wan't to take up all the time of this meetin', but you'll all 'low I
know more 'bout that tavern than any body else does. Ther' is lots of
young men a hanging aroun' it, an' why--'cos it's made pleasant for 'em,
an' it's the only place in town that is. I've been a faithful attendant
at that tavern for nigh onto twenty year, an' I never knowed a hanger-on
there that had a comfortable home of his own. Some of them that don't
hev to go to bed hungry hev scoldin' or squabblin' parents, an' they
can't go a visitin' an' hear fine music, an' see nice things of every
sort to take their minds off, as some young men in this meetin' house
can. But the tavern is allus comfortable, an' ther's generally somebody
to sing a song and tell a joke, an' they commence goin' ther' more fur a
pleasant time than for a drink, at fust. Ther's lots of likely boys
goin' there that I wish to God 'd stay away, an' I've often felt like
tellin' 'em so, but what's the use? Where are they to go to?"
"They ort to flee from even the appearance of evil," said Deacon Towser.
"But where be they to flee _to_, Deac'n?" persisted Joe Digg; "would you
like 'em to come a visitin' to your house?"
"They can come to the church meetings," replied the Deacon; "there's two
in the week, besides Sundays, an' some of 'em's precious seasons--_all_
of 'em's an improvement on the wicked tavern."
"'Ligion don't taste no better'n whiskey, tell you get used to it," said
the drunkard, horrifying all the orthodox people at Backley, "an' taint
made half so invitin'. 'Taint long ago I heerd ye tellin' another deacon
that the church-members ort to be 'shamed of 'emselves, 'cos sca'cely
any of 'em come to the week-evenin' meetin's, so ye can't blame the boys
at the tavern."
"Does the gentleman mean to convey the idea that all drunkards become so
from justifying causes?" asked the lecturer.
"No, sir," replied Joe Digg, "but I do mean to say that after you leave
out them that takes liquor to help 'em do a full day's work, an' them
that commence drinkin' 'cos they re at the tavern, an' ain't got no
where's else to go, you've made a mighty big hole in the crowd of
drinkin'-men--bigger'n temperance meetins' ever begin to make yit"
"But how are they to be 'left out'?" asked the lecturer.
"By temp'rance folks doin' somethin' beside talkin'," replied the
drunkard. "For twenty year I've been lectured and scolded, an' some good
men's come to me with tears in their eyes, and put their arms 'roun' my
neck, an' begged me to stop drinkin'. An' I've wanted to, an' tried to,
but when all the encouragement a man gits is in words, an' no matter how
he commenced drinkin', now ev'ry bone an' muscle in him is a beggin' fur
drink ez soon as he leaves off, an' his mind's dull, an' he ain't fit
fur much, an' needs takin' care of as p'tic'ler ez a mighty sick man,
talk's jist as good ez wasted. Ther's been times when ef I'd been ahead
on flour an' meat an' sich, I could a' stopped drinkin', but when a
man's hungry, an' ragged, an' weak, and half-crazy, knowin' how his
family's fixed an he can't do nothin' fur 'em, an' then don't get
nothin' but words to reform on, he'll go back to the tavern ev'ry time,
an' he'll drink till he's comfortable an' till he forgits. I want the
people here, one an' all, to understand that though I'm past helpin'
now, ther's been fifty times in the last twenty year when I might hed
been stopped short, ef any body'd been sensible enough and good-hearted
enough to give me a lift."
Joe Digg sat down, and there was a long pause. The Chairman whispered to
the leader of the Glee Club, and the club sang a song, but somehow it
failed to awaken the usual enthusiasm. After the singing had ended, the
Chairman himself took the floor and moved the appointment of a permanent
committee to look after the intemperate, and to collect funds when the
use of money seemed necessary, and the village doctor created a
sensation by moving that Mr. Joe Digg should be a member of the
committee. Deacon Towser, who was the richest man in the village, and
who dreaded subscription papers, started an insidious opposition by
eloquently vaunting the value of earnest prayer and of determined will,
in such cases, but the new member of the committee (though manifestly
out of order) outmanoeuvred the Deacon by accepting both amendments,
and remarking that in a hard fight folks would take all the help they
could get.
Somehow, as soon as the new committee--determining to open a place of
entertainment in opposition to the tavern, and furnish it pleasantly,
and make it an attractive gathering-place for young men--asked for
contributions to enable them to do it, the temperance excitement at
Backley abated marvelously. But Squire Breet, and the doctor, and
several other enterprising men, took the entire burden on their own
shoulders--or pockets--and Joe Digg was as useful as a reformed thief to
a police department. For the doctor, whose professional education had
left him a large portion of his natural common-sense in working order,
took a practical interest in the old drunkard's case, and others of the
committee looked to the necessities of his family, and it came to pass
that Joe was one of the earliest of the reformers. Men still go to the
tavern at Backley, but as, even when the twelve spake with inspired
tongues, some people remained impenitent, the temperance men at Backley
feel that they have great cause for encouragement, and that they have,
at least, accomplished more within a few months than did all the
temperance meetings ever held in their village.
JUDE.
Gopher Hill had determined that it could not endure Jude any longer.
The inhabitants of Gopher Hill possessed an unusual amount of kindness
and long-suffering, as was proved by the fact that Chinamen were allowed
to work all abandoned claims at the Hill. Had further proof been
necessary, it would have been afforded by the existence of a church
directly beside the saloon, although the frequenters of the sacred
edifice had often, during week-evening meetings, annoyed convivial souls
in the saloon by requesting them to be less noisy.
But Jude was too much for Gopher Hill. No one molested him when he first
appeared, but each citizen entered a mental protest within his own
individual consciousness; for Jude had a bad reputation in most of the
settlements along Spanish Creek.
It was not that he had killed his man, and stolen several horses and
mules, and got himself into a state of most disorderly inebriation, for,
in the opinion of many Gopher Hillites, these actions _might_ have been
the visible results of certain virtuous conditions of mind.
But Jude had, after killing a man, spent the victim's money; he had
stolen from men who had befriended him; he had jumped claims; he had
denied his score at the storekeeper's; he had lied on all possible
occasions; and had gambled away money which had been confided to him in
trust.
One mining camp after another had become too hot for him; but he never
adopted a new set of principles when he staked a new claim, so his stay
in new localities was never of sufficient length to establish the fact
of legal residence. His name seemed to be a respectable cognomen of
Scriptural extraction, but it was really a contraction of a name which,
while equally Scriptural and far more famous, was decidedly
unpopular--the name of Judas Iscariot.
The whole name had been originally bestowed upon Jude, in recognition of
his success in swindling a mining partner; but, with an acuteness of
perception worthy of emulation, the miners determined that the length of
the appellation detracted from its force, so they shortened it to Jude.
As a few of the more enterprising citizens of Gopher Hill were one
morning discussing the desirableness of getting rid of Jude, and
wondering how best to effect such a result, they received important
foreign aid.
A man rode up to the saloon, dismounted, and tacked on the wall a poster
offering one thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of a certain
person who had committed an atrocious murder a month before at Duck Run.
The names and _aliases_ of the guilty person were unfamiliar to those
who gathered about the poster, but the description of the murderer's
appearance was so suggestive, that Squire Bogern, one of the bystanders,
found Jude, and requested him to read the poster.
"Well, 'twasn't _me_ done it," sulkily growled the namesake of the
apostolic treasurer.
"Ther' hain't nobody in Gopher that 'ud take a feller up fur a reward,"
replied the squire, studiously oblivious of Jude's denial; "but it's a
nice mornin' fur a walk. Ye can't miss the trail an' git lost, ye know.
An', seein' yer hevn't staked any claim, an' so hain't got any to
dispose of, mebbe yer could git, inside of five minutes."
Jude was accustomed to "notices to quit," and was able to extract their
import from any verbiage whatever, so he drank by and to himself, and
immediately sauntered out of town, with an air of bravado in his
carriage, and a very lonesome look in his face.
Down the trail he tramped, past claims whose occupants knew him well
enough, but who, just as he passed, found some excuse for looking the
other way.
He passed through one camp after another, and discovered (for he stopped
at each saloon) that the man on horseback had preceded him, and that
there seemed a wonderful unanimity of opinion as to the identity of the
man who was wanted.
Finally, after passing through several of the small camps, which were
dotted along the trail, a mile or two apart, Jude flung himself on the
ground under a clump of azaleas, with the air of a man whose temper had
been somewhat ruffled.
"I wonder," he remarked, after a discursive, fitful, but very spicy
preface of ten minutes' duration, "why they couldn't find somethin' I
_hed_ done, instead of tuckin' some other feller's job on me? I _hev_
had difficulties, but this here one's just one more than _I_ knows on.
Like 'nuff some galoot'll be mean 'nuff to try to git that thousand. I'd
try it myself, ef I wuz only somebody else. Wonder why I can't be
decent, like other fellers. 'Twon't pay to waste time thinkin' 'bout
that, though, fur I'll hev to make a livin' somehow."
Jude indulged in a long sigh, perhaps a penitential one, and drew from
his pocket a well-filled flask, which he had purchased at the last
saloon he had passed.
As he extracted it, there came also from his pocket a copy of the
poster, which he had abstracted from a tree _en route_.
"Thar 'tis again!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Can't be satisfied showin'
itself ev'rywhar, but must come out of my pocket without bein' axed.
Let's see, p'r'aps it don't mean me, after all--'One eye gone, broken
nose, scar on right cheek, powder-marks on left, stumpy beard, sallow
complexion, hangdog look.' _I'd_ give a thousand ef I had it to git the
feller that writ that; an' yit it means me, an' no dodgin'. Lord, Lord!
what 'ud the old woman say ef she wuz to see me nowadays?"
He looked intently at the flask for a moment or two, as if expecting an
answer therefrom, then he extracted the cork, and took a generous drink.
But even the liquor failed to help him to a more cheerful view of the
situation, for he continued:
"Nobody knows me--nobody sez, 'Hello!'--nobody axes me to name my
bitters--nobody even cusses me. They let me stake a claim, but nobody
offers to lend me a pick or a shovel, an' nobody ever comes to the
shanty to spend the evenin', 'less it's a greenhorn. Curse 'em all! I'll
make some of 'em bleed fur it. I'll git their dust, an' go back East;
ther's plenty of folks _thar_ that'll be glad to see me, ef I've got the
dust. An' mebbe 'twould comfort the old woman some, after all the
trouble I've made her. Offer rewards fur me, do they? I'll give 'em some
reason to do it. I hain't afeard of the hull State of Californy,
an'--Good Lord! what's that?"
The gentleman who was not afraid of the whole State of California sprang
hastily to his feet, turned very pale, and felt for his revolver, for he
heard rapid footsteps approaching by a little path in the bushes.
But though the footsteps seemed to come nearer, and very rapidly, he
slowly took his hand from his pistol, and changed his scared look for a
puzzled one.
"Cryin'! Reckon I ain't in danger from anybody that's bellerin'; but
it's the fust time I've heerd that kind of a noise in _these_ parts.
Must be a woman. Sounds like what I used to hear to home when I got on a
tear; _'tis_ a woman!"
As he concluded, there emerged from the path a woman, who was neither
very young nor very pretty, but her face was full of pain, and her eyes
full of tears, which signs of sorrow were augmented by a considerable
scare, as she suddenly found herself face to face with the unhandsome
Jude.
"Don't be afeard of me, marm," said Jude, as the woman retreated a step
or two. "I'm durned sorry for yer, whatever's the matter. I've got a
wife to home, an' it makes me so sorry to hear her cry, that I get blind
drunk ez quick ez I ken."
This tender statement seemed to reassure the woman, for she looked
inquiringly at Jude, and asked:
"Have ye seen a man and woman go 'long with a young one?
"Nary," replied Jude. "Young one lost?"
"Yes!" exclaimed the woman, commencing to cry again; "an' a husban',
too. I don't care much for _him_, for he's a brute, but Johnny--blessed
little Johnny--oh, oh!"
And the poor woman sobbed pitifully.
Jude looked uneasy, and remembering his antidote for domestic tears,
extracted the bottle again. He slowly put it back untasted, however, and
exclaimed:
"What does he look like, marm?--the husband I mean. I never wanted an
excuse to put a hole through a feller ez bad ez I do this mornin'!"
"Don't--don't hurt him, for God's sake!" cried the woman. "He ain't a
good husband--he's run off with another woman, but--but he's Johnny's
father. Yet, if you could get Johnny back--he's the only comfort I ever
had in the world, the dear little fellow--oh, dear me!"
And again she sobbed as if her heart was broken.
"Tell us 'bout 'em. Whar hev they gone to? what do they luk like? Mebbe
I ken git him fur yer," said Jude, looking as if inclined to beat a
retreat, or do anything to get away from the sound of the woman's
crying.
[Illustration: "GET HIM--GET JOHNNY!" CRIED THE WOMAN, FALLING ON HER
KNEES, AND SEIZING JUDE'S HAND.]
"Get him--get Johnny?" cried the woman, falling on her knees, and
seizing Jude's hand. "I can't give you anything for doin' it, but I'll
pray for you, as long as I've got breath, that God may reward you!"
"I reckon," said Jude, as he awkwardly disengaged his hand, "that
prayin' is what'll do me more good than anythin' else jest now. Big
feller is yer husband? An' got any idee whar he is?"
"He _is_ a big man," replied the woman, "and he goes by the name of
Marksey in these parts; and you'll find him at the Widow Beckel's,
across the creek. Kill _her_ if you like--I hope _somebody_ will. But
Johnny--Johnny has got the loveliest brown eyes, and the sweetest mouth
that was ever made, and--"
"Reckon I'll judge fur myself," interrupted Jude, starting off toward
the creek, and followed by the woman. "I know whar Wider Beckel's is,
an'--an' I've done enough stealin', I guess, to be able to grab a little
boy without gittin' ketched. Spanish Crick's purty deep along here, an'
the current runs heavy, but--"
The remainder of Jude's sentence was left unspoken, for just then he
stepped into the creek, and the chill of the snow-fed stream caused him
to hold his breath.
"Remember you aint to hurt _him_!" screamed the woman; "nor her,
neither--God forgive me. But bring Johnny--bring Johnny, and God be with
you."
The woman stood with clasped hands watching Jude until he reached the
opposite bank, shook himself, and disappeared, and then she leaned
against a tree and trembled and cried until she was startled by hearing
some one say:
"Beg pardon, madame, but have you seen any one pass?"
The woman raised her head, and saw a respectable, severe looking man, in
clothing rather neater than was common along Spanish Creek.
"Only one," she replied, "and he's the best man livin'. He's gone to get
Johnny--he won't be gone long."
"Your husband, ma'am?"
"'Oh, no, sir; I never saw him before."
"One eye gone; broken nose; scar on right cheek; powder-marks on left--"
"Yes, sir, that's the man," said the wondering woman.
"Perhaps you may not have seen this?" said the man handing her one of
the posters describing Jude.
Then he uttered a shrill whistle.
The woman read the paper through, and cried:
"It's somebody else--it _must_ be--no murderer would be so kind to a
poor, friendless woman. Oh, God, have I betrayed him? _Don't_ take him,
sir--it must be somebody else. I wish I had money--I would pay you more
than the reward, just to go away and let him alone."
"Madame," replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, "I
could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward. It is the price of
blood. But I am a minister of the gospel, ma'am, and in this godless
generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is
vindicated. My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different
motives."
"You just bet high on that!" exclaimed one of the two men who had
approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian. "Half a' thousan' 's more'n I
could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had. Parson he
is a fool, but _we_, hain't no right to grumble 'bout it, seein' we git
his share--hey, Parleyvoo?"
"You speak truly, Mike," replied his companion, a rather handsome
looking Frenchman, of middle age. "And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the
labor. Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the
fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such
ungentle a manner."
"God's worst curses on all of you!" cried the woman, with an energy
which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and
power, "if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman
has ever found in the world!"
Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two: but the ex-minister
maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed:
"Poor fools! It is written, 'The curse, causeless, shall not fall.' And
yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in
your misfortunes, whatever they may be."
"Then let him alone!" cried the woman. "My only child has been stolen
away from me--dear little Johnny--and the man offered to go get him. And
you've made me betray him. Oh, God curse you all!"
"Madame," replied the still imperturbable parson, "the crime of
blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you
were doing."
The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to
the parson he would abandon the chase.
"It is useless," said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to
the woman, "for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the blood of
Glorieaux."
"Then I'll git the hull thousand," growled Mike, "an' I'll need it, too,
if I've got to stand this sort of thing much longer."
A confused sound of voices on the other side of the creek attracted the
attention of the men, and caused the woman to raise her head. A moment
later Jude appeared, with a child in his arms, and plunged into the
water.
"Now we'll have him!" cried the parson; "and you, madame, will have your
child. Be ready to chase him, men, if he attempts to run when he gets
ashore."
"Go back! go back!" screamed the woman. "They are after you, these men.
Try to--"
The law-abiding parson placed his hand over the woman's mouth, but found
himself promptly flying backward through space, while Mike roared:
"Touch a woman, will yer? No thousand dollars nor any other money, 'll
hire me to travel with such a scoundrel. Catch him yerself, if yer want
ter,"
"But if you do," said Glorieaux, politely, as he drew his revolver, "it
will be necessary for Glorieaux to slay the Lord's anointed."
"Follered, by thunder!" said Mike.
It was true. During the few seconds which had been consumed in
conversation, Jude got well into the creek. He had not seemed to hear
the woman's warning; but now a greater danger threatened him, for on the
opposite bank of the creek there appeared a man, who commenced firing at
Jude's head and the small portion of his shoulders that was visible.
"The monster. Oh, the wretch!" screamed the woman. "He may hit Johnny,
his only son! Oh, God have mercy on me, and save my child!"
A shot immediately behind her followed the woman's prayer, and Glorieaux
exclaimed, pointing to the opposite bank, where Marksey was staggering
and falling:
"Glorieaux gathered from your words that a divorce would be acceptable,
madame. Behold, you have it!"
"Pity nobody didn't think of it sooner," observed Mike, shading his eyes
as he stared intently at Jude, "for there's a red streak in the water
right behind him."
The woman was already standing at the water's edge, with hands clasped
in an agony of terror and anxiety. The three men hastened to join her.
"Wish I could swim," said Mike, "for he's gettin' weak, an' needs help."
The parson sprang into the water, and, in spite of the chill and the
swift current, he was soon by Jude's side.
"Take the young un," gasped Jude, "for I'm a goner."
"Put your hand on my shoulder," said the parson. "I can get you both
ashore."
'"Tain't no use," said Jude, feebly; "corpses don't count for much in
Californy."
"But your immortal part," remonstrated the parson, trying to seize Jude
by the hand which held little Johnny.
"God hev mercy on it!" whispered the dying man; "it's the fust time He
ever had an excuse to do it."
Strong man and expert swimmer as the ex-minister was, he was compelled
to relinquish his hold of the wounded man; and Jude, after one or two
fitful struggles against his fate, drifted lifeless down the stream and
into eternity, while the widowed mother regained her child. The man of
God, the chivalrous Frenchman and the brutish Mike slowly returned to
their camp; but no one who met them could imagine, from their looks,
that they were either of them anything better than fugitives from
justice.
A LOVE OF A COTTAGE.
We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most
comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia
announced that her heart was set upon keeping house. _My_ heart sank
within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married
life is, that when Sophronia's heart is set upon anything, the protests
I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my
own consciousness. Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind
to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still
lower. Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings. I delight
in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can
rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety. But when any
of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square
miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally
occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous,
absent-minded, and uncompanionable. What, then, would be _my_ fate,
after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were
within twenty miles of New York. But Sophronia had decided that it was
to be--and I,
"Mine not to make reply;
Mine not to reason why;
Mine but to do or die."
By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the
full measure of the fate I feared. Sophronia has a highly imaginative
nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive
by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers. So when I
bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a
reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia's interest was excited in
exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves.
Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a
dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck
Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air.
Rutherford Park--well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the
scene in Mrs. Somebody's novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned
name. Villa Valley--
"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore
her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was
christened Peter, but _Miss_ Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon
me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our
home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious--how absolutely enchanting
it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don't you
know?"