Heart's Desire

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE CONSPIRACY AT HEART'S DESIRE

  _This being the Story of a Sheepherder, Two Warm Personal Friends, andtheir Love-letter to a Beautiful Queen_

  When Tom Osby came back to Heart's Desire, he drew Curly to one side,and the two walked over to a shady spot at the side of Whiteman'scorral, seating themselves for what was evidently to be an executivesession.

  Tom Osby continued to stuff tobacco into his pipe with a stubbyforefinger, and Curly's hat was pushed back from a forehead wrinkled indeep thought.

  "It's a good deal like you say, Tom," he assented; "I know that.Unless we can get Dan Anderson and that girl to some sort of anunderstandin', the jig's up, and there ain't a-goin' to be no railroadat Heart's Desire. But how're you a-goin' to _do_ that?"

  "Well, I done told you what I thought," said Tom Osby. "I'm a marriedman, been married seven times, or maybe six. There's just two things Iunderstand, and them is horses and women, which I ought to, fromassociatin' with them constant. Now, I tell you, if I'm any judge ofwomen, that girl thinks a heap of Dan Anderson, no matter what she letson. It's her that's got the railroad up her sleeve. The old man justthinks she's a tin angel with fresh paint. Why, he's done _give_ herthe whole railroad. He don't want it. He's got money now that'ssinful. Now, I say, she's got the railroad. Dan Andersen's chances,they go with the railroad. If she could just get _him_ to go with thebusiness _chances_, that'd about fix things; and I more'n half believeshe'd drop into line right free and gentle."

  "Well, why don't she _say_ so, then," grumbled Curly, "and stop thisfoolishness?"

  "Now there you go!" replied Tom. "Can't you see that any woman onearth, even a married woman, is four-thirds foolishness and the resthuman? With girls it's still worse'n that. If I'm any judge, she'swishin' a certain feller'd come along and shake the tree. But sheain't goin' to fall off until the tree's done shook. Consequently,there she is, still up the tree, and our railroad with her."

  "Looks like _he_ ought to make the first break," observed Curly,sagely.

  "Of course he ought. But _will_ he, that's the question."

  "No, he won't," admitted Curly, pushing his hat still farther back onhis head. "He's took his stand, and done what he allowed was right.After that, he ain't built to crawfish. He's passed up the girl, andthe railroad, too, and I reckon that settles it."

  "And yet he thinks a heap of the girl."

  "Natural? Of course he does. How can he help it? That's where thetrouble is. I tell you, Tom, these here things is sort of _personal_.If these two folks is havin' trouble of their own, why, it's _their_trouble, and it ain't for us to square it, railroad or no railroad."

  "When two people is damn fools," commented Tom Osby, gravely, "it's allright for foreign powers to mediate a-plenty."

  "But what you goin' to do? She won't bat a eye at him, and he ain'tgoin' to send for her."

  "Oh, yes he _is_," corrected Tom Osby; and the forefinger, crowdingtobacco into his pipe, worked vigorously. "He's _got_ to send forher."

  "Looks to me like we can't do nothin'," replied his friend,pessimistically. "I like that girl, too. Say, I'll braid her a nicehair rope and take it down to her. Maybe that'll kind o' square thingswith her for losin' out with Dan."

  "Yes," scoffed Tom Osby, "that's all the brains a fool cow puncher hasgot. Do you reckon a hair lariat, or a new pair of spurs, is anydecent remedy for a girl's wownded affections? No, sir, not none. No,you go on down and take your old hair rope with you, and give it to thegirl. That's all right; but you're goin' to take something else alongwith you at the same time."

  "What's that?" "Why, you're goin' to take a letter to her,--a letterfrom Dan Andersen's death-bed."

  "Who--me? Death-bed? Why, he ain't _on_ no death-bed. He's eatin'three squares a day and settin' up readin' novels. Death-bed nothin'!"

  "Oh, no," said Tom Osby, "that's where you're mistaken. Dan Anderson_is_ on his death-bed; and he writes his dyin' confession, his messagein such cases made and pervided. He sends his last words to his owntrue love. Says he, 'All is forgiven.' Then she flies to receive hisdyin' words. You ain't got no brains, Curly. You ain't got noimagi_na_tion. Why, if I left all this to you, she'd get here toolate for the funeral. You're a specialist, Curly. You can rope andthrow a two-thousand-pound steer, but you can't handle a woman thatdon't weigh over a hundred and twenty-five. Now, you watch your Pa."

  Curly sat and looked at him in silence for a few minutes, but at last alight seemed to dawn upon him. "Oh, I _see_," said he, smilingbroadly. "You mean for us to get up a letter for him--write it out andsend it, like he done it hisself."

  Tom Osby nodded. "Of course--that's the only way. There wouldn'teither of them write to the other one. That's the trouble with thesehere States girls, and them men from the States, too. You have to takecare of 'em. You and me has got to be gardeens for these two folks.If we don't, they're goin' to make all kinds of trouble for theirselvesand each other."

  "Kin you disguise your handwritin' any, Tom?" asked Curly. "I can't.Mine's kind of sot."

  "Curly," answered Tom, with scorn, "what you call your brains is only aoroide imitation of a dollar watch. Why, of course we can't write aletter and sign his name to it deliberate. That's forgery, and we'dget into the penitentiary for it. That ain't the way to do.

  "Now look here. Dan Anderson may be lookin' right well for a dyin'man, but he's on his death-bed just the same. That's needful for thepurposes of dramatic construction. He's a-layin' there, pale and woreout. His right arm is busted permernent, and it's only a question oftime when he cashes in--though he _might_ live a few days if he wasplumb shore his own true love was a-hastenin' to his bedside."

  "But it was his _left_ arm that got shot," argued Curly; "and itdidn't amount to a whole lot at that."

  "There's you go," jeered Tom, in answer, "with them imitation brainworks of yours. It's his _right_ arm that's busted. Now, hima-layin' there plumb helpless, his thoughts turns to his bride thatmight 'a' been, but wasn't. With his last dyin' words he greets her.If she would only hasten to his deathbed, he could die in peace.That's what he writes to her. 'Dear Madam,' says he, 'Havin' loved youall my life, I fain would gaze on you onct more. In that case,' sayshe, 'the clouds certainly would roll away!'"

  "That shorely would _fetch_ her," said Curly, admiringly, "but how yougoin' to fix it?"

  "Why, how? There ain't but one way. The dyin' man has his dear friendCurly, or Tom Osby, or some one, write his last words for him. Thatain't counterfeitin'. That's only actin' as his literary amanyensis,and that's plumb legal."

  "Things may be legal, and not _safe_," objected Curly. "Supposin' hefinds out?"

  "Why, then, we'll be far, far away. This letter has got to be wrote.I can't write it myself, and you can't; but maybe several of us could."

  "I ain't in on writin' the letter," Curly decided; "I'll carry it, butmy writin' is too sot, and so's my thinker."

  "Well, I ain't used my own thinker in this particular way for abouttwenty years," said Tom Osby, "although I did co'te two of my wives byperlite correspondence, something like this; and I couldn't see butwhat them wives lasted as good as any."

  "It's too bad Dan Anderson ain't in on this play hisself," Curlyresumed. "Now if it was us that was layin' dead, and him writin' theletter, he'd have us both alive, and have the girl here by two o'clockto-morrer, and everything 'd be lovely. But us! We don't know anymore about this than a pair of candy frogs."

  "The fewer there is in on a woman deal the better," said Tom Osby, "andyet it looks like we needed help right now!"

  The two sat gazing gloomily down the long street of Heart's Desire, andso intent were they that they did not see the shambling figure ofWillie the sheepherder coming up the street. Then Tom Osby's gazefocussed him.

  "Now there's that damned sheepherder that broke us up in business,"said he. "It was him that got us into this fix. If he hadn't liedlike a infernal pirate, and got
Dan Anderson to thinkin' that the girland this lawyer feller Barkley was engaged to each other on the side,why Dan wouldn't have flared up and busted the railroad deal, and letthe girl get away, and gone and got hisself shot."

  "S'posin' I shoot Willie up just for luck," suggested Curly. "He's gotit comin' to him, from the way that Gee-Whiz friend of his throwed leadinto our fellers, time we was arguin' with them over them sheep. Thiscountry ain't got no use for sheep, nor sheepherders either, speciallythe kind that makes trouble with railroads, and girls."

  "No, hold on a minute," interrupted Tom Osby. "You wait--I've got aidea."

  "Well, what is it?"

  "Wait a minute. How saith the psalmist? All men is liars; andsheepherders special, natural, eighteen-karat, hand-curled liars--whichis just the sort we need right now in our business."

  Curly slapped his thigh in sudden understanding. The two sat, stillwatching Willie as he came rambling aimlessly up the street, staringfrom side to side in his vacant fashion.

  "A sheepherder, as you know, Curly," went on Tom, "has three stages inhis game. For a while he's human. In a few years, settin' round onthe hills in the sun, a-watchin' them damned woolly baa-baa's of his,he gets right nutty. He sees things. Him a-gettin' so lonesome, anda-readin' high-class New York literature all the time, he gets tothinkin' of the Lady Eyemogene. You might think he's seein' cactus andsheep, but what is really floatin' before him is proud knights, andhaughty barons, and royal monarchs, and Lady Eyemogenes.

  "It ain't sinful for Willie to lie, like it is for us, because life isone continuous lie to him. He's seen a swimmin' picture ofhand-painted palaces, and noble jukes, and stately dames out on theNogal flats every day for eight years. That ain't lyin'--that'simagination.

  "Now this feller's imagination is just about ripe. Usual, at the endof about seven years, a sheepherder goes plumb dotty, and we eitherhave to shoot him, or send him to Leavenworth. Your Gee-Whiz man canmaybe take to cow punchin' and prosper, but not Willie. His long suitis imaginin' things, from now on.

  "Now, that feller is naturally pinin' to write this here particularletter we've got on our minds. You watch Willie compose."

  "Here you, Willie, come over here!" Curly called out.

  The herder started in fright. Timid at best, he was all the more sosince the raid of the Carrizoso stock men. His legs trembled underhim, but he slowly approached in obedience.

  "Willie," said Tom Osby, sternly, "I'm some hardened as a sinner my ownself, but the kind of way you do pains me. What made you tell that lieabout seein' the lady and that lawyer feller makin' love to each other,on the back seat of the buckboard, behind the old man's back?"

  "I _thought_ I seen 'em," pleaded Willie. "I--I _thought_ I heard'em talkin'."

  "Oh, sufferin' saints! Listen to that! You _thought_! Of course youdid. You and that Gee-Whiz friend of yours ought to turn yourselvesinto a symposium and write for the papers. Now look here. Have yougot a copy of the 'Proud Earl's Revenge,' in your pocket?"

  Willie tremulously felt in his clothing, and did produce a dog-earedvolume to somewhat that effect. Tom Osby turned over a few of thepages thoughtfully, and then sat up with a happy smile. "There ain'tno trouble about that letter _now_!" said he.

  "What--what--what do you want?" asked Willie. Then they told him.Willie radiated happiness. He sat down beside them, his handstrembling with joy and eagerness--conspirator number three for thepeace and dignity of Heart's Desire.

  "Go get some paper, Curly," said Tom Osby, and Curly departed. Willieremained wrapped in thought, his mind confused at this suddenopportunity.

  "It's all about Lancelot," said he.

  "What brand did Lancelot ride under? Now, no foolin', Willie."

  "Why--why--why," said Willie, "Lancelot, he's at a tournyment. Now, heloves a beautiful queen."

  "Shore he does! That goes. What's the queen's name?"

  "Her name--her name--her name's Guinevere," replied Willie. "And theproud king, he brooks it ill. The proud king's name is Arthur."

  "Oh, no, it _ain't_!" said Tom Osby. "There ain't no man who's nameis _Arthur_ that has no scrap to him. It ain't _Arthur_ that goes onno war-path."

  "Yes, he did," insisted Willie. "Lancelot gets herded out. He getsshot up some at the tournyment, so he leaves the beautiful queen, andhe rides off for the range all alone by himself. He's like asheepherder."

  "Come on with the paper, Curly," called Tom Osby. "This feller'sthinker is workin' fine. Go on, Willie."

  "Now, Lancelot, he's layin' at the point of death, and he's thinkin'all the time of Guinevere. I reckon he writes her a letter, and hesays, says he, 'Dear Lady, I send thee my undyin' love,' says he. 'Ikiss the picture which is a-layin' on my breast,' says he; 'and with mylast breath,' says he, 'I shorely yearn for thee!'"

  "Meanin' Guinevere?"

  "Shore! Says Lancelot, 'Fair queen, thou didst me a injury onct; butcouldst thou but come and stand at my bedside, I hadst new zeal inlife,' says he."

  "Meanin' he'd get well?" asked Curly. "That's the same as DanAnderson! _This_ feller's a peach!"

  "Shut up!" admonished Tom Osby. "Go on, Willie."

  "It's always that-a-way," said Willie. Tears stood in his eyes. Helooked vaguely out over the blue hills which hedged in the enchantedvalley of Heart's Desire. "It's always that-a-way," he repeated."Somehow, somewhere, there's always a beautiful queen, for everyfellow, just over the mountains. It's always that-a-way."

  Tom Osby reached out a hand and gently shook him.

  "Set up, Willie," said he. "Come down now, till we get this businessfixed. Now, what happens after that?"

  Willie winked his eyes and smiled amiably. "The sick knight, he writesa missive to the beautiful queen," he went on. "He sets his signetring on to the missive, and he hands it to his trusted henchman, andhis trusted henchman flies to do his bidding."

  "That's you, Curly," nodded Tom Osby. "You're the trusted henchman."

  "I'm damned if I am!" replied Curly. "I'm nothin' but a plain cow handfrom the Brazos; but I don't take 'henchman' from nobody!"

  "Hush!" said his friend. "This feller's a genius. If he don't getside-tracked on Dead Shot Dick, or something of that kind, this letteris just as good as wrote, right now."

  "The good knight presses his signet ring on to the missive," resumedWillie, "and his trusted cow hand wraps the missive in the folds of hiscloak, and climbs on to his trusted steed, and flies far, far away, tothe side of the beautiful queen."

  "That's good!"

  "And the beautiful queen reads the missive, and clasps her hands, andsays she, 'My Gawd!'"

  "Oh, _now_ we're gettin' at it!" said Tom Osby. "Say, this is pretty_poor_, ain't it, Curly?"

  "And then," went on Willie, frowning at the interruption, "thebeautiful queen sends for her milk-white palfrey, and she flies to thedistant bedside of the sufferin' knight."

  "She'll take a milk-white buckboard, more likely," said Tom Osby. "Yougot any palfreys on your ranch, Curly? But we'll let it go at that.She's got to fly to the distant bedside somehow."

  "Oh, that'll be all right," agreed Willie, sweetly. "She'll fly.She'll come. It's always the same. It's always the same."

  "Write it down, Willie," ordered Tom Osby, thrusting the paper beforehim. Willie hesitated, and glanced up at Tom.

  The latter balked in turn. "What! Have I got to start it for you?Well, then, begin it, 'Dear Madam!'"

  Curly shook his head. "You couldn't never marry a woman writin' to herthat-a-way." And Tom, rubbing a finger over his chin, had to admit thejustice of the assertion.

  "Leave it to Willie," suggested Curly. "He'll get it started after awhile. Go ahead, Willie. How did he say it to her, now, when he sentfor the beautiful queen?"

  Tom Osby's pencil followed rapidly as it might.

  "He writes," said Willie, "like they always do. He says: 'Light of myheart, I have loved you for these years, and they have seemed so long.I could love no
other woman after seeing you, and this you should knowwith no proof but my word. If I have drawn apart from you, 'twasthrough no fault of mine, and this I pray you to believe. If I havenot acted to my own heart the full part of a man, 'tis for that reasonI have hidden away; but believe me, my faith and my love have been thesame. If I have missed the dear sight of your face, 'twas because Icould not call it mine with honor, nor dare that vision with any pleaon my lips, or any feeling in my heart, but that of honor. Heart'sHeart, and life of my life, could you not see? I could not doom you toa life unfit, and still ask you to love me as a man.'"

  He passed his hand across his face, as though it were not himself heheard speaking; but he went on.

  "'Now I lie here hurt to death,' says the good knight Lancelot. 'Thisis the end. Now, at the time when truth must come from the soul, I sayto you, my queen'--she's always queen to him--'I say to you, I haveloved you more than I have loved myself. But if you could come, if youcould stand at my bedside before it is too late, before it is toolate--too late--'" Willie's voice broke into a wail. The ray of lightwas almost fading from his clouded brain.

  "Go on," whispered Tom Osby.

  "'My queen, my darling--' says Lancelot."

  Willie's hands, trembling, fell into his lap. "It's alwaysthat-a-way," he whimpered vaguely, coming now to himself.

  "Willie," said Tom Osby, gently, "I ain't right sure I've got it alldown straight, but I think I have. You read her over, and touch her uphere and there where she needs it. Curly, look here. I don't believeDan Anderson would hesertate one minute to sign this if he saw it."

  "They sign it with their hearts," said Willie, vaguely. "They alwaysdo."

  "He signs it with his heart," said Tom Osby, "and it goes!" He foldedthe paper and handed it to Curly.

  "Saddle up that Pinto horse, Curly, if you can," said he, "and make therun to Sky Top as fast as God'll let you. This letter's all right, andit goes!"

  So presently there rode down the long sunlit street of Heart's Desire,mounted upon the mad horse Pinto, this courier to the queen, bearing amessage from a mad brain and two simple hearts,--a courier bound upon astrange and kindly errand.

  The blue mountains, beyond whose rim lived the sovereign, looked gentlydown, and the stern walls of the canon seemed to widen and make roomfor the messenger as he swept on, carrying the greetings of an absentknight to his distant queen.

  "It's like he said," mused Curly to himself, feeling in his pocket fortobacco as he rode. "It's that-a-way, and I reckon it always has been.I've felt like that myself sometimes. _Ola, Pinto_! _Vamos_!"