This Mr. Jefferson Doman was from Elizabethtown, New Jersey, where six
years before he had left his heart in the keeping of a golden-haired,
demure-mannered young woman named Mary Matthews, as collateral security
for his return to claim her hand.
"I just _know_ you'll never get back alive--you never do succeed in
anything," was the remark which illustrated Miss Matthews's notion of
what constituted success and, inferentially, her view of the nature of
encouragement. She added: "If you don't I'll go to California too. I can
put the coins in little bags as you dig them out."
This characteristically feminine theory of auriferous deposits did not
commend itself to the masculine intelligence: it was Mr. Doman's belief
that gold was found in a liquid state. He deprecated her intent with
considerable enthusiasm, suppressed her sobs with a light hand upon her
mouth, laughed in her eyes as he kissed away her tears, and with a
cheerful "Ta-ta" went to California to labor for her through the long,
loveless years, with a strong heart, an alert hope and a steadfast
fidelity that never for a moment forgot what it was about. In the
mean time, Miss Matthews had granted a monopoly of her humble talent for
sacking up coins to Mr. Jo. Seeman, of New York, gambler, by whom it was
better appreciated than her commanding genius for unsacking and
bestowing them upon his local rivals. Of this latter aptitude, indeed,
he manifested his disapproval by an act which secured him the position
of clerk of the laundry in the State prison, and for her the _sobriquet_
of "Split-faced Moll." At about this time she wrote to Mr. Doman a
touching letter of renunciation, inclosing her photograph to prove that
she had no longer had a right to indulge the dream of becoming Mrs.
Doman, and recounting so graphically her fall from a horse that the
staid "plug" upon which Mr. Doman had ridden into Red Dog to get the
letter made vicarious atonement under the spur all the way back to camp.
The letter failed in a signal way to accomplish its object; the fidelity
which had before been to Mr. Doman a matter of love and duty was
thenceforth a matter of honor also; and the photograph, showing the once
pretty face sadly disfigured as by the slash of a knife, was duly
instated in his affections and its more comely predecessor treated with
contumelious neglect. On being informed of this, Miss Matthews, it is
only fair to say, appeared less surprised than from the apparently low
estimate of Mr. Doman's generosity which the tone of her former letter
attested one would naturally have expected her to be. Soon after,
however, her letters grew infrequent, and then ceased altogether.
But Mr. Doman had another correspondent, Mr. Barney Bree, of
Hurdy-Gurdy, formerly of Red Dog. This gentleman, although a notable
figure among miners, was not a miner. His knowledge of mining consisted
mainly in a marvelous command of its slang, to which he made copious
contributions, enriching its vocabulary with a wealth of uncommon
phrases more remarkable for their aptness than their refinement, and
which impressed the unlearned "tenderfoot" with a lively sense of the
profundity of their inventor's acquirements. When not entertaining a
circle of admiring auditors from San Francisco or the East he could
commonly be found pursuing the comparatively obscure industry of
sweeping out the various dance houses and purifying the cuspidors.
Barney had apparently but two passions in life--love of Jefferson Doman,
who had once been of some service to him, and love of whisky, which
certainly had not. He had been among the first in the rush to
Hurdy-Gurdy, but had not prospered, and had sunk by degrees to the
position of grave digger. This was not a vocation, but Barney in a
desultory way turned his trembling hand to it whenever some local
misunderstanding at the card table and his own partial recovery from a
prolonged debauch occurred coincidently in point of time. One day Mr.
Doman received, at Red Dog, a letter with the simple postmark, "Hurdy,
Cal.," and being occupied with another matter, carelessly thrust it into
a chink of his cabin for future perusal. Some two years later it was
accidentally dislodged and he read it. It ran as follows:--
HURDY, June 6.
FRIEND JEFF: I've hit her hard in the boneyard. She's blind and lousy.
I'm on the divvy--that's me, and mum's my lay till you toot.
Yours, BARNEY.
P.S.--I've clayed her with Scarry.
With some knowledge of the general mining camp _argot_ and of Mr. Bree's
private system for the communication of ideas Mr. Doman had no
difficulty in understanding by this uncommon epistle that Barney while
performing his duty as grave digger had uncovered a quartz ledge with no
outcroppings; that it was visibly rich in free gold; that, moved by
considerations of friendship, he was willing to accept Mr. Doman as a
partner and awaiting that gentleman's declaration of his will in the
matter would discreetly keep the discovery a secret. From the postscript
it was plainly inferable that in order to conceal the treasure he had
buried above it the mortal part of a person named Scarry.
From subsequent events, as related to Mr. Doman at Red Dog, it would
appear that before taking this precaution Mr. Bree must have had the
thrift to remove a modest competency of the gold; at any rate, it was at
about that time that he entered upon that memorable series of potations
and treatings which is still one of the cherished traditions of the San
Juan Smith country, and is spoken of with respect as far away as Ghost
Rock and Lone Hand. At its conclusion some former citizens of
Hurdy-Gurdy, for whom he had performed the last kindly office at the
cemetery, made room for him among them, and he rested well.