had been taken out at Tough Case. It was not a grand spree, for _all_
sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It
was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell
below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that
the honor of his village should not suffer.
No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as
nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had
increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until
to-day it had reached its culmination.
Blizzer's wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day's boat.
Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had
been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an
end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished
boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white
handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart
detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen
of Tough Case.
Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral
import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an
ounce of gold-dust for an hour's labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw's
self-asserting red hair.
Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the
slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome
fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money.
For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal
portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist,
who had carefully studied Blizzer's cranium and the usually accepted
laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut,
frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of
preservation.
Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and
sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their
eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.
A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on
time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded
the river, exclaimed:
"She's comin'!"
Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door;
numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and
finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung
back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he carried
in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the
door-sill--an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up
in ordinary.
The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted
defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and
shoved out a plank.
Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any
other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would
have justified an extra spree.
Sundry barrels were rolled out, but not even old Guzzle inspected the
brand; barrels and bags of onions and potatoes were stacked on the bank,
but though the camp was sadly in need of vegetables, no one expressed
becoming exultation.
All eyes were fixed on the steamer-end of the gang-plank, and every
heart beat wildly as Blizzer appeared, leading a figure displaying only
the top of a big bonnet and a blanket-shawl hanging on one arm.
They stepped on the gang-plank, they reached the shore, and then the
figure raised its head and dropped the shawl.
"Thunder!" ejaculated Fourteenth Street, and immediately retired and
drank himself into a deplorable condition.
The remaining observers dispersed respectfully; but the reckless manner
in which they wandered through mud-puddles and climbed over barrels and
potato-sacks, indicated plainly that their disappointment had been
severe.
After another liquid bet had been paid, and while sleeves but lately
tenderly protected were carelessly drying damp mustaches, an old miner
remarked:
"Reckon that's why he left the States;" and the emphatic "You bet!"
which followed his words showed that the Tough Caseites were unanimous
on the subject of Mrs. Blizzer.
For she was short and fat, and had a pug nose, and a cast in one eye;
her forehead was low and square, and her hair was of a color which
seemed "fugitive," as the paper-makers say. Her hands were large and
pudgy, her feet afforded broad foundations for the structure above them,
and her gait was not suggestive of any popular style. Besides, she
seemed ten years older than her husband, who was not yet thirty.
For several days boots were allowed to grow rusty and chins unshaven, as
the boys gradually drank and worked themselves into a dumb forgetfulness
of their lately cherished ideals.
But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim
Ripson's, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up
his voice, and remarked:
"'Pears to me Blizzer's beginnin' to look scrumptious. He used to be the
shabbiest man in camp."
Through the open door the boys saw Blizzer carrying a pail of water; and
though water-carrying in the American manner is not an especially
graceful performance, Blizzer certainly looked unusually neat.
Palette, who had spoiled many canvases and paintbrushes in the East,
attentively studied Blizzer in detail, and found his hair was combed,
his shirt buttoned at the collar, and his trowsers lacking the
California soil which always adorns the seat and knees of orthodox
mining pantaloons.
"It's her as did it," said Pat Fadden; "an' 'tain't all she's done. Fhat
d'ye tink she did dhis mornin'? I was a-fixin' me pork, jist as ivery
other bye in camp allers does it, an' jist then who should come along
but hersilf. I tuk off me pork, and comminced me breakfast, when sez she
to me, sez she, 'Ye don't ate it widout gravy, do ye?' 'Gravy, is it?'
sez I. 'Nobody iver heard of gravy here,' sez I. 'Thin it's toime,' sez
she, an' she poured off the fat, an' crumbled a bit of cracker in the
pan, an' put in some wather, an' whin I thought the ould thing 'ud blow
up for the shteam it made, she poured the gravy on me plate--yes, she
did."
There were but a few men at Tough Case who were not willing to have
their daily fare improved, and as Mrs. Blizzer did not make a tour of
instruction, the boys made it convenient to stand near Mrs. Blizzer's
own fire, and see the mysteries of cooking.
As a natural consequence, Sim Ripson began to have inquiries for
articles which he had never heard of, much less sold, and he found a
hurried trip to 'Frisco was an actual business necessity.
As several miners took their departure, after one of these culinary
lessons, Arkansas Bill, with a mysterious air, took Fourteenth Street
aside.
"Forty," said he, in a most appealing tone, "ken _you_ see what 'twas
about? She kep' a-lookin' at my left han' all the time, ez ef she thort
there wuz somethin' the matter with it. Mebbe she thort I was tuckin'
biscuits up my sleeves, like keerds in a live game. _Ken_ you see any
thin' the matter with that paw?"
The aristocratic young reprobate gave the hand a critical glance, and
replied:
"Perhaps she thought you didn't know what buttons and buttonholes were
made for."
"Thunder!" exclaimed the miner, with an expression of countenance which
Archimedes might have worn when he made his famous discovery.
From that day forward the gentleman from Arkansas instituted a rigid
buttonhole inspection before venturing from his hut, besides purchasing
a share in a new clothesbroom.
"'Pears to me I don't see Blizzer playin' keerds with you fellers ez
much ez he wuz," remarked Uncle Ben one evening at the store.
"No," said Flipp, the champion euchre-player, with a sad face and a
strong oath. "He used to lose his ounces like a man. But t'other night I
knocked at his door, and asked him to come down an' hev a han'. He
didn't say nothin', but _she_ up an' sed he'd stopped playin'. I reely
tuk it to be my duty to argy with her, an' show her how tough it wuz to
cut off a feller's enjoyment; but she sed 'twas too high-priced fur the
fun it fetched."
"That ain't the wust, nuther," said Topjack Flipp's usual partner.
"There wuz Arkansas Bill an' Jerry Miller, thet used to be ez fond of
ther little game ez anybody. Now, ev'ry night they go up thar to
Blizzer's, an' jest do nothin' but sit aroun' an' talk. It's enough to
make a marble statoo cuss to see good men spiled that way."
"Somethin' 'stonishin' 'bout what comes of it, though," resumed the
deacon. "'Twas only yestiddy thet Bill was kerryin' a bucket of dirt to
the crick, an' jest ez he got there his foot slipped in, an' he went
kerslosh. Knowin' Bill's language on sech occasions ain't what a
church-member ort to hear, I was makin' it convenient to leave, when
along come _her_, an' he choked off ez suddin ez a feller on the
gallers."
Day by day the boys dug dirt, and carried it to the creek, and washed
out the precious gold; day by day the denizens of Tough Case worked as
many hours and as industriously as men anywhere. But no Tough Caseite
was so wicked as to work on Sunday.
Sunday at Tough Case commenced at sunset on Saturday, after the good old
Puritan fashion, and lasted through until working-time on Monday
morning. But beyond this matter of time the Puritan parallel could not
be pursued, for on Sunday was transacted all the irregular business of
the week; on Sunday was done all the hard drinking and heavy gambling;
and on Sunday were settled such personal difficulties as were superior
to the limited time and low liquor-pressure of the week.
The evening sun of the first Saturday of Mrs. Blizzer's residence at
Tough Case considered his day's work done, and retired under the snowy
coverlets the Sierras lent him. The tired miners gladly dropped pick,
shovel, and pan, but bedclothing was an article which at that moment
they scorned to consider; there was important business and
entertainment, which would postpone sleep for many hours.
The express would be along in the morning, and no prudent man could
sleep peaceably until he had deposited his gold dust in the company's
strong box. Then there were two or three old feuds which _might_ come to
a head--they always _did_ on Sunday. And above all, Redwing, a man with
enormous red whiskers, had been threatening all week to have back the
money Flipp had won from him on the preceding Sunday, and Redwing had
been very lucky in his claim all week, and the two men were very nearly
matched, and were magnificent players, so the game promised to last many
hours, and afford handsome opportunities for outside betting.
Sim Ripson understood his business. By sunset he had all his bottles
freshly filled, and all his empty boxes distributed about the room for
seats, and twice as many candles lighted as usual, and the card-tables
reinforced by some upturned barrels. He also had a neat little woodpile
under the bar to serve as a barricade against stray shots.
The boys dropped in pleasantly, two or three at a time, and drank
merrily with each other; and the two or three who were not drinking men
sauntered in to compare notes with the others.
There were no aristocrats or paupers at Tough Case, nor any cliques;
whatever the men were at home, here they were equal, and Sim Ripson's
was the general gathering-place for everybody.
But in the course of two or three hours there was a perceptible change
of the general tone at Sim Ripson's--it was so every Saturday night, or
Sunday morning. Old Hatchetjaw said it was because Sim Ripson's liquor
wasn't good; Moosoo, the Frenchman, maintained it was due to the absence
of chivalrous spirit; Crosstree, the sailor, said it was always so with
landsmen; Fourteenth Street privately confided to several that 'twas
because there was no good blood in camp; the amateur phrenologist
ascribed it to an undue cerebral circulation; and Uncle Ben, the deacon,
insisted upon it that the fiend, personally, was the disturbing element.
Probably all of them were right, for it seemed impossible that the
Sunday excitements at Sim Ripson's could proceed from any single
cause--their proportions were too magnificent.
Drinking, singing, swearing, gambling, and fighting, the Tough Caseites
made night so hideous that Uncle Ben spent half the night in earnest
prayer for these misguided men, and the remainder of it in trying to
make up his mind to start for home.
But by far the greater number of the boys, on that particular night,
surrounded the table at which sat Redwing and Flip. Both were playing
their best, and as honestly as each was compelled to do by his
adversary's watchfulness.
Each had several times accused the other of cheating; each had his
revolver at his right hand; and the crowd about them had the double
pleasure of betting on the game and on which would shoot first.
Suddenly Redwing arose, as Flipp played an ace on his adversary's last
card, and raked the dust toward himself.
"Yer tuk that ace out of yer sleeve--I seed yer do it. Give me back my
ounces," said Redwing.
"It's a lie!" roared the great Flipp, springing to his feet, and seizing
Redwing's pistol-arm.
The weapon fell, and both men clutched like tigers. Sim Ripson leaped
over the bar and separated them.
"No rasslin' here!" said he. "When gentlemen gits too mad to hold in,
an' shoots at sight, I hev to stan' it, but rasslin's vulgar--you'll hev
to go out o' doors to do it."
"I'll hev it out with him with pistols, then!" cried Redwing, picking up
his weapon.
"'Greed!" roared Flip, whose pistol lay on the table. "We'll do it cross
the crick, at daylight.
"It's daylight now," said Sim Ripson, hurriedly, after looking out of
his window at the end of the bar.
He was a good storekeeper, was Sam Ripson, and he knew how to mix
drinks, but he had an unconquerable aversion to washing blood stains out
of the floor.
The two gamblers rushed out of the door, pistols in hand, and the crowd
followed, each man talking at the top of his voice, and betting on the
chances of the combatants.
Suddenly, above all the noise, they heard a cracked soprano voice
singing with some unauthorized flatting and sharping:
"Another six days' work is done,
Another Sabbath is begun.
Return, my soul, enjoy thy rest,
Improve the day thy God has blessed."
Redwing stopped, and dropped his head to one side, as if expecting
more; Flipp stopped; everybody did. Arkansas Bill, whose good habits had
been laid aside late Saturday afternoon, exclaimed:
"Well, I'll be blowed!"
Bill didn't mean anything of the sort, but the tone in which he said it
expressed precisely the feeling of the crowd. The voice was again heard:
"Oh, that our thoughts and thanks may rise,
As grateful incense to the skies;
And draw from heaven that sweet repose
Which none but he that feels it knows."
Redwing turned abruptly on his heel.
"Keep the ounces," said he. "Ther's an old woman to hum that thinks a
sight o' me--I reckon, myself, I'm good fur somethin' besides fillin' a
hole in the ground."
That night Sim Ripson complained that it had been the poorest Sunday he
had ever had at Tough Case; the boys drank, but it was a sort of
nerveless, unbusinesslike way that Sim Ripson greatly regretted; and
very few bets were settled in Sim Ripson's principal stock in trade.
When Sim finally learned the cause of his trouble, he promptly announced
his intention of converting Mrs. Blizzer to common sense, and as he had
argued Uncle Ben, first into a perfect frenzy and then into silence, the
crowd considered Mrs. Blizzer's faith doomed.
Monday morning, bright and early, as men with aching heads were taking
their morning bitters, Mrs. Blizzer appeared at Sim Ripson's store, and
purchased a bar of soap.
"Boys heard ye singin' yesterday," said Sim.
"Yes?" inquired Mrs. Blizzer.
"Yes--all of 'em delighted," said Sim, gallantly. "But ye don't believe
in no sich stuff, I s'pose, do ye?"
"What stuff?" asked Mrs. Blizzer.
"Why, 'bout heaven an' hell, an' the Bible, an' all them things. Do ye
know what the Greek fur hell meant? An' do ye know the Bible's all the
time contradictin' itself?" I can show ye--"
"I tell you what I _do_ know, Mr. Ripson," said the woman; "I know some
things in my heart that no mortal bein' never told me, an' they couldn't
be skeered out by all the dictionaries an' commentators a-goin; that's
what I know."
And Mrs. Blizzer departed, while the astonished theologian sheepishly
admitted that he owed drinks to the crowd.
While the ex-deacon, Uncle Ben, was trying to determine to go home, he
found quite a pretty nugget that settled his mind, and he announced that
same night, at the store, that all his mining property was for sale, as
he was going back East.
"I'll go with you, Uncle Ben," said Fourteenth Street.
The crowd was astounded; men of Fourteenth Street's calibre seldom had
pluck enough to go to the mines, and their getting away, or their doing
_any_ thing that required manliness, was of still more unfrequent
occurrence.
"I know it," said the young man, translating the glances which met his
eye. "You fellows think I don't amount to much, anyway. Perhaps I don't.
I came out here because I fell out with a girl I thought I loved. She
acted like a fool, and I made up my mind _all_ women were fools. But
that wife of Blizzer's has shown me more about true womanliness than all
the girls I ever knew, and I'm going back to try it over again."
One morning a small crowd of early drinkers at Sim Ripson's dropped
their glasses, yet did not go briskly out to work as usual. In fact,
they even hung aloof, in a most ungentlemanly manner, from Jerry Miller,
who had just stood treat, and both these departures from the usual
custom indicated that something unusual was the matter. Finally, Topjack
remarked:
"He's a stranger, an' typhus is a bad thing to hev aroun', but
_somethin'_ 'ort to be done for him. 'Taint the thing to ax fur
volunteers, fur it's danger without no chance of pleasin' excitement. We
might throw keerds aroun', one to each feller in the camp, and him as
gets ace of spades is to tend to the poor cuss."
"I think Jerry ought to go himself," argued Flipp.
"He's been exposed already, by lookin' in to the feller's shanty, an's
prob'bly hurt ez bad as he's goin' to be."
"I might go," said Sim Ripson, who, in his character of barkeeper, had
to sustain a reputation for bravery and public spirit, "but 'twouldn't
do to shut up the store, ye know, an' specially the bar--nobody'd stan'
it."
"Needn't trouble yerselves," said Arkansas Bill, who had entered during
the conversation; "_she's_ thar."
"Thunder!" exclaimed Topjack, frowning, and then looking sheepish.
"Yes," continued Bill; "she stopped me ez I wuz comin' along, an' sed
she'd jist heerd of it, an' was a-goin'. I tol' her ther' wuz men enough
in camp to look out fur him, but she said she reckoned she could do it
best. Wants some things from 'Frisco, though, an' I'm a-goin' for 'em."
And Arkansas Bill departed, while the men at Sim Ripson's sneaked
guiltily down to the creek.
For many days the boys hung about the camp's single street every
morning, unwilling to go to work until they had seen Mrs. Blizzer appear
in front of the sick man's hut. The boys took turns at carrying water,
making fires, and serving Mrs. Blizzer generally, and even paid
handsomely for the chance.
One morning Mrs. Blizzer failed to appear at the usual hour. The boys
walked about nervously--they smoked many pipes, and took hurried drinks,
and yet she did not appear. The boys looked suggestingly at her husband,
and he himself appeared to be anxious; but being one of the shiftless
kind, he found anxiety far easier than action.
Suddenly Arkansas Bill remarked, "I can't stan' it any longer," and
walked rapidly toward the sick man's hut, and knocked lightly on the
door, and looked in. There lay the sick man, his eyes partly open, and
on the ground, apparently asleep, and with a very purple face, lay Mrs.
Blizzer.
"Do somethin' for her," gasped the sick man; "give her a chance, for
God's sake. I don't know how long I've been here, but I kind o' woke up
las' night ez ef I'd been asleep; she wuz a-standin' lookin' in my
eyes, an' hed a han' on my cheek. 'I b'lieve it's turned,' sez she,
still a-lookin'. After a bit she sez: 'It's turned sure,' an' all of a
sudden she tumbled. I couldn't holler--I wish to God I could."
[Illustration: ARKANSAS BILL KNOCKED LIGHTLY ON THE DOOR, AND LOOKED IN.
THERE LAY THE SICK MAN, HIS EYES PARTLY OPEN. AND ON THE GROUND,
APPARENTLY ASLEEP, AND WITH PURPLE FACE, LAY MRS. BLIZZER.]
Arkansas Bill opened the door, and called Blizzer, and the crowd
followed Blizzer, though at a respectful distance. In a moment Blizzer
reappeared with his wife, no longer fat, in his arms, and Arkansas Bill
hurried on to open Blizzer's door. The crowd halted, and didn't know
what to do, until Moosoo, the little Frenchman, lifted his hat, upon,
which every man promptly uncovered his head.
A moment later Arkansas Bill was on Sim Ripson's horse, and galloping
off for a doctor, and Sim Ripson, who had always threatened sudden death
to any one touching his beloved animal, saw him, and refrained even from
profanity. The doctor came, and the boys crowded the door to hear what
he had to say.
"Hum!" said the doctor, a rough miner himself, "new arrival--been
fat--worn out--rainy season just coming on--not much chance. No business
to come to California--ought to have had sense enough to stay home."
"Look a' here, doctor," said Arkansas Bill, indignantly; "she's got this
way a-nussin' a feller--stranger, too--that ev'ry _man_ in camp wuz
afeard to go nigh."
"Is that so?" asked the doctor, in a tone considerably softened; "then
she shall get well, if my whole time and attention can bring it about."
The sick woman lay in a burning fever for days, and the boys
industriously drank her health, and bet heavy odds on her recovery. No
singing was 'allowed anywhere in camp, and when an old feud broke out
afresh between two miners, and they drew their pistols, a committee was
appointed to conduct them at least two miles from camp, before allowing
them to shoot.
The Sundays were allowed to pass in the commonplace quietness peculiar
to the rest of the week, and men who were unable to forego their regular
weekly spree were compelled to emigrate. Sim Ripson, though admitting
that the change was decidedly injurious to his business, declared that
he would cheerfully be ruined in business rather than have that woman
disturbed; he was ever heard to say that, though of course there was no
such place as heaven, there _ought_ to be, for such woman.
One evening, as the crowd were quietly drinking and betting, Arkansas
Bill suddenly opened the door of the store, and cried: "She's mendin'!
The fever's broke--'sh-h!"
"My treat, boys," said Sim Ripson, hurrying glasses and favorite bottles
on the bar.
The boys were just clinking glasses with Blizzer himself, who, during
his wife's absence and illness, had drifted back to the store, when
Arkansas Bill again opened the door.
"She's a-sinkin', all of a sudden!" he gasped. "Blizzer, yer wanted."
The two men hurried away, and the crowd poured out of the store. By the
light of a fire in front of the hut in which the sick woman lay, they
saw Blizzer enter, and Arkansas Bill remain outside the hut, near the
door.
The boys stood on one foot, put their hands into their pockets and took
them out again, snapped their fingers, and looked at each other, as if
they wanted to talk about something that they couldn't. Suddenly the
doctor emerged from the hut, and said something to Arkansas Bill, and
the boys saw Arkansas Bill put both hands up to his face. Then the boys
knew that their sympathy could help Blizzer's wife no longer.
Slowly the crowd re-entered the store, and mechanically picked up the
yet untasted glasses. Sim Ripson filled a glass for himself, looked a
second at the crowd, and dropping his eyes, raised them again, looked as
if he had something to say, looked intently into his glass, as if
espying some irregularity, looked up again, and exclaimed:
"Boys, it's no use--mebbe ther's no hell--mebbe the Bible contradicts
itself, but--but ther _is_ a heaven, or such folks would never git their
just dues. Here's to Blizzer's wife, the best man in camp, an' may the
Lord send us somebody like her!"