This is in the long time ago when the sun is younger an’ not so big an’ hot as now, an’ Kwa-Sind, the Strong Man, is a chief of the Upper Yellowstone Sioux. It is on a day in the Moon-of-the-first-frost an’ Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear, is gathering black-berries an’ filling his mouth. As Moh-Kwa pulls the bush towards him, he pierces his paw with a great thorn so that it makes him howl an’ shout, for much is his rage an’ pain. Moh-Kwa cannot get the great thorn out; because Moh-Kwa’s claws while sharp an’ strong are not fingers to pull out a thorn; an’ the more Moh-Kwa bites his paw to get at the thorn, the further he pushes it in. At last Moh-Kwa sits growling an’ looking at the thorn an’ wondering what he is to do.
While Moh-Kwa is wondering an’ growling, there comes walking Shaw-shaw, the Swallow, who is a young man of the Sioux. The Swallow has a good heart; but his spirit is light an’ his nature as easily blown about on each new wind as a dead leaf. So the Sioux have no respect for the Swallow but laugh when he comes among them, an’ some even call him Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward, for they do not look close, an’ mistake lightness for fear.
When the Swallow came near, Moh-Kwa, still growling, held forth his paw an’ showed the Swallow how the thorn was buried in the big pad so that he could not bite it out an’ only made it go deeper. An’ with that the Swallow, who had a good heart, took Moh-Kwa’s big paw between his knees an’ pulled out the great thorn; for the Swallow had fingers an’ not claws like Moh-Kwa, an’ the Swallow’s fingers were deft an’ nimble to do any desired deed.
When Moh-Kwa felt the relief of that great thorn out of his paw, he was grateful to the Swallow an’ thought to do him a favor.
“You are laughed at,” said Moh-Kwa to the Swallow, “because your spirit is light as dead leaves an’ too much blown about like a tumbleweed wasting its seeds in foolish travelings to go nowhere for no purpose so that only it goes. Your heart is good, but your work is of no consequence, an’ your name will win no respect; an’ with years you will be hated since you will do no great deeds. Already men call you Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward. I am Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear of the Yellowstone, an’ I would do you a favor for taking my paw an’ the thorn apart. But I cannot change your nature; only Pau-guk, the Death, can do that; an’ no man may touch Pau-guk an’ live. Yet for a favor I will give you three gifts, which if you keep safe will make you rich an’ strong an’ happy; an’ all men will love you an’ no longer think to call you Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward.”
Moh-Kwa when he had ended this long talk, licked his paw where had been the great thorn, an’ now that the smart was gone an’ he could put his foot to the ground an’ not howl, he took the Swallow an’ carried him to his house in the rocks. An’ Moh-Kwa gave the Swallow a knife, a necklace of bear-claws, an’ a buffalo robe.
“While you carry the knife,” said Moh-Kwa, “all men will respect an’ fear you an’ the squaws will cherish you in their hearts. While you wear the bear-claws, you will be brave an’ strong, an’ whatever you want you will get. As for the skin of the buffalo, it is big medicine, an’ if you sit upon it an’ wish, it will carry you wherever you ask to go.”
Besides the knife, the bear-claws an’ the big medicine robe, Moh-Kwa gave the Swallow the thorn he had pulled from his foot, telling him to sew it in his moccasin, an’ when he was in trouble it would bring Moh-Kwa to him to be a help. Also, Moh-Kwa warned the Swallow to beware of a cunning squaw.
“For,” said Moh-Kwa, “your nature is light like dead leaves, an’ such as you seek ever to be a fool about a cunning squaw.”
When the Swallow came again among the Sioux he wore the knife an’ the bear-claws that Moh-Kwa had given him; an’ in his lodge he spread the big medicine robe. An’ because of the knife an’ the bear-claws, the warriors respected an’ feared him, an’ the squaws loved him in their hearts an’ followed where he went with their eyes. Also, when he wanted anything, the Swallow ever got it; an’ as he was swift an’ ready to want things, the Swallow grew quickly rich among the Sioux, an’ his lodge was full of robes an’ furs an’ weapons an’ new dresses of skins an’ feathers, while more than fifty ponies ate the grass about it.
Now, this made Kwa-Sind, the Strong Man, angry in his soul’s soul; for Kwa-Sind was a mighty Sioux, an’ had killed a Pawnee for each of his fingers, an’ a Blackfoot an’ a Crow for each of his toes, an’ it made his breast sore to see the Swallow, who had been also called Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward, thought higher among the Sioux an’ be a richer man than himself. Yet Kwa-Sind was afraid to kill the Swallow lest the Sioux who now sung the Swallow’s praises should rise against him for revenge.
Kwa-Sind told his hate to Wah-bee-noh, who was a medicine man an’ juggler, an’ agreed that he would give Wah-bee-noh twenty ponies to make the Swallow again as he was so that the Sioux would laugh at him an’ call him Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward.
Wah-bee-noh, the medicine man, was glad to hear the offer of Kwa-Sind, for he was a miser an’ thought only how he might add another pony to his herd. Wah-bee-noh told Kwa-Sind he would surely do as he asked, an’ that the Swallow within three moons would be despised among all the Sioux.
Wah-bee-noh went to his lodge an’ made his strongest medicine an’ called Jee-bi, the Spirit. An’ Jee-bi, the Spirit, told Wah-bee-noh of the Swallow’s knife an’ bear-claws an’ the medicine robe.
An’ now Wah-bee-noh made a plan an’ gave it to his daughter who was called Oh-pee-chee, the Robin, to carry out; for the Robin was full of craft an’ cunning, an’ moreover, beautiful among the young girls of the Sioux.
The Robin dressed herself until she was like the red bird; an’ then she walked up an’ down in front of the lodge of the Swallow. An’ when the Swallow saw her, his nature which was light as dead leaves at once became drawn to the Robin, an’ the Swallow laughed an’ made a place by his side for the Robin to sit down. With that the Robin came an’ sat by his side; an’ after a little she sang to him Ewah-yeah, the Sleep-song, an’ the Swallow was overcome; his eyes closed an’ slumber settled down upon him like a night-fog.
Then the Robin stole the knife from its sheath an’ the bear-claws from about the neck of the Swallow; but the medicine robe the Robin could not get because the Swallow was asleep upon it, an’ if she pulled it from beneath him he would wake up.
The Robin took the knife an’ the bear-claws an’ carried them to Wah-bee-noh, her father, who got twelve ponies from Kwa-Sind for them an’ added the ponies to his herd. An’ the heart of Wah-bee-noh danced the miser’s dance of gain in his bosom from mere gladness; an’ because he would have eight more ponies from Kwa-Sind, he sent the Robin back to steal the medicine robe when the Swallow should wake up.
The Robin went back, an’ finding the Swallow still asleep on the medicine robe, lay down by his side; an’ soon she too fell asleep, for the Robin was a very tired squaw since to be cunning an’ full of craft is hard work an’ soon wearies one.
When the Swallow woke up he missed his knife an’ bear-claws. Also, he remembered that Moh-Kwa had warned him for the lightness of his spirit to beware of a cunning squaw. When these thoughts came to the Swallow, an’ seeing the Robin still sleeping by his side, he knew well that she had stolen his knife an’ bear-claws.
Now, the Swallow fell into a great anger an’ thought an’ thought what he should do to make the Robin return the knife an’ bear-claws she had stolen. Without them the Sioux would laugh at him an’ despise him as before, an’ many would again call him Shau-goh-dah-wah, the Coward, an’ the name bit into the Swallow’s heart like a rattlesnake an’ poisoned it with much grief.
While the Swallow thought an’ the Robin still lay sleeping, a plan came to him; an’ with that, the Swallow seeing he was with the Robin lying on the medicine robe, sat up an’ wished that both himself an’ the Robin were in a far land of rocks an’ sand where a great pack of wolves lived.
Like the flash an’ the flight of an arrow, the Swallow with the Robin still asleep by his side, an’ with the medicine robe still beneath them on the ground, found himself in a desolate land of rocks an’ sands, an’ all about him came a band of wolves who yelped an’ showed their teeth with the hunger that gnawed their flanks.
Because the wolves yelped, the Robin waked up; an’ when she saw their white teeth shining with hunger she fell down from a big fear an’ cried an’ twisted one hand with the other, thinking Pau-guk, the Death, was on his way to get her. The Robin wept an’ turned to the Swallow an’ begged him to put her back before the lodge of Wah-bee-noh, her father.
But the Swallow, with the anger of him who is robbed, spoke hard words out of his mouth.
“Give me back the knife an’ the bear-claws you have stolen. You are a bad squaw, full of cunning an’ very crafty; but here I shall keep you an’ feed you—legs an’ arms an’ head an’ body—to my wolf-friends who yelp an’ show their teeth out yonder, unless I have my knife an’ bear-claws again.”
This brought more fear on the Robin, an’ she felt that the Swallow’s words were as a shout for Pau-guk, the Death, to make haste an’ claim her; yet her cunning was not stampeded but stood firm in her heart.
The Robin said that the Swallow must give her time to grow calm an’ then she would find the knife an’ bear-claws for him. While the Swallow waited, the Robin still wept an’ sobbed for fear of the white teeth of the wolves who stood in a circle about them. But little by little, the crafty Robin turned her sobs softly into Ewah-yeah, the Sleep-song; an’ soon slumber again tied the hands an’ feet an’ stole the eyes of the Swallow.
Now the Robin did not hesitate. She tore the big medicine robe from beneath the Swallow; throwing herself into its folds, the Robin wished herself again before Wah-bee-noh’s lodge, an’ with that the robe rushed with her away across the skies like the swoop of a hawk. The Swallow was only awake in time to see the Robin go out of sight like a bee hunting its hive.
Now the Swallow was so cast down with shame that he thought he would call Pau-guk, the Death, an’ give himself to the wolves who sat watching with their hungry eyes. But soon his heart came back, an’ his spirit which was light as dead leaves, stirred about hopefully in his bosom.
While he considered what he should now do, helpless an’ hungry, in this desolate stretch of rocks an’ sand an’ no water, the thorn which had been in Moh-Kwa’s paw pricked his foot where it lay sewed in his moccasin. With that the Swallow wished he might only see the Wise Bear to tell him his troubles.
As the Swallow made this wish, an’ as if to answer it, he saw Moh-Kwa coming across the rocks an’ the sand. When the wolves saw Moh-Kwa, they gave a last howl an’ ran for their hiding places.
Moh-Kwa himself said nothing when he came up, an’ the Swallow spoke not for shame but lay quiet while Moh-Kwa took him by the belt which was about his middle an’ throwing him over his shoulder as if the Swallow were a dead deer, galloped off like the wind for his own house.
When Moh-Kwa had reached his house, he gave the Swallow a piece of buffalo meat to eat. Then Moh-Kwa said:
“Because you would be a fool over a beautiful squaw who was cunning, you have lost my three gifts that were your fortune an’ good fame. Still, because you were only a fool, I will get them back for you. You must stay here, for you cannot help since your spirit is as light as dead leaves, an’ would not be steady for so long a trail an’ one which calls for so much care to follow.”
Then Moh-Kwa went to the door of his house an’ called his three friends, Sug-gee-mah, the Mosquito, Sub-bee-kah-shee, the Spider, an’ Wah-wah-tah-see, the Firefly; an’ to these he said:
“Because you are great warriors an’ fear nothing in your hearts I have called you.”
An’ at that, Wah-wah-tah-see, an’ Sub-bee-kah-shee, an’ Sug-gee-mah stood very straight an’ high, for being little men it made them proud because so big a bear as Moh-Kwa had called them to be his help.
“To you, Sub-bee-kah-shee,” said Moh-Kwa, turning to the Spider, “I leave Kwa-Sind; to you, Wah-wah-tah-see, the Firefly, falls the honor of slaying Wah-bee-noh, the bad medicine man; while unto you, Sug-gee-mah descends the hardest task, for you must fight a great battle with Nee-pah-win, the Sleep.”
Moh-Kwa gave his orders to his three friends; an’ with that Sub-bee-kah-shee, crept to the side of Kwa-Sind where he slept an’ bit him on the cheek; an’ Kwa-Sind turned first gray an’ then black with the spider’s venom, an’ then died in the hands of Pau-guk, the Death, who had followed the Spider to Kwa-Sind’s lodge.
While this was going forward, Wah-wah-tah-see, the Firefly, came as swift as wing could carry to the lodge where Wah-bee-noh was asleep rolled up in a bear-skin. Wah-bee-noh was happy, for with the big medicine robe which the Robin had brought him, he already had bought the eight further ponies from Kwa-Sind an’ they then grazed in Wah-bee-noh’s herd. As Wah-bee-noh laughed in his sleep because he dreamed of the twenty ponies he had earned from Kwa-Sind, the Firefly stooped an’ stung him inside his mouth. An’ so perished Wah-bee-noh in a flame of fever, for the poison of Wah-wah-tah-see, the Firefly, burns one to death like live coals.
Sug-gee-mah, the Mosquito, found Nee-pah-win, the Sleep, holding the Robin fast. But Sug-gee-mah was stout, an’ he stooped an’ stung the Sleep so hard he let go of the Robin an’ stood up to fight.
All night an’ all day an’ all night, an’ yet many days an’ nights, did Sug-gee-mah, the ‘bold Mosquito, an’ Nee-pah-win, the Sleep, fight for the Robin. An’ whenever Nee-pah-win, the Sleep, would take the Robin in his arms, ‘Sug-gee-mah, the Mosquito, would strike him with his little lance. For many days an’ nights did Sug-gee-mah, the Mosquito, hold Nee-pah-win, the Sleep, at bay; an’ in the end the Robin turned wild an’ crazy, for unless Nee-pah-win, the Sleep, takes each man an’ woman in his arms when the sun goes down it is as if they were bitten by the evil polecats who are rabid; an’ the men an’ women who are not held in the arms of Nee-pah-win go mad an’ rave like starved wolves till they die. An’ thus it was with the Robin. After many days an’ nights, Pau-guk, the Death, came for her also, an’ those three who had done evil to the Swallow were punished.
Moh-Kwa, collecting the knife, the bear-claws an’ the big medicine robe from the lodge of Kwa-Sind, gave them to the Swallow again. This time the Swallow stood better guard, an’ no squaw, however cunning, might make a fool of him—though many tried—so he kept his knife, the bear-claws, an’ the big medicine robe these many years while he lived.
As for Sub-bee-kah-shee, the Spider, an’ Wah-wah-tah-see, the Firefly, an’ Sug-gee-mah, the brave Mosquito, Moh-Kwa, the Wise Bear, for a reward gave them an’ their countless squaws an’ papooses forever that fine swamp where Apuk-wah, the Bulrush, grows thick an’ green, an’ makes a best hunting grounds for the three little warriors who killed Kwa-Sind, Wah-bee-noh, an’ the Robin on that day when Moh-Kwa called them his enemies. An’ now when every man was at peace an’ happy, Moh-Kwa brought the Sioux together an’ re-named the Swallow “Thorn-Puller;” an’ by that name was he known till he died.
“How many are there of these Sioux folk-lore tales?” asked the Jolly Doctor of Sioux Sam.
“How many leaves in June?” asked Sioux Sam. “If our Great Medicine”—so he called the Jolly Doctor—“were with the Dakotahs, the old men an’ the squaws would tell him a fresh one for every fresh hour of his life. There is no end.”
While the Jolly Doctor was reflecting on this reply, the Red Nosed Gentleman, raising his glass of burgundy to the Sour Gentleman who returned the compliment in whiskey, said:
“My respects to you, sir; and may we hope you will now give us that adventure of The German Girl’s Diamonds?”
“I shall have the utmost pleasure,” responded the Sour Gentleman. “You may not consider it of mighty value as a story, but perhaps as a chapter in former Custom’s iniquity one may concede it a use.”
It cannot be said, my friends, that I liked my position in that sink of evil, the New York Customs. I was on good terms with my comrades, but I founded no friendships among them. It has been and still is a belief of mine, and one formed at an early age, that everybody wears suggestive resemblance to some bird or fish or beast. I’ve seen a human serpent’s face, triangular, poisonous, menacing with ophidian eyes; I’ve seen a dove’s face, soft, gentle, harmless, and with lips that cooed as they framed and uttered words. And there are faces to remind one of dogs, of sheep, of apes, of swine, of eagles, of pike—ravenous, wide-mouthed, swift. I’ve even encountered a bear’s face on Broadway—one full of a window-peering curiosity, yet showing a contented, sluggish sagacity withal. And every face about me in the Customs would carry out my theory. As I glanced from Lorns to Quin, and from Quin to another, and so to the last upon the list, I beheld reflected as in a glass, a hawk, or an owl, or a wolf, or a fox, or a ferret, or even a cat. But each rapacious; each stamped with the instinct of predation as though the word “Wolf” were written across his forehead. Even Betelnut Jack gave one the impression that belongs with some old, rusty black-eagle with worn and tumbled plumage. I took no joy of my comrades; saw no more of them than I might; despised my trade of land-pirate—for what better could it be called?—and following that warning from “Josephus” was ever haunted of a weird fear of what might come. Still, I remained and claimed my loot with the rest. And you ask why? When all is said, I was as voracious as the others; I clinked the coins in my pocket, and consoled myself against the foul character of such profits with that thought of Vespasian: “The smell of all money is sweet.”
Following my downfall of tobacco, I had given up my rich apartments in Twenty-second Street; and while I retained my membership, I went no more to the two or three clubs into which I’d been received. In truth, these Custom House days I seldom strolled as far northward as Twenty-third Street; but taking a couple of moderate rooms to the south of Washington Square, I stuck to them or to the park in front as much as ever I might; passing a lonely life and meeting none I’d known before.
One sun-filled September afternoon, being free at that hour, I was occupying a bench in Washington Square, amusing my idleness with the shadows chequered across the walk by an overspreading tree. A sound caught my ear; I looked up to be mildly amazed by the appearance of Betelnut Jack. It was seldom my chief was found so far from his eyrie in the Bowery; evidently he was seeking me. His first words averred as much.
“I was over to your rooms,” remarked Betelnut Jack; “they told me you were here.”
Then he gave me a pure Havana—for we of the Customs might smoke what cigars we would—lighted another and betook himself to a few moments of fragrant, wordless tranquility. I was aware, of course, that Betelnut Jack had a purpose in coming; but curiosity was never among my vices, and I did not ask his mission. With a feeling of indifference, I awaited its development in his own good way and time.
Betelnut Jack was more apt to listen than talk; but upon this Washington Square afternoon, he so far departed those habits of taciturnity commonly his own as to furnish the weight of conversation. He did not hurry to his business, but rambled among a score of topics. He even described to me by what accident he arrived at his by-name of Betelnut Jack. He said he was a sailor in his youth. Then he related how he went on deep water ships to India and to the China seas; how he learned to chew betel from the Orientals; how after he came ashore he was still addicted to betel; how a physician, ignorant of betel and its crimson consequences, fell into vast excitement over what he concevied to be a perilous hemorrhage; and how before Jack could explain, seized on him and hurried him into a near-by drug shop. When he understood his mistake, the physician took it in dudgeon, and was inclined to blame Jack for those sanguinary yet fraudulent symptoms. One result of the adventure was to re-christen him “Betelnut Jack,” the name still sticking, albeit he had for long abandoned betel as a taste outgrown.
Betelnut Jack continued touching his career in New York; always with caution, however, slurring some parts and jumping others; from which I argued that portions of my chief’s story were made better by not being divulged. It occurred, too, as a deduction drawn from his confidences that Betelnut Jack had been valorous as a Know-Nothing; and he spoke with rapture of the great prize-fighter, Tom Hyer, who beat Yankee Sullivan; and then of the fistic virtues of the brave Bill Poole, coming near to tears as he set forth the latter’s murder in Stanwix Hall.
Also, I gathered that Betelnut Jack had been no laggard at hurling stones and smashing windows in the Astor Place riot of 1849.
“And the soldiers killed one hundred and thirty-four,” sighed Betelnut Jack, when describing the battle; “and wounded four times as many more. And all, mind you! for a no-good English actor with an Irish name!” This last in accents of profound disgust.
In the end Betelnut Jack began to wax uneasy; it was apparent how he yearned for his nest in the familiar Bowery. With that he came bluntly to the purpose.
“To-morrow, early,” he said, “take one of the women inspectors and go down to quarantine. Some time in the course of the day, the steamship ‘Wolfgang,’ from Bremen, will arrive. Go aboard at once. In the second cabin you will find a tall, gray, old German; thin, with longish hair. He may have on dark goggles; if he hasn’t, you will observe that he is blind of the right eye. His daughter, a girl of twenty-three, will be with him. Her hair will be done up in that heavy roll which hair-dressers call the ‘waterfall,’ and hang in a silk close-meshed net low on her neck. Hidden in the girl’s hair are diamonds of a Berlin value of over one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. You will search the old man, and have the woman inspector search the girl. Don’t conduct yourselves as though you knew what you were looking for. Tell your assistant to find the girl’s diamonds naturally; let her work to them by degrees, not swoop on them.”
Then Betelnut Jack disposed himself for homeward flight. I asked how he became aware of the jewels and the place of their concealment.
“Never mind that now,” was his reply; “you’ll know later. But get the diamonds; they’re there and you must not fail. I’ve come for you, as you’re more capable of doing the gentleman than some of the others, and this is a case where a dash of refinement won’t hurt the trick.”
With that Betelnut Jack lounged over to Fourth Street and disappeared towards Broadway and the Bowery further east.
Following my chief’s departure, I continued in idle contemplation of the shadows. This occupation did not forbid a mental looking up and down of what would be my next day’s work. The prospect was far from refreshing. When one is under thirty, a proposal to plunder a girl—a beautiful girl, doubtless—of her diamonds, does not appeal to one. There would be woe, tears, lamentations, misery with much wringing of hands. I began to call myself a villain.
Then, as against her, and defensive of myself, I argued the outlaw character of the girl’s work. Be she beautiful or be she favored ill, still she is breaking the law. It was our oath to seize the gems; whatever of later wrong was acted, at best or worst, it was no wrong done her. In truth! when she was at last left free and at liberty, she would be favored beyond her deserts; for those Customs laws which she was cheating spoke of grates and keys and bars and bolts.
In this wise, and as much as might be, I comforted myself against the disgrace of an enterprise from which I naturally recoiled, hardening myself as to the poor girl marked to be our prey. I confess I gained no great success; say what I might, I contemned myself.
While thus ruminating that dishonor into which I conceived myself to have fallen, I recalled a story written by Edgar Allen Poe. It is a sketch wherein a wicked man is ever followed and thwarted by one who lives his exact semblance in each line of face and form. This doppel-ganger, as the Germans name him, while the same with himself in appearance and dress, is his precise opposite in moral nature. This struggle between the haunted one and his weird, begins in boyhood and continues till middle age. At the last, frantic under a final opposition, the haunted one draws sword and slays his enemy. Too late, as he wipes the blood from his blade, he finds that he has killed his better self; too late he sees that from that time to the end, the present will have no hope, the future hold no heaven; that he must sink and sink and sink, until he is grasped by those hands outstretched of hell to forever have him for their horrid own. I wondered if I were not like that man unhappy; I asked if I did not, by these various defenses and apologies which I made ever for my wickedness, work towards the death of my better nature whose destruction when it did come would mean the departure forever of my soul’s chance.
I stood up and shook myself in a canine way. Decidedly, loneliness was making me morbid! However that may have been, I passed a far from happy afternoon.
Fairly speaking, these contentions shook me somewhat in my resolves. There were moments when I determined to refuse my diamond-hunting commission and resign my place. I even settled the style of my resignation; it should be full of sarcasm.
But alas! these white dreams faded; in the end I was ready to execute the orders of Betelnut Jack; and that which decided me was surely the weakest thought of all. Somehow, I had in my thoughts put down the coming German maiden as beautiful; Betelnut Jack had said her age was twenty-three, which helped me to this thought of girlish loveliness. Thus, my imaginings worked in favor of the girl.
But next the thought fell blackly that she would some day—probably a near day—love some man unknown and marry him. Possibly this lover she already knew; perhaps he was here and she on her way to meet him! This will sound like jest; it will earn derision from healthful, balanced spirits; and yet I tell but the truth.
I experienced a vague, resentful jealousy, hated this imagined lover of a girl I’d never met, and waxed contemptuous of aught of leniency towards one or both. I would do as Betelnut Jack ordered; I would go down to quarantine on the morrow; and I would find the diamonds.
It was late in the afternoon when with a woman assistant, I boarded the “Wolfgang” in the Narrows. My aged German was readily picked up; his daughter was with him. And her beauty was as I’d painted on the canvas of my thoughts. Yet when I beheld the loveliness which should have melted me, I recalled that lover to whose arms she might be coming and was hardened beyond recall. I told the inspectress to take her into her private room and find the diamonds. With that, I turned my back and strolled to the forward deck. Even at that distance I heard the shriek of the girl when her treasure was discovered.
“There will be less for the lover!” I thought.
When my woman assistant—accomplice might be the truer term—joined me, she had the jewels. They were in a long eel-skin receptacle, sewed tightly, and had been secreted in the girl’s hair as described by Betelnut Jack. I took the gems, and buttoning them in my coat, told my aide—who with a feminine fashion of bitterness seemed exultant over having deprived another of her gew-gaws—to arrest the girl, hold her until the boat docked, frighten her with tales of fetters and dungeons and clanging bars, and at the last to lose her on the wharf. It would be nine o’clock of the night by then, and murk dark; this loss of her prisoner would seem to come honestly about.
If I were making a romance, rather than bending to a relation of cold, gray, hard, untender facts, I would at this crisis defy Betelnut Jack, rescue the beautiful girl, restore her jewels, love her, win her, wed her, and with her true, dear arms about me, live happy ever after. As it was, however, I did nothing of that good sort. My aide obeyed directions in a mood at once thorough, blithe, and spiteful, and never more did I set eyes on the half-blind father or the tearful, pretty, poor victim of our diamond hunting. Lost in the crush and bustle of the wharf, they were never found, never looked for, and never rendered themselves.
I had considered what profit from these jewels might accrue to the ring and the means by which it would be arrived at. I took it for granted that some substitutional arts—when paste would take the places of old mine gems—would be resorted to as in the excellent instance of The Emperor’s Cigars. But Betelnut Jack shook his careful head; there would be no hokus-pokus of substitution; there were good reasons. Also, there was another way secure. If our profits were somewhat shaved, our safety would be augmented; and Betelnut Jack’s watchword was “Safety first!” I was bound to acquiesce; I the more readily did so since, like Lorns and Quin, I had grown to perfect confidence in the plans of Betelnut Jack. However, when now I had brushed aside etiquette and broken the ice of the matter with my chief, I asked how he meant to manoeuver in the affair.
“Wait!” retorted Betelnut Jack, and that was the utmost he would say.
In due time came the usual auction and the gems were sold. They were snapped up by a syndicate of wise folk of Maiden Lane who paid therefor into the hands of the government the even sum of one hundred thousand dollars.
Still I saw not how our ring would have advantage; no way could open for us to handle those one hundred thousand dollars in whole or in part. I was in error; a condition whereof I was soon to be made pleasantly aware.
On the day following the sale, and while the price paid still slept unbanked in the Customs boxes of proof-steel, there came one to see our canny chief. It is useless to waste description on this man. Suffice it that he was in fact and in appearance as skulkingly the coward scoundrel as might anywhere be met. This creeping creature was shown into the private rooms of Betelnut Jack. A moment later, I was sent for.
Betelnut Jack was occupying a chair; he wore an air of easy confidence; and over that, a sentiment of contempt for his visitor. This latter was posed in the middle of the room; and while an apprehension of impending evil showed on his face, he made cringing and deprecatory gestures with shoulders hunched and palms turned outward.
“Sit down,” observed Betelnut Jack, pushing a chair towards me. When I was seated, he spoke on. “Since it was you who found the diamonds, I thought it right to have you present now. You asked me once how I knew in advance of those gems and their scheme of concealment. To-day you may learn. This is the gentleman who gave me the information. He did it to obtain the reward—to receive that great per cent, of the seizure’s proceeds which is promised the informer by the law. His information was right; he is entitled to the reward. That is what he is here for; he has come to be paid.” Then to the hangdog, cringing one: “Pretty good day’s work for you, eh? Over fifty thousand dollars for a little piece of information is stiff pay!” The hangdog one bowed lower and a smirk of partial confidence began to broaden his face. “And now you’ve come for your money—fifty odd thousand!”
“If you please, sir! yes, sir!” More and wider smirks.
“All right!” retorted Betelnut Jack. “You shall have it, friend; but not now—not to-day.”
“Then when?” and the smirk fled.
“To-morrow,” said Betelnut Jack. “To-morrow, next day, any day in fact when you bring before me to be witnesses of the transaction the father, the sister, and your wife.”
Across the face of the hangdog one spread a pallor that was as the whiteness of death. There burned the fires of a hot agony in his eyes as though a dirk had slowly pierced him. His voice fell in a husky whisper.
“You would cheat me!”
“No; I would do you perfect justice,” replied Betelnut Jack. “Not a splinter do you finger until you bring your people. Your wife and her sister and their father shall know this story, and stand here while the money is paid. Not a stiver else! Now, go!”
Betelnut Jack’s tones were as remorseless as a storm; they offered nothing to hope; the hangdog one heard and crept away with a look on his face that was but ill to see. Once the door was closed behind him, Betelnut Jack turned with a cheerful gleam to me.
“That ends him! It’s as you guess. This informer is the son-in-law of the old German. He married the elder daughter. They came over four years ago and live in Hoboken. Then the father and the younger sister were to come. They put their whole fortune into the diamonds, aiming to cheat the Customs and manage a profit; and the girl wrote their plans and how they would hide the jewels to her sister. It was she who told her husband—this fellow who’s just sneaked out. He came to me and betrayed them; he was willing to ruin the old man and the girl to win riches for himself. But he’s gone; he’ll not return; we’ve seen and heard the last of them; one fears the jail, the other the wrath of his wife; and that’s the end.” Then Betelnut Jack, as he lighted a cigar, spoke the word which told to folk initiate of a division of spoil on the morrow. As I arose, he said: “Ask Lorns to come here.”
“Well,” remarked the Old Cattleman when the Sour Gentleman was done, “I don’t want to say nothin’ to discourage you-all, but if I’d picked up your hand that time I wouldn’t have played it. I shorely would have let that Dutch girl keep her beads. Didn’t the thing ha’nt you afterwards?”
“It gave me a deal of uneasiness,” responded the Sour Gentleman. “I am not proud of my performance. And yet, I don’t see what else I might have done. Those diamonds were as good as in the hands of Betelnut Jack from the moment the skulking brother-in-law brought him the information.”
“It’s one relief,” observed the Red Nosed Gentleman, “to know how that scoundrel came off no richer by his treachery.”
“What I observes partic’lar in the narration,” said the Old Cattleman, “is how luck is the predominatin’ feacher throughout. The girl an’ her old pap has bad luck in losin’ the gewgaw’s. You-all customs sharps has good luck in havin’ the news brought to your hand as to where them diamonds is hid, by a coyote whom you can bluff plumb outen the play at the finish. As for the coyote informer, why he has luck in bein’ allowed to live.
“An’ speakin’ of luck, seein’ that in this yere story-tellin’ arrangement that seems to have grown up in our midst, I’m the next chicken on the roost, I’ll onfold to you gents concernin’ ‘The Luck of Cold-sober Simms.’”
Which this yere tale is mighty devious, not to say disjointed, because, d’you see! from first to last, she’s all the truth. Now, thar is folks sech as Injuns an’ them sagacious sports which we-all terms philosophers, who talks of truth bein’ straight. Injuns will say a liar has a forked tongue, while philosophers will speak of a straight ondeviatin’ narrative, meanin’ tharby to indooce you to regyard said story as the emanation of honesty in its every word. For myse’f I don’t subscribe none to these yere phrases. In my own experience it’s the lies that runs in a straight line like a bullet, whereas the truth goes onder an’ over, an’ up an’ down, doubles an’ jumps sideways a dozen times before ever it finally finds its camp in what book-sharps call the “climax.” Which I says ag’in that this tale, bein’ troo, has nacherally as many kinks in it as a new lariat.
Bein’ thoughtful that a-way, an’ preyed on by a desire to back-track every fact to its fountain-head, meanwhile considerin’ how different the kyards would have fallen final if something prior had been done or left on done, has ever been my weakness. It’s allers so with me. I can recall as a child how back in Tennessee I deevotes hours when fish-in’ or otherwise uselessly engaged, to wonderin’ whoever I’d have been personal if my maw had died in her girlhood an’ pap had wedded someone else. It’s plumb too many for me; an’ now an’ then when in a sperit of onusual cog’tation, I ups an’ wonders where I’d be if both my maw an’ pap had cashed in as colts, I’d jest simply set down he’pless, on-qualified to think at all. It’s plain that in sech on-toward events as my two parents dyin’, say, at the age of three, I sort o’ wouldn’t have happened none. This yere solemn view never fails to give me the horrors.
I fixes the time of this story easy as bein’ that eepock when Jim East an’ Bob Pierce is sheriffs of the Panhandle, with headquarters in Tascosa, an’ Bob Roberson is chief of the LIT ranch. These yere evidences of merit on the parts of them three gents has not, however, anything to do with how Cold-sober Simms gets rich at farobank; how two hold-ups plots to rob him; how he’s saved by the inadvertent capture of a bob-cat who’s strange to him entire; an’ how the two hold-ups in their chagrin over Cold-sober’s escape an’ the mootual doubts it engenders, pulls on each other an’ relieves the Stranglers from the labor of stringin’ ’em to a cottonwood.
These doin’s whereof I gives you a rapid rehearsal, has their start when Old Scotty an’ Locoed Charlie gets drunk in Tascosa prior to startin’ west on their buckboard with the mailbags of the Lee-Scott ranch. Locoed Charlie an’ Old Scotty is drunk when they pulls out; Cold-sober Simms is with ’em as a passenger. At their night camp half way to the Lee-Scott, Locoed Charlie, whose head can’t stand the strain of Jenkins’ nose-paint, makes war-medicine an’ lays for Old Scotty all spraddled out. As the upcome of these yere hostilities, Old Scotty confers a most elab’rate beatin’ on Locoed Charlie; after which they-all cooks their grub, feeds, an’ goes to sleep.
But Locoed Charlie don’t go to sleep; he lays thar drunk an’ disgruntled an’ hungerin’ to play even. As a good revengeful scheme, Locoed Charlie allows he’ll get up an’ secrete the mailbag, thinkin’ tharby to worry Old Scotty till he sweats blood. Locoed Charlie packs the mailbag over among some rocks which is thick grown with cedar bresh. When it comes sun-up an’ Locoed Charlie is sober an’ repents, an’ tells Old Scotty of his little game, neither he nor Scotty can find that mailbag nohow. Locoed Charlie shore hides her good.
Locoed Charlie an’ Scotty don’t dare go on without it, but stays an’ searches; Cold-sober Simms—who is given this yere nom-de-guerre, as Colonel Sterett terms it, because he’s the only sport in the Panhandle who don’t drink—stays with ’em to help on the hunt. At last, failin’ utter to discover the missin’ mail, Locoed Charlie an’ Old Scotty returns to Tascosa in fear an’ tremblin’, not packin’ the nerve to face McAllister, who manages for the Lee-Scott, an’ inform him of the yoonique disposition they makes of his outfit’s letters. This return to Tascosa is, after all, mere proodence, since McAllister is a mighty emotional manager, that a-way, an’ it’s as good as even money he hangs both of them culprits in that first gust of enthoosiasm which would be shore to follow any explanation they can make. So they returns; an’ because he can’t he’p himse’f none, bein’ he’s only a passenger on that buckboard, Cold-sober Simms returns with ’em. No, the mailbag is found a week later by a Lee-Scott rider, an’ for the standin’ of Locoed Charlie an’ Scotty it’s as well he does.
Cold-sober is some sore at bein’ baffled in his trip to the Lee-Scott since he aims to go to work thar as a rider. To console himse’f, he turns in an’ bucks a faro game that a brace of onknown black-laigs who shows in Tascosa from Fort Elliot the day prior, has onfurled in James’ s’loon. As sometimes happens, Cold-sober plays in all brands an’ y’earmarks of luck, an’ in four hours breaks the bank. It ain’t overstrong, no sech institootion of finance in fact as Cherokee Hall’s faro game in Wolfville, an’ when Cold-sober calls the last nine-king turn for one hundred, an’ has besides a hundred on the nine, coppered, an’ another hundred open on the king, tharby reapin’ six hundred dollars as the froots of said feat, the sharp who’s deal-in’ turns up his box an’ tells Cold-sober to set in his chips to be cashed. Cold-sober sets ’em in; nine thousand five hundred dollars bein’ the roundup, an’ the dealer-sharp hands over the dinero. Then in a sperit of resentment the dealer-sharp picks up the faro-box an’ smashes it ag’in the wall.
“Thar bein’ nothin’ left,” he says to his fellow black-laig, who’s settin’ in the look-out’s chair, “for you an’ me but to prance out an’ stand up a stage, we may as well dismiss that deal-box from our affairs. I knowed that box was a hoodoo ever since Black Morgan gets killed over it in Mobeetie; an’ so I tells you, but you-all wouldn’t heed.”
Cold-sober is shore elated about his luck; them nine thousand odd dollars is more wealth than he ever sees; an’ how to dispose of it, now he’s got it, begins to bother Cold-sober a heap. One gent says, “Hive it in Howard’s Store!” another su’gests he leave it with old man Cohn; while still others agrees it’s Cold-sober’s dooty to blow it in.
“Which if I was you-all,” says Johnny Cook of the LIT outfit, “I’d shore sally forth an’ buy nose-paint with that treasure while a peso remained.” But Cold-sober turns down these divers proposals an’ allows he’ll pack said roll in his pocket a whole lot, which he accordin’ does.
Cold-sober hangs ’round Tascosa for mighty near a week, surrenderin’ all thought of gettin’ to the Lee-Scott ranch, feelin’ that he’s now too rich to punch cattle. Doorin’ this season of idleness art’ease, Cold-sober bunks in with a jimcrow English doctor who’s got a ’doby in Tascosa an’ who calls himse’f Chepp. He’s a decent form of maverick, however, this yere Chepp, an’ him an’ Cold-sober becomes as thick as thieves.
Cold-sober’s stay with Chepp is brief as I states; in a week he gets restless ag’in for work; whereupon he hooks up with Roberson, an’ goes p’intin’ south across the Canadian on a L I T hoss to hold down one of that brand’s sign-camps in Mitchell’s canyon. It’s only twenty miles, an’ lie’s thar in half a day—him an’ Wat Peacock who’s to be his mate. An’ Cold-sober packs with him that fortune of ninety-five hundred.
The two black-laigs who’s been depleted that away still hankers about Tascosa; but as mighty likely they don’t own the riches to take ’em out o’ town, not much is thought. Nor does it ruffle the feathers of commoonal suspicion when the two disappears a few days after Cold-sober goes ridin’ away to assoome them LIT reesponsibilities in Mitchell’s canyon. The public is too busy to bother itse’f about ’em. It comes out later, however, that the goin’ of Cold-sober has everything to do with the exodus of them hold-ups, an’ that they’ve been layin’ about since they loses their roll on a chance of get-tin’ it back. When Cold-sober p’ints south for Mitchell’s that time, it’s as good as these outlaws asks. They figgers on trailin’ him to Mitchell’s an’ hidin’ out ontil some hour when Peacock’s off foolin’ about the range; when they argues Cold-sober would be plumb easy, an’ they’ll kill an’ skelp him an’ clean him up for his money, an’ ride away.
“In fact,” explains the one Cold-sober an’ Peacock finds alive, “it’s our idee that the killin’ an’ skelpin’ an’ pillagin’ of Cold-sober would get layed to Peacock, which would mean safety for us an’ at the same time be a jest on Peacock that would be plumb hard to beat.” That was the plan of these outlaws; an’ the cause of its failure is the followin’ episode, to wit:
It looks like this Doc Chepp is locoed to collect wild anamiles that a-way.
“Which I wants,” says this shorthorn Chepp, “a speciment of every sort o’ the fauna of these yere regions, savin’ an’ exceptin’ polecats. I knows enough of the latter pungent beast from an encounter I has with one, to form notions ag’in ’em over which not even the anxious cry of science can preevail. Polecats is barred from my c’llec-tions. But,” an’ said Chepp imparts this last to Cold-sober as the latter starts for Mitchell’s, “if by any sleight or dexterity you-all accomplishes the capture of a bob-cat, bring the interestin’ creature to me at once. An’ bring him alive so I may observe an’ note his pecooliar traits.”
It’s the third mornin’ in Mitchell’s when a bobcat is seen by Cold-sober an’ Peacock to go sa’nter-in’ up the valley. Mebby this yere bob-cat’s homeless; mebby he’s a dissoloote bob-cat an’ has been out all night carousin’ with other bob-cats an’ is simply late gettin’ in; be the reason of his appearance what it may, Cold-sober remembers about Doc Chepp’s wish to own a bob-cat, an’ him an’ Peacock lets go all holds, leaps for their ponies an’ gives chase. Thar’s a scramblin’ run up the canyon; then Peacock gets his rope onto it, an’ next Cold-sober fastens with his rope, an’ you hear me, gents, between ’em they almost rends this yere onhappy bobcat in two. They pauses in time, however, an’ after a fearful struggle they succeeds in stuffin’ the bob-cat into Peacock’s leather laiggin’s, which the latter gent removes for that purpose. Bound hand an’ foot, an’ wropped in the laiggin’s so tight he can hardly squawl, that bob-cat’s put before Cold-sober on his saddle; an’ this bein’ fixed, Cold-sober heads for Tascosa to present him to his naturalist friend, Chepp, Peacock scamperin’ cheerfully along like a drunkard to a barbecue regyardin’ the racket as a ondeniable excuse for gettin’ soaked.
This adventure of the bob-cat is the savin’ clause in the case of Cold-sober Simms. As the bobcat an’ him an’ Peacock rides away, them two malefactors is camped not five miles off, over by the Serrita la Cruz, an’ arrangin’ to go projectin’ ’round for Cold-sober an’ his ninety-five hundred that very evenin’. In truth, they execootes their scheme; but only to find when they jumps his camp in Mitchell’s that Cold-sober’s done vamosed a whole lot.
It’s then trouble begins to gather for the two rustlers. The one who deals the game that time is so overcome by Cold-sober’s absence, he peevishly puts it up that his pard gives Cold-sober warnin’ with the idee of later whackin’ up the roll with him by way of a reward for his virchoo. Nacherally no se’f-respectin’ miscreant will submit to sech impeachments, an’ the accoosed makes a heated retort, punctuatin’ his observations with his gun. Thar-upon the other proceeds to voice his feelin’s with his six-shooter; an’ the mootual remarks of these yere dispootants is so well aimed an’ ackerate that next evenin’ when Cold-sober an’ Peacock returns, they finds one dead an’ t’other dyin’ with even an’ exact jestice broodin’ over all.
As Cold-sober an’ Peacock is settin’ by their fire that night, restin’ from their labors in plantin’ the two hold-ups, Cold-sober starts up sudden an’ says:
“Yereafter I adopts a bob-cat for my coat-o’-arms. Also, I changes my mind about Howard, an’ to-morry I’ll go chargin’ into Tascosa an’ leave said ninety-five hundred in his iron box. Thar’s more ‘bad men’ at Fort Elliot than them two we plants, an’ mebby some more of ’em may come a-weavin’ up the Canadian with me an’ my wealth as their objective p’int.”
Peacock endorses the notion enthoosiastic, an’ declar’s himse’f in on the play as a body-guard; for he sees in this yere second expedition a new o’casion for another drunk, an’ Peacock jest nacherally dotes on a debauch.
“And what did your Cold-sober Simms,” asked the Sour Gentleman, “finally do with his money? Did he go into the cattle business?”
“Never buys a hoof,” returned the Old Cattleman. “No, indeed; he loses it ag’in monte in Kelly’s s’loon in Dodge. Charley Bassett who’s marshal at the time tries to git Cold-sober to pass up that monte game. But thar ain’t no headin’ him; he would buck it, an’ so the sharp who’s deal-in’, Butcher Knife Bill it is—turns in an’ knocks Cold-sober’s horns plumb off.”
The sudden collapse of the volatile Cold-sober’s fortunes was quite a dampener to the Sour Gentleman; he evidently entertained a hope that the lucky cow-boy was fated to a rise in life. The news of his final losses had less effect on the Red Nosed Gentleman who, having witnessed no little gambling in his earlier years, seemed better prepared. In truth, a remark he let fall would show as much.
“I was sure he would lose it,” said the Red Nosed Gentleman. “Men win money only to lose it to the first game they can find. However, to change the subject:” Here the Red Nosed Gentleman beamed upon the Jolly Doctor. “Sir, the hour is young. Can’t you aid us to finish the evening with another story?”
“There is one I might give you,” responded the Jolly Doctor. “It is of a horse-race like that Rescue of Connelly you related and was told me by an old friend and patient who I fear was a trifle wild as a youth. This is the story as set forth by himself, and for want of a more impressive title, we may call it ‘How Prince Rupert Lost.’”