Chapter III A Double-Barreled Detective Story | ||
3. Chapter III
Extracts from letters to the mother:
DENVER, April 3, 1897
I have now been living several days in the same hotel with
Jacob Fuller. I have his scent; I could track him through ten
divisions of infantry and find him. I have often been near him and
heard him talk. He owns a good mine, and has a fair income from it;
but he is not rich. He learned mining in a good way—by working at it
for wages. He is a cheerful creature, and his forty-three years sit
lightly upon him; he could pass for a younger man—say thirty-six or
thirty-seven. He has never married again—passes himself off for a
widower. He stands well, is liked, is popular, and has many friends.
Even I feel a drawing toward him—the paternal blood in me making its
claim. How blind and unreasoning and arbitrary are some of the laws of
nature—the most of them, in fact! My task is become hard now—you
realize it? you comprehend, and make allowances?—and the fire of it
has cooled, more than I like to confess to myself, But I will carry it
out. Even with the pleasure paled, the duty remains, and I will not
spare him.
And for my help, a sharp resentment rises in me when I
reflect that he who committed that odious crime is the only one who
has not suffered by it. The lesson of it has manifestly reformed his
character, and in the change he is happy. He, the guilty party, is
absolved from all suffering; you, the innocent, are borne down with
it. But be comforted—he shall harvest his share.
SILVER GULCH, May 19
I placarded Form No. 1 at midnight of April 3; an hour later
I slipped Form No. 2 under his chamber door, notifying him to leave
Denver at or before 11.50 the night of the 14th.
Some late bird of a reporter stole one of my placards, then
hunted the town over and found the other one, and stole that. In this
manner he accomplished what the profession call a "scoop"—that is, he
got a valuable item, and saw to it that no other paper got it. And so
his paper—the principal one in the town—had it in glaring type on
the editorial page in the morning, followed by a Vesuvian opinion of
our wretch a column long, which wound up by adding a thousand dollars
to our reward on the paper's account! The journals out here know how
to do the noble thing—when there's business in it.
At breakfast I occupied my usual seat—selected because it
afforded a view of papa Fuller's face, and was near enough for me to
hear the talk that went on at his table. Seventy-five or a hundred
people were in the room, and all discussing that item, and saying they
hoped the seeker would find that rascal and remove the pollution of
his presence from the town—with a rail, or a bullet, or
something.
When Fuller came in he had the Notice to Leave—folded
up—in one hand, and the newspaper in the other; and it gave me more
than half a pang to see him. His cheerfulness was all gone, and he
looked old and pinched and ashy. And then—only think of the things he
had to listen to! Mamma, he heard his own unsuspecting friends
describe him with epithets and characterizations drawn from the very
dictionaries and phrase-books of Satan's own authorized editions down
below. And more than that, he had to agree with the verdicts and
applaud them. His applause tasted bitter in his mouth, though; he
could not disguise that from me; and it was observable that his
appetite was gone; he only nibbled; he couldn't eat. Finally a man
said:
"It is quite likely that that relative is in the room and
hearing what this town thinks of that unspeakable scoundrel. I hope
so."
Ah, dear, it was pitiful the way Fuller winced, and glanced
around scared! He couldn't endure any more, and got up and left.
During several days he gave out that he had bought a mine in
Mexico, and wanted to sell out and go down there as soon as he could,
and give the property his personal attention. He played his cards
well; said he would take $40,000—a quarter in cash, the rest in safe
notes; but that as he greatly needed money on account of his new
purchase, he would diminish his terms for cash in full, He sold out
for $30,000. And then, what do you think he did? He asked for
greenbacks, and took them, saying the man in Mexico was a
New-Englander, with a head full of crotchets, and preferred greenbacks
to gold or drafts. People thought it queer, since a draft on New York
could produce greenbacks quite conveniently. There was talk of this
odd thing, but only for a day; that is as long as any topic lasts in
Denver.
I was watching, all the time. As soon as the sale was
completed and the money paid—which was on the 11th—I began to stick
to Fuller's track without dropping it for a moment. That night—no,
12th, for it was a little past midnight—I tracked him to his room,
which was four doors from mine in the same hall; then I went back and
put on my muddy day-laborer disguise, darkened my complexion, and sat
down in my room in the gloom, with a gripsack handy, with a change in
it, and my door ajar. For I suspected that the bird would take wing
now. In half an hour an old woman passed by, carrying a grip: I caught
the familiar whiff, and followed with my grip, for it was Fuller. He
left the hotel by a side entrance, and at the corner he turned up an
unfrequented street and walked three blocks in a light rain and a
heavy darkness, and got into a two-horse hack, which of course was
waiting for him by appointment. I took a seat (uninvited) on the trunk
platform behind, and we drove briskly off. We drove ten miles, and the
hack stopped at a way-station and was discharged. Fuller got out and
took a seat on a barrow under the awning, as far as he could get from
the light; I went inside, and watched the ticket-office. Fuller bought
no ticket; I bought none. Presently the train came along, and he
boarded a car; I entered the same car at the other end, and came down
the aisle and took the seat behind him. When he paid the conductor and
named his objective point, I dropped back several seats, while the
conductor was changing a bill, and when he came to me I paid to the
same place—about a hundred miles westward.
From that time for a week on end he led me a dance. He
traveled here and there and yonder—always on a general westward
trend—but he boas not a woman after the first day. He was a laborer,
like myself, and wore bushy false whiskers. His outfit was perfect,
and he could do the character without thinking about it, for he had
served the trade for wages. His nearest friend could not have
recognized him. At last he located himself here, the obscurest little
mountain camp in Montana; he has a shanty, and goes out prospecting
daily; is gone all day, and avoids society. I am living at a miner's
boardinghouse, and it is an awful place: the bunks, the food, the
dirt—everything.
We have been here four weeks, and in that time I have seen
him but once; but every night I go over his track and post myself. As
soon as he engaged a shanty here I went to a town fifty miles away and
telegraphed that Denver hotel to keep my baggage till I should send
for it. I need nothing here but a change of army shirts, and I
brought that with me.
SILVER GULCH, June 12
The Denver episode has never found its way here, I think. I
know the most of the men in camp, and they have never referred to it,
at least in my hearing. Fuller doubtless feels quite safe in these
conditions. He has located a claim, two miles away, in an
out-of-the-way place in the mountains; it promises very well, and he
is working it diligently. Ah, but the change in him! He never smiles,
and he keeps quite to himself, consorting with no one—he who was so
fond of company and so cheery only two months ago. I have seen him
passing along several times recently—drooping, forlorn, the spring
gone from his step, a pathetic figure. He calls himself David
Wilson.
I can trust him to remain here until we disturb him. Since
you insist, I will banish him again, but I do not see how he can be
unhappier than he already is. I will go hack to Denver and treat
myself to a little season of comfort, and edible food, and endurable
beds, and bodily decency; then I will fetch my things, and notify poor
papa Wilson to move on.
DENVER, June 19
They miss him here. They all hope he is prospering in
Mexico, and they do not say it just with their mouths, but out of
their hearts. You know you can always tell. I am loitering here
overlong, I confess it. But if you were in my place you would have
charity for me. Yes, I know what you will say, and you are right: if I
were in your place, and carried your scalding memories in my
heart—
I will take the night train back to-morrow.
DENVER, June 20
God forgive us, mother, me are hunting the wrong man!
I have not slept any all night. I am now awaiting, at dawn, for the
morning train—and how the minutes drag, how they drag!
This Jacob Fuller is a cousin of the guilty one. How
stupid we have been not to reflect that the guilty one would never
again wear his own name after that fiendish deed! The Denver Fuller is
four years younger than the other one; he came here a young widower in
'79, aged twenty-one—a year before you were married; and the
documents to prove it are innumerable. Last night I talked with
familiar friends of his who have known him from the day of his
arrival. I said nothing, but a few days from now I will land him in
this town again, with the loss upon his mine made good; and there will
be a banquet, and a torch-light procession, and there will not be any
expense on anybody but me. Do you call this "gush"? I am only a boy,
as you well know; it is my privilege. By and by I shall not be
a boy any more.
SILVER GULCH, July 3
Mother, he is gone! Gone, and left no trace. The scent was
cold when I came. To-day I am out of bed for the first time since. I
wish I were not a boy; then I could stand shocks better. They all
think he went west. I start to-night, in a wagon—two or three hours
of that, then I get a train. I don't know where I'm going, but I must
go; to try to keep still would be torture.
Of course he has effaced himself with a new name and a
disguise. This means that I may have to search the whole globe to
find him. Indeed it is what I expect. Do you see, mother? It is
I that am the Wandering Jew. The irony of it! We arranged that
for another.
Think of the difficulties! And there would be none if I only
could advertise for him. But if there is any way to do it that would
not frighten him, I have not been able to think it out, and I have
tried till my brains are addled. "If the gentleman who lately bought a
mine in Mexico and sold one in Denver will send his address to" (to
whom, mother!), "it will be explained to him that it was all a
mistake; his forgiveness will be asked, and full reparation made for a
loss which he sustained in a certain matter." Do you see? He would
think it a trap. Well, any one would. If I should say, "It is now
known that he was not the man wanted, but another man—a man who once
bore the same name, but discarded it for good reasons"—would that
answer? But the Denver people would wake up then and say "Oho!" and
they would remember about the suspicious greenbacks, and say, "Why did
he run away if he wasn't the right man?—it is too thin." If I failed
to find him he would be ruined there—there where there is no taint
upon him now. You have a better head than mine. Help me.
I have one clue, and only one. I know his handwriting. If
he puts his new false name upon a hotel register and does not disguise
it too much, it will be valuable to me if I ever run across it.
SAN FRANCISCO, June 28, 1898
You already know how well I have searched the states from
Colorado to the Pacific, and how nearly I came to getting him once.
Well, I have had another close miss. It was here, yesterday. I struck
his trail, hot, on the street, and followed it on a run to a
cheap hotel. That was a costly mistake; a dog would have gone the
other way. But I am only part dog, and can get very humanly stupid
when excited. He had been stopping in that house ten days; I almost
know, now, that he stops long nowhere, the past six or eight months,
but is restless and has to keep moving. I understand that feeling! and
I know what it is to feel it. He still uses the name he had registered
when I came so near catching him nine months ago—"James Walker";
doubtless the same he adopted when he fled from Silver Gulch. An
unpretending man, and has small taste for fancy names. I recognized
the hand easily, through its slight disguise. A square man, and not
good at shams and pretenses.
They said he was just gone, on a journey; left no address;
didn't say where he was going; looked frightened when asked to leave
his address; had no baggage but a cheap valise; carried it off on
foot—a "stingy old person, and not much loss to the house."
"Old!" I suppose he is, now I hardly heard; I was there but a
moment. I rushed along his trail, and it led me to a wharf. Mother,
the smoke of the steamer he had taken was just fading out on the
horizon! I should have saved half on hour if I had gone in the right
direction at first. I could have taken a fast tug, and should have
stood a chance of catching that vessel. She is bound for
Melbourne.
HOPE CAÑON, CALIFORNIA, October 3, 1900
You have a right to complain. "A letter a year" is a
paucity; I freely acknowledge it; but how can one write when there is
nothing to write about but failures? No one can keep it up; it breaks
the heart.
I told you—it seems ages ago, now—how I missed him at
Melbourne, and then chased him all over Australasia for months on
end.
Well, then, after that I followed him to India; almost
saw him in Bombay; traced him all around—to Baroda,
Rawal-Pindi, Lucknow, Lahore, Cawnpore, Allahabad, Calcutta,
Madras—oh, everywhere; week after week, month after month, through
the dust and swelter—always approximately on his track, sometimes
close upon him, get never catching him. And down to Ceylon, and then
to—Newer mind; by and by I will write it all out.
I chased him home to California, and down to Mexico, and
back again to California. Since then I have been hunting him about the
state from the first of last January down to a month ago. I feel
almost sure he is not far from Hope Cañon; I traced him to a
point thirty miles from here, but there I lost the trail; some one
gave him a lift in a wagon, I suppose.
I am taking a rest, now—modified by searchings for the lost
trail. I was tired to death, mother, and low-spirited, and sometimes
coming uncomfortably near to losing hope; but the miners in this
little camp are good fellows, and I am used to their sort this long
time back; and their breezy ways freshen a person up and make him
forget his troubles. I have been here a month. I am cabining with a
young fellow named "Sammy" Hillyer, about twenty-five, the only son of
his mother—like me—and loves her dearly, and writes to her every
week—part of which is like me. He is a timid body, and in the matter
of intellect—well, he cannot be depended upon to set a river on fire;
but no matter, he is well liked; he is good and fine, and it is meat
and bread and rest and luxury to sit and talk with him and have a
comradeship again. I wish "James Walker" could have it. He had
friends; he liked company. That brings up that picture of him, the
time that I saw him last. The pathos of it! It comes before me often
and often. At that very time, poor thing, I was girding up my
conscience to make him move on again!
Hillyer's heart is better than mine, better than anybody's
in the community, I suppose, for he is the one friend of the black
sheep of the camp—Flint Buckner—and the only man Flint ever talks
with or allows to talk with him. He says he knows Flint's history, and
that it is trouble that has made him what he is, and so one ought to
be as charitable toward him as one can. Now none but a pretty large
heart could find space to accommodate a lodger like Flint Buckner,
from all I hear about him outside. I think that this one detail will
give you a better idea of Sammy's character than any labored-out
description I could furnish you of him. In one of our talks he said
something about like this: "Flint is a kinsman of mine, and he pours
out all his troubles to me—empties his breast from time to time, or I
reckon it would burst. There couldn't be any unhappier man, Archy
Stillman; his life had been made up of misery of mind—he isn't near
as old as he looks. He has lost the feel of reposefulness and
peace—oh, years and years ago! He doesn't know what good luck
is—never has had any; often says he wishes he was in the other hell,
he is so tired of this one."
Chapter III A Double-Barreled Detective Story | ||