SELECTED STORIES OF BRET HARTE
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
MIGGLES
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER
THE IDYL OF RED GULCH
BROWN OF CALAVERAS
HIGH-WATER MARK
A LONELY RIDE
THE MAN OF NO ACCOUNT
MLISS
THE RIGHT EYE OF THE COMMANDER
NOTES BY FLOOD AND FIELD
AN EPISODE OF FIDDLETOWN
BARKER'S LUCK
A YELLOW DOG
A MOTHER OF FIVE
BULGER'S REPUTATION
IN THE TULES
A CONVERT OF THE MISSION
THE INDISCRETION OF ELSBETH
THE DEVOTION OF ENRIQUEZ
INTRODUCTION
The life of Bret Harte divides itself, without adventitious forcing,
into four quite distinct parts. First, we have the precocious boyhood,
with its eager response to the intellectual stimulation of cultured
parents; young Bret Harte assimilated Greek with amazing facility;
devoured voraciously the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, Irving,
Froissart, Cervantes, Fielding; and, with creditable success, attempted
various forms of composition. Then, compelled by economic necessity, he
left school at thirteen, and for three years worked first in a lawyer's
office, and then in a merchant's counting house.
The second period, that of his migration to California, includes all
that is permanently valuable of Harte's literary output. Arriving in
California in 1854, he was, successively, a school-teacher, drug-store
clerk, express messenger, typesetter, and itinerant journalist. He
worked for a while on the NORTHERN CALIFORNIA (from which he was
dismissed for objecting editorially to the contemporary California sport
of murdering Indians), then on the GOLDEN ERA, 1857, where he achieved
his first moderate acclaim. In this latter year he married Anne Griswold
of New York. In 1864 he was given the secretaryship of the California
mint, a virtual sinecure, and he was enabled do a great deal of writing.
The first volume of his poems, THE LOST GALLEON AND OTHER TALES,
CONDENSED NOVELS (much underrated parodies), and THE BOHEMIAN PAPERS
were published in 1867. One year later, THE OVERLAND MONTHLY, which
had aspirations of becoming “the ATLANTIC MONTHLY of the West,” was
established, and Harte was appointed its first editor. For it, he wrote
most of what still remains valid as literature--THE LUCK OF ROARING
CAMP, THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT, PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES,
among others. The combination of Irvingesque romantic glamor and
Dickensian bitter-sweet humor, applied to picturesquely novel material,
with the addition of a trick ending, was fantastically popular. Editors
began to clamor for his stories; the University of California appointed
him Professor of recent literature; and the ATLANTIC MONTHLY offered him
the practically unprecedented sum of $10,000 for exclusive rights to one
year's literary output. Harte's star was, briefly, in the ascendant.
However, Harte had accumulated a number of debts, and his editorial
policies, excellent in themselves, but undiplomatically executed, were
the cause of a series of arguments with the publisher of the OVERLAND
MONTHLY. Fairly assured of profitable pickings in the East, he
left California (permanently, as it proved). The East, however, was
financially unappreciative. Harte wrote an unsuccessful novel and
collaborated with Mark Twain on an unremunerative play. His attempts
to increase his income by lecturing were even less rewarding. From
his departure from California in 1872 to his death thirty years later,
Harte's struggles to regain financial stability were unremitting: and
to these efforts is due the relinquishment of his early ideal of “a
peculiarly characteristic Western American literature.” Henceforth Harte
accepted, as Prof. Hicks remarks, “the role of entertainer, and as an
entertainer he survived for thirty years his death as an artist.”
The final period extends from 1878, when he managed to get himself
appointed consul to Crefeld in Germany, to 1902, when he died of a
throat cancer. He left for Crefeld without his wife or son--perhaps
intending, as his letters indicate, to call them to him when
circumstances allowed; but save for a few years prior to his death, the
separation, for whatever complex of reasons, remained permanent. Harte,
however, continued to provide for them as liberally as he was able. In
Crefeld Harte wrote A LEGEND OF SAMMERSTANDT, VIEWS FROM A GERMAN SPION,
and UNSER KARL. In 1880 he transferred to the more lucrative consulship
of Glasgow, and ROBIN GRAY, a tale of Scottish life, is the product of
his stay there. In 1885 he was dismissed from his consulship, probably
for political reasons, though neglect of duty was charged against him.
He removed to London where he remained, for most part, until his death.
Bret Harte never really knew the life of the mining camp. His mining
experiences were too fragmentary, and consequently his portraits of
mining life are wholly impressionistic. “No one,” Mark Twain wrote,
“can talk the quartz dialect correctly without learning it with pick and
shovel and drill and fuse.” Yet, Twain added elsewhere, “Bret Harte got
his California and his Californians by unconscious absorption, and put
both of them into his tales alive.” That is, perhaps, the final comment.
Much could be urged against Harte's stories: the glamor they throw over
the life they depict is largely fictitious; their pathetic endings
are obviously stylized; their technique is overwhelmingly derivative.
Nevertheless, so excellent a critic as Chesterton maintained that “There
are more than nine hundred and ninety-nine excellent reasons which
we could all have for admiring the work of Bret Harte.” The figure is
perhaps exaggerated, but there are many reasons for admiration. First,
Harte originated a new and incalculably influential type of story: the
romantically picturesque “human-interest” story. “He created the local
color story,” Prof. Blankenship remarks, “or at least popularized
it, and he gave new form and intent to the short story.” Character
motivating action is central to this type of story, rather than mood
dominating incident. Again Harte's style is really an eminently skilful
one, admirably suited to his subjects. He can manage the humorous or the
pathetic excellently, and his restraint in each is more remarkable than
his excesses. His sentences have both force and flow; his backgrounds
are crisply but carefully sketched; his characters and caricatures have
their own logical consistency. Finally, granted the desirability of the
theatric finale, it is necessary to admit that Harte always rings down
his curtain dramatically and effectively.
ARTHUR ZEIGER, M.A.
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight,
for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire
settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but “Tuttle's
grocery” had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered,
calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot
each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp
was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing.
Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman
was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the
camp,--“Cherokee Sal.”
Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is to
be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only woman
in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when she
most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, and
irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear
even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in her
loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolation
which must have made the punishment of the first transgression so
dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at a
moment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive tenderness and care, she
met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet
a few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy
Tipton thought it was “rough on Sal,” and, in the contemplation of her
condition, for a moment rose superior to the fact that he had an ace and
two bowers in his sleeve.
It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no
means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had
been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility of
return; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced AB
INITIO. Hence the excitement.
“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a prominent citizen known as “Kentuck,”
addressing one of the loungers. “Go in there, and see what you kin do.
You've had experience in them things.”
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes,
had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to
some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city of
refuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, and
Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on the
extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked
its pipe, and awaited the issue.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these
were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were
reckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives
and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion
of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and
intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous
man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an
embarrassed, timid manner. The term “roughs” applied to them was a
distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of
fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but
these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The
strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had
but one eye.
Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around
the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and a
river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill that
faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman
might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,--seen it winding
like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.
A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. By
degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely
offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that “Sal would
get through with it;” even that the child would survive; side bets as
to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an
excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and
the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines,
the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire rose a sharp,
querulous cry,--a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp. The
pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to
crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.
The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a
barrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of the
mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were
discharged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some
other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had
climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so
passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not think
that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as
to the fate of the child. “Can he live now?” was asked of Stumpy. The
answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sex
and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some
conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less
problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and
apparently as successful.
When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the
door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed
themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or
shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below
the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed,
and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at
Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was
soon indicated. “Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of
authority and EX OFFICIO complacency,--“gentlemen will please pass in
at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them as
wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat handy.”
The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he
looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In
such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession
filed in comments were audible,--criticisms addressed perhaps rather
to Stumpy in the character of showman; “Is that him?” “Mighty small
specimen;” “Has n't more 'n got the color;” “Ain't bigger nor a
derringer.” The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobacco
box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold specimen; a
very beautifully embroidered lady's handkerchief (from Oakhurst the
gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin,
with the remark from the giver that he “saw that pin and went two
diamonds better”); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not detected); a
golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were not
the giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a Bank of England
note for 5 pounds; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During
these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the dead
on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on his
right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curious
procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, the
child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at his groping finger,
and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed.
Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten
cheek. “The damned little cuss!” he said, as he extricated his finger,
with perhaps more tenderness and care than he might have been deemed
capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows
as he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the
same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed to
enjoy repeating it. “He rastled with my finger,” he remarked to Tipton,
holding up the member, “the damned little cuss!”
It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the
cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night.
Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his
experience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation of
the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication of
sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When
everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and
whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin,
still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree he
paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway down
to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked at
the door. It was opened by Stumpy. “How goes it?” said Kentuck, looking
past Stumpy toward the candle-box. “All serene!” replied Stumpy.
“Anything up?” “Nothing.” There was a pause--an embarrassing one--Stumpy
still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which
he held up to Stumpy. “Rastled with it,--the damned little cuss,” he
said, and retired.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp
afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was
a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her
infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an
animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providing
for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the argument
partook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussions
were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should
send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty miles,--where female
attention could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with fierce
and unanimous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed
parting from their new acquisition would for a moment be entertained.
“Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and
ring in somebody else on us.” A disbelief in the honesty of other camps
prevailed at Roaring Camp, as in other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection.
It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring
Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that “they didn't want any more
of the other kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as
it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the first symptom of the
camp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain
delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in
office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and “Jinny”--the
mammal before alluded to--could manage to rear the child. There was
something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased
the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to
Sacramento. “Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dust
into the expressman's hand, “the best that can be got,--lace, you know,
and filigree-work and frills,--damn the cost!”
Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of
the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature
took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the
Sierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal
cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found food and
nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk to lime
and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter
and good nursing. “Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been father and
mother to him! Don't you,” he would add, apostrophizing the helpless
bundle before him, “never go back on us.”
By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became
apparent. He had generally been known as “The Kid,” “Stumpy's Boy,”
“The Coyote” (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck's
endearing diminutive of “The damned little cuss.” But these were felt
to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another
influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and
Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought “the luck” to
Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful.
“Luck” was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater
convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was
unknown. “It's better,” said the philosophical Oakhurst, “to take a
fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair.” A day was
accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by this
ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of
the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies
was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise the
greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent two days
in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local
allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand
godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove with music
and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar,
Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. “It ain't my style to spoil
fun, boys,” said the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him,
“but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It's
playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that
he ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be any godfathers
round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me.” A silence
followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all humorists be it said that
the first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus stopped
of his fun. “But,” said Stumpy, quickly following up his advantage,
“we're here for a christening, and we'll have it. I proclaim you Thomas
Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the State of
California, so help me God.” It was the first time that the name of the
Deity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the camp. The form
of christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had
conceived; but strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed.
“Tommy” was christened as seriously as he would have been under a
Christian roof and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.
And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost
imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to
“Tommy Luck”--or “The Luck,” as he was more frequently called--first
showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and
whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rose wood
cradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy's way of putting it,
“sorter killed the rest of the furniture.” So the rehabilitation of the
cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of lounging
in at Stumpy's to see “how 'The Luck' got on” seemed to appreciate
the change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of “Tuttle's
grocery” bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. The
reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to
produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed a
kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and privilege of
holding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck--who, in the
carelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had
begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake's,
only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred this privilege from
certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of
innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in a
clean shirt and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral
and social sanitary laws neglected. “Tommy,” who was supposed to spend
his whole existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not be
disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had gained the camp
its infelicitous title, were not permitted within hearing distance of
Stumpy's. The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian gravity.
Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout
the camp a popular form of expletive, known as “D--n the luck!” and
“Curse the luck!” was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing.
Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a soothing,
tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung by “Man-o'-War Jack,” an
English sailor from her Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popular
as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of “the
Arethusa, Seventy-four,” in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged
dying fall at the burden of each verse, “On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa.”
It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from side
to side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this naval
ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his
song,--it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious
deliberation to the bitter end,--the lullaby generally had the desired
effect. At such times the men would lie at full length under the trees
in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking in
the melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral
happiness pervaded the camp. “This 'ere kind o' think,” said the Cockney
Simmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, “is 'evingly.” It reminded
him of Greenwich.
On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from
whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket
spread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in the
ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower
with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one would
bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted
blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to the fact
that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they
had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glittering
mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of
the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened,
and were invariably pat aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many
treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that “would do for Tommy.”
Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland had
before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to be
serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a
contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worried
Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once,
having crept beyond his “corral,”--a hedge of tessellated pine boughs,
which surrounded his bed,--he dropped over the bank on his head in
the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in that
position for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity. He was
extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many other
instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon the
statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tinge
of superstition. “I crep' up the bank just now,” said Kentuck one
day, in a breathless state of excitement “and dern my skin if he was
a-talking to a jay bird as was a-sittin' on his lap. There they was,
just as free and sociable as anything you please, a-jawin' at each
other just like two cherrybums.” Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine
boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, to
him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed.
Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let slip between
the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp;
she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and
resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily,
the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment.
Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were “flush times,” and
the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The camp
was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No
encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclusion
more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall that
surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a reputation for
singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring
Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only connecting link with the
surrounding world--sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. He
would say, “They've a street up there in 'Roaring' that would lay over
any street in Red Dog. They've got vines and flowers round their houses,
and they wash themselves twice a day. But they're mighty rough on
strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby.”
With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement.
It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to invite
one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, who
might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that this
concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical in
regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for
by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolve
could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority
meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it.
And it did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow
lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river,
and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a
tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant
trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog had
been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. “Water put
the gold into them gulches,” said Stumpy. “It been here once and will
be here again!” And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its
banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber,
and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the
fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered camp.
When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was
gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; but
the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared.
They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled
them.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they
said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did
anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushed
and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As
they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was
cold and pulseless. “He is dead,” said one. Kentuck opened his eyes.
“Dead?” he repeated feebly. “Yes, my man, and you are dying too.” A
smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. “Dying!” he repeated; “he's
a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now;” and
the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to
cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever
to the unknown sea.
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of November, 1850, he was
conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding
night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he
approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull
in the air which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked
ominous.
Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was
another question. “I reckon they're after somebody,” he reflected;
“likely it's me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which
he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat
boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately
suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and
a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction,
quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked
it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper
persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were then
hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in
the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to
say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however,
to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in
such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to
sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets
of the sums he had won from them. “It's agin justice,” said Jim Wheeler,
“to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire stranger--carry
away our money.” But a crude sentiment of equity residing in the
breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst
overruled this narrower local prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the
less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was
too much of a gambler not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an
uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the
dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to
the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to
be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed
escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman
familiarly known as the “Duchess”; another, who had won the title of
“Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected sluice-robber and
confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the
spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only, when the gulch
which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader
spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at
the peril of their lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a
few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother
Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The
philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother
Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeated statements
of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the alarming oaths
that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the
easy good humor characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging
his own riding horse, “Five Spot,” for the sorry mule which the Duchess
rode. But even this act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy.
The young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble,
faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of “Five Spot” with
malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the whole party in one sweeping
anathema.
The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the
regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer some
invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It was
distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the party soon
passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foothills into
the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and
difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party
halted.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheater,
surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite, sloped
gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley.
It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been
advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy
Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned
for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a
philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up their hand before
the game was played out.” But they were furnished with liquor, which in
this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience.
In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long before they were more or
less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose
state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton
snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock,
calmly surveying them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which
required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his own
language, he “couldn't afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent fellow
exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah trade, his habits of life,
his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. He bestirred
himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and
other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for a
moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his weaker and
more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not
help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was
most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was notorious. He
looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the
circling pines around him; at the sky, ominously clouded; at the valley
below, already deepening into shadow. And, doing so, suddenly he heard
his own name called.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the
newcomer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as the
“Innocent” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over
a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire
fortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth. After
the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind
the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you're a good little man, but
you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again.” He then handed
him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so made a
devoted slave of Tom Simson.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting
of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek
his fortune. “Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact (a giggle), he had
run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She that
used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged
a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had run away,
and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they were. And they
were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp and
company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout,
comely damsel of fifteen, emerged from behind the pine tree, where she
had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her lover.
Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with
propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not fortunate.
He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle
Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough
to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power that would not
bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying
further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there was no
provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met
this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra
mule loaded with provisions and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a
log house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the
Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.”
Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from
bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to retire
up the canyon until he could recover his gravity. There he confided the
joke to the tall pine trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of
his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the party, he
found them seated by a fire--for the air had grown strangely chill
and the sky overcast--in apparently amicable conversation. Piney was
actually talking in an impulsive, girlish fashion to the Duchess, who
was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many
days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect,
to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relaxing into
amiability. “Is this yer a damned picnic?” said Uncle Billy with inward
scorn as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the
tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the
alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular
nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist
into his mouth.
As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the
tops of the pine trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles.
The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set apart
for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a
kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the
swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were
probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity,
and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the
men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and
cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing
strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave
it--snow!
He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers,
for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had been
lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse
to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they
were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in
the snow.
The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with
his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered
peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin
Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended
by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his
shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It came slowly
in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What
could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He
looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two
words--“snowed in!”
A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party,
had been stored within the hut and so escaped the felonious fingers of
Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence they might
last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto voce to the
Innocent, “if you're willing to board us. If you ain't--and perhaps
you'd better not--you can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with
provisions.” For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring
himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so offered the
hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally
stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother
Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection.
“They'll find out the truth about us all when they find out anything,”
he added, significantly, “and there's no good frightening them now.”
Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr.
Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion.
“We'll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow'll melt, and we'll
all go back together.” The cheerful gaiety of the young man, and Mr.
Oakhurst's calm, infected the others. The Innocent with the aid of pine
boughs extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess
directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and
tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their
fullest extent. “I reckon now you're used to fine things at Poker Flat,”
said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that
reddened her cheeks through its professional tint, and Mother Shipton
requested Piney not to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a
weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter
echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first
naturally reverted to the whisky, which he had prudently cached. “And
yet it don't somehow sound like whisky,” said the gambler. It was not
until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still-blinding
storm and the group around it that he settled to the conviction that it
was “square fun.”
Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whisky as something
debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It was certain
that, in Mother Shipton's words, he “didn't say cards once” during that
evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat
ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some
difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney
Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to
an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the
crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting
hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and
vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant tone and Covenanter's swing
to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to
infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:
“I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army.”
The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable
group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward as if in token of
the vow.
At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the
stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose
professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible
amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson somehow managed
to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself
to the Innocent by saying that he had “often been a week without sleep.”
“Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied Oakhurst, sententiously; “when
a man gets a streak of luck,--nigger luck--he don't get tired. The luck
gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler, reflectively, “is a mighty
queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it's bound to
change. And it's finding out when it's going to change that makes you.
We've had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat--you come along,
and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along
you're all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance,
“'I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army.'”
The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained
valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of
provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that
mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry
landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed
drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut--a hopeless, uncharted,
trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the
castaways still clung. Through the marvelously clear air the smoke of
the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw
it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness hurled in that
direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative attempt, and
perhaps for that reason was invested with a certain degree of sublimity.
It did her good, she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you go out
there and cuss, and see.” She then set herself to the task of amusing
“the child,” as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney
was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory of the pair
thus to account for the fact that she didn't swear and wasn't improper.
When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the
accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the
flickering campfire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching
void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by
Piney--storytelling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions
caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed
too but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray
copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the ILIAD. He now proposed
to narrate the principal incidents of that poem--having thoroughly
mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words--in the current
vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric
demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in
the winds, and the great pines in the canyon seemed to bow to the wrath
of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction.
Most especially was he interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the
Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed Achilles.”
So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed
over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again
from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day
closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from
their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white that towered twenty
feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish
their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half-hidden in
the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary
prospect and looked into each other's eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst
settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess,
more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother
Shipton--once the strongest of the party--seemed to sicken and fade. At
midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. “I'm going,”
she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don't say anything
about it. Don't waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head and
open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton's rations for
the last week, untouched. “Give 'em to the child,” she said, pointing to
the sleeping Piney. “You've starved yourself,” said the gambler. “That's
what they call it,” said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again
and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.
The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was
forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the
snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of
snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack saddle. “There's one
chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but
it's there,” he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can reach
there in two days she's safe.” “And you?” asked Tom Simson. “I'll stay
here,” was the curt reply.
The lovers parted with a long embrace. “You are not going, too?” said
the Duchess as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him.
“As far as the canyon,” he replied. He turned suddenly, and kissed the
Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame and her trembling limbs rigid
with amazement.
Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the
whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that someone
had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer.
The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.
The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's
faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the
position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the
Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That
night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the
protecting pines, invaded the very hut.
Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which
gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept
closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, can you
pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing
exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's shoulder,
spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the
head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep.
The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow,
shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and
settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds
looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace
of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully
flung from above.
They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices
and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers
brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told from
the equal peace that dwelt upon them which was she that had sinned. Even
the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, leaving them
still locked in each other's arms.
But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine trees, they
found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie knife. It bore
the following, written in pencil, in a firm hand:
BENEATH THIS TREE
LIES THE BODY
OF
JOHN OAKHURST,
WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK
ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850,
AND
HANDED IN HIS CHECKS
ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.
And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in his
heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at
once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.
MIGGLES
We were eight, including the driver. We had not spoken during the
passage of the last six miles, since the jolting of the heavy vehicle
over the roughening road had spoiled the Judge's last poetical
quotation. The tall man beside the Judge was asleep, his arm passed
through the swaying strap and his head resting upon it--altogether a
limp, helpless-looking object, as if he had hanged himself and been cut
down too late. The French lady on the back seat was asleep, too, yet in
a half-conscious propriety of attitude, shown even in the disposition
of the handkerchief which she held to her forehead and which partially
veiled her face. The lady from Virginia City, traveling with her
husband, had long since lost all individuality in a wild confusion of
ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. There was no sound but the rattling
of wheels and the dash of rain upon the roof. Suddenly the stage stopped
and we became dimly aware of voices. The driver was evidently in the
midst of an exciting colloquy with someone in the road--a colloquy of
which such fragments as “bridge gone,” “twenty feet of water,” “can't
pass,” were occasionally distinguishable above the storm. Then came
a lull, and a mysterious voice from the road shouted the parting
adjuration:
“Try Miggles's.”
We caught a glimpse of our leaders as the vehicle slowly turned, of a
horseman vanishing through the rain, and we were evidently on our way to
Miggles's.
Who and where was Miggles? The Judge, our authority, did not remember
the name, and he knew the country thoroughly. The Washoe traveler
thought Miggles must keep a hotel. We only knew that we were stopped by
high water in front and rear, and that Miggles was our rock of refuge.
A ten minutes splashing through a tangled by-road, scarcely wide enough
for the stage, and we drew up before a barred and boarded gate in a
wide stone wall or fence about eight feet high. Evidently Miggles's, and
evidently Miggles did not keep a hotel.
The driver got down and tried the gate. It was securely locked. “Miggles!
O Miggles!”
No answer.
“Migg-ells! You Miggles!” continued the driver, with rising wrath.
“Migglesy!” joined the expressman, persuasively. “O Miggy! Mig!”
But no reply came from the apparently insensate Miggles. The Judge,
who had finally got the window down, put his head out and propounded
a series of questions, which if answered categorically would have
undoubtedly elucidated the whole mystery, but which the driver evaded by
replying that “if we didn't want to sit in the coach all night, we had
better rise up and sing out for Miggles.”
So we rose up and called on Miggles in chorus; then separately. And when
we had finished, a Hibernian fellow-passenger from the roof called for
“Maygells!” whereat we all laughed. While we were laughing, the driver
cried “Shoo!”
We listened. To our infinite amazement the chorus of “Miggles” was
repeated from the other side of the wall, even to the final and
supplemental “Maygells.”
“Extraordinary echo,” said the Judge.
“Extraordinary damned skunk!” roared the driver, contemptuously. “Come
out of that, Miggles, and show yourself! Be a man, Miggles! Don't hide
in the dark; I wouldn't if I were you, Miggles,” continued Yuba Bill,
now dancing about in an excess of fury.
“Miggles!” continued the voice. “O Miggles!”
“My good man! Mr. Myghail!” said the Judge, softening the asperities of
the name as much as possible. “Consider the inhospitality of refusing
shelter from the inclemency of the weather to helpless females. Really,
my dear sir--” But a succession of “Miggles,” ending in a burst of
laughter, drowned his voice.
Yuba Bill hesitated no longer. Taking a heavy stone from the road, he
battered down the gate, and with the expressman entered the enclosure.
We followed. Nobody was to be seen. In the gathering darkness all that
we could distinguish was that we were in a garden--from the rosebushes
that scattered over us a minute spray from their dripping leaves--and
before a long, rambling wooden building.
“Do you know this Miggles?” asked the Judge of Yuba Bill.
“No, nor, don't want to,” said Bill, shortly, who felt the Pioneer Stage
Company insulted in his person by the contumacious Miggles.
“But, my dear sir,” expostulated the Judge as he thought of the barred
gate.
“Lookee here,” said Yuba Bill, with fine irony, “hadn't you better go
back and sit in the coach till yer introduced? I'm going in,” and he
pushed open the door of the building.
A long room lighted only by the embers of a fire that was dying on the
large hearth at its farther extremity; the walls curiously papered, and
the flickering firelight bringing out its grotesque pattern; somebody
sitting in a large armchair by the fireplace. All this we saw as we
crowded together into the room, after the driver and expressman.
“Hello, be you Miggles?” said Yuba Bill to the solitary occupant.
The figure neither spoke nor stirred. Yuba Bill walked wrathfully toward
it, and turned the eye of his coach lantern upon its face. It was a
man's face, prematurely old and wrinkled, with very large eyes, in which
there was that expression of perfectly gratuitous solemnity which I had
sometimes seen in an owl's. The large eyes wandered from Bill's face
to the lantern, and finally fixed their gaze on that luminous object,
without further recognition.
Bill restrained himself with an effort.
“Miggles! Be you deaf? You ain't dumb anyhow, you know”; and Yuba Bill
shook the insensate figure by the shoulder.
To our great dismay, as Bill removed his hand, the venerable
stranger apparently collapsed--sinking into half his size and an
undistinguishable heap of clothing.
“Well, dern my skin,” said Bill, looking appealingly at us, and
hopelessly retiring from the contest.
The Judge now stepped forward, and we lifted the mysterious invertebrate
back into his original position. Bill was dismissed with the lantern to
reconnoiter outside, for it was evident that from the helplessness of
this solitary man there must be attendants near at hand, and we all
drew around the fire. The Judge, who had regained his authority, and had
never lost his conversational amiability--standing before us with his
back to the hearth--charged us, as an imaginary jury, as follows:
“It is evident that either our distinguished friend here has reached
that condition described by Shakespeare as 'the sere and yellow leaf,'
or has suffered some premature abatement of his mental and physical
faculties. Whether he is really the Miggles--”
Here he was interrupted by “Miggles! O Miggles! Migglesy! Mig!” and, in
fact, the whole chorus of Miggles in very much the same key as it had
once before been delivered unto us.
We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. The Judge, in
particular, vacated his position quickly, as the voice seemed to come
directly over his shoulder. The cause, however, was soon discovered in
a large magpie who was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, and
who immediately relapsed into a sepulchral silence which contrasted
singularly with his previous volubility. It was, undoubtedly, his voice
which we had heard in the road, and our friend in the chair was not
responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba Bill, who re-entered the room
after an unsuccessful search, was loath to accept the explanation, and
still eyed the helpless sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in
which he had put up his horses, but he came back dripping and skeptical.
“Thar ain't nobody but him within ten mile of the shanty, and that 'ar
damned old skeesicks knows it.”
But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. Bill had
scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick step upon the porch,
the trailing of a wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with flash of
white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter absence of ceremony or
diffidence, a young woman entered, shut the door, and, panting, leaned
back against it.
“Oh, if you please, I'm Miggles!”
And this was Miggles! this bright-eyed, full-throated young woman, whose
wet gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the beauty of the feminine
curves to which it clung; from the chestnut crown of whose head, topped
by a man's oilskin sou'wester, to the little feet and ankles, hidden
somewhere in the recesses of her boy's brogans, all was grace--this was
Miggles, laughing at us, too, in the most airy, frank, offhand manner
imaginable.
“You see, boys,” said she, quite out of breath, and holding one little
hand against her side, quite unheeding the speechless discomfiture of
our party, or the complete demoralization of Yuba Bill, whose
features had relaxed into an expression of gratuitous and imbecile
cheerfulness--“you see, boys, I was mor'n two miles away when you passed
down the road. I thought you might pull up here, and so I ran the
whole way, knowing nobody was home but Jim,--and--and--I'm out of
breath--and--that lets me out.”
And here Miggles caught her dripping oilskin hat from her head, with
a mischievous swirl that scattered a shower of raindrops over us;
attempted to put back her hair; dropped two hairpins in the attempt;
laughed and sat down beside Yuba Bill, with her hands crossed lightly on
her lap.
The Judge recovered himself first, and essayed an extravagant
compliment.
“I'll trouble you for that thar harpin,” said Miggles, gravely. Half
a dozen hands were eagerly stretched forward; the missing hairpin was
restored to its fair owner; and Miggles, crossing the room, looked
keenly in the face of the invalid. The solemn eyes looked back at hers
with an expression we had never seen before. Life and intelligence
seemed to struggle back into the rugged face. Miggles laughed again--it
was a singularly eloquent laugh--and turned her black eyes and white
teeth once more toward us.
“This afflicted person is--” hesitated the Judge.
“Jim,” said Miggles.
“Your father?”
“No.”
“Brother?”
“No.”
“Husband?”
Miggles darted a quick, half-defiant glance at the two lady passengers
who I had noticed did not participate in the general masculine
admiration of Miggles, and said gravely, “No; it's Jim.”
There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers moved closer to each
other; the Washoe husband looked abstractedly at the fire; and the
tall man apparently turned his eyes inward for self-support at this
emergency. But Miggles's laugh, which was very infectious, broke the
silence. “Come,” she said briskly, “you must be hungry. Who'll bear a
hand to help me get tea?”
She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments Yuba Bill was engaged
like Caliban in bearing logs for this Miranda; the expressman was
grinding coffee on the veranda; to myself the arduous duty of slicing
bacon was assigned; and the Judge lent each man his good-humored
and voluble counsel. And when Miggles, assisted by the Judge and
our Hibernian “deck passenger,” set the table with all the available
crockery, we had become quite joyous, in spite of the rain that beat
against windows, the wind that whirled down the chimney, the two ladies
who whispered together in the corner, or the magpie who uttered a
satirical and croaking commentary on their conversation from his perch
above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see that the walls were
papered with illustrated journals, arranged with feminine taste and
discrimination. The furniture was extemporized, and adapted from candle
boxes and packing-cases, and covered with gay calico, or the skin of
some animal. The armchair of the helpless Jim was an ingenious variation
of a flour barrel. There was neatness, and even a taste for the
picturesque, to be seen in the few details of the long low room.
The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was a social
triumph--chiefly, I think, owing to the rare tact of Miggles in
guiding the conversation, asking all the questions herself, yet bearing
throughout a frankness that rejected the idea of any concealment on
her own part, so that we talked of ourselves, of our prospects, of the
journey, of the weather, of each other--of everything but our host and
hostess. It must be confessed that Miggles's conversation was never
elegant, rarely grammatical, and that at times she employed expletives
the use of which had generally been yielded to our sex. But they were
delivered with such a lighting-up of teeth and eyes, and were usually
followed by a laugh--a laugh peculiar to Miggles--so frank and honest
that it seemed to clear the moral atmosphere.
Once during the meal we heard a noise like the rubbing of a heavy body
against the outer walls of the house. This was shortly followed by a
scratching and sniffling at the door. “That's Joaquin,” said Miggles, in
reply to our questioning glances; “would you like to see him?” Before
we could answer she had opened the door, and disclosed a half-grown
grizzly, who instantly raised himself on his haunches, with his
forepaws hanging down in the popular attitude of mendicancy, and looked
admiringly at Miggles, with a very singular resemblance in his manner to
Yuba Bill. “That's my watch dog,” said Miggles, in explanation. “Oh,
he don't bite,” she added, as the two lady passengers fluttered into
a corner. “Does he, old Toppy?” (the latter remark being addressed
directly to the sagacious Joaquin). “I tell you what, boys,” continued
Miggles after she had fed and closed the door on URSA MINOR, “you
were in big luck that Joaquin wasn't hanging round when you dropped
in tonight.” “Where was he?” asked the Judge. “With me,” said Miggles.
“Lord love you; he trots round with me nights like as if he was a man.”
We were silent for a few moments, and listened to the wind. Perhaps we
all had the same picture before us--of Miggles walking through the rainy
woods, with her savage guardian at her side. The Judge, I remember, said
something about Una and her lion; but Miggles received it as she did
other compliments, with quiet gravity. Whether she was altogether
unconscious of the admiration she excited--she could hardly have been
oblivious of Yuba Bill's adoration--I know not; but her very frankness
suggested a perfect sexual equality that was cruelly humiliating to the
younger members of our party.
The incident of the bear did not add anything in Miggles's favor to the
opinions of those of her own sex who were present. In fact, the repast
over, a chillness radiated from the two lady passengers that no pine
boughs brought in by Yuba Bill and cast as a sacrifice upon the hearth
could wholly overcome. Miggles felt it; and, suddenly declaring that
it was time to “turn in,” offered to show the ladies to their bed in an
adjoining room. “You boys will have to camp out here by the fire as well
as you can,” she added, “for thar ain't but the one room.”
Our sex--by which, my dear sir, I allude of course to the stronger
portion of humanity--has been generally relieved from the imputation of
curiosity, or a fondness for gossip. Yet I am constrained to say
that hardly had the door closed on Miggles than we crowded together,
whispering, snickering, smiling, and exchanging suspicions, surmises,
and a thousand speculations in regard to our pretty hostess and her
singular companion. I fear that we even hustled that imbecile paralytic,
who sat like a voiceless Memnon in our midst, gazing with the serene
indifference of the Past in his passionate eyes upon our wordy counsels.
In the midst of an exciting discussion the door opened again, and
Miggles re-entered.
But not, apparently, the same Miggles who a few hours before had flashed
upon us. Her eyes were downcast, and as she hesitated for a moment on
the threshold, with a blanket on her arm, she seemed to have left behind
her the frank fearlessness which had charmed us a moment before. Coming
into the room, she drew a low stool beside the paralytic's chair, sat
down, drew the blanket over her shoulders, and saying, “If it's all the
same to you, boys, as we're rather crowded, I'll stop here tonight,”
took the invalid's withered hand in her own, and turned her eyes upon
the dying fire. An instinctive feeling that this was only premonitory
to more confidential relations, and perhaps some shame at our previous
curiosity, kept us silent. The rain still beat upon the roof, wandering
gusts of wind stirred the embers into momentary brightness, until, in a
lull of the elements, Miggles suddenly lifted up her head, and, throwing
her hair over her shoulder, turned her face upon the group and asked:
“Is there any of you that knows me?”
There was no reply.
“Think again! I lived at Marysville in '53. Everybody knew me there, and
everybody had the right to know me. I kept the Polka saloon until I came
to live with Jim. That's six years ago. Perhaps I've changed some.”
The absence of recognition may have disconcerted her. She turned her
head to the fire again, and it was some seconds before she again spoke,
and then more rapidly:
“Well, you see I thought some of you must have known me. There's
no great harm done, anyway. What I was going to say was this: Jim
here”--she took his hand in both of hers as she spoke--“used to know me,
if you didn't, and spent a heap of money upon me. I reckon he spent all
he had. And one day--it's six years ago this winter--Jim came into my
back room, sat down on my sofy, like as you see him in that chair, and
never moved again without help. He was struck all of a heap, and never
seemed to know what ailed him. The doctors came and said as how it
was caused all along of his way of life--for Jim was mighty free and
wild-like--and that he would never get better, and couldn't last long
anyway. They advised me to send him to Frisco to the hospital, for he
was no good to anyone and would be a baby all his life. Perhaps it was
something in Jim's eye, perhaps it was that I never had a baby, but I
said 'No.' I was rich then, for I was popular with everybody--gentlemen
like yourself, sir, came to see me--and I sold out my business and
bought this yer place, because it was sort of out of the way of travel,
you see, and I brought my baby here.”
With a woman's intuitive tact and poetry, she had, as she spoke, slowly
shifted her position so as to bring the mute figure of the ruined man
between her and her audience, hiding in the shadow behind it, as if
she offered it as a tacit apology for her actions. Silent and
expressionless, it yet spoke for her; helpless, crushed, and smitten
with the Divine thunderbolt, it still stretched an invisible arm around
her.
Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, she went on:
“It was a long time before I could get the hang of things about yer, for
I was used to company and excitement. I couldn't get any woman to help
me, and a man I dursen't trust; but what with the Indians hereabout,
who'd do odd jobs for me, and having everything sent from the North
Fork, Jim and I managed to worry through. The Doctor would run up from
Sacramento once in a while. He'd ask to see 'Miggles's baby,' as
he called Jim, and when he'd go away, he'd say, 'Miggles; you're a
trump--God bless you'; and it didn't seem so lonely after that. But
the last time he was here he said, as he opened the door to go, 'Do you
know, Miggles, your baby will grow up to be a man yet and an honor to
his mother; but not here, Miggles, not here!' And I thought he went away
sad--and--and--” and here Miggles's voice and head were somehow both
lost completely in the shadow.
“The folks about here are very kind,” said Miggles, after a pause,
coming a little into the light again. “The men from the fork used to
hang around here, until they found they wasn't wanted, and the women are
kind--and don't call. I was pretty lonely until I picked up Joaquin in
the woods yonder one day, when he wasn't so high, and taught him to beg
for his dinner; and then thar's Polly--that's the magpie--she knows no
end of tricks, and makes it quite sociable of evenings with her talk,
and so I don't feel like as I was the only living being about the ranch.
And Jim here,” said Miggles, with her old laugh again, and coming out
quite into the firelight, “Jim--why, boys, you would admire to see how
much he knows for a man like him. Sometimes I bring him flowers, and he
looks at 'em just as natural as if he knew 'em; and times, when we're
sitting alone, I read him those things on the wall. Why, Lord!” said
Miggles, with her frank laugh, “I've read him that whole side of the
house this winter. There never was such a man for reading as Jim.”
“Why,” asked the Judge, “do you not marry this man to whom you have
devoted your youthful life?”
“Well, you see,” said Miggles, “it would be playing it rather low down
on Jim, to take advantage of his being so helpless. And then, too, if we
were man and wife, now, we'd both know that I was bound to do what I do
now of my own accord.”
“But you are young yet and attractive--”
“It's getting late,” said Miggles, gravely, “and you'd better all turn
in. Good night, boys”; and, throwing the blanket over her head, Miggles
laid herself down beside Jim's chair, her head pillowed on the low stool
that held his feet, and spoke no more. The fire slowly faded from the
hearth; we each sought our blankets in silence; and presently there was
no sound in the long room but the pattering of the rain upon the roof
and the heavy breathing of the sleepers.
It was nearly morning when I awoke from a troubled dream. The storm had
passed, the stars were shining, and through the shutterless window the
full moon, lifting itself over the solemn pines without, looked into
the room. It touched the lonely figure in the chair with an infinite
compassion, and seemed to baptize with a shining flood the lowly head of
the woman whose hair, as in the sweet old story, bathed the feet of him
she loved. It even lent a kindly poetry to the rugged outline of Yuba
Bill, half-reclining on his elbow between them and his passengers, with
savagely patient eyes keeping watch and ward. And then I fell asleep
and only woke at broad day, with Yuba Bill standing over me, and “All
aboard” ringing in my ears.
Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Miggles was gone. We
wandered about the house and lingered long after the horses were
harnessed, but she did not return. It was evident that she wished to
avoid a formal leave-taking, and had so left us to depart as we had
come. After we had helped the ladies into the coach, we returned to
the house and solemnly shook hands with the paralytic Jim, as solemnly
settling him back into position after each handshake. Then we looked for
the last time around the long low room, at the stool where Miggles had
sat, and slowly took our seats in the waiting coach. The whip cracked,
and we were off!
But as we reached the highroad, Bill's dexterous hand laid the six
horses back on their haunches, and the stage stopped with a jerk. For
there, on a little eminence beside the road, stood Miggles, her hair
flying, her eyes sparkling, her white handkerchief waving, and her white
teeth flashing a last “good-by.” We waved our hats in return. And then
Yuba Bill, as if fearful of further fascination, madly lashed his horses
forward, and we sank back in our seats. We exchanged not a word until we
reached the North Fork, and the stage drew up at the Independence House.
Then, the Judge leading, we walked into the barroom and took our places
gravely at the bar.
“Are your glasses charged, gentlemen?” said the Judge, solemnly taking
off his white hat.
They were.
“Well, then, here's to MIGGLES. GOD BLESS HER!”
Perhaps He had. Who knows?
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER
I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it
certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in
1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were
derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of “Dungaree
Jack”; or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in “Saleratus Bill,”
so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread;
or for some unlucky slip, as exhibited in “The Iron Pirate,” a mild,
inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate
mispronunciation of the term “iron pyrites.” Perhaps this may have been
the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that
it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own
unsupported statement. “Call yourself Clifford, do you?” said Boston,
addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; “hell is full of such
Cliffords!” He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened
to be really Clifford, as “Jay-bird Charley”--an unhallowed inspiration
of the moment that clung to him ever after.
But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other
than this relative title; that he had ever existed as a separate and
distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he
left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He
never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by
a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his
meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile
not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over
his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He
followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with more toast
and victory. That day week they were married by a justice of the peace,
and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be
made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current at Sandy
Bar--in the gulches and barrooms--where all sentiment was modified by a
strong sense of humor.
Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason
that Tennessee, then living with his Partner, one day took occasion to
say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said,
she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated--this time as far
as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to
housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee's
Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his
fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one day returned
from Marysville, without his Partner's wife--she having smiled and
retreated with somebody else--Tennessee's Partner was the first man to
shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had gathered
in the canyon to see the shooting were naturally indignant. Their
indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look
in Tennessee's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous
appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application to
practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.
Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar.
He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these
suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his continued
intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be
accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership of crime. At last
Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on his
way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee beguiled
the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically
concluded the interview in the following words: “And now, young man,
I'll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your money. You see
your weppings might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money's a
temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address was
San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call.” It may be stated here that
Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business preoccupation
could wholly subdue.
This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made common cause
against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted in very much the same
fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around him,
he made a desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at the
crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canyon; but at its
farther extremity he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The
men looked at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both
self-possessed and independent; and both types of a civilization that
in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, but, in the
nineteenth, simply “reckless.” “What have you got there?--I call,”
said Tennessee, quietly. “Two bowers and an ace,” said the stranger,
as quietly, showing two revolvers and a bowie knife. “That takes me,”
returned Tennessee; and with this gamblers' epigram, he threw away his
useless pistol, and rode back with his captor.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang up with the
going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that
evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little canyon was stifling with
heated resinous odors, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent forth
faint, sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day, and its fierce
passions, still filled the camp. Lights moved restlessly along the bank
of the river, striking no answering reflection from its tawny current.
Against the blackness of the pines the windows of the old loft above the
express office stood out staringly bright; and through their curtainless
panes the loungers below could see the forms of those who were even then
deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all this, etched on the dark
firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with remoter
passionless stars.
The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was consistent with a
judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent obliged to justify, in
their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest and indictment. The
law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. The excitement and
personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee safe in their
hands they were ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they
were already satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt in their
own minds, they were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any
that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis that he ought to be hanged,
on general principles, they indulged him with more latitude of defense
than his reckless hardihood seemed to ask. The Judge appeared to be more
anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently took
a grim pleasure in the responsibility he had created. “I don't take any
hand in this yer game,” had been his invariable but good-humored reply
to all questions. The Judge--who was also his captor--for a moment
vaguely regretted that he had not shot him “on sight” that morning,
but presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial
mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door, and it was said
that Tennessee's Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was
admitted at once without question. Perhaps the younger members of the
jury, to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed
him as a relief.
For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and stout, with a
square face sunburned into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose duck
“jumper” and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his aspect
under any circumstances would have been quaint, and was now even
ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy carpetbag he
was carrying, it became obvious, from partially developed legends and
inscriptions, that the material with which his trousers had been patched
had been originally intended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he
advanced with great gravity, and after having shaken the hand of each
person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his serious,
perplexed face on a red bandanna handkerchief, a shade lighter than his
complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady himself, and
thus addressed the Judge:
“I was passin' by,” he began, by way of apology, “and I thought I'd
just step in and see how things was gittin' on with Tennessee thar--my
pardner. It's a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on the
Bar.”
He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other meteorological
recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket handkerchief, and for
some moments mopped his face diligently.
“Have you anything to say in behalf of the prisoner?” said the Judge,
finally.
“Thet's it,” said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. “I come yar
as Tennessee's pardner--knowing him nigh on four year, off and on, wet
and dry, in luck and out o' luck. His ways ain't allers my ways, but
thar ain't any p'ints in that young man, thar ain't any liveliness
as he's been up to, as I don't know. And you sez to me, sez
you--confidential-like, and between man and man--sez you, 'Do you know
anything in his behalf?' and I sez to you, sez I--confidential-like, as
between man and man--'What should a man know of his pardner?'”
“Is this all you have to say?” asked the Judge impatiently, feeling,
perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize
the Court.
“Thet's so,” continued Tennessee's Partner. “It ain't for me to say
anything agin' him. And now, what's the case? Here's Tennessee wants
money, wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask it of his old pardner.
Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays for a stranger, and he fetches
that stranger. And you lays for HIM, and you fetches HIM; and the
honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a far-minded man, and to you,
gentlemen, all, as far-minded men, ef this isn't so.”
“Prisoner,” said the Judge, interrupting, “have you any questions to ask
this man?”
“No! no!” continued Tennessee's Partner, hastily. “I play this yer hand
alone. To come down to the bedrock, it's just this: Tennessee, thar, has
played it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and on this yer
camp. And now, what's the fair thing? Some would say more; some
would say less. Here's seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a
watch--it's about all my pile--and call it square!” And before a hand
could be raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of the
carpetbag upon the table.
For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men sprang to their
feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to
“throw him from the window” was only overridden by a gesture from the
Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the excitement,
Tennessee's Partner improved the opportunity to mop his face again with
his handkerchief.
When order was restored, and the man was made to understand, by the use
of forcible figures and rhetoric, that Tennessee's offense could not be
condoned by money, his face took a more serious and sanguinary hue,
and those who were nearest to him noticed that his rough hand trembled
slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the
gold to the carpetbag, as if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated
sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the
belief that he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and
saying, “This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and without my pardner,”
he bowed to the jury and was about to withdraw when the Judge called him
back. “If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it
now.” For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his
strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and,
saying, “Euchred, old man!” held out his hand. Tennessee's Partner took
it in his own, and saying, “I just dropped in as I was passin' to see
how things was gettin' on,” let the hand passively fall, and adding that
it was a warm night, again mopped his face with his handkerchief, and
without another word withdrew.
The two men never again met each other alive. For the unparalleled
insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch--who, whether bigoted, weak,
or narrow, was at least incorruptible--firmly fixed in the mind of that
mythical personage any wavering determination of Tennessee's fate; and
at the break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the
top of Marley's Hill.
How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say anything, how
perfect were the arrangements of the committee, were all duly reported,
with the addition of a warning moral and example to all future
evildoers, in the RED DOG CLARION, by its editor, who was present, and
to whose vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty
of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of earth and air and sky,
the awakened life of the free woods and hills, the joyous renewal and
promise of Nature, and above all, the infinite Serenity that thrilled
through each, was not reported, as not being a part of the social
lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a life,
with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed out of the
misshapen thing that dangled between earth and sky, the birds sang, the
flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as before; and possibly the
RED DOG CLARION was right.
Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that surrounded the ominous
tree. But as they turned to disperse attention was drawn to the singular
appearance of a motionless donkey cart halted at the side of the road.
As they approached, they at once recognized the venerable “Jenny” and
the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee's Partner--used by him
in carrying dirt from his claim; and a few paces distant the owner
of the equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye tree, wiping the
perspiration from his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he
had come for the body of the “diseased,” “if it was all the same to the
committee.” He didn't wish to “hurry anything”; he could “wait.” He
was not working that day; and when the gentlemen were done with the
“diseased,” he would take him. “Ef thar is any present,” he added, in
his simple, serious way, “as would care to jine in the fun'l, they
kin come.” Perhaps it was from a sense of humor, which I have already
intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar--perhaps it was from something even
better than that; but two-thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation
at once.
It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into the hands of
his Partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that
it contained a rough, oblong box--apparently made from a section of
sluicing and half-filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was
further decorated with slips of willow, and made fragrant with buckeye
blossoms. When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's Partner
drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely mounting the narrow
seat in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey
forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace which
was habitual with “Jenny” even under less solemn circumstances. The
men--half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly--strolled
along beside the cart; some in advance, some a little in the rear of the
homely catafalque. But, whether from the narrowing of the road or some
present sense of decorum, as the cart passed on, the company fell to the
rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show
of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a
funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted, from
a lack of sympathy and appreciation--not having, perhaps, your true
humorist's capacity to be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
The way led through Grizzly Canyon--by this time clothed in funereal
drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in
the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth
benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A hare,
surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in the
ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by. Squirrels hastened to gain
a secure outlook from higher boughs; and the bluejays, spreading their
wings, fluttered before them like outriders, until the outskirts of
Sandy Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner.
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not have been a
cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and unlovely outlines,
the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest-building of the
California miner, were all here, with the dreariness of decay
superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a rough enclosure,
which in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's matrimonial felicity
had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with fern. As we
approached it we were surprised to find that what we had taken for a
recent attempt at cultivation was the broken soil about an open grave.
The cart was halted before the enclosure; and rejecting the offers of
assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he had displayed
throughout, Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on his back and
deposited it, unaided, within the shallow grave. He then nailed down
the board which served as a lid; and mounting the little mound of
earth beside it, took off his hat, and slowly mopped his face with his
handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech; and they
disposed themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant.
“When a man,” began Tennessee's Partner, slowly, “has been running free
all day, what's the natural thing for him to do? Why, to come home. And
if he ain't in a condition to go home, what can his best friend do?
Why, bring him home! And here's Tennessee has been running free, and we
brings him home from his wandering.” He paused, and picked up a fragment
of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on: “It ain't
the first time that I've packed him on my back, as you see'd me now.
It ain't the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin when he
couldn't help himself; it ain't the first time that I and 'Jinny' have
waited for him on yon hill, and picked him up and so fetched him home,
when he couldn't speak, and didn't know me. And now that it's the last
time, why”--he paused and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve--“you
see it's sort of rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen,” he added,
abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, “the fun'l's over; and my
thanks, and Tennessee's thanks, to you for your trouble.”
Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave,
turning his back upon the crowd that after a few moments' hesitation
gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy
Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's
Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his
knees, and his face buried in his red bandanna handkerchief. But it was
argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief
at that distance; and this point remained undecided.
In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day,
Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had
cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a
suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on
him, and proffering various uncouth, but well-meant kindnesses. But from
that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline;
and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were
beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took
to his bed. One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in
the storm, and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the
roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's
Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, “It is time to go for
Tennessee; I must put 'Jinny' in the cart”; and would have risen from
his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still
pursued his singular fancy: “There, now, steady, 'Jinny'--steady, old
girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts--and look out for him, too,
old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind-drunk, he drops down right
in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill.
Thar--I told you so!--thar he is--coming this way, too--all by himself,
sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!”
And so they met.
THE IDYL OF RED GULCH
Sandy was very drunk. He was lying under an azalea bush, in pretty much
the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before. How long
he had been lying there he could not tell, and didn't care; how long
he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and unconsidered.
A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffused and
saturated his moral being.
The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular,
was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to
attract attention. Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected a
temporary tombstone at Sandy's head, bearing the inscription, “Effects
of McCorkle's whisky--kills at forty rods,” with a hand pointing to
McCorkle's saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire,
personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process
rather than a commentary upon the impropriety of the result. With this
facetious exception, Sandy had been undisturbed. A wandering mule,
released from his pack, had cropped the scant herbage beside him, and
sniffed curiously at the prostrate man; a vagabond dog, with that deep
sympathy which the species have for drunken men, had licked his dusty
boots, and curled himself up at his feet, and lay there, blinking one
eye in the sunlight, with a simulation of dissipation that was ingenious
and doglike in its implied flattery of the unconscious man beside him.
Meanwhile the shadows of the pine trees had slowly swung around until
they crossed the road, and their trunks barred the open meadow with
gigantic parallels of black and yellow. Little puffs of red dust, lifted
by the plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon
the recumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower; and still Sandy stirred
not. And then the repose of this philosopher was disturbed, as other
philosophers have been, by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex.
“Miss Mary,” as she was known to the little flock that she had just
dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her
afternoon walk. Observing an unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the
azalea bush opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it--picking her
way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little shivers of
disgust and some feline circumlocution. And then she came suddenly upon
Sandy!
Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex. But when she
had paid that tribute to her physical weakness she became overbold, and
halted for a moment--at least six feet from this prostrate monster--with
her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight. But neither
sound nor motion came from the bush. With one little foot she then
overturned the satirical headboard, and muttered “Beasts!”--an epithet
which probably, at that moment, conveniently classified in her mind the
entire male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary, being possessed of
certain rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps, properly appreciated
the demonstrative gallantry for which the Californian has been so justly
celebrated by his brother Californians, and had, as a newcomer, perhaps
fairly earned the reputation of being “stuck-up.”
As she stood there she noticed, also, that the slant sunbeams were
heating Sandy's head to what she judged to be an unhealthy temperature,
and that his hat was lying uselessly at his side. To pick it up and to
place it over his face was a work requiring some courage, particularly
as his eyes were open. Yet she did it, and made good her retreat. But
she was somewhat concerned, on looking back, to see that the hat was
removed, and that Sandy was sitting up and saying something.
The truth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy's mind he was satisfied
that the rays of the sun were beneficial and healthful; that from
childhood he had objected to lying down in a hat; that no people but
condemned fools, past redemption, ever wore hats; and that his right
to dispense with them when he pleased was inalienable. This was the
statement of his inner consciousness. Unfortunately, its outward
expression was vague, being limited to a repetition of the following
formula--“Su'shine all ri'! Wasser maar, eh? Wass up, su'shine?”
Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her vantage of
distance, asked him if there was anything that he wanted.
“Wass up? Wasser maar?” continued Sandy, in a very high key.
“Get up, you horrid man!” said Miss Mary, now thoroughly incensed; “get
up, and go home.”
Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and Miss Mary
trembled. He started forward a few paces and then stopped.
“Wass I go home for?” he suddenly asked, with great gravity.
“Go and take a bath,” replied Miss Mary, eying his grimy person with
great disfavor.
To her infinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off his coat and vest,
threw them on the ground, kicked off his boots, and, plunging wildly
forward, darted headlong over the hill, in the direction of the river.
“Goodness heavens!--the man will be drowned!” said Miss Mary; and then,
with feminine inconsistency, she ran back to the schoolhouse and locked
herself in.
That night, while seated at supper with her hostess, the blacksmith's
wife, it came to Miss Mary to ask, demurely, if her husband ever got
drunk. “Abner,” responded Mrs. Stidger, reflectively, “let's see: Abner
hasn't been tight since last 'lection.” Miss Mary would have liked to
ask if he preferred lying in the sun on these occasions, and if a cold
bath would have hurt him; but this would have involved an explanation,
which she did not then care to give. So she contented herself with
opening her gray eyes widely at the red-cheeked Mrs. Stidger--a fine
specimen of Southwestern efflorescence--and then dismissed the subject
altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest friend, in Boston:
“I think I find the intoxicated portion of this community the least
objectionable. I refer, my dear, to the men, of course. I do not know
anything that could make the women tolerable.”
In less than a week Miss Mary had forgotten this episode, except that
her afternoon walks took thereafter, almost unconsciously, another
direction. She noticed, however, that every morning a fresh cluster of
azalea blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. This was not
strange, as her little flock were aware of her fondness for flowers, and
invariably kept her desk bright with anemones, syringas, and lupines;
but, on questioning them, they one and all professed ignorance of the
azaleas. A few days later, Master Johnny Stidger, whose desk was nearest
to the window, was suddenly taken with spasms of apparently gratuitous
laughter that threatened the discipline of the school. All that Miss
Mary could get from him was, that someone had been “looking in the
winder.” Irate and indignant, she sallied from her hive to do battle
with the intruder. As she turned the corner of the schoolhouse she came
plump upon the quondam drunkard--now perfectly sober, and inexpressibly
sheepish and guilty-looking.
These facts Miss Mary was not slow to take a feminine advantage of, in
her present humor. But it was somewhat confusing to observe, also,
that the beast, despite some faint signs of past dissipation, was
amiable-looking--in fact, a kind of blond Samson whose corn-colored,
silken beard apparently had never yet known the touch of barber's razor
or Delilah's shears. So that the cutting speech which quivered on
her ready tongue died upon her lips, and she contented herself with
receiving his stammering apology with supercilious eyelids and the
gathered skirts of uncontamination. When she re-entered the schoolroom,
her eyes fell upon the azaleas with a new sense of revelation. And
then she laughed, and the little people all laughed, and they were all
unconsciously very happy.
It was on a hot day--and not long after this--that two short-legged boys
came to grief on the threshold of the school with a pail of water,
which they had laboriously brought from the spring, and that Miss Mary
compassionately seized the pail and started for the spring herself. At
the foot of the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a blue-shirted arm
dexterously but gently relieved her of her burden. Miss Mary was both
embarrassed and angry. “If you carried more of that for yourself,” she
said, spitefully, to the blue arm, without deigning to raise her lashes
to its owner, “you'd do better.” In the submissive silence that followed
she regretted the speech, and thanked him so sweetly at the door that
he stumbled. Which caused the children to laugh again--a laugh in which
Miss Mary joined, until the color came faintly into her pale cheek.
The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside the door, and as
mysteriously filled with fresh spring water every morning.
Nor was this superior young person without other quiet attentions.
“Profane Bill,” driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known in the
newspapers for his “gallantry” in invariably offering the box seat to
the fair sex, had excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the ground
that he had a habit of “cussin' on upgrades,” and gave her half the
coach to herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, having once silently ridden
with her in the same coach, afterward threw a decanter at the head of a
confederate for mentioning her name in a barroom. The overdressed mother
of a pupil whose paternity was doubtful had often lingered near this
astute Vestal's temple, never daring to enter its sacred precincts, but
content to worship the priestess from afar.
With such unconscious intervals the monotonous procession of blue skies,
glittering sunshine, brief twilights, and starlit nights passed over Red
Gulch. Miss Mary grew fond of walking in the sedate and proper woods.
Perhaps she believed, with Mrs. Stidger, that the balsamic odors of
the firs “did her chest good,” for certainly her slight cough was less
frequent and her step was firmer; perhaps she had learned the unending
lesson which the patient pines are never weary of repeating to heedful
or listless ears. And so, one day, she planned a picnic on Buckeye Hill,
and took the children with her. Away from the dusty road, the straggling
shanties, the yellow ditches, the clamor of restless engines, the cheap
finery of shop windows, the deeper glitter of paint and colored glass,
and the thin veneering which barbarism takes upon itself in such
localities--what infinite relief was theirs! The last heap of ragged
rock and clay passed, the last unsightly chasm crossed--how the waiting
woods opened their long files to receive them! How the children--perhaps
because they had not yet grown quite away from the breast of the
bounteous Mother--threw themselves face downward on her brown bosom with
uncouth caresses, filling the air with their laughter; and how Miss Mary
herself--felinely fastidious and intrenched as she was in the purity of
spotless skirts, collar, and cuffs--forgot all, and ran like a crested
quail at the head of her brood until, romping, laughing, and panting,
with a loosened braid of brown hair, a hat hanging by a knotted ribbon
from her throat, she came suddenly and violently, in the heart of the
forest, upon--the luckless Sandy!
The explanations, apologies, and not overwise conversation that ensued
need not be indicated here. It would seem, however, that Miss Mary had
already established some acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough that
he was soon accepted as one of the party; that the children, with that
quick intelligence which Providence gives the helpless, recognized a
friend, and played with his blond beard and long silken mustache, and
took other liberties--as the helpless are apt to do. And when he had
built a fire against a tree, and had shown them other mysteries of
woodcraft, their admiration knew no bounds. At the close of two such
foolish, idle, happy hours he found himself lying at the feet of the
schoolmistress, gazing dreamily in her face, as she sat upon the sloping
hillside weaving wreaths of laurel and syringa, in very much the same
attitude as he had lain when first they met. Nor was the similitude
greatly forced. The weakness of an easy, sensuous nature that had found
a dreamy exaltation in liquor, it is to be feared was now finding an
equal intoxication in love.
I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himself. I know that he
longed to be doing something--slaying a grizzly, scalping a savage,
or sacrificing himself in some way for the sake of this sallow-faced,
gray-eyed schoolmistress. As I should like to present him in a heroic
attitude, I stay my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being
only withheld from introducing such an episode by a strong conviction
that it does not usually occur at such times. And I trust that my
fairest reader, who remembers that, in a real crisis, it is always some
uninteresting stranger or unromantic policeman, and not Adolphus, who
rescues, will forgive the omission.
So they sat there, undisturbed--the woodpeckers chattering overhead and
the voices of the children coming pleasantly from the hollow below.
What they said matters little. What they thought--which might have been
interesting--did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned how
Miss Mary was an orphan; how she left her uncle's house, to come to
California, for the sake of health and independence; how Sandy was an
orphan, too; how he came to California for excitement; how he had lived
a wild life, and how he was trying to reform; and other details, which,
from a woodpecker's viewpoint, undoubtedly must have seemed stupid, and
a waste of time. But even in such trifles was the afternoon spent; and
when the children were again gathered, and Sandy, with a delicacy which
the schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them quietly at the
outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest day of her weary
life.
As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school term of Red
Gulch--to use a local euphuism--“dried up” also. In another day Miss
Mary would be free; and for a season, at least, Red Gulch would know her
no more. She was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek resting on
her hand, her eyes half-closed in one of those daydreams in which Miss
Mary--I fear to the danger of school discipline--was lately in the habit
of indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns, and other woodland
memories. She was so preoccupied with these and her own thoughts that a
gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or translated itself into the
remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. When at last it asserted itself more
distinctly, she started up with a flushed cheek and opened the door.
On the threshold stood a woman the self-assertion and audacity of whose
dress were in singular contrast to her timid, irresolute bearing.
Miss Mary recognized at a glance the dubious mother of her anonymous
pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed, perhaps she was only fastidious;
but as she coldly invited her to enter, she half-unconsciously settled
her white cuffs and collar, and gathered closer her own chaste skirts.
It was, perhaps, for this reason that the embarrassed stranger, after a
moment's hesitation, left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in the
dust beside the door, and then sat down at the farther end of a long
bench. Her voice was husky as she began:
“I heerd tell that you were goin' down to the Bay tomorrow, and I
couldn't let you go until I came to thank you for your kindness to my
Tommy.”
Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, and deserved more than the poor
attention she could give him.
“Thank you, miss; thank ye!” cried the stranger, brightening even
through the color which Red Gulch knew facetiously as her “war paint,”
and striving, in her embarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the
schoolmistress. “I thank you, miss, for that! and if I am his mother,
there ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And if I ain't
much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher lives
than he's got.”
Miss Mary, sitting primly behind her desk, with a ruler over her
shoulder, opened her gray eyes widely at this, but said nothing.
“It ain't for you to be complimented by the like of me, I know,” she
went on, hurriedly. “It ain't for me to be comin' here, in broad day, to
do it, either; but I come to ask a favor--not for me, miss--not for me,
but for the darling boy.”
Encouraged by a look in the young schoolmistress's eye, and putting her
lilac-gloved hands together, the fingers downward, between her knees,
she went on, in a low voice:
“You see, miss, there's no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I
ain't the proper person to bring him up. I thought some, last year, of
sending him away to Frisco to school, but when they talked of bringing
a schoolma'am here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was all
right, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And O, miss, he loves
you so much; and if you could hear him talk about you, in his pretty
way, and if he could ask you what I ask you now, you couldn't refuse
him.
“It is natural,” she went on, rapidly, in a voice that trembled
strangely between pride and humility--“it's natural that he should
take to you, miss, for his father, when I first knew him, was a
gentleman--and the boy must forget me, sooner or later--and so I ain't
goin' to cry about that. For I come to ask you to take my Tommy--God
bless him for the bestest, sweetest boy that lives--to--to--take him
with you.”
She had risen and caught the young girl's hand in her own, and had
fallen on her knees beside her.
“I've money plenty, and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good
school, where you can go and see him, and help him to--to--to forget his
mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be kindness
to what he will learn with me. Only take him out of this wicked life,
this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You will; I know you
will--won't you? You will--you must not, you cannot say no! You will
make him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he has grown up, you
will tell him his father's name--the name that hasn't passed my lips
for years--the name of Alexander Morton, whom they call here Sandy! Miss
Mary!--do not take your hand away! Miss Mary, speak to me! You will take
my boy? Do not put your face from me. I know it ought not to look on
such as me. Miss Mary!--my God, be merciful!--she is leaving me!”
Miss Mary had risen and, in the gathering twilight, had felt her way to
the open window. She stood there, leaning against the casement, her
eyes fixed on the last rosy tints that were fading from the western sky.
There was still some of its light on her pure young forehead, on her
white collar, on her clasped white hands, but all fading slowly away.
The suppliant had dragged herself, still on her knees, beside her.
“I know it takes time to consider. I will wait here all night; but I
cannot go until you speak. Do not deny me now. You will!--I see it in
your sweet face--such a face as I have seen in my dreams. I see it in
your eyes, Miss Mary!--you will take my boy!”
The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary's eyes with something
of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out. The sun had set on Red
Gulch. In the twilight and silence Miss Mary's voice sounded pleasantly.
“I will take the boy. Send him to me tonight.”
The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary's skirts to her lips. She
would have buried her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not.
She rose to her feet.
“Does--this man--know of your intention?” asked Miss Mary, suddenly.
“No, nor cares. He has never even seen the child to know it.”
“Go to him at once--tonight--now! Tell him what you have done. Tell him
I have taken his child, and tell him--he must never see--see--the child
again. Wherever it may be, he must not come; wherever I may take it, he
must not follow! There, go now, please--I'm weary, and--have much yet to
do!”
They walked together to the door. On the threshold the woman turned.
“Good night.”
She would have fallen at Miss Mary's feet. But at the same moment the
young girl reached out her arms, caught the sinful woman to her own pure
breast for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.
It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that Profane Bill
took the reins of the Slumgullion Stage the next morning, for the
schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he entered the highroad, in
obedience to a pleasant voice from the “inside,” he suddenly reined up
his horses and respectfully waited as Tommy hopped out at the command of
Miss Mary. “Not that bush, Tommy--the next.”
Tommy whipped out his new pocketknife, and, cutting a branch from a tall
azalea bush, returned with it to Miss Mary.
“All right now?”
“All right.”
And the stage door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch.
BROWN OF CALAVERAS
A subdued tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar smoke and boot
heels at the windows of the Wingdam stagecoach, made it evident that
one of the inside passengers was a woman. A disposition on the part
of loungers at the stations to congregate before the window, and some
concern in regard to the appearance of coats, hats, and collars, further
indicated that she was lovely. All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin, on the
box seat, noted with the smile of cynical philosophy. Not that he
depreciated the sex, but that he recognized therein a deceitful element,
the pursuit of which sometimes drew mankind away from the equally
uncertain blandishments of poker--of which it may be remarked that Mr.
Hamlin was a professional exponent.
So that when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel and leaped down,
he did not even glance at the window from which a green veil was
fluttering, but lounged up and down with that listless and grave
indifference of his class, which was, perhaps, the next thing to good
breeding. With his closely buttoned figure and self-contained air he
was a marked contrast to the other passengers, with their feverish
restlessness and boisterous emotion; and even Bill Masters, a graduate
of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his overflowing vitality, his
intense appreciation of lawlessness and barbarism, and his mouth filled
with crackers and cheese, I fear cut but an unromantic figure beside
this lonely calculator of chances, with his pale Greek face and Homeric
gravity.
The driver called “All aboard!” and Mr. Hamlin returned to the coach.
His foot was upon the wheel, and his face raised to the level of the
open window, when, at the same moment, what appeared to him to be the
finest eyes in the world suddenly met his. He quietly dropped down
again, addressed a few words to one of the inside passengers, effected
an exchange of seats, and as quietly took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin
never allowed his philosophy to interfere with decisive and prompt
action.
I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint upon the other
passengers--particularly those who were making themselves most agreeable
to the lady. One of them leaned forward, and apparently conveyed to
her information regarding Mr. Hamlin's profession in a single epithet.
Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or whether he recognized in the informant
a distinguished jurist from whom, but a few evenings before, he had won
several thousand dollars, I cannot say. His colorless face betrayed no
sign; his black eyes, quietly observant, glanced indifferently past the
legal gentleman, and rested on the much more pleasing features of
his neighbor. An Indian stoicism--said to be an inheritance from his
maternal ancestor--stood him in good service, until the rolling wheels
rattled upon the river gravel at Scott's Ferry, and the stage drew up at
the International Hotel for dinner. The legal gentleman and a member of
Congress leaped out, and stood ready to assist the descending goddess,
while Colonel Starbottle, of Siskiyou, took charge of her parasol and
shawl. In this multiplicity of attention there was a momentary confusion
and delay. Jack Hamlin quietly opened the OPPOSITE door of the coach,
took the lady's hand--with that decision and positiveness which a
hesitating and undecided sex know how to admire--and in an instant had
dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground, and again lifted her
to the platform. An audible chuckle on the box, I fear, came from
that other cynic, “Yuba Bill,” the driver. “Look keerfully arter that
baggage, Kernel,” said the expressman, with affected concern, as he
looked after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily bringing up the rear of the
triumphant procession to the waiting-room.
Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner. His horse was already saddled, and
awaiting him. He dashed over the ford, up the gravelly hill, and
out into the dusty perspective of the Wingdam road, like one leaving
pleasant fancy behind him. The inmates of dusty cabins by the roadside
shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after him, recognizing the
man by his horse, and speculating what “was up with Comanche Jack.” Yet
much of this interest centered in the horse, in a community where
the time made by “French Pete's” mare in his run from the Sheriff of
Calaveras eclipsed all concern in the ultimate fate of that worthy.
The sweating flanks of his gray at length recalled him to himself. He
checked his speed, and, turning into a by-road, sometimes used as a
cutoff, trotted leisurely along, the reins hanging listlessly from
his fingers. As he rode on, the character of the landscape changed and
became more pastoral. Openings in groves of pine and sycamore disclosed
some rude attempts at cultivation--a flowering vine trailed over the
porch of one cabin, and a woman rocked her cradled babe under the roses
of another. A little farther on Mr. Hamlin came upon some barelegged
children wading in the willowy creek, and so wrought upon them with a
badinage peculiar to himself that they were emboldened to climb up
his horse's legs and over his saddle, until he was fain to develop an
exaggerated ferocity of demeanor, and to escape, leaving behind some
kisses and coin. And then, advancing deeper into the woods, where all
signs of habitation failed, he began to sing--uplifting a tenor so
singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so subduing and tender, that I
wot the robins and linnets stopped to listen. Mr. Hamlin's voice was not
cultivated; the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy borrowed
from the Negro minstrels; but there thrilled through all some occult
quality of tone and expression that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it
was a wonderful sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of
cards in his pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before
him through the dim woods with a plaint about his “Nelly's grave” in a
way that overflowed the eyes of the listener. A sparrow hawk, fresh from
his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr. Hamlin a kindred spirit,
stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the superiority of
man. With a superior predatory capacity, HE couldn't sing.
But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad, and at his
former pace. Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded hillsides, stumps,
and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of woodland and ravine, and
indicated his approach to civilization. Then a church steeple came in
sight, and he knew that he had reached home. In a few moments he was
clattering down the single narrow street that lost itself in a chaotic
ruin of races, ditches, and tailings at the foot of the hill, and
dismounted before the gilded windows of the “Magnolia” saloon. Passing
through the long barroom, he pushed open a green-baize door, entered a
dark passage, opened another door with a passkey, and found himself in
a dimly lighted room whose furniture, though elegant and costly for the
locality, showed signs of abuse. The inlaid center table was overlaid
with stained disks that were not contemplated in the original design.
The embroidered armchairs were discolored, and the green velvet lounge,
on which Mr. Hamlin threw himself, was soiled at the foot with the red
soil of Wingdam.
Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a highly
colored painting above him representing a young creature of opulent
charms. It occurred to him then, for the first time, that he had never
seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that if he should, he would not,
probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking of another
style of beauty. But just then someone knocked at the door. Without
rising, he pulled a cord that apparently shot back a bolt, for the door
swung open, and a man entered.
The newcomer was broad-shouldered and robust--a vigor not borne out in
the face, which, though handsome, was singularly weak, and disfigured by
dissipation. He appeared to be also under the influence of liquor, for
he started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said, “I thought Kate was here,”
stammered, and seemed confused and embarrassed.
Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn on the Wingdam
coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and ready for business.
“You didn't come up on the stage,” continued the newcomer, “did you?”
“No,” replied Hamlin; “I left it at Scott's Ferry. It isn't due for half
an hour yet. But how's luck, Brown?”
“Damn bad,” said Brown, his face suddenly assuming an expression of weak
despair; “I'm cleaned out again, Jack,” he continued, in a whining tone
that formed a pitiable contrast to his bulky figure, “can't you help me
with a hundred till tomorrow's cleanup? You see I've got to send money
home to the old woman, and--you've won twenty times that amount from
me.”
The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but Jack overlooked
it, and handed the sum to his visitor. “The old-woman business is about
played out, Brown,” he added, by way of commentary; “why don't you say
you want to buck agin' faro? You know you ain't married!”
“Fact, sir,” said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the mere contact
of the gold with the palm of the hand had imparted some dignity to his
frame. “I've got a wife--a damned good one, too, if I do say it--in the
States. It's three year since I've seen her, and a year since I've writ
to her. When things is about straight, and we get down to the lead, I'm
going to send for her.”
“And Kate?” queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous smile.
Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance, to cover his
confusion, which his weak face and whisky-muddled intellect but poorly
carried out, and said:
“Damn it, Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you know. But
come, what do you say to a little game? Give us a show to double this
hundred.”
Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. Perhaps he knew that
the man was predestined to lose the money, and preferred that it should
flow back into his own coffers rather than any other. He nodded his
head, and drew his chair toward the table. At the same moment there came
a rap upon the door.
“It's Kate,” said Mr. Brown.
Mr. Hamlin shot back the bolt, and the door opened. But, for the
first time in his life, he staggered to his feet, utterly unnerved and
abashed, and for the first time in his life the hot blood crimsoned his
colorless cheeks to his forehead. For before him stood the lady he had
lifted from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown--dropping his cards with a
hysterical laugh--greeted as:
“My old woman, by thunder!”
They say that Mrs. Brown burst into tears, and reproaches of her
husband. I saw her, in 1857, at Marysville, and disbelieve the story.
And the WINGDAM CHRONICLE, of the next week, under the head of “Touching
Reunion,” said: “One of those beautiful and touching incidents, peculiar
to California life, occurred last week in our city. The wife of one of
Wingdam's eminent pioneers, tired of the effete civilization of the East
and its inhospitable climate, resolved to join her noble husband
upon these golden shores. Without informing him of her intention,
she undertook the long journey, and arrived last week. The joy of the
husband may be easier imagined than described. The meeting is said
to have been indescribably affecting. We trust her example may be
followed.”
Whether owing to Mrs. Brown's influence, or to some more successful
speculations, Mr. Brown's financial fortune from that day steadily
improved. He bought out his partners in the “Nip and Tuck” lead, with
money which was said to have been won at poker, a week or two after his
wife's arrival, but which rumor, adopting Mrs. Brown's theory that Brown
had forsworn the gaming-table, declared to have been furnished by Mr.
Jack Hamlin. He built and furnished the “Wingdam House,” which pretty
Mrs. Brown's great popularity kept overflowing with guests. He was
elected to the Assembly, and gave largess to churches. A street in
Wingdam was named in his honor.
Yet it was noted that in proportion as he waxed wealthy and fortunate,
he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his wife's popularity increased,
he became fretful and impatient. The most uxorious of husbands, he
was absurdly jealous. If he did not interfere with his wife's social
liberty, it was because it was maliciously whispered that his first and
only attempt was met by an outburst from Mrs. Brown that terrified him
into silence. Much of this kind of gossip came from those of her own sex
whom she had supplanted in the chivalrous attentions of Wingdam, which,
like most popular chivalry, was devoted to an admiration of power,
whether of masculine force or feminine beauty. It should be remembered,
too, in her extenuation that since her arrival, she had been the
unconscious priestess of a mythological worship, perhaps not more
ennobling to her womanhood than that which distinguished an older Greek
democracy. I think that Brown was dimly conscious of this. But his only
confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose INFELIX reputation naturally precluded
any open intimacy with the family, and whose visits were infrequent.
It was midsummer, and a moonlit night; and Mrs. Brown, very rosy,
large-eyed, and pretty, sat upon the piazza, enjoying the fresh incense
of the mountain breeze, and, it is to be feared, another incense
which was not so fresh, nor quite as innocent. Beside her sat Colonel
Starbottle and Judge Boompointer, and a later addition to her court in
the shape of a foreign tourist. She was in good spirits.
“What do you see down the road?” inquired the gallant Colonel, who had
been conscious, for the last few minutes, that Mrs. Brown's attention
was diverted.
“Dust,” said Mrs. Brown, with a sigh. “Only Sister Anne's 'flock of
sheep.'”
The Colonel, whose literary recollections did not extend farther back
than last week's paper, took a more practical view. “It ain't sheep,” he
continued; “it's a horseman. Judge, ain't that Jack Hamlin's gray?”
But the Judge didn't know; and as Mrs. Brown suggested the air was
growing too cold for further investigations, they retired to the parlor.
Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he generally retired after dinner.
Perhaps it was to show his contempt for his wife's companions; perhaps,
like other weak natures, he found pleasure in the exercise of absolute
power over inferior animals. He had a certain gratification in the
training of a chestnut mare, whom he could beat or caress as pleased
him, which he couldn't do with Mrs. Brown. It was here that he
recognized a certain gray horse which had just come in, and, looking
a little farther on, found his rider. Brown's greeting was cordial and
hearty, Mr. Hamlin's somewhat restrained. But at Brown's urgent request,
he followed him up the back stairs to a narrow corridor, and thence to
a small room looking out upon the stable yard. It was plainly furnished
with a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a rack for guns and whips.
“This yer's my home, Jack,” said Brown, with a sigh, as he threw himself
upon the bed, and motioned his companion to a chair. “Her room's t'other
end of the hall. It's more'n six months since we've lived together, or
met, except at meals. It's mighty rough papers on the head of the house,
ain't it?” he said, with a forced laugh. “But I'm glad to see you,
Jack, damn glad,” and he reached from the bed, and again shook the
unresponsive hand of Jack Hamlin.
“I brought ye up here, for I didn't want to talk in the stable; though,
for the matter of that, it's all round town. Don't strike a light. We
can talk here in the moonshine. Put up your feet on that winder, and sit
here beside me. Thar's whisky in that jug.”
Mr. Hamlin did not avail himself of the information. Brown of Calaveras
turned his face to the wall and continued:
“If I didn't love the woman, Jack, I wouldn't mind. But it's loving her,
and seeing her, day arter day, goin' on at this rate, and no one to put
down the brake; that's what gits me! But I'm glad to see ye, Jack, damn
glad.”
In the darkness he groped about until he had found and wrung his
companion's hand again. He would have detained it, but Jack slipped it
into the buttoned breast of his coat, and asked, listlessly, “How long
has this been going on?”
“Ever since she came here; ever since the day she walked into the
Magnolia. I was a fool then; Jack, I'm a fool now; but I didn't know how
much I loved her till then. And she hasn't been the same woman since.
“But that ain't all, Jack; and it's what I wanted to see you about, and
I'm glad you've come. It ain't that she doesn't love me any more; it
ain't that she fools with every chap that comes along, for, perhaps, I
staked her love and lost it, as I did everything else at the Magnolia;
and, perhaps, foolin' is nateral to some women, and thar ain't no great
harm done, 'cept to the fools. But, Jack, I think--I think she loves
somebody else. Don't move, Jack; don't move; if your pistol hurts ye,
take it off.
“It's been more'n six months now that she's seemed unhappy and lonesome,
and kinder nervous and scared-like. And sometimes I've ketched her
lookin' at me sort of timid and pitying. And she writes to somebody.
And for the last week she's been gathering her own things--trinkets,
and furbelows, and jew'lry--and, Jack, I think she's goin' off. I could
stand all but that. To have her steal away like a thief--” He put his
face downward to the pillow, and for a few moments there was no sound
but the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit a cigar, and
moved to the open window. The moon no longer shone into the room, and
the bed and its occupant were in shadow. “What shall I do, Jack?” said
the voice from the darkness.
The answer came promptly and clearly from the window-side: “Spot the
man, and kill him on sight.”
“But, Jack?”
“He's took the risk!”
“But will that bring HER back?”
Jack did not reply, but moved from the window toward the door.
“Don't go yet, Jack; light the candle, and sit by the table. It's a
comfort to see ye, if nothin' else.”
Jack hesitated, and then complied. He drew a pack of cards from his
pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the bed. But Brown's face was
turned to the wall. When Mr. Hamlin had shuffled the cards, he cut them,
and dealt one card on the opposite side of the table and toward the bed,
and another on his side of the table for himself. The first was a deuce,
his own card, a king. He then shuffled and cut again. This time “dummy”
had a queen, and himself a four-spot. Jack brightened up for the third
deal. It brought his adversary a deuce, and himself a king again. “Two
out of three,” said Jack, audibly.
“What's that, Jack?” said Brown.
“Nothing.”
Then Jack tried his hand with dice; but he always threw sixes, and his
imaginary opponent aces. The force of habit is sometimes confusing.
Meanwhile, some magnetic influence in Mr. Hamlin's presence, or the
anodyne of liquor, or both, brought surcease of sorrow, and Brown slept.
Mr. Hamlin moved his chair to the window, and looked out on the town
of Wingdam, now sleeping peacefully--its harsh outlines softened and
subdued, its glaring colors mellowed and sobered in the moonlight that
flowed over all. In the hush he could hear the gurgling of water in the
ditches, and the sighing of the pines beyond the hill. Then he looked
up at the firmament, and as he did so a star shot across the twinkling
field. Presently another, and then another. The phenomenon suggested to
Mr. Hamlin a fresh augury. If in another fifteen minutes another star
should fall--He sat there, watch in hand, for twice that time, but the
phenomenon was not repeated.
The clock struck two, and Brown still slept. Mr. Hamlin approached the
table and took from his pocket a letter, which he read by the flickering
candlelight. It contained only a single line, written in pencil, in a
woman's hand:
“Be at the corral, with the buggy, at three.”
The sleeper moved uneasily, and then awoke. “Are you there Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Don't go yet. I dreamed just now, Jack--dreamed of old times. I thought
that Sue and me was being married agin, and that the parson, Jack,
was--who do you think?--you!”
The gambler laughed, and seated himself on the bed--the paper still in
his hand.
“It's a good sign, ain't it?” queried Brown.
“I reckon. Say, old man, hadn't you better get up?”
The “old man,” thus affectionately appealed to, rose, with the
assistance of Hamlin's outstretched hand.
“Smoke?”
Brown mechanically took the proffered cigar.
“Light?”
Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it for his
companion. He continued to hold it until it was consumed, and dropped
the fragment--a fiery star--from the open window. He watched it as it
fell, and then returned to his friend.
“Old man,” he said, placing his hands upon Brown's shoulders, “in ten
minutes I'll be on the road, and gone like that spark. We won't see each
other agin; but, before I go, take a fool's advice: sell out all you've
got, take your wife with you, and quit the country. It ain't no place
for you, nor her. Tell her she must go; make her go, if she won't.
Don't whine because you can't be a saint, and she ain't an angel. Be a
man--and treat her like a woman. Don't be a damn fool. Good-by.”
He tore himself from Brown's grasp, and leaped down the stairs like
a deer. At the stable door he collared the half-sleeping hostler and
backed him against the wall. “Saddle my horse in two minutes, or I'll--”
The ellipsis was frightfully suggestive.
“The missis said you was to have the buggy,” stammered the man.
“Damn the buggy!”
The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous hands of the astounded
hostler could manipulate buckle and strap.
“Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin?” said the man, who, like all his class,
admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was really concerned in his
welfare.
“Stand aside!”
The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, Jack was into the
road. In another moment, to the man's half-awakened eyes, he was but a
moving cloud of dust in the distance, toward which a star just loosed
from its brethren was trailing a stream of fire.
But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam turnpike, miles away,
heard a voice, pure as a skylark's, singing afield. They who were asleep
turned over on their rude couches to dream of youth and love and olden
days. Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers, already at work, ceased
their labors and leaned upon their picks, to listen to a romantic
vagabond ambling away against the rosy sunrise.
HIGH-WATER MARK
When the tide was out on the Dedlow Marsh, its extended dreariness
was patent. Its spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools, and
tortuous sloughs, twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the open
bay, were all hard facts. So were the few green tussocks, with their
scant blades, their amphibious flavor and unpleasant dampness. And if
you choose to indulge your fancy--although the flat monotony of the
Dedlow Marsh was not inspiring--the wavy line of scattered drift gave
an unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters, and made the dead
certainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection which no present
sunshine could dissipate. The greener meadowland seemed oppressed with
this idea, and made no positive attempt at vegetation until the work of
reclamation should be complete. In the bitter fruit of the low cranberry
bushes one might fancy he detected a naturally sweet disposition curdled
and soured by an injudicious course of too much regular cold water.
The vocal expression of the Dedlow Marsh was also melancholy and
depressing. The sepulchral boom of the bittern, the shriek of the
curlew, the scream of passing brent, the wrangling of quarrelsome
teal, the sharp, querulous protest of the startled crane, and syllabled
complaint of the “killdeer” plover, were beyond the power of written
expression. Nor was the aspect of these mournful fowls at all cheerful
and inspiring. Certainly not the blue heron standing mid-leg deep in the
water, obviously catching cold in a reckless disregard of wet feet
and consequences; nor the mournful curlew, the dejected plover, or
the low-spirited snipe, who saw fit to join him in his suicidal
contemplation; nor the impassive kingfisher--an ornithological
Marius--reviewing the desolate expanse; nor the black raven that went to
and fro over the face of the marsh continually, but evidently couldn't
make up his mind whether the waters had subsided, and felt low-spirited
in the reflection that, after all this trouble, he wouldn't be able to
give a definite answer. On the contrary, it was evident at a glance that
the dreary expanse of Dedlow Marsh told unpleasantly on the birds, and
that the season of migration was looked forward to with a feeling
of relief and satisfaction by the full-grown, and of extravagant
anticipation by the callow, brood. But if Dedlow Marsh was cheerless
at the slack of the low tide, you should have seen it when the tide was
strong and full. When the damp air blew chilly over the cold, glittering
expanse, and came to the faces of those who looked seaward like another
tide; when a steel-like glint marked the low hollows and the sinuous
line of slough; when the great shell-incrusted trunks of fallen trees
arose again, and went forth on their dreary, purposeless wanderings,
drifting hither and thither, but getting no farther toward any goal
at the falling tide or the day's decline than the cursed Hebrew in the
legend; when the glossy ducks swung silently, making neither ripple nor
furrow on the shimmering surface; when the fog came in with the tide and
shut out the blue above, even as the green below had been obliterated;
when boatmen lost in that fog, paddling about in a hopeless way, started
at what seemed the brushing of mermen's fingers on the boat's keel, or
shrank from the tufts of grass spreading around like the floating hair
of a corpse, and knew by these signs that they were lost upon Dedlow
Marsh and must make a night of it, and a gloomy one at that--then you
might know something of Dedlow Marsh at high water.
Let me recall a story connected with this latter view which never failed
to recur to my mind in my long gunning excursions upon Dedlow Marsh.
Although the event was briefly recorded in the county paper, I had the
story, in all its eloquent detail, from the lips of the principal actor.
I cannot hope to catch the varying emphasis and peculiar coloring of
feminine delineation, for my narrator was a woman; but I'll try to give
at least its substance.
She lived midway of the great slough of Dedlow Marsh and a good-sized
river, which debouched four miles beyond into an estuary formed by
the Pacific Ocean, on the long sandy peninsula which constituted the
southwestern boundary of a noble bay. The house in which she lived was
a small frame cabin raised from the marsh a few feet by stout piles, and
was three miles distant from the settlements upon the river. Her husband
was a logger--a profitable business in a county where the principal
occupation was the manufacture of lumber.
It was the season of early spring when her husband left on the ebb of a
high tide, with a raft of logs for the usual transportation to the lower
end of the bay. As she stood by the door of the little cabin when the
voyagers departed she noticed a cold look in the southeastern sky, and
she remembered hearing her husband say to his companions that they must
endeavor to complete their voyage before the coming of the southwesterly
gale which he saw brewing. And that night it began to storm and blow
harder than she had ever before experienced, and some great trees fell
in the forest by the river, and the house rocked like her baby's cradle.
But however the storm might roar about the little cabin, she knew that
one she trusted had driven bolt and bar with his own strong hand, and
that had he feared for her he would not have left her. This, and her
domestic duties, and the care of her little sickly baby, helped to keep
her mind from dwelling on the weather, except, of course, to hope that
he was safely harbored with the logs at Utopia in the dreary distance.
But she noticed that day, when she went out to feed the chickens and
look after the cow, that the tide was up to the little fence of their
garden-patch, and the roar of the surf on the south beach, though miles
away, she could hear distinctly. And she began to think that she would
like to have someone to talk with about matters, and she believed that
if it had not been so far and so stormy, and the trail so impassable,
she would have taken the baby and have gone over to Ryckman's, her
nearest neighbor. But then, you see, he might have returned in the
storm, all wet, with no one to see to him; and it was a long exposure
for baby, who was croupy and ailing.
But that night, she never could tell why, she didn't feel like sleeping
or even lying down. The storm had somewhat abated, but she still “sat
and sat,” and even tried to read. I don't know whether it was a Bible or
some profane magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably the
latter, for the words all ran together and made such sad nonsense that
she was forced at last to put the book down and turn to that dearer
volume which lay before her in the cradle, with its white initial leaf
as yet unsoiled, and try to look forward to its mysterious future. And,
rocking the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but still
was wide-awake as ever.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when she at last lay down in her clothes.
How long she slept she could not remember, but she awoke with a dreadful
choking in her throat, and found herself standing, trembling all over,
in the middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, and she
was “saying something.” The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked up
and down trying to hush it when she heard a scratching at the door. She
opened it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, their
dog, who crawled, dripping with water, into the room. She would like to
have looked out, not in the faint hope of her husband's coming, but to
see how things looked; but the wind shook the door so savagely that she
could hardly hold it. Then she sat down a little while, and then walked
up and down a little while, and then she lay down again a little while.
Lying close by the wall of the little cabin, she thought she heard
once or twice something scrape slowly against the clapboards, like the
scraping of branches. Then there was a little gurgling sound, “like the
baby made when it was swallowing”; then something went “click-click”
and “cluck-cluck,” so that she sat up in bed. When she did so she was
attracted by something else that seemed creeping from the back door
toward the center of the room. It wasn't much wider than her little
finger, but soon it swelled to the width of her hand, and began
spreading all over the floor. It was water.
She ran to the front door and threw it wide open, and saw nothing but
water. She ran to the back door and threw it open, and saw nothing
but water. She ran to the side window, and throwing that open, she saw
nothing but water. Then she remembered hearing her husband once say that
there was no danger in the tide, for that fell regularly, and people
could calculate on it, and that he would rather live near the bay than
the river, whose banks might overflow at any time. But was it the tide?
So she ran again to the back door, and threw out a stick of wood. It
drifted away toward the bay. She scooped up some of the water and put it
eagerly to her lips. It was fresh and sweet. It was the river, and not
the tide!
It was then--O God be praised for his goodness! she did neither faint
nor fall; it was then--blessed be the Saviour, for it was his merciful
hand that touched and strengthened her in this awful moment--that fear
dropped from her like a garment, and her trembling ceased. It was then
and thereafter that she never lost her self-command, through all the
trials of that gloomy night.
She drew the bedstead toward the middle of the room, and placed a table
upon it and on that she put the cradle. The water on the floor
was already over her ankles, and the house once or twice moved so
perceptibly, and seemed to be racked so, that the closet doors all flew
open. Then she heard the same rasping and thumping against the wall,
and, looking out, saw that a large uprooted tree, which had lain near
the road at the upper end of the pasture, had floated down to the house.
Luckily its long roots dragged in the soil and kept it from moving as
rapidly as the current, for had it struck the house in its full career,
even the strong nails and bolts in the piles could not have withstood
the shock. The hound had leaped upon its knotty surface, and crouched
near the roots shivering and whining. A ray of hope flashed across her
mind. She drew a heavy blanket from the bed, and, wrapping it about
the babe, waded in the deepening waters to the door. As the tree swung
again, broadside on, making the little cabin creak and tremble, she
leaped on to its trunk. By God's mercy she succeeded in obtaining a
footing on its slippery surface, and, twining an arm about its roots,
she held in the other her moaning child. Then something cracked near the
front porch, and the whole front of the house she had just quitted fell
forward--just as cattle fall on their knees before they lie down--and at
the same moment the great redwood tree swung round and drifted away with
its living cargo into the black night.
For all the excitement and danger, for all her soothing of her crying
babe, for all the whistling of the wind, for all the uncertainty of
her situation, she still turned to look at the deserted and water-swept
cabin. She remembered even then, and she wonders how foolish she was to
think of it at that time, that she wished she had put on another dress
and the baby's best clothes; and she kept praying that the house would
be spared so that he, when he returned, would have something to come to,
and it wouldn't be quite so desolate, and--how could he ever know what
had become of her and baby? And at the thought she grew sick and faint.
But she had something else to do besides worrying, for whenever the
long roots of her ark struck an obstacle, the whole trunk made half a
revolution, and twice dipped her in the black water. The hound, who kept
distracting her by running up and down the tree and howling, at last
fell off at one of these collisions. He swam for some time beside her,
and she tried to get the poor beast up on the tree, but he “acted silly”
and wild, and at last she lost sight of him forever. Then she and her
baby were left alone. The light which had burned for a few minutes
in the deserted cabin was quenched suddenly. She could not then
tell whither she was drifting. The outline of the white dunes on the
peninsula showed dimly ahead, and she judged the tree was moving in a
line with the river. It must be about slack water, and she had
probably reached the eddy formed by the confluence of the tide and the
overflowing waters of the river. Unless the tide fell soon, there was
present danger of her drifting to its channel, and being carried out to
sea or crushed in the floating drift. That peril averted, if she were
carried out on the ebb toward the bay, she might hope to strike one
of the wooded promontories of the peninsula, and rest till daylight.
Sometimes she thought she heard voices and shouts from the river, and
the bellowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. Then again it was only
the ringing in her ears and throbbing of her heart. She found at about
this time that she was so chilled and stiffened in her cramped position
that she could scarcely move, and the baby cried so when she put it to
her breast that she noticed the milk refused to flow; and she was so
frightened at that, that she put her head under her shawl, and for the
first time cried bitterly.
When she raised her head again, the boom of the surf was behind her, and
she knew that her ark had again swung round. She dipped up the water to
cool her parched throat, and found that it was salt as her tears. There
was a relief, though, for by this sign she knew that she was drifting
with the tide. It was then the wind went down, and the great and awful
silence oppressed her. There was scarcely a ripple against the furrowed
sides of the great trunk on which she rested, and around her all was
black gloom and quiet. She spoke to the baby just to hear herself speak,
and to know that she had not lost her voice. She thought then--it was
queer, but she could not help thinking it--how awful must have been the
night when the great ship swung over the Asiatic peak, and the sounds of
creation were blotted out from the world. She thought, too, of mariners
clinging to spars, and of poor women who were lashed to rafts, and
beaten to death by the cruel sea. She tried to thank God that she was
thus spared, and lifted her eyes from the baby, who had fallen into a
fretful sleep. Suddenly, away to the southward, a great light lifted
itself out of the gloom, and flashed and flickered, and flickered and
flashed again. Her heart fluttered quickly against the baby's cold
cheek. It was the lighthouse at the entrance of the bay. As she was yet
wondering, the tree suddenly rolled a little, dragged a little, and
then seemed to lie quiet and still. She put out her hand and the current
gurgled against it. The tree was aground, and, by the position of the
light and the noise of the surf, aground upon the Dedlow Marsh.
Had it not been for her baby, who was ailing and croupy, had it not been
for the sudden drying up of that sensitive fountain, she would have
felt safe and relieved. Perhaps it was this which tended to make all her
impressions mournful and gloomy. As the tide rapidly fell, a great flock
of black brent fluttered by her, screaming and crying. Then the plover
flew up and piped mournfully as they wheeled around the trunk, and at
last fearlessly lit upon it like a gray cloud. Then the heron flew over
and around her, shrieking and protesting, and at last dropped its gaunt
legs only a few yards from her. But, strangest of all, a pretty white
bird, larger than a dove--like a pelican, but not a pelican--circled
around and around her. At last it lit upon a rootlet of the tree, quite
over her shoulder. She put out her hand and stroked its beautiful white
neck, and it never appeared to move. It stayed there so long that she
thought she would lift up the baby to see it, and try to attract her
attention. But when she did so, the child was so chilled and cold, and
had such a blue look under the little lashes which it didn't raise at
all, that she screamed aloud, and the bird flew away, and she fainted.
Well, that was the worst of it, and perhaps it was not so much, after
all, to any but herself. For when she recovered her senses it was bright
sunlight, and dead low water. There was a confused noise of guttural
voices about her, and an old squaw, singing an Indian “hushaby,” and
rocking herself from side to side before a fire built on the marsh,
before which she, the recovered wife and mother, lay weak and weary. Her
first thought was for her baby, and she was about to speak, when a young
squaw, who must have been a mother herself, fathomed her thought and
brought her the “mowitch,” pale but living, in such a queer little
willow cradle all bound up, just like the squaw's own young one, that
she laughed and cried together, and the young squaw and the old squaw
showed their big white teeth and glinted their black eyes and said,
“Plenty get well, skeena mowitch,” “wagee man come plenty soon,” and she
could have kissed their brown faces in her joy. And then she found that
they had been gathering berries on the marsh in their queer, comical
baskets, and saw the skirt of her gown fluttering on the tree from afar,
and the old squaw couldn't resist the temptation of procuring a new
garment, and came down and discovered the “wagee” woman and child. And
of course she gave the garment to the old squaw, as you may imagine, and
when HE came at last and rushed up to her, looking about ten years older
in his anxiety, she felt so faint again that they had to carry her to
the canoe. For, you see, he knew nothing about the flood until he met
the Indians at Utopia, and knew by the signs that the poor woman was
his wife. And at the next high tide he towed the tree away back home,
although it wasn't worth the trouble, and built another house, using the
old tree for the foundation and props, and called it after her, “Mary's
Ark!” But you may guess the next house was built above high-water mark.
And that's all.
Not much, perhaps, considering the malevolent capacity of the Dedlow
Marsh. But you must tramp over it at low water, or paddle over it at
high tide, or get lost upon it once or twice in the fog, as I have,
to understand properly Mary's adventure, or to appreciate duly the
blessings of living beyond High-Water Mark.
A LONELY RIDE
As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was a dark night,
a lonely road, and that I was the only passenger. Let me assure the
reader that I have no ulterior design in making this assertion. A
long course of light reading has forewarned me what every experienced
intelligence must confidently look for from such a statement. The
storyteller who willfully tempts Fate by such obvious beginnings; who is
to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half-murdered, or
frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced to his ladylove for the
first time, deserves to be detected. I am relieved to say that none of
these things occurred to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew
no other banditti than the regularly licensed hotelkeepers; lunatics had
not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own free
will in California stages; and my Laura, amiable and long-suffering as
she always is, could not, I fear, have borne up against these depressing
circumstances long enough to have made the slightest impression on me.
I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the
vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its
roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to
its wheels. I opened the door; the stage creaked easily, and in the
gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly hands, to come
in now and have my sufferings out at once.
I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstance which struck
me as appalling and mysterious. A lounger on the steps of the hotel,
who I had reason to suppose was not in any way connected with the stage
company, gravely descended, and walking toward the conveyance, tried
the handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the carriage, and
returned to the hotel with a serious demeanor. Hardly had he resumed
his position when another individual, equally disinterested, impassively
walked down the steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it,
expectorated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively to
the hotel. A third spectator wearily disengaged himself from one of
the Ionic columns of the portico and walked to the box, remained for a
moment in serious and expectorative contemplation of the boot, and then
returned to his column. There was something so weird in this baptism
that I grew quite nervous.
Perhaps I was out of spirits. A number of infinitesimal annoyances,
winding up with the resolute persistency of the clerk at the stage
office to enter my name misspelt on the waybill, had not predisposed
me to cheerfulness. The inmates of the Eureka House, from a social
viewpoint, were not attractive. There was the prevailing opinion--so
common to many honest people--that a serious style of deportment and
conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility and elevated station.
Obeying this principle, all hilarity ceased on my entrance to supper,
and general remark merged into the safer and uncompromising chronicle of
several bad cases of diphtheria, then epidemic at Wingdam. When I left
the dining-room, with an odd feeling that I had been supping exclusively
on mustard and tea leaves, I stopped a moment at the parlor door. A
piano, harmoniously related to the dinner bell, tinkled responsive to
a diffident and uncertain touch. On the white wall the shadow of an
old and sharp profile was bending over several symmetrical and shadowy
curls. “I sez to Mariar, Mariar, sez I, 'Praise to the face is open
disgrace.'” I heard no more. Dreading some susceptibility to sincere
expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking
the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and
have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavily upon me that
I stood hesitatingly before the stage door. The driver, about to mount,
was for a moment illuminated by the open door of the hotel. He had
the wearied look which was the distinguishing expression of Wingdam.
Satisfied that I was properly waybilled and receipted for, he took no
further notice of me. I looked longingly at the box seat, but he did
not respond to the appeal. I flung my carpetbag into the chasm, dived
recklessly after it, and--before I was fairly seated--with a great
sigh, a creaking of unwilling springs, complaining bolts, and harshly
expostulating axle, we moved away. Rather the hotel door slipped behind,
the sound of the piano sank to rest, and the night and its shadows moved
solemnly upon us.
To say it was dark expressed but faintly the pitchy obscurity
that encompassed the vehicle. The roadside trees were scarcely
distinguishable as deeper masses of shadow; I knew them only by the
peculiar sodden odor that from time to time sluggishly flowed in at the
open window as we rolled by. We proceeded slowly; so leisurely that,
leaning from the carriage, I more than once detected the fragrant sigh
of some astonished cow, whose ruminating repose upon the highway we
had ruthlessly disturbed. But in the darkness our progress, more the
guidance of some mysterious instinct than any apparent volition of
our own, gave an indefinable charm of security to our journey that a
moment's hesitation or indecision on the part of the driver would have
destroyed.
I had indulged a hope that in the empty vehicle I might obtain that rest
so often denied me in its crowded condition. It was a weak delusion.
When I stretched out my limbs it was only to find that the ordinary
conveniences for making several people distinctly uncomfortable were
distributed throughout my individual frame. At last, resting my arms
on the straps, by dint of much gymnastic effort I became sufficiently
composed to be aware of a more refined species of torture. The springs
of the stage, rising and falling regularly, produced a rhythmical beat
which began to absorb my attention painfully. Slowly this thumping
merged into a senseless echo of the mysterious female of
the hotel parlor, and shaped itself into this awful and
benumbing axiom--“Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.
Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.” Inequalities of the road only
quickened its utterance or drawled it to an exasperating length.
It was of no use to consider the statement seriously. It was of no
use to except to it indignantly. It was of no use to recall the many
instances where praise to the face had redounded to the everlasting
honor of praiser and bepraised; of no use to dwell sentimentally
on modest genius and courage lifted up and strengthened by open
commendation; of no use to except to the mysterious female, to picture
her as rearing a thin-blooded generation on selfish and mechanically
repeated axioms--all this failed to counteract the monotonous repetition
of this sentence. There was nothing to do but to give in--and I was
about to accept it weakly, as we too often treat other illusions of
darkness and necessity, for the time being, when I became aware of some
other annoyance that had been forcing itself upon me for the last few
moments. How quiet the driver was!
Was there any driver? Had I any reason to suppose that he was not lying
gagged and bound on the roadside, and the highwayman with blackened face
who did the thing so quietly driving me--whither? The thing is perfectly
feasible. And what is this fancy now being jolted out of me? A story?
It's of no use to keep it back--particularly in this abysmal vehicle,
and here it comes: I am a Marquis--a French Marquis; French, because
the peerage is not so well known, and the country is better adapted to
romantic incident--a Marquis, because the democratic reader delights in
the nobility. My name is something LIGNY. I am coming from Paris to my
country seat at St. Germain. It is a dark night, and I fall asleep
and tell my honest coachman, Andre, not to disturb me, and dream of an
angel. The carriage at last stops at the chateau. It is so dark that
when I alight I do not recognize the face of the footman who holds the
carriage door. But what of that?--PESTE! I am heavy with sleep. The same
obscurity also hides the old familiar indecencies of the statues on the
terrace; but there is a door, and it opens and shuts behind me smartly.
Then I find myself in a trap, in the presence of the brigand who has
quietly gagged poor Andre and conducted the carriage thither. There
is nothing for me to do, as a gallant French Marquis, but to say,
“PARBLEU!” draw my rapier, and die valorously! I am found a week or two
after outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole through
my ruffled linen and my pockets stripped. No; on second thoughts, I
am rescued--rescued by the angel I have been dreaming of, who is the
assumed daughter of the brigand but the real daughter of an intimate
friend.
Looking from the window again, in the vain hope of distinguishing the
driver, I found my eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. I
could see the distant horizon, defined by India-inky woods, relieving a
lighter sky. A few stars widely spaced in this picture glimmered sadly.
I noticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in their serene
faces; and I hope that the vandal who first applied the flippant
“twinkle” to them may not be driven melancholy-mad by their reproachful
eyes. I noticed again the mystic charm of space that imparts a sense
of individual solitude to each integer of the densest constellation,
involving the smallest star with immeasurable loneliness. Something of
this calm and solitude crept over me, and I dozed in my gloomy cavern.
When I awoke the full moon was rising. Seen from my window, it had an
indescribably unreal and theatrical effect. It was the full moon of
NORMA--that remarkable celestial phenomenon which rises so palpably to
a hushed audience and a sublime andante chorus, until the CASTA DIVA is
sung--the “inconstant moon” that then and thereafter remains fixed in
the heavens as though it were a part of the solar system inaugurated
by Joshua. Again the white-robed Druids filed past me, again I saw that
improbable mistletoe cut from that impossible oak, and again cold chills
ran down my back with the first strain of the recitative. The thumping
springs essayed to beat time, and the private-box-like obscurity of
the vehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the view. But it was a vast
improvement upon my past experience, and I hugged the fond delusion.
My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising moon. A familiar
sound had assured me of his presence in the full possession of at least
one of his most important functions. Frequent and full expectoration
convinced me that his lips were as yet not sealed by the gag of
highwaymen, and soothed my anxious ear. With this load lifted from my
mind, and assisted by the mild presence of Diana, who left, as when
she visited Endymion, much of her splendor outside my cavern--I looked
around the empty vehicle. On the forward seat lay a woman's hairpin. I
picked it up with an interest that, however, soon abated. There was no
scent of the roses to cling to it still, not even of hair oil. No
bend or twist in its rigid angles betrayed any trait of its wearer's
character. I tried to think that it might have been “Mariar's.” I tried
to imagine that, confining the symmetrical curls of that girl, it might
have heard the soft compliments whispered in her ears which provoked the
wrath of the aged female. But in vain. It was reticent and unswerving in
its upright fidelity, and at last slipped listlessly through my fingers.
I had dozed repeatedly--waked on the threshold of oblivion by
contact with some of the angles of the coach, and feeling that I was
unconsciously assuming, in imitation of a humble insect of my childish
recollection, that spherical shape which could best resist those
impressions, when I perceived that the moon, riding high in the heavens,
had begun to separate the formless masses of the shadowy landscape.
Trees isolated, in clumps and assemblages, changed places before
my window. The sharp outlines of the distant hills came back, as
in daylight, but little softened in the dry, cold, dewless air of a
California summer night. I was wondering how late it was, and thinking
that if the horses of the night traveled as slowly as the team before
us, Faustus might have been spared his agonizing prayer, when a sudden
spasm of activity attacked my driver. A succession of whip-snappings,
like a pack of Chinese crackers, broke from the box before me. The stage
leaped forward, and when I could pick myself from under the seat, a long
white building had in some mysterious way rolled before my window.
It must be Slumgullion! As I descended from the stage I addressed the
driver:
“I thought you changed horses on the road?”
“So we did. Two hours ago.”
“That's odd. I didn't notice it.”
“Must have been asleep, sir. Hope you had a pleasant nap. Bully place
for a nice quiet snooze--empty stage, sir!”
THE MAN OF NO ACCOUNT
His name was Fagg--David Fagg. He came to California in '52 with us,
in the SKYSCRAPER. I don't think he did it in an adventurous way. He
probably had no other place to go to. When a knot of us young fellows
would recite what splendid opportunities we resigned to go, and how
sorry our friends were to have us leave, and show daguerreotypes and
locks of hair, and talk of Mary and Susan, the man of no account used to
sit by and listen with a pained, mortified expression on his plain face,
and say nothing. I think he had nothing to say. He had no associates
except when we patronized him; and, in point of fact, he was a good deal
of sport to us. He was always seasick whenever we had a capful of wind.
He never got his sea legs on, either. And I never shall forget how
we all laughed when Rattler took him the piece of pork on a string,
and--But you know that time-honored joke. And then we had such a
splendid lark with him. Miss Fanny Twinkler couldn't bear the sight of
him, and we used to make Fagg think that she had taken a fancy to him,
and send him little delicacies and books from the cabin. You ought
to have witnessed the rich scene that took place when he came up,
stammering and very sick, to thank her! Didn't she flash up grandly and
beautifully and scornfully? So like “Medora,” Rattler said--Rattler knew
Byron by heart--and wasn't old Fagg awfully cut up? But he got over it,
and when Rattler fell sick at Valparaiso, old Fagg used to nurse him.
You see he was a good sort of fellow, but he lacked manliness and
spirit.
He had absolutely no idea of poetry. I've seen him sit stolidly by,
mending his old clothes, when Rattler delivered that stirring apostrophe
of Byron's to the ocean. He asked Rattler once, quite seriously, if he
thought Byron was ever seasick. I don't remember Rattler's reply, but I
know we all laughed very much, and I have no doubt it was something good
for Rattler was smart.
When the SKYSCRAPER arrived at San Francisco we had a grand “feed.”
We agreed to meet every year and perpetuate the occasion. Of course we
didn't invite Fagg. Fagg was a steerage passenger, and it was necessary,
you see, now we were ashore, to exercise a little discretion. But Old
Fagg, as we called him--he was only about twenty-five years old, by the
way--was the source of immense amusement to us that day. It appeared
that he had conceived the idea that he could walk to Sacramento, and
actually started off afoot. We had a good time, and shook hands with one
another all around, and so parted. Ah me! only eight years ago, and yet
some of those hands then clasped in amity have been clenched at each
other, or have dipped furtively in one another's pockets. I know that
we didn't dine together the next year, because young Barker swore
he wouldn't put his feet under the same mahogany with such a very
contemptible scoundrel as that Mixer; and Nibbles, who borrowed money
at Valparaiso of young Stubbs, who was then a waiter in a restaurant,
didn't like to meet such people.
When I bought a number of shares in the Coyote Tunnel at Mugginsville,
in '54, I thought I'd take a run up there and see it. I stopped at the
Empire Hotel, and after dinner I got a horse and rode round the town and
out to the claim. One of those individuals whom newspaper correspondents
call “our intelligent informant,” and to whom in all small communities
the right of answering questions is tacitly yielded, was quietly pointed
out to me. Habit had enabled him to work and talk at the same time, and
he never pretermitted either. He gave me a history of the claim, and
added: “You see, stranger,” (he addressed the bank before him) “gold is
sure to come out'er that theer claim, (he put in a comma with his pick)
but the old pro-pri-e-tor (he wriggled out the word and the point of his
pick) warn't of much account (a long stroke of the pick for a period).
He was green, and let the boys about here jump him”--and the rest of his
sentence was confided to his hat, which he had removed to wipe his manly
brow with his red bandanna.
I asked him who was the original proprietor.
“His name war Fagg.”
I went to see him. He looked a little older and plainer. He had worked
hard, he said, and was getting on “so-so.” I took quite a liking to
him and patronized him to some extent. Whether I did so because I was
beginning to have a distrust for such fellows as Rattler and Mixer is
not necessary for me to state.
You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went in, and how awfully we
shareholders were done! Well, the next thing I heard was that Rattler,
who was one of the heaviest shareholders, was up at Mugginsville keeping
bar for the proprietor of the Mugginsville Hotel, and that old Fagg had
struck it rich, and didn't know what to do with his money. All this was
told me by Mixer, who had been there, settling up matters, and likewise
that Fagg was sweet upon the daughter of the proprietor of the aforesaid
hotel. And so by hearsay and letter I eventually gathered that old
Robins, the hotel man, was trying to get up a match between Nellie
Robins and Fagg. Nellie was a pretty, plump, and foolish little thing,
and would do just as her father wished. I thought it would be a good
thing for Fagg if he should marry and settle down; that as a married man
he might be of some account. So I ran up to Mugginsville one day to look
after things.
It did me an immense deal of good to make Rattler mix my drinks for
me--Rattler! the gay, brilliant, and unconquerable Rattler, who had
tried to snub me two years ago. I talked to him about old Fagg and
Nellie, particularly as I thought the subject was distasteful. He never
liked Fagg, and he was sure, he said, that Nellie didn't. Did Nellie
like anybody else? He turned around to the mirror behind the bar and
brushed up his hair! I understood the conceited wretch. I thought I'd
put Fagg on his guard and get him to hurry up matters. I had a long talk
with him. You could see by the way the poor fellow acted that he was
badly stuck. He sighed, and promised to pluck up courage to hurry
matters to a crisis. Nellie was a good girl, and I think had a sort of
quiet respect for old Fagg's unobtrusiveness. But her fancy was already
taken captive by Rattler's superficial qualities, which were obvious and
pleasing. I don't think Nellie was any worse than you or I. We are more
apt to take acquaintances at their apparent value than their intrinsic
worth. It's less trouble, and, except when we want to trust them, quite
as convenient. The difficulty with women is that their feelings are apt
to get interested sooner than ours, and then, you know, reasoning is out
of the question. This is what old Fagg would have known had he been of
any account. But he wasn't. So much the worse for him.
It was a few months afterward and I was sitting in my office when in
walked old Fagg. I was surprised to see him down, but we talked over the
current topics in that mechanical manner of people who know that they
have something else to say, but are obliged to get at it in that formal
way. After an interval Fagg in his natural manner said:
“I'm going home!”
“Going home?”
“Yes--that is, I think I'll take a trip to the Atlantic States. I came
to see you, as you know I have some little property, and I have executed
a power of attorney for you to manage my affairs. I have some papers I'd
like to leave with you. Will you take charge of them?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what of Nellie?”
His face fell. He tried to smile, and the combination resulted in one
of the most startling and grotesque effects I ever beheld. At length he
said:
“I shall not marry Nellie--that is”--he seemed to apologize internally
for the positive form of expression--“I think that I had better not.”
“David Fagg,” I said with sudden severity, “you're of no account!”
To my astonishment his face brightened. “Yes,” said he, “that's it!--I'm
of no account! But I always knew it. You see I thought Rattler loved
that girl as well as I did, and I knew she liked him better than she did
me, and would be happier I dare say with him. But then I knew that old
Robins would have preferred me to him, as I was better off--and the
girl would do as he said--and, you see, I thought I was kinder in the
way--and so I left. But,” he continued, as I was about to interrupt him,
“for fear the old man might object to Rattler, I've lent him enough
to set him up in business for himself in Dogtown. A pushing, active,
brilliant fellow, you know, like Rattler can get along, and will soon be
in his old position again--and you needn't be hard on him, you know, if
he doesn't. Good-by.”
I was too much disgusted with his treatment of that Rattler to be at all
amiable, but as his business was profitable, I promised to attend to
it, and he left. A few weeks passed. The return steamer arrived, and a
terrible incident occupied the papers for days afterward. People in all
parts of the State conned eagerly the details of an awful shipwreck, and
those who had friends aboard went away by themselves, and read the long
list of the lost under their breath. I read of the gifted, the gallant,
the noble, and loved ones who had perished, and among them I think I was
the first to read the name of David Fagg. For the “man of no account”
had “gone home!”
MLISS
CHAPTER I
Just where the Sierra Nevada begins to subside in gentler undulations,
and the rivers grow less rapid and yellow, on the side of a great red
mountain, stands “Smith's Pocket.” Seen from the red road at sunset,
in the red light and the red dust, its white houses look like the
outcroppings of quartz on the mountainside. The red stage topped
with red-shirted passengers is lost to view half a dozen times in the
tortuous descent, turning up unexpectedly in out-of-the-way places, and
vanishing altogether within a hundred yards of the town. It is probably
owing to this sudden twist in the road that the advent of a stranger
at Smith's Pocket is usually attended with a peculiar circumstance.
Dismounting from the vehicle at the stage office, the too-confident
traveler is apt to walk straight out of town under the impression that
it lies in quite another direction. It is related that one of the tunnel
men, two miles from town, met one of these self-reliant passengers
with a carpetbag, umbrella, Harper's Magazine, and other evidences of
“Civilization and Refinement,” plodding along over the road he had just
ridden, vainly endeavoring to find the settlement of Smith's Pocket.
An observant traveler might have found some compensation for his
disappointment in the weird aspect of that vicinity. There were huge
fissures on the hillside, and displacements of the red soil, resembling
more the chaos of some primary elemental upheaval than the work of
man; while halfway down, a long flume straddled its narrow body and
disproportionate legs over the chasm, like an enormous fossil of some
forgotten antediluvian. At every step smaller ditches crossed the road,
hiding in their sallow depths unlovely streams that crept away to a
clandestine union with the great yellow torrent below, and here and
there were the ruins of some cabin with the chimney alone left intact
and the hearthstone open to the skies.
The settlement of Smith's Pocket owed its origin to the finding of a
“pocket” on its site by a veritable Smith. Five thousand dollars were
taken out of it in one half-hour by Smith. Three thousand dollars were
expended by Smith and others in erecting a flume and in tunneling. And
then Smith's Pocket was found to be only a pocket, and subject like
other pockets to depletion. Although Smith pierced the bowels of the
great red mountain, that five thousand dollars was the first and last
return of his labor. The mountain grew reticent of its golden secrets,
and the flume steadily ebbed away the remainder of Smith's fortune.
Then Smith went into quartz-mining; then into quartz-milling; then into
hydraulics and ditching, and then by easy degrees into saloonkeeping.
Presently it was whispered that Smith was drinking a great deal; then it
was known that Smith was a habitual drunkard, and then people began to
think, as they are apt to, that he had never been anything else. But the
settlement of Smith's Pocket, like that of most discoveries, was happily
not dependent on the fortune of its pioneer, and other parties projected
tunnels and found pockets. So Smith's Pocket became a settlement, with
its two fancy stores, its two hotels, its one express office, and its
two first families. Occasionally its one long straggling street was
overawed by the assumption of the latest San Francisco fashions,
imported per express, exclusively to the first families; making outraged
Nature, in the ragged outline of her furrowed surface, look still more
homely, and putting personal insult on that greater portion of the
population to whom the Sabbath, with a change of linen, brought merely
the necessity of cleanliness without the luxury of adornment. Then there
was a Methodist Church, and hard by a Monte Bank, and a little beyond,
on the mountainside, a graveyard; and then a little schoolhouse.
“The Master,” as he was known to his little flock, sat alone one night
in the schoolhouse, with some open copybooks before him, carefully
making those bold and full characters which are supposed to combine the
extremes of chirographical and moral excellence, and had got as far as
“Riches are deceitful,” and was elaborating the noun with an insincerity
of flourish that was quite in the spirit of his text, when he heard a
gentle tapping. The woodpeckers had been busy about the roof during
the day, and the noise did not disturb his work. But the opening of the
door, and the tapping continuing from the inside, caused him to look
up. He was slightly startled by the figure of a young girl, dirty
and shabbily clad. Still, her great black eyes, her coarse, uncombed,
lusterless black hair falling over her sunburned face, her red arms
and feet streaked with the red soil, were all familiar to him. It was
Melissa Smith--Smith's motherless child.
“What can she want here?” thought the master. Everybody knew “Mliss,”
as she was called, throughout the length and height of Red Mountain.
Everybody knew her as an incorrigible girl. Her fierce, ungovernable
disposition, her mad freaks and lawless character, were in their way
as proverbial as the story of her father's weaknesses, and as
philosophically accepted by the townsfolk. She wrangled with and fought
the schoolboys with keener invective and quite as powerful arm. She
followed the trails with a woodman's craft, and the master had met
her before, miles away, shoeless, stockingless, and bareheaded on the
mountain road. The miners' camps along the stream supplied her with
subsistence during these voluntary pilgrimages, in freely offered alms.
Not but that a larger protection had been previously extended to Mliss.
The Rev. Joshua McSnagley, “stated” preacher, had placed her in the
hotel as servant, by way of preliminary refinement, and had introduced
her to his scholars at Sunday school. But she threw plates occasionally
at the landlord, and quickly retorted to the cheap witticisms of the
guests, and created in the Sabbath school a sensation that was so
inimical to the orthodox dullness and placidity of that institution
that, with a decent regard for the starched frocks and unblemished
morals of the two pink-and-white-faced children of the first families,
the reverend gentleman had her ignominiously expelled. Such were the
antecedents, and such the character of Mliss as she stood before the
master. It was shown in the ragged dress, the unkempt hair, and bleeding
feet, and asked his pity. It flashed from her black, fearless eyes, and
commanded his respect.
“I come here tonight,” she said rapidly and boldly, keeping her hard
glance on his, “because I knew you was alone. I wouldn't come here when
them gals was here. I hate 'em and they hates me. That's why. You keep
school, don't you? I want to be teached!”
If to the shabbiness of her apparel and uncomeliness of her tangled hair
and dirty face she had added the humility of tears, the master would
have extended to her the usual moiety of pity, and nothing more. But
with the natural, though illogical, instincts of his species, her
boldness awakened in him something of that respect which all original
natures pay unconsciously to one another in any grade. And he gazed at
her the more fixedly as she went on still rapidly, her hand on that door
latch and her eyes on his:
“My name's Mliss--Mliss Smith! You can bet your life on that. My
father's Old Smith--Old Bummer Smith--that's what's the matter with him.
Mliss Smith--and I'm coming to school!”
“Well?” said the master.
Accustomed to be thwarted and opposed, often wantonly and cruelly, for
no other purpose than to excite the violent impulses of her nature, the
master's phlegm evidently took her by surprise. She stopped; she began
to twist a lock of her hair between her fingers; and the rigid line
of upper lip, drawn over the wicked little teeth, relaxed and quivered
slightly. Then her eyes dropped, and something like a blush struggled up
to her cheek and tried to assert itself through the splashes of redder
soil, and the sunburn of years. Suddenly she threw herself forward,
calling on God to strike her dead, and fell quite weak and helpless,
with her face on the master's desk, crying and sobbing as if her heart
would break.
The master lifted her gently and waited for the paroxysm to pass. When,
with face still averted, she was repeating between her sobs the MEA
CULPA of childish penitence--that “she'd be good, she didn't mean to,”
etc., it came to him to ask her why she had left Sabbath school.
Why had she left the Sabbath school?--why? Oh, yes. What did he
(McSnagley) want to tell her she was wicked for? What did he tell her
that God hated her for? If God hated her, what did she want to go to
Sabbath school for? SHE didn't want to be “beholden” to anybody who
hated her.
Had she told McSnagley this?
Yes, she had.
The master laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and echoed so oddly in the
little schoolhouse, and seemed so inconsistent and discordant with the
sighing of the pines without, that he shortly corrected himself with
a sigh. The sigh was quite as sincere in its way, however, and after a
moment of serious silence he asked about her father.
Her father? What father? Whose father? What had he ever done for her?
Why did the girls hate her? Come now! what made the folks say, “Old
Bummer Smith's Mliss!” when she passed? Yes; oh yes. She wished he was
dead--she was dead--everybody was dead; and her sobs broke forth anew.
The master then, leaning over her, told her as well as he could what you
or I might have said after hearing such unnatural theories from childish
lips; only bearing in mind perhaps better than you or I the unnatural
facts of her ragged dress, her bleeding feet, and the omnipresent shadow
of her drunken father. Then, raising her to her feet, he wrapped his
shawl around her, and, bidding her come early in the morning, he walked
with her down the road. There he bade her “good night.” The moon shone
brightly on the narrow path before them. He stood and watched the bent
little figure as it staggered down the road, and waited until it had
passed the little graveyard and reached the curve of the hill, where it
turned and stood for a moment, a mere atom of suffering outlined against
the far-off patient stars. Then he went back to his work. But the lines
of the copybook thereafter faded into long parallels of never-ending
road, over which childish figures seemed to pass sobbing and crying into
the night. Then, the little schoolhouse seeming lonelier than before, he
shut the door and went home.
The next morning Mliss came to school. Her face had been washed, and her
coarse black hair bore evidence of recent struggles with the comb,
in which both had evidently suffered. The old defiant look shone
occasionally in her eyes, but her manner was tamer and more subdued.
Then began a series of little trials and self-sacrifices, in which
master and pupil bore an equal part, and which increased the confidence
and sympathy between them. Although obedient under the master's eye,
at times during recess, if thwarted or stung by a fancied slight, Mliss
would rage in ungovernable fury, and many a palpitating young savage,
finding himself matched with his own weapons of torment, would seek
the master with torn jacket and scratched face and complaints of the
dreadful Mliss. There was a serious division among the townspeople on
the subject, some threatening to withdraw their children from such evil
companionship, and others as warmly upholding the course of the master
in his work of reclamation. Meanwhile, with a steady persistence that
seemed quite astonishing to him on looking back afterward, the master
drew Mliss gradually out of the shadow of her past life, as though it
were but her natural progress down the narrow path on which he had
set her feet the moonlit night of their first meeting. Remembering the
experience of the evangelical McSnagley, he carefully avoided that Rock
of Ages on which that unskillful pilot had shipwrecked her young faith.
But if, in the course of her reading, she chanced to stumble upon those
few words which have lifted such as she above the level of the older,
the wiser, and the more prudent--if she learned something of a faith
that is symbolized by suffering, and the old light softened in her eyes,
it did not take the shape of a lesson. A few of the plainer people had
made up a little sum by which the ragged Mliss was enabled to assume
the garments of respect and civilization; and often a rough shake of
the hand, and words of homely commendation from a red-shirted and burly
figure, sent a glow to the cheek of the young master, and set him to
thinking if it was altogether deserved.
Three months had passed from the time of their first meeting, and the
master was sitting late one evening over the moral and sententious
copies, when there came a tap at the door and again Mliss stood before
him. She was neatly clad and clean-faced, and there was nothing perhaps
but the long black hair and bright black eyes to remind him of his
former apparition. “Are you busy?” she asked. “Can you come with
me?”--and on his signifying his readiness, in her old willful way she
said, “Come, then, quick!”
They passed out of the door together and into the dark road. As they
entered the town the master asked her whither she was going. She
replied, “To see my father.”
It was the first time he had heard her call him by that filial title, or
indeed anything more than “Old Smith” or the “Old Man.” It was the first
time in three months that she had spoken of him at all, and the master
knew she had kept resolutely aloof from him since her great change.
Satisfied from her manner that it was fruitless to question her purpose,
he passively followed. In out-of-the-way places, low groggeries,
restaurants, and saloons; in gambling hells and dance houses, the
master, preceded by Mliss, came and went. In the reeking smoke and
blasphemous outcries of low dens, the child, holding the master's hand,
stood and anxiously gazed, seemingly unconscious of all in the one
absorbing nature of her pursuit. Some of the revelers, recognizing
Mliss, called to the child to sing and dance for them, and would have
forced liquor upon her but for the interference of the master. Others,
recognizing him mutely, made way for them to pass. So an hour slipped
by. Then the child whispered in his ear that there was a cabin on the
other side of the creek crossed by the long flume, where she thought he
still might be. Thither they crossed--a toilsome half-hour's walk--but
in vain. They were returning by the ditch at the abutment of the flume,
gazing at the lights of the town on the opposite bank, when, suddenly,
sharply, a quick report rang out on the clear night air. The echoes
caught it, and carried it round and round Red Mountain, and set the
dogs to barking all along the streams. Lights seemed to dance and move
quickly on the outskirts of the town for a few moments, the stream
rippled quite audibly beside them, a few stones loosened themselves from
the hillside and splashed into the stream, a heavy wind seemed to surge
the branches of the funereal pines, and then the silence seemed to fall
thicker, heavier, and deadlier. The master turned toward Mliss with an
unconscious gesture of protection, but the child had gone. Oppressed by
a strange fear, he ran quickly down the trail to the river's bed, and,
jumping from boulder to boulder, reached the base of Red Mountain and
the outskirts of the village. Midway of the crossing he looked up and
held his breath in awe. For high above him on the narrow flume he saw
the fluttering little figure of his late companion crossing swiftly in
the darkness.
He climbed the bank, and, guided by a few lights moving about a central
point on the mountain, soon found himself breathless among a crowd of
awe-stricken and sorrowful men. Out from among them the child appeared,
and, taking the master's hand, led him silently before what seemed a
ragged hole in the mountain. Her face was quite white, but her excited
manner gone, and her look that of one to whom some long-expected
event had at last happened--an expression that to the master in his
bewilderment seemed almost like relief. The walls of the cavern were
partly propped by decaying timbers. The child pointed to what appeared
to be some ragged, castoff clothes left in the hole by the late
occupant. The master approached nearer with his flaming dip, and bent
over them. It was Smith, already cold, with a pistol in his hand and a
bullet in his heart, lying beside his empty pocket.