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[Illustration: “Mr. Johnson, come down”]
The Girl of the
Golden West
_NOVELIZED FROM THE PLAY_
BY
DAVID BELASCO
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
J. N. MARCHAND
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Copyright, 1911,
By Dodd, Mead & Co.
_All rights reserved_
Published, October, 1911
“In those strange days, people coming from God knows where, joined
forces in that far Western land, and, according to the rude custom
of the camp, their very names were soon lost and unrecorded, and
here they struggled, laughed, gambled, cursed, killed, loved and
worked out their strange destinies in a manner incredible to us of
to-day. Of one thing only are we sure--they lived!”
_Early History of California._
I
It was when coming back to the mines, after a trip to Monterey, that the
Girl first met him. It happened, too, just at a time when her mind was
ripe to receive a lasting impression. But of all this the boys of Cloudy
Mountain Camp heard not a word, needless to say, until long afterwards.
Lolling back on the rear seat of the stage, her eyes half closed,--the
sole passenger now, and with the seat in front piled high with boxes and
baskets containing _rebozos_, silken souvenirs, and other finery
purchased in the shops of the old town,--the Girl was mentally reviewing
and dreaming of the delights of her week’s visit there,--a visit that
had been a revelation to one whose sole experience of the world had
until now been derived from life in a rough mining camp. Before her
half-closed eyes still shimmered a vista of strange, exotic scenes and
people, the thronging crowds of carnivals and fêtes; the Mexican girls
swaying through the movements of the fandango to the music of guitars
and castanets; the great _rodeo_ with its hundreds of _vaqueros_, which
was held at one of the ranchos just outside the town; and, lastly, and
most vividly of all, the never-to-be-forgotten thrill of her first
bull-fight.
Still ringing in her ears was the piercing note of the bugle which
instantly silenced the expectant throng; the hoarse roar that greeted
the entrance of the bull, and the thunder of his hoofs when he made his
first mad charge. She saw again, with marvellous fidelity, the whole
colour-scheme just before the death of the big, brave beast: the huge
arena in its unrivalled setting of mountain, sea and sky; the eager
multitude, tense with expectancy; the silver-mounted bridles and
trappings of the horses; the many-hued capes of the _capadors_; the
gaily-dressed _banderilleros_, poising their beribboned barbs; the red
flag and long, slender, flashing sword of the cool and ever watchful
_matador_; and, most prominent of all to her eyes, the brilliant,
gold-laced packets of the gentlemen-_picadors_, who, after the Mexican
fashion,--so she had been told,--deemed it in nowise beneath them to
enter the arena in person.
And so it happened that now, as the stage swung round a corner, and a
horseman suddenly appeared at a point where two roads converged, and was
evidently spurring his horse with the intent of coming up with the
stage, it was only natural that, even before he was near enough to be
identified, the _caballero_ should already have become a part of the
pageant of her mental picture.
Up to the moment of the stranger’s appearance, nothing had happened to
break the monotony of her long return journey towards Cloudy Mountain
Camp. Far back in the distance now lay the Mission where the passengers
of the stage had been hospitably entertained the night before; still
further back the red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls of the little
pueblo of San Jose,--a veritable bower of roses; and remotest of all,
the crosses of San Carlos and the great pines, oaks and cypresses, which
bordered her dream-memory of the white-beach crescent formed by the
waves of Monterey Bay.
The dawn of each day that swept her further from her week in wonderland
had ushered in the matchless spring weather of California,--the
brilliant sunshine, the fleecy clouds, the gentle wind with just a tang
in it from the distant mountains; and as the stage rolled slowly
northward through beautiful valleys, bright with yellow poppies and
silver-white lupines, every turn of the road varied her view of the
hills lying under an enchantment unlike that of any other land. Yet
strange and full of interest as every mile of the river country should
have been to a girl accustomed to the great forest of the Sierras, she
had gazed upon it for the most part with unseeing eyes, while her
thoughts turned, magnet-like, backward to the delights and the
bewilderment of the old Mexican town. So now, as the pursuing horseman
swept rapidly nearer, each swinging stride of the powerful horse, each
rhythmic movement of the graceful rider brought nearer and more vivid
the vision of a handsome _picador_ holding off with his lance a
thoroughly maddened bull until the crowd roared forth its appreciation.
“See, Señorita,” said the horseman, at last galloping close to the coach
and lifting his sombrero, “A beautiful bunch of syringa,” and then, with
his face bent towards her and his voice full of appeal, he added in
lower tone: “for you!”
For a brief second, the Girl was too much taken back to find the
adequate words with which to accept the stranger’s offering.
Notwithstanding that in his glance she could read, as plainly as though
he had spoken: “I know I am taking a liberty, but please don’t be angry
with me,” there was something in his sweeping bow and grace of manner
that, coupled with her vague sense of his social advantage, disconcerted
her. A second more, however, and the embarrassment had passed, for on
lifting her eyes to his again she saw that her memory had not played her
false; beyond all chance of a mistake, he was the man who, ten days
earlier, had peered into the stage, as she was nearing Monterey, and
later, at the bull-fight, had found time to shoot admiring glances at
her between his daring feats of horsemanship. Therefore, genuine
admiration was in her eyes and extreme cordiality in her voice when,
after a word or two of thanks, she added, with great frankness:
“But it strikes me sort o’ forcible that I’ve seen you before.” Then,
with growing enthusiasm: “My, but that bull-fight was jest grand! You
were fine! I’m right glad to know you, sir.”
The _caballero’s_ face flushed with pleasure at her free-and-easy
reception of him, while an almost inaudible “_Gracias_” fell from his
lips. At once he knew that his first surmise, that the Girl was an
American, had been correct. Not that his experience in life had
furnished him with any parallel, for the Girl constituted a new and
unique type. But he was well aware that no Spanish lady would have
received the advances of a stranger in like fashion. It was inevitable,
therefore, that for the moment he should contrast, and not wholly to her
advantage, the Girl’s unconventionality with the enforced reserve of the
_dulcineas_ who, custom decrees, may not be courted save in the presence
of _duennas_. But the next instant he recalled that there were, in
Sacramento, young women whose directness it would never do to mistake
for boldness; and,--to his credit be it said,--he was quick to perceive
that, however indifferent the Girl seemed to the customary formality of
introduction, there was no suggestion of indelicacy about her. All that
her frank and easy manner suggested was that she was a child of nature,
spontaneous and untrammelled by the dictates of society, and normally
and healthily at home in the company of the opposite sex.
“And she is even more beautiful than I supposed,” was the thought that
went through his mind.
And yet, the Girl was not beautiful, at least if judged by Spanish or
Californian standards. Unlike most of their women, she was fair, and her
type purely American. Her eyes of blue were lightly but clearly browed
and abundantly fringed; her hair of burnished gold was luxuriant and
wavy, and framed a face of singularly frank and happy expression, even
though the features lacked regularity. But it was a face, so he told
himself, that any man would trust,--a face that would make a man the
better for looking at it,--a face which reflected a soul that no
environment could make other than pure and spotless. And so there was,
perhaps, a shade more of respect and a little less assurance in his
manner when he asked:
“And you like Monterey?”
“I love it! Ain’t it romantic--an’, my, what a fine time the girls there
must have!”
The man laughed; the Girl’s enthusiasm amused him.
“Have you had a fine trip so far?” he asked, for want of something
better to say.
“Mercy, yes! This ’ere stage is a pokey ol’ thing, but we’ve made not
bad time, considerin’.”
“I thought you were never going to get here!”
The Girl shot a coquettish glance at him.
“How did you know I was comin’ on this ’ere stage?”
“I did not know,”--the stranger broke off and thought a moment. He may
have been asking himself whether it were best for him to be as frank as
she had been and admit his admiration for her; at last, encouraged
perhaps by a look in the Girl’s blue eyes, he ventured: “But I’ve been
riding along this road every day since I saw you. I felt that I must see
you again.”
“You must like me powerful well...?” This remark, far from being a
question, was accompanied with all the physiognomical evidences of an
assertion.
The stranger shot a surprised glance at her, out of the corner of his
eye. Then he admitted, in all truthfulness:
“Of course I do. Who could help...?”
“Have you tried not to?” questioned the Girl, smiling in his face now,
and enjoying in the full this stolen intimacy.
“Ah, Señorita, why should I...? All I know is that I do.”
The Girl became reflective; presently she observed:
“How funny it seems, an’ yet, p’r’aps not so strange after all. The
boys--all my boys at the camp like me--I’m glad you do, too.”
Meanwhile the good-natured and loquaciously-inclined driver had turned
his head and was subjecting the man cantering alongside of his stage to
a rigid inspection. With his knowledge of the various types of men in
California at that time, he had no difficulty in placing the status of
this straight-limbed, broad-shouldered, young fellow as a native
Californian. Moreover, it made no difference to him whether his
passenger had met an old acquaintance or not; it was sufficient for him
to observe that the lady, as well as himself--for the expression on her
face could by no means be described as bored or scornful--liked the
stranger’s appearance; and so the better to take in all the points of
the magnificent horse which the young Californian was riding, not to
mention a commendable desire to give his only passenger a bit of
pleasant diversion on the long journey, he slowed his horse down to a
walk.
“But where do you live? You have a rancho near here?” the Girl was now
asking.
“My father has--I live with him.”
“Any sisters?”
“No,--no sisters or brothers. My mother was an American; she died a few
years ago.” And so saying, his glance sought and obtained an answering
one full of sympathy.
“I’m downright sorry for you,” said the Girl with feeling; and then in
the next breath she added: “But I’m pleased you’re--you’re half
American.”
“And you, Señorita?”
“I’m an orphan--my family are all dead,” replied the Girl in a low
voice. “But I have my boys,” she went on more cheerfully, “an’ what more
do I need?” And then before he had time to ask her to explain what she
meant by the boys, she cried out: “Oh, jest look at them wonderful
berries over yonder! La, how I wish I could pick ’em!”
“Perhaps you may,” the stranger hastened to say, and instantly with his
free hand he made a movement to assist her to alight, while with the
other he checked his horse; then, with his eyes resting appealingly upon
the driver, he inquired: “It is possible, is it not, Señor?”
Curiously enough, this apparently proper request was responsible for
changing the whole aspect of things. For, keenly desirous to oblige him,
though she was, there was something in the stranger’s eyes as they now
rested upon her that made her feel suddenly shy; a flood of new
impressions assailed her: she wanted to evade the look and yet foster
it; but the former impulse was the stronger, and for the first time she
was conscious of a growing feeling of restraint. Indeed, some inner
voice told her that it would not be quite right for her to leave the
stage. True, she belonged to Cloudy Mountain Camp where the conventions
were unknown and where a rough, if kind, comradery existed between the
miners and herself; nevertheless, she felt that she had gone far enough
with a new acquaintance, whose accent, as well as the timbre of his
voice, gave ample evidence that he belonged to another order of society
than her own and that of the boys. So, hard though it was not to accede
to his request and, at the same time, break the monotony of her journey
with a few minutes of berry-picking with him in the fields, she made no
move to leave the stage but answered the questioning look of the
obliging driver with a negative one. Whereupon, the latter, after
declaring to the young Californian that the stage was late as it was,
called to his horses to show what they could do in the way of getting
over the ground after their long rest.
The young man’s face clouded with disappointment. For two hundred yards
or more he spoke not a word, though he spurred his horse in order to
keep up with the now fast-moving stage. Then, all of a sudden, as the
silence between them was beginning to grow embarrassing, the Girl made
out the figure of a man on horseback a short distance ahead, and uttered
an exclamation of surprise. The stranger followed the direction of the
Girl’s eyes and, almost instantly, it was borne in upon them that the
horseman awaited their coming. The Girl turned to speak, but the
tender, sorrowful expression that she saw on the young man’s face kept
her silent.
“That is one of my father’s men,” he said, somewhat solemnly. “His
presence here may mean that I must leave you. The road to our ranch
begins there. I fear that something may be wrong.”
The Girl shot him a look of sympathetic inquiry, though she said
nothing. To tell the truth, the first thought that entered her mind at
his words was one of concern that their companionship was likely to
cease abruptly. During the silence that preceded his outspoken
premonition of trouble, she had been studying him closely. She found
herself admiring his aquiline features, his olive-coloured skin with its
healthful pallor, the lazy, black Spanish eyes behind which, however
tranquil they generally were, it was easy for her to discern, when he
smiled, that reckless and indomitable spirit which appeals to women all
the world over.
As the stage approached the motionless horseman, the young man cried out
to the _vaquero_, for such he was, and asked in Spanish whether he had a
message for him; an answer came back in the same language, the meaning
of which the Girl failed to comprehend. A moment later her companion
turned to her and said:
“It is as I feared.”
Once more a silence fell upon them. For a half mile or so, apparently
deep in thought, he continued to canter at her side; at last he spoke
what was in his mind.
“I hate to leave you, Señorita,” he said.
In an instant the light went out of the Girl’s eyes, and her face was as
serious as his own when she replied:
“Well, I guess I ain’t particularly crazy to have you go neither.”
The unmistakable note of regret in the Girl’s voice flattered as well as
encouraged him to go further and ask:
“Will you think of me some time?”
The Girl laughed.
“What’s the good o’ my thinkin’ o’ you? I seen you talkin’ with them
gran’ Monterey ladies an’ I guess you won’t be thinkin’ often o’ me.
Like ’s not by to-morrow you’ll ’ave clean forgot me,” she said with
forced carelessness.
“I shall never forget you,” declared the young man with the intense
fervour that comes so easily to the men of his race.
At that a half-mistrustful, half-puzzled look crossed the Girl’s face.
Was this handsome stranger finding her amusing? There was almost a
resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out:
“I ’mos’ think you’re makin’ fun o’ me!”
“No, I mean every word that I say,” he hastened to assure her, looking
straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed to read
something which the Girl had not the subtlety to conceal.
“Oh, I guess I made you say that!” she returned, making a child-like
effort to appear to disbelieve him.
The stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he was
serious, and asked:
“And am I never going to see you again? Won’t you tell me where I can
find you?”
Once more the Girl was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment. Not that
she was at all ashamed of being “The Girl of The Polka Saloon,” for that
never entered her mind; but she suddenly realised that it was one thing
to converse pleasantly with a young man on the highway and another to
let him come to her home on Cloudy Mountain. Only too well could she
imagine the cool reception, if it stopped at that, that the boys of the
camp there would accord to this stylish stranger. As a consequence, she
was torn by conflicting emotions: an overwhelming desire to see him
again, and a dread of what might happen to him should he descend upon
Cloudy Mountain with all his fine airs and graces.
“I guess I’m queer--” she began uncertainly and then stopped in sudden
surprise. Too long had she delayed her answer. Already the stage had
left him some distance behind. Unperceived by her a shade of annoyance
had passed over the Californian’s face at her seeming reluctance to tell
him where she lived. The quick of his Spanish pride was touched; and
with a wave of his sombrero he had pulled his horse down on his
haunches. Of no avail now was her resolution to let him know the
whereabouts of the camp at any cost, for already his “_Adios,
Señorita_,” was sounding faintly in her ears.
With a little cry of vexation, scarcely audible, the young woman flung
herself back on the seat. She was only a girl with all a girl’s ways,
and like most of her sex, however practical her life thus far, she was
not without dreams of a romance. This meeting with the handsome
_caballero_ was the nearest she had come to having one. True, there was
scarcely a man at Cloudy but what had tried at one time or another to go
beyond the stage of good comradeship; but none of them had approached
the idealistic vision of the hero that was all the time lying dormant in
her mind. Of course, being a girl, and almost a queen in her own little
sphere, she accepted their rough homage in a manner that was befitting
to such an exalted personage, and gave nothing in return. But now
something was stirring within her of which she knew nothing; a feeling
was creeping over her that she could not analyse; she was conscious only
of the fact that with the departure of this attractive stranger, who
had taken no pains to conceal his admiration for her, her journey had
been robbed of all its joy.
A hundred yards further on, therefore, she could not resist the
temptation to put her head out of the stage and look back at the place
where she had last seen him.
He was still sitting quietly on his horse at the place where they had
parted so unceremoniously, his face turned in her direction--horse and
rider silhouetted against the western sky which showed a crimson hue
below a greenish blue that was sapphire further from the horizon.