The whir of threshing machines was heard in the valleys of the Alamar rancho, and wagons loaded with baled hay went from the fields like moving hills. The season had been good, and the settlers, forgetting their past conduct, were beginning to calculate on the well-known good nature and kind heart of the Don, to get their lands by purchasing them from him at a low price and easy terms when he got his patent.
Gasbang and Mathews were the only ones who still slandered the entire Alamar family, in the vilest language, having for their instigator and legal adviser the little lawyer, Peter Roper, protegé of Judge Lawlack and partner of Colonel Hornblower.
Everybody in San Diego knew that Roper had made for himself a most discreditable record, unblushingly vaunting of his degradation, but because he managed first to become a partner to the pompous Colonel Hornblower, and then—“for some secret service unexpressed”—to be a special favorite of Judge Gryllus Lawlack, Roper was not only tolerated but well treated. Even among the respectable people of San Diego Roper had clients who, when he was intoxicated, or when he was obliged to keep his bed because, as it often happened, he had been too severely whipped in some drunken brawl, would patiently wait for him to get sober and on his feet again. Why did those respectable people employ such a low, disreputable character? strangers in town asked. The answer was: “Because Roper says he has so much influence with the Judge?” And verily Roper, intoxicated or sober, won his cases, for when in ignorance of the law, he made any mistakes, which he generally did, being only an amateur lawyer, the Judge, with his rulings, would remedy the harm done, thus unwittingly, or not, assisting Roper, giving him a seemingly good cause to boast that he had retained the Judge, and by so boasting get clients. Of course, many of Judge Lawlack’s decisions were constantly reversed, but the serene majesty of the law in his Honor’s breast was not in the least disturbed by this; on the contrary, he spoke jestingly about being constantly reversed, and said jokingly to lawyers that if they desired to win their suits they should not wish him to decide in their favor, as the Supreme Court was sure to reverse him.
Nevertheless, on the strength of his vaunted influence with the Judge, Roper had gone to the Alamar rancho to solicit the patronage of the settlers. He was willing to take contingent fees, he said, as he was sure to win.
“But what if your friend, the Judge, is reversed, as he always is?” Roper would be asked.
“Well, then we will make a motion for a new trial, or we will call the same suit by some other name, and file a new complaint, or do something else, so as to keep in possession of the property. Possession, as long as it lasts, is ownership.”
“But in the end you don’t win?”
“Who says we don’t? Isn’t it to win if you keep in possession as long as you live? Or, any way, as long as my Judge is in office? And in office he shall be, for I shall keep him there, if I have to swill whisky by the barrel in election times, see if I don’t.”
And with this low bragging and bar-room swagger Roper managed to impose upon people, saying that his influence kept the Judge in office, because he had advocated his cause and worked to have him elected. So, with his delusive sophistry, Peter got clients among the Alamar settlers. While making inquiries about the Alamar lands he came across the entry made by Don Mariano of the land sold to Clarence. This discovery he communicated to Gasbang, and we have seen what resulted.
Now these two worthies were rejoicing at the effect they had caused, and would have been happier had they known the full extent of the misery they had inflicted. They guessed enough, however, to furnish them with matter for their coarse jests, and Roper got intoxicated to celebrate his triumph. He, of course, came out of the tavern with a black eye, but being the chosen friend and political factotum of the Judge, this public degradation was kindly condoned, and San Diego threw its cloak over the prostrate Roper, as usual, when overcome by whisky.
It would have seemed unbearable to Darrell if he had known how amused and pleased Roper and Gasbang were to know that they had brought trouble to the Alamares, and made him ridiculous. This additional misery, however, was fortunately spared to the already much-afflicted, proud spirit. But, indeed, he suffered enough to have satisfied the most relentless Nemesis. No one guessed the extent of his misery. In fact, Clarence was the only one who suspected the existence of some secret source of irritation goading him, and had that kind son been permitted to remain at home, he would have coaxed and persuaded his father to say what was torturing him. For torture it was—mental and physical. A band of purple and black encircled his body, and his arms were of that same hue from the elbow to the shoulder. The bruises made by the tight coil of the reata had left a narrow ring, which became blacker as it grew daily wider and wider. He had done nothing to relieve the soreness, and he went about aching so much that he could scarcely walk, and with a fever to intensify his pains, he was indeed a wretched man. But all this physical suffering was nothing compared to the mental distress of being bereft of his wife’s cherished society. He knew that Mrs. Darrell was grieved to think that he was the cause of all the unhappiness brought upon two innocent families, and this thought almost made him crazy.
He was willing to accept his bodily aches as a retributive penance for his cruelty to Clarence, but to endure the loneliness of his room when his infirm body could hardly bear the weight of his bitter remorse, that indeed seemed beyond human strength. He would go to his solitary bedroom, close the door, and extend his aching, bruised arms in silent appeal, in mute supplication to the adored wife who was now in another room, at the bedside of Alice, forgetful of the entire world except the suffering child before her, and the exiled one, for the sight of whom her heart yearned with aching pulsations.
And where was he, the best beloved, now? He lay on a sick bed, delirious, with a raging fever that seemed to be drying the very fountain of his young life. They had not made a very quick trip to Yuma, for the hot sands of the desert seemed to burn through the very hoofs of the horses, and they were obliged to stop at ten o’clock a.m., and not resume their journey until past three in the afternoon. The exposure to this excessive heat was more than Clarence had strength to endure, for he was already ill when he arrived at Los Angeles. He was only partially conscious when they arrived at the mine, and Fred now gave all his time and attention to the care of his friend. By a great effort of his mind, Clarence had succeeded in impressing upon Fred that he was, on no consideration whatever, to tell to his family or write to anybody in San Diego that he was ill. “They must not be made anxious,” he whispered. “If I get well, I’ll tell them myself; if I die, they’ll know it soon enough.” He closed his eyes, and in a short time delirium had come to make him forget how miserable he was.
Immediately Fred telegraphed to Hubert to send the best physician he could induce to come to that terribly hot climate. No money or trouble was spared, for the two brothers valued Clarence too highly to neglect anything that might be for his benefit. The doctor went at once. The sum of five thousand dollars was paid down to him, and five thousand more he would get on his return after leaving Clarence out of danger, if he lived.
In the meantime, his letters, sent from Los Angeles, had arrived at Alamar, and were answered immediately. In his letters to Gabriel and George, Clarence had explained that his absence must not make any difference in the business arrangement they had made, and the projected bank would be established by George whenever he thought fit to do so—whenever the prospect of the Texas Pacific Railroad justified it. For this purpose, and to pay for the cattle sent to the mines, he had instructed his banker to pay to Don Mariano three hundred thousand dollars.
Gabriel replied, thanking him, and saying that he would adhere to the original plan of going to San Francisco by the first of October, when he hoped Mercita would be out of danger. If Clarence could only have read these letters!
George answered him that he did not intend returning to New York until Mercita got better (Elvira not wishing to leave home while her sister was yet in danger), but that he would be ready to return to California and establish their projected bank at any time that the business outlook justified it; that the chances seemed much in favor of the Texas Pacific, and all were hopeful. If Clarence could only have read this!
Don Mariano wrote a cheerful letter, telling him to return at once. The fact of the matter was that he confidently expected to see Clarence’s bright face very soon; to see those eyes of his, with their brilliant glow of kindness, emanating from a generous, manly heart. How could it be otherwise when all that was necessary would be to recall him, and recalled he had been?
But days and days passed, and Clarence did not come, nor any letters from him either, and the month of September, which was to have brought so much happiness, had been passed in sadness, and was now ending in gloom.
Mercedes and Alice were no longer delirious, but their condition was still precarious, and the anxious parents could not lay aside their fears.
Thus the month of October passed, and November came, bringing the United States Surveyors to measure the Alamar rancho in accordance with the decree of the United States District Court. This advent, though fully expected, did not fail to agitate the settlers of Alamar. It brought before their minds the fact that the law, though much disregarded and sadly dilatory, did sometimes, as if unawares, uphold the right.
Gasbang and Mathews, inspired by Roper, were very active in trying to urge the settlers to some open demonstration. Roper wanted lawsuits, and he saw a chance now to originate several; but the settlers were rather disposed to be quiet, and disposed to wait until the survey was finished and approved, for, after all, what had they to do? The Don took no steps to eject them. What pretext had they to complain?
“I expect we will have to kick him out of his own house,” said Peter Roper, and laughed, thinking it would be such a good joke to do that; “and by ——, if you only show me the ghost of a chance, we’ll do it!”
“Why are you the Don’s enemy, Roper? Did he ever do you any injury?” Romeo asked.
“Oh, my! No; why should he? I am nobody’s enemy; but if I can make any money by kicking him out of his house, don’t you suppose I’d do it? You don’t know me if you think I wouldn’t,” was Roper’s characteristic reply.
But his sharp yellow eyes clearly saw that Gasbang and Mathews were the only ones really anxious to be aggressive, yet aggressive only according to the natural bent of their dispositions. Mathews was unscrupulous, vicious and murderous; Gasbang, unscrupulous, vicious and cowardly—he would use no weapons but the legal trickery of Roper, aided by the indulgence of Judge Lawlack’s friendship. In fact, Judge Lawlack was a host in himself, and when that host was led on to battle by the loquacious Roper against clients who had only justice and equity on their side, everybody knew that Roper’s brow would be crowned with honorable laurels of fraud and falsehood and robbery, while innocent people were cruelly despoiled and left homeless. This, however, was (according to Roper) the secret bargain between Judge Gryllus Lawlack and his favorite. This shameful debauchery of judicial power was the wages of the political factotum; and Roper unblushingly acknowledged it, and boasted of it—boasted openly, in his moments of exultation, when he had imbibed more whisky than was consistent with discretion; when he would become loquacious, and following the law of his being, which impelled him to swagger and vaunting, he longed to make known to people his “influence with the Court.” Wishing at the same time that he was facetious, to be considered a wit, he would relate several stories illustrative of his power over the Judge. One of these stories was that of two litigants, who had had a lawsuit for a long time; at last, one litigant came to the other and said:
“See here; you had better compromise this suit. Don’t you see, on my side I have the law, the equity, the money and the talent?”
“Very true,” answered the other. “You have the law, the equity, the money and the talent, but I have the Judge.”
And Roper would laugh, thinking himself very funny, and with a wink would say: “Didn’t I tell you I run this whole town? Of course I do, because I have the Court in my pocket. Give us another drink.” And he staggered for more whisky.
Could the Judge ignore that his name and office were thus publicly dragged in the mire? Certainly not, but he would merely remark that “Mr. Roper was joking,” seeing no disgraceful reflection upon himself.
In the full reliance of secured power, Gasbang and Roper decided that they would do nothing while the survey of the rancho was going on, but would watch and wait for developments, and then, relying upon the Judge’s friendship to serve their purpose, start some plot to rob the Alamares or the Mechlins.
“Yes, we will watch and pray, brother John,” Roper said, with a nasal twang. Gasbang was a church deacon.
But Mathews had no Judge Lawlack to bedraggle justice for his sake. So while Gasbang and Roper were jubilant, he became gloomy and morose. He could not give vent to his ill humor by shooting stray cattle now; not that he liked Clarence any better than he liked the Don, but he had promised Darrell not to shoot his son’s cattle, and he could not afford to break his promise and make an enemy of so useful a man as Darrell. So Mathews went back to his old love of whisky, and as his whisky was of the cheapest, burning poison circulated in his veins. Miss Mathews, his maiden sister, was seriously alarmed, observing her brother’s ways of late, and would kindly remonstrate against his drinking such poor liquor.
“For you see, William, all liquor is bad, but bad liquor is worse,” the poor old maid would say, in unconscious aphorism, pleading with her hardened brother to the best of her ability.
One morning, when Mathews had been on a debauch of several days’ duration, Miss Mathews walked over to Mrs. Darrell, and apologizing for not having been to see Alice, because she had had so much trouble at home, said she wished to speak to Mr. Darrell. On being told by Jane—who received her—that her father had gone to the fields where grain was being threshed, she left word that she would thank Mr. Darrell to call on her that evening. Agreeable to this request, Mr. Darrell started for Mathews’ house after supper.
Slowly Darrell went over the field and across the little hollow where Gabriel had taken him off his horse. Then he followed the path he had galloped with the reata around his body, and came to the road where he had met the Don and tried to strike him. This was the first time Darrell had been over this ground since that memorable day which was now recalled to his mind so painfully. He wondered how he could have been so blind, such a fool, not to take the right view of Clarence’s actions. Ah! and where was Clarence now, that beloved first-born boy, of whom he was so proud? In this sad meditation, with head bowed down most dejectedly, Darrell followed the path until he came to a fence. He looked up and saw this was the south side of Mr. Mechlin’s garden. He turned around the southeast corner and followed along the fence, remembering that going by that path he would shorten the distance to Mathews’ house. For a few rods Darrell walked in the path, but not wishing to be seen by the Mechlins, he left the path and walked close to the fence, hidden by a row of olive trees. Presently he heard a man’s voice, talking and walking up and down the piazza. On the next turn he saw it was George Mechlin carrying his baby boy in his arms, kissing him at every few words.
Darrell was pleased to see the young man kissing his child so lovingly. It reminded him of his young days when he held his own first boy like that. Then he felt a pang shoot through his heart as he thought that if it had not been for his wicked folly, Clarence in another year might have held his own child, too, in his arms, as George was now holding his, and that baby would have been his own grandchild! Darrell trembled with the strength of his keen remorse—a remorse which now constantly visited him, invading his spirit with relentless fury, like a pitiless foe that gave no quarter. He leaned against the fence for support and stood still, wishing to watch George caressing his baby. Meantime, George continued his walking, his talking and caressing, which Darrell could hear was occasionally reciprocated by a sweet little cooing from the baby. Elvira came out on the piazza now, and he heard her say:
“Indeed, George, that baby ought to be in bed now. See, it is after seven, and he is still awake. You keep him awake.”
Mr. Mechlin also came out and took the baby, saying he, too, must have a kiss. Then Mrs. Mechlin followed, and Caroline, and all caressed the baby, showing how dearly they loved the little thing, who took all the petting in good part, perfectly satisfied.
At last Elvira carried him off to bed, and Darrell saw George and Mr. Mechlin go into the library and sit by the center-table to read. He then, with down-cast eyes, continued his walk towards Mathews’ house.
He found Miss Mathews alone, with eyes that plainly showed sad traces of tears, she was sitting by the lamp darning her brother’s stockings, which, like those of Darrell himself, had always holes at the heels, for the tread of both was alike, of that positive character which revealed an indomitable spirit, and it soon wore out the heels of their socks.
After the customary inquiries for the health of the family, and the usual remarks about the crops being good, Miss Mathews went on to say that she could no longer bear the state of her mind, and thought it was her duty to tell Mr. Darrell her fears, and prevent mischief that might occur, if her brother was not spoken to by somebody.
“What mischief do you fear?” Darrell asked.
“Well, you see—I can scarcely explain—for, after all, it might be all talk of William, when he has drank that horrible whisky.”
“What does he say?”
“Well, you see, he is awful sore about the appeal being dismissed, and he blames it all on Mr. George Mechlin, and says he ought to be shot dead, and all other horrible talk. And now, since the surveyors came, he is worse, saying that the Don will drive us off as soon as the survey is finished!”
“He will do nothing of the sort. He is too kind-hearted,” Darrell said, and he felt the hot blush come to his face—the blush of remorseful shame.
“That’s what I think, but William don’t, and I wish you would talk encouragingly to him, for he is desperate, and blames Congress for fooling settlers. He says Congress ought to be killed for fooling poor people into taking lands that they can’t keep, and Mr. Darrell I hope you will talk to him. What is that?”
She started to her feet, and so did Darrell, for the report of a rifle rang loud and distinct in the evening air.
“That is William’s rifle. I hope he did not fire it,” she said.
Darrell went to the door to listen for another shot, but none was heard, so he came back and resumed his seat.
“Three times I have taken that very rifle from William. He was going to shoot cattle, he said, and I had to remind him that the cattle now belong to your son.”
Steps were heard now, and Mathew’s face peered through the window. Miss Mathews gave a half-suppressed shriek, and dropped her sewing. Her brother’s face looked so ghastly pale that it frightened her. He pushed the door and came in.
“What makes the old maid shriek like a fool?” said he.
“Your death-like face,” Darrell replied.
“Nonsense!” he said, going to a side-table to pour out whisky from a demijohn he took from under it.
“Oh, William! for pity’s sake! don’t drink more,” she begged. “It will make you crazy, I am sure.”
“Anybody might suppose I have drank a river, to hear the old hag talk like that,” he snarled.
“You have not said good evening to Mr. Darrell.”
“You don’t give me a chance, with your infernal chatter. Mr. Darrell knows he is welcome,” he said, without looking at him.
“Where is your rifle, William?” she asked.
With an oath he turned and glared at her, with distorted features.
“It is none of your business where it is. Have I to give you an account of everything?”
“I thought you might have loaned it to somebody, for we heard it fired a little while ago.”
“Is there no rifle but mine in this valley?”
“I am sorry to say there are plenty, but I know the report of yours. I never mistake it for any other.”
Mathews became so enraged, hearing this, and so violent and abusive in his language, that Darrell had to interfere to silence him.
“If you talk like that to your sister, I would advise her not to stay alone in this house with you,” Darrell said; “her life might be in danger.”
“I wish the devil would take the old hag,” he retorted. “She torments my life. I hate her.”
“What is the matter with you, Billy?” Darrell asked. “Why are you so excited?”
“It makes me mad to hear her nonsense,” he said, in a calmer voice, but still much agitated, and he again went to pour himself another drink.
Miss Mathews whispered hurriedly to Darrell: “Take away his rifle.”
“Neighbor Mathews,” said Darrell, “I want to send my rifle to have it fixed, will you lend me yours for a few days?”
“Take it,” said he gruffly, then folding his arms on the table and leaning his head upon them, immediately sunk into a heavy sleep.
“Take the rifle with you now, Mr. Darrell, he might change his mind when he awakes. I’ll bring it directly,” said Miss Mathews, hurrying out of the room. Presently she returned, and in her dejected countenance keen disappointment was depicted. Dropping into her seat she whispered: “The rifle is not in the house. Somebody has taken it and fired it. I am sure that was the shot we heard. I know the ring of it.”
“I’ll go and see. Perhaps I’ll find out who fired it,” Darrell said, walking towards the front door, followed by Miss Mathews, who preferred to make a few parting suggestions outside, not sure of Billy’s soundness of sleep.
As both stepped outside the first object that met their eyes was Billy’s rifle, peacefully reclining against the window.
Darrell took it up and looked at Miss Mathews perplexed. She was looking at him aghast.
The undefined fears that neither one expressed were only too well founded. The rifle had been fired, and fired by Mathews with murderous intent. For several weeks, instigated by Roper and bad whisky, Mathews had been watching an opportunity to shoot George, because he had the appeal dismissed. This evening he at last saw his chance when George was walking the porch caressing his baby. He could not take good aim while he was walking, but when Elvira at last took the baby away and George walked into the library, then, as he went to put the window down, Mathews aimed at his heart and fired. Fortunately the ball struck the window sash, deflected and glanced down, striking the hip-bone instead of the heart.
Darrell and Miss Mathews were still looking at the rifle, as if expecting that by a close examination they might guess who fired it, when they were startled by Mathews uttering frightful curses and smashing the furniture. The noise brought two hired men, who were smoking their pipes by the kitchen fire, and they helped Darrell to grapple with the maniac and pinion his arms, tying him to a chair.
Miss Mathews was greatly shocked to see her brother crazy, but she had been expecting it. She quietly consented to have him taken to an insane asylum.