It was very dark, and the wind was increasing. The last gust had been
preceded by an ominous roaring down the whole mountain-side, which
continued for some time after the trees in the little valley had lapsed
into silence. The air was filled with a faint, cool, sodden odor, as
of stirred forest depths. In those intervals of silence the darkness
seemed to increase in proportion and grow almost palpable. Yet out of
this sightless and soundless void now came the tinkle of a spur's
rowels, the dry crackling of saddle leathers, and the muffled plunge of
a hoof in the thick carpet of dust and desiccated leaves. Then a
voice, which in spite of its matter-of-fact reality the obscurity lent
a certain mystery to, said:--
"I can't make out anything! Where the devil have we got to, anyway?
It's as black as Tophet, here ahead!"
"Strike a light and make a flare with something," returned a second
voice. "Look where you're shoving to--now--keep your horse off, will
ye."
There was more muffled plunging, a silence, the rustle of paper, the
quick spurt of a match, and then the uplifting of a flickering flame.
But it revealed only the heads and shoulders of three horsemen, framed
within a nebulous ring of light, that still left their horses and even
their lower figures in impenetrable shadow. Then the flame leaped up
and died out with a few zigzagging sparks that were falling to the
ground, when a third voice, that was low but somewhat pleasant in its
cadence, said:--
"Be careful where you throw that. You were careless last time. With
this wind and the leaves like tinder, you might send a furnace blast
through the woods."
"Then at least we'd see where we were."
Nevertheless, he moved his horse, whose trampling hoofs beat out the
last fallen spark. Complete darkness and silence again followed.
Presently the first speaker continued:--
"I reckon we'll have to wait here till the next squall clears away the
scud from the sky? Hello! What's that?"
Out of the obscurity before them appeared a faint light,--a dim but
perfectly defined square of radiance,--which, however, did not appear
to illuminate anything around it. Suddenly it disappeared.
"That's a house--it's a light in a window," said the second voice.
"House be d--d!" retorted the first speaker. "A house with a window on
Galloper's Ridge, fifteen miles from anywhere? You're crazy!"
Nevertheless, from the muffled plunging and tinkling that followed,
they seemed to be moving in the direction where the light had appeared.
Then there was a pause.
"There's nothing but a rocky outcrop here, where a house couldn't
stand, and we're off the trail again," said the first speaker
impatiently.
"Stop!--there it is again!"
The same square of light appeared once more, but the horsemen had
evidently diverged in the darkness, for it seemed to be in a different
direction. But it was more distinct, and as they gazed a shadow
appeared upon its radiant surface--the profile of a human face. Then
the light suddenly went out, and the face vanished with it.
"It IS a window, and there was some one behind it," said the second
speaker emphatically.
"It was a woman's face," said the pleasant voice.
"Whoever it is, just hail them, so that we can get our bearings. Sing
out! All together!"
The three voices rose in a prolonged shout, in which, however, the
distinguishing quality of the pleasant voice was sustained. But there
was no response from the darkness beyond. The shouting was repeated
after an interval with the same result: the silence and obscurity
remained unchanged.
"Let's get out of this," said the first speaker angrily; "house or no
house, man or woman, we're not wanted, and we'll make nothing waltzing
round here!"
"Hush!" said the second voice. "Sh-h! Listen."
The leaves of the nearest trees were trilling audibly. Then came a
sudden gust that swept the fronds of the taller ferns into their faces,
and laid the thin, lithe whips of alder over their horses' flanks
sharply. It was followed by the distant sea-like roaring of the
mountain-side.
"That's a little more like it!" said the first speaker joyfully.
"Another blow like that and we're all right. And look! there's a
lightenin' up over the trail we came by."
There was indeed a faint glow in that direction, like the first
suffusion of dawn, permitting the huge shoulder of the mountain along
whose flanks they had been journeying to be distinctly seen. The sodden
breath of the stirred forest depths was slightly tainted with an acrid
fume.
"That's the match you threw away two hours ago," said the pleasant
voice deliberately. "It's caught the dry brush in the trail round the
bend."
"Anyhow, it's given us our bearings, boys," said the first speaker,
with satisfied accents. "We're all right now; and the wind's lifting
the sky ahead there. Forward now, all together, and let's get out of
this hell-hole while we can!"
It was so much lighter that the bulk of each horseman could be seen as
they moved forward together. But there was no thinning of the
obscurity on either side of them. Nevertheless the profile of the
horseman with the pleasant voice seemed to be occasionally turned
backward, and he suddenly checked his horse.
"There's the window again!" he said. "Look! There--it's gone again."
"Let it go and be d--d!" returned the leader. "Come on."
They spurred forward in silence. It was not long before the wayside
trees began to dimly show spaces between them, and the ferns to give
way to lower, thick-set shrubs, which in turn yielded to a velvety
moss, with long quiet intervals of netted and tangled grasses. The
regular fall of the horses' feet became a mere rhythmic throbbing.
Then suddenly a single hoof rang out sharply on stone, and the first
speaker reined in slightly.
"Thank the Lord we're on the ridge now! and the rest is easy. Tell you
what, though, boys, now we're all right, I don't mind saying that I
didn't take no stock in that blamed corpse light down there. If there
ever was a will-o'-the-wisp on a square up mountain, that was one. It
wasn't no window! Some of ye thought ye saw a face too--eh?"
"Yes, and a rather pretty one," said the pleasant voice meditatively.
"That's the way they'd build that sort of thing, of course. It's lucky
ye had to satisfy yourself with looking. Gosh! I feel creepy yet,
thinking of it! What are ye looking back for now like Lot's wife?
Blamed if I don't think that face bewitched ye."
"I was only thinking about that fire you started," returned the other
quietly. "I don't see it now."
"Well--if you did?"
"I was wondering whether it could reach that hollow."
"I reckon that hollow could take care of any casual nat'rel fire that
came boomin' along, and go two better every time! Why, I don't believe
there was any fire; it was all a piece of that infernal ignis fatuus
phantasmagoriana that was played upon us down there!"
With the laugh that followed they started forward again, relapsing into
the silence of tired men at the end of a long journey. Even their few
remarks were interjectional, or reminiscent of topics whose freshness
had been exhausted with the day. The gaining light which seemed to
come from the ground about them rather than from the still, overcast
sky above, defined their individuality more distinctly. The man who
had first spoken, and who seemed to be their leader, wore the virgin
unshaven beard, mustache, and flowing hair of the Californian pioneer,
and might have been the eldest; the second speaker was close shaven,
thin, and energetic; the third, with the pleasant voice, in height,
litheness, and suppleness of figure appeared to be the youngest of the
party. The trail had now become a grayish streak along the level
table-land they were following, which also had the singular effect of
appearing lighter than the surrounding landscape, yet of plunging into
utter darkness on either side of its precipitous walls. Nevertheless,
at the end of an hour the leader rose in his stirrups with a sigh of
satisfaction.
"There's the light in Collinson's Mill! There's nothing gaudy and
spectacular about that, boys, eh? No, sir! it's a square, honest
beacon that a man can steer by. We'll be there in twenty minutes." He
was pointing into the darkness below the already descending trail.
Only a pioneer's eye could have detected the few pin-pricks of light in
the impenetrable distance, and it was a signal proof of his leadership
that the others accepted it without seeing it. "It's just ten o'clock,"
he continued, holding a huge silver watch to his eye; "we've wasted an
hour on those blamed spooks yonder!"
"We weren't off the trail more than ten minutes, Uncle Dick," protested
the pleasant voice.
"All right, my son; go down there if you like and fetch out your Witch
of Endor, but as for me, I'm going to throw myself the other side of
Collinson's lights. They're good enough for me, and a blamed sight
more stationary!"
The grade was very steep, but they took it, California fashion, at a
gallop, being genuinely good riders, and using their brains as well as
their spurs in the understanding of their horses, and of certain
natural laws, which the more artificial riders of civilization are apt
to overlook. Hence there was no hesitation or indecision communicated
to the nervous creatures they bestrode, who swept over crumbling stones
and slippery ledges with a momentum that took away half their weight,
and made a stumble or false step, or indeed anything but an actual
collision, almost impossible. Closing together they avoided the latter,
and holding each other well up, became one irresistible wedge-shaped
mass. At times they yelled, not from consciousness nor bravado, but
from the purely animal instinct of warning and to combat the
breathlessness of their descent, until, reaching the level, they
charged across the gravelly bed of a vanished river, and pulled up at
Collinson's Mill. The mill itself had long since vanished with the
river, but the building that had once stood for it was used as a rude
hostelry for travelers, which, however, bore no legend or invitatory
sign. Those who wanted it, knew it; those who passed it by, gave it no
offense.
Collinson himself stood by the door, smoking a contemplative pipe. As
they rode up, he disengaged himself from the doorpost listlessly,
walked slowly towards them, said reflectively to the leader, "I've been
thinking with you that a vote for Thompson is a vote thrown away," and
prepared to lead the horses towards the water tank. He had parted with
them over twelve hours before, but his air of simply renewing a
recently interrupted conversation was too common a circumstance to
attract their notice. They knew, and he knew, that no one else had
passed that way since he had last spoken; that the same sun had swung
silently above him and the unchanged landscape, and there had been no
interruption nor diversion to his monotonous thought. The wilderness
annihilates time and space with the grim pathos of patience.
Nevertheless he smiled. "Ye don't seem to have got through coming down
yet," he continued, as a few small boulders, loosened in their rapid
descent, came more deliberately rolling and plunging after the
travelers along the gravelly bottom. Then he turned away with the
horses, and, after they were watered, he reentered the house. His
guests had evidently not waited for his ministration. They had already
taken one or two bottles from the shelves behind a wide bar and helped
themselves, and, glasses in hand, were now satisfying the more imminent
cravings of hunger with biscuits from a barrel and slices of smoked
herring from a box. Their equally singular host, accepting their
conduct as not unusual, joined the circle they had comfortably drawn
round the fireplace, and meditatively kicking a brand back at the fire,
said, without looking at them:--
"Well?"
"Well!" returned the leader, leaning back in his chair after carefully
unloosing the buckle of his belt, but with his eyes also on the
fire,--"well! we've prospected every yard of outcrop along the Divide,
and there ain't the ghost of a silver indication anywhere."
"Not a smell," added the close-shaven guest, without raising his eyes.
They all remained silent, looking at the fire, as if it were the one
thing they had taken into their confidence. Collinson also addressed
himself to the blaze as he said presently: "It allus seemed to me that
thar was something shiny about that ledge just round the shoulder of
the spur, over the long canyon."
The leader ejaculated a short laugh. "Shiny, eh? shiny! Ye think THAT
a sign? Why, you might as well reckon that because Key's head, over
thar, is gray and silvery that he's got sabe and experience." As he
spoke he looked towards the man with a pleasant voice. The fire
shining full upon him revealed the singular fact that while his face
was still young, and his mustache quite dark, his hair was perfectly
gray. The object of this attention, far from being disconcerted by the
comparison, added with a smile:--
"Or that he had any silver in his pocket."
Another lapse of silence followed. The wind tore round the house and
rumbled in the short, adobe chimney.
"No, gentlemen," said the leader reflectively, "this sort o' thing is
played out. I don't take no more stock in that cock-and-bull story
about the lost Mexican mine. I don't catch on to that Sunday-school
yarn about the pious, scientific sharp who collected leaves and
vegetables all over the Divide, all the while he scientifically knew
that the range was solid silver, only he wouldn't soil his fingers with
God-forsaken lucre. I ain't saying anything agin that fine-spun theory
that Key believes in about volcanic upheavals that set up on end
argentiferous rock, but I simply say that I don't see it--with the
naked eye. And I reckon it's about time, boys, as the game's up, that
we handed in our checks, and left the board."
There was another silence around the fire, another whirl and turmoil
without. There was no attempt to combat the opinions of their leader;
possibly the same sense of disappointed hopes was felt by all, only
they preferred to let the man of greater experience voice it. He went
on:--
"We've had our little game, boys, ever since we left Rawlin's a week
ago; we've had our ups and downs; we've been starved and parched,
snowed up and half drowned, shot at by road-agents and horse-thieves,
kicked by mules and played with by grizzlies. We've had a heap o' fun,
boys, for our money, but I reckon the picnic is about over. So we'll
shake hands to-morrow all round and call it square, and go on our ways
separately."
"And what do you think you'll do, Uncle Dick?" said his close-shaven
companion listlessly.
"I'll make tracks for a square meal, a bed that a man can comfortably
take off his boots and die in, and some violet-scented soap.
Civilization's good enough for me! I even reckon I wouldn't mind 'the
sound of the church-going bell' ef there was a theatre handy, as there
likely would be. But the wilderness is played out."
"You'll be back to it again in six months, Uncle Dick," retorted the
other quickly.
Uncle Dick did not reply. It was a peculiarity of the party that in
their isolated companionship they had already exhausted discussion and
argument. A silence followed, in which they all looked at the fire as
if it was its turn to make a suggestion.
"Collinson," said the pleasant voice abruptly, "who lives in the hollow
this side of the Divide, about two miles from the first spur above the
big canyon?"
"Nary soul!"
"Are you sure?"
"Sartin! Thar ain't no one but me betwixt Bald Top and
Skinner's--twenty-five miles."
"Of course, YOU'D know if any one had come there lately?" persisted the
pleasant voice.
"I reckon. It ain't a week ago that I tramped the whole distance that
you fellers just rode over."
"There ain't," said the leader deliberately, "any enchanted castle or
cabin that goes waltzing round the road with revolving windows and
fairy princesses looking out of 'em?"
But Collinson, recognizing this as purely irrelevant humor, with
possibly a trap or pitfall in it, moved away from the fireplace without
a word, and retired to the adjoining kitchen to prepare supper.
Presently he reappeared.
"The pork bar'l's empty, boys, so I'll hev to fix ye up with jerked
beef, potatoes, and flapjacks. Ye see, thar ain't anybody ben over
from Skinner's store for a week."
"All right; only hurry up!" said Uncle Dick cheerfully, settling
himself back in his chair, "I reckon to turn in as soon as I've rastled
with your hash, for I've got to turn out agin and be off at sun-up."
They were all very quiet again,--so quiet that they could not help
noticing that the sound of Collinson's preparations for their supper
had ceased too. Uncle Dick arose softly and walked to the kitchen
door. Collinson was sitting before a small kitchen stove, with a fork
in his hand, gazing abstractedly before him. At the sound of his
guest's footsteps he started, and the noise of preparation recommenced.
Uncle Dick returned to his chair by the fire. Leaning towards the
chair of the close-shaven man, he said in a lower voice:--
"He was off agin!"
"What?"
"Thinkin' of that wife of his."
"What about his wife?" asked Key, lowering his voice also.
The three men's heads were close together.
"When Collinson fixed up this mill he sent for his wife in the States,"
said Uncle Dick, in a half whisper, "waited a year for her, hanging
round and boarding every emigrant wagon that came through the Pass.
She didn't come--only the news that she was dead." He paused and
nudged his chair still closer--the heads were almost touching. "They
say, over in the Bar"--his voice had sunk to a complete whisper--"that
it was a lie! That she ran away with the man that was fetchin' her
out. Three thousand miles and three weeks with another man upsets some
women. But HE knows nothing about it, only he sometimes kinder goes
off looney-like, thinking of her." He stopped, the heads separated;
Collinson had appeared at the doorway, his melancholy patience
apparently unchanged.
"Grub's on, gentlemen; sit by and eat."
The humble meal was dispatched with zest and silence. A few
interjectional remarks about the uncertainties of prospecting only
accented the other pauses. In ten minutes they were out again by the
fireplace with their lit pipes. As there were only three chairs,
Collinson stood beside the chimney.
"Collinson," said Uncle Dick, after the usual pause, taking his pipe
from his lips, "as we've got to get up and get at sun-up, we might as
well tell you now that we're dead broke. We've been living for the
last few weeks on Preble Key's loose change--and that's gone. You'll
have to let this little account and damage stand over."
Collinson's brow slightly contracted, without, however, altering his
general expression of resigned patience.
"I'm sorry for you, boys," he said slowly, "and" (diffidently) "kinder
sorry for myself, too. You see, I reckoned on goin' over to Skinner's
to-morrow, to fill up the pork bar'l and vote for Mesick and the
wagon-road. But Skinner can't let me have anything more until I've
paid suthin' on account, as he calls it."
"D'ye mean to say thar's any mountain man as low flung and mean as
that?" said Uncle Dick indignantly.
"But it isn't HIS fault," said Collinson gently; "you see, they won't
send him goods from Sacramento if he don't pay up, and he CAN'T if I
DON'T. Sabe?"
"Ah! that's another thing. They ARE mean--in Sacramento," said Uncle
Dick, somewhat mollified.
The other guests murmured an assent to this general proposition.
Suddenly Uncle Dick's face brightened.
"Look here! I know Skinner, and I'll stop there-- No, blank it all! I
can't, for it's off my route! Well, then, we'll fix it this way. Key
will go there and tell Skinner that I say that I'LL send the money to
that Sacramento hound. That'll fix it!"
Collinson's brow cleared; the solution of the difficulty seemed to
satisfy everybody, and the close-shaven man smiled.
"And I'll secure it," he said, "and give Collinson a sight draft on
myself at San Francisco."
"What's that for?" said Collinson, with a sudden suffusion on each
cheek.
"In case of accident."
"Wot accident?" persisted Collinson, with a dark look of suspicion on
his usually placid face.
"In case we should forget it," said the close-shaven man, with a laugh.
"And do you suppose that if you boys went and forgot it that I'd have
anything to do with your d--d paper?" said Collinson, a murky cloud
coming into his eyes.
"Why, that's only business, Colly," interposed Uncle Dick quickly;
"that's all Jim Parker means; he's a business man, don't you see.
Suppose we got killed! You've that draft to show."
"Show who?" growled Collinson.
"Why,--hang it!--our friends, our heirs, our relations--to get your
money, hesitated Uncle Dick.
"And do you kalkilate," said Collinson, with deeply laboring breath,
"that if you got killed, that I'd be coming on your folks for the worth
of the d--d truck I giv ye? Go 'way! Lemme git out o' this. You're
makin' me tired." He stalked to the door, lit his pipe, and began to
walk up and down the gravelly river-bed. Uncle Dick followed him.
From time to time the two other guests heard the sounds of alternate
protest and explanation as they passed and repassed the windows.
Preble Key smiled, Parker shrugged his shoulders.
"He'll be thinkin' you've begrudged him your grub if you don't--that's
the way with these business men," said Uncle Dick's voice in one of
these intervals. Presently they reentered the house, Uncle Dick saying
casually to Parker, "You can leave that draft on the bar when you're
ready to go to-morrow;" and the incident was presumed to have ended.
But Collinson did not glance in the direction of Parker for the rest of
the evening; and, indeed, standing with his back to the chimney, more
than once fell into that stolid abstraction which was supposed to be
the contemplation of his absent wife.
From this silence, which became infectious, the three guests were
suddenly aroused by a furious clattering down the steep descent of the
mountain, along the trail they had just ridden! It came near,
increasing in sound, until it even seemed to scatter the fine gravel of
the river-bed against the sides of the house, and then passed in a gust
of wind that shook the roof and roared in the chimney. With one common
impulse the three travelers rose and went to the door. They opened it
to a blackness that seemed to stand as another and an iron door before
them, but to nothing else.
"Somebody went by then," said Uncle Dick, turning to Collinson. "Didn't
you hear it?"
"Nary," said Collinson patiently, without moving from the chimney.
"What in God's name was it, then?"
"Only some of them boulders you loosed coming down. It's touch and go
with them for days after. When I first came here I used to start up
and rush out into the road--like as you would--yellin' and screechin'
after folks that never was there and never went by. Then it got kinder
monotonous, and I'd lie still and let 'em slide. Why, one night I'd a'
sworn that some one pulled up with a yell and shook the door. But I
sort of allowed to myself that whatever it was, it wasn't wantin' to
eat, drink, sleep, or it would come in, and I hadn't any call to
interfere. And in the mornin' I found a rock as big as that box, lying
chock-a-block agin the door. Then I knowed I was right."
Preble Key remained looking from the door.
"There's a glow in the sky over Big Canyon," he said, with a meaning
glance at Uncle Dick.
"Saw it an hour ago," said Collinson. "It must be the woods afire just
round the bend above the canyon. Whoever goes to Skinner's had better
give it a wide berth."
Key turned towards Collinson as if to speak, but apparently changed his
mind, and presently joined his companions, who were already rolling
themselves in their blankets, in a series of wooden bunks or berths,
ranged as in a ship's cabin, around the walls of a resinous, sawdusty
apartment that had been the measuring room of the mill. Collinson
disappeared,--no one knew or seemed to care where,--and, in less than
ten minutes from the time that they had returned from the door, the
hush of sleep and rest seemed to possess the whole house. There was no
light but that of the fire in the front room, which threw flickering
and gigantic shadows on the walls of the three empty chairs before it.
An hour later it seemed as if one of the chairs were occupied, and a
grotesque profile of Collinson's slumbering--or meditating--face and
figure was projected grimly on the rafters as though it were the
hovering guardian spirit of the house. But even that passed presently
and faded out, and the beleaguering darkness that had encompassed the
house all the evening began to slowly creep in through every chink and
cranny of the rambling, ill-jointed structure, until it at last
obliterated even the faint embers on the hearth. The cool fragrance of
the woodland depths crept in with it until the steep of human warmth,
the reek of human clothing, and the lingering odors of stale human
victual were swept away in that incorruptible and omnipotent breath.
An hour later--and the wilderness had repossessed itself of all.
Key, the lightest sleeper, awoke early,--so early that the dawn
announced itself only in two dim squares of light that seemed to grow
out of the darkness at the end of the room where the windows looked out
upon the valley. This reminded him of his woodland vision of the night
before, and he lay and watched them until they brightened and began to
outline the figures of his still sleeping companions. But there were
faint stirrings elsewhere,--the soft brushing of a squirrel across the
shingled roof, the tiny flutter of invisible wings in the rafters, the
"peep" and "squeak" of baby life below the floor. And then he fell
into a deeper sleep, and awoke only when it was broad day.
The sun was shining upon the empty bunks; his companions were already
up and gone. They had separated as they had come together,--with the
light-hearted irresponsibility of animals,--without regret, and
scarcely reminiscence; bearing, with cheerful philosophy and the
hopefulness of a future unfettered by their past, the final
disappointment of their quest. If they ever met again, they would
laugh and remember; if they did not, they would forget without a sigh.
He hurriedly dressed himself, and went outside to dip his face and
hands in the bucket that stood beside the door; but the clear air, the
dazzling sunshine, and the unexpected prospect half intoxicated him.
The abandoned mill stretched beside him in all the pathos of its
premature decay. The ribs of the water-wheel appeared amid a tangle of
shrubs and driftwood, and were twined with long grasses and straggling
vines; mounds of sawdust and heaps of "brush" had taken upon themselves
a velvety moss where the trickling slime of the vanished river lost
itself in sluggish pools, discolored with the dyes of redwood. But on
the other side of the rocky ledge dropped the whole length of the
valley, alternately bathed in sunshine or hidden in drifts of white and
clinging smoke. The upper end of the long canyon, and the crests of
the ridge above him, were lost in this fleecy cloud, which at times
seemed to overflow the summits and fall in slow leaps like lazy
cataracts down the mountain-side. Only the range before the ledge was
clear; there the green pines seemed to swell onward and upward in long
mounting billows, until at last they broke against the sky.
In the keen stimulus of the hour and the air Key felt the mountaineer's
longing for action, and scarcely noticed that Collinson had
pathetically brought out his pork barrel to scrape together a few
remnants for his last meal. It was not until he had finished his
coffee, and Collinson had brought up his horse, that a slight sense of
shame at his own and his comrades' selfishness embarrassed his parting
with his patient host. He himself was going to Skinner's to plead for
him; he knew that Parker had left the draft,--he had seen it lying in
the bar,--but a new sense of delicacy kept him from alluding to it now.
It was better to leave Collinson with his own peculiar ideas of the
responsibilities of hospitality unchanged. Key shook his hand warmly,
and galloped up the rocky slope. But when he had finally reached the
higher level, and fancied he could even now see the dust raised by his
departing comrades on their two diverging paths, although he knew that
they had already gone their different ways,--perhaps never to meet
again,--his thoughts and his eyes reverted only to the ruined mill
below him and its lonely occupant.
He could see him quite distinctly in that clear air, still standing
before his door. And then he appeared to make a parting gesture with
his hand, and something like snow fluttered in the air above his head.
It was only the torn fragments of Parker's draft, which this homely
gentleman of the Sierras, standing beside his empty pork barrel, had
scattered to the four winds.