From Sand Hill to Pine

PART I

“Well!” said the editor of the “Mountain Clarion,” looking up impatiently from his copy. “What’s the matter now?”

The intruder in his sanctum was his foreman. He was also acting as pressman, as might be seen from his shirt-sleeves spattered with ink, rolled up over the arm that had just been working “the Archimedian lever that moves the world,” which was the editor’s favorite allusion to the hand-press that strict economy obliged the “Clarion” to use. His braces, slipped from his shoulders during his work, were looped negligently on either side, their functions being replaced by one hand, which occasionally hitched up his trousers to a securer position. A pair of down-at-heel slippers—dear to the country printer—completed his negligee.

But the editor knew that the ink-spattered arm was sinewy and ready, that a stout and loyal heart beat under the soiled shirt, and that the slipshod slippers did not prevent its owner’s foot from being “put down” very firmly on occasion. He accordingly met the shrewd, good-humored blue eyes of his faithful henchman with an interrogating smile.

“I won’t keep you long,” said the foreman, glancing at the editor’s copy with his habitual half humorous toleration of that work, it being his general conviction that news and advertisements were the only valuable features of a newspaper; “I only wanted to talk to you a minute about makin’ suthin more o’ this yer accident to Colonel Starbottle.”

“Well, we’ve a full report of it in, haven’t we?” said the editor wonderingly. “I have even made an editorial para. about the frequency of these accidents, and called attention to the danger of riding those half broken Spanish mustangs.”

“Yes, ye did that,” said the foreman tolerantly; “but ye see, thar’s some folks around here that allow it warn’t no accident. There’s a heap of them believe that no runaway hoss ever mauled the colonel ez HE got mauled.”

“But I heard it from the colonel’s own lips,” said the editor, “and HE surely ought to know.”

“He mout know and he moutn’t, and if he DID know, he wouldn’t tell,” said the foreman musingly, rubbing his chin with the cleaner side of his arm. “Ye didn’t see him when he was picked up, did ye?”

“No,” said the editor. “Only after the doctor had attended him. Why?”

“Jake Parmlee, ez picked him up outer the ditch, says that he was half choked, and his black silk neck-handkercher was pulled tight around his throat. There was a mark on his nose ez ef some one had tried to gouge out his eye, and his left ear was chawed ez ef he’d bin down in a reg’lar rough-and-tumble clinch.”

“He told me his horse bolted, buck-jumped, threw him, and he lost consciousness,” said the editor positively. “He had no reason for lying, and a man like Starbottle, who carries a Derringer and is a dead shot, would have left his mark on somebody if he’d been attacked.”

“That’s what the boys say is just the reason why he lied. He was TOOK SUDDENT, don’t ye see,—he’d no show—and don’t like to confess it. See? A man like HIM ain’t goin’ to advertise that he kin be tackled and left senseless and no one else got hurt by it! His political influence would be ruined here!”

The editor was momentarily staggered at this large truth.

“Nonsense!” he said, with a laugh. “Who would attack Colonel Starbottle in that fashion? He might have been shot on sight by some political enemy with whom he had quarreled—but not BEATEN.”

“S’pose it warn’t no political enemy?” said the foreman doggedly.

“Then who else could it be?” demanded the editor impatiently.

“That’s jest for the press to find out and expose,” returned the foreman, with a significant glance at the editor’s desk. “I reckon that’s whar the ‘Clarion’ ought to come in.”

“In a matter of this kind,” said the editor promptly, “the paper has no business to interfere with a man’s statement. The colonel has a perfect right to his own secret—if there is one, which I very much doubt. But,” he added, in laughing recognition of the half reproachful, half humorous discontent on the foreman’s face, “what dreadful theory have YOU and the boys got about it—and what do YOU expect to expose?”

“Well,” said the foreman very seriously, “it’s jest this: You see, the colonel is mighty sweet on that Spanish woman Ramierez up on the hill yonder. It was her mustang he was ridin’ when the row happened near her house.”

“Well?” said the editor, with disconcerting placidity.

“Well,”—hesitated the foreman, “you see, they’re a bad lot, those Greasers, especially the Ramierez, her husband.”

The editor knew that the foreman was only echoing the provincial prejudice against this race, which he himself had always combated. Ramierez kept a fonda or hostelry on a small estate,—the last of many leagues formerly owned by the Spanish grantee, his landlord,—and had a wife of some small coquetries and redundant charms. Gambling took place at the fonda, and it was said the common prejudice against the Mexican did not, however, prevent the American from trying to win his money.

“Then you think Ramierez was jealous of the colonel? But in that case he would have knifed him,—Spanish fashion,—and not without a struggle.”

“There’s more ways they have o’ killin’ a man than that; he might hev been dragged off his horse by a lasso and choked,” said the foreman darkly.

The editor had heard of this vaquero method of putting an enemy hors de combat; but it was a clumsy performance for the public road, and the brutality of its manner would have justified the colonel in exposing it.

The foreman saw the incredulity expressed in his face, and said somewhat aggressively, “Of course I know ye don’t take no stock in what’s said agin the Greasers, and that’s what the boys know, and what they said, and that’s the reason why I thought I oughter tell ye, so that ye mightn’t seem to be always favorin’ ‘em.”

The editor’s face darkened slightly, but he kept his temper and his good humor. “So that to prove that the ‘Clarion’ is unbiased where the Mexicans are concerned, I ought to make it their only accuser, and cast a doubt on the American’s veracity?” he said, with a smile.

“I don’t mean that,” said the foreman, reddening. “Only I thought ye might—as ye understand these folks’ ways—ye might be able to get at them easy, and mebbe make some copy outer the blamed thing. It would just make a stir here, and be a big boom for the ‘Clarion.’”

“I’ve no doubt it would,” said the editor dryly. “However, I’ll make some inquiries; but you might as well let ‘the boys’ know that the ‘Clarion’ will not publish the colonel’s secret without his permission. Meanwhile,” he continued, smiling, “if you are very anxious to add the functions of a reporter to your other duties and bring me any discoveries you may make, I’ll—look over your copy.”

He good humoredly nodded, and took up his pen again,—a hint at which the embarrassed foreman, under cover of hitching up his trousers, awkwardly and reluctantly withdrew.

It was with some natural youthful curiosity, but no lack of loyalty to Colonel Starbottle, that the editor that evening sought this “war-horse of the Democracy,” as he was familiarly known, in his invalid chamber at the Palmetto Hotel. He found the hero with a bandaged ear and—perhaps it was fancy suggested by the story of the choking—cheeks more than usually suffused and apoplectic. Nevertheless, he was seated by the table with a mint julep before him, and welcomed the editor by instantly ordering another.

The editor was glad to find him so much better.

“Gad, sir, no bones broken, but a good deal of ‘possum scratching about the head for such a little throw like that. I must have slid a yard or two on my left ear before I brought up.”

“You were unconscious from the fall, I believe.”

“Only for an instant, sir—a single instant! I recovered myself with the assistance of a No’the’n gentleman—a Mr. Parmlee—who was passing.”

“Then you think your injuries were entirely due to your fall?”

The colonel paused with the mint julep halfway to his lips, and set it down. “Sir!” he ejaculated, with astounded indignation.

“You say you were unconscious,” returned the editor lightly, “and some of your friends think the injuries inconsistent with what you believe to be the cause. They are concerned lest you were unknowingly the victim of some foul play.”

“Unknowingly! Sir! Do you take me for a chuckle-headed niggah, that I don’t know when I’m thrown from a buck-jumping mustang? or do they think I’m a Chinaman to be hustled and beaten by a gang of bullies? Do they know, sir, that the account I have given I am responsible for, sir?—personally responsible?”

There was no doubt to the editor that the colonel was perfectly serious, and that the indignation arose from no guilty consciousness of a secret. A man as peppery as the colonel would have been equally alert in defense.

“They feared that you might have been ill used by some evilly disposed person during your unconsciousness,” explained the editor diplomatically; “but as you say THAT was only for a moment, and that you were aware of everything that happened”—He paused.

“Perfectly, sir! Perfectly! As plain as I see this julep before me. I had just left the Ramierez rancho. The senora,—a devilish pretty woman, sir,—after a little playful badinage, had offered to lend me her daughter’s mustang if I could ride it home. You know what it is, Mr. Grey,” he said gallantly. “I’m an older man than you, sir, but a challenge from a d–d fascinating creature, I trust, sir, I am not yet old enough to decline. Gad, sir, I mounted the brute. I’ve ridden Morgan stock and Blue Grass thoroughbreds bareback, sir, but I’ve never thrown my leg over such a blanked Chinese cracker before. After he bolted I held my own fairly, but he buck-jumped before I could lock my spurs under him, and the second jump landed me!”

“How far from the Ramierez fonda were you when you were thrown?”

“A matter of four or five hundred yards, sir.”

“Then your accident might have been seen from the fonda?”

“Scarcely, sir. For in that case, I may say, without vanity, that—er—the—er senora would have come to my assistance.”

“But not her husband?”

The old-fashioned shirt-frill which the colonel habitually wore grew erectile with a swelling indignation, possibly half assumed to conceal a certain conscious satisfaction beneath. “Mr. Grey,” he said, with pained severity, “as a personal friend of mine, and a representative of the press,—a power which I respect,—I overlook a disparaging reflection upon a lady, which I can only attribute to the levity of youth and thoughtlessness. At the same time, sir,” he added, with illogical sequence, “if Ramierez felt aggrieved at my attentions, he knew where I could be found, sir, and that it was not my habit to decline giving gentlemen—of any nationality—satisfaction—sir!—personal satisfaction.”

He paused, and then added, with a singular blending of anxiety and a certain natural dignity, “I trust, sir, that nothing of this—er—kind will appear in your paper.”

“It was to keep it out by learning the truth from you, my dear colonel,” said the editor lightly, “that I called to-day. Why, it was even suggested,” he added, with a laugh, “that you were half strangled by a lasso.”

To his surprise the colonel did not join in the laugh, but brought his hand to his loose cravat with an uneasy gesture and a somewhat disturbed face.

“I admit, sir,” he said, with a forced smile, “that I experienced a certain sensation of choking, and I may have mentioned it to Mr. Parmlee; but it was due, I believe, sir, to my cravat, which I always wear loosely, as you perceive, becoming twisted in my fall, and in rolling over.”

He extended his fat white hand to the editor, who shook it cordially, and then withdrew. Nevertheless, although perfectly satisfied with his mission, and firmly resolved to prevent any further discussion on the subject, Mr. Grey’s curiosity was not wholly appeased. What were the relations of the colonel with the Ramierez family? From what he himself had said, the theory of the foreman as to the motives of the attack might have been possible, and the assault itself committed while the colonel was unconscious.

Mr. Grey, however, kept this to himself, briefly told his foreman that he found no reason to add to the account already in type, and dismissed the subject from his mind. The colonel left the town the next day.

One morning a week afterward, the foreman entered the sanctum cautiously, and, closing the door of the composing-room behind him, stood for a moment before the editor with a singular combination of irresolution, shamefacedness, and humorous discomfiture in his face.

Answering the editor’s look of inquiry, he began slowly, “Mebbe ye remember when we was talkin’ last week o’ Colonel Starbottle’s accident, I sorter allowed that he knew all the time WHY he was attacked that way, only he wouldn’t tell.”

“Yes, I remember you were incredulous,” said the editor, smiling.

“Well, I take it all back! I reckon he told all he knew. I was wrong! I cave!”

“Why?” asked the editor wonderingly.

“Well, I have been through the mill myself!”

He unbuttoned his shirt collar, pointed to his neck, which showed a slight abrasion and a small livid mark of strangulation at the throat, and added, with a grim smile, “And I’ve got about as much proof as I want.”

The editor put down his pen and stared at him.

“You see, Mr. Grey, it was partly your fault! When you bedeviled me about gettin’ that news, and allowed I might try my hand at reportin’, I was fool enough to take up the challenge. So once or twice, when I was off duty here, I hung around the Ramierez shanty. Once I went in thar when they were gamblin’; thar war one or two Americans thar that war winnin’ as far as I could see, and was pretty full o’ that aguardiente that they sell thar—that kills at forty rods. You see, I had a kind o’ suspicion that ef thar was any foul play goin’ on it might be worked on these fellers ARTER they were drunk, and war goin’ home with thar winnin’s.”

“So you gave up your theory of the colonel being attacked from jealousy?” said the editor, smiling.

“Hol’ on! I ain’t through yet! I only reckoned that ef thar was a gang of roughs kept thar on the premises they might be used for that purpose, and I only wanted to ketch em at thar work. So I jest meandered into the road when they war about comin’ out, and kept my eye skinned for what might happen. Thar was a kind o’ corral about a hundred yards down the road, half adobe wall, and a stockade o’ palm’s on top of it, about six feet high. Some of the palm’s were off, and I peeped through, but thar warn’t nobody thar. I stood thar, alongside the bank, leanin’ my back agin one o’ them openin’s, and jest watched and waited.

“All of a suddent I felt myself grabbed by my coat collar behind, and my neck-handkercher and collar drawn tight around my throat till I couldn’t breathe. The more I twisted round, the tighter the clinch seemed to get. I couldn’t holler nor speak, but thar I stood with my mouth open, pinned back agin that cursed stockade, and my arms and legs movin’ up and down, like one o’ them dancin’ jacks! It seems funny, Mr. Grey—I reckon I looked like a darned fool—but I don’t wanter feel ag’in as I did jest then. The clinch o’ my throat got tighter; everything got black about me; I was jest goin’ off and kalkilatin’ it was about time for you to advertise for another foreman, when suthin broke—fetched away!

“It was my collar button, and I dropped like a shot. It was a minute before I could get my breath ag’in, and when I did and managed to climb that darned stockade, and drop on the other side, thar warn’t a soul to be seen! A few hosses that stampeded in my gettin’ over the fence war all that was there! I was mighty shook up, you bet!—and to make the hull thing perfectly ridic’lous, when I got back to the road, after all I’d got through, darn my skin, ef thar warn’t that pesky lot o’ drunken men staggerin’ along, jinglin’ the scads they had won, and enjoyin’ themselves, and nobody a-followin’ ‘em! I jined ‘em jest for kempany’s sake, till we got back to town, but nothin’ happened.”

“But, my dear Richards,” said the editor warmly, “this is no longer a matter of mere reporting, but of business for the police. You must see the deputy sheriff at once, and bring your complaint—or shall I? It’s no joking matter.”

“Hol’ on, Mr. Grey,” replied Richards slowly. “I’ve told this to nobody but you—nor am I goin’ to—sabe? It’s an affair of my own—and I reckon I kin take care of it without goin’ to the Revised Statutes of the State of California, or callin’ out the sheriff’s posse.”

His humorous blue eyes just then had certain steely points in them like glittering facets as he turned them away, which the editor had seen before on momentous occasions, and he was speaking slowly and composedly, which the editor also knew boded no good to an adversary.

“Don’t be a fool, Richards,” he said quietly. “Don’t take as a personal affront what was a common, vulgar crime. You would undoubtedly have been robbed by that rascal had not the others come along.”

Richards shook his head. “I might hev bin robbed a dozen times afore THEY came along—ef that was the little game. No, Mr. Grey,—it warn’t no robbery.”

“Had you been paying court to the Senora Ramierez, like Colonel Starbottle?” asked the editor, with a smile.

“Not much,” returned Richards scornfully; “she ain’t my style. But”—he hesitated, and then added, “thar was a mighty purty gal thar—and her darter, I reckon—a reg’lar pink fairy! She kem in only a minute, and they sorter hustled her out ag’in—for darn my skin ef she didn’t look as much out o’ place in that smoky old garlic-smellin’ room as an angel at a bull-fight. And what got me—she was ez white ez you or me, with blue eyes, and a lot o’ dark reddish hair in a long braid down her back. Why, only for her purty sing-song voice and her ‘Gracias, senor,’ you’d hev reckoned she was a Blue Grass girl jest fresh from across the plains.”

A little amused at his foreman’s enthusiasm, Mr. Grey gave an ostentatious whistle and said, “Come, now, Richards, look here! Really!”

“Only a little girl—a mere child, Mr. Grey—not more’n fourteen if a day,” responded Richards, in embarrassed depreciation.

“Yes, but those people marry at twelve,” said the editor, with a laugh. “Look out! Your appreciation may have been noticed by some other admirer.”

He half regretted this speech the next moment in the quick flush—the male instinct of rivalry—that brought back the glitter of Richards’s eyes. “I reckon I kin take care of that, sir,” he said slowly, “and I kalkilate that the next time I meet that chap—whoever he may be—he won’t see so much of my back as he did.”

The editor knew there was little doubt of this, and for an instant believed it his duty to put the matter in the hands of the police. Richards was too good and brave a man to be risked in a bar-room fight. But reflecting that this might precipitate the scandal he wished to avoid, he concluded to make some personal investigation. A stronger curiosity than he had felt before was possessing him. It was singular, too, that Richards’s description of the girl was that of a different and superior type—the hidalgo, or fair-skinned Spanish settler. If this was true, what was she doing there—and what were her relations to the Ramierez?

PART II

The next afternoon he went to the fonda. Situated on the outskirts of the town which had long outgrown it, it still bore traces of its former importance as a hacienda, or smaller farm, of one of the old Spanish landholders. The patio, or central courtyard, still existed as a stable-yard for carts, and even one or two horses were tethered to the railings of the inner corridor, which now served as an open veranda to the fonda or inn. The opposite wing was utilized as a tienda, or general shop,—a magazine for such goods as were used by the Mexican inhabitants,—and belonged also to Ramierez.

Ramierez himself—round-whiskered and Sancho Panza-like in build—welcomed the editor with fat, perfunctory urbanity. The fonda and all it contained was at his disposicion.