THE PARSON'S PURSUIT OF LOVE.
But the Danites did not again openly appear. The Widow it seemed was now
secure, and the men began to forget that they had ever counted her the
last of the doomed family, or suspected that there was blood on her
hands.
As the Summer wore away, her suitors dropped off like early candidates
for office, and left the field almost entirely to the two leading men of
the camp--Sandy and the Parson.
Sandy was a man of magnificent stature, with a graceful flow of sandy
beard, but, as I have said, an awkward child of nature. A born leader of
men, but a man who declined to lead unless forced to come to the front
by his fellows and for the time take charge of whatever matter was under
consideration in the camp. Sandy was a man you believed in, trusted, and
honored from the first. There was not a crafty fiber or thought in his
physical or mental make-up.
The Parson was a successful miner; a massive, Gothic man, though not so
tall as Sandy. He had been a sailor, I think. At all events, he had a
blue band of Indian ink, with little diamonds of red set in between the
bands, on his left wrist. Possibly it was his right wrist, for I can not
recall positively at this distance of time, but I think it was the left.
The Parson was the first authority in history, politics, theology,
anything whatever that came up. I do not think he was learned; but he
was always so positive, and always so ready with his opinions, and
always so ready to back them up too, that all were willing to ask his
opinion in matters of doubt, and few were willing to question his
replies.
After awhile it became talked about that Sandy was losing ground with
the Widow--or, rather, that the Parson was having it pretty much his own
way there, as in other things in the camp, and that Sandy rarely put in
an appearance.
A year went by and then a pretty little cottage began to peep through
the trees from a little hill back of town; and then it came out that
this, with its glass windows and green window-blinds, was the property
of the Parson, and destined as the home of the Widow.
I think the camp was rather pleased at this. True there was a bit of
ambition and a grain of cunning too in the Parson's nature, which made
the free, wild men of the mountains look upon him sometimes with less
favor than they did on Sandy. Still some of them liked him, and all were
glad that the Widow was to have a home at last.
But somehow the wedding did not come on as soon as was expected, and the
Widow kept on rubbing, rubbing, day after day, week after week, as if
nothing of the kind was ever to happen to her.
Late in the Fall, one evening, as the men stood in a semicircle in the
Howling Wilderness saloon, with their backs to the blazing log fire,
Sandy brought his fist down emphatically on the bar, as he took part in
the conversation, and, turning to the crowd, said:
"It's an everlastin' and a burnin' shame!"
He rested his right elbow on the bar, and drew the back of his left hand
across his mouth, as if embarrassed, and again began:
"It's a breathin' and a burnin' shame, I say, that the woman has got for
to go on in this way, a washin' of duds for us fellows of this here
camp. If this here camp can't afford one lady in its precincts, why,
then I shall pull up stakes and go to where the tall cedars cast their
shadows over the coyote, and the coyote howls and howls--and--and--"
He wiped his mouth again, and broke down utterly. But he had said
enough. A responsive chord was touched, and the men fairly sprang to
their feet with delight at the thought.
Some of the best things in life are like leads of gold--we come upon
them in a kind of sudden discovery.
The Parson's eyes twinkled with delight. "I move that Sandy take the
chair for this occasion, and second the motion, and plank down twenty
ounces for the Widow."
Sandy removed his slouch hat, blushed behind his beard at the new
dignity, and said:
"Bully for you! I raise you five ounces and ante the dust."
Here he drew a long, heavy purse from his pocket, and passed it over to
the bar-keeper, who thereby became treasurer of the enterprise without
further remark. The Parson's eye twinkled again.
"I see your five ounces and go you ten better."
"Called," said Sandy, and he pecked at the bar-keeper, which little
motion of the head meant that that further amount was to be weighed from
the purse for the benefit of the Widow.
One by one the boys came forward; and, as the enterprise got noised
about the camp, they came down to the Howling Wilderness saloon till
far in the night, to contribute what they called their "Widow's mite."
Even the head man of the company up the creek known as the "Gay
Roosters," and who was notoriously the most rough and reckless man in
the camp, jumped a first-class poker game, where he was playing at
twenty dollars ante and pass the buck, to come in and weigh out dust
enough to "call" the Parson and Sandy.
The Forks felt proud of itself for the deed. Men slept sounder and awoke
in a better humor with themselves for the act.
Yet all this time it was pretty well conceded that the gold, and the
Widow too, would very soon fall to the possession of the Parson.
"Set 'em deep, Parson! Set 'em deep!" said the head of the Gay Roosters,
as he shook hands with the Parson that night, winked at the "boys," and
returned to his game of poker.
There had been many a funeral at the Forks; but never a birth or a
wedding. But now this last, with all its rites and mysteries, was about
to come upon the Forks; and the Forks felt dignified and elated. Not one
of all these thousand bearded men showed unconcern. It was the great
topic--the Presidential campaign, the Dolly Varden of the day. The
approaching wedding was the morning talk, the talk at noon, and the talk
at night.
And it was good for the camp. The last fight was forgotten. Monte took a
back seat in the minds of these strange, strong men; and, if the truth
could be told, I dare say the German undertaker, who had set up under
the hill, noted a marked decline in his business.
The "boys" were with the Parson, and the Parson with the "boys." They
all conceded that he was a royal good fellow, and that the Widow could
not well do better.
The amount of gold raised by the men in their sudden and impulsive
charity was in itself, for one in the Widow's station, a reasonable
fortune.
"What if she gits up and gits?"
The man who said that was a narrow-minded, one-eyed, suspicious fellow,
who barely escaped being knocked down by the head of the "Gay Roosters,"
and kicked into the street by the crowd.
There was a poor Dutchman in the camp who had been crippled in the first
settlement of the camp, and who had been all the time too lame to work
and too poor to go away.
The Parson and Sandy were sent in a committee to the Widow with the
gold. She smiled, took the heavy bag in her hand, turned, shut the door
in their faces, but did not say a word. That evening she was seen to
enter the crippled Dutchman's cabin. The next day the crippled Dutchman
rode up the trail out of camp, and was seen no more.
Still later in the Fall the Parson sat in the Howling Wilderness, with
his back to the blazing, crackling fire, having it all his own way at
his favorite game of old sledge.
He had led his queen for the jack just as though he knew where every
card in the pack was entrenched. Then he led the king with like
composure, and was just crooking his fingers up his sleeve for the ace,
when a man in black, with a beaver hat and white necktie, rode by the
window on a black horse.
"Somebody's a dyin' up the creek, I 'speck," said Stubbs. "Maybe it's
old Yallar. He allers was a kind of a prayin' codfish eatin' cuss, any
how."
Here Stubbs turned and kicked nervously at the fire.
The game did not go on after that. No one said any thing. Perhaps that
was the trouble. The men fell to thinking, and the game lost its
interest.
There was no fight of importance at the Howling Wilderness that night,
and by midnight the frequenters of the saloon had withdrawn. The candles
were then put out, and the proprietors barricaded the door against
belated drunkards, spread their blankets on a monte-table, with their
pistols under their heads, and by the smouldering fire were at rest.
The ground was frozen hard next morning, and the miners flocked into the
Howling Wilderness. The Parson was leading off gaily again, and swearing
with unusual eloquence and brilliancy, when a tall, thin, and sallow
man, from Missouri, known as the "Jumper," entered. He looked wild and
excited, and stepped high, as if on stilts.
The tall, thin man went straight up to the bar, struck his knuckles on
the counter, and nodded at the red bottle before him. It came forward,
with a glass tumbler, and he drank deep, alone and in silence.
When a miner of the Sierras enters a saloon where other men are seated,
and drinks alone, without inviting any one, it is meant as a deliberate
insult to those present, unless there is some dreadful thing on his
mind.
The Jumper, tall and fidgety, turned to the Parson, bent his back
against the counter, and pushed back his hat. Then he drew his right
sleeve across his mouth, and let his arms fall down at his side limp and
helpless, and his round, brown butternut head rolled loose and awkward
from shoulder to shoulder.
"Parson."
"Well! well! Spit it out!" cried the Parson, as he arose from the bench,
with a dreadful oath. "Spit it out! What in h--l is busted now?"
"Parson."
Here the head rolled and the arms swung more than ever, and the man
seemed in dreadful agony of mind.
The Parson sprang across the room and caught him by the shoulder. He
shook him till his teeth rattled like quartz in a mill.
"The--the man in black," gasped the Jumper. "The black man, on the black
horse, with a white choker." The Parson looked blank, and staggered
back, as the man, gasping for breath, concluded: "Well, he's gone back;
and he won't marry yer. Cause why, he says Sandy says yer got one wife
now any how, in Missouri, and maybe two."
The Parson sunk into a seat, dropped his face in his hands for a moment,
trembled only a little, and arose pale and silent. He did not swear at
all. I am perfectly certain he did not swear. I know we all spoke of
that for a long time afterward, and considered it one of the most
remarkable things in all the strange conduct of this man.
When the Parson arose the Jumper shook himself loose from the counter,
and tilted across to the other side of the room, to give him place.
The stricken man put his hands on the counter, peeked over the
bar-keeper's shoulder at his favorite bottle, as if mournfully to a
friend, but said not a word. He emptied a glass, and then, without
looking right or left, opened the door, and went straight up to the
Parsonage. The Parsonage was the name the boys gave to the cottage on
the hill among the trees.
"Gone for his two little bull-pups," said Stubbs. That was what the
Parson called his silver-mounted derringers.
"There will be a funeral at the Forks to-morrow," gasped the Jumper.
Here the German undertaker arose cheerfully, and went down to his shop.
"Well, Sandy is no sardine. Bet your boots Sandy ain't no sardine!" said
Stubbs. "And, any how, he's got the start just a little, if the Parson
does nail him. For he's won her heart; and that's a heap, I think, for
wimmen's mighty scace in the mines--sumthin' to die for, you bet."