# Shorty Smith's Widows

    Just afore we h'isted him he winked at Hill and sort of whispered: "I say, Hill. If about two weeks from now Cherry ain't the sickest man you ever laid eyes on I'll eat a whole hog!" And them cheerful words—that was a puzzle to Hill, who couldn't make head or tail of 'em—was Shorty's last.
Shorty Smith's Widows
BY THOMAS A. JANVIER
HANGING Shorty Smith was mostly Cherry's notion—along with Cherry being so dead set, after the trouble he'd taken to purify it, on keeping Palomitas plumb pure. Some of the rest of us was less certain. All that Shorty'd done was to shoot Hart's nephew—Shorty not being sober at the time, and Hart's nephew more than ordinary aggravating—and I guess the feeling was general that instead of hanging Shorty we ought to give him a vote of thanks. That little runt of a Hart's nephew was a dose if ever there was one—a bigger sneak and a bigger fool than usually is found mixed in one sample—and having got rid of him at any price was a decree of Providence that nobody wanted to kick at. He was the sort that could be spared.
And Shorty wasn't no kind of a fellow for hanging, anyhow. He was a real down humorous little cuss, so smack full of his queer talk and his queer doings he kept all hands all the time on a full laugh. He was more fun, that little man was, than a basketful of monkeys—and when it come to setting up rigs on anybody he took the cake every time. As I've told before, Shorty had the center of the stage for the last act when we set things up on the Englishman—him sort of inviting attention by his black frock-coat and silk hat, and the fussy ways he had—who come down to Palomitas to look into railroad doings for the London stockholders. He had a full day of wild Westernness handed out to him, that Englishman had—winding up with lynching Shorty on a telegraph-pole for him to look at from the back platform of the Pullman as the train pulled out: and he thinking every bit of it was the real thing. Shorty done his part of the lynching so natural it was enjoyable to look at him—and nobody really hadn't any heart to start him at doing it all over again smack in earnest on the same pole.
Cherry, I reckon, right down in his boots, felt the same way. But he had his record to look after—and so he had to keep his feelings in his boots, or anywhere else where they couldn't be got at. It was Cherry, you see, who led off in the purifying business, and pretty much run the show. Palomitas did need a clean-up for sure. Till Cherry got to work it was about the cussedest town in New Mexico—and that's saying considerable when you remember what the Territory was like in them days when the railroads had just come in. Anybody could see that something had got to be done about it; and what he called "the better element" was agreed with him that purifying was required.
But it was Cherry himself, same as I've said, who done most of the job. It was him got up the Regulating Committee and wrote out the Regulations that was posted on the door of the deepo; and it was him made out the list, posted along with the Regulations, of them that was give to choose between leaving town quick or being attended to by the Committee and planted in the sage-brush; and it was him helped the slow ones to get a move on by starting to make a telegraph-pole example out of Santa Fé Charley—Charley deserving it, having shot Bill Hart, who was a good fellow and as little like his nephew as good whiskey is like bad mescal. He just bossed the whole job, Cherry did—and when he and the Committee'd got through, they had Palomitas that blame pure nobody felt at home in it.
Having a record like that, Cherry couldn't go back on it nohow—no matter how much he felt obliged to Shorty, same as the rest of us, for what he'd done. And he was the more dead set on putting Shorty through regular because he'd had all the funny business about hangings he could hold. He was sore all over, Cherry was—and he had a right to be—about the rig the Sage Brush Hen put on him to save Santa Fé's neck from stretching: the Hen, dressed so queer there was no knowing her, romping in just as Charley was being roped for business purposes and pretending she was Charley's wife come sudden from back East; and begging Cherry most pitiful to save her dear husband's life for the sake of keeping their precious children from being orphans; and hugging away at Cherry's knees till she got him a-most sick; and so working on all hands that we ended off by unroping Charley, and taking up a collection for them make-believe children, and sending off the Hen and Charley to Santa Fé in Hill's coach—Hill run the coach between the track-end and Santa Fé till the road got built through—with their pockets full of money and giving 'em three cheers. As was to be expected, Cherry never heard the end of the way them two fooled him—and he got so stickly over it you only had to say "How's orphans?" to him to start him off swearing for an hour. Feeling that way, and having his record to keep up, trying to put any brakes on Cherry was no use. It didn't matter what his name was, Cherry said, nobody was going to get two bites out of him. He'd been fooled once, but it wasn't going to happen again. The Regulations had been made for business purposes and wasn't to be monkeyed with. Shorty'd broke 'em;—no matter if he had done the town a benefit doing it—and that settled it that Shorty'd got to swing.
At first Shorty couldn't believe he and telegraph-poles really was to get acquainted. He hadn't no clear notion about the shooting—he not being sober, as I've said, at the time—and when he come to and found he was hitched fast to the iron safe in the express office, that being the best we could do to jail him, and was told what he was up against, he thought the boys were putting a rig on him and only laughed. When he did ketch on, the thing being so rubbed in on him he had to, he kicked hard. If he really had shot Hart's nephew, he said, he didn't know nothing to speak of about it, and so oughtn't to be telegraph-poled for what was an accident that might happen to anybody. And all hands knowed well enough, he said, that shooting Hart's nephew, or getting shut of him anyway, was a blame good thing—seeing what a comfort doing without him was going to be. And since things was that way, he said, it wasn't a case where telegraph-poles ought to come in.
The sense of the community was in harmony with Mr. Smith's presentation of the matter on both counts, was the way Judge Wilson put it. (He could talk well, the Judge could. Likely his name wasn't Wilson, and he got called Judge because he'd been a lawyer back East before he had to quit in a hurry for something he'd done there.) But Cherry stuck it out resolute there wasn't going to be any back-down. And so, seeing there was no budging him, and he having most of the rights on his side anyway, the proceedings was allowed to go on.
After Shorty'd fairly got the facts jammed into him he behaved well. He was a sandy little man, Shorty was, and he showed it. What was going on, he said, wasn't a square game; but since nobody seemed to think squareness mattered, and he not being the squealing kind, he'd go right along with the procession and take his medicine without making any row. He talked like a man, Shorty did; and some of the boys, liking his sandiness, asked him to shake hands. Shorty shook, and he looked pleased.
All he did ask for, Shorty said, was a chance to write to his wife before the telegraph-poling came along. It was only fair she should know what had happened to him, he said, and should get it positive—so she might take a fresh start, when she got through fussing over it, by getting married to somebody else. And what was more, he said, he wanted her to have his claim and what little he'd got out of it—seeing it was hers by rights anyway, and would help to keep her a-going till her new husband took hold. It wasn't much he had on hand, about four hunderd dollars, he reckoned; but the claim was worth something, and selling that would bring her in enough to make things easy for quite a while. So what he wanted to do, he said—seeing it was Cherry was most set on making a widow of her—was to turn the dollars and the claim over to Cherry to take care of till she got there. And he said Cherry was to put a post-office order for a hunderd dollars in his letter, so she could come right on down to Palomitas and rake in her pile. "Likely, too," said Shorty, "she'll want to be took out to where I'm planted in the sage-brush to drop a tear. She's a terrible tender-hearted woman, and it's going to worry her having me hung."
Cherry kicked against taking the job; but all hands was agreed he ought to—seeing it was him, just as Shorty said it was, was most set on the widow-making—and he ended by giving in and telling Shorty he'd put the whole thing through. So Wood—he was the station-master, Wood was—settled Shorty comfortable at the desk in the ticket-office, with both his legs tied together to keep off surprises, and Shorty set to work at his letter-writing: the boys standing round, sort of casual, helping matters along by telling him things he ought to put in. He was a powerful long time at it—Cherry, being nervous anyway, got to fussing over the time he took—but he did finish off at last. When he got through he said, as sandy as ever, he'd a little explaining to do—and after that the band might begin to play.
"As you see, gentlemen," said Shorty, "I've written four letters"—and he showed 'em to us—" and you may be surprised, till you think a little, to find they all seem to be written to different folks pretty well scattered round in the States. But when you've done your thinking I reckon nobody in this crowd—where names isn't as fixed as they might be—will see much in it that's queer. Same as the rest of you, gentlemen, I've had to make some quick changes now and then myself—and whenever I needed to draw a fresh name from the pack my dear wife got her share in whatever it happened to be. That's the whole story—and I reckon there ain't more'n about three of you who haven't found it useful, off and on, to do the same thing.
"The scatteriness of the letters comes from my not being dead sure just where my dear wife happens to be. She's fond of visiting round among her old friends; and when she strikes 'em—in Omaha, or Denver, or wherever she happens to blow in—she has to call herself what they knowed her by when she lived there. I'm not much of a hand at corresponding, and it's a good while since I heard from her; so she may be in any of them places, and wearing any of them old names. All the letters is sent to somebody's care, and she'll get one of 'em soon for sure; and them she don't get, being marked that way, will come back all right to Cherry here. So Cherry's to put a hunderd-dollar order in each of 'em made out to the name on the envelope. The one she gets will give her the money to come on down here with; and the ones that come back to Cherry he'll cash and pay over to her. I do hate to give Cherry all that bother. But I reckon you'll allow, gentlemen—seeing it's his own fault my having to bother him—attending to this business is up to him square."
Cherry was the only one said it wasn't—but he didn't waste no time arguing about it. Being in a hurry to end off with Shorty, and nervous anyway, he just took the four hunderd dollars and said, snappy-like, he'd go over to Santa Fé next day and get the money-orders and start the letters along. Then we got Shorty to the telegraph-pole and attended to him. Not even Cherry had any real heart in the doings—and the rest of us felt about as mean as we could feel. Shorty was the only one showed any spirit, and he done his part well—keeping sandy right smack to the end. Just afore we h'isted him he winked at Hill and sort of whispered: "I say, Hill. If about two weeks from now Cherry ain't the sickest man you ever laid eyes on I'll eat a whole hog!" And them cheerful words—that was a puzzle to Hill, who couldn't make head or tail of 'em—was Shorty's last.
Cherry'd had all he cared for in doings with widows, along of Charley and the Hen; and to make sure there wasn't anything in the wood-pile that oughtn't to be he went through Shorty's letters careful. As far as he could see—outside the different names, which was accounted for; and the rather fancy price put on the claim, that would settle itself by what the claim sold for—there was nothing to find fault with. All the letters was just alike in what they said, and they went this way:
My dear Wife,—Owing to an accident on my part with a telegraph-pole, you will be a widow when these few lines reach you. I call it hard luck. But others don't see it that way. With this order for a hunderd dollars you can pay your way down here, and you'd better start quick, and get what's coming to you. It's in Mr. Cherry's hands. Mr. Cherry is the leading store-keeper in Palomitas. He'll tell you all that's needed, and when you show him this letter he'll hand over to you. The accident is owing to him, and he owes it to you to treat you well. The claim ought to fetch $2,000 anyway, and there will be $300 coming to you in cash, so your clean-up won't be bad. Hoping that this finds you as it leaves me, I am your affectionate in haste
Husband.
So Cherry sent off the four letters with a money-order for a hunderd dollars in each of 'em; and then he set down and waited for what Shorty's widow might have to hand out to him when she come along. He didn't look forward with no sort of pleasure to facing the widow—seeing she couldn't be expected to see things his way—but he said it all come in the day's work, and he was ready to make sacrifices for the sake of keeping Palomitas pure. The rest of us, being less set on purity, was real annoyed. Everybody liked that queer little cuss; and Hill—he'd got into terrible bad swearing habits, Hill had, along of his mule-driving—said square out hanging him was a damn shame!
The one soul around town who hadn't nothing to say against it was the Mexican woman—Juana, her name was—Shorty'd made a sort of a wife of. Juana said he'd got just what rightly was coming to him. He'd took away all her money, she said—and, one way and another, she used to get a-hold of considerable—as fast as she made it, and being shut of him that way was a good thing. "Ahorcado?" said Juana. " Nada me gustaria mas!"—which was her Dago way of putting it that hanging him suited her right down to the ground. She had a lot more to tell, Juana had, that didn't put him much in what you would call a good light—and when she'd done telling it none of us fussed any to speak of over his having got jerked away.
About a week or so after the hanging, Shorty's regular widow blew in. She was a plain little mouse of a woman—so quiet in her ways, and so pleased over the rake-in a-coming to her, Cherry right away was set easy in his mind. She came along to Cherry's store straight from the deepo, when the Pueblo train got in in the morning, and said she was from Boulder, Colorado, and her name was Mrs. Edward L. Ward—which was right by the record, that being one of the names on Shorty's list. And as she brought along Shorty's letter, all regular, Cherry knew it was a square game.
Cherry'd expected to ketch it when Shorty's widow turned up over having made a widow of her, and having done it in a mean sort of way. But he didn't. She said right out—same as Juana—hanging was just what suited Shorty, and it suited her too. She was only sorry, she said, it hadn't happened afore ever she'd laid eyes on him: seeing how he'd only married her for the sake of getting what money she had—and had cleared out as soon as he'd spent it, and she hadn't heard a word about him for more'n six years. But she wouldn't bear no malice, she said, seeing he'd left his pile to her—and then she and Cherry, not bothering any more about what had happened to Shorty, went to talking over what was to be got for the claim. She was reasonable about maybe having to take less'n two thousand dollars for it, and things was pretty well settled when noontime come and she went over to get her dinner at the Forest Queen.
Some kind of a hotel being needed, and nobody else offering, old Tender Foot Sal was allowed to keep on running the Forest Queen after the town got its clean-up—but as the Committee'd shut up the bank Santa Fé Charley'd took charge of, and had put such a cinch on the dance-hall it was like a Sunday-school, her hotel-keeping was a poorish job. But victuals that could be eat if you was hungry enough, and beds that on a pinch could be slept in, was to be had there—and the widow fixed with Sal to stay over till next day.
In the afternoon she and Cherry took matters up again, and things went on smooth as butter atween 'em till they got along to talking about the cash Shorty's letter'd said was a-coming to her. Right there they struck a snag. Cherry told her about having sent off to her a bunch of letters with money-orders in 'em all, and why he'd done it—so one of 'em would strike her quick wherever she happened to be, and whatever name she happened to have on when it struck her; and he said the three she hadn't got wouldn't be long in coming back to him and then he'd settle up. That brought her square to a stand. Such doings, she said, was more'n she could make head or tail of. Shorty—or Edward, as she called him—never'd been known as far as she could tell, she said, by no such names as Nellwood or White or Williamson, them being the names on the other three letters; and it looked to her, she said, as if something was all wrong.
The two of 'em kept a-talking away about it till supper-time, and all the time not getting nowhere; and then the widow, saying they'd have to let it go till morning, went over to get her hash and stay the night at the Forest Queen. The only thing she could think of, she said, was that Edward had been up to some of his joking—he was a great hand for joking, she said—and likely them letters hadn't been sent to real folks at all.
Bright and early next morning over come the widow to Cherry's store, and at it they went again—and things begun to get spirited right away. Now she'd slept on it, the widow said, and was seeing things clear, she wasn't worrying any. Whether them folks was real or wasn't real, she said, didn't make no difference—but what did count was Cherry's having spent three hunderd dollars of her money without any orders from her for spending it. That being so, she said, it was up to him to pay her back that three hunderd dollars without no more fuss over it. If he got it back himself from wherever he'd seen fit to send it to, she said, she'd be glad—but his getting it or his not getting it hadn't nothing to do with his settling up with her short off. Cherry, of course, wasn't going to stand talk like that; and he told her he was let out because the money wasn't hers but Shorty's, and he'd only done with it what Shorty ordered. And she told him back it stopped being Shorty's, and right away got to be hers, the very minute he'd yanked Shorty up the telegraph-pole—and if he didn't hand it smack over to her she'd know the reason why.
While they was arguing that point, and Cherry getting anxious over it, the Pueblo train come in—they not paying no attention to it—and when it got down to the deepo a couple of women landed from the Pullman. As much as one woman at a time coming to Palomitas wasn't usual, and having as many as two coming together drew attention. Both of 'em went up to Wood—keeping as wide apart as they could—and asked him where Mr. Cherry's store was; and Wood he pointed it out to 'em—it was only a dozen rods or so away from the deepo—and off they both set for it; keeping on keeping wide apart, and having their chins up sort of scornful. The Pullman conductor accounted for the way they was behaving. It seems he'd give 'em the same section—they being the only women on board—and they'd set up most of the night rowing over which of 'em would get the lower berth. So they started in, that morning, pretty well ready to go to scratching each other's eyes.
The scratching—only it took the shape of the hottest sort of jawing—begun as soon as they got along to Cherry's; where Cherry and the widow was doing some hot jawing of their own, same as I've said, about that missing three hunderd dollars. And them two made matters more interesting by accounting theirselves for where two hunderd of it had gone. They was a badly matched couple—one of 'em being a tall skinny woman with thin lips, and the other a short bunchy one with snappy black eyes. Both of 'em looked like they could say all they'd a mind to—and it turned out that that was just what they both of 'em everlastingly could do. Cherry always said the gray in his hair begun to come in right then.
"Are you Mr. Cherry?" "Is this Mr. Cherry?" said the two of 'em, speaking both at once. And Cherry—beginning to get scared, though he didn't rightly know what he was scared at—owned up he was.
"I am Mrs. Tecumseh Sherman Williamson," says the tall one, "and my home is in Kansas City. I have here a letter from my husband that is most perplexing—telling me that I will be his widow by the time I get it, and that you will explain everything to me and will give me the little fortune that he has left for me in your hands. I only hope that he truly is dead, and that the rest of it is true too. He treated me so outrageously that hanging would have been the right ending for him; and the three hundred dollars in cash, and the two thousand more that he says I am to get from his mining claim, won't make up what he got out of me by his cheatings and his stealings before he cruelly deserted me. Here is the letter—and I shall be glad to hear what you have to tell me, sir, and to receive the funds."
The bunchy woman's black eyes kept getting bigger and bigger as the thin woman was a-saying all this, and the little mousy woman's eyes bulged too. They both of 'em tried to speak at once, but the bunchy woman got the lead.
"I'm Robert Nellwood's wife," said the bunchy woman, "and I live in East Saint Louis. I've got here a letter from my Bob telling just the same things this woman says are in her letter—about my being his widow, and his leaving three hunderd dollars and the claim to me, and it's being put with you to take care of till I come along. Who this woman is I don't know and I don't care; but if she's after my money I can damn well tell her"—being from East Saint Louis she talked careless—"she's barking up the wrong tree. It looks to me as if likely she's somebody Bob's lived with under the name she gives him; and as if he'd taken it into his head—he was always as full of tricks as a monkey—to fool her with a bogus letter same as the real letter he wrote me. All she's had to tell about this Williamson sounds just like my Bob—he having hocussed me into marrying him, and cleared out and left me as soon as he got a-hold of what money I had, just like this woman says he done with her. Down here it seems, according to what the train conductor last night told me, he went by the name of Shorty Smith; and it done me real good when the train conductor told me all about how he'd got the hanging this woman says, and I say too, was what he most stood in need of. That part is satisfactory. But any tricks about money matters he's been up to, with her or anybody else, ain't—and I'll not allow 'em to pass. This is my game, and don't you forget it. I'm Bob Nellwood's lawful widow. Here's his letter telling me I have a right to his cash and his claim. And so I'll thank you, Mr. Cherry, to hand over the goods to me right away."
The bunchy woman's snappy eyes was a-snapping dangerous, and she'd stuck her two hands on her fat sides with her elbows out, and Cherry said she looked like as if she'd a knife in both garters and meant to use 'em on him if he didn't come to time. He was all broke up by these doings, he said—each of them three widows having Shorty's own letter to show for herself—and how he ever in the world was going to settle matters with 'em, he said, was more'n he could see. But he didn't need to see it immediate—all them widows having things on their minds they wanted to get rid of before much of a chance at talking come round to him. While he was scratching his head for any way likely to be helpful, in comes the tall widow with a regular snort.
"This creature," says the tall widow, looking contemptuous at the bunchy one, and like as if she was more'n ready to eat her, "simply has told untruths from beginning to end—unless it may be about Tecumseh having played a trick in his letter-writing. If her letter really is from Tecumseh—and likely it is, since her letter is exactly like mine—the trick part is true; and I say, just as she says, that it would be like him to play a contemptible trick of that kind. I infer that what she has said about Tecumseh's having been hung also is true. With that piece of news I am delighted. I never knew a man who so well deserved hanging; and I am most glad, as I said I would be, to have got rid of him in that way. But her assertion that she is Tecumseh's widow—having married him under the name of Robert Nellwood—is a mere brazen falsehood; to which, of course, no attention need be paid. I am the only widow of Tecumseh Sherman Williamson—and the sooner, Mr. Cherry, you pay over to me my three hundred dollars, and arrange with me about the selling of my claim, the better it will be."
The tall widow stood up straight as the telegraph-pole Shorty went out on, and she glared so terrible at Cherry he said he felt all of a sudden as if he hadn't any insides. "Madam," said he—being so nervous he used cuss-words—"this is the damnedest queerest mess I've ever got up against. All that I can do—"
But what Cherry could or couldn't do didn't get stated—and as I reckon he didn't know himself, and was trying to make it up as he went along, his doings or didn'ts didn't matter much. Before he got beyond that starter, the little mousy widow chipped in—and she done it so quiet, like as if she had a right to, Cherry begun to hope he was let out of trouble with the other two by her really having the cards.
"Mr. Cherry," says the little mousy widow, speaking gentle, "I do not doubt that these two ladies have been deceived by Edward in just the same way that he deceived me. And I think that the lady from Kansas City," and she nodded polite-like to the tall widow, "has given us the true explanation of the letters that he has sent to them. I am satisfied that when he had written his letter to me—who, of course, was his only lawful wife, and who now, of course, am his only lawful widow—his disposition to play mean tricks on people, about which both of these ladies have spoken truthfully, overcame him. As he seems to have been acquainted with these two ladies—they not knowing, I hope, that his relations with them were unlawful—he just took it into that queer head of his to send copies of my letter to each of them, and a copy also, as you have told me, to some person named White, by way of playing on all of them what he would regard as a capital practical joke. But deeper than his desire to trick so cruelly these unfortunate ladies," both of 'em snorted when she said that, "I am very sure, Mr. Cherry, was his desire to revenge himself on you for giving him the hanging that we all are agreed he so richly deserved. Last night, at supper at the Forest Queen, I was talking with the driver of the Santa Fé coach, Mr. Hill; and Mr. Hill told me that Edward, just before the ending, winked at him and said that he would eat an entire pig if in about two weeks you were not 'the sickest man'—Edward always spoke coarsely—on whom Mr. Hill ever had laid his eyes. The two weeks now are nearly up, and I fear, Mr. Cherry, that the coming of these pretended widows of Edward," both of 'em snorted again, "is doing much to justify the evil meaning of his winking and his words.
"But so far as I am concerned," went on the mousy widow, speaking firm, "of course there is no trouble at all. All the business matters concerning my taking possession immediately of Edward's estate have been settled between us—excepting in regard to the three hundred dollars, about which we were talking when these ladies intruded themselves—and so nothing remains but for you to turn over to me the funds. For your sake I regret that Edward deluded you into sending to each of these ladies a hundred dollars of my money. No doubt they will return it to you; and if—"
"I'd like to see myself return anything!" jammed in the tall widow, looking resolute. And the bunchy widow—talking in a real East Saint Louis way, and them black eyes of hers fairly a-blazing—added on: "Not a damn return from me! You shell out the hunderd Bob sent you—and the other critter the same!"
"—they do not return it," went on the mousy widow, just as quiet as if they hadn't spoke, "and if the hundred that you have sent to some one named White is not returned, of course, Mr. Cherry, I shall demand three hundred dollars in cash from you—since, without my authorization, you have expended that much of the money that legally is mine. And now, if you will request these unfortunate ladies to leave us—they both have my sorrowing sympathy—we will continue our settlement of Edward's affairs."
Cherry always said what happened for a while after that was beyond his telling. It was like, he said, having more'n a dozen blasts going off all at once, and charges in all of 'em fit to make a whole quarter-section of bed-rock stand right up on end. What started things the worst, he said, was the talk about returning; and them three widows—each of 'em wanting to get back the hunderd dollars apiece Cherry'd sent to the other two—just went for one another horns down. And then, when they was tired of rowing among theirselves, Cherry got it in the neck from the whole three of 'em the same way—the bunch of 'em whipping round on him and each of 'em telling him he'd got to give 'em the money he'd sent to the other two, and along with it the extry hunderd he'd sent nobody knowed where.
It was the awfulest thing, Cherry said, he'd ever got into. It made him think, he said, having his knees hugged by the Hen while she was begging-off Charley—which was the sickest time he'd ever had previous—was just the same as fresh eggs and music. Even the little mousy widow, he said, riz up on her hind-legs and talked outrageous to him; and the East Saint Louis widow, he said, slung cusses at him to make you think the genteel little cusses Hill used in his mule-driving likely was words he'd learned in church.
All Cherry could think of for a letup—it was getting close to noon by that time—was to tell 'em to go over to the Forest Queen for their dinners; and he told 'em he'd think things over while they was at their hashing, and likely he could fix up some sort of a settlement in the afternoon. Being pretty well tired out theirselves, they agreed to that; and so off they trooped—keeping as wide apart as they could manage it—to the Forest Queen. Old Sal said the only way she could set 'em at table to suit 'em was to put one at each end—it was a longish table—and one in the middle; and even at that, Sal said, she felt she had to watch to see they didn't take to letting fly at each other with the tumblers and plates. The tall one and the mousy one, she said, took about a quart of tea apiece, as strong as they could get it; but the East Saint Louis one begun by having three fingers straight at the bar, and went on at dinner with more with water—the water scant.
Cherry hadn't no real notion of keeping on in the afternoon. All he was after was to get shut of them widows long enough to give him a chance to slide out of town—and he meant to stay out of town till word come to him all of 'em was gone for keeps. So down he went to the deepo, when he'd locked his store up, meaning to borrow Wood's buckboard and get quick away. Some of the boys was setting around there, and he looked so sort of haggard they was real concerned. But it was Judge Wilson who come to the front and was helpful; and when Cherry told about the circus he'd been in, and how getting away on the buckboard was all he could see for himself, the Judge took hold well.
All three of them widows, said the Judge, talking legal, couldn't be the real article; and if there was a fourth one still in the woods—as seemed more'n likely, Shorty having sent off four letters—she classed the same. Taking Juana for a sample, said the Judge, the odds was Shorty hadn't married any of 'em; but even if he'd married, one time or another, the whole bunch—and with a careless little cuss like him it well enough might a-happened that way—the only one that really counted was the one that come first. So what was needed, said the Judge, was to make them put down their cards—first showing as well as they could there'd been any regular marrying; and when that was settled, if it did get settled, which of 'em had done her marrying longest ago. Fixing things that way, he said, was bound to clean two of them widows off the dump for sure; and then Cherry could give the pot to the left one—or he could get a hold-up on her by making her wait to settle things the same way with the fourth one, in case that fourth one come to time.
"As I have the honor to be styled a Judge in this community," said Wilson, to end off with, "I shall take it upon myself this afternoon to hold a court—at the bar of which the several widows of the late Mr. Smith shall have opportunity to present their respective claims as against Mr. Cherry; and Mr. Cherry shall have his chance to down two of 'em for certain, and to call a hold-up on the third. And if I don't get you out of this hole somehow or other, Joe," he wound up with, stopping talking legal, "you can kick me a mile through the sage-brush any time you please."
Cherry being more'n ready to ketch at any kind of a straw anybody offered him, and the boys seeing there was likely to be some fun in the court doings, it didn't take long to settle on putting the Judge's plan through. Getting the widows to come into it took longer—but by making out to 'em the Judge was the real thing, and the Judge himself going over to the Forest Queen and talking serious to 'em about submitting to the laws of the Territory, they ended up by coming in too. What with arguing with the widows, and giving some training to the boys that was to be court officers—so the show wouldn't be a give-away by breaks they made—it was well onto five o'clock in the afternoon when the proceedings was ready to begin.
Court was held out on the station platform, on the shady side, where all hands could get their share of the performances—the ticket-office desk and high stool being moved out for the Judge, and three chairs brought over from the Forest Queen for the widows, and the rest of us setting on what boxes and nail-kegs was to be had, or standing around anyway we pleased. The night train for Pueblo was up by the tank—beginning to snort a little with firing-up—all ready to back down to the station for its six o'clock starting, or as much later as might happen by Hill's coach coming slower'n usual bringing train passengers from Santa Fé.
Judge Wilson, with Wood acting for crier, got the court opened in good shape, with the widows setting in a row—as wide apart as they could get their chairs hiked—in front of him; and when they was settled, and he'd rapped on the ticket-office desk with a six-inch spike for order, he didn't waste no time in getting down to his job.
"Ladies," said the Judge, bowing to 'em dignified, "under the laws of the Territory of New Mexico, of which I am the duly authorized exponent, the seeming conflict of your several claims against the estate of the late Mr. Smith—alias Ward, alias Williamson, alias Nellwood, and probably alias White—of which estate Mr. Joseph Cherry is executor, admits of a simple and easy adjustment. Unless all three of you were married collectively to the late Mr. Smith, under all of his aliases, at the same moment on the same day—which could have occurred only in Utah, and is unlikely—it follows that two of you have been the victims of what I may term his trigamy. Whence it further follows that only one of you—the one whom he originally legally married—has any legal standing at the bar of this court. All that is necessary, therefore, is for one of you to show that she was that first one; and whichever of you can establish that point, to the court's satisfaction, will make good her claim upon the late Mr. Smith's estate; always provided, however, that a fourth widow of the late Mr. Smith—of whose existence there is colorable evidence—does not intervene and establish a prior claim as against you all. Having thus exhibited to you, ladies, the law that governs in these premises, I now—acting within my powers—require that you state to this court the dates of your respective marriages to the late Mr. Smith, under any of his several aliases; and that you specify with precision where and by whom the rite was performed. Taking you in the order in which you are seated, I ask this question first of the lady who has come here in response to the letter addressed to Mrs. Tecumseh Sherman Williamson. The court, madam, awaits your reply."
The tall widow begun to get her mouth open to do her replying—the other two widows watching her close with their ears pricked up—and then she shut off steam sudden and didn't say a word. All three of 'em give a kind of gulp at the same time—making it plain they'd all ketched on to what they was up against, and how if they didn't get dates far back enough they was in for a give-away sure.
For about a minute things was so still you could have heard a cat washing herself. Then the tall widow got a brace on and said out strong: "I was married to Tecumseh Sherman Williamson in the Methodist church in Denver on August 16, 1857."
"I was married to him, to Edward L. Ward, I mean," cracked in the mousy widow, not waiting for no questioning, "in the Baptist church in Topeka on March 28, 1855."
"Get out the both of you for a pair of liars," sung out the bunchy widow. "Me and Bob Nellwood was married by Magistrate Walker in East Saint Louis in 1852. And I remember it was the Fourth of July—we was celebrating the day."
"As this is the year 1880," said Judge Wilson, nodding at the bunchy widow, "and as you look to be not much over thirty, I can only say you married young. And as there wasn't any Denver at all, and as Topeka hadn't done much in the way of church-building, at the dates mentioned by the other ladies, I am forced to infer that their memories have gone a little wrong."
The widows all set up stiff and glared at him when he said that, it being a regular squelcher; and the rest of us all set to laughing as hard as we could laugh.
"Order in the court!" says Judge Wilson, rapping hard with his spike. And then he went on, speaking firm but quiet: "As matters stand, ladies, I think that you had better all try again. And this time, instead of responding viva voce, I suggest that you write on slips of paper the facts which my duty compels me to require you to lay before the court. The court-crier will provide you with paper and pencils, and I urge you to make your several statements accurate and clear." And Wood he got out the paper and pencils from the ticket-office desk drawer—the Judge squeezing back to let him open it—and handed 'em round.
I reckon if that court still was a-setting, them three widows still would be twisting about them bits of paper and biting them pencils' ends. None of 'em nohow could make her mind up to set down what was wanted—it being clear there wouldn't be no chance for raising whatever turned out to be the highest call. Things got to be sort of tejious, keeping on waiting while they didn't do nothing; and all of us was glad of the break when we heard Hill's coach a-coming along up the slope from the river, with Hill cracking away at his mule-team and cussing 'em fit to blister their hides.
Hill brought up alongside the platform, and as soon as he set eyes on Cherry he sung out: "Hello, Joe. I've got another of them widows of Shorty's for you. And I reckon from what she's been telling me she's the one that has the cards."
Well, you can bet your life there was a jump when Hill said that; and all hands edged up close to the coach as he helped out the fresh widow for Shorty's collection he'd brought along. She'd come down to Santa Fé by the Atchison, it turned out, and that was how Hill come to have her on board. The three widows we had on hand to start with got up with a jerk to have a look at her—all of 'em being ugly with the fix they was in, without her coming to' make it fixier—and the bunchy one put in real East Saint Louis words what they all was thinking about her, and about each other, by singing out: "Here comes another damn fraud!"
But, as it happened, she wasn't nothing of the sort. She was the real goods, that widow was; and Hill was dead right about her when he said she had the cards. She was a poor, pale, elderly thing—but with something about her to make you feel she'd likely been good-looking afore she got so wore out and old.
Coming over on the coach she and Hill'd talked considerable: Hill telling her all about Shorty's hanging—it seeming to worry her some, he said, but not enough to hurt much—and she telling Hill a square-sounding story about her marrying him. It all went, Hill said, as straight as a string. She'd got married to Shorty, she said—or George White, as he happened to be calling himself at the time—close to twenty years back; and he'd lived near onto a year with her, spending some money she had. Then, about the time she was having a baby, he'd grabbed all he hadn't spent and run off from her. And she said till his letter come along, with the post-office order in it, she'd never laid eyes on him or knowed where he was.
He'd always been a great hand at joking and tricking, she said; and it was only getting the money paid at the post-office made her think the whole thing wasn't one of his rigs. But having the order turn out to be good, she said, made her feel there likely was something in it worth attending to; and so, having the cash for her car-fare, she'd come right on down from Nashua, New Hampshire—where Shorty'd married her, and where she'd ever since been living with her folks—to have a look around. And she'd brought along, she said, in case there really was any money matter to be attended to, her marriage certificate, and a letter from the minister that done the marrying, so there mightn't be no mistakes made about her not being George White's widow for sure.
Well, she told all that all over—when things quieted, and Judge Wilson got his court to setting again—and some more of the same sort on top of it; and when she'd finished off, and her papers had been looked at, all hands was agreed she had the game. Even the other three widows had to own up she'd downed 'em and they might as well show their hands. It was the East Saint Louis one put her cards down first, and she done it graceful. She wasn't by no means a bad lot, that East Saint Louis widow wasn't: except she took her drinks rather frequent, and was a little careless about slinging around cuss-words, she was a perfect lady all the way through.
"Me and Bob did get married honest," she said, "with Magistrate Walker, same as I've said, doing the business all regular; and Bob did scoop me, and did skip when he'd cleaned me out. But now I come to think things over—I've always had trouble getting dates right—I guess it all happened only about six years ago. So I'm left, and likely this lady takes the cake—and I wish her luck of it, I'm sure. Anyhow, Bob's hung, which is something to be thankful for, and I've had a damn good ride for my money. What's more, I'll have a little cash left over to take home with me—and getting cash out of Bob Nellwood, dead or alive, is more'n I ever looked for in all my born days!" Then she faced round on the sure-enough widow, real polite, and said: "Shake, ma'am." And they shook like they was old friends.
"I think that I made a little mistake about dates myself," said the mousy widow. "Anyhow, I am certain that Edward and I were married less than twenty years ago. But it is the solemn truth that he did marry me, and that he did run off and leave me as soon as he'd taken all my money—and it is a real comfort to me, as it seems to be to this other lady, that you gentlemen among you have got him hung."
"I won't say how long ago Tecumseh and I were married," said the tall widow; "and it don't matter—as I'll admit that it wasn't as much as twenty years. What these ladies say he did to them—marrying them, and stealing all their money, and deserting them—was what he did to me; and I am as glad as they are that he has been hung for his crimes. Thinking about Tecumseh's hanging," and she set tight them thin lips of hers, "will brighten all my coming days!"
Them remarks of the tall widow's was the end of the proceedings. The train had been a-backing down from the tank while she and the rest was talking; and when it fetched the platform the three that hadn't got their hooks in all went aboard. There wasn't anything much she could see to keep 'em, the East Saint Louis widow said; and for her part, she said, she wanted to get somewhere in a hurry where the drinks was better'n what was to be had at the Forest Queen—which didn't keep her, all the same, from taking a Forest Queen bottle along.
The Pullman conductor said afterward them widows was real friendly together on the run up to Pueblo. Till bed-time come, he said, the three of 'em was all bunched in one section telling each other how their Edward and their Bob and their Tecumseh—listening to 'em, he said, was downright confusing—had treated 'em. And all the time, he said, they kept coming back to how glad they was he was hung. As things turned out, that was about the one point on which all them extry widows of Shorty's was agreed.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse