CHAPTER III
CLAYTON'S VISITORS
When jack-screws and moving teams had done their work in the town ofParadise but one house remained, the minister's, and that only becauseCurtis Clayton had purchased it and moved into it, with Justin. Thefarmers of the valley wondered that he should remain, but temperedtheir surprise with gratitude.
He and Justin seemed even more closely linked now. But not even toJustin did he ever speak of why he had come to the valley or why hetarried. The coming appeared to have been a thing of chance, as when abatted ball rolling to some obscure corner of the field stops therebecause no force is applied to move it farther. If there was anyobservable change in him after Wingate's death, it was that he becamemore restless. The mind of the dreamer, in its workings somewhat akinto his own, yet with a simple faith which he did not possess, hadsoothed and rested him.
Clayton wore out his increased restlessness by long walks with Justin,abandoning the rides apparently because he disliked to leave the boyalone. But his fame as a doctor was spreading through thethinly-settled country, and when forced away from home by calls heleft Justin at the house of some farmer, usually that of Sloan Jasper,for there the boy found pleasant companionship in the person of MaryJasper, a dark-eyed girl, with winning, mischievous ways and cheekslike wild rose petals. Time never hung heavily with Justin at SloanJasper's.
In addition to his work of instructing Justin, and his reading,Clayton spent much time in writing, in the little room which theminister had fitted up as a study. Sometimes Justin was given theprivilege of dusting this room, and once when so engaged he whiskedfrom the table the scorched photograph he had seen before. Clayton hadevidently been looking at it, had placed it under a large blotter, andthen had neglected to put it away before admitting Justin. The boystared intently into the beautiful face shadowed forth on that bit ofcardboard, for he wondered; then he replaced it beneath the blotterand resumed his dusting. But a question had arisen in his heart.
To give Justin pleasant occupation and make the time pass morerapidly, Clayton purchased a few sheep and placed the boy over them asa herder; and, as if to furnish diversion for himself, he assistedJustin in building a sod-walled corral and sod shelters for the sheep.
It was a delight to Justin to guard the sheep on the grassy slopes anddrive them to the tepid water-holes. Often he did this in company withMary Jasper; he on foot, or high on Clayton's horse, the rosy-cheekedgirl swaying at his side on her lazy gray burro, which she had to beatcontinually with a small cudgel if she progressed at all.
Once Clayton remonstrated with her for what he deemed her cruelty tothe beast.
"Doctor Clayton," she said severely, wrinkling her small forehead,"the only way to make this critter go is to kill him; that's what mypaw says!" and she swayed on, pounding the burro's back with the stickand kicking his sides energetically with her bare heels.
Yet the valley life was lonely, so that the coming of any one was anevent; and it was a red-letter day when Lemuel Fogg drifted in withhis black-topped, wine-colored photograph wagon, and William Sanderswith his dirty prairie schooner. Fogg was a fat young man, whosemustache drooped limply over a wide good-humored mouth, and whoseround face was splotched yellow with large freckles. Sanders was evenyounger than Fogg. He lacked Fogg's buoyancy and humor, had shrewdlittle gray eyes that peered and pried, and slouched about in shabbyill-fitting clothing. Clayton gave them both warm welcome, and theyremained with him over night.
Sanders, who was alone in his wagon, was looking for land on which tosettle. Apparently Fogg's present business was to take photographs,and he began by taking one of Justin standing in the midst of hissheep, with Mary Jasper sitting on her burro beside him, her bare feetand ankles showing below her dusty gray dress.
In addition to the land, which he looked over carefully with hisshrewd little eyes, Sanders cast furtive glances at Clayton's stiffarm. He ventured to word a question, when he and Fogg sat with Justinand Clayton in the little study after supper, surrounded by Clayton'sbooks and papers, while the sheep were securely housed in the sodcorral and the unrelenting wind piped insistently round the house.
"'Tain't any my business as I know of," he began, apologetically, "butI can't help lookin' at that arm o' your'n, and wonderin' what made itso. I had my fortune told onc't by a man who had an arm like that, andhe said a tiger bit it. He was an East Injun, er a Malay, I reckon. Itcome to me that you might have met with an accident sometime, ersomethin' er 'nuther? There's a story about it, I reckon?"
The blood rushed in a wave to Clayton's face and appeared to suffuseeven his dark eyes. He did not answer the question, being sensitive onthe subject, and deeming it an impertinence.
Sanders waited a time, while Fogg talked; then he returned to hisinquiry, with even greater emphasis.
"Yes, there is a story," said Clayton, speaking slowly, after a momentof hesitation, while a ghastly smile took the attractiveness out ofhis thoughtful countenance. "It wasn't an accident, though."
"No?" said Sanders.
"The thing was done in cool deliberation. I was in college, in amedical college, for I'm a doctor you know. I was a student then; andit was the custom among the students to perform various operations oneach other, by way of practice, so that when we went out from there tobegin our work we would know how things should be done. One day Isawed a student's skull open, took out a spoonful of his brains, andsewed the wound up so nicely that he was well in a week. The operationwas a great success, but I dipped a little too deep and took out toomuch of the gray matter, and after that he was always omittingsomething or other that he should have remembered. In return for whathe had permitted me to do he put me on the operating table one day,broke my arm with a mallet, and then proceeded to put it togetheragain. In doing so he omitted the funny bone, and my arm has been thisway ever since."
Fogg broke into a roar of laughter. Sanders flushed slowly; andgetting up walked to the other end of the room, chewing wrathfully,splintering the story with his teeth as he splintered the grass bladesthat he plucked and chewed when walking about to view the valley land.
"Huh!" he grunted, coming back and dropping lumpily into his chair."Tell that to a fool an' mebbe you'll git a fool to believe ye, but Idon't!"
Fogg slapped his fat knee and roared again.
"Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Ask him something else, Sanders! Who-ee! Doc, Ididn't think it was in you! If you do anything like that again I'llhave to let a reef out of the band of my trousers. Fire anotherquestion at him, Sanders."
"No," said Sanders, while a sullen fire glowed in his little eyes; "Iwas goin' to ask him some other things, but I'm done!"
Then he chewed again, tried hard to laugh, and seemed about to saysomething; but Fogg broke in.
"I say, Doc, you can tell a story so well you'd ought to be in myline. Story telling is my long suit. Lincoln ought to have altered hisimmortal saying before giving it to the world. My experience is thatif you keep the people in a good humor you can fool _all_ of them_all_ of the time, and there ain't any better way than by feedingthem anecdotes and jollying them until they think they are thesmartest ever. For instance, Sanders believes in fortune tellers; theyjolly him, and that pleases him, and they get his coin. It's the sameway with everything and everybody."
In addition to the photographic apparatus stored in the wine-coloredwagon Fogg had a collection of Navajo blankets, Pueblo pottery, Indianbaskets, bows and arrows, and such things. Seeing that his host wasnot to be a purchaser, and being in a communicative mood, he did nothesitate to expose now the secrets of his trade, in proof of his viewof the gullibility of the general public.
"See that," he said, taking up a hideous image of Pueblo workmanship."Ninety men out of a hundred will believe that thing, with its froggymouth, is a Pueblo idol, without you telling them, and the others willbelieve it when you do tell them."
"Huh!" grunted Sanders, still angry; "if 'tain't an Injun idol, whatis it?"
It seemed natural for Fogg to laugh, and he laughed again
, with easygurgling.
"You may call it anything you want to, but it ain't an idol. I've seenPueblo idols; there's a room full of them in the old Governor's Palacein Santa Fe, and they look more than anything else like stone fenceposts with holes gouged near one end for the eyes, nose and mouth.Them are genuine old Pueblo idols, but you bet the Pueblos didn't sellthem, and they didn't give 'em away. Did you ever know of a peoplethat would sell their God? I never did."
"None, except Christians!" said Clayton, speaking slowly, but withemphasis.
Fogg set the staring image on the table and looked at him.
"I hadn't thought of that. Yes, I reckon they do, a good deal of thetime. But an Indian wouldn't; he would never sell his God. Maybe it'sbecause Christians think so little of theirs that they're so ready tobelieve a Pueblo will sell his for 'most any old thing. Them imagesare just caricatures, made to sell. I go among the Pueblos three orfour times a year and buy up a lot of their pottery, and I encouragethem to make these images, which the average tourist thinks are gods,for they sell better even than the water jars and other things thatthey turn out.
"Then I buy blankets of the Navajos, which they make dirt cheap now. Ihelped to put 'em onto that. You can sell a dozen cheap blanketseasier than a single expensive one, especially when the people you'reselling to think they're getting the genuine goods at a bargain. It'seasier for the Navajo weavers to tear old government blankets topieces and re-weave them and color them with analine dyes than it isfor them to take their own wool and their own dyes and put the thingstogether in the old way. They won't wear of course, and the colorsfade, but they sell like hot cakes.
"I buy for a dealer, who snaps up everything of the kind I can bringhim and hollers for more. You ought to see the crowds of people,especially tourists, who wear out his floors. I'm going to have astore of that kind myself some day. I take photographs for him, ofscenery and other things that will sell; and bring him loads of basketwork and bows and arrows from the Jicarilla Apaches just over the NewMexican line. He grabs for the Jicarilla work, which I can get almostcheaper than anybody, for I know the head men. The Jicarillas used tobe slow workers and too honest, like the Navajo weavers; but they'reonto their job now, and can put a willow basket together and dye itwith patent dyes in almost no time."
Thus Lemuel Fogg discoursed of his business methods, until he hadsucceeded in proving several things concerning himself, in addition tohis easy belief that the whole world is either covetous or dishonest.
Fogg departed the next morning, on his way to Denver. Sanders lingeredin the valley for two or three days, peeking and prying, at intervalsvisiting a fortune teller of local repute in the town, who saw land,houses, and cattle for him, in the grounds of a coffee cup. But he wasangered against Clayton and did not return to his house. A dozen timeshe told inquiring farmers that he "reckoned" he would take land thereand become one of them. But the grounds in the coffee cup did notsettle just right, and at length he, too, departed.
Justin Wingate, Ranchman Page 3
