GUY BECOMES A TEAMSTER.
“WHICH of you owns this horse,” asked the man at length, thrusting his
head in at the door.
The question was addressed to the party in general but the man fastened
his eyes upon Guy as if expecting an answer from him.
“He is in my possession,” said the boy, “but he belongs to Zeke.”
“Zeke! Zeke who?”
“I don’t know his other name. He is a buffalo hunter, and has just
started for Kansas.”
“Where did he get him, do you know?”
“He bought him of somebody down in San Joaquin.”
“Yes; well, that story won’t go down, young man,” said the new-comer,
who was an officer of the law. “That horse was _stolen_ down in San
Joaquin a few days ago.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Guy’s host, “that accounts for the milk in the
cocoanut.”
“I thought all the time that there was something streaked about this
business,” observed another.
“Ain’t he a desperate one, though,” remarked a third. “He steals a horse
and is so determined to keep him that he stays in the mountains until he
is almost starved to death.”
“Oh, now, you don’t know what you are talking about,” cried Guy, who was
frightened almost out of his senses. “I didn’t steal that horse. I got
him just as I told you I did.”
The constable listened while Guy repeated the story of his two days’
acquaintance with the buffalo hunter, and when it was concluded gave it
as his opinion that the boy’s statements would hardly wash. He might be
all right—he was free to confess that Guy didn’t look like a
horse-thief—but he had been instructed to detain that animal if he found
him, and to put whoever had him in his possession into the calaboose and
keep him there until the owner of the horse could be sent for; so Guy
had better come along and be locked up and say no more about it.
Guy remonstrated loudly, but it was all in vain. The officer was firm,
and the boy was obliged to accompany him down the mountain and through
the little village that lay at its foot, to the calaboose—a small,
strongly built log cabin, provided with a heavy oaken door and grated
windows. There was but one room in the building, as Guy found when the
door was opened, and just then it had no occupants.
“Now, then,” said the officer giving his prisoner a push, “go in there,
and stay till the rope comes up from San Joaquin. We hang horse-thieves
in this country.”
This was the second time Guy had been made the victim of the man he had
trusted so implicitly. He understood his situation as well as if Zeke
had been there to explain it to him. The hunter, not daring to rob him
in the settlements for fear that Mr. Wilson would interest himself in
the matter, had enticed him into the mountains, where he could
accomplish his purpose without danger to himself. He had stolen the
horse for Guy to ride, and then, in order to draw suspicion from
himself, had left him in the boy’s possession, well-knowing that if he
showed himself in the settlements during the day-time, he would be
arrested and charged with the theft. And horse-thieves were hanged in
that country, so the constable had told him! If the man said this to
frighten him, he certainly succeeded in his object. Almost overcome with
terror at the bare thought, Guy threw himself upon a dirty mattress in
one corner of the jail and cried bitterly, until exhausted nature gave
way and he forgot his troubles in sleep.
He slept until it was almost dark, and was then awakened by the sound of
voices. He started up to find the door of his prison open, and the
entrance crowded with excited, struggling men. Conspicuous among them
was a gigantic fellow, clad like a miner, whose wrists and ankles were
loaded with irons. The others were trying to push him into the jail, and
he was trying as hard to prevent them. Encumbered as he was he fought
desperately for his liberty, and once seemed almost on the point of
escaping from his captors, but he was at last thrown headlong upon the
floor of the calaboose, and the door was slammed behind him.
Guy’s companion in misery acted more like a wild beast than a human
being. No sooner had he gained his feet than he threw himself with all
his strength against the door; but seeing that he made no impression
upon it, he turned his attention to one of the windows, seizing the bars
with his hands and exerting all his strength to tear them from their
fastenings.
Failing in this, he drew himself up by the bars of the window and butted
his head against the logs which formed the ceiling, but nothing gave way
under his fierce attacks, and finding at last that escape was impossible
he fell to pacing the narrow jail, rattling his chains and swearing and
threatening at the top of his voice.
Guy was afraid of him. Slowly and cautiously he drew himself off the
mattress, and retreated into the farthest corner of the room, where he
sat cowering and trembling and watching the movements of this wild beast
in human form, who continued to pace backward and forward, clanking his
chains and uttering imprecations. Guy was glad indeed when the night
settled down and concealed him from the man’s sight.
At last a murmur of voices outside the building attracted the attention
of the prisoner, who paused in his walk and gazed eagerly toward the
door, bending forward in a listening attitude. The noise grew louder and
louder. Then a short struggle was heard outside the cabin, the door flew
open, admitting a flood of light which streamed from a dozen lanterns,
and a crowd of armed men rushed in. They seized the prisoner, wound a
rope about his neck, and in spite of his resistance pulled him out of
the calaboose.
Guy, hardly realizing what was going on, was borne with the crowd, which
filled every corner of the jail, out through the door, past the
constable, who was lying bound and helpless beside the building, and up
the road leading to the mountains. Then somebody pushed him roughly
aside, and he found himself standing alone. He was free, the road was
open, and he could go where he pleased.
Frightened as he was, Guy was prompt to seize upon the opportunity for
escape thus unexpectedly offered to him. Very slowly and deliberately he
drew himself further away from the crowd, and when the last man had
passed him and hurried up the mountain, and there was no one in sight to
observe his movements, he broke into a run and made the best of his way
through the now deserted village and along the road that led to the
plains beyond.
He knew something about lynch-law now. He had received an illustration
of the manner in which frontiersmen sometimes dealt with offenders, and
shivered as if he had the ague when he reflected that the same fate
might have been his in a few hours more had not a way been opened for
his escape.
“I’ll not stay in this country an hour longer,” thought Guy, speeding
along the road as if he had been furnished with wings. “I had no idea
that there were such men as these in the world. I wonder if that
constable saw me when I came out? I thought he looked me squarely in the
face, and if he did, he must have recognized me. If they will only keep
him tied hard and fast until morning, I don’t think he will ever catch
me again. Halloo! Great Scott!”
This exclamation was called forth by an unexpected sight which just then
met his eyes. It was a camp-fire, and he did not see it until he was
close upon it. Two covered wagons were drawn up in front of the fire,
and beside one of them stood a stalwart fellow in his shirt-sleeves, who
was looking ruefully at a broken axle-tree and scratching his head in
deep perplexity. Discovering Guy as he came up, he greeted him with:
“Halloo! stranger. May be you’re a wagon-maker.”
“No, I am not,” replied the boy.
“Then I don’t suppose you could hold up one end of this rail for me
while I fix this axle, could you?” asked the emigrant.
“Yes,” said Guy, “I can do that.”
After casting a long and anxious glance down the road he had just
traveled to make sure that there was no one following him, Guy walked up
to the wagon and held one end of the rail, as the man requested, making
several suggestions as the work progressed, which the emigrant was
prompt to adopt, and which led him to say when the repairs were all
completed:
“Now, stranger, may be you would be willing to set up and take a bite
with us. Supper’s ready.”
Guy was not only willing, but eager. The sense of security he had felt
since his arrival in the emigrant’s camp, aided by the savory odor of
the viands that were cooking over the coals, had put a sharp edge on his
appetite, and he did full justice to the meal that was served up. While
he was eating he had leisure to look about him and to examine into
something that had attracted his notice when he first entered the camp.
There were some words painted in large letters on one of the wagon
covers, and after a little study, Guy made them out to be, “Sonora or
Bust.”
He read the words over slowly while he was munching his corn bread and
bacon, and then turned his attention to the emigrant’s family, on whom
he had thus far bestowed only a passing glance.
There were eight of them—two women and six children; and as both the
women were addressed as mother, Guy thought there ought to be another
man about the camp; but as he did not put in an appearance, he finally
asked after him.
“Where is your partner?” said he to the emigrant. “You ask that
question, I suppose, because you see two families here,” replied the
man. “One of them is mine, and the other was my brother’s. He is dead,
and so I have his wife and little ones to care for till I get them back
among their friends.”
Guy helped himself to another piece of bacon and looked up at the words
that were painted on the wagon cover.
“Did you get through, or bust?” said he.
“Both,” replied the emigrant. “I came through all right, and busted
afterward. My brother, he died, the placer diggings give out, so that
Californy ain’t worth staying in, and now I want to get back to
Missouri, where I came from, before I am clean broke. These women folks
can’t drive horses—this is the third time they have run into stumps and
rocks, and broke that wagon down, between here and Sonora—and I’ll give
any man ten dollars a month that’s a mind to set up there and drive for
us.”
“Are you going straight to the States?” asked Guy.
“Just as straight as the nearest trail runs.”
“Then I’m your man. I’ll drive one wagon for you.”
“Talk enough,” said the emigrant. “I can rest easy now. That miserable
wagon has been more bother to me than it is worth.”
And so the matter was settled, and Guy became a teamster and a member of
the emigrant’s family.
For the next three months he led a dreary, monotonous life, during which
not a single incident happened that was worth recording. He arose from
his blankets at daybreak, ate a breakfast of corn bread and bacon, and
then climbed to his seat in the wagon, where he remained, with the
exception of an hour’s halt at noon, until long after dark. Even this
work was hard, and the longer it continued the more disgusted with
frontier life Guy became, and the firmer grew his resolution, that if he
ever lived to get among civilized people again, he would stay among
them. The journey, like the voyage around the Horn, seemed endless, but
at last, to his immense relief, Omaha appeared in sight.
By this time Guy had made up his mind what he was going to do. From the
emigrants he met on the road he learned that the States were at war,
that one portion of the Union was in arms against the other, and that
men were wanted on both sides.
This seemed almost a godsend to Guy, for it settled a question which he
had long been revolving in his mind, namely: What should he do for a
living? he could go into the Union army. He would save every cent of the
money he earned during his term of service, and if he lived to come out,
he would have enough to enable him to take a course at some commercial
college, and thus fit himself for business. He was a boy of peace—he had
no taste for fights and broils—but he must do something to earn a
livelihood, and this seemed to be just what he wanted.
When they reached Omaha Guy was paid off by his employer, receiving
thirty-five dollars in money, and after taking leave of him and his
family, he started at once for the levee. Finding there a steamer bound
for St. Louis, he shipped on it as deck hand. He could not afford to go
as passenger, for his clothes were almost in tatters, and he needed the
little money he had to purchase a respectable outfit when he reached St.
Louis.
The steamer arrived at the city early one morning, and Guy having
received his wages, bent his steps toward the nearest clothing store,
and when he came out again, half an hour afterward, he looked more like
Guy Harris than he had looked for many a long day. He had purchased a
neat, durable suit of clothing, and still had a few dollars left in his
pocket. He was not ashamed now to show himself on the principal streets.
The first thing was to get a good breakfast, and the next to hunt up an
officer to enlist him. There was a restaurant close by, and while he was
eating a dish of ham and eggs, and drinking a cup of coffee, he talked
with the proprietor, who directed him to the nearest recruiting office.
It was on Fourth Street, the man said, and Guy having paid his bill
started out to find it.
Guy felt now as if he were among friends from whom he had long been
separated. He was delighted to find himself among the sights and sounds
of the city again, and not a single incident that happened as he passed
along the street did he regard as too trifling to be noticed.
He had now been adrift in the world nearly fifteen months, and during
this time he had seldom thought of his home and those he had left there.
It is true that when he was in trouble he had wished himself safe under
his father’s roof once more, just as a storm-tossed mariner wishes
himself back to the comfortable haven he left a few days ago; but if he
had ever thought of his father and his father’s wife, it was with a
feeling of bitterness which seemed to grow stronger and deeper as he
grew older. He thought of them now, but without a single pang of regret
or a single longing in his heart to see them. The world had treated him
harshly since he had been out in it; but which was the worst, he asked
himself—to receive hard words and hard usage from those of whom he had a
right to expect nothing better, or to submit to daily exhibitions of
indifference and partiality, and acts of petty tyranny and injustice
from those of whom he had a right to expect nothing but encouragement,
sympathy and love? Guy asked himself this question, and a hard
expression settled about the corners of his mouth, which did not soften
when he suddenly discovered among the numerous pedestrians one whom he
thought he had seen before. It was a tall, dignified gentleman, who was
just at that moment crossing the street, evidently with the intention of
intercepting him. Guy stared at him in amazement. _It was his father!_
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