The mail robber

Front matter

Shelf. aS.M| U LA

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

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Contents

CHAP. PAGE

I.—Belle of Green River ....*. 7

II.—How it Came About... 14

Chapter I. The Belle Of Green River

In 1877, Green River, Wyoming Territory, was not a very large or thriving town. Its population was as shifting as the sands upon the seashore, and about as reliable. Gamblers, murderers, cowboys, Indians, etc., crowded the numerous saloons (for, as the houses were few and the places of liquid refreshment were in the majority, they can be safely termed numerous), and scarcely a week passed but what some one, either white, black or red, took passage on the boat which is supposed to ferry lost souls across the River Styx, guided by the hand of Charon, to the great unknown world beyond.

To speak plainly, murders were not uncommon. A game of poker, a few hot words, then the flash of a bowie, or the crack of a revolver, and all was over, until, probably, the next big game. Strange that human beings should sacrifice life, the most precious of treasures, for a few paltry dollars; yet it is so. Men sacrifice life, good name, family, to the passion; women, virtue, honor, the beauty which God has given them to make the world bright, to the same insatiate tyrant — passion for gold!

Green River is upon the line of the Union Pacific Railroad, being the end of the division between Laramie City and that point, consequently, several railroad men, freighters, postal clerks, etc., made the town their home during their enforced stay, and, as railroad men are, with few exceptions, goodhearted, careless, eager for sport, many of their dollars fell into the hands and pockets of the saloon¬ keepers and gamblers. Among these employes of the company and the government was one John J. Moore, familiarly known as Johnnie, a postal clerk, running from Laramie City to Green River, and having charge of all mail matter between those points.

Moore was a young man, not over thirty. Of his residence or family, little was known. Although a " good fellow ” in all that the term implies, spend¬ ing his money freely and making hosts of friends, still, upon the subject of his early life, of his fam¬ ily, he kept a close mouth, and no one knew much about u Johnnie ” Moore.

To tell the truth, his companions did not bother themselves much about the matter ; all they wanted to know was when Moore had plenty of money, so they could sponge upon him, and help him dispose of it, and the saloonkeepers were also satisfied with the man’s wages, without bothering them¬ selves to pry into his affairs.

It is ever so with the world. Money commands respect and wins friends. No matter where the

THE BELLE OF GREEN RIVER money comes from or who the man is, if he only has it, that is all the cringing mass of humanity wants. If he has it not, then it is wise to search into the unfortunate individual’s character, to see why he is poor, why he has no money, which is a greater crime in the eyes of some people than any¬ thing else.

A wealthy robber is more esteemed than a poor but honest laborer. It is a crime to be poor — so the world seems to think. Perhaps they do not say so, but a wise man once wrote, “ Actions speak louder than words,” and we can judge from appear¬ ances, which, although sometimes deceitful, still tell the truth often.

Moore was well liked in Green River. A man who is profligate with his money seldom, I might say never, has any difficulty in finding friends, and the postal clerk was one of that kind. He had many acquaintances in the little town whom he vis¬ ited often, and among the rest was one John Hutchings, whose only daughter, a girl of seven¬ teen, seemed to possess sufficient magnetic power to attract many of the young men, and some of the older ones, of Green River.

Moore professed to visit the house only for the purpose of having a sociable smoke and a chat with the old man; but some who seemed to know more than others, there are such people, you know, said, with a wink, that “ Moore went to the house for a good deal more than a talk with old John,” and perhaps those knowing ones spoke truly; but, if so, Moore never gave any indication of the fact.

for he had never spoken a word of love to the girl, and, in fact, had never treated her other than a child.

A beautiful girl was Alice Hutchings. Reared in the country, where fresh air and sunshine bring with it health and happiness, she had never been obliged to have recourse to the artificial complex¬ ions which are boxed up and dispensed over the counters of the druggist at so much per box. Her skin was as soft as velvet, pink and white perfectly blended by the hand of the great artist—Nature; her eyes, soft and gentle, were full of life, and the slumbering passion that lives in the hearts of all; and there was not one of her many admirers but who thought her the most beautiful creature ever born to either bless or curse mankind.

For a woman has it in her power to do either — a dangerous power to intrust into the keeping of the weaker vessel; but the Ruler of all knows best.

Old John Hutchings was one of the original set¬ tlers. He could sit and talk for hours about the days when railroads were unknown, and Indians were foes to be dreaded. He would often remark to Moore, as they sat before the wide, open fire¬ place upon the occasion of one of his numerous visits:

“ You fellers ride along in your keers an’ throw out yer mail bags. In the old days all our mail was kerried by the pony express rider; an’ I tell ye what, betwixt the Injuns an’ the outlaws, a feller was playin’ in purty good luck to git any letters at all ”

THE BELLE OF GREEN RIVER

II

Moore would invariably smile, and remark that times had changed considerably, and then they would smoke and chat about other matters until the hour when the postal clerk would have to return to his lodgings to sleep.

Old John was a good father. He loved his only daughter almost to idolatry. His wife had departed this life some five years before the open¬ ing of our story, leaving the girl (then a child of twelve) to her husband’s care. The old man loved her because she resembled the dear one, and took delight in gratifying her every whim and childish wish.

But, like many good men, John Hutchings had his failings, his weaknesses. The greatest of these was his love for strong drink. Next to the girl, his heart went out to the enslaving cup, and he was never without a gallon of bourbon in the house. He had upon several occasions taken the pledge, only to break it. A temperance revivalist had been holding forth in Green River for several weeks, and had induced nearly every one of the younger men to sign the pledge. People are very much like a flock of sheep, the many will follow the example of the few who lead; and, when several of the wealthy men put down their names to the little document, promising, with the help of God, never to drink again, over one-half of the town did the same, old John among the rest.

As he scrawled his autograph, holding the pen as if he was afraid it would escape from him, he said: “ I’ve been an all-fired hard drinker for a good many years; but that settles it. I ain’t a goin’ to drink any more/’ and he said it in a determined manner, with a resolute shake of the head and compression of the lips. Then the sisters joined with the brethren in singing “ The Ninety and Nine ” and other inspiring Gospel songs, and the revivalist shook the old man’s hand vigorously.

“ Stick to it, brother,” he whispered. “ Pray to God to help you and keep you from falling by the wayside.”

The saloon-keepers did not do much business for a few weeks; but the effects of the excitement passed off, and soon the “ lost lambs found ” were lost worse than ever.

Old John held out as long as he could, but the old longing, the unquenchable thirst came upon him with greater force than ever; and so, one night, he took his gallon jug, and, sneaking out the back way, so that Alice would not see him, he hurried to the saloon he had patronized before his miracu¬ lous conversion.

The “ gang ” sent up a shout that caused the bot¬ tles and glasses to rattle upon the bar as the old man entered.

“ You’re the last one, John,” they roared, “ We thought you’d drop in soon.”

" I always keep likker in the house fer a medi¬ cine,” muttered John, turning red.

“ An’ yer alius sick, John,” quietly remarked Steve Johnson, an old-timer.

Then the boys roared again, and the upshot of it all was, that old John was loaded up to the neck

THE BELLE OF GREEN RIVER before he left the place, and literally fell by the wayside before he reached home.

He was found in the early morning by one of the most devout “ sisters of the church,” snoring like a hog, in the ditch, the gallon jug clasped tightly in his arms.

“ Why, old Hutchings is drunk again,” she mut¬ tered, in holy horror, and then turned up her nose as if the atmosphere was unpleasant, and left him.

The old man never signed the pledge again.

“ ’Taint no use,” he said; “ I hev got a hankerin’ for likker, an’ I must have it.”

And he drank a great deal more than ever, as if to make up for the lost time. He squandered more money than he could well afford.

Like many others, he thought he could gamble, and that no man could beat him at poker; but old John was as a child in the hands of the sleek “ short card ” players, and hundreds of dollars passed from his hands into the greedy ones of those who robbed him.

A drunken man cannot play cards! Remember that, same one of you who may chance to read this story. It may save you money in the future.

Finally matters came to such a pass that the old man was obliged to mortgage his little house and the few acres that surrounded it. Alice wept and cried when she found this had been done, but her tears did not improve matters much; in fact, they did a great deal of harm, as the reader will find later on. But a woman must cry if things do not go along smoothly, and Alice Hutchings was a woman in spite of her seventeen years.

So matters stood in May, 1877, at which time our story opens. The property was mortgaged for $5,ooo.

Old John had not told young Moore of the fact, and no one save the holder of the mortgage knew anything at all about it. The old man kept the story of his pecuniary embarrassment to himself, for he had hopes that some one of the girl’s many admirers would pluck up courage enough to ask her hand in marriage; and, as there were several men of wealth among them, he knew that one of them could be induced to help him out after he was safely married to the girl, so he kept it from them all.

But the best laid plans sometimes, aye, often, are defeated.

“ Man proposes,” and so it proved with John Hutchings. He would have shown his better judgment if he had kept the matter from his daughter. It has often been said that women can¬ not keep a secret. Perhaps there may be some exceptions, but my experience has taught me that such is the rule. Women like to talk, and Alice Hutchings defeated her father by exercising this truly womanly weakness.

Chapter II. How It Came About

John Moore was not a bad man, neither was he what might strictly be termed a good man.

He was in the eyes of church-goers a sinner. All people are wicked who do not attend church regu¬ larly, in the estimation of narrow-minded sectarians; so the opinions of such as these does not amount to much. Moore was warm hearted, liberal with his money, would go out of his way to help a friend, and was really not at all a very wicked man.

But he was a man, every inch of him, and was possessed to a large degree with the many passions which dwell in the hearts of mankind at large.

His visits to the house of old Hutchings were not particularly for the purpose of talking and smoking with the old man. The knowing ones were right for once at least when they had said as much; the pretty daughter and her bewitching eyes drew him often to the domicile of the drunkard. And again, although he seldom spoke to the girl in her father’s presence, the interviews between the two were many—too many, in fact, for the girl, for she was but mortal, and, like many others, could not with¬ stand the eloquent pleadings of Moore’s musical voice. She fell. The man gained that for which he had been seeking. But no one knew of this — not even the father. He would have denied such a thing if it had been told him, for he felt sure his child would not deceive him, and, besides, he knew (or at least he thought so) that Alice retired early, and was fast asleep an hour before Moore left his house.

But there are many ways by which a clever young girl can deceive even the most watchful parent, and many nights when old John felt assured that Alice was soundly sleeping in her little room, she was exchanging vows of love with Moore, beneath the shade of the trees. She met her lover as usual upon the night that her father had informed her that the house and lands were mortgaged. Her eyes were red from the effects of her weeping, and Moore noticed it.

“ What has happened to cause your tears? ” he whispered, as they stood side by side.

“ Something terrible,” she answered, bursting into a torrent of tears.

He soothed her.

“ Tell me,” he whispered; “ lay your head upon my breast, and tell me all.”

Her father had warned her not to divulge the secret to any one, but she loved Moore, and he seemed so anxious to soothe her, wanted to help her so much, she forgot her fathers words. She told him all.

He looked grave.

This is truly a sad affair,” he said; “ who holds this mortgage? ”

She told him. The man was one of the saloon¬ keepers of Green River.

He made no reply for some time. Finally he said, slowly, “ This is, indeed, a circumstance to be regretted. This man is a hard-hearted, merciless wretch, and will not show your father an atom of pity. I am afraid he will be a pauper if he can¬ not manage, in some way, to free himself.”

“ I felt the same as you,” she sobbed. “ I know how hard-hearted this man is. I felt so much more distressed from the fact of him holding the mort¬ gage. ”

He stood silent, thinking deeply, and his thoughts were of the girl and the trouble which hovered over her like a black cloud.

“ I once thought this man wanted me for his wife,” she continued.

He stopped her with a gesture. “ By God! I understand it all now,” he cried, quickly, passion¬ ately.

“ What? ” she gasped.

“ This man’s action. I remember, now, that he formerly used to visit your house, but has ceased to do so during the past six months.”

“ Yes,” she murmured.

“ Did he ever speak of love to you? ”

“ Several times. I never encouraged him ; I did not like him.”

“ I can see through it all,” he muttered. Then, quickly, he said : “ He wanted you for his wife. He saw that you had no feeling of love for him, and he set about paving a way that would lead you to him. Your father has squandered his money over his bar and gaming tables, and has even mort¬ gaged his property to this greedy, insatiate villain. Mark my words, Alice ; he will come out openly, and demand your hand in marriage now, and your father, being in his power, will work for him. You will be sacrificed to save your father from ruin.”

She turned pale ; her large eyes filled with a look of horror.

i8

“ My father would not do this," she cried.

He smiled bitterly.

“ Why not? ” he asked. “ Sister Alice, I will show you this plot— for plot it is, depend on it — and you will then see I am right. Your father will be ruined if money is not forthcoming to take up this mortgage when it falls due. The man who holds it will come to him and say: ‘John, I love your daughter; give her to me, and I will give you back your property.’ He is wealthy, and that fact will cover his physical and moral deformities; and your father, a weak, almost childish, old man, will yield to him. He will come to you, and show you just how he is situated; will work upon your sym¬ pathies; and you, poor girl, to save your father, consent to become the wife of this man, and live a life of misery and suffering, until death steps in to relieve you. Cannot you see it, understand it all ? ’’

She shuddered; her breath coming in short, quick gasps.

“ It is horrible," she gasped.

“ Horrible, indeed," he muttered.

“ But I can refuse him," she cried, suddenly.

“You — you can. But you will not, Alice. You will pity your poor old father, and will consent to sacrifice yourself to save him."

She sobbed bitterly.

“ It may be," she cried; “ and all my plans for a life of happiness with you will be thwarted. Oh, John, I can’t give you up, even to save my father.

I love you, John. You are my all. You know why I love you.”

She threw her soft, white arms about his neck, and clung to him.

He gently, fondly kissed her.

“ It does seem hard,” he said. “ I love you, dear; the thought of giving you up causes me excruciating torture; but what can we do? ”

She made no reply, only clung to him tighter.

“ If I had this money, I would save your father,” he muttered, as if to himself. “ If I had been saving, not squandered my wages as fast as I earned them, I would have sufficient to take up the mortgage and defeat this villain.”

“ Ah, if you only could,” she cried.

He frowned.

“ If,” he muttered; " a little word of two letters, but how great an obstacle it is to many of our desires. I have no such amount of money.”

She turned from him sadly.

“ Something may turn up before the mortgage comes due,” she said. “ If not, I suppose I shall have to do as you have said.” Then suddenly, “ But this may never come; perhaps Mr. Brown does not want me for his wife. You,loving me so much, may only imagine this. Neither of us know positively that it is so.”

He shook his head.

“ True, Alice; but the very fact of his having shown a desire for you in the former time, proves to my mind that it is as I have said. Depend upon it, he will press his suit, and that before many days.”

“ And I will be powerless to refuse him,” she murmured indistinctly, her voice low and sad.

He stood silent as to words, but the look in his eyes, the compression of his lips, were ominous signs, and more eloquent than words. He was thinking.

“ If this man should die,” he muttered, “ then your father would be saved.”

“ There is little hope of such a thing occurring,” she answered.

“ A quarrel, a blow, and it would be over,” he continued, as if he had not heard her speaking, musingly.

“ What do you mean, John? ” she cried, in star¬ tled tones.

He aroused himself with a start.

“ Nothing, probably — much, perhaps,” he answered, contradictorily.

“ I cannot understand you,” she whispered, her mouth dry, her voice almost inaudible.

“ I can hardly understand myself,” he answered, forcing a smile. “ Oh, Alice, my heart is sad and heavy. If I could only help you.”

He spoke in a melancholy tone, that went to the girl’s heart.

“ Perhaps something may occur,” she ventured.

“ I shall move Heaven and earth to bring that something about,” he answered, in a resolute tone. “ My mind is made up. I will save you, Alice. I swear that you shall never become the wife of Bill Brown! ”

He spoke determinedly, his voice firm and reso¬ lute.

She uttered a glad cry, and clasped her arms about his neck.

“ I knew it! ” she cried; " I knew you could do it! But how?”

He frowned.

“ I shall try several means ; if one fail me, the others shall not. There is nothing on earth that can thwart a resolute, desperate man! ” He spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“ Don’t be too sure of that,” came an answering voice from the bushes.

They turned quickly. The girl, with a cry of alarm; the man with a curse. Some one had over¬ heard their conversation, and the next moment they saw who it was.

A stooped-shouldered, bent old man, with a malicious leer upon his wrinkled face, advanced toward them.

“ Bill Brown! ” said Moore, hoarsely.

“ Yes, Johnnie; Bill Brown,” replied the new¬ comer, approaching them. " And I have heard every word you uttered.”

Moore clinched his hands as if to strike the man, but did not do so; he saw the glistening bar¬ rel of a revolver in the hand of the old man.

"Don’t strike, Johnnie,” chuckled the rum-seller. “ At close range I could shoot you easily.”

“ Curse you for an eavesdropping scoundrel,’* muttered Moore.

“ Go easy, Johnnie,” replied the man. “ Acci¬ dent brought me to the scene. You spoke rather loud, and I could not help hearing you.”

“ Well, you heard what I said?” asked Moore, rapidly.

“ Every word of it, Johnnie.”

“ Then, you know how matters stand? ”

“ Perfectly.”

“ You know I see you in your true character.”

"I won’t admit that. There is an old saying that listeners never hear any good of themselves; I can prove the truth of it, as far as my experience of to-night goes. You don’t think very much of me, and neither does your lady friend. But things may change; they do sometimes, and then we will see who comes out winner.”

Histone was one of malice; his little eyes glit¬ tering in the moonlight.

“ What are your plans?” demanded Moore.

The old man chuckled.

“ I may look green,” he replied; “ I live in Green River, but that does not make me particularly verdant.”

“ You refuse to tell me? ”

“ I might ask you the same question. Would you divulge your plans to me? ”

Moore hesitated, then he answered, quickly:

“ I propose to do so. I think I understand what you propose to do, so I shall act accordingly. I will tell you my plans. ”

Brown looked surprised.

“ You’re a fool, then,” he insinuated.

Moore flushed.

“ No. Not a fool,” he cried; “ but, as you are concerned in the matter, and know so much already, it will not make much, if any, difference whether I tell you the rest or not. I will speak to you pri¬ vately.”

Brown smiled, sarcastically.

“ Very well,” he replied; “now is as good a time as any. ”

The young man turned to the girl.

“Go home, Alice,” he whispered; “leave me alone with this man. I must see him alone.”

The girl turned white.

“You will not do anything desperate?” she whispered.

Moore smiled. “ No, dear ; but I must see him. Do not fear; I will save you and your father, and will not harm myself.”

She turned slowly and left him.

The two men watched her until she disappeared from sight, and then the young man turned upon the other, his eyes flashing, his breast heaving. “ We are alone,” he muttered. “ Now you shall know my plans, and I shall know yours.’

Brown shrugged his misshapen shoulders. “ All right,” he replied ; “ fire away. I suppose it has got to come. ”

Chapter III. The Duel

For some seconds the two men stood facing each other..

Finally Moore said:

“ How much of our conversation did you hear? ”

“ Enough,” said Brown.

“ Be explicit; it is necessary for me to know so that I can explain.”

" I heard it all.”

“ All?”

41 Every word; I heard the girl tell you of her father’s act, and knew what followed.”

41 You know, then, that I have determined to save that helpless old imbecile, and tear his daughter from your clutches?”

Brown winced.

“ Go slow, Johnnie,” he muttered; “ you are sur¬ mising a great deal; you are not sure I want the girl at all.”

“ Sure enough for me,” he cried. “ You need not try to deny it; I can almost read your devilish plans in your eyes.”

“ The eyes sometimes speak lies.”

“ No doubt of that; but yours do not in this case. I can read you, Brown, and I demand to know what your true intentions are.”

He spoke fiercely. His companion sneered.

“ If you are so skillful in reading me, you ought to know,” he replied.

THE DUEL

" I do know, damn you; I do know what you intend to do. But hear me, Brown, you shall never carry out your plans. You have that old man in your power, but I’ll thwart you.”

“ Bah, don’t be a fool,” muttered Brown; " you speak rashly; how can you prevent me from doing anything? ”

“ I came here to explain to you my intentions; I may as well do so,” answered Moore, calmly, controlling himself with an effort. “ I can either take up the mortgage, or ” — and he hesitated, his eyes glittering ominously.

“ Or what? ”

“ Kill you, Brown”

The words came hissing from between his set teeth. The rum-seller recoiled, his face blanching, his fingers working.

“ You would murder me?” he gasped mechanic¬ ally.

“ Yes, rather than see that sweet girl your wife.”

Brown stood as if petrified for a moment, then his self-possession returned to him, his thick lips parted, and a cynical smile rested upon his features.

“ Really, you alarmed me somewhat at first,” he grunted; “ but I have got over that now; you won’t kill anyone, Johnnie; you haven’t got the nerve. ”

Moore sprang toward him.

“ Don’t be too sure of that, Brown,” he hissed. “ A man will do much for the woman he loves.”

Brown scowled. “ You love her,” he muttered.

“ You ought to be able to see this, You ought to know it; you overheard our conversation/* answered the young man.

" I was not sure you loved her. Men often pre¬ tend to love a girl for base reasons. I did not know but what you were one of these.”

“ No. I love her, and am going to marry her.*’

“ Unless I prevent it,” said the saloonkeeper, quietly.

“ You prevent it? ”

" Yes.”

“ How?”

” By marrying her myself. ”

“ Ah! Then, I was right. You do intend to marry her.”

The young man stood with heaving breast before the other. Brown suddenly changed in his demeanor. His manner became one of fixed determination. He stood erect, and looked his companion in the eyes.

“ Yes, John Moore, I am going to marry Alice Hutchings,” he said, firmly, “ and no earthly power can prevent me. True, I did ruin the father to put him in my power, so as the girl would be brought to my arms. I have plotted for years to bring about this thing, and now it is as I want it. You can threaten and fume. Go ahead ; it won’t do you any good. I am not afraid of your threats. Your words, although they alarmed me a little at first, amount to nothing. Alice Hutchings shall be my wife, in spite of you and your threats.”

For an instant Moore stood aghast. He had not expected this from the deformed, weak old man.

THE DUEL

2 7

He stood for a moment silent, seemingly overcome; then he slowly removed his coat and threw it upon the ground. His next movement was significant. He drew a shining revolver. Looking the old man in the eye^he said, without any appearance of anger, but with a voice pregnant with determination: