he discarded his blanket and appeared in a coat. The other Indians
began to regard him with awe-struck admiration. Every afternoon he
waited in the office until the paper came out, and then he marched off
with a copy in which his 'talk' was marked. He showed this to every
Indian he saw, and together they admired it with the paper wrong side
up, sidewise, and every other way. Johnson's special friends among the
whites were similarly favored. He would hand the paper with a
magnificent air, point a dirty finger to a marked paragraph, and say,
'Make 'um paper talk--me!'
"The civilizing influence of literary pursuits and universal respect
soon told upon Johnson's personal appearance. He began to wash his
face and hands. His self-respect seemed to grow, like love, by what it
fed on; and the more he became respectable, the more his ambitions
spread out and flourished. The next time he had big luck in a poker
game, instead of spending his money in a spree, he bought a brand-new
suit of store clothes.
"His new position in society by that time demanded more money to
support it properly than his literary efforts brought in; and as poker
games were not always on hand, and sometimes turned out the wrong way,
Johnson actually decided to work. His free, proud soul had been so
effectually tamed by respectability and harnessed by civilization that
he accepted every odd job of work that came along by which he could
earn money. He looked quite decent and respectable, and, by virtue of
really trying to do it, he managed to get a fairly good command of
English.
"The civilizing process had been going on two or three years when
Johnson's mind got an illumination as to the value of knowledge. He
decided that the young Piutes ought to go to school, though Johnson
himself never had showed any great desire for knowledge. He has since
learned to read a little, and can write his own name, but at that time
he was satisfied with 'making the paper talk' through my agency.
However, he set his heart on having a school for the young Indians. I
suppose he realized that they could n't all achieve social position and
influence in the field of journalism, as he had done, but must be
provided with some of the implements of civilization to start with.
"There was some Government money with which the school could be run
after it was started, but there was no building in which it could be
held. The thing lagged along for a while, and Johnson tried to set
several schemes going, without success. Finally, one fine morning, the
proprietor of a lumber yard thought some of his piles of lumber had
been tampered with. He saw some tracks, which he followed, and in the
outskirts of the town, near a bunch of wickiups, he came upon two other
lumber-yard men, also following tracks. A little farther on they found
Johnson, even more important and dignified than usual, superintending
the construction of a schoolhouse. Half a dozen Indians were at work,
and Johnson was bossing them as if he had been building schoolhouses
all his life.
"The men boned him about stealing the lumber, and he frankly said yes,
he had stolen it. That is, he had bossed the job, and made the other
bucks do all the packing. He explained that he had to steal it,
because he could n't buy it, and they would n't give it to him, and he
had to have that schoolhouse. His frankness amused them, and they told
him, all right, go ahead, and if he needed any more lumber he might
have it.
"He finally got the schoolhouse finished, corralled the Indian brats,
and after the school was started visited it three times a week, when he
did n't go every day. If any of the youngsters showed signs of mutiny,
all the teacher had to do was to threaten to call in Johnson Sides, and
immediately peace became profound. For by that time he had more
influence among the Indians, big and little, than anybody else, white
or red. They looked up to him with a veneration which he accepted as
his right as calmly as he had formerly taken the quarters and
half-dollars his prime minister had begged for him.
"That schoolhouse was the last stealing he ever did, even by proxy, and
pretty soon he quit getting drunk. He has never given up poker
entirely but he has quit gambling away everything he gets, and only
joins in a social game now and then, when he is flush, as any gentleman
might.
"He was a good deal of a man, was Johnson, and everybody respected him
and was glad to help him along. He worked and earned money, and saved
a little, and proved himself quite capable, and was clean and decent
and respectable. People liked to employ him, for he was industrious
and sober. That is, he was sober for a long time. There must have
been five or six years in which Johnson was never even tipsy. He was
mighty proud of himself and his good reputation, and when he did fall
it hurt him bad.
"For fall he did, at last, when a big enough temptation came along.
And then he got whizzing, whooping, roaring drunk. It was a wilder,
madder, more devilish drunk than any he had ever taken in the old days
when he was only a dirty Piute buck, without ambitions or achievements.
It seemed as if he were making up for all the time he had lost while he
was respectable, and condensing into one all the drunks he might have
taken and had n't.
"He kept it up for three weeks. Part of the time he was with the
Indians, part in Virginia City, and part in Carson. How he managed to
escape arrest is more than I can tell, and how it happened that he did
n't massacre the whole population of Nevada is still more of a mystery.
He had fights with Indians and with whites, with men who were drunk and
men who were sober, and they drew guns, knives, and fists. But Johnson
didn't get hurt, and nobody else got killed.
"After it was all over and he had sobered up, Johnson came to me and he
was so repentant and humiliated that, I declare, I never felt so sorry
for anybody in all my life. He thought it was all up with him, that he
had ruined all his good repute and influence, that nobody would ever
believe him, or trust him, or respect him after that, and that it was
quite useless for him to try to be a good Indian again. Of course he
did n't put it in so many words--he expressed more by gestures and
looks and grunts than by words--but that was the meaning of it all.
"I felt so sorry for him that I made up my mind I 'd give him a lift;
and as I began to talk and try to encourage him I had an inspiration
that was just the thing.
"'Don't you be so discouraged, Johnson,' I said. 'We can make things
all right again. We 'll get the Legislature to repeal this drunk of
yours and that'll set you right up where you were before. I 'm going
over to Carson to-morrow, and I 'll have the Legislature make a law
that will wipe out the whole business and fix everything for you as if
you had n't been drunk at all.'
"Johnson was delighted, but he did n't feel quite sure about it. So I
had to make him understand that I knew what I was talking about.
"'It's all straight,' I said. 'They do that every session for
somebody. Why, So-and-So'--and I mentioned the name of a prominent
citizen--'was on an awful drunk last winter; and just as soon as he
sobered up he went right over to Carson and had the Legislature pass a
bill repealing his spree, and you know that he is just as much
respected as he was before. I'll attend to your business myself
to-morrow, and then I 'll publish the whole thing in the paper and
everybody will read it and know that you are all right again. But you
must remember one thing, Johnson,' I said. 'You must remember that as
you are an Indian the Legislature can't do this for you more than once.
If you were a white man you could have as many drunks repealed as you
wanted. But being an Indian this is your last chance, and you must
keep straight after this.'
"Well, the upshot of it was that Johnson put his trust in me; and I
flatter myself that I was just the man he needed in the emergency. You
've lived in the West, and you know what the Nevada Legislature is, and
always has been. There never was one that you couldn't count on to do
anything under the sun that tickled its sense of humor. I thought that
bill about Johnson's drunk would strike 'em in just about the right
place, and it did. They dropped everything else and sent it through
with a hurrah.
"There was a long preamble, telling about Johnson Sides's prominence
and influence and the great importance of his retaining the high
position in the respect of the community which he had won, and about
the misfortune into which he had fallen, and how it was the universal
wish that he should be reinstated in public esteem. And then there was
a resolution which declared that Johnson Sides's drunk should be and
was thereby repealed, destroyed, wiped out, for ever and ever, and that
all statutes not in accordance with that act were thereby annulled from
that time forth. They passed it through both houses unanimously, and
the next day I published the bill verbatim and all the proceedings in
our paper.
"Johnson's face fairly shone with joy when I read it to him. It was
his patent of respectability, and he stowed it away in his breast
pocket as carefully as if it had been his passport to heaven. He
carried it there until it was worn out, and then he came after another.
He's worn out three or four since then, but he always keeps one in his
pocket.
"The scheme worked like a charm; for his redemption has been complete,
and he 's been a good Indian, sober, industrious, and respectable--but
not nearly so interesting--ever since."
A PIECE OF WRECKAGE
Delay not thy coming, my love, my own!
Though patient I wait thee, my love unknown,
Yet long I thy figure to see, and know
What form thou wilt have, and what face be thine,
And when thou wilt clasp me, dear love of mine;
For all that is left me is thy cold breath,
And wond'ring I wait thee, my sweetheart, Death!
It may be that the high tide of material development which in late
years has been sweeping over Southern California has penetrated even to
that isolated nook in the hills which, when I knew it, was the saddest
place I had ever seen. It was a lonely region, miles and miles away
from railroads, telegraphs, newspapers--all the mighty, roaring music
of civilization. Off toward the east the desert stretched its level
expanse of vague coloring, and westward the rounded hills, green in the
winter, yellow as ripe wheat fields through the long, rainless summer,
reared their mounds higher and higher until they stopped, as if cowed
and ashamed, at the flanks of Monte Pinos. And the mountain, majestic
and vapor-veiled, seemed always to be watching them in their work of
protecting and comforting the wrecks that clung to their feet.
For that was why this region, despite its soft, reposeful beauty,
seemed so sad--because of the wrecks, the human wrecks, who dwelt
there, who had seized such fast hold of the sphinx-like hills that only
death could unloose their grasp. Some of them were relics of
California's heyday, men who, when the waves of hope and adventure and
endeavor were rolling fast and high over the Golden State, were so
dashed about and bruised and beaten that at last they were glad to be
cast ashore among these hills. Some had hidden themselves there
because they were weary of the world and all its works, and wished to
go where they could no longer hear even its heart-beats. Others there
were who had fled thither to escape the scorn of men or the vengeance
of the law. And there were a few who were staying on and on, and would
always stay, because those enchantresses that whisper in the evening
breezes of the mountains and the desert, that put forth caressing hands
in the balmy air that bathes the hills and canyons in the early
morning, whose wooing voices sing in the music of birds and chant in
the cries of wild things at night, had taken captive their wills, and
they could not go if they would.
Their cabins were scattered through the valleys, or on the sides of the
hills, or in the recesses of the canyons, miles apart. Sometimes,
though rarely, there was a little family in one. But usually the only
occupant was an elderly or middle-aged man, who spoke but little about
himself or his past, and was as destitute of curiosity as to what was
going on in the outside world as he was about the former lives and
affairs of his fellow wreckage.
Nevertheless, I had the good fortune to learn much of the story of one
of these men. A member of our camping party chanced to make speaking
acquaintance with him at the quaint old adobe house under its huge,
spreading grapevine and waving cottonwoods, which served as stage
station and supply store--the centre of such civilization as there was
in all the region within a radius of thirty or forty miles. Every one
in that country called him "Old Dan." I found his name one day in the
Great Register--twin relic, with the shabby old stage, of the outer
world--which hung in the stage station. But as it was not his real
name, nor probably any name by which he was ever known outside of those
hills, it will be of no use to mention it here.
Old Dan, learning that we were not pleased with our camping-place,
invited us to pitch our tents under some trees near his cabin. And for
one delightful month of the southern summer we brought into his life
the strange sensation of voices fresh from the world he had discarded.
The unwonted influence unlocked his memories and sent his mind back to
dwell among the almost forgotten years when he, too, was of the world
and delighted in it.
We soon fell into the habit of sociability. Every evening he would
come down to our camp, usually bringing his violin, and sit with us for
hours at our camp fire. His cats--he had near a dozen of them--came
trailing after him, and his two dogs trotted by his side. Two or three
of the cats sprang into his lap as soon as he sat down, and the rest
snarled at the dogs for appropriating the choice positions nearest him,
and then disposed themselves in an outer row. The stable inclosure was
only a few rods distant, and the three burros it contained, as soon as
they heard his voice, ranged themselves in a solemn row at the nearest
point, looking as wise and mysterious as so many sphinxes.
Sometimes he played for us, with unexpected skill and feeling, on his
violin. As the days went by and our acquaintance grew more intimate,
he gradually fell back into memories of the past and turned over for
us, now and then, the pages of his life's history. But all these bits,
heard at many different times, and some things which were told me
afterwards by men who had known him in other years and places, I have
gathered into one continuous narrative. For in my memory they are all
fused together, as if he had told us the whole of his story in one
evening--one special evening, of which remembrance is most vivid.
The moon was at its half, and showered down just enough of its silver
light to bring out sharply the darkling woods on the hill beyond the
little stream and to make his cabin under the trees, off in the
opposite direction, take on strange shapes, while it cut out, sharp and
distinct against the background of light, the silhouettes of the solemn
and unmoving burros, standing in a row behind the fence. Our camp fire
blazed and crackled and the crimson and orange flames mounted high in
the air and showed our little party, sitting or half lying about it on
blankets. Old Dan, sitting on a great chunk of wood, his lap full of
cats, his violin beside him, and his usual bodyguard of cats and dogs
around him, went far back into his youth and let us know--what probably
he had told no other being since he broke those ties--why he left the
home, the heritage, and the name of his ancestors.
He had been playing on his violin, and then, putting it down, had begun
to tell us about some hunting adventure. The red light danced over his
wrinkled, weather-beaten face and scraggly, grizzled beard; and as I
considered his large, well-shaped head and strongly marked features, it
seemed to me there was something familiar in his countenance. In his
voice a peculiar intonation--I had noticed it many times before--teased
me with suggestions of a voice heard somewhere else.
And presently I remembered.
He turned his face toward me, the firelight fell bright and strong upon
it, that peculiar tone in his voice sounded at just the same instant,
and there flashed upon me the memory of a scene in Boston two years
before. It was in Faneuil Hall, and a great mass of eager,
enthusiastic faces was turned toward the platform, where stood a member
of one of Massachusetts' old and distinguished families. His speech,
full of persuasive fire, had welded his whole audience into one
personality that, for the time being, at least, felt as he felt and
thought as he thought. And the voice of the orator, which had
impressed me by reason of a certain peculiar intonation, was like this
man's voice, and his face had in it much that was like the face of Old
Dan.
I spoke of the resemblance, and Old Dan at first drew back within
himself. Then he began to question me eagerly about the man. And
presently he had let us know who he was.
"Yes," he said, "you are right. There is a strong resemblance between
us, or there was when we were young. I have not seen him for more than
forty years. He is my brother--younger than I. You know what the
family has been in New England. There has not been a generation of it
for a hundred, yes, a hundred and fifty years, that has not made its
influence felt either in Massachusetts or the nation. I cut loose from
it before I was twenty, and they have known nothing about me since. In
fact, they think me dead--they thought I died then, and I do not intend
they shall ever know that I did not. This is the first time since I
left that anybody has known my real name, and you 'll do me a favor if
you never speak of it to any one else, here or elsewhere. I have not
always been known by the same name since then, but what difference does
that make? When a man leads as many different lives as I have done, he
has a right to more names than one or two.
"I was in Harvard College and it was the summer vacation after my
junior year. Every male member of our family"--Old Dan spoke that
"our" with timid and shame-faced, but very evident, pride--"for I don't
know how many generations, has gone to Harvard, and I suppose I am the
only one of the whole lot of them that didn't graduate. I went to New
York that summer to transact some business for my father. I succeeded
with it very well, but in the meantime I did n't neglect the
opportunities of enjoying myself with a good deal more freedom than I
would have dared to take at home. I probably was n't born quite up to
the high standard of morality, dignity, and self-respect which my
ancestors had set; and if I had stayed there all my life I would
probably have found living up to it either very galling or quite
impossible. I dare say it is just as well that I did break loose and
burn the bridge behind me, for if I had stayed in New England it's
likely I should have turned out a black sheep and brought shame and
disgrace upon my people.
"While I was in New York I fell in with a pleasant, companionable man,
some years older than myself. He went around with me a good deal, took
me to his home, where I met his wife and sister, gave me sensible
advice about a number of things, and was altogether so entertaining and
so kind and such a good fellow that I thought myself fortunate in
having met him.
"One evening, when I was almost ready to return to Boston, I dined with
him at his home. He had had me there to dinner several times, and the
evening had always passed off pleasantly. But on this evening I drank
more wine than was good for me. Probably it was doctored, but I don't
know. All my life, whenever I have taken a glass too much, one sure
result has followed. All the restraints of conduct which I ordinarily
feel drop away, and I become reckless.
"So this evening, when he brought out cards and we began to bet on the
game, both my moral sense and my prudence deserted me. I drank more
and more, and bet higher and higher, and after a while I realized that
he had won from me quite a sum of money which I had neglected to send
to my father during the day.
"Then I drank more; and after that I do not know what happened until I
awoke with a dazed sense of having heard a woman scream and of being in
the midst of some confusion. I felt a blow on my head and a grip on my
arm and heard a voice shouting in my ear, 'You scoundrel, I 'll kill
you!' I was in another room, my friend's wife was sobbing hysterically
on a lounge, and he was gripping and shaking me and pointing a pistol
at my head.
"He said I had shamefully insulted his wife and that he was going to
kill me. And I was drunk enough to believe him, and maudlin enough to
beg for my life and to accept with tears what terms he was willing to
offer. It was finally settled that he should keep me under his
personal charge until I could get five thousand dollars from my father
to pay over to him. Then he made me write a letter to my father which
he dictated.
"He locked me in a room with himself, put the key in his pocket, waited
until he thought I had gone to sleep, and then threw himself down on
the bed with the pistol in his hand and was soon fast asleep.
"But instead of going to sleep I was rapidly getting sober enough to
understand what a rat in a hole I had made of myself, and I was so
overcome with horror and shame that I felt I would rather die than face
my father again. I put the letter, which he had left lying on a table,
in my pocket. With my knife I took out the screws of the door lock and
was soon creeping stealthily downstairs. As I turned the first street
corner I saw that my keeper was rushing after me in hot pursuit. Day
was just breaking, and through the dim, deserted streets I ran at the
top of my speed, turning corners, dodging down side streets, trying my
best to get out of sight of my pursuer. He kept close behind me, but
at last I reached the docks,--where I meant to drown myself,--just
enough ahead of him to dodge behind a pile of lumber.
"My sudden appearance startled some poor wretch, who was crouched
there, making his preparations for eternity, just as I myself was about
to do. He gave me one scared look, as if he feared I was some one come
to stop him, and jumped into the water. In his sudden leap one foot
dragged after him the little pile of clothing and the letter he had
been writing.
"I crouched down into a hiding-place, so startled by this sudden
apparition, in the very act of doing what I had made up my mind to do,
that I drew back from the deed with sudden awe and shrinking. I had no
time to think before my pursuer dashed up, calling my name loudly. He
had seen the suicide and thought it was I. He waited about and watched
for the body a while and then went away, and that was the last I ever
saw of him.
"When I crawled out of my hiding-place I had no idea what I was going
to do. The suicidal impulse had spent itself, and although I had
escaped from my pursuer for the moment I was so afraid of meeting him
again that I slunk along like a criminal. But strong as that fear was,
I would rather have met him than faced my father. Soon I came to a
wharf where a steamer was taking aboard passengers for California. At
once my determination was made. I hurried to a pawnbroker's shop, and
from my watch and what little jewelry I had I realized enough money to
buy a steerage ticket, and in a few hours was on my way, under a new
name.
"The Boston papers which the next San Francisco steamer brought told me
the story of my suicide, of the recovery of my body, and of its burial
in our family lot in Mt. Auburn Cemetery. I hope the poor wretch whose
bones are crumbling under the monument was more worthy of its praises
than I.
"After I read that, all thought of the possibility of returning, or of
letting them know that I was not dead, dropped from my mind. I plunged
into the furious life of those days with such eagerness and enjoyment
that I lost all desire to go back,--would have had none, even if I had
not disgraced my name before I left.
"Of course, I soon understood that I had been caught in the simplest
sort of a blackmailer's trap. But I had betrayed my father's trust in
me and had gambled away his money, and--what was as crushing to my
vanity as this other was to my sense of honor--I had been duped in a
way that any greenhorn ought to have seen through. So I put it all
behind me and was glad to be alone among strangers.
"I rushed off to the mines, of course, as soon as I could get there,
and I made piles of money, especially at first. And I was probably the
most hot-headed, reckless, devil-may-care young rascal on the whole
Coast. I made many enemies and had many a narrow escape, as most
everybody did in those days.