to converse with this... woman, kindly do so when your wife is not
accompanying you,” she said to him in an angry undertone, and went
majestically on.
“I'll come back, Babe. We've been married just a month and she doesn't
understand. I'll be back later,” and he hurried off.
“Bet, did you see who that was with Curly? His wife, he said.”
“Aw-w, Babe, don't you fret! I guess we fill our little place out here
in Californy near as much as some o' the fine ladies do.”
“I didn't care. No, I was thinkin' that the ways o' the Lord are
curious. That lady used to be married to George Spellman.”
“An' Curly shot him, down at Sonora, last year!”
“Ye-aw.”
“Well, I'll be--.”
The Race of the Shoestring Gamblers
VIII
“Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,
Though no new levies marshall on our green;
Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,
Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.”
--Bret Harte.
If dancing was the first form of amusement to emanate from prehistoric
savagery, then racing must surely have come next. It may possibly have
come first. However, we shall leave the “theorizin”' to be settled by
the lips of the first mummy whose centuries-old tissues shall be roused
to full life by modern science. What has science not achieved? We have
gone beyond wonder. We can only believe, and become blase!
Meantime there is still enough red blood in the modern effete
productions of humans to enjoy a contest of stress and strain, and brain
and brawn, and to gamble upon the outcome.
In the '49 days, racing was one of the most popular forms of chance, and
it often reverted in bizarre tangents. This, then, is what happened at a
golden fiesta during the week of races:
“Sweet Lady, are all my importunities to be in vain?”
“I must confess that I can not bring my mind to a decision, Mr. Saul,”
answered Mistress Patty Laughton, blushing and curtsying prettily.
“It is surely not for your lack of worldly goods that you hesitate,”
persisted Slick-heels Saul. “As for what your father is owing me, it
shall, at the moment of your acceptance, be wiped entirely from the
books.”
Patty was incensed at the hint of insolence in the gambler's allusion to
her improvident father's financial condition.
“Believe me, Mr. Saul,” she said, with spirit, “no ulterior motive for
worldly advancement has the power to coerce my afflections.”
“But you will consider my proposition of marriage?”
Patty's honest gaze encountered the appraising glint in the coot grey
eyes of the foppish scape-grace before her. She lowered her own eys
quickly to hid a hunted look in their dark depths as she answered:
“Sir, after the week of races, you shall have your answer.”
“And then I shall give up my present means of gaining a livelihood, and,
repairing to San Francisco, shall enter into a profession more fitting
the social station of the lady who is to become my wife.” He bowed
deeply and withdrew, leaving Patty with a sad face and tearfilled eyes.
At last she straightened her tall figure resolutely. “I must not give
way to tears. I can not! I will not! There must be some way to pay
my father's debts beside this extremity, to which death is almost
preferable. There is still a week's time. A week--only a week.” Panic
overwhelmed her, and when someone gently took her hand, she cried aloud
in terror.
“Why, Sweetheart, do I frighten you so? I waited long upon the mesa near
the speed-track at the spot we had agreed upon, and when you did not
come I fared forth to meet you.”
“Eric, it is Saul again. What can I do?”
“Dear, I have about $2000 which I am resolved to play on the races. I
will win. I must. Old Irish Mike has brought over his whole stableful
of saddle horses and I was raised in Kentucky. Do not despair, we shall
beat the gambler at his own game. Here is Mike, now. Perhaps--Mike, it's
a fine string of horses you've picked up.
“It is so. Many a thoroughbred I've bought that came all the way from
Kentucky or Missouri. All that had the stamina to get to Californy, the
one thing left that many of the poor devils could sell when they reached
the coast.”
“Mike, some of them are faster than others, I suppose.”
“'Tis what half the shoe-string gamblers in the camp have tried to find
out. I may have me own opinion, but it's to meself I'll kape it till
afther the races are run. I will not spile sport. Have ye seen the last
cayuse that's bein' put in?
“You mean the cow pony that came in with the bunch of cattle from the
Napa Valley yesterday?”
“The same. The auld boy, whilst in his cups, is bettin' she can beat
anythin' on four legs, even jack rabbits an' antelope. The precious
gamblin' riff-raff are fillin' him up with tanglefoot, proper.”
“Why, Mike?” Mike glanced at the silent girl and then down into the
gulch below.
“Miss Patty, have ye visited the claims?”
“No, but I should like to.”
“Come, then, if ye will so pleasure an old man. The men will not be
workin' tomorrow. They will be that pleased to show a lady how to wash
a pan o' dirt, they will be saltin' ivery pan wit' nuggets for ye! Eric,
lad,” he called back to the tall young man, “ye might look the cow horse
over. She has not been curried for long; yet, whisper, beauty is but
skin deep an' the finest rapier is often encased in a rusty scabbard.”
“There is something going forward that Mike wishes me to see,” though
Eric, as he hurried off to the livery stable. “That is why he took Patty
away.”
A crowd of gamblers were just putting up a pair of riders on two horses.
“Hey, Eric Tallman, you used to own this horse. Can he beat this
rat-tailed kyoodle that runs after steers?”
Eric laid a hand fondly on the magnificent black “half breed,” who had
just enough mustang to give him the stamina and spirit and wildness
characteristic of the Spanish-bred horse.
“Keep him on a steady rein and he'll beat anything in the mountains. I'd
never have sold him except--.” He sighed, turning to the cattle horse.
She was long necked, long legged, long haired, wall-eyed, lean, and
badly in need of currying, and yet Irish Mike was no fool, and Mike knew
Eric's extremity--his and the girl's whom he loved.
He noted the deep, broad chest, the tapering barrel and the tremendous
driving power in the steel muscles of the hind quarters, but she
drooped, spiritless. He turned again to the satin-coated half-breed.
“Any dust up yet?”
“Ye-aw, about ten thousand. Old fool seems to be well heeled. We've got
'im full to the eyes, down at String-halt Eddie's place, an' the boys
are goin' to try the plugs out before they put up any more.” Two trial
races were ridden and the sad cow horse was outrun with apparent ease.
The next morning as Patty went on her daily stroll to “take the air,”
her way was blocked by a clamoring crowd of undesirables who were
baiting a miserable old cattle man.
“I tell ye, gentlemen, I was indisposed. 'Twas the liquor talking.
Surely you would not take advantage of a poor old man and his honest,
hard-working little mount. Every day of her life she works. Gentlemen, I
beg you--”
“Begging will get you nothing better than a good drubbing, you filthy
cattle lout! If you don't pay up your bets, we'll take it out of your
hide. I, for one, have a special use for my money at the week's end.”
It was Slick-heels Saul. Patty turned aside, sick at heart. This was the
creature in whose power she was “like to fall.”
Upon her return she found the old cowboy sitting dejectedly under a
liveoak bush. “Sir,” she began timidly, “you are in trouble. I should
like to express my sympathy.”
He rose with suspicious nimbleness. “Now, bless your kind heart, Miss,
to stop to console a sad old man.”
“I overheard what Mr. Saul said to you, sir. He is--”
“Without doubt, without doubt, he is everything you mention. Could you,
now, be Mistress Patty Laughton, of Kentucky?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew your Grandfather Laughton, my child, and since I came here I
have heard-of you,” he finished, with innate delicacy. Indeed, who had
not heard her story?
She opened her silken reticule and drew forth a small, buckskin bag.
“Will you not accept it? Yesterday, at the claims, I panned it out
myself. I am sorry for your plight. I am sorry for anyone in the
clutches of Slick-heels Saul.”
“But--. Can you--?”
“It does not matter. Your extremity is greater than mine.”
He stood looking after the slim girl who carried her head so high. “How
like a Kentucky Laughton. Thoroughbred stock, all!” He tossed the bag
in his hand. “'Tis why they are where they are today.” Then his keen old
eyes softened. “And why they are what they are, today. Bless her tender
heart to stoop to an old cattle man in the mire. As for this--I must see
Irish Mike,” and he hurried off with surprising speed.
Bets rose. Every gambler had been apprised of the sure thing and flocked
to the betting like bears to a honey tree.
“Have ye put up ye'r money, Eric?” asked Irish Mike, late the next
night.
“Yes,” said Eric, briefly.
“Ah. So.” Mike's shrewd gave slid from the young man's face.
“They do say that Slick-heels Saul is beginnin' to worry over
the $20,000 he's staked. The shoestring gang have gathered in the
information fr'm th' express agent that the auld cattle man owns a
big Spanish grant down in the valley, and has $50,00 to his credit in
certificates of deposit from the express company. 'Tis as good as gold.”
“Mike, have you ever seen him before?”
“I never spile sport, me boy.”
It was the last day of the fiesta and the famous race was at hand.
“There is the old cattle man with his vaqueros.”
“Faith, they're a tough lookin' lot, all armed with a brace o' Colts
apiece. 'Tis fun they'd have, cleanin' out a Fandango House.”
“Patty, girl, you are pale today.”
“Oh, Eric, 'tis the last day of grace. Heaven help us if--”
“See, Patty, gir-r-rl, they're fixin' for the foot race between Cherokee
Bob an' that Australian squirt fr'm Sacramento.”
“Why are they placing men with guns every ten feet along the track?”
“The Indian can beat the Australian, but he thried to sell the boys
out, an' if he slackens his gait by ever so little, the b'ys will begin
shootin' sthraight before them. An' maybe afther the race, he'd better
be runnin' right on into the next county.”
“What next?”
“Next is a jackass fight, an' then, the race!”
After the billigerent jacks had been led away, Red Pete suddenly took to
the brush, accelerated by a fusillade of bullets.
“Welchin' his bets, he is, an' ivery man he owes is lettin' him have
it.”
“Nary a hit!” wailed old Jack Horner. “The shootin' in this camp is
a-gittin' vile! Time we was quittin so d---- much pick handlin, an'
a-practicin' up. It's a reflection on the community. Why, there ain't
been a Chinaman drilled with a bullet decent an' clean for weeks!”
“They're leading out the horses! Where did that little nigger jockey
come from? The mare's got more ginger today.”
“Eric, surely your horse can win!”
“I don't know, dear.”
“He must! He must, or--”
“Slick-heels Saul's face is turnin' the color of me native isle,”
chuckled Irish Mike. “Patty, me little ladybird, 'tis no time to be
faintin'!”
“Oh, you can't know--”
“Faith, an' I know more than you t'ink. Bear up, Asthore, the darkest
hour is just forninst the dawn. Whisht, now! They're off!”
“Here they come! The black is ahead! See, the nigger is lying flat on
the mare's neck. She's closing up! Oh, they are neck and neck! I cannot
look. Eric--The black is getting the whip. Good horse! They are even
again! Ah, it is only for a moment. The mare... is over the line,
first... It is all ended, life, love, honor, happiness... I cannot
belong to that man! My poor old father. Dear old... for his sake, I
must. I--”
“Patty, girl.”
“Eric, you are not to blame. You would wager on your own horse. 'Tis but
natural. I must accept my fate with what fortitude I can summon. Please
take me home. All the people staring. I cannot bear it long.”
But when Slick-heels Saul pressed forward to her side at the
boarding-house steps, she was as stately and cold as the snow-hooded
rocks of Granite Mountain.
“I have lost everything, but still I hold you to your promise.”
“I made no promise, sir,” she said haughtily.
“'But you will,” he answered meaningly, “tomorrow.”
“Stand aside!” thundered Eric.
“Come awn,” soothed Irish Mike. “Not with the lady here, Eric, b'y.”
“Patty, I cannot let you go! I will shoot the beast on sight.”
“That would not vindicate my father's honor. Hush, he is coming. I must
remember that I am a Laughton.”
Eric turned to stare moodily out the dusty window. “There goes the
cattle man with his followers and his strong-box. What he must have won!
Here comes Mike. In a hurry, too! I wonder--”
Slick-heels Saul was bowing before the girl.
“Forgive an auld Irishman for intrudin' upon so tender a scene--”
(Slick-heels glared at him malevolently), “but I have he-e-re a
something for Mistress Patty Laughton,” pretending to read the
inscription on the package he held out, “from the auld boy, there, who
is just leavin' us.”
“'Bread cast upon the waters of sweet charity shall be returned an
hundred fold. Blessed are the pure in heart for they are of the children
of God,' he has written. Why, it is money!” gasped Patty, “and such a
large amount!”
“He had me put up ye'r little bag o' gold on his mare. These are y'er
winnings.” Mike smiled inwardly at the sum of money. “Sure, auld Andy
must have put a rock or two in the wee buckskin bag,” he thought, but
aloud he said, “I never spile sport, an' I could not tell ye before,
but 'tis auld Andy Magee an' his famous racin' mare, the fastest quarter
mile horse bechune the state of Missouri and the Pacific ocean.
“'Tis the same game he's pulled on the gamblin' crooks all the way
from the Oregon line to Mariposa in the south. Even gettin' filled wit'
tanglefoot is part of the dodge. They cannot touch him an' the vaqueros
protect him fr'm the shootin'.”
“But what about the tryout?”
“Also in the schame. The mare was cross-shod; meanin', two of her shoes,
the near front, an' the off hind wans, were twice as heavy as the others
She could not run top speed in th'm f'r love nor gold. Yesterday she
was shod in light racin' pads, an' under her own jockey. No horse on the
coast could catch her. An' always, the smart racin' gamblers play th'
auld man for a fool. Such is often the end of greed.
“Pay up the dad's gamblin' debts, an' bid this Knight o 'the Green Cloth
a swate an' long fare-ye-well. Then go an' be happy, me child.”
The Dragon and the Tomahawk
IX
“Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.”
--Bret Harte.
Certain learned archaeologists maintain that there are marked racial
similarities between the American Indians and the Chinese--physical
characteristics dating from unknown centuries, when the widely sundered
continents were probably one.
However that may be, in the days of gold in California the greatest
animosity existed between the Indians and the Chinamen. The feeling
began, presumably, through intermarriage and flourished like the
celebrated milkweed vine of the foothills, which has been known
to grow--I quote a '49er, now dead, which is perhaps taking an
advantage--12 inches in a day.
The tale is told of a Chinaman crossing a suspension footbridge, high
over a winter torrent, from one part of a mining camp to another. An
Indian ran to meet him. John Chinaman started back as quickly as he
could on the swaying bridge. The faster Indian caught him, and, though
miners on both shores sought to save the unfortunate “Chink” by a rain
of bullets, it was too long range, and the Indian threw him to certain
death in the river.
But the Indians did not always win, and this, then, is the tale of an
encounter between Hop Sing and Digger Dan.
“In a game which held accountin', On an old Sierra mountain--”
* * * * *
“Whassa malla, to-o much nail-o ketchem clo'e (clothes)?” snorted Hop
Sing, coming around to the side verandah with two pins in his hand,
to where Miss Jo Halstead was embroidering an antimacassar in bright
worsteds.
“Oh, Sing, did you hurt your hand?” she cried.
“'Nother boy heap mad.”
“Another boy? Aren't you doing the washing?”
“No do. Me--” but Jo had gone to the back yard. She found the tallest
Chinaman she had ever seen, meekly bending to the washing, and quickly
obeying the sharp orders rained upon his queue-circled poll by Hop Sing.
“But--Sing,” protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile.
“Him no good! No got place! Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month,
Chinee house. He no pay. Me makem work.”
“Yes, but--what is that? Those are shots on the stage road over the
hill! Oh, it must be another holdup! And Rand is shotgun messenger on
the stage today. Hark! Hear the horses running! They're coming--fast.
They're trying to make the town!”
“Ketchem, more horse run behind,” answered Sing, listening intently, his
slanting eyes glittering.
“Sing, you go and see what--”
“Can do! You get that boy, make 'em wash, alle same. He no good! You
look see?” Joe turned to spy the frightened deputy washerman wriggling
under the verandah. “Bime-by I kill 'um,” remarked Sing, composedly. “No
got time now. Missie Jo, wagon come, maybeso better you stop house-o.”
Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage. They
were coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood.
A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught when
he fell.
Leaning far out over the team was a young man holding the reins in one
hand, while he lashed the shot-crazed horses to their last ounce of
speed with the fifteen-foot whip. His sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat
beside him. It was Rand!
“Oh, thank God!” moaned Joe, but in another moment, “Poor old Salt
Peter! They must have killed him when he wouldn't stop. Sing--” but Hop
Sing had vanished, leaving only his white apron across the wash bench.
As the stage thundered around the turn at the end of the main street,
the wounded horse threw up his head, coughed bloody spume over the
pointers (the second pair), and fell. Men were already scrambling onto
their horses, and loping in from all directions. Rand cut out a buckskin
leader, mounted, and dashed frantically back up the road followed by a
dozen horsemen.
“Rand, who was it?”
“I don't know, exactly. Thought I saw Digger Dan--” They were over the
hill, and Jo heard no more.
Hop Sing did not turn up for supper, but his tall substitute did fairly
well, and Jo did not worry. Some time after dark, a weary Rand appeared.
“Well, Miss Jo, we got Digger Dan. At least we thought it was, but he
won't say a word except that he wants to see you. I've come to escort
you over to the jail. Will you trust yourself to me that far?”
“That far, yes,” archly, “'tis but a short space.” Not for worlds would
she have him guess her anxiety of the afternoon.
“I wish that 'twere for always.”
“What can Digger Dan want of me,” she evaded, thankful for the darkness
which hid her blushes. “Rand, hear the wolves howling!”
“They are only coyotes, dear--Miss Joe, and afraid to venture into town
except to the chicken roosts.”
“Why, it's Hop Sing!” exclaimed Jo, upon first sight of the prisoner.
“They've cut off half his queue and braided his hair in two pig tails,
and put different clothes on him, and he does look like an Indian. How
very extraordinary!”
“Kethem Digger Dan cloe,” blazed Sing.
“That's a likely tale,” said the sheriff, “betcha he knows more about
stage robbin' than he'll let out.”
“I am sure he does not about this one. He was with me every moment.”
Nevertheless, she could not help remembering the substitute Chinaman
whom Sing had put in to do his washing. But, though the complex Oriental
nature will never be quite understood by the Occidental, she had
confidence in the loyalty of the Chinaman, who had served them for five
years, and whose life had once been saved by her father.
“Ah Sing, will you tell me what happened,” she asked, knowing well that
a command would only elicit a stolid “No savvey.” Put as a favor, or a
confidence, he might respond.
“Him Digger Dan, no good! He stealem me clo'e. Ketchem. Missa Land
(Rand) an' plenty man come, he lun (run). I ketchem him! Tlee (three)
lobber (robber) come. To-o muchee men. I no can fight! He--”
“They tied him on a horse and drove it down the canyon for us to follow,
while they got away.”
“I tell you, he knows more about it than he's telling!”
“I don't think so, sheriff,” said Rand, positively. The man turned to
him, suspiciously.
“Me go home, all same Missie Joe?” Hop Sing raised an expressionless
face and glared at the broad belt of the sheriff.
“Well, you can go, but I'm going to keep an eye on you and see that
your apron's hanging in the Halstead's kitchen every day of your heathen
life.”
Later that night when Rand started home, strange incantations were going
on in Sing's lean-to. In four china bowls punk was burning, and an old
Chinaman was muttering weird invocations over the clothes of Digger Dan
slowly smouldering in a coal-oil can in the middle of the floor. Hop
Sing held one hand in the smoke, raised the other aloft and made a
blood-curdling oath of some sort which, by the expression of his face,
probably consigned the owner forever more to the nethermost depths 'of
Tophet.
“Why, where is Ali Sing?” asked Jo the next morning, when she found the
tall slave still in the kitchen.
“He got heap sick cousin. He go way. I stay. He come back bime-by.” Jo
knew that it was useless to question further.
The summer drifted by and still Sing did not return. Rand walked in
one day with the first flurry of snow, from his claim in the south. He
caught both of Jo's hands in his without a word, kissed them tenderly
and let them go.
“Rand,” she faltered, “it is so long since I've heard from you. You have
been acting so strangely-for months!”
“Jo, have you not heard the talk that has been whispered with my name
ever since Sing disappeared? They say that I know too much about the
holdups; that I helped the Chinaman to escape; that Digger Dan and Hop
Sing are one; that--”
“I would not listen to such falsehoods,” cried the girl, her grey eyes
flashing.
“You blessed little woman! But considering this, how can I say to you
what--tell you that which glorifies the very life in my frame. How can I
offer you a name tarnished by the suspicions of my fellow men?”
“Rand, I acknowledge no such allegations. Oh, I may be lost to all sense
of womanly reserve, but--”
“When my name is cleared, I shall hope to enter Paradise. Till then I
must not. I cannot bring disgrace upon you. I shall return to my old
post of shotgun messenger--”
“Rand! No! Listen to me one moment. Last evening Digger Dan came to
this very place. He told me that if you went back to the stage you would
certainly be killed. They have been robbing all summer. It is said that
Joaquin is in the mountains.”
“No, they are Tom Bell's men.”
Jo glanced up, startled. “Whoever it is, has sent you a warning.”
“Miz Halstead,” called a strident voice, “th' stage's jest in, an'
you're paw's took awful sick up on the Middle Fork, at his mine.”
“I shall have to go on the morning stage. Will you not please--” to
Rand.
“Jo, I do not fear death. It is dishonor that maddens me, for your sake.
The snows have come. They are already fitting runners to the stages. The
mails and the 'dust' must get through in spite of all. I go out on the
first sleigh; this one you must take. This winter I shall vindicate my
name, if it is humanly possible to do so.” He kissed the end of one long
curl of her hair, and was gone.
Some weeks later, during a lull between storms, Rand's face lit up with
the feeling which but one woman in the world could inspire, as the stage
pulled in to Middle Fork.
“Father is not quite recovered, but I thought it best to get him out
before we were snowed in. Rand, Digger Dan came,” she added, in a
whisper; “the stage will be stopped today. Yet, it is gathering for a
storm. I dare not stay. What shall I do?”
“Come along. I will protect you.”
Two miles further, as they topped a hill, Texas, the driver, pulled the
laboring six far to the side.
“Why?” asked Rand.
“Cut, there,” answered Texas, “an' it's piled high with a drift.”
“Look out for stumps.”
“I've got 'em spotted,” muttered Tex.
“What's that?” swinging his gun quickly to the right. The horses
plunged, snorting, quickly to the left, the sleigh hit a snow-covered
stump, and it was only Tex's expert driving that saved it from
overturning.