Universal cheers endorsed him, and he got down panting. The band played “Union Forever,” and I accompanied Mrs. Brewton to the booths. “You'll remember!” shouted the orator urgently after us; “one apiece.” We nodded. “Don't get mixed,” he appealingly insisted. We shook our heads, and out of the booths rushed two women, and simultaneously dashed their infants in our faces. “You'll never pass Cuba by!” entreated one. “This is Bosco Grady,” said the other. Cuba wore an immense garment made of the American flag, but her mother whirled her out of it in a second. “See them dimples; see them knees!” she said. “See them feet! Only feel of her toes!” “Look at his arms!” screamed the mother of Bosco. “Doubled his weight in four months.” “Did he indeed, ma'am?” said Cuba's mother; “well, he hadn't much to double.” “Didn't he, then? Didn't he indeed?” “No at you; he didn't indeed and indeed! I guess Cuba is known to Sharon. I guess Sharon'll not let Cuba be slighted.” “Well, and I guess Rincon'll see that Bosco Grady gets his rights.” “Ladies,” said Mrs. Brewton, towering but poetical with her curl, “I am a mother myself, and raised five noble boys and two sweet peerless girls.” This stopped them immediately; they stared at her and her chintz peonies as she put the curl gently away from her medallion and proceeded: “But never did I think of myself in those dark weary days of the long ago. I thought of my country and the Lost Cause.” They stared at her, fascinated. “Yes, m'm,” whispered they, quite humbly. “Now,” said Mrs. Brewton, “what is more sacred than an American mother's love? Therefore let her not shame it with anger and strife. All little boys and girls are precious gems to me and to you. What is a cold, lifeless medal compared to one of them? Though I would that all could get the prize! But they can't, you know.” “No, m'm.” Many mothers, with their children in their arms, were now dumbly watching Mrs. Brewton, who held them with a honeyed, convincing smile. “If I choose only one in this beautiful and encouraging harvest, it is because I have no other choice. Thank you so much for letting me see that little hero and that lovely angel,” she added, with a yet sweeter glance to the mothers of Bosco and Cuba. “And I wish them all luck when their turn comes. I've no say about the 6-month class, you know. And now a little room, please.”
The mothers fell back. But my head swam slightly. The 6-month class, to be sure! The orator had forgotten all about it. In the general joy over his wise and fair proposition, nobody had thought of it. But they would pretty soon. Cuba and Bosco were likely to remind them. Then we should still be face to face with a state of things that—I cast a glance behind at those two mothers of Sharon and Rincon following us, and I asked Mrs. Brewton to look at them. “Don't think about it now,” said she, “it will only mix you. I always like to take a thing when it comes, and not before.” We now reached the 18-month class. They were the naked ones. The 6-month had stayed nicely in people's arms; these were crawling hastily everywhere, like crabs upset in the market, and they screamed fiercely when taken upon the lap. The mother of Thomas Jefferson Brayin Lucas showed us a framed letter from the statesman for whom her child was called. The letter reeked with gratitude, and said that offspring was man's proudest privilege; that a souvenir sixteen-to-one spoon would have been cheerfully sent, but 428 babies had been named after Mr. Brayin since January. It congratulated the swelling army of the People's Cause. But there was nothing eminent about little Thomas except the letter; and we selected Reese Moran, a vigorous Sharon baby, who, when they attempted to set him down and pacify him, stiffened his legs, dashed his candy to the floor, and burst into lamentation. We were soon on our way to the 3-year class, for Mrs. Brewton was rapid and thorough. As we went by the Manna Exhibit, the agent among his packages and babies invited us in. He was loudly declaring that he would vote for Bosco if he could. But when he examined Cuba, he became sure that Denver had nothing finer than that. Mrs. Brewton took no notice of him, but bade me admire Aqua Marine as far surpassing any other 6-month child. I proclaimed her splendid (she was a wide-eyed, contented thing, with a head shaped like a croquet mallet), and the agent smiled modestly and told the mothers that as for his babies two prizes was luck enough for them; they didn't want the earth. “If that thing happened to be brass,” said Mrs. Brewton, bending over the ring that Aqua was still sucking; and again remonstrating with the mother for this imprudence, she passed on. The three-year-olds were, many of them, in costume, with extraordinary arrangements of hair; and here was the child with gold wings and a crown I had seen on arriving. Her name was Verbena M., and she personated Faith. She had colored slippers, and was drinking tea from her mother's cup. Another child, named Broderick McGowan, represented Columbus, and joyfully shouted “Ki-yi!” every half-minute. One child was attired as a prominent admiral; another as a prominent general; and one stood in a boat and was Washington. As Mrs. Brewton examined them and dealt with the mothers, the names struck me afresh—not so much the boys; Ulysses Grant and James J. Corbett explained themselves; but I read the names of five adjacent girls—Lula, Ocilla, Nila, Cusseta, and Maylene. And I asked Mrs. Brewton how they got them. “From romances,” she told me, “in papers that we of the upper classes never see.” In choosing Horace Boyd, of Rincon, for his hair, his full set of front teeth well cared for, and his general beauty, I think both of us were also influenced by his good sensible name, and his good clean sensible clothes. With both our selections, once they were settled, were Sharon and Rincon satisfied. We were turning back to the table to announce our choice when a sudden clamor arose behind us, and we saw confusion in the Manna Department. Women were running and shrieking, and I hastened after Mrs. Brewton to see what was the matter. Aqua Marine had swallowed the ring on her thumb. “It was gold! it was pure gold!” wailed the mother, clutching Mrs. Brewton. “It cost a whole dollar in El Paso.” “She must have white of egg instantly,” said Mrs. Brewton, handing me her purse. “Run to the hotel—” “Save your money,” said the agent, springing forward with some eggs in a bowl. “Lord! you don't catch us without all the appliances handy. We'd run behind the trade in no time. There, now, there,” he added, comfortingly to the mother. “Will you make her swallow it? Better let me—better let me—And here's the emetic. Lord! why, we had three swallowed rings at the Denver Olio, and I got 'em all safe back within ten minutes after time of swallowing.” “You go away,” said Mrs. Brewton to me, “and tell them our nominations.” The mothers sympathetically surrounded poor little Aqua, saying to each other: “She's a beautiful child!” “Sure indeed she is!” “But the manna-feds has had their turn.” “Sure indeed they've been recognized,” and so forth, while I was glad to retire to the voting table. The music paused for me, and as the crowd cheered my small speech, some one said, “And now what are you going to do about me?” It was Bosco Grady back again, and close behind him Cuba. They had escaped from Mrs. Brewton's eye and had got me alone. But I pretended in the noise and cheering not to see these mothers. I noticed a woman hurrying out of the tent, and hoped Aqua was not in further trouble—she was still surrounded, I could see. Then the orator made some silence, thanked us in the names of Sharon and Rincon, and proposed our candidates be voted on by acclamation. This was done. Rincon voted for Sharon and Reese Moran in a solid roar, and Sharon voted for Rincon and Horace Boyd in a roar equally solid. So now each had a prize, and the whole place was applauding happily, and the band was beginning again, when the mothers with Cuba and Bosco jumped up beside me on the platform, and the sight of them produced immediate silence.
“There's a good many here has a right to feel satisfied,” said Mrs. Grady, looking about, “and they're welcome to their feelings. But if this meeting thinks it is through with its business, I can tell it that it ain't—not if it acts honorable, it ain't. Does those that have had their chance and those that can take home their prizes expect us 6-month mothers come here for nothing? Do they expect I brought my Bosco from Rincon to be insulted, and him the pride of the town?” “Cuba is known to Sharon,” spoke the other lady. “I'll say no more.” “Jumping Jeans!” murmured the orator to himself. “I can't hold this train much longer,” said Gadsden; “she's due at Lordsburg now.” “You'll have made it up by Tucson, Gadsden,” spoke Mrs. Brewton, quietly, across the whole assembly from the Manna Department. “As for towns,” continued Mrs. Grady, “that think anything of a baby that's only got three teeth—” “Ha! Ha!” laughed Cuba's mother, shrilly. “Teeth! Well, we're not proud of bald babies in Sharon.” Bosco was certainly bald. All the men were looking wretched, and all the women were growing more and more like eagles. Moreover, they were separating into two bands and taking their husbands with them—Sharon and Rincon drawing to opposite parts of the tent—and what was coming I cannot say; for we all had to think of something else. A third woman, bringing a man, mounted the platform. It was she I had seen hurry out. “My name's Shot-gun Smith,” said the man, very carefully, “and I'm told you've reached my case.” He was extremely good-looking, with a blue eye and a blond mustache, not above thirty, and was trying hard to be sober, holding himself with dignity. “Are you the judge?” said he to me. “Hell—” I began. “N-not guilty, your honor,” said he. At this his wife looked anxious. “S-self-defence,” he slowly continued; “told you once already.” “Why, Rolfe!” exclaimed his wife, touching his elbow. “Don't you cry, little woman,” said he; “this'll come out all right. Where 're the witnesses?” “Why, Rolfe! Rolfe!” She shook him as you shake a sleepy child. “Now see here,” said he, and wagged a finger at her affectionately, “you promised me you'd not cry if I let you come.” “Rolfe, dear, it's not that to-day; it's the twins.” “It's your twins, Shot-gun, this time,” said many men's voices. “We acquitted you all right last month.” “Justifiable homicide,” said Gadsden. “Don't you remember?” “Twins?” said Shotgun, drowsily. “Oh yes, mine. Why—” He opened on us his blue eyes that looked about as innocent as Aqua Marine's, and he grew more awake. Then he blushed deeply, face and forehead. “I was not coming to this kind of thing,” he explained. “But she wanted the twins to get something.” He put his hand on her shoulder and straightened himself. “I done a heap of prospecting before I struck this claim,” said he, patting her shoulder. “We got married last March a year. It's our first—first—first”—he turned to me with a confiding smile—“it's our first dividend, judge.” “Rolfe! I never! You come right down.” “And now let's go get a prize,” he declared, with his confiding pleasantness. “I remember now! I remember! They claimed twins was barred. And I kicked down the bars. Take me to those twins. They're not named yet, judge. After they get the prize we'll name them fine names, as good as any they got anywhere—Europe, Asia, Africa—anywhere. My gracious! I wish they was boys. Come on, judge! You and me'll go give 'em a prize, and then we'll drink to 'em.” He hugged me suddenly and affectionately, and we half fell down the steps. But Gadsden as suddenly caught him and righted him, and we proceeded to the twins. Mrs. Smith looked at me helplessly, saying: “I'm that sorry, sir! I had no idea he was going to be that gamesome.” “Not at all,” I said; “not at all!” Under many circumstances I should have delighted in Shot-gun's society. He seemed so utterly sure that, now he had explained himself, everybody would rejoice to give the remaining-medal to his little girls. But Bosco and Cuba had not been idle. Shotgun did not notice the spread of whispers, nor feel the divided and jealous currents in the air as he sat, and, in expanding good-will, talked himself almost sober. To entice him out there was no way. Several of his friends had tried it. But beneath his innocence there seemed to lurk something wary, and I grew apprehensive about holding the box this last time. But Gadsden relieved me as our count began. “Shot-gun is a splendid man,” said he, “and he has trailed more train-robbers than any deputy in New Mexico. But he has seen too many friends to-day, and is not quite himself. So when he fell down that time I just took this off him.” He opened the drawer, and there lay a six-shooter. “It was touch and go,” said Gadsden; “but he's thinking that hard about his twins that he's not missed it yet. 'Twould have been the act of an enemy to leave that on him to-day.—Well, d'you say!” he broke off. “Well, well, well!” It was the tickets we took out of the box that set him exclaiming. I began to read them, and saw that the agent was no mere politician, but a statesman. His Aqua Marine had a solid vote. I remembered his extreme praise of both Bosco and Cuba. This had set Rincon and Sharon bitterly against each other. I remembered his modesty about Aqua Marine. Of course. Each town, unable to bear the idea of the other's beating it, had voted for the manna-fed, who had 299 votes. Shot-gun and his wife had voted for their twins. I looked towards the Manna Department, and could see that Aqua Marine was placid once more, and Mrs. Brewton was dancing the ring before her eyes. I hope I announced the returns in a firm voice. “What!” said Shot-gun Smith; and at that sound Mrs. Brewton stopped dancing the ring. He strode to our table. “There's the winner,” said Gadsden, quickly pointing to the Manna Exhibit. “What!” shouted Smith again; “and they quit me for that hammer-headed son-of-a-gun?” He whirled around. The men stood ready, and the women fled shrieking and cowering to their infants in the booths. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried Gadsden, “don't hurt him! Look here!” And from the drawer he displayed Shot-gun's weapon. They understood in a second, and calmly watched the enraged and disappointed Shot-gun. But he was a man. He saw how he had frightened the women, and he stood in the middle of the floor with eyes that did not at all resemble Aqua Marine's at present. “I'm all right now, boys,” he said. “I hope I've harmed no one. Ladies, will you try and forget about me making such a break? It got ahead of me, I guess; for I had promised the little woman—” He stopped himself; and then his eye fell upon the Manna Department. “I guess I don't like one thing much now. I'm not after prizes. I'd not accept one from a gold-bug-combine-trust that comes sneaking around stuffing wholesale concoctions into our children's systems. My twins are not manna-fed. My twins are raised as nature intended. Perhaps if they were swelled out with trash that acts like baking-powder, they would have a medal too—for I notice he has made you vote his way pretty often this afternoon.” I saw the agent at the end of the room look very queer. “That's so!” said several. “I think I'll clear out his boxes,” said Shot-gun, with rising joy. “I feel like I've got to do something before I go home. Come on, judge!” He swooped towards the manna with a yell, and the men swooped with him, and Gadsden and I were swooped with them. Again the women shrieked. But Mrs. Brewton stood out before the boxes with her curl and her chintz.
“Mr. Smith,” said she, “you are not going to do anything like that. You are going to behave yourself like the gentleman you are, and not like the wild beast that's inside you.” Never in his life before, probably, had Shot-gun been addressed in such a manner, and he too became hypnotized, fixing his blue eyes upon the strange lady. “I do not believe in patent foods for children,” said Mrs. Brewton. “We agree on that, Mr. Smith, and I am a grandmother, and I attend to what my grandchildren eat. But this highly adroit young man has done you no harm. If he has the prizes, whose doing is that, please? And who paid for them? Will you tell me, please? Ah, you are all silent!” And she croaked melodiously. “Now let him and his manna go along. But I have enjoyed meeting you all, and I shall not forget you soon. And, Mr. Smith, I want you to remember me. Will you, please?” She walked to Mrs. Smith and the twins, and Shot-gun followed her, entirely hypnotized. She beckoned to me. “Your judge and I,” she said, “consider not only your beautiful twins worthy of a prize, but also the mother and father that can so proudly claim them.” She put her hand in my pocket. “These cat's-eyes,” she said, “you will wear, and think of me and the judge who presents them.” She placed a bracelet on each twin, and the necklace upon Mrs. Smith's neck. “Give him Gadsden's stuff,” she whispered to me. “Do you shave yourself, sir?” said I, taking out the Stropine. “Vaseline and ground shells, and will last your life. Rub the size of a pea on your strop and spread it to an inch.” I placed the box in Shot-gun's motionless hand. “And now, Gadsden, we'll take the train,” said Mrs. Brewton. “Here's your lunch! Here's your wine!” said the orator, forcing a basket upon me. “I don't know what we'd have done without you and your mother.” A flash of indignation crossed Mrs. Brewton's face, but changed to a smile. “You've forgot to name my girls!” exclaimed Shot-gun, suddenly finding his voice. “Suppose you try that,” said Mrs. Brewton to me, a trifle viciously. “Thank you,” I said to Smith. “Thank you. I—” “Something handsome,” he urged. “How would Cynthia do for one?” I suggested. “Shucks, no! I've known two Cynthias. You don't want that?” he asked Mrs. Smith; and she did not at all. “Something extra, something fine, something not stale,” said he. I looked about the room. There was no time for thought, but my eye fell once more upon Cuba. This reminded me of Spain, and the Spanish; and my brain leaped. “I have them!” I cried. “'Armada' and 'Loyola.'” “That's what they're named!” said Shot-gun; “write it for us.” And I did. Once more the band played, and we left them, all calling, “Good-bye, ma'am. Good-bye, judge,” happy as possible. The train was soon going sixty miles an hour through the desert. We had passed Lordsburg, San Simon, and were nearly at Benson before Mrs. Brewton and Gadsden (whom she made sit down with us) and I finished the lunch and champagne. “I wonder how long he'll remember me?” mused Mrs. Brewton at Tucson, where we were on time. “That woman is not worth one of his boots.”
Saturday afternoon, May 6.—Near Los Angeles. I have been writing all day, to be sure and get everything in, and now Sharon is twenty-four hours ago, and here there are roses, gardens, and many nice houses at the way-stations. Oh, George Washington, father of your country, what a brindled litter have you sired!
But here the moral reflections begin again, and I copy no more diary. Mrs. Brewton liked my names for the twins. “They'll pronounce it Loyo'la,” she said, “and that sounds right lovely.” Later she sent me her paper for the Golden Daughters. It is full of poetry and sentiment and all the things I have missed. She wrote that if she had been sure the agent had helped Aqua Marine to swallow the ring, she would have let them smash his boxes. And I think she was a little in love with Shot-gun Smith. But what a pity we shall soon have no more Mrs. Brewtons! The causes that produced her—slavery, isolation, literary tendencies, adversity, game blood—that combination is broken forever. I shall speak to Mr. Howells about her. She ought to be recorded.
The Promised Land
Perhaps there were ten of them—these galloping dots were hard to count—down in the distant bottom across the river. Their swiftly moving dust hung with them close, thinning to a yellow veil when they halted short. They clustered a moment, then parted like beads, and went wide asunder on the plain. They veered singly over the level, merged in twos and threes, apparently racing, shrank together like elastic, and broke ranks again to swerve over the stretching waste. From this visioned pantomime presently came a sound, a tiny shot. The figures were too far for discerning which fired it. It evidently did no harm, and was repeated at once. A babel of diminutive explosions followed, while the horsemen galloped on in unexpected circles. Soon, for no visible reason, the dots ran together, bunching compactly. The shooting stopped, the dust rose thick again from the crowded hoofs, cloaking the group, and so passed back and was lost among the silent barren hills.
Four emigrants had watched this from the high bleak rim of the Big Bend. They stood where the flat of the desert broke and tilted down in grooves and bulges deep to the lurking Columbia. Empty levels lay opposite, narrowing up into the high country.