*CHAPTER XXVI*
_*Apache Kid Makes a Speech*_
There was a good deal of the spirit of Coriolanus in Apache Kid, and heknew the worth of all this laudation.
When we at last found ourselves jostled up onto the balcony of thatsaloon which I spoke of once as one of the "toughest" houses in BakerCity, that very saloon at the door of which I had beheld the sheriff ofBaker City give an example of his "smartness," the throng was jostlingin the street and crying out:
"What's the matter with Apache Kid?--He's all right!"
Both question and answer in this cry were voiced always in one, not oneman crying out the question and another replying, and it made the cryseem very droll to me.
Apache Kid was thrust to the front and the crowd huzzahed again andshouted: "Speech!" And others cried out: "Tell us about Farrell'sgang."
So Apache Kid stepped to the rail and raised his head, and, "Gentlemen,"he began, "this is a great honour to me;" and they all cried out again.
"If it is not," said he, "it should be."
I think the majority took this for humour and they laughed and waggedtheir heads and looked up smiling, for more.
"When I think of how so shortly ago I merited your disapproval and now,instead of gaining that, am welcomed so heartily and effusively, Icannot but feel how deeply I am indebted to all the citizens--" hepaused and I heard him laugh in his throat, "of our progressive andprogressing city."
They gave vent to a bellow of pleasure and some cried out again:"Farrell! Farrell! Tell us about Farrell."
"I must appeal to the sense of propriety," he said, "for which ourwestern country is famous. In the West we are all gentlemen."
There was a cry of: "That's what!"
"And a gentleman never forces anyone to take liquor when he does notwant to, never forces anyone to disclose his history when he does notwant to. The gentleman says to himself, in the first instance, 'there isall the more for myself.' In the second case he knows that his own pastmight scarcely bear scrutiny. Ah well! As we are all gentlemen here Iknow that with perfect reliance in you I can say that I had rather notspeak about Farrell and his gang."
There was a slight murmur at this.
"There are men of the gang still in the territory. As you are now aware,it was they who came to you with a cock-and-bull story about me. Inyour desire to further law and order in this progressive Baker City yourightly decided that I must pay the penalty for the deed you believedthat I had done."
He paused a moment and then continued in another tone:
"Now there is nothing I regret more than the sad death of Mr. Pinkerton.He was a man we all honoured and respected. I am glad you do not nowbelieve that I was his slayer. With those who raised that calumnyagainst me--should I meet them--I will deal as seems fit to me."
A great cheer followed this.
Apache Kid cleared his throat.
"Men of Baker City!" he cried, "I wish, finally, to thank you for thisso exuberant expression of your regret that you believed me guilty."
They took this better than I expected. A cheer in which you heard anundercurrent of rich laughter filled the street and drowned his lastwords:
"I bear you no ill will."
He bowed, backed from the balcony-rail into the saloon, touched me onthe arm where I stood by the door, and before those who had followed usin well knew what we were about, we had run through the sitting-roomthat gave out on that balcony, gained the rear of the house, and wereposting back to the jail by the rear street.
But there, relieved at last of the anxiety that had held me together allthe way from the Lost Cabin Mine, knowing now that my friend was safe,all the vigour seemed to leave me.
My memory harked back to the nights in the forests on the hillsides, tothe attack upon us on the shoulder of Baker Ridge, to the mud-slide, tothe night of Canlan's madness, and the previous night of his onslaughton our camp. Larry Donoghue loomed in my mind's eye, large-framed,loose-limbed, heavy-mouthed. Again I saw the summit over which wepassed, the Doreesque ravines and piled rocks, the forest trail, thevalley where Mr. Pinkerton lay, on the cliff of which I had faced theterrors of the snake. I saw the Indians trooping at the ford, the deadmen lying in the wood at Camp Kettle, the red-headed man in the RestHouse, the loathsome "drummer" at the Half-Way House,--and all the whilethe sheriff's voice was in my ears and sometimes Apache's replying.
My brain was in a whirl, and I heard the sheriff say:
"That boy is sick looking."
He said it in a kind, reassuring voice, and I knew that I was in thehome of friends, and need no longer keep alert and watchful and fearful.My chin went down upon my breast.
I had a faint recollection of fiery spirits being poured down my throat,and then of being caught by the arm-pits and lifted and held for awhile,and of voices whispering and consulting around me. Then I felt the airin my face, and came round sufficiently to know I was in the street, andthe dim ovals of faces turned on me, following me as I was hurriedforward at what seemed a terrible speed, and then I opened my eyes tofind myself in a room with the blind down at the open window.
It was night time, for the room was in darkness, and I lay looking at athin cut in the yellow blind, a cut of about three inches long, throughwhich the moonlight filtered; and as I looked at it I saw it begin tomove with a wriggling motion, and even as I looked on it it stretchedupward and downward from either end. At the top ran out suddenly twohorizontal cuts, the lower end split in two, and ran out left and right,and then it all turned into the form of a man like a jumping-jack, withtwitching legs and waving arms. A head grew out of it next, and rolledfrom side to side; it was the figure of Mike Canlan. I turned my head onthe pillow and groaned.
"Heavens!" I cried, "I am haunted yet by this."
And then a great number of voices began whispering in a corner of thechamber. I cried out in terror, and then the door opened and a womanentered, carrying a candle, shaded with one hand, the light of itstriking upon her freckled face and yellow hair.
It was Mrs. Laughlin, and she sat down by me and took my hand, feelingmy pulse, and ran her rough palm across my brow. She may have been abelligerent woman, and had many "tiffs" with her husband, but I cannottell you how soothing was her rough touch to me then,--rough, butextremely kind.
The whisperings kept on, but very faint now,--fainter and fainter in myears like far echoes, and, holding her bony hand, I fell asleep.
The fever of the mountains, the weariness of the way, the fear ofpursuit, the smell of powder, and the sight of dead men's eyes,--allthese I had braced myself against. But now I steeled myself no longer.Now I rested, I, who had feared much and yet been strong (which I haveheard persons say is the greatest form of bravery,--the coward'sbravery), I rested fearless, clinging to this worn woman's hand.
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