The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 6/Number 11/Fifty Dollars' Margin
The Black Cat
A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.
Copyright, 1901, by The Shortstory Publishing Co. All rights reserved.
50 cents a year.
Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.
Fifty Dollars' Margin.[1]
by Paul Shoup.
Redfern's Colossal Three-Ringed Circus and Unparalleled Aggregation of Wild Beasts was indeed going. The season had been a disastrous one. The long stretches of russet prairie, of grain too short to cut, of sere cornstalks that, drooping, scarce reached the flanks of the cattle turned in to an early harvest, told the cause. At town after town the long tiers of blue benches had risen as if by magic into a great amphitheatre—to remain empty. The band, in faded uniforms, had played desperately on parade, at the tent entrance and inside—all to no purpose. The clown, in commemoration of the season, offered only what he called diy jokes. So, at the little town of Washita Falls, 'way out on the edge of prairie land, where the sun had gone down red all summer long behind a range of purple mountains, the circus came to a full stop. Not the African lion nor the Royal Bengal tiger nor even the circus proprietor could tell where the next meal was to come from. As the western breeze lifted the flapping canvas, Gunga Din gazed longingly at the nodding cornstalks, and lifted his trunk. They might be good to eat.
Uncle Abner Wallen thrust his hand inside his rusty black coat, buttoned up tightly to the chin. The wallet was still there, and he breathed a little tremulous sigh of relief. For a moment it had been forgotten.
The year was the one before prosperity dawned in Kansas. The mortgage, equally certain, was more feared than death or taxes. In the wallet Uncle Abner had enough money to pay the annual instalment on the mortgage and fifty dollars more. The family had bought no store clothes that season, and in the pinch of economy Uncle Abner had discontinued taking the Washita County Clarion, to which he had been a subscriber since he helped organize the county, fourteen years before. However, no particular misfortune had befallen them during the season of rainless skies, until that day, and the margin of fifty dollars had made the family a cheery one at breakfast. Aunt Ellen, wiping her hands on her apron, had said cheerfully as he turned from the door:
"We'll be monopolists yet, Abner."
But there were tears in her eyes. She knew how much hope and youth and energy had gone into grinding toil to yield this narrow margin.
On the road to town that morning, with the courthouse steeple a short mile away, the roan home stepped into a prairie-dog hole, and falling broke his leg. The veterinary was of the understanding, and he turned his head when he said there was nothing to do but to shoot the animal. He knew what a hundred-dollar horse was to the man before him.
Uncle Abner shut his mouth closely, straightened his bent form a little, and walked away silently. At the corner he gazed hopelessly out over the dead prairie; even the mountains, purple along the western horizon, seemed bare and gaunt. It was then that the strains of the circus band playing for the auction came to his ears.
Almost every one has a weakness which, appealed to at a crisis in life, is apt to yield disastrously. Uncle Abner's trouble was auctions. The home place was littered with objects of no particular use which a persuasive voice and all insistent hammer had forced upon him in more prosperous yearn. In his heart lie cherished a faint hope that a good horse, even though a circus horse, might be bought at the auction for little money. Horner after home was put up, and on each likely one Uncle Abner bid, and heard in every instance with sinking heart some one go above his fifty-dollar margin. A stout man with a hoarse voice, wearing a narrow-brimmed straw hat and a checkered vest and displaying a huge watch-chain, purchased most of the homes, listening to Uncle Abner's offers with a quiet smile. He noted the fifty-dollar limit.
The zebra and the sacred cow had gone cheap, and the monkeys were sold to a magic-lantern man who was branching out. Now only Gunga Din and two white ponies remained. Over these the auctioneer grew eloquent, obviously directing his remarks at the man with the red face and the checkered vest.
"I am going to bunch these three animals, because together they perform the most marvellous act ever witnessed in the sawdust arena. Each of them alone is a Solomon for wisdom in its line; combined, they beat a justice of the peace. I am not going to tell you all they know—for I don't know it all myself—and, anyway, I do not wish to make any of you blush for your ignorance. The two ponies are five years old and perfectly sound. Gunga Din is old enough and knows enough to vote, and if you don't think him in perfect condition, watch him eat.
"This the three will do: With clowns on their backs, the ponies start to race with Gunga Din. They gain on him, but as they pass he reaches out with his trunk and lifts the riders from the backs of the ponies to his own. Here they must remain until the ponies pass him a second time, when he replaces the riders upon their backs. So well grounded is Gunga Din in this trick that he will perform it under any circumstances; indeed, he insists on carrying out his part of the programme if the ponies pass him. Now, what do you say to this? How much in cash?"
The man with the watch-chain laughed.
"I don't want 'em bad," he said. "It would take the price of one of your townships to get 'em back to New York. But I hear your poorhouse is running over now, and it would be kind of tough on your county if I left 'em for your Board of Supervisor to tackle. I'll take 'em for fifty-one dollars."
He glanced at Uncle Abner with an amused smile, and a titter ran through the crowd, though here and there among Uncle Abner's friends was an uneasy shuffling of feet. Uncle Abner flushed angrily.
"Going," said the auctioneer, lowering his hammer.
"Two hundred dollars," said Uncle Abner, firmly.
The man with the checkered shirt lifted his eyebrows.
"Two fifty," he said, briefly.
"Five hundred," said Uncle Abner.
The circus man looked at him intently and saw the danger signal in his eye.
"You'd better lay in some hay," he said. "I'm going to catch the evening train for Kansas City." He made his way through the crowd as he spoke.
"Anymore bids?" asked the auctioneer, waving his hammer. There was no response.
"Sold!"
"Dead easy to manage 'im," said the trainer a few minutes later. "I'm goin' to catch a train, too, but you won't have no trouble. He'll follow them ponies anywhere. Just give 'im hay till the sun goes down—and be good to 'im."
Aunt Ellen, who had patiently waited supper for an hour, saw at half-past six, with mingled anxiety and astonishment, a strange cavalcade approaching. At the head rode a tall man in a rusty Sunday suit, his seedy straw hat pulled down over his eyes. He was mounted upon a white pony, and led another by a halter. After them, swaying from one side to the other as he rolled along, stepping aside occasionally to reach over the rail fence after some choice morsel, but always keeping a wary eye on the ponies in front, was a dusty elephant, an elephant with little twinkling eyes and short tusks.
Aunt Ellen sat down on the porch steps and wiped her glasses and looked again. Surely that could not be Uncle Abner! The little procession halted slowly in front of the hitching post, and Uncle Abner clambered down from his pony.
"Land sakes!" cried Aunt Ellen. "What on earth!"
"Bought 'em at auction," replied Uncle Abner briefly, with averted face.
She turned white, for she knew his weakness.
"And the mortgage?" she asked in a whisper.
"I am a fool!" he replied, distinctly and bitterly, as he tied the horse.
Aunt Ellen buried her face in her arms and cried. Gunga Din, laying down his cornstalk, regarded her attentively.
"Whatever on earth are you going to do with them?" she asked, hopelessly, after a while.
"I don't know," replied Uncle Abner, gloomily. "I met the sheriff up the road a spell and he warned me not to turn the elephant loose. Said he'd have the law on me if I did. He must have shelter; the trainer said he just wouldn't stay out in th' open, and that if we didn't put him in the barn, like enough he'd pull off the roof and set it up over hisself. I'm a fool all right enough, Ellen; was born so, but hain't had enough sense to find it out. . . . T'other hoss is dead, Ellen; he broke his leg. It was desperation that drove me to this . . . don't take it so hard, dear. . . .
"I'll turn the mare and the colt into the pasture, and put the ponies in the stalls and Gunga Din in on the granary floor. Tomorrow we'll see what's to be done. Call the boys and let's eat."
The sun set in a bank of clouds and the wind came down from the mountains, making the dry corn rustle in the fields. Uncle Abner lay awake watching the stars, while Gunga Din, perceiving plenty of hay and assuring himself of a firm footing, rumbled in peace as he swayed back and forth.
At two o'clock that night, by the light of a new moon in the western sky, two men rode up within a hundred yards of Wallen's place, each leading a string of four horses. Dismounting, they tied their horses to the fence.
"Remember," said the larger man, "no shooting. Leave the guns with the saddles. Too much to lose. If the old gent or the kids wake, git! They can't take the trail alone, and there's nothin' but sagebrush and moonlight between us and the cañon. Ride here and tie to the string."
The other man, who had a black handkerchief tied about his face below the eyes, nodded. He was not given to words.
They walked cautiously to the barn and went in.
"Some new stock," said the older man to himself, as he rubbed a white pony's nose. "Wonder what the fool's buyin' ponies for"
Leading the animals outside, the men mounted and rode away.
Perhaps it was just outside the barnyard gate, maybe a little farther on, that the older man, Wheeler, turning in his saddle, saw something following them. The new moon was low and outlines indistinct. Yet he could see that it was something gray and vast and shapeless, something that rolled rather than walked in its silent progress, yet was certainly gaining on them. Wheeler gasped in surprise and then in a whisper addressed his partner:
"Jim—in the name of the devil, what is that?"
Jim looked and said no word, for he was a silent man, but he lashed his pony. In another moment both were tearing down the road, the moving mountain swiftly following.
Through the open window Uncle Abner watched the early dawn creep across the brown field. There seemed little use in getting up. As the landscape grew brighter and brighter, objects began to be defined and in the still dim light he noticed something down the road that appeared much like a group of horses. In five minutes more he was certain they were horses. This was interesting and he sat up in bed. The horses were hitched to the fence. As the light grew stronger, he recognized them, one after another, and remarked upon them to himself:
"The roan is Johnson's—the one he traded Petersen the little mare for over on the South Fork this spring. The bay with the white feet is Judge Bronson's carriage horse, of course—there ain't another animal in the county stands like that. T'other bay belongs to the DeWitt boys. Now, what on earth are they all a-doin' down there?"
He slipped out of bed and called softly to the boys in the next room. Half dressed, they went together down stairs. From behind the back door Uncle Abner picked up the gopher rifle.
"Looks a little queer down there," he said, half apologetically.
So busy were they with their speculations concerning the horses that it was not until they were well down the road that they observed Gunga Din over in the pasture beneath the one big oak tree in the whole township. He stood there quiet, with drooping ears, his huge body almost touching the tree's lower limbs. Nearby, the ponies were grazing.
Uncle Abner peered hard at the tree.
"Well, I swan!" he exclaimed. "Gosh all hemlock, if there ain't two men in the tree!"
He cocked the gun and went forward slowly, followed by the boys. At twenty yards he was hailed by a voice from amid the branches.
"Don't be backward. In the name of the devil get us away from this infernal brute before he kills us. We know the jig's up an' we're willin' to lie down—only run this brute off. We're frozen stiff and almost dead. Can't you drive him away?"
Uncle Abner began to see light.
"Oh, yes," he said, dryly, "you might as well give up. The evidence is still tied to the fence yonder. Good thing for you it's Kansas and not Texas. I reckon, though, you can’t be accused of elephant stealing.
"John, you jump on one of those bosses and tell Robinson's we got a couple of hoss thieves treed and want 'em to bring their guns and help take them in."
Uncle Abner turned to the men in the tree. "What are you staying there for? Why don't you come down?"
"Why don't we!" roared a voice from the tree. The owner digressed for a moment from narrative to a more forcible and emotional manner of expression. Thus relieved, he went on:
"We comes ridin' along and this old brute takes after us. The faster we goes, the faster he goes. Purty soon he ketches up and with his trunk yanks us off the hosses and throws us up on his back—none too easy, either. We slide off, but it's no good. The crazy brute nabs us again before we can make our feet. After he gits tired playin', he breaks for the tree—and it's mighty cheerful we are at a chance ter climb, stranger. Eh? Yes, we tried to slide from here, too, but the lop-eared pirate is as ugly as ever. We're plumb played out—no fight left in us. If you'll get us out of his reach, you can do what you please."
Uncle Abner stood a moment, reflecting.
"George and Tom,” he said, directly, "you get on the white ponies and head for town past Robinson's. Now, you idiots up there, drop down on the elephant's back—no hesitatin' now—and the procession will move. I'll tell mother as we go by to bring the hosses into the lot till we can send word. I'll just walk behind, and if these chaps try to skedaddle, and Gunga what's-his-name don't get 'em, I will. Go on, George."
The little cavalcade moved slowly up the dusty road.
"Land's sake!" was all Aunt Ellen could say in response to the brief explanation Uncle Abner gave as they passed by. "Land's sake!" she repeated, as they disappeared over the rise in a cloud of dust.
The sheriff, who was large and fat and comfortable appearing, was biking life easy in his great arm chair, with his feet on the official desk, when an excited deputy beckoned to him from the door. "Come, quick!" he cried.
The sheriff arose ponderously. "'Nother dog fight, I suppose," he remarked, good-naturedly, as he went to the door. But it was not a dog fight.
A procession with accompanying crowds on the sidewalks was coming up the main street of Washita Falls. First, two white ponies ridden by boys, then an elephant with two worn and haggard men on his back, and in the rear perhaps fifty men and boys armed with guns, clubs, scythes, pitchforks and axes, for the arm of the law had been re-enforced at every farmhouse passed.
"I hope to be hung to a sour-apple tree if this don't beat me," said the sheriff. The ponies stopped and Gunga Din stopped, too, lifting one ear inquiringly.
While Uncle Abner told his story, the sheriff sat on the door-step, his official dignity struggling with his sense of humor until he was red in the face. The deputy stood by impatiently, with photographs in his hand.
"Pretty good elephant, that, I should say," he remarked, sententiously. "The biggest chap is so beloved in Arkansas that the Governor will give fifteen hundred dollars to see him again, an' t'other fellow is such a remarkable hand with hosses that the State of Missoury owes a thousand to the man that brings him back. Pretty good elephant, that, I should say," he repeated.
"Yes," assented the sheriff, "and he’s saved this county a heap of trouble, too—though, of course, we’d got the bosses back anyway," he added, hastily.
Gunga Din went back to the farm that night and revelled in good things to eat. Aunt Ellen, recklessly feeding him popped corn by the handful, said "Land’s sake" under her breath several times. She cried a little, too, but it was not with distress. There was no longer any doubt about the mortgage.
In Chicago the following day a man with a narrow-brimmed straw hat and a checkered vest was much mystified upon receiving the following message:
You will be glad to hear it was well for a county and three States that we did not have to accept your kind offer to relieve us of Gunga Din. Just saved us ten horses, much trouble and expense. This county places him in the best zoo in the country.
"Now what the deuce does that awkwardly worded puzzle mean?" said the man with the checkered vest.
- ↑ Copyright, 1901, by The Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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