But it was NOT all over. For a moment later Captain Bunker began to

fumble in his waistcoat pocket with the one hand that was not clasping

his wife's waist. “One thing more, Mollie; when I left her and refused

to take any of her dimons, she put a queer sort o' ring into my hand,

and told me with a kind o' mischievious, bedevilin' smile, that I

must keep it to remember her by. Here it is--why, Mollie lass! are you

crazy?”

She had snatched it from his fingers and was running swiftly from the

cottage out into the tempestuous night. He followed closely, until

she reached the edge of the rocks. And only then, in the struggling,

fast-flying moonlight, she raised a passionate hand, and threw it far

into the sea!

As he led her back to the cottage she said she was jealous, and honest

Captain Bunker, with his arm around her, felt himself the happiest man

in the world!

*****

From that day the flag flew regularly over the rocky shelf, and, in

time, bugles and morning drumbeats were wafted from it to the decks of

passing ships. For the Federal Government had adjudged the land for its

own use, paid Captain Bunker a handsome sum for its possession, and

had discreetly hidden the little cottage of Mrs. Bunker and its history

forever behind bastion and casemate.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF BUCKEYE CAMP

PART I.

The tiny lights that had been far scattered and intermittent as

fireflies all along the dark stream at last dropped out one by one,

leaving only the three windows of “Parks' Emporium” to pierce the

profoundly wooded banks of the South Fork. So all-pervading was the

darkness that the mere opening of the “Emporium” front door shot out an

illuminating shaft which revealed the whole length of the little main

street of “Buckeye,” while the simple passing of a single figure before

one of the windows momentarily eclipsed a third of the settlement. This

undue pre-eminence given to the only three citizens of Buckeye who were

still up at ten o 'clock seemed to be hardly justified by their outward

appearance, which was that of ordinary long-bearded and long-booted

river bar miners. Two sat upon the counter with their hands upon their

knees, the third leaned beside the open window.

It was very quiet. The faint, far barking of a dog, or an occasional

subdued murmur from the river shallows, audible only when the wind rose

slightly, helped to intensify their solitude. So supreme had it become

that when the man at the window at last continued his conversation

meditatively, with his face towards it, he seemed to be taking all

Nature into his confidence.

“The worst thing about it is, that the only way we can keep her out of

the settlement is by the same illegal methods which we deplore in other

camps. We have always boasted that Buckeye could get along without

Vigilance Committees or Regulators.”

“Yes, and that was because we started it on the principle of original

selection, which we are only proposing to continue,” replied one of

the men on the counter. “So there's nothing wrong about our sending a

deputation to wait upon her, to protest against her settling here, and

give her our reasons.”

“Yes, only it has all the impudence without the pluck of the Regulators.

You demand what you are afraid to enforce. Come, Parks, you know she has

all the rights on her side. Look at it squarely. She proposes to open

a store and sell liquor and cigars, which she serves herself, in the

broken-down tienda which was regularly given to her people by the

Spanish grantee of the land we're squatting on. It's not her fault but

ours if we've adopted a line of rules, which don't agree with hers, to

govern the settlers on HER land, nor should she be compelled to follow

them. Nor because we justify OUR squatting here, on the ground that the

Spanish grant isn't confirmed yet, can we forbid her squatting under the

same right.”

“But look at the moral question, Brace. Consider the example; the

influence of such a shop, kept by such a woman, on the community! We

have the right to protect ourselves--the majority.”

“That's the way the lynchers talk,” returned Brace. “And I'm not so sure

about there being any moral question yet. You are assuming too much.

There is no reason why she shouldn't run the tienda as decently--barring

the liquor sale, which, however, is legal, and for which she can get a

license--as a man could, and without interfering with our morals.”

“Then what is the use of our rules?”

“They were made for those who consented to adopt them, as we all did.

They still bind US, and if we don't choose to buy her liquor or cigars

that will dispose of her and her tienda much more effectually than your

protest. It's a pity she's a lone unprotected woman. Now if she only had

a husband”--

“She carries a dagger in her garter.”

This apparently irrelevant remark came from the man who had not yet

spoken, but who had been listening with the languid unconcern of one

who, relinquishing the labor of argument to others, had consented to

abide by their decision. It was met with a scornful smile from each of

the disputants, perhaps even by an added shrug of the shoulders from

the woman's previous defender! HE was evidently not to be taken in by

extraneous sentiment. Nevertheless, both listened as the speaker,

slowly feeling his knees as if they were his way to a difficult subject,

continued with the same suggestion of stating general fact, but waiving

any argument himself. “Clarkson of Angels allows she's got a free,

gaudy, picter-covered style with the boys, but that she can be

gilt-edged when she wants to. Rowley Meade--him ez hed his skelp pulled

over his eyes at one stroke, foolin' with a she bear over on Black

Mountain--allows it would be rather monotonous in him attemptin' any

familiarities with her. Bulstrode's brother, ez was in Marysville, said

there was a woman--like to her, but not her--ez made it lively for the

boys with a game called 'Little Monte,' and he dropped a hundred dollars

there afore he came away. They do say that about seven men got shot in

Marysville on account o' this one, or from some oneasiness that happened

at her shop. But then,” he went on slowly and deferentially as the faces

of the two others were lowered and became fixed, “SHE says she tired o'

drunken rowdies,--there's a sameness about 'em, and it don't sell her

pipes and cigars, and that's WHY she's coming here. Thompson over at Dry

Creek sez that THAT'S where our reputation is playin' us! 'We've got her

as a reward o' virtoo, and be d----d to us.' But,” cautiously, “Thompson

ain't drawed a sober breath since Christmas.”

The three men looked in each other's faces in silence. The same thought

occurred to each; the profane Thompson was right, and the woman's advent

was the logical sequence of their own ethics. Two years previously,

the Buckeye Company had found gold on the South Fork, and had taken up

claims. Composed mainly of careful, provident, and thoughtful men,--some

of cultivation and refinement,--they had adopted a certain orderly

discipline for their own guidance solely, which, however, commended

itself to later settlers, already weary of the lawlessness and reckless

freedom which usually attended the inception of mining settlements.

Consequently the birth of Buckeye was accompanied with no dangerous

travail; its infancy was free from the diseases of adolescent

communities. The settlers, without any express prohibition, had tacitly

dispensed with gambling and drinking saloons; following the unwritten

law of example, had laid aside their revolvers, and mingled together

peacefully when their labors were ended, without a single peremptory

regulation against drinking and playing, or carrying lethal weapons.

Nor had there been any test of fitness or qualification for citizenship

through previous virtue. There were one or two gamblers, a skillful

duelist, and men who still drank whiskey who had voluntarily sought the

camp. Of some such antecedents was the last speaker. Probably with two

wives elsewhere, and a possible homicidal record, he had modestly held

aloof from obtrusive argument.

“Well, we must have a meeting and put the question squarely to the boys

to-morrow,” said Parks, gazing thoughtfully from the window. The remark

was followed by another long silence. Beyond, in the darkness, Buckeye,

unconscious of the momentous question awaiting its decision, slept on

peacefully.

“I brought the keg of whiskey and brandy from Red Gulch to-day that

Doctor Duchesne spoke of,” he resumed presently. “You know he said we

ought to have some in common stock that he could always rely upon in

emergencies, and for use after the tule fever. I didn't agree with him,

and told him how I had brought Sam Denver through an attack with quinine

and arrowroot, but he laughed and wanted to know if we'd 'resolved'

that everybody should hereafter have the Denver constitution. That's

the trouble with those old army surgeons,--they never can get over the

'heroics' of their past. Why he told Parson Jennings that he'd rather

treat a man for jim-jams than one that was dying for want of stimulants.

However, the liquor is here, and one of the things we must settle

tomorrow is the question if it ought not to be issued only on Duchesne's

prescription. When I made that point to him squarely, he grinned again,

and wanted to know if I calculated to put the same restriction on the

sale of patent medicines and drugs generally.”

“'N powder 'n shot,” contributed the indifferent man.

“Perhaps you'd better take a look at the liquor, Saunders,” said Parks,

dismissing the ethical question. “YOU know more about it than we do. It

ought to be the best.”

Saunders went behind the counter, drew out two demijohns, and, possibly

from the force of habit, selected THREE mugs from the crockery and

poured some whiskey into each, before he could check himself.

“Perhaps we had better compare tastes,” said Brace blandly. They all

sipped their liquor slowly and in silence. The decision was favorable.

“Better try some with water to see how it mixes,” said Saunders,

lazily filling the glasses with a practiced hand. This required more

deliberation, and they drew their chairs to the table and sat down. A

slight relaxation stole over the thoughtful faces of Brace and Parks,

a gentle perspiration came over the latter's brow, but the features and

expression of Saunders never changed. The conversation took a broader

range; politics and philosophy entered into it; literature and poetry

were discussed by Parks and Brace, Saunders still retaining the air of

a dispassionate observer, ready to be convinced, but abstaining from

argument--and occasionally replenishing the glasses. There was felt to

be no inconsistency between their present attitude and their previous

conversation; rather it proved to them that gentlemen could occasionally

indulge in a social glass together without frequenting a liquor saloon.

This was stated with some degree of effusion by Parks and assented

to with singular enthusiasm by Brace; Saunders nodding. It was also

observed with great penetration by Brace that in having really

GOOD, specially selected liquor like that, the great danger of the

intoshikat'n 'fx--he corrected himself with great deliberation, “the

intoxicating effects”--of adulterated liquors sold in drinking saloons

was obviated. Mr. Brace thought also that the vitiated quality of the

close air of a crowded saloon had a great deal to do with it--the excess

of carbon--hic--he begged their pardon--carbonic acid gas undoubtedly

rendered people “slupid and steepy.” “But here, from the open window,”

he walked dreamily to it and leaned out admiringly towards the dark

landscape that softly slumbered without, “one could drink in only health

and poetry.”

“Wot's that?” said Saunders, looking up.

“I said health and poetry,” returned Brace with some dignity. “I

repeat”--

“No. I mean wot's that noise? Listen.”

They listened so breathlessly that the soft murmur of the river seemed

to flow in upon them. But above it quite distinctly came the regular

muffled beat of horse-hoofs in the thick dust and the occasional rattle

of wheels over rocky irregularities. But still very far and faint,

and fading like the noises in a dream. Brace drew a long breath; Parks

smiled and softly closed his eyes. But Saunders remained listening.

“That was over OUR road, near the turnpike!” he said musingly. “That's

queer; thar ain't any of the boys away to-night, and that's a wagon.

It's some one comin' here. Hark to that! There it is again.”

It was the same sound but more distinct and nearer, and then was lost

again.

“They're dragging through the river sand that's just abreast o'

Mallory's. Stopped there, I reckon. No! pushin' on again. Hear

'em grinding along the gravel over Hamilton's trailin's? Stopped

agin--that's before Somerville's shanty. What's gone o' them now? Maybe

they've lost the trail and got onto Gray's slide through the woods. It's

no use lookin'; ye couldn't see anything in this nigger dark. Hol' on!

If they're comin' through the woods, ye'll hear 'em again jest off here.

Yes! by thunder! here they are.”

This time the clatter and horse-hoofs were before them, at the very

door. A man's voice cried, “Whoa!” and there was a sudden bound on the

veranda. The door opened; for an instant the entrance appeared to be

filled with a mass of dazzling white flounces, and a figure which from

waist to crown was impenetrably wrapped and swathed in black lace.

Somewhere beneath its folds a soft Spanish, yet somewhat childish voice

cried, “Tente. Hol' on,” turned and vanished. This was succeeded by the

apparition of a silent, swarthy Mexican, who dropped a small trunk at

their feet and vanished also. Then the white-flounced and black-laced

figure reappeared as the departing wagon rattled away, glided to

the centre of the room, placed on the trunk a small foot, whose

low-quartered black satin slipper seemed to be held only by the toe,

threw back with both hands the black lace mantilla, which was pinned by

a rose over her little right ear, and with her hands slightly extended

and waving softly said, “Mira caballeros! 'Ere we are again, boys! Viva!

Aow ees your mother? Aow ees that for high? Behold me! just from Pike!”

Parks and Brace, who had partly risen, fell back hopelessly in their

chairs again and gazed at the figure with a feeble smile of vacuous

pain and politeness. At which it advanced, lowered its black eyes

mischievously over the table and the men who sat there, poured out a

glass of the liquor, and said: “I look towards you, boys! Don't errise.

You are just a leetle weary, eh? A leetle. Oh yes! a leetle tired of

crookin' your elbow--eh? Don't care if the school keep!--eh? Don't want

any pie! Want to go 'ome, eh?”

But here Mr. Parks rose with slight difficulty, but unflinching dignity,

and leaned impressively over the table, “May I ashk--may I be

permitted to arsk, madam, to what we may owe the pleasure of thish--of

this--visit?”

Her face and attitude instantly changed. Her arms dropped and caught up

the mantilla with a quick but not ungraceful sweep, and in apparently a

single movement she was draped, wrapped, and muffled from waist to crown

as before. With a slight inclination of her head, she said in quite

another voice: “Si, senor. I have arrive here because in your whole

great town of Booki there is not so much as one”--she held up a small

brown finger--“as much as ONE leetle light or fire like thees; be-cause

in this grand pueblo there is not one peoples who have not already sleep

in his bed but thees! Bueno! I have arrive all the same like a leetle

bird, like the small fly arrive to the light! not to YOU--only to THE

LIGHT! I go not to my casa for she is dark, and tonight she have nothing

to make the fire or bed. I go not to the 'otel--there is not ONE”--the

brown finger again uplifted--“'otel in Booki! I make the 'otel--the

Fonda--in my hoose manana--to-morrow! Tonight I and Sanchicha make the

bed for us 'ere. Sanchicha, she stands herself now over in the street.

We have mooch sorrow we have to make the caballeros mooch tr-rouble to

make disposition of his house. But what will you?”

There was another awkward silence, and then Saunders, who had been

examining the intruder with languid criticism, removed his pipe from his

mouth and said quietly:--

“That's the woman you're looking for--Jovita Mendez!”

PART II.

The rest of that interview has not been recorded. Suffice it that a few

minutes later Parks, Brace, and Saunders left the Emporium, and passed

the night in the latter's cabin, leaving the Emporium in possession

of Miss Mendez and her peon servant; that at the earliest dawn the two

women and their baggage were transferred to the old adobe house, where,

however, a Mexican workman had already arrived, and with a basketful of

red tiles was making it habitable. Buckeye, which was popularly supposed

to sleep with one eye on the river, and always first repaired there in

the morning to wash and work, was only awake to the knowledge of the

invasion at noon. The meeting so confidently spoken of the night

before had NOT been called. Messrs. Parks and Brace were suffering from

headaches--undoubtedly a touch of tule chill. Saunders, at work with his

partner in Eagle Bar, was as usual generous with apparently irrelevant

facts on all subjects--but that of the strangers. It would seem as if

the self-constituted Committee of Safety had done nothing.

And nothing whatever seemed to happen! Thompson of Angels, smoking a

meditative pipe at noon on the trail noticed the repairing of the old

adobe house, casually spoke of it on his return to his work, without

apparent concern or exciting any comment. The two Billinger brothers saw

Jovita Mendez at the door of her house an hour later, were themselves

seen conversing with her by Jim Barker, but on returning to their claim,

neither they nor Barker exhibited any insurrectionary excitement. Later

on, Shuttleworth was found in possession of two bundles of freshly

rolled corn-husk cigarettes, and promised to get his partner some the

next day, but that gentleman anticipated him. By nightfall nearly

all Buckeye had passed in procession before the little house without

exhibiting any indignation or protest. That night, however, it seemed as

if the events for which the Committee was waiting were really impending.

The adult female population of Buckeye consisted of seven women--wives

of miners. That they would submit tamely to the introduction of a young,

pretty, and presumably dangerous member of their own sex was not to

be supposed. But whatever protest they made did not pass beyond their

conjugal seclusion, and was apparently not supported by their husbands.

Two or three of them, under the pretext of sympathy of sex, secured

interviews with the fair intruder, the result of which was not, however,

generally known. But a few days later Mrs. “Bob” Carpenter--a somewhat

brick-dusty blonde--was observed wearing some black netting and a

heavily flounced skirt, and Mrs. Shuttleworth in her next visit to

Fiddletown wore her Paisley shawl affixed to her chestnut hair by a

bunch of dog-roses, and wrapped like a plaid around her waist. The seven

ladies of Buckeye, who had never before met, except on domestic errands

to each other's houses or on Sunday attendance at the “First Methodist

Church” at Fiddletown, now took to walking together, or in their

husbands' company, along the upper bank of the river--the one boulevard

of Buckeye. The third day after Miss Mendez' arrival they felt the

necessity of immediate shopping expeditions to Fiddletown. This

operation had hitherto been confined to certain periods, and restricted

to the laying in of stores of rough household stuffs; but it now

apparently included a wider range and more ostentatious quality. Parks'

Emporium no longer satisfied them, and this unexpected phase of

the situation was practically brought home to the proprietor in the

necessity of extending the more inoffensive and peaceful part of his

stock. And when, towards the end of the week, a cartload of pretty

fixtures, mirrors, and furniture arrived at the tienda, there was

a renewed demand at the Emporium for articles not in stock, and the

consequent diverting of custom to Fiddletown. Buckeye found itself face

to face with a hitherto undreamt of and preposterous proposition. It

seemed that the advent of the strange woman, without having yet produced

any appreciable effect upon the men, had already insidiously inveigled

the adult female population into ostentatious extravagance.

At the end of a week the little adobe house was not only rendered

habitable, but was even made picturesque by clean white curtains at

its barred windows, and some bright, half-Moorish coloring of beams and

rafters. Nearly the whole ground floor was given up to the saloon of

the tienda, which consisted of a small counter at one side, containing

bottles and glasses, and another, flanking it, with glass cases,

containing cigars, pipes, and tobacco, while the centre of the room was

given up to four or five small restaurant tables. The staff of Jovita

was no longer limited to Sanchicha, but had been augmented by a little

old man of indefinite antiquity who resembled an Aztec idol, and an

equally old Mexican, who looked not unlike a brown-tinted and veined

tobacco leaf himself, and might have stood for a sign. But the genius

of the place, its omnipresent and all-pervading goddess, was Jovita!

Smiling, joyous, indefatigable in suavity and attention; all-embracing

in her courtesies; frank of speech and eye; quick at repartee and

deftly handling the slang of the day and the locality with a childlike

appreciation and an infantine accent that seemed to redeem it from

vulgarity or unfeminine boldness! Few could resist the volatile

infection of her presence. A smile was the only tribute she exacted,

and good-humor the rule laid down for her guests. If it occasionally

required some mental agility to respond to her banter, a Californian

gathering was, however, seldom lacking in humor. Yet she was always the

principal performer to an admiring audience. Perhaps there was security

in this multitude of admirers; perhaps there was a saving grace in this

humorous trifling. The passions are apt to be serious and solitary, and

Jovita evaded them with a jest,--which, if not always delicate or witty,

was effective in securing the laughter of the majority and the jealousy

of none.

At the end of the week another peculiarity was noticed. There was a

perceptible increase of the Mexican population, who had always hitherto

avoided Buckeye. On Sunday an Irish priest from El Pasto said mass in a

patched-up corner of the old Mission ruin opposite Rollinson's Ford. A

few lounging “Excelsior” boys were equally astonished to see Jovita's

red rose crest and black mantilla glide by, and followed her unvarying

smile and jesting salutation up to the shadow of the crumbling portal.

At vespers nearly all Buckeye, hitherto virtuously skeptical and

good-humoredly secure in Works without Faith, made a point of attending;

it was alleged by some to see if Jovita's glossy Indian-inky eyes would

suffer aberration in her devotions. But the rose-crested head was never

lifted from the well-worn prayer-book or the brown hands which held

a certain poor little cheap rosary like a child's string of battered

copper coins. Buckeye lounged by the wall through the service with

respectful tolerance and uneasy shifting legs, and came away. But the

apparently simple event did not end there. It was unconsciously charged

with a tremendous import to the settlement. For it was discovered the

next day by Mrs. “Bob” Carpenter and Nan Shuttleworth that the Methodist

Church at Fiddletown was too far away, and Buckeye ought to have a

preacher of its own. Seats were fitted up in the loft of Carpenter's

store-house, where the Reverend Henry McCorkle held divine service,

and instituted a Bible class. At the end of two weeks it appeared

that Jovita's invasion--which was to bring dissipation and ruin to

Buckeye--had indirectly brought two churches! A chilling doubt like a

cold mist settled along the river. As the two rival processions passed

on the third Sunday, Jo Bateman, who had been in the habit of reclining

on that day in his shirtsleeves under a tree, with a novel in his hand,

looked gloomily after them. Then knocking the ashes from his pipe, he

rose, shook hands with his partners, said apologetically that he had

lately got into the habit of RESPECTING THE SABBATH, and was too old

to change again, and so shook the red dust of Buckeye from his feet and

departed.

As yet there had not been the slightest evidence of disorderly conduct

on the part of the fair proprietress of the tienda, nor her customers,

nor any drunkenness or riotous disturbance that could be at all

attributed to her presence. There was, it is true, considerable

hilarity, smoking, and some gambling there until a late hour, but

this could not be said to interfere with the rest and comfort of other

people. A clue to the mystery of so extraordinary a propriety was given

by Jovita herself. One day she walked into Parks' Emporium and demanded

an interview with the proprietor.

“You have made the rules for thees Booki?”

“Yes--that is--I and my friends have.”

“And when one shall not have mind the rule--when one have say, 'No! damn

the rule,' what shall you make to him? Shall you aprison him?”

Mr. Parks hastened to say with a superior, yet engaging smile that it

never had been necessary, as the rules were obligatory upon the honor

and consent of all--and were never broken. “Except,” he added, still

more engagingly, “she would remember, in her case--with their consent.”

“And your caballeros break not the rules?”

“No.”

“Then they shall not break the rules of me--at MY TIENDA! Look! I have

made the rule that I shall not have a caballero drunk at my house; I

have made the rule that I shall not sell him the aguardiente when he

have too mooch. I have made the rule that when he gamble too mooch, when

he put up too mooch money, I say 'No!' I will not that he shall! I make

one more rule: that he shall not quarrel nor fight in my house. When he

quarrel and fight, I say 'Go! Vamos! Get out!'”

“And very good rules they are too, Miss Mendez.”

Jovita fixed her shining black eyes on the smiling Parks. “And when he

say, 'No, nevarre, damn the rules!' When he come drunk, remain drunk,

play high and fight, YOU will not poonish him? YOU will not take him

out?”

“Well, you see, the fact is, I have not the power.”

“Are you not the Alcalde?”

“No. There is a Justice of the Peace at Fiddletown, but even he could

do nothing to enforce your rules. But if anything should happen, you can

make a complaint to him.”

“Bueno. You have not the power; I have. I make not the complaint to

Fiddletown. I make the complaint to Jose Perez, to Manuel, to Antonio,

to Sanchicha--she is a strong one! I say 'Chook him out.' They chook him

out! they remove him! He does not r-r-remain. Enough. Bueno. Gracias,

senor, good-a-by!”

She was gone. For the next four days Parks was in a state of some

anxiety--but it appeared unnecessarily so. Whether the interview had

become known along the river did not transpire, but there seemed to be

no reason for Miss Mendez to enforce her rules. It was said that once,

when Thompson of Angels was a little too noisy, he had been quietly

conducted by his friends from the tienda without the intervention of

Jose. The frequenters of the saloon became its police.

Yet the event--long protracted--came at last! It was a dry, feverish,

breezeless afternoon, when the short, echoless explosion of a revolver

puffed out on the river, followed by another, delivered so rapidly that

they seemed rolled into one. There was no mistaking that significant

repetition. ONE shot might have been an accident; TWO meant intention.

The men dropped their picks and shovels and ran--ran as they never

before ran in Buckeye--ran mechanically, blindly groping at their belts

and pockets for the weapons that hung there no longer; ran aimlessly,

as to purpose, but following instinctively with hurried breath and

quivering nostrils the cruel scent of powder and blood. Ran

until, reaching the tienda, the foremost stumbled over the body of

Shuttleworth; came upon the half-sitting, half-leaning figure of

Saunders against its adobe wall! The doors were barred and closed, and

even as the crowd charged furiously forward, a window was sharply shut

above, in their very face.

“Stand back, gentlemen! Lift him up. What's the row? What is it,

Saunders? Who did it? Speak, man!”

But Saunders, who was still supporting himself against the wall, only

looked at them with a singular and half-apologetic smile, and then

leaned forward as if to catch the eye of Shuttleworth, who was

recovering consciousness in the uplifted arms of his companions. But

neither spoke.

“It's some d----d Greaser inside!” said Thompson, with sudden ferocity.

“Some of her cursed crew! Break down the doors, boys!”

“Stop!”

It was the voice of Shuttleworth, speaking with an effort. He was

hard hit, somewhere in the groin; pain and blood were coming with

consciousness and movement, and his face was ghastly. Yet there was

the same singular smile of embarrassment which Saunders had worn, and a

touch of invincible disgust in his voice as he stammered quickly, “Don't

be d----d fools! It's no one in THERE. It's only me and HIM! He'll tell

you that. Won't you, Saunders?”

“Yes,” said Saunders, leaning anxiously forward, with a brightening

face. “D--n it all--can't you see? It's only--only us.”

“You and me, that's all,” repeated Shuttleworth, with a feverish laugh.

“Only our d----d foolishness! Think of it, boys! He gave me the lie, and

I drew!”

“Both of us full, you know--reg'lar beasts,” said Saunders, sinking back

against the wall. “Kick me, somebody, and finish me off.”

“I don't see any weapons here,” said Brace gravely, examining the

ground.

“They're inside,” said Shuttleworth with tremulous haste. “We began it

in there--just like hogs, you know! Didn't we, Saunders?” bitterly.

“You bet,” said Saunders faintly. “Reg'lar swine.”

Parks looked graver still, and as he passed a handkerchief around the

wounded man's thigh, said: “But I don't see where you got your pistols,

and how you got out here.”

“Clinched, you know; sorter rolled over out here--and--and--oh, d--n

it--don't talk!”

“He means,” said Shuttleworth still feebly, “that we--we--grabbed

ANOTHER MAN'S six-shooter and--and--he that is--and they--he--he and

me grabbed each other, and--don't you see--?” but here, becoming more

involved and much weaker, he discreetly fainted away.

And that was all Buckeye ever knew of the affair! For they refused

to speak of it again, and Dr. Duchesne gravely forbade any further

interrogation. Both men's revolvers were found undischarged in their

holsters, hanging in their respective cabins. The balls which were

afterwards extracted from the two men singularly disappeared; Dr.

Duchesne asserting with a grim smile that they had swallowed them.*

* It was a frontier superstition that the ball extracted

from a gunshot wound, if swallowed by the wounded man,

prevented inflammation or any supervening complications.

Nothing could be ascertained of the facts at the tienda, which at

that hour of the day appeared to have been empty of customers, and was

occupied only by Miss Mendez and her retainers. All surmises as to the

real cause of the quarrel and the reason for the reticence of the two

belligerents were suddenly and unexpectedly stopped by their departure

from Buckeye as soon as their condition permitted, on the alleged

opinion of Dr. Duchesne that the air of the river was dangerous to their

convalescence. The momentary indignation against the tienda which the

two combatants had checked, eventually subsided altogether. After all,

the fight had taken place OUTSIDE; it was not even proven that

the provocation had been given AT the tienda! Its popularity was

undiminished.

PART III.

It was the end of the rainy season, and a wet night. Brace and Parks

were looking from the window over the swollen river, with faces quite as

troubled as the stream below. Nor was the prospect any longer the same.

In the past two years Buckeye had grown into a city. They could now

count a half dozen church spires from the window of the three-storied

brick building which had taken the place of the old wooden Emporium, but

they could also count the brilliantly lit windows of an equal number of

saloons and gambling-houses which glittered through the rain, or, to

use the words of a local critic, “Shone seven nights in the week to the

Gospel shops' ONE!” A difficulty had arisen which the two men had never

dreamed of, and a struggle had taken place between the two rival powers,

which was developing a degree of virulence and intolerance on both sides

that boded no good to Buckeye. The disease which its infancy had escaped

had attacked its adult growth with greater violence. The new American

saloons which competed with Jovita Mendez' Spanish venture had

substituted a brutal masculine sincerity for her veiled feminine

methods. There was higher play, deeper drinking, darker passion. Yet the

opposition, after the fashion of most reformers, were casting back to

the origin of the trouble in Jovita, and were confounding principles

and growth. “If it had not been for her the rule would never have been

broken.” “If there was to be a cleaning out of the gambling houses, she

must go first!”

The sounds of a harp and a violin played in the nearest saloon struggled

up to them with the opening and shutting of its swinging baize inner

doors. There was boisterous chanting from certain belated revelers in

the next street which had no such remission. The brawling of the stream

below seemed to be echoed in the uneasy streets; the quiet of the old

days had departed with the sedate, encompassing woods that no longer

fringed the river bank; the restful calm of Nature had receded before

the dusty outskirts of the town.

“It's mighty unfortunate, too,” said Brace moodily, “that Shuttleworth

and Saunders, who haven't been in the place since their row, have come

over from Fiddletown to-day, and are banging around town. They haven't

said anything that I know of, but their PRESENCE is quite enough to

revive the old feeling against her shop. The Committee,” he added

bitterly, “will be sure to say that not only the first gambling, but the

first shooting in Buckeye took place there. If they get up that story

again--no matter how quiet SHE has become since--no matter what YOU may

say as mayor--it will go hard with her. What's that now?”

They listened breathlessly. Above the brawling of the river, the

twanging of the harp-player, and the receding shouts of the revelers,

they could hear the hollow wooden sidewalks resounding with the dull,

monotonous trampling of closely following feet. Parks rose with a white

face.

“Brace!”

“Yes!”

“Will you stand by me--and HER?”

“Stand by YOU AND HER? Eh? What? Good God! Parks!--you don't mean to say

you--it's gone as far as THAT?”

“Will you or won't you?”

The sound of the trampling had changed to a shuffling on the pavement

below, and then footsteps began to ascend the stairs.

Brace held out his hand quickly and grasped that of Parks as the door

opened to half a dozen men. They were evidently the ringleaders of

the crowd below. There was no hesitation or doubt in their manner;

the unswerving directness which always characterized those illegal

demonstrations lent it something of dignity. Nevertheless, Carpenter,

the spokesman, flushed slightly before Parks' white, determined face.

“Come, Parks, you know what we're after,” he said bluntly. “We didn't

come here to parley. We knew YOUR sentiments and what YOU think is your

duty. We know what we consider OURS--and so do you. But we're here to

give you a chance, either as mayor, or, if you prefer it, as the oldest

citizen here, to take a hand in our business to-night. We're not ashamed

of what we're going to do, and we're willing to abide by it; so there's

no reason why we shouldn't speak aboveboard of it to you. We even invite

you to take part in our last 'call' tonight at the Hall.”

“Go!” whispered Brace quickly, “YOU'LL GAIN TIME!”

Parks' face changed, and he turned to Carpenter. “Enough,” he said

gravely. “I reserve what I have to say of these proceedings till I

join you there.” He stopped, whispered a few words to Brace, and then

disappeared as the men descended the stairs, and, joining the crowd

on the pavement, proceeded silently towards the Town Hall. There was

nothing in the appearance of that decorous procession to indicate its

unlawful character or the recklessness with which it was charged.

There were thirty or forty men already seated in the Hall. The meeting

was brief and to the point. The gambling saloons were to be “cleaned

out” that night, the tables and appliances thrown into the street and

burnt, the doors closed, and the gamblers were to be conducted to the

outskirts of the town and forbidden to enter it again on pain of death.

“Does this yer refer to Jovita Mendez' saloon?” asked a voice.

To their surprise the voice was not Parks' but Shuttleworth's. It was

also a matter to be noted that he stood a little forward of the crowd,

and that there was a corresponding movement of a dozen or more men from

Fiddletown who apparently were part of the meeting.

The chairman (No. 10) said there was to be no exception, and certainly

not for the originator of disorder in Buckeye! He was surprised that the

question should be asked by No. 72, who was an old resident of Buckeye,

and who, with No. 73, had suffered from the character of that woman's

saloon.

“That's jest it,” said Shuttleworth, “and ez I reckon that SAUNDERS AND

ME did all the disorder there was, and had to turn ourselves out o'

town on account of it, I don't see jest where SHE could come into this

affair. Only,” he turned and looked around him, “in one way! And that

way, gentlemen, would be for her to come here and boot one half o' this

kempany out o' town, and shoot the other half! You hear me!--that's so!”

He stopped, tugged a moment at his cravat and loosened his shirt-collar

as if it impeded his utterance, and went on. “I've got to say suthin'

to you gentlemen about me and Saunders and this woman; I've got to

say suthin' that's hard for a white man to say, and him a married man,

too--I've got to say that me and Saunders never had no QU'OLL, never had

NO FIGHT at her shop: I've got to say that me and Saunders got shot by

Jovita Mendez for INSULTIN' HER--for tryin' to treat her as if she was

the common dirt of the turnpike--and served us right! I've got to say

that Saunders and me made a bet that for all her airs she wasn't no

better than she might be, and we went there drunk to try her--and that

we got left, with two shots into us like hounds as we were! That's

so!--wasn't it, Saunders?”

“With two shots inter us like hounds ez we were,” repeated Saunders with

deliberate precision.

“And I've got to say suthin' more, gen'lemen,” continued Shuttleworth,

now entirely removing his coat and vest, and apparently shaking himself

free from any extraneous trammels. “I've got to say this--I've got to

say that thar ain't a man in Buckeye, from Dirty Dick over yon to the

mayor of this town, ez hasn't tried the same thing on and got left--got

left, without shootin' maybe, more's the pity, but got left all the

same! And I've got to say,” lifting his voice, “THAT EF THAT'S WHAT YOU

CALL DISORDERLINESS IN HER--if that's what yo'r turnin' this woman out

o' town for--why”--

He stopped, absolutely breathless and gasping. For there was a momentary

shock of surprise and shame, and then he was overborne by peal after

peal of inextinguishable laughter. But it was the laughter that

precipitated doubt, enlightened justice, cleared confusion, and--saved

them!

In vain a few struggled to remind them that the question of the OTHER

saloons was still unaffected. It was lost in the motion enthusiastically

put and carried that the Committee should instantly accompany Saunders

and Shuttleworth to Jovita's saloon to make an apology in their

presence. Five minutes later they halted hilariously before its door.

But it was closed, dark, and silent!

Their sudden onset and alarm brought Sanchicha to the half-opened door.

“Ah, yes! the Senorita? Bueno! She had just left for Fiddletown with

the Senor Parks, the honorable mayor. They had been married only a few

moments before by the Reverend Mr. McCorkle!”

THEIR UNCLE FROM CALIFORNIA.

PART I.

It was bitterly cold. When night fell over Lakeville, Wisconsin, the

sunset, which had flickered rather than glowed in the western sky, took

upon itself a still more boreal tremulousness, until at last it seemed

to fade away in cold blue shivers to the zenith. Nothing else stirred;

in the crisp still air the evening smoke of chimneys rose threadlike

and vanished. The stars were early, pale, and pitiless; when the later

moonlight fell, it appeared only to whiten the stiffened earth like

snow, except where it made a dull, pewter-like film over the three

frozen lakes which encompassed the town.

The site of the town itself was rarely beautiful, and its pioneers

and founders had carried out the suggestions they had found there with

loving taste and intelligence.

Themselves old voyageurs, trappers, and traders, they still loved Nature

too well to exclude her from the restful homes they had achieved after

years of toiling face to face with her. So a strip of primeval forest on

the one side, and rolling level prairie on the other, still came up to

the base of the hill, whereon they had built certain solid houses, which

a second generation had beautified and improved with modern taste,

but which still retained their old honesty of foundation and wholesome

rustic space. These yet stood among the old trees, military squares,

and broad sloping avenues of the town. Seen from the railway by day, the

regularity of streets and blocks was hidden by environing trees; there

remained only a picturesque lifting of rustic gardens, brown roofs,

gables, spires, and cupolas above the mirroring lake: seen from the

railway this bitter night, the invisible terraces and streets were now

pricked out by symmetrical lines and curves of sparkling lights, which

glittered through the leafless boughs and seemed to encircle the hill

like a diadem.

Central in the chiefest square, and yet preserving its old lordly

isolation in a wooded garden, the homestead of Enoch Lane stood with all

its modern additions and improvements. Already these included not only

the latest phases of decoration, but various treasures brought by the

second generation from Europe, which they were wont to visit, but from

which they always contentedly returned to their little provincial town.

Whether there was some instinctive yearning, like the stirred sap of

great forests, in their wholesome pioneer blood, or whether there was

some occult fascination in the pretty town-crested hill itself, it was

still certain that the richest inhabitants always preferred to live in

Lakeville. Even the young, who left it to seek their fortune elsewhere,

came back to enjoy their success under the sylvan vaults of this vast

ancestral roof. And that was why, this 22d of December, 1870, the whole

household of Gabriel Lane was awaiting the arrival from California of

his brother, Sylvester Lane, at the old homestead which he had left

twenty years ago.

“And you don't know how he looks?” said Kitty Lane to her father.

“I do, perfectly; rather chubby, with blue eyes, curly hair, fair skin,

and blushes when you speak to him.”

“Papa!”

“Eh?--Oh, well, he USED to. You see that was twenty-five years ago, when

he left here for boarding-school. He ran away from there, as I told you;

went to sea, and finally brought up at San Francisco.”

“And you haven't had any picture, or photograph of him, since?”

“No--that is--I say!--you haven't, any of you, got a picture of

Sylvester, have you?” he turned in a vague parenthetical appeal to the

company of relatives and friends collected in the drawing-room after

dinner.

“Cousin Jane has; she knows all about him!”

But it appeared that Cousin Jane had only heard Susan Marckland say

that Edward Bingham had told her that he was in California when

“Uncle Sylvester” had been nearly hanged by a Vigilance Committee for

protecting a horse thief or a gambler, or some such person. This was

felt to be ineffective as a personal description.

“He's sure to wear a big beard; they all do when they first come back,”

said Amos Gunn, with metropolitan oraculousness.

“He has a big curling mustache, long silken hair, and broad shoulders,”

said Marie du Page.

There was such piquant conviction in the manner of the speaker, who was

also a very pretty girl, that they all turned towards her, and Kitty

quickly said,--

“But YOU'VE never seen him?”

“No--but--” She stopped, and, lifting one shoulder, threw her spirited

head sideways, in a pretty deprecatory way, with elevated eyebrows and

an expression intended to show the otherwise untranslatable character of

her impression. But it showed quite as pleasantly the other fact, that

she was the daughter of a foreigner, an old French military explorer,

and that she had retained even in Anglo-Saxon Lakeville some of the

Gallic animation.

“Well, how many of you girls are going with me to meet him at the

station?” said Gabriel, dismissing with masculine promptness the lesser

question. “It's time to be off.”

“I'd like to go,” said Kitty, “and so would Cousin Jane; but really,

papa, you see if YOU don't know him, and WE don't either, and you've got

to satisfy yourself that it's the right man, and then introduce YOURSELF

and then us--and all this on the platform before everybody--it makes it

rather embarrassing for us. And then, as he's your younger brother and

we're supposed to be his affectionate nieces, you know, it would make

HIM feel SO ridiculous!”

“And if he were to KISS you,” said Marie tragically, “and then turn out

not to be him!”

“So,” continued Kitty, “you'd better take Cousin John, who was more in

Uncle Sylvester's time, to represent the Past of the family, and perhaps

Mr. Gunn”--

“To represent the future, I suppose?” interrupted Gabriel in a wicked

whisper.

“To represent a name that most men of the world in New York and

San Francisco know,” went on Kitty, without a blush. “It would make

recognition and introduction easier. And take an extra fur with you,

dear--not for HIM but for yourself. I suppose he's lived so much in the

open air as to laugh at our coddling.”

“I don't know about that,” said her father thoughtfully; “the last

telegram I have from him, en route, says he's half frozen, and wants a

close carriage sent to the station.”

“Of course,” said Marie impatiently, “you forget the poor creature comes

from burning canyons and hot golden sands and perpetual sunshine.”

“Very well; but come along, Marie, and see how I've prepared his room,”

and as her father left the drawing-room Kitty carried off her old

schoolfellow upstairs.

The room selected for the coming Sylvester had been one of the elaborate

guest-chambers, but was now stripped of its more luxurious furniture and

arranged with picturesque yet rural extravagance. A few rare buffalo,

bear, and panther skins were disposed over the bare floor, and even

displayed gracefully over some elaborately rustic chairs. The

handsome French bedstead had been displaced for a small wrought-iron

ascetic-looking couch covered with a gorgeously striped Mexican blanket.

The fireplace had been dismantled of its steel grate, and the hearth

extended so as to allow a pile of symmetrically heaped moss-covered

hickory logs to take its place. The walls were covered with trophies

of the chase, buck-horns and deer-heads, and a number of Indian arrows

stood in a sheaf in the corners beside a few modern guns and rifles.

“Perfectly lovely,” said Marie, “but”--with a slight shiver of her

expressive shoulders--“a little cold and outdoorish, eh?”

“Nonsense,” returned Kitty dictatorially, “and if he IS cold, he can

easily light those logs. They always build their open fires under a

tree. Why, even Mr. Gunn used to do that when he was camping out in

the Adirondacks last summer. I call it perfectly comfortable and SO

natural.” Nevertheless, they had both tucked their chilly hands under

the fleecy shawls they had snatched from the hall for this hyperborean

expedition.

“You have taken much pains for him, Kaitee,” said Marie, with her

faintest foreign intonation. “You will like this strange uncle--you?”

“He is a wonderful man, Marie; he's been everywhere, seen everything,

and done everything out there. He's fought duels, been captured by

Indians and tied to a stake to be tortured. He's been leader of a

Vigilance Committee, and they say that he has often shot and killed men

himself. I'm afraid he's been rather wicked, you know. He's lived alone

in the woods like a hermit without seeing a soul, and then, again, he's

been a chief among the Indians, with Heaven knows how many Indian wives!

They called him 'The Pale-faced Thunderbolt,' my dear, and 'The Young

Man who Swallows the Lightning,' or something like that.”

“And what can he want here?” asked Marie.

“To see us, my dear,” said Kitty loftily; “and then, too, he has to

settle something about HIS share of the property; for you know grandpa

left a share of it to him. Not that he's ever bothered himself about it,

for he's rich,--a kind of Monte Cristo, you know,--with a gold mine and

an island off the coast, to say nothing of a whole county that he owns,

that is called after him, and millions of wild cattle that he rides

among and lassos! It's dreadfully hard to do. You know you take a long

rope with a slipknot, and you throw it around your head so, and”--

“Hark!” said Marie, with a dramatic start, and her finger on her small

mouth, “he comes!”

There was the clear roll of wheels along the smooth, frozen carriage

sweep towards the house, the sharp crisp click of hoofs on stone, the

opening of heavy doors, the sudden sparkling invasion of frigid air, the

uplifting of voices in greeting,--but all familiar! There were Gabriel

Lane's cheery, hopeful tones, the soprano of Cousin Jane and Cousin

Emma, the baritone of Mr. Gunn, and the grave measured oratorical

utterance of Parson Dexter, who had joined the party at the station; but

certainly the accents of no STRANGER. Had he come? Yes, for his name

was just then called, and the quick ear of Marie had detected a light,

lounging, alien footstep cross the cold strip of marble vestibule. The

two girls exchanged a rapid glance; each looked into the mirror, and

then interrogatively at the other, nodded their heads affirmatively, and

descended to the drawing-room. A group had already drawn round the fire,

and a small central figure, who, with its back turned towards them,

was still enwrapped in an enormous overcoat of rich fur, was engaged in

presenting an alternate small varnished leather boot to the warmth of

the grate. As they entered the room the heavy fur was yielded up with

apparent reluctance, and revealed to the astonished girls a man of

ordinary stature with a slight and elegant figure set off by a traveling

suit of irreproachable cut. His light reddish-yellow hair, mustache,

and sunburned cheek, which seemed all of one color and outline, made it

impossible to detect the gray of the one or the hollowness of the other,

and gave no indication of his age. Yet there was clearly no mistake.

Here was Gabriel Lane seizing their nervously cold fingers and

presenting them to their “Uncle Sylvester.”

Far from attempting to kiss Kitty, the stranger for an instant seemed

oblivious of the little hand she offered him in the half-preoccupied

bow he gave her. But Marie was not so easily passed over, and, with her

audacious face challenging his, he abstractedly imparted to the shake of

her hand something of the fervor that he should have shown his relative.

And, then, still warming his feet on the fender, he seemed to have

forgotten them both.

“Accustomed as you have been, sir,” said the Reverend Mr. Dexter,

seizing upon an awkward silence, and accenting it laboriously, “perhaps

I should say INURED as you have been to the exciting and stirring

incidents of a lawless and adventurous community, you doubtless find

in a pastoral, yet cultivated and refined, seclusion like Lakeville a

degree of”--

“Oh, several degrees,” said Uncle Sylvester, blandly flicking bits

of buffalo hair from his well-fitting trousers; “it's colder, you

know--much colder.”

“I was referring to a less material contrast,” continued Mr. Dexter,

with a resigned smile; “yet, as to the mere question of cold, I am

told, sir, that in California there are certain severe regions of

altitude--although the mean temperature”--

“I suppose out in California you fellows would say our temperature was a

darned sight MEANER, eh?” broke in Amos Gunn, with a confidential

glance at the others, as if offering a humorous diversion suited to

the Californian taste. Uncle Sylvester did not, however, smile. Gazing

critically at Gunn, he said thoughtfully: “I think not; I've even known

men killed for saying less than that,” and turned to the clergyman. “You

are quite right; some of the higher passes are very cold. I was lost in

one of them in '56 with a small party. We were seventy miles from

any settlement, we had had nothing to eat for thirty-six hours; our

campfire, melting the snow, sank twelve feet below the surface.” The

circle closed eagerly around him, Marie, Kitty, and Cousin Jane pressing

forward with excited faces; even the clergyman assumed an expression of

profound interest. “A man by the name of Thompson, I think,” continued

Uncle Sylvester, thoughtfully gazing at the fire, “was frozen a few

yards away. Towards morning, having been fifty-eight hours without

food, our last drop of whiskey exhausted, and the fire extinguished, we

found”--

“Yes, yes!” said half a dozen voices.

“We found,” continued Uncle Sylvester, rubbing his hands cheerfully, “we

found it--exceedingly cold. Yes--EXCEEDINGLY cold!”

There was a dead silence.

“But you escaped!” said Kitty breathlessly.

“I think so. I think we all escaped--that is, except Thompson, if

his name WAS Thompson; it might have been Parker,” continued Uncle

Sylvester, gazing with a certain languid astonishment on the eager faces

around him.

“But HOW did you escape?”

“Oh, somehow! I don't remember exactly. I don't think,” he went on

reflectively, “that we had to eat Thompson--if it was HIM--at least not

then. No”--with a faint effort of recollection--“that would have been

another affair. Yes,” assuringly to the eager, frightened eyes of Cousin

Jane, “you are quite right, that was something altogether different.

Dear me; one quite mixes up these things. Eh?”

A servant had entered, and after a hurried colloquy with Gabriel, the

latter turned to Uncle Sylvester--

“Excuse me, but I think there must be some mistake! We brought up your

luggage with you--two trunks--in the station wagon. A man has just

arrived with three more, which he says are yours.”

“There should be five in all, I think,” said Uncle Sylvester

thoughtfully.

“Maybe there are, sir, I didn't count exactly,” said the servant.

“All right,” said Uncle Sylvester cheerfully, turning to his brother.

“You can put them in my room or on the landing, except two marked 'L' in

a triangle. They contain some things I picked up for you and the girls.

We'll look them over in the morning. And, if you don't mind, I'll excuse

myself now and go to bed.”

“But it's only half past ten,” said Gabriel remonstratingly. “You don't,

surely, go to bed at half past ten?”

“I do when I travel. Travel is SO exhausting. Good-night! Don't let

anybody disturb themselves to come with me.”

He bowed languidly to the company, and disappeared with a yawn

gracefully disguised into a parting smile.

“Well!” said Cousin Jane, drawing a long breath.

“I don't believe it's your Uncle Sylvester at all!” said Marie

vivaciously. “It's some trick that Gabriel is playing upon us. And he's

not even a good actor--he forgets his part.”

“And, then, five trunks for one single man! Heavens! what can he have in

them” said Cousin Emma.

“Perhaps his confederates, to spring out upon us at night, after

everybody's asleep.”

“Are you sure you remembered him, papa?” said Kitty sotto voce.

“Certainly. And, my dear child, he knows all the family history as well

as you do; and”--continued her father with a slight laugh that did not,

however, conceal a certain seriousness that was new to him--“I only wish

I understood as much about the property as he does. By the way, Amos,”

he broke off suddenly, turning to the young man, “he seemed to know your

people.”

“Most men in the financial world do,” said Gunn a little superciliously.

“Yes; but he asked me if you hadn't a relative of some kind in Southern

California or Mexico.”

A slight flush--so slight that only the keen, vivaciously observant eyes

of Marie noticed it--passed over the young man's face.

“I believe it is a known fact that our branch of the family never

emigrated from their native town,” he said emphatically. “The Gunns were

rather peculiar and particular in that respect.”

“Then there were no offshoots from the old STOCK,” said Gabriel.

Nevertheless, this pet joke of Gabriel's did not dissipate the

constraint and disappointment left upon the company by Uncle Sylvester's

unsatisfying performance and early withdrawal, and they separated soon

after, Kitty and Marie being glad to escape upstairs together. On the

landing they met two of the Irish housemaids in a state of agitated

exhaustion. It appeared that the “sthrange gintleman” had requested that

his bed be remade from bedclothes and bedding ALWAYS CARRIED WITH HIM

IN HIS TRUNKS! From their apologetic tone it was evident that he had

liberally rewarded them. “Shure, Miss,” protested Norah, in deprecation

of Kitty's flashing eye, “there's thim that's lived among shnakes and

poysin riptiles and faverous disayses that's particklar av the beds

and sheets they lie on. Hisht! Howly Mother! it's something else he's

wanting now!”

The door of Uncle Sylvester's room had slowly opened, and a blue

pyjama'd sleeve appeared, carefully depositing the sheaf of bows and

arrows outside the door. “I say, Norah, or Bridget there, some of

you take those infernal things away. And look out, will you, for the

arrowheads are deadly poison. The fool who got 'em didn't know they were

African, and not Indian at all! And hold on!” The hand vanished, and

presently reappeared holding two rifles. “And take these away, too!

They're loaded, capped, and NOT on the half-cock! A jar, a fall, the

slightest shock is enough to send them off!”

“I'm dreadfully sorry that you should find it so uncomfortable in our

house, Uncle Sylvester,” said Kitty, with a flushed cheek and vibrating

voice.

“Oh, it's you--is it?” said Uncle Sylvester's voice cheerfully.

“I thought it was Bridget out there. No, I don't intend to find it

uncomfortable. That's why I'm putting these things outside. But, for

Heaven's sake, don't YOU touch them. Leave that to the ineffable ass who

put them there. Good-night!”

The door closed; the whispering voices of the girls faded from the

corridor; the lights were lowered in the central hall, only the red

Cyclopean eye of an enormous columnar stove, like a lighthouse, gleamed

through the darkness. Outside, the silent night sparkled, glistened, and

finally paled. Towards morning, having invested the sturdy wooden outer

walls of the house and filmed with delicate tracery every available

inch of window pane, it seemed stealthily to invade the house itself,

stilling and chilling it as it drew closer around its central heart

of warmth and life. Only once the frigid stillness was broken by the

opening of a door and steps along the corridor. This was preceded by an

acrid smell of burning bark.

It was subtle enough to permeate the upper floor and the bedroom of

Marie du Page, who was that night a light and nervous sleeper. Peering

from her door, she could see, on the lower corridor, the extraordinary

spectacle of Uncle Sylvester, robed in a gorgeous Japanese dressing-gown

of quilted satin trimmed with the fur of the blue fox, candle in hand,

leisurely examining the wall of the passage. Presently, drawing out a

footrule from his pocket, he actually began to measure it! Miss Du

Page saw no more. Hurriedly closing her door, she locked and bolted it,

firmly convinced that Gabriel Lane was harboring in the guise of Uncle

Sylvester a somnambulist, a maniac, or an impostor.

PART II.

“It doesn't seem as if Uncle Sylvester was any the more comfortable

for having his own private bedding with him,” said Kitty Lane, entering

Marie's room early the next morning. “Bridget found him curled up in his

furs like a cat asleep on the drawing-room sofa this morning.”

Marie started; she remembered her last night's vision. But some

instinct--she knew not what--kept her from revealing it at this moment.

She only said a little ironically:--

“Perhaps he missed the wild freedom of his barbaric life in a small

bedroom.”

“No. Bridget says he said something about being smoked out of his room

by a ridiculous wood fire. The idea! As if a man brought up in the woods

couldn't stand a little smoke. No--that's his excuse! Marie!--do you

know what I firmly believe?”

“No,” said Marie quickly.

“I firmly believe that poor man is ashamed of his past rough life,

and does everything he can to forget it. That's why he affects those

ultra-civilized and effeminate ways, and goes to the other extreme, as

people always do.”

“Then you think he's really reformed, and isn't likely to take an

impulse to rob and murder anybody again?”

“Why, Marie, what nonsense!”

Nevertheless, Uncle Sylvester appeared quite fresh and cheerful at

breakfast. It seemed that he had lit the fire before undressing, but

the green logs were piled so far into the room that the smoke nearly

suffocated him. Fearful of alarming the house by letting the smoke

escape through the door, he opened the window, and when it had partly

dispersed, sought refuge himself from the arctic air of his bedroom

in the drawing-room. So far the act did not seem inconsistent with his

sanity, or even intelligence and consideration for others. But Marie

fixed upon him a pair of black, audacious eyes.

“Did you ever walk in your sleep, Mr. Lane?”

“No; but”--thoughtfully breaking an egg--“I have ridden, I think.”

“In your sleep? Oh, do tell us all about it!” said Cousins Jane and Emma

in chorus.

Uncle Sylvester cast a resigned glance out of the window. “Oh,

yes--certainly; it isn't much. You see at one time I was in the habit of

making long monotonous journeys, and they were often exhausting, and,”

he added, becoming wearied as if at the recollection, “always dreadfully

tiresome. As the trail was sometimes very uncertain and dangerous, I

rode a very surefooted mule that could go anywhere where there was space

big enough to set her small hoofs upon. One night I was coming down the

slope of a mountain towards a narrow valley and river that were crossed

by an old, abandoned flume, of which nothing was now left but the

upright trestle-work and long horizontal string-piece. As the trail was

very difficult and the mule's pace was slow, I found myself dozing at

times, and at last I must have fallen asleep. I think I must have been

awakened by a singular regularity in the movement of the mule--or else

it was the monotony of step that had put me to sleep and the cessation

of it awakened me. You see, at first I was not certain that I wasn't

really dreaming. For the trail seemed to have disappeared; the wall of

rock on one side had vanished also, and there appeared to be nothing

ahead of me but the opposite hillside.”

Uncle Sylvester stopped to look out of the window at a passing carriage.

Then he went on. “The moon came out, and I saw what had happened. The

mule, either of her own free will, or obeying some movement I had given

the reins in my sleep, had swerved from the trail, got on top of

the flume, and was actually walking across the valley on the narrow

string-piece, a foot wide, half a mile long, and sixty feet from the

ground. I knew,” he continued, examining his napkin thoughtfully, “that

she was perfectly surefooted, and that if I kept quiet she could make

the passage, but I suddenly remembered that midway there was a break and

gap of twenty feet in the continuous line, and that the string-piece was

too narrow to allow her to turn round and retrace her steps.”

“Good heavens!” said Cousin Jane.

“I beg your pardon?” said Uncle Sylvester politely.

“I only said, 'Good heavens!' Well?” she added impatiently.

“Well?” repeated Uncle Sylvester vaguely. “Oh, that's all. I only wanted

to explain what I meant by saying I had ridden in my sleep.”

“But,” said Cousin Jane, leaning across the table with grim

deliberation and emphasizing each word with the handle of her knife,

“how--did--you--and--that--mule get down?”

“Oh, with slings and ropes, you know--so,” demonstrating by placing his

napkin-ring in a sling made of his napkin.

“And I suppose you carried the slings and ropes with you in your five

trunks!” gasped Cousin Jane.

“No. Fellows on the river brought 'em in the morning. Mighty spry chaps,

those river miners.”

“Very!” said Cousin Jane.

Breakfast over, they were not surprised that their sybaritic guest

excused himself from an inspection of the town in the frigid morning

air, and declined joining a skating party to the lake on the ground that

he could keep warmer indoors with half the exertion. An hour later found

him standing before the fire in Gabriel Lane's study, looking languidly

down on his elder brother.

“Then, as far as I can see,” he said quietly, “you have made ducks and

drakes of your share of the property, and that virtually you are in the

hands of this man Gunn and his father.”

“You're putting it too strongly,” said Gabriel deprecatingly. “In the

first place, my investments with Gunn's firm are by no means failures,

and they only hold as security a mortgage on the forest land below the

hill. It's scarcely worth the money. I would have sold it long ago, but

it had been a fancy of father's to keep it wild land for the sake of old

times and the healthiness of the town.”

“There used to be a log cabin there, where the old man had a habit of

camping out whenever he felt cramped by civilization up here, wasn't

there?” said Uncle Sylvester meditatively.

“Yes,” said Gabriel impatiently; “it's still there--but to return to Mr.

Gunn. He has taken a fancy to Kitty, and even if I could not lift the

mortgage, there's some possibility that the land would still remain in

the family.”

“I think I'll drive over this afternoon and take a look at the old

shanty if this infernal weather lets up.”

“Yes; but just now, my dear Sylvester, let us attend to business. I want

to show you those investments.”

“Oh, certainly; trot 'em out,” said his brother, plucking up a

simulation of interest as he took a seat at the table.

From a drawer of his desk Gabriel brought out a bundle of prospectuses

and laid them before Uncle Sylvester.

A languid smile of recognition lit up the latter's face. “Ah! yes,” he

said, glancing at them. “The old lot: 'Carmelita,' 'Santa Maria,' and

'Preciosa!' Just as I imagined--and yet who'd have thought of seeing

them HERE! A good deal rouged and powdered, Miss Carmelita, since I

first knew you! Considerably bolstered up by miraculous testimony to

your powers, my dear Santa Maria, since the day I found you out, to my

cost! And you too, Preciosa!--a precious lot of money I dropped on you

in the old days!”

“You are joking,” said Gabriel, with an uneasy smile. “You don't mean to

imply that this stock is old and worthless?”

“There isn't a capital in America or Europe where for the last five

years it hasn't been floated with a new character each time. My dear

Gabriel, that stock isn't worth the paper it is printed on.”

“But it is impossible that an experienced financier like Gunn could be

deceived!”

“I'm sorry to hear THAT.”

“Come, Sylvester! confess you've taken a prejudice against Gunn from

your sudden dislike of his son! And what have you against him?”

“I couldn't say exactly,” said Uncle Sylvester reflectively. “It may be

his eyes, or only his cravat! But,” rising cheerfully and placing his

hand lightly on his brother's shoulder, “don't YOU worry yourself about

that stock, old man; I'LL see that somebody else has the worry and you

the cash. And as to the land and--Kitty--well, you hold on to them both

until you find out which the young man is really after.”

“And then?” said Gabriel, with a smile.

“Don't give him either! But, I say, haven't we had enough business this

morning? Let's talk of something else. Who's the French girl?”

“Marie? She's the daughter of Jules du Page--don't you

remember?--father's friend. When Jules died, it was always thought

that father, who had half adopted her as a child, would leave her

some legacy. But you know that father died without making a will, and

that--rich as he was--his actual assets were far less than we had reason

to expect. Kitty, who felt the disappointment as keenly as her friend, I

believe would have divided her own share with her. It's odd, by the way,

that father could have been so deceived in the amount of his capital,

or how he got rid of his money in a way that we knew nothing of. Do you

know, Sylvester, I've sometimes suspected”--

“What?” said Uncle Sylvester suddenly.

The bored languor of his face had abruptly vanished. Every muscle was

alert; his gray eyes glittered.

“That he advanced money to Du Page, who lost it, or that they speculated

together,” returned Gabriel, who, following Uncle Sylvester's voice

only, had not noticed the change of expression.

“That would seem to be a weakness of the Lane family,” said Uncle

Sylvester grimly, with a return of his former carelessness. “But that is

not YOUR own opinion--that's a suggestion of some one else?”

“Well,” said Gabriel, with a laugh and a slight addition of color, “it

WAS Gunn's theory. As a man of the world and a practical financier, you

know.”

“And you've talked with HIM about it?”

“Yes. It was a matter of general wonder years ago.”

“Very likely--but, just now, don't you think we've had enough financial

talk?” said Uncle Sylvester, with a bored contraction of his eyebrows.

“Come,” looking around the room, “you've changed the interior of the old

house.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, just after father's death it was put in the hands

of a local architect or builder, one of father's old friends, but not

a very skillful workman, who made changes while the family were away.

That's why your present bedroom, which was father's old study, had a

slice taken off it to make the corridor larger, and why the big chimney

and hearthstone are still there, although the fireplace is modernized.

That was Flint's stupidity.”

“Whose stupidity?” asked Uncle Sylvester, trimming his nails.

“Flint's--the old architect.”

“Why didn't you make him change it back again?”

“He left Lakeville shortly after, and I brought an architect from St.

Louis after I returned from Europe. But nothing could be done to your

room without taking down the chimney, so it remained as Flint left it.”

“That reminds me, Gabriel, I'm afraid I spoke rather cavalierly to

Kitty, last night, about the arrangements of the room. The fact is, I've

taken a fancy to it, and should like to fit it up myself. Have I your

permission?”

“Certainly, my dear Sylvester.”

“I've some knickknacks in my trunks, and I'll do it at once.”

“As you like.”

“And you'll see that I am not disturbed; and you'll explain it to Kitty,

with my apologies?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'm off.”

Gabriel glanced at his brother with a perplexed smile. Here was the

bored traveler, explorer, gold-seeker, soldier of fortune, actually as

pleased as a girl over the prospect of arranging his room! He called

after him, “Sylvester!”

“Yes.”

“I say, if you could, you know, just try to interest these people

to-night with some of your adventures--something told SERIOUSLY, you

know, as if you really were in earnest--I'd be awfully obliged to you.

The fact is,--you'll excuse me,--but they think you don't come up to

your reputation.”

“They want a story?”

“Yes,--one of your experiences.”

“I'll give them one. Ta-ta!”

For the rest of the day Uncle Sylvester was invisible, although his

active presence in his room was betrayed by the sound of hammering and

moving of furniture. As the remainder of the party were skating on

the lake, this eccentricity was not remarked except by one,--Marie du

Page,--who on pretense of a slight cold had stayed at home. But with her

suspicions of the former night, she had determined to watch the singular

relative of her friend. Added to a natural loyalty to the Lanes, she

was moved by a certain curiosity and fascination towards this

incomprehensible man.

The house was very quiet when she stole out of her room and passed

softly along the corridor; she examined the wall carefully to discover

anything that might have excited the visitor's attention. There were a

few large engravings hanging there; could he have designed to replace

them by some others? Suddenly she was struck with the distinct

conviction that the wall of the corridor did not coincide with the wall

of his room as represented by the line of the door. There was certainly

a space between the two walls unaccounted for. This was undoubtedly what

had attracted HIS attention; but what BUSINESS was it of his?

She reflected that she had seen in the wall of the conservatory an old

closed staircase, now used as shelves for dried herbs and seeds, which

she had been told was the old-time communication between the garden

and Grandfather Lane's study,--the room now occupied by the stranger.

Perhaps it led still farther, and thus accounted for the space.

Determined to satisfy herself, she noiselessly descended to the

conservatory. There, surely, was the staircase,--a narrow flight of

wooden steps encumbered with packages of herbs,--losing itself in upper

darkness. By the aid of a candle she managed to grope and pick her way

up step by step. Then she paused. The staircase had abruptly ended on

the level of the study, now cut off from it by the new partition. She

was in a stifling inclosure, formed by the walls, scarcely eighteen

inches wide. It was made narrower by a singular excrescence on the old

wall, which seemed to have been a bricked closet, now half destroyed

and in ruins. She turned to descend, when a strange sound from Uncle

Sylvester's room struck her ear. It was the sound of tapping on the

floor close to the partition, within a foot of where she was standing.

At the same moment there was a decided movement of the plank of the

flooring beneath the partition: it began to slide slowly, and then was

gradually withdrawn into the room. With prompt presence of mind, she

instantly extinguished her candle and drew herself breathlessly against

the partition.

When the plank was entirely withdrawn, a ray of light slipped through

the opening, revealing the bare rafters of the floor, and a hand and arm

inserted under the partition, groping as if towards the bricked closet.

As the fingers of the exploring hand were widely extended, Marie had no

difficulty in recognizing on one of them a peculiar signet ring which

Uncle Sylvester wore. A swift impulse seized her. To the audacious Marie

impulse and action were the same thing. Bending stealthily over the

aperture, she suddenly snatched the ring from the extended finger. The

hand was quickly withdrawn with a start and uncontrolled exclamation,

and she availed herself of that instant to glide rapidly down the

stairs.

She regained her room stealthily, having the satisfaction a moment later

of hearing Uncle Sylvester's door open and the sound of his footsteps in

the corridor. But he was evidently unable to discover any outer ingress

to the inclosure, or believed the loss of his ring an accident, for he

presently returned. Meantime, what was she to do?

Tell Kitty of her discovery, and show the ring? No--not yet! Oddly

enough, now that she had the ring, taken from his wicked finger in

the very act, she found it as difficult as ever to believe in his

burglarious design. She must wait. The mischief--if there had been

mischief--was done; the breaking in of the bricked closet was, from the

appearance of the ruins, a bygone act. Could it have been some youthful

escapade of Uncle Sylvester's, the scene of which he was revisiting as

criminals are compelled to do? And had there been anything taken from

the closet--or was its destruction a part of the changes in the old

house? How could she find out without asking Kitty? There was one way.

She remembered that Mr. Gunn had once shown a great deal of interest

to Kitty about the old homestead, and even of old Mr. Lane's woodland

cabin. She would ask HIM. It was a friendly act, for Kitty had not of

late been very kind to him.

The opportunity presented itself at dusk, as Mr. Gunn, somewhat

abstracted, stood apart at the drawing-room window. Marie hoped he had

enjoyed himself while skating; her stupid cold had kept her indoors. She

had amused herself rambling about the old homestead; it was such a queer

place, so full of old nooks and corners and unaccountable spaces. Just

the place, she would think, where old treasures might have been stored.

Eh?

Mr. Gunn had not spoken--he had only coughed. But in the darkness his

eyes were fixed angrily on her face. Without observing it, she went on.

She knew he was interested in the old house; she had heard him talk

to Kitty about it: had Kitty ever said anything about some old secret

hoarding place?

No, certainly not! And she was mistaken, he never was interested in

the house! He could not understand what had put that idea in her head!

Unless it was this ridiculous, shady stranger in the guise of an uncle

whom they had got there. It was like his affectation!

“Oh, dear, no,” said Marie, with unmistakable truthfulness, “HE did not

say anything. But,” with sudden inconsistent aggression, “is THAT the

way you speak to Kitty of her uncle?”

Really he didn't know--he was joking only, and he was afraid he must

just now ask her to excuse him. He had received letters that made it

possible that he might be called suddenly to New York at any moment.

Marie stared. It was evident that he had proposed to Kitty and been

rejected! But she was no nearer her discovery.

Nor was there the least revelation in the calm, half-bored, yet

good-humored presence of the wicked uncle at dinner. So indifferent

did he seem, not only to his own villainy but even to the loss it had

entailed, that she had a wild impulse to take the ring from her pocket

and display it on her own finger before him then and there. But the

conviction that he would in some way be equal to the occasion prevented

her. The dinner passed off with some constraint, no doubt emanating from

the conscious Kitty and Gunn. Nevertheless, when they had returned to

the drawing-room, Gabriel rubbed his hands expectantly.

“I prevailed on Sylvester this morning to promise to tell us some of his

experiences--something COMPLETE and satisfactory this time. Eh?”

Uncle Sylvester, warming his cold blood before the fire, looked

momentarily forgetful and--disappointing. Cousins Jane and Emma shrugged

their shoulders.

“Eh,” said Uncle Sylvester absently, “er--er--oh yes! Well” (more

cheerfully), “about what, eh?”

“Let it be,” said Marie pointedly, fixing her black magnetic eyes on the

wicked stranger, “let it be something about the DISCOVERY of gold, or a

buried TREASURE HOARD, or a robbery.”

To her intense disgust Uncle Sylvester, far from being discomfited or

confused, actually looked pleased, and his gray eyes thawed slightly.

“Certainly,” he said. “Well, then! Down on the San Joaquin River there

was an old chap--one of the earliest settlers--in fact, he'd come on

from Oregon before the gold discovery. His name, dear me!”--continued

Uncle Sylvester, with an effort of memory and apparently beginning

already to lose his interest in the story--“was--er--Flint.”

As Uncle Sylvester paused here, Cousin Jane broke in impatiently. “Well,

that's not an uncommon name. There was an old carpenter here in your

father's time who was called Flint.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Sylvester languidly. “But there is, or was, something

uncommon about it--and that's the point of the story, for in the old

time Flint and Gunn were of the same stock.”

“Is this a Californian joke?” said Gunn, with a forced smile on his

flushed face. “If so, spare me, for it's an old one.”

“It's much older HISTORY, Mr. Gunn,” said Uncle Sylvester blandly,

“which I remember from a boy. When the first Flint traded near Sault

Sainte Marie, the Canadian voyageurs literally translated his name into

Pierre a Fusil, and he went by that name always. But when the English

superseded the French in numbers and language the name was literally

translated back again into 'Peter Gunn,' which his descendants bear.”

“A labored form of the old joke,” said Gunn, turning contemptuously

away.

“But the story,” said Cousins Jane and Emma. “The story of the gold

discovery--never mind the names.”

“Excuse me,” said Uncle Sylvester, placing his hand in the breast of his

coat with a delightful exaggeration of offended dignity. “But, doubts

having been cast upon my preliminary statement, I fear I must decline

proceeding further.” Nevertheless, he smiled unblushingly at Miss Du

Page as he followed Gunn from the room.

The next morning those who had noticed the strained relations of Miss

Kitty and Mr. Gunn were not surprised that the latter was recalled on

pressing business to New York by the first train; but it was a matter of

some astonishment to Gabriel Lane and Marie du Page that Uncle Sylvester

should have been up early, and actually accompanied that gentleman

as far as the station! Indeed, the languid explorer and gold-seeker

exhibited remarkable activity, and, clad in a rough tourist suit,

announced, over the breakfast-table, his intention of taking a long

tramp through the woods, which he had not revisited since a boy. To this

end he had even provided himself with a small knapsack, and for once

realized Kitty's ideal of his character.

“Don't go too far,” said Gabriel, “for, although the cold has moderated,

the barometer is falling fast, and there is every appearance of snow.

Take care you are not caught in one of our blizzards.”

“But YOU are all going on the lake to skate!” protested Uncle Sylvester.

“Yes; for the very reason that it may be our last chance; but should it

snow we shall be nearer home than you may be.”

Nevertheless, when it came on to snow, as Gabriel had predicted, the

skating party was by no means so near home as he had imagined. A shrewd

keenness and some stimulating electric condition of the atmosphere had

tempted the young people far out on the lake, and they had ignored the

first fall of fine grayish granulations that swept along the icy surface

like little puffs of dust or smoke. Then the fall grew thicker, the gray

sky contracted, the hurrying flakes, dashed against them by a fierce

northwester, were larger, heavier, and seemed an almost palpable force

that held them back. Their skates, already clogged with drift, were

beginning to be useless. The bare wind-swept spaces were becoming rarer;

they could only stumble on blindly towards the nearest shore. Nor when

they reached it were they yet safe; they could scarcely stand against

the still increasing storm that was fast obliterating the banks and

stretch of meadow beyond. Their only hope of shelter was the range of

woods that joined the hill. Holding hands in single file, the

little party, consisting of Kitty, Marie, and Cousins Jane and

Emma--stout-hearted Gabriel leading and Cousin John bringing up the

rear--at last succeeded in reaching it, and were rejoiced to find

themselves near old Lane's half-ruined cabin. To their added joy and

astonishment, whiffs of whirling smoke were issuing from the crumbling

chimney. They ran to the crazy door, pushed aside its weak fastening,

and found--Uncle Sylvester calmly enjoying a pipe before a blazing fire.

A small pickaxe and crowbar were lying upon a mound of freshly turned

earth beside the chimney, where the rotten flooring had been torn up.

The tumultuous entrance of the skating party required no explanation;

but when congratulations had been exchanged, the wet snow shaken off,

and they had drawn round the fire, curious eyes were cast upon the

solitary occupant and the pile of earth and debris before him.

“I believe,” said Gabriel laughingly, “that you have been so bored here

that you have actually played at gold-hunting for amusement.”

Uncle Sylvester took the pipe from his mouth and nodded.

“It's a common diversion of yours,” said Marie audaciously.

Uncle Sylvester smiled sweetly.

“And have you been successful THIS TIME?” asked Marie.

“I got the color.”

“Eh?”

Uncle Sylvester rose and placed himself with his back to the fire,

gently surveying the assembled group.

“I was interrupted in a story of gold-digging last evening,” he said

blandly. “How far had I got?”

“You were down on the San Joaquin River in the spring of '50, with a

chap named Flint,” chorused Cousins Jane and Emma promptly.

“Ah! yes,” said Uncle Sylvester. “Well, in those days there was a

scarcity of money in the diggings. Gold dust there was in plenty, but no

COIN. You can fancy it was a bother to weigh out a pinch of dust every

time you wanted a drink of whiskey or a pound of flour; but there was

no other legal tender. Pretty soon, however, a lot of gold and silver

pieces found their way into circulation in our camp and the camps around

us. They were foreign--old French and English coins. Here's one of

them that I kept.” He took from his pocket a gold coin and handed it to

Gabriel.

Lane rose to his feet with an exclamation:

“Why, this is like the louis-d'or that grandfather saved through the war

and gave to father.”

Uncle Sylvester took the coin back, placed it in his left eye, like a

monocle, and winked gravely at the company.

“It is the SAME!” he went on quietly. “I was interested, for I had a

good memory, and I remembered that, as a boy, grandfather had shown

me one of those coins and told me he was keeping them for old Jules du

Page, who didn't believe in banks and bank-notes. Well, I traced them to

a trader called Flint, who was shipping gold dust from Stockton to Peter

Gunn & Sons, in New York.”

“To whom?” asked Gabriel quickly.

“Old Gunn--the father of your friend!” said Uncle Sylvester blandly. “We

talked the matter over on our way to the station this morning. Well, to

return. Flint only said that he had got them from a man called Thompson,

who had got them from somebody else in exchange for goods. A year or

two afterwards this same Thompson happened to be frozen up with me in

Starvation Camp. When he thought he was dying he confessed that he had

been bribed by Flint to say what he had said, but that he believed the

coins were stolen. Meantime, Flint had disappeared. Other things claimed

my attention. I had quite forgotten him, until one night, five years

afterwards, I blundered into a deserted mining-camp, by falling asleep

on my mule, who carried me across a broken flume, but--I think I told

you that story already.”

“You never finished it,” said Cousin Jane sharply.

“Let me do so now, then. I was really saved by some Indians, who took me

for a spirit up aloft there in the moonlight and spread the alarm. The

first white man they brought me was a wretched drunkard known to the

boys as 'Old Fusil,' or 'Fusel Oil,' who went into delirium tremens at

the sight of me. Well, who do you suppose he turned out to be? Flint!

Flint played out and ruined! Cast off and discarded by his relations in

New York--the foundation of whose fortunes he had laid by the villainy

they had accepted and condoned. For Flint, as the carpenter of the old

homestead, had discovered the existence of a bricked closet in the wall

of father's study, partitioned it off so that he could break into it

without detection and rifle it at his leisure, and who had thus carried

off that part of grandfather's hoard which father had concealed there.

He knew it could never be missed by the descendants. But, through haste

or ignorance, he DID NOT TOUCH THE PAPERS and documents also hidden

there. And THEY told of the existence of grandfather's second cache, or

hiding-place, beneath this hearth, and were left for me to discover.”

He coolly relit his pipe, fixed his eyes on Marie without apparently

paying attention to the breathless scrutiny of the others, and went on:

“Flint, alias Pierre a Fusil, alias Gunn, died a maniac. I resolved to

test the truth of his story. I came here. I knew the old homestead, as

a boy who had wandered over every part of it, far better than you,

Gabriel, or any one. The elder Gunn had only heard of it through the

criminal disclosure of his relative, and only wished to absorb it

through his son in time, and thus obliterate all trace of Flint's

outrage. I recognized the room perfectly--thanks to our dear Kitty, who

had taken up the carpet, which thus disclosed the loose plank before the

closet that was hidden by the partition. Under pretext of rearranging

the room--for which Kitty will forgive me--I spent the day behind a

locked door, making my way through the partition. There I found the

rifled closet, but the papers intact. They contained a full description

of the sum taken by Flint, and also of a larger sum buried in a cask

beside this chimney. I had just finished unearthing it a few moments

before you came. I had at first hoped to offer it to the family as a

Christmas gift to-morrow, but”--He stopped and sucked slowly at his

pipe.

“We anticipated you,” said Gabriel laughing.

“No,” said Uncle Sylvester coolly. “But because it don't happen to

belong to YOU at all! According to the paper I have in my pocket, which

is about as legal a document as I ever saw, it is father's free gift to

Miss Marie du Page.”

Kitty threw her arms around her white and breathless friend with

a joyful cry, and honest Gabriel's face shone with unselfish

gratification.

“For yourself, my dear Gabriel, you must be satisfied with the fact that

Messrs. Peter Gunn & Sons will take back your wildcat stock at the price

you paid for it. It is the price they pay for their share in this little

transaction, as I had the honor of pointing out to Mr. Gunn on our way

to the station this morning.”

“Then you think that young Mr. Gunn knew that Flint was his relation,

and that he had stolen father's money,” said Kitty, “and that Mr. Gunn

only wanted to”--She stopped, with flashing eyes.

“I think he would have liked to have made an arrangement, my dear,

that would keep the secret and the property in the family,” said Uncle

Sylvester. “But I don't think he suspected the existence of the second

treasure here.”

“And then, sir,” said Cousin Jane, “it appears that all these wretched,

unsatisfactory scraps of stories you were telling us were nothing after

all but”--

“My way of telling THIS one,” said Uncle Sylvester.

As the others were eagerly gathering around the unearthed treasure,

Marie approached him timidly, all her audacity gone, tears in her eyes,

and his ring held hesitatingly between her fingers. “How can I thank

you--and how CAN you ever forgive me?”

“Well,” said Uncle Sylvester, gazing at her critically, “you might keep

the ring to think over it.”

End of Project Gutenberg's Sally Dows and Other Stories, by Bret Harte