coyote-skin coat of an Indian who had made one sign and instantly
vanished. Very quickly the dreaded halt came.
“Look out, Tex! There's a rifle barrel from behind that tree trunk.”
“Halt!”
“Halt it is. There's nothing we can do.” Was it Jo's presence in the
stage below that made him give in without a struggle, or did he know
that the Wells-Fargo box had vanished from under the driver's seat? Or
was it knowledge of the horde of yelling Indians which rose from the
snowy brush, and swooped down upon the shooting robbers? Four of them
were brought, in triumph, to the town on the stage.
“Where is the express box?” asked the sheriff.
“I do not know,” answered Rand, defiantly.
“Cached away up on the mountain, I suppose, where the others are.”
“Sir!” thundered Rand, “I have brought in, the bandits, as I promised,
to clear my own namen--all but Digger Dan, who escaped. When I say
that I do not know what happened to the box, you will please understand
that--”
“Here comes Digger Dan now, carrying something.”
“No Indian ever carried anything in baskets slung on a pole!”
“Hel-lo, Missie Jo, how you do?” blandly remarked Digger Dan's double.
“Hop Sing!”
“Ketchem Missa Land's money, nis bas-a-kit.”
“What's in the other one.
“Nat one, lock (rock). Makern heap easy carry-em.”
“Where did you get the box?”
“You savvey place him horse get scare; him wagon, he fa' over top-side
down. Him money, he fa' out. Him stop place snow melt away by heap big
tlee tlunk. Me see. Missa Land, I know he like. I ketchem.”
When Rand took Jo home they were met by a smiling Sing in a snowy white
apron.
“Where's the other boy?” asked Jo.
“Him boy? I tellum get out quick, or I killum, sure!”
“Ah Sing, how can I ever thank you for all the six months you've spent
in the brush?”
“He all-li, Massa Land. You ketchem me come out nat jail. I heap savvey
you come see Missie Jo. Missie papa, lo-ong time now, he ketchee me no
die. Missie Jo, alla same my girl-o.”
“Those Indians--”
“Were Sing's friends, dear, dressed up.”
“Chinamen?”
“Yes.”
“Sing, where did Digger Dan go to?”
“He go hell,” remarked Sing, pleasantly. “He lun away to Oustamah
(Indian village). Me ketchum. Alla squaw ketchern plenty tar on head,
makern big cly (cry, Indian word for wake). Me killum him. Goo-bye, me
go cookem velly fine dinner. Missie Jo, Massa Land, you get marry now.
Me hope you ketchem plenty boy!” From his point of view what greater
blessing could he wish them? Later, he peeked in curiously from the
kitchen, but, as kisses are not included in the Chinese curriculum, he
failed to be interested and returned to his baking.
The Barstow Lynching
X
“This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you.
Much more, perchance, might be said--
but I hold him of all men most lightly
Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you
Well, since you are pressing,
Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same,
Jim--no sugar.”
--Bret Harte.
Contests of every sort were the order of the day in '49. Any ferocious
encounter which would promulgate betting was countenanced, and even
encouraged. There were dog fights, bull fights, bobcat or mountain lynx
fights, and fights between game chickens.
The tale is even told of cootie fights during long, rainy winter
evenings which must be spent indoors. The harborers of the contestants
simply reached under their shirts, drew forth a doughty grey-backed
warrior, placed him on a child's slate which was used as an arena, and
the fight was on.
A camp named Lousy Level is said to have made a specialty of this sort
of battle. Thousands of dollars were sometimes bet upon the outcome.
Arguments arising from various combats often developed into robbing,
murdering and lynching. This, then, is the tale of a certain lynching.
* * * * *
“Step up, gents. Only a dollar to see the big fight. One little dollar
to view the greatest contest of the age. See the champion fighting
jackass of the state vanquish the biggest grizzly in the Sierra
mountains.
“The unconquerable battling jackass who has whipped two bulls down at
Sonora, and caused a mountain lion to turn tail. Step up, gents. Only
a dollar to get inside the ropes,” and Webfoot Watson waved a well-kept
hand toward the arena. It was a pine-staked palisade, bound around the
top with rawhide thongs. At one end, the “champion donk” was tethered,
and at the other the “fiercest grizzly” was confined in a stout cage of
solid planks.
“Step in, gents! There are logs and stumps to stand on. The show will
begin immediately. We are now loosing the lion-eating jack. He--”
“Hey!” roared Swipe-eye Weller, pointing to the laden trees outside the
enclosure, “ef you think I'm agoin' to pay a dollar for this here show
jest because I ain't no tree-climbin' animal, you're pickin' out the
wrong customer. They coughs up a screamer apiece, or this act don't
begin actin'. That's final!”
Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in the
trees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and the
jack was then turned loose in the palisade.
“He's eatin' grass,” piped up old Grease-top Jamie. “Say, I can see
twenty jackasses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent any
day, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!”
“Hi! Here he comes! Eat 'im up, jack! Why, that ain't no grizzly.
Sufferin' stars, he's only a little scared cinnamon.”
“He's goin' after mister-old-donk, though.”
“Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks
on 'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im--” but the little
cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took
to the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and
bullets of the disgruntled spectators.
Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid
jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of
a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the
whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in
the camp.
“Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?”
asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.
“Why, it's Anthony Barstow! Look at the purple raiment! Man, you must
have struck pay dirt.”
“Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will you
take for the donk?”
“Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im,
Rover!” and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the
street to the newest excitement.
Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. “I was saving it for
tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?” The
long ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy
daintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into
the best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presided
over by a woman dealer.
“Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play,” she told him
courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.
“Ho! Ho! Barstow,” roared Copper-down Hicks. “That's one on you! The
madam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the green
cloth for a livin'.”
“It is monsieur's toilette zat 'ave cause ze mistake. I have now better
observe he's face. He is welcome.”
“Don't think your friend can sit in, though,” observed Champer-down,
grinning broadly.
Anthony turned. The donkey had followed him in, and was standing just
behind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showing
in every contour of his shaggy body.
“I have consorted with many of his kind,” said Anthony, smiling, “and I
prefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise,
his calm exterior, which does conceal the fiery depths of his nature;
in fact, all his so-called animal attributes I prefer, to the more
sophisticated allure of his human gender.” Anthony laid a strong hand
on the little beast's shoulder, while the French woman regarded him
curiously out of long black eyes.
“There, take that, you good for nothing cur,” and a man kicked a dog in
through the door, to lie in a twisted, bloody heap upon the floor.
“What do you mean, you brute!” called Anthony, springing upon the miner,
who immediately closed with him. Mignon screamed, and ran to stop them.
“Monsieur, for why you do--?”
“Aw, he got licked. I lost money on him.”
“Yes, and you haven't paid me, neither. You shell out, you Buckeye
Pete!” spoke up a tall Kentuckian, with a mastiff on a leash.
“It wasn't a fair fight, Spotty Collins,” whined Buckeye.
“It was--it was, so!” called a chorus of voices.
“I'll buy your dog,” said Anthony. “That will pay your debts.” Anthony
handed the money to Collins, picked up the half dead dog, and, holding
him against his immaculate new frilled shirt, he strode away toward
his claim over the mountain. The jack, whose attitude had hair, never
changed by so much as the waving of a suddenly raised an alert head and
as his benefactor vanished, he ambled quickly after him.
Pete sought to stop him at the door and in one lightning and concerted
movement, he bit and struck and kicked, scattering the crowd in all
directions. When the men watching Anthony down the street, burst into
laughter at the bizarre procession, the French girl silenced them with
fierce, hissing syllables..
“Heh! Dude Anthony, beloved of the b--”
“Zose words you shall not call la petite hound an' me. Even name of a
dog is for such as you too good to be call'. Monsieur, we take pleasaire
in your departure from hence.”
“Go on, please the lady, Buckeye. There's no other jackass to keep you
here any longer.”
And Buckeye departed in a perfect indigo haze of profanity.
* * * * *
“Mignon, have you heard the news?”
“Non, Monsieur, I 'ave sleep all ze day.”
“Spotty Collins was found in Blue Ravine this morning, robbed and
murdered. You see, he had a lot of money on him from the dog fight.”
“But ze beeg hound?”
“He was shot, too.”
“Ze murderer, zey 'ave caught?”
“Not yet. They say the sheriff's on his trail, though. He just got back
from Sacramento and he went right out. By jinks, he's coming now! An'
he's got 'im!”
“Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Ant'ony!”
“No!”
“Oui! Heem, my woman's heart knows well.”
“By jinks, you must be right! There's the fightin' jack followin' the
horses. Dude Anthony of all people!”
“It is not true! It cannot be!”
“Think I've got my man, boys. His clothes are covered with blood and the
money was in his cabin.”
“I have just made a strike in my claim. That is my own money.”
“Yes, of course, but the court thinks you oughtn't to keep it too long!”
“The 'court' is in his cups. He's sittin' over there in the plaza with
his back against the flag pole, an' he won't budge. You listen--.
“Judge, can I see you to your room for a few hours' sleep?”
“What for?” asked the judge, eyeing the questioner solemnly. “Is there
anything in the statutes of the State of California which forbids my
pre-empting this small space on the highway? Is there any reason, if
I am so inclined, that I should not teach my fellow-citizens the great
moral lesson of the overthrow and debasement of genius by the demon
rum? Am I not better employed than if in a stifling, tobacco-perfumed
courtroom, beating law into the thick skull of a lawyer, who doesn't
know Blackstone from white quartz? But, if you have four bits on you,
and should ask me to join you--Ah, you have?”
“Well,” said the sheriff to Anthony, after they had vanished into a near
bar, “I'll have to put you in the jug till court convenes.”
* * * * *
Buckeye Pete was celebrating. He seemed to be suddenly flush with “dust”
and was dispensing drinks with a liberality which soon brought him a
numerous following. By midnight it was a well-mellowed assemblage.
“Mignon, how long have you been dealin'?”
“About tree, four mont', Monsieur.”
“I don't mean here. I mean altogether.”
“About six ye-ar, Monsieur.”
“You must be well off by this time. An' they say that you've earned it
all workin', and that you're straight. Say, I'll marry you, if you say
the word--”
“You say, they say, too much, Monsieur.”
“Here! Don't you go givin' me no orders, you French crinoline fluff!”
“I ordair no man, an' no man is ordair me!” She stared him down with her
glittering, black eyes, and returned to her dealing. Pete strolled out,
followed by his satellites. When the noises in the street grew louder it
caused no particular comment. It was the usual thing. But when a crowd
burst into the Royal Flush, Mignon sprang to her feet with a cry of
anguish.
“Dealt me a raw deal, didn't yeh, you smart Frenchie?” gloated Buckeye
Pete. “Well, look at your man. Take a good look, an' don't miss the
necktie he's wearin'. Pretty li'l rope choker we got for Dandy Anthony.
Ain't no man can go killin' an' get away with it, while I'm here,”
looking around for applause.
“Name of a pig!” hissed Mignon. “You--you would.”
“Sure' we would! Right out on the lynchin' tree.” She turned and dashed
for the rear. “Ze sheriff! He must come toute suite!”
“Min,” whispered Soft-soap Joe, the bartender, “he left two hours ago on
a new case, otherwise they wouldn't a-dared do this.”
“Mon Dieu! An' ze justice, he is intoxicate! Mother Marie, pray for
him,” she cried, in her own language, and she ran after the lynching
party.
Once she stopped, shaking with terror at what she took to be a grizzly
in the path. It was only the fighting donkey still following the master
whom he had adopted. He made his way to the very center of the mob. The
French girl followed and, climbing onto a barrel, faced the crowd with
flashing eyes.
“Consider what you do! The judgment of le bon Dieu will be upon you!”
“Aw! Choke her off! Pull her down, somebody.”
But the three or four who tried to reach Mignon on her barrel next to
the bound man on the horse beneath the hanging tree, fell victim to the
“greatest battling jack in the state.”
“My friend,” orated the old judge afterwards, in describing these
events, “what mere man, however filled with tanglefoot, could face the
wicked teeth, and hoofs, and kicks which had conquered wild Texas bulls,
caused the mountain lion to cringe in his lair, and the invincible
grizzly to flee across the Sierras?”
At any rate, the little donkey was everywhere at once, biting, striking,
kicking, squealing, with the venom and speed and precision of a
rattlesnake, while Mignon railed, unmindful of Anthony's protests.
“Ze blood on hees clothes! Bah! You 'ave all see 'ow he is carry home
la petite so-hurt dog. Oui! ze dog of Monsieur Pete. Who is know where
Monsieur Collins is go for new dog fight? Monsieur Pete! Who has anger
at Monsieur Ant'ony for because I, Mignon, 'ave look once again at
Monsieur, who is so kind to all who I ave pain? Monsieur Pete! Who is
insult good girl? That's me. Monsieur Pete! Who is spend much money
tonight, who yesterday was br-r-oke? Monsieur Pete! Who, zen, should you
swing on ze rope?”
She waited. There was absolute silence save for the crackle of the
flaming pine-pitch torches.
“Ver' well,” in a low voice. “I, me, Mignon, shall answer.” Again she
paused. A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on the
hard road. “Monsieur Pete!” she screamed, at the top of her voice.
The mob struggled forward, yelling.
“Ver' well!” she cried, snatching a silver-mounted pistol out of her
bosom. “Come on! Ze jackass, he is ke-e-ll five! I, Mignon, I ke-e-ll
five! Ten shall go to le diable before mon brave shall hang!”
They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain death
which awaited them. Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at her
hip, and taunted them in contemptuous French.
The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view. “What's
this going on, anyway?” demanded the sheriff, angrily. “Anthony Barstow
is innocent. These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow's
cabin. When I learned the truth, I came straight back. Buckeye Pete, you
throw up your hands! You're wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins.”
Mignon tore the noose from Anthony's neck, laughing and crying in true
French abandon.
“Anthony, you're snared in another kind of noose,” laughed the sheriff.
“I know you're need in' your arms, but that rip-snortin' little jack
won't let me get near enough to cut your bonds.”
“By Salsifer!” he said, later on, “I'll have to swear that fighting jack
in as a deputy sheriff, and set him to watchin' road agents confined in
the jail. Well, goodnight, all. Pete's locked up safe and sound.”
An hour later a sober band of grim spectres returned to the jail,
overpowered the guard, and, for the second time that night, took out
grisly fruit to hang on the lynching tree. There were no pine knots and
no attempts at conversation till the leader asked: “Buckeye Pete, have
you anything to say before you join your Maker?”
“Ain't no use prayin' for yourself,” spoke up another voice. “Better
pray for the soul of the man you sent to Purgatory, and for the
well-bein' of the other innocent man you tried to destroy.”
“What's that?”
“It's that fightin' jack, prowlin' 'round.”
“Let 'im prowl! Now, then, boys, are you ready? Then pull!” and, as the
old judge always told in conclusion, “they say, as the men gave a mighty
heave on the rope the donkey ran forward and kicked the barrel from
under the doomed man's feet!”