Still Jim

by Morrow, Honore

  Reluctant nods went around the crowd. "And yet," Jim went on, "there's hardly a white man in the camp who hasn't fought me on my ruling that liquor must not come within the government lines. You all know what booze means in a place like this. Those of you who were with me at Makon know what we suffered from it up there. I know you fellows, decent, kindly men now, in spite of your threats to lynch the hombres. But if you could get booze, you'd make this camp a hell on earth right now. No better than a drunken Mexican is a drunken white. Am I right?"

  Again reluctant nods and half-sheepish grins.

  "Now, you fellows forget your lynching bee. Commons, Ralston, Schwartz, you make a committee to raise enough money to send Mrs. Robins and the boy back to New Hampshire with the body. Here is ten to start with. They must leave this noon. Tom Weeks, you make the funeral arrangements. I'll see that transportation is ready at noon. Bill Underwood, you get a posse of fifty men and quarantine this camp for booze."

  A little laugh went through the crowd. Billy Underwood had been the chief malcontent under Jim's liquor ruling. Bill did not laugh. He began to pick his men with the manner of a general.

  "One word more," said Jim. "You all know that the United States Reclamation Service is under the suspicion of the nation. They call you and me a bunch of grafters. It's up to you as much as it is to me to show today that we are men and not lawless hoboes."

  A little murmur of applause swept through the crowd as Jim turned on his heel. He made his way into the Mexican end of the camp. There was noise here of talking and quarreling. Jim walked up to a tall Mexican who was in a way a padrone among the hombres.

  "Garces," said Jim, "send the night shift to bed."

  Garces eyed Jim through half-shut eyes. Jim did not move a muscle. "Why?" asked the Mexican.

  "Because I shall put them to bed unless they are gone in five minutes."

  Jim pulled out his watch. In just four minutes, after a shouted order from Garces, the street was cleared of more than half the hombres.

  "Now," said Jim, "except when the shifts change, you are to keep your people this side of the ditch," pointing to the line that separated the Mexican and American camps. "I have fifty men scouring the camp for whiskey. Anybody found with liquor will be arrested. If there is a particle of trouble over it in your camp, I'll let the Gringos loose. Sabez?"

  Garces shivered a little. "Yes, señor," he said.

  Jim took a turn up and down the street on his horse, then started for the dam site. As he cantered up the road, Billy Underwood, mounted on a moth-eaten pony, saluted with dignity.

  "Boss, that saloon keeper up the canyon has got a billion bottles of booze. Worst whiskey you ever smelled. He says he's laying for you and if you cross his doorstep, he'll shoot you up."

  Jim looked at Bill meditatively. "Bill, I'm going to call his bluff!"

  "Us fellows in my posse'll shoot his place up if you say the word," cried Bill eagerly.

  "No, that won't do," replied Jim. "But I have an idea that he's a four-flusher. Keep your eye on 'Mexico City,' Bill. I am afraid of trouble, though I've got Garces buffaloed so far."

  Jim turned his horse and cantered back through Mexico City along the narrow river trail to Cactus Canyon. Just off the government reserve was a tent with a sheet iron roof. The trail to the tent was well worn. Jim dropped the reins over the pony's head and walked into the tent. There was a rough bar across one end, behind which stood a quiet-faced man with a black mustache. Drinking at the bar were two white men whom Jim recognized as foremen.

  "You two fellows are fired," drawled Jim. "Turn in your time and leave camp this afternoon."

  The Big Boss is king on a project. The two men meekly set down their glasses and filed out of the tent. It was something to have been fired by the big boss himself.

  "And who are you?" asked the saloonkeeper.

  "Don't you recognize me, Murphy?" asked Jim, pleasantly. "I have the advantage of you there. My name is Manning."

  The saloonkeeper made a long-armed reach for a gun that stood in the corner.

  "One moment, please," said Jim. As he spoke he jumped over the bar, bearing the saloonkeeper down with him before the long-armed reach encompassed the gun. Jim removed Murphy's knife, then picked up the gun himself.

  Murphy started for the door with a jump. "Break nothing!" he yelled. "I'll have the law of New Mexico on you for this."

  Murphy leaped directly into Bill Underwood's arms. "Hello, sweetie," said Bill, holding Murphy close. "Thought I'd come up and see how you was making it, Boss."

  "Nicely, thanks," said Jim. "I'll be finished as soon as he breaks up his stock."

  "It'll be some punishment for me to watch a job like that," said Bill, "but I'm with you, Boss."

  He shifted his gun conspicuously as he released Murphy. Bill owed the saloonkeeper something over six weeks' pay. The occasion had an unholy joy for him. Murphy looked Jim over, scratched his head and started to whistle nonchalantly. In ten minutes he had destroyed his stock in trade. When he had finished, he handed Jim the key of the tent with a profound bow.

  "Now," said Jim, "drop a match on the floor."

  When the flames were well caught Jim said, "See that he leaves camp, Bill." Then he mounted and rode away.

  Murphy looked after him curiously. "Some man, ain't he?" he said to Bill.

  "I'll eat out of his hand any time," replied Bill. "Get your pony, Murphy."

  "I'll join your posse," suggested Murphy. "I bet I can ferret out more booze than any three of you."

  "Nothing doing!" growled Bill. "Should think you would have better taste than to wanta do that."

  Murphy shrugged his shoulders. "I want you to let me go up to that Greek fellow's place before I go," he said.

  Bill stared but made no comment.

  As Jim rode back through the lower town he stopped young Hartman, the government photographer.

  "Hartman," he asked, "have the films for the movies come in yet?"

  "Came in yesterday, Mr. Manning."

  "Good work! Hartman, will you give us a show this evening?"

  "The hall's in pretty rough shape but if you want it——"

  "I want it to keep things quiet, Hartman, till we find those hombres and get them in jail at Cabillo."

  The young fellow nodded. "I'll have things ready at seven. After the funeral, I'll get the word out."

  Jim rode on to his neglected work at the office. There he found the members of the committee awaiting him. Even the chairman was eager to know details of occurrences since they had gone reluctantly to bed after midnight.

  When Jim had finished his story, the Vermont man said pompously: "You seem to manage men rather well, Mr. Manning. In behalf of my colleagues I wish to thank you for your hospitality to us. As you know, we must leave this afternoon."

  Jim nodded. "I shall have my superintendent take you over to the train. You will understand that I do not want to leave the camp myself."

  "I wish we could stay and see the end of this," said one of the members. "It's like life in a dime novel."

  "My chief regret is that we only had half of the Mask Ball. After this, when my constituents are tempted to give me a dinner, I shall urge a Mask Ball instead. Never had one given for me before and no débutante ever had anything on my feelings last night," said another.

  "Henderson should have been a country squire," said Jim. "He's a perfect host."

  The camp was quiet during the afternoon. Jim saw the committee off at five o'clock, then went up to the tent house. Sara and he glanced at each other coolly and nodded. Pen started the conversation hurriedly.

  "What word from the two hombres?"

  Jim shook his head. "One posse got away last night before I warned them. I'm afraid that if the murderers are brought into camp I can't avert a lynching bee."

  Pen shivered. Sara grunted. "You'd think Pen had lived in a convent all of her life instead of a death pen like New York."

  "It's so lonesome out here, human life means more t
o you," said Jim.

  "Some philosopher you are," sneered Sara. "Fine lot of drool you got off at the hearing. Why didn't you keep to the main issue? The yokels are still saying with the rest of us, He must be dishonest or he'd give an honest 'No' to our accusations."

  Jim answered slowly: "When a man says that sort of thing to me I usually knock him down, or completely ignore him."

  "You can't knock us all down and the time is rapidly coming when we will be ignoring you, minus a job."

  "Still," pleaded Pen, "he couldn't understand your speech. Once and for all, Jim, give him and all the rest the lie."

  Jim ground his teeth and did not speak. Sara was obviously enjoying himself.

  "You are mistaken, Pen. Jim and I have often discussed the divine origin of the New Englander. They are a pathetic lot of pifflers. They have no one to blame but themselves that they are going. Everywhere else the Anglo-Saxon has gone he has insisted that he had the divine right to rule and has kept it. Outsiders have had to conform or get out. But over here he promulgated the Equality idea. Isaac Gezinsky and Hans Hoffman and Pedro Patello are as fit to rule according to the Equality idea as anyone else. It didn't take much over two hundred years of this to crowd the New Englander out of the running. And who cares?"

  "I do," said Jim, "because I believe in the things my race has stood for. Emerson says it's not chance but race that put and keeps the millions of India under the rule of a remote island in the north of Europe. Race is a thing to be reckoned with. Nations progress as their race dictates."

  "Emerson!" jibed Sara. "Another inefficient highbrow!"

  "I can't help believing," replied Jim doggedly, "that the world will lose in the submerging of the New England element in America."

  "And yet right here, in your America," said Sara, "the leaders of the money trust are descendants of Puritans."

  Jim winced. "'The strength of the pack is the wolf,' When we produced men of that type we should have recognized them and have controlled them. They are helping the pack down hill, all right. Be satisfied, Sara! Only you will not get me off this Project until it is finished."

  "No?" sneered Sara.

  Pen interrupted nervously: "A couple of men are coming up the trail."

  Bill Underwood appeared at the tent door. Murphy was with him. "Boss," said Bill, "Murphy has got to see your Greek friend. I got him started south this noon, but he circled on me and I just picked him up on the mesa, headed this way. He wanted to come here on the quiet, but I brought him up in the open."

  * * *

  CHAPTER XX

  THE DAY'S WORK

  "Women know a loyalty that men scorn while they use it. This is the sex stamp of women."

  Musings of the Elephant.

  With a quick glance at Sara, Jim rose. "Give Mr. Saradokis and his friend a chance to talk, of course, Bill. But shut Murphy up tonight and bring him round to me in the morning."

  Bill essayed a salute that was so curiously like bringing his thumb to his nose that Pen had to turn a laugh into a cough and Jim smiled as he hurried out of the tent. As soon as the murder trouble was settled, Jim thought, he would have some sort of a settlement with Sara. His calm effrontery was becoming unbearable.

  After a hurried supper Jim went back to the lower town to keep his eye on the moving picture show. As he mounted the steps of the little sheet iron building, a girlish figure hurried to meet him from the shadow of the ticket office.

  "Pen!" cried Jim. "This is no place for you!"

  "Oh, lots of women have gone in," protested Pen. "Please, Jim! Sara was so ugly this evening I just walked out and left him alone and I'm crazy to see what goes on down here."

  Jim glanced in at the open door. The hall was nearly full. "If anything goes wrong, Penny, I would have my hands full and you might be hurt."

  Pen gave a little shiver of anticipation. "Oh, please let me stay, Still! Just think how shut in I've been all these years."

  Even though his common sense protested, Jim was an easy victim to Pen's pleading eyes and voice. He led the way into the hall. It was an enthusiastic crowd, that crunched peanuts and piñons and commented audibly on the pictures. Pictures of city life were the most popular.

  "God! That's Fulton street, Brooklyn!" cried a man's voice as a street scene glided across the screen. "Wish I'd never left it."

  "Gee! Look at the street car!" called another man. "I'd give a year of my life for a trolley ride."

  "Look at them trees!" said someone as a view of a middle west farm followed. "Them are trees, boys, not cable way towers! How'd you like to shake the sand out of your eyes and see something green?"

  "What are you peeved about?" exclaimed another voice. "Ain't you working for our great and glorious government that'll kick you out like a dead dog whenever it wants to? Look what it's doing to the Big Boss!"

  "Hi! Man-o'-War at San Diego!" screamed a boy. "See all that wet water! Me for the navy! See how pretty that sailor looks in his cute white panties!"

  Hartman held the crowd for a good two hours, then he called, "That's all, boys! Come again!"

  "All? Nothing stirring," answered several voices. "Begin over again, Hartman. You can collect another nickel from us as we go out."

  There was laughter and applause and not a soul offered to leave. In the darkness Hartman was heard to laugh in return and shortly the first film appeared again. Fields of corn shimmered in the wind. Cows grazed in quiet meadows. The audience stared again, breathlessly. Suddenly from without was heard a long-drawn cry. It was like the lingering shriek of a coyote. Few in the hall had heard the call before, yet no one mistook it for anything but human.

  "An Apache yell!" exclaimed an excited voice.

  There was a sudden overturning of benches and Pen and Jim were forced out into the street with the crowd.

  An arc light glowed in front of the hall. Under this the crowd swayed for a moment, uncertain whither to move. Jim held Pen's arm and looked about quickly.

  "I don't know where you will be safest, Pen. I wish I'd heeded the itching of my thumb and taken you home an hour ago."

  "Jim," said Pen, "I certainly like your parties. They are full of surprises."

  "You are a good little sport," said Jim, "but that doesn't make me less worried about you. Hang onto my arm now like a little burr."

  He began to work his way through the crowd. "I don't want to attract their attention," he said. "They will follow me like sheep."

  "Was it an Apache cry, Jim?" asked Pen.

  "Yes! Old Suma-theek, with a bunch of his Indians has been riding the upper mesa for me tonight. Just to watch Mexico City. I told him to keep things quiet, so there must have been some imperative reason for the cry. I'll take you to the upper camp and get my horse."

  Jim breathed a sigh of relief as they cleared the crowd and could quicken their pace. But they were scarcely out of the range of the arc light when a dark group ran hurriedly down from the mesa back of the town. It was old Suma-theek with four of his Indians. They held, tightly bound with belts and bandanas, two disheveled little hombres.

  "Take 'em to jail, Boss?" panted Suma-theek. "I find 'em trying get back to lower town!"

  "No! No! Back up into the mountains. I'll get horses to you and you must take them to Cabillo. Lord, I forgot to warn you!"

  Suma-theek turned quickly but not quickly enough. A man ran up to the little group then plunged back toward the hall.

  "A rope!" he yelled. "Bring a rope. They've got the two hombres."

  Men seemed to spring up out of the ground.

  "Run, Pen, toward the upper camp!" cried Jim.

  "I won't!" exclaimed Pen. "They won't shoot while a woman is standing here."

  She plunged away from Jim and caught Suma-theek's arm. The old Indian smiled and shoved her behind him. Jim turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Apache chief. "Now work back until we're against the power house with the hombres back of us," he said.

  By the time the crowd was massed, yelling and gesticulatin
g on three sides of it, the little group was backed up against the concrete wall of the little substation.

  Jim waved his arm. "Go home, boys; go home! You can't do any lynching while the Apaches are here!"

  "Give us the hombres, Boss!" shouted a threatening voice, "or we'll have to be rough on you."

  "Send the lady home," called someone else. "This is no job for a lady to see."

  "Boss," said Suma-theek in Jim's ear, "you send your squaw out. She go up mountain back of town, find Apache there, tell all Apaches bring guns, come here, help take hombres to jail."

  Jim looked at Pen and his face whitened. But Pen's nostrils dilated and her eyes sparkled. Pen was Irish.

  "I'll go," said Pen. "Where is Henderson?"

  "He ought to be back," said Jim. "Try to find him after you get the Apaches. Send anybody down you can reach." Then he shouted to the crowd, "Let the lady out!"

  Jim and Suma-theek stood well above most of the mob. Jim was unarmed and the crowd knew it. But even had any man there been inclined to prevent Pen's exit he would rather have done so under a cocked gun than under the look in Jim's white face as he watched Pen's progress through the crowd. The men gave back respectfully. As soon as she was free of the crowd, Pen broke into a run. She darted back behind the line of tents up onto the mountainside.

  There for an instant she paused and looked back. The five Indians were as motionless as the crouching black heaps they guarded. They held their guns in the hollow of their arms, while Jim, with raised arm, was speaking. Pen sobbed in her excitement. If Uncle Denny could see his boy!

  She turned and ran up the trail like a little rabbit. It seemed to her that she never would reach the top. The camp sounds were faint and far before she reached the upper mesa and saw dimly a figure on a horse. It was an Indian who covered her with a gun as she panted up to him.

  "Suma-theek and the Big Boss say for you to call in all the other Indians and come help them at the little power house. The whites are trying to lynch the hombres."