theclean streets of my own town through which I hastened--home.
"Ah, these castles," said Apache Kid, after a pause which I suppose wasvery brief, for such thoughts move quickly in the mind. "They can allbe built now."
Then he leant forward; and he was truly serious as he looked on me.
"But one thing you will do in return," he said, and it was as the signof an agony that I saw on his face. "You will do that little bit ofbusiness for me that I asked you once before?"
He paused, hearkening; and I too was on the alert. The squelching of ahorse's hoofs was audible without.
"Our pack-pony," said I; "it has come down for shelter, I expect."
He rose and walked to the door.
"Chuck that stuff under your bed!" said he, suddenly.
I made haste, with agitated hands, to carry out the order, and as I bentto my task I heard a voice that seemed familiar say:
"Apache Kid, I arrest you in the name of----"
The remainder I lost, for Apache Kid's cheery voice broke in:
"Well, well, Sheriff--this is an unexpected pleasure! Come in, sir;come in; though I fear we can offer but slender----"
"All right," I heard the sheriff say. "Glad to see you take it sowell." And with a heavy tramp entered the sheriff of Baker City, bootedand spurred and the rain running in a cascade from his hat, the brim ofwhich was turned down all around.
"Donoghue," he said, "Larry Donoghue, I arrest you in-- Say! Where'sDonoghue, and what are you doin' here, you, sir?"
This latter was of course to me.
"Donoghue you can never get now," said Apache Kid. "He will be savedthe trouble of putting up a defence. But won't you bring in your men?"
"Is that your hoss along there on the hill under that big tree?" saidthe sheriff.
"That," said Apache Kid, "was Canlan's horse, I believe."
The sheriff hummed to himself.
"So," he said quietly, "just so. There ain't any chance o' Canlandropping in here, is there?"
"None whatever," said Apache Kid, calmly.
"So," said the sheriff. "Well, I guess them pinto broncs of ours can dovery well under that tree. That bronc of Canlan's seemed some lonesome.Seemed kind o' chirped up to see others o' his species. They 'll dovery well there till we get dried a bit."
He looked again at me and shook his head mournfully.
"You look kind of sick," he said, "but it's all right. Don't worry. You'll only be in as a witness."
"Witness for what?" I asked.
"Murder of Mr. Pinkerton, proprietor of the Half-Way House to CampKettle."
Apache interrupted:
"Do you happen to have such a thing as quinine about you, Sheriff?"
"Sure," said the sheriff: "always carry it in the hills."
"Give my friend a capsule," he said, "and defer all this talk."
"Murder of Mr. Pinkerton!" I cried; but just then the sheriff stoopedand lifted a slip of paper from the floor.
"Literature!" he said. "Keepsake _pome_ or what?"
Then I noticed his firm, kindly eyebrows lift. He turned to Apache Kid.
"This," he said, "seems to have fallen out your press-cuttin' book. Isee in a paper the other day where they supply press-cuttin's to pianowallopers and barn-stormers and what not. You should try one o' them.I disremember the fee; but it was n't nothing very deadly."
Then I knew what the cutting was that had come into his possession. Itwas the cutting Larry Donoghue had shown me in his childish, ignorantpride, the account of the "hold-up" by "the two-some gang." I must havethrust it absently into my pocket, hardly knowing what I was doing, whenCanlan's shot interrupted the unusual conversation of that terriblecamp.
The sheriff hummed over it.
"Kind o' lurid, this," he said; and at that comment Apache Kid's facebecame radiant in a flash.
"Sir," he said, "I am charmed to know you. You are a man of taste. Ialways object to the way these things are recounted."
The sheriff rolled his bright eye on Apache, misunderstanding hispleasure which, though it sounded something exaggerated, was assuredlygenuine enough.
"I guess the way it's told don't alter the fact that in the main it'strue. It would mean a term of years, you know."
For the first time in my knowledge of him Apache Kid's face showed thathe had been hit. He gave a frown, and said:
"Yes, that's the ugly side of it; that's the reality. It must be anadventurous sort of life, the life portrayed in that cutting. I fancythat it is the adventuring, and not the money-getting, that lures anyoneinto it, and a man who loves adventure would naturally resent a prisoncell."
The sheriff, with lowered head and blank eyes, gazed from under hisbrows on Apache Kid.
"I guess it's sheer laziness, sir," said he, "and the man who likes thatways of living, and follows it up, is liable to stretch hemp!"
"That would be better, I should fancy, than the prison cell," saidApache Kid. "The fellows told about there would prefer that, I shouldthink."
The sheriff made no answer, but turned to the door and bade his menunharness the pintos and come in.
"You there, Slim," said he to one of the two; "you take possession o'them firearms laying there. But you can let the gentlemen have theirbelts."
Apache Kid was already kindling the fire. The rain had taken off alittle, and before sunset there was light, a watery light on the wetwilderness. So the hatch was flung off and supper was cooked for all.The sheriff and these two men of his--one an Indian tracker, the other("Slim") a long-nosed fellow with steely glints in his eyes and jawsworking on a quid of tobacco when they were not chewing theflapjack--made themse
lves at home at once. And it astounded me, afterthe first few words were over, to find how the talk arose on all mannerof subjects,--horses, brands, trails, the relative uses and value ofrifles, bears and their moody, uncertain habits, wildcats and theirways. Even the Paris Exposition, somehow or other, was mentioned, Iremember, and the long-nosed, sheriff's man looked at Apache Kid.
"I think I seen you there," said he.
"Likely enough," said Apache Kid, unconcernedly.
"What was you _blowing in_ that trip?" asked the long-nosed fellow, withwhat to me seemed distinctly admiration in his manner.
Apache looked from him to the sheriff. They seemed all to understandone another very well, and a cynical and half-kindly smile went round.The Indian, too, I noticed,--though he very probably had only a hazyidea of the talk,--looked long and frequently at Apache Kid, withsomething of the gaze that a very intelligent dog bestows on a veneratedmaster, his intuition serving him where his knowledge of English and ofwhite men's affairs were lacking.
They talked, also, about the ore that had gathered us all togetherthere, and Apache Kid showed the sheriff a sample of it, and listened tohis opinion, which ratified his own.
On the sheriff handing back the sample to Apache Kid the latter held itout to the assistant with the bow and inclination that you see indrawing-rooms at home when a photograph or some curio is being examined.
There was a quiet courtesy among these men that reminded me of whatApache Kid had said regarding Carlyle's remark on the manners of thebackwoods. And it was very droll to note it: Apache in his shirt andbelt, and the long-nose--I never heard him called but by his sobriquetof "Slim"--opposite him, cross-legged, with his hat on the back of hishead and his chin in the palm of his hand, the elbow in his lap, at theside of which stuck out the butt of his Colt, the holster-flap hangingopen.
"I know nothing about mineral," said Slim, in his drawl. "I 'm from theplains."
Apache Kid handed the ore over to the Indian, who took it dumbly, andturned it over, but with heedless eyes; and he presently laid it downbeside him, and then sat quiet again, looking on and listening. Never aword he said except when, each time he finished a cigarette and threwthe end into the fire, the sheriff with a glance would throw him hispouch and cigarette papers. The dusky fingers would roll the cigarette,the thin lips would gingerly wet it, and then the pouch was handed backwith the papers sticking in it, the sheriff holding out a hand, withoutlooking, to receive it And on each of these occasions--about a dozen inthe course of an hour--the Indian opened his lips and grunted, "Thank."
Then the conversation dwindled, and the sheriff voiced a desire "to seedown that there hole myself."
The Indian had risen and gone out a little before this, and just as thesheriff rose he appeared at the door again, and looking in he remarked:
"Bad night come along down," and he pointed to the sky.
"Oh!" said the sheriff, "bad night?"
"Es, a bad mountain dis," said the Indian. "No good come here."
"You would n't come here yourself, eh?" said the sheriff, smiling, butyou could see he was not the man to ignore any word he heard. He waswont to listen to everything and weigh all that he heard in his mind,and take what he thought fit from what he heard, like one winnowing aharvest.
"No, no!" said the Indian, emphatically. "I think--a no good stop overhere. Only a darn fool white man. White man no care. A heap a badmountain," he ended solemnly.
"Devils?" inquired the sheriff. "Bad spirits, may be?" and he looked asserious as though he believed in all manner of evil spirits himself.
The Indian seemed almost bashful now.
"O! I dono devil," he said, and then after thinking he decided toacknowledge his belief. "Ees," he said, and he looked more shy thanever, "maybe bad spirit you laugh. Bad mountain, all same, devil o' nodevil."
"And what's like wrong with the mountain?"
"He go away some day."
"Mud-slide, eh?" asked Apache Kid.
The Indian nodded,
"O! Heap big mud-slide," he said. "You come a look."
We all trooped on his heels, and then he led us to the gable of theshanty and pointed up to the summit.
"Good preserve us," said Slim.
"Alle same crack," said the Indian. "Too much dry. Gumbo[#] all right;vely bad for stick when rain come; he hold together in dry; keep wetlong time--all same chewing gum," he added with brilliancy.
[#] A sticky soil common in these parts.
"But this ain't like chewin' gum, heh?" said the sheriff, following thedrift of the Indian's pidgin English.
"Nosiree," said the Indian, "no hold together, come away plop, thick."
"It's a durned fine picture he's drawin'," said Slim. "I can kind o'see it, though. 'Plop,' he says. I can kind o' hear that plop."
Along the hill above us, sure enough, we could see a long gash running agreat part of the hill near the summit, in the black frontage of it.
"Well," said the sheriff, "I should n't like to be under a mud-slide.But you 'd think that them two ribs here would hold the face o' thishill together, would n't you?"
He looked up at the sky; sunset seemed a thought quicker than usual, andthere were great, heavy clouds crawling up again, as last night, frombehind the mountains.
Apache Kid had said not a word so far, but now he spoke.
"I 've seen a few mud-slides in my time, Sheriff," he said: "but thisone would be a colossal affair. Might I ask you a question before Ioffer advice?"
"Sure," said the sheriff, wonderingly.
"Is it only the charge of murdering Mr. Pinkerton that you want me for,or would you try to make a further name for your smartness by using thatclew you got about the two-some gang--not to put too fine a point uponit?"
You would have thought the sheriff had a real liking for Apache Kid theway he looked at him then.
He took the cutting from his sleeve, and tore it up and trampled it intothe wet earth.
"I guess the hangin' will do you, without anything else," said he; fromwhich, of course, one could not exactly gauge his inmost thoughts. Butsheriffs study that art. They learn to be ever genial, without everpermitting the familiarity that breeds contempt--genial and stern.
"In that case," said Apache Kid, "I would suggest leaving this cabinright away. I want to clear myself of that charge; and if that crackwidened during the night, I might never be able to do that."