SCOT PASSES THE HAT
Through the throngs that crowded, not only the dilapidated sidewalks,
but also the street itself, Scot guided his brother deftly toward the
hotel. The whole appearance of the place was still higgledy-piggledy.
Men lived in tents, in dugouts, in prospect holes, in shacks built of
dry-goods boxes, canvas sacks, and brush. They cooked and ate as best
they could, while they went about their business of prospecting or
buying and selling “feet”[4] in what by courtesy were called mines.
-----
[4] In Virginia City mining interests were then sold by feet, and not by
shares.—W. M. R.
-----
“We’ll cut across this lot,” the gambler suggested.
A mud-stained wagon with a dirty canvas top had been unhitched close to
the street. Two bony and dejected horses were tied to the wheels eating
some brush that they were trying to persuade themselves was hay.
Hugh commented on the broomtails. “So thin they won’t throw a shadow.”
A moment later he was sorry, for as they rounded the wagon he saw a
woman and child crouched over a camp fire. They were cooking a stew. A
man sat on the wagon tongue smoking. He looked at the passing men out of
sullen, clouded eyes.
A voice from the sidewalk drifted to the brothers. “Trouble, looks like.
Sam Dutch has got Red Mike backed up against the bar of the Mile High,
and he’s tryin’ to devil him into drawing a six-shooter.”
On the heels of the words there came the sound of a shot, followed by a
second. A swift trampling of many feet, and the side door of the Mile
High burst open. Men poured out of it as seeds are squirted from a
pressed lemon. They dived in every direction to escape. After them came
a single man, bare-headed, a revolver in his hand. He looked wildly
round, then fled to the shelter of the wagon for safety. A huge fellow,
bellowing like a bull, tore out of the saloon in pursuit.
An ironclad rule of the old fighting West is that every quarrel is a
private one. No outsider has any right to interfere. Under ordinary
conditions, the first impulse of the McClintocks would have been to dive
for cover. The West considers it no reflection on a man’s courage for
him to sing small when guns are out to settle a difference of opinion
which is no concern of his.
The McClintocks, as though moved by the same spring, wheeled in their
tracks and ran back to the wagon. The man on the tongue was disappearing
into the bed through the opening in the canvas. But the woman and the
little girl, terror-stricken, stood spellbound beside the fire. Pursued
and pursuer were charging straight toward them. A bullet struck with a
metallic clang the iron pot in the live coals. The child screamed.
Roughly the woman and the little girl went down at the same instant,
flung to the ground by the impact of flying bodies. They heard more
shots, but they knew nothing of what was going on. For the McClintock
brothers were crouched above them, shielding them from the danger of
wild bullets. They did not see the red-headed man stumble and pitch
forward, nor did they see the big ruffian at his heels fling shot after
shot into his prostrate form.
Hugh released his weight from the child, and lifted her to her feet in
such a way that her face was turned from the tragedy.
“Run right along into the wagon where yore dad is, li’l girl, and don’t
turn yore head,” he said, and his voice was very gentle.
She moved forward, whimpering as she went, and climbed to the wagon
tongue. But, just as she was about to vanish inside, curiosity or some
other impulse swung round her black and shaggy little head. Big dark
eyes fastened on Hugh, then moved past him to the awful thing she was to
see in her dreams for many a night. A man, red-haired and red-bearded,
lay face up on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at the blue sky. A
second man straddled the body with brutal triumph, a big slouchy fellow
with coarse tawny hair reaching to his neck, and sandy whiskers tied
under his chin. He wore a brown Peruvian hat, a blue army overcoat with
a cape, and a woollen shirt. From his bootleg a horn-handled bowie knife
projected.
“Wanted to be chief,[5] eh?” the murderer jeered in a heavy overbearing
voice. “There’ll be only one chief in Virginia while Sam Dutch is here.
If any one else wants the job, he’ll gets his like Red Mike did.” He
shuffled away, Spanish spurs jingling, slouching and slow of movement.
His gestures were heavy, except when shooting. No bad man in Washoe was
quicker on the draw.
-----
[5] It was a matter of pride among the desperadoes of Nevada in early
days to be cock of the walk. Many a “bad man” died with his boots on
because he aspired to be “chief” among his fellows. So long as these
ruffians killed each other, the community paid little attention to their
murders. When good citizens fell victim, a sentiment was created which
eventually resulted in the supremacy of law.—W. M. R.
-----
A faint trickle of smoke still issued from the barrel of his revolver as
he thrust it back into its scabbard, where it could be seen beneath the
flapping coat tails. He disappeared into the Mile High and proceeded to
down half-a-dozen gin slings at the expense of friends who did not dare
withhold this tribute of admiration lest he make one of them number
eleven on his list. An hour later, Scot McClintock saw him there, in
drunken slumber lying on a billiard table, the brute primordial, first
among the bad men of the lawless camp because he was its most deadly
ruffian. There were those who would have liked to make an end of him as
he lay soddenly asleep, but he was so quick and terrible that their fear
was greater than the lust to kill.
Scot helped from the ground the woman he had thrown. She looked at him,
her breast rising and falling deep, fear still quick in the soft brown
eyes. Her cheeks were white as the snow on Mt. Davidson.
“Madam, I’m sorry I was rough,” Scot said, and gave her the most gallant
bow in Washoe. “But you were in the line of fire. I couldn’t take
chances.”
Emotion shook her. A faint colour crept timidly into her face. She said,
in a voice hardly audible: “You saved my life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” the man answered, smiling.
Something eager, beautiful, made of the woman’s eyes soft stars of
night. “I’ll never forget—never,” she promised, with a strangled sob.
There was a low jangling laugh at her shoulder. “Tha’s right. Always a
fool if you can find a chance to be one, Moll,” a voice sneered.
The light died from the woman’s eyes, the colour from her cheeks. She
became at once a creature lifeless, without spirit.
Scot turned, voice soft and suave. “Did you find what you went to look
for in the wagon, sir?” he asked, raking the unkempt unclean emigrant
with scornful eyes.
A dull flush burned into the man’s face. A furtive darting look slid
from the yellow-gray eyes. It carried menace, as does sometimes that of
a tamed wolf toward its trainer.
“I—I didn’t notice where Moll was when I started,” he said with sullen
reluctance. “An’ I reckon tha’s _my_ business.”
“Quite so,” agreed the gambler.
He bowed again to the woman in the cheap patched homespun, met the eyes
of his brother, and turned to go.
From the wagon came a weak little wail. The McClintocks stood rooted in
their tracks. Again the puling cry was raised. With a murmured
exclamation the woman excused herself hurriedly and climbed into the
covered wagon.
“Have you got a baby there?” asked Scot, a new note in his voice.
The father grunted a sulky “Yes.”
“A baby, Hugh. An honest-to-God baby. The first in Virginia City. What
do you think about that?”
“Could we see it, do you reckon?” the younger brother asked eagerly.
Scot turned on him reproving eyes. “I’m surprised at you, Hugh. That
baby’s being—fed—right now.” Suddenly he wheeled on the emigrant. “Boy
or girl?”
“Girl!”
“Great. We’ll call her Virginia.”
“Her name’s Susan,” the father growled.
“No matter. We’ll change it. Last name?”
“Dodson. Her name’s goin’ to stay right what it is now.”
A crowd of men had poured upon the vacant lot to view the scene of the
killing. Some were removing the body to an adjacent saloon, others were
discussing the affair guardedly from its dramatic and not from its
ethical standpoint. There was no question of ethics in an ordinary
killing if both combatants had had ample warning. It was the boast of
Virginia, just as it was later of Austin, Pioche, Aurora, and the other
Nevada camps, that it had “a man for breakfast” each day. This was not
the literal truth, but it was too nearly true for comfort. The diggings
were infested with wild, lawless criminals driven from more settled
communities. They robbed stages, held up citizens, and maintained the
rule of the six-gun among communities the great majority of whose
residents would much have preferred peace and order.
Scot climbed into the bed of an empty ore wagon and clapped his hands
for silence. Only those in his immediate vicinity heard him, wherefore
Scot got what he wanted by the simple expedient of firing his revolver
into the air.
For a moment there was the threat of a stampede, but not after the
discovery that McClintock had fired the gun. Scot was known as a
professional gambler, a respectable business man who did not kill
wantonly. It was evident that he wanted to make a speech. Anything in
reason that Scot McClintock wanted in Virginia City he could have. He
was the most popular man in camp.
“Go to it, Scot. Onload heap much oration,” someone shouted.
After which there was silence.
“Boys,” Scot began simply, “I’m going to tell you something that will
please you a lot. We’ve got a baby in camp, a real, genuine,
blown-in-the-bottle guaranteed baby, the first one that ever hit
Virginia City. It’s a lady baby, and her name’s Susan. Now, we’ve none
of us got anything against Susan. It’s a good name. But it’s not the
name for our baby. We’re going to name that kid Virginia or know why.”
A wild howl of approval lifted into the air. The emotions of Washoe were
direct and primitive. This was the sort of thing that made its sure
appeal. These men were far from their womenkind and the ties of home.
Many of them had slipped into ways that would have shocked their
sheltered relatives in older communities. But they were sentimental as
schoolgirls. A baby was the symbol of all the happiness they had left
behind when they undertook the lonesome hardships of gold hunting. They
cheered and shouted and shook hands with each other in deep delight.
“We’re going to give this kid a good send-off, because she’s our baby.
Virginia is her name and Virginia is her home. I’m going to pass the
hat, boys. You, El Dorado Johnnie and Jean Poulette and Six-Fingered
Pete and Murphy Davis get your hats off and circulate among these Washoe
millionaires and bummers. Dig deep into your jeans, every last one of
you. We’re going to do the right thing by this little lady the good Lord
has sent us. Whoop ’er up now,” adjured McClintock.
From every direction men came running to this new form of entertainment.
Saloons and gambling houses emptied. The streets began to pack. Still
the jingling of coins dropping into hats could be heard. Everybody gave.
Scot appointed a committee to count the spoils and another committee to
invite the town’s brass band down to the reception.
Meanwhile he whispered in Hugh’s ear and the boy carried a message to
the prairie schooner.
“I want to see Mrs. Dodson,” he told that lady’s husband.
The dull, unimaginative face of the man was lit with cupidity and
suspicion. It surely was not possible that all this money was going to
be turned over to him just because he had a baby. The world couldn’t
possibly be so full of fools. Yet it looked like it. He called his wife.
She came out to the tent flap with the baby in her arms. All this noise
and confusion frightened her a little, but it did not disturb the
tousled little girl by her side. It was meat and drink to her. Her eyes
snapped with excitement. She had an inkling of what was going on, and
she wriggled like a small, pleased puppy.
Hugh took off his hat. “Madam, we’d like to borrow for a little while
yore family. We’re figurin’ on a sort of a parade, and we want the baby
in it. We’d like to have you an’ the li’l girl go along to see the
baby’s taken care of proper.”
“Goody, goody!” Victoria hopped from one foot to the other as a register
of approval.
The woman hesitated. Her glance fluttered timidly to the husband. “I
don’t know. What do you think, Rob?” Then, in a low voice: “I haven’t
anything to wear. Perhaps you could take Baby.”
The boy interposed hurriedly. “That’s not quite the idea, ma’am. The
boys are kinda hungry to see a sure enough mother and baby. It would be
a kindness to them if you’d come yoreself. We’ll have the stage, an’ you
can ride beside the driver. O’ course we don’t aim to be bossy about it,
but our hearts are real set on this.” He smiled, and Hugh’s boyish grin
was a winsome argument. It had the touch of sweet deference women liked.
“They’re rough looking, ma’am, but none of these miners would hurt you
for the world. It’s a celebration for the camp’s first baby.”
“Oh, let’s go, Sister Mollie,” urged Victoria. “I wantta ride in the
pee-rade.”
The woman whispered with her husband. He broke out roughly: “Don’t be so
damned finicky. Your dress is all right.”
“We’ll come,” the young woman told the boy. “In a few minutes we’ll be
ready. And thank you for wanting us.”
Scot McClintock presently arrived himself and escorted the guests of
honour to the stage. He assisted the young mother to the seat beside
Baldy and passed the baby up to her. The infant was a plump little thing
with fat dimpled arms and legs. It crowed up into Scot’s face and
gurgled happily at him. Vicky was lifted up to the seat next her sister.
As master of ceremonies Scot, in a long red sash, mounted on a beautiful
white horse, rode at the head of the procession. The stage came next,
followed by Virginia’s young and exuberant brass band. After this
marched the fire organizations in their red shirts and helmets. Empty
ore wagons fell into line and were quickly filled with miners. A mixed
crowd of residents on foot brought up the rear.
The contributions already collected had been poured from the hats into a
tub. This was tied to the back of the stage, in the place where trunks
and packages usually rested. All along A Street and back along B Street
men fought to get at the tub with their money. The band played “Old Dan
Tucker” and other popular airs, but out of deference to a divided public
opinion did not give either “Yankee Doodle” or “Dixie.”[6] There were
speeches, of course, full of bombast, eloquence, and local patriotism,
all of which were vociferously applauded.
-----
[6] The Civil War was being fought at this time, and though Nevada was
far from the scene of action, sectional feeling was high. A fairly large
minority of those in Virginia City and Carson were Southerners—W. M. R.
-----
It was while the band was playing that the guest of honour began to cry.
“Stop that damn band and give the kid a chance,” someone shouted.
A hundred light-hearted sons of mirth took up the word. The band stopped
in the middle of a bar, and to her mother’s embarrassment Miss Virginia
Dodson entertained with a solo.
The marshal of the parade rode back to the coach and smiled up at the
young mother.
“Don’t mind the boys,” he advised. “It’s just their way of showing how
much they think of our baby. You know, ma’am, this town claims the young
lady. We’ve adopted her, but if you say ‘Please’ real nice we’ll let you
bring her up.”
Mollie’s bosom warmed within her. A lump rose in her throat and her eyes
misted. For years she had been the chattel of Robert Dodson, a creature
to be sneered at, derided, and beaten. This splendid-looking hero of
romance treated her as though she were a lady. She wondered who he could
be. Among all these rough-bearded miners he shone like diamonds in a mud
heap. His clothes, manner, speech, the musical intonation of his voice,
all set him apart from other men, she thought, even if his figure and
face had not marked him for distinction.
A big blond lawyer with a long yellow beard was at the head of the
committee appointed to count the money. His name was William M. Stewart.
Later he represented Nevada in the United States Senate for many years.
At the request of Scot McClintock he made the presentation speech, the
baby in his arms at the time. The total amount collected ran over
thirty-two hundred dollars.
Robert Dodson had been drinking more or less all day. He had taken the
opportunity to celebrate rather steadily during the parade, since, as
father of Virginia, he had been offered a nip at many bottles. Now he
unwisely presented himself to take charge of the fund raised.
Stewart looked at him carefully, then exchanged glances with Scot.
“Friends,” said the future Senator, “I move a committee of three to take
charge of Miss Virginia’s educational fund. If this is satisfactory I
shall ask the citizens of the camp to name the trustees.”
It was so voted. When the time came to name the custodians of the fund
the crowd shouted “McClintock” and “Stewart.”
The big blond lawyer consulted with Scot. “Mr. McClintock and I are glad
to serve as trustees in your behalf, gentlemen,” announced Stewart.
“With your permission we shall name Robert Dodson, the father of
Virginia, as the third member.”
In the months that followed, Dodson flew into a rage whenever the trust
fund was mentioned. He insinuated to his cronies over the bar that
McClintock and Stewart were manipulating the money to their own
advantage. The fact was that they refused to let their co-trustee get
his fingers on any of it to dissipate.