In the days when the great West was still the wild West, many a strange
scene took place before the eye of the gazer, who had the advantage of
two points of view, and who could get the whole zest of these primitive
conditions, by the process of contrasting them with a foregone
civilization.
Such a one was the man, who had once been known in the fashionable
circles of an eastern city as William Wilmerding, but who now, in the
mining-camp, went by the more convenient name of Bill Will.
He had been a tender-foot when he first came to the camp, but it was
not long before he hardened to the necessary state of roughness and
toughness, to make him acceptable to his companions and approved
mining standards, and at last he became a prime favorite with the
spirited and desperate fellows, who knew but the savage and seamy side
of life, but who yet had something in them which responded to the charm
of education and refinement, when properly repudiated and concealed.
For Bill, in his dress and in his daring deeds, was as tough and wild
as any of them; indeed, there was a spirit of desperation in the man,
which more than once had roused the admiration of the camp, in times
of danger, and which had its source in a certain feeling in William
Wilmerding’s heart, which was his life secret--a secret which he had
come to bury in this strange new existence. Nothing but despair of his
heart’s desire would have brought and kept him here.
Every camp in those days had its own pet pursuit, and in this one it
was horse-racing. Their track was not as smooth as civilization would
have made it, but for that very reason better horses and better riders
were required. Every spring and autumn they had a grand race-day,
and the purses put up were so large, and the private betting was so
reckless, that big sums of money were exchanged, and often the rich
became poor, and the poor rich. These men had no families dependent
upon them, and when once their blood was up, they did not hesitate to
risk their last cent.
On the occasion of one of the spring races, the bustle and excitement
were at their very height, and the most important race of the day was
about to be run, when there drove into the field a wagon, in which
were seated two such strange and alien-looking figures, that even the
exciting demands of the present moment gave place, for a little while,
to this new influence. The cart was driven by a hale and hearty old
man, who looked impressively proud of his mission, and who was lifted
so far above mining etiquette as to take off his hat to the assembled
horse racers, as he brought his cart to a standstill. It was probably,
however, reverence for his passengers that led to this “break.”
The passengers were two gray-clad, white-bonneted sisters of charity,
who looked about them, on this alien scene, with mild-eyed wonder. One
of them was stout, middle-aged, and homely, with energy and resolution
written on every line of her face. The other was small, and young, and
fair.
As the cart halted, the old man got up and announced that the sisters
had come up from the mission, two hundred miles away, to ask for
contributions toward the building of an orphanage, of which there was
pressing need.
His speech was listened to with the politest attention by the crowd,
a few men, here and there, being so far affected as to take off their
hats in a shame-faced sort of way, and then confusedly to put them on
again. The two sisters said nothing, but their mere presence there,
looking about them with placid kindly faces that carried a message
of pure goodness to every heart, so impressed the camp that, for the
moment, the zest about the coming race seemed in danger of eclipse.
This peril was perceived by one of the crowd, a tough and wiry little
old man known as Jerry, who had great influence in the camp, and he now
pushed his way to the front, and jumping on an upturned box, addressed
the assemblage in lusty tones. Jerry was not altogether temperate in
his habits, and his face and manner, to-day, indicated an ardor and
excitement not wholly to be attributed to the coming great race. He was
in the highest good humor, however, and his face fairly kindled, as he
said:
“Time for the race, boys! Clear the track! Never you mind, old girl,”
to the elder of the sisters. “You’re all right. Pull off to one side
there, driver, and let the sisters watch the race; and if Whirlwind
wins it, we’ll give the old girl a send-off that’ll make her heart
jump out of her body.”
The crowd answered with a cheer, and the current of interest was again
turned toward the race track, down which Whirlwind, ridden by Bill
Will, was now returning from a gentle preliminary canter. Bill Will
had been at the other side of the course when the sisters had arrived,
and now, as he rode up to the starting-point, his eyes rested on these
strange figures for the first time.
As they did so, he turned deadly white, and his body swayed in the
light saddle, so that he almost lost his balance--a fact noticed,
perhaps, by but one being in all that crowd, for, to the miners, a man
amounted to little, beside a horse, on this day, and they were all
gazing eagerly at Whirlwind to see if he looked in condition.
The person who saw only the man, and who had no consciousness of the
horse, was the younger of the two sisters. Her face had turned as white
as his, and now, while the attention of all the rest was fixed upon
the horse, her glance met that of the rider, with a gaze of mutual
consciousness.
She saw him struggle to right himself, and to regain his self control,
and she heard him say faintly that his throat was dry. A dozen flasks
were hurriedly jerked from pockets, and held out to him.
“No,” he said, “water!” and, at the sound of his voice, the little
sister turned from white to burning red.
A man ran quickly and brought him some water in a tin cup. Before he
took it, he removed his cap, and as he bent to drink, he looked again
into the little sister’s eyes, as if he pledged her thus, in silence.
Then, with a powerful rallying of his forces, he drew in Whirlwind’s
reins, and settled himself in his saddle, and with a low bow that might
have graced a knight at a tournament, but which no one here noticed, or
would have comprehended, he took his place with the other horses at the
starting-point.
There was mad riding that day. The camp had hitherto seen nothing like
it. The men from neighboring camps, who had entered fine horses upon
which they had staked all their earthly possessions, had gone in to
win, and were resolved that Whirlwind should not have this race, if
grit in man and beast could prevent it. Every horse was strained to
its extremest powers, and every rider rode with a conscious risk of
neck and limb, but if the others did the utmost possible, it seemed as
though Whirlwind and his rider did the impossible.
Every eye was so strained upon that break-neck rush around the course,
that a spectator was very sure of escaping observation; so no one saw
the little sister’s face. Even the motherly old creature at her side
was peering eagerly through her steel-rimmed spectacles, not in any
absorption in the race, but in dire anxiety for the life and limbs of
those reckless men.
One man, in truth, was thrown and stunned, one noble horse
out-strained himself and broke a blood-vessel, but Whirlwind’s rider,
who had been the boldest there, came in unscathed, and Whirlwind won
the race.
And then began a whooping and cheering that made the place a
pandemonium, which even the unwonted feminine presence in their midst
could not keep in abeyance. Gold and silver, flowing like water, passed
from hand to hand, making some rich, and others poor; for in the camp
such indebtednesses were settled on the instant, and no man shirked.
When accounts were apparently squared, Jerry, wild with enthusiasm,
sprang up in front of the cart in which the sisters sat, and shouted
lustily:
“Our horse has won the race! Hurrah for Whirlwind and Bill Will!”
When the cheer had been repeated to the echo, Jerry, taking fresh
breath, went on:
“And hurrah for the sisters and the orphans, too, I say! March up
here, every mother’s son of you, and ante up half your winnin’s for the
orphans! Here you are, old girl,” he said, throwing a big handful of
gold into her lap. “That’s half of my pile, and if ever you tackle an
orphan o’ mine, teach it to bet its last dollar on the winnin’ horse!
Come ahead, boys! Every last one o’ you throw in half your pile, and
the devil take the one that refuses!”
For the next five minutes, the gold and silver coins fell like pouring
hailstones into the old sister’s ample lap, and while this was going
on, Bill Will, with quiet, stealthy footsteps, approached the cart from
the other side, and poured his contribution into the lap of the younger
sister. Those who noticed it were not aware that it was not the half,
but the whole of his winnings, of which he so disposed. Nor did they
notice that, among the coins, was a little woodland flower, which he
had stooped and gathered.
This small and worthless offering was not wholly overlooked, however,
for before she turned over her rich tribute of gold to her companion,
the little sister took the flower and hid it in the folds of her gray
gown--an action that was clearly seen by one.
Presently the old man stirred up his drowsy horse, and the cart began
to move. He had thanked the crowd for their generous charity, in the
name of the sisters, whose order did not permit them such public speech.
The men stood watching the departure of the cart with a certain
wistfulness. The sight of these good women had roused them to unwonted
musings. But of the tragedy taking place beneath their eyes, they had
no imagination--for in that moment, a man and a woman who had loved
with the supreme passion of their hearts, and who had been separated by
an inexorable fate, had looked their last into each other’s eyes.
PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO
FOR HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
MDCCCXCVI
October, 1896. _Established May, 1896._ Number 1.
Catalogue
of
The Publications
of
Herbert S. Stone & Company
The Caxton Building,
Chicago.
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