Red Men and White

  SPECIMEN JONES

  Ephraim, the proprietor of Twenty Mile, had wasted his day in burying aman. He did not know the man. He had found him, or what the Apaches hadleft of him, sprawled among some charred sticks just outside the Canondel Oro. It was a useful discovery in its way, for otherwise Ephraimmight have gone on hunting his strayed horses near the canon, and endedamong charred sticks himself. Very likely the Indians were far away bythis time, but he returned to Twenty Mile with the man tied to hissaddle, and his pony nervously snorting. And now the day was done, andthe man lay in the earth, and they had even built a fence round him; forthe hole was pretty shallow, and coyotes have a way of smelling thissort of thing a long way off when they are hungry, and the man was notin a coffin. They were always short of coffins in Arizona.

  Day was done at Twenty Mile, and the customary activity prevailed insidethat flat-roofed cube of mud. Sounds of singing, shooting, dancing, andMexican tunes on the concertina came out of the windows hand in hand, towiden and die among the hills. A limber, pretty boy, who might benineteen, was dancing energetically, while a grave old gentleman, withtobacco running down his beard, pointed a pistol at the boy's heels,and shot a hole in the earth now and then to show that the weapon wasreally loaded. Everybody was quite used to all of this--excepting theboy. He was an Eastern new-comer, passing his first evening at a placeof entertainment.

  Night in and night out every guest at Twenty Mile was either happy andfull of whiskey, or else his friends were making arrangements for hisfuneral. There was water at Twenty Mile--the only water for twoscore ofmiles. Consequently it was an important station on the road between thesouthern country and Old Camp Grant, and the new mines north of theMescal Range. The stunt, liquor-perfumed adobe cabin lay on the grayfloor of the desert like an isolated slab of chocolate. A corral, twodesolate stable-sheds, and the slowly turning windmill were all else.Here Ephraim and one or two helpers abode, armed against Indians, andselling whiskey. Variety in their vocation of drinking and killing wasbrought them by the travellers. These passed and passed through theglaring vacant months--some days only one ragged fortune-hunter, ridinga pony; again by twos and threes, with high-loaded burros; and sometimesthey came in companies, walking beside their clanking freight-wagons.Some were young, and some were old, and all drank whiskey, and woreknives and guns to keep each other civil. Most of them were bound forthe mines, and some of them sometimes returned. No man trusted the nextman, and their names, when they had any, would be O'Rafferty, Angus,Schwartzmeyer, Jose Maria, and Smith. All stopped for one night; somelonger, remaining drunk and profitable to Ephraim; now and then onestayed permanently, and had a fence built round him. Whoever came, andwhatever befell them, Twenty Mile was chronically hilarious aftersundown--a dot of riot in the dumb Arizona night.

  On this particular evening they had a tenderfoot. The boy, being new inArizona, still trusted his neighbor. Such people turned up occasionally.This one had paid for everybody's drink several times, because he feltfriendly, and never noticed that nobody ever paid for his. They hadplayed cards with him, stolen his spurs, and now they were making himdance. It was an ancient pastime; yet two or three were glad to standround and watch it, because it was some time since they had been to theopera. Now the tenderfoot had misunderstood these friends at thebeginning, supposing himself to be among good fellows, and theytherefore naturally set him down as a fool. But even while dancing youmay learn much, and suddenly. The boy, besides being limber, had goodtough black hair, and it was not in fear, but with a cold blue eye, thathe looked at the old gentleman. The trouble had been that his ownrevolver had somehow hitched, so he could not pull it from the holsterat the necessary moment.

  "Tried to draw on me, did yer?" said the old gentleman. "Step higher!Step, now, or I'll crack open yer kneepans, ye robin's egg."

  "Thinks he's having a bad time," remarked Ephraim. "Wonder how he'd liketo have been that man the Injuns had sport with?"

  "Weren't his ear funny?" said one who had helped bury the man.

  "Ear?" said Ephraim. "You boys ought to been along when I found him,and seen the way they'd fixed up his mouth." Ephraim explained thedetails simply, and the listeners shivered. But Ephraim was ahumorist. "Wonder how it feels," he continued, "to have--"

  AN APACHE]

  Here the boy sickened at his comments and the loud laughter. Yet a fewhours earlier these same half-drunken jesters had laid the man to restwith decent humanity. The boy was taking his first dose of Arizona. Byno means was everybody looking at his jig. They had seen tenderfeet sooften. There was a Mexican game of cards; there was the concertina; andover in the corner sat Specimen Jones, with his back to the company,singing to himself. Nothing had been said or done that entertained himin the least. He had seen everything quite often.

  "Higher! skip higher, you elegant calf," remarked the old gentleman tothe tenderfoot. "High-yer!" And he placidly fired a fourth shot thatscraped the boy's boot at the ankle and threw earth over the clock, sothat you could not tell the minute from the hour hand.

  "'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" sang Specimen Jones, softly. Theydid not care much for his songs in Arizona. These lyrics were all, ornearly all, that he retained of the days when he was twenty, although hewas but twenty-six now.

  The boy was cutting pigeon-wings, the concertina played "Matamoras,"Jones continued his lyric, when two Mexicans leaped at each other, andthe concertina stopped with a quack.

  "Quit it!" said Ephraim from behind the bar, covering the two with hisweapon. "I don't want any greasers scrapping round here to-night. We'vejust got cleaned up."

  It had been cards, but the Mexicans made peace, to the regret ofSpecimen Jones. He had looked round with some hopes of a crisis, and nowfor the first time he noticed the boy.

  "Blamed if he ain't neat," he said. But interest faded from his eye, andhe turned again to the wall. "'Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein,'" hemelodiously observed. His repertory was wide and refined. When he sanghe was always grammatical.

  "Ye kin stop, kid," said the old gentleman, not unkindly, and he shovedhis pistol into his belt.

  The boy ceased. He had been thinking matters over. Being lithe andstrong, he was not tired nor much out of breath, but he was tremblingwith the plan and the prospect he had laid out for himself. "Set 'emup," he said to Ephraim. "Set 'em up again all round."

  His voice caused Specimen Jones to turn and look once more, while theold gentleman, still benevolent, said, "Yer langwidge means pleasanterthan it sounds, kid." He glanced at the boy's holster, and knew he neednot keep a very sharp watch as to that. Its owner had bungled over itonce already. All the old gentleman did was to place himself next theboy on the off side from the holster; any move the tenderfoot's handmight make for it would be green and unskilful, and easily anticipated.The company lined up along the bar, and the bottle slid from glass toglass. The boy and his tormentor stood together in the middle of theline, and the tormentor, always with half a thought for the holster,handled his drink on the wet counter, waiting till all should be filledand ready to swallow simultaneously, as befits good manners.

  "Well, my regards," he said, seeing the boy raise his glass; and as theold gentleman's arm lifted in unison, exposing his waist, the boyreached down a lightning hand, caught the old gentleman's own pistol,and jammed it in his face.

  "Now you'll dance," said he.

  "Whoop!" exclaimed Specimen Jones, delighted. "_Blamed_ if he ain'tneat!" And Jones's handsome face lighted keenly.

  "Hold on!" the boy sang out, for the amazed old gentleman wasmechanically drinking his whiskey out of sheer fright. The rest hadforgotten their drinks. "Not one swallow," the boy continued. "No,you'll not put it down either. You'll keep hold of it, and you'll danceall round this place. Around and around. And don't you spill any. AndI'll be thinking what you'll do after that."

  Specimen Jones eyed the boy with growing esteem. "Why, he ain't biggerthan a pint of cider," said he.

  "Prance away!" commanded the tenderfoot, and fired a shot b
etween theold gentleman's not widely straddled legs.

  "You hev the floor, Mr. Adams," Jones observed, respectfully, at the oldgentleman's agile leap. "I'll let no man here interrupt you." So thecapering began, and the company stood back to make room. "I've saw juicythings in this Territory," continued Specimen Jones, aloud, to himself,"but this combination fills my bill."

  He shook his head sagely, following the black-haired boy with his eye.That youth was steering Mr. Adams round the room with the pistol, proudas a ring-master. Yet not altogether. He was only nineteen, and thoughhis heart beat stoutly, it was beating alone in a strange country. Hehad come straight to this from hunting squirrels along the Susquehanna,with his mother keeping supper warm for him in the stone farm-houseamong the trees. He had read books in which hardy heroes saw life, andalways triumphed with precision on the last page, but he remembered noreceipt for this particular situation. Being good game American blood,he did not think now about the Susquehanna, but he did long with all hismight to know what he ought to do next to prove himself a man. Hisbuoyant rage, being glutted with the old gentleman's fervent skipping,had cooled, and a stress of reaction was falling hard on his brave youngnerves. He imagined everybody against him. He had no notion that therewas another American wanderer there, whose reserved and whimsical naturehe had touched to the heart.

  The fickle audience was with him, of course, for the moment, since hewas upper dog and it was a good show; but one in that room wasdistinctly against him. The old gentleman was dancing with an ugly eye;he had glanced down to see just where his knife hung at his side, and hehad made some calculations. He had fired four shots; the boy had firedone. "Four and one hez always made five," the old gentleman told himselfwith much secret pleasure, and pretended that he was going to stop hisdouble-shuffle. It was an excellent trap, and the boy fell straight intoit. He squandered his last precious bullet on the spittoon near whichMr. Adams happened to be at the moment, and the next moment Mr. Adamshad him by the throat. They swayed and gulped for breath, rutting theearth with sharp heels; they rolled to the floor and floundered withlegs tight tangled, the boy blindly striking at Mr. Adams with thepistol-butt, and the audience drawing closer to lose nothing, when thebright knife flashed suddenly. It poised, and flew across the room,harmless, for a foot had driven into Mr. Adams's arm, and he felt acold ring grooving his temple. It was the smooth, chilly muzzle ofSpecimen Jones's six-shooter.

  "That's enough," said Jones. "More than enough."

  Mr. Adams, being mature in judgment, rose instantly, like a good oldsheep, and put his knife back obedient to orders. But in the brain ofthe over-strained, bewildered boy universal destruction was whirling.With a face stricken lean with ferocity, he staggered to his feet,plucking at his obstinate holster, and glaring for a foe. His eye fellfirst on his deliverer, leaning easily against the bar watching him,while the more and more curious audience scattered, and held themselvesready to murder the boy if he should point his pistol their way. He wasdragging at it clumsily, and at last it came. Specimen Jones sprang likea cat, and held the barrel vertical and gripped the boy's wrist.

  "Go easy, son," said he. "I know how you're feelin'."

  The boy had been wrenching to get a shot at Jones, and now the quietnessof the man's voice reached his brain, and he looked at Specimen Jones.He felt a potent brotherhood in the eyes that were considering him, andhe began to fear he had been a fool. There was his dwarf Easternrevolver, slack in his inefficient fist, and the singular person stillholding its barrel and tapping one derisive finger over the end,careless of the risk to his first joint.

  "Why, you little ---- ----," said Specimen Jones, caressingly, to thehypnotized youth, "if you was to pop that squirt off at me, I'd turn youup and spank y'u. Set 'em up, Ephraim."

  But the commercial Ephraim hesitated, and Jones remembered. His lastcent was gone. It was his third day at Ephraim's. He had stopped, havinga little money, on his way to Tucson, where a friend had a job for him,and was waiting. He was far too experienced a character ever to sell hishorse or his saddle on these occasions, and go on drinking. He looked asif he might, but he never did; and this was what disappointed businessmen like Ephraim in Specimen Jones.

  But now, here was this tenderfoot he had undertaken to see through, andEphraim reminding him that he had no more of the wherewithal. "Why, so Ihaven't," he said, with a short laugh, and his face flushed. "I guess,"he continued, hastily, "this is worth a dollar or two." He drew a chainup from below his flannel shirt-collar and over his head. He drew it alittle slowly. It had not been taken off for a number of years--not,indeed, since it had been placed there originally. "It ain't brass," headded, lightly, and strewed it along the counter without looking at it.Ephraim did look at it, and, being satisfied, began to uncork a newbottle, while the punctual audience came up for its drink.

  "Won't you please let me treat?" said the boy, unsteadily. "I ain'tlikely to meet you again, sir." Reaction was giving him trouble inside.

  "Where are you bound, kid?"

  "Oh, just a ways up the country," answered the boy, keeping a grip onhis voice.

  "Well, you _may_ get there. Where did you pick up that--that thing? Yourpistol, I mean."

  "It's a present from a friend," replied the tenderfoot, with dignity.

  "Farewell gift, wasn't it, kid? Yes; I thought so. Now I'd hate to getan affair like that from a friend. It would start me wondering if heliked me as well as I'd always thought he did. Put up that money, kid.You're drinking with me. Say, what's yer name?"

  "Cumnor--J. Cumnor."

  "Well, J. Cumnor, I'm glad to know y'u. Ephraim, let me make youacquainted with Mr. Cumnor. Mr. Adams, if you're rested from yourquadrille, you can shake hands with my friend. Step around, you Miguelsand Serapios and Cristobals, whatever y'u claim your names are. This isMr. J. Cumnor."

  The Mexicans did not understand either the letter or the spirit of theseAmerican words, but they drank their drink, and the concertina resumedits acrid melody. The boy had taken himself off without being noticed.

  "Say, Spec," said Ephraim to Jones, "I'm no hog. Here's yer chain.You'll be along again."

  "Keep it till I'm along again," said the owner.

  "Just as you say, Spec," answered Ephraim, smoothly, and he hung thepledge over an advertisement chromo of a nude cream-colored lady withbright straw hair holding out a bottle of somebody's champagne. SpecimenJones sang no more songs, but smoked, and leaned in silence on the bar.The company were talking of bed, and Ephraim plunged his glasses into abucket to clean them for the morrow.

  "Know anything about that kid?" inquired Jones, abruptly.

  Ephraim shook his head as he washed.

  "Travelling alone, ain't he?"

  Ephraim nodded.

  "Where did y'u say y'u found that fellow layin' the Injuns got?"

  "Mile this side the canon. 'Mong them sand-humps."

  "How long had he been there, do y'u figure?"

  "Three days, anyway."

  Jones watched Ephraim finish his cleansing. "Your clock needs wiping,"he remarked. "A man might suppose it was nine, to see that thing the waythe dirt hides the hands. Look again in half an hour and it'll saythree. That's the kind of clock gives a man the jams. Sends him crazy."

  "Well, that ain't a bad thing to be in this country," said Ephraim,rubbing the glass case and restoring identity to the hands. "If that manhad been crazy he'd been livin' right now. Injuns'll never touchlunatics."

  "That band have passed here and gone north," Jones said. "I saw a smokeamong the foot-hills as I come along day before yesterday. I guessthey're aiming to cross the Santa Catalina. Most likely they're thatband from round the San Carlos that were reported as raiding down inSonora."

  "I seen well enough," said Ephraim, "when I found him that they wasn'tgoing to trouble us any, or they'd have been around by then."

  He was quite right, but Specimen Jones was thinking of something else.He went out to the corral, feeling disturbed and doubtful. He saw thetall white freight-wagon o
f the Mexicans, looming and silent, and alittle way off the new fence where the man lay. An odd sound startledhim, though he knew it was no Indians at this hour, and he looked downinto a little dry ditch. It was the boy, hidden away flat on his stomachamong the stones, sobbing.

  "Oh, snakes!" whispered Specimen Jones, and stepped back. The Latinraces embrace and weep, and all goes well; but among Saxons tears are ahorrid event. Jones never knew what to do when it was a woman, but thiswas truly disgusting. He was well seasoned by the frontier, had tried alittle of everything: town and country, ranches, saloons, stage-driving,marriage occasionally, and latterly mines. He had sundry claims stakedout, and always carried pieces of stone in his pockets, discoursing upontheir mineral-bearing capacity, which was apt to be very slight. That iswhy he was called Specimen Jones. He had exhausted all the importantsensations, and did not care much for anything any more. Perfect healthand strength kept him from discovering that he was a saddened, driftingman. He wished to kick the boy for his baby performance, and yet hestepped carefully away from the ditch so the boy should not suspect hispresence. He found himself standing still, looking at the dim, brokendesert.

  "Why, hell," complained Specimen Jones, "he played the little man tostart with. He did so. He scared that old horse-thief, Adams, just aboutdead. Then he went to kill me, that kep' him from bein' buried earlyto-morrow. I've been wild that way myself, and wantin' to shoot up thewhole outfit." Jones looked at the place where his middle finger used tobe, before a certain evening in Tombstone. "But I never--" He glancedtowards the ditch, perplexed. "What's that mean? Why in the world doeshe git to cryin' for _now_, do you suppose?" Jones took to singingwithout knowing it. "'Ye shepherds, tell me, ha-ve you seen my Florapass this way?'" he murmured. Then a thought struck him. "Hello, kid!"he called out. There was no answer. "Of course," said Jones. "Now he'sashamed to hev me see him come out of there." He walked with elaborateslowness round the corral and behind a shed. "Hello, you kid!" he calledagain.

  "I was thinking of going to sleep," said the boy, appearing quitesuddenly. "I--I'm not used to riding all day. I'll get used to it, youknow," he hastened to add.

  "'Ha-ve you seen my Flo'--Say, kid, where y'u bound, anyway?"

  "San Carlos."

  "San Carlos? Oh. Ah. 'Flora pass this way?'"

  "Is it far, sir?"

  "Awful far, sometimes. It's always liable to be far through the ArivaypaCanon."

  "I didn't expect to make it between meals," remarked Cumnor.

  "No. Sure. What made you come this route?"

  "A man told me."

  "A man? Oh. Well, it _is_ kind o' difficult, I admit, for an Arizonannot to lie to a stranger. But I think I'd have told you to go by TresAlamos and Point of Mountain. It's the road the man that told you wouldchoose himself every time. Do you like Injuns, kid?"

  Cumnor snapped eagerly.

  "Of course y'u do. And you've never saw one in the wholeminute-and-a-half you've been alive. I know all about it."

  "I'm not afraid," said the boy.

  "Not afraid? Of course y'u ain't. What's your idea in going to Carlos?Got town lots there?"

  "No," said the literal youth, to the huge internal diversion of Jones."There's a man there I used to know back home. He's in the cavalry.What sort of a town is it for sport?" asked Cumnor, in a gay Lothariotone.

  "_Town_?" Specimen Jones caught hold of the top rail of the corral."_Sport?_ Now I'll tell y'u what sort of a town it is. There ain't nostreets. There ain't no houses. There ain't any land and water in theusual meaning of them words. There's Mount Turnbull. It's pretty near ausual mountain, but y'u don't want to go there. The Creator didn't makeSan Carlos. It's a heap older than Him. When He got around to it afterslickin' up Paradise and them fruit-trees, He just left it to be as Hefound it, as a sample of the way they done business before He comealong. He 'ain't done any work around that spot at all, He 'ain't. Mixup a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and jam scorpions andrattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on stones, and heat yerstones red-hot, and set the United States army loose over the placechasin' Apaches, and you've got San Carlos."

  Cumnor was silent for a moment. "I don't care," he said. "I want tochase Apaches."

  "Did you see that man Ephraim found by the canon?" Jones inquired.

  "Didn't get here in time."

  "Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But there's noharm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn't, y'u see. You heardEphraim tell about it. They'd done a number of things to the man beforehe could die. Roastin' was only one of 'em. Now your road takes youthrough the mountains where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along toTucson with me," urged Jones, suddenly.

  Again Cumnor was silent. "Is my road different from other people's?" hesaid, finally.

  "Not to Grant, it ain't. These Mexicans are hauling freight to Grant.But what's the matter with your coming to Tucson with me?"

  "I started to go to San Carlos, and I'm going," said Cumnor.

  "You're a poor chuckle-headed fool!" burst out Jones, in a rage. "Andy'u can go, for all I care--you and your Christmas-tree pistol. Like asnot you won't find your cavalry friend at San Carlos. They've killed alot of them soldiers huntin' Injuns this season. Good-night."

  Specimen Jones was gone. Cumnor walked to his blanket-roll, where hissaddle was slung under the shed. The various doings of the evening hadbruised his nerves. He spread his blankets among the dry cattle-dung,and sat down, taking off a few clothes slowly. He lumped his coat andoveralls under his head for a pillow, and, putting the despised pistolalongside, lay between the blankets. No object showed in the night butthe tall freight-wagon. The tenderfoot thought he had made altogether afool of himself upon the first trial trip of his manhood, alone on theopen sea of Arizona. No man, not even Jones now, was his friend. Astranger, who could have had nothing against him but his inexperience,had taken the trouble to direct him on the wrong road. He did not minddefinite enemies. He had punched the heads of those in Pennsylvania, andwould not object to shooting them here; but this impersonal, surroundinghostility of the unknown was new and bitter: the cruel, assassinating,cowardly Southwest, where prospered those jail-birds whom the vigilanteshad driven from California. He thought of the nameless human carcassthat lay near, buried that day, and of the jokes about its mutilations.Cumnor was not an innocent boy, either in principles or in practice, butthis laughter about a dead body had burned into his young, unhardenedsoul. He lay watching with hot, dogged eyes the brilliant stars. Apassing wind turned the windmill, which creaked a forlorn minute, andceased. He must have gone to sleep and slept soundly, for the next heknew it was the cold air of dawn that made him open his eyes. A numbsilence lay over all things, and the tenderfoot had that moment ofcuriosity as to where he was now which comes to those who have journeyedfor many days. The Mexicans had already departed with theirfreight-wagon. It was not entirely light, and the embers where theseearly starters had cooked their breakfast lay glowing in the sand acrossthe road. The boy remembered seeing a wagon where now he saw only chill,distant peaks, and while he lay quiet and warm, shunning fullconsciousness, there was a stir in the cabin, and at Ephraim's voicereality broke upon his drowsiness, and he recollected Arizona and thekeen stress of shifting for himself. He noted the gray paling round thegrave. Indians? He would catch up with the Mexicans, and travel in theircompany to Grant. Freighters made but fifteen miles in the day, and hecould start after breakfast and be with them before they stopped tonoon. Six men need not worry about Apaches, Cumnor thought. The voice ofSpecimen Jones came from the cabin, and sounds of lighting the stove,and the growling conversation of men getting up. Cumnor, lying in hisblankets, tried to overhear what Jones was saying, for no better reasonthan that this was the only man he had met lately who had seemed to carewhether he were alive or dead. There was the clink of Ephraim'swhiskey-bottles, and the cheerful tones of old Mr. Adams, saying, "It'sbetter 'n brushin' yer teeth"; and then further clinking, and an inquiryfrom Specimen Jones.

  "Who
se spurs?" said he.

  "Mine." This from Mr. Adams.

  "How long have they been yourn?"

  "Since I got 'em, I guess."

  "Well, you've enjoyed them spurs long enough." The voice of SpecimenJones now altered in quality. "And you'll give 'em back to that kid."

  Muttering followed that the boy could not catch. "You'll give 'em back,"repeated Jones. "I seen y'u lift 'em from under that chair when I was inthe corner."

  "That's straight, Mr. Adams," said Ephraim. "I noticed it myself, thoughI had no objections, of course. But Mr. Jones has pointed out--"

  "Since when have you growed so honest, Jones?" cackled Mr. Adams, seeingthat he must lose his little booty. "And why didn't you raise yerobjections when you seen me do it?"

  "I didn't know the kid," Jones explained. "And if it don't strike youthat game blood deserves respect, why it does strike me."

  CUMNOR'S AWAKENING]

  Hearing this, the tenderfoot, outside in his shed, thought better ofmankind and life in general, arose from his nest, and began preeninghimself. He had all the correct trappings for the frontier, and histoilet in the shed gave him pleasure. The sun came up, and with astroke struck the world to crystal. The near sand-hills went intorose, the crabbed yucca and the mesquite turned transparent, withlances and pale films of green, like drapery graciously veiling thedesert's face, and distant violet peaks and edges framed the vastenchantment beneath the liquid exhalations of the sky. The smell ofbacon and coffee from open windows filled the heart with bravery andyearning, and Ephraim, putting his head round the corner, called toCumnor that he had better come in and eat. Jones, already at table,gave him the briefest nod; but the spurs were there, replaced asCumnor had left them under a chair in the corner. In Arizona they donot say much at any meal, and at breakfast nothing at all; and asCumnor swallowed and meditated, he noticed the cream-colored lady andthe chain, and he made up his mind he should assert his identity withregard to that business, though how and when was not clear to him. Hewas in no great haste to take up his journey. The society of theMexicans whom he must sooner or later overtake did not tempt him. Whenbreakfast was done he idled in the cabin, like the other guests, whileEphraim and his assistant busied about the premises. But the morninggrew on, and the guests, after a season of smoking and tilted silenceagainst the wall, shook themselves and their effects together,saddled, and were lost among the waste thorny hills. Twenty Milebecame hot and torpid. Jones lay on three consecutive chairs,occasionally singing, and old Mr. Adams had not gone away either,but watched him, with more tobacco running down his beard.

  "Well," said Cumnor, "I'll be going."

  "Nobody's stopping y'u," remarked Jones.

  "You're going to Tucson?" the boy said, with the chain problem stillunsolved in his mind. "Good-bye, Mr. Jones. I hope I'll--we'll--"

  "That'll do," said Jones; and the tenderfoot, thrown back by thisseverity, went to get his saddle-horse and his burro.

  Presently Jones remarked to Mr. Adams that he wondered what Ephraim wasdoing, and went out. The old gentleman was left alone in the room, andhe swiftly noticed that the belt and pistol of Specimen Jones were leftalone with him. The accoutrement lay by the chair its owner had beenlounging in. It is an easy thing to remove cartridges from the chambersof a revolver, and replace the weapon in its holster so that everythinglooks quite natural. The old gentleman was entertained with the notionthat somewhere in Tucson Specimen Jones might have a surprise, and hedid not take a minute to prepare this, drop the belt as it lay before,and saunter innocently out of the saloon. Ephraim and Jones werecriticising the tenderfoot's property as he packed his burro.

  "Do y'u make it a rule to travel with ice-cream?" Jones was inquiring.

  "They're for water," Cumnor said. "They told me at Tucson I'd need tocarry water for three days on some trails."

  It was two good-sized milk-cans that he had, and they bounced about onthe little burro's pack, giving him as much amazement as a jackass canfeel. Jones and Ephraim were hilarious.

  "Don't go without your spurs, Mr. Cumnor," said the voice of old Mr.Adams, as he approached the group. His tone was particularly civil.

  The tenderfoot had, indeed, forgotten his spurs, and he ran back to getthem. The cream-colored lady still had the chain hanging upon her, andCumnor's problem was suddenly solved. He put the chain in his pocket,and laid the price of one round of drinks for last night's company onthe shelf below the chromo. He returned with his spurs on, and went tohis saddle that lay beside that of Specimen Jones under the shed. Aftera moment he came with his saddle to where the men stood talking by hispony, slung it on, and tightened the cinches; but the chain was now inthe saddle-bag of Specimen Jones, mixed up with some tobacco, stalebread, a box of matches, and a hunk of fat bacon. The men at Twenty Milesaid good-day to the tenderfoot, with monosyllables and indifference,and watched him depart into the heated desert. Wishing for a last lookat Jones, he turned once, and saw the three standing, and the chocolatebrick of the cabin, and the windmill white and idle in the sun.

  "He'll be gutted by night," remarked Mr. Adams.

  "I ain't buryin' him, then," said Ephraim.

  "Nor I," said Specimen Jones. "Well, it's time I was getting to Tucson."

  He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and rode away.Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and here is the finalconclusion they came to after three hours of discussion as to who tookthe chain and who had it just then:

  _Ephraim._ Jones, he hadn't no cash.

  _Mr. Adams._ The kid, he hadn't no sense.

  _Ephraim._ The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.

  _Mr. Adams._ Jones, he goes off with his chain.

  _Both._ What damn fools everybody is, anyway!

  And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention his relationswith Jones's pistol. Let it be said, in extenuation of thatperformance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going to Tucson, where hesaid he was going, and where a job and a salary were awaiting him. InTucson an unloaded pistol in the holster of so handy a man on the dropas was Specimen would keep people civil, because they would not know,any more than the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere possessionof it would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten--though it wasundoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope. ButSpecimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in his mind as towhether he would do what was good for himself, or what was good foranother, had kept him sullen ever since he got up. Now it was settled,and Jones in serene humor again. Of course he had started on the Tucsonroad, for the benefit of Ephraim and Mr. Adams.

  The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon the deadlysilence, and the world was no longer of crystal, but a mesa, dull andgray and hot. The pony's hoofs grated in the gravel, and after a timethe road dived down and up among lumpy hills of stone and cactus, alwaysnearer the fierce glaring Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so abruptlyin and out of the shallow sudden ravines that, on coming up from one ofthese into sight of the country again, the tenderfoot's heart jumped atthe close apparition of another rider quickly bearing in upon him fromgullies where he had been moving unseen. But it was only Specimen Jones.

  "Hello!" said he, joining Cumnor. "Hot, ain't it?"

  "Where are you going?" inquired Cumnor.

  "Up here a ways." And Jones jerked his finger generally towards theSierra, where they were heading.

  "Thought you had a job in Tucson."

  "That's what I have."

  Specimen Jones had no more to say, and they rode for a while, theirponies' hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the milk-cans lightlyclanking on the burro's pack. The bunched blades of the yuccas bristledsteel-stiff, and as far as you could see it was a gray waste of moundsand ridges sharp and blunt, up to the forbidding boundary walls of theTortilita one way and the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered ifJones had found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it forseveral weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.


  "You'll excuse my meddling with your business?" the boy hazarded.

  Jones looked inquiring.

  "Something's wrong with your saddle-pocket."

  Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it, but perceiving Cumnor wasgrinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at the boy rapidly, and lookedaway again, and as he rode, still in silence, he put the chain backround his neck below the flannel shirt-collar.

  "Say, kid," he remarked, after some time, "what does J stand for?"

  "J? Oh, my name! Jock."

  "Well, Jock, will y'u explain to me as a friend how y'u ever come to besuch a fool as to leave yer home--wherever and whatever it was--inexchange for this here God-forsaken and iniquitous hole?"

  "If you'll explain to me," said the boy, greatly heartened, "how youcome to be ridin' in the company of a fool, instead of goin' to your jobat Tucson."

  The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had framed hisreply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismembered human stumps lay inthe road. This was what had happened to the Miguels and Serapios and theconcertina. Jones and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles to excludeall expressions of growing mutual esteem from their speech, hadforgotten their journey, and a sudden bend among the rocks where theroad had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring them inthe face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its splintered,blazing boards slid down as they burned into the fiery heap on theground; packages of soda and groceries and medicines slid with them,bursting into chemical spots of green and crimson flame; a wheel crushedin and sank, spilling more packages that flickered and hissed; thegarbage of combat and murder littered the earth, and in the air hung anodor that Cumnor knew, though he had never smelled it before. Morsels ofdropped booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians had gone, andone horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in his belly.

  "We'll just kill him," said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly, andsnapped again, as his eye caught a motion--a something--two hundredyards up among the bowlders on the hill. He whirled round. The enemy wasbehind them also. There was no retreat. "Yourn's no good!" yelled Jones,fiercely, for Cumnor was getting out his little, foolish revolver. "Oh,what a trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse, kid; drop, and dolike me. Shootin's no good here, even if I was loaded. _They_ shot, andlook at them now. God bless them ice-cream freezers of yourn, kid! Didy'u ever see a crazy man? If you 'ain't, _make it up as y'u go along_!"

  More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones ripped offthe burro's pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the ground. The burrobegan grazing quietly, with now and then a step towards new patches ofgrass. The horses stood where their riders had left them, their reinsover their heads, hanging and dragging. From two hundred yards on thehill the ambushed Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figuresappearing cautiously one by one, watching with suspicion. SpecimenJones seized up one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.

  THE MEXICAN FREIGHT-WAGON]

  "You kin dance, kid, and I kin sing, and we'll go to it," said Jones. Herambled in a wavering loop, and diving eccentrically at Cumnor, clashedthe milk-cans together. "'Es schallt ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,'" hebawled, beginning the song of "Die Wacht am Rhein." "Why don't youdance?" he shouted, sternly. The boy saw the terrible earnestness of hisface, and, clashing his milk-cans in turn, he shuffled a sort of jig.The two went over the sand in loops, toe and heel; the donkey continuedhis quiet grazing, and the flames rose hot and yellow from thefreight-wagon. And all the while the stately German hymn pealed amongthe rocks, and the Apaches crept down nearer the bowing, scraping men.The sun shone bright, and their bodies poured with sweat. Jones flungoff his shirt; his damp, matted hair was half in ridges and half gluedto his forehead, and the delicate gold chain swung and struck his broad,naked breast. The Apaches drew nearer again, their bows and arrows helduncertainly. They came down the hill, fifteen or twenty, taking a longtime, and stopping every few yards. The milk-cans clashed, and Jonesthought he felt the boy's strokes weakening. "Die Wacht am Rhein" wasfinished, and now it was "'Ha-ve you seen my Flora pass this way?'""Y'u mustn't play out, kid," said Jones, very gently. "Indeed y'umustn't;" and he at once resumed his song. The silent Apaches had nowreached the bottom of the hill. They stood some twenty yards away, andCumnor had a good chance to see his first Indians. He saw them move, andthe color and slim shape of their bodies, their thin arms, and theirlong, black hair. It went through his mind that if he had no moreclothes on than that, dancing would come easier. His boots were growingheavy to lift, and his overalls seemed to wrap his sinews in wet,strangling thongs. He wondered how long he had been keeping this up. Thelegs of the Apaches were free, with light moccasins only half-way to thethigh, slenderly held up by strings from the waist. Cumnor envied theirunencumbered steps as he saw them again walk nearer to where he wasdancing. It was long since he had eaten, and he noticed a singingdulness in his brain, and became frightened at his thoughts, which wererunning and melting into one fixed idea. This idea was to take off hisboots, and offer to trade them for a pair of moccasins. It terrifiedhim--this endless, molten rush of thoughts; he could see them coming indifferent shapes from different places in his head, but they all joinedimmediately, and always formed the same fixed idea. He ground his teethto master this encroaching inebriation of his will and judgment. Heclashed his can more loudly to wake him to reality, which he still couldrecognize and appreciate. For a time he found it a good plan to listento what Specimen Jones was singing, and tell himself the name of thesong, if he knew it. At present it was "Yankee Doodle," to which Joneswas fitting words of his own. These ran, "Now I'm going to try a bluff.And mind you do what I do"; and then again, over and over. Cumnor waitedfor the word "bluff"; for it was hard and heavy, and fell into histhoughts, and stopped them for a moment. The dance was so long now hehad forgotten about that. A numbness had been spreading through hislegs, and he was glad to feel a sharp pain in the sole of his foot. Itwas a piece of gravel that had somehow worked its way in, and wasrubbing through the skin into the flesh. "That's good," he said, aloud.The pebble was eating the numbness away, and Cumnor drove it hardagainst the raw spot, and relished the tonic of its burning friction.The Apaches had drawn into a circle. Standing at some interval apart,they entirely surrounded the arena. Shrewd, half convinced, and yet withawe, they watched the dancers, who clashed their cans slowly now inrhythm to Jones's hoarse, parched singing. He was quite master ofhimself, and led the jig round the still blazing wreck of the wagon, andcircled in figures of eight between the corpses of the Mexicans,clashing the milk-cans above each one. Then, knowing his strength wascoming to an end, he approached an Indian whose splendid fillet andtrappings denoted him of consequence; and Jones was near shouting withrelief when the Indian shrank backward. Suddenly he saw Cumnor let hiscan drop, and without stopping to see why, he caught it up, and, slowlyrattling both, approached each Indian in turn with tortuous steps. Thecircle that had never uttered a sound till now receded, chanting almostin a whisper some exorcising song which the man with the fillet hadbegun. They gathered round him, retreating always, and the strain, withits rapid muttered words, rose and fell softly among them. Jones hadsupposed the boy was overcome by faintness, and looked to see where helay. But it was not faintness. Cumnor, with his boots off, came by andwalked after the Indians in a trance. They saw him, and quickened theirpace, often turning to be sure he was not overtaking them. He called tothem unintelligibly, stumbling up the sharp hill, and pointing to theboots. Finally he sat down. They continued ascending the mountain,herding close round the man with the feathers, until the rocks and thefilmy tangles screened them from sight; and like a wind that humsuncertainly in grass, their chanting died away.

  The sun was half behind the western range when Jones next moved. Hecalled, and, getting no answer, he crawled painfully to where the boylay on the hill. Cumnor was sleeping heavily; his head was hot, and hemoaned. So Jones crawled down, and fetched blankets and the canteen ofwater. He spread the blankets over the boy, wet a
handkerchief and laidit on his forehead; then he lay down himself.

  The earth was again magically smitten to crystal. Again the sharp cactusand the sand turned beautiful, and violet floated among the mountains,and rose-colored orange in the sky above them.

  "Jock," said Specimen at length.

  The boy opened his eyes.

  "Your foot is awful, Jock. Can y'u eat?"

  "Not with my foot."

  "Ah, God bless y'u, Jock! Y'u ain't turruble sick. But _can_ y'u eat?"

  Cumnor shook his head.

  "Eatin's what y'u need, though. Well, here." Specimen poured a judiciousmixture of whiskey and water down the boy's throat, and wrapped theawful foot in his own flannel shirt. "They'll fix y'u over to Grant.It's maybe twelve miles through the canon. It ain't a town any more thanCarlos is, but the soldiers'll be good to us. As soon as night comes youand me must somehow git out of this."

  Somehow they did, Jones walking and leading his horse and theimperturbable little burro, and also holding Cumnor in the saddle. Andwhen Cumnor was getting well in the military hospital at Grant, helistened to Jones recounting to all that chose to hear how useful aweapon an ice-cream freezer can be, and how if you'll only chase Apachesin your stocking feet they are sure to run away. And then Jones andCumnor both enlisted; and I suppose Jones's friend is still expectinghim in Tucson.