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[Illustration: “JIM, THIS YER’S DOC WEYMOUTH”]
POKER JIM,
GENTLEMAN
AND
Other Tales and Sketches
BY
G. FRANK LYDSTON
PUBLISHERS
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1906 BY
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
_To
The Most Indulgent of My Friends
And the Least Charitable of My Critics
This Book will Give Joy.
To Them I Dedicate It.
The Author_
ILLUSTRATIONS
“JIM, THIS YER’S DOC WEYMOUTH” _Frontispiece_
PAGE
JIM WAS BOUNDING TOWARD THE OPEN DOOR, LEAVING HIS INSULTER LYING
UPON THE FLOOR WITH A CLEAN CUT IN HIS CHEST 42
THERE WAS A SHORT, SHARP STRUGGLE, A HARMLESS SHOT, AND JIM’S
INSULTER WAS LYING ON THE FLOOR WITH A CLEAN CUT IN HIS CHEST 63
JOHNNY GOT A STRANGLE HOLD ON THE FILIPINO’S THROAT WITH HIS LEFT
HAND, WHILE WITH HIS RIGHT HE DREW HIS KNIFE 143
“CUSTOM-MADE SORROW” 160
A ROPE WAS SPEEDILY FOUND AND TIED ABOUT MY NECK 202
A WISE CHILD 216
“IS MY COUSIN JUAN A COWARD, THAT HE LIES IN AMBUSH?” 286
CONTENTS
POKER JIM, GENTLEMAN 1
TOMMY THE OUTCAST 81
JOHNNY 114
MY FRIEND THE UNDERTAKER 160
A GRIM MEMENTO 182
A WISE CHILD 216
LEAVES FROM A SUICIDE’S DIARY 247
CHICQUITA 266
A DEAD IDEAL 297
A MATTER OF PROFESSIONAL SECRECY 323
A LEGEND OF THE YOSEMITE 351
A GREAT CITY’S SHAME 372
PREFACE
It requires some assurance to step out of the conventional in story
writing. Especially does it require courage on the part of one whose
ideals of what a story should be are far beyond what his productions
can ever attain. But the physician, who gets closer to things human
than others do, may perhaps be forgiven unorthodox subjects and methods
of expression. Surely, also, he will be excused for drawing upon his
own field of work for his subject matter.
I have this to say of my material characters--they are all taken from
life. Even Tommy the Outcast was the genuine article of hero. He
crept into my life through a hole in my cellar window one furiously
stormy night. He went out of it _via_ a dose of poison, meant for his
hereditary foes--the rats. Talk? No, he did not talk, but I’m sure he
used to think--hard and often--and I fancy no one will upbraid me for
trying in my feeble way to read his mind and act as his proxy in the
expression of the things he thought, and in telling the sad story of
his life.
The mythical red hero and the golden haired goddess of the Yosemite
are the more beautiful for being unsubstantial. The pretty little
legend on which their story was founded was anonymously published
nearly fifty years ago in some eastern magazine, the name of which
escapes me. I found it among the rubbish of my grandfather’s attic,
when a lad. It seems that the legend was originally obtained from an
old Indian warrior, who related it essentially as it had descended to
him through many generations of ancestors. Like many other beautiful
traditions of our American aborigines, the legend of the Yosemite has
been buried in the mists of obscurity and the dust of forgetfulness.
I trust that my amplified version is not unworthy of the original. It
will at least serve to resurrect from the Valley of the Lost a bit of
beautiful sentiment that deserved a better fate. I hope this may not
be its second burial, and that the paleface may find something sweetly
sentimental in the mythical tale of Tis-sa-ack and Tu-toch-a-nu-lah.
For the benefit of those who may chance to discern in the hero of the
Yosemite a slight tinge of Frederick Cozzens’ ancient legend of the
Palisades, I freely acknowledge the debt I owe to the “Big Pappoose.”
Most of the incidents related in the various stories in this volume are
authentic. Those upon which the story of the Dead Ideal is founded come
back to me vividly from my student days with all the halo of bright
romance which they then possessed. To this day I have longed to know
who and what the beautiful subject was. He who could not weave romance
about that fair unfortunate must needs be the victim of that worst of
fates--soul death.
Nearly all the characters in Poker Jim are real. There was no dearth of
material from which to select subjects. I was born amid the California
Sierras in the placer mines of Tuolumne. Some of the years of my early
childhood were spent in the mountains of Calaveras. Here in the midst
of a rude mining population were to be found interesting characters a
plenty.
A few--alas! how very few--of those rugged, homely, adventurous spirits
whom I knew in my boyhood are still living. I have within a few months
past been privileged to clasp their dear old hands and listen to their
oft told tales of the romantic early days of my native state.
I recently spent several hours at the house of a friend in San
Francisco, watching the play of emotion on the wrinkled face of an
aged Argonaut as he listened while our host and I were discussing the
various characters of the story of Poker Jim. Needless to say, old time
memories were revived in the mind of the poor old man. I shall never
forget his tear dimmed eyes as he looked up at me and said, reverently,
“Doc, I knowed ’em well--your pa, an’ your gran’pa, an’ Poker Jim an’
all on ’em.”
As I sit here in my quiet study harking back to my last trip to the
mountains and valleys of Tuolumne and Calaveras, there appears before
my mind’s eye a picture of the old golden days brought down to the year
1900. In the foreground, at the door of his rude log cabin, stands
that dear old octogenarian, “French Tom” of Tuolumne, gazing toward
the green verdured hills on the opposite bank of the river, just where
Moccasin Creek debouches into the swift running crystal waters of the
Tuolumne. He shades his poor old eyes with his hand, and looks long and
earnestly at a man who is slowly passing along the old Yosemite trail.
When he reached the summit of the hill the man turned and stood limned
against the brilliant morning sky, a ghost of happier days.
Long past three score and ten, bent and withered, crippled with
the “rheumatiz,” with pick on shoulder and pan and grub wallet by
his side, “Dixie” was still pursuing the Golden Fleece. On the
morrow--Sunday--Tom and Dixie would meet and talk it all over, and tell
each other the same old wonderful lies of enormous golden finds, and
“saltings” of the tenderfoot, that they had been exchanging since ’49.
“Good luck, old pard!” and “The same to you!” were wafted gently down
the beautiful valley to the heart-full wanderer who had come home after
so many years.
Dixie vanished over the brow of the hill, and Tom dove into his
tumble-down shack to prepare the breakfast of fish fresh from the river
to which he had invited his doctor friend.
And the picture that my memory paints is no longer possible, for dear
old Dixie has gone over the Divide, to dig for gold at the foot of
eternal rainbows in the placers of the Great Beyond. And I am glad
that I went in quest of childhood’s memories while it was yet time.
Out of the Valley of Shadows, Mnemosyne--most puissant goddess of them
all--leads forth a procession of misty familiar shapes that bring the
warmth of affection to my heart and the smile of welcome to my lips.
And they smile back at me in that quiet way which friendly shadows have.
As the vague and unsubstantial forms flit silently past me from out
the ivory portals where Memory’s golden scepter holds undisputed sway,
I recognize a host of my boyhood’s friends; “Poker Jim”, “Boston”,
“Toppy,” “Big” Brown, “Yankee”, “Jersey”, “Link” Spears, Tom Chandler,
Dave Smuggins, Ike Dessler, Bill Loveless, and many more of the
bronzed, deep-chested, red-shirted, hair-triggered Knights of the
Golden Fleece smile back at me from the ghostly file.
Last, but not least, comes my boyhood’s hero, that Turpin of the
border, “Three Fingered Jack” of Calaveras, who has been served up to
us in so many and various forms of literary hash that I shall one day
write his true history as a matter of pious duty.
G. FRANK LYDSTON.
POKER JIM, GENTLEMAN
POKER JIM, GENTLEMAN
It was in the spring of 1860, that the faculty of the University of
Pennsylvania concluded to confer the degree of Doctor of Medicine upon
your humble servant. Whether the faculty of that now famous school
allowed me to graduate on the principle that actuated the performers
in a western band, who implored their audiences not to shoot, as they
were doing the best they could, I cannot say, but graduate I did, and
as with all other students of medicine, it was then that my troubles
began. I was not long in discovering that the piece of crisp parchment
which the members of the faculty had endorsed as showing the scientific
qualifications of William Weymouth, M. D. and which entitled him to
practice medicine, was no open sesame to fame and prosperity.
My parents were at that time living in Kentucky, in a small town that
offered little encouragement to a young man beginning practice. The
confidence of one’s old neighbors is of even slower growth than the
beard for which the young doctor yearns, as a badge of wisdom and
learning that he who runs may read.
The country in which I spent my boyhood--I was born in the state of
Maine--was even less inviting than the state of my adoption. It is
possible that I entertained a little of my mother’s prejudice against
Yankeedom in those days. She was a native of Kentucky, and had never
become thoroughly reconciled to the country to which my father had
taken her soon after her marriage. It was in acquiescence to her
homesick pleadings that my father finally moved to Kentucky, and
settled in the little town wherein my parents lived for the rest of
their days in such happiness as people of modest means can secure only
among the warm hearted, generous people south of Mason and Dixon’s line.
Had my home surroundings offered any inducements to the professional
career I had planned for myself, I should certainly have returned home
to practice. My parents were living alone, and my natural impulse was
to return to them and do the best I could at practice, as long as they
should live. It was with some twinges of conscience, therefore, that I
finally decided against going back to Kentucky to locate.
There were but three of us children, a brother, younger than myself,
and a sister, two years older. My sister had married a gentleman from
Memphis, and had long since gone to that city to live. My young brother
had left home some years before I graduated, and no one knew what had
become of him, much to my regret and to the sorrow of his parents,
whose favorite, I must admit, the boy had ever been.
Jim had always been a wild lad, and was stamped as an incorrigible
almost as soon as he could toddle alone. It was said that a little
of the old strain of Indian blood, with which tradition had endowed
our family, had cropped out in him. He was one of those rollicking,
handsome dare-devils; that everybody fears and loves at the same
moment. The very sight of Jim’s curly, black head and mischievous eyes
struck the good neighbors with terror. Trouble was expected from the
moment that boy put in an appearance--and the good folks were seldom
disappointed. Sometimes they would acknowledge that “it might have been
worse,” but such occasions were rare.
But all who knew the curly headed little rascal admitted that he
possessed two excellent qualities; he was as brave as a lion, and
kind-hearted to a fault. He would fight at “the drop of the hat,” and
no boy ever heard him cry quits. He was as ready to split a cord of
wood for a poor widow, as he was to tie a tin can to her house-dog’s
tail, and that’s saying a great deal.
As the boy grew toward manhood, he fell in with evil associates, and
as is always the case with boys of his peculiar disposition, he became
thoroughly demoralized. Cards, whisky, horses and women--these were
the unsubstantial foundation upon which rested the new world that his
vicious companions opened up to him.
While living at the old home in Kentucky, I had always had a great
controlling influence over little Jim, and even after I left home
for college, I maintained a certain degree of influence over him.
Gradually, however, our correspondence became infrequent, until we
heard from each other only at very long intervals.
Knowing how much I thought of the lad, my parents never alluded to
Jim’s discrepancies in their letters to me. I have sometimes thought
that possibly they were actuated to a certain degree by false pride;
they did not care to expose the failings of their idol to his natural
rival in their affections--his brother. Whatever the explanation of
the reticence of my parents may have been, I had no intimation of the
true state of affairs until after the poor boy had fled from home,
never to return.
It was the old story; a woman, a rival, a quarrel--ostensibly the
outcome of a game of cards--the lie, a shot, and my young brother a
fugitive. What a monotonous sameness there is in all such stories,
to be sure. No one has invented a single new character or a single
new situation in the play of passion, through all the ages. What new
phases have the romanticists of the world added to human hopes, fears,
sentiments, passions and vices in all the centuries? None--and yet the
world demands originality of its authors!
It will be seen that I was between two fires, in deciding on my course
after graduation--a sense of filial duty to my sorrowing and lonely
parents, and a new-born professional ambition. As is usually the case,
ambition conquered, and I decided to seek my fortune in new fields, far
away from the paternal roof. California was, at that time, by no means
a new sensation, but the novelty of the gold craze had not yet worn
off. I had no particular ambition to seek my fortune in foreign lands,
and as the Pacific coast was to ambitious Americans still the El Dorado
of all youthful dreams, I very naturally turned my thoughts in that
direction. I was not long in coming to a decision, and after writing my
plans to my parents, I made my arrangements to depart for San Francisco.
The choice of routes to California was a very simple matter, for one
who was within easy access of the Atlantic sea board. There was no
railroad communication with the Pacific coast in those days, hence
I was compelled to select from the several ocean routes that which
promised to consume the least time. With this idea I embarked at New
York City for San Francisco, on a steamer of the Panama line, and,
after a pleasant and uneventful voyage, arrived in San Francisco, the
portals of promise through which so many hopeful Jasons had passed
before me in search of the Golden Fleece.
* * * * *
The San Francisco gambling house was the common ground upon which the
flotsam and jetsam of the early cosmopolitan population of the city
met. The proprietors of the gambling hells certainly knew human nature
thoroughly, judging by the variety of excitement which they provided.
Every known game and every variety of liquor distinguished for its
vital-reaching propensities, was at the disposal of their patrons, day
and night. The boast of the gambling house keeper was, that he had
thrown away his front door key the day the house was opened.
When the gambling fever struck the good citizen or unwary visitor from
the mines, he could have his choice of a variety of remedies; monte,
faro, roulette, poker--anything he pleased, providing he had his “dust”
with him.
And do not imagine that the proprietors and dealers of the games were
low-browed, ugly ruffians. Smooth, sleek and handsome were the nimble
fingered gentry who attended to the wants of the fever-stricken fools
who had more ounces in their pockets than in their brain-pans--until
the fever was cured, when the loss of balance was in the other
direction. Many a college education was wasted--or utilized, if you
please--on the dealer’s side of a “sweat-cloth” in some of those dens.
My fine gentleman would not swing a pick--unless it were an ivory one
with which he could take away a sturdy miner’s golden ounces much more
quickly than the hapless fool had dug them with the implements of
honest toil.
But the scene was an alluring one, nevertheless. The rattle of chips
and dice; the ringing of silver and the clink of gold; the thud of
the buckskin bags of gold dust as they were recklessly thrown upon
the table; the duller, yet more portentous, shuffling of the cards;
the whir of the wheel where _rouge et noir_ was being played, were
entertaining to my ear, untrained as it was to such sounds.
“Come up and make your bets, gentlemen! The game is made! Five
-- eleven -- eighteen -- twenty -- twenty-two -- twenty-four --
twenty-eight -- thirty-one. Red wins!”--and the never ending procession
of excited fools stepped up to diversion and disaster.
There was one thing the proprietors of those gambling houses
forgot--they should have had a suicide room and an undertaking
department. It would have saved the city fathers a deal of trouble in
the disposal of the large crop of unknown remains that the morning
light disclosed in obscure corners of the city--poor fugitives from
self; victims of dens where Venus, Momus, Terpsichore and Bacchus
grovelled in the dirt yet held undisputed sway.
There was a grim irony, and yet, withal, a tinge of comedy, in the
farewell treat of fiery liquor with which the management bowed out its
ruined guests--bowed them out of the den of iniquity and into a slough
of despond from which they oft-times never emerged--on this side of
eternity.
I was standing one evening in “The Palace”--a gambling den with the
usual appurtenances of tributary and dependent vice--curiously watching
the movements of the dealer at one of the numerous faro games. Every
table was crowded with players and surrounded by spectators, some of
whom, like myself, were mere curiosity seekers, but most of them being
devotees of the shrine of the goddess, Chance, who were impatiently
awaiting the occurrence of a vacancy at the table--when a bankrupt
player should make way for fatter victims.
Sitting just opposite the dealer was a young lad, who could not have
been more than seventeen years of age, betting away with a recklessness
that would have done credit to a millionaire. The youngster was
evidently flushed with liquor and laboring under the highest degree of
excitement.
Standing just behind the boy, was a woman--evidently of the under
world--who, it was easy to see, was influencing his betting. Whether
this creature was giving direct advice and encouragement or not,
I cannot say, but the lad was certainly trying to appear as brave
and recklessly extravagant as possible, for the apparent purpose of
impressing the woman. The furtive glance which the dealer exchanged
with his charming “capper” now and then, was sufficient to enable even
one of my limited experience, to form a correct conclusion as to the
status of affairs.
Just opposite me and almost directly behind the dealer, stood a man
who, I was certain, had been studying my face from time to time
ever since I had taken my place among the spectators of the game. A
stealthy glance at my _vis à vis_ when he happened to be watching
the boy’s playing--which seemed to be dividing his attention with
myself--revealed a person of most striking appearance and unique
individuality.
Apparently about twenty-five years of age, judging by his heavy black
moustache and mature development; a tall, athletic figure; long curling
locks of jet black hair hanging loosely down over his shoulders; eyes
as black as sloes and as piercing as those of a hawk--the stranger was
indeed a handsome and most picturesque character. His closely buttoned
coat of fashionable cut, small, neat boots, and surmounting all, his
broad-brimmed hat, made him even more striking, if possible. I glanced
at his hands and noted that they were well formed, and of a color that
indicated bath gentility and a life in which manual labor bore no part.
As I stole a second glance at the handsome stranger, our eyes met, and
I fancied that he started slightly. He glanced away quickly, but as the
boy in whom he appeared to take such an interest was apparently getting
pretty near the end of his funds, I concluded that the unknown’s
emotion--if indeed he had really displayed any--was due to the evident
bad luck of his unconscious _protegé_. It was plain to me that he was
interested in the boy, for there was an expression about the corners
of his mouth, and an almost tender gleam in his eyes, that could not
be mistaken by any one who possessed even a fair ability in character
reading.
I knew not why the picturesque stranger interested me, but there seemed
to be some indefinable attraction about him, which caused me to forget
the game and watch him as closely as I could without risk of giving
offense. As our eyes met, I experienced a peculiar sense of mutual
recognition, and yet it was seemingly impossible, or at least, highly
improbable, that we had ever met before.
But the occurrences of the next few minutes entirely diverted my mind
for the time being from the question of recognition.
The poor, foolish boy soon exhausted his money, and vacated his place
at the unholy altar. I saw him whisper to the female, in whose company
he evidently was, and apparently request her to step aside with him.
She did so, and they stood for some time in earnest, confidential
discussion of a subject which their gestures made all too apparent. The
bird was plucked, his charms were gone, and he was not only refused a
“stake” wherewith to possibly retrieve his losses, but the light of his
first romance was extinguished forever--or until he had procured more
money, which, to the woman’s mind, probably amounted to the same thing.
The expression on that poor boy’s face was a horror and a sermon both
in one. As the woman coldly and haughtily swept away from him, her
tainted skirts swishing suggestively and ominously over the floor,
gathering up tobacco and other filth which was purity itself beside her
harpy-like soul, the lad stood gazing after her as if in a dream. He
was stunned into obliviousness to everything but the realization of his
disaster.
He stood for a moment as though incapable of motion, then with an
expression of desperation in his eyes, and a countenance that was the
typification of utterly hopeless despair, he passed through the green
baize doors out into the night--his first black night of fathomless woe
and absolute demoralization.
I had watched the boy from the time we left the table, and his
expression, as the hawk that had plucked away his youthful plumage
flew away from her victim, at once appealed to my young professional
eye. I made my diagnosis almost intuitively, and instinctively started
to follow the lad, as quickly as I could without attracting his
attention. As I turned toward the exit, I caught a glimpse of some one
just passing out. As the doors swung back before him, I recognized the
stalwart form of the picturesque unknown.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and strolled leisurely along after the
stranger. I do not know why, but I felt that the boy was safe. I was
sure I could not be mistaken in my interpretation of the play of
emotions that had animated the stranger’s face, as he watched the game
which had ruined the poor lad whom he was evidently following.
I soon saw that I was right. The stranger caught up with the boy just
as he stepped into the brilliant light that illuminated the sidewalk in
front of the gambling den. Placing one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, he
gently but firmly halted him, I meanwhile drawing back into the shadow
of the outer door of the Palace, determined, with the best of motives,
to see the thing through.
“Don’t be frightened, my lad,” said the man, “I just want to say a word
to you, that’s all.”
The boy looked at him as though dazed for a moment, and then replied
slowly:
“I’m not frightened, sir. You’re not apt to do anything worse to me
than I’ve already done to myself. My money is all gone, and you can’t
do any more than kill me, if you don’t want money. As for killing
me,--well, I have more lead than gold left, and I’ve not forgotten how
my father taught me to die, like a gentleman.”
I fancied that the boy looked quite the hero as he spoke. There was a
little touch of the southron born about him that brought my Kentucky
home back to me. I had seen such boys there, and I knew--well, there
was one who was something like that, whom I would have given the world
to see, and my heart went out to that poor, unfortunate lad. And, yet,
for some reason, I had an even kinder feeling for the man who was
evidently going to act the friend and adviser of our mutual _protegé_.
“Pardon me for even suggesting that you might be frightened,” said
the unknown, “but you are young; San Francisco has some queer ways
and still queerer people, and it’s not every man who gets the drop on
you who means well. I am free to say that I should be uneasy myself,
were I to be similarly accosted, and they say I am--well, that I’m ‘no
chicken’, you know. Where are you from, my boy?”
“I’m from Virginia, sir,” replied the boy, straightening up with a
little of the Old Dominion pride, I thought.
“Ah!” exclaimed his new-found friend, “I was sure I detected a little
of the old cavalier strain in your face. What is your name, may I ask?”
“Gordon Cabell, sir.”
“Well, Master Cabell, I know your breed pretty well; I’m from--well,
I’ve met southern boys before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly to you,
and you mustn’t be offended. I’m going to be your friend, for to-night,
at least, and you must listen to me.
“I’m not going to give you a moral lecture on gambling or liquor
drinking. I presume that the Gordons, Cabells, and many more of your
ancestors, have played cards, drunk whisky, raced horses, attended
cock fights, and fought duels, and have done many other things that
people with colder blood object to, but they did all these things like
gentlemen, I’ll warrant you. Now, tell me, young fellow, did you ever
know of a Cabell doing what you have done, and still worse, what you
were going to do to-night?”
“Sir!” said the boy indignantly, reaching toward his pistol, “I will--”
“Oh, no you won’t, Master Cabell. Look me in the eye, please!” and the
boy gazed at the stranger wonderingly, as he drew his tall form up to
its full height, calmly folded his arms, and looked down upon him.
“I have already told you that I am your friend, Gordon, and the
Cabells do not make targets of their friends. Give me your pistol, sir!”
The boy almost mechanically drew his pistol from the holster beneath
his loose-fitting coat, and obeying the mandate of a will more powerful
than his own, handed it to his companion.
“Thank you, Gordon,” said the stranger, “I’ll return it to you
presently.
“Now, my boy, let us get to business. You have fallen among thieves,
and have been plucked, like the unsuspecting, foolish pigeon that you
are. I don’t want to know your past history; life is too short, but I
do want a hand in your future.
“You are the scion of aristocratic stock. Your ancestors before you
were worshippers at the shrine of beauty, but it was the beauty of
purity and virtue. You have been dragging your family pride down into
the dirt, and offering up your young soul upon an altar which a true
son of the Old Dominion should loathe. You have squandered your money
trying to beat a game that’s a ‘dead-open-and-shut’ against you. You
are listening to one who knows whereof he speaks, I assure you, my boy.
“Not satisfied with what you had already done, which after all is
easily remedied, you were about to stain your family name and record
with a crime that nothing on earth could ever wipe out. You were about
to kill--a fool, Gordon, who may yet be made a wise man.
“I once knew a boy who played the fool--much as you have done--and who
is still expiating his folly. He might eventually have done as you
were about to do, only he happened to be compelled to--well, he didn’t
shoot himself, that’s one thing to his credit, although his family, and
not himself, was perhaps the gainer by it, or will be sometime, if the
truth is ever known. He couldn’t avoid the other--there was nothing
about that of which he had cause to be ashamed, although the world,
that knows not the circumstances, thinks differently.
“Now, Gordon, I’m going to stake you. Don’t say no--it is a loan if you
please, or anything you choose to call it. Take this, and get out of
this hell-hole of a town as quick as the Lord will let you.”
The boy stood for a moment with the tears streaming down his cheeks,
and then hesitatingly took the proffered bag of dust.
“And you will really let me pay it back to you, sir, when I am able?”
“I certainly will, if we ever meet again,” replied the man. “As I have
already told you, my boy, I know your breed; it is not the kind that
likes to remain under obligations to one who is an entire stranger.
But, after all, your honorable intention clears the obligation.
“And, Gordon, here’s your pistol. I think it will be safer in your
hands than it was a short time ago. And now I am going to give you a
few parting words of advice.
“In the first place, young fellow, don’t gamble. If your blood is too
red to heed this admonition, learn to play poker. It’s a scientific
game and a square one, usually--always so among gentlemen. Never bet
against another man’s game, nor play against a percentage. Gambling
games of that kind are like the play of life, the percentage is in
favor of the dealer, and it fetches you sooner or later.
“In the second place, young man, set up a shrine in your heart, and
worship female purity and virtue; then you are safe. If you have a
mother or sisters, don’t forget that a woman who is not fit for their
society is not worthy of your regard.
“Youthful affection, my boy, is not inexhaustible. Keep it for future
reference--and worthy objects. You may yet live to wish that the
worldly heart of to-morrow were the young and fresh one of yesterday.
“And now, I must leave you. Good-night, my boy, and don’t forget what I
have said to you.”
“But, sir,” cried the lad, “your name, who shall I--?”
His benefactor had disappeared in the darkness.
The boy stood for a time gazing blankly into the night in the direction
in which the stranger had disappeared; then, drawing himself up
proudly, as became a son of fair Virginia, he placed the bag of gold in
his pocket and his pistol in its holster, cast a scornful glance toward
the windows of the Palace and strode resolutely away.
* * * * *
A few days after the scene at the gaming house, I chanced to meet an
old time friend of my father’s, hailing from Maine. Mr. Allen, it
seemed, had “struck it rich” and was on his way back to the “States.”
From this gentleman I received a glowing account of the wealth of the
placer mining region in Tuolumne county, which at once determined my
future course. When he informed me that the country where he had made
his “pile” was not only rich in gold, but badly in need of doctors, I
decided that Tuolumne should have at least one medical celebrity.
Investing some of my greatly diminished capital in an outfit which I
thought might harmonize to a certain extent with the new field for
which I was about to depart, I bade farewell to San Francisco and set
my face toward the fame and the pot of gold that lay at the foot of the
rainbow of my dreams.
* * * * *
It was a calm sultry evening in the month of July, 1860, that I
embarked on board a steamboat plying between San Francisco and
Stockton, the latter city being the gateway to the wonderful country
distinguished by its wealth and scarcity of doctors, so graphically
described by my friend, Mr. Allen.
The trip up the Sacramento river, although pleasant enough, had very
little novelty about it, and I confess that I at first experienced
a feeling of disappointment at the lack of entertainment which the
scenery afforded.
Our route lay for a comparatively short distance up the Sacramento,
the major portion of my journey being comprised by one of its
tributaries--the San Joaquin--a stream that is insignificant enough
during the dry season, but which in the early spring is formidable
enough to those who live sufficiently near the river to get the benefit
of its overflow during the spring freshets.
The San Joaquin river is, without doubt, the crookedest navigable
stream in the world. There was never a snake that could contort himself
into so fantastic an outline as presented by that lazily meandering
branch of the Sacramento. So crooked is it, that one entertains a
constant dread of running ashore; the bank is always dead ahead and
unpleasantly near.
This serpentine river traverses a perfectly level plain throughout the
navigable part of its course, its banks being flanked by tule beds
which extend farther than the eye can see. Indeed, the valley of the
San Joaquin is one vast bed of tules, extending fully one hundred and
fifty miles. When, as sometimes happens during the dry season, the tule
beds take fire, the spectacle, especially at night, is at once grand
and terribly impressive. I remember on one occasion taking a night trip
up the river during one of these fires. The scene in the vicinity
of Monte Diablo, was one of the most majestic and awe inspiring I
have ever witnessed. The name of “Devil’s Mountain” seemed singularly
appropriate.
It was nearly three in the morning when I arrived at Stockton, and, as
there was nothing to be gained by going ashore, I remained on board
the boat, determined to get the full benefit of a morning nap. It
seemed to me that I had just closed my eyes, when I was awakened by the
yelling of the roustabouts and stage agents on the wharf. I had barely
time to dress, hustle ashore and hurriedly swallow a cup of coffee,
before my stage was ready to start, and I was off for Jacksonville--the
particular town of Tuolumne county that I had determined to favor with
my medical skill and fortune-hunting ambition.
There was nothing pleasant about that stage ride--it was memorable
only for its inconveniences and its motley load pf passengers. A hot,
dusty, bumping journey in the old time California stage makes pretty
reading as Bret Harte has described it but I am free to say that the
reality was not so enjoyable. The red dust of the California stage road
gets into a fellow’s system so deeply that his ideas are likely to be
of a practical or even profane sort, even though he be normally quite
sentimental.
Picturesque, however, the ride certainly was. Several red-shirted,
rough-bearded miners, lent just the right touch of local color, while
the imitation frontiersman--of whom I was the type--was sufficiently
well represented to afford a suitable foil for the genuine article, as
typified by my brawny-chested, be-pistoled, unkempt fellow passengers.
In one corner of the stage was a little chap who was evidently what we
would call a dude nowadays. This young gentleman had done his level
best to put a bold front on matters, by rigging himself out like a
cowboy. The result was somewhat ludicrous, as may be imagined. Nor
was the poor little idiot by any means unconscious of his features of
incongruity--he realized most keenly the absurdity of his position and
the fact that he was being guyed. The miners, however, seemed to enjoy
the situation immensely.
“Say, pardner,” said one tawny-bearded giant, leaning toward the
innocent, and startling him so that his eye glasses nearly dropped off
his nose--“Gimme a pull at yer pistol, wont ye?”
“Ah, beg pawdon, sir, what did you say?” stammered the dude.
“W’y I s’posed you could understan’ th’ English langwidge,” replied the
miner, “but seein’ ez how ye don’t, I’ll translate her to ye. I asked
ye ter give me a pull at yer whisky bottle.”
“Ah, really,” said the innocent, “I’d be chawmed, you know, doncher
know, but I don’t carry the article. In fact, sir, I nevah drink.”
“Ye don’t say so? Well, I want ter know!” answered the miner. “Now, see
hyar, sonny, seein’ ez how you aint got no whisky, jest gimme a chaw uv
terbacker an’ we’ll call it squar’.”
“I--aw--I’m sorry to say that I don’t use tobacco, sir.”
“Sho! g’long, young feller! Is--that--so? How the h--l d’ye keep a
goin’? Whut d’ye do fer excitement--p’raps ye plays poker, eh?” said
the stalwart son of the pick.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the tenderfoot in dismay, “I nevah play cards!”
“Ye don’t tell me!” replied the miner. “Well, well, well! By the way,
young feller; be keerful not ter lose ’em--ye mout need ’em ter git
home with.”
“Need what, sir?” asked the victim.
“Yer wings!”--and the miners broke out in a huge guffaw that bade fair
to dislocate a wheel of the stage, and impelled the driver to look
anxiously and inquiringly at his passengers.
The tenderfoot collapsed and remained in a state of complete
innocuousness until he arrived at his destination, which, fortunately
for his sensitive organization, happened to be the first town where we
changed horses. As he minced gingerly away toward the hotel, the miners
winked at each other most prodigiously. Happening to catch the big
fellow’s eye, by a happy inspiration I was impelled to wink also. This
at once established me on a friendly footing with my rough companions,
and, as I happened to have a bottle of fairly good liquor with me,
the rest of the way into the regard of those simple miners was easily
traversed.
During the conversation that naturally followed the unconventional
formation of our acquaintance, the big-bearded fellow, who appeared
to be the leader of the little party of miners, following the blunt
fashion of the country, suddenly remarked:
“By the way, stranger, whut might yer name be, an’ whut part uv the
diggin’s might yer be headin’ fer?”
“Well,” I replied smilingly, “it is about time we introduced ourselves,
isn’t, it? My name is William Weymouth, recently of Kentucky, a doctor
by profession, and bound for Jacksonville, where I contemplate digging
gold when the weather will permit, and practicing medicine when it will
not.”
“A doctor, an’ bound fer Jacksonville, eh? Well, Doc,” said my new
acquaintance, reaching out his grimy paw with a cordiality that could
not be mistaken, “I’m d--d glad ter know ye! Jacksonville is our town,
an’ a h--l uv a good town she is at that, y’u bet! We’re jest gittin’
back from Frisco, an’ doin’ it on tick, too. We’ve been doin’ the sport
racket down yonder, an’ I reckon the sports hev done us, eh, pards?”
His “pards” having acquiesced, my brawny friend cut off a huge chew of
“nigger heel,” stowed it away in his capacious cheek, and after a few
preliminary expectorations that resembled geysers, continued:
“If it hadn’t been fer ole Tom McDougal up thar on the box, we’d a
took Walker’s line back ter our claims”--and the big miner glanced
gratefully in the direction of the generous Mr. McDougal.
“And now that I have found that you are to be my fellow townsmen,” I
said pleasantly, “permit me to remind you that the introduction has
been one-sided. What are your names, may I ask?”
The miner winked at his companions, laughed a little deep down in his
huge red beard, and replied:
“D--d if I didn’t fergit that ther was two sides to the interdoocin’
bizness. Ye see, stranger, we aint payin’ much attention ter feller’s
handles in the mines. Most enny ole thing’ll do fer a name. That’s why
we sometimes fergits our manners. This yere gang is purty well supplied
with names, but ye mightn’t hev sich good luck ev’ry time, ’specially
in Tuolumne county, eh, pards?”
His “pards” having again nodded and winked their approval, my brawny
friend proceeded with his introductions.
“I’m called in the diggin’s by sev’ral names an’ y’u kin do like the
rest uv my fren’s--take yer pick. I’m mostly known as Big Brown, tho’
some folks calls me Big Sandy. When I was in the states, I b’lieve
they used to call me Daniel W. Brown, but I wouldn’t swar to it. This
feller nex’ ter me hyar, is the hon’able Mr. Dixie,’ or Snub-nose Dixie
fer short, who aint never hed much ter say about his other name, if he
ever had enny, eh, Dixie? That lantern-jawed cuss a settin’ long side
uv y’u, is Deacon Jersey, utherwise an’ more favor’bly known ez Link
Spears. We calls him Deacon, cuz he never was inside of a church in his
hull life. He’s the only genooine deacon this side of the Sierras. Thar
aint none uv the hypercrit’ erbout him, neither, I kin tell ye. Ye’ll
find us fellers’ tastes kinder runs erlike, f’r instance,”--and Big
Brown looked longingly in the direction of my “pistol” pocket.
“In the matter of thirst,” I suggested.
“Right y’u air, Doc! I kin see yer goin ter be a valooable addition to
our diggin’s. We need a doctor ez kin tell whut’s the matter with a
feller ’thout cuttin’ him wide open. Ye see, we likes ter keep our own
han’s in, an’ don’t calkerlate ter leave much of the cuttin’ ter the
doctor--ennyhow, ’till we’ve had our little innin’s, eh, boys?”
Once again the boys agreed, with, I thought, just a slight suspicion
of gratified vanity in their expressions.
It was a long weary way to Jacksonville, but my time was well spent.
Thanks to the kindness and garrulity of my new-found yet none the
less sincere, friends, and the confidence engendered by my rapidly
diminishing supply of stimulants, I found myself, by the time I arrived
at my destination, fairly well acquainted with the town, its ways and
its citizens.
Jacksonville, at the time I landed in the then thriving place, was
one of the most noted mining centers in the placer country. Its
location was most picturesque. Nestled among the foot-hills of the
glorious Sierras on the banks of the Tuolumne river, and peopled by as
cosmopolitan and heterogeneous a population as was ever gathered within
the confines of one small town, my new home was attractive because of
its novelty, if nothing more.
Ages and ages of alternately falling and receding waters, centuries
of snow and enormous rainfalls, had washed down from the mountains
into the valley of the Tuolumne, those auriferous particles, the great
abundance of which had made Jacksonville spring into busy life and
thriving prosperity, almost in a single day.
But the very elements which had laid the alluring foundation of the
valley’s wealth, were even then conspiring to avenge the rifling of
the rich deposits of the valley by the irreverent hands of the modern
Argonauts.
The Tuolumne river was a variable stream. During the dry season, it was
but a thin, disjointed, silvery ribbon, across which one could walk
dry-shod, in places. But in the early spring, the little stream at
which the wayfarer was wont to laugh, and in whose bed the eager miner
delved with impunity and profit, took revenge upon the disturbers of
its ancient course. It became a raging torrent, resistlessly carrying
all before it and sometimes severely punishing for his temerity the
unwary miner who had pitched his tent or built his rude cabin too near
the river bank. But all the revenge which the Tuolumne had taken in
all the years since the settlement of the valley, was as nothing to
that which was yet to come. That vale of thrift, industry and smiling
prosperity was destined to become a valley of death, destruction,
desolation and ruin.
But were not Pompeii and Herculaneum, and in later days, our own San
Francisco, joyful and unsuspecting to the last? And why should the
people of Tuolumne dread a danger of which familiarity and fancied
security had made them forgetful, or possibly even contemptuous. The
average citizen of Jacksonville could calmly face death in a material
form, and why should he concern himself with that which passed by upon
the other side with each succeeding spring?
By no means the least attractive feature of Jacksonville was the rugged
self-confidence and honesty of the majority of its people. Even the
Chinese, who composed a large part of the population, seemed to be a
better variety of the almond-eyed heathen than I had supposed could
possibly exist. The hair-triggered sensibility and powder-and-ball
ethics of the dominant race seemed to be most effective civilizers.
I am far from claiming that Jacksonville presented an ideal state of
civilization, but this I do say, in justice to my old town; life and
property were safer there than they are to-day in many more pretentious
communities, that claim to rank as centers from which civilization
radiates like the rays of a star. A sense of personal responsibility
made the French the politest nation on the face of the earth; it was
the foundation upon which the spirit of the “Old South” was builded
firmer than a rock; it was the soul that beat back the furious waves of
shot and shell that so often hailed upon the southern chivalry on many
a hard fought field. A similar spirit of self-assertion and personal
responsibility pervaded the Tuolumne valley, and raised its average
moral standard to a height far beyond that of many a metropolis of a
more vicious and effete civilization.
Warm-hearted, impulsive, honest, courageous, fiery-tempered,
quick-triggered Argonauts of the Tuolumne valley--a health to those
of you who still live, and peace to those who have laid down the pick
and pan forever and have inspected their sluice-boxes for the last
time! When the final “clean-up” comes, may the “find” be full of
nuggets--“sixteen dollars to the ounce.”
There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted
with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was
afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There
may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it
had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame
structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the
old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot,
Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while
its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only
other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since
his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in
the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’
“festive” rack were not to be consoled--they “quit him cold” and went
over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless
cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d--d
scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.[A] My fellow
citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive,
with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their
stomachs.
[A] Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon--if he be still living.--Author.
The material comforts of the Tuolumne House aside, there was never a
cheerier, heartier, pluckier boniface than George Keyse. He was to
the manner born, and could take a gun or a knife away from an excited
boarder quite as gracefully and quickly as he could, if necessary, turn
his own flapjacks.
Mr. Keyse had an invaluable assistant in one Dave Smuggins, who
officiated alternately as barkeeper, porter and hotel clerk. Smuggins
was a well-bred man, and, it was said, was originally educated for the
ministry. The only evidence at hand, however, was certain oratorical
propensities that overcame him and made him forget his real position
when he awakened the boarders early o’ mornings. I can hear him
now, as he stood at the top of the stairway, yelling in stentorian
tones--“Arouse all ye sleepers, an’ listen to the purty little airly
birds singin’ praises tew the Lord! D--n yer bloody eyes! Git up!”
saying which the modern psalmist discreetly went below and took his
position behind the bar, ready to dispense “eye-openers” to the early
caller.
Jacksonville proved to be not only a pleasant place of residence but
an excellent field for my professional work. The climate was almost
germ-proof, and it was a real pleasure to practice the semi-military
surgery characteristic of my field of labor. Primary union was my
speciality in those days, and I used to get results the memory of
which sometimes makes me blush for those I occasionally get with our
modern aseptic and antiseptic methods. No matter how much my patients
might shoot or carve each other, any fellow who had life enough left in
him to crawl or be carried off the field of battle, usually got well.
Beyond accompanying an occasional prospecting party, largely for
recreation but partly in my professional capacity, I did but little in
the way of mining. My practice gave me plenty to do, and was lucrative
enough as practices go, so I soon settled down to as routine a life as
my curious and lively surroundings would permit.