The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories is a Webnovel created by W. H. H. Murray.
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The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories.
by W. H. H. Murray.
THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN.
We were camped amid the foot-hills on the trail which led up to the Kicking Horse Pa.s.s. The sun had already pa.s.sed from sight, beyond the white summits above us, and the shadow of the monstrous mountain range darkened the prairie to the east, to the horizon’s rim. Our bivouac was made in a grove of lofty firs, six or eight in number; and a little rivulet, trickling from the upper slopes, fell, with soft, lapsing sound, within a few feet of our camp-fire. We did not even pitch a tent, for the sky was mild, and above us the monstrous trees lifted their protecting canopy of stems. The hammocks were swung for the ladies, and each gentleman “preempted” the claim that suited him best, by depositing his blanket and rifle upon it. The entire party were in the best of spirits, and nature responded to our happiness in its kindest mood.
Laughter sounded pleasantly at intervals from the busy groups, each working at some self-appointed industry. The hum of cheerful conversation mingled with the murmurs of the brook; and now and then the s.n.a.t.c.h of some sweet song would break from tuneful lips, brief, spirited, melodious as a bobolink’s, dashing upward from the clover-heads. And before the mighty shadow lying gloomily on the great prairie plain, which stretched eastward for a thousand miles, had grown to darkness, the active, happy workers had given to the bivouac that look of designed orderliness which a trained party always give to any spot they select in which to make a camp or pa.s.s a night. An hour before, there was nothing to distinguish that grove of trees, or the ground beneath them, from any other spot or hill within the reach of eye. But now it commanded the landscape; and, had you been trailing over the vast plain, the bright firelight, the group of men and women moving to and fro, the picketed horses, the fluttering bits of color here and there, would have caught your gaze ten miles away; and were you tired or hungry, or even lonesome, you would have naturally turned your horse’s head toward that camp as toward a cheerful reception and a home; for wherever is happy human life, to it all lonely life is drawn as by a magnet.
And this was demonstrated by our experience then and there. For, scarcely had we done with supper,–and by this time the gloom had grown to darkness, and the half-light of evening held the landscape,–when out of the semi-gloom there came a call,–the call of a man hailing a camp.
Indeed, we were not sure he had not hailed several times before we heard him; for, to tell the truth, we were a very merry crowd, and as light of heart as if there was not a worry or care in all the world,–at least for us,–and the smallest spark of a joke exploded us like a battery.
Indeed, so rollicking was our mood that our laughter was nearly continuous, and it is quite possible that the stranger may have hailed us more than once without our hearing him. And this was the more likely because the man’s voice was not of the loudest, nor was it positive in the energy of its appeal.
Indeed, there was a certain feebleness or timidity in the stranger’s hail, as if he was mistrustful that any good fortune could respond to him, and, hence, deprecated the necessity of the resort. But hear him we did at last, and he was greeted with a chorus of voices to “Come in!
Come in! You’re welcome!” And partly because we had finished our repast, and partly from courtesy and the natural promptings of gentlefolk to give a visitor courteous greeting, we all arose and received him standing. And, certainly, had the kindly act been unusual with us, not one of our group would have regretted the extra condescension bestowed upon him at his coming, after he had entered the circle of our firelight, and we saw the expression of his features.
What a mirror the human face is! Looking into it, how we behold the soul, the accidents that have befallen it and the disappointments it has borne! Are not the faces of men as carved tablets on which we read the records of their lives? The face of childhood is smoothly beautiful, like a white page on which neither with ink of red or black has any pen drawn character. But, as the years go on, the pen begins to move and the fatal tracery to grow,–that tracery which means and tells so much. And the face of this man,–this waif, so to speak,–this waif that had come to us from the stretch of the prairie, whose southern line is the southern gulf; this stranger, who had come so suddenly to the circle of our light, and so plaintively sought admission to its comfort and its cheer, was a face which one might read at a glance. Not one in our circle that did not instantly feel that he embodied some overwhelming calamity. A look of sadness, of a mild, continuous sorrow, overspread his face. There was a pitiful expression about the mouth, as if brave determination had withdrawn its lines from it forever. From his eyes a certain mistrustfulness looked forth,–not mistrustfulness of others, but of himself,–as if confidence in his own powers had received an overwhelming shock. The man’s appearance made an instant and unmistakable impression upon the entire company. The ladies–G.o.d bless their sweet and sympathetic natures!–were profoundly moved at the pitiful aspect of our guest. Their bosoms thrilled with sympathy for one upon whose devoted head evil fortune had so evidently emptied its quiver. Nor were our less sensitive masculine natures untouched by his forlorn appearance.
“A target for evil fortune,” whispered d.i.c.k to the major.
“A regular bull’s-eye!” was the solemn response. “A bull’s-eye, by gad!
at the end of the score.”
It was not a poetic expression. I wish the reader to note that I do not record it as such. I only preserve it as evidence of the major’s humanity, and of the unaffected sympathy for the stranger, which at that moment filled all hearts.
Naturally, as it can well be imagined, the gayety of our company had been utterly checked by the coming of our sad guest. In the presence of such a wreck of human happiness, perhaps of human hope, what person of any sensibility could maintain a lightsome mood? Had it not been for one peculiarity,–a peculiarity, I am confident, all of us observed,–the depression of our spirits would have been as profound as it was universal. This peculiarity was the stranger’s appet.i.te. This, fortunately, had remained unimpaired,–an oasis in the Sahara of his life.
“The one remnant left him from the wreck of his fortunes,” whispered d.i.c.k.
“A perfect remnant!” returned the major, sententiously.
For myself, acting as host to this appet.i.te, and being naturally of a philosophic turn, I watched its development with the keenest interest, not to say with a growing curiosity. “Here is something,” I said to myself, “that is unique. That fine law of recompense which is kindly distributed through the universe finds here,” I reflected, “a most instructive and conclusive demonstration. Robbed, by an adverse fate, of all that made life agreeable, this man, this pilgrim of time, this wayfarer to eternity, this companion of mine on the road of life, has had bestowed upon him an extraordinary solace, has been permitted to retain a commensurate satisfaction. Surely, life cannot have lost its attractions for one whose stomach still preserves such aspirations.”
And, prompted by the benevolence of my mood, and the antic.i.p.ations of a wise forecast, I collected in front of me whatever edibles remained on the table, that, if the supply of our hospitality should prove insufficient, the exhibition of its spirit should at least be conclusive.
But, if the countenance of the stranger was of a most melancholy cast, there were not lacking hints that by nature he had been endowed with vivacity of spirit; for, as he continued, with an industry which was remarkable, to refresh himself, there were appearances, which came to the eye and the corners of his mouth, which made the observer conclude that he was not lacking the sense of humor; and, if his experience had been most unfortunate, there was in him an ability to appreciate the ludicrousness of its changeful situations. Indeed, one could but conclude that originally he must have been of a buoyant, not to say sanguine disposition; and, if one could but prevail upon him to narrate the incidents of his life, they would be found to be most entertaining.
It was something like an hour before our melancholy-looking guest had fully improved the opportunity with which a benignant Providence had supplied him,–a freak in which, one might conclude, she seldom indulged. He ceased to eat, and sat for a moment gazing pensively at the dishes. It seemed to me–but in this I may possibly be mistaken–that a darker shade of sadness possessed his face at the conclusion than the one that shadowed it so heavily at the beginning of the repast. “The pleasures of hope,” I said to myself, “are evidently greater to my species than are those of recollection. Now that there is nothing left for my guest to antic.i.p.ate, it is evident that memory ceases to excite.”
And I could but feel that, had our provisions been more abundant, the stranger’s appet.i.te would not have been so easily appeased. With something of regret in my voice, I sought to divert his mind from that sense of disappointment which I judged from his countenance threatened to oppress his spirits.
“Friend,” I said, “I doubt not that you have trailed a goodly distance, and your fasting has been long?”
“I have not eaten a meal in two days,” was the response.
“Heavens!” exclaimed d.i.c.k in an aside to the major. “Is it credible that that man ate two days ago!”
“Gad!” exclaimed the major, “the man’s stomach is nothing but a pocket.”
“A pocket! I should call it an unexplored cavern!” retorted d.i.c.k.
“The direction and reason of your long trail would be interesting,” I resumed. “And, if not impertinent, friend, may I ask you whence you have come?”
“I have journeyed from Texas,” replied the man, and his voice nearly broke as he said it.
“_Oh!_” exclaimed the ladies, and they sympathetically grouped themselves, antic.i.p.ating, with true feminine sensitiveness, some terrible denouement.
“_Texas!_” I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.
“_Gad!_” said the major.
“The _Devil!_” said d.i.c.k.
“Yes, _Texas!_” repeated the man, and he groaned.
By this time, as any intelligent reader will easily divine, our whole group was in a condition of mild excitement. Several of us had resided in Texas, and we felt that we stood at the threshold of a history,–a history with infinite possibilities in it. For myself, I knew not how to proceed. My position as a host forbade me to interrogate. The sorrows of life are sacred, and my sensitiveness withheld me from thrusting myself within the enclosure of my guest’s recollections. That his experiences, could we but be favored with a narration of them, would be entertaining,–painfully entertaining,–I keenly realized; but how to proceed I saw not. I remained silent.
“Yes,”–it was the stranger who broke the silence,–“I am a busted ex-Texan!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: I AM A BUSTED EX-TEXAN.]
The relief that came to me at the instant was indescribable. The path was made plain. We all felt that we were not only on the threshold of a history, but of a narration of that history. The ladies fluttered into position for listening. I could but see it, and so I am bound to record that I saw d.i.c.k irreverently punch the major. It was a punch which carried with it the significance of an exclamation. The major received it with the face of a Spartan, but with the grunt of a Chinook chief.
“Friend,” I said, “we are accustomed to beguile the evening hours with entertaining descriptions of travels, often of personal incidents of the haps and hazards of life; and, if it would not be disagreeable to you, we would be vastly entertained, beyond doubt, by any narration with which you might favor us of your Texan experiences and of the fortunes which befell you there.”
For a few moments, the silence remained unbroken, save by the crackle of the fire and the soft movement in the great firs overhead,–a movement which is to sound what dawn is to the day; not so much a sound as a feathery suggestion that sound might come. It was a genial hour, and the mood of the hour began to be felt in our own. The warmth of it evidently penetrated the bosom of our guest. He had eaten. He was filled,–appreciably so at least, and that happy feeling, that comfortable sense of fulness, which characterizes the after-dinner hour, pervaded him with its genial glow. He loosened his belt,–another tremendous nudge from d.i.c.k,–and a look of contentment softened his features. Whatever storm had wrecked his life, he had now pa.s.sed beyond its billows, and from the sure haven into which he had been blown he could gaze with complacent resignation, if not with happiness, at the dangers through which he had pa.s.sed. I am sure that we were all delighted at the brightening appearance of our guest, and felt that, if the story he was to tell us was one which included disasters, it would at least be lightened by traces of humor and the calm acceptance of a philosophic mind.
“I was born in the State of Connecticut,” so our guest began his narration. “I came from a venturesome stock, and the instinct of commercial enterprise may be regarded as hereditary in my family. My grandfather was the first one to discover the tropical attributes of the beech-wood tree. He first perceived that it contained within its fibres the pungency of the nutmeg. With a celerity which we remember with pride in our family, he availed himself of the commercial value of his discovery, and for years did a prosperous trade on the credulity of mankind. He was a man of humor,–a sense which has been to some extent transmitted to myself,–he was a man of humor, and I have no doubt he enjoyed the joke he was practising on people, fully as much as the profits which the practical embodiment of his humor brought to his pocket. My father was a deacon, a man of true piety and eminently respectable. He was engaged in the retail-grocery business,–a business which offers opportunities to a person of wit and of an inventive turn of mind. The b.u.t.ter that he sold was salted invariably by one rule–a rule which he discovered and applied in the cellar of the store himself; and the sugar which he sold, if it was sanded, was always sanded by a method which improved rather than detracted from its appearance.”
Here our guest paused a moment, as if enjoying the recollections of the virtues of his ancestors. His face was as sober as ever, but his look was one of contentment; and I could but note the suggestion of merriment–the merriment of a happy memory–in his eye. How happy it is for an offspring to be able to recall the character of his forefathers with such liveliness of mind!
“The motive which impelled me towards Texas,” he resumed, “was one which was natural for me to feel, thus ancestrally connected. I had heired my father’s business,–the deacon, who had died full of honors, ripe in years, and in perfect peace. But the business did not prosper in my hands; perhaps, I had not heired, with the business, the deacon’s ability,–that accuracy of eye, that gravity of appearance, that deftness of touch, so to speak, which underlay his success. Be that as it may, the business did not pay, and without hesitation I sold it; and, with a comfortable sum for investment, I journeyed to Texas.
“It is proper for me to remark that the welcome I received was most cordial. I chose a populous centre for a temporary residence, and proceeded to look around me. I found the Texans to be a warm-hearted people, much given to hospitality, and willing, with a charming disinterestedness, to admit all new-comers, with capital, to the enormous profits of their various enterprises.
“For the first time in my life, I found myself among a people who were successful in everything they undertook. Their profits were simply enormous. No speculation could possibly fail. However I invested my money, I was a.s.sured that I would speedily become a millionnaire. Cotton was a certain crop. Corn was never known to fail. The Texan tobacco was rapidly driving the Cuban out of the market. The aboriginal grapes of the State, of which there were millions of acres waiting for the presses, yielded, as Europe confessed, a wine superior to Champagne. If I preferred herding, all I had to do was to purchase a few sheep and simply sit down. There was no section of the globe where sheep were so prolific, fleeces so thick, or the demands of market so clamorous. And, as for horses, I was a.s.sured that no one in Texas who knew the facts of the case would spend any time in raising them. The prairies were full of them, hundreds of thousands of them, all blooded stock, ‘true descendants, sir, from the Moorish Barb, distributed through the whole country at the Spanish invasion.’ I need do nothing but purchase fifty thousand acres, fence the territory in, and the enclosed herds would continue to propagate indefinitely. Such were the delightful pictures which my entertainers presented to me. Captivated by the charming manners of my hosts, my sanguine temperament kindled into heat at the touch of their enthusiasm. Where every venture was sure of successful issue, there was no need for deliberation or selection. I invested indiscriminately in all, and waited buoyantly for the results.”
Here the stranger paused, compelled, perhaps, by a slight interruption.
d.i.c.k had retired, closely followed by the major. Our guest certainly was not devoid of humor, and I was convinced, as I watched the play of his features, that he apprehended and appreciated the reason for their retirement. He lifted a plate from the table, inspected it closely, turned it over, gazed contemplatively at its reversed side, and, poising it deftly upon the point of three fingers, quietly remarked:–
“The gentlemen, I judge, have been in Texas?”
“They have,” I replied: “we three were there together.”
“Ah!”
It was all he said. I might add, it was all that could be said.
At this point, d.i.c.k and the major rejoined us. Their eyes showed traces of recent tears. They were still wiping their faces with their handkerchiefs. With that refinement which is characteristic of true gentlemen, and which seeks concealment of any extraordinary emotion, they had considerately retired to indulge their laughter.