Текст книги "Warlock"

Автор книги: Oakley Hall

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7. CURLEY BURNE PLAYS HIS MOUTH ORGAN

IN THE night Curley let Spot pick his own way, only pushing on him when he began to fritter. By day it was a six-hour ride from Warlock to San Pablo, but by night it was slow. The stars were out and a burnt quarter-moon hung in the west, but the darkness was thick, and shapes came suddenly out of it to make his heart start and pound. From time to time he brought out the mouth organ that hung on a cord inside his shirt, and blew a tune through it.

He had dropped the others behind, but Abe had dropped him, too. Still, it was pleasant riding alone in the night, hearing now the wind whispering through trees he couldn’t even see. He reined up a moment to locate himself by the sound; he must be on the slope where, below, the river made a bend around a thick stand of cottonwoods. He turned downhill toward the river, Spot picking his way along with care. He heard the river itself and immediately, as he always did when he first heard it, he reined up again and dismounted to make water.

He rode on alongside the river, with its trembling rapid sheen under the moon and the trees soaring against the black sky, light-streaked where the wind turned the leaves. He listened for the thick rush of the rapids, and saw before him the outline of a horseman. He raised his mouth organ and blew into it, tunelessly. Spot scrambled down a rocky ledge, striking hoof-sparks.

“Curley?” Abe said.

“Ho,” he replied, and Spot whinnied at Abe’s black. They were on the northwest corner of the spread now, and Abe always stopped and watered here.

“Pretty night for a ride,” Curley said, dismounting and giving Spot a slap on the flank. “But I sure don’t own night eyes like you do. It is lucky Spot knows the route.”

“Where’s the others?” Abe asked.

“Back somewhere, bickering and whickering.”

Abe said nothing, and Curley waited to see if he would start off or wait. If he started off he would let him go in alone. But Abe waited until he remounted, and together they rode on down along the river beneath the cottonwoods.

After a time Curley said, “Quite a one, the marshal!”

“Yes,” Abe said. “He is quite a one.” Abe didn’t pick it up any more than that, nor, although his voice had seemed short, quite cut him off either.

Curley was silent for a time, thinking that it was still all right between the two of them, but thinking painfully now, too, that if he, Curley Burne, left San Pablo and moved west, or north, or down to Sonora somewhere, the way he had been considering lately, Abe would turn into pure son of a bitch. Like Jack Cade, only a bigger one; and that would be too bad. Abe had been knocking at it close for a good while now – he knew well enough that Abe had put Jack there to backshoot Blaisedell if it came to it – and it seemed to him more and more that but for him, and some kind of decency Abe owed him, Abe would go all the way over.

And the old man, he thought, shaking his head. The old man was a trial and a terror, and born unholy mean.

“Let’s go on along the river instead of cutting in,” Abe said.

“Sounds nice tonight, don’t it?” He reined right as Abe cut back down under the deep shadow of the cottonwoods. He spat, scraped his hand over his face, and braced himself to try again. Once he and Abe had been able to talk things out.

“Well,” he said loudly. “Looks like I am some beholden to him. He could’ve burned me down there as well as not.”

“No,” Abe said.

“Surely,” he insisted. “I was looking right down it, six feet long and six deep. And lonely!”

“No,” Abe said again. “It looks better for him like this.”

He grimaced to think of having to try to figure everything that way. “Well, he is greased lightning, sure enough,” he went on. “I never saw a man get unhooked that fast and have himself in hand enough so he didn’t have the trigger on the pull. I am some pleased to be with us here, tonight.”

Abe didn’t turn, didn’t speak.

“Well, it was coming anyhow,” Curley said. “Warlock was about due to get fed up with folks. There’s been things done that would make memad, I know. Pony, now; Pony is an aggravating kind of man. Sometimes I think he don’t have good sense. Looks like Warlock was due for somebody like this Blaisedell.”

“I was here before he was,” Abe said, in a stifled voice. “But now he is set up to say who comes and goes in Warlock.”

“Aw, Abe,” he said. He didn’t know how to go on, but he was filled with it now and he had to try to say it out. “What’s got into you, Abe?” he asked.

“Meaning what?” Abe said.

He couldn’t bring himself to reproach Abe for setting Jack Cade to backshoot Blaisedell. He said, “Well, it used to be you’d come out and shoot tomato cans off fence posts with the rest of us. And mostly you’d win, but sometimes you’d lose out – that will happen to any man. And Indian wrestle and hand wrestle with us when we got to fooling, and that the same. But you have stopped it.”

The black cantered ahead, but when Curley caught up again he kept at it.

“Like you had got to be too big a man to lose any more.” His voice felt thick in his throat. “Like if you lost even one time at anything now you lost face, or some damned foolish thing. Like—” He cleared his throat. “Like I kind of think you couldn’t stand to lose tonight.”

This time Abe glanced back at him, and Curley turned in his spurs in order to draw up even.

“Abe,” he said. “Anything where you stand to win, you have got to be able to stand to lose, too. For that’s the way things go. Abe,” he said. “Maybe I know how you feel some. But say you kept on being the biggest man in the San Pablo valley and Warlock too. You still wouldn’t be the biggest man in the territory by a damn sight. And say you called out old Peach and the cavalry, and massacreed them and took Peach’s scalp – where’d you go then? What’d you have to be the biggest of then?”

It sounded as though Abe laughed, and his spirits rose.

“Why, Curley,” Abe said. “The last time I saw that scalp of Peach’s there wasn’t a hell of a lot of hair to take. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Espirato took his Paches out of here – when he saw old Time had beat him to Peach’s hair.”

He laughed too. It sounded like the old Abe.

“Bud Gannon coming along with the others?” Abe asked.

“He stayed in town.”

“He did?” Abe said. When he spoke again his voice had turned somber. “I know there is some that’s turned against me.”

“That’s not so, Abe!” he protested.

“It’s so. Like Bud. And Chet – you see how he has been staying clear. And I felt it hard in Warlock tonight. But you can’t back off.”

“Nothing ever stopped me from it.” Curley tried to say it lightly. “I surely backed tonight, and glad to.”

“I couldn’t have done that,” Abe said. “I guess you know that’s why I let you take it.”

He nodded sickly. He thought again of Cade, and he thought of how it had been worked when they had run Canning; he had tried to shut that from his mind, but it had been as clear as this tonight. He felt sick for Abe. “Surely I knew it,” he said. “But what the hell? Abe – I am damned if I think poor of myself for backing off tonight. Or why you—”

“There gets a time when it don’t matter what you think of yourself,” Abe broke in. “That’s it, you see. Maybe it is what everybody else thinks instead.” The black cantered on ahead again. “Let’s get on in,” Abe called back to him.

Curley spurred Spot to a half-trot, but he stayed behind Abe all the way.

As they walked up from the horse corral, the dogs barked and jumped around their legs. Curley sighed as he looked up at the squat ranch house, where a little light showed in a window. Behind it soared the monolith of the chimney of the old house, which had burned down. The lonely chimney seemed incredibly high and narrow against the night sky, pointing its stone and crumbling mortar height at the stars. He wondered if that chimney would not fall some day, despite the poles that propped it up, and mash them all to smithereens.

He said to Abe, “Well, I’ll be going over to the bunkhouse.”

“Come inside and take a glass of whisky,” Abe said. His voice was bleak. One of the dogs sprawled away in front of him, yelping. They mounted the slanting steps to the porch, and Abe jerked on the latch-string and shouldered the door open. “What the hell are you doing out here, Daddy?” he said.

Following him in, Curley saw the old man on his pallet on the floor. He was raised on one elbow, his skinny neck corded with strain. There was a Winchester across his legs, a jug and lamp on the floor beside him. His beard was thick, pure-white wool in the lamplight, and his mouth was round and pink as a kitten’s button.

“Didn’t stay long, did you?” Dad McQuown said. “Think I’m going to stay in that bedroom and burn?”

“Burn?” Abe said. He picked up the lamp and set it atop the potbelly stove. With the lamplight on it the stovepipe looked red. “You’re not dead yet. Burn?”

“Burn is what I said,” the old man said. “Don Ignacio is going to hear some time you have left me all alone. You think he won’t send some of his dirty, murdering greasers up here to burn me in my bed?”

It was strange, Curley thought, that those Mexicans, killed six months ago in Rattlesnake Canyon, had turned almost every man of them into a greaser-hater – afterward. It was a strange thing.

“There’s three men out in the bunkhouse,” Abe said. He picked up the jug, hooked it to his mouth, and took a long draught. He handed it to Curley and went to sit on the old buggy-seat sofa against the wall.

“Burn them too,” the old man said. “Sneakier than Paches. Those sons of bitches out in the bunkhouse’d sleep through a stampede coming over them anyhow.” His eyes glittered at Curley. “What happened up there?”

From the buggy seat Curley heard a clack and metallic singing. He turned to see Abe bend to pull his bowie knife loose, where it was stuck in the floor. Abe spun it down again, the blade shining fiery in the light.

“Let me tell you,” Curley said to the old man. “Bold as brass I went in there against him. In the Glass Slipper, that was packed with guns to back the bastard up. ‘Let’s see the color of your belly, Marshal!’ I said to him.”

The old man said, “Son, how come you let Curley—”

“Hush now, Dad McQuown. I am telling this. How come he let me? Why, he knows I am the coolest head in San Pablo, and that saloon stacked hard against us.” Feeling a fool, he bent his knees into a crouch and heard Abe spin the knife into the floor again. The old man stared as Curley jerked out his Colt and took a bead on the potbelly stove. “I don’t mind saying that was the fastest draw human eye ever did see,” he said. “Fast, and—” He stopped, straightened, sighed, and holstered his Colt.

“Kill him clean off?” the old man demanded.

“He was way ahead of me,” he said, and glanced toward the buggy seat. He had hoped for a laugh from Abe, to clear things a little; he knew what Abe was going to have to take from the old man. But Abe only flung the knife down again. This time the point didn’t stick and it clattered across the floor and rang against a leg of the stove. Abe made no move to retrieve it.

“Run you out of town,” the old man breathed.

“He surely did.”

The old man lay back on his pallet, and sucked noisily at his teeth. “Son of mine running,” he said.

“Yep,” Abe said, tightly.

“That all you can say?” the old man yelled.

“Yep,” Abe said.

“Go in myself,” the old man said. “See anybody run me out.”

“Walk in,” Abe said.

“I will drag in, by God!” Dad McQuown said, straining his head up again. “See anybody run me out. I have been through Warlock when it wasn’t but a place in the road where me and Blaikie and old man Gannon used to meet and go into Bright’s together. Went together because of Paches in the Bucksaws, thick as fleas. Many’s the time we fought them off, too, before Peach was ever heard of. Took my son with me sometimes that I thought was going to amount to something, and not get run out of—”

“Say, now, speaking of Gannons,” Curley broke in. “Bud’s come back from Rincon. We saw him in town.”

“Bud Gannon,” the old man said, lying back again, “never was worth nothing at all. Billy, now; there is a boy any man’d be glad for a son. Proud.”

“Well, Dad McQuown, he run with the rest of us. Maybe not so fast as me, but he run all right.”

“How fast did my boy run?” the old man whispered, and Abe cursed him.

Curley took a long pull on the jug, watching the old man’s fingers plucking at the Winchester while Abe cursed him, harshly and at length.

“You will answer to the Lord for that cussing some day, boy,” Dad McQuown said, at last. “Cussing your daddy when he is crippled so he can’t beat your teeth down your throat for it. Well, it is sire and dam in a man like a horse, and no way to get yourself a boy without there is half woman in him.”

“One way,” Abe said, in a dead, strained voice. “Breed one mule on another like did for you.”

“Cuss your father, and his ma and pa before him, do you? You will answer for that, too.”

“Not to you,” Abe said.

“You will answer to another Father than me.”

“I’ll answer maybe for killing a pack of greasers for what they did to you. I won’t answer for calling you what every man knows you are, and the Lord too.”

Standing there listening to them, trying to grin as though they were just joking each other, it came on Curley strongly that he had to move on. He had been here too long now; he had seen the beginning, which he had not even known was the beginning, and he did not want to see the end. Abe was a man he had respected and loved as he had no other man, and did still, but lately he could not bear to see where Abe was heading. Or maybe he had to stay, and watch, he thought, and felt a kind of panic.

The dogs set up another clamor outside, and hoofbeats came in through the yard. The old man said, “They didn’t run so fast as you.”

“That is some greasers of Don Ignacio’s come up to burn you in your bed,” Abe said savagely. “By God, how you would burn and stink!”

The hoofbeats and the barking and yelping diminished, going down toward the horse corral. “Well, I will be getting over to the bunkhouse,” Curley said, pretending to yawn. “Good night, Dad McQuown. Abe.”

“We’ll be going down tomorrow after supper,” Abe said.

“Down where?” the old man demanded. “What you going to do now?”

Abe ignored him. “That will put us through Rattlesnake Canyon after dark,” he said. “Tell the boys.”

Curley tipped his hat back and scratched his fingers through his hair, grimacing. “Hacienda Puerto?” he said. “I thought you figured we ought to lay off that awhile, Abe. They followed us a good way last time and we didn’t make off with hardly enough head to count. It is getting tight.”

“We will take more people this time.”

“Well, there is talk Don Ignacio’s got himself an army down there now, Abe. They are going to be waiting for us, one of these times. If they catch us—”

Abe swung toward him. “God damn it, there will be nothing happen because I will be along! You only get caught when I am not there. One shot through and another one dead, and then run home to me to back them off you!”

Curley had brought the old man back that time, leaving Hank Miller dead; and he had refused to go back with Abe and the rest to the ambush in Rattlesnake Canyon. Abe had not forgiven him that, and had not forgiven Bud Gannon, who had left San Pablo afterward. And Abe had not, he thought, forgiven himself either. Rattlesnake Canyon still ate at them all.

“All right, I’ll tell them, Abe,” he said, and went outside and closed the door behind him. He stood on the porch looking up at the stars past the old chimney. He should go, he thought; he should get out now. As he walked tiredly down the steps and over toward the bunkhouse, he took out his mouth organ and began to blow into it. The music he made was sad in the night.

8. JOURNALS OF HENRY HOLMES GOODPASTURE

November 16, 1880

Venit, Vidit, Vicit. The recent dramatics at the Glass Slipper were eminently satisfactory to all, except, no doubt, McQuown and his men, and Clay Blaisedell has succeeded almost past our wildest hopes in subduing the Cowboys. We have been most marvelously impressed with his demeanor here so far.

A man in his position is, of course, handicapped, but he is evidently experienced with makeshift arrangements. A tiny, one-cell jail, no court, no proper judge this side of Bright’s City – except for a J.P. who is only that on his own mandate and general tolerance, have not fazed our Marshal at all. Thus he has for weapons only his reputation and his own six-shooters, with which to threaten, to buffalo, to maim, or to kill. The first, the inherent threat of his reputation, we hope will serve our purposes.

Blaisedell had various suggestions to make. One was that we set up a deadline; no firearms to be carried past a certain part of town. We were uneasy about this, and Blaisedell readily agreed that the edict might cause more trouble than it prevented. Another suggestion of his was met with more enthusiasm: this is what is known as a “white affidavit.” If it is felt that the peace of this town or the safety of its inhabitants are threatened by any man, or if a criminal is transported to Bright’s City for trial for a major crime, and the Bright’s City jurymen fail to render a true judgment (as is often the case), a white affidavit is to be issued. This is no more than an order on the part of the Citizens’ Committee that an offender is to be forbidden entry to the town by the Marshal. If such a one disregards this posting, he then enters under pain of death – which is to say, he must face Blaisedell’s six-shooter prowess, which, we are hopeful, will strike fear into the bravest hearts.

We are most pleased with ourselves, and with our Marshal, so far. As Buck Slavin points out, Warlock’s bad reputation has long stood in the paths of Commerce and Population. If Blaisedell can effect order here we may expect both to increase, for the peaceable and the timid must certainly shy away from the violence well known to have ruled here. Thus, with an influx of citizens of finer stamp, in time the better element of the population will come to overbalance by far that of the violent and irresponsible, peace will come to enforce itself, and Commerce will flourish. To the good fortune of the members of the Citizens’ Committee of Warlock.

Still, there are doubts. I have been troubled in wondering whether we of the Citizens’ Committee have fully realized the responsibility we have assumed. We have hired a gunman whose only recommendation is a certain notoriety. We are responsible for this man of whom we know, actually, nothing. I suppose our troubled consciences are assuaged by the thought that we have assumed a makeshift authority for a makeshift situation, and a temporary one.

The question of our status remains frozen in suspension. Are we in Bright’s County, or in a new, yet-to-be-surveyed county? What keeps us from being granted a town patent before this matter is settled? Is there more to it than merely General Peach’s carelessness and senility? Is there, as Buck Slavin hints in his darker moods, some official feeling that Warlock is not worth troubling with, since it will soon fade away with its subterranean wealth exhausted, or its mines gradually closing down as the market price of silver continues to fall, or becoming flooded and unworkable?[1]

Poor and makeshift our efforts may be, yet there would seem proof in them that a society of sorts is possible in an anarchistic state. We feel we are ultimately in the Republic, separated from her only by an incredibly inept and laggard territorial government, and so obedience to the forms is necessary. Or are those forms themselves so ineradicably imbedded in men’s minds that we cannot think but in terms of them? The general passive acceptance of Judge Holloway’s fines (which everyone knows he pockets), and his imposition of sentences to our little jail or to unpaid community tasks, would seem to indicate this.

Be that as it may, I think the Citizens’ Committee has been most lucky in their employment of Blaisedell. He might have begun his action here in Warlock against the lesser fry. Instead he waited (and incurred some initial criticism for his inaction), and made his play against McQuown himself. I understand that his handling of McQuown, Burne, et al. in the Glass Slipper was masterful. He could have shed blood, but correctly chose not to do so. It is said that Curley Burne actually saluted Blaisedell in tribute to his gentlemanliness and forbearance, as he departed.

We have not seen McQuown since, nor any of his men. There has been no bloodshed since Blaisedell’s arrival. Blaisedell has had to buffalo a few recalcitrants, and has escorted some Cowboys and drunken miners to the jail, but violent death has removed itself from our midst temporarily.

Blaisedell is an imposing figure of a man, with a leonine fair head, an erect and powerful carriage, and eyes of an astonishing concentration. He seems guileless and straightforward, very dignified, yet I have seen him laughing and joking like a boy with his friend Morgan in the Glass Slipper. It is rumored that Blaisedell has an interest in that gambling hall. He spends much time there in company with Morgan, and on several occasions has engaged himself in dealing faro there. From what we have seen of Blaisedell thus far, he seems to have no excesses; he is not given to whoring, drunkenness, or profanity. I think he must needs be a blessedly simple man, in his position, for does not the capacity to deal in violence without excesses, to deal actually in men’s lives as he must do, denote an almost appalling simplicity?

Or is he, in the end, only a merchant like myself, with his goods for sale as I have mine, knowing, as I know, that the better the goods the better price they will command, and the price variable as well with the Need? I see my mind must seek to bring this man to my terms, or perhaps it is to my level.

November 27, 1880

Pranksters have poured cement into the new piano at the French Palace. The piano, which Taliaferro had brought here at what I am sure must have been enormous expense, is ruined, the culprits unknown. It was a mean and thoughtless trick, in that coarse vein of frontier humor of which I have seen far too much. I have offered my sympathy to Taliaferro, who merely glowered. I suppose he suspects that since I mentioned it, I may be the guilty one.

There has also been another rash of rumors about the presence of Apaches in the Dinosaurs, that Espirato has returned from Mexico and is gathering his band again, preparatory to going on the warpath. This is not given much credence, since it has been several years since Espirato was last heard from. He is widely believed dead, and the bulk of his warriors secretly returned to the reservation at Granite.

In consequence of these rumors, however, we have had the pleasure of again seeing General Peach, who is always sensitive to news of his old adversary. He came through Warlock last Sunday with one troop of horse, another having swept up the far side of the valley. It was a shock to see him, for he has grown incredibly gross, and, viewing him, it is easy to believe that his mind is eaten away with paresis. Still, there is something inherently heroic about him; it is like watching an equestrian statue of the Cid or George Washington wrapped in a cloak of heroic deeds, to the accompaniment of stirring martial music. The man has had the capacity throughout his career for giving miserable and inexcusable fiasco the semblance of a thrilling victory. He rode down Main Street at the head of his troop as in a Fourth of July Parade, wearing his huge hat, his white beard blowing back, his strange, pale eyes fixed straight ahead while he saluted right and left with the leather-covered shaft which is supposed to be that of an arrow that almost ended his days at the battle of Bloody Fork. We watched him fresh from a fool’s errand to the border, and reminded ourselves that he has a harem of Apache and Mexican women out of which he has produced (supposedly) a get of half-breed bastards numerous enough to increase by a good percentage the population of this territory; that, in his senility, he wets his trousers like a child, and must have his hand guided by Colonel Whiteside when he writes his name; and still we could not forbear to applaud his passage – badly as he has treated us here.

There have been rumors that silver will drop again on the market, and there is unrest among the miners, who fear a cut in their wages. Especially those of the Medusa. Some weeks ago, in the collapse of a stope at that unlucky mine, two miners were killed outright, and a third horribly crushed – the doctor says the man, Cassady by name, did not die the same night only because he seemed to feel it would put Miss Jessie out, and so clung to his life until early this week, when he finally gave up the ghost. The Medusa miners are incensed about these deaths, and I understand that talk of the Miners’ Union has begun again. They claim that insufficient lagging-timbers are furnished to support their burrowings. This MacDonald denies heatedly, and calls them overpaid and pampered as it is. The price of lumber is certainly fantastic. There are trees of any size only in the northernmost Bucksaws, Bowen’s Sawmill is small, the water power to run it often insufficient, and breakdowns frequent.

There is this time more sympathy than usual with the miners, of whom a large number have been killed and maimed in mine accidents this year. The doctor is quite beside himself about it, a man rarely given to shows of anger. Still, as I said to him, the fellows do make wages of $4.50 a day, and are free to take themselves elsewhere and to other work, if they choose.

December 14, 1880

A death of note has been that of the little professor, whose piano playing at the Glass Slipper all of Warlock had enjoyed. Poor fellow, apparently, while in his cups, he fell insensible into the street at night, where his skull was crushed by a hoof or wagon wheel; not found until morning. God rest his soul, his passing so tragically has saddened us all.

December 28, 1880

Christmas has come and gone and a New Year is almost upon us. The cold spell has broken, and in this the peaceful season there is peace, but perhaps no more than the usual amount of good will. I have a crèche in my store window, Mary and Joseph bending over the Infant in the manger, attended by kings and shepherds. It is surprising how men stop and stare. I think they are not enraptured at the old story; the star of Bethlehem interests them not, nor do the shepherds and the kings. The baby fascinates them, a hideous little piece, out of scale to the rest of the figures, pink plaster with daubs of deeper pink upon the cheeks. It is not that there are no babies here, for the miners beget them upon their Mexican “wives” in some quantity. But they are not proper babies, being illegitimate; and not pink, being half-breed tan to begin with, which soon becomes a deeper hue due to the lack of frequent applications of soap and water. Most important, I think, is that the Babe is surrounded by His family. For there are no proper families here, and pitifully few proper women. There are Cyprians in quantity (more attentive to my crèche even than the men), there are a few ranch women whom we see from time to time, shapeless and bonneted against the sun and rude eyes. There are, in town, besides Miss Jessie, Mrs. Maple and Mrs. Sturges, the one, as is said, twice the man Dick Maples is and as tough as bootsole leather, the other ancient, huge, and a reformed harlot from the look of her.

The reigning queen is Myra Burbage, to court whom, of a Sunday, a great procession of Warlock’s most affluent young bachelors rides down valley to irritate Matt Burbage. Men are made slaves to women by a cunning nature, who designed lust as the means to the continuation of our kind; we are made slaves as well by a trap of our own devising, whereby we desire to stand, as it were, for one of those stiff and smug photographer’s portraits, as man and wife amid our offspring in that proud and self-contained protective society, a family.

A Christmas party at the General Peach, and all were invited to sip a cup of Christmas cheer – paying two dollars to the miners’ fund for the privilege. Myra Burbage distributing her favors among her admirers, and, wonder of wonders, Miss Jessie apparently much interested and amused in conversation with the Marshal! She looked very pretty with her face flushed by the warmth of her labors – or was it something else that had caused her color to rise? There will be much surmise about this, I have no doubt. The Marshal and Miss Jessie have been observed, before this, buggy-riding together, and now, I am sure, more notice will be taken of their activities.

January 2, 1881

I suppose we should have realized that if the infection were only thrust down here, it would crop up elsewhere. There have been a great number of rustling raids in the lower valley, and stage hold-ups on the San Pablo and Welltown roads – so many, in fact, that Buck Slavin has instructed his stage drivers not to resist road agents, and is refusing to transport any shipments of value, as well as warning his passengers to carry none. The Welltown stage was robbed day before yesterday. This is laid at McQuown’s door by some, while others claim that worthy has merely relaxed his control over the San Pablo hard-cases, who are consequently running wild.

Road agents are none of Blaisedell’s affair, unless a coach were to be assaulted within the limits of Warlock. Schroeder, however, is showing signs of life. There is another deputy with him now: I understand that one of his conditions to Sheriff Keller for taking up the post was that he be allowed an assistant. The other is John Gannon, elder brother to Billy Gannon and at one time a rider for McQuown himself. He seems an odd choice for an assistant on the part of Schroeder (an honest man, although heretofore exceedingly timid), but there has been a sign attached to the wall of the jail for some time now, advertising the need of another deputy, and no doubt Gannon has been the only one to apply. There has been some talk about this, and some suspect darkly that Gannon has come at McQuown’s bidding to corrupt the Warlock branch of the law in some kind of plot against Blaisedell.