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THE
TRANSFORMATION OF JOB
A TALE OF THE HIGH SIERRAS
[Illustration: (portrait of author)]
_BY FREDERICK VINING FISHER._
[Illustration: (decoration)]
DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING COMPANY
ELGIN, ILL., AND
36 WASHINGTON ST., CHICAGO.
Copyright, 1900,
By David C. Cook Publishing Company.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
If one will take the trouble to tramp with staff in hand the high
Sierras, he will find not only the Yosemite, but Gold City and Pine
Tree Ranch, though perhaps they bear another name. Most of the quaint
characters of this tale still dwell among the vine-clad hills. To
introduce to you these friends that have interested the author, and to
tell anew the story of the human soul, this work is written.
Out of love of never-to-be-forgotten memories of Pine Tree Ranch, the
author dedicates this book to him who once welcomed him to its white
porch, but who now sleeps beneath the shadow of the mountains--Andrew
Malden.
FREDERICK VINING FISHER.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF JOB,
A TALE OF THE HIGH SIERRAS.
_By FREDERICK VINING FISHER._
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW ARRIVAL AT GOLD CITY.
The stage was late at Gold City. It always was. Everybody knew it, but
everybody pretended to expect it on time.
Just exactly as the old court-house bell up the hill struck six, the
postmistress hurriedly opened her door and stood anxiously peering up
the street, the loafers who had been dozing on the saloon benches
shuffled out and leaned up against the posts, the old piano in the
Miners' Home began to rattle and a squeaky violin to gasp for breath,
while the pompous landlord of the "Palace Hotel," sending a Chinaman
to drive away a dozen pigs that had been in front of his door through
the day, took his post on the sidewalk to await his coming guests--who
generally never came.
There was a time when Gold City had been a great town--
"In days of old,
In days of gold,
In days of forty-nine."
The boys often hung around the saloon steps and listened with gaping
mouths while Yankee Sam and the other old men told of the golden age,
when the streets of Gold City were crowded and Tom Perry made a
fortune in one day and lost it all gambling that night; when there was
more life in Gold City than 'Frisco could shake a stick at; when the
four quarters of the globe came in on the stage and mined all day,
danced all night and went away rich.
But Gold City, now, was neither large nor rich. The same eternal hills
surrounded her and the same great pine trees shaded her in summer's
heat and hung in white like sentinals of the past in the winter's
moonlight. But the sound of other days had died away. The creek bed
had long since yielded up its treasure and lay neglected, exposed to
the heat and frost. The old brick buildings rambling up the street
were still left, but were fast tottering to decay. Side by side with
the occupied buildings, stood half-fallen adobes and shattered blocks
filled only with the ghosts of other years.
Up on the hill rose the court house, the perfect image of some quaint
Dutch church along the Mohawk in York State. Gray and old, changeless
it stood, looking down in silent disdain on these California buildings
hastening to an early grave. Here and there, hid by pines and vines,
up the dusty side-hill roads, one caught glimpses of pretty cottage
homes, where dwelt the few who, when the tide had turned, were left
stranded in this far-off California mining town.
Yes, Gold City was of the past. Her glory had long since departed. Yet
somehow everyone expected its return. The old men read the 'Frisco
papers, when they could get them, and grew excited when they heard
that silver had fallen and gold had a new chance for life. The night
that news came, Yankee Sam ordered a treat for the whole crowd and
politely told the saloon-keeper that he would settle shortly, when
the boom came. Possibly some great capitalist might come in any day
and buy up the mines and things would boom. He might be on the stage
any night. That is the reason the whole town came out regularly to
meet the stage, marveled if it was late, and gambled on the
probability that a telegram from 'Frisco had held it for a special
train of "bigbugs." That is why the hotel-keeper drove the pigs away
and prepared for business.
They had done that thing now in Gold City so long it was beginning to
be second nature; and yet deeper was getting the sleep, and the only
thing that could rouse the town was the coming of the stage with its
possibilities.
The stage was later than usual this night. So late the old-timers were
sure Joe must have a passenger. As it was fifty miles over the plains
and foot-hills that Joe had to come, there was, of course, plenty of
chance of his being late. In fact, he never was on time. They all knew
that. But to think that Joe would be two whole hours back was a little
unusual for a town where nothing unusual ever happened. The big
colored porter at the Miners' Home was tired of holding his bell ready
to ring, the loungers on the benches in front of the corner grocery
had exhausted their yarns, when the dust up the street on the hill
caused the barefooted boys to stop their games and stand expectant in
the road to watch Joe arrive.
With a shout and a flourish, the four horses came tearing around the
court-house corner, plunged relentlessly down the hill and dragged the
rickety old coach up to the hotel, with a jerk that nearly upset the
poor thing and brought admiration to everybody's eyes. Fortunately for
the coach, that was the only time of day the horses ever went off a
snail's pace. The dinner bell at the Miners' Home clanged vigorously,
the piano in the saloon opposite set up a clatter, the crowd hurried
around the dust-enveloped coach to see if they could discover a
passenger, while the red-faced landlord shouted, "This way to the
Palace Hotel, gentlemen!"
To-night, when the dust cleared away, for the first time in weeks the
crowds discovered a passenger. In fact, he was out on the brick
sidewalk before they saw him. Pale-faced, blue-eyed, with delicate,
clear-cut features, clad in a neat gray coat and short trousers, which
merged into black stockings and shoes, with a black tie and soiled
white collar, all topped off with a derby hat and plenty of dust, a
wondering, trembling lad of twelve stood before them. Such a sight had
not been seen in Gold City in its history. A city lad dropped down
among these rough miners and worn-out wrecks of humanity!
"Well, pard, who be yer?" at last asked a voice; and a dozen echoed
his query.
With a frightened look around for some refuge, such as the deer gives
when surprised, the new-comer answered. "I am Mr. Arthur Teale's boy,
and I want to see him;" and, turning to the landlord, asked if he
would please tell Mr. Teale his boy had come.
Not a man moved, but each glanced significantly at the other. Yankee
Sam, a sort of father to the town, who, at times, felt his
responsibility, when not too overcome by the hot stuff at the Miners'
Home, now stepped up and interviewed the lad.
Mr. Teale's son, was he? And who was Mr. Teale, and where did he come
from, and why was he traveling alone?
Standing there in the evening twilight, on the rough brick walk in
front of the Palace Hotel, to that group of rough-handed men in
unkempt locks and woolen shirts and overalls, to those shirt-sleeved,
well-oiled, red-faced bar-keepers, with the landlord in the center,
the passenger told his story.
He told of a home in the far East; of how, one day long ago, his
father started away out West to make his fortune; how he patted him on
the head and said some day he should send for him and mamma--but he
never did. The little fellow faltered, as he told how his mother grew
sick and his grandfather died; and how, after a time, he and his
mother had started to find father, and over the wide prairies and high
mountains and dusty deserts, had traveled the long journey in search
of husband and father.
The young eyes filled with tears--yes, and some older, rough ones did,
too, that had been dry for years--as he told how mother had grown
weaker and weaker; and, when they had reached the California city and
the summer's heat had climbed up the mountain side, she had died; and,
dying, had told him to go on and find Gold City and his father. So he
had come, and "Would some one please tell Mr. Teale his boy was here?"
That night there was great excitement in Gold City. Groups of men were
talking in undertones everywhere. With a promise to try and find his
father, Yankee Sam left the boy sitting on the doorstep of the Palace;
where, hungry and tired, he fell asleep, while all the street arabs
stood at a respectful distance commenting on "the city kid what says
he's Teale's boy." No one thought to take the little wanderer in. No
one thought he was hungry. They were too excited for that. Teale's kid
was here. What should they do with him and how could they tell him?
[Illustration: Yankee Sam interviewed the lad.--See page 6.]
Did they know Teale? Yes, they did. Slim, pale-faced, the picture of
this boy, only taller, fuller grown, he had come to Gold City. With
ragged clothes that spoke of better days, he had tramped into town one
winter night through the snow and begged a bed at the Miners' Home. He
had struck it rich for a time down by Mormon Bar, and treated all the
boys in joy over his good luck, then lost it all over the card table
in the end. Thrice he had repeated that experience. In his better
moments he had talked of a wife and blue-eyed boy in the East, then
again he seemed to forget them. The gaming table, the drink, the crowd
he went with, ruined him. One night the boys heard cries in the hollow
back of "Monte Carlo," the worst saloon and gambling den in the
place; when morning came they found Teale and a boon companion both
dead there. Who was to blame? Nobody knew. Under the old pine trees on
the hill, just outside the graveyard gate, where the respectable dead
lay, they buried them. And now Teale's boy was come, and who should
tell him, and where should he go?