Elder Conklin by Frank Harris (rom com books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Frank Harris
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âThere ainât no use in talkinâ; but you, sir, hev jest sot us an example of how one who loves the Lord Jesus, and Him only, should act, and we ainât goinâ to remain far behind. No, sir, we ainât. Tharâs the cheque.â
As he finished speaking, tears stood in the kind, honest, blue eyes.
Mr. Letgood took the cheque mechanically, and mechanically accepted at the same time the Deaconâs outstretched hand; but his eyes sought Mrs. Hooperâs, who stood behind the knot of men with her handkerchief to her face. In a moment or two, recalled to himself by the fact that one after the other all the Deacons wanted to shake his hand, he tried to sustain his part in the ceremony. He said:
âMy dear brothers, I thank you each and all, and accept your gift, in the spirit in which you offer it. I need not say that I knew nothing of your intention when I preached this morning. It is not the money that Iâm thinking of now, but your kindness. I thank you again.â
After a few minutesâ casual conversation, consisting chiefly of praise of the âwonderful discourseâ of the morning, Mr. Letgood proposed that they should all have iced coffee with him; there was nothing so refreshing; he wanted them to try it; and though he was a bachelor, if Mrs. Hooper would kindly give her assistance and help him with his cook, he was sure they would enjoy a glass. With a smile she consented. Stepping into the passage after her and closing the door, he said hurriedly, with anger and suspicion in his voice:
âYou didnât get this up as my answer? You didnât think Iâd take money instead, did you?â
Demurely, Mrs. Hooper turned her head round as he spoke, and leaning against him while he put his arms round her waist, answered with arch reproach:
âYou are just too silly for anythinâ.â
Then, with something like the movement of a cat loath to lose the contact of the caressing hand, she turned completely towards him and slowly lifted her eyes. Their lips met.
21 APRIL, 1891.
*
EATINâ CROW
The evening on which Charley Muirhead made his first appearance at Doolanâs was a memorable one; the camp was in wonderful spirits. Whitman was said to have struck it rich. Garotte, therefore, might yet become popular in the larger world, and its evil reputation be removed. Besides, what Whitman had done any one might do, for by common consent he was a âderned fool.â Good-humour accordingly reigned at Doolanâs, and the saloon was filled with an excited, hopeful crowd. Bill Bent, however, was anything but pleased; he generally was in a bad temper, and this evening, as Crocker remarked carelessly, he was âmore ornery than ever.â The rest seemed to pay no attention to the lanky, dark man with the narrow head, round, black eyes, and rasping voice. But Bent would croak: âWhitmanâs struck nothinâ; thar ainât no gold in Garotte; itâs all work and no dust.â In this strain he went on, offending local sentiment and making every one uncomfortable.
Muirheadâs first appearance created a certain sensation. He was a fine upstanding fellow of six feet or over, well made, and good-looking. But Garotte had too much experience of life to be won by a strangerâs handsome looks. Muirheadâs fair moustache and large blue eyes counted for little there. Crocker and others, masters in the art of judging men, noticed that his eyes were unsteady, and his manner, though genial, seemed hasty. Reggitt summed up their opinion in the phrase, âlooks as if heâd bite off moreân he could chaw.â Unconscious of the criticism, Muirhead talked, offered drinks, and made himself agreeable.
At length in answer to Bentâs continued grumbling, Muirhead said pleasantly: ââTainât so bad as that in Garotte, is it? This bar donât look like poverty, and if I set up drinks for the crowd, itâs because Iâm glad to be in this camp.â
âPârâaps you found the last place you was in jesâ a leetle too warm, eh?â was Bentâs retort.
Muirheadâs face flushed, and for a second he stood as if he had been struck. Then, while the crowd moved aside, he sprang towards Bent, exclaiming, âTake that backâright off! Take it back!â
âWhat?â asked Bent coolly, as if surprised; at the same time, however, retreating a pace or two, he slipped his right hand behind him.
Instantly Muirhead threw himself upon him, rushed him with what seemed demoniac strength to the open door and flung him away out on his back into the muddy ditch that served as a street. For a moment there was a hush of expectation, then Bent was seen to gather himself up painfully and move out of the square of light into the darkness. But Muirhead did not wait for this; hastily, with hot face and hands still working with excitement, he returned to the bar with:
âThatâs how I act. No one can jump me. No one, by God!â and he glared round the room defiantly. Reggitt, Harrison, and some of the others looked at him as if on the point of retorting, but the cheerfulness was general, and Bentâs grumbling before a stranger had irritated them almost as much as his unexpected cowardice. Muirheadâs challenge was not taken up, therefore, though Harrison did remark, half sarcastically:
âThat may be so. You jump them, I guess.â
âWell, boys, letâs have the drink,â Charley Muirhead went on, his manner suddenly changing to that of friendly greeting, just as if he had not heard Harrisonâs words.
The men moved up to the bar and drank, and before the liquor was consumed, Charleyâs geniality, acting on the universal good-humour, seemed to have done away with the discontent which his violence and Bentâs cowardice had created. This was the greater tribute to his personal charm, as the refugees of Garotte usually hung together, and were inclined to resent promptly any insult offered to one of their number by a stranger. But in the present case harmony seemed to be completely reestablished, and it would have taken a keener observer than Muirhead to have understood his own position and the general opinion. It was felt that the stranger had bluffed for all he was worth, and that Garotte had come out âat the little end of the horn.â
A day or two later Charley Muirhead, walking about the camp, came upon Dave Crockerâs claim, and offered to buy half of it and work as a partner, but the other would not sell; âthe claim was worth nothinâ; not good enough for two, anyhow;â and there the matter would have ended, had not the young man proposed to work for a spell just to keep his hand in. By noon Crocker was won; nobody could resist Charleyâs hard work and laughing high spirits. Shortly afterwards the older man proposed to knock off; a dayâs work, he reckoned, had been done, and evidently considering it impossible to accept a strangerâs labour without acknowledgment, he pressed Charley to come up to his shanty and eat. The simple meal was soon despatched, and Crocker, feeling the obvious deficiencies of his larder, produced a bottle of Bourbon, and the two began to drink. Glass succeeded glass, and at length Crockerâs reserve seemed to thaw; his manner became almost easy, and he spoke half frankly.
âI guess youâre strong,â he remarked. âYou threw Bent out of the saloon the other night like as if he was nothinâ; strengthâs good, but âtainât everythinâ. I mean,â he added, in answer to the otherâs questioning look, âSamson wouldnât have a show with a man quick on the draw who meant bizness. Bent didnât pan out worth a cent, and the boys didnât like him, butâthem things donât happen often.â So in his own way he tried to warn the man to whom he had taken a liking.
Charley felt that a warning was intended, for he replied decisively: âIt donât matter. I guess he wanted to jump me, and I wonât be jumped, not if Samson wanted to, and all the revolvers in Garotte were on me.â
âWall,â Crocker went on quietly, but with a certain curiosity in his eyes, âthatâs all right, but I reckon you were mistaken. Bent didnât want to rush ye; âtwas only his cussed way, and heâd had mighty bad luck. You might hev waited to see if he meant anythinâ, mightnât ye?â And he looked his listener in the face as he spoke.
âThatâs it,â Charley replied, after a long pause, âthatâs just it. I couldnât wait, dâye see!â and then continued hurriedly, as if driven to relieve himself by a full confession: âMaybe you donât sabe. Itâs plain enough, though Iâd have to begin far back to make you understand. But I donât mind if you want to hear. I was raised in the East, in Rhode Island, and I guess I was liked by everybody. I never had trouble with any one, and I was a sort of favouriteâŠ. I fell in love with a girl, and as I hadnât much money, I came West to make some, as quick as I knew how. The first place I struck was Laramieâyou donât know it? âTwas a hard place; cowboys, liquor saloons, cursinâ and swearinâ, poker and shootinâ nearly every night. At the beginning I seemed to get along all right, and I liked the boys, and thought they liked me. One night a little Irishman was rough on me; first of all I didnât notice, thought he meant nothinâ, and then, all at once, I saw he meant itâand more.
âWell, I got a kind of scareâI donât know whyâand I took what he said and did nothinâ. Next day the boys sort of held off from me, didnât talk; thought me no account, I guess, and that little Irishman just rode me round the place with spurs on. I never kicked once. I thought Iâd get the moneyâI had done well with the stock I had boughtâand go back East and marry, and no one would be any the wiser. But the Irishman kept right on, and first one and then another of the boys went for me, and I took it all. I just,â and here his voice rose, and his manner became feverishly excited, âI just ate crow right along for monthsâand tried to look as if âtwas quail.
âOne day I got a letter from home. She wanted me to hurry up and come back. She thought a lot of me, I could see; more than ever, because I had got alongâI had written and told her my best news. And then, what had been hard grew impossible right off. I made up my mind to sell the stock and strike for new diggings. I couldnât stand it any longerânot after her letter. I sold out and clearedâŠ. I ought to hev stayed in Laramie, pârâaps, and gone for the Irishman, but I just couldnât. Every one there was against me.â
âI guess you oughter hev stayedâŠ. Besides, if you had wiped up the floor with that Irishman the boys would hev let up on you.â
âPârâaps so,â Charley resumed, âbut I was sick of the whole crowd. I sold off, and lit out. When I got on the new stage-coach, fifty miles from Laramie, and didnât know the driver or any one, I made up my mind to start fresh. Then and there I resolved that I had eaten all the crow I was going to eat; the others should eat crow now, and if there was any jumpinâ to be done, Iâd do it, whatever it cost.
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