GRIT.
The Parson was absent for hours, and the Howling Wilderness began to be
impatient.
"He's a heelin' himself like a fighting-cock," said Stubbs; "and if
Sandy don't go to kingdom come with his boots on, then chaw me up for a
shrimp."
The man here went to the door, opened it, put his head out in the frosty
weather, and peered up the creek for Sandy, and across the creek for the
Parson, but neither was in sight.
The "Gay Rooster" company knocked off from their work, with many others,
and came to town in force to see the fight. The Howling Wilderness was
crowded and doing a rushing business.
The two bar-keepers shifted and carefully arranged the sand-bags under
the counter, which in that day and country were placed there in every
well-regulated drinking saloon, so as to intercept whatever stray bits
of lead might be thrown in the direction of their bodies, in the coming
battle, and calmly awaited results.
About dark, a thin blue smoke, as from burning paper, curled up from the
chimney of the Parsonage, and the Parson came slowly forth.
"Blamed if he hasn't been a makin' of his will and a burnin of his
letters. Looks grummer than a deacon, too," added the man, as the Parson
neared the saloon.
He spoke quietly to the boys, as he entered, but did not swear. That was
thought again remarkable indeed.
He went up to the bar, tapped on the counter with his knuckles, threw
his head back over his shoulder toward the crowd, and yet apparently
without seeing any one, and said:
"Boys, fall in line, fall in line. Rally around me once again."
They fell in line, or at least the majority did. Some, however, stood
off in little knots and groups on the other side, and pretended not to
have heard or noticed what was going on. These it was at once understood
were fast friends of Sandy's, and unbelievers in the Parson.
The glasses were filled quietly, slowly, and respectfully, almost like
filling a grave, and then emptied in silence.
Again it was observed that the Parson did not swear. That was
considered as remarkable as the omission of prayer from the service in a
well-regulated church, and, I am sure, contributed to throw a spirit of
restraint over the whole party friendly to the Parson. Besides, it was
noticed that he was pale, haggard, had hardly a word to say, and most of
all, had barely touched the glass to his lips.
No one, however, ventured to advise, question, or in any way disturb
him. All were quiet and respectful. It was very evident that the feeling
in the Forks, at first, was largely with Sandy.
But Sandy did not appear that evening. This, of course, was greatly
against him. The Forks began to suspect that he feared to take the
responsibility of his act, and meet the man he had so strangely defamed,
and, to all appearances, so deeply injured.
The next day the saloon was crowded more densely than before. Men stood
off in little knots and groups, talking earnestly. There was but one
topic--only the one great subject--the impending meeting between the two
leading men of the camp, and the probable result.
The Parson was among the first present that day, pale and careworn. They
treated him with all the delicacy of women. Not a word was said in his
presence of his misfortune, or the occasion of their meeting. To the
further credit of the Forks I am bound to say that there had as yet been
no bets as to which one of the two men they should have to bury the next
day.
The day passed, and still Sandy did not appear. Had there been any other
way out of camp than through the Forks and up the rugged, winding,
corkscrew stairway of rocks opposite, and in the face of the town, it
might have been suspected that he had taken the Widow and fled to other
lands.
The Parson came down a little late next morning, pale and quiet, as
before. He did not swear. This time, in fact, he did not even drink. He
sat down on a bench behind the monte-table, with his back to the fire
and his face to the door. The men respectfully left a rather broad lane
between the Parson and the door, and the monte-table was not patronized.
The day passed;--dusk, and still Sandy did not appear. By this time he
had hardly three friends in the house.
"Hasn't got the soul of a chicken!" "Caved in at last!" "Gone down in
his boots!" "Busted in the snapper!" "Lost his grip!" "Don't dare show
his hand!" These and like expressions, thrown out now and then from the
little knots of men here and there, were the certain indications that
Sandy had lost his place in the hearts of the leading men of the Forks.
Toward midnight the bolt lifted!
Shoo!
The door opened, and Sandy entered, backed up against the wall by the
door, and stood there, tall and silent.
His great beard was trimmed a little, his bushy hair carefully combed
behind his ears, and the necktie was now subdued into a neat love-knot,
in spite of its old persistent habit of twisting around and fluttering
out over his left shoulder. His eye met the Parson's but did not quail.
The bar-keeper settled down gracefully behind the bags of sand, so that
his eyes only remained visible above the horizon.
The head of the "Gay Roosters" tilted a table up till it made a
respectable barricade for his breast, and the crowd silently settled
back in the corners, packed tighter than sardines in a tin box.
You might have heard a mouse, had it crossed the floor. Even the fretful
fire seemed to hold for the time its snappish red tongue, and the wind
without to lean against the door and listen.
The Parson slowly arose from the table. He had his right hand in his
pocket, and was very pale.
Experienced shootists, old hands at mortal combat with their kind,
glanced from man to man, measured every motion, every look, with all the
intense eagerness of artists who are favored with one great and especial
sight, not to be met again. Others held their heads down, and only
waited in a confused sort of manner for the barking of the bull-dogs.
Neither of Sandy's hands were visible; but, as the Parson took a few
steps forward, and partly drew his hand from his pocket, Sandy's right
one came up like a steel spring, and the ugly black muzzle of a
six-shooter was in the Parson's face.
Still he advanced, till his face almost touched the muzzle of the
pistol. He seemed not to see it, or to have the least conception of his
danger.
It was strange that Sandy did not pull. Maybe he was surprised at the
singular action of the Parson. Perhaps he had his eye on the unlifted
right hand of his antagonist. At all events he had the "drop," and could
afford to wait the smallest part of a second, and see what he would do.
"I have been a-wait-ing"--the Parson halted and paused at the
participle. "I have been a-wait-ing for you, Sandy, a long time."
His voice trembled. The voice that had thundered above a hundred
bar-room fights, and had directed the men through many a difficulty in
camp, was now low and uncertain.
"Sandy," he began again, and he took hold of the counter with his left
hand, "I am a-going-a-way. Your cabin will be too small now, and I want
you to promise me to take care of the Parsonage till I come back."
Sandy sank back closer still to the wall, and his arm hung down at his
side.
"You will move into the Parsonage when it is all over. It's full of good
things for Winter. You will take it, I say, at once. Promise me that."
The Parson's voice was a little severe here--more determined than
before; and, as he concluded, he drew the key from his pocket and handed
it to Sandy.
"You will?"
"Yes."
The men looked a moment in each other's eyes. Perhaps they were both
embarrassed. The door was convenient. That seemed to Sandy the best way
out of his confusion, and he opened it softly and disappeared. The
Howling Wilderness was paralyzed with wonder.
The Parson looked a little while out in the dark, through the open door
and was gone. There was a murmur of disappointment behind him.
"Don't you fear!" at last chimed in the head of the "Gay Roosters."
"Don't you never fear! That old sea-dog, the Parson, is deeper than a
infernal gulf."
"Look here!" He put up his finger to the side of his nose, after a
pause, and stroking his beard mysteriously, said: "I say, look here!
Shoo! Not a word! Softly now! Powder! That's what it means. Powder! Gits
'em both into the Parsonage and blows 'em to kingdom come together!"
The Howling Wilderness was reconciled. It was certain that the end was
not yet, by a great deal. It was again struck with wonder, however; and,
for want of a better expression, took a drink and settled down to a game
of monte.
Early next morning--a morning full of unutterable storms and drifts of
snow--Sandy entered the Widow's cabin.
The Parson was not to be seen either at the Howling Wilderness or about
his own house.
Men stood about the door of the Howling Wilderness, and up and down the
single street, in little knots, noting the course of things at the
Parsonage, and now and then shaking their loose blanket coats and
brushing off the fast falling snow.
After a while, when the smoke rose up from the chimney-top, and curled
above the Parsonage with a home-like leisure, as if a woman's hand
tended the fire below, a man with his face muffled up was seen making
his way slowly up the rugged way that led from town across the Sierra.
It was a desperate and dangerous undertaking at that season of the year.
He made but poor headway against the storm that came pelting down in his
face from the fields of eternal snow; but he seemed determined, and
pushed slowly on. Sometimes it was observed he would turn, and, shading
his eyes from the snow, look down intently at the peaceful smoke
drifting through the trees above the Parsonage.
"Some poor idiot will pass in his checks to-night, if he don't come back
pretty soon," said Stubbs, as he nodded at the man up the hill, brushed
the snow from his sleeves, and went back into the saloon.
There were now two subjects of conversation in the camp; the departure
of the Parson and the courtship of Sandy.
One day, however, there was quite a riffle in the usually smooth
current of affairs. It was this. A busy meddling man was seen to lay
hold of Sandy, and talk a long time in a mysterious and suspicious
manner. He would point to the cabin of the Widow, then to the cabin of
the Poet, and gravely shake his head. The man was heard to couple the
two names together. At last Sandy shook this man off, and went on his
way with anything but a satisfied look.
After an open demonstration like that, the camp felt that it was
privileged to speak openly what it had seriously but silently noted
before. It had now three topics to talk about: the departure of the
Parson, the courtship of Sandy, but now above all and chiefly the secret
and frequent visits of the Poet to the Widow's cabin.