VIII
AN EXPERIMENT
My brother and I had just ridden off the range, when Uncle Jake toldus that a tramp was hanging about the corrals and wished to speak withus.
"He looks like hell," concluded Uncle Jake.
We found him, a minute later, curled up on a heap of straw on theshady side of our big barn. He got up as we approached, and stared atus with a curious derisive intentness of glance, slightlydisconcerting.
"You are Englishmen," he said quietly.
The man's voice was charming, with that unmistakable quality whichchallenges attention even in Mayfair, and enthrals it in thewilderness. We nodded, and he continued easily: "It is late, and sometwenty-six miles, so I hear, to the nearest town. May I spend thenight in your barn. I don't smoke--in barns."
While he was speaking, we had time to examine him. His appearance wasinexpressibly shocking. Dirty, with a ragged six weeks' growth of darkhair upon his face, out at heel and elbows, shirtless and shiftless,he seemed to have reached the nadir of misery and poverty. Obviouslyone of the "broken brigade," he had seemingly lost everything excepthis manners. His amazing absence of self-consciousness made a clown ofme. I blurted out a gruff "All right," and turned on my heel, unableto face the derisive smile upon the thin, pale lips. As I walkedtowards the house, I heard Ajax following me, but he did not speaktill we had reached our comfortable sitting-room. Then, as gruffly asI, he said, "Humpty Dumpty--after the fall!"
We lit our pipes in silence, sensible of an extraordinary depressionin the moral atmosphere. Five minutes before we had been much elated.The spring round-up of cattle was over; we had sold our bunch ofsteers at the top price; the money lay in our small safe; we had beentalking of a modest celebration as we rode home over the foothills.Now, to use the metaphor of a cow county, we had been brought up witha sharp turn! Our prosperity, measured by the ill-fortune of a fellow-countryman, dwindled. Ajax summed up the situation: "He made me feelcheap."
"Why?" I asked, conscious of a similar feeling. Ajax smoked andreflected.
"It's like this," he answered presently. "That chap has been to thebottom of the pit, but he bobs up with a smile. Did you notice hissmile?"
I rang the bell for Quong, our Chinese servant. When he came in I toldhim to prepare a hot bath. Ajax whistled; but as Quong went away,looking rather cross, my brother added, "Our clothes will fit him."
The bath-house was outside. Quong carried in a couple of pails full ofboiling water; we laid out shaving tackle, an old suit of greyflannel, a pair of brown shoes, and the necessary under-linen. A bluebird's-eye tie, I remember, was the last touch. Then Ajax shrugged hisshoulders and said significantly, "You know what this means?"
"Rehabilitation."
"Exactly. It may be fun for us to rig out this poor devil, but we mustdo more than feed and clothe him. Have you thought of that?"
I had not, and said so.
"This is an experiment. First and last, we're going to try to raise aman from the dead. If we get him on to his pins, we'll have to supplysome crutches. Are you prepared to do that?"
"If you are."
"Right! Of course, he may refuse our help. It wouldn't surprise me alittle bit if he did refuse."
When our preparations were complete, we returned to the barn. In a fewwords Ajax told the stranger of what had been done.
"After supper," he concluded, "we'll talk things over. Times arerather good just now, and something can be arranged."
"You're very kind," replied the tramp; "but I think you had betterleave me in the barn."
"We can't," said my brother. "It's too beastly to think of you likethis."
Nevertheless, we had to argue the matter, and I ought to add thatalthough we prevailed in the end, both Ajax and I were aware that theman's acceptance of what we offered imposed an obligation upon usrather than upon him. As he was about to enter the bath-house, heturned with the derisive smile on his lips--
"If it amuses you," he murmured, "I shall have earned my bath andsupper."
When he reappeared, nobody would have recognised him. So far, theexperiment had succeeded beyond expectation. A new man walked into oursitting-room and glanced with intelligent interest at our householdgods. Over the mantel-piece hung an etching of the Grand Canal atVenice. He surveyed it critically, putting up a pair of thin hands, asso to shut off an excess of light.
"Jimmie Whistler taught that fellow a trick or two," he remarked.
"You knew Whistler?"
"Oh yes."
We left him with _Punch_ and a copy of an art journal. Ajax saidto me, as we went back to the barn--
"I'll bet he's an artist of sorts."
It happened that we had in our cellar some fine claret; a few magnumsof Leoville, '74, a present from a millionaire friend. We never drankit except upon great occasions. Ajax suggested a bottle of thiselixir, not entirely out of charity. Such tipple would warm a gravenimage into speech, and my brother is inordinately curious. Our guesthad nothing to give to us except his confidence, and that he hadwithheld.
We decanted the claret very carefully. As soon as our guest tasted it,he sighed and said quietly--
"I never expected to taste that again. It's Leoville, isn't it? And inexquisite condition."
He sipped the wine in silence, while I thought of the bundle of foulrags upon our rubbish heap. Ajax was talking shop, describing withsome humour our latest deal, and the present high price of fat steers.Our guest listened politely, and when Ajax paused, he saidironically--
"Yours is a gospel of hard work. I dare say you have ridden two horsesto a standstill to-day? Just so. I can't ride, or plough, or dig."
Ajax opened his lips to reply, and closed them. Our guest smiled.
"You are wondering what brought me to California. As a matter of fact,a private car. No, thanks, no more claret."
Later, we hoped he might melt into confidence over tobacco and toddy.He smoked one cigar slowly, and with evident appreciation; and, as hesmoked, he stroked the head of Conan, our Irish setter, an ultra-particular person, who abominated tramps and strangers.
"Conan likes you," said Ajax abruptly.
"Is that his name? 'Conan,' eh? Good Conan, good dog!" Presently, hethrew away the stub of his cigar and crossed to a small mirror. With aself-possession rather surprising, he began to examine himself.
"I am renewing acquaintance," he explained gravely, "with a man I havenot seen for some months."
"By what name shall we call that man?" said Ajax boldly.
There was a slight pause, and then our guest said quietly--
"Would 'Sponge' do? 'Soapy Sponge'!"
"No," said my brother.
"My father's Christian name was John. Call me 'Johnson.'"
Accordingly, we called him Johnson for the rest of the evening. Whilethe toddies were being consumed, Johnson observed the safe, a purchaseof my brother's, in which we kept our papers and accounts and anymoney we might have. We had bought it, second-hand, and the vendorassured us it was quite burglar-proof. Ajax mentioned this to ourguest. He laughed presently.
"No safe is burglar-proof," he said; "and most certainly not thatone." He continued in a slightly different tone: "I suppose you arenot imprudent enough to keep money in it. I mean gold. On a big,lonely ranch like this all your money affairs should be transactedwith cheques."
"We are in the wilds," said Ajax, "and it may surprise you to learnthat not so very long ago the Spanish-Californians who owned most ofthe land kept thousands of pounds in gold slugs. In the attic overthis old 'adobe,' Don Juan Soberanes, from whom we bought this ranch,kept his cash in gold dust and slugs in a clothes-basket. His nephewused to take a tile off the roof, drop a big lump of tallow attachedto a cord into the basket, and scoop up what he could. The man whobought our steers yesterday has no dealings with banks. He paid us inUncle Sam's notes."
"Did he?"
Shortly afterwards we went to bed. As our guest turned into the spareroom, he said whimsically--
"Have I enter
tained you? You have entertained me."
Ajax held out his hand. Johnson hesitated a moment--I recalled hishesitation afterwards--and then extended his hand, a singularlyslender, well-formed member.
"You have the hand of an artist," said the ever-curious Ajax.
"The most beautiful hand I ever saw," replied Johnson imperturbably,"belonged to a--thief. Good-night."
Ajax frowned, turning down the corners of his lips in exasperation.
"I am eaten up with curiosity," he growled.
* * * * *
Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a fewnecessaries. When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shruggedhis shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to showtheir emptiness.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, with a certain indescribableperemptoriness.
Ajax answered simply--
"A man must have clean linen. In the town you are going to, a boiledshirt is a credential. I should like to give you a letter to thecashier of the bank. He is a Britisher, and a good fellow. You are notstrong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will findyou a billet."
"You positively overwhelm me," said Johnson. "You must be lineallydescended from the Good Samaritan."
Ajax wrote the letter. A neighbour was driving in to town, as we knew,and I had arranged early that morning for our guest's transportation.
"And what am I to do in return for these favours?" Johnson demanded.
"Let us hear from you," said my brother.
"You shall," he replied.
Within half an hour Johnson had vanished in a buckboard and a cloud offine white dust.
Upon the following afternoon I made an alarming discovery. Ourburglar-proof safe had been opened, and the roll of notes was missing.I sought Ajax and told him. He allowed one word only to escape hislips--
"Johnson!"
"What tenderfeet we are!" I groaned.
"Lineal descendants of the Good Samaritan. Well, he has had a longstart, but we must catch him."
"If it should not be--Johnson?"
"Conan would have nailed anybody else."
This was unanswerable, for Conan guarded our safe whenever there wasanything in it worth guarding. Ajax never is so happy as when he canprove himself a prophet.
"I said he was an artist," he remarked. "The truth is, we tried anexperiment upon the wrong man."
A few minutes later we took the road. We had not gone very far,however, before we met the neighbour who had driven Johnson to town.He pulled up and greeted us.
"Boys," said he. "I've a note for ye from that Britisher."
We took the note, but we did not open it till our Californian friendhad disappeared. We had been butchered, but as yet the abominable factthat a compatriot had skinned us was something we wished to keep toourselves.
"Great Minneapolis!" said Ajax. "Look at this!"
I saw a bank receipt for the exact sum which represented our bunch ofsteers.
"Is that all?" I asked.
Ajax ought to have shouted for joy, but he answered with a groan.
"Yes; there isn't a line of explanation. He said we should hear fromhim."
"And we have," I replied.
We returned to the ranch very soberly. When Ajax placed the bankreceipt in the safe, he kicked that solid piece of furniture.
"We'll drive in comfortably to-morrow, and find out what we can," heobserved.
"I don't think we shall find Johnson," I murmured.
Nor did we. The cashier testified to receiving the roll of notes, butnot the letter of introduction. We hunted high and low for Johnson;but he was not.
"How did he get away without money?" he asked.
"He had money. I stuck a twenty-dollar bill into his coat pocket."
Before leaving town, we visited our gunmaker, with the intention ofordering some cartridges. By the merest chance, he spoke of Johnson.
"A Britisher was in here yesterday: somethin' o' the cut o' you boys."
"In a grey suit with a brown sombrero?"
"Sure enough."
"Did he buy cartridges?"
"He bought a six-shooter and a few cartridges."
"Oh!" said Ajax.
We found ourselves walking towards a secluded lot at the back of theOld Mission Church. Ajax asked me for an opinion which I was too dazedto express.
"We've done a silly thing, and perhaps a wicked thing," said mybrother. "If that poor devil is lying dead in the brush-hills, I shallnever forgive myself. We've given a starving man too heavy a meal."
"Bosh!" said I, believing every word he uttered--the echo, indeed, ofmy own thoughts. "I feel in my bones we are going to see Johnsonagain."
Twenty-four hours later we heard of him. The Santa Barbara stage hadbeen held up by one man. It happened, however, that a remarkably boldand fearless driver was on the box. The stage had been stopped uponthe top of a hill, but not exactly on the crest of it. The drivertestified that the would-be robber had leaped out of a clump ofmanzanita, just as the heavy, lumbering coach was beginning to rolldown the steep hill in front of it. To pull up at such a moment wasdifficult. The driver saw his chance and took it. He lashed theleaders and charged straight at the highwayman, who jumped aside toavoid being run over, and then, being a-foot, abandoned hisenterprise. He was wearing a mask fashioned out of a gunny-sack, newoveralls, and _brown_ shoes! That same night, at Los Olivos, aman wearing brown shoes was arrested by a deputy sheriff because herefused to give a proper account of himself; but, on being searched, aletter to the cashier of the San Lorenzo bank, signed (so ran theparagraph) by a well-known and responsible Englishman, was found inthe pocket of his coat. Whereupon he was allowed to go his ways, withmany apologies from the over-zealous official.
"Johnson!" said Ajax.
"Did he hold up the stage?" I asked.
"Of course he did" replied my brother contemptuously.
After this incident, Johnson, who for a brief time had loomed so largein our imaginations, faded into a sort of wraith. Years passed,bringing with them great changes for me. I left California and settledin England. I wrote a book which excited a certain amount of interest,and inspired some of my old school-fellows to renew acquaintance withme. By this time I had forgotten Johnson. He was part of a distantcountry, where the fine white dust settles thickly upon all things andpersons. In England, where the expected, so to speak, comes to fiveo'clock tea, such surprising individuals as Johnson appear--if theyever do appear--as creatures of a disordered fancy or digestiveapparatus. Once I told the story at the Scribblers' Club to a coupleof journalists. They winked at each other, and said politely that Ispun a good yarn, for an amateur! "I never tell a story," said theelder of my critics, "till I've worked out a climax. You leave us atthe top of a confounded hill in California, bang up in the clouds."
And then the climax flitted into sight, masquerading as a barrel ofclaret. The claret came from Bordeaux. It was Leoville Poyferre, 1899.Not a line of explanation came with it, but all charges were prepaid.I wrote to the shippers. A Monsieur had bought the wine and ordered itto be consigned to me. Readers of this story will say that I ought tohave thought of Johnson. I didn't. I thanked effusively half a dozenpersons in turn, who had not sent the claret; then, hopelesslybefogged, I had the wine bottled.
However, Johnson sent the wine, for he told me so. I had been passinga few days at Blois, and was staring at the Fragonard which hangs inthe gallery of the chateau, when a languid voice said, "This is thebest thing here."
"Hullo, Johnson!" I exclaimed.
"Hullo!" said he.
He had recognised me first, and addressed the remark about the pictureto me. Nobody else was near us. We shook hands solemnly, eyeing eachother, noting the changes. Johnson appeared to be prosperous, butslightly Gallicised.
"How is--Ajax?" he murmured.
"Ajax has grown fat. Can't you dine with me?"
"It's my turn. We must order a bottle of Leoville at once."
"You sent that wine," I exclaimed. There was no note of interrogationin my voice. I knew.
"Yes," he said indifferently; "it will be worth drinking in about tenyears' time."
We had an admirable dinner upon a terrace overhanging the Loire, butthe measure of my enjoyment was stinted by Johnson's exasperatingreticence concerning himself. He talked delightfully of the chateauxin Touraine; he displayed an intimate knowledge of French history andarchaeology, but I was tingling with impatience to transport myselfand him to California. And he knew this--the rogue!
Finally, as the soft silvery twilight encompassed us, he told what Iwanted to know.
"My father was a manufacturer who married a Frenchwoman. My brothershave trodden carefully and securely in my father's footsteps. They areall fairly prosperous--smug, respectable fellows. I resemble mymother. After Eton and Christ Church I was pitchforked into the familybusiness. For a time it absorbed my attention. I will tell you whylater. Then, having mastered the really interesting part of it, I grewbored. I wanted to study art. After several scenes with my father, Iwas allowed to go my own way--a pleasant way, too, but it leddownhill, you understand. I spent three winters in Venice. Then myfather died, and I came into a small fortune, which I squandered. Mymother helped me; then she died. My brothers cut me, condemning me asa Bohemian and a vagabond. I confess that I did take a maliciouspleasure in rubbing their sleek fur the wrong way. Then I crossed theAtlantic as the guest of an American millionaire. He took me on in hisown car to California. I started a studio in San Francisco--and a lifeclass. That undid me, I found myself bankrupt. Then I fell desperatelyill. Each day I felt the quicksands engulfing me."
"But your friends?" I interrupted.
"My friends? Yes, I had friends; but perhaps you will understand me,having seen to what depths I fell, that I couldn't bring myself toapply to my friends. Well, I was at my last gasp when I crawled up toyour barn. I mean morally, for my strength was returning. You and yourbrother rode up. By God! I could have killed you!"
"Killed us?"
"You looked so fit, so prosperous, and I could read you both, couldsee in flaming capitals your pity, your contempt,--aye, and yourdisgust that a fellow-Englishman should be festering before your eyes.I asked for leave to spend the night in your barn, and you said, 'Allright.' All right, when everything was so cruelly, so pitilessly theother way! Then you came back, taking for granted that I must acceptwhatever you offered. I wanted to refuse, but the words stuck in mythroat. I followed you to the bath-house. Was I grateful? Not a bit. Idecided that for your own amusement, and perhaps to staunch yourEnglish pride, which I had offended, you meant to lift a poor devilout of hell, so as to drop him again into deeper depths when thecomedy was over----"
"Good heavens! You thought that?"
"My dear fellow, you write now, don't you? I'm giving you a bit ofpsychology--showing you the point of view of the worm writhing beneaththe boot of lordly Man. But, always, I meant to turn, if I got thechance. I washed myself; I shaved; I slipped into your nice cleanclothes. I'll admit that the warm water removed some encrusted mudfrom my mind, but it sharpened rather then obscured my resolution tomake the most of what looked like a last chance. But when you uncorkedthat Leoville, shame spoiled it for me."
"You drank only two glasses, I remember."
"It brought everything back--everything! If I had had one more glass,I should have laid myself at your feet, whining and whimpering. Thecigar that I smoked afterwards was poppy and mandragora. Through acloud of smoke I saw all the pleasant years that were gone. Again Iweakened. I had aroused your interest. I could have sponged upon youindefinitely. At that moment I saw the safe. Your brother imprudentlymentioned that a large sum of money lay inside it. I made up my mindinstantly to take the money, and did so that night. The dog waslicking my hand as I robbed you. But next morning----"
He paused, then he laughed lightly. "Next morning----"
"You appeared with the kit-bag! That disconcerted me terribly. Itproved what I had not perceived--that you two young Englishmen,tenderfeet both of you, had realised what you were doing, hadseriously faced the responsibility of resurrecting the dead. Theletter to the cashier, the twenty-dollar bill I found in my coat-pocket--these were as scorpions. But I hadn't the nerve to own up. SoI carried the money to the bank and deposited it to your account."
"Then you bought a six-shooter."
"Yes; I meant to try another world. I had had enough of this one. Icouldn't go back to my wallow."
"What restrained you?"
"The difficulty of finding a hiding-place. If my body were discovered,I knew that it would be awful for you."
"Thanks."
"It's easy to find a hole, but it's not easy to pull a hole in afterone--eh? Still, I thought I should find some wild gulch on the SantaBarbara trail, amongst those God-forsaken foothills. The buzzardswould pull the hole in within forty-eight hours."
"Ah! the buzzards." I shivered, seeing once more those grim sextons ofthe Pacific seaboard.
"I found the right place; and just then I saw the stage crawling upthe grade. Immediately the excitement of a new sensation gripped me. Ihad a taste of it when I opened your safe. It seized me again,relentlessly. If I were successful, I might begin again; if I failed,I could shoot myself without imposing an atrocious remorse upon you.Well, the pluck of that driver upset my plans--the plans of anamateur. I ought to have held them up on the upgrade."
"And after you failed----"
"Ah! after I failed I had a lucid interval. Don't laugh! I was hungryand thirsty. The most pressing need of my nature at that moment was asquare meal. I walked to a hotel, and was nailed. Your brother'sletter to the cashier saved me. I realised dimly that I had becomerespectable, that I looked--for the deputy sheriff told me so--anEnglish gentleman--Mr. Johnson, your friend. That's about all."
"All?" I echoed, in dismay.
"The rest is so commonplace. I got a small job as clerk in a fruit-packing house. It led to better things. I suppose I am my father'sson. I failed to make a living, spoiling canvas, but as a business manI have been a mild success."
"And what are you doing now?"
"I buy and sell claret. Any other question?"
"Yes. How did you open our burglar-proof safe?"
Johnson laughed.
"My father was a manufacturer of safes," he answered. "I know thetricks of my trade."
Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch Page 10
