THE LAST

But a little cloud arose ere long on the horizon of Sweetwater Bluff.  Insignificant at first, it suddenly spread over the sky and burst in a wild storm.

The first intimation of its approach came from Charlie Brooke one quiet autumn evening, in that brief but delightful season known as the Indian Summer.

Charlie entered his garden that evening with a fowling-piece on his shoulder, and two brace of prairie hens at his girdle.  May was seated at her cottage door, basking in sunshine, chatting with her mother ­who was knitting of course ­and Shank was conversing with Hunky Ben, who rested after a day of labour.

“There, May, is to-morrow’s dinner,” said Charlie, throwing the birds at his wife’s feet, and sitting down beside her.  “Who d’you think I passed when I was out on the plains to-day, Hunky?  Your old friend Crux the Cowboy.”

“He’s no friend o’ mine,” said the scout, while something like a frown flitted across his usually placid brow.  “I’m not over-pleased to hear that he’s comin’, for it’s said that some old uncle or aunt o’ his ­I forget which ­has left him a lot o’ dollars.  I hope he ain’t comin’ to spend ’em here, for he’d never git along without gamblin’ an’ drinkin’.”

“Then, I can tell you that he is just coming to stay here,” returned Charlie, “for he has several waggons with him, and a dozen men.  I asked him where he was going to, and he said, to locate himself as a store-keeper at Sweetwater Bluff; but he did not seem inclined to be communicative, so I left him and galloped on to report the news.  What d’you think about it?”

“I think it’ll be a bad day for Sweetwater Bluff when Crux comes to settle in it.  Howsoever, this is a free country, an’ we’ve no right to interfere with him so long as he don’t break the laws.  But I doubt him.  I’m afeard he’ll try to sell drink, an’ there’s some o’ our people who are longin’ to git back to that.”

The other members of the party, and indeed those heads of the town generally who knew Crux, were of much the same opinion, but some of them thought that, being in a free country, no one had a right to interfere.  The consequence was that Crux and his men were permitted to go to work.  They hired a shed in which to stow their goods, while they were engaged in building a store, and in course of time this was finished; but there was a degree of mystery about the ex-cowboy’s proceedings which baffled investigation, and people did not like to press inquiry too far; for it was observed that all the men who had accompanied Crux were young and powerful fellows, well armed with rifle and revolver.

At last however, the work was finished, and the mystery was cleared up, for, one fine morning, the new store was opened as a drinking and gambling saloon; and that same evening the place was in full swing ­ sending forth the shouts, songs, cursing and demoniac laughter for which such places are celebrated.

Consternation filled the hearts of the community, for it was not only the men brought there by Crux who kept up their revels in the new saloon, but a sprinkling of the spirited young fellows of the town also, who had never been very enthusiastic in the temperance cause, and were therefore prepared to fall before the first temptation.

At a conference of the chief men of the town it was resolved to try to induce Crux to quit quietly, and for this end to offer to buy up his stock-in-trade.  Hunky Ben, being an old acquaintance, was requested to go to the store as a deputation.

But the ex-cowboy was inexorable.  Neither the offer of money nor argument had any effect on him.

“Well, Crux,” said the scout, at the conclusion of his visit, “you know your own affairs best but, rememberin’ as I do, what you used to be, I thought there was more of fair-play about you.”

“Fair-play!  What d’ye mean?”

“I mean that when folk let you alone, you used to be willin’ to let them alone.  Here has a crowd o’ people come back all this way into the Rockies to escape from the curse o’ strong drink and gamblin’, an’ here has Crux ­a lover o’ fair-play ­come all this way to shove that curse right under their noses.  I’d thowt better of ye, Crux, lad.”

“It don’t matter much what you thowt o’ me, old man,” returned the cowboy, somewhat sharply; “an’, as to fair-play, there’s a lot of men here who don’t agree wi’ your humbuggin’ notions about temperance an’ tee-totalism ­more of ’em, maybe, than you think.  These want to have the drink, an’ I’ve come to give it ’em.  I see nothin’ unfair in that.”

Hunky Ben carried his report back to the council, which for some time discussed the situation.  As in the case of most councils, there was some difference of opinion:  a few of the members being inclined to carry things with a high hand ­being urged thereto by Captain Stride ­while others, influenced chiefly by Mr Reeves, were anxious to try peaceable means.

At last a sub-committee was appointed, at Hunky Ben’s suggestion, to consider the whole matter, and take what steps seemed advisable.  Hunky was an adroit and modest man ­he could not have been a first-rate scout otherwise!  He managed not only to become convener of the committee, but succeeded in getting men chiefly of his own opinion placed on it.  At supper that night in Charlie’s cottage, while enjoying May’s cookery and presence, and waited on by the amused and interested Buttercup, the sub-committee discussed and settled the plan of operations.

“It’s all nonsense,” said Hunky Ben, “to talk of tryin’ to persuade Crux.  He’s as obstinate as a Texas mule wi’ the toothache.”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed Captain Stride, smiting the table with his fist.  “We mustn’t parley with him, but heave him overboard at once!  I said so to my missus this very day. `Maggie,’ says I ­”

“And what do you think, Charlie?” asked Mr Crossley.

“I think with Hunky Ben, of course.  He knows Crux, and what is best to be done in the circumstances.  The only thing that perplexes me, is what shall we do with the liquor when we’ve paid for it?  A lot of it is good wine and champagne, and, although useless as a beverage, it is useful as a medicine, and might be given to hospitals.”

“Pour it out!” exclaimed Shank, almost fiercely.

“Ay, the hospitals can look out for themselves,” added Shank’s father warmly.

“Some hospitals, I’ve bin told, git on well enough without it altogether,” said Dick Darvall.  “However, it’s a subject that desarves consideration. ­Hallo!  Buttercup, what is it that tickles your fancy an’ makes your mouth stretch out like that?”

Buttercup became preternaturally grave on the instant, but declined to tell what it was that tickled her fancy.

Shortly after the party rose and left the house, Hunky Ben remarking, with a quiet laugh, that deeds of darkness were best hatched at night.

What the conspirators hatched became pretty evident next day, for, during the breakfast hour, a band of forty horsemen rode slowly down the sloping road which led to the plains, and on the side of which Crux had built his saloon.

Crux and his men turned out in some surprise to watch the cavalcade as it passed.  The band was led by Charlie Brooke, and the scout rode in advance on Black Polly as guide.

“Is it the Reds or the Buffalo you’re after to-day, Hunky, with such a big crowd?” asked Crux.

“Halt!” cried Charlie, at that moment.

The forty men obeyed, and, turning suddenly to the left, faced the saloon.

“Hands up!” said Charlie, whose men at the same moment pointed their rifles at Crux and his men.  These were all too familiar with the order to dare to disobey it.

Our hero then ordered a small detachment of his men to enter the saloon and fetch out all rifles and pistols, and those of Crux’s people who chanced to have their weapons about them, were disarmed.  Another detachment went off to the stables behind the saloon.

While they were thus engaged, Charlie addressed Crux.

“We have decided to expel you, Crux, from this town,” he said, as he drew an envelope from his pocket.  “We have tried to convince you that, as the majority of the people here don’t want you, it is your duty to go.  As you don’t seem to see this, we now take the law into our own hands.  We love fair-play, however, so you will find in this envelope a cheque which we have reason to believe is fully equal to the value of your saloon and all its contents.  Your lost time and trouble is your own affair.  As you came without invitation, you must go without compensation.  Here are your rifles, and revolvers, emptied of cartridges, and there are your horses saddled.”

As he spoke, one detachment of his men handed rifles and revolvers to the party, who were stricken dumb with amazement.  At the same time, their horses, saddled and bridled, were led to the front and delivered to them.

“We have no provisions,” said Crux, at last recovering the use of his tongue; “and without ammunition we cannot procure any.”

“That has been provided for,” said our hero, turning to Hunky Ben.

“Ay, Crux,” said the scout, “we don’t want to starve you, though the ‘arth wouldn’t lose much if we did.  At the other end o’ the lake, about five mile from here, you’ll find a red rag flyin’ at the branch of a tree.  In the hole of a rock close beside it, you’ll find three days’ provisions for you and your men, an’ a lot of ammunition.”

“Now, mount and go,” said Charlie, “and if you ever show face here again, except as friends, your blood be on your own heads!”

Crux did not hesitate.  He and his men saw that the game was up; without another word they mounted their horses and galloped away.

While this scene was being enacted a dark creature, with darker designs, entered the drinking saloon and descended to the cellar.  Finding a spirit-cask with a tap in it, Buttercup turned it on, then, pulling a match-box out of her pocket she muttered, “I t’ink de hospitals won’t git much ob it!” and applied a light.  The effect was more powerful than she had expected.  The spirit blazed up with sudden fury, singeing off the girl’s eyebrows and lashes, and almost blinding her.  In her alarm Buttercup dashed up to the saloon, missed her way, and found herself on the stair leading to the upper floor.  A cloud of smoke and fire forced her to rush up.  She went to the window and yelled, on observing that it was far too high to leap.  She rushed to another window and howled in horror, for escape was apparently impossible.

Charlie heard the howl.  He and his men had retired to a safe distance when the fire was first observed ­thinking the place empty ­but the howl touched a chord in our hero’s sympathetic breast, which was ever ready to vibrate.  From whom the howl proceeded mattered little or nothing to Charlie Brooke.  Sufficient that it was the cry of a living being in distress.  He sprang at once through the open doorway of the saloon, through which was issuing a volume of thick smoke, mingled with flame.

“God help him! the place’ll blow up in a few minutes,” cried Hunky Ben, losing, for once, his imperturbable coolness, and rushing wildly after his friend.  But at that moment the thick smoke burst into fierce flame and drove him back.

Charlie sprang up the staircase three steps at a time, holding his breath to avoid suffocation.  He reached the landing, where Buttercup ran, or, rather, fell, almost fainting, into his arms.  At the moment an explosion in the cellar shook the building to its foundation, and, shattering one of the windows, caused a draught of air to drive aside the smoke.  Charlie gasped a mouthful of air and looked round.  Flames were by that time roaring up the only staircase.  A glance from the nearest window showed that a leap thence meant broken limbs, if not death, to both.  A ladder up to a trap-door suggested an exit by the roof.  It might only lead to a more terrible leap, but meanwhile it offered relief from imminent suffocation.  Charlie bore the half-dead girl to the top rung, and found the trap-door padlocked, but a thrust from his powerful shoulder wrenched hasp and padlock from their hold, and next moment a wild cheer greeted him as he stood on a corner of the gable.  But a depth of forty or fifty feet was below him with nothing to break his fall to the hard earth.

“Jump!” yelled one of the onlookers.  “No, don’t!” cried another, “you’ll be killed.”

“Hold your noise,” roared Hunky Ben, “and lend a hand here ­sharp! ­the house’ll blow up in a minute.”

He ran as he spoke towards a cart which was partly filled with hay.  Seizing the trams he raised them.  Willing hands helped, and the cart was run violently up against the gable ­Hunky shouting to some of the men to fetch more hay.

But there was no time for that.  Another explosion took place inside the building, which Charlie knew must have driven in the sides of more casks and let loose fresh fuel.  A terrible roar, followed by ominous cracking of the roof, warned him that there was no time to lose.  He looked steadily at the cart for a moment and leaped.  His friends held their breath as the pair descended.  The hay would not have sufficed to break the fall sufficiently, but happily the cart was an old one.  When they came down on it like a thunderbolt, the bottom gave way.  Crashing through it the pair came to the ground, heavily indeed, but uninjured!

The fall, which almost stunned our hero, had the curious effect of reviving Buttercup, for she muttered something to the effect that, “dat was a mos’ drefful smash,” as they conveyed her and her rescuer from the vicinity of danger.

This had scarcely been done when the house blew up ­its walls were driven outwards, its roof was blown off, its bottles were shattered, all its baleful contents were scattered around, and, amid an appropriate hurricane of blue fire, that drinking and gambling saloon was blown to atoms.

Would that a like fate might overtake every similar establishment in the world!

This was the first and last attempt to disturb the peace of Sweetwater Bluff.  It is said, indeed, that Crux and some of his men did, long afterwards, make their appearance in that happy and flourishing town, but they came as reformed men, not as foes ­men who had found out that in very truth sobriety tends to felicity, that honesty is the best policy, and that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.