Tales from Bohemia Part 23

"Stranger, do you mean to say--"

"Yes, that's it," shrieked Busted Blake, turning toward the crowd of intensely interested onlookers. "And I call on all you here to witness and to hold him to his word. That's no mere bluff he says in his notice there, and I'm the sneaking hound that informed. My widow is ent.i.tled to $5,000. I did it in Topeka, and for proof, see this newspaper."

P. Gibbs fired a shot from his revolver through the newspaper that Blake pulled from his shirt. Then the saloon-keeper brought his weapon on a level with Blake's face.

"It's good your boots is on!" said P. Gibbs, ironically.

But he did not fire. Blake stood perfectly still, awaiting the shot, and feebly laughing.

So the two remained for some moments, until Blake suddenly sank to the floor, quite exhausted. He died within a half-hour on the saloon floor, his head resting in the palm of P. Gibbs, who knelt by his side and tried to revive him.

At the next dawn, a man whom they called Big Andy started East, and the piece of paper that Blake handed to P. Gibbs was not all that he took with him. The United States marshal arrived and duly closed Gibbs's saloon, which reopened very shortly afterward, minus the $5,000 offer.

And Big Andy found the widow of Busted Blake, to whom he told a bit of fiction in accounting for the legacy conveyed by him to her that would have imposed upon the most incredulous legatee. When she had recovered from the surprise of finding herself and her child provided with the means of surviving the possible loss of her situation, she forgave the late Busted, and there was a flow of tears unusual to a boarding-house parlour and unnerving to Big Andy.

Presently she asked Andy whether he knew what her husband's last words had been.

"Yep," said Andy. "I heard'm plain and clear. Pete Gibbs,--the other executor of the will, you know,--Pete says, 'It's all right, pardner, me and Andy'll see to it,' and then your husband says, 'Thank Gawd I've been some good to her and the child at last.'"

Which account was entirely correct. When Big Andy had returned to Get-there City, and related how he had performed his mission, he added:

"I'd been such a lovely liar all through, it's a shame I had to go an'

spoil the story by puttin' in some truth at the finish."

They put up a wooden grave-mark where Blake was buried, and after his name they cut in the wood this testimonial:

"A tenderfoot that was some good to his folks at last."

XX. -- MR. THORNBERRY'S ELDORADO

Near the uneven road among the hills a small field of stony ground lay between woods and cultivated land. Nothing grew upon it and no house could be seen from it. The sun beat upon it and crows flew over it to and from the woods.

Along the road trudged a thin old negro with stooping back and gray wool. His knees were bent and his c.u.mbrously shod feet pointed far outward from his line of progress. He wore an aged frock coat and a battered stiff hat, although the month was June. His small face, beginning with a smoothly curved forehead and ending with a cleanly cut chin, was mild and conciliating, shiny, and of the colour of light chocolate. He carried a tin bucket full of cherries. Pop Thornberry was returning to the town.

Pop, whose proper name was Moses, and who was a deacon in the African Methodist Church, made his living this way and that way. He did odd jobs for people, and he fished and hunted when fishing and hunting were in season.

On this June day he had risen early and walked three miles to pick cherries "on shares." He had picked ten quarts and left four of them with the farmer whose trees had produced them. At six cents a quart he would profit thirty-six cents by his walk of six miles and his work of a half-day.

The sun was scorching and Pop was tired. He decided to rest in the barren field, at its very edge in shade of the woods. He climbed the zigzag fence with some labour and at the expense of a few of his cherries. He sat down upon a little k.n.o.b of earth, took off his hat, drew a red handkerchief from the inside thereof, and slowly wiped his perspiring brow.

He looked up at the sky, which was so brightly blue that it made his eyes blink. He sought optical relief in the dark green of the woods.

Then, in steadying his pail of cherries between his legs, he turned his glance to the ground in front of him.

His attention was caught by a lump of earth that sparkled at points In the sun's rays, a mere clod composed of clay and mica, lying In the dry bed of a bygone streamlet. Because it glittered he picked it up and examined it. After a time he bethought him that he was yet two and a half miles from town and very hungry. He arose, somewhat stiff, and put the shining clod in his coat-tail pocket. On his way back to the road he noticed other little earth lumps that shone. He resumed his walk townward, his knees shaking regularly at every step, as was their wont.

At three o'clock in the afternoon he had reached home, sold his cherries, and dined on dried beef and bread in his little unpainted wooden house on the edge of the creek at the back of the town.

He owned his house and a small lot upon which it stood. Near it was a flour-mill, whose owner held a mortgage upon Pop's house and lot. The old negro had been compelled to borrow $200 to pay bills incurred during the illness and subsequent funeral of the late Mrs. Thornberry, and thus to avoid a sheriff's sale. Hence came the mortgage. It would expire on the 10th of September. Pop was almost ready to meet that date. He already had $192 hidden in his cellar, unknown to any one.

He had heard rumours of the mill-owner's desire to build an addition to his mill. To do this would necessitate the acquisition of contiguous property. But Pop had not suspected any ulterior motive when the miller had offered to lend him the money.

"I kin soon lay by 'nuff t' pay off d' mohgage, w'en I ain't got no one but m'se'f t' puvvide foh no moah," he had said, after the loan had been made.

And, having dined on this June day, he took twenty cents from the amount received for cherries and placed it in a cigar-box to be added to the $192. He kept that sixteen cents with which to purchase provisions for to-morrow, and then he walked down the quiet street to the railway station. He often made a dime by carrying some one's satchel from the station to the hotel.

The railroad division superintendent, a well-fed and easy-going man, came down from his office on the second floor of the station building and saw Pop sitting on a baggage-truck. The old negro, forgetful of the clod in his coat-tail pocket, had felt it when he sat down. He had taken it out of his pocket and was now casually looking at it as he held it in his hand.

"h.e.l.lo, Pop!" said the division superintendent, upon whose hand time was hanging heavily. "What have you there?"

"Doan' know, Mistah Monroe. Doan' know, sah. Looks like jes' a chunk o'

mud."

He held out the clod to Mr. Monroe.

The spectacle of the division superintendent talking to the old negro attracted a group of lazy fellows,--the driver of an express wagon, the man who hauls the mail to the post-office, a boy who sold fruit to pa.s.sengers on the train, two porters, with tin signs upon their hats, who solicited patronage from the hotels.

"Why, Pop," said the superintendent, winking to the expressman, "this lump looks as though it contained gold."

"Yes," put in the expressman, "that's how gold comes in a mine. I've often handled it. That's the stuff, sure."

The fruit-selling boy and the mail-man grinned. Pop Thornberry opened wide his mouth and eyes and softly repeated the word:

"Goal!"

"I'd be careful of it," advised Mr. Monroe, handing the clod back to the negro.

Pop took it with a trembling hand and looked at it. Presently he asked:

"W'at'll you give me foh dat air goal, Mistah Monroe."

"Oh, a piece like that would be no use to me. It has to be washed and it wouldn't be worth while putting just one piece through the whole process of cleaning. Now. If you have a lot of it, we might go into partnership in the gold business."

Before the old man could answer to this pleasantry a whistle was heard up the track, and Pop was forgotten in the excitement attending the arrival of the train.

Dislodged from the baggage-truck, the old man looked around for Mr.

Monroe, but the superintendent had disappeared. Pop did not seek to carry any satchels that day. His mind was full of other matters. He went behind the station and sat down beside the river.

"Goal!" That meant proper tombstones for the graves of his wife and children, a new pulpit for the African Methodist Church, equal to that of the African Baptist Church, future ease for his somewhat weary legs and arms and back.

The next afternoon the division superintendent found himself awaited at his office door by Pop Thornberry, who was very dusty and who carried a basket heavy with clods of clay and mica. He had been out to the arid field that morning.

"H-sh!" whispered Pop. "Doan' say a word, Mistah Monroe! Hyah's a lot o'

dem air goal lumps, and I know weah dey's bushels moah,--plenty 'nuff to go into pahtnehship on."

The superintendent, looked bewildered, then amused, then ashamed.

Embarra.s.sed for a reply, he finally said: