HANNEY’S DIGGINGS certainly needed a missionary, if any place ever did;
but, as one of the boys once remarked during a great lack of water, “It
had to keep on a-needin’.” Zealous men came up by steamer via the
Isthmus, and seemed to consume with their fiery haste to get on board
the vessel for China and Japan, and carry the glad tidings to the
heathen. Self-sacrificing souls gave up home and friends, and hurried
across, overland, to brave the Pacific and bury themselves among the
Australasian savages. But, though they all passed in sight of Hanney’s,
none of them paused to give any attention to the souls who had flocked
there. Men came out from ’Frisco and the East to labor with the Chinese
miners, who were the only peaceable and well-behaved people in the
mines; but the white-faced, good-natured, hard-swearing, generous,
heavy-drinking, enthusiastic, murderous Anglo-Saxons they let severely
alone. Perhaps they thought that hearts in which the good seed had once
been sown, but failed to come up into fruit, were barren soil; perhaps
they thought it preferable to be killed and eaten by cannibals than to
be tumbled into a gulch by a revolver-shot, while the shootist strolled
calmly off in company with his approving conscience, never thinking to
ascertain whether his bullet had completed the business, or whether a
wounded man might not have to fight death and coyotes together.
At any rate, the missionaries let Hanney’s alone. If any one with an
unquenchable desire to carry the Word where it is utterly unknown, a
digestion without fear, and a full-proof article of common sense (these
last two requisites are absolute), should be looking for an eligible
location, Hanney’s is just the place for him, and he need give himself
no trouble for fear some one would step in before him. If he has several
dozens of similarly constituted friends, they can all find similar
locations by betaking themselves to any mining camp in the West.
As Hanney’s had no preacher, it will be readily imagined it had no
church. With the first crowd who located there came an insolvent
rumseller from the East. He called himself Pentecost, which was as near
his right name as is usual with miners, and the boys dubbed his shop
“Pentecost Chapel” at once. The name, somehow, reached the East, for
within a few months there reached the post-office at Hanney’s a document
addressed to “Preacher in charge of Pentecost Chapel.” The postmaster
went up and down the brook in high spirits, and told the boys; they
instantly dropped shovel and pan, formed line, and escorted the
postmaster and document to the chapel. Pentecost acknowledged the joke,
and stood treat for the crowd, after which he solemnly tore the wrapper,
and disclosed the report of a certain missionary society. Modestly
expressing his gratification at the honor, and his unworthiness of it,
he moved that old Thompson, who had the loudest voice in the crowd,
should read the report aloud, he, Pentecost, volunteering to furnish
Thompson all necessary spirituous aid during the continuance of his
task. Thompson promptly signified his acquiescence, cleared his throat
with a glass of amber-colored liquid, and commenced, the boys meanwhile
listening attentively, and commenting critically.
“Too much cussed heavenly twang,” observed one, disapprovingly, as one
letter largely composed of Scriptural extracts was read.
“Why the deuce didn’t he shoot?” indignantly demanded another, as a tale
of escape from heathen pursuers was read.
“Shet up wimmen in a derned dark room! Well, _I’ll_ be durned!”
soliloquized a yellow-haired Missourian, as Thompson read an account of
a Zenana. “Reckon they’d set an infernal sight higher by wimmen if they
wuz in the diggins’ six months—hey, fellers?”
“You bet!” emphatically responded a majority of those present.
Before the boys became very restive, Thompson finished the pamphlet,
including a few lines on the cover, which stated that the society was
greatly in need of funds, and that contributions might be sent to the
society’s financial agent in Boston. Thompson gracefully concluded his
service by passing the hat, with the following net result: Two
revolvers, one double-barreled pistol, three knives, one watch, two
rings (both home-made, valuable and fearfully ugly), a pocket-inkstand,
a silver tobacco-box, and forty or fifty ounces of dust and nuggets.
Boston Bill, who was notoriously absent-minded, dropped in a
pocket-comb, but, on being sternly called to order by old Thompson,
cursed himself most fluently, and redeemed his disgraceful contribution
with a gold double-eagle. “The Webfoot,” who was the most unlucky man in
camp, had been so wrought upon by the tale of one missionary who had
lost his all many times in succession, sympathetically contributed his
only shovel, for which act he was enthusiastically cursed and liberally
treated at the bar, while the shovel was promptly sold at auction to the
highest bidder, who presented it, with a staggering slap between the
shoulders, to its original owner. The remaining non-legal tenders were
then converted into gold-dust, and the whole dispatched by express, with
a grim note from Pentecost, to the society’s treasurer at Boston. As the
society was controlled by a denomination which does not understand how
good can come out of evil, no detail of this contribution ever appeared
in print. But a few months thereafter there _did_ appear at Hanney’s a
thin-chested, large-headed youth, with a heavily loaded mule, who
announced himself as duly accredited by the aforementioned society to
preach the Gospel among the miners. The boys received him cordially, and
Pentecost offered him the nightly hospitality of curling up to sleep in
front of the barroom fireplace. His mule’s load proved to consist
largely of tracts, which he vigorously distributed, and which the boys
used to wrap up dust in. He nearly starved while trying to learn to cook
his own food, so some of the boys took him in and fed him. He tried to
persuade the boys to stop drinking, and they good-naturedly laughed; but
when he attempted to break up the “little game” which was the only
amusement of the camp—the only _steady_ amusement, for fights were short
and irregular—the camp rose in its wrath, and the young man hastily rose
and went for his mule.
[Illustration:
“THOMPSON GRACEFULLY CONCLUDED HIS SERVICE BY PASSING THE HAT.”
]
But at the time of which this story treats a missionary would have fared
even worse, for the boys where wholly absorbed by a very unrighteous,
but still very darling, pleasure. A pair of veteran knifeists, who had
fought each other at sight for almost ten years every time they met, had
again found themselves in the same settlement, and Hanney’s had the
honor to be that particular settlement. “Judge” Briggs, one of the
heroes, had many years before discussed with his neighbor, Billy Bent,
the merits of two opposing brands of mining shovels. In the course of
the chat they drank considerable villainous whisky, and naturally
resorted to knives as final arguments. The matter might have ended here,
had either gained a decided advantage over the other; but both were
skillful—each inflicted and received so near the same number of wounds,
that the wisest men in camp were unable to decide which whipped. Now, to
average Californians in the mines this is a most distressing state of
affairs; the spectators and friends of the combatants waste a great deal
of time, liquor, and blood on the subject, while the combatants
themselves feel unspeakably uneasy on the neutral ground between victory
and defeat. At Sonora, where Billy and the Judge had their first
encounter, there was no verdict, so the Judge indignantly shook the dust
from his feet and went elsewhere. Soon Billy happened in at the same
place, and a set-to occurred at sight, in which the average was not
disarranged. Both men went about, for a month or two, in a patched-up
condition, and then Billy roamed off, to be soon met by the Judge with
the usual result. Both men were known by reputation all through the gold
regions, and the advent of either at any “gulch,” or “washin’,” was the
best advertisement the saloon-keepers could desire. In the East,
hundreds of men would have tried to reason the men out of this feud, and
some few would have forcibly separated them while fighting; but in the
diggings any interference in such matters is considered impertinent, and
deserving of punishment.
Hanney’s had been fairly excited for a week, for the Judge had arrived
the week before, and his points had been carefully scrutinized and
weighed, time and again, by every man in the camp. There seemed nothing
unusual about him—he was of middle size, and long hair and beard, a not
unpleasant expression, and very dirty clothes; he never jumped a claim,
always took his whisky straight, played as fair a game of poker as the
average of the boys, and never stole a mule from any one whiter than a
Mexican. The boys had just about ascertained all this, and made their
“blind” bets on the result of the next fight, when the whole camp was
convulsed with the intelligence that Billy Bent had also arrived. Work
immediately ceased, except in the immediate vicinity of the champions,
and the boys stuck close to the chapel, that being the spot where the
encounter should naturally take place. Miners thronged in from fifty
miles around, and nothing but a special mule express saved the camp from
the horror of Pentecost’s bar being inadequate to the demand. Between
“straight bets” and “hedging” most of the gold-dust in camp had been
“put up,” for a bet is the only California backing of an opinion. As the
men did not seem to seek each other, the boys had ample time to “grind
things down to a pint,” as the camp concisely expressed it, and the
matter had given excuse for a dozen minor fights, when order was
suddenly restored one afternoon by the entrance of Billy and his
neighbors, just as the Judge and _his_ neighbors were finishing a drink.
The boys immediately and silently formed a ring, on the outer edge of
which were massed all the men who had been outside, and who came pouring
in like flies before a shower. No one squatted or hugged the wall, for
it was understood that these two men fought only with knives, so the
spectators were in a state of abject safety.
The Judge, after settling for the drinks, turned, and saw for the first
time his enemy.
“Hello, Billy!” said he, pleasantly; “let’s take a drink first.”
Billy, who was a red-haired man, with a snapping-turtle mouth, but not a
vicious-looking man for all that, briefly replied, “All right,” and
these two determined enemies clinked their glasses with the unconcern of
mere social drinkers.
But, after this, they proceeded promptly to business; the Judge, who was
rather slow on his guard, was the owner of a badly cut arm within three
minutes by the barkeeper’s watch, but not until he had given Billy, who
was parrying a thrust, an ugly gash in his left temple.
There was a busy hum during the adjustment of bets on “first blood,” and
the combatants very considerately refrained from doing serious injury
during this temporary distraction; but within five minutes more they had
exchanged chest wounds, but too slight to be dangerous.
Betting became furious—each man fought so splendidly, that the boys were
wild with delight and enthusiasm. Bets were roared back and forth, and
when Pentecost, by virtue of his universally conceded authority,
commanded silence, there was a great deal of finger-telegraphy across
the circle, and head-shaking in return.
Such exquisite carving had never before been seen at Hanney’s—that was
freely admitted by all. Men pitied absent miners all over the State, and
wondered why this delightful lingering, long-drawn-out system of
slaughter was not more popular than the brief and commonplace method of
the revolver. The Webfoot rapturously and softly quoted the good Doctor
Watt’s:
“My willing soul would stay
In such a place as this,
And——”
when suddenly his cup of bliss was dashed to the ground, for Billy,
stumbling, fell upon his own knife, and received a severe cut in the
abdomen.
Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience
enough in such matters to know it. In an instant the men who had been
calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help
the sufferer. Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter;
half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore
off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded
man. No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the
fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded
man at exactly the right moment. After a brief examination, he gave his
opinion in the following professional style:
“No go, Billy; you’re done for.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with
breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?”
“Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly.
“I’m a ruined man—I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of
bitter anguish. “I wish I’d gone under, too.”
“Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “_you_ didn’t do him, yer
know.”
“That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever
know which of us whipped.”
And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to
drink.
Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on
the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who
could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person.
Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted
the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind
seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out:
“I don’t want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you
fellers, but—is ther’ a—a preacher in the camp?”
The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used
to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a
backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front. But none
appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to
another, gave a smothered cry.
“Oh, God, hez a miserable wretch got to cut hisself open, and then
flicker out, without anybody to say a prayer for him?”
The boys looked sorrowful—if gold-dust could have bought prayers, Billy
would have had a first-class assortment in an instant.
“There’s Deacon Adams over to Pattin’s,” suggested a bystander; “an’
they do say he’s a reg’lar rip-roarer at prayin’! But ’twould take four
hours to go and fetch him.”
“Too long,” said the Doctor.
“Down in Mexico, at the cathedral,” said another, “they pray for a
feller after he’s dead, when yer pay ’em fur it, an’ they say it’s jist
the thing—sure pop. I’ll give yer my word, Billy, an’ no go back, that
I’ll see the job done up in style fur yer, ef that’s any comfort.”
“I want to hear it myself,” groaned the sufferer; “I don’t feel right;
can’t nobody pray—nobody in the crowd?”
Again the boys looked inquiringly at each other, but this time it was a
little shyly. If he had asked for some one to go out and steal a mule,
or kill a bear, or gallop a buck-jumping mustang to ’Frisco, they would
have fought for the chance; but praying—praying was entirely out of
their line.
The silence became painful: soon slouched hats were hauled down over
moist eyes, and shirt-sleeves and bare arms seemed to find something
unusual to attend to in the boys’ faces. Big Brooks commenced to blubber
aloud, and was led out by old Thompson, who wanted a chance to get out
of doors so he might break down in private. Finally matters were brought
to a crisis by Mose—no one knew his other name. Mose uncovered a sandy
head, face and beard, and remarked:
“I don’t want to put on airs in this here crowd, but ef nobody else ken
say a word to the Lord about Billy Bent, I’m a-goin’ to do it myself.
It’s a bizness I’ve never bin in, but ther’s nothin’ like tryin’. This
meetin’ ’ll cum to order to wunst.”
“Hats off in church, gentlemen!” commanded Pentecost.
Off came every hat, and some of the boys knelt down, as Mose knelt
beside the bench, and said:
“Oh, Lord, here’s Billy Bent needs ‘tendin’ to! He’s panned out his last
dust, an’ he seems to hev a purty clear idee that this is his last
chance. He wants you to give him a lift, Lord, an’ it’s the opinion of
this house thet he needs it. ‘Tain’t none of our bizness what he’s done,
an’ ef it wuz, you’d know more about it than we cud tell yer; but it’s
mighty sartin that a cuss that’s been in the diggins fur years needs a
sight of mendin’ up before he kicks the bucket.”
“That’s so,” responded two or three, very emphatically.
“Billy’s down, Lord, an’ no decent man b’lieves that the Lord ’ud hit a
man when he’s down, so there’s one or two things got to be done—either
he’s got to be let alone, or he’s got to be helped. Lettin’ him alone
won’t do him or anybody else enny good, so helpin’s the holt, an’ as
enny one uv us tough fellers would help ef we knew how to, it’s only
fair to suppose thet the Lord ’ll do it a mighty sight quicker. Now,
what Billy needs is to see the thing in thet light, an’ you ken make him
do it a good deal better than _we_ ken. It’s mighty little fur the Lord
to do, but it’s meat an’ drink an’ clothes to Billy just now. When we
wuz boys, sum uv us read some promises ef you’rn in thet Book thet wes
writ a good spell ago by chaps in the Old Country, an’ though
Sunday-school teachers and preachers mixed the matter up in our minds,
an’ got us all tangle-footed, we know they’re dar, an’ you’ll know what
we mean. Now, Lord, Billy’s jest the boy—he’s a hard case, so you can’t
find no better stuff to work on—he’s in a bad fix, thet we can’t do
nuthin’ fur, so it’s jest yer chance. He ain’t exactly the chap to make
an A Number One Angel ef, but he ain’t the man to forget a friend, so
he’ll be a handy feller to hev aroun’.”
“Feel any better, Billy?” said Mose, stopping the prayer for a moment.
“A little,” said Billy, feebly; “but you want to tell the whole yarn.
I’m sorry for all the wrong I’ve done.”
“He’s sorry for all his deviltry, Lord——”
“An’ I ain’t got nothin’ agin the Judge,” continued the sufferer.
“An’ he don’t bear no malice agin the Judge, which he shouldn’t, seein’
he generally gin as good as he took. An’ the long an’ short of it, Lord,
is jest this—he’s a dyin’, an’ he wants a chance to die with his mind
easy, an’ nobody else can make it so, so we leave the whole job in your
hands, only puttin’ in, fur Billy’s comfort, thet we recollect hearing
how yer forgiv’ a dyin’ thief, an’ thet it ain’t likely yer a-goin’ to
be harder on a chap thet’s alwas paid fur what he got. Thet’s the whole
story. Amen.”
Billy’s hand, rapidly growing cold, reached for that of Mose, and he
said, with considerable effort:
“Mose, yer came in ez handy as a nugget in a gone-up claim. God bless
yer, Mose. I feel better inside. Ef I get through the clouds, an’ hev a
livin’ chance to say a word to them as is the chiefs dar, thet word ’ll
be fur _you_, Mose. God bless yer, Mose, an’ ef my blessin’s no account,
it can’t cuss yer, ennyhow. This claim’s washed out, fellers, an’ here
goes the last shovelful, to see ef ther’s enny gold in it er not.”
And Billy departed this life, and the boys drank to the repose of his
soul.
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