*CHAPTER XXIX*
_*So-Long*_
You will hardly be astonished to hear that the saloons in Kettle areopen night and day. Go there when you please, you need no "knocking-up"of sleepy attendants. The hotel door is never closed.
It was long after midnight when we came into the place, over the veryroad and at the same hour and at much the same speed as Mr. Pinkertonmust have ridden in pursuit of us, not a month prior to this ride ofours. This road from Baker City to Camp Kettle was the base of atriangle over which we had travelled, as it were, at the apex of whichtriangle was the Lost Cabin Mine; and when we passed the place on thehillside, where we had gone so short a while before, something of a pangleapt in my heart. I bade farewell there to that terrible chapter in mylife forever,--bade farewell there to the Lost Cabin Mine.
"I will have to borrow from you again," said Apache Kid (the firstspeech he had spoken since leaving the Half-Way House), as we cameloping into Kettle at three of the morning. "Give me fifty dollars, andwe'll settle later."
I told him the money was as much his as mine, and gave him what he askedbefore we reined up at the hotel door, where a wild-faced lad took ourhorses. An effeminate-looking youth, with that peculiar stamp thatcomes to effeminate youths in the West,--as though they counterbalancedtheir effeminacy, in so rugged a place, by keeping quiet, and so heldtheir own among the strenuous majority,--led us to a double-bedded room(for we were very sleepy and desired to rest), we carrying up ourblankets and belongings with us. He set a lamp in the room, wished usgood-night with a smile,--for it was nigh morning, really a newday,--and we sat in silence, while on the low ceiling the smoke of thelamp wavered.
The room was close, stuffy, and Apache Kid flung open the window andmoths straightway came fluttering in, moths as large as a dollar piece,and other strange insects, one like a dragon-fly that rattled on theroof and shot from side to side of the apartment so fiercely that itseemed rebounding from wall to wall by the force of its own impact.
Apache threw off his coat and blew out a deep breath.
"Warm," he said. "It's beastly to sleep indoors. No! This just addsproof. I could n't ever do with civilised ways, now. That girl," andhe nodded towards the west, "she is mine, or she was mine--when shefound that she had been right after all in her opinion of me. And sheswung back to me more than ever strong because she had been lured away.But I--" he threw up his head and cried the words out in a whisper, soto speak: "I must never be weighed in the balance before being accepted.I must just be accepted. That is why I like you. You just accept me.But I made it all right with her. She will never regret having believedGeorge's stories of me for when I went back to her and put the roll downand said: 'For your father's sake, Miss Pinkerton--you will acceptthis,' you could see that she wanted to ask forgiveness for having putme in her black books. But I put that all right."
"How?" I asked, for he had paused.
"Oh, I told her I was a villain, told her I fully expected to bearrested there and had only stopped to settle my promise to her father.It was a different thing for me to tell her I was a villain from anothertelling her that. When a villain tells his villainy to the ear of awoman he becomes almost a hero to her. She begged me to change my ways,and I promised that for her sake I would. Quite romantic, eh? A touchof Sydney Carton--eh?" and he laughed. "And now she will remember me, ifshe does not indeed forget me, as a good fellow gone wrong, and thankGod she has so good a husband as George. And George is not so bad afellow. He can appreciate his master when he meets him. That is onegood point about George. George is like the lion in the cage, the lionthat roars in rage after the tamer has gone and determines to slay himon his next visit. But on the next visit he goes through his tricks asusual. It's a pleasure at least to know that George at last was forcedto hold out his hand to me and call himself my friend. He does n't knowwhy he did. He 'll remember and wonder and he'll never understand.That day that he came in and held me up,--you remember?--I said tomyself: 'You come to kill me to-day, but the day will come, not when Iwill crush you, but when you will come to me just like my little poodledog.'"
He broke off and smote the buzzing insect to the floor as it blunderedpast his face (he was sitting on a chair with his arms folded on theback) and drew his foot across it.
"And he came, didn't he?" he added. "My poodle dog!
"But after all," he said, after a pause, "a woman that could be moved bymy little poodle dog could never be the woman for me. When I look for awoman it must be one who does not doubt me--and who does not fear me.She did not fear me and that was why I thought-- Ah well, you see, shedoubted me. But let's to bed."
So we put out the light and turned in.
But I lay some time considering that Apache Kid was not the domineeringman his words might have caused one to think. He covered up a deal ofwhat was in his heart with a froth of words.
Next day (or I should say, later in that day), we continued our journey,after a few hours' sleep and a monstrous breakfast; but never anotherword was spoken on the matter of the previous night and in the brightafternoon we came into Kettle River Gap and found that the "east-bound"was due at three in the afternoon.
In the hotel to which we repaired for refreshment Apache Kid wrote aletter to a dealer in New York, a letter which I was to deliver inperson, carrying with me the turquoises.
"One gets far better prices in New York than in any of the westerntowns," explained Apache Kid. "You can rely on this fellow, too. We areold friends, and he will do the square thing. You can send on half theamount to me, deducting what you have lent me."
"Oh, nonsense!" said I.
"Deducting what you have lent me," he repeated. "Twenty dollars at theHalf-Way House and fifty at Camp Kettle. That makes seventy."
"You will need some more," said I.
"No," said he. "I have still almost all the fifty, of course, and I cansell the two pintos for what I paid for them. Don't worry me. I havenever been obliged to a soul in my life for anything."
But looking up and catching my eye looking sadly on him he smiled and:"Humour me," he said, "humour me in this."
When the letter was written he handed it to me, open, and said:
"Well, that is all, I think, until we hear the east-bound whistle."
My heart was in my mouth.
"That other matter?" I said.
"What other?" said he.
"You wanted me to do something for you in the old country."
"True," said he, and sat pondering; and then coming to a conclusion hewrote a name and address on another sheet, and putting it in anenvelope, which he sealed, he said: "When you reach home you can openthat, and--it should be easy enough to find out who lives there. Ifthey are gone, you can trace them without anyone knowing what you aredoing. They must never know about me, however. You will promise?"
"I promise," said I.
"You can write to--let me see--say, where shall I go now?--say SantaFe--to be called for."
"Had you not better come home?" I asked half-fearfully, and he looked atme as twice I had seen him look,--once, when he silenced the "Dago"livery-stable keeper; once, when he silenced the sheriff. I knew ApacheKid liked me; but at that glance I knew he had never let me quite closeto himself. There was a barrier between him and all men. But the lookpassed, and said he, slowly and definitely:
"I can never go home."
We went out into the air and sat silent till the east-bound whistled andwhistled and screamed nearer and nearer.
It was while we sat there that I remembered that he had advertised forJackson's relatives, and asked what he would do if they were heard of.
He had evidently forgotten about that, for he seemed put out, and thenremarked that he would send them his share of the turquoises, still tobe disposed of.
"But you----" I began, and he held up his hand.
"I don't want the stuff, anyhow," said he. "Now--don't worry me. Don'task me questi
ons. What I like about you is that you take me forgranted. Don't spoil the impression of yourself you have given me bywanting to know how I will get on, and thinking me foolish for what Iintend to do." He looked round on me. "Yes," said he, "I like you. Doyou know that the fact that you had never asked me what George Brooksand I were enemies for made me your most humble servant? Would you liketo hear that story?"
I nodded.
"Well, well," he said, and laughed. "That makes me like you all themore. You are really interested, and yet are polite enough not to askquestions. Yes--that's the sort of man I like."
But he had no intention of telling me that affair,--just chuckled tohimself softly and remarking, "That must remain a mystery," he lapsedagain into silence.
And then the train whistled at the last curve, shot into sight, and camethundering and screaming into the depot.
"Oh! Apache Kid," said I, "I cannot go to-day. I must wait tillto-morrow."
"That is a pity," said he, "for then you would have to wait here aloneall to-morrow. I go West with to-morrow morning's 'west-bound.'"
"Ah, then," said I, "I will go with this one; for I could not stand theloneliness here with you flying away from me."
"No?" he said, half inquiringly; and then he surveyed me, interested,and said again, "No, not so easily as I can stand your departure--Isuppose." But he looked away as he spoke.
My belongings lay just in the doorway, ready to hand, and these helifted, boarding the train with me and finding me a seat. This was nosooner done than the conductor outside intoned his "All aboard!"
Apache Kid snatched my hand.
"Well," said he, "in the language of the country--so-long!"
I had no word to say. I took his hand; but he gave me only the fingersof his, and, whirling about, lurched down the aisle of the car, for thetrain had already started, and the door swung behind him. I tried toraise the window beside me, but it was fast, and by the time I had thenext one raised and looked out, all the depot buildings were in the hazeof my tears, in the midst of which I saw half a dozen blurred, wavinghands, and though I waved into that haze I do not know whether ApacheKid was one of those who stood there or not.
So the last I really saw of Apache Kid was his lurching shoulder as hepassed out of the swinging car.
*CHAPTER XXX*
_*And Last*_
It was with a full heart that I sat down, oblivious of all otheroccupants of the car. I sat dazed, the rattle of the wheels in my ears,and the occasional swishing sound without, when we rattled across sometrestle bridge above a foaming creek hastening down out of the hills.Sunset came, glowing red on the tops of the trees on either hand. ThePintsch lamps were lit, and glimmered dim in that glow of the sunsetthat filled the coaches. It was not yet quite dark when we leftRepublic Creek, the gate city of the mountains, behind. The sunsetsuddenly appeared to wheel in the sky, and piled itself up again to theright of the track. We were looping and twining down out of the hills.I went out onto the rear platform for a last look at them. Already theplains were rolling away from us on either side, billowy, wind-swept,sweet-scented in the dusk. Behind was the long darkness, north andsouth, of the mountains. I gazed upon it till the glow faded, and thesinister, serrated ridge was only a long, thin line of black on theverge of the prairie.
Then I turned inwards again to the car and lay down to sleep, while werolled on and on through the night over the open, untroubled plains.
But sleep on a train is an unquiet sleep, and often I would waken,imagining myself still in the heart of the mountains, sometimes speakingto Apache Kid, even Donoghue.
Old voices spoke; the Laughlins, the sheriff, my two fellow-travellersspoke to me in that uneasy slumber, and then I would awaken to answerand find myself in the swinging car alone, and a great rush of emotionwould fill my heart.
* * * * *
Two items still remain to be told.
At New York I found the address to which Apache Kid had directed me. Asphinx of a gentleman read the letter I gave him, looked me over, andthen asked: "The turquoises? You have them with you?"
I produced the bag, and he scrutinised them all singly, with no changeon his face, rang a bell, and bade the attendant, who came in response,to bring him scales. He weighed each separately, touched them with histongue, held them up to the light, and noted their values on paper. Hemust have been, indeed, a man Apache Kid could trust.
"Will you have notes or gold?" he asked. "The sum is two hundredthousand dollars, and I am instructed in this note, which as it is openyou will know entitles you to half, to pay you on the spot."
I asked for a bill of exchange on the Bank of Scotland. He bowed andobeyed my request without further speech, but when he rose to usher meto the door his natural curiosity caused him to say:
"Do you know how your friend came by these?"
"I do," said I; but I thought to give this quiet man a Roland for hisOliver, seeing he was so much of a sphinx, and I said no more save that.
He smiled.
"Quite right," said he. "And did you leave your friend well?" he asked,smiling on me in a fatherly fashion.
"In the best of health," I said.
"I see I have to remit to Santa Fe," said he. "He did not say where hewas going after that, did he? I can hardly expect him to stay therelong."
"No, he did not say," I replied.
"Ah! Doubtless I shall hear of him when he thinks necessary," and hebowed me out and shook hands with me at the door.
The second item that still remains to be told is of my opening of thesecond letter that Apache Kid gave me. There was no difficulty infinding the address of his "people" which this contained. But if theaddress astonished me, I was certainly less astonished than deeplymoved, when, by watching the residence, I found that his mother stilllived,--a stately, elderly lady, with silver hair.
By careful inquiries, and by some observation, I found that there weretwo sisters also in the house, and once I saw all three out shopping inPrinces Street, very tastefully but plainly dressed, and it struck me tothe heart, with a sadness I cannot tell, to think that here was I, whocould step up to them and say: "Madam, your son yet lives; ladies, yourbrother is alive," and yet to know that my lips were sealed; that forsome reason Apache Kid could never again come home.
They noticed me staring at them, and, remembering my manners, I lookedaway. This intelligence I wrote to Apache Kid (to be called for atSanta Fe), as he had desired. But I never heard any word in reply. Theletter, however, was not returned, so I presume he received it.
I do not know whether the fact that I am bound by a promise causes me,in contradictory-wise, to desire all the more to speak to these three ofApache Kid,--how alien his name sounds here in Edinburgh of allplaces!--but I do know that I long to speak to them. In Apache Kid'syounger sister, especially in her winsome face, there is something Icannot describe that moves my heart. Once I saw her with her sistereating strawberries on one of the roof-cafes in Princes Street, whitherI had gone with my mother. My mother noticed the drifting of my eyes andlooked at the girl and looked back at me and smiled, and shook her headon me, and said:
"She is a sweet girl, but do not stare; you have lost your manners inAmerica!"
She did not understand, and I could not explain. But her words, spokenjestingly, took me back to that conversation with Apache Kid on thestagecoach, after we had left the Half-Way-to-Kettle House, when hedelivered his opinion on the transition period in the West; and Iwondered if he had yet looked up Carlyle's remark about the manners ofthe backwoods.
My little fortune had to be explained in some way, but you may be sure Itold nothing of the terrors of the journey that we undertook in thegathering of it. The common fallacy that fortunes are to be picked up inAmerica, by any youth who cares to go a-plucking there, helped megreatly with most folk, and I never was required to tell the bloodystory of the Lost Cabin Mine.
But now that they who might have wept for my share in that business havegone beyond all weeping and grieving I can publish the tale with nomisgivings; for the only fear that haunts me, as I go my ways throughthe world, is lest I give pain to any of these quiet, cloistered hearts,who, in their blissful and desirable ignorance, live apart in peace, notknowing how barbaric, how sad, how full of unrest, and howblood-bespattered the world still is.
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