CHAPTER VI
THE ISLE OF ARCADY
"Then the moon shone out so broad and good That the barn-fowl crowed: And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood _That a dead man lay in the road_!"
--WILL WALLACE HARNEY.
Arcadia's assets were the railroad, two large modern sawmills, theclimate and printer's ink. The railroad found it a patch of bare ground,six miles from water; put in successively a whistling-post, a signboard,a depot, townsite papers and a water-main from the Alamo; and, when thetownsite papers were confirmed, established machine shops and made thenew town the division headquarters and base for northward building.
The railroad then set up the sawmills, primarily to get out ties andtimbers for its own lanky growth, and built a spur to bring the forestdown from Rainbow to the mills. The word "down" is used advisedly.Arcadia nestled on the plain under the very eavespouts of Rainbow Range.The branch, following with slavish fidelity the lines of a twistedcorkscrew, took twenty-seven miles, mostly tunnel and trestlework, toclamber to the logging camps, with a minimum grade that was purelyprohibitive and a maximum that I dare not state; but there was a rise ofsix thousand feet in those twenty-seven miles. You can figure theaverage for yourself. And if the engine should run off the track at theend of her climb she would light on the very roundhouse where she tookbreakfast, and spoil the shingles.
Yes, that was some railroad. There was a summer hotel--Cloudland--on thesummit, largely occupied by slackwire performers. Others walked up orrode a horse. They used stem-winding engines, with eight verticalcylinders on the right side and a shaft like a steamboat, with beveledcogwheel transmission on the axles. And they haven't had a wreck on thatbranch to date. No matter how late a train is, when an engine sees thetail-lights of her caboose ahead of her she stops and sends out flagmen.
The railroad, under the pseudonym of the Arcadia Development Company,also laid out streets and laid in a network of pipe-lines, and stakedout lots until the sawmill protested for lack of tie-lumber. It put downmiles of cement walks, fringed them with cottonwood saplings, telephonepoles and electric lights. It built a hotel and a few streets ofparty-colored cottages--directoire, with lingerie tile roofs, organdyfacades and peplum, intersecting panels and outside chimneys at thegable ends. It decreed a park, with nooks, lanes, mazes, lake,swans, ballground, grandstand, bandstand and the band appertainingthereunto--all of which apparently came into being over night. Then itemployed a competent staff of word-artists and capitalized the climate.
The result was astonishing. The cottonwoods grew apace and a swift towngrew with them--swift in every sense of the word. It took good money tobuy good lots in Arcadia. People with money must be fed, served andamused by people wanting money. In three years the trees cast a pleasantshade and the company cast a balance, with gratifying results. Theydiscounted the unearned increment for a generation to come.
It was a beneficent scheme, selling ozone and novelty, sunshine anddelight. The buyers got far more than the worth of their money, thecompany got their money--and every one was happy. Health and goodspirits are a bargain at any price. There were sandstorms and hot days;but sand promotes digestion and digestion promotes cheerfulness. Heatmerely enhanced the luxury of shaded hammocks. As an adventurer thawedout, he sent for seven others worse than himself. Arcadia became themetropolis of the county and, by special election, the county-seat.Courthouse, college and jail followed in quick succession.
For the company, Arcadia life was one grand, sweet song, with, thusfar, but a single discord. As has been said, Arcadia was laid out on theplain. There was higher ground on three sides--Rainbow Mountain to theeast, the deltas of La Luz Creek and the Alamo to the north and south.New Mexico was dry, as a rule. After the second exception, whenenthusiastic citizens went about on stilts to forward a project forchanging the town's name to Venice, the company acknowledged its errorhandsomely. When dry land prevailed once more above the face of thewaters, it built a mighty moat by way of the _amende honorable_--a moatwith its one embankment on the inner side of the five-mile horseshoeabout the town. This, with its attendant bridges, gave to Arcadia anaspect singularly medieval. It also furnished a convenient line ofsocial demarcation. Chauffeurs, college professors, lawyers, gamblers,county officers, together with a few tradesmen and railroad officials,abode within "the Isle of Arcady," on more or less even terms with theArcadians proper; millmen, railroaders, lumberjacks, and the underworldgenerally, dwelt without the pale.
The company rubbed its lamp again--and behold! an armory, a hospital anda library! It contributed liberally to churches and campaign funds; itexercised a general supervision over morals and manners. For example, inthe deed to every lot sold was an ironclad, fire-tested, automatic andhighly constitutional forfeiture clause, to the effect that sale orstorage on the premises of any malt, vinous or spirituous liquors shouldimmediately cause the title to revert to the company. The company's ownvicarious saloon, on Lot Number One, was a sumptuous and magnificentaffair. It was known as The Mint.
All this while we have been trying to reach the night watchman.
In the early youth of Arcadia there came to her borders a warlock Finn,of ruddy countenance and solid build. He had a Finnish name, and theycalled him Lars Porsena.
Lars P. had been a seafaring man. While spending a year's wage in SanFrancisco, he had wandered into Arcadia by accident. There, being unableto find the sea, he became a lumberjack--with a custom, when in spirits,of beating the watchman of that date into an omelet.
The indulgence of this penchant gave occasion for much adversecriticism. Fine and imprisonment failed to deter him from this playfulhabit. One watchman tried to dissuade Lars from his foible with a club,and his successor even went so far as to shoot him--to shoot Lars P.,of course, not his predecessor--the successor's predecessor, not LarsPorsena's--if he ever had one, which he hadn't. (What we need ismore pronouns.) He--the successor of the predecessor--resigned whenLars became convalescent; but Lars was no whit dismayed by thiscontretemps--in his first light-hearted moment he resumed his oldamusement with unabated gayety.
Thus was one of our greatest railroad systems subjected to embarrassmentand annoyance by the idiosyncrasies of an ignorant but cheerfulsailor-man. The railroad resolved to submit no longer to such caprice. Amiddleweight of renown was imported, who--when he was able to be aboutagain--bitterly reproached the president and demanded a bonus on theground that he had knocked Lars down several times before he--Lars--gotangry; and also because of a disquisition in the Finnish tongue whichLars Porsena had emitted during the procedure--which address, theprizefighter stated, had unnerved him and so led to his undoing. It wasobviously, he said, of a nature inconceivably insulting; the memory ofit rankled yet, though he had heard only the beginning and did not getthe--But let that pass.
The thing became a scandal. Watchman succeeded watchman on the companypayroll and the hospital list, until some one hit upon a happy andingenious way to avoid this indignity. Lars Porsena was appointedwatchman.
This statesmanlike policy bore gratifying results. Lars Porsenastraightway abandoned his absurd and indefensible custom, and noimitator arose. Also, Arcadia within the moat--the island--which wasthe limit of his jurisdiction, became the most orderly spot in NewMexico.
* * * * *
In the first gray of dawn, Uncle Sam, whistling down Main Street on hisway home from the masquerade, found Lars Porsena lying on his face in apool of blood.
The belated reveler knelt beside him. The watchman was shot, but stillbreathed. "Ho! Murder! Help! Murder!" shouted Uncle Sam. The alarmrolled crashing along the quiet street. Heads were thrust from windows;startled voices took up the outcry; other home-goers ran from everycorner; hastily arrayed householders poured themselves from streetdoors.
Lars Porsena was in disastrous plight. He breathed, but that was aboutall. He was shot through the body. A trail of blood led back a few doorsto Lake's Bank. A window was cut out
; the blood began at the sill.
Messengers ran to telephone the doctor, the sheriff, Lake. The knot ofmen grew to a crowd. A rumor spread that there had been an unusualamount of currency in the bank over night--a rumor presently confirmedby Bassett, the bareheaded and white-faced cashier. It was near payday;in addition to the customary amount to cash checks for railroaders andmillhands--itself no mean sum--and the money for regular business,there had been provision for contemplated loans to promoters of newlocal industries.
The doctor came running, made a hasty examination, took emergencymeasures to stanch the freshly started blood, and swore whole-heartedlyat the ambulance and the crowding Arcadians. He administered astimulant. Lars Porsena fluttered his eyes weakly.
"Stand back, you idiots! Bash these fools' faces in for 'em, some one!"said the medical man. He bent over the watchman. "Who did it, Lars?"
Lars made a vain effort to speak. The doctor gave him another sip ofrestorative and took a pull himself.
"Try again, old man. You're badly hurt and you may not get anotherchance. Did you know him?"
Lars gathered all his strength to a broken speech:
"No.... Bank ... Found window ... Midnight ... nearly.... Shot me....Didn't see him." He fell back on Uncle Sam's starry vest.
"Ambulance coming," said Uncle Sam. "Will he live, doc?"
Doc shook his head doubtfully.
"Poor chance. Lost too much blood. If he had been found in time he mighthave pulled through. Wonderful vitality. Ought to be dead now, by thebooks. Still, there's a chance."
"I never thought," said Uncle Sam to Cyrano de Bergerac, as theambulance bore away its unconscious burden, "that I would ever be sosorry at anything that could happen to Lars Porsena--after the way hemade me stop singing on my own birthday. He was one grand old fightingmachine!"
Bransford of Rainbow Range Page 7
