out. This second man was somewhat shorter than the first, although
yet a tolerably tall man. He was fairer, as could be seen in spite of
his sunburnt and weather-beaten countenance. His beard was brown, and
was longer and fuller than the first comer’s; and he was altogether
of a thicker, stronger build. These brief descriptions will serve to
introduce the two partners Rube Steele and Ben, whose jarring took up
so much time at the miners’ convention two or three nights before, and
whose relation to the whole camp had grown to be of the most unfriendly
character.
‘How long have you been cooling yourself here?’ asked the second man,
who was of course Ben; ‘and why did you not wake me up?’
‘Reckon I have not been here six minutes,’ replied the other, taking
no notice of the second query. ‘I expect we had better see now about
fixing the breakfast.’
‘You might have done something, instead of loafing around,’ muttered
Ben, who was clearly in no pleasant mood, although his features bespoke
him a frank, good-tempered fellow enough. ‘Here! I will light the fire.’
In a few minutes the fire was blazing, the kettle on, and the men, who
had scarcely interchanged another word, were seated, waiting for the
water to boil.
‘Now, Rube,’ suddenly exclaimed Ben, ‘you know this is my last day
here; I mean clearing out; so this is our time to have a settlement. If
we don’t fix things straight now, we shall not fix them at all.’
‘They air fixed, ain’t they?’ retorted Rube. ‘You have done
considerable as you please; so, if you don’t like the position, I can’t
help it.’
‘You shift too much in your argyment, you do,’ continued Ben. ‘But say
now, right away, do you mean to pay me those fifteen hundred dollars or
not?’
‘You air unreasonable altogether,’ returned Rube. ‘Why should I pay
fifteen hundred dollars, because a man who robbed us both has gone off
with twice as much?’
‘Don’t tell me about robbing us both—you can’t fool me like that!’
angrily exclaimed the other. ‘I never would trust the man with dust—you
knew it—although he was your friend, and you could not say enough in
his favour. It was through you he hung around here; and even if you did
not get your half from him, with a big profit, you are bound in honour
to pay me my share.’
Rube’s eyes assumed for a moment a very ugly and dangerous look, as
his comrade spoke. ‘Seems to me, pardner Ben,’ he said, ‘that you are
gone wrong altogether in this connection. Two or three citizens saw the
order, and thought it was in your writing; so did I. Then where does
the blame come in? Fix it how you like, it was only a mistake, not a
fault. And as to my having shared the plunder with this stranger’——
‘I can’t say you did for certain, of course,’ interrupted Ben. ‘But you
have been out of camp till midnight ever since, and where have you been
all the time? Anyhow, I am fifteen hundred dollars short; that is a
sure thing, and I want it made up. And what do you mean to do about it?’
The altercation seemed likely to grow into a violent quarrel; but
one or two miners from the neighbouring huts came in on matters of
business, and the dispute died out, leaving, however, to judge from
the countenances of the principals, no great amount of good-will on
either side. It was evident from the conversation of these visitors,
that as Ben was about to leave the camp, and as the partnership which
had existed between himself and Rube would of necessity cease, they
had resolved to sell their equipment of tools, mining ‘fixings,’ and
tent furniture, all of which were known to be very complete. This was
what drew the miners to the tent; and among the visitors, there was a
general understanding that the partners were not separating on good
terms; indeed, most of those who came showed, by their addressing
themselves almost exclusively to one or the other, a partisanship
in the matter. Various bargains were struck by either partner; but
whatever was done by Ben invariably produced unfavourable comment from
Rube; while Ben did not attempt to conceal his dislike of nearly all
transactions managed by his partner.
So the day wore on, with no increase of good-will in the tent; and
the interchange of conversation grew less and less, while it became
more irritating in its tone. Had the men remained together all day, a
quarrel must certainly have arisen; but this was not the case, one or
other being absent from the tent for the greater part of the time.
It was while Rube was absent towards the close of the afternoon, that
a miner drew near to the tent, and from the repeated glances he threw
around him, and the deliberate manner in which he approached, he seemed
to be on his guard against some danger. At last, when he was very close
to the tent, Ben came to the opening, and being busied in arranging
some of the household gear which he was removing from the interior,
would not have noticed this new-comer, but that the latter, in a lower
voice than appeared to be requisite, exclaimed: ‘Ben! hist! Are you
alone, Ben?’
Ben looked up, and apparently recognised the man, for he smiled as he
replied: ‘Yes, Absalom, I am alone; and quite at your service, if you
want me upon any business.’
The stranger was a little spare man, with a sufficiently comical cast
of features; yet he did not respond to Ben’s smile, but with a very
grave face, came closer.
‘Why, Absalom!’ exclaimed Ben with a grin of amusement spreading over
his face, as he noticed the little man’s gravity, ‘what is the matter
now? Been playing at “monté” again, I suppose?’
This allusion to the gambling weakness which was known to be a feature
in poor Absalom’s character, also failed to diminish the serious cast
of the little man’s countenance.
‘Let us go into the tent and talk,’ said the stranger, still without
any responsive smile on his lips; and as, with the freedom of
camp-life, he led the way, Ben followed him, wondering and smiling
still at Absalom’s important air.
‘Now, then, Ab,’ he continued, ‘what is it? Let us have your news
first; then we will take a drink.’
‘Do you know that Bill Dobell is in camp?’ asked Absalom, putting more
mystery and importance into his manner than before.
‘No; I guess I did not know it,’ replied Ben. ‘If so, he had better
clear out soon; or before I go, I will leave a message which will send
a dozen of the boys after him, and will teach him that the Vigilantes
are not dead yet.’
‘It will be too late,’ said the other.—‘Now tell me, Ben, has not
Indian Peter offered to buy the mules and wagon that you have in
Fandango Gulch? And are you not to meet him there at sundown to settle
the trade?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Ben, still wondering, but with much less
disposition to smile. The little man’s earnestness had impressed him,
and he, moreover, began to regard the conjunction of names as ominous.
‘Well, then, Ben,’ continued Absalom, glancing nervously around him
and dropping his voice to a whisper, ‘it is all a planned thing with
Rube, your pardner, and these other two. You will go to Fandango Gulch;
but you will never leave it alive! Bill Dobell is to have five hundred
dollars in gold-dust for shooting you; and Indian Peter is to have
something for trapping you down there.’
‘And Rube?’ asked Ben, in a voice which told how far he was from
doubting this strange story.
‘Wal, Rube of course is to be the paymaster. He says you have a sight
of plunder in—in those two valises,’ said Absalom, pointing to a couple
of old but strong travelling-bags in a corner of the tent. ‘You know
best if he is right.’
‘How do you know all this?’ demanded Ben sternly.
‘I have been having drinks with the boys at Rattlesnake Claim,’
returned Absalom, ‘and so have not gone to my own shanty lately. You
know that is a long way outside the city. Two nights ago, I slept at
Big Donald’s. Last night, I felt real bad, and so I got into Indian
Peter’s shanty. I thought he had left the camp for a day or two, so I
crept under some buffalo robes to have my sleep. I was woke by some men
talking, and I was about to crawl out, when I recognised Bill Dobell’s
voice; and you know he has threatened to shoot me at sight, for telling
how he broke the stamp-mill. So I lay low, and heard Rube settle with
them other two. Of course I made up my mind to tell you, and have been
hanging around here all day to get a chance of seeing you by yourself.
And it is my belief, Ben, that Rube met Californy Jones on the night
that scallawag went off with your gold-dust.’
‘I feel considerable certain he did,’ returned Ben; ‘and I have told
Rube as much.’
‘I saw Rube meet a man at the Big Loaf Rock, in the cañon,’ continued
Absalom. ‘I knew the man somewhere, but could not remember him at the
time, and I only saw his back. He had a dog with him too, which was
a good deal on the growl, so I daren’t go nigh.’ And here Absalom
detailed the adventure with which the reader has been made acquainted.
‘Bill Dobell in camp! Rube in league with him and Indian Peter! and
Californy Jones hanging about the cañon!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘Then my first
suspicion was right, and Rube _did_ send some men into the cañon to
shoot me! I thought he was a long time getting his posse together;
and a pretty collection they were! He had plenty of time to send his
desperadoes on first, and they were Dobell and Indian Peter, you bet.’
‘I think it’s very likely,’ returned Absalom; ‘for Rube is a bad man;
and if he ever knows what I have told you to-day, he will mark me.’
‘All right, Absalom. The span of mules and the wagon in Fandango Gulch
are yours; you can fetch them in the morning. I reckon Rube won’t
interfere with you then, said Ben. ‘It is near sundown now; so do you
clear out, and send Van Boldvert from Pennsylvania Claim up here, and
the Englishmen from Happy Jack Gulch. Go quickly.’
The little miner vanished; and Ben waited until the arrival of the men
whom he had summoned, casting many a glance meanwhile in the direction
from which his treacherous partner should appear.
Looking out westward across the plains, the broad red disc of the sun
was seen just touching the horizon, and everything bathed in his last
rays was golden, yet not dazzlingly bright. A peculiar softness and
repose was in the light of the setting orb. It was almost the time
at which he was to keep his appointment; so, when the men arrived,
wondering at the urgent summons delivered, he hastily told them the
gist of the information he had received, and suggested that some steps
should be taken to get rid of Bill Dobell, who was acknowledged to be
the most desperate ruffian of all who infested the mines.
Van Boldvert, who, with all the phlegm and external apathy of the
genuine Pennsylvanian Dutchmen, had their quiet resolution too, said a
few words indicative of the treatment he intended to adopt—a process
which boded no good either to Dobell or his accomplice Indian Peter.
‘And how about Rube?’ said one of the Englishmen from Happy Jack Gulch.
‘What is to be done with him? It seems to me that he is the worst of
the lot; and if there is to be any stringing-up, why, string him up
first, _I_ say.’
‘You sees how it is,’ responded the Dutchman. ‘Rube is de vorst; dere
is not no doubt about dat; but he has had a good character as yet,
and so far as the miners knows, it is his first offence. So ve shall
shust varn him off; and if he comes more closer nor sixty miles to dese
diggings, ve shtrings him up. But dese oders—vell, dey are shust de two
vorse men ve ever had here, and ve settles dem anyhow.’
As it was Ben’s own case, it was thought better that the Vigilantes
should work without him. Had they decided otherwise, not his intended
departure or anything else would have been allowed to stand in the way;
on forfeit of his own life, he must have accompanied them.
The visitors disappeared; and so short a time had the conference
occupied, that the last rays of the sun still brightened the evening
clouds, when Ben saw, from the door of his tent, fourteen or fifteen
men leave the city, and stealthily and in several parties take the
line which he well knew would lead them to Fandango Gulch, where the
treacherous ambush was to have been set for him.
Taking with him the two valises to which Absalom had made so startling
a reference, Ben strode across to a hut, mean-looking enough, but which
was somewhat larger than common, and which was dignified by the words
‘Bank, Post-office, Mail Depôt,’ being inscribed on boards as large as
the front and sides of the building would conveniently hold. Having
deposited his luggage with the clerk, he was about to return to his own
tent, when he muttered: ‘I will have a last look at the old place;’
then turning at once into one of the numerous ravines which ran close
up to the town, he was speedily at the foot of the low hills; and a few
score yards, easily threaded by him, amid the intricacies of trenches,
mounds, and pools, brought him to the scene of his last speculations.
The moon was rising. It is hardly possible to say so much without
adding that it had risen, as the full-moon, of a size and splendour not
seen in northern climates, would rise there completely in five minutes;
while its light, although softer and less penetrating than it would be
when the disc was high in the heavens, was enough to render even the
smallest objects visible.
‘I guess there is a deal more metal in this placer than has ever come
out,’ half-murmured Ben, as he looked at the spot; ‘and I am leaving a
good thing. But it is all for the best. I have realised more dollars
than I shall ever spend, and I am not so young as I was; and some of
the people here are getting a little tired of me. That p’isonous Rube
was the first, maybe; but he would not be the last, if I stayed here,
to try how thick my skin is. And I remember that, more ’n a month ago,
a bullet was sent through my hair by accident. There would be another
such accident soon, I reckon, and as before, no one could guess whose
bullet it might be. Wal, this is the last time I shall take a survey of
this or any other mine. The water is high to-night.’ He turned, as he
spoke, to look at the pool by which he was standing; but as he did so,
he suddenly ceased his speech, and instinctively recoiled.
The pool was a little below where he stood—only some two or three feet;
but a kind of beach or margin lay between him and the water; and as he
turned round, the figure of a man, coming from behind a mound of earth,
which lay on this margin like a small cliff, emerged into the full
moonlight. The start and broken exclamation of Ben were repeated by the
other.
‘Wal, is that Ben?’ exclaimed the voice of Rube. ‘Why, hadn’t you got
to meet Indian Peter at the Gulch, to settle about them mules?’
‘Yes,’ returned Ben briefly; ‘I had.’
‘Ha! you have not been, I estimate,’ continued Rube. ‘Is the trade off?’
‘I have sent some friends to transact my share of the business for me,’
said Ben; and either the ambiguous character of the reply, or its tone,
roused Rube’s suspicions; for he glanced quickly up at the speaker,
with the same cunning, dangerous look which his face had worn earlier
in the day.
‘I see there’s a good many handles and broken tools about here, Ben,’
he said, changing the subject. ‘Before I take another pardner, I shall
have a clearing-up.’
‘I think it’s very likely,’ said Ben drily, and his tone again caused
the quick, dangerous look to come on Rube’s face. The latter had by
this time approached almost to where Ben stood, and he turned to look,
as it seemed, across the pool and out over the deserted diggings,
to the rising moon; but as he did so, with an almost imperceptible
movement he brought his revolver further to the front. To any but a
practised eye, the movement would have been entirely concealed; but Ben
saw it, and knew its meaning.
‘Air you going to Fandango Gulch, Ben?’ asked Rube, turning again to
his ex-partner. ‘I reckon Peter will be considerably riled if you
don’t.’
‘As you say, there’s a sight of useful things lying about here,’
returned Ben, stooping, and looking at some of the broken implements;
‘and I had no idea we had left so much. Indian Peter won’t miss me.’
‘Ain’t you going to meet him, then, and why?’ demanded Rube, with
another sinister glance upward, and another slight hitch forward of his
scabbard—as revolver holsters are usually termed in the west.
‘Because Indian Peter is in the hands of the Vigilantes by this
time, you traitor and hound!’ burst forth Ben, his smothered passion
appearing to overcome him. ‘So is Bill Dobell; and so’——
His sentence was never finished, for both men dashed savagely at each
other at the same moment. Rube, when he heard the words which told him
that his plot was discovered and defeated, with a bitter oath jerked
his pistol from its scabbard, cocked, and fired; but though he did it
almost instantaneously, the hawk-eye of Ben was too quick for him, and
the aim, which must have been deadly, so close were they together, was
balked by a powerful stroke with the handle of a pick, which Ben had
secured under the feint of examining the refuse implements. As Rube
levelled his pistol, Ben dealt him a desperate blow on the back of
the head. The weapon exploded harmlessly in the air; and Rube, with a
single groan, stumbled forward and fell senseless and motionless on his
face.
He lay on the margin or beach described as being between the elevated
ledge and the pool; and there was something in the helpless, inanimate
figure which convinced Ben that his stroke had taken deadly effect.
‘I believe he is dead,’ he said, after a pause, during which he grasped
his club in readiness for another blow. ‘I was sorry I had left my
six-shooter behind, when I saw what he was after; but this has done as
well. Let me make sure.’
He lifted up the prostrate man’s arm; and when he released it, it fell
heavily and clod-like, just as it was dropped. He turned the body half
round and placed his hand over the heart, but could feel no pulsation.
‘The Vigilantes have been saved some trouble, either now or at another
time, anyhow,’ he continued. ‘I hope they have caught Indian Peter
and Bill Dobell, and then the camp has got quit of the three worst
characters in it. I shall say nothing about this before I clear out. I
have so many dollars in my satchels, that a very little would serve as
an excuse to Rube’s friends for lynching me.’
Acting on this determination, he quietly returned to the camp, or
city, where he soon learned that justice had overtaken Bill Dobell and
Indian Peter. In further confirmation, the driver of the mail, as he
drove from the town, some hours later in the night, showed him, as an
object of interest, two figures pendent from the boughs of a solitary
tree some hundred and fifty yards from the roadside, which tree had, it
appeared, often served such a purpose before.
The driver, having come on from a distant station with the coach,
was not so well acquainted with the antecedent particulars of this
demonstration of justice, as was the passenger who sat by his side on
the box; nor did he know the latter’s interest in the matter.
‘I do hear,’ continued the driver, ‘that Rube Steele was looked for to
make a third; but it is calculated he made tracks in time. It is a good
thing to get rid of such desperadoes as Bill Dobell and Indian Peter;
but it’s an awful pity they missed Rube.’
The outside passenger kept his own counsel, being very well satisfied
that his partner’s fate should remain unknown until he had placed at
least a hundred leagues between himself and the mining town.
CONCERNING LOVE.
IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.
Love is a stupendous paradox. You cannot elaborate a theory with
regard to it which shall be at once entirely consistent in itself and
all-comprehensive in its application. You may note its manifestations,
estimate its force, trace its progress, and speculate upon its
potentialities; but how can you hope to reduce to a self-consistent
philosophy its thousand-and-one contrarieties and its endless shades of
diversity—its glowing triumphs, its merry comedies, its sad irrevocable
catastrophes—its sweet reasonableness, its wild infatuation, and its
incomprehensible eccentricities? There is perhaps no subject under
the sun which has been a more constant theme of poets, essayists, and
philosophers; but what is the net result of all that these have told
us? It is a long category of heterogeneous and conflicting dicta or
speculations, comprising, it is true, many sage reflections, accurate
observations, and charming fancies, but, as a whole, presenting rather
the aspect of a kaleidoscopic view than that of an intelligible and
harmonious picture.
Though the praise of love has been more common than its disparagement,
there are not wanting those who have been disposed to treat the
subject with irony and ridicule. It was Laurence Sterne who said that
the expression ‘fall in love’ evidently showed love to be beneath a
man. This was no doubt intended for nothing more than a facetious play
upon the words; but there are numerous writers, both before and after
Sterne, who have ridiculed the votaries of the tender passion and
disparaged the god Cupid. Bacon speaks of love as ‘this weak passion,’
and quotes with approval the remark, that ‘it is impossible to love and
be wise.’ Cervantes satirises the extravagances of the amorous passion
to the top of his bent in the adventures of his mad hero Don Quixote,
in whose fantasy and mock-heroic panegyrics love is a never-absent
theme; indeed, it is an essential element of his madness, for he is
made to declare that ‘the knight-errant that is loveless resembles a
tree that wants leaves and fruit, or a body without a soul.’
Certain of Shakspeare’s creations also join in this detraction, and
the lover and the lunatic are placed in the same category, as—with the
poet—‘of imagination all compact;’ while one of his characters—the fair
Rosalind—declares: ‘Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves
as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.’ The affinity of love
and madness has formed the subject of much learned disquisition, and
the general testimony would seem to show that there must be numerous
instances in which it might be said, adapting Dryden’s couplet on the
subject of ‘great wits:’
Great love is sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do the bounds divide.
Carlyle remarks that ‘love is not altogether a delirium; yet it has
many points in common therewith.’ From the illustrations that are
constantly set before us, it would appear that the chief point in
common between love and madness or delirium is that in both cases the
victim becomes more or less devoid of the power of self-control, and,
in his or her infatuation, indulges in the most serious or ludicrous
extravagances.
The evidence would seem to indicate that Reason, in the presence
of Love, is obliged to descend from her throne, and pay tribute to
what has become the dominating motive. When Love takes possession,
it subsidises and controls the judgment, tastes, faculties, and
inclinations of the individual, and is not to be argued down, even by
the subject himself, much less by others. In the words of Addison:
Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness;
’Tis second life—it grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.
From whatever point of view we approach this theme, we soon encounter
what is, perhaps, after all, the most prominent and least dubitable
characteristic of love—namely, its far-reaching, all-pervading potency.
Bacon, with all his philosophical acumen, is obviously wrong when he
describes love as a ‘weak passion;’ indeed, the phrase itself is a
contradiction in terms. Voltaire is much more just in his estimate when
he says: ‘Love is the strongest of all the passions, because it attacks
at once the head, the heart, and the body.’
What Bacon evidently intended to refer to was the weakness, not of the
passion, but of the will which could not repel or subdue it. This view
is borne out by the context, which is, that ‘great spirits and great
business do keep out this weak passion.’ This contention, however, is
no more tenable than his characterisation. All the evidence goes to
prove that love is not to be conquered by great spirits, or smothered
by great business, any more than it is to be reasoned down. As the
French proverb says: ‘Close the door in Love’s face, and he will leap
in at the window;’ and the aphorism is equally applicable to mental and
material obstructions. In the same way Shakspeare teaches that ‘stony
limits cannot hold love out;’ that ‘the more thou dam’st it up, the
more it burns;’ and that ‘Love is your master, for he masters you.’
There is, indeed, no aspect of this passion regarding which so great
unanimity prevails as that expressed in those last quotations. It is
Scott who declares that