caught, I'll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever.
And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don't think
we're very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,"
continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of
the fire, "you've saved me--what can I give you?"
The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:
"Your soul."
Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:
"Anything else?"
Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little
frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat;
then, with a mighty effort, he said:
"Yes--Helen."
The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed
to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision
just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father's silence
as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid
her from her father's view.
Matalette's section was finally sold for taxes, and was never reclaimed,
but the excitement relating to its former occupants was for years so
great that the purchasers of the estate found it worldly wisdom to
dispense refreshments on the ground.
As for Crewne--a few months after the occurrences mentioned above there
appeared, in the wilds of Missouri, a young preacher with unusual zeal,
and a handsome wife. And about the same time four men entered a
quarter-section of prairie-land near the young preacher's station, and
appeared then and evermore to be the most ardent and faithful of the
young man's admirers.
[Illustration]
A STORY OF TEN MILE GULCH.
I.
The horse which Mr. Tom Ruger rode kept the path, steep and rugged
though it was, without any guidance from him, and its mate followed
demurely. They were accustomed to it; and many a mile had they traversed
in this way, taking turns at carrying their owner and master. Indeed,
the trio seemed inseparable, and "as happy as Tom Ruger and his horses"
was a phrase that was very often heard in every mining camp and
settlement.
As for Mr. Tom Ruger himself, very little was known of him save what had
been learned during the two years that he had sojourned among them.
Where he came from never was known, nor asked but once by the same
person. All that could be said of him might be summed up in the
following statement:
"The finest-looking, the best-dressed, and the best-mannered man on the
Pacific coast, and the best horseman."
These were the words of "mine host" at the Ten Mile House, and, as he
was a gentleman whose word was as good as his paper, we will accept them
as truth.
As Mr. Ruger rode down the mountain-side that beautiful Autumn day,
dressed in the finest of broadcloth, with linen of the most immaculate
whiteness, smoking what appeared to be a very good cigar, and humming to
himself a fragment of some old song, he looked strangely out of place.
So thought Miss Fanny Borlan as she looked out of the stage-window, and
caught her first glimpse of him just where his path intersected the
stage-road; and she would have asked the driver about him, had he not
been so near.
Mr. Ruger caught sight of her face about that time, and tossing away the
cigar, he lifted his hat to her in the most approved style.
She acknowledged the salute by a bow, and when he rode up to the side of
the stage, and made some casual remark about the fine weather, she did
not choose to consider it out of the way to receive this advance toward
a traveling acquaintance with seeming cordiality.
"Have you traveled far?" he asked.
"From the Atlantic coast, sir."
"The same journey that I intend to take some of these days, only that I
hope to substitute the word Pacific at its termination. I hope you are
near the end of your journey in this direction?"
"My destination is Ten Mile Gulch, I believe; but you have such horrid
names out here."
"I presume they do appear somewhat queer to a stranger, but they nearly
all have the merit of being appropriate. You stop at the settlement?"
"I do not know. My brother wrote to me to come to Ten Mile Gulch. Is it
the name of a town?"
"Both of a village and a mining district, from which the village takes
its name. Is your brother a miner?"
"Yes, sir."
"I presume he intended to meet you at the settlement You will no doubt
find him at the tavern; if not, I will tell him of your arrival, for my
way leads through the mines."
"Thank you, sir. My brother's name is John Borlan."
"I am somewhat acquainted with him," said Mr. Kuger, "though in this
region of strange names we call him Jack. My name is Thomas Ruger."
"Tom, in California style?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye.
"Yes, Miss Borlan," he said, also smiling. "Tom Ruger is well known
where Thomas Ruger never was heard of. And now I will bid you good-day,
Miss Borlan, for I am in something of a hurry to reach the settlement.
If I do not find Jack there, I will go on to the mines and tell him."
"Ah, Miss, you don't have such men as Tom Ruger out where you come
from," said the driver, as Tom disappeared up the road. "And them nags
of his'n can't be beat this side of the mountains. He makes a heap o'
money with 'em."
"What! a horse-jockey?" exclaimed Miss Borlan.
"We don't call him that, miss. Some says he's a sportin' man, which
ain't nothin' ag'in him, for the country's new, ye see. He's got heaps
o' money anyway, and there ain't a camp nor a town on the coast that
don't know Tom Ruger. Ah, ye don't have such men as Tommy. He'd be at
home in a palace, now wouldn't he? And it's jest the same in a miner's
shanty. Ye don't have such men as he. If he takes a likin' to anybody,
he sticks to 'em through thick and thin; but if he gits ag'in ye once,
he's--the--very--deuce. Ah, ye don't have no such man out where you come
from."
She did not care to dispute this point. In fact, after what she had seen
and heard, she was inclined to believe that there was no such men as Tom
Ruger out where she had come from; so she made no reply; and the driver,
following out his train of thought, rattled on about Tom Ruger until
they came in sight of Ten Mile Gulch, winding up his narrative with the
sage, but rather unexpected, remark, that there weren't no such men as
Tom Ruger out where she had come from.
II.
The barroom at the Miners' Home might have been more crowded at some
former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen
faces and forms of the two dozen Ten Milers who were congregated there
that beautiful Autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.
Ten Mile Gulch had turned out _en masse_, and those same Ten Milers
were distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor
softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. Further than
that we do not care to go at present.
But there was one face and one form absent. No more would the genial
atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest,
no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass
him the whisky-straight. Alas! Bill Foster had passed in his checks, and
gone the way of all Ten Milers.
And it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden
treasure from their work, for Bill had not gone in the ordinary way. At
night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the
morning they found him just outside the domicile of Jack Borlan, with a
small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. Such was life at
Ten Mile Gulch.
Who made the puncture?
Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the
settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid
lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of
Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two
more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit
themselves.
Mr. Bob Watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was
whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might
have concluded that whittling was his best hold. Not so, however; he
whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then
varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the
thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left
eye of a very flattering representation of Yankee Sullivan which graced
the wall.
By a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was
unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than
its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.
"Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?" asks Watson.
"We're waiting for _you_," said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased
witness of the knife-throwing and its results.
"Well, you need not," retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at
Yankee's other eye, and with very good success. "You know my sentiments,
gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have
fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin'."
"It--might--have--done," said the tall Miler, doubtfully; "but I
wouldn't like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment
of the occasion."
"Bet yer ten to one ye don't swing him!" cried Watson, springing to his
feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been
whittling. "Twenty to one Jack Borlan don't choke this heat! Who takes
me? who? who?"
No one seemed disposed to take him.
"Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at
Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long
ago. What do _you_ say, Borlan?"
The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and
turned to Watson. "There have been cases where the prisoner had the
benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson."
"Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let's have
one, gentlemen. I'll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now,
who'll defend the prisoner at the bar?"
"I'll make a feeble attempt that way," was the reply that came from the
doorway. All eyes turned, and recognized Tom Ruger.
"This is betwixt us Ten Milers," said Watson. "Borlan is guilty, and
we're bound to hang him before sundown; but we want to do the fair
thing, and give him the benefit of a trial. Who of you Ten Milers will
defend him?"
"I told you _I_ would defend Mr. Borlan," said Tom Ruger, as he removed
his silk hat and wiped his broad forehead with the finest of silk
handkerchiefs.
"I tell you we won't have any outsiders in this game," said Watson.
"I really dislike to contradict you, Mr. Watson," remarked Tom Ruger, as
he very carefully readjusted his hat. "Very sorry, Mr. Watson, and I do
hope you'll pardon me when I repeat that I will defend Mr.
Borlan--_with--my--life_!"
This remark surprised no one more than Jack Borlan. He had never spoken
to Mr. Ruger a dozen times in his life, and he could not account for
such disinterestedness. However, there was not much time for conjecture,
for Mr. Watson had taken offense.
"With your death, Tom Ruger, if you interfere!" cried Watson, jumping
down from his elevation.
It did look that way; but Mr. Ruger had not strolled up and down that
auriferous coast without acquiring some knowledge of the usual means of
defense in that sunny clime, as well as some practice. It was quite warm
for a moment; then Mr. Borlan, believing it to be his duty, as client,
to aid his counsel in the defense, went in gladly.
Still it was quite warm; also somewhat smoky from the powder that had
been burned; likewise noisy. Not so noisy, however, that Mr. Borlan
could not hear his counsel say:
"Clear yourself, Borlan! My horses are down at the ford!"
Mr. Borlan followed the advice of his counsel, and Mr. Ruger followed
Mr. Borlan. The Ten Milers--some of them--followed both counsel and
client.
It was neck and heels until the horses were reached. After that the
pursuers were left at a great disadvantage.
"I'll have his heart!" ejaculated Watson. Which heart he meant we have
no means of knowing. "Give me a horse! quick!"
They brought a mule.
"Wait here, every man of you!" Watson shouted back over the shaved tail
of his substitute for a horse. "I'll bring him back, dead or alive, or
my name ain't Watson!"
And over the way the stage had stopped, and Fanny Borlan had reached Ten
Mile Gulch at last.
III.
A little after sunrise, the next morning, Mr. Tom Ruger might have been
seen leisurely riding along the bridle-path between the mines and the
settlement of Ten Mile Gulch. He was headed toward the village, and was
nine and three-quarter miles nearer to it than the mines. He had found
another good cigar somewhere, and was humming the selfsame tune as on
the previous afternoon; but the riderless horse was not with him.
As Mr. Ruger rode into the only street in the village, his approach was
heralded, and the Ten Milers, who were waiting for Watson's return,
filed out of the Miners' Home, and took stations in the street.
Mr. Ruger took note of this demonstration, and, with a very
business-like air, examined the contents of his holsters. He also
noticed that patched noses and heads, and canes and crutches, were the
predominating features in the group of Ten Milers, with an occasional
closed eye and a bandaged hand to vary the monotony.
Miss Fanny Borlan, from her window at the Ten Mile House, also noticed
the dilapidated looks of the frequenters of the Miners' Home, and
wondered if they kept a hospital there. Then she saw Mr. Ruger, and
bowed and smiled as he drew up at her window.
"So you arrived all safe, Miss Borlan? How do you like the place?"
"Better than the inhabitants," she answered, with a glance over the
way. "Than those, I mean. Is it a hospital?"
"For the present I believe it is."
"And will be for some time to come, if they all stay till they're cured.
But have you seen Jack?"
"Yes--last evening. He was very sorry that he could not wait for you,
but it may be as well, however. He has gone down to San Francisco, and
he will wait for you there. The stage leaves here in about two hours,
and I advise you to take passage in it, if you are not too much
fatigued."
"I'm not tired a bit, Mr. Kuger. I will go back. Thank you for the
trouble you have taken."
"No trouble, Miss Borlan. Give my respects to Jack, and tell him I will
be down in a week or two. Good-morning."
While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between
the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive
countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in
their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of
any one.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, as he rode up in front of them.
"Not to _you_, Tom Ruger," spoke a tall Ten Miler--the only one,
by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day's trial unscathed. "Not
to you, Tom Ruger! Where's Borlan?"
"He's gone down the coast on business," said Ruger, "and may not be back
for several months."
"We'll not wait for _him_" was the miner's reply.
At the same time he drew a revolver.
"You had _better_ wait," said Ruger, also producing a revolver.
The Ten Miler paused, and looked around at his companions. They did not
present a formidable array of fighting stock. In fact, they were the
sorest-looking men that Ten Mile Gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed
surveyed them, he seemed to think he _had_ better wait.
[Illustration: "YOU HAD BETTER WAIT," SAID RUGER, ALSO PRODUCING A
REVOLVER.]
"You'll wait for Mr. Borlan?" queried Ruger.
"I reckon we'd better," answered the unscathed.
"And while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at Mr.
Watson," suggested Ruger. "At the present time he is reposing in the
shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented William Foster's
rural habitation. Good-morning, gentlemen; and don't get impatient."
If Mr. Ruger had any fear of treachery, he did not exhibit it, for he
never turned his head as he rode off toward the valley. Nor was there
any danger; for beneath his suggestions about Mr. Watson the unscathed
had detected a thing or two.
"I'm glad we waited," he said. "I begin to see a thing or two. Them as
is able will follow me up the Gulch."
About half a score went with him. Mr. Watson was still enjoying the
shade of the acacia-bush. In fact, he couldn't get away, which Mr. Ruger
well knew.
"It's all up with me, Gulchers," whispered Watson. "Ruger was too many
for me, and I ought to have known it. You'll find Bill Foster's dust in
a flour-sack, in my cabin. My respects to Borlan when you see him, and
tell him I beg his pardon for discommoding him. Give what dust is
honestly mine to him. It's all I can do now. Good-by, boys. I'm jest
played out; but take my advice and never buck against Tom Ruger. He's
too many for any dozen chaps on the coast. I knew 'twas all up with me
the minute Tom came in, for he can look right through a feller's heart.
But never mind! It's too late to help it now. I staked everything I had
against Foster's pile, and I'm beat, beat, beat!"
These were the last words Mr. Bob Watson ever spoke, as many a surviving
Ten Miler will tell you, and they buried him in the spot where he died,
without any beautiful stone to mark the place.
IV.
Miss Fanny Borlan found Jack awaiting her at San Francisco.
"What made you run away?"
"Why, Fanny, didn't Tom tell you about it?" queried Jack.
"Tom? Oh, you mean Mr. Ruger. He only sent me down here."
"Just like him, Fan; very few words he ever wastes. Ah, sister, we don't
have such men out East."
"So the stage-driver told me," said Fanny, demurely.
"There, Fan, you're poking fun now. Wait till I get through. Only for
Tom, you would have found me at Ten Mile Gulch, hanging by the neck to
the limb of that tree just in front of the Home."
"Hanging, Jack?"
"Hanging, Fan--lynched for a murder I never committed. Tom came along
just in the nick of time, and--Well, Fan, perhaps you saw some of the
Ten Milers before you came away?"
"Yes, Jack; and there was only one whole nose in the lot, and I do
believe that was out of joint. But, oh, Jack! if they had taken your
life!"
"Never mind now, sis. Tom was too many for 'em; and here I am safe.
We'll wait here till Tom comes down, for I've got one of his horses,
which he thinks more of than he does of himself; then for home, sis."
Mr. Tom Ruger went down, as he said he would, and remained with them
several days. On the morning that they were to sail, Fanny said to Tom:
"I wish you were going with us, Mr. Ruger. We shall miss you very much.
Won't you go?"
Mr. Ruger was talking with Jack at the time, but he heard Fanny--he
always heard what _she_ said.
He did not reply at once, however, but said to Jack, in a low tone:
"Jack, you know what I _have_ been--can I ever become worthy of her?"
And Jack answered, promptly:
"God bless you, Tom, you are worthy now!"
"Thank you, Jack--if you believe!"
Then he went over to Fanny.
"I will go," was all he said.
It was a great wonder to both Jack and his sister how Tom could have got
ready for the journey on so short a notice; but one day, more than a
year afterward, Tom said to Jack:
"Old friend, I'm not what I was, I hope. Ever since I first saw Fanny on
the road to Ten Mile Gulch, I have tried to live differently. I hope I
am better, for she said last night that she would take me for better or
worse."
And Jack wondered no more.
[Illustration]
CAPTAIN SAM'S CHANGE.
"Well, there's nothin' to do, but to hev faith, an' keep a-tryin'."
The speaker was old Mrs. Simmons, boarding-house keeper, and resident of
a certain town on the Ohio River. The prime cause of her remark was
Captain Sam Toppie, of the steamboat Queen Ann.
Captain Sam had stopped with Mrs. Simmons every time the Queen Ann laid
up for repairs, and he was so genial, frank and manly, that he had found
a warm spot in the good old lady's heart.
But one thing marred the otherwise perfect happiness of Mrs. Simmons
when in Captain Sam's society, and that was what she styled his "lost
condition." For Mrs. Simmons was a consistent, conscientious Methodist,
while Captain Sam was--well, he was a Western steamboat captain.
This useful class of gentlemen are in high repute among shippers and
barkeepers, and receive many handsome compliments from the daily papers
along the line of the Western rivers; but, somehow, the religious Press
is entirely silent about them, nor have we ever seen of any special
mission having been sent to them.
Captain Sam was a good specimen of the fraternity--good-looking,
good-natured, quick-witted, prompt, and faithful, as well as
quick-tempered, profane, and perpetually thirsty. To carry a full load,
put his boat through in time, and always drink up to his peg, were his
cardinal principles, and he faithfully lived up to them.
Of the fair sex he was a most devoted admirer, and if he had not
possessed a great deal of modesty, for a steamboat captain, he could
have named two or three score of young women who thought almost as much
of him as the worthy boarding-house keeper did.
Good Mrs. Simmons had, to use her own language, "kerried him before the
Lord, and wrastled for him;" but it was very evident, from Sam's walk
and conversation, that his case had not yet been adjudicated according
to Mrs. Simmons's liking.
He still had occasional difficulties with the hat-stand and stairway
after coming home late at night; his breath, though generally odorous,
seemed to grieve Mrs. Simmons's olfactories, and his conversation, as
heard through his open door in Summer, was thickly seasoned with
expressions far more Scriptural than reverential.
One Christmas, the old lady presented to the captain a handsome Bible,
with his name stamped in large gilt letters on the cover. He was so
delighted and so proud of his present, that he straightway wrapped it in
many folds of paper to prevent its being soiled, and then stowed it
neatly away in the Queen Ann's safe, for secure keeping.
When he told Mrs. Simmons what he had done, she sighed deeply; but fully
alive to the importance of the case, promised him a common one, not too
good to read daily.
"Daily! Bless you, Mrs. Simmons! Why, I hardly have time to look in the
paper, and see who's gone up, and who's gone down, and who's been beat."
"But your better part, cap'en?" pleaded the old lady.
"I--I don't know, my good woman--hard to find it, I guess--the hull lot
averages purty low."
"But, cap'en," she continued, "don't you feel your need of a change?"
"Not from the Queen Ann, ma'am--she only needs bigger engines--"
"Change of heart, I mean, cap'en," interrupted Mrs. Simmons. "Don't you
feel your need of religion?"
"Ha! ha!" roared Captain Sam; "the idea of a steamboat captain with
religion! Why, bless your dear, innocent, old soul, the fust time he
wanted to wood up in a hurry, his religion would git, quicker'n
lightnin'. The only steamboatman I ever knowed in the meetin'-house line
went up for seven year for settin' fire to his own boat to git the
insurance."
Mrs. Simmons could not recall at the moment the remembrance of any pious
captain, so she ceased laboring with Captain Sam. But when he went out,
she placed on his table a tract, entitled "The Furnace Seven Times
Heated," which tract the captain considerately handed to his engineer,
supposing it to be a circular on intensified caloric.
Year after year the captain laid up for repairs, and put up with Mrs.
Simmons. Year after year he was jolly, genial, chivalrous, generous,
but--not what good Mrs. Simmons earnestly wanted him to be.
He would buy tickets to all the church fairs, give free passages to all
preachers recommended by Mrs. Simmons, and on Sunday morning he would
respectfully escort the old lady as far as the church-door.
On one occasion, when Mrs. Simmons's church building was struck by
lightning, a deacon dropped in with a subscription-paper, while the
captain was in. The generous steamboatman immediately put himself down
for fifty dollars; and although he improved the occasion to condemn
severely the meanness of certain holy people, and though his language
seemed to create an atmosphere which must certainly melt the money--for
those were specie days--Mrs. Simmons declared to herself that "he
couldn't be fur from the kingdom when his heart was so little set on
Mammon as that."
"He's too good for Satan--the Lord _must_ hev him," thought the good old
lady.
Once again the Queen Ann needed repairing, and again the captain found
himself at his old boarding-place.