Friends in San Rosario

Friends in San Rosario

                                 O. Henry

The west-bound stopped at San Rosario on time at 8:20 A.M. A man
with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm left the train and walked
rapidly up the main street of town. There were other passengers who also
got off at San Rosario, but they slouched limberly over to the railroad
eating-house or the Silver Dollar saloon, or joined the groups of idlers
about the station.

Indecision had no part in the movements of the man with the
wallet. He was short in stature, but strongly built, with very light,
closely trimmed hair, smooth, determined face, and aggressive, gold-rimmed
nose glasses. He was well dressed in the prevailing Eastern Style. His air
denoted a quiet but conscious reserve force, if not actual authority.

After walking a distance of three squares he came to the centre of
the town's business area. Here another street of importance crossed the
main one, forming the hub of San Rosario's life and commerce. Upon one
corner stood the post-office. Upon another Rubensky's Clothing Emporium.
The other two diagonally opposing corners were occupied by the town's two
banks, the First National and the Stockmen's National. Into the First
National Bank of San Rosario the newcomer walked, never slowing his brisk
step until he stood at the cashier's window. The bank opened for business
at nine, and the working force was already assembled, each member
preparing his department for the day's business. The cashier was examining
the mail when he noticed the stranger standing at his window.

"Bank doesn't open 'til nine," he remarked curtly, but without
feeling. He had had to make that statement so often to early birds since
San Rosario adopted city banking hours.

"I am well aware of that," said the other man, in cool, brittle
tones. "Will you kindly receive my card?"

The cashier drew the small, spotless parallelogram inside the bars
of his wicket, and read:

J.F.C Nettlewick
National Bank Examiner

"Oh--er--will you walk around inside, Mr.--er--Nettlewick. Your
first visit--didn't know your business, of course. Walk right around,
please."

The examiner was quickly inside the sacred precincts of the bank,
where he was ponderously introduced to each employee in turn by Mr.
Edlinger, the cashier--a middle-aged gentleman of deliberation,
discretion, and method.

"I was kind of expecting Sam Turner round again, pretty soon,"
said Mr. Edlinger. "Sam's been examining us now, for about four years. I
guess you'll find us all right, though, considering the tightness in
business. Not overly much money on hand, but able to stand the storms,
sir, stand the storms."

"Mr. Turner and I have been ordered by the Comptroller to exchange
districts," said the examiner, in his decisive, formal tones. "He is
covering my old territory in Southern Illinois and Indiana. I will take
the cash first, please."

Perry Dorsey, the teller, was already arranging his cash on the
counter for the examiner's inspection. He knew it was right to a cent, and
he had nothing to fear, but he was nervous and flustered. So was every man
in the bank. There was something so icy and swift, so impersonal and
uncompromising about this man that his very presence seemed an accusation.
He looked to be a man who would never make nor overlook an error.

Mr. Nettlewick first seized the currency, and with a rapid, almost
juggling motion, counted it by packages. Then he spun the sponge cup
toward him and verified the count by bills. His thin, white fingers flew
like some expert musician's upon the keys of a piano. He dumped the gold
upon the counter with a crash, and the coins whined and sang as they
skimmed across the marble slab from the tips of his nimble digits. The air
was full of fractional currency when he came to the halves and quarters.
He counted the last nickel and dime. He had the scales brought, and he
weighed every sack of silver in the vault. He questioned Dorsey concerning
each of the cash memoranda--certain checks, charge slips, etc., carried
over from the previous day's work --with unimpeachable courtesy, yet with
something so mysteriously momentous in his frigid manner, that the teller
was reduced to pink cheeks and a stammering tongue.

This newly-imported examiner was so different from Sam Turner. It
had been Sam's way to enter the bank with a shout, pass the cigars, and
tell the latest stories he had picked up on his rounds. His customary
greeting to Dorsey had been, "Hello, Perry! Haven't skipped out with the
boodle yet, I see." Turner's way of counting the cash had been different,
too. He would finger the packages of bills in a tired kind of way, and
then go into the vault and kick over a few sacks of silver, and the thing
was done. Halves and quarters and dimes? Not for Sam Turner. "No chicken
feed for me," he would say when they were set before him. "I'm not in the
agricultural department." But, then, Turner was a Texan, an old friend of
the bank's president, and had known Dorsey since he was a baby.

While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas B.
Kingman-- known to every one as "Major Tom"--the president of the First
National, drove up to the side door with his old dun horse and buggy, and
came inside. He saw the examiner busy with the money, and, going into the
little "pony corral," as he called it, in which his desk was railed off,
he began to look over his letters.

Earlier, a little incident had occurred that even the sharp eyes
of the examiner had failed to notice. When he had begun his work at the
cash counter, Mr. Edlinger had winked significantly at Roy Wilson, the
youthful bank messenger, and nodded his head slightly toward the front
door. Roy understood, got his hat, and walked leisurely out, with his
collector's book under his arm. Once outside, he made a bee-line for the
Stockmen's National. That bank was also getting ready to open. No
customers had, as yet, presented themselves.

"Say, you people!" cried Roy, with the familiarity of youth and
long acquaintance, "you want to get a move on you. There's a new bank
examiner over at the First, and he's a stem-winder. He's counting nickels
on Perry, and he's got the whole outfit bluffed. Mr. Edlinger gave me the
tip to let you know."

Mr. Buckley, president of the Stockmen's National--a stout,
elderly man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sunday--heard Roy from his
private office at the rear and called him.

"Has Major Kingman come down to the bank yet?" he asked of the
boy.

"Yes, sir, he was just driving up as I left," said Roy.

"I want you to take him a note. Put it into his own hands as soon
as you get back."

Mr. Buckley sat down and began to write.

Roy returned and handed to Major Kingman the envelope containing
the note. The major read it, folded it, and slipped it into his vest
pocket. He leaned back in his chair for a few moments as if he were
meditating deeply, and then rose and went into the vault. He came out with
the bulky, old-fashioned leather note case stamped on the back in gilt
letters, "Bills Discounted." In this were the notes due the bank with
their attached securities, and the major, in his rough way, dumped the lot
upon his desk and began to sort them over.

By this time Nettlewick had finished his count of the cash. His
pencil fluttered like a swallow over the sheet of paper on which he had
set his figures. He opened his black wallet, which seemed to be also a
kind of secret memorandum book, made a few rapid figures in it, wheeled
and transfixed Dorsey with the glare of his spectacles. That look seemed
to say: "You're safe this time, but--"

"Cash all correct," snapped the examiner. He made a dash for the
individual bookkeeper, and, for a few minutes there was a fluttering of
ledger leaves and a sailing of balance sheets through the air.

"How often do you balance your pass-books?" he demanded, suddenly.

"Er--once a month," faltered the individual bookkeeper, wondering
how many years they would give him.

"All right," said the examiner, turning and charging upon the
general bookkeeper, who had the statements of his foreign banks and their
reconcilement memoranda ready. Everything there was found to be all right.
Then the stub book of the certificates of deposit. Flutter--
flutter--zip--zip--check! All right. List of over-drafts, please. Thanks.
H'm-m. Unsigned bills of the bank, next. All right.

Then came the cashier's turn, and easy-going Mr. Edlinger rubbed
his nose and polished his glasses nervously under the quick fire of
questions concerning the circulation, undivided profits, bank real estate,
and stock ownership.

Presently Nettlewick was aware of a big man towering above him at
his elbow--a man sixty years of age, rugged and hale, with a rough,
grizzled beard, a mass of gray hair, and a pair of penetrating blue eyes
that confronted the formidable glasses of the examiner without a flicker.

"Er--Major Kingman, our president--er--Mr. Nettlewick," said the
cashier.

Two men of very different types shook hands. One was a finished
product of the world of straight lines, conventional methods, and formal
affairs. The other was something freer, wider, and nearer to nature. Tom
Kingman had not been cut to any pattern. He had been mule-driver, cowboy,
ranger, soldier, sheriff, prospector, and cattleman. Now, when he was bank
president, his old comrades from the prairies, of the saddle, tent, and
trail found no change in him. He had made his fortune when Texas cattle
were at the high tide of value, and had organized the First National Bank
of San Rosario. In spite of his largeness of heart and sometimes unwise
generosity toward his old friends, the bank had prospered, for Major Tom
Kingman knew men as well as he knew cattle. Of late years the cattle
business had known a depression, and the major's bank was one of the few
whose losses had not been great.

"And now," said the examiner, briskly, pulling out his watch, "the
last thing is the loans. We will take them up now, if you please."

He had gone through the First National at almost record-breaking
speed --but thoroughly, as he did everything. The running order of the
bank was smooth and clean, and that had facilitated his work. There was
but one other bank in the town. He received from the Government a fee of
twenty-five dollars for each bank that he examined. He should be able to
go over those loans and discounts in half an hour. If so, he could examine
the other bank immediately afterward, and catch the 11.45, the only other
train that day in the direction he was working. Otherwise, he would have
to spend the night and Sunday in this uninteresting Western town. That was
why Mr. Nettlewick was rushing matters.

"Come with me, sir," said Major Kingman, in his deep voice, that
united the Southern drawl with the rhythmic twang of the West; "We will go
over them together. Nobody in the bank knows those notes as I do. Some of
'em are a little wobbly on their legs, and some are mavericks without
extra many brands on their backs, but they'll most all pay out at the
round-up."

The two sat down at the president's desk. First, the examiner went
through the notes at lightning speed, and added up their total, finding it
to agree with the amount of loans carried on the book of daily balances.
Next, he took up the larger loans, inquiring scrupulously into the
condition of their endorsers or securities. The new examiner's mind seemed
to course and turn and make unexpected dashes hither and thither like a
bloodhound seeking a trail. Finally he pushed aside all the notes except a
few, which he arranged in a neat pile before him, and began a dry, formal
little speech.

"I find, sir, the condition of your bank to be very good,
considering the poor crops and the depression in the cattle interests of
your state. The clerical work seems to be done accurately and punctually.
Your past-due paper is moderate in amount, and promises only a small loss.
I would recommend the calling in of your large loans, and the making of
only sixty and ninety day or call loans until general business revives.
And now, there is one thing more, and I will have finished with the bank.
Here are six notes aggregating something like $40,000. They are secured,
according to their faces, by various stocks, bonds, shares, etc. to the
value of $70,000. Those securities are missing from the notes to which
they should be attached. I suppose you have them in the safe or vault. You
will permit me to examine them."

Major Tom's light-blue eyes turned unflinchingly toward the examiner.

"No, sir," he said, in a low but steady tone; "those securities
are neither in the safe nor in the vault. I have taken them. You may hold
me personally responsible for their absence."

Nettlewick felt a slight thrill. He had not expected this. He had
struck a momentous trail when the hunt was drawing to a close.

"Ah!" said the examiner. He waited a moment, and then continued:
"May I ask you to explain more definitely?"

"The securities were taken by me," repeated the major. "It was not
for my own use, but to save an old friend in trouble. Come in here, sir,
and we'll talk it over."

He led the examiner into the bank's private office at the rear,
and closed the door. There was a desk, and a table, and half-a-dozen
leather-covered chairs. On the wall was the mounted head of a Texas steer
with horns five feet from tip to tip. Opposite hung the major's old
cavalry saber that he had carried at Shiloh and Fort Pillow.

Placing a chair for Nettlewick, the major seated himself by the
window, from which he could see the post-office and the carved limestone
front of the Stockmen's National. He did not speak at once, and Nettlewick
felt, perhaps, that the ice could be broken by something so near its own
temperature as the voice of official warning.

"Your statement," he began, "since you have failed to modify it,
amounts, as you must know, to a very serious thing. You are aware, also,
of what my duty must compel me to do. I shall have to go before the United
States Commissioner and make--"

"I know, I know," said Major Tom, with a wave of his hand. "You
don't suppose I'd run a bank without being posted on national banking laws
and the revised statutes! Do your duty. I'm not asking any favours. But, I
spoke of my friend. I did want you to hear me tell you about Bob."

Nettlewick settled himself in his chair. There would be no leaving
San Rosario for him that day. He would have to telegraph to the
Comptroller of the Currency; he would have to swear out a warrant before
the United States Commissioner for the arrest of Major Kingman; perhaps he
would be ordered to close the bank on account of the loss of the
securities. It was not the first crime the examiner had unearthed. Once or
twice the terrible upheaval of human emotions that his investigations had
loosed had almost caused a ripple in his official calm. He had seen bank
men kneel and plead and cry like women for a chance--an hour's time--the
overlooking of a single error. One cashier had shot himself at his desk
before him. None of them had taken it with the dignity and coolness of
this stern old Westerner. Nettlewick felt that he owed it to him at least
to listen if he wished to talk. With his elbow on the arm of his chair,
and his square chin resting upon the fingers of his right hand, the bank
examiner waited to hear the confession of the president of the First
National Bank of San Rosario.

"When a man's your friend," began Major Tom, somewhat
didactically, "for forty years, and tried by water, fire, earth, and
cyclones, when you can do him a little favour you feel like doing it."

("Embezzle for him $70,000 worth of securities," thought the
examiner.)

"We were cowboys together, Bob and I," continued the major,
speaking slowly, and deliberately, and musingly, as if his thoughts were
rather with the past than the critical present, "and we prospected
together for gold and silver over Arizona, New Mexico, and a good part of
California. We were both in the war of 'sixty-one, but in different
commands. We've fought Indians and horse-thieves side by side; we've
starved for weeks in a cabin in the Arizona mountains, buried twenty feet
deep in snow; we've ridden herd together when the wind blew so hard the
lightning couldn't strike--well, Bob and I have been through some rough
spells since the first time we met in the branding camp of the old
Anchor-Bar ranch. And during that time we've found it necessary more than
once to help each other out of tight places. In those days it was expected
of a man to stick to his friend, and he didn't ask any credit for it.
Probably next day you'd need him to get at your back and help stand off a
band of Apaches, or put a tourniquet on your leg above a rattlesnake bite
and ride for whisky. So, after all, it was give and take, and if you
didn't stand square with your pardner, why, you might be shy one when you
needed him. But Bob was a man who was willing to go further than that. He
never played a limit.

"Twenty years ago I was sheriff of this country, and I made Bob my
chief deputy. That was before the boom in cattle when we both made our
stake. I was sheriff and collector, and it was a big thing for me then. I
was married, and we had a boy and a girl--a four and a six year old. There
was a comfortable house next to the courthouse, furnished by the county,
rent free, and I was saving some money. Bob did most of the office work.
Both of us had seen rough times and plenty of rustling and danger, and I
tell you it was great to hear the rain and the sleet dashing against the
windows of nights, and be warm and safe and comfortable, and know you
could get up in the morning and be shaved and have folks call you
'mister.' And then, I had the finest wife and kids that ever struck the
range, and my old friend with me enjoying the first fruits of prosperity
and white shirts, and I guess I was happy. Yes, I was happy about that
time."

The major sighed and glanced casually out of the window. The bank
examiner changed his position, and leaned his chin upon his other hand.

"One winter," continued the major, "the money for the county taxes
came pouring in so fast that I didn't have time to take the stuff to the
bank for a week. I just shoved the checks into a cigar box and the money
into a sack, and locked them in the big safe that belonged to the
sheriff's office.

"I had been overworked that week, and was about sick, anyway. My
nerves were out of order, and my sleep at night didn't seem to rest me.
The doctor had some scientific name for it, and I was taking medicine. And
so, added to the rest, I went to bed at night with that money on my mind.
Not that there was much need of being worried, for the safe was a good
one, and nobody but Bob and I knew the combination. On Friday night there
was about $6,500 in cash in the bag. On Saturday morning I went to the
office as usual. The safe was locked, and Bob was writing at his desk. I
opened the safe, and the money was gone. I called Bob, and roused
everybody in the court-house to announce the robbery. It struck me that
Bob took it pretty quiet, considering how much it reflected upon both him
and me.

"Two days went by and we never got a clue. It couldn't have been
burglars, for the safe had been opened by the combination in the proper
way. People must have begun to talk, for one afternoon in comes
Alice--that's my wife--and the boy and girl, and Alice stamps her foot,
and her eyes flash, and she cries out, 'The lying wretches--Tom, Tom!' and
I catch her in a faint, and bring her 'round little by little, and she
lays her head down and cries and cries for the first time since she took
Tom Kingman's name and fortunes. And Jack and Zilla--the youngsters--they
were always wild as tiger cubs to rush over Bob and climb all over him
whenever they were allowed to come to the court-house--they stood and
kicked their little shoes, and herded together like scared partridges.
They were having their first trip down into the shadows of life. Bob was
working at his desk, and he got up and went out without a word. The grand
jury was in session then, and the next morning Bob went before them and
confessed that he stole the money. He said he lost it in a poker game. In
fifteen minutes they had found a true bill and sent me the warrant to
arrest the man with whom I'd been closer than a thousand brothers for many
a year.

"I did it, and then I said to Bob, pointing: 'There's my house,
and here's my office, and up there's Maine, and out that way is
California, and over there is Florida--and that's your range 'til court
meets. You're in my charge, and I take the responsibility. You be here
when you're wanted.'

"'Thanks, Tom,' he said, kind of carelessly; 'I was sort of hoping
you wouldn't lock me up. Court meets next Monday, so, if you don't object,
I'll just loaf around the office until then. I've got one favour to ask,
if it isn't too much. If you'd let the kids come out in the yard once in a
while and have a romp I'd like it.'

"'Why not?' I answered him. 'They're welcome, and so are you. And
come to my house, the same as ever.' You see, Mr. Nettlewick, you can't
make a friend of a thief, but neither can you make a thief of a friend,
all at once."

The examiner made no answer. At that moment was heard the shrill
whistle of a locomotive pulling into the depot. That was the train on the
little, narrow-gauge road that struck into San Rosario from the south. The
major cocked his ear and listened for a moment, and looked at his watch.
The narrow-gauge was in on time--10.35. The major continued:

"So Bob hung around the office, reading the papers and smoking. I
put another deputy to work in his place, and after a while, the first
excitement of the case wore off.

"One day when we were alone in the office Bob came over to where I
was sitting. He looked sort of grim and blue--the same look he used to get
when he'd been up watching for Indians all night or herd-riding.

"'Tom,' says he, 'it's harder than standing off redskins; it's
harder than lying in the lava desert forty miles from water; but I'm going
to stick it out to the end. You know that's been my style. But if you'd
tip me the smallest kind of a sign--if you'd just say, "Bob I understand,"
why, it would make it lots easier.'

"I was surprised. 'I don't know what you mean, Bob,' I said. 'Of
course, you know that I'd do anything under the sun to help you that I
could. But you've got me guessing.'

"'All right, Tom,' was all he said, and he went back to his
newspaper and lit another cigar.

"It was the night before court met when I found out what he meant.
I went to bed that night with that same old, light-headed, nervous feeling
come back upon me. I dropped off to sleep about midnight. When I awoke I
was standing half dressed in one of the court-house corridors. Bob was
holding one of my arms, our family doctor the other, and Alice was shaking
me and half crying. She had sent for the doctor without my knowing it, and
when he came they had found me out of bed and missing, and had begun a
search.

"'Sleep-walking,' said the doctor.

"All of us went back to the house, and the doctor told us some
remarkable stories about the strange things people had done while in that
condition. I was feeling rather chilly after my trip out, and, as my wife
was out of the room at the time, I pulled open the door of an old wardrobe
that stood in the room and dragged out a big quilt I had seen in there.
With it tumbled out the bag of money for stealing which Bob was to be
tried--and convicted--in the morning.

"'How the jumping rattlesnakes did that get there?' I yelled, and
all hands must have seen how surprised I was. Bob knew in a flash.

"'You darned old snoozer,' he said, with the old-time look on his
face, 'I saw you put it there. I watched you open the safe and take it
out, and I followed you. I looked through the window and saw you hide it
in that wardrobe.'

"'Then, you blankety-blank, flop-eared, sheep-headed coyote, what
did you say you took it, for?'

"'Because,' said Bob, simply, 'I didn't know you were asleep.'

"I saw him glance toward the door of the room where Jack and Zilla
were, and I knew then what it meant to be a man's friend from Bob's point
of view."

Major Tom paused, and again directed his glance out of the window.
He saw some one in the Stockmen's National Bank reach and draw a yellow
shade down the whole length of its plate-glass, big front window, although
the position of the sun did not seem to warrant such a defensive movement
against its rays.

Nettlewick sat up straight in his chair. He had listened
patiently, but without consuming interest, to the major's story. It had
impressed him as irrelevant to the situation, and it could certainly have
no effect upon the consequences. Those Western people, he thought, had an
exaggerated sentimentality. They were not business-like. They needed to be
protected from their friends. Evidently the major had concluded. And what
he had said amounted to nothing.

"May I ask," said the examiner, "if you have anything further to
say that bears directly upon the question of those abstracted securities?"

"Abstracted securities, sir!" Major Tom turned suddenly in his
chair, his blue eyes flashing upon the examiner. "What do you mean, sir?"

He drew from his coat pocket a batch of folded papers held
together by a rubber band, tossed them into Nettlewick's hands, and rose
to his feet.

"You'll find those securities there, sir, every stock, bond, and
share of 'em. I took them from the notes while you were counting the cash.
Examine and compare them for yourself."

The major led the way back into the banking room. The examiner,
astounded, perplexed, nettled, at sea, followed. He felt that he had been
made the victim of something that was not exactly a hoax, but that left
him in the shoes of one who had been played upon, used, and then
discarded, without even an inkling of the game. Perhaps, also, his
official position had been irreverently juggled with. But there was
nothing he could take hold of. An official report of the matter would be
an absurdity. And, somehow, he felt that he would never know anything more
about the matter than he did then.

Frigidly, mechanically, Nettlewick examined the securities, found
them to tally with the notes, gathered his black wallet, and rose to
depart.

"I will say," he protested, turning the indignant glare of his
glasses upon Major Kingman, "that your statements--your misleading
statements, which you have not condescended to explain--do not appear to
be quite the thing, regarded either as business or humour. I do not
understand such motives or actions."

Major Tom looked down at him serenely and not unkindly.

"Son," he said, "there are plenty of things in the chaparral, and
on the prairies, and up the canyons that you don't understand. But I want
to thank you for listening to a garrulous old man's prosy story. We old
Texans love to talk about our adventures and our old comrades, and the
home folks have long ago learned to run when we begin with 'Once upon a
time,' so we have to spin our yarns to the stranger within our gates."

The major smiled, but the examiner only bowed coldly, and abruptly
quitted the bank. They saw him travel diagonally across the street in a
straight line and enter the Stockmen's National Bank.

Major Tom sat down at his desk, and drew from his vest pocket the
note Roy had given him. He had read it once, but hurriedly, and now, with
something like a twinkle in his eyes, he read it again. These were the
words he read:

Dear Tom:

I hear there's one of Uncle Sam's grayhounds going through you,
and that means that we'll catch him inside of a couple of hours, maybe.
Now, I want you to do something for me. We've got just $2,200 in the bank,
and the law requires that we have $20,000. I let Ross and Fisher have
$18,000 late yesterday afternoon to buy up that Gibson bunch of cattle.
They'll realize $40,000 in less than thirty days on the transaction, but
that won't make my cash on hand look any prettier to that bank examiner.
Now, I can't show him those notes, for they're just plain notes of hand
without any security in sight, but you know very well that Pink Ross and
Jim Fisher are two of the finest white men God ever made, and they'll do
the square thing. You remember Jim Fisher--he was the one who shot that
faro dealer in El Paso. I wired Sam Bradshaw's bank to send me $20,000,
and it will get in on the narrow-gauge at 10.35. You can't let a bank
examiner in to count $2,200 and close your doors. Tom, you hold that
examiner. Hold him. Hold him if you have to rope him and sit on his head.
Watch our front window after the narrow-gauge gets in, and when we've got
the cash inside we'll pull down the shade for a signal. Don't turn him
loose till then. I'm counting on you, Tom.

Your Old Pard,
Bob Buckly,
/Pres. Stockmen's National/.

The major began to tear the note into small pieces and throw them into
his waste basket. He gave a satisfied chuckle as he did so.

"Confounded old reckless cowpuncher!" he growled, contentedly, "that
pays him some on account for what he tried to do for me in the
sheriff's office twenty years ago."

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