THE horse which Mr. Tom Ruger rode kept the path, steep and rugged
though it was, without any guidance from him, and its mate followed
demurely. They were accustomed to it; and many a mile had they traversed
in this way, taking turns at carrying their owner and master. Indeed,
the trio seemed inseparable, and “as happy as Tom Ruger and his horses”
was a phrase that was very often heard in every mining camp and
settlement.
As for Mr. Tom Ruger himself, very little was known of him save what had
been learned during the two years that he had sojourned among them.
Where he came from never was known, nor asked but once by the same
person. All that could be said of him might be summed up in the
following statement:
“The finest-looking, the best-dressed, and the best-mannered man on the
Pacific coast, and the best horseman.”
These were the words of “mine host” at the Ten Mile House, and, as he
was a gentleman whose word was as good as his paper, we will accept them
as truth.
As Mr. Ruger rode down the mountain-side that beautiful Autumn day,
dressed in the finest of broadcloth, with linen of the most immaculate
whiteness, smoking what appeared to be a very good cigar, and humming to
himself a fragment of some old song, he looked strangely out of place.
So thought Miss Fanny Borlan as she looked out of the stage-window, and
caught her first glimpse of him just where his path intersected the
stage-road; and she would have asked the driver about him, had he not
been so near.
Mr. Ruger caught sight of her face about that time, and tossing away the
cigar, he lifted his hat to her in the most approved style.
She acknowledged the salute by a bow, and when he rode up to the side of
the stage, and made some casual remark about the fine weather, she did
not choose to consider it out of the way to receive this advance toward
a traveling acquaintance with seeming cordiality.
“Have you traveled far?” he asked.
“From the Atlantic coast, sir.”
“The same journey that I intend to take some of these days, only that I
hope to substitute the word Pacific at its termination. I hope you are
near the end of your journey in this direction?”
“My destination is Ten Mile Gulch, I believe; but you have such horrid
names out here.”
“I presume they do appear somewhat queer to a stranger, but they nearly
all have the merit of being appropriate. You stop at the settlement?”
“I do not know. My brother wrote to me to come to Ten Mile Gulch. Is it
the name of a town?”
“Both of a village and a mining district, from which the village takes
its name. Is your brother a miner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I presume he intended to meet you at the settlement. You will no doubt
find him at the tavern; if not, I will tell him of your arrival, for my
way leads through the mines.”
“Thank you, sir. My brother’s name is John Borlan.”
“I am somewhat acquainted with him,” said Mr. Ruger, “though in this
region of strange names we call him Jack. My name is Thomas Ruger.”
“Tom, in California style?” she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye.
“Yes, Miss Borlan,” he said, also smiling. “Tom Ruger is well known
where Thomas Ruger never was heard of. And now I will bid you good-day,
Miss Borlan, for I am in something of a hurry to reach the settlement.
If I do not find Jack there, I will go on to the mines and tell him.”
“Ah, Miss, you don’t have such men as Tom Ruger out where you come
from,” said the driver, as Tom disappeared up the road. “And them nags
of his’n can’t be beat this side of the mountains. He makes a heap o’
money with ’em.”
“What! a horse-jockey?” exclaimed Miss Borlan.
“We don’t call him that, miss. Some says he’s a sportin’ man, which
ain’t nothin’ agin him, for the country’s new, ye see. He’s got heaps o’
money anyway, and there ain’t a camp nor a town on the coast that don’t
know Tom Ruger. Ah, ye don’t have such men as Tommy. He’d be at home in
a palace, now wouldn’t he? And it’s jest the same in a miner’s shanty.
Ye don’t have such men as he. If he takes a likin’ to anybody, he sticks
to ’em through thick and thin; but if he gits agin ye once,
he’s—the—very—deuce. Ah, ye don’t have no such man out where you come
from.”
She did not care to dispute this point. In fact, after what she had seen
and heard, she was inclined to believe that there was no such men as Tom
Ruger out where she had come from; so she made no reply; and the driver,
following out his train of thought, rattled on about Tom Ruger until
they came in sight of Ten Mile Gulch, winding up his narrative with the
sage, but rather unexpected, remark, that there weren’t no such men as
Tom Ruger out where she had come from.