said Hulda. "You are a woman and a
wife, and would you not exchange all the
treasures of your palace for the finger-marks
of a little hand upon your tinted walls?"
And Gerda made no reply.
Then Hulda went to a corner and drew
forth a pair of quaint, tiny shoes and showed
them to Gerda.
"These are a baby's shoes," said Hulda,
"and make a music no art can equal. Other
sounds may charm the ear and delight the
senses, but the music of a baby's shoe thrills
the heart and brings the soul into
communion with the angels."
Then Gerda cried "'T is true, O Hulda!
't is true." And she bowed her head and
wept. For she was childless.
THE WOOING OF MISS WOPPIT
At that time the camp was new. Most of what was called the valuable
property was owned by an English syndicate, but there were many who had
small claims scattered here and there on the mountainside, and
Three-fingered Hoover and I were rightly reckoned among these others.
The camp was new and rough to the degree of uncouthness, yet, upon the
whole, the little population was well disposed and orderly. But along in
the spring of '81, finding that we numbered eight hundred, with electric
lights, telephones, a bank, a meeting-house, a race-track, and such-like
modern improvements, we of Red Hoss Mountain became possessed of the
notion to have a city government; so nothing else would do but to proceed
at once and solemnly to the choice of a mayor, marshal, clerk, and other
municipal officers. The spirit of party politics (as it is known and as
it controls things elsewhere) did not enter into the short and active
canvass; there were numerous candidates for each office, all were
friends, and the most popular of the lot were to win. The campaign was
fervent but good-natured.
I shall venture to say that Jim Woppit would never have been elected city
marshal but for the potent circumstance that several of the most
influential gentlemen in the camp were in love with Jim's sister; that
was Jim's hold on these influences, and that was why he was elected.
Yet Jim was what you 'd call a good fellow--not that he was fair to look
upon, for he was not; he was swarthy and heavy-featured and hulking; but
he was a fair-speaking man, and he was always ready to help out the boys
when they went broke or were elsewise in trouble. Yes, take him all in
all, Jim Woppit was properly fairly popular, although, as I shall always
maintain, he would never have been elected city marshal over Buckskin and
Red Drake and Salty Boardman if it had n't been (as I have intimated) for
the backing he got from Hoover, Jake Dodsley, and Barber Sam. These
three men last named were influences in the camp, enterprising and
respected citizens, with plenty of sand in their craws and plenty of
stuff in their pockets; they loved Miss Woppit, and they were in honor
bound to stand by the interests of the brother of that fascinating young
woman.
I was not surprised that they were smitten; she might have caught me,
too, had it not been for the little woman and the three kids back in the
states. As handsome and as gentle a lady was Miss Woppit as ever walked
a white pine floor--so very different from White River Ann, and Red
Drake's wife, and old man Edgar's daughter, for they were magpies who
chattered continually and maliciously, hating Miss Woppit because she
wisely chose to have nothing to do with them. She lived with her brother
Jim on the side-hill, just off the main road, in the cabin that Smooth
Ephe Hicks built before he was thrown off his broncho into the gulch. It
was a pretty but lonesome place, about three-quarters of a mile from the
camp, adjoining the claim which Jim Woppit worked in a lazy sort of
way--Jim being fairly well fixed, having sold off a coal farm in Illinois
just before he came west.
In this little cabin abode Miss Woppit during the period of her wooing, a
period covering, as I now recall, six or, may be, eight months. She was
so pretty, so modest, so diligent, so homekeeping, and so shy, what
wonder that those lonely, heart-hungry men should fall in love with her?
In all the population of the camp the number of women was fewer than two
score, and of this number half were married, others were hopeless
spinsters, and others were irretrievably bad, only excepting Miss Woppit,
the prettiest, the tidiest, the gentlest of all. She was good, pure, and
lovely in her womanliness; I shall not say that I envied--no, I respected
Hoover and Dodsley and Barber Sam for being stuck on the girl; you 'd
have respected 'em, too, if you 'd seen her and--and _them_. But I _did_
take it to heart because Miss Woppit seemed disinclined to favor any suit
for her fair hand--particularly because she was by no means partial to
Three-fingered Hoover, as square a man as ever struck pay dirt--dear old
pardner, your honest eyes will never read these lines, between which
speaks my lasting love for you!
In the first place, Miss Woppit would never let the boys call on her of
an evening unless her brother Jim was home; she had strict notions about
that sort of thing which she would n't waive. I reckon she was right
according to the way society looks at these things, but it was powerful
hard on Three-fingered Hoover and Jake Dodsley and Barber Sam to be
handicapped by etiquette when they had their bosoms chock full of love
and were dying to tell the girl all about it.
Jake Dodsley came a heap nearer than the others to letting Miss Woppit
know what his exact feelings were. He was a poet of no mean order. What
he wrote was printed regularly in Cad Davis' Leadville paper under the
head of "Pearls of Pegasus," and all us Red Hoss Mountain folks allowed
that next to Willie Pabor of Denver our own Jake Dodsley had more of the
afflatus in him than any other living human poet. Hoover appreciated
Jake's genius, even though Jake _was_ his rival. It was Jake's custom to
write poems _at_ Miss Woppit--poems breathing the most fervid sentiment,
all about love and bleeding hearts and unrequited affection. The papers
containing these effusions he would gather together with rare diligence,
and would send them, marked duly with a blue or a red pencil, to Miss
Woppit.
The poem which Hoover liked best was one entitled "True Love," and Hoover
committed it to memory--yes, he went even further; he hired Professor De
Blanc (Casey's piano player) to set it to music, and this office the
professor discharged nobly, producing a simple but solemn-like melody
which Hoover was wont to sing in feeling wise, poor, dear, misguided
fellow that he was! Seems to me I can hear his big, honest, husky, voice
lifted up even now in rendition of that expression of his passion:
Turrue love never dies--
Like a river flowin'
In its course it gathers force,
Broader, deeper growin';
Strength'nin' in the storms 'at come,
Triumphin' in sorrer,
Till To-day fades away
In the las' To-morrer.
Wot though Time flies?
Turrue love never dies!
Moreover, Three-fingered Hoover discoursed deftly upon the fiddle; at
obligates and things he was not much, but at real music he could not be
beat. Called his fiddle "Mother," because his own mother was dead, and
being he loved her and had no other way of showing it, why, he named his
fiddle after her. Three-fingered Hoover was full of just such queer
conceits.
Barber Sam was another music genius; his skill as a performer upon the
guitar was one of the marvels of the camp. Nor had he an indifferent
voice--Prof. De Blanc allowed that if Barber Sam's voice had been
cultured at the proper time--by which I suppose he meant in youth--Barber
Sam would undoubtedly have become "one of the brightest constellations in
the operatic firmament." Moreover, Barber Sam had a winsome presence; a
dapper body was he, with a clear olive skin, soulful eyes, a noble
mustache, and a splendid suit of black curly hair. His powers of
conversation were remarkable--that fact, coupled with his playing the
guitar and wearing plaid clothes, gave him the name of Barber Sam, for he
was not really a barber; was only just like one.
In the face of all their wooing, Miss Woppit hardened her heart against
these three gentlemen, any one of whom the highest lady in the land might
have been proud to catch. The girl was not inclined to affairs of the
heart; she cared for no man but her brother Jim. What seemed to suit her
best was to tend to things about the cabin--it was called The Bower, the
poet Jake Dodsley having given it that name--to till the little garden
where the hollyhocks grew, and to stroll away by herself on the hillside
or down through Magpie Glen, beside the gulch. A queer, moodful creature
she was; unlike other girls, so far as we were able to judge. She just
doted on Jim, and Jim only--how she loved that brother you shall know
presently.
It was lucky that we organized a city government when we did. All
communities have streaks of bad luck, and it was just after we had
elected a mayor, a marshal, and a full quota of officers that Red Hoss
Mountain had a spell of experiences that seemed likely at one time to
break up the camp. There 's no telling where it all would have ended if
we had n't happened to have a corps of vigilant and brave men in office,
determined to maintain law and order at all personal hazards. With a
camp, same as 'tis with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a bad name.
The tidal wave of crime--if I may so term it--struck us three days after
the election. I remember distinctly that all our crowd was in at
Casey's, soon after nightfall, indulging in harmless pleasantries, such
as eating, drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling how he had turned
several cute tricks on election day, and his recital recalled to others
certain exciting experiences _they_ had had in the states; so, in an
atmosphere of tobacco, beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and with the
further delectable stimulus of seven-year-old McBrayer, the evening
opened up congenially and gave great promise. The boys were convivial,
if not boisterous. But Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of his
exalted office on his coat-front, was present in the interests of peace
and order, and the severest respect was shown to the newly elected
representative of municipal dignity and authority.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone
sounded; seemed like it said, "Quick--trouble--help!" By the merest
chance--a lucky chance--Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he
reached for the telephone and answered the summons.
"Yes." "Where?" "You bet--right away!"
That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk.
But we knew that something--something remarkable had happened. Jim was
visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over
against us, he said, "By ----, boys! the stage hez been robbed!"
A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt
to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively
back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.
Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's.
"Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm
fixed."
"No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "_I 'll_ go. I 'm city
marshal, an' it's my place to go--I 'm the repersentive of law an' order
an' I 'll enforce 'em--damn me ef I don't!"
"That's bizness--Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam.
"Let Jim have the broncho," the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to
give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble--cussedest
fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky
little broncho and was off like a flash.
"Come on, boys," he called back to us; "come on, ez fast ez you kin to
the glen!"
Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of
sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away--just a trifle up along the
main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the
moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet
he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss
Woppit--incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit
was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room
lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and
fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor
girl!
It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along
about eight o'clock the stage reached the glen--a darkish, dismal spot,
and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short
stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr.
Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or
drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners
returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person
outside. As the stage reached the summit of the little hill the figure
of a man stole suddenly from the thicket by the roadside, stood directly
in front of the leading horses, and commanded a halt. The movement was
so sudden as to terrify the horses, and the consequence was that, in
shying, the brutes came near tipping the coach completely over. Barclay
was powerless to act, for the assailant covered him with two murderous
revolvers and bade him throw up his hands.
Then the men in the coach were ordered out and compelled to disgorge
their valuables, the robber seeming to identify and to pay particular
attention to Mr. Mills, the superintendent, who had brought with him from
Denver a large sum of money. When the miners made a slight show of
resistance the assailant called to his comrades in the bush to fire upon
the first man who showed fight; this threat induced a wise resignation to
the inevitable. Having possessed himself in an incredibly short time of
his booty, the highwayman backed into the thicket and quickly made off.
The procedure from first to last occupied hardly more than five minutes.
The victims of this outrage agreed that the narrative as I have given it
was in the main correct. Barclay testified that he saw the barrels of
rifles gleaming from the thicket when the outlaw called to his
confederates. On the other hand, Mr. Mills, who was the principal loser
by the affair, insisted that the outlaw did his work alone, and that his
command to his alleged accomplices was merely a bluff. There was, too, a
difference in the description given of the highwayman, some of the party
describing him as a short, thick-set man, others asserting that he was
tall and slender. Of his face no sight had been obtained, for he wore a
half-mask and a large slouch hat pulled well down over his ears. But
whatever dispute there may have been as to details, one thing was
sure--robbery had been done, and the robber had fled with four gold
watches and cash to the amount of, say, two thousand five hundred dollars.
Recovering betimes from their alarm and bethinking themselves of pursuit
of the outlaws, the helpless victims proceeded to push into camp to
arouse the miners. It was then that Barclay discovered that the tire of
one of the front wheels had come off in the jolt and wrench caused by the
frightened horses. As no time was to be lost, Barclay suggested that
somebody run down the road to Woppit's cabin and telephone to camp. Mr.
Mills and the Chicago drummer undertook this errand. After considerable
parley--for Miss Woppit wisely insisted upon being convinced of her
visitors' honorable intentions--these two men were admitted, and so the
alarm was transmitted to Casey's, Miss Woppit meanwhile exhibiting
violent alarm lest her brother Jim should come to harm in pursuing the
fugitives.
As for Jim Woppit, he never once lost his head. When the rest of us came
up to the scene of the robbery he had formed a plan of pursuit. It was
safe, he said, to take for granted that there was a gang of the outlaws.
They would undoubtedly strike for Eagle Pass, since there was no possible
way of escape in the opposite direction, the gulch, deep and wide,
following the main road close into camp. Ten of us should go with
him--ten of the huskiest miners mounted upon the stanchest bronchoes the
camp could supply. "We shall come up with the hellions before mornin',"
said he, and then he gritted his teeth significantly. A brave man and a
cool man, you 'll allow; good-hearted, too, for in the midst of all the
excitement he thought of his sister, and he said, almost tenderly, to
Three-fingered Hoover: "I can trust you, pardner, I know. Go up to the
cabin and tell her it's all right--that I 'll be back to-morrow and that
she must n't be skeered. And if she is skeered, why, you kind o' hang
round there to-night and act like you knew everything was all O. K."
"But may be Hoover 'll be lonesome," suggested Barber Sam. He was a sly
dog.
"Then you go 'long too," said Jim Woppit. "Tell her I said so."
Three-fingered Hoover would rather--a good deal rather--have gone alone.
Yet, with all that pardonable selfishness, he recognized a certain
impropriety in calling alone at night upon an unprotected female. So
Hoover accepted, though not gayly, of Barber Sam's escort, and in a happy
moment it occurred to the twain that it might be a pious idea to take
their music instruments with them. Hardly, therefore, had Jim Woppit and
his posse flourished out of camp when Three-fingered Hoover and Barber
Sam, carrying Mother and the famous guitar, returned along the main road
toward The Bower.
When the cabin came in view--the cabin on the side hill with hollyhocks
standing guard round it--one of those subtle fancies in which Barber
Sam's active brain abounded possessed Barber Sam. It was to convey to
Miss Woppit's ear good tidings upon the wings of music. "Suppose we play
'All's Well'?" suggested Barber Sam. "That'll let her know that
everything's O. K."
"Just the thing!" answered Three-fingered Hoover, and then he added, and
he meant it: "Durned if you ain't jest about as slick as they make 'em,
pardner!"
The combined efforts of the guitar and Mother failed, however, to produce
any manifestation whatever, so far as Miss Woppit was concerned. The
light in the front room of the cabin glowed steadily, but no shadow of
the girl's slender form was to be seen upon the white muslin curtain. So
the two men went up the gravelly walk and knocked firmly but respectfully
at the door.
They had surmised that Miss Woppit might be asleep, but, oh, no, not she.
She was not the kind of sister to be sleeping when her brother was in
possible danger. The answer to the firm but respectful knocking was
immediate.
"Who's there and what do you want?" asked Miss Woppit in tremulous tones,
with her face close to the latch. There was no mistaking the poor
thing's alarm.
"It's only us gents," answered Three-fingered Hoover, "me an' Barber Sam;
did n't you hear us serenadin' you a minnit ago? We 've come to tell you
that everything 's all right--Jim told us to come--he told us to tell you
not to be skeered, and if you wuz skeered how we gents should kind of
hang round here to-night; be you skeered, Miss Woppit? Your voice sounds
sort o' like you wuz."
Having now unbolted and unlatched and opened the door, Miss Woppit
confessed that she was indeed alarmed; the pallor of her face confirmed
that confession. Where was Jim? Had they caught the robbers? Was there
actually no possibility of Jim's getting shot or stabbed or hurt? These
and similar questions did the girl put to the two men, who, true to their
trust, assured the timorous creature in well-assumed tones of confidence
that her brother could n't get hurt, no matter how hard he might try.
To make short of a long tale, I will say that the result of the long
parley, in which Miss Woppit exhibited a most charming maidenly
embarrassment, was that Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam were
admitted to the cabin for the night. It was understood--nay, it was
explicitly set forth, that they should have possession of the front room
wherein they now stood, while Miss Woppit was to retire to her apartment
beyond, which, according to popular fame and in very truth, served both
as a kitchen and Miss Woppit's bedroom, there being only two rooms in the
cabin.
This front room had in it a round table, a half-dozen chairs, a small
sheet-iron stove, and a rude kind of settee that served Jim Woppit for a
bed by night. There were some pictures hung about on the walls--neither
better nor poorer than the pictures invariably found in the homes of
miners. There was the inevitable portrait of John C. Fremont and the
inevitable print of the pathfinder planting his flag on the summit of
Pike's Peak; a map of Colorado had been ingeniously invested with an old
looking-glass frame, and there were several cheap chromos of flowers and
fruit, presumably Miss Woppit's contributions to the art stores of the
household. Upon the centre table, which was covered with a square green
cloth, stood a large oil lamp, whose redolence and constant spluttering
testified pathetically to its neglect. There were two books on the
table--viz., an old "Life of Kit Carson" and a bound file of the "Police
News," abounding, as you will surmise, in atrocious delineations of
criminal life. We can understand that a volume of police literature
would not be out of place in the home of an executive of the law.
Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by the hearty protestations of
Hoover and Barber Sam as to her brother's security, _hoped_ that all
would be well. With evident diffidence she bade her guests make
themselves at home; there was plenty of wood in the box behind the stove
and plenty of oil in the tell-tale lamp; she fetched a big platter of
crackers, a mammoth cut of cheese, a can of cove oysters, and a noble
supply of condiments. Did the gents reckon they would be comfortable?
The gents smiled and bowed obsequiously, neither, however, indulging in
conversation to any marked degree, for, as was quite natural, each felt
in the presence of his rival a certain embarrassment which we can fancy
Miss Woppit respected if she did not enjoy it.
Finally Miss Woppit retired to her own delectable bower in the kitchen
with the parting remark that she would sleep in a sense of perfect
security; this declaration flattered her protectors, albeit she had no
sooner closed the door than she piled the kitchen woodbox and her own
small trunk against it--a proceeding that touched Three-fingered Hoover
deeply and evoked from him a tender expression as to the natural timidity
of womankind, which sentiment the crafty Barber Sam instantly indorsed in
a tone loud enough for the lady to hear.
It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that night. Following the moving
of that woodbox and that small trunk there was no sound of betrayal if
Miss Woppit did not sleep. Once the men in the front room were startled
by the woman's voice crying out, "Jim--oh, Jim!" in tones of such terror
as to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept and dreamed frightful dreams.
The men themselves were wakeful enough; they were there to protect a
lady, and they were in no particular derelict to that trust. Sometimes
they talked together in the hushed voices that beseem a sick-chamber;
anon they took up their music apparata and thrummed and sawed therefrom
such harmonies as would seem likely to lull to sweeter repose the object
of their affection in the adjoining chamber beyond the woodbox and the
small trunk; the circumstance of the robbery they discussed in discreet
tones, both agreeing that the highwaymen were as good as dead by this
time. We can fancy that the twain were distinctly annoyed upon
discovering in one corner of the room, during their vigils, a number of
Leadville and Denver newspapers containing sonnets, poems, odes,
triolets, and such like, conspicuously marked with blue or red pencil
tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, at Miss Woppit's virgin heart.
This was the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley! This was his
ingenious way of storming the citadel of the coy maiden's affections.