ON a certain day in November, 1850, there meandered into the new mining
camp of Painter Bar, State of California, an individual who was
instantly pronounced, all voices concurring, the ugliest man in the
camp. The adjective ugly was applied to the man’s physiognomy alone; but
time soon gave the word, as applied to him, a far wider significance. In
fact, the word was not at all equal to the requirements made of it, and
this was probably what influenced the pre-fixing of numerous adjectives,
sacred and profane, to this little word of four letters.
The individual in question stated that he came from “no whar in
pu’tiklar,” and the savage, furtive glance that shot from his hyena-like
eyes seemed to plainly indicate why the land of his origin was so
indefinitely located. A badly broken nose failed to soften the
expression of his eyes, a long, prominent, dull-red scar divided one of
his cheeks, his mustache was not heavy enough to hide a hideous
hare-lip; while a ragged beard, and a head of stiff, bristly red hair,
formed a setting which intensified rather than embellished the
peculiarities we have noted.
The first settlers, who seemed quite venerable and dignified, now that
the camp was nearly a fortnight old, were in the habit of extending
hospitality to all newcomers until these latter could build huts for
themselves; but no one hastened to invite this beauty to partake of
cracker, pork and lodging-place, and he finally betook himself to the
southerly side of a large rock, against which he placed a few boughs to
break the wind.
The morning after his arrival, certain men missed provisions, and the
ugly man was suspected; but so depressing, as one miner mildly put it,
was his aspect when even looked at inquiringly, that the bravest of the
boys found excuse for not asking questions of the suspected man.
“Ain’t got no chum,” suggested Bozen, an ex-sailor, one day, after the
crowd had done considerable staring at this unpleasant object; “ain’t
got no chum, and’s lonesome—needs cheerin’ up.” So Bozen
philanthropically staked a new claim near the stranger, apart from the
main party. The next morning found him back on his old claim, and
volunteering to every one the information that “stranger’s a grump—a
reg’lar grump.” From that time forth “Grump” was the only name by which
the man was known.
Time rolled on, and in the course of a month Painter Bar was mentioned
as an old camp. It had its mining rules, its saloon, blacksmith-shop,
and faro-bank, like the proudest camp on the Run, and one could find
there colonels, judges, doctors, and squires by the dozen, besides one
deacon and a dominie or two.
Still, the old inhabitants kept an open eye for newcomers, and displayed
an open-hearted friendliness from whose example certain Eastern cities
might profit.
But on one particular afternoon, the estimable reception committee were
put to their wit’s end. They were enjoying their _otium cum dignitate_
on a rude bench in front of the saloon, when some one called attention
to an unfamiliar form which leaned against a stunted tree a few rods
off.
It was of a short, loose-jointed young man, who seemed so thin and lean,
that Black Tom ventured the opinion that “that feller had better hold
tight to the groun’, ter keep from fallen’ upards.” His eyes were
colorless, his nose was enormous, his mouth hung wide open and then shut
with a twitch, as if its owner were eating flies, his chin seemed to
have been entirely forgotten, and his thin hair was in color somewhere
between sand and mud.
As he leaned against the tree he afforded a fine opportunity for the
study of acute and obtuse angles. His neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists,
back, knees and feet all described angles, and even the toes of his
shocking boots deflected from the horizontal in a most decided manner.
“Somebody ort to go say somethin’ to him,” said the colonel, who was
recognized as leader by the miners.
“Fact, colonel,” replied one of the men; “but what’s a feller to say to
sich a meanderin’ bone-yard ez that? Might ask him, fur perliteness
sake, to take fust pick uv lots in a new buryin’ ground; but then
Perkins died last week, yur know.”
“Say _somethin’_, somebody,” commanded the colonel, and as he spoke his
eyes alighted on Slim Sam, who obediently stepped out to greet the
newcomer.
“Mister,” said Sam, producing a plug of tobacco, “hev a chaw?”
“I don’t use tobacco,” languidly replied the man, and his answer was so
unexpected that Sam precipitately retired.
Then Black Tom advanced, and pleasantly asked:
“What’s yer fav’rit game, stranger?”
“Blind man’s buff,” replied the stranger.
“What’s that?” inquired Tom, blushing with shame at being compelled to
display ignorance about games; “anything like going it blind at poker?”
“Poker?—I don’t know what that is,” replied the youth.
“He’s from the country,” said the colonel, compassionately, “an’ hesn’t
hed the right schoolin’. P’r’aps,” continued the colonel, “he’d enjoy
the cockfight at the saloon to-night—these country boys are pretty well
up on roosters. Ask him, Tom.”
Tom put the question, and the party, in deep disgust, heard the man
reply:
“No, thank you; I think it’s cruel to make the poor birds hurt each
other.”
“Look here,” said the good-natured Bozen, “the poor lubber’s all gone in
amidships—see how flat his breadbasket is. I say, messmate,” continued
Bozen, with a roar, and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, “come and
splice the main-brace.”
“No, thank you,” answered the unreasonable stranger; “I don’t drink.”
The boys looked incredulously at each other, while the colonel arose and
paced the front of the saloon two or three times, looking greatly
puzzled. He finally stopped and said:
“The mizzable rat isn’t fit to be out uv doors, an’ needs takin’ keer
ov. Come here, feller,” called the colonel; “be kinder sociable—don’t
stand there a gawpin’ at us ez ef we wuz a menagerie.”
The youth approached slowly, stared through the crowd, and finally
asked:
“Is there any one here from Pawkin Centre?”
No one responded.
“Some men went out to Californy from Pawkin Centre, and I didn’t know
but some of ’em was here. I come from ther’ myself—my name’s Mix,” the
youth continued.
“Meanin’ no disrespect to your dad,” said the colonel, “Mr. Mix, Senior,
ortn’t to hev let you come out here—you ain’t strong enough—you’ll git
fever ’n ager ’fore you’ve washed dirt half a day.”
“I ain’t got no dad,” replied the stranger; “leastways he ran away ten
years ago, an’ mother had a powerful hard time since, a-bringin’ up the
young uns, an’ we thought I might help along a big sight if I was out
here.”
The colonel was not what in the States would be called a prayer-meeting
man, but he looked steadily at the young man, and inwardly breathed a
very earnest “God have mercy on you all.” Then he came back to the more
immediate present, and, looking about, asked:
“Who’s got sleepin’-room for this young man?”
“I hev,” quickly answered Grump, who had approached, unnoticed, while
the newcomer was being interviewed.
Every one started, and Grump’s countenance did not gather amiability as
he sneakingly noticed the general distrust.
“Yer needn’t glare like that,” said he, savagely; “I sed it, an’ I mean
it. Come along, youngster—it’s about the time I generally fry my pork.”
And the two beauties walked away together, while the crowd stared in
speechless astonishment.
“He won’t make much out uv that boy, that’s one comfort,” said Black
Tom, who had partially recovered from his wonder. “You ken bet yer
eye-teeth that his pockets wouldn’t pan out five dollars.”
“Then what does he want uv him?” queried Slim Sam.
“Somethin’ mean an’ underhand, for certain,” said the colonel, “and the
boy must be purtected. And I hereby app’int this whole crowd to keep an
eye on Grump, an’ see he don’t make a slave of the boy, an’ don’t rob
him of dust. An’ I reckon I’ll take one of yer with me, an’ keep watch
of the old rascal to-night. I don’t trust him wuth a durn.”
That night the boys at the saloon wrinkled their brows like unto an
impecunious Committee of Ways and Means, as they vainly endeavored to
surmise why Grump could want that young man as a lodger. Men who pursued
whittling as an aid to reason made pecks of chips and shavings, and were
no nearer a solution than when they began.
There were a number of games played, but so great was the
absentmindedness of the players, that several hardened scamps indulged
in some most unscrupulous “stocking” of the cards without detection. But
even one of these, after having dealt himself both bowers and the king,
besides two aces, suddenly imagined he had discovered Grump’s motive,
and so earnest was he in exposing that nefarious wretch, that one of his
opponents changed hands with him. Even the barkeeper mixed the bottles
badly, and on one occasion, just as the boys were raising their glasses,
he metaphorically dashed the cup from their lips by a violent, “I tell
you what,” and an unsatisfactory theory. Finally the colonel arose.
“Boys,” said he, in the tone of a man whose mind is settled, “’taint
’cos the youngster looked like lively comp’ny, fur he didn’t. ’Taint
’cos Grump wanted to do him a good turn, fur ’tain’t his style.
Cons’kently, thar’s sumthin’ wrong. Tom, I reckon I take _you_ along.”
And Tom and the colonel departed.
During the month which had elapsed since his advent, Grump had managed
to build him a hut of the usual mining pattern, and the colonel and Tom
stealthily examined its walls, front and rear, until they found crevices
which would admit the muzzle of a revolver, should it be necessary. Then
they applied their eyes to the same cracks, and saw the youth asleep on
a pile of dead grass, with Grump’s knapsack for a pillow, and one of
Grump’s blankets over him. Grump himself was sitting on a fragment of
stone, staring into the fire, with his face in his hands.
He sat so long that the worthy colonel began to feel indignant; to sit
in a cramped position on the outside of a house, for the sake of abused
human nature, was an action more praiseworthy than comfortable, and the
colonel began to feel personally aggrieved at Grump’s delay. Besides,
the colonel was growing thirsty.
Suddenly Grump arose, looked down at the sleeping youth, and then knelt
beside him. The colonel briskly brought his pistol to bear on him, and
with great satisfaction noted that Tom’s muzzle occupied a crack in the
front walls, and that he himself was out of range.
A slight tremor seemed to run through the sleeper; “and no wonder,” said
the colonel, when he recounted the adventure to the boys; “anybody’d
shiver to hev _that_ catamount glarin’ at him.”
Grump arose, and softly went to a corner which was hidden by the
chimney.
“Gone for his knife, I’ll bet,” whispered the colonel to himself. “I
hope Tom don’t spile my mad by firin’ fust.”
Grump returned to view; but instead of a knife, he bore another blanket,
which he gently spread over his sleeping guest, then he lay down beside
Mix with a log of wood for a pillow.
The colonel withdrew his pistol, and softly muttered to himself a dozen
or two enormous oaths; then he arose, straightened out his cramped legs,
and started to find Tom. That worthy had started on a similar errand,
and on meeting, the two stared at each other in the moonlight as blankly
as a couple of well-preserved mummies.
“S’pose the boys ’ll believe us?” whispered the colonel.
“We ken bring ’em down to see the show themselves, ef they don’t,”
replied Tom.
The colonel’s report was productive of the choicest assortment of
ejaculations that had been heard in camp since Natchez, the leader of
the Vinegar Gulch Boys, joined the Church and commenced preaching.
The good-natured Bozen was for drinking Grump’s health at once, but the
colonel demurred. So did Slim Sam.
“He’s goin’ to make him work on sheers, or some hocus-pocusin’
arrangement, an’ he can’t afford to hev him git sick. That’s what his
kindness amounts to,” said Sam.
“Ur go fur his gratitude—and dust, when he gets any,” suggested another,
and no one repelled the insinuation.
It was evident, however, that there was but little chance of either
inquest or funeral from Grump’s, and the crowd finally dispersed with
the confirmed assurance that there would be one steady cause of
excitement for some time to come.
Next morning young Mix staked a claim adjoining Grump. The colonel led
him aside, bound him to secrecy, and told him that there was a far
richer dirt further down the stream. The young man pointed toward the
hut, and replied:
“He sed ’twas payin’ dirt, an’ I ort to take his advice, seein’ he giv
me a pick an’ shovel an’ pan—sed he’d hev to git new ones anyhow.”
“Thunder!” ejaculated the colonel, more puzzled than ever, knowing well
how a miner will cling as long as possible to tools with which he is
acquainted.
“Jest wait till that boy gets a bag of dust,” said a miner, when the
colonel had narrated the second wonder. “The express agent ’ll be here
next week to git what fellers wants to send to their folks—the boy’ll
want to send some to his’n—his bag ’ll be missin’ ’bout then—jist wait,
and ef my words don’t come true, call me greaser.”
The colonel pondered over the prophecy, and finally determined on
another vigil outside Grump’s hut.
Meanwhile, Grump’s Pet, as Mix had been nicknamed, afforded the camp a
great deal of amusement. He was not at all reserved, and was easily
drawn out on the subject of his protector, of whom he spoke in terms of
unmeasured praise.
“By the piper that played before Moses,” said one of the boys one day,
“ef half that boy sez is true, some day Grump ’ll hev wings sprout
through his shirt, an’ ’ll be sittin’ on the sharp edge uv a cloud an’
playin’ onto a harp, jist like the other angels.”
As for Grump himself, he improved so much that suspicion was half
disarmed when one looked at him; nevertheless the colonel deemed it
prudent to watch the Pet’s landlord on the night preceding the express
day.
The colonel timed himself by counting the games of old sledge that were
played. At the end of the sixth game after dark he made his way to
Grump’s hut and quietly located himself at the same crack as before.
The Pet and his friend were both lying down, but by the light of the
fire the colonel could see the eyes of the former were closed, while
those of the latter were wide open. The moments flew by, and still the
two men remained in the same positions, the Pet apparently fast asleep,
and Grump wide awake.
The interior of a miner’s hut, though displaying great originality of
design, and ingenious artistic effects, becomes after a time rather a
tiresome object of contemplation. The colonel found it so, and he
relieved his strained eyes by an occasional amateur astronomical
observation. On turning his head, with a yawn, from one of these, he saw
inside the hut a state of affairs which caused him to feel hurriedly for
his pistol.
Grump had risen upon one elbow, and was stealthily feeling with his
other hand under the Pet’s head.
“Ha!” thought the colonel; “right at last.”
Slowly Grump’s hand emerged from beneath the Pet’s head, and with it
came a leather bag containing gold dust.
The colonel drew a perfect bead on Grump’s temple.
“I’ll jest wait till you’re stowin’ that away, my golden-haired beauty,”
said the colonel, within himself, “an’ then we’ll see what cold lead’s
got to say about it.”
Grump untied the bag, set it upon his own pillow, drew forth his own
pouch, and untied it; the colonel’s aim remained true to its unconscious
mark.
“Ef that’s the game,” continued the colonel, to himself, “I reckon the
proper time to play my trump is just when you’re a-pourin’ from his bag
into your’n. It ’ll be ez good’s a theatre, to bring the boys up to see
how ’twas done. Lord! I wish he’d hurry up!”
Grump placed a hand upon each bag, and the colonel felt for his trigger.
Grump’s left hand opened wide the mouth of Pet’s bag, and his right hand
raised his own; in a moment he had poured out all his own gold into
Pet’s bag, tied it, and replaced it under Pet’s head.
The colonel retired quietly for a hundred yards, or more, then he
started for the saloon like a man inspired by a three-days’ thirst. As
he entered the saloon the crowd arose.
“Any feller ken say I lie,” meekly spoke the colonel, “an’ I won’t
shoot. _I_ wouldn’t believe it ef I hedn’t seen it with my own eyes.
Grump’s poured all his gold into the Pet’s pouch!”
The whole party, in chorus, condemned their optical organs to
supernatural warmth; some, more energetic than the rest, signified that
the operation should extend to their lungs and lives. But the doubter of
the party again spoke:
“Mind yer,” said he, “to-morrow he’ll be complainin’ that the Pet stole
it, an’ then he’ll claim all in the Pet’s pouch.”
The colonel looked doubtful; several voices expressed dissent; Bozen,
reviving his proposition to drink to Grump, found opinion about equally
balanced, but conservative. It was agreed, however, that all the boys
should “hang around” the express agent next day, and should, if Grump
made the Pet any trouble, dispose of him promptly, and give the Pet a
clear title to all of Grump’s rights and properties.
The agent came, and one by one the boys deposited their dust, saw it
weighed, and took their receipts. Presently there was a stir near the
door, and Grump and Pet entered. Pet’s gold was weighed, his mother’s
name given, and a receipt tendered.
“Thinks he’s goin’ to hev conviction in writin’,” whispered the doubter
to the colonel.
But the agent finished his business, took the stage, and departed. Grump
started to the door to see the last of it. The doubter was there before
him, and saw a big tear in the corner of each of Grump’s eyes.
* * * * *
A few days after Grump went to Placerville for a new pick for the
Pet—the old one was too heavy for a light man, Grump said. Pet himself
felt rather lonesome working on his neighbor’s claim, so he sauntered
down the creek, and got a kind word from almost every man. His
ridiculous anatomy had escaped the grave so long, he was so industrious
and so inoffensive, that the boys began to have a sort of affection for
the boy who had come so far to “help the folks.”
Finally, some weak miner, unable to hold the open secret any longer,
told the Pet about Grump’s operation in dust. Great was the astonishment
of the young man, and puzzling miners gained sympathy from the weak eyes
and open mouth of the Pet as he meandered homeward, evidently as much at
a loss as themselves.
Unlucky was the spirit which prompted Grump in the selection of his
claim! It was just beyond a small bend which the Run made, and was,
therefore, out of sight of the claims of the other men belonging to the
camp. And it came to pass that while Pet was standing on his own claim,
leaning on his spade, and puzzling his feeble brain, there came down the
Run the great Broady, chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, who were working
several miles above.
Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation,
had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week’s
industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and
humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small,
ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous
energy.
Poor Pet’s resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family
at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the
town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the
throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump’s,
exclaimed:
“Let him go, or I’ll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!”
The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying
orders, but Grump’s hands imparted to his command considerable moral
force.
No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump’s grasp
than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the
Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully
away.
The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.
“They’ve fit!” gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, “an’
the boy—boy’s hed to—lay him out.
It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump
lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.
“How did it come ’bout?” asked the colonel of Pet.
“Broady done it,” replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; “he pounded the
boy, and I tackled him—then he fired.”
The doubter went around and raised the dying man’s head. Pet seemed
collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:
“What made you pour your dust into my pouch?”
“‘Cause,” whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet’s neck, and
drawing him closer, “_‘cause I’m yer dad_; give this to yer mar,” and on
Pet’s homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of
human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.
The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The
experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:
“Pet, yer an orphan.”
Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men
dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted
as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud.
This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the
crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed:
“Boys, here’s corpse—corpse is the best-looking man in camp.”
And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had
reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in
His own image.
The body was placed in a rude coffin, and borne to the grave on a litter
of spades, followed by every man in camp, the colonel supporting the
only family mourner. Each man threw a shovelful of dirt upon the coffin
before the filling began. As the last of the surface of the coffin
disappeared from view, Pet raised a loud cry and wept bitterly, at which
operation he was joined by the whole party.
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