OLD TWITCHETT was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for
Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own
bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one,
it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to
soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we
are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare
and beautiful stones.
It was Twitchett’s own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful
profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and
located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd,
instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps
he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of
high-toned, civilized beings—there was no accounting for tastes—but then
he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley
couldn’t have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the
most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one,
couldn’t fry a sick man’s pork, or make his coffee.
But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed—he always was queer. He kept
himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys
were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired,
delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the
twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.
At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black
Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it,
and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his
hut. They had taken turns in carrying him—for he was wasted and
light—until they reached Crockey’s store, and when they laid him down,
while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a
pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and
until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for
drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.
Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey’s best brandy,
but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey’s he
would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to
realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very
soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them
to kneel beside him.
“I’m very grateful, boys, for your kindness—I wish I could reward you;
but haven’t got anything—I’ve got nothing at all. The only treasure I
had I buried—buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die
alone—I didn’t want those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can—I wish
you’d git it, and—it’s a dying man’s last request—take it—and——”
If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some
locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt
beside the dead man’s face, and with averted eyes listened for the
remainder of Twitchett’s last sentence.
Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which,
according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of
tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other’s faces, and each man
placed his dexter forefinger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith
whispered:
“Virtue is its own reward—hey, Sam?”
“You bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. “It’s on the square now,
between us?”
“Square as a die,” whispered Boylston.
“When’ll we go for it?” asked Sam Baker.
“Can’t go till after the fun’ril,” virtuously whispered Boylston.
“’Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that’s made our
fortunes.”
“Fact,” remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a
pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds
he examined the mirror, and whispered:
“Nary a sign—might’s well tell the boys.”
The announcement of Twitchett’s death was the signal for an animated
discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and
what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was
the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased’s
religious evidences—no distribution of black crape—no tearful beating
down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were
all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to
Twitchett’s good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came
to deceased’s gold—his money—the bystanders exhibited an interest which
was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal
kinship.
Each man knew all about Twitchett’s money, though no two agreed. He had
hid it—he had been unlucky, and had not found much—he had slyly sent it
home—he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which
always drew blanks—he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old
Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold
as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled
derisively—they didn’t like to laugh at the deacon’s gray hairs, but he
_was_ queer.
Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently
uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an
extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett’s
administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly,
and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be
talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black
Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and
constitute himself sole legatee.
But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had
stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston
strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward
of virtue.
“He didn’t say what kind of a can it was,” remarked Mr. Baker, after the
outskirts of Bender had been left behind.
“Just what I thought,” replied Boylston; “pity he couldn’t hev lasted
long enough for us to hev asked him. But I’ve been a-workin’ some sums
about different kinds of cans—I learned how from Phipps, this
afternoon—he’s been to college, an’ his head’s cram-full of sech
puzzlin’ things. It took multiplyin’ with four figures to git the
answer, but I couldn’t take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin’
’bout how the find would pan out.”
“Well?” inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had
just stumbled.
“Well,” replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light
his pipe, “the smallest can a-goin’ is a half-pound powder-can, and
that’ll hold over two thousand dollars worth—even _that_ wouldn’t be bad
for a single night’s work—eh?”
“Just so,” responded Mr. Baker; “then there’s oyster-cans an’
meat-cans.”
“Yes,” said Boylston, “an’ the smallest of ’em’s good fur ten thousand,
ef it’s full. An’ when yer come to five-pound powders—why, one of them
would make two fellers rich!”
They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn’s Bar. The diggings at
the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were
Twitchett’s executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out
of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the
chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay
before them?
They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett’s hut still
unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them
not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and
then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were
several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston
vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately
looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in
the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can,
absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he
made a formal division.
Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his
yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an
oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take
that bet, and make it an ounce.
Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body,
seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that
it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to
fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.
Suddenly Boylston’s pick brought to light something yellow and
round—something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of
oilskin.
“You’ve won _one_ bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the
yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.
“Not ef _this_ is it,” growled Boylston; “it don’t weigh more’n ounce
can, wrapper and all. Might’s well see what ’tis, though.”
The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and
carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a
small package, labeled: “_My only treasures._”
Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr.
Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a
cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.
Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when
opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the
wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.
“Gold in that, mebbe,” suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it.
It _was_ gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the
dead man’s friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.
Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed
through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward;
wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the
auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn’s Bar; depressing was the general
nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their
disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser,
strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw
Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old
Twitchett’s grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his
hands.
[Illustration]
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