California mining towns, and by the following morning, due notice had
been served on every individual who was in any way identified with the
undesirable element of the population, to leave town within twenty-four
hours.
Most of the persons who were ordered to move on, had been in similar
straits before, and were constantly on the _qui vive_ of expectation
of some such emergency. As practice makes perfect, and delay is not
healthful after one has been told to leave a mining town for the
good of its morals, the majority of the tabooed ones took time by
the forelock and decamped early. Indeed, by nightfall, everybody who
had been given the ultimatum by the citizens, had departed--with one
exception.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight of the day of the exodus. A large party of
our citizens were congregated in the bar-room of the Tuolumne House,
discussing the important event that had so effectually cleared the
moral atmosphere of our town. The subtle essence of sanctity apparently
had already pervaded our social fabric.
Mutual congratulations had been in order for some time, and the
resultant libations had considerably disturbed the equilibrium of the
crowd. Each man, however, felt that he was a thoroughly good fellow,
and that everybody else present was pretty good. There was not a man in
the crowd who did not feel that he was a modern Hercules, jubilating
after the successful accomplishment of a task beside which his ancient
prototype’s experience as chambermaid in the Augean Stables, was but
a trifling thing indeed. Commingled with the self-congratulations of
these moral reformers, were boastful remarks expressive of the awful
things the speakers would have done, had not the persons who had
contaminated the very air of our little burg, opportunely left in good
season after having received their “notice to quit.”
The proceedings of the extempore mutual-admiration
society-of-social-purists were at their height, and our citizens were
fast becoming inflated to a superlative degree, when a step was heard
on the hotel porch, the door opened, and there on the threshold, with a
smile of mocking gravity upon his handsome face, stood--Poker Jim!
He had evidently been riding hard, for his boots and clothing were
covered with the red dust of the Tuolumne roads, and his long curly
hair was in a condition of dusty confusion that was totally unlike his
usual immaculateness.
The sudden quiet that fell upon the noisy crowd was something
phenomenal, and as a disinterested observer I was duly impressed by it.
My fellow townsmen were not cowards, but they were now face to face
with a quality of bravery which was more than physical indifference to
danger. Poker Jim was a man whose presence conveyed the impression of
great intellectual and moral power--and it was not without pronounced
effect upon those rude miners.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Jim, blandly, “I hope I’m not intruding
on this scene of festivity and rejoicing”--and he looked about him
somewhat sarcastically. “As you do not seem at all disturbed by my
presence,” he continued, “I conclude that my company is at least
unobjectionable, and with your permission I will join your party,” and
Jim strode up to the Bar, his huge spurs clinking a merry defiance as
he walked.
“You see, gentlemen,” he continued, “I have a very important engagement
which will temporarily necessitate my absence from town, and as I start
early in the morning, I thought I would drop in and bid my fellow
citizens good bye. It will save you the trouble of sending a committee
to see me off--I prefer that you should not give yourselves any trouble
on my account. Should you, however, appoint a committee to escort me
back to town again, I shall not object. Indeed, I should feel obliged
to you if you would turn out _en masse_ and greet me with a brass band.
And, now, fellow townsmen, friends and former patrons, have a parting
drink with me. I see your hand but cannot call you.”
Whether it was because liquor was just then _en régle_, the spontaneous
revival of Jim’s popularity, or his cool, sarcastic assurance, is an
open question, but the crowd fell to with a will, and everybody, with
the exception of one man, drank with him. For the moment it seemed as
though our citizens had forgotten that Jim was under the ban.
Among the party which had been celebrating the reform movement of
our enterprising town, was a fellow by the name of Jeff Hosking, a
comparatively recent addition to our population, who hailed from
Murphy’s Camp. Whether Hosking had an old time grudge to settle with
Poker Jim, no one ever knew, but it was afterward rumored that a feud
of long standing had existed between them.
From whatever cause, however, the gentleman from Calaveras remained
conspicuously apart from his sociable companions, insolently shaking
his head in refusal of Jim’s proffered hospitality. To accentuate his
discourtesy--for such conduct was considered the acme of rudeness in
our little community--he smiled in a manner that was an unpleasant
combination of superciliousness and contempt.
The assembled company looked at Jeff in open mouthed astonishment for a
few seconds, but Jim affected not to notice the implied insult, much to
the bewilderment of the rest of the party.
The situation was, to say the least, embarrassing, and Dixie, with a
pardonable desire to smooth things over, said--
“Well, Jeff, what’s the matter; hev y’u lost yer appetite fer licker?”
“No sirree, Mister Dixie!” replied Hosking, “but I ain’t drinkin’ with
no gamblers jest now, ’specially them that ain’t on the squar’, an’
some folks that I knows of, hain’t improved much since they was chased
outer Murphy’s.”
“Drink your liquor, gentlemen,” said Jim, quietly, “and then we will
investigate this very interesting affair!”
The liquor having been disposed of, Jim lounged leisurely toward his
insulter, looked him steadily in the eye for a moment and then said--
“And some people’s manners have not greatly improved since _they_
left Murphy’s. As for my squareness, that’s a matter for argument, but
one which you are hardly competent to pass an opinion upon, unless you
have changed greatly in the last few years. Now, Mr. Hosking, I’m going
to tell you something that may interest you.
“At nine o’clock this morning, I was notified to change my location
within twenty-four hours. I propose to get away from town as quietly
and pleasantly as possible. Let me inform you, however, that until nine
o’clock to-morrow morning, I am a citizen of Jacksonville, and shall
stand for my rights and self-respect accordingly.”
[Illustration: “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”]
Emboldened by Jim’s apparent indisposition to begin a row, and, like
all bullies, mistaking conservatism for cowardice, Hosking replied:
“Y’u make a mighty purty speech, mister man, but y’u aint on the squar’
jest the same, an’ I--”
We never knew what Hosking was going to say; his mouth was slapped so
quickly that his intentions became a matter for conjecture.
It was impossible to see exactly what happened next--the two men sprang
at each other so fiercely. There was a short, sharp struggle, a shot
from Hosking’s revolver, that sped harmlessly over the heads of the
crowd, lodging in the wall, and Jim, bowie in hand, was bounding toward
the open door, leaving his insulter lying upon the floor with a clean
cut in his chest through which his life was ebbing away as fast as the
escaping blood could carry it!
As Jim ran, some one in the crowd fired a shot after him. Everybody
rushed to the door, but he was in the saddle and away, amid a shower of
pistol balls, which, much to my relief, apparently flew wide of their
mark.
I was so interested in the safety of the fugitive that I forgot poor
Jeff, and, with a pang of remorse, I hastened back to his side, only
to find that Poker Jim’s work had been too skillful for any surgeon to
undo. The man was dead!
* * * * *
With the killing of Hosking, well deserved though it may have been,
Poker Jim’s popularity was a thing of the past. While under the ban of
public sentiment, he had killed a reputable citizen of Jacksonville in
a quarrel--he was now an outlaw, upon whose head a price was set. But
he was not to be caught.
No one supposed that Jim would be mad enough to venture near his cabin,
even to see his wife and child, yet the citizens set a watch over
the place as a matter of ordinary precaution, and for the purpose of
learning her destination whenever his wife should undertake to follow
and join her husband. I, meanwhile, saw that Jim’s family wanted for
nothing, a duty in which the sentiment of the town duly supported me,
for, rude as they were, our people were tender-hearted to a fault. With
uncouth yet delicate discernment the boys kept away from the little
cabin, hence no visitor but myself ever crossed the threshold.
Toppy’s description of Jim’s wife had not been overdrawn--she was
indeed beautiful, and as charming a woman as I ever met. She was plucky
too--she was apparently not at all uneasy about her husband, and seemed
to have perfect confidence in his ability to take care of himself. The
child, a boy, resembled his father, and was such a sweet, pretty little
fellow that I fell quite in love with him. The little one vaguely
recalled to my mind a little curly-headed boy baby that I used to tote
about when I was a lad, and who, I thought, was the cutest little
brother that a boy ever had. I resolved that Jim’s family should not
want a friend as long as I could care for them. Toppy’s loyalty I well
knew, and I was therefore sure of being ably seconded on his return
from Stockton.
But our towns-people were soon to have more important matters to think
about than the capture of Poker Jim.
* * * * *
The latter part of the winter of 1860, and the early spring of 1861,
will never be forgotten by the inhabitants of the Tuolumne valley. I
certainly have reason to remember it as long as I may live.
As I have already intimated, the spring freshets of the California
valleys were a matter of yearly experience. The inhabitants had
become accustomed to them and had usually been able to escape serious
disaster, hence they had never quite realized what the elements could
do at their worst.
The winter had been a hard one; there had been an excessive rainfall,
and reports from the mountain towns showed a greater amount of snow
than had ever before been experienced in that region. When the mountain
snows began to melt, therefore, and the terrific storms characteristic
of the breaking up of the winter season came on, an enormous volume of
water began pouring down into the valleys, which was as alarming as it
was unprecedented.
We had heard vague rumors of serious trouble in the valleys of the
Sacramento and San Joaquin, and, as the Tuolumne had risen to a point
hitherto unheard of, the oldest settlers became somewhat uneasy.
Fearing lest the Tuolumne--which was fast becoming a raging
torrent--might eventually become impassable, I saw that “Mrs. Jim,” as
I used to call her, was well supplied with necessaries. I knew that the
water rise would be of short duration--for so tradition had it--hence I
was not uneasy about my interesting charges.
The river had finally risen to a point nearly two feet beyond the
highest water mark ever known; it then began to subside and we felt
much easier--the end was apparently in sight. But we deceived ourselves
most thoroughly.
The people of Jacksonville, congratulating themselves on the beginning
of the end of the greatest freshet in their experience, retired one
night to sleep in fancied security, only to be rudely awakened the
following morning by the surging of the waters of the Tuolumne against
the very beds on which they slept. The water was seeking its revenge--a
revenge that was soon to be fully accomplished.
Within twenty-four hours there was but one safe point in the entire
town--the high ground upon which stood the Tuolumne House. Practically
every other building in town, save one, was washed away. One sturdy
miner upon whom fortune had smiled, had built himself a pretty little
cottage, which he determined to save. He passed a cable through a door
and a window at the corner of the house, and guyed it to a huge tree
upon a hill opposite. The cottage swung about at the end of the rope
until the waters subsided, when the triumphant miner anchored it in a
new location, this time on higher ground--the original site of his home
having gently slipped into the river. But Nelson was an exception; his
brother miners were not so fortunate.
The hotel was full to overflowing and tents were at a premium. Mining
was a forgotten industry. The chief occupation of the citizens was
counting noses to see who was missing, and fishing up such articles
of value as they could from amid the debris of the flood. For
entertainment they counted the buildings and studied the wreckage
that the waters brought down from the towns and camps higher up the
valley. An occasional corpse was seen floating along among the flotsam
and jetsam carried past by the raging river--a ghastly reminder of the
seriousness of the situation.
Almost directly opposite the Tuolumne House was a dam in the river.
There were times during the dry season when the Tuolumne was so low
that one could walk across via this dam. Now, however, it was a
veritable Niagara. It was interesting, as well as harrowing, to watch
the destruction of the buildings as they toppled over the brink and
broke up. Occasionally a house, larger than the rest, would lodge at
the dam for some time before going over. At one point quite a mass of
debris had collected and bade fair to remain indefinitely blocked up
against a projecting part of the dam.
Just beyond the further end of the dam I could see Toppy’s little
cabin, gleaming white and clearly cut against the dark green background
of the hillside whereon it stood, far out of the way of all possible
danger from the rising waters.
A group of our citizens was standing on safe ground near the hotel,
quietly discussing the apparently hopeless misery and total destruction
that had befallen our industrious little town, when our attention was
attracted by a house, larger than any we had yet seen, which came
drifting rapidly down the stream in full view.
As the house came nearer, Dixie called out--“By G--d, boys! thar’s a
man in the winder!”
And so there was, and a badly frightened one at that! As he came well
within sight, he could be seen waving a garment of some kind in wild
and emphatic signals of distress. His voice could soon be heard,
calling for assistance in a series of wild yells that would have done
credit to an Indian war-dance.
There was great excitement among my fellow citizens for a few moments,
and groans of despair at our inability to rescue the stranger were
plentiful, when suddenly some one in the crowd yelled--
“Oh, h--l! It’s a d--d Chinaman, ez sure ez shootin’!”
And so it proved to be.
I trust that the philanthropy of my fellow townsmen will not be
underestimated, if I frankly state that an unmistakable sigh of relief
went up from the crowd when it was discovered that the poor devil whose
fate it had just been bewailing, was a despised Mongolian.
The nationality of the hapless passenger in the floating house and the
hopelessness of an attempt at rescue, even, if our citizens had been so
disposed, served to silence the spectators of the Chinaman’s fate. In
justice to my old friends, I will state that I have never doubted that
an effort to save the luckless Mongolian would have been made, had any
means of rescue been at hand. Not a boat was left in town, and even had
there been a hundred at our disposal, it looked like certain death to
attempt to traverse the terrific torrent that confronted us.
The Chinaman was apparently clearly doomed, and the end was only a
question of minutes, a fact which the poor fellow himself appreciated
even more keenly than we did, as was shown by the renewed vigor of his
frantic cries for assistance, as he caught sight of the dam that his
strange craft was so rapidly nearing.
But, as Big Brown was wont to say, “Nobody hez sich good luck ez er
fool, ’ceptin’ a d--d Chinaman.” The house in which the luckless
voyager was making his unwilling and terrible journey, caught upon
the debris that had accumulated near the center of the dam! Here
it remained poised for an instant, almost upon the very verge of
destruction, then swinging squarely about in the rushing current, it
lodged broad-side to, in such a manner that it came to a full stop and
remained motionless.
The unfortunate Chinaman now redoubled his cries for assistance, and
the crowd, in silent awe, awaited the giving way of the temporary
obstruction and the inevitable destruction of the house and its unhappy
tenant.
A moment later, a man was seen to emerge from the scrub pines near the
water’s edge upon the opposite side of the river, some distance below
Toppy’s cabin. He was dragging a small boat, that had evidently been
concealed among the trees.
The man pushed his little craft into the swift running water, sprang
in, and pulled boldly away from the bank! As he did so, he stood
upright for a moment and turned his features squarely toward us. Even
at that distance there was no mistaking that magnificent physique and
fearless bearing!
“It’s Poker Jim, by G--d!” cried a number of men simultaneously. Almost
automatically, several among the crowd drew their pistols and fired at
the far-distant figure--a useless feat of bravery, as their target was
probably beyond rifle-shot, to say nothing of trying to hit a man at
that distance with a six-shooter.
“Hold on, boys!” cried Big Brown, in astonishment. “If he aint goin’
arter that d--d Chinaman I’ll eat my hat! Well, I’ll be kerflummuxed!
If that don’t beat h--l!”
If there was anything the early settlers of the diggings worshipped, it
was reckless, fool-hardy bravery. From that moment Jim was a hero, a
Bayard, _sans peur et sans reproche_, before whose chivalry every man
who saw his courageous act was ready to bow down to the very earth.
The crowd silently watched Jim for a moment, and then broke out in a
chorus of “bravos!” and hand clappings which, although they impressed
the object of their admiration not at all--even if he noticed them,
which is doubtful--expressed in unmistakable language a sudden change
in the sentiment of our towns-people toward him whom they had so
recently outlawed.
The first burst of applause over with, we watched the brave fellow in
almost breathless anxiety, as he skilfully directed his little boat
toward the house, the Chinaman meanwhile having stopped his yelling for
the moment, in anticipation of the approach of his rescuer.
Whether Jim had intended to bring up against the side of the house that
lay up-stream, as seemed wisest, would be difficult to say; if such
was his intention however, he certainly miscalculated, for his boat
disappeared behind the end of the house which was farthest away from us.
The rest of the tragedy we could not see, for we had hardly lost sight
of Jim before the obstructing debris gave way and the house shot over
the dam, sweeping everything before it!
So died a hero!
A searching party went out a short time afterward, and, at great risk,
found and secured the body of Poker Jim, battered and bruised, but
still classically handsome and debonair, even in death. As the boys
were sorrowfully returning to town with the body of the man whom a few
hours before they had tried to kill, they spied upon a mass of wreckage
that had lodged in a partially submerged tree-top a few feet from
shore, a badly frightened but still yelling individual, at the sight
of whom Big Brown almost collapsed.
It was the Chinaman!
* * * * *
Early the next morning, a cortége composed of every citizen who was
able to walk, climbed slowly and sorrowfully up the road leading to
the little cemetery, just back of town. At the head of the solemn
procession were six stout miners, hat in hand, bearing upon a rude
stretcher the body of Poker Jim. Just behind the body, another party
was carrying a rough coffin, composed of pieces of wreckage, hastily
thrown together.
By no means the least sorrowful feature of the funeral was the fact
that we had no means of communication with the dead man’s wife, nor did
we indeed, even know whether or not she had witnessed his death.
The cemetery reached, and the body having been laid in the clumsy
coffin beside the grave which the kind-hearted miners had already dug,
there was an embarrassing pause--
I had been asked to say a few words, in lieu of a clergyman, and had
agreed to do so, on condition that some one else was selected to say
something in behalf of the mining population proper. Dixie was selected
to coöperate with me, but was evidently waiting for me to give him his
cue, so I was obliged to open the services as well as I could.
I was so overcome with emotion that I could hardly find voice to say a
word. I finally managed, however, to give a brief eulogy of the dead
man, revolving chiefly around the incident that happened in the San
Francisco gambling-house on the occasion when I met Jim for the first
time. My remarks were received with a running fire of muttered eulogies
of the deceased hero, which were as sincere as they were inelegant.
Dixie now mustered up the necessary courage, mounted a stump and began:
“Feller citizens, we air hyar ter do a solemn dooty. One uv our most
prom’nent an’ respected citizens is a lyin’ hyar dead, an’ we, ez his
fren’s, air hyar ter give him a good send off. Poker Jim hez passed in
his checks; he hez cashed in fer the las’ time, an’ thar aint nobody
hyar whut’ll say that his last deal wasn’t a squar one. Sum mout say ez
how Jim was a d--d fool, ter play agin sich a dead open-an’-shut game,
with a d--d Chinaman fer stakes, but, my feller citizens, Jim cut
the cards on the squar’, an’ he died ez squar’ ez enny man that ever
stepped in shoe leather.
“An’ Jim died game, an’ with his boots on. He wasn’t no white-livered
coyote, Jim wasn’t. Ef thar was enny yaller streaks in him, w’y nobody
ever knowed it. He wuz a sandy man frum way up the creek, y’u bet! He
wuz a dead-game cock fer fair.
“I wish we knowed whut Jim’s States’ name was, but thar aint nobody
hyar ter tell us, an’ ez we hev allus knowed him as Poker Jim, w’y
that’s the name we’ll bury him by. It was good ’nuff fer him, livin’,
an’ it’s good ’nuff fer us, now that he’s dead.
“I aint no speechifier, ez y’u all know, an’ Doc, hyar, hez done the
hansum thing by Jim in that line, so I aint a goin’ ter spile a good
thing, but I’m jes’ goin’ ter say one thing, an’ say it plain. We all
made mistakes on the diseased. He mout hev been a gambler--I don’t say
ez he wasn’t--but, my fren’s, Poker Jim was a gentleman, an’ he died
like one, d--d ef he didn’t!” And Dixie looked about him defiantly, as
though challenging dissent and stamping it as hazardous.
A white head-board, rather more pretentious than was the prevailing
fashion in Jacksonville, was erected at Jim’s grave. I was consulted
regarding an epitaph, but could find no fault with the rudely carved
inscription suggested by Dixie--
“HERE LIES THE BODY
OF
POKER JIM--GENTLEMAN.”
A few days later, the flood had subsided sufficiently to warrant an
attempt at crossing the river. Having succeeded in procuring a large
boat from one of the neighboring towns, a party of us crossed over to
Toppy’s cabin in quest of Jim’s family.
There had been no sign of life about the place since the day of Jim’s
death, hence I was not surprised to find the cabin empty. Not a
trace of the dead man’s wife or child could be found! Nor were they
ever heard of again. Whether the poor little woman had witnessed the
disaster that made her a widow, and the raging Tuolumne had received
the sorrowing, despairing mother and her innocent child, we never knew.
I have always entertained a vague hope that Jim had already conveyed
them to a place of safety when he met his death.
As our party was searching the cabin for clews to the disappearance of
Jim’s family, Big Brown found upon a shelf in the little cupboard where
Toppy’s rather primitive supply of dishes was kept, a letter, carefully
sealed, and addressed to me. He handed me the letter, and I fancied his
voice trembled a little as he said--