Arizona Nights

by Stewart Edward White

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE REMITTANCE MAN

  After Windy Bill had finished his story we began to think it time toturn in. Uncle Jim and Charley slid and slipped down the chute-likepassage leading from the cave and disappeared in the direction of theoverhang beneath which they had spread their bed. After a moment wetore off long bundles of the nigger-head blades, lit the resinous endsat our fire, and with these torches started to make our way along thebase of the cliff to the other cave.

  Once without the influence of the fire our impromptu links cast anadequate light. The sheets of rain became suddenly visible as theyentered the circle of illumination. By careful scrutiny of the footingI gained the entrance to our cave without mishap. I looked back. Hereand there irregularly gleamed and spluttered my companions' torches.Across each slanted the rain. All else was of inky blackness exceptwhere, between them and me, a faint red reflection shone on the wetrocks. Then I turned inside.

  Now, to judge from the crumbling powder of the footing, that cave hadbeen dry since Noah. In fact, its roof was nearly a thousand feetthick. But since we had spread our blankets, the persistent waters hadsoaked down and through. The thousand-foot roof had a sprung a leak.Three separate and distinct streams of water ran as from spigots. Ilowered my torch. The canvas tarpaulin shone with wet, and in itsexact centre glimmered a pool of water three inches deep and at leasttwo feet in diameter.

  "Well, I'll be," I began. Then I remembered those three wending theirway along a wet and disagreeable trail, happy and peaceful inanticipation of warm blankets and a level floor. I chuckled and sat onmy heels out of the drip.

  First came Jed Parker, his head bent to protect the fire in his pipe.He gained the very centre of the cave before he looked up.

  Then he cast one glance at each bed, and one at me. His grave,hawk-like features relaxed. A faint grin appeared under his longmoustache. Without a word he squatted down beside me.

  Next the Cattleman. He looked about him with a comical expression ofdismay, and burst into a hearty laugh.

  "I believe I said I was sorry for those other fellows," he remarked.

  Windy Bill was the last. He stooped his head to enter, straightenedhis lank figure, and took in the situation without expression.

  "Well, this is handy," said he; "I was gettin' tur'ble dry, and wasthinkin' I would have to climb way down to the creek in all this rain."

  He stooped to the pool in the centre of the tarpaulin and drank.

  But now our torches began to run low. A small dry bush grew near theentrance. We ignited it, and while it blazed we hastily sorted ablanket apiece and tumbled the rest out of the drip.

  Our return without torches along the base of that butte was somethingto remember. The night was so thick you could feel the darknesspressing on you; the mountain dropped abruptly to the left, and wasstrewn with boulders and blocks of stone. Collisions and stumbles werefrequent. Once I stepped off a little ledge five or six feet--nothingworse than a barked shin. And all the while the rain, pelting usunmercifully, searched out what poor little remnants of dryness we hadbeen able to retain.

  At last we opened out the gleam of fire in our cave, and a minute laterwere engaged in struggling desperately up the slant that brought us toour ledge and the slope on which our fire burned.

  "My Lord!" panted Windy Bill, "a man had ought to have hooks on hiseyebrows to climb up here!"

  We renewed the fire--and blessed the back-load of mesquite we hadpacked up earlier in the evening. Our blankets we wrapped around ourshoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze, our backswe leaned against the hollow slant of the cave's wall. We were notuncomfortable. The beat of the rain sprang up in the darkness, growinglouder and louder, like horsemen passing on a hard road. Gradually wedozed off.

  For a time everything was pleasant. Dreams came fused with realities;the firelight faded from consciousness or returned fantastic to ourhalf-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread our tired bodies. Theshadows leaped, became solid, monstrous. We fell asleep.

  After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor that theconstant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our circulation. Westirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.

  That was the beginning of awakening. The new position did not suit. Aslight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of the blanketfailed to end. Finally I threw aside my hat and looked out. JedParker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped about his shoulders, stoodupright and silent by the fire. I kept still, fearing to awaken theothers. In a short time I became aware that the others were doingidentically the same thing. We laughed, threw off our blankets,stretched, and fed the fire.

  A thick acrid smoke filled the air. The Cattleman, rising, left atrail of incandescent footprints. We investigated hastily, anddiscovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was nothingmore than bat guano, tons of it. The fire, eating its way beneath, hadrendered untenable its immediate vicinity. We felt as though we wereliving over a volcano. How soon our ledge, of the same material, mightbe attacked, we had no means of knowing. Overcome with drowsiness, weagain disposed our blankets, resolved to get as many naps as possiblebefore even these constrained quarters were taken from us.

  This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had expected.Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.

  Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the longroll on a drum. Investigation showed us that this cave, too, hadsprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at once, asthough someone had turned on a faucet. In ten seconds a very competentstreamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down through the guano,past the fire and to the outer slope. And by the irony of fate thatone--and only one--leak in all the roof expanse of a big cave wasdirectly over one end of our tiny ledge. The Cattleman laughed.

  "Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend," said he. "Kindfriend hunts up the old farmer in the village.

  "'John,' says he, 'I've bad news for you. Your barn has burned up.'

  "'My Lord!' says the farmer.

  "'But that ain't the worst. Your cow was burned, too.'

  "'My Lord!' says the farmer.

  "'But that ain't the worst. Your horses were burned.'

  "'My Lord!' says the farmer.

  "'But, that ain't the worst. The barn set fire to the house, and itwas burned--total loss.'

  "'My Lord!' groans the farmer.

  "'But that ain't the worst. Your wife and child were killed, too.'

  "'At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.

  "'Good heavens, man!' cries his friend, astonished, 'what in the worlddo you find to laugh at in that?'

  "'Don't you see?' answers the farmer. 'Why, it's so darn COMPLETE!'

  "Well," finished the Cattleman, "that's what strikes me about our case;it's so darn complete!"

  "What time is it?" asked Windy Bill.

  "Midnight," I announced.

  "Lord! Six hours to day!" groaned Windy Bill. "How'd you like to bedoin' a nice quiet job at gardenin' in the East where you could bellyup to the bar reg'lar every evenin', and drink a pussy cafe and smoketailor-made cigareets?"

  "You wouldn't like it a bit," put in the Cattleman with decision;whereupon in proof he told us the following story:

  Windy has mentioned Gentleman Tim, and that reminded me of the firsttime I ever saw him. He was an Irishman all right, but he had beeneducated in England, and except for his accent he was more anEnglishman than anything else. A freight outfit brought him intoTucson from Santa Fe and dumped him down on the plaza, where at onceevery idler in town gathered to quiz him.

  Certainly he was one of the greenest specimens I ever saw in thiscountry. He had on a pair of balloon pants and a Norfolk jacket, andwas surrounded by a half-dozen baby trunks. His face was red-cheekedand aggressively clean, and his eye limpid as a child's. Most of thosepresent thought that indicated childishness; but I could see that i
twas only utter self-unconsciousness.

  It seemed that he was out for big game, and intended to go aftersilver-tips somewhere in these very mountains. Of course he wasoffered plenty of advice, and would probably have made engagements muchto be regretted had I not taken a strong fancy to him.

  "My friend," said I, drawing him aside, "I don't want to beinquisitive, but what might you do when you're home?"

  "I'm a younger son," said he. I was green myself in those days, andknew nothing of primogeniture.

  "That is a very interesting piece of family history," said I, "but itdoes not answer my question."

  He smiled.

  "Well now, I hadn't thought of that," said he, "but in a manner ofspeaking, it does. I do nothing."

  "Well," said I, unabashed, "if you saw me trying to be a younger sonand likely to forget myself and do something without meaning to,wouldn't you be apt to warn me?"

  "Well, 'pon honour, you're a queer chap. What do you mean?"

  "I mean that if you hire any of those men to guide you in themountains, you'll be outrageously cheated, and will be lucky if you'renot gobbled by Apaches."

  "Do you do any guiding yourself, now?" he asked, most innocent ofmanner.

  But I flared up.

  "You damn ungrateful pup," I said, "go to the devil in your own way,"and turned square on my heel.

  But the young man was at my elbow, his hand on my shoulder.

  "Oh, I say now, I'm sorry. I didn't rightly understand. Do wait onemoment until I dispose of these boxes of mine, and then I want thehonour of your further acquaintance."

  He got some Greasers to take his trunks over to the hotel, then linkedhis arm in mine most engagingly.

  "Now, my dear chap," said he, "let's go somewhere for a B & S, and findout about each other."

  We were both young and expansive. We exchanged views, names, andconfidences, and before noon we had arranged to hunt together, I tocollect the outfit.

  The upshot of the matter was that the Honourable Timothy Clare and Ihad a most excellent month's excursion, shot several good bear, andreturned to Tucson the best of friends.

  At Tucson was Schiefflein and his stories of a big strike down in theApache country. Nothing would do but that we should both go to see forourselves. We joined the second expedition; crept in the gullies, tiedbushes about ourselves when monumenting corners, and so helpedestablish the town of Tombstone. We made nothing, nor attempted to.Neither of us knew anything of mining, but we were both thirsty foradventure, and took a schoolboy delight in playing the game of life ordeath with the Chiricahuas.

  In fact, I never saw anybody take to the wild life as eagerly as theHonourable Timothy Clare. He wanted to attempt everything. With himit was no sooner see than try, and he had such an abundance ofenthusiasm that he generally succeeded. The balloon pants soon went.In a month his outfit was irreproachable. He used to study us by thehour, taking in every detail of our equipment, from the smallest to themost important. Then he asked questions. For all his desire to be oneof the country, he was never ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance.

  "Now, don't you chaps think it silly to wear such high heels to yourboots?" he would ask. "It seems to me a very useless sort of vanity."

  "No vanity about it, Tim," I explained. "In the first place, it keepsyour foot from slipping through the stirrup. In the second place, itis good to grip on the ground when you're roping afoot."

  "By Jove, that's true!" he cried.

  So he'd get him a pair of boots. For a while it was enough to wear andown all these things. He seemed to delight in his six-shooter and hisrope just as ornaments to himself and horse. But he soon got overthat. Then he had to learn to use them.

  For the time being, pistol practice, for instance, would absorb all histhoughts. He'd bang away at intervals all day, and figure out newtheories all night.

  "That bally scheme won't work," he would complain. "I believe if Iextended my thumb along the cylinder it would help that side jump."

  He was always easing the trigger-pull, or filing the sights. In timehe got to be a fairly accurate and very quick shot.

  The same way with roping and hog-tying and all the rest.

  "What's the use?" I used to ask him. "If you were going to be abuckeroo, you couldn't go into harder training."

  "I like it," was always his answer.

  He had only one real vice, that I could see. He would gamble. Studpoker was his favourite; and I never saw a Britisher yet who could playpoker. I used to head him off, when I could, and he was alwaysgrateful, but the passion was strong.

  After we got back from founding Tombstone I was busted and had to go towork.

  "I've got plenty," said Tim, "and it's all yours."

  "I know, old fellow," I told him, "but your money wouldn't do for me."

  Buck Johnson was just seeing his chance then, and was preparing to takesome breeding cattle over into the Soda Springs Valley. Everybodylaughed at him--said it was right in the line of the Chiricahua raids,which was true. But Buck had been in there with Agency steers, andthought he knew. So he collected a trail crew, brought some Oregoncattle across, and built his home ranch of three-foot adobe walls withportholes. I joined the trail crew; and somehow or another theHonourable Timothy got permission to go along on his own hook.

  The trail was a long one. We had thirst and heat and stampedes andsome Indian scares. But in the queer atmospheric conditions thatprevailed that summer, I never saw the desert more wonderful. It waslike waking to the glory of God to sit up at dawn and see the colourschange on the dry ranges.

  At the home ranch, again, Tim managed to get permission to stay on. Hekept his own mount of horses, took care of them, hunted, and took partin all the cow work. We lost some cattle from Indians, of course, butit was too near the Reservation for them to do more than pick up a fewstray head on their way through. The troops were always after themfull jump, and so they never had time to round up the beef. But ofcourse we had to look out or we'd lose our hair, and many a cowboy haswon out to the home ranch in an almighty exciting race. This was nutsfor the Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than hunting silver-tips,and he enjoyed it no limit.

  Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as I wasturning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it descended TonyBriggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all in black and with a plughat.

  "Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's Fridayand the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me.

  As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed me.

  "I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have sincelearned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare. Is he here?"

  "Oh, you're looking for him are you?" said I. "And who might you be?"

  You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over intotrouble.

  The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they dangledat the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and stared me over. Imust have looked uncompromising, for after a few seconds he abruptlywrinkled his nose so that the glasses fell promptly to his stomachagain, felt his waistcoat pocket, and produced a card. I took it, andread:

  JEFFRIES CASE, Barrister.

  "A lawyer!" said I suspiciously.

  "My dear man," he rejoined with a slight impatience, "I am not here todo your young friend a harm. In fact, my firm have been his familysolicitors for generations."

  "Very well," I agreed, and led the way to the one-room adobe that Timand I occupied.

  If I had expected an enthusiastic greeting for the boyhood friend fromthe old home, I would have been disappointed. Tim was sitting with hisback to the door reading an old magazine. When we entered he glancedover his shoulder.

  "Ah, Case," said he, and went on reading. After a moment he saidwithout looking up, "Sit down."

  The little man took it calmly, deposited himself in a chair and his bagbetween his fe
et, and looked about him daintily at our rough quarters.I made a move to go, whereupon Tim laid down his magazine, yawned,stretched his arms over his head, and sighed.

  "Don't go, Harry," he begged. "Well, Case," he addressed thebarrister, "what is it this time? Must be something devilish importantto bring you--how many thousand miles is it--into such a country asthis."

  "It is important, Mr. Clare," stated the lawyer in his dry sing-songtones; "but my journey might have been avoided had you paid someattention to my letters."

  "Letters!" repeated Tim, opening his eyes. "My dear chap, I've had noletters."

  "Addressed as usual to your New York bankers."

  Tim laughed softly. "Where they are, with my last two quarters'allowance. I especially instructed them to send me no mail. Onespends no money in this country." He paused, pulling his moustache."I'm truly sorry you had to come so far," he continued, "and if yourbusiness is, as I suspect, the old one of inducing me to return to mydear uncle's arms, I assure you the mission will prove quite fruitless.Uncle Hillary and I could never live in the same county, let alone thesame house."

  "And yet your uncle, the Viscount Mar, was very fond of you," venturedCase. "Your allowances--"

  "Oh, I grant you his generosity in MONEY affairs--"

  "He has continued that generosity in the terms of his will, and thoseterms I am here to communicate to you."

  "Uncle Hillary is dead!" cried Tim.

  "He passed away the sixteenth of last June."

  A slight pause ensued.

  "I am ready to hear you," said Tim soberly, at last.

  The barrister stooped and began to fumble with his bag.

  "No, not that!" cried Tim, with some impatience. "Tell me in your ownwords."

  The lawyer sat back and pressed his finger points together over hisstomach.

  "The late Viscount," said he, "has been graciously pleased to leave youin fee simple his entire estate of Staghurst, together with itsbuildings, rentals, and privileges. This, besides the residentialrights, amounts to some ten thousands pounds sterling per annum."

  "A little less than fifty thousand dollars a year, Harry," Tim shotover his shoulder at me.

  "There is one condition," put in the lawyer.

  "Oh, there is!" exclaimed Tim, his crest falling. "Well, knowing myUncle Hillary--"

  "The condition is not extravagant," the lawyer hastily interposed. "Itmerely entails continued residence in England, and a minimum of ninemonths on the estate. This provision is absolute, and the estatereverts in its discontinuance, but may I be permitted to observe thatthe majority of men, myself among the number, are content to spend themost of their lives, not merely in the confines of a kingdom, butbetween the four walls of a room, for much less than ten thousandpounds a year. Also that England is not without its attractions for anEnglishman, and that Staghurst is a country place of manypossibilities."

  The Honourable Timothy had recovered from his first surprise.

  "And if the conditions are not complied with?" he inquired.

  "Then the estate reverts to the heirs at law, and you receive anannuity of one hundred pounds, payable quarterly."

  "May I ask further the reason for this extraordinary condition?"

  "My distinguished client never informed me," replied the lawyer,"but"--and a twinkle appeared in his eye--"as an occasional disburserof funds--Monte Carlo--"

  Tim burst out laughing.

  "Oh, but I recognise Uncle Hillary there!" he cried. "Well, Mr. Case, Iam sure Mr. Johnson, the owner of this ranch, can put you up, andto-morrow we'll start back."

  He returned after a few minutes to find me sitting' smoking a moodypipe. I liked Tim, and I was sorry to have him go. Then, too, I wasruffled, in the senseless manner of youth, by the sudden altitude towhich his changed fortunes had lifted him. He stood in the middle ofthe room, surveying me, then came across and laid his arm on myshoulder.

  "Well," I growled, without looking up, "you're a very rich man now, Mr.Clare."

  At that he jerked me bodily out of my seat and stood me up in thecentre of the room, the Irish blazing out of his eyes.

  "Here, none of that!" he snapped. "You damn little fool! Don't you'Mr. Clare' me!"

  So in five minutes we were talking it over. Tim was very much excitedat the prospect. He knew Staghurst well, and told me all about the bigstone house, and the avenue through the trees; and the hedge-row roads,and the lawn with its peacocks, and the round green hills, and thelabourers' cottages.

  "It's home," said he, "and I didn't realise before how much I wanted tosee it. And I'll be a man of weight there, Harry, and it'll be mightygood."

  We made all sorts of plans as to how I was going to visit him just assoon as I could get together the money for the passage. He had thedelicacy not to offer to let me have it; and that clinched my trust andlove of him.

  The next day he drove away with Tony and the dapper little lawyer. Iam not ashamed to say that I watched the buckboard until it disappearedin the mirage.

  I was with Buck Johnson all that summer, and the following winter, aswell. We had our first round-up, found the natural increase much inexcess of the loss by Indians, and extended our holdings up over theRock Creek country. We witnessed the start of many Indian campaigns,participated in a few little brushes with the Chiricahuas, saw thebeginning of the cattle-rustling. A man had not much opportunity tothink of anything but what he had right on hand, but I found time for afew speculations on Tim. I wondered how he looked now, and what he wasdoing, and how in blazes he managed to get away with fifty thousand ayear.

  And then one Sunday in June, while I was lying on my bunk, Tim pushedopen the door and walked in. I was young, but I'd seen a lot, and Iknew the expression of his face. So I laid low and said nothing.

  In a minute the door opened again, and Buck Johnson himself came in.

  "How do," said he; "I saw you ride up."

  "How do you do," replied Tim.

  "I know all about you," said Buck, without any preliminaries; "yourman, Case, has wrote me. I don't know your reasons, and I don't wantto know--it's none of my business--and I ain't goin' to tell you justwhat kind of a damn fool I think you are--that's none of my business,either. But I want you to understand without question how you stand onthe ranch."

  "Quite good, sir," said Tim very quietly.

  "When you were out here before I was glad to have you here as a sort ofguest. Then you were what I've heerd called a gentleman of leisure.Now you're nothin' but a remittance man. Your money's nothin' to me,but the principle of the thing is. The country is plumb pestered withremittance men, doin' nothin', and I don't aim to run no home forincompetents. I had a son of a duke drivin' wagon for me; and hecouldn't drive nails in a snowbanks. So don't you herd up with theidea that you can come on this ranch and loaf."

  "I don't want to loaf," put in Tim, "I want a job."

  "I'm willing to give you a job," replied Buck, "but it's jest anordinary cow-puncher's job at forty a month. And if you don't fillyour saddle, it goes to someone else."

  "That's satisfactory," agreed Tim.

  "All right," finished Buck, "so that's understood. Your friend Casewanted me to give you a lot of advice. A man generally has about asmuch use for advice as a cow has for four hind legs."

  He went out.

  "For God's sake, what's up?" I cried, leaping from my bunk.

  "Hullo, Harry," said he, as though he had seen me the day before, "I'vecome back."

  "How come back?" I asked. "I thought you couldn't leave the estate.Have they broken the will?"

  "No," said he.

  "Is the money lost?"

  "No."

  "Then what?"

  "The long and short of it is, that I couldn't afford that estate andthat money."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've given it up."

  "Given it up! What for?"

  "To come back here."

  I took this all in slowly.

  "Tim
Clare," said I at last, "do you mean to say that you have given upan English estate and fifty thousand dollars a year to be a remittanceman at five hundred, and a cow-puncher on as much more?"

  "Exactly," said he.

  "Tim," I adjured him solemnly, "you are a damn fool!"

  "Maybe," he agreed.

  "Why did you do it?" I begged.

  He walked to the door and looked out across the desert to where themountains hovered like soap-bubbles on the horizon. For a long time helooked; then whirled on me.

  "Harry," said he in a low voice, "do you remember the camp we made onthe shoulder of the mountain that night we were caught out? And do youremember how the dawn came up on the big snow peaks across the way--andall the canon below us filled with whirling mists--and the steel starsleaving us one by one? Where could I find room for that in Englishpaddocks? And do you recall the day we trailed across the Yumadeserts, and the sun beat into our skulls, and the dry, brittle hillslooked like papier-mache, and the grey sage-bush ran off into the riseof the hills; and then came sunset and the hard, dry mountains grewfilmy, like gauze veils of many colours, and melted and glowed andfaded to slate blue, and the stars came out? The English hills arerounded and green and curried, and the sky is near, and the stars onlya few miles up. And do you recollect that dark night when old Loco andhis warriors were camped at the base of Cochise's Stronghold, and wecrept down through the velvet dark wondering when we would bediscovered, our mouths sticky with excitement, and the little windsblowing?"

  He walked up and down a half-dozen times, his breast heaving.

  "It's all very well for the man who is brought up to it, and who hasseen nothing else. Case can exist in four walls; he has been broughtup to it and knows nothing different. But a man like me--

  "They wanted me to canter between hedge-row,--I who have ridden thedesert where the sky over me and the plain under me were bigger thanthe Islander's universe! They wanted me to oversee little farms--I whohave watched the sun rising over half a world! Talk of your ten thou'a year and what it'll buy! You know, Harry, how it feels when a steertakes the slack of your rope, and your pony sits back! Where inEngland can I buy that? You know the rising and the falling of days,and the boundless spaces where your heart grows big, and the thirst ofthe desert and the hunger of the trail, and a sun that shines and fillsthe sky, and a wind that blows fresh from the wide places! Where inparcelled, snug, green, tight little England could I buy that with tenthou'--aye, or an hundred times ten thou'? No, no, Harry, that fortunewould cost me too dear. I have seen and done and been too much. I'vecome back to the Big Country, where the pay is poor and the work ishard and the comfort small, but where a man and his soul meet theirMaker face to face."

  The Cattleman had finished his yarn. For a time no one spoke.Outside, the volume of rain was subsiding. Windy Bill reported a fewstars shining through rifts in the showers. The chill that precedesthe dawn brought us as close to the fire as the smouldering guano wouldpermit.

  "I don't know whether he was right or wrong," mused the Cattleman,after a while. "A man can do a heap with that much money. And yet anold 'alkali' is never happy anywhere else. However," he concludedemphatically, "one thing I do know: rain, cold, hunger, discomfort,curses, kicks, and violent deaths included, there isn't one of yougrumblers who would hold that gardening job you spoke of three days!"