*CHAPTER XXV*
_*The Making of a Public Hero*_
An old, bowed greybeard, with an expressionless, weather-beaten mask ofa face, closed the gate into the "lock-up" after us as we swept into thesquare. I remember the jar with which that massive gate closed, butsomehow it did not affect me as I thought it should have done. Perhapsthe reason for this absence of awe was due to the fact that the murmurof voices without, as of a concourse gathering there, was not abelligerent murmur.
"If Judge Lynch goes to work like this," said I to myself, "he has amighty cheerful way of carrying out his justice on those who offendhim."
But I saw that the sheriff and Slim and the guard also were somewhat "atsea," at a loss to account for the manner of our reception. The sheriffflung off his horse and marched into the gaol building, I suppose to seethat the entrance into the office was closed. We remained still in thewaggon.
Slim chewed meditatively and spat in the sand of the patio, orsquare--familiarity I suppose breeding contempt--and to the oldgreybeard, who had closed the gate on our entrance, and now stood by thewaggon clapping the quick-breathing horses, he said: "Well, Colonel, youknow how them turbulent populace acts. You hev seen some turbulentpopulaces in your time, Colonel. What does this yere sound of levitypertend?"
"You mought think from the sound they was electin' a new mayor, eh?"said the old man addressed as colonel. "B'ain't a hangin', for sure,"and at these words I impulsively laid my hand on Apache Kid's forearmand pressed it; but the colonel at the same moment tapped Apache Kid onthe small of the back, and he turned round to find that worthy holdingup a leathery hand and saying, "Shake."
"With pleasure," said Apache Kid. "It is an honour to me to shake handswith you, Colonel."
The old man seemed to enjoy being addressed in this flattering fashion,which doubtless Apache Kid knew; for after the hand-shaking, when thecolonel waddled away to the horses' heads to begin unhitching, a task inwhich Slim promptly assisted (I think more to ask questions, however,rather than to share the work), Apache Kid remarked to me:
"He 's a great character, that; he goes out about town now with thechain-gang; you must have seen him trotting behind them, with his headbowed, squinting up at his flock from the corners of his eyes, his riflein hand. That's the job he gets in the evening of his days; but if anyman could make your hair curl, as the expression is, that old man coulddo it with his yarns about the days when everything west of theMississippi was the Great American Desert. He seems to becongratulating me on something. Whether he thinks I 'm one of thebaddest bad men he 's ever seen, or whether----"
It was then that the sheriff came slowly down the three steps into thesquare.
"You two gentlemen," said he, "might be good enough to step this way.And say, Slim! That there pack-horse is jest to be left standing,meanwhile. I reckon the property on its back ain't come under theinspection of the law yet--quite."
I could have cried out with joy; not for myself, for the sheriff had ledme to believe all the way that I had got mixed up with this "trouble" onthe less objectionable side,--the right side. It was for Apache Kidthat my heart gladdened. Yet he, to all appearance, was as littleaffected by this ray of hope as he had been by the expectation of"stretching hemp."
He swung his leg leisurely over on to the tire of the wheel, steppeddaintily on to the hub, and leaped to the ground.
"At your service, Sheriff," said he, and I followed him.
I noticed that the sheriff had again assumed his ponderous frown, afrown that I was beginning to consider a meaningless thing,--a sort ofmere badge of office. He led us into a white-painted room, where ayoung lady habited plainly in black sat, with bent and sidewise head.And we were no sooner into the room, hats in hand, than the door closedbehind us and we heard the sheriff's ponderous tread depart with greatemphasis down an echoing corridor.
The young lady, as you have surmised, was Mr. Pinkerton's daughter; andthere was a wan smile of welcome on her saddened face as she looked upto us.
We stood like shamed, heart-broken culprits before her; and I know thatmy heart bled for her.
She was so changed from the last time I had seen her. The innocentexpression of her face, the openness and lack of all pose, were stillevident; but these things served to make her lonely position the moresad to think of. She was like a stricken deer; and her great eyeslooked upon us, craving, even before she spoke her yearning, some wordof her father.
"Tell me," she said. "Charlie has told me--in his way. Oh! It is ahard, bitter story, as it comes from him."
"To my mind," said Apache Kid, in a soft voice, "it is at once one ofthe saddest stories and one of which the daughter cannot think without agreater honouring of her father."
Her hungering eyes looked squarely on him, but she spoke not a word.
"To me," he said, "his passing must be ever remembered with verypoignant grief; and to my friend"--and he inclined his head to me--"itmust be the same."
I thought she was on the brink of tears and breaking down, and so, Ithink, did he; for as I looked away sad (and ashamed, in a way), hesaid: "God knows how I feel this!"
I think the interjection of this personal cry helped her to be strong tohear She tossed the tears from her eyes bravely, and he went on:
"When I think that he died through simple disinterested kindness, andthat that kindness, that was his undoing, was done for me--and myfriends," he said in a lower tone, "then, though it makes me but themore sorrowful, I feel that"--he spoke the rest more quickly--"he died adeath such as any man might wish to die. It was a noble death, and hewas the finest man----"
"Oh!" she cried, "but I--I--it was I who bade him follow you."
Apache Kid's eyes were staring on the floor; and in the agony of myheart, whether well or ill advised I do not know, I said:
"Your name was the last on his lips."
Her face craved all that could be told; and I told her all now, shegrowing calmer, with bitten lips, as I, feeling for her grief, found themore pain.
Then Apache Kid spoke, and I found a tone in his voice,--I, who had cometo know him, being cast beside him in the mountain solitudes,--that mademe think he spoke what he did, not because he really did believe it, butbecause he thought it fit to say.
"It may seem strange," said he, "to hear it from my lips, as though Idesired to lighten my own regret, but I think our days are all ordainedfor us; and when those we love have been ordained to unselfishness, andto gain the crown of unselfishness, which is ever a crown of thorns, wecan be but thankful--though at the moment we dare not say this toourselves."
He looked dumbly at me, pleadingly, I thought. I had an idea that hiseyes besought something of me--but I knew not what; and then he turnedto her and took her hand ever so fearfully, and said:
"You will remember that we have a charge from him, as my friend has toldyou; and indeed, it was not necessary that the charge should have beenlaid on us." He dropped her hand, and looking at me, said: "I believewe both would have considered it a privilege to in some slight way----"he seemed to feel that he was upon the wrong track, and she said:
"Oh! That is nothing. Now that I have heard it all from you it is'not--not so cruel as Charlie's account. I think I must go now, and Ihave to thank you for being so truthful with me and telling me it all soplainly."
She turned her face aside again and we perceived that she would bealone. So we passed from the room very quietly and saw the sheriff atthe end of the corridor beckoning us, and went toward him.
"She hes told you, I guess," said he, "that the case is off."
Apache shook his head.
"Pshaw!" said the sheriff. "What she want with you?"
"To hear how Mr. Pinkerton died."
"But she knew."
"Yes," said Apache Kid, "as a savage saw it."
The sheriff puckered his heavy mouth and raised his eyes.
"Sure!" said he. "That's what. Pretty coarse, I guess. Yo
u would kindo' put the limelight on the scene."
"Sir, sir!" said Apache Kid. "We have just come from her."
"I beg your pardon, gen'lemen," he said. "I understand what you mean; Iknow--women and music, and especially them songs about Mother, and theold farm, and such, jest makes me _feel_ too, at times. I understand,boys, and I don't mock you none. And that jest makes me think it mightbe sort of kind in you if you was goin' out and gettin' them cheerin'boys out there some ways off, lest she hears them cheerin' an' it kindo' jars on her."
"Then I am free?"
"Yap; that's what," said the sheriff. "She rode up here with thatIndian trailer feller when the news spread. The colonel tells me thatit was a fellow, Pious Pete, hetched the story out. It was twostrangers to me came to inform me about the killing of Pinkerton--saidthey saw you do it from out a bush where they was camped, and would havegone for you but they had gone busted on cartridges and you was heeledheavy. They put up a good enough story about them bein' comin' backfrom a prospectin' trip, and had it all down fine. So I jest startedright off."
"But how did you know what way to come for us?" asked Apache Kid.
"Oh, well, you see, I had been keepin' track of Canlan. I hed lostsight o' you, and when I heard you was in the hills away over there, andalso knew how Canlan had gone out over Baker shoulder, I began to guesswhere The Lost Cabin lay. It was handier like for me to start trackin'Canlan than to go away down to Kettle with them fellows and into themountains there, and try to get on to your trail where they said you hadburied Mr. P."
Apache Kid nodded.
"So I left them two here to eat at the expense o' the territory till myreturn. It was the colonel got onto them fust--recognised 'em for oldfriends of a right celebrated danger to civilisation which his name wasFarrell."
"Ah!" said Apache Kid.
"So I hear now, when I comes back, anyway," said the sheriff. "Thenalong comes Miss Pinkerton, and when they see her on the scene, well,why they reckon on feedin' off this yere territory no more. The colonelis some annoyed that they did n't wait on and try to hold up theirstory. I reckon they either had not figured on Miss P., or else hadsurmised she 'd not raise her voice ag'in' your decoratin' a rope. ButI keep you from distractin' them boys out there and they starts cheerin'ag'in. After you 've kind o' distributed them come back and see me. I'm kind o' stuck on you, Apache. I guess you 'll make a good enoughcitizen yet--maybe you might be in the running yet for sheriff o' CarsonCity within the next few years."
But a renewed outbreak of the cheering brought a frown to Apache Kid'sface and sent him to the door speedily, with me at his heels.
The sheriff opened the door and out stepped Apache Kid. The firstbreath of a shout from the crowd there he stopped in the middle. Whathis face spoke I do not know, being behind him; but his right thumbpointed over his shoulder, his left hand was at his lips, I think,--andthe cry stopped.
"Gentlemen," he said, and broke the cry that threatened again to risewith a raised hand; "the lady within"--he got to the core of his remarkfirst--"has her own sorrow. We must think of her."
You could hear the gruff "That's what," and "That's no lie," and "That'stalking," and see heads nodded to neighbour's heads in the crowd.
But the question was how to get away? Apache Kid stepped down to thestreet level and then, before we knew what was come to us we wereclutched by willing hands and, shoulder high, headed a silent processiontramping in the dust out of ear-shot of the jail--that the woman withinmight not feel her sorrow more bitter and lonely hearing the cheers thatwere given to the men who had "wiped out the Farrell gang."
So much the populace knew had happened. That much had leaked out, andthe least that was expected of Apache Kid was that he would get out onsome hotel verandah and allow himself to be gazed upon and cheered andmake himself for a night an excuse for "celebration" and perhaps, also,in the speech that he must needs make, give some slight outline of howFarrell _got it_--to use (as Apache Kid would say) the phraseology ofthe country.