Produced by Donald Lainson
TALES OF TRAIL AND TOWN
By Bret Harte
CONTENTS
THE ANCESTORS OF PETER ATHERLY
TWO AMERICANS
THE JUDGMENT OF BOLINAS PLAIN
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF ALKALI DICK
A NIGHT ON THE DIVIDE
THE YOUNGEST PROSPECTOR IN CALAVERAS
A TALE OF THREE TRUANTS
TALES OF TRAIL AND TOWN
THE ANCESTORS OF PETER ATHERLY
CHAPTER I
It must be admitted that the civilizing processes of Rough and Ready
were not marked by any of the ameliorating conditions of other improved
camps. After the discovery of the famous “Eureka” lead, there was the
usual influx of gamblers and saloon-keepers; but that was accepted as a
matter of course. But it was thought hard that, after a church was built
and a new school erected, it should suddenly be found necessary to have
doors that locked, instead of standing shamelessly open to the criticism
and temptation of wayfarers, or that portable property could no longer
be left out at night in the old fond reliance on universal brotherhood.
The habit of borrowing was stopped with the introduction of more money
into the camp, and the establishment of rates of interest; the poorer
people either took what they wanted, or as indiscreetly bought on
credit. There were better clothes to be seen in its one long straggling
street, but those who wore them generally lacked the grim virtue of the
old pioneers, and the fairer faces that were to be seen were generally
rouged. There was a year or two of this kind of mutation, in which the
youthful barbarism of Rough and Ready might have been said to struggle
with adult civilized wickedness, and then the name itself disappeared.
By an Act of the Legislature the growing town was called “Atherly,”
after the owner of the Eureka mine,--Peter Atherly,--who had given
largess to the town in its “Waterworks” and a “Gin Mill,” as the new
Atherly Hotel and its gilded bar-rooms were now called. Even at the last
moment, however, the new title of “Atherly” hung in the balance. The
romantic daughter of the pastor had said that Mr. Atherly should
be called “Atherly of Atherly,” an aristocratic title so strongly
suggestive of an innovation upon democratic principles that it was not
until it was discreetly suggested that everybody was still free to call
him “Atherly, late of Rough and Ready,” that opposition ceased.
Possibly this incident may have first awakened him to the value of his
name, and some anxiety as to its origin. Roughly speaking, Atherly's
father was only a bucolic emigrant from “Mizzouri,” and his mother had
done the washing for the camp on her first arrival. The Atherlys had
suffered on their overland journey from drought and famine, with the
addition of being captured by Indians, who had held them captive for ten
months. Indeed, Mr. Atherly, senior, never recovered from the effects
of his captivity, and died shortly after Mrs. Atherly had given birth
to twins, Peter and Jenny Atherly. This was scant knowledge for Peter
in the glorification of his name through his immediate progenitors; but
“Atherly of Atherly” still sounded pleasantly, and, as the young lady
had said, smacked of old feudal days and honors. It was believed
beyond doubt, even in their simple family records,--the flyleaf of a
Bible,--that Peter Atherly's great-grandfather was an Englishman who
brought over to his Majesty's Virginian possessions his only son, then
a boy. It was not established, however, to what class of deportation
he belonged: whether he was suffering exile from religious or judicial
conviction, or if he were only one of the articled “apprentices”
who largely made up the American immigration of those days. Howbeit,
“Atherly” was undoubtedly an English name, even suggesting respectable
and landed ancestry, and Peter Atherly was proud of it. He looked
somewhat askance upon his Irish and German fellow citizens, and talked
a good deal about “race.” Two things, however, concerned him: he was not
in looks certainly like any type of modern Englishman as seen either
on the stage in San Francisco, or as an actual tourist in the mining
regions, and his accent was undoubtedly Southwestern. He was tall and
dark, with deep-set eyes in a singularly immobile countenance; he had
an erect but lithe and sinewy figure even for his thirty odd years,
and might easily have been taken for any other American except for the
single exception that his nose was distinctly Roman, and gave him a
distinguished air. There was a suggestion of Abraham Lincoln (and even
of Don Quixote) in his tall, melancholy figure and length of limb, but
nothing whatever that suggested an Englishman.
It was shortly after the christening of Atherly town that an incident
occurred which at first shook, and then the more firmly established, his
mild monomania. His widowed mother had been for the last two years
an inmate of a private asylum for inebriates, through certain habits
contracted while washing for the camp in the first year of her
widowhood. This had always been a matter of open sympathy to Rough and
Ready; but it was a secret reproach hinted at in Atherly, although
it was known that the rich Peter Atherly kept his mother liberally
supplied, and that both he and his sister “Jinny” or Jenny Atherly
visited her frequently. One day he was telegraphed for, and on going to
the asylum found Mrs. Atherly delirious and raving. Through her son's
liberality she had bribed an attendant, and was fast succumbing to a
private debauch. In the intervals of her delirium she called Peter
by name, talked frenziedly and mysteriously of his “high
connections”--alluded to himself and his sister as being of the
“true breed”--and with a certain vigor of epithet, picked up in the
familiarity of the camp during the days when she was known as “Old Ma'am
Atherly” or “Aunt Sally,” declared that they were “no corn-cracking
Hoosiers,” “hayseed pikes,” nor “northern Yankee scum,” and that she
should yet live to see them “holding their own lands again and the lands
of their forefathers.” Quieted at last by opiates, she fell into a more
lucid but scarcely less distressing attitude. Recognizing her son again,
as well as her own fast failing condition, she sarcastically thanked
him for coming to “see her off,” congratulated him that he would soon be
spared the lie and expense of keeping her here on account of his pride,
under the thin pretext of trying to “cure” her. She knew that Sally
Atherly of Rough and Ready wasn't considered fit company for “Atherly of
Atherly” by his fine new friends. This and much more in a voice mingling
maudlin sentiment with bitter resentment, and with an ominous glitter in
her bloodshot and glairy eyes. Peter winced with a consciousness of the
half-truth of her reproaches, but the curiosity and excitement awakened
by the revelations of her frenzy were greater than his remorse. He said
quickly:--
“You were speaking of father!--of his family--his lands and possessions.
Tell me again!”
“Wot are ye givin' us?” she ejaculated in husky suspicion, opening upon
him her beady eyes, in which the film of death was already gathering.
“Tell me of father,--my father and his family! his
great-grandfather!--the Atherlys, my relations--what you were saying.
What do you know about them?”
“THAT'S all ye wanter know--is it? THAT'S what ye'r' comin' to the old
washer-woman for--is it?” she burst out with the desperation of disgust.
“Well--give it up! Ask me another!”
“But, mother--the old records, you know! The family Bible--what you once
told us--me and Jinny!”
Something gurgled in her throat like a chuckle. With the energy of
malevolence, she stammered: “There wasn't no records--there wasn't no
family Bible! it's all a lie--you hear me! Your Atherly that you're so
proud of was just a British bummer who was kicked outer his family in
England and sent to buzz round in Americky. He honey-fogled me--Sally
Magregor--out of a better family than his'n, in Kansas, and skyugled me
away, but it was a straight out marriage, and I kin prove it. It was
in the St. Louis papers, and I've got it stored away safe enough in
my trunk! You hear me! I'm shoutin'! But he wasn't no old settler in
Mizzouri--he wasn't descended from any settler, either! He was a new man
outer England--fresh caught--and talked down his throat. And he fooled
ME--the darter of an old family that was settled on the right bank
of the Mizzouri afore Dan'l Boone came to Kentucky--with his new
philanderings. Then he broke up, and went all to pieces when we struck
Californy, and left ME--Sally Magregor, whose father had niggers of his
own--to wash for Rough and Ready! THAT'S your Atherly! Take him! I don't
want him--I've done with him! I was done with him long afore--afore”--a
cough checked her utterance,--“afore”--She gasped again, but the words
seemed to strangle in her throat. Intent only on her words and scarcely
heeding her sufferings, Peter was bending over her eagerly, when the
doctor rudely pulled him away and lifted her to a sitting posture. But
she never spoke again. The strongest restoratives quickly administered
only left her in a state of scarcely breathing unconsciousness.
“Is she dying? Can't you bring her to,” said the anxious Peter, “if only
for a moment, doctor?”
“I'm thinkin',” said the visiting doctor, an old Scotch army surgeon,
looking at the rich Mr. Atherly with cool, professional contempt, “that
your mother willna do any more washing for me as in the old time, nor
give up her life again to support her bairns. And it isna my eentention
to bring her back to pain for the purposes of geeneral conversation!”
Nor, indeed, did she ever come back to any purpose, but passed away with
her unfinished sentence. And her limbs were scarcely decently composed
by the attendants before Peter was rummaging the trunk in her room for
the paper she had spoken of. It was in an old work-box--a now faded
yellow clipping from a newspaper, lying amidst spoils of cotton thread,
buttons, and beeswax, which he even then remembered to have seen upon
his mother's lap when she superadded the sewing on of buttons to her
washing of the miners' shirts. And his dark and hollow cheek glowed with
gratified sentiment as he read the clipping.
“We hear with regret of the death of Philip Atherly, Esq., of Rough and
Ready, California. Mr. Atherly will be remembered by some of our readers
as the hero of the romantic elopement of Miss Sallie Magregor, daughter
of Colonel 'Bob' Magregor, which created such a stir in well-to-do
circles some thirty years ago. It was known vaguely that the young
couple had 'gone West,'--a then unknown region,--but it seems that
after severe trials and tribulations on the frontier with savages, they
emigrated early to Oregon, and then, on the outbreak of the gold fever,
to California. But it will be a surprise to many to know that it has
just transpired that Mr. Atherly was the second son of Sir Ashley
Atherly, an English baronet, and by the death of his brother might have
succeeded to the property and title.”
He remained for some moments looking fixedly at the paper, until the
commonplace paragraph imprinted itself upon his brain as no line of
sage or poet had ever done, and then he folded it up and put it in his
pocket. In his exaltation he felt that even the mother he had never
loved was promoted to a certain respect as his father's wife, although
he was equally conscious of a new resentment against her for her
contemptuous allusions to HIS father, and her evident hopeless inability
to comprehend his position. His mother, he feared, was indeed low!--but
HE was his father's son! Nevertheless, he gave her a funeral at Atherly,
long remembered for its barbaric opulence and display. Thirty carriages,
procured from Sacramento at great expense, were freely offered to his
friends to join in the astounding pageant. A wonderful casket of
iron and silver, brought from San Francisco, held the remains of the
ex-washerwoman of Rough and Ready. But a more remarkable innovation was
the addition of a royal crown to the other ornamentation of the casket.
Peter Atherly's ideas of heraldry were very vague,--Sacramento at that
time offered him no opportunity of knowing what were the arms of the
Atherlys,--and the introduction of the royal crown seemed to satisfy
Peter's mind as to what a crest MIGHT be, while to the ordinary
democratic mind it simply suggested that the corpse was English!
Political criticism being thus happily averted, Mrs. Atherly's body
was laid in the little cemetery, not far away from certain rude wooden
crosses which marked the burial-place of wanderers whose very names were
unknown, and in due time a marble shaft was erected over it. But
when, the next day, the county paper contained, in addition to
the column-and-a-half description of the funeral, the more formal
announcement of the death of “Mrs. Sallie Atherly, wife of the late
Philip Atherly, second son of Sir Ashley Atherly, of England,” criticism
and comment broke out. The old pioneers of Rough and Ready felt that
they had been imposed upon, and that in some vague way the unfortunate
woman had made them the victims of a huge practical joke during all
these years. That she had grimly enjoyed their ignorance of her position
they did not doubt. “Why, I remember onct when I was sorter bullyraggin'
her about mixin' up my duds with Doc Simmons's, and sendin' me Whiskey
Dick's old rags, she turned round sudden with a kind of screech, and ran
out into the brush. I reckoned, at the time, that it was either 'drink'
or feelin's, and could hev kicked myself for being sassy to the
old woman, but I know now that all this time that air critter--that
barrownet's daughter-in-law--was just laughin' herself into fits in the
brush! No, sir, she played this yer camp for all it was worth, year in
and out, and we just gave ourselves away like speckled idiots! and now
she's lyin' out thar in the bone yard, and keeps on p'intin' the joke,
and a-roarin' at us in marble.”
Even the later citizens in Atherly felt an equal resentment against her,
but from different motives. That her drinking habits and her powerful
vocabulary were all the effect of her aristocratic alliance they never
doubted. And, although it brought the virtues of their own superior
republican sobriety into greater contrast, they felt a scandal at having
been tricked into attending this gilded funeral of dissipated rank.
Peter Atherly found himself unpopular in his own town. The sober who
drank from his free “Waterworks,” and the giddy ones who imbibed at
his “Gin Mill,” equally criticised him. He could not understand it; his
peculiar predilections had been accepted before, when they were mere
presumptions; why should they not NOW, when they were admitted facts?
He was conscious of no change in himself since the funeral! Yet the
criticism went on. Presently it took the milder but more contagious form
of ridicule. In his own hotel, built with his own money, and in his own
presence, he had heard a reckless frequenter of the bar-room decline
some proffered refreshment on the ground that “he only drank with his
titled relatives.” A local humorist, amidst the applause of an admiring
crowd at the post-office window, had openly accused the postmaster of
withholding letters to him from his only surviving brother, “the Dook of
Doncherknow.” “The ole dooky never onct missed the mail to let me
know wot's goin' on in me childhood's home,” remarked the humorist
plaintively; “and yer's this dod-blasted gov'ment mule of a postmaster
keepin' me letters back!” Letters with pretentious and gilded coats of
arms, taken from the decorated inner lining of cigar-boxes, were posted
to prominent citizens. The neighboring and unregenerated settlement of
Red Dog was more outrageous in its contribution. The Red Dog “Sentinel,”
in commenting on the death of “Haulbowline Tom,” a drunken English
man-o'-war's man, said: “It may not be generally known that our
regretted fellow citizen, while serving on H. M. S. Boxer, was secretly
married to Queen Kikalu of the Friendly Group; but, unlike some of
our prosperous neighbors, he never boasted of his royal alliance, and
resisted with steady British pluck any invitation to share the throne.
Indeed, any allusion to the subject affected him deeply. There are those
among us who will remember the beautiful portrait of his royal bride
tattooed upon his left arm with the royal crest and the crossed flags of
the two nations.” Only Peter Atherly and his sister understood the sting
inflicted either by accident or design in the latter sentence. Both
he and his sister had some singular hieroglyphic branded on their
arms,--probably a reminiscence of their life on the plains in their
infant Indian captivity. But there was no mistaking the general
sentiment. The criticisms of a small town may become inevasible. Atherly
determined to take the first opportunity to leave Rough and Ready. He
was rich; his property was secure; there was no reason why he should
stay where his family pretensions were a drawback. And a further
circumstance determined his resolution.
He was awaiting his sister in his new house on a little crest above
the town. She had been at the time of her mother's death, and since, a
private boarder in the Sacred Heart Convent at Santa Clara, whence she
had been summoned to the funeral, but had returned the next day. Few
people had noticed in her brother's carriage the veiled figure which
might have belonged to one of the religious orders; still less did they
remember the dark, lank, heavy-browed girl who had sometimes been seen
about Rough and Ready. For she had her brother's melancholy, and greater
reticence, and had continued of her own free will, long after her
girlish pupilage at the convent, to live secluded under its maternal
roof without taking orders. A general suspicion that she was either a
religious “crank,” or considered herself too good to live in a mountain
mining town, had not contributed to her brother's popularity. In her
abstraction from worldly ambitions she had, naturally, taken no part
in her brother's family pretensions. He had given her an independent
allowance, and she was supposed to be equally a sharer in his good
fortune. Yet she had suddenly declared her intention of returning
to Atherly, to consult him on affairs of importance. Peter was both
surprised and eager; there was but little affection between them, but,
preoccupied with his one idea, he was satisfied that she wanted to talk
about the family.
But he was amazed, disappointed, and disconcerted. For Jenny Atherly,
the sober recluse of Santa Clara, hidden in her sombre draperies at the
funeral, was no longer to be recognized in the fashionable, smartly but
somewhat over-dressed woman he saw before him. In spite of her large
features and the distinguishing Roman nose, like his own, she looked
even pretty in her excitement. She had left the convent, she was tired
of the life there, she was satisfied that a religious vocation would not
suit her. In brief, she intended to enjoy herself like other women.
If he really felt a pride in the family he ought to take her out, like
other brothers, and “give her a show.” He could do it there if he liked,
and she would keep house for him. If he didn't want to, she must have
enough money to keep her fashionably in San Francisco. But she wanted
excitement, and that she WOULD HAVE! She wanted to go to balls,
theatres, and entertainments, and she intended to! Her voice grew quite
high, and her dark cheek glowed with some new-found emotion.
Astounded as he was, Peter succumbed. It was better that she should
indulge her astounding caprice under his roof than elsewhere. It
would not do for the sister of an Atherly to provoke scandal. He gave
entertainments, picnics, and parties, and “Jinny” Atherly plunged into
these mild festivities with the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl. She not only
could dance with feverish energy all night, but next day could mount
a horse--she was a fearless rider--and lead the most accomplished
horsemen. She was a good shot, she walked with the untiring foot of a
coyote, she threaded the woods with the instinct of a pioneer. Peter
regarded her with a singular mingling of astonishment and fear. Surely
she had not learned this at school! These were not the teachings nor the
sports of the good sisters! He once dared to interrogate her regarding
this change in her habits. “I always FELT like it,” she answered
quickly, “but I kept it down. I used sometimes to feel that I couldn't
stand it any longer, but must rush out and do something,” she said
passionately; “but,” she went on with furtive eyes, and a sudden wild
timidity like that of a fawn, “I was afraid! I was afraid IT WAS LIKE
MOTHER! It seemed to me to be HER blood that was rising in me, and I
kept it down,--I didn't want to be like her,--and I prayed and struggled
against it. Did you,” she said, suddenly grasping his hand, “ever feel
like that?”
But Peter never had. His melancholy faith in his father's race had
left no thought of his mother's blood mingling with it. “But,” he said
gravely, “believing this, why did you change?”
“Because I could hold out no longer. I should have gone crazy. Times I
wanted to take some of those meek nuns, some of those white-faced pupils
with their blue eyes and wavy flaxen hair, and strangle them. I couldn't
strive and pray and struggle any longer THERE, and so I came here to
let myself out! I suppose when I get married--and I ought to, with my
money--it may change me! You don't suppose,” she said, with a return of
her wild-animal-like timidity, “it is anything that was in FATHER, in
those ATHERLYS,--do you?”
But Peter had no idea of anything but virtue in the Atherly blood; he
had heard that the upper class of Europeans were fond of field
sports and of hunting; it was odd that his sister should inherit this
propensity and not he. He regarded her more kindly for this evidence of
race. “You think of getting married?” he said more gently, yet with a
certain brotherly doubt that any man could like her enough, even
with her money. “Is there any one here would--suit you?” he added
diplomatically.
“No--I hate them all!” she burst out. “There isn't one I don't despise
for his sickening, foppish, womanish airs.”
Nevertheless, it was quite evident that some of the men were attracted
by her singular originality and a certain good comradeship in her ways.
And it was on one of their riding excursions that Peter noticed that she
was singled out by a good-looking, blond-haired young lawyer of the town
for his especial attentions. As the cavalcade straggled in climbing
the mountain, the young fellow rode close to her saddle-bow, and as
the distance lengthened between the other stragglers, they at last were
quite alone. When the trail became more densely wooded, Peter quite
lost sight of them. But when, a few moments later, having lost the
trail himself, they again appeared in the distance before him, he was
so amazed that he unconsciously halted. For the two horses were walking
side by side, and the stranger's arm was round his sister's waist.
Had Peter any sense of humor he might have smiled at this weakness in
his Amazonian sister, but he saw only the serious, practical side of
the situation, with, of course, its inevitable relation to his one
controlling idea. The young man was in good practice, and would have
made an eligible husband to any one else. But was he fit to mate with an
Atherly? What would those as yet unknown and powerful relatives say
to it? At the same time he could not help knowing that “Jinny,” in
the eccentricities of her virgin spinsterhood, might be equally
objectionable to them, as she certainly was a severe trial to him here.
If she were off his hands he might be able to prosecute his search for
his relatives with more freedom. After all, there were mesalliances in
all families, and being a woman she was not in the direct line. Instead,
therefore, of spurring forward to join them, he lingered a little until
they passed out of sight, and until he was joined by a companion from
behind. Him, too, he purposely delayed. They were walking slowly,
breathing their mustangs, when his companion suddenly uttered a cry of
alarm, and sprang from his horse. For on the trail before them lay the
young lawyer quite unconscious, with his riderless steed nipping the
young leaves of the underbrush. He was evidently stunned by a fall,
although across his face was a livid welt which might have been caused
by collision with the small elastic limb of a sapling, or a blow from
a riding-whip; happily the last idea was only in Peter's mind. As they
lifted him up he came slowly to consciousness. He was bewildered and
dazed at first, but as he began to speak the color came back freshly to
his face. He could not conceive, he stammered, what had happened. He
was riding with Miss Atherly, and he supposed his horse had slipped upon
some withered pine needles and thrown him! A spasm of pain crossed his
face suddenly, and he lifted his hand to the top of his head. Was he
hurt THERE? No, but perhaps his hair, which was flowing and curly, had
caught in the branches--like Absalom's! He tried to smile, and even
begged them to assist him to his horse that he might follow his fair
companion, who would be wondering where he was; but Peter, satisfied
that he had received no serious injury, hurriedly enjoined him to stay,
while he himself would follow his sister. Putting spurs to his horse,
he succeeded, in spite of the slippery trail, in overtaking her near
the summit. At the sound of his horse's hoofs she wheeled quickly, came
dashing furiously towards him, and only pulled up at the sound of his
voice. But she had not time to change her first attitude and expression,
which was something which perplexed and alarmed him. Her long lithe
figure was half crouching, half clinging to the horse's back, her
loosened hair flying over her shoulders, her dark eyes gleaming with an
odd nymph-like mischief. Her white teeth flashed as she recognized
him, but her laugh was still mocking and uncanny. He took refuge in
indignation.
“What has happened?” he said sharply.
“The fool tried to kiss me!” she said simply. “And I--I--let out at
him--like mother!”
Nevertheless, she gave him one of those shy, timid glances he had
noticed before, and began coiling something around her fingers, with
a suggestion of coy embarrassment, indescribably inconsistent with her
previous masculine independence.
“You might have killed him,” said Peter angrily.
“Perhaps I might! OUGHT I have killed him, Peter?” she said anxiously,
yet with the same winning, timid smile. If she had not been his sister,
he would have thought her quite handsome.
“As it is,” he said impetuously, “you have made a frightful scandal
here.”
“HE won't say anything about it--will he?” she inquired shyly, still
twisting the something around her finger.
Peter did not reply; perhaps the young lawyer really loved her and would
keep her secret! But he was vexed, and there was something maniacal in
her twisting fingers. “What have you got there?” he said sharply.
She shook the object in the air before her with a laugh. “Only a lock of
his hair,” she said gayly; “but I didn't CUT it off!”
“Throw it away, and come here!” he said angrily.
But she only tucked the little blond curl into her waist belt and shook
her head. He urged his horse forward, but she turned and fled, laughing
as he pursued her. Being the better rider she could easily evade him
whenever he got too near, and in this way they eventually reached the
town and their house long before their companions. But she was far
enough ahead of her brother to be able to dismount and hide her trophy
with childish glee before he arrived.
She was right in believing that her unfortunate cavalier would make no
revelation of her conduct, and his catastrophe passed as an accident.
But Peter could not disguise the fact that much of his unpopularity
was shared by his sister. The matrons of Atherly believed that she was
“fast,” and remembered more distinctly than ever the evil habits of her
mother. That she would, in the due course of time, “take to drink,” they
never doubted. Her dancing was considered outrageous in its unfettered
freedom, and her extraordinary powers of endurance were looked upon as
“masculine” by the weaker girls whose partners she took from them. She
reciprocally looked down upon them, and made no secret of her contempt
for their small refinements and fancies. She affected only the society
of men, and even treated them with a familiarity that was both fearless
and scornful. Peter saw that it was useless to face the opposition;
Miss Atherly did not seem to encourage the renewal of the young lawyer's
attentions, although it was evident that he was still attracted by her,
nor did she seem to invite advances from others. He must go away--and
he would have to take her with him. It seemed ridiculous that a woman of
thirty, of masculine character, should require a chaperon in a brother
of equal age; but Peter knew the singular blending of childlike
ignorance with this Amazonian quality. He had made his arrangements
for an absence from Atherly of three or four years, and they departed
together. The young fair-haired lawyer came to the stage-coach office to
see them off. Peter could detect no sentiment in his sister's familiar
farewell of her unfortunate suitor. At New York, however, it was
arranged that “Jinny” should stay with some friends whom they had made
en route, and that, if she wished, she could come to Europe later, and
join him in London.
Thus relieved of one, Peter Atherly of Atherly started on his cherished
quest of his other and more remote relations.