It was rough on Gilson. Such was the terse, cold, but not altogether
unsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at Mammon Hill--the
dictum of respectability. The verdict of the opposite, or rather the
opposing, element--the element that lurked red-eyed and restless about
Moll Gurney's "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at Mr.
Jo. Bentley's gorgeous "saloon"--was to pretty much the same general
effect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use of
picturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. Virtually, Mammon
Hill was a unit on the Gilson question. And it must be confessed that in
a merely temporal sense all was not well with Mr. Gilson. He had that
morning been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and publicly charged with
horse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about The Tree with
a new manila rope and Carpenter Pete being actively employed between
drinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of Mr. Gilson.
Society having rendered its verdict, there remained between Gilson and
eternity only the decent formality of a trial.
These are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: He had recently
been a resident of New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little Stony,
but had come to the newly discovered placers of Mammon Hill immediately
before the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. The
discovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gilson,
for it had only just before been intimated to him by a New Jerusalem
vigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, life
to go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go did
not include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himself
at Mammon Hill. Being eventually followed thither by all his judges, he
ordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he had
never been known to do an honest day's work at any industry sanctioned
by the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still an
object of suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he was the author
of the many daring depredations that had recently been committed with
pan and brush on the sluice boxes.
Prominent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a
steadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable and
unseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson's
connection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own
willingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any
one who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, in
his presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving
person most concerned. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter,
it is certain that Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at Jo.
Bentley's faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had
ever honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp's
existence. But at last Mr. Bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the more
profitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw--peremptorily refused to let
Gilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank,
forthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was a
blessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous
with, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good
repute.
The Hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its most
honored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable
personal sacrifice. The New Jerusalem contingent, particularly, began to
abate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their own
blunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which they
had left to the place whither they had come. Mammon Hill was at last of
one mind. Not much was said, but that Gilson must hang was "in the air."
But at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of an
altered life if not a changed heart. Perhaps it was only that "the bank"
being closed against him he had no further use for gold dust. Anyhow the
sluice boxes were molested no more forever. But it was impossible to
repress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and he
continued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he had
pursued for profit of Mr. Bentley. After a few tentative and resultless
undertakings in the way of highway robbery--if one may venture to
designate road-agency by so harsh a name--he made one or two modest
essays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promising
enterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in his
affairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck. For on a misty, moonlight
night Mr. Brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leaving
that part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting Mr.
Gilson's wrist with Mr. Harper's bay mare, tapped him familiarly on the
cheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure of
his company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling.
It was indeed rough on Gilson.
On the morning after his arrest he was tried, convicted, and sentenced.
It only remains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to hang him,
reserving for more particular mention his last will and testament,
which, with great labor, he contrived in prison, and in which, probably
from some confused and imperfect notion of the rights of captors, he
bequeathed everything he owned to his "lawfle execketer," Mr. Brentshaw.
The bequest, however, was made conditional on the legatee taking the
testator's body from The Tree and "planting it white."
So Mr. Gilson was--I was about to say "swung off," but I fear there has
been already something too much of slang in this straightforward
statement of facts; besides, the manner in which the law took its course
is more accurately described in the terms employed by the judge in
passing sentence: Mr. Gilson was "strung up."
In due season Mr. Brentshaw, somewhat touched, it may well be, by the
empty compliment of the bequest, repaired to The Tree to pluck the fruit
thereof. When taken down the body was found to have in its waistcoat
pocket a duly attested codicil to the will already noted. The nature of
its provisions accounted for the manner in which it had been withheld,
for had Mr. Brentshaw previously been made aware of the conditions under
which he was to succeed to the Gilson estate he would indubitably have
declined the responsibility. Briefly stated, the purport of the codicil
was as follows:
Whereas, at divers times and in sundry places, certain persons had
asserted that during his life the testator had robbed their sluice
boxes; therefore, if during the five years next succeeding the date of
this instrument any one should make proof of such assertion before a
court of law, such person was to receive as reparation the entire
personal and real estate of which the testator died seized and
possessed, minus the expenses of court and a stated compensation to the
executor, Henry Clay Brentshaw; provided, that if more than one person
made such proof the estate was to be equally divided between or among
them. But in case none should succeed in so establishing the testator's
guilt, then the whole property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid,
should go to the said Henry Clay Brentshaw for his own use, as stated in
the will.
The syntax of this remarkable document was perhaps open to critical
objection, but that was clearly enough the meaning of it. The
orthography conformed to no recognized system, but being mainly phonetic
it was not ambiguous. As the probate judge remarked, it would take five
aces to beat it. Mr. Brentshaw smiled good-humoredly, and after
performing the last sad rites with amusing ostentation, had himself duly
sworn as executor and conditional legatee under the provisions of a law
hastily passed (at the instance of the member from the Mammon Hill
district) by a facetious legislature; which law was afterward discovered
to have created also three or four lucrative offices and authorized the
expenditure of a considerable sum of public money for the construction
of a certain railway bridge that with greater advantage might perhaps
have been erected on the line of some actual railway.
Of course Mr. Brentshaw expected neither profit from the will nor
litigation in consequence of its unusual provisions; Gilson, although
frequently "flush," had been a man whom assessors and tax collectors
were well satisfied to lose no money by. But a careless and merely
formal search among his papers revealed title deeds to valuable estates
in the East and certificates of deposit for incredible sums in banks
less severely scrupulous than that of Mr. Jo. Bentley.
The astounding news got abroad directly, throwing the Hill into a fever
of excitement. The Mammon Hill _Patriot_, whose editor had been a
leading spirit in the proceedings that resulted in Gilson's departure
from New Jerusalem, published a most complimentary obituary notice of
the deceased, and was good enough to call attention to the fact that his
degraded contemporary, the Squaw Gulch _Clarion_, was bringing virtue
into contempt by beslavering with flattery the memory of one who in life
had spurned the vile sheet as a nuisance from his door. Undeterred by
the press, however, claimants under the will were not slow in presenting
themselves with their evidence; and great as was the Gilson estate it
appeared conspicuously paltry considering the vast number of sluice
boxes from which it was averred to have been obtained. The country rose
as one man!
Mr. Brentshaw was equal to the emergency. With a shrewd application of
humble auxiliary devices, he at once erected above the bones of his
benefactor a costly monument, overtopping every rough headboard in the
cemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to be inscribed an epitaph
of his own composing, eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and cognate
virtues of him who slept beneath, "a victim to the unjust aspersions of
Slander's viper brood."
Moreover, he employed the best legal talent in the Territory to defend
the memory of his departed friend, and for five long years the
Territorial courts were occupied with litigation growing out of the
Gilson bequest. To fine forensic abilities Mr. Brentshaw opposed
abilities more finely forensic; in bidding for purchasable favors he
offered prices which utterly deranged the market; the judges found at
his hospitable board entertainment for man and beast, the like of which
had never been spread in the Territory; with mendacious witnesses he
confronted witnesses of superior mendacity.
Nor was the battle confined to the temple of the blind goddess--it
invaded the press, the pulpit, the drawing-room. It raged in the mart,
the exchange, the school; in the gulches, and on the street corners. And
upon the last day of the memorable period to which legal action under
the Gilson will was limited, the sun went down upon a region in which
the moral sense was dead, the social conscience callous, the
intellectual capacity dwarfed, enfeebled, and confused! But Mr.
Brentshaw was victorious all along the line.
On that night it so happened that the cemetery in one corner of which
lay the now honored ashes of the late Milton Gilson, Esq., was partly
under water. Swollen by incessant rains, Cat Creek had spilled over its
banks an angry flood which, after scooping out unsightly hollows
wherever the soil had been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if ashamed
of the sacrilege, leaving exposed much that had been piously concealed.
Even the famous Gilson monument, the pride and glory of Mammon Hill, was
no longer a standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; succumbing to the
sapping current it had toppled prone to earth. The ghoulish flood had
exhumed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which now lay half-exposed, in
pitiful contrast to the pompous monolith which, like a giant note of
admiration, emphasized the disclosure.
To this depressing spot, drawn by some subtle influence he had sought
neither to resist nor analyze, came Mr. Brentshaw. An altered man was
Mr. Brentshaw. Five years of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashed
his black locks with streaks and patches of gray, bowed his fine figure,
drawn sharp and angular his face, and debased his walk to a doddering
shuffle. Nor had this lustrum of fierce contention wrought less upon his
heart and intellect. The careless good humor that had prompted him to
accept the trust of the dead man had given place to a fixed habit of
melancholy. The firm, vigorous intellect had overripened into the mental
mellowness of second childhood. His broad understanding had narrowed to
the accommodation of a single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynical
incredulity of former days, there was in him a haunting faith in the
supernatural, that flitted and fluttered about his soul, shadowy,
batlike, ominous of insanity. Unsettled in all else, his understanding
clung to one conviction with the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. That
was an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness of the dead Gilson.
He had so often sworn to this in court and asserted it in private
conversation--had so frequently and so triumphantly established it by
testimony that had come expensive to him (for that very day he had paid
the last dollar of the Gilson estate to Mr. Jo. Bentley, the last
witness to the Gilson good character)--that it had become to him a sort
of religious faith. It seemed to him the one great central and basic
truth of life--the sole serene verity in a world of lies.
On that night, as he seated himself pensively upon the prostrate
monument, trying by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the epitaph
which five years before he had composed with a chuckle that memory had
not recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes as he remembered that
he had been mainly instrumental in compassing by a false accusation this
good man's death; for during some of the legal proceedings, Mr. Harper,
for a consideration (forgotten) had come forward and sworn that in the
little transaction with his bay mare the deceased had acted in strict
accordance with the Harperian wishes, confidentially communicated to the
deceased and by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his life. All
that Mr. Brentshaw had since done for the dead man's memory seemed
pitifully inadequate--most mean, paltry, and debased with selfishness!
As he sat there, torturing himself with futile regrets, a faint shadow
fell across his eyes. Looking toward the moon, hanging low in the west,
he saw what seemed a vague, watery cloud obscuring her; but as it moved
so that her beams lit up one side of it he perceived the clear, sharp
outline of a human figure. The apparition became momentarily more
distinct, and grew, visibly; it was drawing near. Dazed as were his
senses, half locked up with terror and confounded with dreadful
imaginings, Mr. Brentshaw yet could but perceive, or think he perceived,
in this unearthly shape a strange similitude to the mortal part of the
late Milton Gilson, as that person had looked when taken from The Tree
five years before. The likeness was indeed complete, even to the full,
stony eyes, and a certain shadowy circle about the neck. It was without
coat or hat, precisely as Gilson had been when laid in his poor, cheap
casket by the not ungentle hands of Carpenter Pete--for whom some one
had long since performed the same neighborly office. The spectre, if
such it was, seemed to bear something in its hands which Mr. Brentshaw
could not clearly make out. It drew nearer, and paused at last beside
the coffin containing the ashes of the late Mr. Gilson, the lid of which
was awry, half disclosing the uncertain interior. Bending over this, the
phantom seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark substance of
dubious consistency, then glided stealthily back to the lowest part of
the cemetery. Here the retiring flood had stranded a number of open
coffins, about and among which it gurgled with low sobbings and stilly
whispers. Stooping over one of these, the apparition carefully brushed
its contents into the basin, then returning to its own casket, emptied
the vessel into that, as before. This mysterious operation was repeated
at every exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its laden basin
into the running water, and gently agitating it to free it of the baser
clay, always hoarding the residuum in its own private box. In short, the
immortal part of the late Milton Gilson was cleaning up the dust of its
neighbors and providently adding the same to its own.
Perhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered mind in a fevered body.
Perhaps it was a solemn farce enacted by pranking existences that throng
the shadows lying along the border of another world. God knows; to us is
permitted only the knowledge that when the sun of another day touched
with a grace of gold the ruined cemetery of Mammon Hill his kindliest
beam fell upon the white, still face of Henry Brentshaw, dead among the
dead.