With this incident of the hunt closed, to Clarence, the last remembered
episode of his journey. But he did not know until long after that it had
also closed to him what might have been the opening of a new career.
For it had been Judge Peyton's intention in adopting Susy to include a
certain guardianship and protection of the boy, provided he could get
the consent of that vague relation to whom he was consigned. But it
had been pointed out by Mrs. Peyton and her brother that Clarence's
association with Jim Hooker had made him a doubtful companion for Susy,
and even the Judge himself was forced to admit that the boy's apparent
taste for evil company was inconsistent with his alleged birth and
breeding. Unfortunately, Clarence, in the conviction of being hopelessly
misunderstood, and that dogged acquiescence to fate which was one of his
characteristics, was too proud to correct the impression by any of the
hypocracies of childhood. He had also a cloudy instinct of loyalty to
Jim in his disgrace, without, however, experiencing either the sympathy
of an equal or the zeal of a partisan, but rather--if it could be said
of a boy of his years--with the patronage and protection of a superior.
So he accepted without demur the intimation that when the train reached
California he would be forwarded from Stockton with an outfit and a
letter of explanation to Sacramento, it being understood that in the
event of not finding his relative he would return to the Peytons in one
of the southern valleys, where they elected to purchase a tract of land.
With this outlook, and the prospect of change, independence, and all
the rich possibilities that to the imagination of youth are included in
them, Clarence had found the days dragging. The halt at Salt Lake,
the transit of the dreary Alkali desert, even the wild passage of the
Sierras, were but a blurred picture in his memory. The sight of eternal
snows and the rolling of endless ranks of pines, the first glimpse of a
hillside of wild oats, the spectacle of a rushing yellow river that to
his fancy seemed tinged with gold, were momentary excitements, quickly
forgotten. But when, one morning, halting at the outskirts of a
struggling settlement, he found the entire party eagerly gathered around
a passing stranger, who had taken from his saddle-bags a small buckskin
pouch to show them a double handful of shining scales of metal, Clarence
felt the first feverish and overmastering thrill of the gold-seekers.
Breathlessly he followed the breathless questions and careless replies.
The gold had been dug out of a placer only thirty miles away. It might
be worth, say, a hundred and fifty dollars; it was only HIS share of a
week's work with two partners. It was not much; “the country was
getting played out with fresh arrivals and greenhorns.” All this falling
carelessly from the unshaven lips of a dusty, roughly dressed man, with
a long-handled shovel and pickaxe strapped on his back, and a frying-pan
depending from his saddle. But no panoplied or armed knight ever seemed
so heroic or independent a figure to Clarence. What could be finer than
the noble scorn conveyed in his critical survey of the train, with its
comfortable covered wagons and appliances of civilization? “Ye'll hev to
get rid of them ther fixin's if yer goin' in for placer diggin'!” What
a corroboration of Clarence's real thoughts! What a picture of
independence was this! The picturesque scout, the all-powerful Judge
Peyton, the daring young officer, all crumbled on their clayey pedestals
before this hero in a red flannel shirt and high-topped boots. To stroll
around in the open air all day, and pick up those shining bits of metal,
without study, without method or routine--this was really life; to some
day come upon that large nugget “you couldn't lift,” that was worth as
much as the train and horses--such a one as the stranger said was found
the other day at Sawyer's Bar--this was worth giving up everything for.
That rough man, with his smile of careless superiority, was the living
link between Clarence and the Thousand and One Nights; in him were
Aladdin and Sindbad incarnate.
Two days later they reached Stockton. Here Clarence, whose single suit
of clothes had been reinforced by patching, odds and ends from Peyton's
stores, and an extraordinary costume of army cloth, got up by the
regimental tailor at Fort Ridge, was taken to be refitted at a general
furnishing “emporium.” But alas! in the selection of the clothing for
that adult locality scant provision seemed to have been made for a
boy of Clarence's years, and he was with difficulty fitted from an
old condemned Government stores with “a boy's” seaman suit and a
brass-buttoned pea-jacket. To this outfit Mr. Peyton added a small sum
of money for his expenses, and a letter of explanation to his cousin.
The stage-coach was to start at noon. It only remained for Clarence to
take leave of the party. The final parting with Susy had been discounted
on the two previous days with some tears, small frights and clingings,
and the expressed determination on the child's part “to go with him;”
but in the excitement of the arrival at Stockton it was still
further mitigated, and under the influence of a little present from
Clarence--his first disbursement of his small capital--had at last taken
the form and promise of merely temporary separation. Nevertheless, when
the boy's scanty pack was deposited under the stage-coach seat, and he
had been left alone, he ran rapidly back to the train for one moment
more with Susy. Panting and a little frightened, he reached Mrs.
Peyton's car.
“Goodness! You're not gone yet,” said Mrs. Peyton sharply. “Do you want
to lose the stage?”
An instant before, in his loneliness, he might have answered, “Yes.”
But under the cruel sting of Mrs. Peyton's evident annoyance at his
reappearance he felt his legs suddenly tremble, and his voice left him.
He did not dare to look at Susy. But her voice rose comfortably from the
depths of the wagon where she was sitting.
“The stage will be gone away, Kla'uns.”
She too! Shame at his foolish weakness sent the yearning blood that had
settled round his heart flying back into his face.
“I was looking for--for--for Jim, ma'am,” he said at last, boldly.
He saw a look of disgust pass over Mrs. Peyton's face, and felt a
malicious satisfaction as he turned and ran back to the stage. But here,
to his surprise, he actually found Jim, whom he really hadn't thought
of, darkly watching the last strapping of luggage. With a manner
calculated to convey the impression to the other passengers that he was
parting from a brother criminal, probably on his way to a state prison,
Jim shook hands gloomily with Clarence, and eyed the other passengers
furtively between his mated locks.
“Ef ye hear o' anythin' happenin', ye'll know what's up,” he said, in a
low, hoarse, but perfectly audible whisper. “Me and them's bound to part
company afore long. Tell the fellows at Deadman's Gulch to look out for
me at any time.”
Although Clarence was not going to Deadman's Gulch, knew nothing of it,
and had a faint suspicion that Jim was equally ignorant, yet as one or
two of the passengers glanced anxiously at the demure, gray-eyed boy
who seemed booked for such a baleful destination, he really felt the
half-delighted, half-frightened consciousness that he was starting in
life under fascinating immoral pretenses. But the forward spring of the
fine-spirited horses, the quickened motion, the glittering sunlight, and
the thought that he really was leaving behind him all the shackles of
dependence and custom, and plunging into a life of freedom, drove
all else from his mind. He turned at last from this hopeful, blissful
future, and began to examine his fellow passengers with boyish
curiosity. Wedged in between two silent men on the front seat, one of
whom seemed a farmer, and the other, by his black attire, a professional
man, Clarence was finally attracted by a black-mantled, dark-haired,
bonnetless woman on the back seat, whose attention seemed to be
monopolized by the jocular gallantries of her companions and the two
men before her in the middle seat. From her position he could see little
more than her dark eyes, which occasionally seemed to meet his frank
curiosity in an amused sort of way, but he was chiefly struck by the
pretty foreign sound of her musical voice, which was unlike anything
he had ever heard before, and--alas for the inconstancy of youth--much
finer than Mrs. Peyton's. Presently his farmer companion, casting a
patronizing glance on Clarence's pea-jacket and brass buttons, said
cheerily--
“Jest off a voyage, sonny?”
“No, sir,” stammered Clarence; “I came across the plains.”
“Then I reckon that's the rig-out for the crew of a prairie schooner,
eh?” There was a laugh at this which perplexed Clarence. Observing it,
the humorist kindly condescended to explain that “prairie schooner” was
the current slang for an emigrant wagon.
“I couldn't,” explained Clarence, naively looking at the dark eyes on
the back seat, “get any clothes at Stockton but these; I suppose the
folks didn't think there'd ever be boys in California.”
The simplicity of this speech evidently impressed the others, for
the two men in the middle seats turned at a whisper from the lady and
regarded him curiously. Clarence blushed slightly and became silent.
Presently the vehicle began to slacken its speed. They were ascending
a hill; on either bank grew huge cottonwoods, from which occasionally
depended a beautiful scarlet vine.
“Ah! eet ees pretty,” said the lady, nodding her black-veiled head
towards it. “Eet is good in ze hair.”
One of the men made an awkward attempt to clutch a spray from the
window. A brilliant inspiration flashed upon Clarence. When the stage
began the ascent of the next hill, following the example of an outside
passenger, he jumped down to walk. At the top of the hill he rejoined
the stage, flushed and panting, but carrying a small branch of the vine
in his scratched hands. Handing it to the man on the middle seat, he
said, with grave, boyish politeness--“Please--for the lady.”
A slight smile passed over the face of Clarence's neighbors. The
bonnetless woman nodded a pleasant acknowledgment, and coquettishly
wound the vine in her glossy hair. The dark man at his side, who hadn't
spoken yet, turned to Clarence dryly.
“If you're goin' to keep up this gait, sonny, I reckon ye won't find
much trouble gettin' a man's suit to fit you by the time you reach
Sacramento.”
Clarence didn't quite understand him, but noticed that a singular
gravity seemed to overtake the two jocular men on the middle seat, and
the lady looked out of the window. He came to the conclusion that he had
made a mistake about alluding to his clothes and his size. He must try
and behave more manly. That opportunity seemed to be offered two hours
later, when the stage stopped at a wayside hotel or restaurant.
Two or three passengers had got down to refresh themselves at the bar.
His right and left hand neighbors were, however, engaged in a drawling
conversation on the comparative merits of San Francisco sandhill
and water lots; the jocular occupants of the middle seat were still
engrossed with the lady. Clarence slipped out of the stage and entered
the bar-room with some ostentation. The complete ignoring of his person
by the barkeeper and his customers, however, somewhat disconcerted him.
He hesitated a moment, and then returned gravely to the stage door and
opened it.
“Would you mind taking a drink with me, sir?” said Clarence politely,
addressing the farmer-looking passenger who had been most civil to him.
A dead silence followed. The two men on the middle seat faced entirely
around to gaze at him.
“The Commodore asks if you'll take a drink with him,” explained one of
the men to Clarence's friend with the greatest seriousness.
“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” returned that gentleman, changing his
astonished expression to one of the deepest gravity, “seeing it's the
Commodore.”
“And perhaps you and your friend will join, too?” said Clarence timidly
to the passenger who had explained; “and you too, sir?” he added to the
dark man.
“Really, gentlemen, I don't see how we can refuse,” said the latter,
with the greatest formality, and appealing to the others. “A compliment
of this kind from our distinguished friend is not to be taken lightly.”
“I have observed, sir, that the Commodore's head is level,” returned the
other man with equal gravity.
Clarence could have wished they had not treated his first hospitable
effort quite so formally, but as they stepped from the coach with
unbending faces he led them, a little frightened, into the bar-room.
Here, unfortunately, as he was barely able to reach over the counter,
the barkeeper would have again overlooked him but for a quick glance
from the dark man, which seemed to change even the barkeeper's
perfunctory smiling face into supernatural gravity.
“The Commodore is standing treat,” said the dark man, with unbroken
seriousness, indicating Clarence, and leaning back with an air of
respectful formality. “I will take straight whiskey. The Commodore,
on account of just changing climate, will, I believe, for the present
content himself with lemon soda.”
Clarence had previously resolved to take whiskey, like the others, but
a little doubtful of the politeness of countermanding his guest's
order, and perhaps slightly embarrassed by the fact that all the other
customers seemed to have gathered round him and his party with equally
immovable faces, he said hurriedly:
“Lemon soda for me, please.”
“The Commodore,” said the barkeeper with impassive features, as he bent
forward and wiped the counter with professional deliberation, “is right.
No matter how much a man may be accustomed all his life to liquor, when
he is changing climate, gentlemen, he says 'Lemon soda for me' all the
time.”
“Perhaps,” said Clarence, brightening, “you will join too?”
“I shall be proud on this occasion, sir.”
“I think,” said the tall man, still as ceremoniously unbending as
before, “that there can be but one toast here, gentlemen. I give you the
health of the Commodore. May his shadow never be less.”
The health was drunk solemnly. Clarence felt his cheeks tingle and
in his excitement drank his own health with the others. Yet he was
disappointed that there was not more joviality; he wondered if men
always drank together so stiffly. And it occurred to him that it would
be expensive. Nevertheless, he had his purse all ready ostentatiously
in his hand; in fact, the paying for it out of his own money was not
the least manly and independent pleasure he had promised himself. “How
much?” he asked, with an affectation of carelessness.
The barkeeper cast his eye professionally over the barroom. “I think you
said treats for the crowd; call it twenty dollars to make even change.”
Clarence's heart sank. He had heard already of the exaggeration
of California prices. Twenty dollars! It was half his fortune.
Nevertheless, with an heroic effort, he controlled himself, and with
slightly nervous fingers counted out the money. It struck him, however,
as curious, not to say ungentlemanly, that the bystanders craned their
necks over his shoulder to look at the contents of his purse, although
some slight explanation was offered by the tall man.
“The Commodore's purse, gentlemen, is really a singular one. Permit me,”
he said, taking it from Clarence's hand with great politeness. “It is
one of the new pattern, you observe, quite worthy of inspection.” He
handed it to a man behind him, who in turn handed it to another, while
a chorus of “suthin quite new,” “the latest style,” followed it in its
passage round the room, and indicated to Clarence its whereabouts.
It was presently handed back to the barkeeper, who had begged also to
inspect it, and who, with an air of scrupulous ceremony insisted upon
placing it himself in Clarence's side pocket, as if it were an
important part of his function. The driver here called “all aboard.”
The passengers hurriedly reseated themselves, and the episode abruptly
ended. For, to Clarence's surprise, these attentive friends of a moment
ago at once became interested in the views of a new passenger concerning
the local politics of San Francisco, and he found himself utterly
forgotten. The bonnetless woman had changed her position, and her head
was no longer visible. The disillusion and depression that overcame him
suddenly were as complete as his previous expectations and hopefulness
had been extravagant. For the first time his utter unimportance in
the world and his inadequacy to this new life around him came upon him
crushingly.
The heat and jolting of the stage caused him to fall into a slight
slumber and when he awoke he found his two neighbors had just got out
at a wayside station. They had evidently not cared to waken him to say
“Good-by.” From the conversation of the other passengers he learned that
the tall man was a well-known gambler, and the one who looked like a
farmer was a ship captain who had become a wealthy merchant. Clarence
thought he understood now why the latter had asked him if he came off a
voyage, and that the nickname of “Commodore” given to him, Clarence, was
some joke intended for the captain's understanding. He missed them, for
he wanted to talk to them about his relative at Sacramento, whom he was
now so soon to see. At last, between sleeping and waking, the end of
his journey was unexpectedly reached. It was dark, but, being “steamer
night,” the shops and business places were still open, and Mr. Peyton
had arranged that the stage-driver should deliver Clarence at the
address of his relative in “J Street,”--an address which Clarence had
luckily remembered. But the boy was somewhat discomfited to find that
it was a large office or banking-house. He, however, descended from the
stage, and with his small pack in his hand entered the building as the
stage drove off, and, addressing one of the busy clerks, asked for “Mr.
Jackson Brant.”
There was no such person in the office. There never had been any such
person. The bank had always occupied that building. Was there not some
mistake in the number? No; the name, number, and street had been deeply
engrafted in the boy's recollection. Stop! it might be the name of a
customer who had given his address at the bank. The clerk who made this
suggestion disappeared promptly to make inquiries in the counting-room.
Clarence, with a rapidly beating heart, awaited him. The clerk returned.
There was no such name on the books. Jackson Brant was utterly unknown
to every one in the establishment.
For an instant the counter against which the boy was leaning seemed to
yield with his weight; he was obliged to steady himself with both hands
to keep from falling. It was not his disappointment, which was terrible;
it was not a thought of his future, which seemed hopeless; it was not
his injured pride at appearing to have willfully deceived Mr. Peyton,
which was more dreadful than all else; but it was the sudden, sickening
sense that HE himself had been deceived, tricked, and fooled! For it
flashed upon him for the first time that the vague sense of wrong which
had always haunted him was this--that this was the vile culmination of
a plan to GET RID OF HIM, and that he had been deliberately lost and led
astray by his relatives as helplessly and completely as a useless cat or
dog!
Perhaps there was something of this in his face, for the clerk, staring
at him, bade him sit down for a moment, and again vanished into the
mysterious interior. Clarence had no conception how long he was absent,
or indeed anything but his own breathless thoughts, for he was conscious
of wondering afterwards why the clerk was leading him through a door in
the counter into an inner room of many desks, and again through a glass
door into a smaller office, where a preternaturally busy-looking man
sat writing at a desk. Without looking up, but pausing only to apply a
blotting-pad to the paper before him, the man said crisply--
“So you've been consigned to some one who don't seem to turn up, and
can't be found, eh? Never mind that,” as Clarence laid Peyton's letter
before him. “Can't read it now. Well, I suppose you want to be shipped
back to Stockton?”
“No!” said the boy, recovering his voice with an effort.
“Eh, that's business, though. Know anybody here?”
“Not a living soul; that's why they sent me,” said the boy, in sudden
reckless desperation. He was the more furious that he knew the tears
were standing in his eyes.
The idea seemed to strike the man amusingly. “Looks a little like it,
don't it?” he said, smiling grimly at the paper before him. “Got any
money?”
“A little.”
“How much?”
“About twenty dollars,” said Clarence hesitatingly. The man opened a
drawer at his side, mechanically, for he did not raise his eyes, and
took out two ten-dollar gold pieces. “I'll go twenty better,” he said,
laying them down on the desk. “That'll give you a chance to look around.
Come back here, if you don't see your way clear.” He dipped his pen into
the ink with a significant gesture as if closing the interview.
Clarence pushed back the coin. “I'm not a beggar,” he said doggedly.
The man this time raised his head and surveyed the boy with two keen
eyes. “You're not, hey? Well, do I look like one?”
“No,” stammered Clarence, as he glanced into the man's haughty eyes.
“Yet, if I were in your fix, I'd take that money and be glad to get it.”
“If you'll let me pay you back again,” said Clarence, a little ashamed,
and considerably frightened at his implied accusation of the man before
him.
“You can,” said the man, bending over his desk again.
Clarence took up the money and awkwardly drew out his purse. But it was
the first time he had touched it since it was returned to him in the
bar-room, and it struck him that it was heavy and full--indeed, so
full that on opening it a few coins rolled out on to the floor. The man
looked up abruptly.
“I thought you said you had only twenty dollars?” he remarked grimly.
“Mr. Peyton gave me forty,” returned Clarence, stupefied and blushing.
“I spent twenty dollars for drinks at the bar--and,” he stammered,
“I--I--I don't know how the rest came here.”
“You spent twenty dollars for DRINKS?” said the man, laying down his
pen, and leaning back in his chair to gaze at the boy.
“Yes--that is--I treated some gentlemen of the stage, sir, at Davidson's
Crossing.”
“Did you treat the whole stage company?”
“No, sir, only about four or five--and the bar-keeper. But everything's
so dear in California. I know that.”
“Evidently. But it don't seem to make much difference with YOU,” said
the man, glancing at the purse.
“They wanted my purse to look at,” said Clarence hurriedly, “and that's
how the thing happened. Somebody put HIS OWN MONEY back into MY purse by
accident.”
“Of course,” said the man grimly.
“Yes, that's the reason,” said Clarence, a little relieved, but somewhat
embarrassed by the man's persistent eyes.
“Then, of course,” said the other quietly, “you don't require my twenty
dollars now.”
“But,” returned Clarence hesitatingly, “this isn't MY money. I must
find out who it belongs to, and give it back again. Perhaps,” he added
timidly, “I might leave it here with you, and call for it when I find
the man, or send him here.”
With the greatest gravity he here separated the surplus from what was
left of Peyton's gift and the twenty dollars he had just received. The
balance unaccounted for was forty dollars. He laid it on the desk before
the man, who, still looking at him, rose and opened the door.
“Mr. Reed.”
The clerk who had shown Clarence in appeared.
“Open an account with--” He stopped and turned interrogatively to
Clarence.
“Clarence Brant,” said Clarence, coloring with excitement.
“With Clarence Brant. Take that deposit”--pointing to the money--“and
give him a receipt.” He paused as the clerk retired with a wondering
gaze at the money, looked again at Clarence, said, “I think YOU'LL do,”
and reentered the private office, closing the door behind him.
I hope it will not be deemed inconceivable that Clarence, only a few
moments before crushed with bitter disappointment and the hopeless
revelation of his abandonment by his relatives, now felt himself lifted
up suddenly into an imaginary height of independence and manhood. He was
leaving the bank, in which he stood a minute before a friendless boy,
not as a successful beggar, for this important man had disclaimed the
idea, but absolutely as a customer! a depositor! a business man like
the grown-up clients who were thronging the outer office, and before the
eyes of the clerk who had pitied him! And he, Clarence, had been spoken
to by this man, whose name he now recognized as the one that was on the
door of the building--a man of whom his fellow-passengers had spoken
with admiring envy--a banker famous in all California! Will it be deemed
incredible that this imaginative and hopeful boy, forgetting all else,
the object of his visit, and even the fact that he considered this
money was not his own, actually put his hat a little on one side as he
strolled out on his way to the streets and prospective fortune?
Two hours later the banker had another visitor. It chanced to be the
farmer-looking man who had been Clarence's fellow-passenger. Evidently a
privileged person, he was at once ushered as “Captain Stevens” into the
presence of the banker. At the end of a familiar business interview the
captain asked carelessly--
“Any letters for me?”
The busy banker pointed with his pen to the letter “S” in a row of
alphabetically labeled pigeon-holes against the wall. The captain,
having selected his correspondence, paused with a letter in his hand.
“Look here, Carden, there are letters here for some chap called 'John
Silsbee.' They were here when I called, ten weeks ago.”
“Well?”
“That's the name of that Pike County man who was killed by Injins in the
plains. The 'Frisco papers had all the particulars last night; may be
it's for that fellow. It hasn't got a postmark. Who left it here?”
Mr. Carden summoned a clerk. It appeared that the letter had been left
by a certain Brant Fauquier, to be called for.
Captain Stevens smiled. “Brant's been too busy dealin' faro to think of
'em agin, and since that shootin' affair at Angels' I hear he's skipped
to the southern coast somewhere. Cal Johnson, his old chum, was in the
up stage from Stockton this afternoon.”
“Did you come by the up stage from Stockton this afternoon?” said
Carden, looking up.
“Yes, as far as Ten-mile Station--rode the rest of the way here.”
“Did you notice a queer little old-fashioned kid--about so high--like a
runaway school-boy?”
“Did I? By G--d, sir, he treated me to drinks.”
Carden jumped from his chair. “Then he wasn't lying!”
“No! We let him do it; but we made it good for the little chap
afterwards. Hello! What's up?”
But Mr. Carden was already in the outer office beside the clerk who had
admitted Clarence.
“You remember that boy Brant who was here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did he go?”
“Don't know, sir.”
“Go and find him somewhere and somehow. Go to all the hotels,
restaurants, and gin-mills near here, and hunt him up. Take some one
with you, if you can't do it alone. Bring him back here, quick!”
It was nearly midnight when the clerk fruitlessly returned. It was the
fierce high noon of “steamer nights”; light flashed brilliantly from
shops, counting-houses, drinking-saloons, and gambling-hells. The
streets were yet full of eager, hurrying feet--swift of fortune,
ambition, pleasure, or crime. But from among these deeper harsher
footfalls the echo of the homeless boy's light, innocent tread seemed to
have died out forever.