CHAPTER X
ART AT HEART'S DESIRE
_How Tom Osby, Common Carrier, caused Trouble with a Portable AnnieLaurie_
The shadows of night had fallen when at length Tom Osby creptstealthily to his door and looked around. The street seemed desertedand silent, as usual. Tom Osby stepped to the side of the bed andwithdrew from under the blankets the bit of gutta-percha which Curlyhad noticed him conceal. He adjusted the record in the machine andsprung the catch. Then he sat and listened, intent, absorbed,hearkening to the wonderful voice of one of the world's greatcontraltos. It was an old, old melody she sang,--the song of "AnnieLaurie."
Tom Osby played it over again. He sat and listened, as he had, nightafter night, in the moonlight on the long trail from Las Vegas down.The face of a strong and self-repressed man is difficult to read. Itdoes not change lightly under any passing emotion. Tom Osby's faceperhaps looked even harder than usual, as he sat there listening, hisunlit pipe clenched hard between his hands. Truant to his trusts,forgetful of the box of candy which regularly he brought down fromVegas to the Littlest Girl, Curly's wife; forgetful of many messages,commercial and social,--forgetful even of us, his sworn cronies,--TomOsby sat and listened to a voice which sang of a Face that was theFairest, and of a Dark blue Eye.
"A voice which sang of a Face that was the Fairest, andof a Dark blue Eye."]
The voice sang and sang again, until finally four conspirators oncemore approached Tom Osby's cabin. He had forgotten his supper. Dinnerwas done, in Heart's Desire, soon after noon. Dan Anderson stoodthoughtful for a time.
"Let him alone, fellows," said he. "I savvy. That fellow's in love!He's in love with a Voice! Ain't it awful?"
Silence met this remark. Dan Anderson seated himself on a stone, andwe others followed his example, going into a committee of the whole,there in the night-time, on the bank of the _arroyo_.
"Did you notice, Curly," asked Dan Anderson--"did you get a chance tosee the name on the record of the singer who--who perpetrated this?"
"No," said Curly. "I couldn't get a clean look at the brand, owin' toTom's cuttin' out the thing so sudden from the bunch. It was somethin'like Doughnuts--"
"Exactly--Madame Donatelli! I thought I rather recognized that voicemy own self."
"Dago!" said McKinney with scorn.
"By trainin', though not by birth," admitted Dan Anderson. "Georgiagirl originally, they tell me, and Dagoized proper, subsequent. AllYankee girls have to be Dagoized before they can learn to sing rightgood and strong, you know. They frequent learn a heap of thingsbesides 'Annie Laurie'--and besides singin'. Oh, I can see the YankeeDago lady right now. Fancy works installed in the roof of her mouth,adjacent and adjoinin' to her tongue, teeth, and other vocal outfit.
"Now, this here Georgia girl, accordin' to all stories, has sungherself into about a quarter of a million dollars and four or fivedifferent husbands with that voice of hers; and that same 'AnnieLaurie' song was largely responsible. Now, why, _why_, couldn't shehave taken a fellow of her size, and not gone and made trouble for TomOsby? It wasn't fair play.
"Now, Tom, he sits humped over in there, a-lookin' in that horn. Whatdoes he see? Madame Donatelli? Does he see her show her teeth and bather eyes when she's fetchin' one of them hand-curled trills of hers?Nay, nay. What he sees is a girl just like the one he used to know--"
"Whoa! Hold on there; that'll about do," said McKinney. "Thiscountry's just as good as--"
"No, let him go on," said Curly to McKinney. "Onct over on theBrazos--"
"Sometimes I think you fellows are inclined to be provincial," said DanAnderson, calmly. "Now, I'm not goin' to talk if you don't leave mealone. Listen. What does Tom Osby see in that horn that he's lookin'into? I'll tell you. He sees a plumb angel in white clothes and ablue sash. She's got gray eyes and brown hair, and she's just a littlebit shorter than will go right under my arm here when I stretch it outlevel."
"That's about right!" said McKinney.
"She's got on white," resumed Dan Anderson, casting a glance about himin the dusk of the evening. "The girl's got to have on white. Thereain't no man can hold out when they come in white and have on a bluesash--it's no use tryin' then.
"Now, there she is, a-settin' at the piano in there in the frontparlor; daddy's gone out into the country after a load of wood, likeenough; old lady's gone to bed, after a hard day's labor. Honeysucklesbloomin' all around, because in New Jersey--"
"It wasn't in New Jersey," said Learned Counsel, hastily, before hethought.
"No, it was in New York," said McKinney, boldly.
"You're all liars," said Curly, calmly; "it was onct on the Brazos."
"Gentlemen," said Dan Anderson, "you are right. It was once on theBrazos, and in Iowa, and in New York, and in New Jersey, and inGeorgia. Thank God, it was there, once upon a time, in all thoseplaces. . . . And, as I was sayin', the birds was just twitterin' inthe evergreen trees along the front walk, some sleepy, because it wasjust gettin' right dark. Vines, you know, hangin' over the edge of thefront porch, like. Few chairs settin' around on the porch. Just alittle band of moonlight layin' there on the front steps, leadin' uplike a heavenly walk, like a white path to Paradise--which was there inthe front parlor, with the best angel there at home.
"The high angel of this here Heaven, like I told you, she's a settin'there in white," he went on; "and with a blue sash--it was blue, now,wasn't it, fellows? And she's lettin' her fingers, God bless 'em, justtra-la-loo-loo, loo-loo-la-la, up and down the keys of the piano herdad gave her when she graduated. And now she's sort of singin' toherself--half whisperin', soft and deep--I hate a thin-voiced woman, ora bad-tempered one, same as you do--she's just singin' about as loud asyou can hear easy down as far as the front gate. And--why, she's asingin' that same tune there, of 'Annie Laurie'! . . . And in yourheart you know it's true, every word of it, all the time, and at anystation!" said Dan Anderson.
"At any station!" said Curly.
"At any station!" said McKinney,
"At any station!" said Learned Counsel.
There were no hats on at that moment. To be sure, the evening air wasa trifle warm.
"And now," said Dan Anderson, after a while, "it's got Tom. Now, whycouldn't it have been a man-Dago to sing that air into the tuneful hornof the mechanical heavenly maid yonder? No reason, only it's got to bea woman to sing that man's song of 'Annie Laurie.' A man couldn't anymore sing 'Annie Laurie' than you could make cocktails without bitters.The only way we can get either one of them here is in bulk, which wehave done. It's canned Art, that's all. Owin' to our presenttransportation facilities, everything has to come here in cans."
Dan Anderson arose and stretched out his arm. "Gentlemen," said he, "Ipresent to you Art!" He raised before him an imaginary glass, which weall saw plainly. "I present to you the cool, pink, and well-flavoredcombination of life and longing with a cherry at the bottom of it.Thanks to Tom Osby, we have Art! We are not quite provincial. Listenat Madame Donatelli tearin' it off in there! . . . Shoot him up,boys!" he cried suddenly. "I'm damned if I'm going to look all my dayson the picture of a girl in a blue sash! The chief end of man is towitness an ecru coyote and a few absolute human failures like you andme. Down with the heavenly maid! Shoot him up! He's a destroyer ofthe peace!"
So we shot up Tom's adobe for a time, joyously peppering the thickwalls, until at length that worthy came out annoyed, a phonographrecord in one hand and a gun in the other.
"Don't, fellers," said he. "You might break something."
"Come out," said Dan Anderson. "Not even grand opera lasts all night.Besides, the price of the box seats is exorbitant. Come on. Get readyto play croquet to-morrow. It's safer."
And so Tom Osby's entertainment came to an end for that evening. Ourlittle party straggled on up the long, deserted street of Heart'sDesire. Dan Anderson turned in at the post-office to see if the dailypaper from El Paso had come in that month.
It was
something that Dan Anderson saw in the daily paper that causedhim on the following day to lead Tom Osby aside. "Did you know, Tom,"said he, "that that opera singer you've got in your box, the 'AnnieLaurie' artist, is goin' to be down in this part of the world beforelong?"
"I never _loved_ a fo-o-o-nd ga-aze-ll-lle!" began Tom Osby,defensively.
"Well, it's true."
"What are you tellin' me?" said Tom, scornfully. "Comin' down here?Why, don't it say that them things is all sung by _artists_?"
"So they are."
"Well, now, a artist," said Tom Osby argumentatively, "ain't nevercomin' within a thousand miles of this here country. Besides, a_artist_ is somebody that's _dead_."
"There's something in that," admitted Dan Anderson. "You've got to bedead to make a really well-preserved, highly embalmed success in art,of course. It's true that in a hundred years from now that song willbe just what it is to-day. That's Art. But I'm tellin' you the truth,Tom. The woman who sang into that machine is alive to-day. Shebelongs to a grand opera troupe under the management of a gent by thename of Blauring, who is in hot water with these stars all his life,but makes so much money out of them that he can't bear to be anythingbut boiled continuous.
"Now, these people are bound for California, for an early season. Theyare goin' six hundred miles at a jump, and they stop at El Paso for amoment, to catch a little of their financial breath. The SouthernPacific raineth on the just and the unjust in the matter of railroadfares. Now, as they are still goin' to be too early for the season onthe coast, Monsieur Blauring has conceived in his fertile brain theidea that it will be an interestin' and inexpensive thing for him tosidetrack his whole _rodeo_ for a few weeks up in the Sacramentos, atthe Sky Top hotel,--that new railroad health resort some Yankees havejust built, for lungers and other folks that have money and no pleasurein livin'."
"How do you know _she'll_ be there?" asked Tom.
"Well, this El Paso daily has got about four pages about it. Theythink it's news, and Blauring thinks it's advertising so they're bothhappy. And this very lady who sang into your tin horn, yonder, will bedown there at Sky Top just about ten days from now."
Tom Osby was silent. The Sacramentos, as all men knew, lay but ahundred miles or so distant by wagon trail. "It ain't so," said Tom,at length. "A singin' artist would choke to death in El Paso. Thedust's a fright."
"Oh, I reckon it's so," said Dan Anderson. "Now, the bull-ring over atJuarez would be a fine place for grand opera--especially for'Carmen'--which, I may inform you, Tom, is all about a bull-fight,anyway. Yes," he went on softly, "I hope they'll sing 'Carmen' overthere. I hope, also, they won't see the name on the Guggenheimsmelters and undertake to give Wagner under a misapprehension. IfBlauring has any judgment at all, he'll stick to 'Carmen' at El Paso.He'd have to hire a freight train to get away with the money.
"But now," resumed he, "after they get done at El Paso, whatever theysing, the grub wagon will be located in the Sacramentos, while oldBlauring, he goes on in advance and rides a little sign out near'Frisco and other places, where Art is patronized copious. Yes,friend, 'Annie Laurie,' she'll be up in Sacramentos; and from all I canfigure, there'll be trouble in that particular health resort."
"Sometimes I think you're _loco_," said Tom Osby, slowly; "then again Ithink you ain't, quite. The man who allows he's any better than thiscountry don't belong here; but I didn't think you ever did."
"No!" cried Dan Anderson. "Don't ever say that of me."
"Of course, I know folks is different," went on Tom Osby, presently."They come from different places, and have lived different ways. Me, Icome from Georgy. I never did have much chanct for edication, along ofthe war breakin' out. My folks was in the fightin' some; and so Idrifted here,"
"You came from Georgia?" asked Dan Anderson. "I was born farthernorth. I had a little schooling, but the only schooling I ever had inall my life that was worth while, I got right here in Heart's Desire.The only real friends I ever had are here.
"Now," he went on, "it's because I feel that way, and because you'regoing to punch your freight team more than a hundred miles south nextweek to see if you can get a look at that 'Annie Laurie' woman--it'sbecause of those things that I want to help you if I can. And that'sthe truth--or something resemblin' it, maybe.
"Now listen, Tom. Madame Donatelli is no Dago, and she's not dead.She was a Georgia girl herself--Alice Strowbridge was her name, and shehad naturally a wonderful voice. She went to Paris and Italy to studylong before I came out West. She first sang in Milan, and herappearance was a big success. She's made thousands and thousands ofdollars."
"About how old is she?" asked Tom Osby.
"I should think about thirty-five," said Dan Anderson. "That is,countin' years, and not experience."
"I'm just about forty-five," said Tom, "countin' both."
"Well, she came from Georgia--"
"And so did I," observed Tom Osby, casually.
Dan Anderson was troubled. His horizon was wider than Tom Osby's.
"It's far, Tom," said he; "it's very far."
"I everidge about twenty mile a day," said Tom, not whollyunderstanding. "I can make it in less'n a week."
"Tom," cried Dan Anderson, "don't!"
But Tom Osby only trod half a pace closer, in that vague, neverformulated, never admitted friendship of one man for another in acountry which held real men.
"Do you know, Dan," said he, "if I could just onct in my life hear thatthere song right out--herself singin', words and all--fiddles, likeenough; maybe a pianny, too--if I could just hear that! If I _could_just hear--_that_!"
"Tom!"
They wandered on a way silently before the freighter spoke. "There issome folks," said he, "that has to do things for keeps, for the rest ofthe folks that can't do things for keeps. Some fellers has to justdrive teams, or run a ore bucket, or play the cards, or something elsecommon and useful--world's sort of fixed up that way, I reckon. Butfolks that can do things for _keeps_--I reckon they're right proud,like."
"Not if they really do the things that keep. That sort ain't proud,"said Dan Anderson.
"Now, I can just see her a-settin' there," went on the freighter. "Itsounded like there was fiddles, and horns, and piannys all around."
"She was maybe standin' up."
"She was a-settin' there," said Tom Osby, frowning; "right there at thepianny herself. Can't you see her? Don't you ever sort of imaginethings yourself, man?"
"God forbid!" said Dan Anderson. "No, I can't imagine things. That'sfatal--I try to forget things."
"Well," said Tom Osby, "I reckon I've been imaginin' things. Now,there she's settin', right at the pianny, and sort of lettin' herfingers run up and down--"
"Tra-la-loo-loo, loo-loo-la-la?" said Dan Anderson.
"Sure. That's just it. Tra-la-la-loo, loo-la-la-la, up and down thewhole shootin' match. And she sings! Now what does she sing? Thatsong about Gingerbread? That Mobile song? No, not none. It's 'AnnieLaurie' she sings, man, it's 'Annie Laurie'! Now, I freighted to ElPaso before the railroad, and I know them boys. They'll tear up thehouse."
"She'll be wearin' black lace and diamonds," said Dan Anderson,irrelevantly; "and when she breathes she'll swell up like a toyballoon. She'll bat her eyes. They got to do those things."
"Man," said Tom Osby, "there's times when I don't like you."
"Well, then, cut out the lace. I'll even leave off the diamonds."
"She's settin' right there," said Tom Osby, wagging his forefinger,"and she's dressed in white--"
"With a blue sash--"
"Sure! And she sings! And it's 'Annie Laurie'! And because I want myown share of things that's for keeps, though I ain't one of the sortthat can do things for keeps, why, I want--why, you see--"
"Yes, Tom," said Dan Anderson, gently, "I see. Now, as you said, it'sonly a few days' drive, after all. I'm goin' along with you. There'swatermelons near there--"
"You _are loco_!"
/> "Not yet," said his friend. "I only meant to point out that the bestmelons these embalmed Greasers raise in their little tablecloth farmin'operations is right down there in the valley at the foot of theSacramentos. Now, you may have noticed that sometimes a fellow oughtto cover up his tracks. What's to hinder you and me just takin' alittle _pasear_ down in toward the Sacramentos, on the southeast side,after a load of melons? They're better than cactus for the boys here.That's straight merchandisin', and, besides, it's Art. And--well, Ithink that's the best way.
"We don't all of us always get our share, Tom," resumed Dan Anderson;"we don't always get our share of the things that are for keeps; butit's the right of every man to try. Every once in a while, by justtryin' and pluggin' along on the dead square, a fellow gets somethingwhich turns out in the clean-up to be the sort that was for keeps,after all, even if it wasn't just what he thought he wanted."
"Then you'll go along?"
"_Si, amigo_! Yes, I'll go along."
They parted, Dan Anderson to seek his own lonely adobe. There heclosed the door, as though he feared intrusion. The old restlessnesscoming over him, he paced up and down the narrow, cagelike room.Presently he approached a tiny mirror that hung upon the wall, andstood looking into it intently. "Fool!" he muttered. "Liar, and fool,and coward--you, you! You'll take care of Tom, will you? But who'lltake care of _you_?"
He seated himself on the blanketed bed, and picked up the newspaperwhich he had brought home with him. He gazed long and steadily at itbefore he tore it across and flung it on the floor. It held more newsthan he had given to Tom Osby. In brief, there was a paragraph whichannounced the arrival in town of Mr. John Ellsworth, President of thenew A. P. and S. E. Railway, his legal counsel, Mr. Porter Barkley,also of New York, and Miss Constance Ellsworth. This party was boundfor Sky Top, where business of importance would in all likelihood betransacted, as Mr. Ellsworth expected to meet there the engineers onthe location of the road.
"I ought not to go," said Dan Anderson to himself, over and over again."I _must_ not go . . . But I'm going!"
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