An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

Corway struck him square on the mouth. “Take that for your insolence, you contemptible puppy,” and following him up with clenched fists, as the officer stumbled back, said wrathfully: “If you speak to me that way again, I’ll break in your anatomy.”

“Here, Judd,” called the captain to the mate on the forecastle. “Take this fellow to the strong room and keep him there on ‘hardtack’ for three days.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Judd.

Hearing the captain’s orders, and seeing the commotion he had created, Corway saw that his only chance for escape was to go overboard, and without further hesitation sprang toward the side of the ship for a plunge, but his toe caught on the edge of a warped board and down he went sprawling.

The big mate jumped on him, and though he fought desperately, he was overpowered, and the last he remembered was being dragged by the collar over the lumber toward the forecastle.

When he next got on deck the ship was far out to sea and bowling along in a stiff breeze.

It is said that it is an ill wind that doesn’t blow somebody good.

So with Mr. Corway, for though the boarding-house toughs had nearly given him his quietus and sent him on a long journey, they had conveniently done him the effective service of quashing an encounter with John Thorpe.

CHAPTER VIII

When Sam regained consciousness it was to find himself on a couch in his uncle’s home, with the odor of ammonia in his nostrils. For a couple of minutes he lay very still, collecting his scattered senses, and then, as the clouds that darkened his brain cleared away, the events of the night dawned upon his memory.

Two men were in the room conversing in low tones. They were standing near the dressing-case, back of the couch, which had been drawn out to the middle of the room to facilitate examination of his injuries. One of the speakers he recognized by the voice as his uncle. The other he soon made out to be the family doctor.

“Then you are quite satisfied he is not badly hurt?”

“So far as I have been able to examine him, yes. The concussion, when he struck the hard roadbed, produced insensibility. The cut of the cuticle covering the left parietal bone, just above the ear, is not dangerous, since there is no fracture. I do not anticipate any serious result, fortunately. It might have been worse – it might have been worse!”

“Quite true; still we should have more confidence in his recovery if we were certain the worst has passed.”

“All passed, Uncle – I guess so!” spoke up Sam, in cheery tones, and he sat up on the couch.

“Ha, ha, Sam, my boy; not so fast. Glad to hear your voice again, but you must rest; you must rest. You need it. The doctor insists,” and Mr. Harris hastened to his side to urge him again to lie down.

Nevertheless Sam arose to his feet and remarked: “All right, Uncle! A little sore up there,” and he motioned to the sore side of his head. “But that’s all – I guess.”

“You must avoid excitement,” cautioned the doctor. “And I advise you at once to take to your bed and remain there until I make a thorough diagnosis of your case, which I shall do in the morning.”

“Not if I know it. Not much – I guess not!” mentally noted Sam.

Turning to Mr. Harris, he asked: “How long have I been unconscious, Uncle, and who brought me home?”

The question was put by Sam with an eagerness bordering on excitement.

It was noticed by both the gentlemen.

“I insist that you go to bed, Sam,” pleaded Mr. Harris.

“The very best thing you can do, sir,” added the doctor.

“Of course, Uncle, I shall do so to please you; but the only soreness I feel is on the side of my head, and I’ve often felt worse. But you have not answered my questions.”

“You were unconscious for about two hours. My Lord Beauchamp brought you home in an automobile. It seems he was returning from a spin out on the Barnes road and accidentally ran his machine against you. He, like the perfect gentleman he is, immediately stopped and went to your aid. He recognized you and brought you home with all speed.”

“Ah! Very queer!” exclaimed Sam, significantly.

“What is queer, Sam?” Mr. Harris interrogated, with a keen, penetrating, yet puzzled look.

“Why, that fellow,” and Sam checked himself from making a grave charge, by indifferently remarking: “Oh, it seems queer to be run over,” and then he looked up and continued: “Doctor, I thank you for your attention; good night.

“Uncle, good night; I’m going to bed.”

“Very sensible, Sam; good night.”

“This powder is an opiate and will act to produce sound sleep, which is very essential to counter the shock your nervous system has received,” said the doctor, as he laid out the potion. “Take it, after getting into bed.”

“Thank you,” and Sam fingered the powder gingerly. “Good night, Doctor.”

“Good night, sir.”

As Mr. Harris and the doctor left the room Sam stood for a moment in deep thought, then muttered to himself: “That fellow out there near midnight. No lights or gong on his machine. Deliberately ran me down – and Virginia about! Did he know she was to be there?” He shook his head – “It looks queer.” And then he lifted his eyes in a quick, resolute way.

“I’ll be back in the park at dawn – I guess so!”

With that he flipped the opiate out of the window.

CHAPTER IX

It was in the gray of the dawn when Sam alighted from the first outbound car at the junction of Twenty-third and Washington streets and immediately struck out for the City park.

He was desirous of being the first visitor there, and he was inordinately curious to examine by the light of day the ground he had traversed a few hours previous, and particularly the spot where Virginia had met the mysterious stranger, as also the tangle of vines in which he was satisfied had lurked most deadly danger.

He had been urged on by an indefinable something, a sort of presentiment that quickened to impatience, his desire for an early trip to the park, and pursuing his way steadily along, afraid of no ambush now, for he was armed, he at length arrived at the spot which he recognized by the clump of firs close to the row of the esplanade benches. He examined the ground as carefully as the uncertain light would permit. Discovering nothing unusual, he was about to abandon the search and make his way over to the tangle of vines, when on second thought he decided to wait awhile for stronger light. Producing a cigar, he contentedly sat on a bench – the very same Virginia had occupied – near a tree.

Sam was not of a romantic turn of mind, yet his attention was arrested by the sublime grandeur of the scene confronting him. The morning was emerging from the deep darkness of night, mild, clean and fresh. The base of the distant eastern hills was yet shrouded in inky blackness – a blackness intensified by a vast superimposed floating mass of thin fog, seemingly motionless in the noticeably still air.

The billowy crest of this fleecy, semi-transparent mass of vapor reflected a mellow chastity, while the irregular points of the rugged mountain tops were sharply defined against the soft emerald, golden-pink light that streaked and massed the sky in the advance of a promising Autumn morn.

The huge, glistening white peaks of Hood and Adams and St. Helens, towered in lofty majesty, clear and individually distinct above the high altitudes of the range that encompassed them, and even as he looked, a soft, rose-red tinge tipped the apex of Mount Hood, which appeared unusually close, and crept softly down the glacis of its snow-covered, precipitous sides.

And nearer, at his feet, in a basin – the city spread out far and wide.

The silvery green waters of the Willamette River, cutting through the city’s center, silently glided along its sinuous course to the Columbia; while patches of thin mist flitted timidly about on its placid surface, to vanish like tardy spirits of a departing night.

The grand panorama gave his usually buoyant spirits pause.

Gradually the light of his eyes changed from absorbing admiration to a reflective mood, in which the strange behavior of Virginia Thorpe was the predominating subject.

That money, possibly blackmail, was the object of the stranger – scoundrel. Sam could think of him in no other light after the night’s experience. There was no doubt, for he had plainly heard her say in a loud, surprised tone, “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Suddenly the hoarse whistle of a far-off industrial establishment vibrated the air and aroused him from his deep reverie. The morning was well advanced.

As the light in his eyes quickened from a pensive stare at the ground a few paces from his feet, he perceived a shred of red peeping between the blades of short grass. He picked it up. It was a narrow piece of soiled and worn ribbon, but attached to it was an old oxidized bronze medal, about the size of a silver quarter-dollar. The inscription upon its rim was in Latin, but Sam clearly made out one word, “Garibaldi,” from which he concluded its late owner must be an Italian.

From the smooth condition of the medal, and unweathered appearance of the ribbon, he judged it must have been recently lost.

“What if it had been accidentally dropped by the man talking to Virginia last night?” The idea was fraught with great possibilities.

“A clue! A sure clue, as I live,” and Sam’s enthusiasm soared with the recollection of seeing the man thrust his hand into the inside breast of his coat to show the knife, when it was quite possible the medal either became unfastened from its clasp, or being loose in his pocket, had been drawn out with the knife and slipped noiselessly to the ground.

Somehow Sam’s thoughts flew back to the night of his uncle’s reception, and connected the old Italian beggar loitering about the grounds with the medal.

“Was he the owner of the medal? And, if so, was he the same party that met Virginia, and whom he had followed last night?”

“Heavens! Could he have kidnapped Dorothy?” A train of thought had been started and rushed through Sam’s brain with prodigious alacrity.

“Was the twenty thousand dollars he had heard Virginia mention with surprise, a ransom?”

“If Virginia knew that Dorothy was in the hands of the Dago, why did she keep it secret? And what business had Beauchamp out on the Barnes road last night?” Sam derided the idea of him being out there alone, for a spin.

With these thoughts, and others, pregnant with momentous possibilities, he continued the search. Finding nothing more, he sprang onto the path that led to the tangle of vines. There was the very spot. No mistaking it. Along that fence he had crept in the darkness of night. Those the leaves he had touched with his hands, and he thrust his stout cane among them, but no hiss, or rattle, or glitter of something sinister, greeted his probing now.

Into the gloomy recess of the jungle he made his way, derisively fearless of any possible lurking danger.

He parted the overhanging foliage to let in more light. Ah, it was all plain now.

There close to his elbow was the artfully concealed exit through the foliage, and the pickets loose at the bottom. There the man had stood – not more than a foot of space separating them when Sam’s hand touched the leaves, and the glitter – well, it was the vicious glint of an ugly knife. Of that Sam now felt perfectly satisfied.

Pushing the leaves further apart to enlarge the opening overhead, so as to admit more light, he discovered several strands of hair of a brownish color clinging to the end of a broken twig in the cavity of the tangle, which he at once conjectured had been torn from the man’s false beard. These strands of hair Sam carefully gathered and placed between the leaves of his notebook. “Maybe, maybe they’ll be useful some day. I guess so,” he muttered.

He resumed the search, but with the exception of a few indistinct shoeprints on the soft soil, found nothing more to interest him, and squeezing himself through the aperture in the fence, he quickly emerged on the Barnes road, well satisfied with his morning’s work.

One hour later, with his hat jauntily set on the side of his head, effectually concealing the wound, Sam was walking on Third street, in front of the “Plaza” blocks, where several vegetable vendors rendezvous preparatory for their morning’s work. Several bustling women, hotel stewards and others were out early, marketing. As he wended his way through the bargain-driving throng, the loud voice of an olive-skinned huckster standing on the rear footboard of his heavily-laden wagon, attracted his attention. It was a covered, one-horse express wagon, common on the city streets, and contained a motley assortment of oranges, bruised bananas, melons and the like.

He was putting in a paper bag some bananas he had sold to a woman, who stood by, at the same time talking volubly – evidently in an effort to fend off her too curiously searching eyes from the over-ripe fruit.

“Eesa good-a da lady. Nice-a da ripe-a.”

“Oh, they are too ripe! Put in those other ones, they don’t look so soft.”

“Eesa note-a da soft-a; only a da black-a da skin. Look-a,” and he peeled a diminutive banana.

“How nice and clean those are in that wagon over there. I think I’ll buy some of them. You needn’t mind putting those up for me.”

“Sacre, Tar-rah-rah! Eesa beg-a da pardon, good-a da lady. Take eem all for a ten-a da cent-a,” and he thrust the bag of fruit into her hands. “Eesa ‘chink’ wagon. Show all-a da good-a side, hide-a da rotten side. Da morrow, Eesa sell-a da turnoppsis, carrottsis, cababages, every kind-a da veg-a-ta-bles. Some-a time Eesa black-a da boots. Saw da ood. Do anyting gett-a da mon. Go back-a da sunny Italy.”

He was so insistent, with fear of being made a subject for coarse remonstrance, she paid him his price and departed. Whereupon he again began to bawl out in his peculiar Dago dialect: “Or-ran-ges! Ba-nans! Nice-a da ripe-a banans. Ten-a cents-a doz-z. Me-lo-nas! War-ter-me-lo-nas! Nice-a da ripe-a Musha Me-lonas!” and he suddenly lowered his voice on observing Sam halt in front of him.

“Eesa tenna cent-a da one. Nice-a da ripe-a, my friend. Take-a eem a da home, two for-a da fifteen-a da centa.” And he handled a couple of small melons.

“Sacre, da damn,” and his voice again rose to a high pitch, as he shouted: “Me-lo-nas! Ba-nans! Nice-a da ripe-a da Ba-nans. Tenn-a cents-a doz!”

The peculiar idioms of the fellow, and his manner of delivery seemed strangely familiar, and as Sam moved along slowly, a pace or two, rumaging his brain for identification, he suddenly remembered the old cripple at his uncle’s reception, and also, only last night, the mysterious stranger in the park.

It may be pertinent to remark that Jack Shore had obtained most of his dago dialect from a close study of this very man. The similarity of speech and voice, therefore, was accountable for Sam’s mistake of identification.

A moment later, among a passing throng, Sam stopped and pretended to pick up a small copper-colored medal appended to a bit of soiled ribbon. He halted and ostentatiously displayed it, turning it over and over in his hands while examining it. It attracted the attention of an Italian nearby, who at once claimed the medal.

“If it is yours, no doubt you can describe certain marks which appear on its surface?”

“I don-a have to. Eets a Garibaldi! Giv-a da me!”

“What else?” Sam pressed for more definite information, for he immediately became convinced that this claimant was not the real owner.

The word Garibaldi attracted a second Italian, a short, fat man, with huge, flat face, who was at once apprised of the find. He asked Sam to let him have it for examination.

Sam refused to let it pass from his hands, explaining that this man had claimed it, but seemingly was unable to identify it. “I will deliver it to the officer,” and he beckoned a policeman to approach.

There followed instantly a lively colloquy between the two Italians, the second one declaring it belonged to Giuseppe – for he had seen him with it, and he turned to Sam.

“That man,” indicating the fruit vendor, on express wagon license number 346, “is own it. I’m sure he will it tell-a you so,” and he shouted, “Giuseppe!”

Giuseppe heard and shouted back, “Ta-rah-rah!”

As they moved toward him the short man continued to address Sam. “His fadder was wit Garibaldi at Palestrino.”

“Giuseppe, have you lost your fadder’s medal?”

Giuseppe had stepped from his wagon to the curb. With a surprised look he instantly replied, “No! Eesa len eem to deeza fren.”

“When you len eem?” the short, fat man asked.

“Eesa bout five-six day. Why for youse-a ax deeze-a question?”

There was no mistaking the fact that Giuseppe’s frank response conveyed the truth.

Sam believed him.

The short man again spoke. “This man pick eem up there. It belong to you. Ask eem for it.”

“Geeve it-a da me, boss.”

“This man has claimed it as his. Yet he cannot identify it,” replied Sam. “Now, to prove it is yours, tell me its size, and the letters on its two sides.”

“Eesa bout as big as-a deeze.” And Giuseppe produced an American quarter dollar. “Look-a da close. Eesa one-a da side ‘Emanual Rex.’ Below eet a Garibaldi. In-a da middle eesa solidar holding a flag.”

“So far, good!” exclaimed Sam, eyeing the man searchingly and committing to memory his every lineament.

Giuseppe continued, “Eesa da odder side, ‘Palestrino, MDCCCXLIX.’ In a da middle, ‘Liber.’”

“Correct!” said Sam.

“What color is the bit of ribbon?” asked the policeman.

“Eesa be da red. A leetle-a da faded,” was the answer.

Sam was convinced that Giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. A possible important discovery. And he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. And the Italian smiled at Sam’s open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from Sam.

“Where does the man live to whom you loaned this?” asked Sam.

Giuseppe appeared puzzled. He looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, “I dunno, eesa move away las week.”

“Where did he live?”

“In-a da cabin – odder side Nort Pacific Mill, at-a da Giles lak.”

“What is his name?”

“George-a da Golda!”

Sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something “crooked” – “Well,” he continued, “I have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as Mr. Golda may have something to say, I shall leave my address with this officer.” He thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, “Please file it at your headquarters.”

Then again turning to Giuseppe, Sam continued, “You notify Mr. Golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and I will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of Mr. Golda’s arrival.”

The Italian’s disgust was plain and he ejaculated, “Sacre da-be damn! Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder.”

Without further question, Sam proceeded on his way to Simm’s office. That Giuseppe was not the man Sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt.

Giuseppe must be watched, for he would find Golda to get the medal back, as it was evident Giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom.

While deeply engrossed on this line of thought, Sam was starting down Third street on his way to Detective Simms’ office, and had nearly reached Alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, “Good marnin’, sor!”

“How are you?” responded Sam, recognizing Smith.

“Sure, I’m failin’ foine, axcipt” – and a wistful look came into his eyes – “axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. God shield her!” and he bent his head reverently.

Sam knew full well the object of Smith’s allusion, and said sympathetically, “You share in the sorrow of your house?”

“Indade: I do, sor! Tin years ave I known her swate disposition. Sure, didn’t I drive her coach to the church whin she married him? And she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. God rest her soule! She’s wid the angels now! But I see yeese do be hurted!”

“A bruise! An accident last night, but it’s nothing, I guess! Are you out for a bracer this morning?”

“Just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs.”

“Signs of what?”

“Oh, the dinsity of the cratchur! Sure, I do be always lookin’ fer the little wan.”

“Why don’t you search the river?” suggested Sam significantly; “her mother says she is drowned.”

“Yis! Poor woman! And she belaives it, too, so she do. But says I to myself, says I, some blackguard thaif has sthole the little sunbeam of her heart, which do be nearly broken entirely, so it do!” and Smith turned his head away to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes.

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“I do, by me faith, I do, and ave I could lay me hands on the wan who is raysponsible fer it, sure there’d be somethin’ doin’!”

Sam had slim faith in George Golda calling at the police station to claim the medal, but he believed it possible to locate him by diligent and discreet inquiry. With that idea he beckoned Smith into a lobby of an adjacent building, which at that early hour was untenanted, and produced the medal from his vest pocket. Handing it to Smith, he said guardedly, “I found it in the City Park this morning.”

“Sure I can’t rade Frinch at all, at all!” said Smith, examining the bronze.

“It’s a Garibaldi medal. I can trust you with it?”

“Phwat d’yees mane?” Smith responded with a snap.

“This,” and Sam added confidentially in a low voice, “circulate among the shanties and scow dwellers below the North Pacific mill. Show the medal, prudently, mind, but never let it pass out of your hands.”

“I want!” responded Smith, thrusting it in his inside coat pocket. “Be it raysponsible for yees hurt?”

“Of that – well, no matter – I fear where the fellow who lost the bronze lives – there will be found the little one.” Sam had spoken in a voice so soft and low and grave that it startled Smith.

During the pause that followed, he looked at Sam in steadfast amaze.

“Do yees belave it?” he finally asked.

“I do!”

“Sure, yees do be after me own hart. I tould thim some thaivin’ blackguard – ”

“Hush!” Sam interrupted, “not so loud. If a fellow by the name of George Golda claims it” —

“George Golda!” repeated Smith.

“Yes; if George Golda claims it bring him to me. If he will not come, track him, and let me know where he lives as soon as possible. Do it quietly.”

“Sure, I will that. D’yees think he’s the wan?” whispered Smith, intensely interested.

“We shall see,” replied Sam. “But don’t part with the bronze. You will remember?”

“I will, be me soul, I will, and be the token ave it, I’ll” – and Smith spat on his hands and made other significant manifestations quite understandable to descendants of a fighting nation.

Immediately thereafter Sam continued on to Simms’ office, and there, closeted with the detective, related his experience.

Twenty minutes later, a quiet, unassuming, seedy-looking man carelessly lounged about in the vicinity of the Plaza fountain, and no matter what position he occupied, or where he loitered, express No. 346 and its driver never escaped from his sight.