great deal of amusement. He was not at all reserved, and was easily
drawn out on the subject of his protector, of whom he spoke in terms of
unmeasured praise.
"By the piper that played before Moses," said one of the boys one day,
"ef half that boy sez is true, some day Grump'll hev wings sprout
through his shirt, an' 'll be sittin' on the sharp edge uv a cloud an'
playin' onto a harp, jist like the other angels."
As for Grump himself, he improved so much that suspicion was half
disarmed when one looked at him; nevertheless the colonel deemed it
prudent to watch the Pet's landlord on the night preceding the express
day.
The colonel timed himself by counting the games of old sledge that were
played. At the end of the sixth game after dark he made his way to
Grump's hut and quietly located himself at the same crack as before.
The Pet and his friend were both lying down, but by the light of the
fire the colonel could see the eyes of the former were closed, while
those of the latter were wide open. The moments flew by, and still the
two men remained in the same positions, the Pet apparently fast asleep,
and Grump wide awake.
The interior of a miner's hut, though displaying great originality of
design, and ingenious artistic effects, becomes after a time rather a
tiresome object of contemplation. The colonel found it so, and he
relieved his strained eyes by an occasional amateur astronomical
observation. On turning his head, with a yawn, from one of these, he saw
inside the hut a state of affairs which caused him to feel hurriedly for
his pistol.
Grump had risen upon one elbow, and was stealthily feeling with his
other hand under the Pet's head.
"Ha!" thought the colonel; "right at last."
Slowly Grump's hand emerged from beneath the Pet's head, and with it
came a leather bag containing gold dust.
The colonel drew a perfect bead on Grump's temple.
"I'll jest wait till you're stowin' that away, my golden-haired beauty,"
said the colonel, within himself, "an' then we'll see what cold lead's
got to say about it."
Grump untied the bag, set it upon his own pillow, drew forth his own
pouch, and untied it; the colonel's aim remained true to its unconscious
mark.
"Ef that's the game," continued the colonel, to himself, "I reckon the
proper time to play my trump is just when you're a-pourin' from his bag
into your'n. It'll be ez good's a theatre, to bring the boys up to see
how 'twas done. Lord! I wish he'd hurry up!"
Grump placed a hand upon each bag, and the colonel felt for his trigger.
Grump's left hand opened wide the mouth of Pet's bag, and his right hand
raised his own; in a moment he had poured out all his own gold into
Pet's bag, tied it, and replaced it under Pet's head.
The colonel retired quietly for a hundred yards, or more, then he
started for the saloon like a man inspired by a three-days' thirst. As
he entered the saloon the crowd arose.
"Any feller ken say I lie," meekly spoke the colonel, "an' I won't
shoot, _I_ wouldn't believe it ef I hedn't seen it with my own eyes.
Grump's poured all his gold into the Pet's pouch!"
The whole party, in chorus, condemned their optical organs to
supernatural warmth; some, more energetic than the rest, signified that
the operation should extend to their lungs and lives. But the doubter of
the party again spoke:
"Mind yer," said he, "to-morrow he'll be complainin' that the Pet stole
it, an' then he'll claim all in the Pet's pouch."
The colonel looked doubtful; several voices expressed dissent; Bozen,
reviving his proposition to drink to Grump, found opinion about equally
balanced, but conservative. It was agreed, however, that all the boys
should "hang around" the express agent next day, and should, if Grump
made the Pet any trouble, dispose of him promptly, and give the Pet a
clear title to all of Grump's rights and properties.
The agent came, and one by one the boys deposited their dust, saw it
weighed, and took their receipts. Presently there was a stir near the
door, and Grump and Pet entered. Pet's gold was weighed, his mother's
name given, and a receipt tendered.
"Thinks he's goin' to hev conviction in writin'," whispered the doubter
to the colonel.
But the agent finished his business, took the stage, and departed. Grump
started to the door to see the last of it. The doubter was there before
him, and saw a big tear in the corner of each of Grump's eyes.
* * * * *
A few days after Grump went to Placerville for a new pick for the
Pet--the old one was too heavy for a light man, Grump said. Pet himself
felt rather lonesome working on his neighbor's claim, so he sauntered
down the creek, and got a kind word from almost every man. His
ridiculous anatomy had escaped the grave so long, he was so industrious
and so inoffensive, that the boys began to have a sort of affection for
the boy who had come so far to "help the folks."
Finally, some weak miner, unable to hold the open secret any longer,
told the Pet about Grump's operation in dust. Great was the astonishment
of the young man, and puzzling miners gained sympathy from the weak eyes
and open mouth of the Pet as he meandered homeward, evidently as much
at a loss as themselves.
Unlucky was the spirit which prompted Grump in the selection of his
claim! It was just beyond a small bend which the Run made, and was,
therefore, out of sight of the claims of the other men belonging to the
camp. And it came to pass that while Pet was standing on his own claim,
leaning on his spade, and puzzling his feeble brain, there came down the
Run the great Broady, chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, who were working
several miles above.
Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation,
had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week's
industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and
humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small,
ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous
energy.
Poor Pet's resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family
at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the
town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the
throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump's,
exclaimed:
"Let him go, or I'll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!"
The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying
orders, but Grump's hands imparted to his command considerable moral
force.
No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump's grasp
than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the
Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully
away.
The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.
"They've fit!" gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, "an'
the boy--boy's hed to--lay him out."
It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump
lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.
"How did it come 'bout?" asked the colonel of Pet.
"Broady done it," replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; "he pounded the
boy, and I tackled him--then he fired."
The doubter went around and raised the dying man's head. Pet seemed
collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:
"What made you pour your dust into my pouch?"
"'Cause," whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet's neck, and
drawing him closer, "_'cause I'm yer dad_; give this to yer mar," and on
Pet's homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of
human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.
The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The
experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:
"Pet, yer an orphan."
Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men
dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted
as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud.
This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the
crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed:
"Boys, here's corpse--corpse is the best-looking man in camp."
And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had
reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in
His own image.
The body was placed in a rude coffin, and borne to the grave on a litter
of spades, followed by every man in camp, the colonel supporting the
only family mourner. Each man threw a shovelful of dirt upon the coffin
before the filling began. As the last of the surface of the coffin
disappeared from view, Pet raised a loud cry and wept bitterly, at which
operation he was joined by the whole party.
WARDELOW'S BOY.
New Boston has once been the most promising of the growing cities of the
West, according to some New York gentleman who constituted a land
improvement company, distributed handsome maps gratis, and courted
susceptible Eastern editors. Its water-power was unrivaled; ground for
all desirable public buildings, and for a handsome park with ready-grown
trees and a natural lake, had been securely provided for by the terms of
the company's charter; building material abounded; the water was good;
the soil of unequaled fertility; while the company, with admirable
forethought, had a well-stocked store on the ground, and had made
arrangements to send to the town a skillful physician and a popular
preacher.
A reasonable number of colonists found their way to the ground in the
pleasant Spring time, and, in spite of sundry local peculiarities not
mentioned in the company's circular, they might have remained, had not a
mighty freshet, in June, driven them away, and even saved some of them
the trouble of moving their houses.
When, however, most of the residences floated down the river, some of
them bearing their owners on their roofs, such of the inhabitants as had
money left the promised land for ever; while the others made themselves
such homes as they could in the nearest settlements which were above
water, and fraternized with the natives through the medium of that
common bond of sympathy in the Western lowlands, the ague.
Only a single one of the original inhabitants remained, and he,
although he might have chosen the best of the abandoned houses for his
residence, or even the elegant but deserted "company's store," continued
to inhabit the cabin he had built upon his arrival. The solid business
men of the neighboring town of Mount Pisgah, situated upon a bluff,
voted him a fool whenever his name was mentioned; but the wives of these
same men, when they chanced to see old Wardelow passing by, with the
wistful face he always wore, looked after him tenderly, and never lost
an opportunity to speak to him kindly. When they met at tea-parties, or
quilting-bees, or sewing-societies, or in other gatherings exclusively
feminine, there were not a few of them who had the courage to say that
the world would be better if more men were like old Wardelow.
For love seemed the sole motive of old Wardelow's life. The cemetery
which the thoughtful projectors of New Boston had presented to the
inhabitants had for its only occupant the wife of old Wardelow; and she
had been conveyed thereto by a husband who was both young and handsome.
The freshet which had, soon afterward, swept the town, had carried with
it Wardelow's only child, a boy of seven years, who had been playing in
a boat which he, in some way, unloosed.
From that day the father had found no trace of his child, yet he never
ceased hoping for his return. Every steamboat captain on the river knew
the old man, and the roughest of them had cheerfuly replied in the
affirmative when asked if they wouldn't bring up a small boy who might
some day come on board, report himself as Stevie Wardelow, and ask to be
taken to New Boston.
Almost every steamboat man, from captain and pilot down to fireman and
roustabout, carried and posted Wardelow's circulars wherever they
went--up Red River, the Yazoo, the White, the Arkansas, the Missouri,
and all the smaller tributaries of the Mississippi.
New Boston had long been dropped from the list of post-towns, but every
cross-road for miles around had a fingerboard showing the direction and
telling the distance to New Boston. Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the
river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow's residence, was an immense
signboard bearing the name of "New Boston Landing," and on the other
side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose
other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which
informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a
skiff marked "Wardelow" tied near the staging.
The old man never went to Mount Pisgah for stores, or up the river to
fish, or even into his own cornfield and garden, without affixing to his
door a placard telling where he had gone and when he would return.
When he went to the cemetery, which he frequently did, a statement to
that effect, and a plan showing the route to and through the cemetery,
was always appended to his door, and, as he could never clearly imagine
his boy as having passed the childhood in which he had last seen him,
all the signboards, placards, and circulars were in large capital
letters.
Even when the river overflowed its banks, which it did nearly every
Spring, the old man did not leave his house. He would not have another
story built upon it, as he was advised to do, lest Stevie might fail to
recognize it on his return; but, after careful study, he had the house
raised until the foundation was above high-water mark, and then had the
ground made higher, but sloped so gradually that the boy could not
notice the change.
When one after another of the city's "plots," upon which deserted houses
stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought
them himself--they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to
own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the
place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer.
Of friends he had almost none. Although he was intelligent, industrious,
ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in
those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject,
and as that was of no particular interest to other people, and
became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like
it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend
more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of
business.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN NEVER LEFT HIS HOUSE WITHOUT AFFIXING TO HIS
DOOR A PLACARD TELLING WHERE HE HAD GONE AND WHEN HE WOULD RETURN.]
There were a few exceptions to this rule. Old Mrs. Perry, who passed for
a saint, and whose life did not belie her reputation, used to drive her
old pony up to New Boston about once a month, carrying some home-made
delicacy with her, and chatting sympathetically for an hour or two.
Among the Mount Pisgah merchants there was one--who had never had a
child of his own--who always pressed the old man's hand warmly, and
admitted the possibility of whatever new hope Wardelow might express.
The pastors of the several churches at Mount Pisgah, however much they
disagreed on doctrinal points, were in perfect accord as to the beauty
of a character which was so completely under the control of a noble
principle that had no promise of money in it; most of them, therefore,
paid the old man professional visits, from which they generally returned
with more benefit than they had conferred.
Time had rolled on as usual, in spite of Wardelow's great sorrow. The
Mexican war was just breaking out when New Boston was settled, and
Wardelow's hair was black, and Mount Pisgah was a little cluster of log
huts; but when Lincoln was elected, Wardelow had been gray and called
old for nearly ten years, and Mount Pisgah had quite a number of
two-story residences and brick stores, and was a county town, with
court-house and jail all complete.
None of the railway lines projected toward and through Mount Pisgah had
been completed, however, nor had the town telegraphic communication with
anywhere; so, compared with localities enjoying the higher benefits of
civilization, Mount Pisgah and its surroundings constituted quite a
paradise for horse-thieves.
There were still sparsely settled places, too, which needed the
ministrations of the Methodist circuit-rider.
The young man who had been sent by the Southern Illinois Conference to
preach the Word on the Mount Pisgah circuit was great-hearted and
impetuous, and tremendously in earnest in all that he did or said; but,
like all such men, he paid the penalty of being in advance of his day
and generation by suffering some terrible fits of depression over the
small results of his labor.
And so, following the example of most of his predecessors on the Mount
Pisgah circuit, he paid many a visit to old Wardelow, to learn strength
from this perfect example of patient faith.
As the circuit-rider left the old man one evening, and sought his
faithful horse in the deserted barn in which he had tied him, he was
somewhat astonished to find the horse unloosed, and another man quietly
leading him away.
Courage and decision being among the qualities which are natural to the
successful circuit-rider, he sprang at the thief and knocked him down.
The operator in horse-flesh speedily regained his feet, however, and as
he closed with the preacher the latter saw, under the starlight, the
gleam of a knife.
Commending himself to the Lord, he made such vigorous efforts for the
safety of his body that, within two or three moments, he had the thief
face downward on the ground, his own knee on the thief's back, one hand
upon the thief's neck, and in his other hand the thief's knife. Then the
circuit-rider delivered a short address.
"My sinful friend," said he, "when two men get into such a scrape as
this, and one of them is in your line of business, one or the other will
have to die, and I don't propose to be the one. I haven't finished the
work which the Master has given me to do. If you've any dying messages
to send to anybody, I give you my word as a preacher that they shall be
delivered, but you must speak quick. What's your name?"
"I'll give you five hundred dollars to let me off--you may holler for
help and tie my hand, and--"
"No use--speak quick," hissed the preacher--"what's your name?"
"Stephen Wardelow," gasped the thief.
"What!" roared the preacher, loosening his grasp, but instantly
tightening it again.
"Stephen Wardelow," replied the thief. "But I haven't got any messages
to send to anybody. I haven't a relative in the world, and nobody would
care if I was dead. I might as well go now as any time. Hit square when
yo _do_ let me have it--that's all!"
"Where's your parents?" asked the preacher.
"Dead, I reckon," the thief answered. "Leastways, I know mother is, and
dad lived in a fever an' aguerish place, an' I s'pose he's gone, too,
before this."
"Where did he live?"
"I don't know--some new settlement somewheres in Illinois. I got lost in
the river when I was a little boy, an' was picked up by a tradin'-boat
an' sold for a nearly-white nigger--I s'pose I _was_ pretty dark."
There was a silence; the captive lay perfectly quiet, as if expecting
the fatal blow. Suddenly a voice was heard:
"Not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight--it's me, parson, Sheriff
Peters--not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight, I've been a-lookin' on
here, where I'd tracked the thief myself, and would have grabbed him if
you hadn't been about half a minute ahead of me. And if you want to know
my honest opinion--my professional opinion--it's just this: There was
stuff for a splendid sheriff spiled when you went a-preachin'. How you'd
get along when it come to collectin' taxes, I don't know, never havin'
been at any meetin' where you took up a collection; but when it come to
an arrest, you'd be just chain-lightning ground down to a pint. The
pris'ner's yours, and so's all the rewards that's offered for him,
though they're not offered for a man of the name _he_ gives. But,
honest, now, don't you think there's a chance of mitigatin'
circumstances in his case? Let's talk it over--I'll help you tie him so
he can't slip you."
The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame
behind him, then he tied the prisoner's feet and legs in several places,
tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face
toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward
a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper,
whispering as he did so:
"I've carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy
now. Let's see--confound it!--the poor old fellow is describing the
child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here's a point or
two!--'brown eyes, black hair'--oh, bully! here's the best thing
yet!--'first joint of the left fore-finger gone.'"
The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the
prisoner's hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of
optics inquired of the other.
At length the sheriff remarked: "He's _your_ pris'ner."
The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from
the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner's face, and said:
"Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?"
The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of
wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher
said:
"Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched
everywhere for _you_, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was
all the time hoping for your return--that he had grown old before his
time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?" The thief dropped
his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. "Your
father _is_ alive; he isn't far from this cabin; he's very sick; I've
just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I
think so much of him that I'd rather kill you this instant than let him
know what business you've been in."
"Them's my sentiments, too," remarked the sheriff.
"Let me see him!" exclaimed the prisoner, clasping and raising his
manacled hands, while his face filled with an earnestness which was
literally terrible--"let me see him, if it's only for a few minutes! You
needn't be afraid that _I'll_ tell him what I am, and _you_ won't be
mean enough to do it, if I don't try to run away. Have mercy on me! You
don't know what it is to never have had anybody to love you, and then
suddenly to find that there _is_ some one that wants you!"
The preacher turned to the officer and said:
"I'm a law-abiding citizen, sheriff."
And the sheriff replied:
"He's _your_ pris'ner."
"Then suppose I let him go, on his promise to stick to his father for
the rest of his life!"
"He's your pris'ner," repeated the sheriff.
"Suppose, then, I were to insist upon your taking him into custody."
"Why, then," said the sheriff, speaking like a man in the depths of
meditation, "I would let him go myself, and--and I'd have to shoot _you_
to save my reputation as a faithful officer."
The preacher made a peculiar face. The prisoner exclaimed:
"Hurry, you brutes!"
The preacher said, at last:
"Let him loose."
The sheriff removed the handcuffs, dived into his own pocket, brought
out a pocket-comb and glass, and handed them to the thief; then he
placed the lantern in front of him, and said:
"Fix yourself up a little. Your hat's a miz'able one--I'll swap with
you. You've got to make up some cock-and-bull story now, for the old
man'll want to know everything. You might say you'd been a sheriff down
South somewhere since you got away from the feller that owned you."
The preacher paused over a knot in one of the cords on the prisoner's
legs, and said:
"Say you were a circuit-rider--that's more near the literal truth."
The sheriff seemed to demur somewhat, and he said, at length:
"Without meanin' any disrespect, parson, don't you think 'twould tickle
the old man and the citizens more to think he'd been a sheriff? They
wouldn't dare to ask him so many questions then, either. And it might be
onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has
naturally got some of the p'ints of a real sheriff about him."