Pike Skinner, for his part, seems to have swung over to the deputy’s side, and defends him wholeheartedly. He points out that Gannon, in enemy territory, puts himself in grave danger of assassination, since to all appearances the Cowboys remain convinced that it was Gannon who murdered their chief; also that the stalwarts who would have enthusiastically formed the Vigilantes to protect Warlock from the Regulators, are not enthusiastic at all about riding down valley to face the Cowboys whose deadly mien and ready weapons were so much in evidence on their last appearance here.

Gannon is looked upon with distrust by a good many members of the Citizens’ Committee — or perhaps it is with jealousy. He remains, however, a hero to the unwashed elements. There is great interest on every hand in his future actions, and he is at the moment more a center of interest than is Blaisedell.

The present eye praises the present object.

Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,

That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax,

Since things in motion sooner catch the eye

Than what not stirs.

But Hector is dead, and what is there left for Achilles to do?

May 16, 1881

It is thought here now that McQuown must have been murdered by Mexicans in the employ of Don Ignacio, in revenge, and as assurance against further rustling of Hacienda Puerto stock.

I am sure there would be some to accuse Blaisedell of the crime, had not Blaisedell been in evidence here that night. I have heard it said, though, that Morgan was clearly seen (by whom?) riding back into Warlock the following dawn upon a winded horse, as he was also seen (by whom?) riding back from the scene of the Bright’s City stage robbery, etc. No doubt Morgan is capable of such a murder, as no doubt he is capable of road-agentry, but I am unable to believe him capable of such strenuous diabolism merely for its own sake.

Yet more and more I see the conspiracy to bring Blaisedell low by gossip and canard, since it cannot be done by gunfire. They will strike at him through Morgan, against whose name is piled a higher and higher stack of guilt and sin, in the hope that this will topple over onto the Marshal. Very probably Morgan has no more moral code than a rhinoceros, and certainly he does nothing to make himself popular. He spends his time viewing and sneering at our activities from the veranda of the Western Star, and, afternoons and evenings, gambles at the Lucky Dollar, where he is having a phenomenal run of luck at the faro table, to Lew Taliaferro’s great discomfiture. Morgan was attacked there the other night by two miners, but, although he is not large in stature, he is a powerful and active man, and acquitted himself well. When he had had enough of the brawl he drew his six-shooter and put his attackers to flight, and then returned to his game, Will Hart said, as calmly as though nothing had happened.

The town itself is quiet and well behaved. Our population is growing. Among others, a man named Train and his wife, a faded but indomitable-looking woman, have arrived, with the prospect of building an eating establishment, which they claim will be of high quality. They are having great difficulty obtaining lumber, but Mrs. Train says firmly that she will not have adobe, which is dirty and repellent to white people. There has also been another marriage. Slator has taken to wife a Cyprian from the French Palace. The judge performed the ceremony, the validity of which might consequently be suspect, and Taliaferro, fittingly enough, gave the bride away. The happy couple has rented a cabin from one of the Medusa strikers, who was no doubt badly in need of money. Slator, formerly an irresponsible and drunken odd-jobman, has been given steady employment by Kennon at the livery stable, and shows every sign of having become a reformed character, this being attributed to his new responsibilities. I should think it might be difficult to possess a wife whom almost every other man in town has known so intimately, but no doubt True Love Conquers All.

So peace and civilization are encroaching upon Warlock. Yet it is not a pleasant peace. There is concern as to whether the strikers will accept their defeat, or will break out in some new violence. Miss Jessie has set up a breadline at the General Peach. They stand in the street at meal times, waiting their turn to be fed by her generosity, and are silent and sullen. MacDonald must fume at her feeding them, and yet I am sure that in the end he will win, and they will silently and sullenly go back to work at the Medusa.

It is a Saturday night, and very quiet outside my window. I remember when a Saturday night was a matter of dread in Warlock — I remember the wildness, the shouts and laughter, the brawling, the shooting that would all too often punctuate and bring a bloody climax to the night. Is not this what we wanted? McQuown is dead; I have to remind myself of that. Is not that too what we wanted? Yet I am aware of the dissatisfaction on every hand. It is finished, but not finished. It is not right, but I cannot express what I feel. It is an uneasy peace in Warlock.

May 22, 1881

I have noticed that we are seeing more of Blaisedell these days. He spends much of his time on Main Street, standing at his ease beneath one or the other of the arcades. His leonine head is in continual but almost imperceptible movement — as he glances up the street, then down the street. He gives the impression of intently watching and waiting. He is a part of the furniture of Main Street, a kind of black-suited eminence — a colossus there, or is it astride the town itself?

For what does he watch and wait? The question depresses me greatly, for is not his use gone? He is like a machine primed and ready for instant service with its function no longer of value. Was not his ultimate purpose to fight, and kill, Abe McQuown? So is his use buried with McQuown? I know there is an increasing sentiment in the Citizens’ Committee that he should be released. As yet this has hardly been voiced, but I know it is so. I wonder who will tell Blaisedell when, and if, it is agreed upon.

He must then go on to some other Warlock and some other McQuown. There are no more McQuowns or Curley Burnes here, and he is like a heavyweight champion awaiting a challenger where there are only lightweights. I pity him that everything has gone so wrong for him. Is not all, from now on, anticlimax?

I have seen him once or twice in converse with Gannon, more often sitting upon the veranda of the Western Star with Morgan. They sit side by side, uncomfortably similar in black broadcloth suits, black hats. It strikes me that I have no impression of them speaking together. Then Blaisedell makes a round of the town, and Morgan goes to resume his bout with Taliaferro.

The quiet nights pass, and, a little after noon each day, Blaisedell reappears at one of his three or four central posts. You do not see him come and go, he is only there, or not. Once in a while you are more conscious of him. A couple of miners tumble out of the Billiard Parlor, fighting and cursing. Calmly he separates them. Upon seeing him they are at once sober and out of their fighting mood, and slink away. Or Ash Bredon rides in from up valley and thinks to do a little shooting into the air to enliven the atmosphere of Warlock. Blaisedell speaks to him from across the street, and Bredon changes his mind.

He stands and waits, and the days pass, and I wonder what will become of him. What he waits and watches for does not exist; I cannot help but feel he knows this himself. In a very brief time he has turned, almost, into a monument.

51. THE DOCTOR HEARS THREATS AND GUNFIRE

THE doctor stood in the entryway watching the miners file in through the door of the General Peach for their noon meal. As usual, they were quiet and orderly. There were more than a hundred of them now, and each one nodded to him as he came in the door, and then, carefully, did not look at him again.