On The Border With Crook. John Gregory Bourke
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of remnants was assigned to the stupefied woman, who ten minutes previously had been demanding a separation.
Before another ten had passed her own choicest treasures had shared the same fate, and her ex-liege lord was devoting his attention to breaking the cooking stove, with its superstructure of pots and pans and kettles, into two little hillocks of battered fragments; and no sooner through with that than at work sawing the tables and chairs in half and knocking the solitary mirror into smithereens.
“Thar yer are,” said Jack. “Ye ’v’ got half th’ money, ’n’ yer kin now tek yer pick o’ what’s left.”
The stage had come along on its way down to Sacramento, and Jack hailed the driver. “Mrs. Long’s goin’ down th’ road a bit ter see some o’ her kin, ’n’ ter get a breath o’ fresh air. Tek her ez fur ez this’ll pay fur, ’n’ then she’ll tell whar else she wants ter go.”
And that was Jack Long’s divorce and the reason why he left the mining regions of California and wandered far and near, beginning the battle of life anew as packer and prospector, and drifting down into the drainage of the Gila and into the “Shoo Fly” restaurant, where we have just met him.
There shall be many other opportunities of meeting and conversing with old Jack before the campaigning against the Apaches is half through, so we need not urge him to remain now that he has finished his meal and is ready to sally forth. We return heartily the very cheery greeting tendered by the gentleman who enters the dining-room in his place. It is ex-Marshal Duffield, a very peculiar sort of a man, who stands credited in public opinion with having killed thirteen persons. How much of this is truth and how much is pure gossip, as meaningless as the chatter of the “pechotas” which gather along the walls of the corral every evening the moment the grain of the horses is dealt out to them, I cannot say; but if the reader desire to learn of a unique character in our frontier history he will kindly permit me to tell something of the only man in the Territory of Arizona, and I may say of New Mexico and western Texas as well, who dared wear a plug hat. There was nothing so obnoxious in the sight of people living along the border as the black silk tile. The ordinary man assuming such an addition to his attire would have done so at the risk of his life, but Duffield was no ordinary individual. He wore clothes to suit himself, and woe to the man who might fancy otherwise.
Who Duffield was before coming out to Arizona I never could learn to my own satisfaction. Indeed, I do not remember ever having any but the most languid interest in that part of his career, because he kept us so fully occupied in keeping track of his escapades in Arizona that there was very little time left for investigations into his earlier movements. Yet I do recall the whispered story that he had been one of President Lincoln’s discoveries, and that the reason for his appointment lay in the courage Duffield had displayed in the New York riots during the war. It seems—and I tell the tale with many misgivings, as my memory does not retain all the circumstances—that Duffield was passing along one of the streets in which the rioters were having things their own way, and there he saw a poor devil of a colored man fleeing from some drunken pursuers, who were bent on hanging him to the nearest lamp-post. Duffield allowed the black man to pass him, and then, as the mob approached on a hot scent, he levelled his pistol—his constant companion—and blew out the brains of the one in advance, and, as the story goes, hit two others, as fast as he could draw bead on them, for I must take care to let my readers know that my friend was one of the crack shots of America, and was wont while he lived in Tucson to drive a ten-penny nail into an adobe wall every day before he would go into the house to eat his evening meal. At the present moment he was living at the “Shoo Fly,” and was one of the most highly respected members of the mess that gathered there. He stood not less than six feet three in his stockings, was extremely broad-shouldered, powerful, muscular, and finely knit; dark complexion, black hair, eyes keen as briars and black as jet, fists as big as any two fists to be seen in the course of a day; disputatious, somewhat quarrelsome, but not without very amiable qualities. His bravery, at least, was never called in question. He was no longer United States marshal, but was holding the position of Mail Inspector, and the manner in which he discharged his delicate and dangerous duties was always commendable and very often amusing.
“You see, it ’s jest like this,” he once remarked to the postmaster of one of the smallest stations in his jurisdiction, and in speaking the inspector’s voice did not show the slightest sign of anger or excitement—“you see, the postmaster-general is growling at me because there is so much thieving going on along this line, so that I’m gittin’ kind o’ tired ’n’ must git th’ whole bizz off mee mind; ’n’ ez I’ve looked into the whole thing and feel satisfied that you’re the thief, I think you’d better be pilin’ out o’ here without any more nonsense.”
The postmaster was gone inside of twelve hours, and there was no more stealing on that line while Duffield held his position. Either the rest of the twelve dollars per annum postmasters were an extremely honest set, or else they were scared by the mere presence of Duffield. He used to be very fond of showing his powerful muscle, and would often seize one of the heavy oak chairs in the “Congress Hall” bar-room in one hand, and lift it out at arm’s length; or take some of the people who stood near him and lift them up, catching hold of the feet only.
How well I remember the excitement which arose in Tucson the day that “Waco Bill” arrived in town with a wagon train on its way to Los Angeles. Mr. “Waco Bill” was a “tough” in the truest sense of the term, and being from half to three-quarters full of the worst liquor to be found in Tucson—and I hope I am violating no confidence when I say that some of the vilest coffin varnish on the mundane sphere was to be found there by those who tried diligently—was anxious to meet and subdue this Duffield, of whom such exaggerated praise was sounding in his ears.
“Whar’s Duffer?” he cried, or hiccoughed, as he approached the little group of which Duffield was the central figure. “I want Duffer (hic); he ’s my meat. Whoop!”
The words had hardly left his mouth before something shot out from Duffield’s right shoulder. It was that awful fist, which could, upon emergency, have felled an ox, and down went our Texan sprawling upon the ground. No sooner had he touched Mother Earth than, true to his Texan instincts, his hand sought his revolver, and partly drew it out of holster. Duffield retained his preternatural calmness, and did not raise his voice above a whisper the whole time that his drunken opponent was hurling all kinds of anathemas at him; but now he saw that something must be done. In Arizona it was not customary to pull a pistol upon a man; that was regarded as an act both unchristian-like and wasteful of time—Arizonanas nearly always shot out of the pocket without drawing their weapons at all, and into Mr. “Waco Bill’s” groin went the sure bullet of the man who, local wits used to say, wore crape upon his hat in memory of his departed virtues.
The bullet struck, and Duffield bent over with a most Chesterfieldian bow and wave of the hand: “My name’s Duffield, sir,” he said, “and them ’ere ’s mee visitin’ card.”
If there was one man in the world who despised another it was Chief-Justice John Titus in his scorn for the ex-marshal, which found open expression on every occasion. Titus was a gentleman of the old school, educated in the City of Brotherly Love, and anxious to put down the least semblance of lawlessness and disorder; yet here was an officer of the Government whose quarrels were notorious and of every-day occurrence.
Persuasion, kindly remonstrance, earnest warning were alike ineffectual, and in time the relations between the two men became of the most formal, not to say rancorous, character. Judge Titus at last made up his mind that the very first excuse for so doing he would have Duffield hauled up for carrying deadly weapons, and an occasion arose much sooner than he imagined.
There was a “baile” given that same week, and Duffield was present with many others. People usually went on a peace footing to these assemblies—that is to say, all the heavy armament was left at home, and nothing taken along but a few Derringers, which would come handy in case of accident.
There were some five or six of us—all friends of Duffield—sitting in a little back room away from the long saloon in which the dance was going on, and we had Duffield in such good humor that he consented to produce some if not all of the