Little Guzzy

                            A CHARMING BOOK.

                           _JUST PUBLISHED._

                            BY THE AUTHOR OF

                           “HELEN’S BABIES.”

                             --------------

In this country and in Great Britain over 250,000 copies have been sold
of “Helen’s Babies,” and it is safe to say that more than _half a
million_ of readers are eagerly waiting for the narrative of the further
haps and mishaps of those irresistible youths, “Budge” and “Toddie.”

                                -------

    “A new book from the pen of Mr. Habberton, while not an unlooked
    for event, for the reason that he has published so much within
    the past few years that his wealth of resource is proverbial and
    his industry almost as remarkable as was that of either Budge or
    Toddie, is nevertheless a very welcome one. Mr. Habberton has
    written himself into the good graces of the public, and with
    each new venture he finds a still warmer welcome than the last
    received.

    “The contents consists of a number of stories, of various
    lengths, on every imaginable subject, grave, gay and pathetic,
    and there is such a supply of each that all readers will find
    something to their satisfaction. Already large editions have
    been sold, and the demand grows with the knowledge learned from
    those who have read it that =_it is the best book this author
    has put forth_=.”

                                                   _Brooklyn Eagle._

                                -------

Elegantly printed and illustrated, bound in cloth, price, $1.50; also a
paper covered edition, price, $1.00.

Sold everywhere and sent by mail on receipt of price.

                   G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,

                                             _Madison Square, New York_.




[Illustration:

  THE CAPTAIN BURST INTO A LAUGH, WHICH MADE THE MINISTER’S CHANDELIERS
    RATTLE.—_Page 155._
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                              LITTLE GUZZY




                          _AND OTHER STORIES_.




                                   BY


                             THE AUTHOR OF


                         “_HELEN_’S_ BABIES_.”





                         _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._





[Illustration]



                              _NEW YORK_:
                          Copyright, 1878, by
                  _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.

                       LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.

                             MDCCCLXXVIII.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   Copyrighted by FRANK LESLIE, 1877.




[Illustration]






                                 TROW’S
                      PRINTING & BOOKBINDING CO.,
                        _205-213 East 12th St._,
                               NEW YORK.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _To FRANK LESLIE_,


Who, while other publishers were advising the writer of these sketches
to write, supplied the author with encouragement in the shape of a
publishing medium and the lucre which all literary men despise but long
for, this volume is respectfully dedicated by

                                                             THE AUTHOR.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   THE SCHOOLTEACHER AT BOTTLE FLAT.


IT certainly _was_ hard. What was the freedom of a country in which the
voice of the original founders was spent in vain? Had not they, the
“Forty” miners of Bottle Flat, really started the place? Hadn’t they
located claims there? Hadn’t they contributed three ounces each,
ostensibly to set up in business a brother miner who unfortunately lost
an arm, but really that a saloon might be opened, and the genuineness
and stability of the camp be assured? Hadn’t they promptly killed or
scared away every Chinaman who had ever trailed his celestial pig-tail
into the Flat? Hadn’t they cut and beaten a trail to Placerville, so
that miners could take a run to that city when the Flat became too
quiet? Hadn’t they framed the squarest betting code in the whole
diggings? And when a ’Frisco man basely attempted to break up the camp
by starting a gorgeous saloon a few miles up the creek, hadn’t they gone
up in a body and cleared him out, giving him only ten minutes in which
to leave the creek for ever? All this they had done, actuated only by a
stern sense of duty, and in the patient anticipation of the reward which
traditionally crowns virtuous action. But now—oh, ingratitude of
republics!—a schoolteacher was to be forced upon Bottle Flat in spite of
all the protest which they, the oldest inhabitants, had made!

Such had been their plaint for days, but the sad excitement had not been
productive of any fights, for the few married men in the camp prudently
absented themselves at night from “The Nugget” saloon, where the matter
was fiercely discussed every evening. There was, therefore, such an
utter absence of diversity of opinion, that the most quarrelsome
searched in vain for provocation.

On the afternoon of the day on which the opening events of this story
occurred, the boys, by agreement, stopped work two hours earlier than
usual, for the stage usually reached Bottle Flat about two hours before
sundown, and the one of that day was to bring the hated teacher. The
boys had wellnigh given up the idea of further resistance, yet curiosity
has a small place even in manly bosoms, and they could at least _look_
hatred at the detested pedagogue. So about four o’clock they gathered at
The Nugget so suddenly, that several fathers, who were calmly drinking
inside, had barely time to escape through the back windows.

The boys drank several times before composing themselves into their
accustomed seats and leaning-places; but it was afterward asserted, and
Southpaw—the one-armed barkeeper—cited as evidence, that none of them
took sugar in their liquor. They subjected their sorrow to homeopathic
treatment by drinking only the most raw and rasping fluids that the bar
afforded.

The preliminary drinking over, they moodily whittled, chewed, and
expectorated; a stranger would have imagined them a batch of miserable
criminals awaiting transportation.

The silence was finally broken by a decided-looking red-haired man, who
had been neatly beveling the door-post with his knife, and who spoke as
if his words only by great difficulty escaped being bitten in two.

“We ken burn down the schoolhouse right before his face and eyes, and
then mebbe the State Board’ll git our idees about eddycation.”

“Twon’t be no use, Mose,” said Judge Barber, whose legal title was
honorary, and conferred because he had spent some time in a penitentiary
in the East. “Them State Board fellers is wrong, but they’ve got grit,
ur they’d never hev got the schoolhouse done after we rode the
contractor out uv the Flat on one of his own boards. Besides, some uv
’em might think we wuz rubbin’ uv it in, an’ next thing you know’d
they’d be buildin’ us a jail.”

“Can’t we buy off these young uns’ folks?” queried an angular fellow
from Southern Illinois. “They’re a mizzable pack of shotes, an’ I
b’leeve they’d all leave the camp fur a few ounces.”

“Ye—es,” drawled the judge, dubiously; “but thar’s the Widder
Ginneys—_she’d_ pan out a pretty good schoolroom-full with her eight
young uns, an’ there ain’t ounces enough in the diggin’s to make _her_
leave while Tom Ginneys’s coffin’s roostin’ under the rocks.”

“Then,” said Mose, the first speaker, his words escaping with even more
difficulty than before, “throw around keards to see who’s to marry the
widder, an’ boss her young uns. The feller that gits the fust Jack’s to
do the job.”

“Meanin’ no insult to this highly respectable crowd,” said the judge, in
a very bland tone, and inviting it to walk up to the bar and specify its
consolation, “I don’t b’leeve there’s one uv yer the widder’d hev.” The
judge’s eye glanced along the line at the bar, and he continued softly,
but in decided accents—“Not a cussed one. But,” added the judge, passing
his pouch to the barkeeper, “if anything’s to be done, it must be done
lively, fur the stage is pretty nigh here. Tell ye what’s ez good ez
ennything. We’ll crowd around the stage, fust throwin’ keards for who’s
to put out his hoof to be accidently trod onto by the infernal teacher
ez he gits out. Then satisfaction must be took out uv the teacher. It’ll
be a mean job, fur these teachers hevn’t the spunk of a coyote, an’ ten
to one he won’t hev no shootin’ irons, so the job’ll hev to be done with
fists.”

“Good!” said Mose. “The crowd drinks with me to a square job, and no
backin’. Chuck the pasteboards, jedge——The—dickens!” For Mose had got
first Jack.

“Square job, and no backin’,” said the judge, with a grin. “There’s the
stage now—hurry up, fellers!”

The stage drew up with a crash in front of The Nugget, and the
passengers, outside and in, but none looking teacherish, hurried into
the saloon. The boys scarcely knew whether to swear from disappointment
or gratification, when a start from Mose drew their attention again to
the stage. On the top step appeared a small shoe, above which was
visible a small section of stocking far whiter and smaller than is usual
in the mines. In an instant a similar shoe appeared on the lower step,
and the boys saw, successively, the edge of a dress, a waterproof cloak,
a couple of small gloved hands, a bright muffler, and a pleasant face
covered with brown hair, and a bonnet. Then they heard a cheerful voice
say:

“I’m the teacher, gentlemen—can any one show me the schoolhouse?”

The miserable Mose looked ghastly, and tottered. A suspicion of a wink
graced the judge’s eye, but he exclaimed in a stern, low tone: “Square
job, an’ no backin’,” upon which Mose took to his heels and the
Placerville trail.

The judge had been a married man, so he promptly answered:

“I’ll take yer thar, mum, ez soon ez I git yer baggage.”

“Thank you,” said the teacher; “that valise under the seat is all.”

The judge extracted a small valise marked “Huldah Brown,” offered his
arm, and he and the teacher walked off before the astonished crowd as
naturally as if the appearance of a modest-looking young lady was an
ordinary occurrence at the Flat.

The stage refilled, and rattled away from the dumb and staring crowd,
and the judge returned.

“Well, boys,” said he, “yer got to marry _two_ women, now, to stop that
school, an’ you’ll find this un more particler than the widder. I just
tell yer what it is about that school—it’s a-goin’ to go on, spite uv
any jackasses that wants it broke up; an’ any gentleman that’s insulted
ken git satisfaction by——”

[Illustration:

  TOLEDO AND THE COMMITTEEMEN’S VISIT TO THE SCHOOLTEACHER.
]

“Who wants it broke up, you old fool?” demanded Toledo, a man who had
been named after the city from which he had come, and who had been from
the first one of the fiercest opponents of the school. “I move the
appointment uv a committee of three to wait on the teacher, see if the
school wants anything money can buy, take up subscriptions to git it,
an’ lay out any feller that don’t come down with the dust when he’s went
fur.”

“Hurray!” “Bully!” “Good!” “Sound!” “Them’s the talk!” and other
sympathetic expressions, were heard from the members of the late
anti-school party.

The judge, who, by virtue of age, was the master of ceremonies and
general moderator of the camp, very promptly appointed a committee,
consisting of Toledo and two miners, whose attire appeared the most
respectable in the place, and instructed them to wait on the schoolmarm,
and tender her the cordial support of the miners.

Early the next morning the committee called at the schoolhouse, attached
to which were two small rooms in which teachers were expected to keep
house.

The committee found the teacher “putting to rights” the schoolroom. Her
dress was tucked up, her sleeves rolled, her neck hidden by a bright
handkerchief, and her hair “a-blowin’ all to glory,” as Toledo afterward
expressed it. Between the exertion, the bracing air, and the excitement
caused by the newness of everything, Miss Brown’s pleasant face was
almost handsome.

“Mornin’, marm,” said Toledo, raising a most shocking hat, while the
remaining committee-men expeditiously ranged themselves behind him, so
that the teacher might by no chance look into their eyes.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said Miss Brown, with a cheerful smile;
“please be seated. I suppose you wish to speak of your children?”

Toledo, who was a very young man, blushed, and the whole committee was
as uneasy on its feet as if its boots had been soled with fly-blisters.
Finally, Toledo answered:

“Not much, marm, seein’ we ain’t got none. Me an’ these gentlemen’s a
committee from the boys.”

“From the boys?” echoed Miss Brown. She had heard so many wonderful
things about the Golden State, that now she soberly wondered whether
bearded men called themselves boys, and went to school.

“From the miners, washin’ along the crick, marm—they want to know what
they ken do fur yer,” continued Toledo.

“I am very grateful,” said Miss Brown; “but I suppose the local school
committee——”

“Don’t count on them, marm,” interrupted Toledo; “they’re livin’ five
miles away, and they’re only the preacher, an’ doctor, an’ a feller
that’s j’ined the church lately. None uv ’em but the doctor ever shows
themselves at the saloon, an’ _he_ only comes when there’s a diffikilty,
an’ he’s called in to officiate. But the boys—the boys hez got the dust,
marm, an’ they’ve got the will. One uv us’ll be in often to see what can
be done fur yer. Good-mornin’, marm.”

Toledo raised his hat again, the other committee-men bowed profoundly to
all the windows and seats, and then the whole retired, leaving Miss
Brown in the wondering possession of an entirely new experience.

“Well?” inquired the crowd, as the committee approached the creek.

“Well,” replied Toledo, “she’s just a hundred an’ thirty pound nugget,
an’ no mistake—hey, fellers?”

“You bet,” promptly responded the remainder of the committee.

“Good!” said the judge. “What does she want?”

Toledo’s countenance fell.

“By thunder!” he replied, “we got out ’fore she had a chance to tell
us!”

The judge stared sharply upon the young man, and hurriedly turned to
hide a merry twitching of his lips.

That afternoon the boys were considerably astonished and scared at
seeing the schoolmistress walking quickly toward the creek. The chairman
of the new committee was fully equal to the occasion. Mounting a rock,
he roared:

“You fellers without no sherts on, git. You with shoes off, put ’em on.
Take your pants out uv yer boots. Hats off when the lady comes. Hurry
up, now—no foolin’.”

The shirtless ones took a lively double-quick toward some friendly
bushes, the boys rolled down their sleeves and pantaloons, and one or
two took the extra precaution to wash the mud off their boots.

Meanwhile Miss Brown approached, and Toledo stepped forward.

“Anything wrong up at the schoolhouse?” said he.

“Oh, no,” replied Miss Brown, “but I have always had a great curiosity
to see how gold was obtained. It seems as if it must be very easy to
handle those little pans. Don’t you—don’t you suppose some miner would
lend me his pan and let me try just _once_?”

“Certingly, marm; ev’ry galoot ov ’em would be glad of the chance. Here,
you fellers—who’s got the cleanest pan?”

Half a dozen men washed out their pans, and hurried off with them.
Toledo selected one, put in dirt and water, and handed it to Miss Brown.

“Thar you are, marm, but I’m afeard you’ll wet your dress.”

“Oh, that won’t harm,” cried Miss Brown, with a laugh which caused one
enthusiastic miner to “cut the pigeon-wing.”

She got the miner’s touch to a nicety, and in a moment had a spray of
dirty water flying from the edge of the pan, while all the boys stood in
a respectful semicircle, and stared delightedly. The pan empty, Toledo
refilled it several times; and, finally, picking out some pebbles and
hard pieces of earth, pointed to the dirty, shiny deposit in the bottom
of the pan, and briefly remarked:

“Thar ’tis, marm.”

“Oh!” screamed Miss Brown, with delight; “is that really gold-dust?”

“That’s it,” said Toledo. “I’ll jest put it up fur yer, so yer ken kerry
it.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Brown, “I couldn’t think of it—it isn’t mine.”

“You washed it out, marm, an’ that makes a full title in these parts.”

All of the traditional honesty of New England came into Miss Brown’s
face in an instant; and, although she, Yankee-like, estimated the value
of the dust, and sighingly thought how much easier it was to win gold in
that way than by forcing ideas into stupid little heads, she firmly
declined the gold, and bade the crowd a smiling good-day.

“Did yer see them little fingers uv hern a-holdin’ out that pan?—did yer
see her, fellers?” inquired an excited miner.

“Yes, an’ the way she made that dirt git, ez though she was useder to
washin’ than wallopin’,” said another.

“Wallopin’!” echoed a staid miner. “I’d gie my claim, an’ throw in my
pile to boot, to be a young ’un an’ git walloped by them playthings of
han’s.”

“Jest see how she throwed dirt an’ water on them boots,” said another,
extending an enormous ugly boot. “Them boots ain’t fur sale now—them
ain’t.”

“Them be durned!” contemptuously exclaimed another. “She tramped right
on my toes as she backed out uv the crowd.”

Every one looked jealously at the last speaker, and a grim old fellow
suggested that the aforesaid individual had obtained a trampled foot by
fraud, and that each man in camp had, consequently, a right to demand
satisfaction of him.

But the judge decided that he of the trampled foot was right, and that
any miner who wouldn’t take such a chance, whether fraudulently or
otherwise, hadn’t the spirit of a man in him.

Yankee Sam, the shortest man in camp, withdrew from the crowd, and paced
the banks of the creek, lost in thought. Within half an hour Sam was
owner of the only store in the place, had doubled the prices of all
articles of clothing contained therein, and increased at least six-fold
the price of all the white shirts.

Next day the sun rose on Bottle Flat in his usual conservative and
impassive manner. Had he respected the dramatic proprieties, he would
have appeared with astonished face and uplifted hands, for seldom had a
whole community changed so completely in a single night.

Uncle Hans, the only German in the camp, had spent the preceding
afternoon in that patient investigation for which the Teutonic mind is
so justly noted. The morning sun saw over Hans’s door a sign, in
charcoal, which read, “SHAVIN’ DUN HIER”; and few men went to the creek
that morning without submitting themselves to Hans’s hands.

Then several men who had been absent from the saloon the night before
straggled into camp, with jaded mules and new attire. Carondelet Joe
came in, clad in a pair of pants, on which slender saffron-hued serpents
ascended graceful gray Corinthian columns, while from under the collar
of a new white shirt appeared a cravat, displaying most of the lines of
the solar spectrum.

Flush, the Flat champion at poker, came in late in the afternoon, with a
huge watch-chain, and an overpowering bosom-pin, and his horrid fingers
sported at least one seal-ring each.

Several stove-pipe hats were visible in camp, and even a pair of gloves
were reported in the pocket of a miner.

Yankee Sam had sold out his entire stock, and prevented bloodshed over
his only bottle of hair-oil by putting it up at a raffle, in forty
chances, at an ounce a chance. His stock of white shirts, seven in
number, were visible on manly forms; his pocket combs and glasses were
all gone; and there had been a steady run on needles and thread. Most of
the miners were smoking new white clay pipes, while a few thoughtful
ones, hoping for a repetition of the events of the previous day, had
scoured their pans to a dazzling brightness.

As for the innocent cause of all this commotion, she was fully as
excited as the miners themselves. She had never been outside of Middle
Bethany, until she started for California. Everything on the trip had
been strange, and her stopping-place and its people were stranger than
all. The male population of Middle Bethany, as is usual with small New
England villages, consisted almost entirely of very young boys and very
old men. But here at Bottle Flat were hosts of middle-aged men, and such
funny ones! She was wild to see more of them, and hear them talk; yet,
her wildness was no match for her prudence. She sighed to think how
slightly Toledo had spoken of the minister on the local committee, and
she piously admitted to herself that Toledo and his friends were
undoubtedly on the brink of the bottomless pit, and yet—they certainly
were very kind. If she could only exert a good influence upon these
men—but how?

Suddenly she bethought herself of the grand social centre of Middle
Bethany—the singing-school. Of course, she couldn’t start a
singing-school at Bottle Flat, but if she were to say the children
needed to be led in singing, would it be very hypocritical? She might
invite such of the miners as were musically inclined to lead the school
in singing in the morning, and thus she might, perhaps, remove some of
the prejudice which, she had been informed, existed against the school.

She broached the subject to Toledo, and that faithful official had
nearly every miner in camp at the schoolhouse that same evening. The
judge brought a fiddle, Uncle Hans came with a cornet, and Yellow Pete
came grinning in with his darling banjo.

There was a little disappointment all around when the boys declared
their ignorance of “Greenville” and “Bonny Doon,” which airs Miss Brown
decided were most easy for the children to begin with; but when it was
ascertained that the former was the air to “Saw My Leg Off,” and the
latter was identical with the “Three Black Crows,” all friction was
removed, and the melodious howling attracted the few remaining boys at
the saloon, and brought them up in a body, led by the barkeeper himself.

The exact connection between melody and adoration is yet an unsolved
religio-psychological problem. But we all know that everywhere in the
habitable globe the two intermingle, and stimulate each other, whether
the adoration be offered to heavenly or earthly objects. And so it came
to pass that, at the Bottle Flat singing-school, the boys looked
straight at the teacher while they raised their tuneful voices; that
they came ridiculously early, so as to get front seats; and that they
purposely sung out of tune, once in a while, so as to be personally
addressed by the teacher.

And she—pure, modest, prudent, and refined—saw it all, and enjoyed it
intensely. Of course, it could never go any further, for though there
was in Middle Bethany no moneyed aristocracy, the best families scorned
alliances with any who were undegenerate, and would not be unequally
yoked with those who drank, swore, and gambled—let alone the fearful
suspicion of murder, which Miss Brown’s imagination affixed to every man
at the Flat.

But the boys themselves—considering the unspeakable contempt which had
been manifested in the camp for the profession of teaching, and for all
who practiced it—the boys exhibited a condescension truly Christian.
They vied with each other in manifesting it, and though the means were
not always the most appropriate, the honesty of the sentiment could not
be doubted.

One by one the greater part of the boys, after adoring and hoping, saw
for themselves that Miss Brown could never be expected to change her
name at their solicitation. Sadder but better men, they retired from the
contest, and solaced themselves by betting on the chances of those still
“on the track,” as an ex-jockey tersely expressed the situation.

There was no talk of “false hearted” or “fair temptress,” such as men
often hear in society; for not only had all the tenderness emanated from
manly breasts alone, but it had never taken form of words.

Soon the hopeful ones were reduced to half a dozen of these. Yankee Sam
was the favorite among the betting men, for Sam, knowing the habits of
New England damsels, went to Placerville one Friday, and returned next
day with a horse and buggy. On Sunday he triumphantly drove Miss Brown
to the nearest church. Ten to one was offered on Sam that Sunday
afternoon, as the boys saw the demure and contented look on Miss Brown’s
face as she returned from church. But Samuel followed in the sad
footsteps of many another great man, for so industriously did he drink
to his own success that he speedily developed into a bad case of
_delirium tremens_.

Then Carondelet Joe, calmly confident in the influence of his wonderful
pants, led all odds in betting. But one evening, when Joe had managed to
get himself in the front row and directly before the little teacher,
that lady turned her head several times and showed signs of discomfort.
When it finally struck the latter that the human breath might, perhaps,
waft toward a lady perfumes more agreeable than those of mixed drinks,
he abruptly quitted the school and the camp.

Flush, the poker champion, carried with him to the singing-school that
astounding impudence which had long been the terror and admiration of
the camp. But a quality which had always seemed exactly the thing when
applied to poker seemed to the boys barely endurable when displayed
toward Miss Brown.

One afternoon, Flush indiscreetly indulged in some triumphant and rather
slighting remarks about the little teacher. Within fifteen minutes,
Flush’s final earthly home had been excavated, and an amateur undertaker
was making his coffin.

An untimely proposal by a good-looking young Mexican, And his prompt
rejection, left the race between Toledo and a Frenchman named Lecomte.
It also left Miss Brown considerably frightened, for until now she had
imagined nothing more serious than the rude admiration which had so
delighted her at first.

But now, who knew but some one else would be ridiculous? Poor little
Miss Brown suffered acutely at the thought of giving pain, and
determined to be more demure than ever.

But alas! even her agitation seemed to make her more charming to her two
remaining lovers.

Had the boys at the saloon comprehended in the least the cause of Miss
Brown’s uneasiness, they would have promptly put both Lecomte and Toledo
out of the camp, or out of the world. But to their good-natured,
conceited minds it meant only that she was confused, and unable to
decide, and unlimited betting was done, to be settled upon the
retirement of either of the contestants.

And while patriotic feeling influenced the odds rather in Toledo’s
favor, it was fairly admitted that the Frenchman was a formidable rival.

To all the grace of manner, and the knowledge of women that seems to run
in Gallic blood, he was a man of tolerable education and excellent
taste. Besides, Miss Brown was so totally different from French women,
that every development of her character afforded him an entirely new
sensation, and doubled his devotion.

Toledo stood his ground manfully, though the boys considered it a very
bad sign when he stopped drinking, and spent hours in pacing the ground
in front of his hut, with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on
the ground.

Finally, when he was seen one day to throw away his faithful old pipe,
heavy betters hastened to “hedge” as well as they might.

Besides, as one of the boys truthfully observed, “He couldn’t begin to
wag a jaw along with that Frenchman.”

But, like many other young men, he could talk quite eloquently with his
eyes, and as the language of the eyes is always direct, and purely
grammatical, Miss Brown understood everything they said, and, to her
great horror, once or twice barely escaped talking back.

The poor little teacher was about to make the whole matter a subject of
special prayer, when a knock at the door startled her.

She answered it, and beheld the homely features of the judge.

“I just come in to talk a little matter that’s been botherin’ me some
time. Ye’ll pardon me ef I talk a little plain?” said he.

“Certainly,” replied the teacher, wondering if he, too, had joined her
persecutors.

“Thank ye,” said the judge, looking relieved. “It’s all right. I’ve got
darters to hum ez big ez you be, an’ I want to talk to yer ez ef yer was
one uv ’em.”

The judge looked uncertain for a moment, and then proceeded:

“That feller Toledo’s dead in love with yer—uv course you know it,
though ’tain’t likely he’s told yer. All I want to say ’bout him is,
drop him kindly. He’s been took so bad sence you come, that he’s stopped
drinkin’ an’ chewin’ an’ smokin’ an’ cussin’, an’ he hasn’t played a
game at The Nugget sence the first singin’-school night. Mebbe this all
ain’t much to you, but you’ve read ’bout that woman that was spoke well
uv fur doin’ what she could. He’s the fust feller I’ve ever seen in the
diggin’s that went back on all the comforts uv life, an’—an’ I’ve been a
young man myself, an’ know how big a claim it’s been fur him to work. I
ain’t got the heart to see him spiled now; but he _will_ be ef, when yer
hev to drop him, yer don’t do it kindly. An’—just one thing more—the
quicker he’s out of his misery the better.”

The old jail-bird screwed a tear out of his eye with a dirty knuckle,
and departed abruptly, leaving the little teacher just about ready to
cry herself.

But before she was quite ready, another knock startled her.

She opened the door, and let in Toledo himself.

“Good-evin’, marm,” said he, gravely. “I just come in to make my last
’fficial call, seein’ I’m goin’ away to-morrer. Ez there anything the
schoolhouse wants I ken git an’ send from ’Frisco?”

“Going away!” ejaculated the teacher, heedless of the remainder of
Toledo’s sentence.

“Yes, marm; goin’ away fur good. Fact is, I’ve been tryin’ to behave
myself lately, an’ I find I need more company at it than I git about the
diggin’s. I’m goin’ some place whar I ken learn to be the gentleman I
feel like bein’—to be decent an’ honest, an’ useful, an’ there ain’t
anybody here that keers to help a feller that way—nobody.”

The ancestor of the Browns of Middle Bethany was at Lexington on that
memorable morning in ‘75, and all of his promptness and his courage, ten
times multiplied, swelled the heart of his trembling little descendant,
as she faltered out:

“There’s one.”

“Who?” asked Toledo, before he could raise his eyes.

But though Miss Brown answered not a word, he did not repeat his
question, for such a rare crimson came into the little teacher’s face,
that he hid it away in his breast, and acted as if he would never let it
out again.

Another knock at the door.

Toledo dropped into a chair, and Miss Brown, hastily smoothing back her
hair, opened the door, and again saw the judge.

“I jest dropped back to say——” commenced the judge, when his eye fell
upon Toledo.

He darted a quick glance at the teacher, comprehended the situation at
once, and with a loud shout of “Out of his misery, by thunder!” started
on a run to carry the news to the saloon.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Miss Brown completed her term, and then the minister, who was on the
local Board, was called in to formally make her tutor for life to a
larger pupil. Lecomte, with true French gallantry, insisted on being
groomsman, and the judge gave away the bride. The groom, who gave a name
very different from any ever heard at the Flat, placed on his bride’s
finger a ring, inscribed within, “Made from gold washed by Huldah
Brown.” The little teacher has increased the number of her pupils by
several, and her latest one calls her grandma.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         JIM HOCKSON’S REVENGE.


                                   I.

“YE don’t say?”

“I do though.”

“Wa’al, I never.”

“Nuther did I—adzackly.”

“Don’t be provokin’, Ephr’m—what makes you talk in that dou’fle way?”

“Wa’al, ma, the world hain’t all squeezed into this yere little town of
Crankett. I’ve been elsewheres, some, an’ I’ve seed some funny things,
and likewise some that wuzn’t so funny ez they might be.”

“P’r’aps ye hev, but ye needn’t allus be a-settin’ other folks down.
Mebbe Crankett ain’t the whole world, but it’s seed that awful case of
Molly Capins, and the shipwreck of thirty-four, when the awful
nor’easter wuz, an’——”

“Wa’al, wa’al, ma—don’t let’s fight ’bout it,” said Ephr’m, with a sigh,
as he tenderly scraped down a new ax-helve with a piece of glass, while
his wife made the churn-dasher hurry up and down as if the innocent
cream was Ephr’m’s back, and she was avenging thereon Ephr’m’s insults
to Crankett and its people.

Deacon Ephraim Crankett was a descendant of the founder of the village,
and although now a sixty-year old farmer, he had in his lifetime seen
considerable of the world. He had been to the fishing-banks a dozen
times, been whaling twice, had carried a cargo of wheat up the
Mediterranean, and had been second officer of a ship which had picked up
a miscellaneous cargo in the heathen ports of Eastern Asia.


[Illustration:

  JIM HOCKSON’S REVENGE—“HE HELD IT UNDER THE LIGHT, AND EXAMINED IT
    CLOSELY.”
]


He had picked up a great many ideas, too, wherever he had been, and his
wife was immensely proud of him and them, whenever she could compare
them with the men and ideas which existed at Crankett; but when Ephr’m
displayed his memories and knowledge to her alone—oh, that was a very
different thing.

“Anyhow,” resumed Mrs. Crankett, raising the lid of the churn to see if
there were any signs of butter, “it’s an everlastin’ shame. Jim
Hockson’s a young feller in good standin’ in the Church, an’ Millie
Botayne’s an unbeliever—they say her father’s a reg’lar infidel.”

“Easy, ma, easy,” gently remonstrated Ephr’m. “When he seed you lookin’
at his pet rose-bush on yer way to church las’ Sunday, didn’t he hurry
an’ pull two or three an’ han’ ’em to ye?”

“Yes, an’ what did he hev’ in t’other han’?—a Boasting paper, an’ not a
Sunday one, nuther! Millicent ain’t a Christian name, nohow ye can fix
it—it amounts to jest ’bout’s much ez she does, an’ that’s nothing.
She’s got a soft face, an’ purty hair—ef it’s all her own, which I
powerfully doubt—an’ after that ther’s nothin’ to her. She’s never been
to sewin’ meetin’, an’ she’s off a boatin’ with that New York chap every
Saturday afternoon, instead of goin’ to the young people’s
prayer-meetin’s.”

“She’s most supported Sam Ransom’s wife an’ young uns since Sam’s smack
was lost,” suggested Ephr’m.

“That’s you, Deac’n Crankett,” replied his wife, “always stick up for
sinners. P’r’aps you’d make better use of your time ef you’d examine yer
own evidences.”

“Wa’al, wife,” said the deacon, “she’s engaged to that New York feller,
ez you call Mr. Brown, so there’s no danger of Jim bein’ onequally yoked
with an onbeliever. An’ I wish her well, from the bottom of my heart.”

“_I_ don’t,” cried Mrs. Crankett, giving the dasher a vicious push,
which sent the cream flying frantically up to the top of the churn; “I
hope he’ll turn out bad, an’ her pride’ll be tuk down ez——”

The deacon had been long enough at sea to know the signs of a long
storm, and to know that prudence suggested a prompt sailing out of the
course of such a storm, when possible; so he started for the door,
carrying the glass and ax-helve with him. Suddenly the door opened, and
a female figure ran so violently against the ax-helve, that the said
figure was instantly tumbled to the floor, and seemed an irregular mass
of faded pink calico, and subdued plaid shawl.

“Miss Peekin!” exclaimed Mrs. Crankett, dropping the churn-dasher and
opening her eyes.

“Like to ha’ not been,” whined the figure, slowly arising and giving the
offending ax-helve a glance which would have set it on fire had it not
been of green hickory; “but—_hev_ you heerd?”

“What?” asked Mrs. Crankett, hastily setting a chair for the newcomer,
while Ephr’m, deacon and sixty though he was, paused in his almost
completed exit.

“_He’s_ gone!” exclaimed Miss Peekin.

“Oh, I heerd Jim hed gone to Califor——”

“Pshaw!” said Miss Peekin, contemptuously; “that was days ago! I mean
Brown—the New York chap—Millie Botayne’s lover!”

“Ye don’t?”

“But I do; an’ what’s more, he _had_ to. Ther wuz men come after him in
the nighttime, but he must hev heard ’em, fur they didn’t find him in
his room, an’ this mornin’ they found that his sailboat was gone, too.
An’ what’s more, ther’s a printed notice up about him, an’ he’s a
defaulter, and there’s five thousand dollars for whoever catches him,
an’ he’s stole _twenty-five_, an’ he’s all described in the notice, as
p’ticular as if he was a full-blood Alderney cow.”

“Poor fellow,” sighed the deacon, for which interruption he received a
withering glance from Miss Peekin.

“They say Millie’s a-goin’ on awful, and that she sez she’ll marry him
now if he’ll come back. But it ain’t likely he’ll be such a fool; now
he’s got so much money, he don’t need hern. Reckon her an’ her father
won’t be so high an’ mighty an’ stuck up now. It’s powerful discouragin’
to the righteous to see the ungodly flourishin’ so, an’ a-rollin’ in
ther wealth, when ther betters has to be on needles all year fur fear
the next mack’ril catch won’t ‘mount to much. The idee of her bein’
willin’ to marry a defaulter! I can’t understand it.”

“Poor girl!” sighed Mrs. Crankett, wiping one eye with the corner of her
apron. “I’d do it myself, ef I was her?”

The deacon dropped the ax-helve, and gave his wife a tender kiss on each
eye.


                                  II.

PERHAPS Mr. Darwin can tell inquirers why, out of very common origin,
there occasionally spring beings who are very decided improvements on
their progenitors; but we are only able to state that Jim Hockson was
one of these superior beings, and was himself fully aware of the fact.
Not that he was conceited at all, for he was not, but he could not help
seeing what every one else saw and acknowledged.

Every one liked him, for he was always kind in word and action, and
every one was glad to be Jim Hockson’s friend; but somehow Jim seemed to
consider himself his best company.

His mackerel lines were worked as briskly as any others when the fish
were biting; but when the fish were gone, he would lean idly on the
rail, and stare at the waves and clouds; he could work a cranberry-bog
so beautifully that the people for miles around came to look on and take
lessons; yet, when the sun tried to hide in the evening behind a ragged
row of trees on a ridge beyond Jim’s cranberry-patch, he would lean on
his spade, and gaze until everything about him seemed yellow.

He read the Bible incessantly, yet offended alike the pious saints and
critical sinners by never preaching or exhorting. And out of everything
Jim Hockson seemed to extract what it contained of the ideal and the
beautiful; and when he saw Millicent Botayne, he straightway adored the
first woman he had met who was alike beautiful, intelligent and refined.
Miss Millie, being human, was pleased by the admiration of the handsome,
manly fellow who seemed so far the superior of the men of his class; but
when, in his honest simplicity, he told her that he loved her, she
declined his further attentions in a manner which, though very delicate
and kind, opened Jim’s blue eyes to some sad things he had never seen
before.

He neither got drunk, nor threatened to kill himself, nor married the
first silly girl he met; but he sensibly left the place where he had
suffered so greatly, and, in a sort of sad daze, he hurried off to hide
himself in the newly discovered gold-fields of California. Perhaps he
had suddenly learned certain properties of gold which were heretofore
unknown to him; at any rate, it was soon understood at Spanish Stake,
where he had located himself, that Jim Hockson got out more gold per
week than any man in camp, and that it all went to San Francisco.

“Kind of a mean cuss, I reckon,” remarked a newcomer, one day at the
saloon, when Jim alone, of the crowd present, declined to drink with
him.

“Not any!” replied Colonel Two, so called because he had two eyes, while
another colonel in the camp had but one. “An’ it’s good for _you_,
stranger,” continued the colonel, “that you ain’t been long in camp,
else some of the boys ’ud put a hole through you for sayin’ anything
’gainst Jim; for we all swear by him, _we_ do. He don’t carry
shootin’-irons, but no feller in camp dares to tackle him; he don’t cuss
nobody, but ev’rybody does just as he asks ’em to. As to drinkin’, why,
I’d swear off myself, ef ’twud make me hold a candle to him. Went to old
Bermuda t’other day, when he was ravin’ tight and layin’ for Butcher
Pete with a shootin’-iron, an’ he actilly talked Bermuda into soakin’
his head an’ turnin’ in—ev’rybody else was afeard to go nigh old Bermuda
that day.”

The newcomer seemed gratified to learn that Jim was so peaceable a
man—that was the natural supposition, at least—for he forthwith
cultivated Jim with considerable assiduity, and being, it was evident, a
man of considerable taste and experience, Jim soon found his
companionship very agreeable, and he lavished upon his new acquaintance,
who had been nicknamed Tarpaulin, the many kind and thoughtful
attentions which had endeared Jim to the other miners.

The two men lived in the same hut, staked claims adjoining each other,
and Tarpaulin, who had been thin and nervous-looking when he first came
to camp, began to grow peaceable and plump under Jim’s influence.

One night, as Jim and Tarpaulin lay chatting before a fire in their hut,
they heard a thin, wiry voice in the next hut inquiring:

“Anybody in this camp look like this?”

Tarpaulin started.

“That’s a funny question,” said he; “let’s see who and what the fellow
is.”

And then Tarpaulin started for the next hut. Jim waited some time, and
hearing low voices in earnest conversation, went next door himself.

Tarpaulin was not there, but two small, thin, sharp-eyed men were there,
displaying an old-fashioned daguerreotype of a handsome-looking young
man, dressed in the latest New York style; and more than this Jim did
not notice.

“Don’t know him, mister,” said Colonel Two, who happened to be the owner
of the hut. “Besides ef, as is most likely, he’s growed long hair an’ a
beard since he left the States, his own mother wouldn’t know him from
George Washington. Brother o’ yourn?”

“No,” said one of the thin men; “he’s—well, the fact is, we’ll give a
thousand dollars to any one who’ll find him for us in twenty-four
hours.”

“Deppity sheriffs?” asked the colonel, retiring somewhat hastily under
his blankets.

“About the same thing,” said one of the thin men, with a sickly smile.

“Git!” roared the colonel, suddenly springing from his bed, and cocking
his revolver. “I b’lieve in the Golden Rule, _I_ do!”

The detectives, with the fine instinct peculiar to their profession,
rightly construed the colonel’s action as a hint, and withdrew, and Jim
retired to his own hut, and fell asleep while waiting for his partner.

Morning came, but no Tarpaulin; dinner-time arrived, but Jim ate alone,
and was rather blue. He loved a sociable chat, and of late Tarpaulin had
been almost his sole companion.

Evening came, but Tarpaulin came not.

Jim couldn’t abide the saloon for a whole evening, so he lit a candle in
his own hut, and attempted to read.

Tarpaulin was a lover of newspapers—it seemed to Jim he received more
papers than all the remaining miners put together.

Jim thought he would read some of these same papers, and unrolled
Tarpaulin’s blankets to find them, when out fell a picture-case, opening
as it fell. Jim was about to close it again, when he suddenly started,
and exclaimed:

“Millicent Botayne!”

He held it under the light, and examined it closely.

There could be no doubt as to identity—there were the same exquisite
features which, a few months before, had opened to Jim Hockson a new
world of beauty, and had then, with a sweet yet sad smile, knocked down
all his fair castles, and destroyed all his exquisite pictures.

Strange that it should appear to him now, and so unexpectedly, but
stranger did it seem to Jim that on the opposite side of the case should
be a portrait which was a duplicate of the one shown by the detectives!

“That rascal Brown!” exclaimed Jim. “So he succeeded in getting her, did
he? But I shouldn’t call him names; he had as much right to make love to
her as I. God grant he may make her happy! And he is probably a very
fine fellow—_must_ be, by his looks.”

Suddenly Jim started, as if shocked by an electric battery. Hiding all
the hair and beard of the portrait, he stared at it a moment, and
exclaimed:

“_Tarpaulin!_”


                                  III.

“BOTH gone!” exclaimed Colonel Two, hurrying into the saloon, at noon.

“_Both_ gone?” echoed two or three men.

“Yes,” said the colonel; “and the queerest thing is, they left
ev’rything behind—every darned thing! I never _did_ see such a stampede
afore—_I_ didn’t! Nobody’s got any idee of whar they be, nor what it’s
’bout neither.”

“Don’t be _too_ sartain, colonel!” piped Weasel, a self-contained mite
of a fellow, who was still at work upon his glass, filled at the last
general treat, although every one else had finished so long ago that
they were growing thirsty again—“don’t be _too_ sartain. Them detectives
bunked at my shanty last night.”

“The deuce they did!” cried the colonel. “Good the rest of us didn’t
know it.”

“Well,” said Weasel, moving his glass in graceful circles, to be sure
that all the sugar dissolved, “I dunno. It’s a respectable business, an’
I wanted to have a good look at ’em.”

“What’s that got to do with Jim and Tarpaulin?” look at demanded the
colonel, fiercely.

“Wait, and I’ll tell you,” replied Weasel, provokingly, taking a
leisurely sip at his glass. “Jim come down to see ’em——”

“What?” cried the colonel.

“An’ told ’em he knew their man, an’ would help find him,” continued
Weasel. “They offered him the thousand dollars——”

“Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!” groaned the colonel; “who’s a feller to trust in
this world! The idee of Jim goin’ back on a pardner fur a thousand! I
wouldn’t hev b’lieved he’d a-done it fur a million!”

“An’ he told ’em he’d cram it down their throats if they mentioned it
again.”

“Bully! Hooray fur Jim!” shouted the colonel. “What’ll yer take,
fellers? Fill high! Here’s to Jim! the feller that b’lieves his friend’s
innercent!”

The colonel looked thoughtfully into his glass, and remarked, as if to
his own reflection therein, “Ain’t many such men here nur nowhars else!”
after which he drank the toast himself.

“But that don’t explain what Tarpaulin went fur,” said the colonel,
suddenly.

“Yes, it does,” said the exasperating Weasel, shutting his thin lips so
tightly that it was hard to see where his mouth was.

“What?” cried the colonel. “’Twould take a four-horse corkscrew to get
anything out o’ you, you dried-up little scoundrel!”

“Why!” replied Weasel, greatly pleased by the colonel’s compliment,
“after what you said about hair and beard hidin’ a man, one of them
fellers cut a card an’ held it over the picture, so as to hide hair an’
chin. The forehead an’ face an’ nose an’ ears wuz Tarpaulin’s, an’
nobody else’s.”

“Lightning’s blazes!” roared the colonel. “Ha, ha, ha! why, Tarpaulin
hisself came into my shanty, an’ looked at the pictur’, an’ talked to
them ’bout it! Trot out yer glass-ware, barkeeper—_got_ to drink to a
feller that’s ez cool ez all that!”

The boys drank with the colonel, but they were too severely astonished
to enjoy the liquor particularly. In fact, old Bermuda, who had never
taken anything but plain rye, drank three fingers of claret that day,
and did not know of it until told.

The colonel’s mind was unusually excited. It seemed to him there were a
number of probabilities upon which to hang bets. He walked outside, that
his meditation might be undisturbed, but in an instant he was back,
crying:

“Lady comin’!”

Shirt-sleeves and trowsers-legs were hurriedly rolled down,
shirt-collars were buttoned, hats were dusted, and then each man went
leisurely out, with the air of having merely happened to leave the
saloon—an air which imposed upon no disinterested observer.

Coming up the trail beside the creek were a middle-aged gentleman and a
young lady, both on horseback.

The gentleman’s dress and general style plainly indicated that he was
not a miner, nor a storekeeper, nor a barkeeper; while it was equally
evident that the lady was neither a washerwoman, a cook, nor a member of
either of the very few professions which were open to ladies on the
Pacific Coast in those days.

This much every miner quickly decided for himself; but after so
deciding, each miner reached the uttermost extremity of his wits, and
devoted himself to staring.

The couple reined up before the saloon, and the gentleman drew something
small and black and square from his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “we are looking for an old friend of ours, and
have traced him to this camp. We scarcely know whether it would be any
use to give his name, but here is his picture. Can any one remember
having seen the person here?”

Every one looked toward Colonel Two, he being the man with the most
practical tongue in camp.

The colonel took the picture, and Weasel slipped up behind him and
looked over his shoulder. The colonel looked at the picture, abruptly
handed it back, looked at the young lady, and then gazed vacantly into
space, and seemed very uncomfortable.

“Been here, but gone,” said the colonel, at length.

“Where did he go, do you know?” asked the gentleman, while the lady’s
eyes dropped wearily.

“Nobody knows—only been gone a day or two,” replied the colonel.

The colonel had a well-developed heart, and, relying on what he
considered the correct idea of Jim Hockson’s mission, ventured to say:

“He’ll be back in a day or two—left all his things.”

Suddenly Weasel raised his diminutive voice, and said:

“The detec——”

The determined grip of the colonel’s hand interrupted the communication
which Weasel attempted to make, and the colonel hastily remarked:

“Ther’s a feller gone for him that’s sure to fetch him back.”

“Who—who is it?” asked the young lady, hesitatingly.

“Well, ma’am,” said the colonel, “as yer father—I s’pose,
leastways—said, ’tain’t much use to give names in this part of the
world, but the name he’s goin’ by is Jim Hockson.”

The young lady screamed and fell.


                                  IV.

“WHETHER to do it or not, is what bothers me,” soliloquized Mr. Weasel,
pacing meditatively in front of the saloon. “The old man offers me two
thousand to get Tarpaulin away from them fellers, and let him know where
to meet him an’ his daughter. Two thousand’s a pretty penny, an’ the
bein’ picked out by so smart a lookin’ man is an honor big enough to set
off agin’ a few hundred dollars more. But, on t’other hand, if they
catch him, they’ll come back here, an’ who knows but what they’ll want
the old man an’ girl as bad as they wanted Tarpaulin? A bird in the
hand’s worth two in the bush—better keep near the ones I got, I reckon.
Here they come now!”

As Mr. Weasel concluded his dialogue with himself, Mr. Botayne and
Millicent approached, in company with the colonel.

The colonel stopped just beyond the saloon, and said:

“Now, here’s your best p’int—you can see the hill-trail fur better’n
five miles, an’ the crick fur a mile an’ a half. I’ll jest hev a shed
knocked together to keep the lady from the sun. An’ keep a stiff upper
lip, both of yer—trust Jim Hockson; nobody in the mines ever knowed him
to fail.”

Millicent shivered at the mention of Jim’s name, and the colonel,
unhappily ignorant of the cause of her agitation, tried to divert her
mind from the chances of harm to Tarpaulin by growing eloquent in praise
of Jim Hockson.

Suddenly the colonel himself started and grew pale. He quickly recovered
himself, however, and, with the delicacy of a gentleman, walked rapidly
away, as Millicent and her father looked in the direction from which the
colonel’s surprise came.

There, handcuffed, with beard and hair singed close, clothes torn and
face bleeding, walked Ethelbert Brown between the two detectives, while
Jim Hockson, with head bowed and hands behind his back, followed a few
yards behind.

Some one gave the word at the saloon, and the boys hurried out, but the
colonel pointed significantly toward the sorrowful couple, while with
the other hand he pointed an ugly pistol, cocked, toward the saloon.

Millicent hurried from her father’s side, and flung her arms about the
sorry figure of her lover; and Jim Hockson, finding his pathway impeded,
raised his eyes, and then blushed violently.

“Sorry for you, sir,” said one of the detectives, touching his hat to
Mr. Botayne, “but can’t help being glad we got a day ahead of you.”

“What amount of money will buy your prisoner?” demanded the unhappy
father.

“Beg pardon, sir—very sorry, but—we’d be compounding felony in that
case, you know,” replied one of the officers, gazing with genuine pity
on the weeping girl.

“Don’t worry,” whispered the colonel in Mr. Botayne’s ear; “we’ll clean
out them two fellers, and let Tarpaulin loose again. _Ev’ry_ feller come
here for _somethin’_, darn it!” with which sympathizing expression the
colonel again retired.

“I’ll give you as much as the bank offers,” said Mr. Botayne.

“Very sorry, sir; but can’t,” replied the detective. “We’d be just as
bad then in the eyes of the law as before. Reward, five thousand, bank
lose twenty-five thousand—thirty thousand, in odd figures, is least we
could take. Even _that_ wouldn’t be reg’lar; but it would be a safe
risk, seeing all the bank cares for’s to get its money back.”

Mr. Botayne groaned.

“We’ll make it as pleasant as we can for you, sir,” continued the
detective, “if you and the lady’ll go back on the ship with us. We’ll
give him the liberty of the ship as soon as we’re well away from land.
We’d consider it our duty to watch him, of course; but we’d try to do it
so’s not to give offense—we’ve _got_ hearts, though we _are_ in this
business. Hope you can buy him clear when you get home, sir?”

“I’ve sacrificed everything to get here—I can never clear him,” sighed
Mr. Botayne.

“_I_ can!” exclaimed a clear, manly voice.

Millicent raised her eyes, and for the first time saw Jim Hockson.

She gave him a look in which astonishment, gratitude and fear strove for
the mastery, and he gave her a straight-forward, honest, respectful look
in return.

The two detectives dropped their lower jaws alarmingly, and raised their
eyebrows to their hat-rims.

“The bank at San Francisco has an agent here,” said Jim. “Colonel, won’t
you fetch him?”

The colonel took a lively double-quick, and soon returned with a
business-looking man.

“Mr. Green,” said Jim, “please tell me how much I have in your bank?”

The clerk looked over a small book he extracted from his pocket, and
replied, briefly:

“Over two thousand ounces.”

“Please give these gentlemen a check, made whatever way they like it,
for the equivalent of thirty thousand dollars. I’ll sign it,” said Jim.

The clerk and one of the detectives retired to an adjacent hut, and soon
called Jim. Jim joined them, and immediately he and the officer returned
to the prisoner.

“It’s all right, Maxley,” said the officer; “let him go.”

The officer removed the handcuffs, and Ethelbert Brown was free. His
first motion was to seize Jim’s hand.

“Hockson, tell me why you helped those detectives,” said he.

“Revenge!” replied Jim.

“For what?” cried Brown, changing color.

“Gaining Millie Botayne’s love,” replied Jim.

Brown looked at Millicent, and read the story from her face.

He turned toward Jim a wondering look, and asked, slowly:

“Then, why did you free me?”

“Because she loved you,” said Jim, and then he walked quietly away.


                                   V.

“WHY, Miss Peekin!”

“It’s a fact: Eben Javash, that went out better’n a year ago, hez got
back, and he wuz at the next diggins an’ heerd all about it. ‘T seems
the officers ketched Brown, an’ Jim Hockson gave ’em thirty thousand
dollars to pay them an’ the bank too, and then they let him go. Might’s
well ha kept his money, though, seein’ Brown washed overboard on the way
back.

“I ain’t a bettin’ man,” said the deacon, “but I’d risk our white-faced
cow that them thirty thousand dollars preached the greatest sermon ever
heerd in Californy—ur in Crankett either.”

Miss Peekin threw a withering glance at the deacon; it was good he was
not on trial for heresy, with Miss Peekin for judge and jury. She
continued:

“Eben says there was a fellow named Weasel that hid close by, an’ heerd
all ’twas said, and when he went to the rum-shop an’ told the miners,
they hooray’d for Jim ez ef they wuz mad. Just like them crazy
fellers—they hain’t no idee when money’s wasted.”

“The Lord waste all the money in the world that way!” devoutly exclaimed
the deacon.

“An’ that feller Weasel,” continued Miss Peekin, giving the deacon’s pet
cat a vicious kick, “though he’d always been economical, an’ never set a
bad example before by persuadin’ folk to be intemprit, actilly drored a
pistol, and fit with a feller they called Colonel Two—fit for the chance
of askin’ the crowd to drink to Jim Hockson, an’ then went aroun’ to all
the diggins, tellin’ about Jim, an’ wastin’ his money treatin’ folks to
drink good luck to Jim. Dis—graceful!”

“It’s what _I’d_ call a powerful conversion,” remarked the deacon.

“But ther’s more,” said Miss Peekin, with a sigh, and yet with an air of
importance befitting the bearer of wonderful tidings.

“What?” eagerly asked Mrs. Crankett.

“Jim’s back,” said Miss Peekin.

“Mercy on us!” cried Mrs. Crankett.

“The Lord bless and prosper him!” earnestly exclaimed the deacon.

“Well,” said Miss Peekin, with a disgusted look, “I s’pose He will, from
the looks o’ things; fur Eben sez that when Weasel told the fellers how
it all wuz, they went to work an’ put gold-dust in a box fur Jim till
ther wus more than he giv fur Brown, an’ fellers from all round’s been
sendin’ him dust ever since. He’s mighty sight the richest man anywhere
near this town.”

“Good—bless the Lord!” said the deacon, with delight.

“Ye hain’t heerd all of it, though,” continued Miss Peekin, with a
funereal countenance. “They’re going to be married.”

“Sakes alive!” gasps Mrs. Crankett.

“It’s so,” said Miss Peekin; “an’ they say she sent for him, by way of
the Isthmus, an’ he come back that way. Bad enough to marry him, when
poor Brown hain’t been dead six months, but to _send_ for him——”

“Wuz a real noble, big-hearted, womanly thing to do,” declared Mrs.
Crankett, snatching off her spectacles; “an’ I’d hev done it myself ef
I’d been her.”

The deacon gave his old wife an enthusiastic hug; upon seeing which Miss
Peekin hastily departed, with a severely shocked expression of
countenance and a nose aspiring heavenward.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            MAKING HIS MARK.


BLACK HAT was, in 1851, about as peaceful and well-regulated a village
as could be found in the United States.

It was not on the road to any place, so it grew but little; the dirt
paid steadily and well, so but few of the original settlers went away.

The march of civilization, with its churches and circuses, had not yet
reached Black Hat; marriages never convulsed the settlement with the pet
excitement of villages generally, and the inhabitants were never arrayed
at swords’ point by either religion, politics or newspapers.

To be sure, the boys gambled every evening and all day Sunday; but a
famous player, who once passed that way on a prospecting-trip, declared
that even a preacher would get sick of such playing; for, as everybody
knew everybody else’s game, and as all men who played other than
squarely had long since been required to leave, there was an utter
absence of pistols at the tables.

Occasional disagreements took place, to be sure—they have been taking
place, even among the best people, since the days of Cain and Abel; but
all difficulties at Black Hat which did not succumb to force of jaw were
quietly locked in the bosoms of the disputants until the first Sunday.

Sunday, at Black Hat, orthodoxically commenced at sunset on Saturday,
and was piously extended through to working-time on Monday morning, and
during this period of thirty-six hours there was submitted to
arbitrament, by knife or pistol, all unfinished rows of the week.

On Sunday was also performed all of the hard drinking at Black Hat; but
through the week the inhabitants worked as steadily and lived as
peacefully as if surrounded by church-steeples, court-houses and jails.

Whether owing to the inevitable visitations of the great disturber of
affairs in the Garden of Eden, or only in the due course of that
developement which affects communities as well as species, we know not,
but certain it is that suddenly the city fathers at Black Hat began to
wear thoughtful faces and wrinkled brows, to indulge in unusual periods
of silence, and to drink and smoke as if these consoling occupations
were pursued more as matters of habit than of enjoyment.

The prime cause of the uneasiness of these good men was a red-faced,
red-haired, red-whiskered fellow, who had been nicknamed “Captain,” on
account of the military cut of the whiskers mentioned above.

The captain was quite a good fellow; but he was suffering severely from
“the last infirmity of noble minds”—ambition.

He had gone West to make a reputation, and so openly did he work for it
that no one doubted his object; and so untiring and convincing was he,
that, in two short weeks, he had persuaded the weaker of the brethren at
Black Hat that things in general were considerably out of joint. And as
a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump, every man at Black Hat was
soon discussing the captain’s criticisms, and was neglecting the more
peaceable matters of cards and drink, which had previously occupied
their leisure hours.

The captain was always fully charged with opinions on every subject, and
his eloquent voice was heard at length on even the smallest matter that
interested the camp. One day a disloyal miner remarked:

“Captain’s jaw is a reg’lar air-trigger; reckon he’ll run the camp when
Whitey leaves.”

Straightway a devout respecter of the “powers that be” carried the
remark to Whitey, the chief of the camp.

Now, it happened that Whitey, an immense but very peaceable and sensible
fellow, had just been discussing with some of his adherents the probable
designs of the captain, and this new report seemed to arrive just in
time, for Whitey instantly said:

“Thar he goes agin, d’ye see, pokin’ his shovel in all aroun’. Now, ef
the boys want me to leave, they kin say so, an’ I’ll go. ‘Tain’t the
easiest claim in the world to work, runnin’ this camp ain’t, an’ I’ll
never hanker to be chief nowhar else; but seein’ I’ve stuck to the boys,
an’ seen ’em through from the fust, ’twouldn’t be exactly gent’emanly,
‘pears to me.”

And for a moment Whitey hid his emotions in a tin cup, from which
escaped perfumes suggesting the rye-fields of Kentucky.

“Nobody wants you to go, Whitey,” said Wolverine, one of the chief’s
most faithful supporters. “Didn’t yer kick that New Hampshire feller out
of camp when he kept a-sayin’ the saloon wuz the gate o’ hell?”

“Well,” said the chief, with a flush of modest pride, “I don’t deny it;
but _I_ won’t remind the boys of it, ef they’ve forgot it.”

“An’ didn’t yer go to work,” said another, “when all the fellers was
a-askin’ what was to be done with them Chinesers—didn’t yer just order
the boys to clean ’em out to wunst?”

“That ain’t the best thing yer dun, neither!” exclaimed a third. “I
wonder does any of them galoots forgit how the saloon got a-fire when
ev’rybody was asleep—how the chief turned out the camp, and after the
barkeeper got out the door, how the chief rushed in an’ rolled out all
three of the barrels, and then went dead-bent fur the river with his
clothes all a-blazin’? Whar’d we hev been for a couple of weeks ef it
hadn’t bin fur them bar’ls?”

The remembrance of this gallant act so affected Wolverine, that he
exclaimed:

“Whitey, we’ll stick to yer like tar-an’-feather, an’ ef cap’n an’ his
friends git troublesome we’ll jes’ show ’em the trail, an’ seggest
they’re big enough to git up a concern uv their own, instid of tryin’ to
steal somebody else’s.”

The chief felt that he was still dear to the hearts of his subjects, and
so many took pains that day to renew their allegiance that he grew
magnanimous—in fact, when the chief that evening invited the boys to
drink, he pushed his own particular bottle to the captain—an attention
as delicate as that displayed by a clergyman when he invites into his
pulpit the minister of a different creed.

Still the captain labored. So often did the latter stand treat that the
barkeeper suddenly ran short of liquor, and was compelled, for a week,
to restrict general treats to three per diem until he could lay in a
fresh stock.

The captain could hit corks and half-dollars in the air almost every
time, but no opportunity occurred in which he could exercise his
marksmanship for the benefit of the camp.

He also told any number of good stories, at which the boys, Whitey
included, laughed heartily; he sang jolly songs, with a very fair tenor
voice, and all the boys joined in the chorus; and he played a banjo in
style, which always set the boys to capering as gracefully as a crowd of
bachelor bears.

But still Whitey remained in camp and in office, and the captain, who
was as humane as he was ambitious, had no idea of attempting to remove
the old chief by force.

On Monday night the whole camp retired early, and slept soundly. Monday
had at all times a very short evening at Black Hat, for the boys were
generally weary after the duties and excitements of Sunday; but on this
particular Monday a slide had threatened on the hillside, and the boys
had been hard at work cutting and carrying huge logs to make a break or
barricade.

So, soon after supper they took a drink or two, and sprinkled to their
several huts, and Black Hat was at peace,

There were no dogs or cats to make night hideous—no uneasy roosters to
be sounding alarm at unearthly hours—no horrible policemen thumping the
sidewalks with clubs—no fashionable or dissipated people rattling about
in carriages. Excepting an occasional cough, or sneeze, or over-loud
snore, the most perfect peace reigned at Black Hat.


[Illustration:

  THEY FOUND HIM SENSELESS, AND CARRIED HIM TO THE SALOON, WHERE
  THE CANDLES WERE ALREADY LIGHTED. ONE OF THE MINERS, WHO
  HAD BEEN A DOCTOR, PROMPTLY EXAMINED HIS BRUISES.
]


Suddenly a low but heavy rumble, and a trembling of the ground, roused
every man in camp, and, rushing out of their huts, the miners saw a mass
of stones and earth had been loosened far up the hillside, and were
breaking over the barricade in one place, and coming down in a perfect
torrent.

They were fortunately moving toward the river on a line obstructed by no
houses, though the hut of old Miller, who was very sick, was close to
the rocky torrent.

But while they stared, a young pine-tree, perhaps a foot thick, which
had been torn loose by the rocks and brought down by them, suddenly
tumbled, root first, over a steep rock, a few feet in front of old
Miller’s door. The leverage exerted by the lower portion of the stem
threw the whole tree into a vertical position for an instant; then it
caught the wind, tottered, and finally fell directly on the front of old
Miller’s hut, crushing in the gable and a portion of the front door, and
threatening the hut and its unfortunate occupant with immediate
destruction.

A deep groan and many terrible oaths burst from the boys, and then, with
one impulse, they rushed to the tree and attempted to move it; but it
lay at an angle of about forty-five degrees from the horizontal, its
roots heavy with dirt, on the ground in front of the door, and its top
high in the air.

The boys could only lift the lower portion; but should they do so, then
the hut would be entirely crushed by the full weight of the tree.

There was no window through which they could get Miller out, and there
was no knowing how long the frail hut could resist the weight of the
tree.

Suddenly a well-known voice was heard shouting:

“Keep your head level, Miller, old chap—we’ll hev you out of that in no
time. Hurry up, somebody, and borrow the barkeeper’s ropes. While I’m
cuttin’, throw a rope over the top, and when she commences to go, haul
all together and suddenly, then ‘twill clear the hut.”

In an instant later the boys saw, by the bright moonlight, the captain,
bareheaded, barefooted, with open shirt, standing on the tree directly
over the crushed gable, and chopping with frantic rapidity.

“Hooray for cap’en!” shouted some one.

“Hooray!” replied the crowd, and a feeble “hooray” was heard from
between the logs of old Miller’s hut.

Two or three men came hurrying back with the ropes, and one of them was
dexterously thrown across a branch of the tree. Then the boys
distributed themselves along both ends of the rope.

“Easy!” screamed the captain. “Plenty of time. I’ll give the word. When
I say, ‘Now,’ pull quick and all together. I won’t be long.”

And big chips flew in undiminished quantity, while a commendatory murmur
ran along both lines of men, and Whitey, the chief, knelt with his lips
to one of the chinks of the hut, and assured old Miller that he was
perfectly safe.

“Now!” shrieked the captain, suddenly.

In his excitement, he stepped toward the top instead of the root of the
tree; in an instant the top of the tree was snatched from the hut, but
it tossed the unfortunate captain into the air as easily as a sling
tosses a stone.

Every one rushed to the spot where he had fallen. They found him
senseless, and carried him to the saloon, where the candles were already
lighted. One of the miners, who had been a doctor, promptly examined his
bruises, and exclaimed:

“He’s two or three broken ribs, that’s all. It’s a wonder he didn’t
break every bone in his body. He’ll be around all right inside of a
month.”

“Gentlemen,” said Whitey, “I resign. All in favor of the cap’en will
please say ‘I.’”

“I,” replied every one.

“I don’t put the noes,” continued Whitey, “because I’m a peaceable man,
and don’t want to hev to kick any man mean enough to vote no. Cap’en,
you’r boss of this camp, and I’m yourn obediently.”

The captain opened his eyes slowly, and replied:

“I’m much obliged, boys, but I won’t give Whitey the trouble. Doctor’s
mistaken—there’s someting broken inside, and I haven’t got many minutes
more to live.”

“Do yer best, cap’en,” said the barkeeper, encouragingly. “Promise me
you’ll stay alive, and I’ll go straight down to ’Frisco, and get you all
the champagne you can drink.”

“You’re very kind,” replied the captain, faintly; “but I’m sent for, and
I’ve got to go. I’ve left the East to make my mark, but I didn’t expect
to make it in real estate. Whitey, I was a fool for wanting to be chief
of Black Hat, and you’ve forgiven me like a gentleman and a Christian.
It’s getting dark—I’m thirsty—I’m going—gone!”

The doctor felt the captain’s wrist, and said:

“Fact, gentlemen, he’s panned his last dirt.”

“Do the honors, boys,” said the barkeeper, placing glasses along the
bar.

Each man filled his glass, and all looked at Whitey.

“Boys,” said Whitey, solemnly, “ef the cap’en hed struck a nugget, good
luck might hev spiled him; ef he’d been chief of Black Hat, or any other
place, he might hev got shot. But he’s made his mark, so nobody
begrudges him, an’ nobody can rub it out. So here’s to ‘the cap’en’s
mark, a dead sure thing.’ Bottoms up.”

The glasses were emptied in silence, and turned bottoms uppermost on the
bar.

The boys were slowly dispersing, when one, who was strongly suspected of
having been a Church-member, remarked:

“He was took of a sudden, so he shouldn’t be stuck up.”

Whitey turned to him, and replied, with some asperity:

“Young man, you’ll be lucky ef _you’re_ ever stuck up as high as the
captain.”

And all the boys understood what Whitey meant.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CODAGO.


TWO o’clock A.M. is supposed to be a popular sleeping hour the world
over, and as Flatfoot Bar was a portion of the terrestrial sphere, it
was but natural to expect its denizens to be in bed at that hour.

Yet, on a certain morning twenty years ago, when there was neither
sickness nor a fashionable entertainment to excuse irregular hours in
camp, a bright light streamed from the only window of Chagres Charley’s
residence at Flatfoot Bar, and inside of the walls of Chagres Charley’s
domicile were half a dozen miners engaged in earnest conversation.

Flatfoot Bar had never formally elected a town committee, for the
half-dozen men aforesaid had long ago modestly assumed the duties and
responsibilities of city fathers, and so judicious had been their
conduct, that no one had ever expressed a desire for a change in the
government.

The six men, in half a dozen different positions, surrounded Chagres
Charley’s fire, and gazed into it as intently as if they were
fire-worshipers awaiting the utterances of a salamanderish oracle.

But the doughty Puritans of Cromwell’s time, while they trusted in God,
carefully protected their powder from moisture, and the devout
Mohammedan, to this day, ties up his camel at night before committing it
to the keeping of the higher powers; so it was but natural that the
anxious ones at Flatfoot Bar vigorously ventilated their own ideas while
they longed for light and knowledge.

“They ain’t ornaments to camp, no way you can fix it. them Greasers
ain’t,” said a tall miner, bestowing an effective kick upon a stick of
firewood, which had departed a short distance from his neighbors.

“Mississp’s right, fellers,” said the host. “They ain’t got the
slightest idee of the duties of citizens. They show themselves down to
the saloon, to be sure, an’ I never seed one of ’em a-waterin’ his
liquor; but when you’ve sed that, you’ve sed ev’rythin’.”

“Our distinguished friend speaks truthfully,” remarked Nappy Boney, the
only Frenchman in camp, and possessing a nickname playfully contracted
from the name of the first emperor. “_La gloire_ is nothing to them.
Comprehends any one that they know not even of France’s most illustrious
son, _le petit caporal_?”

“That’s bad, to be sure,” said Texas, cutting an enormous chew of
tobacco, and passing both plug and knife; “but that might be overlooked;
mebbe the schools down in Mexico ain’t up with the times. What I’m down
on is, they hain’t got none of the eddication that comes nateral to a
gentleman, even ef he never seed the outside of a schoolhouse. Who ever
heerd of one of ’em hevin’ a difficulty with any gentleman, at the
saloon or on the crick? They drar a good deal of blood, but it’s allers
from some of their own kind, an’ up there by ’emselves. Ef they hed a
grain of public spirit, not to say liberality, they’d do some of their
amusements before the rest of us, instead of gougin’ the camp out of
_its_ constitutional amusements. Why, I’ve knowed the time when I’ve
held in fur six hours on a stretch, till there could be fellers enough
around to git a good deal of enjoyment out of it.”

“They wash out a sight of dust!” growled Lynn Taps, from the
Massachusetts shoe district; “but I never could git one of ’em to put up
an ounce on a game—they jest play by ’emselves, an’ keep all their
washin’s to home.”

“Blarst ’em hall! let’s give ’em tickets-o’-leave, an’ show ’em the
trail!” roared Bracelets, a stout Englishman, who had on each wrist a
red scar, which had suggested his name and unpleasant situations. “I
believe in fair play, but I darsn’t keep my eyes hoff of ’em
sleepy-lookin’ tops, when their flippers is anywheres near their knives,
you know.”

“Well, what’s to be done to ’em?” demanded Lynn Taps. “All this jawin’s
well enough, but jaw never cleared out anybody ‘xcep’ that time Samson
tried, an’ _then_ it came from an individual that wasn’t related to any
of _this_ crowd.”

“Let ’em alone till next time they git into a muss, an’ then clean ’em
all out of camp,” said Chagres Charley. “Let’s hev it onderstood that
while this camp cheerfully recognizes the right of a gentleman to shoot
at sight an’ lay out his man, that it considers stabbin’ in the dark’s
the same thing as murder. Them’s our principles, and folks might’s well
know ’em fust as last. Good Lord! what’s that?”

All the men started to their feet at the sound of a long, loud yell.

“That’s one of ’em now!” ejaculated Mississip, with a huge oath. “Nobody
but a Greaser ken holler that way—sounds like the last despairin’ cry of
a dyin’ mule. There’s only eight or nine of ’em, an’ each of us is good
fur two Greasers apiece—let’s make ’em git this minnit.”

And Mississip dashed out of the door, followed by the other five,
revolvers in hand.

The Mexicans lived together, in a hut made of raw hides, one of which
constituted the door.

The devoted six reached the hut, Texas snatched aside the hide, and each
man presented his pistol at full cock.

But no one fired; on the contrary, each man slowly dropped his pistol,
and opened his eyes.

There was no newly-made corpse visible, nor did any Greasers savagely
wave a bloody stiletto.

But on the ground, insensible, lay a Mexican woman, and about her stood
seven or eight Greasers, each looking even more dumb, incapable, and
solemn than usual.

The city fathers felt themselves in an awkward position, and Mississip
finally asked, in the meekest of tones:

“What’s the matter?”

“She Codago’s wife,” softly replied a Mexican. “They fight in
Chihuahua—he run away—she follow. She come here now—this minute—she fall
on Codago—she say something, we know not—he scream an’ run.”

“He’s a low-lived scoundrel!” said Chagres Charley, between his teeth.
“Ef _my_ wife thort enough of me to follow me to the diggin’s, I
wouldn’t do much runnin’ away. He’s a reg’lar black-hearted,
white-livered——”

“Sh—h—h!” whispered Nappy, the Frenchman. “The lady is recovering, and
she may have a heart.”

“_Maria, Madre purissima!_” low wailed the woman. “_Mi nino—mi nino
perdido!_”

“What’s she a-sayin’?” asked Lynn Taps, in a whisper.

“She talk about little boy lost,” said the Mexican.

“An’ her husband gone, too, poor woman!” said Chagres Charley, in the
most sympathizing tones ever heard at Flatfoot Bar. “But a doctor’d be
more good to her jes’ now than forty sich husbands as her’n. Where’s the
nearest doctor, fellers?” continued Chagres Charley.

“Up to Dutch Hill,” said Texas; “an’ I’ll see he’s fetched inside of two
hours.”

Saying which, Texas dropped the raw-hide door, and hurried off.

The remaining five strolled slowly back to Chagres Charley’s hut.

“Them Greasers hain’t never got nothin’,” said Mississip, suddenly; “an’
that woman’ll lay thar on the bare ground all night ’fore they think of
makin’ her comfortable. Who’s got an extra blanket?”

“I!” said each of the four others; and Nappy Boney expressed the feeling
of the whole party by exclaiming:

“The blue sky is enough good to cover man when woman needs blankets.”

Hastily Mississip collected the four extra blankets and both of his own,
and, as he sped toward the Mexican hut, he stopped several times by the
way to dexterously snatch blankets from sleeping forms.

“Here you be,” said he, suddenly entering the Mexican hut, and startling
the inmates into crossing themselves violently. “Make the poor thing a
decent bed, an’ we’ll hev a doctor here pretty soon.”

Mississip had barely vanished, when a light scratching was heard on the
door.

A Mexican opened it, and saw Nappy Boney, with extended hand and bottle.


[Illustration:

  SUDDENLY, BY THE GLARE OF A FRESH LIGHT, THE BOYS SAW THE FACE OF A
  RATHER DIRTY, LARGE-EYED, BROWN-SKINNED MEXICAN BABY.
]


“It is the _eau-de-vie_ of _la belle France_,” he whispered. “Tenderly I
have cherished, but it is at the lady’s service.”

Chagres Charley, Lynn Taps and Bracelets were composing their nerves
with pipes about the fire they had surrounded early in the morning. Lynn
Taps had just declared his disbelief of a soul inside of the Mexican
frame, when the door was thrown open and an excited Mexican appeared.

“Her tongue come back!” he cried. “She say she come over mountain—she
bring little boy—she no eat, it was long time. Soon she must die, boy
must die. What she do? She put round boy her cloak, an’ leave him by
rock, an’ hurry to tell. Maybe coyote get him. What can do?”

“What can we do?” echoed Lynn Taps; “turn out every galoot in camp, and
foller her tracks till we find it. Souls or no souls, don’t make no
diff’rence. I’ll tramp my legs off, ’fore that child shall be left out
in the snow in them mountains.”

Within five minutes every man in camp had been aroused.

Each man swore frightfully at being prematurely turned out—each man
hated the Greasers with all his heart and soul and strength; but each
man, as he learned what was the matter, made all possible haste, and
fluently cursed all who were slower than himself.

In fact, two or three irrepressible spirits, consuming with delay,
started alone on independent lines of search.

Chagres Charley appeared promptly, and assumed command.

“Boys,” said he, “we’ll sprinkle out into a line a couple of miles long,
and march up the mountain till we reach the snow. When I think it’s
time, I’ll fire three times, an’ then each feller’ll face an’ tramp to
the right, keepin’ a keerful lookout for a woman’s tracks p’intin’
t’ward camp. Ther can’t be no mistakin’ ’em, for them sennyritas hez the
littlest kind o’ feet. When any feller finds her tracks, he’ll fire, an’
then we’ll rally on him. I wish them other fellers, instid of goin’ off
half-cocked, hed tracked Codago, the low-lived skunk. To think of him
runnin’ away from wife, an’ young one, too! Forward, git!”

“They _hain’t_ got no souls—that’s what made him do it, Charley,” said
Lynn Taps, as the men deployed.

Steadily the miners ascended the rugged slope; rocks, trees, fallen
trunks and treacherous holes impeded their progress, but did not stop
them.

A steady wind cut them to the bone, and grew more keen and fierce as
they neared the snow.

Suddenly Chagres Charley fired, and the boys faced to the right—a moment
later another shot rallied the party; those nearest it found Nappy Boney
in a high state of excitement, and leaning over a foot-print.

“_Mon Dieu!_” he cried; “they have not the _esprit_, those Mexicans; but
her footprints might have been made by the adorable feet of one of my
countrywomen, it is so small.”

“Yes,” said Mississip; “an’ one of them fellers that started ahead hez
found it fust, fur here’s a man’s track a-goin’ up.”

Rapidly the excited miners followed the tracks through the snow, and
found them gradually leading to the regular trail across the mountain,
which trail few men ventured upon at that season. Suddenly the men in
advance stopped.

“Here ’tis, I reckon!” cried Mississip, springing across a small cleft
in the rocks, and running toward a dark object lying on the sheltered
side of a small cliff. “Good God!” he continued, as he stooped down;
“it’s Codago! An’ he’s froze stiff.”

“Serve him right, cuss him,” growled Lynn Taps. “I almost wish he _had_
a soul, so he could catch it good an’ hot, now he’s gone!”

“He’s got his pack with him,” shouted Mississip, “and a huggin’ it ez
tight ez ef he could take it to—to wherever he’s gone to.”

“No man with a soul could hev ben cool enough to pack up his traps after
seein’ that poor woman’s face,” argued Lynn Taps.

Mississip tore off a piece of his trowsers, struck fire with flint and
steel, poured on whisky, and blew it into a flame.

Rapidly the miners straggled up the trail, and halted opposite
Mississip.

“Well, I’ll be durned!” shouted the latter; “he ain’t got no shirt on,
an’ there’s an ugly cut in his arm. It beats anything I ever seed!”

One by one the miners leaped the cleft, and crowded about Mississip and
stared.

It was certainly Codago, and there was certainly his pack, made up in
his poncho, in the usual Greaser manner, and held tightly in his arms.

But while they stared, there was a sudden movement of the pack itself.

Lynn Taps gave a mighty tug at it, extricated it from the dead man’s
grasp, and rapidly undid it.

Suddenly, by the glare of a fresh light, the boys saw the face of a
rather dirty, large-eyed, brown-skinned Mexican baby; and the baby,
probably by way of recognition, raised high a voice such as the boys
never heard before on that side of the Rocky Mountains.

“Here’s what that cut in his arm means,” shouted a miner who had struck
a light on the trail; “there’s a finger-mark, done in blood on the snow,
by the side of the trail, an’ a-pintin’ right to that ledge; an’ here’s
his shirt a-flappin’ on a stick stuck in a snow-bank lookin’ t’ward
camp.”

“There ain’t no doubt ’bout what the woman said to him, or what made him
yell an’ git, boys,” said Chagres Charley, solemnly, as he took a
blanket from his shoulders and spread it on the ground.

Mississip took off his hat, and lifting the poor Mexican from the snow,
laid him in the blanket. Lynn Taps hid the baby, rewrapped, under his
own blanket, and hurried down the mountain, while four men picked up
Codago and followed.

Lynn Taps scratched on the raw-hide door; the doctor opened it.

Lynn Taps unrolled the bundle, and its occupant again raised its voice.

The woman, who was lying motionless and with closed eyes, sprang to her
feet in an instant, and as Lynn Taps laid his burden on the blankets,
the woman, her every dull feature softened and lighted with motherly
tenderness, threw her arms about the astonished Yankee, and then fell
sobbing at his feet.

“You’ve brought her the only medicine that’ll do her any good,” said the
doctor, giving the baby a gentle dig under the ribs as he picked up his
saddle-bags.

Lynn Taps made a hasty escape, and reached the saloon, which had been
hurriedly opened as the crowd was heard approaching.

The bearers of the body deposited it gently on the floor, and the crowd
filed in quietly.

Lynn Taps walked up to the bar, and rapped upon it.

“Walk up, boys,” said he; “fill high; hats off. Here’s Codago. Maybe he
_didn’t_ have a soul, but if he _didn’t_, souls ain’t needed in this
world. Bottoms up, every man.”

The toast was drunk quietly and reverently, and when it was suggested
that the Greasers themselves should have participated, they were all
summoned, and the same toast was drank again.

The next day, as the body of Codago was being carried to a newly dug
grave, on the high ground overlooking the creek, and the Mexicans stood
about, as if dumb staring and incessant smoking were the only
proprieties to be observed on such occasions, Lynn Taps thoughtfully
offered his arm to the weeping widow, and so sorrowful was she
throughout the performance of the sad rites, that Lynn Taps was heard to
remark that, however it might be with the men, there could be no doubt
about Mexican women’s possessing souls. As a few weeks later the widow
became Mrs. Lynn Taps, there can be no doubt that her second husband’s
final convictions were genuine.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                    THE LAST PIKE AT JAGGER’S BEND.


WHERE they came from no one knew. Among the farmers near the Bend there
was ample ability to conduct researches beset by far more difficulties
than was that of the origin of the Pikes; but a charge of buckshot which
a good-natured Yankee received one evening, soon after putting questions
to a venerable Pike, exerted a depressing influence upon the spirit of
investigation. They were not bloodthirsty, these Pikes, but they had
good reason to suspect all inquirers of being at least deputy sheriffs,
if not worse; and a Pike’s hatred of officers of the law is equaled in
intensity only by his hatred for manual labor.

But while there was doubt as to the fatherland of the little colony of
Pikes at Jagger’s Bend, their every neighbor would willingly make
affidavit as to the cause of their locating and remaining at the Bend.
When humanitarians and optimists argued that it was because the water
was good and convenient, that the Bend itself caught enough drift-wood
for fuel, and that the dirt would yield a little gold when manipulated
by placer and pan, all farmers and stockowners would freely admit the
validity of these reasons; but the admission was made with a countenance
whose indignation and sorrow indicated that the greater causes were yet
unnamed. With eyes speaking emotions which words could not express, they
would point to sections of wheatfields minus the grain-bearing heads—to
hides and hoofs of cattle unslaughtered by themselves—to mothers of
promising calves, whose tender bleatings answered not the maternal
call—to the places which had once known fine horses, but had been
untenanted since certain Pikes had gone across the mountains for game.
They would accuse no man wrongfully, but in a country where all farmers
had wheat and cattle and horses, and where prowling Indians and Mexicans
were not, how could these disappearances occur?

But to people owning no property in the neighborhood—to tourists and
artists—the Pike settlement at the Bend was as interesting and ugly as a
skye-terrier. The architecture of the village was of original style, and
no duplicate existed. Of the half-dozen residences, one was composed
exclusively of sod; another of bark; yet another of poles, roofed with a
wagon-cover, and plastered on the outside with mud; the fourth was of
slabs, nicely split from logs which had drifted into the Bend; the fifth
was of hide stretched over a frame strictly gothic from foundation to
ridgepole; while the sixth, burrowed into the hillside, displayed only
the barrel which formed its chimney.

A more aristocratic community did not exist on the Pacific Coast. Visit
the Pikes when you would, you could never see any one working. Of
churches, school-houses, stores and other plebeian institutions, there
were none; and no Pike demeaned himself by entering trade, or soiled his
hands by agriculture.

Yet unto this peaceful, contented neighborhood there found his way a
visitor who had been everywhere in the world without once being made
welcome. He came to the house built of slabs, and threatened the wife of
Sam Trotwine, owner of the house; and Sam, after sunning himself
uneasily for a day or two, mounted a pony, and rode off for a doctor to
drive the intruder away.

When he returned he found all the men in the camp seated on a log in
front of his own door, and then he knew he must prepare for the
worst—only one of the great influences of the world could force every
Pike from his own door at exactly the same time. There they sat,
yellow-faced, bearded, long-backed and bent, each looking like the
other, and all like Sam; and, as he dismounted, they all looked at him.

“How is she?” said Sam, tying his horse and the doctor’s, while the
latter went in.

“Well,” said the oldest man, with deliberation, “the wimmin’s all thar
ef that’s any sign.”

Each man on the log inclined his head slightly but positively to the
left, thus manifesting belief that Sam had been correctly and
sufficiently answered. Sam himself seemed to regard his information in
about the same manner.

Suddenly the raw hide which formed the door of Sam’s house was pushed
aside, and a woman came out and called Sam, and he disappeared from his
log.

As he entered his hut, all the women lifted sorrowful faces and retired;
no one even lingered, for the Pike has not the common human interest in
other people’s business; he lacks that, as well as certain similar
virtues of civilization.

Sam dropped by the bedside, and was human; his heart was in the right
place; and though heavily intrenched by years of laziness and whisky and
tobacco, it _could_ be brought to the front, and it came now.

The dying woman cast her eyes appealingly at the surgeon, and that
worthy stepped outside the door. Then the yellow-faced woman said:

“Sam, doctor says I ain’t got much time left.”

“Mary,” said Sam, “I wish ter God I could die fur yer. The children——”

“It’s them I want to talk about, Sam,” replied his wife. “An’ I wish
they could die with me, rather’n hev ’em liv ez I’ve hed to. Not that
you ain’t been a kind husband to me, for you hev. Whenever I wanted meat
yev got it, somehow; an’ when yev been ugly drunk, yev kep’ away from
the house. But I’m dyin’, Sam, and it’s cos you’ve killed me.”

“Good God, Mary!” cried the astonished Sam, jumping up; “yure
crazy—here, doctor!”

“Doctor can’t do no good, Sam; keep still, and listen, ef yer love me
like yer once said yer did; for I hevn’t got much breath left,” gasped
the woman.

“Mary,” said the aggrieved Sam, “I swow to God I dunno what yer drivin’
at.”

“It’s jest this, Sam,” replied the woman: “Yer tuk me, tellin’ me ye’d
love me an’ honor me an’ pertect me. You mean to say, now, yev done it?
I’m a-dyin’, Sam—I hain’t got no favors to ask of nobody, an’ I’m
tellin’ the truth, not knowin’ what word’ll be my last.”

“Then tell a feller where the killin’ came in, Mary, for heaven’s sake,”
said the unhappy Sam.

“It’s come in all along, Sam,” said the woman; “there is women in the
States, so I’ve heerd, that marries fur a home, an’ bread an’ butter,
but you promised more’n that, Sam. An’ I’ve waited. An’ it ain’t come.
An’ there’s somethin’ in me that’s all starved and cut to pieces. An’
it’s your fault, Sam. I tuk yer fur better or fur wuss, an’ I’ve never
grumbled.”

“I know yer hain’t, Mary,” whispered the conscience-stricken Pike. “An’
I know what yer mean. Ef God’ll only let yer be fur a few years, I’ll
see ef the thing can’t be helped. Don’t cuss me, Mary—I’ve never knowed
how I’ve been a-goin’. I wish there was somethin’ I could do ’fore you
go, to pay yer all I owe yer. I’d go back on everything that makes life
worth hevin’.”

“Pay it to the children, Sam,” said the sick woman, raising herself in
her miserable bed. “I’ll forgive yer everything if you’ll do the right
thing fur them. Do—do—everything!” said the woman, throwing up her arms
and falling backward. Her husband’s arm caught her; his lips brought to
her wan face a smile, which the grim visitor, who an instant later stole
her breath, pityingly left in full possession of the rightful
inheritance from which it had been so long excluded.

Sam knelt for a moment with his face beside his wife—what he said or did
the Lord only knew, but the doctor, who was of a speculative mind,
afterward said that when Sam appeared at the door he showed the first
Pike face in which he had ever seen any signs of a soul.

Sam went to the sod house, where lived the oldest woman in the camp, and
briefly announced the end of his wife. Then, after some consultation
with the old woman, Sam rode to town on one of his horses, leading
another. He came back with but one horse and a large bundle; and soon
the women were making for Mrs. Trotwine her last earthly robe, and the
first new one she had worn for years. The next day a wagon brought a
coffin and a minister, and the whole camp silently and respectfully
followed Mrs. Trotwine to a home with which she could find no fault.

For three days all the male Pikes in the camp sat on the log in front of
Sam’s door, and expressed their sympathy as did the three friends of
Job—that is, they held their peace. But on the fourth their tongues were
unloosed. As a conversationalist the Pike is not a success, but Sam’s
actions were so unusual and utterly unheard of, that it seemed as if
even the stones must have wondered and communed among themselves.

“I never heard of such a thing,” said Brown Buck; “he’s gone an’ bought
new clothes for each of the four young ’uns.”

“Yes,” said the patriarch of the camp, “an’ this mornin’, when I went
down to the bank to soak my head, ’cos last night’s liquor didn’t agree
with it, I seed Sam with all his young ’uns as they wuz a washin’ their
face an’ hands with soap. They’ll ketch their death an’ be on the hill
with their mother ’fore long, if he don’t look out; somebody ort to
reason with him.”

“’Twon’t do no good,” sighed Limping Jim. “He’s lost his head, an’
reason just goes into one ear and out at t’other. When he was scrapin’
aroun’ the front door t’other day, an’ I asked him what he wuz a-layin’
the ground all bare an’ desolate for, he said he was done keepin’
pig-pen. Now everybody but him knows he never had a pig. His head’s
gone, just mark my words.”

On the morning of the fourth day Sam’s friends had just secured a full
attendance on the log, and were at work upon their first pipes, when
they were startled by seeing Sam harness his horse in the wagon and put
all his children into it.

“Whar yer bound fur, Sam?” asked the patriarch.

Sam blushed as near as a Pike could, but answered with only a little
hesitation:

“Goin’ to take ’em to school to Maxfield—goin’ to do it ev’ry day.”

The incumbent of the log were too nearly paralyzed to remonstrate, but
after a few moments of silence the patriarch remarked, in tones of
feeling, yet decision:

“He’s hed a tough time of it, but he’s no bizness to ruin the
settlement. I’m an old man myself, an’ I need peace of mind, so I’m
goin’ to pack up my traps and mosey. When the folks at Maxfield knows
what he’s doin’, they’ll make him a constable or a justice, an’ I’m too
much of a man to live nigh any sich.”

And next day the patriarch wheeled his family and property to parts
unknown.

A few days later Jim Merrick, a brisk farmer a few miles from the Bend,
stood in front of his own house, and shaded his eyes in solemn wonder.
It couldn’t be—he’d never heard of such a thing before—yet it was—there
was no doubt of it—there was a Pike riding right toward him, in open
daylight. He could swear that Pike had often visited him—that is, his
wheatfield and corral—after dark, but a daylight visit from a Pike was
as unusual as a social call of a Samaritan upon a Jew. And when Sam—for
it was he—approached Merrick and made his business known, the farmer was
more astonished and confused than he had ever been in his life before.
Sam wanted to know for how much money Merrick would plow and plant a
hundred and sixty acres of wheat for him, and whether he would take
Sam’s horse—a fine animal, brought from the States, and for which Sam
could show a bill of sale—as security for the amount until he could
harvest and sell his crop. Merrick so well understood the Pike nature,
that he made a very liberal offer, and afterward said he would have paid
handsomely for the chance.

A few days later, and the remaining Pikes at the Bend experienced the
greatest scare that had ever visited their souls. A brisk man came into
the Bend with a tripod on his shoulder, and a wire chain, and some wire
pins, and a queer machine under his arm, and before dark the Pikes
understood that Sam had deliberately constituted himself a renegade by
entering a quarter section of land. Next morning two more residences
were empty, and the remaining fathers of the hamlet adorned not Sam’s
log, but wandered about with faces vacant of all expression save the
agony of the patriot who sees his home invaded by corrupting influences
too powerful for him to resist.

Then Merrick sent up a gang-plow and eight horses, and the tender green
of Sam’s quarter section was rapidly changed to a dull-brown color,
which is odious unto the eye of the Pike. Day by day the brown spot grew
larger, and one morning Sam arose to find all his neighbors departed,
having wreaked their vengeance upon him by taking away his dogs. And in
his delight at their disappearance, Sam freely forgave them all.

Regularly the children were carried to and from school, and even to
Sunday-school—regularly every evening Sam visited the grave on the
hillside, and came back to lie by the hour looking at the sleeping
darlings—little by little farmers began to realize that their property
was undisturbed—little by little Sam’s wheat grew and waxed golden; and
then there came a day when a man from ’Frisco came and changed it into a
heavier gold—more gold than Sam had ever seen before. And the farmers
began to stop in to see Sam, and their children came to see his, and
kind women were unusually kind to the orphans, and as day by day Sam
took his solitary walk on the hillside, the load on his heart grew
lighter, until he ceased to fear the day when he, too, should lie there.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       FIRST PRAYER AT HANNEY’S.


HANNEY’S DIGGINGS certainly needed a missionary, if any place ever did;
but, as one of the boys once remarked during a great lack of water, “It
had to keep on a-needin’.” Zealous men came up by steamer via the
Isthmus, and seemed to consume with their fiery haste to get on board
the vessel for China and Japan, and carry the glad tidings to the
heathen. Self-sacrificing souls gave up home and friends, and hurried
across, overland, to brave the Pacific and bury themselves among the
Australasian savages. But, though they all passed in sight of Hanney’s,
none of them paused to give any attention to the souls who had flocked
there. Men came out from ’Frisco and the East to labor with the Chinese
miners, who were the only peaceable and well-behaved people in the
mines; but the white-faced, good-natured, hard-swearing, generous,
heavy-drinking, enthusiastic, murderous Anglo-Saxons they let severely
alone. Perhaps they thought that hearts in which the good seed had once
been sown, but failed to come up into fruit, were barren soil; perhaps
they thought it preferable to be killed and eaten by cannibals than to
be tumbled into a gulch by a revolver-shot, while the shootist strolled
calmly off in company with his approving conscience, never thinking to
ascertain whether his bullet had completed the business, or whether a
wounded man might not have to fight death and coyotes together.

At any rate, the missionaries let Hanney’s alone. If any one with an
unquenchable desire to carry the Word where it is utterly unknown, a
digestion without fear, and a full-proof article of common sense (these
last two requisites are absolute), should be looking for an eligible
location, Hanney’s is just the place for him, and he need give himself
no trouble for fear some one would step in before him. If he has several
dozens of similarly constituted friends, they can all find similar
locations by betaking themselves to any mining camp in the West.

As Hanney’s had no preacher, it will be readily imagined it had no
church. With the first crowd who located there came an insolvent
rumseller from the East. He called himself Pentecost, which was as near
his right name as is usual with miners, and the boys dubbed his shop
“Pentecost Chapel” at once. The name, somehow, reached the East, for
within a few months there reached the post-office at Hanney’s a document
addressed to “Preacher in charge of Pentecost Chapel.” The postmaster
went up and down the brook in high spirits, and told the boys; they
instantly dropped shovel and pan, formed line, and escorted the
postmaster and document to the chapel. Pentecost acknowledged the joke,
and stood treat for the crowd, after which he solemnly tore the wrapper,
and disclosed the report of a certain missionary society. Modestly
expressing his gratification at the honor, and his unworthiness of it,
he moved that old Thompson, who had the loudest voice in the crowd,
should read the report aloud, he, Pentecost, volunteering to furnish
Thompson all necessary spirituous aid during the continuance of his
task. Thompson promptly signified his acquiescence, cleared his throat
with a glass of amber-colored liquid, and commenced, the boys meanwhile
listening attentively, and commenting critically.

“Too much cussed heavenly twang,” observed one, disapprovingly, as one
letter largely composed of Scriptural extracts was read.

“Why the deuce didn’t he shoot?” indignantly demanded another, as a tale
of escape from heathen pursuers was read.

“Shet up wimmen in a derned dark room! Well, _I’ll_ be durned!”
soliloquized a yellow-haired Missourian, as Thompson read an account of
a Zenana. “Reckon they’d set an infernal sight higher by wimmen if they
wuz in the diggins’ six months—hey, fellers?”

“You bet!” emphatically responded a majority of those present.

Before the boys became very restive, Thompson finished the pamphlet,
including a few lines on the cover, which stated that the society was
greatly in need of funds, and that contributions might be sent to the
society’s financial agent in Boston. Thompson gracefully concluded his
service by passing the hat, with the following net result: Two
revolvers, one double-barreled pistol, three knives, one watch, two
rings (both home-made, valuable and fearfully ugly), a pocket-inkstand,
a silver tobacco-box, and forty or fifty ounces of dust and nuggets.
Boston Bill, who was notoriously absent-minded, dropped in a
pocket-comb, but, on being sternly called to order by old Thompson,
cursed himself most fluently, and redeemed his disgraceful contribution
with a gold double-eagle. “The Webfoot,” who was the most unlucky man in
camp, had been so wrought upon by the tale of one missionary who had
lost his all many times in succession, sympathetically contributed his
only shovel, for which act he was enthusiastically cursed and liberally
treated at the bar, while the shovel was promptly sold at auction to the
highest bidder, who presented it, with a staggering slap between the
shoulders, to its original owner. The remaining non-legal tenders were
then converted into gold-dust, and the whole dispatched by express, with
a grim note from Pentecost, to the society’s treasurer at Boston. As the
society was controlled by a denomination which does not understand how
good can come out of evil, no detail of this contribution ever appeared
in print. But a few months thereafter there _did_ appear at Hanney’s a
thin-chested, large-headed youth, with a heavily loaded mule, who
announced himself as duly accredited by the aforementioned society to
preach the Gospel among the miners. The boys received him cordially, and
Pentecost offered him the nightly hospitality of curling up to sleep in
front of the barroom fireplace. His mule’s load proved to consist
largely of tracts, which he vigorously distributed, and which the boys
used to wrap up dust in. He nearly starved while trying to learn to cook
his own food, so some of the boys took him in and fed him. He tried to
persuade the boys to stop drinking, and they good-naturedly laughed; but
when he attempted to break up the “little game” which was the only
amusement of the camp—the only _steady_ amusement, for fights were short
and irregular—the camp rose in its wrath, and the young man hastily rose
and went for his mule.


[Illustration:

  “THOMPSON GRACEFULLY CONCLUDED HIS SERVICE BY PASSING THE HAT.”
]


But at the time of which this story treats a missionary would have fared
even worse, for the boys where wholly absorbed by a very unrighteous,
but still very darling, pleasure. A pair of veteran knifeists, who had
fought each other at sight for almost ten years every time they met, had
again found themselves in the same settlement, and Hanney’s had the
honor to be that particular settlement. “Judge” Briggs, one of the
heroes, had many years before discussed with his neighbor, Billy Bent,
the merits of two opposing brands of mining shovels. In the course of
the chat they drank considerable villainous whisky, and naturally
resorted to knives as final arguments. The matter might have ended here,
had either gained a decided advantage over the other; but both were
skillful—each inflicted and received so near the same number of wounds,
that the wisest men in camp were unable to decide which whipped. Now, to
average Californians in the mines this is a most distressing state of
affairs; the spectators and friends of the combatants waste a great deal
of time, liquor, and blood on the subject, while the combatants
themselves feel unspeakably uneasy on the neutral ground between victory
and defeat. At Sonora, where Billy and the Judge had their first
encounter, there was no verdict, so the Judge indignantly shook the dust
from his feet and went elsewhere. Soon Billy happened in at the same
place, and a set-to occurred at sight, in which the average was not
disarranged. Both men went about, for a month or two, in a patched-up
condition, and then Billy roamed off, to be soon met by the Judge with
the usual result. Both men were known by reputation all through the gold
regions, and the advent of either at any “gulch,” or “washin’,” was the
best advertisement the saloon-keepers could desire. In the East,
hundreds of men would have tried to reason the men out of this feud, and
some few would have forcibly separated them while fighting; but in the
diggings any interference in such matters is considered impertinent, and
deserving of punishment.

Hanney’s had been fairly excited for a week, for the Judge had arrived
the week before, and his points had been carefully scrutinized and
weighed, time and again, by every man in the camp. There seemed nothing
unusual about him—he was of middle size, and long hair and beard, a not
unpleasant expression, and very dirty clothes; he never jumped a claim,
always took his whisky straight, played as fair a game of poker as the
average of the boys, and never stole a mule from any one whiter than a
Mexican. The boys had just about ascertained all this, and made their
“blind” bets on the result of the next fight, when the whole camp was
convulsed with the intelligence that Billy Bent had also arrived. Work
immediately ceased, except in the immediate vicinity of the champions,
and the boys stuck close to the chapel, that being the spot where the
encounter should naturally take place. Miners thronged in from fifty
miles around, and nothing but a special mule express saved the camp from
the horror of Pentecost’s bar being inadequate to the demand. Between
“straight bets” and “hedging” most of the gold-dust in camp had been
“put up,” for a bet is the only California backing of an opinion. As the
men did not seem to seek each other, the boys had ample time to “grind
things down to a pint,” as the camp concisely expressed it, and the
matter had given excuse for a dozen minor fights, when order was
suddenly restored one afternoon by the entrance of Billy and his
neighbors, just as the Judge and _his_ neighbors were finishing a drink.

The boys immediately and silently formed a ring, on the outer edge of
which were massed all the men who had been outside, and who came pouring
in like flies before a shower. No one squatted or hugged the wall, for
it was understood that these two men fought only with knives, so the
spectators were in a state of abject safety.

The Judge, after settling for the drinks, turned, and saw for the first
time his enemy.

“Hello, Billy!” said he, pleasantly; “let’s take a drink first.”

Billy, who was a red-haired man, with a snapping-turtle mouth, but not a
vicious-looking man for all that, briefly replied, “All right,” and
these two determined enemies clinked their glasses with the unconcern of
mere social drinkers.

But, after this, they proceeded promptly to business; the Judge, who was
rather slow on his guard, was the owner of a badly cut arm within three
minutes by the barkeeper’s watch, but not until he had given Billy, who
was parrying a thrust, an ugly gash in his left temple.

There was a busy hum during the adjustment of bets on “first blood,” and
the combatants very considerately refrained from doing serious injury
during this temporary distraction; but within five minutes more they had
exchanged chest wounds, but too slight to be dangerous.

Betting became furious—each man fought so splendidly, that the boys were
wild with delight and enthusiasm. Bets were roared back and forth, and
when Pentecost, by virtue of his universally conceded authority,
commanded silence, there was a great deal of finger-telegraphy across
the circle, and head-shaking in return.

Such exquisite carving had never before been seen at Hanney’s—that was
freely admitted by all. Men pitied absent miners all over the State, and
wondered why this delightful lingering, long-drawn-out system of
slaughter was not more popular than the brief and commonplace method of
the revolver. The Webfoot rapturously and softly quoted the good Doctor
Watt’s:

                       “My willing soul would stay
                         In such a place as this,
                        And——”

when suddenly his cup of bliss was dashed to the ground, for Billy,
stumbling, fell upon his own knife, and received a severe cut in the
abdomen.

Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience
enough in such matters to know it. In an instant the men who had been
calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help
the sufferer. Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter;
half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore
off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded
man. No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the
fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded
man at exactly the right moment. After a brief examination, he gave his
opinion in the following professional style:

“No go, Billy; you’re done for.”

“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with
breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?”

“Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly.

“I’m a ruined man—I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of
bitter anguish. “I wish I’d gone under, too.”

“Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “_you_ didn’t do him, yer
know.”

“That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever
know which of us whipped.”

And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to
drink.

Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on
the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who
could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person.
Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted
the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind
seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out:

“I don’t want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you
fellers, but—is ther’ a—a preacher in the camp?”

The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used
to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a
backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front. But none
appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to
another, gave a smothered cry.

“Oh, God, hez a miserable wretch got to cut hisself open, and then
flicker out, without anybody to say a prayer for him?”

The boys looked sorrowful—if gold-dust could have bought prayers, Billy
would have had a first-class assortment in an instant.

“There’s Deacon Adams over to Pattin’s,” suggested a bystander; “an’
they do say he’s a reg’lar rip-roarer at prayin’! But ’twould take four
hours to go and fetch him.”

“Too long,” said the Doctor.

“Down in Mexico, at the cathedral,” said another, “they pray for a
feller after he’s dead, when yer pay ’em fur it, an’ they say it’s jist
the thing—sure pop. I’ll give yer my word, Billy, an’ no go back, that
I’ll see the job done up in style fur yer, ef that’s any comfort.”

“I want to hear it myself,” groaned the sufferer; “I don’t feel right;
can’t nobody pray—nobody in the crowd?”

Again the boys looked inquiringly at each other, but this time it was a
little shyly. If he had asked for some one to go out and steal a mule,
or kill a bear, or gallop a buck-jumping mustang to ’Frisco, they would
have fought for the chance; but praying—praying was entirely out of
their line.

The silence became painful: soon slouched hats were hauled down over
moist eyes, and shirt-sleeves and bare arms seemed to find something
unusual to attend to in the boys’ faces. Big Brooks commenced to blubber
aloud, and was led out by old Thompson, who wanted a chance to get out
of doors so he might break down in private. Finally matters were brought
to a crisis by Mose—no one knew his other name. Mose uncovered a sandy
head, face and beard, and remarked:

“I don’t want to put on airs in this here crowd, but ef nobody else ken
say a word to the Lord about Billy Bent, I’m a-goin’ to do it myself.
It’s a bizness I’ve never bin in, but ther’s nothin’ like tryin’. This
meetin’ ’ll cum to order to wunst.”

“Hats off in church, gentlemen!” commanded Pentecost.

Off came every hat, and some of the boys knelt down, as Mose knelt
beside the bench, and said:

“Oh, Lord, here’s Billy Bent needs ‘tendin’ to! He’s panned out his last
dust, an’ he seems to hev a purty clear idee that this is his last
chance. He wants you to give him a lift, Lord, an’ it’s the opinion of
this house thet he needs it. ‘Tain’t none of our bizness what he’s done,
an’ ef it wuz, you’d know more about it than we cud tell yer; but it’s
mighty sartin that a cuss that’s been in the diggins fur years needs a
sight of mendin’ up before he kicks the bucket.”

“That’s so,” responded two or three, very emphatically.

“Billy’s down, Lord, an’ no decent man b’lieves that the Lord ’ud hit a
man when he’s down, so there’s one or two things got to be done—either
he’s got to be let alone, or he’s got to be helped. Lettin’ him alone
won’t do him or anybody else enny good, so helpin’s the holt, an’ as
enny one uv us tough fellers would help ef we knew how to, it’s only
fair to suppose thet the Lord ’ll do it a mighty sight quicker. Now,
what Billy needs is to see the thing in thet light, an’ you ken make him
do it a good deal better than _we_ ken. It’s mighty little fur the Lord
to do, but it’s meat an’ drink an’ clothes to Billy just now. When we
wuz boys, sum uv us read some promises ef you’rn in thet Book thet wes
writ a good spell ago by chaps in the Old Country, an’ though
Sunday-school teachers and preachers mixed the matter up in our minds,
an’ got us all tangle-footed, we know they’re dar, an’ you’ll know what
we mean. Now, Lord, Billy’s jest the boy—he’s a hard case, so you can’t
find no better stuff to work on—he’s in a bad fix, thet we can’t do
nuthin’ fur, so it’s jest yer chance. He ain’t exactly the chap to make
an A Number One Angel ef, but he ain’t the man to forget a friend, so
he’ll be a handy feller to hev aroun’.”

“Feel any better, Billy?” said Mose, stopping the prayer for a moment.

“A little,” said Billy, feebly; “but you want to tell the whole yarn.
I’m sorry for all the wrong I’ve done.”

“He’s sorry for all his deviltry, Lord——”

“An’ I ain’t got nothin’ agin the Judge,” continued the sufferer.

“An’ he don’t bear no malice agin the Judge, which he shouldn’t, seein’
he generally gin as good as he took. An’ the long an’ short of it, Lord,
is jest this—he’s a dyin’, an’ he wants a chance to die with his mind
easy, an’ nobody else can make it so, so we leave the whole job in your
hands, only puttin’ in, fur Billy’s comfort, thet we recollect hearing
how yer forgiv’ a dyin’ thief, an’ thet it ain’t likely yer a-goin’ to
be harder on a chap thet’s alwas paid fur what he got. Thet’s the whole
story. Amen.”

Billy’s hand, rapidly growing cold, reached for that of Mose, and he
said, with considerable effort:

“Mose, yer came in ez handy as a nugget in a gone-up claim. God bless
yer, Mose. I feel better inside. Ef I get through the clouds, an’ hev a
livin’ chance to say a word to them as is the chiefs dar, thet word ’ll
be fur _you_, Mose. God bless yer, Mose, an’ ef my blessin’s no account,
it can’t cuss yer, ennyhow. This claim’s washed out, fellers, an’ here
goes the last shovelful, to see ef ther’s enny gold in it er not.”

And Billy departed this life, and the boys drank to the repose of his
soul.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   THE NEW SHERIFF OF BUNKER COUNTY.


HE suited the natives exactly. What they would have done had he not been
available, they shuddered to contemplate. The county was so new a one
that but three men had occupied the sheriff’s office before Charley
Mansell was elected. Of the three, the first had not collected taxes
with proper vigor; the second was so steadily drunk that aggrieved
farmers had to take the law in their own hands regarding horse-thieves;
the third was, while a terrible man on the chase or in a fight, so
good-natured and lazy at other times, that the county came to be overrun
with rascals. But Charley Mansell fulfilled every duty of his office
with promptness and thoroughness. He was not very well known, to be
sure, but neither was any one else among the four or five thousand
inhabitants of the new county. He had arrived about a year before
election-day, and established himself as repairer of clocks and
watches—an occupation which was so unprofitable at Bunkerville, the
county town, that Charley had an immense amount of leisure time at his
disposal. He never hung about the stores or liquor-shop after dark; he
never told doubtful stories, or displayed unusual ability with cards;
neither did he, on the other hand, identify himself with either of the
Bunkerville churches, and yet every one liked him. Perhaps it was
because, although short, he was straight and plump, whereas the other
inhabitants were thin and bent from many discouraging tussles with ague;
perhaps it was because he was always the first to see the actual merits
and demerits of any subject of conversation; perhaps it was because he
was more eloquent in defense of what he believed to be right than the
village pastors were in defense of the holy truths to which they were
committed; perhaps it was because he argued Squire Backett out of
foreclosing a mortgage on the Widow Worth when every one else feared to
approach the squire on the subject; but, no matter what the reason was,
Charley Mansell became every one’s favorite, and gave no one an excuse
to call him enemy. He took no interest in politics, but one day when a
brutal ruffian, who had assaulted a lame native, escaped because the
easy-going sheriff was too slow in pursuing, Charley was heard to
exclaim, “Oh, if I were sheriff!” The man who heard him was both
impressionable and practical. He said that Charley’s face, when he made
that remark, looked like Christ’s might have looked when he was angry,
but the hearer also remembered that the sheriff-incumbent’s term of
office had nearly expired, and he quietly gathered a few leading spirits
of each political party, with the result that Charley was nominated and
elected on a “fusion” ticket. When elected, Charley properly declined,
on the ground that he could not file security bonds; but, within half an
hour of the time the county clerk received the letter of declination, at
least a dozen of the most solid citizens of the county waited upon the
sheriff-elect and volunteered to go upon his bond, so Charley became
sheriff in spite of himself.

And he acquitted himself nobly. He arrested a murderer the very day
after his sureties were accepted, and although Charley was by far the
smaller and paler of the two, the murderer submitted tamely, and dared
not look into Charley’s eye. Instead of scolding the delinquent
tax-payers, the new sheriff sympathized with them, and the county
treasury filled rapidly. The self-appointed “regulators” caught a
horse-thief a week or two after Charley’s installment into office, and
were about to quietly hang him, after the time-honored custom of Western
regulators, when Charley dashed into the crowd, pointed his pistol at
the head of Deacon Bent, the leader of the enraged citizens, remarked
that _all_ sorts of murder were contrary to the law he had sworn to
maintain, and then led the thief off to jail. The regulators were
speechless with indignation for the space of five minutes—then they
hurried to the jail; and when Charley Mansell, with pale face but set
teeth, again presented his pistol, they astonished him with three
roaring cheers, after which each man congratulated him on his courage.

In short, Bunkerville became a quiet place. The new sheriff even went so
far as to arrest the disturbers of camp-meetings; yet the village boys
indorsed him heartily, and would, at his command, go to jail in squads
of half a dozen with no escort but the sheriff himself. Had it not been
that Charley occasionally went to prayer-meetings and church, not a
rowdy at Bunkerville could have found any fault with him.

But not even in an out-of-the-way, malarious Missouri village, could a
model sheriff be for ever the topic of conversation. Civilization moved
forward in that part of the world in very queer conveyances sometimes,
and with considerable friction. Gamblers, murderers, horse-thieves,
counterfeiters, and all sorts of swindlers, were numerous in lands so
near the border, and Bunkerville was not neglected by them. Neither
greenbacks nor national bank-notes were known at that time, and home
productions, in the financial direction, being very unpopular, there was
a decided preference exhibited for the notes of Eastern banks. And no
sooner would the issues of any particular bank grow very popular in the
neighborhood of Bunkerville than merchants began to carefully examine
every note bearing the name of said bank, lest haply some counterfeiter
had endeavored to assist in supplying the demand. At one particular time
the suspicions had numerous and well-founded grounds; where they came
from nobody knew, but the county was full of them, and full, too, of
wretched people who held the doubtful notes. It was the usual habit of
the Bunkerville merchants to put the occasional counterfeits which they
received into the drawer with their good notes, and pass them when
unconscious of the fact; but at the time referred to the bad notes were
all on the same bank, and it was not easy work to persuade the natives
to accept even the genuine issues. The merchants sent for the sheriff,
and the sheriff questioned hostlers, liquor-sellers, ferry-owners,
tollgate-keepers, and other people in the habit of receiving money; but
the questions were to no effect. These people had all suffered, but at
the hands of respectable citizens, and no worse by one than by another.

Suddenly the sheriff seemed to get some trace of the counterfeiters. An
old negro, who saw money so seldom that he accurately remembered the
history of all the currency in his possession, had received a bad note
from an emigrant in payment for some hams. A fortnight later, he sold
some feathers to a different emigrant, and got a note which neither the
storekeeper or liquor-seller would accept; the negro was sure the wagon
and horses of the second emigrant were the same as those of the first.
Then the sheriff mounted his horse and gave chase. He needed only to ask
the natives along the road leading out of Bunkerville to show him any
money they had received of late, to learn what route the wagon had taken
on its second trip.

About this time the natives of Bunkerville began to wonder whether the
young sheriff was not more brave than prudent. He had started without
associates (for he had never appointed a deputy); he might have a long
chase, and into counties where he was unknown, and might be dangerously
delayed. The final decision—or the only one of any consequence—was made
by four of the “regulators,” who decided to mount and hurry after the
sheriff and volunteer their aid. By taking turns in riding ahead of
their own party, these volunteers learned, at the end of the first day,
that Charley could not be more than ten miles in advance. They
determined, therefore, to push on during the night, so long as they
could be sure they were on the right track.

An hour more of riding brought them to a cabin where they received
startling intelligence. An emigrant wagon, drawn by very good horses,
had driven by at a trot which was a gait previously unheard of in the
case of emigrant horses; then a young man on horseback had passed at a
lively gallop; a few moments later a shot had been heard in the
direction of the road the wagon had taken. Why hadn’t the owner of the
house hurried up the road to see what was the matter?—Because he minded
his own business and staid in the house when he heard shooting, he said.

“Come on, boys!” shouted Bill Braymer, giving his panting horse a touch
with his raw-hide whip; “perhaps the sheriff’s needin’ help this minute.
An’ there’s generally rewards when counterfeiters are captured—mebbe
sheriff’ll give us a share.”

The whole quartet galloped rapidly off. It was growing dark, but there
was no danger of losing a road which was the only one in that part of
the country. As they approached a clearing a short distance in front of
them, they saw a dark mass in the centre of the road, its outlines
indicating an emigrant wagon of the usual type.

“There they are!” shouted Bill Braymer; “but where’s sheriff? Good Lord!
The shot must have hit _him_!”

“Reckon it did,” said Pete Williamson, thrusting his head forward;
“there’s some kind of an animal hid behind that wagon, an’ it don’t
enjoy bein’ led along, for it’s kickin’ mighty lively—shouldn’t wonder
if ’twas Mansell’s own pony.”

“Hoss-thieves too, then?” inquired Braymer; “then mebbe there’ll be
_two_ rewards!”

“Yes,” said Williamson’s younger brother, “an’ mebbe we’re leavin’ poor
Charley a-dyin’ along behind us in the bushes somewhere. Who’ll go back
an’ help hunt for him!”

The quartet unconsciously slackened speed, and the members thereof gazed
rather sheepishly at each other through the gathering twilight. At
length the younger Williamson abruptly turned, dismounted, and walked
slowly backward, peering in the bushes, and examining all indications in
the road. The other three resumed their rapid gallop, Pete Williamson
remarking:

“That boy alwus _wos_ the saint of the family—look out for long shot,
boys!—and if there’s any money in this job, he’s to have a fair share
of—that _is_ sheriff’s horse, sure as shootin’—he shall have half of
what _I_ make out of it. How’ll we take ’em, boys?—Bill right, Sam left,
and me the rear? If I should get plugged, an’ there’s any money for the
crowd, I’ll count on you two to see that brother Jim gets my share—he’s
got more the mother in him than all four of us other brothers, and—why
don’t they shoot, do you s’pose?”

“P’r’aps ther ain’t nobody but the driver, an’ he’s got his hands full,
makin’ them hosses travel along that lively,” suggested Bill Braymer.
“Or mebbe he h’ain’t got time to load. Like enough he’s captured the
sheriff, an’ is a-takin him off. We’ve got to be keerful how _we_
shoot.”

The men gained steadily on the wagon, and finally Bill Braymer felt sure
enough to shout:

“Halt, or we’ll fire!”

The only response was a sudden flash at the rear of the wagon; at the
same instant the challenger’s horse fell dead.

“_Hang_ keerfulness about firin’!” exclaimed Braymer. “_I’m_ a-goin’ to
blaze away.”

Another shot came from the wagon, and Williamson’s horse uttered a
genuine cry of anguish and stumbled. The indignant rider hastily
dismounted, and exclaimed:

“It’s mighty kind of ’em not to shoot _us_, but they know how to get
away all the same.”

“They know too much about shootin’ for _me_ to foller ’em any more,”
remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the
shadow caused by a tree.

“They can’t keep up that gait for ever,” said Bill Braymer. “I’m goin’
to foller ’em on foot, if it takes all night; I’ll get even with em’ for
that hoss they’ve done me out of.”

“I’m with you, Bill,” remarked Pete Williamson, “an’ mebbe we can snatch
_their_ hosses, just to show ’em how it feels.”

The third man lifted up his voice. “I ‘llow I’ve had enough of this here
kind of thing,” said he, “an’ I’ll get back to the settlement while
there’s anything for me to get there on. I reckon you’ll make a haul,
but—I don’t care—I’d rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter’s money.”

And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse,
dashed up, exclaiming:

“No signs of him back yonder, but there’s blood-tracks beginnin’ in the
middle of the road, an’ leanin’ along this way. Come on!”

And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion:

“Ef _he_ should have luck, an’ get the reward, you be sure to tell him
all the good things I’ve said about him, won’t you?”

Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding
himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he
dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He
soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to
know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly
off the road, and apparently into the forest.

Following as closely as he could under cover of the timber, he found
that, after picking its way among the trees for a mile, it stopped
before a small log cabin, of whose existence Jim had never known before.

There were some groans plainly audible as Jim saw one man get out of the
wagon and half carry and half drag another man into the hut. A moment
later, and a streak of light appeared under the door of the hut, and
there seemed to be no windows in the structure; if there were, they were
covered.

Jim remained behind a sheltering tree for what seemed two hours, and
then stealthily approached the wagon. No one was in it. Then he removed
his boots and stole on tip-toe to the hut. At first he could find no
chink or crevice through which to look, but finally, on one side of the
log chimney, he spied a ray of light. Approaching the hole and applying
his eye to it, Jim beheld a picture that startled him into utter
dumbness.

On the floor of the hut, which was entirely bare, lay a middle-aged man,
with one arm bandaged and bleeding. Seated on the floor, holding the
head of the wounded man, and raining kisses upon it, sat Bunker County’s
sheriff!

Then Jim heard some conversation which did not in the least allay his
astonishment.

“Don’t cry, daughter,” said the wounded man, faintly, “I deserve to be
shot by you—I haven’t wronged any one else half so much as I have you.”

Again the wounded man received a shower of kisses, and hot tears fell
rapidly upon his face.

“Arrest me—take me back—send me to State’s prison,” continued the man;
“nobody has so good a right. Then I’ll feel as if your mother was
honestly avenged. I’ll feel better if you’ll promise to do it.”

“Father, dear,” said the sheriff, “I might have suspected it was you—oh!
if I _had_ have done! But I thought—I hoped I had got away from the
reach of the cursed business for ever. I’ve endured everything—I’ve
nearly died of loneliness, to avoid it, and then to think that I should
have hurt my own father.”

“You’re your mother’s own daughter, Nellie,” said the counterfeiter; “it
takes all the pain away to know that I haven’t ruined _you_—that _some_
member of my wretched family is honest. I’d be happy in a prisoner’s box
if I could look at you and feel that you put me there.”

“You sha’n’t be made happy in that way,” said the sheriff. I’ve got you
again, and I’m going to keep you to myself. I’ll nurse you here—you say
that nobody ever found this hut but—but the gang, and when you’re better
the wagon shall take us both to some place where we can live or starve
together. The county can get another sheriff easy enough.”

“And they’ll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters,” said
the father.

“They may suspect me of anything they like!” exclaimed the sheriff, “so
you love me and be—be your own best self and my good father. But this
bare hut—not a comfort that you need—no food—nothing—oh, if there was
only some one who had a heart, and could help us!”

“_There is!_” whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both
occupants started, and the wounded man’s eyes glared like a wolf’s.

“Don’t be frightened,” whispered Jim; “I’m yours, body and soul—the
devil himself would be, if he’d been standin’ at this hole the last five
minutes. I’m Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss—sheriff.”

The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim,
led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—blushed.
Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed
himself—then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a moment an
awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after
which he said:

“Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody’ll never find you
here—I’ve hunted through all these woods, but never saw _this_ cabin
before. Arm broke?”

“No,” said the counterfeiter, “but—but it runs in the family to shoot
ugly.”

Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly.

“Then you can move in two or three days,” said Jim, “if you’re taken
care of rightly. Nobody’ll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef
he don’t turn up again right away. I’ll go back to town, throw everybody
off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable.”

Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the
door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered:

“Swear—ask God to send you to hell if you play false—swear by everything
you love and respect and hope for, that you won’t let my daughter be
disgraced because she happened to have a rascal for her father!”

Jim hesitated for a moment; then he seized the sheriff’s hand.

“I ain’t used to swearin’ except on somethin’ I can see,” said he, “an’
the bizness is only done in one way,” with this he kissed the little
hand in his own, and dashed out of the cabin with a very red face.

Within ten minutes Jim met his brother and Braymer.

“No use, boys,” said he, “might as well go back. There ain’t no fears
but what the sheriff’ll be smart enough to do ’em yet, if he’s alive,
an’ if he’s dead we can’t help _him_ any.”

“If he’s dead,” remarked Bill Braymer, “an’ there’s any pay due him, I
hope part of it’ll come for these horses. Mine’s dead, an’ Pete’s might
as well be.”

“Well,” said Jim, “I’ll go on to town. I want to be out early in the
mornin’ an’ see ef I can’t get a deer, an’ it’s time I was in bed.” And
Jim galloped off.

The horse and man which might have been seen threading the woods at
early daybreak on the following morning, might have set for a picture of
one of Sherman’s bummers. For a month afterward Jim’s mother bemoaned
the unaccountable absence of a tin pail, a meal-bag, two or three
blankets, her only pair of scissors, and sundry other useful articles,
while her sorrow was increased by the fact that she had to replenish her
household stores sooner than she had expected.

The sheriff examined so eagerly the articles which Jim deposited in
rapid succession on the cabin-floor, that Jim had nothing to do but look
at the sheriff, which he did industriously, though not exactly to his
heart’s content. At last the sheriff looked up, and Jim saw two eyes
full of tears, and a pair of lips which parted and trembled in a manner
very unbecoming in a sheriff.

“Don’t, please,” said Jim, appealingly. “I wish I could have done better
for _you_, but somehow I couldn’t think of nothin’ in the house that was
fit for a woman, except the scissors.”

“Don’t think about me at all,” said the sheriff, quickly. “I care for
nothing for myself. Forget that I’m alive.”

“I—I can’t,” stammered Jim, looking as guilty as forty counterfeiters
rolled into one. The sheriff turned away quickly, while the father
called Jim to his side.

“Young man,” said he, “you’ve been as good as an angel could have been,
but if you suspect _her_ a minute of being my accomplice, may heaven
blast you! I taught her engraving, villain that I was, but when she
found out what the work really was, I thought she’d have died. She
begged and begged that I’d give the business up, and I promised and
promised, but it isn’t easy to get out of a crowd of your own kind,
particularly when you’re not so much of a man as you should be. At last
she got sick of waiting, and ran away—then I grew desperate and worse
than ever. I’ve been searching everywhere for her; you don’t suppose a
smart—smart counterfeiter has to get rid of his money in the way I’ve
been doing, do you? I traced her to this part of the State, and I’ve
been going over the roads again and again trying to find her; but I
never saw her until she put this hole through my arm last night.”

“I hadn’t any idea who you were,” interrupted the sheriff, with a face
so full of mingled indignation, pain and tenderness, that Jim couldn’t
for the life of him take his eyes from it.

“Don’t let any one suspect her, young man,” continued the father. “I’ll
stay within reach—deliver me up, if it should be necessary to clear
_her_.”

“Trust to me,” said Jim. “I know a man when I see him, even if he _is_ a
woman.”

Two days later the sheriff rode into town, leading behind him the
counterfeiter’s horses, with the wagon and its contents, with thousands
of dollars in counterfeit money. The counterfeiter had escaped, he said,
and he had wounded him.

Bunkerville ran wild with enthusiasm, and when the sheriff insisted upon
paying out of his own pocket the value of Braymer’s and Williamson’s
horses, men of all parties agreed that Charley Mansell should be run for
Congress on an independent ticket.

But the sheriff declined the honor, and, declaring that he had heard of
the serious illness of his father, insisted upon resigning and leaving
the country. Like an affectionate son, he purchased some dress-goods,
which he said might please his mother, and then he departed, leaving the
whole town in sorrow.

There was one man at Bunkerville who did not suffer so severely as he
might have done by the sheriff’s departure, had not his mind been full
of strange thoughts. Pete Williamson began to regard his brother with
suspicion, and there seemed some ground for his feeling. Jim was
unnaturally quiet and abstracted; he had been a great deal with the
sheriff before that official’s departure, and yet did not seem to be on
as free and pleasant terms with him as before. So Pete slowly gathered a
conviction that the sheriff was on the track of a large reward from the
bank injured by the counterfeiter; that Jim was to have a share for his
services on the eventful night; that there was some disagreement between
them on the subject, and that Jim was trying the unbrotherly trick of
keeping his luck a secret from the brother who had resolved to
fraternally share anything he might have obtained by the chase. Finally,
when Pete charged his brother with the unkindness alluded to, and Jim
looked dreadfully confused, Pete’s suspicions were fully confirmed.

The next morning Jim and his horse were absent, ascertaining which fact,
the irate Peter started in pursuit. For several days he traced his
brother, and finally learned that he was at a hotel on the Iowa border.
The landlord said that he couldn’t be seen; he, and a handsome young
fellow, with a big trunk, and a tall, thin man, and ex-Judge Bates, were
busy together, and had left word they weren’t to be disturbed for a
couple of hours on any account. Could Pete hang about the door of the
room, so as to see him as soon as possible?—he was his brother. Well,
yes; the landlord thought there wouldn’t be any harm in that.

The unscrupulous Peter put his eye to the keyhole; he saw the sheriff
daintily dressed, and as pretty a lady as ever was, in spite of her
short hair; he heard the judge say:

“By virtue of the authority in me vested by the State of Iowa, I
pronounce you man and wife;” and then, with vacant countenance, he
sneaked slowly away, murmuring:

“_That’s_ the sort of reward he got, is it? And,” continued Pete, after
a moment, which was apparently one of special inspiration, “I’ll bet
that’s the kind of _deer_ he said he was goin’ fur on the morning after
the chase.”


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         MAJOR MARTT’S FRIEND.


EAST PATTEN was one of the quietest places in the world. The
indisposition of a family horse or cow was cause for animated general
conversation, and the displaying of a new poster or prospectus on the
post-office door was the signal for a spirited gathering of citizens.

Why, therefore, Major Martt had spent the whole of three successive
leaves-of-absence at East Patten, where he hadn’t a relative, and where
no other soldier lived, no one could imagine. Even professional
newsmakers never assigned any reason for it, for although their vigorous
and experienced imaginations were fully capable of forming some
plausible theory on the subject of the major’s fondness for East Patten,
they shrank from making public the results of any such labors.

It was perfectly safe to circulate some purely original story about any
ordinary citizen, but there was no knowing how a military man might
treat such a matter when it reached his ears, as it was morally sure to
do.

Live military men had not been seen in East Patten since the
Revolutionary War, three-quarters of a century before the villagers
first saw Major Martt; and such soldiers as had been revealed to East
Patten through the medium of print were as dangerously touchy as the
hair-triggers of their favorite weapons.


[Illustration:

  EAST PATTEN WAS ONE OF THE QUIETEST PLACES IN THE WORLD.
]


So East Patten let the major’s private affairs alone, and was really
glad to see the major in person. There was a scarcity of men at East
Patten—of interesting men, at least,

for the undoubted sanctity of the old men lent no special graces to
their features or manners; while the young men were merely the residuum
of an active emigration which had for some years been setting westward
from East Patten.

When, therefore, the tall, straight, broad-shouldered, clear-eyed,
much-whiskered major appeared on the street, looking (as he always did)
as if he had just been shaved, brushed and polished, the sight was an
extremely pleasing one, except to certain young men who feared for the
validity of their titles to their respective sweethearts should the
major chance to be affectionate.

But the major gave no cause for complaint. When he first came to the
village he bought Rose Cottage, opposite the splendid Wittleday
property, and he spent most of his time (his leave-of-absence always
occurring in the Summer season) in his garden, trimming his shrubs,
nursing his flowering-plants, growing magnificent roses, and in all ways
acting utterly unlike a man of blood. Occasionally he played a game of
chess with Parson Fisher, the jolly ex-clergyman, or smoked a pipe with
the sadler-postmaster; he attended all the East Patten tea-parties, too,
but he made himself so uniformly agreeable to all the ladies that the
mothers in Israel agreed with many sighs, that the major was not a
marrying man.

It may easily be imagined, then, that when one Summer the major
reappeared at East Patten with a brother officer who was young and
reasonably good-looking, the major’s popularity did not diminish.

The young man was introduced as Lieutenant Doyson, who had once saved
the major’s life by a lucky shot, as that chieftain, with empty pistols,
was trying to escape from a well-mounted Indian; and all the young
ladies in town declared they _knew_ the lieutenant _must_ have done
something wonderful, he was _so_ splendid.

But, with that fickleness which seems in some way communicable from
wicked cities to virtuous villages, East Patten suddenly ceased to
exhibit unusual interest in the pair of warriors, for a new excitement
had convulsed the village mind to its very centre.

It was whispered that Mrs. Wittleday, the sole and widowed owner of the
great Wittleday property, had wearied of the mourning she wore for the
husband she had buried two years previously, and that she would soon
publicly announce the fact by laying aside her weeds and giving a great
entertainment, to which every one was to be invited.

There was considerable high-toned deprecation of so early a cessation of
Mrs. Wittleday’s sorrowing, she being still young and handsome, and
there was some fault found on the economic ground that the widow
couldn’t yet have half worn out her mourning-garments; but as to the
propriety of her giving an entertainment, the voices of East Patten were
as one in the affirmative.

Such of the villagers as had chanced to sit at meat with the late Scott
Wittleday, had reported that dishes with unremembered foreign names were
as plenty as were the plainer viands on the tables of the old
inhabitants; such East Pattenites as had not been entertained at the
Wittleday board rejoiced in a prospect of believing by sight as well as
by faith.

The report proved to have unusually good foundation. Within a fortnight
each respectable householder received a note intimating that Mrs.
Wittleday would be pleased to see self and family on the evening of the
following Thursday.

The time was short, and the resources of the single store at East Patten
were limited, but the natives did their best, and the eventful evening
brought to Mrs. Wittleday’s handsome parlors a few gentlemen and ladies,
and a large number of good people, who, with all the heroism of a
forlorn hope, were doing their best to appear at ease and happy.

The major and lieutenant were there, of course, and both in uniform, by
special request of the hostess. The major, who had met Mrs. Wittleday in
city society before her husband’s death, and who had maintained a
bowing-acquaintance with her during her widowhood, gravely presented the
lieutenant to Mrs. Wittleday, made a gallant speech about the debt
society owed to her for again condescending to smile upon it, and then
presented his respects to the nearest of the several groups of ladies
who were gazing invitingly at him.

Then he summoned the lieutenant (whose reluctance to leave Mrs.
Wittleday’s side was rendered no less by a bright smile which that lady
gave him as he departed), and made him acquainted with ladies of all
ages, and of greatly varying personal appearance. The young warrior went
through the ordeal with only tolerable composure, and improved his first
opportunity to escape and regain the society of the hostess. Two or
three moments later, just as Mrs. Wittleday turned aside to speak to
stately old Judge Bray, the lieutenant found himself being led rapidly
toward the veranda. The company had not yet found its way out of the
parlors to any extent, so the major locked the lieutenant’s arm in his
own, commenced a gentle promenade, and remarked:

“Fred, my boy, you’re making an ass of yourself.”

“Oh, nonsense, major,” answered the young man, with considerable
impatience. “I don’t want to know all these queer, old-fashioned people;
they’re worse than a lot of plebes at West Point.”

“I don’t mean that, Fred, though, if you don’t want to make talk, you
must make yourself agreeable. But you’re too attentive to Mrs.
Wittleday.”

“By George,” responded the lieutenant, eagerly, “how can I help it?
She’s divine!”

“A great many others think so, too, Fred—I do myself—but they don’t make
it so plagued evident on short acquaintance. Behave yourself, now—your
eyesight is good—sit down and play the agreeable to some old lady, and
look at Mrs. Wittleday across the room, as often as you like.”

The lieutenant was young; his face was not under good control, and he
had no whiskers, and very little mustache to hide it, so, although he
obeyed the order of his superior, it was with a visage so mournful that
the major imagined, when once or twice he caught Mrs. Wittleday’s eye,
that that handsome lady was suffering from restrained laughter.

Humorous as the affair had seemed to the major before, he could not
endure to have his preserver’s sorrow the cause of merriment in any one
else; so, deputing Parson Fisher to make their excuse to the hostess
when it became possible to penetrate the crowd which had slowly
surrounded her, the major took his friend’s arm and returned to the
cottage.

“Major!” exclaimed the subaltern, “I—I half wish I’d let that Indian
catch you; then you wouldn’t have spoiled the pleasantest evening I ever
had—ever _began_ to have, I should say.”

“You wouldn’t have had an evening at East Patten then, Fred,” said the
major, with a laugh, as he passed the cigars, and lit one himself.
“Seriously, my boy, you must be more careful. You came here to spend a
pleasant three months with me, and the first time you’re in society you
act, to a lady you never saw before, too, in such a way, that if it had
been any one but a lady of experience, she would have imagined you in
love with her.”

“I _am_ in love with her,” declared the young man, with a look which was
intended to be defiant, but which was noticeably shamedfaced. “I’m going
to tell her so, too—that is, I’m going to write her about it.”

“Steady, Fred—steady!” urged the major, kindly. “She’d be more provoked
than pleased. Don’t you suppose fifty men have worshiped her at first
sight? They have, and she knows it, too—but it hasn’t troubled her mind
at all: handsome women know they turn men’s heads in that way, and they
generally respect the men who are sensible enough to hold their tongues
about it, at least until there’s acquaintance enough between them to
justify a little confidence.”

“Major,” said poor Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, “don’t—don’t you
suppose I _could_ make her care something for me?”

The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held
between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:

“My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in
earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who’s lost one
husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of
another isn’t in the hands of some villainous Apache?”

The unhappy lieutenant hid his face in heavy clouds of tobacco smoke.

“Well,” said he, springing to his feet, and pacing the floor like a
caged animal, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll write her, and throw my
heart at her feet. Of course she won’t care. It’s just as you say. Why
should she? But I’ll do it, and then I’ll go back to the regiment. I
hate to spoil _your_ fun, major, if it’s any fun to you to have such a
fool in your quarters; but the fact is, the enemy’s too much for me. I
wouldn’t feel worse if I was facing a division. I’ll write her
to-morrow. I’d rather be refused by her than loved by any other woman.”

“Put it off a fortnight, Fred,” suggested the major; “it’s the polite
thing to call within a week after this party; you’ll have a chance then
to become better acquainted with her. She’s delightful company, I’m
told. Perhaps you’ll make up your mind it’s better to enjoy her society,
during our leave, than to throw away everything in a forlorn hope. Wait
a fortnight, that’s a sensible youth.”

“I can’t, major!” cried the excited boy. “Hang it! you’re an old
soldier—don’t you know how infernally uncomfortable it is to stand still
and be shot at?”

“I _do_, my boy,” said the major, with considerable emphasis, and a
far-away look at nothing in particular.

“Well, that’ll be my fix as long as I stay here and keep quiet,” replied
the lieutenant.

“Wait a week, then,” persisted the major. “You don’t want to be ‘guilty
of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,’ eh? Don’t spoil her
first remembrances of the first freedom she’s known for a couple of
years.”

“Well, call it a week, then,” moodily replied the love-sick brave,
lighting a candle, and moving toward his room. “I suppose it will take
me a week, anyway, to make up a letter fit to send to such an angel.”

The major sighed, put on an easy coat and slippers, and stepped into his
garden.

“Poor Fred!” he muttered to himself, as he paced the walk in front of
the piazza; “can’t wait a fortnight, eh? Wonder what he would say if he
knew I’d been waiting for seven or eight years—if he knew I fell in love
with her as easily as he did, and that I’ve never recovered myself?
Wonder what he’d do if some one were to marry her almost before his very
eyes, as poor Wittleday did while I was longing for her acquaintance?
Wonder what sort of fool he’d call me if he knew that I came to East
Patten, time after time, just for a chance of looking at her—that I
bought Rose Cottage merely to be near her—that I’d kept it all to
myself, and for a couple of years had felt younger at the thought that I
might, perchance, win her after all? Poor Fred! And yet, why shouldn’t
she marry him?—women have done stranger things; and he’s a great deal
more attractive-looking than an old campaigner like myself. Well, God
bless ’em both, and have mercy on an old coward!”

The major looked toward the Wittleday mansion. The door was open; the
last guests were evidently departing, and their beautiful entertainer
was standing in the doorway, a flood of light throwing into perfect
relief her graceful and tastefully dressed figure. She said something
laughingly to the departing guests; it seemed exquisite music to the
major. Then the door closed, and the major, with a groan, retired within
his own door, and sorrowfully consumed many cigars.

The week that followed was a very dismal one to the major. He petted his
garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant
habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and
his whistling—sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes
wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression—was restricted to the
execution of dead-marches alone. He jeopardized his queen so often at
chess that Parson Fisher deemed it only honorable to call the major’s
attention to his misplays, and to allow him to correct them.

The saddler postmaster noticed that the major—usually a most
accomplished smoker—now consumed a great many matches in relighting each
pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to meet
Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and raised
hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober herself
for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any way have
given the major offense.

As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major’s desk for many sorrowful
hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely
written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless,
collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner
traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a
flute.

The major complained—rather frequently for a man who had spent years on
the Plains—of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally
kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance
which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest
but unskilled amateur.

For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford
relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy
table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the
only happy moments that were his during the week.

The week drew very near its close. The major had, with a heavy but
desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points
for discussion—he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through
Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern
remained faithful and obdurate.

Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the
major’s surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned
air.

“Major,” said he, “I wouldn’t mention it under any other circumstances,
but—I saved your life once?”

“You did, my boy. God bless you!” responded the major, promptly.

“Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I’ll never
ask another. It’s no use for me to try to write to her—the harder I try
the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this: _you_
write me a rough draft of what’s fit to send to such an incomparable
being, and I’ll copy it and send it over. I don’t expect any answer—all
I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it
handsomely, and—hang it, I don’t know how. Write just as if you were
doing it for yourself. Will you do it?”

The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of
coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his
favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him
his self-command, and he replied:

“I’ll do it, Fred, right away.”

“Don’t spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do,” said
the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran
needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather
abruptly stepped upon the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.

“Write just as if you were doing it for yourself.”

The young man’s words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major
had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked
to do.

This silly performance of the lieutenant’s would, of course, put an end
to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that
lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over
the subaltern’s name, all that he had for years been hoping for an
opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the
real author of the letter—it would still be an unspeakable comfort to
write the words and know that her eyes would read them—that her heart
would perhaps—probably, in fact—pity the writer.

The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and
finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which
nearly a page was covered with the major’s very characteristic
chirography.

“By gracious, major!” exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having
lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, “that’s
magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it’s
plaguy like marching under some one else’s colors.”

“Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don’t hope
too much.”

The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he
spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then
dispatched the missive by the major’s servant, laying the rough draft
away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.

The morning hours lagged dreadfully. Both warriors smoked innumerable
cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.

The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three
stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous
laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow. Dinner was set
at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except
a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to
consider it advisable to produce.

The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o’clock; newspapers by the
noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an
attempted game of cribbage was speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual
consent.

Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet,
looked out of the window, and exclaimed:

“It’s her darkey—he’s got an answer—oh, major!”

“Steady, boy, steady!” said the major, arising hastily and laying his
hand on the young man’s shoulder, as that excited person was hastening
to the door. “‘Officer and gentleman,’ you know. Let Sam open the door.”

The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two
servants, and Mrs. Wittleday’s coachman appeared in the dining-room,
holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable
carrier grinned politely, said:

“It’s for de major, sar—wuz told to give it right into his han’s, and
nobody else,” fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows
and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.

“Hurry up, major—do, please,” whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran
seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his
hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting
sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its
smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday’s envelope.
As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He
read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating
considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of
puzzled wonder.

“Fred,” said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as
a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, “what in creation did
you write Mrs. Wittleday?”

“Just what you gave me to write,” replied the young man, evidently
astonished.

“Let me see my draft of it,” said the major.

The lieutenant opened a drawer in the major’s desk, took out a sheet of
paper, looked at it, and cried:

“I sent her your draft! _This_ is my letter!”

“And she imagined _I_ wrote it, and has accepted _me_!” gasped the
major.

The wretched Frederick turned pale, and tottered toward a chair. The
major went over to him and spoke to him sympathizingly, but despite his
genial sorrow for the poor boy, the major’s heart was so full that he
did not dare to show his face for a moment; so he stood behind the
lieutenant, and looked across his own shoulder out of the window.

“Oh, major,” exclaimed Fred, “isn’t it possible that you’re mistaken?”

“Here’s her letter, my boy,” said the major; “judge for yourself.”

The young man took the letter in a mechanical sort of way, and read as
follows:

                                                  “_July_ 23d, 185—.

    “DEAR MAJOR—I duly received your note of this morning, and you
    may thank womanly curiosity for my knowing from whom the missive
    (which you omitted to sign) came. I was accidentally looking out
    of my window, and recognized the messenger.

    “I have made it an inflexible rule to laugh at declarations of
    ‘love at first sight,’ but when I remembered how long ago it was
    when first we met, the steadfastness of your regard, proved to
    me by a new fancy (which I pray you not to crush) that your
    astonishing fondness for East Patten was partly on my account,
    forbade my indulging in any lighter sentiment than that of
    honest gratitude.

    “You may call this evening for your answer, which I suppose you,
    with the ready conceit of your sex and profession, will have
    already anticipated.

              “Yours, very truly, HELEN WITTLEDAY.”

The lieutenant groaned.

“It’s all up, major! you’ll _have_ to marry her. ’Twould be awfully
ungentlemanly to let her know there was any mistake.”

“Do you think so, Fred?” asked the major, with a perceptible twitch at
the corners of his mouth.

“Certainly, I do,” replied the sorrowful lover; “and I’m sure you can
learn to love her; she is simply an angel—a goddess. Confound it! you
can’t help loving her.”

“You really believe so, do you, my boy?” asked the major, with fatherly
gravity. “But how would _you_ feel about it?”

“As if no one else on earth was good enough for her—as if she was the
luckiest woman alive,” quickly answered the young man, with a great deal
of his natural spirit. “’Twould heal _my_ wound entirely.”

“Very well, my boy,” said the major; “I’ll put you out of your misery as
soon as possible.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Never had the major known an evening whose twilight was of such
interminable duration. When, however, the darkness was sufficient to
conceal his face, he walked quickly across the street, and to the door
of the Wittleday mansion.

That his answer was what he supposed it would be is evinced by the fact
that, a few months later, his resignation was accepted by the
Department, and Mrs. Wittleday became Mrs. Martt.

In so strategic a manner that she never suspected the truth, the major
told his _fiancee_ the story of the lieutenant’s unfortunate love, and
so great was the fair widow’s sympathy, that she set herself the task of
seeing the young man happily engaged. This done, she offered him the
position of engineer of some mining work on her husband’s estate, and
the major promised him Rose Cottage for a permanent residence as soon as
he would find a mistress for it.

Naturally, the young man succumbed to the influences exerted against
him, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Doyson were fairly settled, the major told
his own wife, to her intense amusement, the history of the letter which
induced her to change her name.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                BUFFLE.


HOW he came by his name, no one could tell. In the early days of the
gold fever there came to California a great many men who did not
volunteer their names, and as those about them had been equally reticent
on their own advent, they asked few questions of newcomers.

The hotels of the mining regions never kept registers for the
accommodation of guests—they were considered well-appointed hotels if
they kept water-tight roofs and well-stocked bars.

Newcomers were usually designated at first by some peculiarity of
physiognomy or dress, and were known by such names as “Broken Nose,”
“Pink Shirt,” “Cross Bars,” “Gone Ears,” etc.; if, afterward, any man
developed some peculiarity of character, an observing and original miner
would coin and apply a new name, which would afterward be accepted as
irrevocably as a name conferred by the holy rite of baptism.

No one wondered that Buffle never divulged his real name, or talked of
his past life; for in the mines he had such an unhappy faculty of
winning at cards, getting new horses without visible bills of sale,
taking drinks beyond ordinary power of computation, stabbing and
shooting, that it was only reasonable to suppose that he had acquired
these abilities at the sacrifice of the peace of some other community.

He was not vicious—even a strict theologian could hardly have accused
him of malice; yet, wherever he went, he was promptly acknowledged chief
of that peculiar class which renders law and sheriffs necessary evils.

He was not exactly a beauty—miners seldom were—yet a connoisseur in
manliness could have justly wished there were a dash of the Buffle blood
in the well-regulated veins of many irreproachable characters in quieter
neighborhoods than Fat Pocket Gulch, where the scene of this story was
located.

He was tall, active, prompt and generous, and only those who have these
qualities superadded to their own virtues are worthy to throw stones at
his memory.

He was brave, too. His bravery had been frequently recorded in lead in
the mining regions, and such records were transmitted from place to
place with an alacrity which put official zeal to the deepest blush.

At the fashionable hour of two o’clock at night, Mr. Buffle was
entertaining some friends at his residence; or, to use the language of
the mines, “there was a game up to Buffle’s.” In a shanty of the
composite order of architecture—it having a foundation of stone,
succeeded by logs, a gable of coffin misfits and cracker-boxes, and a
roof of bark and canvas—Buffle and three other miners were playing “old
sledge.”

The table was an empty pork-barrel; the seats were respectively, a block
of wood, a stone, and a raisin-box, with a well-stuffed knapsack for the
tallest man.

On one side of the shanty was a low platform of hewn logs, which
constituted the proprietor’s couch when he slept; on another was the
door, on the third were confusedly piled Buffle’s culinary utensils, and
on the fourth was a fireplace, whose defective draft had been the agent
of the fine frescoing of soot perceptible on the ceiling. A single
candle hung on a wire over the barrel, and afforded light auxiliary to
that thrown out by the fireplace.


[Illustration:

  “COME IN,” ROARED BUFFLE’S PARTNER. “COME IN, HANG YER,
  IF YER LIFE’S INSURED!” THE DOOR OPENED SLOWLY, AND A WOMAN ENTERED.
]


The game had been going largely in Buffle’s favor, as was usually the
case, when one of the opposition injudiciously played an ace which was
clearly from another pack of cards,

inasmuch as Buffle, who had dealt, had the rightful ace in his own hand.
As it was the ace of trumps, Buffle’s indignation arose, and so did his
person and pistol.

“Hang yer,” said he, savagely; “yer don’t come that game on me. I’ve got
that ace myself.”

An ordinary man would have drawn pistol also, but Buffle’s antagonist
knew his only safety lay in keeping quiet, so he only stared vacantly at
the muzzle of the revolver, that was so precisely aimed at his own head.

The two other players had risen to their feet, and were mentally
composing epitaphs for the victim, when there was heard a decided knock
on the door.

“Come in!” roared Buffle’s partner, who was naturally the least excited
of the four. “Come in, hang yer, if yer life’s insured.”

The door opened slowly, and a woman entered.

Now, while there were but few women in the camp, the sight of a single
woman was not at all unusual. Yet, as she raised her vail, Buffle’s
revolver fell from his hands, and the other players laid down their
cards; the partner of the guilty man being so overcome as to lay down
his hand face upward.

Then they all stared, but not one of them spoke; they wanted to, but
none knew how to do it. It was not usually difficult for any of them to
address such specimens of the gentler sex as found their way to Fat
Pocket Gulch, but they all understood at once that this was a different
sort of woman. They looked reprovingly and beseechingly at each other,
but the woman, at last, broke the silence by saying:

“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I was told I could probably
find Mr. Buffle here.”

“Here he is, ma’am, and yours truly,” said Buffle, removing his hat.

He could afford to. She was not beautiful, but she seemed to be in
trouble, and a troubled woman can command, to the death, even worse men
than free-and-easy miners. She had a refined, pure face, out of which
two great brown eyes looked so tenderly and anxiously, that these men
forgot themselves at once. She seemed young, not more than twenty-three
or four; she was slightly built, and dressed in a suit of plain black.

“Mr. Buffle,” said she, “I was going through by stage to San Francisco,
when I overheard the driver say to a man seated by him that you knew
more miners than any man in California—that you had been through the
whole mining country.”

“Well, mum,” said Buffle, with a delighted but sheepish look, which
would have become a missionary complimented on the number of converts he
had made, “I _hev_ been around a good deal, that’s a fact. I reckon I’ve
staked a claim purty much ev’rywhar in the diggins.”

“So I inferred from what the driver said,” she replied, “and I came down
here to ask you a question.”

Here she looked uneasily at the other players. The man who stole the ace
translated it at once, and said:

“We’ll git out ef yer say so, mum; but yer needn’t be afraid to say
ennything before us. We know a lady when we see her, an’ mebbe some on
us ken give yer a lift; if we can’t, I’ve only got to say thet ef yer
let out enny secrets, grizzlies couldn’t tear ’em out uv enny man in
this crowd. Hey, fellers?”

“You bet,” was the firm response of the remaining two, and Buffle
quickly passed a demijohn to the ace-thief, as a sign of forgiveness and
approbation.

“Thank you, gentlemen—God bless you,” said the woman, earnestly. “My
story is soon told. I am looking for my husband, and I _must_ find him.
His name is Allan Berryn.”

Buffle gazed thoughtfully in the fire, and remarked:

“Names ain’t much good in this country, mum—no man kerries
visitin’-cards, an’ mighty few gits letters. Besides, lots comes here
’cos they’re wanted elsewhere, an’ they take names that ain’t much like
what their mothers giv ’em. Mebbe you could tell us somethin’ else to
put us on the trail of him?”

“Hez he got both of his eyes an’ ears, mum?” inquired one of the men.

“Uv course he hez, you fool!” replied Buffle, savagely. “The lady’s
husband’s a gentleman, an’ ’tain’t likely he’s been chawed or gouged.”

“I ax parding, mum,” said the offender, in the most abject manner.

“He is of medium height, slightly built, has brown hair and eyes, and
wears a plain gold ring on the third finger of his left hand,” continued
Mrs. Berryn.

“Got all his front teeth, mum?” asked the man Buffle had rebuked; then
he turned quickly to Buffle, who was frowning suspiciously, and said,
appeasingly, “Yer know, Buffle, that bein’ a gentleman don’t keep a
feller from losin’ his teeth in the nateral course of things.”

“He had all his front teeth a few months ago,” replied Mrs. Berryn. “I
do not know how to describe him further—he had no scars, moles, or other
peculiarities which might identify him, except,” she continued, with a
faint blush—a wife’s blush, which strongly tempted Buffle to kneel and
kiss the ground she stood on—“except a locket I once gave him, with my
portrait, and which he always wore over his heart. I can’t believe he
would take it off,” said she, with a sob that was followed by a flood of
tears.

The men twisted on their seats, and showed every sign of uneasiness; one
stepped outside to cough, another suddenly attacked the fire and poked
it savagely, Buffle impolitely turned his back to the company, while the
fourth man lost himself in the contemplation of the king of spades,
which card ever afterward showed in its centre a blotch which seemed the
result of a drop of water. Finally Buffle broke the silence by saying:

“I’d give my last ounce, and my shootin’-iron besides, mum, ef I could
put yer on his trail; but I can’t remember no such man; ken you,
fellers?”

Three melancholy nods replied in the negative.

“I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Berryn. “I will go
back to the crossing and take the next stage. Perhaps, Mr. Buffle, if I
send you my address when I reach San Francisco, you will let me know if
you ever find any traces of him?”

“Depend upon all of us for that, mum,” replied Buffle.

“Thank you,” said she, and departed as suddenly as she had entered,
leaving the men staring stupidly at each other.

“Wonder how she got here from the crossin’?” finally remarked one.

“Ef she came alone, she’s got a black ride back,” said another. “It’s
nigh onto fourteen miles to that crossin’.”

“An’ she orten’t to be travelin’ at all,” said little Muggy, the
smallest man of the party. “I’m a family man—or I wuz once—an’ I tell
yer she ort to be where she ken keep quiet, an’ wait for what’s comin’
soon.”

The men glanced at each other significantly, but without any of the
levity which usually follows such an announcement in more cultured
circles.

“This game’s up, boys,” said Buffle, rising suddenly. “The stage don’t
reach the crossin’ till noon, an’ she is goin’ to hev this shanty to
stay in till daylight, anyhow. You fellers had better git, right away.”

Saying which, Buffle hurried out to look for Mrs. Berryn. He soon
overtook her, and awkwardly said:

“Mum!”

She stopped.

“Yer don’t need to start till after daylight to reach that stage, mum,
an’ you’d better come back and rest yerself in my shanty till mornin’.”

“I am very much obliged, sir,” she replied, “but——”

“Don’t be afeard, mum,” said Buffle, hastily. “We’re rough, but a lady’s
as safe here as she’d be among her family. Ye’ll have the cabin all to
yerself, an’ I’ll leave a revolver with yer to make yer feel better.”

“You are very kind, sir, but—it will take me some time to get back.”

“Horse lame, p’r’aps?”

“No, sir; the truth is, I walked.”

“Good God!” ejaculated Buffle; “I’ll kill any scoundrel of a
station-agent that’ll let a woman take such a walk as this. I’ll take
you back on a good horse before noon to-morrow, and I’ll put a hole
through that rascal right before your eyes, mum.”

Mrs. Berryn shuddered, at sight of which Buffle mentally consigned his
eyes to a locality boasting a superheated atmosphere, for talking so
roughly to a lady.

“Don’t harm him, Mr. Buffle,” said she. “He knew nothing about it. I
asked him the road to Fat Pocket Gulch, and he pointed it out. He did
not know but what I had a horse or a carriage. Unfortunately, the stage
was robbed the day before yesterday, and all my money was taken, or I
should not have walked here, I assure you. My passage is paid to San
Francisco, and the driver told me that if I wished to come down here,
the next stage would take me through to San Francisco. When I get there,
I can soon obtain money from the East.”

“Madame,” said Buffle, unconsciously taking off his hat, “any lady
that’ll make that walk by dark is clear gold all the way down to
bed-rock. Ef yer husband’s in California, I’ll find him fur yer, in
spite of man or devil—_I_ will, an’ I’ll be on the trail in half an
hour. An’ you’d better stay here till I come back, or send yer word. I
don’t want to brag, but thar ain’t a man in the Gulch that’ll dare
molest anythin’ aroun’ _my_ shanty, an’ as thar’s plenty of pervisions
thar—plain, but good—yer can’t suffer. The spring is close by, an’
you’ll allers find firewood by the door. An’ ef yer want help about
anythin’, ask the fust man yer see, and say I told yer to.”

Mrs. Berryn looked earnestly into his face for a moment, and then
trusted him.

“Mr. Buffle,” she said, “he is the best man that ever lived. But we were
both proud, and we quarrelled, and he left me in anger. I accidentally
heard he was in California, through an acquaintance who saw him leave
New York on the California steamer. If you see him, tell him I was
wrong, and that I will die if he does not come back. Tell him—tell
him—that.”

“Never mind, mum,” said Buffle, leading her hastily toward the shanty,
and talking with unusual rapidity. “I’ll bring him back all right ef I
find him; an’ find him I will, ef he’s on top of the ground.”

They entered the cabin, and Buffle was rather astonished at the
appearance of his own home. The men were gone, but on the bare logs,
where Buffle usually reposed, they had spread their coats neatly, and
covered them with a blanket which little Muggy usually wore.

The cards had disappeared, and in their place lay a very small fragment
of looking-glass; the demijohn stood in its accustomed place, but
against it leaned a large chip, on which was scrawled, in charcoal, the
word _Worter_.

“Good,” said Buffle, approvingly. “Now, mum, keep up yer heart. I tell
yer I’ll fetch him, an’ any man at the Gulch ken tell yer thet lyin’
ain’t my gait.”

Buffle slammed the door, called at two or three other shanties, and gave
orders in a style befitting a feudal lord, and in ten minutes was on
horseback, galloping furiously out on the trail to Green Flat.

The Green Flatites wondered at finding the great man among them, and
treated him with the most painful civility. As he neither hung about the
saloon, “got up” a game, nor provoked a horse-trade, it was immediately
surmised that he was looking for some one, and each man searchingly
questioned his trembling memory whether he had ever done Buffle an
injury.

All preserved a respectful silence as Buffle walked from claim to claim,
carefully scrutinizing many, and all breathed freer as they saw him and
his horse disappear over the hill on the Sonora trail.

At Sonora he considered it wise to stay over Sunday—not to enjoy
religious privileges, but because on Sunday sinners from all parts of
the country round flocked into Sonora, to commune with the spirits,
infernal rather than celestial, gathered there.

He made the tour of all the saloons, dashed eagerly at two or three men,
with plain gold rings on left fore-fingers, disgustedly found them the
wrong men beyond doubt, cursed them, and invited them to drink. Then he
closely catechised all the barkeepers, who were the only reliable
directories in that country; they were anxious to oblige him, but none
could remember such a man. So Buffle took his horse, and sought his man
elsewhere.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Berryn remained in camp, where she was cared for in a
manner which called out her astonishment equally with her gratitude.
Buffle was hardly well out of the Gulch when Mrs. Berryn heard a knock
at the door; she opened it, and a man handed her a frying-pan, with the
remark, “Buffle is cracked,” and hastily disappeared.

In the morning she was awakened by a crash outside the door, and, on
looking out, discovered a quantity of firewood ready cut; each morning
thereafter found in the same place a fresh supply, which was usually
decorated with offerings of different degrees of appropriateness—pieces
of fresh meat, strings of dried ditto, blankets enough for a large
hotel, little packages of gold-dust, case knives and forks, cans of salt
butter, and all sorts of provisions, in quantity.

Each man in camp fondly believed his own particular revolver was better
than any other, and, as a natural consequence, the camp became almost
peaceful, by reason of the number of pistols that were left in front of
Mrs. Berryn’s door. But she carefully left them alone, and when this was
discovered the boys sorrowfully removed them.

Then old Griff, living up the Gulch, with a horrible bulldog for
companion, brought his darling animal down late one dark night, and tied
him near the lady’s residence, where he discoursed sweet sounds for two
hours, until, to Mrs. Berryn’s delight, he broke his chain, and returned
to his old home.

Then Sandytop, the ace-thief, suddenly left camp. Many were the surmises
and bets on the subject; and on the third day, when two men, one of whom
believed he had gone to steal a mule, and the other believed he had
rolled into the creek while drunk, were about to refer the whole matter
to pistols, they were surprised at seeing Sandytop stagger into camp,
under a large, unsightly bundle. The next day Mrs. Berryn ate from
crockery instead of tin, and had a china wash-bowl and pitcher.

Little Muggy, who sold out his claim the day after Buffle left, went to
San Francisco, but reappeared in camp in a few days, with a large
bundle, a handsaw and a plane. Some light was thrown on the contents of
the bundle by sundry scraps of linen, cotton, and very soft flannel,
that the wind occasionally blew from the direction of Mrs. Berryn’s
abode; but why Muggy suddenly needed a very large window in the only
boarded side of his house; why he never staked another claim and went to
“washing;” why his door always had to be unlocked from the inside before
any one could get in, instead of being ajar, as was the usual custom
with doors at Fat Pocket Gulch; why visitors always found the floor
strewn with shavings and blocks, but were told to mind their business if
they asked what he was making; and why Uppercrust, an aristocratic young
reprobate, who had been a doctor in the States, had suddenly taken up
his abode with Muggy, were mysteries unsolvable by the united intellects
of Fat Pocket Gulch.

It was finally suggested by some one, that, as Muggy had often and
fluently cursed the “rockers” used to wash out dirt along the Gulch, it
was likely enough he was inventing a new one, and the ex-doctor, who, of
course, knew something about chemistry, was helping him to work an
amalgamator into it; a careful comparison of bets showed this to be a
fairly accepted opinion, and so the matter rested.

Meanwhile, Buffle had been untiring in his search, as his horse, could
he have spoken, would have testified. Men wondered what Berryn had done
to Buffle, and odds of ten to one that some undertaker would soon have
reason to bless Buffle were freely offered, but seldom taken. One night
Buffle’s horse galloped into Deadlock Ridge, and the rider, hailing the
first man he met, inquired the way to the saloon.

“I don’t know,” replied the man.

“Come, no foolin’ thar,” said Buffle, indignantly.

“I don’t know, I tell you—I don’t drink.”

“Hang yer!” roared Buffle, in honest fury at what seemed to him the most
stupendous lie ever told by a miner, “I’ll teach yer to lie to me.” And
out came Buffle’s pistol.

The man saw his danger, and, springing at Buffle with the agility of a
cat, snatched the pistol and threw it on the ground; in an instant
Buffle’s hand had firmly grasped the man by his shirt-collar, and, the
horse taking fright, Buffle, a second later, found in his hand a torn
piece of red flannel, a chain, and a locket, while the man lay on the
ground.

“At last!” exclaimed Buffle, convinced that he had found his man; but
his emotions were quickly cooled by the man in the road, who, jumping
from the ground, picked up Buffle’s pistol, cocked and aimed it, and
spoke in a grating voice, as if through set teeth:

“Give back that locket this second, or, as God lives, I’ll take it out
of a dead man’s hand.”

The rapidity of human thought is never so beautifully illustrated as
when the owner of a human mind is serving involuntarily as a target.

“My friend,” said Buffle, “ef I’ve got anything uv yourn, yer ken hev it
on provin’ property. We’ll go to whar that fust light is up above—I’ll
walk the hoss slow, an’ yer ken keep me covered with the pistol; ain’t
that fair?”

“Be quick, then,” said the man, excitedly; “start!”

The trip was not more than two minutes in length, but it seemed a good
hour to Buffle, whose acquaintanceship with the delicacy of the trigger
of his beloved pistol caused his past life to pass in retrospect before
him several times before they reached the light. The light proved to be
in the saloon whose locality had provoked the quarrel. The saloon was
full, the door was open, and there was a buzz of astonishment, which
culminated in a volley of ejaculations, in which strength predominated
over elegance, as a large man, followed closely by a small man with a
cocked pistol, marched up to the bar.

“Gentlemen,” said Buffle, “this feller sez I’ve got some uv his
property, an’ he’s come here to prove it. Now, feller, wot’s yer claim?”

“A chain and locket,” said the man; “hang you, I see them in your hand
now.”

“Ennybody ken see a chain an’ locket in my hand,” said Buffle, “but that
don’t make it yourn.”

“The locket contains the portrait of a lady, and the inscription
‘Frances to Allan’—look quick, or I’ll shoot!” said the little man,
savagely.

Buffle opened it, and saw Mrs. Berryn’s portrait.

“Mister, yer right,” said he; “here’s yer property, an’ I’ll apologize,
er drink, er fight—er apologize, _an’_ drink, _an’_ fight, whichever is
yer style. Fust, however, ef ye’ll drop that pistol, I’ll drink myself,
considerin’—never mind. Denominate yer pizen, gentlemen,” said he, as
the audience crowded to the bar.

“Buffle,” whispered the barkeeper, who knew the great man by sight,
“he’s a littler man than you.”

“I know it, boss,” replied Buffle, most brazenly. “He sez he don’t
drink.”

“Never saw him _here_ before—there, he’s goin’ out now,” said the
barkeeper.

Buffle turned and dashed through the crowd; all who held glasses quickly
laid them down and followed.

“Stand back, the hull crowd uv yer,” said Buffle; “this ain’t no
fight—me an’ the gentleman got private bizness.” And, laying his hand on
Berryn’s shoulder, he said, “What are yer doin’ here, when yer know a
lady like that?”

“Suffering hell for abusing heaven,” replied Berryn, passionately.

“Then why don’t yer go back?” inquired Buffle.

“Because I’ve got no money; all luck has failed me ever since I left
home—shipwreck, hunger, poverty——”

“Come back a minute,” interrupted Buffle. I forgot to come down with the
dust for the drinks. Now I tell yer what—I want yer to go back to my
camp—I’ve got plenty uv gold, an’ it’s no good to me, only fur gamblin’
an’ drinkin’; yer welcome to enough uv it to git yerself home, an’ git
on yer feet when yer get thar.”

Berryn looked doubtingly at him as they entered the saloon.

“P’r’aps somebody here ken tell this gentleman my name?” said Buffle.

“Buffle!” said several voices in chorus.

“Bully! Now, p’r’aps you same fellers ken tell him ef I’m a man uv my
word?”

“You bet,” responded the same chorus.

“An’ now, p’r’aps some uv yer’ll sell me a good hoss, pervidin’ yer
don’t want him stole mighty sudden?”

Several men invited attention to their respective animals, tied near the
door. Promptly selecting one, paying for it, and settling with the
barkeeper, and mounting his own horse while Berryn mounted the new one,
the two men galloped away, leaving the bystanders lost in astonishment,
from which they only recovered after almost superhuman industry on the
part of the barkeeper.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One evening, when the daily labors and household cares of the Fat Pocket
Gulchites had ended, the residents of that quiet village were
congregated, as usual, at the saloon. It was too early for gambling and
fighting, and the boys chatted peacefully, pausing only a few times to
drink “Here’s her,” which had become the standard toast of the Gulch.
Conversation turned on Muggy’s invention, and a few bets were exchanged,
which showed the boys were not quite sure it was a rocker, after all.
Suddenly Sandytop, who had been leaning against the door-frame, and,
looking in the direction of Buffle’s old cabin, ejaculated:

“_’Tis_ a rocker, boys—it’s a rocker, but—but not that kind.”

The boys poured out the door, and saw an unusual procession approaching
Mrs. Berryn’s cabin; first came Uppercrust, the young ex-doctor, then an
Irishwoman from a neighboring settlement, and then Muggy, bearing a
baby’s cradle, neatly made of pine boards. The doctor and woman went in,
and Muggy, dropping the cradle, ran at full speed to the saloon, and up
to the bar, the crowd following.

Muggy looked along the line, saw all the glasses were filled and in
hand, and then, raising his own, exclaimed, “Here’s her, boys!” and then
went into a fully-developed boo-hoo. And he was not alone; for once the
boys watered their liquor, and purer water God never made.

It was some moments before shirt-sleeves ceased to officiate as
handkerchiefs; but just as the boys commenced to look savagely at each
other, as if threatening cold lead if any one suspected undue
tenderness, Sandytop, who had returned to his post at the door to give
ease to the stream which his sleeve could not staunch, again startled
the crowd by staring earnestly toward the hill over which led the trail,
and exclaiming, “Good God!”

There was another rush to the door, and there, galloping down the trail,
was Buffle and another man. The boys stared at each other, but said
nothing—their gift of swearing was not equal to the occasion.

Steadily they stared at the two men, until Buffle, reining back a
little, pointed his pistol threateningly. They took the hint, and after
they were all inside, Sandytop closed the door and the shutters of the
unglazed windows.

“Thar’s my shanty,” said Buffle, as they neared it from one side; “that
one with two bar’ls fur a chimley. You jest go right in. I’ll be thar ez
soon ez I put up the hosses.”

As they reached the front, both men started at the sight of the cradle.

“Why, I didn’t know you were a married man, Buffle?” said his companion.

“I—well—I—I—don’t tell everythin’,” stammered Buffle; and, catching the
bridle of Berryn’s horse the moment his rider had dismounted, Buffle
dashed off to the saloon, and took numerous solitary drinks, at which no
one took offense. Then he turned, nodded significantly toward the old
shanty, and asked:

“How long since?”

“Not quite yit—yer got him here in time, Buffle,” said Muggy.

“Thank the Lord!” said Buffle. His lips were very familiar with the name
of the Lord, but they had never before used it in this sense.

Then, while several men were getting ready to ask Buffle where he found
his man—Californians never ask questions in a hurry—there came from the
direction of Buffle’s shanty the sound of a subdued cry.

“Gentlemen,” said the barkeeper, “there’s no more drinking at this bar
to-night until—until I say so.”

No one murmured. No one swore. No one suggested a game. An old enemy of
Buffle’s happened in, but that worthy, instead of feeling for his
pistol, quietly left the leaning-post, and bowed his enemy into it.

The boys stood and sat about, studied the cracks in the floor, the
pattern of the shutters, contemplated the insides of their hats, and
chewed tobacco as if their lives depended on it.

Buffle made frequent trips to the door, and looked out. Suddenly he
closed the door, and had barely time to whisper, “No noise, now, or I’ll
shoot,” when the doctor walked in. The crowd arose.

“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the doctor—“as fine a boy as I ever
saw.”

“My treat for the rest of the evening, boys,” said the barkeeper,
hurriedly crowding glasses and bottles on the bar. “Her,” “Him,” “Him,
Junior,” “Buffle,” “Doc.,” and “Old Rockershop,” as some happily
inspired miner dubbed little Muggy, were drunk successively.

The door opened again, and in walked Allan Berryn. Glancing quickly
about, he soon distinguished Buffle. He grasped his hand, looked him
steadily in the eye, and exclaimed:

“Buffle, you——”

He was a Harvard graduate, and a fine talker, was Allan Berryn, but,
when he had spoken two words, he somehow forgot the remainder of the
speech he had made up on his way over; his silence for two or three
seconds seemed of hours to every man who looked on his face, so that it
was a relief to all when he gave Buffle a mighty hug, and then
precipitately retreated.

Buffle looked sheepish, and shook himself.

“That feller can outhug a grizzly,” said he. “Boys,” he continued, “that
chap’s been buckin’ agin luck sence he’s been in the diggin’s, an’ is
clean busted. But his luck begun to turn this evening, an’ here’s what
goes for keepin’ the ball a-rollin’. Here’s my ante;” saying which, he
laid his old hat on the bar, took out his buckskin bag of gold-dust, and
emptied it into the hat.

Bags came out of pockets all around, and were either entirely emptied,
or had their contents largely diminished by knife-blades, which scooped
out the precious dust, and dropped it into the hat.

“There,” said Buffle, looking into the hat, “I reckon that’ll kerry ’em
back to their folks.”

For a fortnight the saloon was as quiet as a well-ordered
prayer-meeting, and it was solemnly decided that no fight with pistols
should take place nearer than The Bend, which was, at least, a mile from
where the new resident’s cradle was located.

One pleasant, quiet evening, Buffle, who frequently passed an hour with
Berryn on the latter’s woodpile, was seen approaching the saloon with a
very small bundle, which, nevertheless, occupied both his arms and all
his attention.

“It, by thunder,” said one. So it was; a wee, pink-faced, blue-eyed,
fuzzy-topped little thing, with one hand frantically clutching three
hairs of Buffle’s beard.

“See the little thing pull,” said one.

“Is that all the nose they hev at fust?” asked another, seriously.

“Can’t yer take them pipes out uv yer mouths when the baby’s aroun’?”
indignantly demanded another.

Little Muggy edged his way through the crowd, threw away his quid of
tobacco, took the baby from Buffle, and kissed it a dozen times.

“I’m goin’ home, fellers,” said Muggy, finally. “I’m wanted by the
lawyers for cuttin’ a man that sassed me while I was shoe-makin’. But
I’m a-goin’ to see my young uns, even if all creation wants me.”

“An’ I’m a-goin’, too,” said Buffle. “I’m wanted pretty bad by some
that’s East, but I reckon I’m well enough hid by the har that’s grow’d
sence I wuz a boy, an’ dug out from old Varmont. I’ve had a new taste uv
decency lately, an’ I’m goin’ to see ef I can’t stan’ it for a stiddy
diet. The chap over to the shanty sez he ken git me somethin’ to do, an’
ennythin’s better’n gamblin’, drinkin’, and fightin’”.

“It’s agin the law to kerry shootin’-irons there, Buffle,” suggested
one.

“Yes, an’ they got a new kind uv a law there, to keep a man from takin’
his bitters,” said another.

“Yes,” said Buffle, “all that’s mighty tough, but ef a feller’s bound
fur bed-rock, he might ez well git that all uv a sudden, ef he ken.”

Buffle started toward the door, stopped as if he had something else to
say, started again, hesitated, feigned indignation at the baby, flushed
the least bit, opened the door, partly closed it again, squeezed himself
out and displaying only the tip of his nose, roared:

“This baby’s name is Allan Buffle Berryn—Allen _Buffle_ Berryn!” and
then rushed at full speed to leave the baby at home, while the boys
clinked glasses melodiously.

At the end of another fortnight there was a procession formed at Fat
Pocket Gulch; two horses, one wearing a side-saddle, were brought to the
door of Buffle’s old house, and Mrs. Berryn and her husband mounted
them; they were soon joined by Buffle and Muggy.


[Illustration:

  “THIS BABY’S NAME IS ALLAN BUFFLE BERRYN.”
]


For months after there was mourning far and wide among owners of mules
and horses, for each Gulchite had been out stealing, that he might ride
with the escort which was to see the Berryns safely to the crossing. An
advance-guard was sent ahead, and the party were about to start, when
Buffle suddenly dismounted and entered his old cabin; when he
reappeared, a cloud of smoke followed him.

“Thar,” said he, a moment later, as flames were seen bursting through
the roof, “no galoot uv a miner don’t live in that shanty after that.
Git.”

Away galloped the party, the baby in the arms of its father. The
crossing was safely reached, and the stage had room for the whole party,
and, after a hearty hand-shaking all around, the stage started. Sandytop
threw one of his only two shoes after it for luck.

As the stage was disappearing around a bend, a little way from the
crossing, the back curtain was suddenly thrown up, a baby, backed by a
white hat and yellow beard, was seen, and a familiar voice was heard to
roar, “Allan _Buffle_ Berryn.”


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          MATALETTE’S SECTION.


“NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in _this_ part of
Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and
painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no
thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around;
no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not
a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk,
or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his
drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t
a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a
farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no
man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’
rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your
life.”

The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his
only auditor was a brother farmer.

Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and
harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results
as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the
listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages. He was
as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in
the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though
they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to
appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.

Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very
unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.

When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy
quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second
corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money
which bought the new horse.

When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about
the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation
of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a
large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.

Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural
bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among
the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable
girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.

“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle Conover, one day,
at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange
views. “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not
expectin’ to see any women around—when who comes to the door but _her_.
For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels
as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand
it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”

The latter clause of Syle’s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all
the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so
young.

Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the
delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some
business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable
chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable
age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be
promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.

There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father
and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.

It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him
tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by
some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant
for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and
look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.

The editor of the _Bonpas Cornblade_, in a sonnet addressed to “H. M.,”
compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered
whether Helen’s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and
whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to
include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally
timorous at first acquaintance.

But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon
forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to
make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section,
and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore
while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain
which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom
found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.

The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock
at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the
table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his
daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither
Indians nor burglars were known.

Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while
Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her
dress.

“Ready?” asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the
table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.

“Yes,” whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.

“Who’s there?” shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.

“I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher,” replied a voice. “I’m wet,
cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?”

“Certainly!” cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the
three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to
a sigh of relief.

They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from
Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man,
whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut
features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look
which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish
from his face.

There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them
were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed
to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at
her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual
interest in young ladies; but where a person’s face seems to show forth
the owner’s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette’s, a
minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long
at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a
lively and tender interest.

Such seemed to be the young divine’s train of reasoning, and his
consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping
clothing for a suit of Matalette’s own, he addressed his conversation
almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas
Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an
unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance
might be trusted to tell the truth.

When the young preacher, according to the custom of his class and
denomination, at that day, finally turned the course of conversation
toward the one reputed object of his life, it was with a sigh which
indicated, perhaps, how earnestly he regretted that the dominion of
Satan in the world compelled him to withdraw his soul from such pure and
unusual delights as had been his during that evening. And when, after
offering a prayer with the family, Crewne followed Matalette to a
chamber to rest, Helen bade him good-night with a bright smile which
mixed itself up inextricably with his private devotions, his thoughts
and his plans for forthcoming sermons, and seriously curtailed his
night’s rest in addition.

In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it
was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it
was arranged that he should retain Matalette’s clothing, and return
within a few days for his own.

Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on
foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with
which to purchase one.

It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted
to—and the young man’s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter
his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the
morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of
gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly
determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a
supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he
cast upon Helen’s handsome face.

Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young
people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he
would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any
expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at
Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary
human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by,
and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never
stopped his horse.

Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his
Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty
effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—he
could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest
intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at
the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then
he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of
Psalms.

He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just
whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen
galloped up to him. As he turned his head to see who they might be, he
observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner.
As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders
indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.

“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion,
“but it’s the preacher’s face.”

“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great
crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look. “Mr. Matalette took me
in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed,
refreshed, clothed and mounted. To rob a man who is so lavish of——”

“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t
got the right pig by the ear. We’re not highwaymen. I’m the sheriff of
this county, and Jim’s a constable. And as for Matalette, he’s a
counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”

Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed:

“Impossible!”

“’Tis, eh?” said the sheriff. “Well, we’ve examined several lots of
money he’s paid out lately, and there isn’t a good bill among ’em.”

Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money
Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.

“That’s some of his stock?” said he, looking it rapidly over. “_That_
seems good enough.”

“What will become of his poor daughter?” ejaculated the young preacher,
with a vacant look.

“What, Helen?” queried the sheriff. “She’s the best engraver of
counterfeits there is in the whole West.”

“Dreadful—dreadful!” exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over
his eyes.

“Fact,” replied the sheriff. “You parsons have got a big job to do ’fore
this world’s in the right shape, an’ sheriffs and constables ain’t
needed. Wish you good luck at it, though ‘twill be bad for trade. You’ll
keep mum ’bout this case, of course. We’ll catch ’em in the act finally;
then there won’t be any danger about not getting a conviction, an’ our
reward, that’s offered by the banks.”

The sheriff and his assistant galloped on to the village they had been
approaching when they overtook Crewne; but the young minister did not
accompany them, although the village toward which they rode was the one
in which he was to preach that morning.

Perhaps he needed more time and quietness in which to compose his
sermon. If this supposition is correct, it may account for the fact that
the members of the Mount Pisgah congregation pronounced his sermon that
day, from the text, “All is vanity,” one of his most powerful efforts.

In fact, old Mrs. Reets, who had for time immemorial entertained the
probable angels who appeared at Mount Pisgah in ministerial guise,
remarked that “preacher seemed all tuckered out by that talk; tuk his
critter, an’ left town ’fore the puddin’ was done.”

That same evening, the sheriff and his deputy, with several special
assistants, rode from Mount Pisgah toward Matalette’s section.

The night was dark, rainy and cloudy; the horses stumbled over roots and
logs in the imperfectly made road; the low-hanging branches spitefully
cut the faces of the riders, and brought several hats to grief, and
snatched the sheriff’s pipe out of his mouth.

And yet the sheriff seemed in excellent spirits. To be sure, he softly
whistled the air of, “Jordan is a hard road to travel,” which was the
popular air twenty-five years ago, but there was a merry tone to his
whistle. He stopped whistling suddenly, and remarked to the constable:

“Got notice to-day of another new counterfeit. Five hundred offered for
arrest and conviction on _that_. Hope we can prove _that_ on Matalette’s
gang. We can go out of politics, and run handsome farms of our own, if
things go all right to-night. Don’t know but I’d give my whole share,
though, to whoever would arrest Helen. It’s a dog’s life, anyhow, this
bein’ a sheriff. I won’t complain, however, if we get that gang
to-night.”

The party rode on until they were within a mile of Matalette’s section,
when they reined their horses into the woods, dismounted, left a man on
watch, and approached the dwelling on foot.

Reaching the fence, the party halted, whispered together for a moment,
and silently surrounded the house in different directions.

The sheriff removed his boots, walked noiselessly around the house, saw
that he had a man at each door and window, and posted one at the
cellar-door. Then the sheriff put on his boots, approached the front
door, and knocked loudly.

There was no response. The light was streaming brightly from one of the
windows, and the sheriff tried to look in, but the thick curtain
prevented him. He knocked again, and louder, but still there was no
response. Then he became uneasy. He was a brave man when he knew what
was to be met, but now all sorts of uncomfortable suspicions crossed his
mind; the rascals might be up-stairs waiting for a quiet opportunity to
shoot down at him, or they might be under the small stoop on which he
stood, and preparing to fire up at him. They might be quietly burning
their spurious money up-stairs, so as to destroy the evidence against
them; they might be in the cellar burying the plates.

The sheriff could endure the suspense no longer. Signaling to him two of
his men, he, with a blow of a stick of wood, broke in the window-sash.
As, immediately afterward, he tore aside the curtain, he and his
assistance presented pistols and shouted:

“Surrender!”

No one was visible, and the sheriff only concealed his sheepish feelings
by jumping into the room. His assistants followed him, and they searched
the entire house without finding any one.

They searched the cellar, the outhouses, and the barn, but encountered
only the inquiring glances of the horses and cattle. Then they searched
the house anew, hoping to find proof of the guilt of Matalette and his
family; but, excepting holes in the floor of a vacant room, they found
nothing which might not be expected in a comfortable home.

Suddenly some one thought of the boats which Matalette kept at the mouth
of the creek, and a detachment, headed by the sheriff, went hastily down
to examine them.

The boats were gone—not even the tiniest canoe or most dilapidated skiff
remained. It is grievous to relate—but truth is truth—that the sheriff,
who was on Sundays a Sabbath-school superintendent, now lost his temper
and swore frightfully. But no boats were conjured up by the sheriff’s
language, nor did his assistance succeed in finding any up the creek; so
the party returned to the house, and resorted to the illegal measure of
helping themselves liberally to the contents of Matalette’s sideboard.

Meanwhile a black mass, floating down the Wabash, about a dozen miles
below the Bonpas’s mouth, seemed the cause of some mysterious plunging
and splashing in the river. Finally an aperture appeared in the black
mass, and the light streamed out. Then the figure of a man appeared in
the aperture, and all was dark again.

As the figure disappeared within the mass, three bearded men, dressed
like emigrants, looked up furtively, one yellow-haired man stared
vacantly and sadly into the fire which illumed the cabin of the little
trading boat, while Helen Matalette sprang forward and threw her arms
about the figure’s neck.

“It’s all gone, Nell,” said the man. “Presses and plates are where
nobody will be likely to find them. The Wabash won’t tell secrets.”

“I’m so glad—_oh_, so glad!” cried the girl.

“It’s a fortune thrown away,” said one of the men, moodily.

“Yes, and a bad name, too,” said she, with flashing eyes.

“We’re beggars for life, anyhow,” growled another of the men.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Matalette. “Nell’s right—if we’re not tracked and
caught, I’ll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever.
And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don’t think
we’re very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,”
continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of
the fire, “you’ve saved me—what can I give you?”

The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:

“Your soul.”

Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:

“Anything else?”

Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little
frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat;
then, with a mighty effort, he said:

“Yes—Helen.”

The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed
to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision
just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father’s silence
as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid
her from her father’s view.

Matalette’s section was finally sold for taxes, and was never reclaimed,
but the excitement relating to its former occupants was for years so
great that the purchasers of the estate found it worldly wisdom to
dispense refreshments on the ground.

As for Crewne—a few months after the occurrences mentioned above there
appeared, in the wilds of Missouri, a young preacher with unusual zeal
and a handsome wife. And about the same time four men entered a quarter
section of prairie-land near the young preacher’s station, and appeared
then and evermore to be the most ardent and faithful of the young man’s
admirers.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       A STORY OF TEN MILE GULCH.


                                   I.

THE horse which Mr. Tom Ruger rode kept the path, steep and rugged
though it was, without any guidance from him, and its mate followed
demurely. They were accustomed to it; and many a mile had they traversed
in this way, taking turns at carrying their owner and master. Indeed,
the trio seemed inseparable, and “as happy as Tom Ruger and his horses”
was a phrase that was very often heard in every mining camp and
settlement.

As for Mr. Tom Ruger himself, very little was known of him save what had
been learned during the two years that he had sojourned among them.
Where he came from never was known, nor asked but once by the same
person. All that could be said of him might be summed up in the
following statement:

“The finest-looking, the best-dressed, and the best-mannered man on the
Pacific coast, and the best horseman.”

These were the words of “mine host” at the Ten Mile House, and, as he
was a gentleman whose word was as good as his paper, we will accept them
as truth.

As Mr. Ruger rode down the mountain-side that beautiful Autumn day,
dressed in the finest of broadcloth, with linen of the most immaculate
whiteness, smoking what appeared to be a very good cigar, and humming to
himself a fragment of some old song, he looked strangely out of place.

So thought Miss Fanny Borlan as she looked out of the stage-window, and
caught her first glimpse of him just where his path intersected the
stage-road; and she would have asked the driver about him, had he not
been so near.

Mr. Ruger caught sight of her face about that time, and tossing away the
cigar, he lifted his hat to her in the most approved style.

She acknowledged the salute by a bow, and when he rode up to the side of
the stage, and made some casual remark about the fine weather, she did
not choose to consider it out of the way to receive this advance toward
a traveling acquaintance with seeming cordiality.

“Have you traveled far?” he asked.

“From the Atlantic coast, sir.”

“The same journey that I intend to take some of these days, only that I
hope to substitute the word Pacific at its termination. I hope you are
near the end of your journey in this direction?”

“My destination is Ten Mile Gulch, I believe; but you have such horrid
names out here.”

“I presume they do appear somewhat queer to a stranger, but they nearly
all have the merit of being appropriate. You stop at the settlement?”

“I do not know. My brother wrote to me to come to Ten Mile Gulch. Is it
the name of a town?”

“Both of a village and a mining district, from which the village takes
its name. Is your brother a miner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I presume he intended to meet you at the settlement. You will no doubt
find him at the tavern; if not, I will tell him of your arrival, for my
way leads through the mines.”

“Thank you, sir. My brother’s name is John Borlan.”

“I am somewhat acquainted with him,” said Mr. Ruger, “though in this
region of strange names we call him Jack. My name is Thomas Ruger.”

“Tom, in California style?” she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, Miss Borlan,” he said, also smiling. “Tom Ruger is well known
where Thomas Ruger never was heard of. And now I will bid you good-day,
Miss Borlan, for I am in something of a hurry to reach the settlement.
If I do not find Jack there, I will go on to the mines and tell him.”

“Ah, Miss, you don’t have such men as Tom Ruger out where you come
from,” said the driver, as Tom disappeared up the road. “And them nags
of his’n can’t be beat this side of the mountains. He makes a heap o’
money with ’em.”

“What! a horse-jockey?” exclaimed Miss Borlan.

“We don’t call him that, miss. Some says he’s a sportin’ man, which
ain’t nothin’ agin him, for the country’s new, ye see. He’s got heaps o’
money anyway, and there ain’t a camp nor a town on the coast that don’t
know Tom Ruger. Ah, ye don’t have such men as Tommy. He’d be at home in
a palace, now wouldn’t he? And it’s jest the same in a miner’s shanty.
Ye don’t have such men as he. If he takes a likin’ to anybody, he sticks
to ’em through thick and thin; but if he gits agin ye once,
he’s—the—very—deuce. Ah, ye don’t have no such man out where you come
from.”

She did not care to dispute this point. In fact, after what she had seen
and heard, she was inclined to believe that there was no such men as Tom
Ruger out where she had come from; so she made no reply; and the driver,
following out his train of thought, rattled on about Tom Ruger until
they came in sight of Ten Mile Gulch, winding up his narrative with the
sage, but rather unexpected, remark, that there weren’t no such men as
Tom Ruger out where she had come from.


                                  II.

THE barroom at the Miners’ Home might have been more crowded at some
former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen
faces and forms of the two dozen Ten Milers who were congregated there
that beautiful Autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.

Ten Mile Gulch had turned out _en masse_, and those same Ten Milers were
distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor
softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. Further than
that we do not care to go at present.

But there was one face and one form absent. No more would the genial
atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest,
no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass
him the whisky-straight. Alas! Bill Foster had passed in his checks, and
gone the way of all Ten Milers.

And it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden
treasure from their work, for Bill had not gone in the ordinary way. At
night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the
morning they found him just outside the domicile of Jack Borlan, with a
small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. Such was life at
Ten Mile Gulch.

Who made the puncture?

Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the
settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid
lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of
Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two
more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit
themselves.

Mr. Bob Watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was
whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might
have concluded that whittling was his best hold. Not so, however; he
whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then
varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the
thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left
eye of a very flattering representation of Yankee Sullivan which graced
the wall.

By a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was
unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than
its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.

“Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?” asks Watson.

“We’re waiting for _you_,” said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased
witness of the knife-throwing and its results.

“Well, you need not,” retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at
Yankee’s other eye, and with very good success. “You know my sentiments,
gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have
fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin’.”

“It—might—have—done,” said the tall Miler, doubtfully; “but I wouldn’t
like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment of the
occasion.”

“Bet yer ten to one ye don’t swing him!” cried Watson, springing to his
feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been
whittling. “Twenty to one Jack Borlan don’t choke this heat! Who takes
me? who? who?”

No one seemed disposed to take him.

“Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at
Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long
ago. What do _you_ say, Borlan?”

The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and
turned to Watson. “There have been cases where the prisoner had the
benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson.”

“Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let’s have
one, gentlemen. I’ll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now,
who’ll defend the prisoner at the bar?”

“I’ll make a feeble attempt that way,” was the reply that came from the
doorway. All eyes turned, and recognized Tom Ruger.

“This is betwixt us Ten Milers,” said Watson. “Borlan is guilty, and
we’re bound to hang him before sundown; but we want to do the fair
thing, and give him the benefit of a trial. Who of you Ten Milers will
defend him?”

“I told you _I_ would defend Mr. Borlan,” said Tom Ruger, as he removed
his silk hat and wiped his broad forehead with the finest of silk
handkerchiefs.

“I tell you we won’t have any outsiders in this game,” said Watson.

“I really dislike to contradict you, Mr. Watson,” remarked Tom Ruger, as
he very carefully readjusted his hat. “Very sorry, Mr. Watson, and I do
hope you’ll pardon me when I repeat that I will defend Mr.
Borlan—_with—my—life_!”

This remark surprised no one more than Jack Borlan. He had never spoken
to Mr. Ruger a dozen times in his life, and he could not account for
such disinterestedness. However, there was not much time for conjecture,
for Mr. Watson had taken offense.

“With your death, Tom Ruger, if you interfere!” cried Watson, jumping
down from his elevation.

It did look that way; but Mr. Ruger had not strolled up and down that
auriferous coast without acquiring some knowledge of the usual means of
defense in that sunny clime, as well as some practice. It was quite warm
for a moment; then Mr. Borlan, believing it to be his duty, as client,
to aid his counsel in the defense, went in gladly.

Still it was quite warm; also somewhat smoky from the powder that had
been burned; likewise noisy. Not so noisy, however, that Mr. Borlan
could not hear his counsel say:

“Clear yourself, Borlan! My horses are down at the ford!”

Mr. Borlan followed the advice of his counsel, and Mr. Ruger followed
Mr. Borlan. The Ten Milers—some of them—followed both counsel and
client.

It was neck and heels until the horses were reached. After that the
pursuers were left at a great disadvantage.

“I’ll have his heart!” ejaculated Watson. Which heart he meant we have
no means of knowing. “Give me a horse! quick!”

They brought a mule.

“Wait here, every man of you!” Watson shouted back over the shaved tail
of his substitute for a horse. “I’ll bring him back, dead or alive, or
my name ain’t Watson!”

And over the way the stage had stopped, and Fanny Borlan had reached Ten
Mile Gulch at last.


                                  III.

A LITTLE after sunrise, the next morning, Mr. Tom Ruger might have been
seen leisurely riding along the bridle-path between the mines and the
settlement of Ten Mile Gulch. He was headed toward the village, and was
nine and three-quarter miles nearer to it than the mines. He had found
another good cigar somewhere, and was humming the self-same tune as on
the previous afternoon; but the riderless horse was not with him.

As Mr. Ruger rode into the only street in the village, his approach was
heralded, and the Ten Milers, who were waiting for Watson’s return,
filed out of the Miners’ Home, and took stations in the street.

Mr. Ruger took note of this demonstration, and, with a very
business-like air, examined the contents of his holsters. He also
noticed that patched noses and heads, and canes and crutches, were the
predominating features in the group of Ten Milers, with an occasional
closed eye and a bandaged hand to vary the monotony.

Miss Fanny Borlan, from her window at the Ten Mile House, also noticed
the dilapidated looks of the frequenters of the Miners’ Home, and
wondered if they kept a hospital there. Then she saw Mr. Ruger, and
bowed and smiled as he drew up at her window.

“So you arrived all safe, Miss Borlan? How do you like the place?”

“Better than the inhabitants,” she answered, with a glance over the way.
“Than those, I mean. Is it a hospital?”

“For the present I believe it is.”

“And will be for some time to come, if they all stay till they’re cured.
But have you seen Jack?”

“Yes—last evening. He was very sorry that he could not wait for you, but
it may be as well, however. He has gone down to San Francisco, and he
will wait for you there. The stage leaves here in about two hours, and I
advise you to take passage in it, if you are not too much fatigued.”

“I’m not tired a bit, Mr. Ruger. I will go back. Thank you for the
trouble you have taken.”

“No trouble, Miss Borlan. Give my respects to Jack, and tell him I will
be down in a week or two. Good-morning.”

While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between
the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive
countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in
their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of
any one.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he said, as he rode up in front of them.

“Not to _you_, Tom Ruger,” spoke a tall Ten Miler—the only one,
by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day’s trial unscathed. “Not
to you, Tom Ruger! Where’s Borlan?”

“He’s gone down the coast on business,” said Ruger, “and may not be back
for several months.”

“We’ll not wait for _him_,” was the miner’s reply.

At the same time he drew a revolver.

“You had _better_ wait,” said Ruger, also producing a revolver.

The Ten Miler paused, and looked around at his companions. They did not
present a formidable array of fighting stock. In fact, they were the
sorest-looking men that Ten Mile Gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed
surveyed them, he seemed to think he _had_ better wait.


[Illustration:

  “YOU HAD BETTER WAIT,” SAID RUGER, ALSO PRODUCING A REVOLVER.
]


“You’ll wait for Mr. Borlan?” queried Ruger.

“I reckon we’d better,” answered the unscathed.

“And while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at Mr.
Watson,” suggested Ruger. “At the present time he is reposing in the
shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented William Foster’s
rural habitation. Good-morning, gentlemen; and don’t get impatient.”

If Mr. Ruger had any fear of treachery, he did not exhibit it, for he
never turned his head as he rode off toward the valley. Nor was there
any danger; for beneath his suggestions about Mr. Watson the unscathed
had detected a thing or two.

“I’m glad we waited,” he said. “I begin to see a thing or two. Them as
is able will follow me up the Gulch.”

About half a score went with him. Mr. Watson was still enjoying the
shade of the acacia-bush. In fact, he couldn’t get away, which Mr. Ruger
well knew.

“It’s all up with me, Gulchers,” whispered Watson. “Ruger was too many
for me, and I ought to have known it. You’ll find Bill Foster’s dust in
a flour-sack, in my cabin. My respects to Borlan when you see him, and
tell him I beg his pardon for discommoding him. Give what dust is
honestly mine to him. It’s all I can do now. Good-by, boys. I’m jest
played out; but take my advice and never buck against Tom Ruger. He’s
too many for any dozen chaps on the coast. I knew ’twas all up with me
the minute Tom came in, for he can look right through a feller’s heart.
But never mind! It’s too late to help it now. I staked everything I had
against Foster’s pile, and I’m beat, beat, beat!”

These were the last words Mr. Bob Watson ever spoke, as many a surviving
Ten Miler will tell you, and they buried him in the spot where he died,
without any beautiful stone to mark the place.


                                  IV.

MISS FANNY BORLAN found Jack awaiting her at San Francisco.

“What made you run away?”

“Why, Fanny, didn’t Tom tell you about it?” queried Jack.

“Tom? Oh, you mean Mr. Ruger. He only sent me down here.”

“Just like him, Fan; very few words he ever wastes. Ah, sister, we don’t
have such men out East.”

“So the stage-driver told me,” said Fanny, demurely.

“There, Fan, you’re poking fun now. Wait till I get through. Only for
Tom, you would have found me at Ten Mile Gulch, hanging by the neck to
the limb of that tree just in front of the Home.”

“Hanging, Jack?”

“Hanging, Fan—lynched for a murder I never committed. Tom came along
just in the nick of time, and—Well, Fan, perhaps you saw some of the Ten
Milers before you came away?”

“Yes, Jack; and there was only one whole nose in the lot, and I do
believe that was out of joint. But, oh, Jack! if they had taken your
life!”

“Never mind now, sis. Tom was too many for ’em; and here I am safe.
We’ll wait here till Tom comes down, for I’ve got one of his horses,
which he thinks more of than he does of himself; then for home, sis.”

Mr. Tom Ruger went down, as he said he would, and remained with them
several days. On the morning that they were to sail, Fanny said to Tom:

“I wish you were going with us, Mr. Ruger. We shall miss you very much.
Won’t you go?”

Mr. Ruger was talking with Jack at the time, but he heard Fanny—he
always heard what _she_ said.

He did not reply at once, however, but said to Jack, in a low tone:

“Jack, you know what I _have_ been—can I ever become worthy of her?”

And Jack answered, promptly:

“God bless you, Tom, you are worthy now!”

“Thank you, Jack—if you believe!”

Then he went over to Fanny.

“I will go,” was all he said.

It was a great wonder to both Jack and his sister how Tom could have got
ready for the journey on so short a notice; but one day, more than a
year afterward, Tom said to Jack:

“Old friend, I’m not what I was, I hope. Ever since I first saw Fanny on
the road to Ten Mile Gulch, I have tried to live differently. I hope I
am better, for she said last night that she would take me for better or
worse.”

And Jack wondered no more.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         CAPTAIN SAM’S CHANGE.


“WELL, there’s nothin’ to do, but to hev faith, an’ keep a-tryin’.”

The speaker was old Mrs. Simmons, boarding-house keeper, and resident of
a certain town on the Ohio River. The prime cause of her remark was
Captain Sam Toppie, of the steamboat Queen Ann.

Captain Sam had stopped with Mrs. Simmons every time the Queen Ann laid
up for repairs, and he was so genial, frank and manly, that he had found
a warm spot in the good old lady’s heart.

But one thing marred the otherwise perfect happiness of Mrs. Simmons
when in Captain Sam’s society, and that was what she styled his “lost
condition.” For Mrs. Simmons was a consistent, conscientious Methodist,
while Captain Sam was—well, he was a Western steamboat captain.

This useful class of gentlemen are in high repute among shippers and
barkeepers, and receive many handsome compliments from the daily papers
along the line of the Western rivers; but, somehow, the religious Press
is entirely silent about them, nor have we ever seen of any special
mission having been sent to them.

Captain Sam was a good specimen of the fraternity—good-looking,
good-natured, quick-witted, prompt, and faithful, as well as
quick-tempered, profane, and perpetually thirsty. To carry a full load,
put his boat through in time, and always drink up to his peg, were his
cardinal principles, and he faithfully lived up to them.

Of the fair sex he was a most devoted admirer, and if he had not
possessed a great deal of modesty, for a steamboat captain, he could
have named two or three score of young women who thought almost as much
of him as the worthy boarding-house keeper did.

Good Mrs. Simmons had, to use her own language, “kerried him before the
Lord, and wrastled for him;” but it was very evident, from Sam’s walk
and conversation, that his case had not yet been adjudicated according
to Mrs. Simmons’s liking.

He still had occasional difficulties with the hat-stand and stairway
after coming home late at night; his breath, though generally odorous,
seemed to grieve Mrs. Simmons’s olfactories, and his conversation, as
heard through his open door in Summer, was thickly seasoned with
expressions far more Scriptural than reverential.

One Christmas, the old lady presented to the captain a handsome Bible,
with his name stamped in large gilt letters on the cover. He was so
delighted and so proud of his present, that he straightway wrapped it in
many folds of paper to prevent its being soiled, and then stowed it
neatly away in the Queen Ann’s safe, for secure keeping.

When he told Mrs. Simmons what he had done, she sighed deeply; but fully
alive to the importance of the case, promised him a common one, not too
good to read daily.

“Daily! Bless you, Mrs. Simmons! Why, I hardly have time to look in the
paper, and see who’s gone up, and who’s gone down, and who’s been beat.”

“But your better part, cap’en?” pleaded the old lady.

“I—I don’t know, my good woman—hard to find it, I guess—the hull lot
averages purty low.”

“But, cap’en,” she continued, “don’t you feel your need of a change?”

“Not from the Queen Ann, ma’am—she only needs bigger engines——”

“Change of heart, I mean, cap’en,” interrupted Mrs. Simmons. “Don’t you
feel your need of religion?”

“Ha! ha!” roared Captain Sam; “the idea of a steamboat captain with
religion! Why, bless your dear, innocent, old soul, the fust time he
wanted to wood up in a hurry, his religion would git, quicker’n
lightnin’. The only steamboatman I ever knowed in the meetin’-house line
went up for seven year for settin’ fire to his own boat to git the
insurance.”

Mrs. Simmons could not recall at the moment the remembrance of any pious
captain, so she ceased laboring with Captain Sam. But when he went out,
she placed on his table a tract, entitled “The Furnace Seven Times
Heated,” which tract the captain considerately handed to his engineer,
supposing it to be a circular on intensified caloric.

Year after year the captain laid up for repairs, and put up with Mrs.
Simmons. Year after year he was jolly, genial, chivalrous, generous,
but—not what good Mrs. Simmons earnestly wanted him to be.

He would buy tickets to all the church fairs, give free passages to all
preachers recommended by Mrs. Simmons, and on Sunday morning he would
respectfully escort the old lady as far as the church-door.

On one occasion, when Mrs. Simmons’s church building was struck by
lightning, a deacon dropped in with a subscription-paper, while the
captain was in. The generous steamboatman immediately put himself down
for fifty dollars; and although he improved the occasion to condemn
severely the meanness of certain holy people, and though his language
seemed to create an atmosphere which must certainly melt the money—for
those were specie days—Mrs. Simmons declared to herself that “he
couldn’t be fur from the kingdom when his heart was so little set on
Mammon as that.”

“He’s too good for Satan—the Lord _must_ hev him,” thought the good old
lady.

Once again the Queen Ann needed repairing, and again the captain found
himself at his old boarding-place.

Good Mrs. Simmons surveyed him tenderly through her glasses, and
instantly saw there had something unusual happened. Could it be—oh! if
it only _could_ be—that he had put off the old man, which is sin! She
longed to ask him, yet, with a woman’s natural delicacy, she determined
to find out without direct questioning.

“Good season, cap’en?” she inquired.

“A No. 1, ma’am—positively first-class,” replied the captain.

“Hed good health—no ager?” she continued.

“Never was better, my dear woman—healthy right to the top notch,” he
answered.

“It must be,” said good Mrs. Simmons, to herself—“it can’t be nothin’
else. Bless the Lord!”

This pious sentiment she followed up by a hymn, whose irregularities of
time and tune were fully atoned for by the spirit with which she sung. A
knock at the door interrupted her.

“Come in!” she cried.

Captain Sam entered, and laid a good-sized, flat flask on the table,
saying:

“I’ve just been unpackin’, an’ I found this; p’r’aps you ken use it fur
cookin’. It’s no use to me; I’ve sworn off drinkin’.”

And before the astonished lady could say a word, he was gone.

But the good soul could endure the suspense no longer. She hurried to
the door, and cried:

“Cap’en!”

“That’s me,” answered Captain Sam, returning.

“Cap’en,” said Mrs. Simmons, in a voice in which solemnity and
excitement struggled for the mastery, “hez the Lord sent His angel unto
you?”

“He hez,” replied the captain, in a very decided tone, and abruptly
turned, and hurried to his own room.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul!” almost shouted Mrs. Simmons, in her
ecstasy. “We musn’t worry them that’s weak in the faith, but I shan’t be
satisfied till I hear him tell his experience. Oh, _what_ a blessed
thing to relate at prayer-meetin’ to-night!”

There was, indeed, a rattling of dry bones at the prayer-meeting that
night, for it was the first time in the history of the church that the
conversion of a steamboat captain had been reported.

On returning home from the meeting, additional proof awaited the happy
old saint. The captain was in his room—in his room at nine o’clock in
the evening! She had known the captain for years, but he had never
before got in so early. There could be no doubt about it, though—there
he was, softly whistling.

“I’d rather hear him whistlin’ Windham or Boylston,” thought Mrs.
Simmons; “that tune don’t fit any hymn _I_ know. P’r’aps, though, they
sing it in some of them churches up to Cincinnaty,” she charitably
continued.

“Cap’en,” said she, at breakfast, next morning, when the other guests
had departed, “is your mind at peace?”

“Peace?” echoed the captain—“peaceful as the Ohio at low water.”

The captain’s simile was not so Scriptural as the old lady could have
desired, but she remembered that he was but a young convert, and that
holy conversation was a matter of gradual attainment. So, simply and
piously making the best of it, she fervently exclaimed:

“That it may ever be thus is my earnest prayer, cap’en.”

“Amen to that,” said Captain Sam, very heartily, upsetting the chair in
his haste to get out of the room.

For several days Mrs. Simmons lived in a state of bliss unknown to
boarding-house keepers, whose joys come only from a sense of provisions
purchased cheaply and paying boarders secured.

From the kitchen, the dining-room, or wherever she was, issued sounds of
praise and devotion, intoned to some familiar church melody. Scrubbing
the kitchen-floor dampened not her ardor, and even the fateful
washing-day produced no visible effects on her spirits. From over the
bread-pan she sent exultant strains to echo through the house, and her
fists vigorously marked time in the yielding dough. From the third-story
window, as she hung out the bed-linen to air, her holy notes fell on the
ears of passing teamsters, and caused them to cast wondering glances
upward. What was the heat of the kitchen-stove to her, now that Captain
Sam was insured against flames eternal? What, now, was even money, since
Captain Sam had laid up his treasures above?

And the captain’s presence, which had always comforted her, was now a
perpetual blessing. Always pleasant, kind, and courteous, as of old, but
oh, so different!

All the coal-scuttles and water-pails in the house might occupy the
stairway at night, but the captain could safely thread his way among
them.

No longer did she hurry past his door, with her fingers ready, at the
slightest alarm, to act as compressers to her ears; no, the captain’s
language, though not exactly religious, was eminently proper.

He was at home so much evenings, that his lamp consumed more oil in a
week than it used to in months; but the old lady cheerfully refilled it,
and complained not that the captain’s goodness was costly.

The captain brought home a book or two daily, and left them in his room,
seeing which, his self-denying hostess carried up the two flights of
stairs her own copies of “Clarke’s Commentaries,” “The Saints’ Rest,”
“Joy’s Exercises,” and “Morning and Night Watches,” and arranged them
neatly on his table.

Finally, after a few days, Captain Sam seemed to have something to
say—something which his usual power of speech was scarcely equal to.
Mrs. Simmons gave him every opportunity.

At last, when he ejaculated, “Mrs. Simmons,” just as she was carrying
her beloved glass preserve-dish to its place in the parlor-closet, she
was so excited that she dropped the brittle treasure, and uttered not a
moan over the fragments.

“Mrs. Simmons, I’ve made up my mind to lead an entirely new life,” said
the captain, gravely.

“It’s what I’ve been hopin’ fur years an’ years, cap’en,” responded the
happy old lady.

“Hev you, though? God bless your motherly old soul,” said the captain,
warmly. “Well, I’ve turned over a new leaf, and it don’t git turned back
again.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Simmons, with a happy tear under each
spectacle-glass. “Fight the good fight, cap’en.”

“Just my little game,” continued the captain. “’Tain’t ev’ry day that a
man ken find an angel willin’ to look out fur him, Mrs. Simmons.”

“An angel! Oh, cap’en, how richly blessed you hev been!” sobbed Mrs.
Simmons. “Many’s the one that hez prayed all their lives long for the
comin’ of a good sperrit to guide ’em.”

“Well, _I’ve_ got one, sure pop,” continued Captain Sam; “and happy
ain’t any kind of a name fur what I be all the time now.”

“Bless you!” said the good woman, wringing the captain’s hand fervidly.
“But you’ll hev times of trouble an’ doubt, off an’ on.”

“Is that so?” asked the captain, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Simmons; “but don’t be afeard; ev’ry thing’ll come
right in the end. I know—I’ve been through it all.”

“That’s so,” said the captain, “you hev that. Well, now, would you mind
interdoosin’ me to your minister?”

“Mind!” said the good old lady. “I’ve been a-dyin’ to do it ever since
you come. I’ve told him about it, and he’s ez glad fur you ez I am.”

“Oh!” said the captain, looking a little confused, “you suspected it,
did you?”

“From the very minute you fust kem,” replied Mrs. Simmons; “I know the
signs.”

“Well,” said the captain, “might ez well see him fust as last then, I
reckon.”

“I’ll get ready right away,” said Mrs. Simmons. And away she hurried,
leaving the captain greatly puzzled.

The old lady put on her newest bombazine dress—all this happened ten
years ago, ladies—and a hat to match.

Never before had these articles of dress been seen by the irreligious
light of a weekday; the day seemed fully as holy as an ordinary Sabbath.

They attracted considerable attention, in their good clothes and solemn
faces, and finally, as they stood on the parson’s doorstep, two of the
captain’s own deckhands saw him, and straightway drank themselves into a
state of beastly intoxication in trying to decide what the captain could
want of a preacher.

The minister entered, cordially greeted Mrs. Simmons, and expressed his
pleasure at forming the captain’s acquaintance.

“Parson,” said the captain, in trembling accents—“don’t go away, Mrs.
Simmons—parson, my good friend here tells me you know all about my case;
now the question is, how soon can you do the business?”

The reverend gentleman shivered a little at hearing the word “business”
applied to holy things, but replied, in excellent temper:

“The next opportunity will occur on the first Sabbath of the coming
month, and I shall be truly delighted to gather into our fold one whose
many worthy qualities have been made known to us by our dearly beloved
sister Simmons. And let me further remind you that there is joy in
heaven over one sinner that repenteth, and that therefore——”

“Just so, parson,” interrupted the captain, wincing a little, and
looking exceedingly puzzled—“just so; but ain’t thar no day but Sunday
for a man to be married——”

“Married!” ejaculated the minister, looking inquiringly at Mrs. Simmons.

“Married!” screamed the old lady, staring wildly at the
captain—“married! Oh, what shall I do? I thought you’d experienced a
change! And I’ve told everybody about it!”

The captain burst into a laugh, which made the minister’s chandeliers
rattle, and the holy man himself, seeing through the mistake, heartily
joined the captain.

But poor Mrs. Simmons burst into an agony of tears.

“My dear, good old friend,” said the captain, tenderly putting his arm
about her, “I’m very sorry you have been disappointed; but one thing at
a time, you know. When you see my angel, you’ll think I’m in a fair way
to be an angel myself some day, I guess. Annie’s her name—Annie May—an’
I’ve named the boat after her. Don’t take on so, an’ I’ll show you the
old boat, new painted, an’ the name Annie May stuck on wherever there’s
a chance.”

But the good old woman only wrung her hands, and exclaimed:

“Thar’s a lovely experience completely spiled—completely spiled!”

At length she was quieted and escorted home, and a few days afterward
appeared, in smiles and the new bombazine, at the captain’s wedding.

The bride, a motherless girl, speedily adopted Mrs. Simmons as mother,
and made many happy hours for the old lady; but that venerable and pious
person is frequently heard to say to herself, in periods of
thoughtfulness:

“A lovely experience completely spiled!”


[Illustration:

  THE CAPTAIN BURST INTO A LAUGH, WHICH MADE THE MINISTER’S
  CHANDELIERS RATTLE.
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      MISS FEWNE’S LAST CONQUEST.


HOW many conquests Mabel Fewne had made since she had entered society no
one was able to tell. Perhaps the conqueror herself kept some record of
the havoc she had worked, but if she did, no one but herself ever saw
it. Even such of her rivals as were envious admitted that Miss Fewne’s
victims could be counted by dozens, while the men who came under the
influence of that charming young lady were wont to compute their
fellow-sufferers by the hundred. It mattered not where Miss Fewne spent
her time: whether she enjoyed the season in New York or Washington,
Baltimore or Boston, she found that climatic surroundings did not in the
least change the conduct of men toward her. In what her attractions
especially consisted, her critics and admirers were not all agreed.
Palette, the artist, who was among her earliest victims, said she was
the embodiment of all ideal harmonies; while old Coupon, who at sixty
offered her himself and his property, declared in confidence to another
unfortunate that what took him was her solid sense. At least one young
man, who thought himself a poet, fell in love with her for what he
called the golden foam of her hair; a theological student went into
pious ecstasy (and subsequent dejection) over the spiritual light of her
eyes. The habitual pose of her pretty fingers accounted for the awkward
attentions of at least a score of young men, and the piquancy of her
manner attracted, to their certain detriment, all the professional beaus
who met her. And yet, a clear-headed literary Bostonian declared that
she was better read than some of his distinguished _confreres_; while a
member of Congress excused himself for monopolizing her for an entire
half-hour, at an evening party, by saying that Miss Fewne talked
politics so sensibly, that for the first time in his life he had learned
how much he himself knew. As for the ladies, some said any one could get
as much admiration as Mabel Fewne if they could dress as expensively;
others said she was so skillful a flirt that no man could see through
her wily ways; two or three inclined to the theory of personal
magnetism; while a few brave women said that Mabel was so pretty and
tasteful, and modest and sensible and sweet, that men would be idiots if
they didn’t fall in love with her at sight.

But one season came in which those who envied and feared Mabel were left
in peace, for that young lady determined to spend the Winter with her
sister, who was the wife of a military officer stationed at Smithton, in
the Far West. Smithton was a small town, but a pleasant one; it had a
railroad and mines; a government land office was established there, as
was the State Government also; trading was incessant, money was plenty,
so men of wit and culture came there to pay their respects to the
almighty dollar; and as there were nearly two-score of refined ladies in
the town, society was delightful to the fullest extent of its existence.
And Mabel Fewne enjoyed it intensely; the change of air and of scene
gave stimulus to her spirits and new grace to her form and features, so
that she soon had at her feet all the unmarried men in Smithton, while
many sober Benedicts admired as much as they could safely do without
transferring their allegiance.

Smithton was not inhabited exclusively by people of energy and culture.
New settlements, like all other things new, powerfully attract
incapables, and Smithton was no excuse to the rule. In one portion of
it, yclept “the End,” were gathered many characters more odd than
interesting. Their local habitations seemed to be the liquor-shops which
fairly filled that portion of the town. About the doors of these shops
the “Enders” were most frequently seen. If one of them chanced to stray
into the business street of the town, he seemed as greatly confused and
troubled as a lost boy. In his own quarter, however, and among his own
kind, the Ender displayed a composure which was simply superb. No one
could pass through the End by daylight without seeing many of the
inhabitants thereof leaning against fences, trees, buildings, and such
other objects as could sustain without assistance the weight of the
human frame. From these points of support the Enders would contemplate
whatever was transpiring about them, with that immobility of countenance
which characterizes the finished tourist and the North American Indian.
There were occasions when these self-possessed beings assumed erect
positions and manifested ordinary human interest. One of these was the
breaking out of a fight between either men or animals; another was the
passing of a lady of either handsome face or showy dress. So it happened
that, when pretty, well-dressed Mabel Fewne was enjoying a drive with
one of her admirers, there was quite a stir among such Enders as chanced
to see her. The venders of the beverages for which the Enders spent most
of their money noticed that, upon that particular afternoon, an unusual
proportion of their customers stood at the bar with no assistance from
the bar itself, that some spirit was manifest in their walk and
conversation, and yet they were less than usual inclined to be
quarrelsome. So great was the excitement caused by Miss Fewne’s
appearance, that one Ender was heard to ask another who she was—an
exhibition of curiosity very unusual in that part of the town. Even
more: One member of that apparently hopeless gang was known to wash his
face and hands, purchase a suit of cheap—but new and clean—clothing, and
take an eastern-bound train, presumably to appear among respectable
people he had known during some earlier period of his existence.

On the evening of the next day a delightful little party was enjoyed by
the well-to-do inhabitants of Smithton. New as was the town, the parlors
of Mrs. General Wader (her husband was something for the railway
company) were handsomely furnished, the ladies were elaborately dressed,
the gentlemen lacked not one of the funereal garments which men
elsewhere wear to evening parties, and stupid people were noticeably
rarer than, in similar social gatherings, in older communities. Mabel
Fewne was there, and as human nature is the same at Smithton as in the
East, she was the belle of the evening. She entered the room on the arm
of her brother-in-law, and that warrior’s height, breadth, bronzed
countenance and severe uniform, made all the more striking the figure
which, clad apparently in a pale blue cloud, edged with silver and
crowned with gold, floated beside him. Men crowded about her at once,
and the other ladies present had almost undisturbed opportunity in which
to converse with each other.

At the End there was likewise a social gathering. The place was Drake’s
saloon, and the guests were self-invited. Their toilets, though unusual,
scarcely require description, and a list of their diversions would not
interest people of taste. Refreshments were as plentiful as at Mrs.
Wader’s, and, after the manner of refreshments everywhere, they caused a
general unbending of spirits. Not all the effects were pleasing to
contemplate. One of them was a pistol-shot, which, missing the man for
whom it was intended, struck a person called Baggs, and remarkable only
for general worthlessness. Baggs had a physical system of the
conventional type, however, and the bullet caused some disarrangement so
radical in its nature, that Baggs was soon stretched upon the floor of
the saloon, with a face much whiter than he usually wore. The barkeeper
poured out a glass of brandy, and passed it over the bar, but the
wounded man declined it; he also rejected a box of pills which was
proffered. An Ender, who claimed to have been a physician, stooped over
the victim, felt his pulse, and remarked:

“Baggs, you’re a goner.”

“I know it,” said Baggs; “and I want to be prayed for.”

The barkeeper looked puzzled. He was a public-spirited man, whose heart
and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had
never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them. He felt
relieved when one of his customers—a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous
nose and a bad temper—advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand,
threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed:

“Once in grace, always in grace. I’ve _been_ there, I know. Let us
pray.”

The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed:

“_You_ won’t do; somebody that’s better acquainted with God than _you_
are must do it.”

“But, Baggs,” reasoned the barkeeper, “perhaps he’s been a
preacher—you’d better not throw away a chance.”

“Don’t care if he has,” whispered Baggs; “he don’t look like any of the
prayin’ people mother used to know.”

The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and
began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the
duration of the state of grace. The Enders listened but indifferently,
however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living
questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance. The barkeeper scratched
his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked:

“Do _you_ know the right man, Baggs?”

“Not here, I don’t,” gasped the sufferer; “not the right _man_.”

The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they
looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of
displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their
pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case. Baggs spoke
again.

“I wish mother was here!” he said. “_She’d_ know just what to say and
how to say it.”

“She’s too far away; leastways, I suppose she is,” said the barkeeper.

“I know it,” whispered the wounded man; “an’ yet a woman——”

Baggs looked inquiringly, appealingly about him, but seemed unable to
finish his sentence. His glance finally rested upon Brownie, a man as
characteristic as himself, but at times displaying rather more heart
than was common among Enders. Brownie obeyed the summons, and stooped
beside Baggs. The bystanders noticed that there followed some
whispering, at times shame-faced, and then in the agony of earnestness
on the part of Baggs, and replied to by Brownie with averted face and
eyes gazing into nowhere.

Finally Brownie arose with an un-Ender-like decision, and left the
saloon. No one else said much, but there seemed to circulate an
impression that Baggs was consuming more time than was customary at the
End.

Very different was the scene in Mrs. Wader’s parlor; instead of a dying
man surrounded by uncouth beings, there stood a beautiful woman, radiant
with health and animation; while about her stood a throng of
well-dressed gentlemen, some of them handsome, all of them smart, and
each one craving a smile, a word, or a look. Suddenly the pompous voice
of General Wader arose:

“Most astonishing thing I ever heard of,” said he. “An Ender has the
impudence to ask to see Miss Fewne!”

“An Ender?” exclaimed the lady, her pretty lips parting with surprise.

“Yes, and he declares you could not have the heart to say no, if you
knew his story.”

“Is it possible, Miss Fewne,” asked one admirer, “that your cruelty can
have driven any one to have become an Ender?”

Mabel’s eyes seemed to glance inward, and she made no reply. She
honestly believed she had never knowingly encouraged a man to become her
victim; yet she had heard of men doing very silly things when they
thought themselves disappointed in love. She cast a look of timid
inquiry at her host.

“Oh, perfectly safe, if you like,” said the general. “The fellow is at
the door, and several of our guests are in the hall.”

Miss Fewne looked serious, and hurried to the door. She saw a man in
shabby clothing and with unkempt beard and hair, yet with a not
unpleasing expression.

“Madame,” said he, “I’m a loafer, but I’ve been a gentleman, and I know
better than to intrude without a good cause. The cause is a dying man.
He’s as rough and worthless as I am, but all the roughness has gone out
of him, just now, and he’s thinking about his mother and a sweetheart he
used to have. He wants some one to pray for him—some one as unlike
himself and his associates as possible. He cried for his mother—then he
whispered to me that he had seen, here in Smithton, a lady that looked
like an angel—seen her driving only to-day. He meant you. He isn’t
pretty; but, when a _dying_ man says a lady is an angel, he means what
he says.”

Two or three moments later Miss Fewne, with a very pale face, and with
her brother-in-law as escort, was following Brownie. The door of the
saloon was thrown open, and when the Enders saw who was following
Brownie they cowered and fell back as if a sheriff with his _posse_ had
appeared. The lady looked quickly about her, until her eye rested upon
the figure of the wounded man; him she approached, and as she looked
down her lip began to tremble.

“I didn’t mean it,” whispered Baggs, self-depreciation and pain striving
for the possession of his face. “If I hadn’t have been a-goin’, I
shouldn’t have thought of such a thing, but dyin’ takes away one’s
reg’lar senses. It’s not my fault, ma’am, but when I thought about what
mother used to say about heaven, _you_ came into my mind. I felt as if I
was insultin’ you just by thinkin’ about you—a feller such as me to be
thinking about such a lady. I tried to see mother an’ Liz, my sweetheart
that was, just as I’ve seen ’em when my eyes was shut, but I couldn’t
see nothin’ but you, the way you looked goin’ along that road and makin’
the End look bright. I’d shoot myself for the imperdence of the thing if
I was goin’ to get well again, but I ain’t. Ther needs to be a word said
for me by somebody—somebody that don’t chaw, nor drink, nor
swear—somebody that’ll catch God’s eye if He happens to be lookin’
down—and I never saw that kind of a person in Smithton till to-day.”

Mabel stood speechless, with a tear in each eye.

“Don’t, if you don’t think best,” continued Baggs. “I’d rather go to—to
t’other place than bother a lady. Don’t speak a word, if you don’t want
to; but mebbe you’ll _think_ the least thing? God _can’t_ refuse _you_.
But if you think t’other place is best for me, all right.”

The fright, the sense of strangeness, were slowly departing from Mabel,
and as she recovered herself her heart seemed to come into her face and
eyes.

“Ev’rybody about here is rough, or dirty, or mean, or rich, or proud, or
somethin’,” continued the dying man, in a thin yet earnest voice. “It’s
all as good as I deserve; but my heart’s ached sometimes to look at
somebody that would keep me from b’leevin’ that ev’rything was black an’
awful. And I’ve seen her. Can I just touch my finger to your dress? I’ve
heard mother read how that somebody in the Old Country was once made all
right by just touchin’ the clothes Christ had on.”

In his earnestness, the wretched man had raised himself upon one elbow,
and out of his face had departed every expression but one of pitiful
pleading. Still Mabel could not speak; but, bending slightly forward,
she extended one of her slender, dainty hands toward the one which Baggs
had raised in his appeal.

“White—shining—good—all right,” he murmured. Then all of Baggs which
fell back upon the floor was clay.

                  *       *       *       *       *

With the prudence of a conqueror, who knows when the full extent of his
powers has been reached, Mabel Fewne married within six months. The
happy man was not a new conquest, but an old victim, who was willfully
pardoned with such skill, that he never doubted that his acceptance to
favor was the result of the renewal of his homage.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            MARKSON’S HOUSE.


RAINES is my name—Joseph Raines. I am a house-builder by profession, and
as I do not often see my writings in print, except as prepaid
advertisements, I consider this a good opportunity to say to the public
in general that I can build as good a house for a given sum of money as
any other builder, and that I am a square man to deal with. I am aware
of the fact that both of these assertions have been made by many other
persons about themselves; but to prove their trustworthiness when
uttered by me, the public needs only to give me a trial. (In justice to
other builders, I must admit they can use even this last statement of
mine with perfect safety for the present, and with prospective profit if
they get a contract to build a house.)

I suppose it will be considered very presumptuous in me to attempt to
write a story, for, while some professions seem relatives of literature,
I freely admit that there is no carpenter’s tool which prepares one to
handle a pen. To be sure, I have read some stories which, it seemed to
me, could have been improved by the judicious use of a handsaw, had that
extremely radical tool been able to work æsthetically as it does
practically; and while I have read certain other stories, and essays,
and poems, I have been tormented by an intense desire to apply to them a
smoothing-plane, a pair of compasses, or a square, or even to so far
interfere with their arrangement as to cut a window-hole or two, and an
occasional ventilator. Still, admitting that the carpenter should stick
to his bench—or to his office or carriage, if he is a master builder, as
I am—I must yet insist that there are occasions when a man is absolutely
compelled to handle tools to which he is not accustomed. Doctor Buzzle,
my own revered pastor, established this principle firmly in my mind one
day by means of a mild rebuke, administered on the occasion of my
volunteering to repair some old chairs which had come down to him
through several generations. The doctor was at work upon them himself,
and although he seemed to regard the very chips and sawdust—even such as
found a way into his eyes—with a reverent affection, he was certainly
ruining good material in a shocking manner. But when I proffered my
assistance, he replied:

“Thank you, Joseph; but—they wouldn’t be the same chairs if any one else
touched them.”

I feel similarly about the matter of my story—perhaps you will
understand why as you read it.

When I had finished my apprenticeship, people seemed to like me, and
some of our principal men advised me to stay at Bartley, my native
village—it was so near the city, they said, and would soon fill up with
city people, who would want villas and cottages built. So I staid, and
between small jobs of repairing, and contracts to build fences, stables
and carriage-houses, I managed to keep myself busy, and to save a little
money after I had paid my bills.

One day it was understood that a gentleman from the city had bought a
villa site overlooking the town, and intended to build very soon. I
immediately wrote him a note, saying I would be glad to see his plans
and make an estimate; and in the course of time the plans were sent me,
and I am happy to say that I under-estimated every one, even my own old
employer.

Then the gentleman—Markson his name was—drove out to see me, and he put
me through a severe course of questions, until I wondered if he was not
some distinguished architect. But he wasn’t—he was a shipping-merchant.
It’s certainly astonishing how smart some of those city fellows are
about everything.

The upshot was, he gave me the contract, and a very pretty one it was:
ten thousand three hundred and forty dollars. To be sure, he made me
alter the specifications so that the sills should be of stuff ten inches
square, instead of the thin stuff we usually use for the sills of
balloon-frame houses, such as his was to be; and though the alteration
would add quite a few dollars to the cost of materials, I did not dare
to add a cent to my estimate, for fear of losing the contract.
Besides—though, of course, I did not intend to do so dishonorable a
thing—I knew that I could easily make up the difference by using cheap
paint instead of good English lead for priming, or in either one of a
dozen other ways; builders have such tricks, just as ministers and
manufacturers and railroadmen do.

I felt considerably stuck up at getting Markson’s house to build, and my
friends said I had a perfect right to feel so, for no house so costly
had been built at Bartley for several years.

So anxious were my friends that I should make a first-class job of it,
that they all dropped in to discuss the plan with me, and to give me
some advice, until—thanks to their thoughtful kindness—my head would
have been in a muddle had the contemplated structure been a cheap barn
instead of a costly villa.

But, by a careful review of the original plan every night after my
friends departed, and a thoughtful study of it each morning before going
to work, I succeeded in completing it according to the ideas of the only
two persons really concerned—I refer to Mr. Markson and myself.

Admitting in advance that there is in the house-building business very
little that teaches a man to be a literary critic, I must nevertheless
say that many poets of ancient and modern times might have found the
building of a house a far more inspiring theme than some upon which they
have written, and even a more respectable one than certain others which
some distinguished rhymers have unfortunately selected.

I have always wondered why, after Mr. Longfellow wrote “The Building of
a Ship,” some one did not exercise his muse upon a house. I never
attempted poetry myself, except upon my first baby, and even _those_
verses I transcribed with my left hand, so they might not betray me to
the editor of the Bartley _Conservator_, to whom I sent them, and by
whom they were published.

I say I never attempted poetry-writing save once; but sometimes when I
am working on a house, and think of all that must transpire within it—of
the precious ones who will escape, no matter how strongly I build the
walls; of the destroyer who will get in, in spite of the improved locks
I put on all my houses; of the darkness which cannot at times be
dispelled, no matter how large the windows, nor how perfect the glass
may be (I am very particular about the glass I put in); of the
occasional joys which seem meet for heavenly mansions not built by
contract; of the unseen heroisms greater than any that men have ever
cheered, and the conquests in comparison with which the achievements of
mighty kings are only as splintery hemlock to Georgia pine—when I think
of all this, I am so lifted above all that is prosaic and
matter-of-fact, that I am likely even to forget that I am working by
contract instead of by the day.

Besides, Markson’s house was my first job on a residence, and it was a
large one, and I was young, and full of what I fancied were original
ideas of taste and effect; and as I was unmarried, and without any
special lady friend, I was completely absorbed in Markson’s house.

How it would look when it was finished; what views it would command;
whether its architectural style was not rather subdued, considering the
picturesque old hemlocks which stood near by; what particular shade of
color would be effective alike to the distant observer and to those who
stood close by when the light reached it only through the green of the
hemlock; just what color and blending of slate to select, so the
steep-pitched roof should not impart a sombre effect to the whole house;
how much money I would make on it (for this is a matter of utter
uncertainty until your work is done, and you know what you’ve paid out
and what you get); whether Markson could influence his friends in my
favor; what sort of a family he had, and whether they were worthy of the
extra pains I was taking on their house—these and a thousand other
wonderings and reveries kept possession of my mind; while the natural
pride and hope and confidence of a young man turned to sweet music the
sound of saw and hammer and trowel, and even translated the rustling of
pine shavings with hopeful whispers.

The foundations had been laid, and the sills placed in position, and I
was expecting to go on with the work as soon as Markson himself had
inspected the sills—this, he said, he wished to do before anything
further was done; and, so that he might not have any fault to find with
them, I had them sawn to order, and made half an inch larger each way,
so they couldn’t possibly shrink before he could measure them.

The night before he was to come up and examine them, I was struck at the
supper-table by the idea that perhaps, from one of the western
chamber-windows, there might be seen the river which lay, between the
hills, a couple of miles beyond. As the moon was up and full, I could
not rest until I had ascertained whether I was right or wrong; so I put
a twenty-foot tapeline in my pocket, and hurried off to the hill where
the house was to stand.

Foundation three feet, height of parlor ceilings twelve feet, allow for
floors two feet more, made the chamber-floor seventeen feet above the
level of the ground.

Climbing one of the hemlocks which I thought must be in line with the
river and the window, I dropped my line until I had unrolled seventeen
feet, and then ascended until the end of the line just touched the
ground. I found I was right in my supposition; and in the clear, mellow
light of the moon the river, the hills and valleys, woods, fields,
orchards, houses and rocks (the latter ugly enough by daylight, and
utterly useless for building purposes) made a picture which set me
thinking of a great many exquisite things entirely out of the
house-building line.

I might have stared till the moon went down, for when I’ve nothing else
to do I dearly enjoy dreaming with my eyes open; but I heard a rustling
in the leaves a little way off, and then I heard footsteps, and then,
looking downward, I saw a man come up the path, and stop under the tree
in which I was.

Of course I wondered what he wanted; I should have done so, even if I
had had no business there myself; but under the circumstances, I became
very much excited.

Who could it be? Perhaps some rival builder, come to take revenge by
setting my lumber afire! I would go down and reason with him. But, wait
a moment; if he _has_ come for that purpose, he may make things
uncomfortable for me before I reach the ground. And if he sets the
lumber afire, and it catches the tree I am in, as it will certainly do,
I will be——

There is no knowing what sort of a quandary I might not have got into if
the man had not stepped out into the moonlight, and up on the sills, and
shown himself to be—Mr. Markson.

“Well,” I thought, “you _are_ the most particular man I ever knew—and
the most anxious! I don’t know, though—it’s natural enough; if _I_ can’t
keep away from this house, it’s not strange that _he_ should want to see
all of it he can. It’s natural enough, and it does him credit.”

But Mr. Markson’s next action was neither natural nor to his credit. He
took off his traveling shawl, and disclosed a carpenter’s brace; this
and the shawl he laid on the ground, and then he examined the sills at
the corners, where they were joined.

They were only half joined, as we say in the trade—that is, the ends of
each piece of timber were sawn half through and the partially detached
portions cut out, so that the ends lapped over each other.

Well, Mr. Markson hastily stacked up bricks and boards to the height of
the foundation, and then made a similar stack at the other end of the
foundation-wall, and then he rolled one of the sills over on these two
supports, so it was bottom side up. Then he fitted a bit—a good wide
one, an inch and a quarter, at least, I should say—to the brace, and
then commenced boring a hole in the sill.

I was astonished, but not too much so to be angry. That piece of timber
was mine; Mr. Markson had not paid me a cent yet, and was not to do so
until the next morning, after examining the foundations and sills.

I had heard of such tricks before; my old employer had had men secretly
injure a building, so as to claim it was not built according to contract
when the money came due, but none of them did it so early in the course
of the business.

Within a few seconds my opinion of Mr. Markson’s smartness altered
greatly, and so did my opinion of human nature in general. I would have
sadly, but promptly sold out my contract with Mr. Markson for the price
of a ticket for the West, and I should have taken the first train.

As he bored that hole I could see just how all the other builders in
town would look when I had to take the law on Markson, and how all my
friends would come and tell me I ought to have insisted on a payment in
advance.

But, after several sorrowful moments had elapsed, I commenced to think,
and I soon made up my mind what I would do. I would _not_ descend from
the tree while he was there—I have too much respect for my person to put
it at the mercy of an ill-disposed individual. But as soon as he left
the place, I would hasten to the ground, follow him, and demand an
explanation. He might be armed, but I was, too—there were hard
characters at Bartley, and they knew my pocketbook was sometimes full.

Hole after hole that man bored; he made one join another until he had a
string of them ten inches long, or thereabouts; then he began another
string, right beside the first, and then another.


[Illustration:

  HE KNELT ON THE GROUND BESIDES THE SILL, AND I COULD SEE THAT HE
  WAS PRAYING.
]


I saw that his bit went but six or seven inches deep, so that it did not
pierce the sill, and I could almost believe him in league with some
rival builder to ruin my reputation by turning over, next morning, a log
apparently sound, and showing it to be full of holes.

I didn’t feel any better-natured, either, when I noticed that he had
carefully put a newspaper under where he was boring to catch all the
chips, and destroy any idea of the mischief having been done wilfully
and on the spot; but I determined I would follow him, and secure that
paper of chips as evidence.

Suddenly he stopped boring, and took a chisel from somewhere about his
clothes, and he soon chiseled that honeycombed spot into a single hole,
about five inches by ten, and six or seven inches deep.

It slowly dawned over me that perhaps his purpose wasn’t malicious,
after all; and by the time I had reasoned the matter he helped me to a
conclusion by taking from his pocket a little flat package, which he put
into the hole.

It looked as if it might be papers, or something the size of folded
papers; but it was wrapped in something yellow and shiny—oil skin,
probably, to keep it from the damp. Then he drove a few little nails
inside the holes to keep the package from falling out when the sill was
turned over; and then he did something which I never saw mixed with
carpenter-work in my life—he stooped and kissed the package as it lay in
the hole, and then he knelt on the ground beside the sill, and I could
see by his face upturned in the moonlight, showing his closed eyes and
moving lips, that he was praying.

Up to that moment I had been curious to know what was in that package;
but after what I saw then, I never thought of it without wanting to
utter a small prayer myself, though I never could decide what would be
the appropriate thing to say, seeing I knew none of the circumstances. I
am very particular not to give recommendations except where I am very
sure the person I recommend is all right.

Well, Markson disappeared a moment or two after, first carefully
replacing the sill, and carrying away the chips, and I got out of my
tree, forgetting all about the view I had discovered; and the unexpected
scene I had looked at ran in my mind so constantly that, during the
night, I dreamed that Markson stood in the hemlock-tree, with a gigantic
brace and bit, and bored holes in the hills beside the river, while I
kneeled in the second story window-frame, and kissed my contract with
Markson, and prayed that I might make a hundred thousand dollars out of
it. It is perfectly astonishing what things a sensible man will
sometimes dream.

Next morning I arrived at the building a few minutes before seven, and
found Markson there before me. He expressed himself satisfied with
everything, and paid me then and there a thousand dollars, which was due
on acceptance of the work as far as then completed.

He hung around all day while we put up the post and studding—probably to
see that the sill was not turned over and his secret disclosed; and it
was with this idea that I set the studding first on his particular sill.
By night we had the frame so near up, that there was no possibility of
the sill being moved; and then Markson went away.

He came up often, after that, to see how his house was getting along.
Each time he came he would saunter around to that particular sill, and
when I noticed that he did this, I made some excuse to call the men away
from that side of the house.

Sometimes he brought his family with him, and I scarcely knew whether to
be glad or sorry; for, while his daughter, a handsome, strong, bright,
honest, golden-haired girl of fifteen or sixteen, always affected me as
if she was a streak of sunshine, and made me hope I should some day have
a daughter like her, his wife always affected me unpleasantly.

I am not a good physiognomist, but I notice most people resemble animals
of some sort, and when I decide on what animal it is, in any particular
case, I judge the person accordingly.

Now, Mrs. Markson—who was evidently her husband’s second wife, for she
was too young to be Helen’s mother—was rather handsome and extremely
elegant, but neither manners nor dress could hide a certain tigerish
expression which was always in her face. It was generally inactive, but
it was never absent, and the rapidity with which it awoke once or twice
when she disapproved something which was done or said, made me
understand why Mr. Markson, who always seemed pleasant and genial with
any one else, was quite silent and guarded when his wife was with him.

Pretty soon the people of Bartley knew all about the Marksons. How
people learn all about other people is more than I can explain. _I_
never have a chance to know all about my neighbors, for I am kept busy
in looking to myself; but if all the energy that is devoted to other
people’s business in Bartley were expended on house-building, trade
would soon be so dull that I should be longing for a mansion in the
skies.

Everybody in Bartley knew that Helen Markson’s mother, who was very
beautiful and lovable, had died years before, and that her stepmother
had been Mrs. Markson only two or three years; that the second Mrs.
Markson had married for money, and that her husband was afraid of her,
and would run away from her if it wasn’t for Helen; that Mrs. Markson
sometimes got angry, and then she raved like mad, and that it was
wearing Mr. Markson’s life away; for he was a tender-hearted man, in
spite of his smartness. Some even declared that Markson had willed her
all his property, and insured his life heavily for her besides, and that
if he died before Helen was married, Helen would be a beggar.

But none of these things had anything to do with my contract. I worked
away and had good weather, so I lost no time, and at the end of five
months I had finished the house, been paid for it, had paid my bills,
and made a clear two thousand dollars on the job. I could have made a
thousand more, without any one being the wiser for it, but I don’t build
houses in that way—the public will greatly oblige me by cutting this
out. This money gave me a handsome business start, and having had no
serious losses, nor any houses thrown back upon my hands—(for I always
make it a point to do a little better than I promise, so folks can’t
find fault)—I am now quite well off, and building houses on my own
account, to sell; while some of my competitors, who started before I
did, have been through bankruptcy, while some have been too poor to do
even that.

A few years after building Markson’s house, I went with a Southern
friend into a black-walnut speculation. We bought land in the Southwest,
cut the timber, got it to market, and made a handsome profit, I am glad
to say. This business took me away from home, and kept me for months,
but, as I was still without family ties, I did not suffer much during my
absence. Still the old village seemed to take on a kind of motherly air
as the stage, with me in it, rattled into town, and I was just dropping
into a pleasant little reverie, when a carriage, which I recognized as
Markson’s, dashed down the road, met us, and stopped, while the coachman
shouted:

“Raines’s foreman says the old man’s coming home to-day.”

He meant me.

“Reckon his head was purty level,” replied the stage-driver, tossing his
head backward toward me.

“Mr. Raines,” said the coachman, recognizing me, “Mr. Markson is awful
sick—like to die any minute—an’ he wants to see you right away—wishes
you wouldn’t wait for anything.”

What to make of it I didn’t know, and said so, upon which the
stage-driver rather pettishly suggested that ’twouldn’t take long to
find out if I got behind Markson’s team; and, as I agreed with him, I
changed conveyances, and was soon at Markson’s house.

Helen met me at the door, and led me immediately to Markson’s chamber.
The distance from the door of his room to the side of his bed couldn’t
have been more than twenty feet, yet, in passing over it, it seemed to
me that I imagined at least fifty reasons why the sick man had sent for
me, but not one of the fifty was either sensible or satisfactory.

I was even foolish enough to imagine Markson’s conscience was troubled,
and that he was going to pay me some money which he justly owed me,
whereas he had paid me every cent, according to contract.

We reached his bedside before I had determined what it could be. Helen
took his hand, and said:

“Father, here is Mr. Raines.”

Markson, who was lying motionless, with his face to the wall, turned
quickly over and grasped my hand and beckoned me closer. I put my head
down, and he whispered:

“I’m glad you’ve come; I want to ask you a favor—a dying man’s last
request. You’re an honest man (N. B.—People intending to build will
please make a note of this.—J. R.), I am sure, and I want you to help me
do justice. You have seen my wife; she can be a tiger when she wants to.
She married me for money; she thinks the will I made some time ago,
leaving everything to her, is my last. But it is not. I’ve deceived her,
for the sake of peace. I made one since, leaving the bulk of my property
to Helen; it came to me through her dear mother. I know nobody to trust
it with. Mrs. Markson can wrap almost any one around her finger when she
tries, and——”

His breath began to fail, and the entrance of his wife did not seem to
strengthen him any; but he finally regained it, and continued:

“She will try it with _you;_ but you are cool as well as honest, I
believe. I meant to tell Helen where the will was the day after I put it
there; but she was so young—it seemed dreadful to let her know how
cowardly her father was—how he feared her. Get it—get a good lawyer—see
she has her rights. I put it—no one could suspect where—I put it—
in—the——”

His breath failed him entirely, and he fixed his eyes on mine with an
agonized expression which makes me shiver whenever I think of it.
Suddenly his strange operation with that sill, of which I had not
thought for a long time, came into my mind, and I whispered, quickly:

“In the sill of the house?”

His expression instantly changed to a very happy one, and yet he looked
wonderstruck, which was natural enough.

“I saw you put it there,” said I. “But,” I continued, fearing the dying
man might suspect me of spying, and so fear he had mistaken my
character—“but I did not mean to——I was on the ground when you came
there that evening; and when I saw what you were doing, I could not move
for fear of disturbing you. I know where to find it, and I can swear you
put it there.”

Markson closed his eyes, and never opened them again; and his last act,
before going out of the world, was to give my hand a squeeze, which,
under the circumstances, I could not help believing was an honest one.

As his hand relaxed, I felt that I had better give place to those who
had a right to it, so I quietly retired. Helen fell on her knees by his
bedside, but Mrs. Markson followed me out of the room.

“Mr. Raines,” said she, with a very pleasant smile for a woman widowed
but a moment before, “what did my dear husband want?”

Now, I am an honest man and a Church-member—and I was one then, and
believed in truth and straightforwardness just as much as I do now—but,
somehow, when such a person speaks to me, I feel as if I were all of a
sudden a velvet-pawed cat myself. So I answered, with the straightest of
faces:

“Only to see to one of the sills of the house, ma’am, and he made me
solemnly swear to do it right away. He was an extraordinary man, ma’am,
to think of the good of his family up to the last moment.”

“Ah, yes, dear man!” said she, with a sigh which her face plainly showed
came from nowhere deeper than her lips. “I hope it won’t take long,
though,” she continued, “for I can’t endure noise in the house.”

“Not more than an hour,” I replied.

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it!” said she. “Perhaps, then, you might do it
while we are at the funeral, day after to-morrow? We will be gone at
least two hours.”

“Easily, ma’am,” said I, with my heart in my mouth at the idea of
managing the matter so soon, and having the papers for Helen as soon as,
in any sort of decency, Mrs. Markson would be likely to have the old
will read.

For the rest of the day I was so absent-minded to everything except this
business of Markson’s that my acquaintances remarked that, considering
how long I had been gone, I didn’t seem very glad to see any one.

Finally I went to old Judge Bardlow, who was as true as steel, and told
him the whole story, and he advised me to get the papers, and give them
to him to examine. So, on the day of the funeral, I entered the house
with a mallet and a mortizing chisel, and within fifteen minutes I had
in my pocket the package Markson had put in the sill years before, and
was hurrying to the judge’s office.

He informed me that Mrs. Markson’s lawyer, from the city, had called on
him that very morning, and invited him to be present at the reading of
the will in the afternoon, so he would be able to put things in proper
shape at once.

I was more nervous all that day than I ever was in waiting to hear from
an estimate. It was none of my business, to be sure; but I longed to see
Mrs. Markson punished for the mischief which I and every one else
believed she had done her husband; and I longed to see Helen, whom every
one liked, triumph over her stepmother, who, still young and gay, was
awfully jealous of Helen’s beauty and general attractiveness.

Finally the long day wore away, and an hour or two after the carriages
returned from the funeral, the city lawyer called for the judge, and, at
the judge’s suggestion, they both called for me.

We found Mrs. Markson and Helen, with some of Mrs. Markson’s
relatives—Helen had not one in the world—in the parlor, Mrs. Markson
looking extremely pretty in her neat-fitting suit of black, and Helen
looking extremely disconsolate.

The judge, in a courtly, old-fashioned way, but with a good deal of
heart for all that, expressed his sympathy for Helen, and I tried to say
a kind word to her myself. To be sure, it was all praise of her father,
whom I really respected very highly (aside from my having had my first
contract from him), but she was large-hearted enough to like it all the
better for that. I was still speaking to her when Mrs. Markson’s lawyer
announced that he would read the last will and testament of the
deceased; so, when she sat down on a sofa, I took a seat beside her.

The document was very brief. He left Helen the interest of twenty
thousand dollars a year, the same to cease if she married; all the rest
of the property he left to his wife. As the lawyer concluded, Helen’s
face put on an expression of wonder and grief, succeeded by one of utter
loneliness; while from Mrs. Markson’s eyes there flashed an exultant
look that had so much of malignity in it that it made me understand the
nature of Satan a great deal more clearly than any sermon ever made me
do. Poor Helen tried to meet it with fearlessness and dignity, but she
seemed to feel as if even her father had abandoned her, and she dropped
her head and burst into tears.

I know it wasn’t the thing to do before company, but I took her hand and
called her a poor girl, and begged her to keep a good heart, and trust
that her father loved her truly, and that her wrongs would be righted at
the proper time.

Being kind to my fellow-creatures is the biggest part of my religion,
for it’s the part of religion I understand best; but even if I had been
a heathen, I couldn’t have helped wishing well to a noble, handsome
woman like Helen Markson. I tried to speak in a very low tone, but Mrs.
Markson seemed to understand what I said, for she favored me with a look
more malevolent than any I had ever received from my most impecunious
debtor; the natural effect was to wake up all the old Adam there was in
_me_, and to make me long for what was coming.

“May I ask the date of that will?” asked Judge Bardlow.

“Certainly, sir,” replied Mrs. Markson’s lawyer, handing the document to
the judge. The judge looked at the date, handed the will back to the
lawyer, and drew from his pocket an envelope.

“Here is a will made by Mr. Markson,” said the judge, “and dated three
months later.”

Mrs. Markson started; her eyes flashed with a sort of fire which I hope
I may never see again, and she caught her lower lip up between her
teeth. The judge read the document as calmly as if it had been a mere
supervisor’s notice, whereas it was different to the first will in every
respect, for it gave to Helen all of his property, of every description,
on condition that she paid to Mrs. Markson yearly the interest of twenty
thousand dollars until death or marriage, “this being the amount,” as
the will said, “that she assured me would be amply sufficient for my
daughter under like circumstances.”

As the judge ceased reading, and folded the document, Mrs. Markson
sprang at him as if she were a wild beast.

“Give it to me!” she screamed—hissed, rather; “’tis a vile, hateful
forgery!”

“Madame,” said the judge, hastily putting the will in his pocket, and
taking off his glasses, “that is a matter which the law wisely provides
shall not be decided by interested parties. When I present it for
probate——”

“I’ll _break_ it!” interrupted Mrs. Markson, glaring, as my family cat
does when a mouse is too quick for her.

Mrs. Markson’s lawyer asked permission to look at the newer will, which
the judge granted. He looked carefully at the signature of Markson and
the witnesses, and returned the document with a sigh.

“Don’t attempt it, madame—no use,” said he. “I know all the signatures;
seen them a hundred times. I’m sorry, very—affects _my_ pocket some, for
it cuts some of my prospective fees, but—_that_ will can’t be broken.”

Mrs. Markson turned, looked at Helen a second, and then dashed at her,
as if “to scatter, tear and slay,” as the old funeral hymn says. Helen
stumbled and cowered a little toward me, seeing which I—how on earth I
came to do it I don’t know—put my arm around her, and looked indignantly
at Mrs. Markson.

“You treacherous hussy!” said Mrs. Markson, stamping her foot—“you
scheming little minx! I could kill you! I could tear you to pieces! I
could drink your very heart’s blood—I could——”

What else she could do she was prevented from telling, for she fell into
a fit, and was carried out rigid and foaming at the mouth.

I am generally sorry to see even wicked people suffer, but I wasn’t a
bit sorry to see Mrs. Markson; for, while she was talking, poor Helen
trembled so violently that it seemed to me she would be scared to death
if her cruel stepmother talked much longer.

Two hours later Mrs. Markson, with all her relatives and personal
effects, left the house, and six months afterward Mrs. Markson entrapped
some other rich man into marrying her. She never tried to break
Markson’s will.

As Helen was utterly ignorant of the existence of this new will until
she heard it read, the judge explained to her where it came from; and as
she was naturally anxious for all the particulars of its discovery, the
judge sent me to her to tell her the whole story. So I dressed myself
and drove down—for, though still under thirty, I was well off, and drove
my own span—and told her of my interview with her father, on his
deathbed, as well as of the scene on the night he hid the will.

As I told the latter part of the story a reverent, loving,
self-forgetful look came into her face, and made her seem to me like an
angel. As for myself, the recalling of the incident, now that I knew its
sequel, prevented my keeping my eyes dry. I felt a little ashamed of
myself and hurried away, but her look while I spoke of her father, and
her trembling form in my arms while Mrs. Markson raved at her, were
constantly in my mind, and muddled a great many important estimates.
They finally troubled me so that I drove down again and had a long and
serious talk with Helen.

What we said, though perfectly proper and sensible, might not be
interesting in print, so I omit it. I will say, however, that my
longing—when I first saw Helen as a little girl—for a daughter just like
her, has been fulfilled so exactly, that I have named her Helen Markson
Raines, after her mother; and if she is not as much comfort to me as I
supposed she would be, it is no fault of hers, but rather because the
love of her mother makes me, twenty years after the incidents of this
story occurred, so constantly happy, that I need the affection of no one
else.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              GRUMP’S PET.


ON a certain day in November, 1850, there meandered into the new mining
camp of Painter Bar, State of California, an individual who was
instantly pronounced, all voices concurring, the ugliest man in the
camp. The adjective ugly was applied to the man’s physiognomy alone; but
time soon gave the word, as applied to him, a far wider significance. In
fact, the word was not at all equal to the requirements made of it, and
this was probably what influenced the pre-fixing of numerous adjectives,
sacred and profane, to this little word of four letters.

The individual in question stated that he came from “no whar in
pu’tiklar,” and the savage, furtive glance that shot from his hyena-like
eyes seemed to plainly indicate why the land of his origin was so
indefinitely located. A badly broken nose failed to soften the
expression of his eyes, a long, prominent, dull-red scar divided one of
his cheeks, his mustache was not heavy enough to hide a hideous
hare-lip; while a ragged beard, and a head of stiff, bristly red hair,
formed a setting which intensified rather than embellished the
peculiarities we have noted.

The first settlers, who seemed quite venerable and dignified, now that
the camp was nearly a fortnight old, were in the habit of extending
hospitality to all newcomers until these latter could build huts for
themselves; but no one hastened to invite this beauty to partake of
cracker, pork and lodging-place, and he finally betook himself to the
southerly side of a large rock, against which he placed a few boughs to
break the wind.

The morning after his arrival, certain men missed provisions, and the
ugly man was suspected; but so depressing, as one miner mildly put it,
was his aspect when even looked at inquiringly, that the bravest of the
boys found excuse for not asking questions of the suspected man.

“Ain’t got no chum,” suggested Bozen, an ex-sailor, one day, after the
crowd had done considerable staring at this unpleasant object; “ain’t
got no chum, and’s lonesome—needs cheerin’ up.” So Bozen
philanthropically staked a new claim near the stranger, apart from the
main party. The next morning found him back on his old claim, and
volunteering to every one the information that “stranger’s a grump—a
reg’lar grump.” From that time forth “Grump” was the only name by which
the man was known.

Time rolled on, and in the course of a month Painter Bar was mentioned
as an old camp. It had its mining rules, its saloon, blacksmith-shop,
and faro-bank, like the proudest camp on the Run, and one could find
there colonels, judges, doctors, and squires by the dozen, besides one
deacon and a dominie or two.

Still, the old inhabitants kept an open eye for newcomers, and displayed
an open-hearted friendliness from whose example certain Eastern cities
might profit.

But on one particular afternoon, the estimable reception committee were
put to their wit’s end. They were enjoying their _otium cum dignitate_
on a rude bench in front of the saloon, when some one called attention
to an unfamiliar form which leaned against a stunted tree a few rods
off.

It was of a short, loose-jointed young man, who seemed so thin and lean,
that Black Tom ventured the opinion that “that feller had better hold
tight to the groun’, ter keep from fallen’ upards.” His eyes were
colorless, his nose was enormous, his mouth hung wide open and then shut
with a twitch, as if its owner were eating flies, his chin seemed to
have been entirely forgotten, and his thin hair was in color somewhere
between sand and mud.

As he leaned against the tree he afforded a fine opportunity for the
study of acute and obtuse angles. His neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists,
back, knees and feet all described angles, and even the toes of his
shocking boots deflected from the horizontal in a most decided manner.

“Somebody ort to go say somethin’ to him,” said the colonel, who was
recognized as leader by the miners.

“Fact, colonel,” replied one of the men; “but what’s a feller to say to
sich a meanderin’ bone-yard ez that? Might ask him, fur perliteness
sake, to take fust pick uv lots in a new buryin’ ground; but then
Perkins died last week, yur know.”

“Say _somethin’_, somebody,” commanded the colonel, and as he spoke his
eyes alighted on Slim Sam, who obediently stepped out to greet the
newcomer.

“Mister,” said Sam, producing a plug of tobacco, “hev a chaw?”

“I don’t use tobacco,” languidly replied the man, and his answer was so
unexpected that Sam precipitately retired.

Then Black Tom advanced, and pleasantly asked:

“What’s yer fav’rit game, stranger?”

“Blind man’s buff,” replied the stranger.

“What’s that?” inquired Tom, blushing with shame at being compelled to
display ignorance about games; “anything like going it blind at poker?”

“Poker?—I don’t know what that is,” replied the youth.

“He’s from the country,” said the colonel, compassionately, “an’ hesn’t
hed the right schoolin’. P’r’aps,” continued the colonel, “he’d enjoy
the cockfight at the saloon to-night—these country boys are pretty well
up on roosters. Ask him, Tom.”

Tom put the question, and the party, in deep disgust, heard the man
reply:

“No, thank you; I think it’s cruel to make the poor birds hurt each
other.”

“Look here,” said the good-natured Bozen, “the poor lubber’s all gone in
amidships—see how flat his breadbasket is. I say, messmate,” continued
Bozen, with a roar, and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, “come and
splice the main-brace.”

“No, thank you,” answered the unreasonable stranger; “I don’t drink.”

The boys looked incredulously at each other, while the colonel arose and
paced the front of the saloon two or three times, looking greatly
puzzled. He finally stopped and said:

“The mizzable rat isn’t fit to be out uv doors, an’ needs takin’ keer
ov. Come here, feller,” called the colonel; “be kinder sociable—don’t
stand there a gawpin’ at us ez ef we wuz a menagerie.”

The youth approached slowly, stared through the crowd, and finally
asked:

“Is there any one here from Pawkin Centre?”

No one responded.

“Some men went out to Californy from Pawkin Centre, and I didn’t know
but some of ’em was here. I come from ther’ myself—my name’s Mix,” the
youth continued.

“Meanin’ no disrespect to your dad,” said the colonel, “Mr. Mix, Senior,
ortn’t to hev let you come out here—you ain’t strong enough—you’ll git
fever ’n ager ’fore you’ve washed dirt half a day.”

“I ain’t got no dad,” replied the stranger; “leastways he ran away ten
years ago, an’ mother had a powerful hard time since, a-bringin’ up the
young uns, an’ we thought I might help along a big sight if I was out
here.”

The colonel was not what in the States would be called a prayer-meeting
man, but he looked steadily at the young man, and inwardly breathed a
very earnest “God have mercy on you all.” Then he came back to the more
immediate present, and, looking about, asked:

“Who’s got sleepin’-room for this young man?”

“I hev,” quickly answered Grump, who had approached, unnoticed, while
the newcomer was being interviewed.

Every one started, and Grump’s countenance did not gather amiability as
he sneakingly noticed the general distrust.

“Yer needn’t glare like that,” said he, savagely; “I sed it, an’ I mean
it. Come along, youngster—it’s about the time I generally fry my pork.”

And the two beauties walked away together, while the crowd stared in
speechless astonishment.

“He won’t make much out uv that boy, that’s one comfort,” said Black
Tom, who had partially recovered from his wonder. “You ken bet yer
eye-teeth that his pockets wouldn’t pan out five dollars.”

“Then what does he want uv him?” queried Slim Sam.

“Somethin’ mean an’ underhand, for certain,” said the colonel, “and the
boy must be purtected. And I hereby app’int this whole crowd to keep an
eye on Grump, an’ see he don’t make a slave of the boy, an’ don’t rob
him of dust. An’ I reckon I’ll take one of yer with me, an’ keep watch
of the old rascal to-night. I don’t trust him wuth a durn.”

That night the boys at the saloon wrinkled their brows like unto an
impecunious Committee of Ways and Means, as they vainly endeavored to
surmise why Grump could want that young man as a lodger. Men who pursued
whittling as an aid to reason made pecks of chips and shavings, and were
no nearer a solution than when they began.

There were a number of games played, but so great was the
absentmindedness of the players, that several hardened scamps indulged
in some most unscrupulous “stocking” of the cards without detection. But
even one of these, after having dealt himself both bowers and the king,
besides two aces, suddenly imagined he had discovered Grump’s motive,
and so earnest was he in exposing that nefarious wretch, that one of his
opponents changed hands with him. Even the barkeeper mixed the bottles
badly, and on one occasion, just as the boys were raising their glasses,
he metaphorically dashed the cup from their lips by a violent, “I tell
you what,” and an unsatisfactory theory. Finally the colonel arose.

“Boys,” said he, in the tone of a man whose mind is settled, “’taint
’cos the youngster looked like lively comp’ny, fur he didn’t. ’Taint
’cos Grump wanted to do him a good turn, fur ’tain’t his style.
Cons’kently, thar’s sumthin’ wrong. Tom, I reckon I take _you_ along.”

And Tom and the colonel departed.

During the month which had elapsed since his advent, Grump had managed
to build him a hut of the usual mining pattern, and the colonel and Tom
stealthily examined its walls, front and rear, until they found crevices
which would admit the muzzle of a revolver, should it be necessary. Then
they applied their eyes to the same cracks, and saw the youth asleep on
a pile of dead grass, with Grump’s knapsack for a pillow, and one of
Grump’s blankets over him. Grump himself was sitting on a fragment of
stone, staring into the fire, with his face in his hands.

He sat so long that the worthy colonel began to feel indignant; to sit
in a cramped position on the outside of a house, for the sake of abused
human nature, was an action more praiseworthy than comfortable, and the
colonel began to feel personally aggrieved at Grump’s delay. Besides,
the colonel was growing thirsty.

Suddenly Grump arose, looked down at the sleeping youth, and then knelt
beside him. The colonel briskly brought his pistol to bear on him, and
with great satisfaction noted that Tom’s muzzle occupied a crack in the
front walls, and that he himself was out of range.

A slight tremor seemed to run through the sleeper; “and no wonder,” said
the colonel, when he recounted the adventure to the boys; “anybody’d
shiver to hev _that_ catamount glarin’ at him.”

Grump arose, and softly went to a corner which was hidden by the
chimney.

“Gone for his knife, I’ll bet,” whispered the colonel to himself. “I
hope Tom don’t spile my mad by firin’ fust.”

Grump returned to view; but instead of a knife, he bore another blanket,
which he gently spread over his sleeping guest, then he lay down beside
Mix with a log of wood for a pillow.

The colonel withdrew his pistol, and softly muttered to himself a dozen
or two enormous oaths; then he arose, straightened out his cramped legs,
and started to find Tom. That worthy had started on a similar errand,
and on meeting, the two stared at each other in the moonlight as blankly
as a couple of well-preserved mummies.

“S’pose the boys ’ll believe us?” whispered the colonel.

“We ken bring ’em down to see the show themselves, ef they don’t,”
replied Tom.

The colonel’s report was productive of the choicest assortment of
ejaculations that had been heard in camp since Natchez, the leader of
the Vinegar Gulch Boys, joined the Church and commenced preaching.

The good-natured Bozen was for drinking Grump’s health at once, but the
colonel demurred. So did Slim Sam.

“He’s goin’ to make him work on sheers, or some hocus-pocusin’
arrangement, an’ he can’t afford to hev him git sick. That’s what his
kindness amounts to,” said Sam.

“Ur go fur his gratitude—and dust, when he gets any,” suggested another,
and no one repelled the insinuation.

It was evident, however, that there was but little chance of either
inquest or funeral from Grump’s, and the crowd finally dispersed with
the confirmed assurance that there would be one steady cause of
excitement for some time to come.

Next morning young Mix staked a claim adjoining Grump. The colonel led
him aside, bound him to secrecy, and told him that there was a far
richer dirt further down the stream. The young man pointed toward the
hut, and replied:

“He sed ’twas payin’ dirt, an’ I ort to take his advice, seein’ he giv
me a pick an’ shovel an’ pan—sed he’d hev to git new ones anyhow.”

“Thunder!” ejaculated the colonel, more puzzled than ever, knowing well
how a miner will cling as long as possible to tools with which he is
acquainted.

“Jest wait till that boy gets a bag of dust,” said a miner, when the
colonel had narrated the second wonder. “The express agent ’ll be here
next week to git what fellers wants to send to their folks—the boy’ll
want to send some to his’n—his bag ’ll be missin’ ’bout then—jist wait,
and ef my words don’t come true, call me greaser.”

The colonel pondered over the prophecy, and finally determined on
another vigil outside Grump’s hut.

Meanwhile, Grump’s Pet, as Mix had been nicknamed, afforded the camp a
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 cheerfully 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.


[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.
]


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.

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
you _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.”

“You insist upon it that he’s my prisoner,” said the preacher, tugging
away at his knot, “and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And,”
continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, “he’s _got_
to be a circuit-rider, and I’m going to make one of him. Do you hear
that, young man? I’m the man that’s setting you free and giving you to
your father!”

“You can make anything you please out of me,” said the prisoner. “Only
hurry!”

“As you say, parson,” remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness;
“he’s _your_ prisoner, but I _could_ make a splendid deputy out of him
if you’d let him take my advice. And I’d agree to work for his
nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might
get to be!—there _has_ sheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I’ve heard
of one that went to Congress.”

“Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes,” said the preacher,
leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow’s cabin; “they get as high as
heaven!”

“Oh!” remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.

Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father’s house. The
preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man
burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:

“Father!”

The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:

“Stevie!”

The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even
sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving
him a mighty hug.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher
fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting
either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings,
that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having
become religious himself.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TOM CHAFFLIN’S LUCK.


“LUCK? Why, I never seed anything like it! Yer might give him the
sweepin’s of a saloon to wash, an’ he’d pan out a nugget ev’ry time—do
it ez shure as shootin’!”

This rather emphatic speech proceeded one day from the lips of Cairo
Jake, an industrious washer of the golden sands of California; but it
was evident to all intelligent observers that even language so strong as
to seem almost figurative did not fully express Cairo Jake’s conviction,
for he shook his head so positively that his hat fell off into the
stream, which found a level only an inch or two below Jacob’s boot-tops,
and he stamped his right foot so vigorously as to endanger his
equilibrium.

“Well,” sighed a discontented miner from New Jersey, “Providence knows
His own bizness best, I s’pose; but I could have found him a feller that
could have made a darn sight better use of his good luck—ef he’d had
any—than Tom Chafflin. _He_ don’t know nothin’ ’bout the worth of
money—never seed him drunk in my life, an’ he don’t seem to get no fun
out of keerds.”

“Providence ’ll hev a season’s job a-satisfyin’ _you_, old Redbank,”
replied Cairo Jake; “but it’s all-fired queer, for all that. Ef a feller
could only learn how he done it, ’twouldn’t seem so funny; but he don’t
seem to have no way in p’tickler about him that a feller ken find out.”

“Fact,” said Redbank, with a solemn groan. “I’ve studied his face—why,
ef I’d studied half ez hard at school I’d be a president, or missionary,
or somethin’ now—but I don’t make it out. Once I ‘llowed ’twas cos he
didn’t keer, an’ was kind o’ reckless—sort o’ went it blind. So _I_
tried it on a-playin’ monte.”

“Well, how did it work?” asked the gentleman from Cairo.

“Work?” echoed the Jerseyman, with the air of an unsuccessful candidate
musing over the “saddest words of thought or pen;” “I started with
thirteen ounces, an’ in twenty minutes I was borryin’ the price of a
drink from the dealer. _That’s_ how it worked.”

Certain other miners looked sorrowful; it was evident that they, too,
had been reckless, and had trusted to luck, and that in a place where
gold-digging and gambling were the only two means of proving the
correctness of their theory, it was not difficult to imagine by which
one they were disappointed.

“Long an’ short of it’s jest this,” resumed Cairo Jake, straightening
himself for a moment, and picking some coarse gravel from his pan, “Tom
Chafflin’s always in luck. His claim pays better’n anybody else’s; he
always gets the lucky number at a raffle, his shovel don’t never break,
an’ his chimbly ain’t always catchin’ a-fire. He’s gone down to ’Frisco
now, an’ I’ll bet a dozen ounces that jest cos he’s aboard, the old boat
’ll go down an’ back without runnin’ aground a solitary durned time.”

No one took up Cairo Jake’s bet, so that it was evident he uttered the
general sentiment of the mining camp of Quicksilver Bar.

Every man, in the temporary silence which followed Jake’s summary, again
bent industriously over his pan, until the scene suggested an amateur
water-cure establishment returning thanks for basins of gruel, when
suddenly the whole line was startled into suspension of labor by the
appearance of London George, who was waving his hat with one hand and a
red silk handkerchief with the other, while with his left foot he was
performing certain _pas_ not necessary to successful pedestrianism.

“Quicksilver Bar hain’t up to snuff—oh, no! Ain’t a catchin’ up with
’Frisco—not at all! Little Chestnut don’t know how to run a saloon, an’
make other shops weep—not in the least—not at all—oh, no!”

“Eh?” inquired half a dozen.

“Don’t b’leeve me if you don’t want to, but just bet against it ’fore
you go to see—that’s all!” continued London George, fanning himself with
his hat.

“George,” said Judge Baggs, with considerable asperity, “ef you _are_ an
Englishman, try to speak your native tongue, an’ explain what you mean
by actin’ ez ef you’d jes’ broke out of a lunatic ‘sylum. Speak quick,
or I’ll fine you drinks for the crowd.”

“Just as lieve you would,” said the unabashed Briton, “seein’—seein’
Chestnut’s got a female—a woman—a lady cashier—there! Guess them San
Francisco saloons ain’t the only ones that knows what’s what—not any!”

“I don’t b’leeve a word of it,” said the judge, washing his hands rather
hastily; “but I’ll jest see for myself.”

Cairo Jake looked thoughtfully on the retreating form of the judge, and
remarked:

“He’ll feel ashamed of hisself when he gits thar an’ finds he’ll hev to
drink alone. Reckon I’ll go up, jest to keep him from feelin’ bad.”

Several others seemed impressed by the same idea, and moved quite
briskly in the direction of Chestnut’s saloon.

The judge, protected by his age and a pair of green spectacles, boldly
entered, while his followers dispersed themselves sheepishly just
outside the open door, past which they marched and re-marched as
industriously as a lot of special sentries.

There was no doubt about it. Chestnut had installed a lady at the end of
the bar, and as, between breakfast and dinner, there was but little
business done at the saloon, the lady was amusing herself by weighing
corks and pebbles in the tiny scales which were to weigh the metallic
equivalent, for refreshments.

The judge contemplated the arrangements with considerable satisfaction,
and immediately called up all thirsty souls present.

Those outside the door entered with the caution of veterans in an
enemy’s country, and with a bashfulness that was painful to contemplate.
They stood before the bar, they glanced cautiously to the right, and
gently inclined their heads backward, until only a line of eyes and
noses were visible from the cashier’s desk.

Then the judge raised his green glasses a moment, and smiled benignantly
on the new cashier as he raised his liquor aloft; then he turned to his
party, and they drank the toast as solemnly as if they were the soldiers
of Miles Standish fortifying the inner man against fear of the Pequods.
Then they separated into small groups, and conversed gravely on subjects
in which they had not the slightest interest, while each one pretended
not to look toward the cashier, and each one saw what the others were
earnestly striving to do.

But when the judge settled the score, and chatted for several minutes
with the receiver of treasure, and the lady—young, and rather pretty,
and quite pleasant and modest and business-like—laughed merrily at
something the judge said, an idea gradually dawned upon the bystanders,
and within a few moments the boys feverishly awaited their chances to
treat the crowd, for the sole purpose of having an excuse to speak to
the new cashier, and to stand within three feet of her for about the
space of a minute.

Great was the excitement on the Creek when the party returned, and
testified to the entire accuracy of London George’s report.

Every one went to the saloon that night—there _had_ been some games
arranged to take place at certain huts, but they were postponed by
mutual consent.

Even the Dominie—an ex-preacher, who had never yet set foot upon the
profane floor of the saloon—appeared there that evening in search of
some one so exceeding hard to find that the Dominie was compelled to
make several tours of all the tables and benches in the room.

Chestnut himself, when questioned, said she had come by the way of the
Isthmus with her father and mother, who had both died of the Chagres
fever before reaching San Francisco—that some friends of her family and
his had been trying to get her something to do in ’Frisco, and that he
had engaged her at an ounce a day; and, furthermore, that he would be
greatly obliged if the boys at Quicksilver wouldn’t marry her before she
had worked out her passage-money from ’Frisco, which he had advanced.
But the boys at Quicksilver were not so thoughtful of Chestnut’s
interests as they might have been. They began to buy blacking and
neckties and white shirts, and to patronize the barber.

No one had any opportunity for love-making, for the lady’s working hours
were all spent in public, and in a business which caused frequent
interruptions of even the most agreeable conversation.

It soon became understood that certain men had proposed and been
declined, and betting on who would finally capture the lady was the most
popular excitement in camp.

Cool-headed betting men watched closely the countenance of Sunrise (as
some effusive miner had named the new cashier) as each man approached to
pay in his coin or dust, and though they were intensely disgusted by its
revelations, they unhesitatingly offered two to one that Dominie would
be the fortunate man.

To be sure, she saw less of the Dominie than of any one else, for,
though he did not drink, or pay for the liquor consumed by any one else,
he occasionally came in to get a large coin changed, and then it was
noticed that Sunrise regarded him with a sort of earnestness which she
never exhibited toward any one else.

“Too bad!” sighed Cairo Jake. “Somebody ort to tell her that he’s only a
preacher, an’ she’ll only throw herself away ef she takes him. Ef any
stranger wuz to insult her, Dominie wouldn’t be man ’nuff to draw on
him.”

“Beats thunder, though!” sighed Redbank, “how them preachers kin take
folks in. Thar’s Chestnut himself, _he’s_ took with Dominie—’stead of
orderin’ him out, he talks with him an’ her just ez ef he’d as lieve get
rid of her as not.”


[Illustration:

  TOM WALKED RAPIDLY TO THE CASHIER’S DESK, AND GAVE SUNRISE SEVERAL
  HEARTY KISSES.
]


“Boat’s a-comin’!” shouted Cairo Jake, looking toward the place, half a
mile below, where the creek emptied into the river. “See her smoke? Like
’nuff Tom Chafflin’s on board. He wuz a-goin’ to try to come back by the
first boat, an’ of course he’s done it—jest his luck. Ef he’d only come
sooner, somebody besides the preacher would hev got her—you kin just bet
your bottom ounce on it. Let’s go down an’ see ef he’s got any news.”

Several miners dropped tools and pans, and followed Jake to the landing,
and gave a hearty welcome to Tom Chafflin.

He certainly looked like anything but a lucky man; he was good-looking,
and seemed smart, but his face wore a dismal expression, which seemed
decidedly out of place on the countenance of a habitually lucky man.

“Things hain’t gone right, Tom?” asked Cairo Jake.

“Never went worse,” declared Tom, gloomily. “Guess I’ll sell out, an’
try my luck somewheres else.”

“_Ef_ you’d only come a little sooner!” sighed Jake, “you’d hev hed a
chance that would hev made ev’rything seem to go right till Judgment
Day. I’ll show yer.”

Jake opened the saloon-door, and there sat Sunrise, as bright, modest,
and pleasant-looking as ever.

With the air of a man who has conferred a great benefit, and is calmly
awaiting his rightful reward, Jake turned to Tom; but his expression
speedily changed to one of hopeless wonder, and then to one of delight,
as Tom Chafflin walked rapidly up to the cashier’s desk, pushed the
Dominie one side and the little scales the other, and gave Sunrise
several very hearty kisses, to which the lady didn’t make the slightest
objection—in fact, she blushed deeply, and seemed very happy.

“That’s what I went to ’Frisco to look for,” explained Tom, to the
staring bystander, “but I couldn’t find out a word about her.”

“Don’t wonder yer looked glum, then,” said Cairo Jake; “but—but it’s
jest your luck!”

“Dominie here was going down to hurry you back,” said Sunrise; “but——”

“But we’ll give him a different job now, my dear,” said Tom, completing
the sentence.

And they did.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       OLD TWITCHETT’S TREASURE.


OLD TWITCHETT was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for
Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own
bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one,
it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to
soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we
are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare
and beautiful stones.

It was Twitchett’s own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful
profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and
located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd,
instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps
he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of
high-toned, civilized beings—there was no accounting for tastes—but then
he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley
couldn’t have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the
most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one,
couldn’t fry a sick man’s pork, or make his coffee.

But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed—he always was queer. He kept
himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys
were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired,
delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the
twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.

At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black
Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it,
and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his
hut. They had taken turns in carrying him—for he was wasted and
light—until they reached Crockey’s store, and when they laid him down,
while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a
pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and
until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for
drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.

Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey’s best brandy,
but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey’s he
would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to
realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very
soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them
to kneel beside him.

“I’m very grateful, boys, for your kindness—I wish I could reward you;
but haven’t got anything—I’ve got nothing at all. The only treasure I
had I buried—buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die
alone—I didn’t want those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can—I wish
you’d git it, and—it’s a dying man’s last request—take it—and——”

If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some
locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt
beside the dead man’s face, and with averted eyes listened for the
remainder of Twitchett’s last sentence.

Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which,
according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of
tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other’s faces, and each man
placed his dexter forefinger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith
whispered:

“Virtue is its own reward—hey, Sam?”

“You bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. “It’s on the square now,
between us?”

“Square as a die,” whispered Boylston.

“When’ll we go for it?” asked Sam Baker.

“Can’t go till after the fun’ril,” virtuously whispered Boylston.
“’Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that’s made our
fortunes.”

“Fact,” remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a
pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds
he examined the mirror, and whispered:

“Nary a sign—might’s well tell the boys.”

The announcement of Twitchett’s death was the signal for an animated
discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and
what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was
the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased’s
religious evidences—no distribution of black crape—no tearful beating
down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were
all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to
Twitchett’s good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came
to deceased’s gold—his money—the bystanders exhibited an interest which
was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal
kinship.

Each man knew all about Twitchett’s money, though no two agreed. He had
hid it—he had been unlucky, and had not found much—he had slyly sent it
home—he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which
always drew blanks—he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old
Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold
as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled
derisively—they didn’t like to laugh at the deacon’s gray hairs, but he
_was_ queer.

Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently
uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an
extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett’s
administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly,
and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be
talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black
Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and
constitute himself sole legatee.

But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had
stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston
strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward
of virtue.

“He didn’t say what kind of a can it was,” remarked Mr. Baker, after the
outskirts of Bender had been left behind.

“Just what I thought,” replied Boylston; “pity he couldn’t hev lasted
long enough for us to hev asked him. But I’ve been a-workin’ some sums
about different kinds of cans—I learned how from Phipps, this
afternoon—he’s been to college, an’ his head’s cram-full of sech
puzzlin’ things. It took multiplyin’ with four figures to git the
answer, but I couldn’t take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin’
’bout how the find would pan out.”

“Well?” inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had
just stumbled.

“Well,” replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light
his pipe, “the smallest can a-goin’ is a half-pound powder-can, and
that’ll hold over two thousand dollars worth—even _that_ wouldn’t be bad
for a single night’s work—eh?”

“Just so,” responded Mr. Baker; “then there’s oyster-cans an’
meat-cans.”

“Yes,” said Boylston, “an’ the smallest of ’em’s good fur ten thousand,
ef it’s full. An’ when yer come to five-pound powders—why, one of them
would make two fellers rich!”

They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn’s Bar. The diggings at
the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were
Twitchett’s executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out
of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the
chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay
before them?

They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett’s hut still
unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them
not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and
then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were
several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston
vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately
looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in
the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can,
absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he
made a formal division.

Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his
yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an
oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take
that bet, and make it an ounce.

Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body,
seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that
it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to
fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.

Suddenly Boylston’s pick brought to light something yellow and
round—something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of
oilskin.

“You’ve won _one_ bet,” whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the
yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.

“Not ef _this_ is it,” growled Boylston; “it don’t weigh more’n ounce
can, wrapper and all. Might’s well see what ’tis, though.”

The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and
carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a
small package, labeled: “_My only treasures._”

Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr.
Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a
cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.

Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when
opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the
wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.

“Gold in that, mebbe,” suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it.
It _was_ gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the
dead man’s friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.

Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed
through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward;
wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the
auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn’s Bar; depressing was the general
nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their
disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser,
strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw
Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old
Twitchett’s grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his
hands.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            BLIZZER’S WIFE.


THE mining camp of Tough Case, though small, had its excitements, as
well as did many camps of half a dozen saloon-power; and on the first
day of November, 1850, it was convulsed by the crisis of by far the
greatest excitement it had ever enjoyed.

It was not a lucky “find,” for some of the largest nuggets in the State
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
doorsill—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 clothes-broom.

“‘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 Ripsons’ 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 Sim 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 heerd 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 women.

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!”

In silence, and with uncovered heads, was the toast drank; and for many
days did the boys mourn for her whose advent brought them such
disappointment.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       A BOARDING-HOUSE ROMANCE.


I KEEP a boarding-house.

If any fair proportion of my readers were likely to be members of my own
profession, I should expect the above announcement to call forth more
sympathetic handkerchiefs than have waved in unison for many a day. But
I don’t expect anything of the sort; I know my business too well to
suppose for a moment that any boarding-house proprietor, no matter how
full her rooms, or how good pay her boarders are, ever finds time to
read a story. Even if they did, they’d be so lost in wonder at one of
themselves finding time to _write_ a story, that they’d forget the whole
plot and point of the thing.

I can’t help it, though—I _must_ tell about poor dear Mrs. Perry, even
if I run the risk of cook’s overdoing the beef, so that Mr. Bluff, who
is English, and the best of pay, can’t get the rare cut he loves so
well. Mrs. Perry’s story has run in my head so long, that it has made me
forget to take change from the grocer at least once to my knowledge, and
even made me lose a good boarder, by showing a room before the bed was
made up. They say that poets get things out of their heads by writing
them down, and I don’t know why boarding-house keepers can’t do the same
thing.

It’s about three months since Mrs. Perry came here to board. I’m very
sure about the time, and it was the day I was to pay my quarter’s rent,
and to-morrow will be quarter-day again; thank the Lord I’ve got the
money ready.

I _didn’t_ have the money ready then, though, and the landlord left his
temper behind him, instead of a receipt, and I was just having a little
cry in my apron, and asking the Lord _why_ it was that a poor lone woman
who was working her finger-ends off should have such a hard time, when
the door-bell rang.

“That’s the landlord again. _I_ know his ways, the mean wretch!” said I
to myself, hastily rubbing my eyes dry, and making up before the mirror
in the hat-tree as fierce a face as I could. Then I snatched open the
door, and tried to make believe my heart _wasn’t_ in my mouth.

But the landlord wasn’t there, and I’ve always been a little sorry, for
I was looking so savage, that a wee little woman, who _was_ at the door,
trembled all over, and started to go down the steps.

“Don’t go, ma’am,” I said, very quickly, with the best smile I could put
on (and I think I’ve been long enough in the business to give the right
kind of a smile to a person that looks like a new boarder). “Don’t go—I
thought it was—I thought it was—somebody else that rang. Come in, do.”

She looked as if I was doing her a great honor, and I thought that
looked like poor pay, but I was too glad at not seeing the landlord just
then to care if I did lose _one_ week’s board; besides, she didn’t look
as if she _could_ eat much.

“I see you advertise a small bedroom to let,” said she, looking
appealing-like, as if she was going to beat me down on the strength of
being poor. “How much is it a week?”

“Eight dollars,” said I, rather shortly. Seven dollars was all I
expected to get, but I put on one, so as to be beaten down without
losing anything. “I can get eight from a single gentleman, the only
objection being that he wants to keep a dog in the back yard.”

“Oh, I’ll pay it,” said she, quickly taking out her pocketbook. “I’ll
take it for six weeks, anyhow.”

I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I made up my mind to read
a penitential passage of Scripture as soon as I closed the bargain with
her, but, remembering the Book says to be reconciled to your brother
before laying your gift on the altar, I says, quick as I could, for fear
that if I thought over it again I couldn’t be honest:

“You shall have it for seven, my dear madame, if you’re going to stay so
long, and I’ll do your washing without extra charge.”

This last I said to punish myself for suspecting an innocent little
lady.

“Oh, thank you—thank you _very_ much,” said she, and then she began to
cry.

I knew _that_ wasn’t for effect, for we were already agreed on terms,
and she had her pocketbook open showing more money that _I_ ever have at
a time, unless it’s rent-day.

She tried to stop crying by burying her face in her hands, and it made
her look so much smaller and _so_ pitiful that I picked her right up, as
if she was a baby, and kissed her. Then she cried harder, and I—a woman
over forty, too—couldn’t find anything better to do than to cry with
her.

I knew her whole story within five minutes—knew it perfectly well before
I’d fairly shown her the room and got it aired.

They were from the West, and had been married about a year. She hadn’t a
relative in the world, but _his_ folks had friends in Philadelphia, so
he’d got a place as clerk in a big clothing factory, at twelve hundred
dollars a year. They’d been keeping house, just as cozy as could be in
four rooms, and were as happy as anybody in the world, when one night he
didn’t come home.

She was almost frantic about him all night long, and first thing in the
morning she was at the factory. She waited until all the clerks got
there, but George—his name was George Perry—didn’t come. The proprietor
was a good-hearted man, and went with her to the police-office, and they
telegraphed all over the city; but there didn’t seem to be any such man
found dead or drunk, or arrested for anything.

She hadn’t heard a word from him since. Her husband’s family’s friends
were rich—the stuck up brutes!— but they seemed to be annoyed by her
coming so often to ask if there wasn’t any other way of looking for him,
so she, like the modest, frightened little thing she was, staid away
from them. Then somebody told her that New York was the place everybody
went to, so she sold all her furniture and pawned almost all her
clothes, and came to New York with about fifty dollars in her pocket.

“What I’ll do when that’s gone I don’t know,” said she, commencing to
cry again, “unless I find George. I won’t live on _you_, though, ma’am,”
she said, lifting her face up quickly out of her handkerchief; “I won’t,
indeed. I’ll go to the poorhouse first. But——”

Then she cried worse than before, and I cried, too, and took her in my
arms, and called her a poor little thing, and told her she shouldn’t go
to any poorhouse, but should stay with me and be my daughter.

I don’t know how I came to say it, for, goodness knows, I find it hard
enough to keep out of the poorhouse myself, but I did say it, and I
meant it, too.

Her things were all in a little valise, and she soon had the room to
rights, and when I went up again in a few minutes to carry her a cup of
tea, she pointed to her husband’s picture which she had hung on the
wall, and asked me if I didn’t think he was very handsome.

I said yes, but I’m glad she looked at the tea instead of me, for I
believe she’d seen by my face that I didn’t like her George. The fact
is, men look very differently to their wives or sweethearts than they do
to older people and to boarding-house keepers. There was nothing vicious
about George Perry’s face, but if he’d been a boarder of mine, I’d have
insisted on my board promptly—not for fear of his trying to cheat me,
but because if he saw anything else he wanted, he’d spend his money
without thinking of what he owed.

I felt so certain that he’d got into some mischief or trouble, and was
afraid or ashamed to come back to his wife, that I risked the price of
three ribs of prime roasting beef in the following “Personal”
advertisement:

    “GEORGE P.—Your wife don’t know anything about it, and is dying
    to see you. Answer through Personals.”

But no answer came, and his wife grew more and more poorly, and I
couldn’t help seeing what was the matter with her. Then her money ran
out, and she talked of going away, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I just
took her to my own room, which was the back parlor, and told her she
wasn’t to think again of going away; that she was to be my daughter, and
I would be her mother, until she found George again.

I was afraid, for _her_ sake, that it meant we were to be with each
other for ever, for there was no sign of George.

She wrote to his family in the West, but _they_ hadn’t heard anything
from him or about him, and they took pains not to invite her there, or
even to say anything about giving her a helping hand.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was to pray, and pray I
_did_, more constantly and earnestly than I ever did before, although,
the good Lord knows there _have_ been times, about quarter-day, when I
haven’t kept much peace before the Throne.

Finally, one day Mrs. Perry was taken unusually bad, and the doctor had
to be sent for in a hurry. We were in her room—the doctor and Mrs. Perry
and I—I was endeavoring to comfort and strengthen the poor thing, when
the servant knocked, and said a lady and gentleman had come to look at
rooms.

I didn’t _dare_ to lose boarders, for I’d had three empty rooms for a
month, so I hurried into the parlor. I was almost knocked down for a
second, for the gentleman was George Perry, and no mistake, if the
picture his wife had was to be trusted.

In a second more I was cooler and clearer-headed than I ever was in my
life before. I felt more like an angel of the Lord than a boarding-house
keeper.

“Kate,” said I, to the servant “show the lady all the rooms.”

Kate stared, for I’d never trusted her, or any other girl, with such
important work, and she knew it. She went though, followed by the lady,
who, though she seemed a weak, silly sort of thing, I _hated_ with all
my might. Then I turned quickly, and said:

“Don’t you want a room for your wife, too, George Perry?”

He stared at me a moment, and then turned pale and looked confused. Then
he tried to rally himself, and he said:

“You seem to know me, ma’am.”

“Yes,” said I; “and I know Mrs. Perry, too; and if ever a woman needed
her husband she does _now_, even if her husband _is_ a rascal.”

He tried to be angry, but he couldn’t. He walked up and down the room
once or twice, his face twitching all the time, and then he said, a word
or two at a time:

“I wish I could—poor girl!—God forgive me!—what _can_ I do?—I wish I was
dead!”

“You wouldn’t be any use to _any_body then but the Evil One, George
Perry, and you’re not ready to see _him_ just yet,” said I.

Just then there came a low, long groan from the backroom, and at the
same time some one came into the parlor. I was too excited to notice who
it was; and George Perry, when he heard the groan, stopped short and
exclaimed:

“Good God! who’s that?”

“Your wife,” said I, almost ready to scream, I was so wrought up.

He hid his face in his hands, and trembled all over.

There was half a minute’s silence—it seemed half an hour—and then we
heard a long, thin wail from a voice that hadn’t ever been heard on
earth before.

“What’s that?” said Perry, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes almost starting
out of his head, and hands thrown up.

“Your baby—just born,” said I. “Will you take rooms for your family
_now_, George Perry?” I asked.

“_I_ sha’n’t stand in the way,” said a voice behind me.

I turned around quickly, just in time to see, with her eyes full of
tears, the woman who had come with George go out the door and shut the
hall-door behind her.

“Thank God!” said George, dropping on his knees.

“Amen!” said I, hurrying out of the parlor and locking the door behind
me.

I thought if he wanted to pray while on his knees he shouldn’t be
disturbed, while if he should suddenly be tempted to follow his late
companion, _I_ shouldn’t be held at the Judgment day for any share of
the guilt.

I found the doctor bustling about, getting ready to go, and Mrs. Perry
looking very peaceful and happy, with a little bundle hugged up close to
her.

“I guess the Lord will bring him _now_,” said Mrs. Perry, “if it’s only
to see his little boy.”

“Like enough, my dear,” said I, thanking the Lord for opening the
question, for my wits were all gone by this time, and I hadn’t any more
idea of what to do than the man in the moon; “but,” said I, “He won’t
bring him till you’re well, and able to bear the excitement.”

“Oh, I could bear it any time now,” said she, very calmly, “It would
seem just as natural as could be to have him come in and kiss me, and
see his baby and bless it.”

“Would it?” I asked, with my heart all in a dance. “Well, trust the Lord
to do just what’s right.”

I hurried out and opened the parlor-door. There stood George Perry,
changed so I hardly knew him. He seemed years older; his thick lips
seemed to have suddenly grown thin, and were pressed tightly together,
and there was such an appealing look from his eyes.

“Be very careful now,” I whispered, “and you may see them. She expects
you, and don’t imagine anything has gone wrong.”

I took him into the room, and she looked up with a face like what I hope
the angels have. I didn’t see anything more, for my eyes filled up all
of a sudden, so I hurried up-stairs into an empty room, and spent half
an hour crying and thanking the Lord.

There was a pretty to-do at the dinner table that day. I’d intended to
have _souffle_ for desert, and I always make my own _souffles_; but I
forgot everything but the Perrys, and the boarders grumbled awfully. I
didn’t care, though; I was too happy to feel abused.

I don’t know how George Perry explained his absence to his wife; perhaps
he hasn’t done it at all. But I know she seems to be the happiest woman
alive, and that _he_ don’t seem to care for anything in the world but
his wife and baby.

As to the woman who came with him to look at a room, I haven’t seen her
since; but if she happens to read this story, she may have the
consolation of knowing that there’s an old woman who remembers her one
good deed, and prays for her often and earnestly.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        RETIRING FROM BUSINESS.


WHAT the colonel’s business was nobody knew, nor did any one care,
particularly. He purchased for cash only, and he never grumbled at the
price of anything that he wanted; who could ask more than that?

Curious people occasionally wondered how, when it had been fully two
years since the colonel, with every one else, abandoned Duck Creek to
the Chinese, he managed to spend money freely, and to lose considerable
at cards and horse-races. In fact, the keeper of that one of the two
Challenge Hill saloons which the colonel did not patronize was once
heard to absentmindedly wonder whether the colonel hadn’t a money-mill
somewhere, where he turned out double-eagles and “slugs” (the Coast name
for fifty-dollar gold-pieces).

When so important a personage as a barkeeper indulged publicly in an
idea, the inhabitants of Challenge Hill, like good Californians
everywhere, considered themselves in duty bound to give it grave
consideration; so, for a few days, certain industrious professional
gentlemen, who won money of the colonel, carefully weighed some of the
brightest pieces and tested them with acids, and tasted them and sawed
them in two, and retried them and melted them up, and had the lumps
assayed.

The result was a complete vindication of the colonel, and a loss of
considerable custom to the indiscreet barkeeper.

The colonel was as good-natured a man as had ever been known at
Challenge Hill, but, being mortal, the colonel had his occasional times
of despondency, and one of them occurred after a series of races, in
which he had staked his all on his own bay mare Tipsie, and had lost.

Looking reproachfully at his beloved animal failed to heal the aching
void of his pockets, and drinking deeply, swearing eloquently and
glaring defiantly at all mankind, were equally unproductive of coin.

The boys at the saloon sympathized most feelingly with the colonel; they
were unceasing in their invitations to drink, and they even exhibited
considerable Christian forbearance when the colonel savagely dissented
with every one who advanced any proposition, no matter how
incontrovertible.

But unappreciated sympathy grows decidedly tiresome to the giver, and it
was with a feeling of relief that the boys saw the colonel stride out of
the saloon, mount Tipsie, and gallop furiously away.

Riding on horseback has always been considered an excellent sort of
exercise, and fast riding is universally admitted to be one of the most
healthful and delightful means of exhilaration in the world.

But when a man is so absorbed in his exercise that he will not stop to
speak to a friend; and when his exhilaration is so complete that he
turns his eyes from well-meaning thumbs pointing significantly into
doorways through which a man has often passed while seeking bracing
influences, it is but natural that people should express some wonder.

The colonel was well known at Toddy Flat, Lone Hand, Blazers, Murderer’s
Bar, and several other villages through which he passed, and as no one
had been seen to precede him, betting men were soon offering odds that
the colonel was running away from somebody.

Strictly speaking they were wrong, but they won all the money that had
been staked against them; for within half an hour’s time there passed
over the same road an anxious-looking individual, who reined up in front
of the principal saloon of each place, and asked if the colonel had
passed.

Had the gallant colonel known that he was followed, and by whom, there
would have been an extra election held at the latter place very shortly
after, for the colonel’s pursuer was no other than the constable of
Challenge Hill, and for constables and all other officers of the law the
colonel possessed hatred of unspeakable intensity.

On galloped the colonel, following the stage-road, which threaded the
old mining camps on Duck Creek; but suddenly he turned abruptly out of
the road, and urged his horse through the young pines and bushes, which
grew thickly by the road, while the constable galloped rapidly on to the
next camp.

There seemed to be no path through the thicket into which the colonel
had turned, but Tipsie walked between trees and bushes as if they were
but the familiar objects of her own stable-yard.

Suddenly a voice from the bushes shouted:

“What’s up?”

“Business—_that’s_ what,” replied the colonel.

“It’s time,” replied the voice, and its owner—a bearded
six-footer—emerged from the bushes, and stroked Tipsie’s nose with the
freedom of an old acquaintance. “We hain’t had a nip sence last night,
an’ thar’ ain’t a cracker or a handful of flour in the shanty. The old
gal go back on yer?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, ruefully—“lost ev’ry blasted race. ’Twasn’t
_her_ fault, bless her—she done her level best. Ev’rybody to home?”

“You bet,” said the man. “All ben a-prayin’ for yer to turn up with the
rocks, an’ somethin’ with more color than spring water. Come on.”

The man led the way, and Tipsie and the colonel followed, and the trio
suddenly found themselves before a small log hut, in front of which sat
three solemn, disconsolate-looking individuals, who looked appealingly
at the colonel.

“Mac’ll tell yer how ’twas, fellers,” said the colonel, meekly, “while I
picket the mare.”

The colonel was absent but a very few moments, but when he returned each
of the four men was attired in pistols and knives, while Mac was
distributing some dominoes, made from a rather dirty flour-bag.

“’Tain’t so late as all that, is it?” inquired the colonel.

“Better be an hour ahead than miss it this ‘_ere_ night,” said one of
the four. “I ain’t been so thirsty sence I come round the Horn, in ‘50,
an’ we run short of water. _Somebody_’ll get hurt ef thar’ ain’t no
bitters on the old concern—they will, or my name ain’t Perkins.”

“Don’t count yer chickings ’fore they’re hetched, Perky,” said one of
the party, as he adjusted his domino under the rim of his hat.
“‘S’posin’ ther’ shud be too many for us?”

“Stiddy, Cranks!” remonstrated the colonel. “Nobody ever gets along ef
they ’low ’emselves to be skeered.”

“Fact,” chimed in the smallest and thinnest man of the party. “The Bible
says somethin’ mighty hot ’bout that. I disremember dzackly how it goes;
but I’ve heerd Parson Buzzy, down in Maine, preach a rippin’ old sermon
from that text many a time. The old man never thort what a comfort them
sermons wus a-goin’ to be to a road-agent, though. That time we stopped
Slim Mike’s stage, an’ he didn’t hev no more manners than to draw on me,
them sermons wus a perfec’ blessin’ to me—the thought uv ’em cleared my
head ez quick ez a cocktail. An’——”

“I don’t want to disturb Logroller’s pious yarn,” interrupted the
colonel; “but ez it’s Old Black that’s drivin’ to-day instid of Slim
Mike, an’ ez Old Black ollers makes his time, hedn’t we better vamose?”

The door of the shanty was hastily closed, and the men filed through the
thicket until near the road, when they marched rapidly on parallel lines
with it. After about half an hour, Perkins, who was leading, halted, and
wiped his perspiring brow with his shirt-sleeve.

“Fur enough from home now,” said he. “’Tain’t no use bein’ a gentleman
ef yer hev to work _too_ hard.”

“Safe enough, I reckon,” replied the colonel. “We’ll do the usual; I’ll
halt ’em, Logroller’ll tend to the driver, Cranks takes the boot, an’
Mac an’ Perk takes right an’ left. An’—I know it’s tough—but consid’rin’
how everlastin’ eternally hard up we are, I reckon we’ll have to ask
contributions from the ladies, too, ef ther’s any aboard—eh, boy?”

“Reckon so,” replied Logroller, with a chuckle that seemed to inspire
even his black domino with a merry wrinkle or two. “What’s the use of
women’s rights ef they don’t ever hev a chance of exercisin’ ’em? Hevin’
ther purses borrowed ’ud show ’em the hull doctrine in a bran-new
light.”

“They’re treacherous critters, women is,” remarked Cranks; “some of ’em
might put a knife into a feller while he was ‘pologizin’.”

“Ef _you’re_ afeard of ’em,” said Perkins, “you ken go back an’ clean up
the shanty.”

“Reminds me of what the Bible sez,” said Logroller; “‘there’s a lion on
the trail; I’ll be chawed up, sez the lazy galoot,’ ur words to that
effect.”

“Come, come boys,” interposed the colonel; “don’t mix religion an’
bizness. They don’t mix no more than——Hello, thar’s the crack of Old
Black’s whip! Pick yer bushes—quick! All jump when I whistle!”

Each man secreted himself near the roadside. The stage came swinging
along handsomely; the inside passengers were laughing heartily about
something, and Old Black was just giving a delicate touch to the flank
of the off leader, when the colonel gave a shrill, quick whistle, and
the five men sprang into the road.

The horses stopped as suddenly as if it was a matter of common
occurrence, Old Black dropped his reins, crossed his legs, and stared
into the sky, and the passengers all put out their heads with a rapidity
equaled only by that with which they withdrew them as they saw the
dominoes and revolvers of the road-agents.

“Seems to be something the matter, gentlemen,” said the colonel,
blandly, as he opened the door. “Won’t you please git out? Don’t trouble
yourselves to draw, cos my friend here’s got his weapon cocked, an’ his
fingers is rather nervous. Ain’t got a han’kercher, hev yer?” asked the
colonel of the first passenger who descended from the stage. “Hev? Well,
now, that’s lucky. Jest put yer hands behind yer, please—so—that’s it.”
And the unfortunate man was securely bound in an instant.

The remaining passengers were treated with similar courtesy, and then
the colonel and his friends examined the pockets of the captives. Old
Black remained unmolested, for who ever heard of a stage-driver having
money?

“Boys,” said the colonel, calling his brother agents aside, and
comparing receipts, “’tain’t much of a haul; but there’s only one woman,
an’ she’s old enough to be a feller’s grandmother. Better let her alone,
eh?”

“Like enough she’ll pan out more’n all the rest of the stage put
together,” growled Cranks, carefully testing the thickness of case of a
gold watch. “Jest like the low-lived deceitfulness of some folks, to
hire an old woman to kerry ther money so it ’ud go safe. Mebbe what
she’s got hain’t nothin’ to some folks thet’s got hosses thet ken win
’em money at races, but——”

The colonel abruptly ended the conversation, and approached the stage.
The colonel was very chivalrous, but Cranks’s sarcastic reference to
Tipsie needed avenging, and as he could not consistently with business
arrangements put an end to Cranks, the old lady would have to suffer.

“I beg your parding, ma’am,” said the colonel, raising his hat politely
with one hand, while he reopened the coach-door with the other, “but
we’re a-takin’ up a collection fur some very deservin’ object. We _wuz_
a-goin’ to make the gentlemen fork over the hull amount, but ez they
hain’t got enough, we’ll hev to bother _you_.”

The old lady trembled, and felt for her pocketbook, and raised her vail.
The colonel looked into her face, slammed the stage-door, and, sitting
down on the hub of one of the wheels, stared vacantly into space.

“Nothin’?” queried Perkins, in a whisper, and with a face full of
genuine sympathy.

“No—yes,” said the colonel, dreamily. “That is, untie ’em and let the
stage go ahead,” he continued, springing to his feet. “_I’ll_ hurry back
to the cabin.”


[Illustration]


And the colonel dashed into the bushes, and left his followers so
paralyzed with astonishment, that Old Black afterward remarked that, “ef
ther’d ben anybody to hold the hosses, he could hev cleaned out the hull
crowd with his whip.”

The passengers, now relieved of their weapons, were unbound, and allowed
to re-enter the stage, and the door was slammed, upon which Old Black
picked up his reins as coolly as if he had merely laid them down at the
station while horses were being changed; then he cracked his whip, and
the stage rolled off, while the colonel’s party hastened back to their
hut, fondly inspecting as they went certain flasks they had obtained
while transacting their business with the occupants of the stage.

Great was the surprise of the road-agents as they entered their hut, for
there stood the colonel in a clean white shirt, and in a suit of
clothing made up from the limited spare wardrobes of the other members
of the gang.

But the suspicious Cranks speedily subordinated his wonder to his
prudence, as, laying on the table a watch, two pistols, a pocketbook,
and a heavy purse, he exclaimed:

“Come, colonel, bizness before pleasure; let’s divide an’ scatter. Ef
anybody should hear ’bout it, an’ find our trail, an’ ketch us with the
traps in our possession, they might——”

“Divide yerselves!” said the colonel, with abruptness and a great oath.
“_I_ don’t want none of it.”

“Colonel,” said Perkins, removing his own domino, and looking anxiously
into the leader’s face, “be you sick? Here’s some bully brandy I found
in one of the passengers’ pockets.”

“I hain’t nothin’,” replied the colonel. “I’m a-goin’, an’ I’m
a-retirin’ from _this_ bizness for ever.”

“Ain’t a-goin’ to turn evidence?” cried Cranks, grasping the pistol on
the table.

“I’m a-goin’ to make a lead-mine of _you_ ef you don’t take that back!”
roared the colonel, with a bound, which caused Cranks to drop his
pistol, and retire precipitately backward, apologizing as he went. “I’m
goin’ to tend to my own bizness, and that’s enough to keep _any_ man
busy. Somebody lend me fifty, till I see him again?”

Perkins pressed the money into the colonel’s hand, and within two
minutes the colonel was on Tipsie’s back, and galloping on in the
direction the stage had taken.

He overtook it, he passed it, and still he galloped on.

The people at Mud Gulch knew the colonel well, and made it a rule never
to be astonished at anything he did; but they made an exception to the
rule when the colonel canvassed the principal bar-rooms for men who
wished to purchase a horse; and when a gambler, who was flush, obtained
Tipsie in exchange for twenty slugs—only a thousand dollars, when the
colonel had always said that there wasn’t gold enough on top of the
ground to buy her—Mud Gulch experienced a decided sensation.

One or two enterprising persons speedily discovered that the colonel was
not in a communicative mood, so every one retired to his favorite
saloon, and bet according to his own opinion of the colonel’s motives
and actions.

But when the colonel, after remaining in a barber-shop for half an hour,
emerged with his face clean shaven and his hair neatly trimmed and
parted, betting was so wild that a cool-headed sporting man speedily
made a fortune by betting against every theory that was advanced.

Then the colonel made a tour of the stores, and fitted himself to a new
suit of clothes, carefully eschewing all of the generous patterns and
pronounced colors so dear to the average miner. He bought a new hat, put
on a pair of boots, and pruned his finger-nails, and, stranger than all,
he mildly but firmly declined all invitations to drink.

As the colonel stood in the door of the principal saloon, where the
stage always stopped, the Challenge Hill constable was seen to approach
the colonel, and tap him on the shoulder, upon which all men who had bet
that the colonel was dodging somebody claimed the stakes. But those who
stood near the colonel heard the constable say:

“Colonel, I take it all back, an’ I own up fair an’ square. When I seed
you git out of Challenge Hill, it come to me all of a sudden that you
might be in the road-agent business, so I followed you—duty, you know.
But after I seed you sell Tipsie, I knowed I was on the wrong trail. I
wouldn’t suspect you now if all the stages in the State was robbed; an’
I’ll give you satisfaction any way you want it.”

“It’s all right,” said the colonel, with a smile. The constable
afterward said that nobody had any idea of how curiously the colonel
smiled when his beard was off. “Give this fifty to Jim Perkins fust time
yer see him? I’m leavin’ the State.”

Suddenly the stage pulled up at the door with a crash, and the male
passengers hurried into the saloon, in a state of utter indignation and
impecuniosity.

The story of the robbery attracted everybody, and during the excitement
the colonel slipped quietly out, and opened the door of the stage. The
old lady started, and cried:

“George!”

And the colonel, jumping into the stage, and putting his arms tenderly
about the trembling form of the old lady, exclaimed:

“Mother!”


[Illustration]


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[Illustration:

  THE OLD LADY CRIED, “GEORGE!” AND THE COLONEL EXCLAIMED, “MOTHER!”
]


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                         THE HARDHACK MISTAKE.


EXCITEMENT? The venerable Deacon Twinkham, the oldest inhabitant, said
there had not been such an excitement at Hardhack since the
meeting-house steeple blew down in a terrible equinoctial, forty-seven
years before.

And who could wonder?

Even a larger town than Hardhack would have experienced unusual
agitation at seeing one of its own boys, who had a few years before gone
away poor, slender and twenty, come back with broad shoulders, a full
beard, and a pocketful of money, dug out of the ugly hills of Nevada.

But even the return of Nathan Brown, in so unusual a condition for a
Hardhackian to be found in, was not the fullness of Hardhack’s
excitement, for Nathan had brought with him Tom Crewne and Harry Faxton,
two friends he had made during his absence, and both of them
broad-shouldered, full-bearded, and auriferous as Nathan himself.

No wonder the store at Hardhack was all the while crowded with those who
knew all about Nathan, or wanted to—no wonder that “Seen ’m?” was the
passing form of salutation for days.

The news spread like wildfire, and industrious farmers deliberately took
a day, drove to town, and stood patiently on the door-steps of the store
until they had seen one or more of the wonderful men.

The good Deacon Twinkham himself, who had, at a late prayer-meeting,
stated that “his feet already felt the splashin’ of Jordan’s waves,”
temporarily withdrew his aged limbs from the rugged banks famed in song,
and caused them to bear him industriously up and down the Ridge Road,
past Nathan’s mother’s house, until he saw all three of the bearded
Crœsuses seat themselves on the piazza to smoke. Then he departed, his
good face affording an excellent study for a “Simeon in the Temple.”

Even the peaceful influences of the Sabbath were unable to restore
tranquillity to Hardhack.

On Sunday morning the meeting-house was fuller than it had been since
the funeral services of the last pastor. At each squeak of the door,
every head was quickly turned; and when, in the middle of the first
hymn, the three ex-miners filed decorously in, the staring organist held
one chord of “Windham” so long that the breath of the congregation was
entirely exhausted.

The very pulpit itself succumbed to the popular excitement; and the
Reverend Abednego Choker, after reading of the treasures of Solomon’s
Temple, and of the glories of the New Testament, for the first and
second lessons, preached from Isaiah xlvi. 6: “They lavish gold out of
the bag and weigh silver in the balance.”

But all this excitement was as nothing compared with the tumult which
agitated the tender hearts of the maidens at Hardhack.

Young, old, handsome, plain, smart and stupid, until now few of them had
dared to hope for a change of name; for, while they possessed as many
mental and personal charms as girls in general, all the enterprising
boys of Hardhack had departed from their birthplace in search of the
lucre which Hardhack’s barren hills and lean meadows failed to supply,
and the cause of their going was equally a preventive of the coming of
others to fill their places.

But now—oh, hope!—here were three young men, good-looking, rich, and—if
the other two were fit companions for the well-born and bred Nathan—all
safe custodians for tender hearts.

Few girls were there in Hardhack who did not determine, in their
innermost hearts, to strive as hard as Yankee wit and maiden modesty
would allow for one of those tempting prizes.

Nor were they unaided. Rich and respectable sons-in-law are scarce
enough the world over, so it was no wonder that all the parents of
marriageable daughters strove to make Hardhack pleasant for the young
men.

Fathers read up on Nevada, and cultivated the three ex-miners; mothers
ransacked cook-books and old trunks; Ladies’ Companions were
industriously searched for pleasing patterns; crimping-irons and
curling-tongs were extemporized, and the demand for ribbons and
trimmings became so great that the storekeeper hurried to the city for a
fresh supply.

Then began that season of mad hilarity and reckless dissipation, which
seemed almost a dream to the actors themselves, and to which patriotic
Hardhackians have since referred to with feelings like those of the
devout Jew as he recalls the glorious deeds of his forefathers, or of
the modern Roman as, from the crumbling arches of the Coliseum, he
conjures up the mighty shade of the Cæsarian period.

The fragrant bohea flowed as freely as champagne would have done in a
less pious locality; ethereal sponge-cakes and transparent
currant-jellies became too common to excite comment; the surrounding
country was heavily drawn upon for fatted calves, chickens and turkeys,
and mince-pies were so plenty, that observing children wondered if the
Governor had not decreed a whole year of special Thanksgiving.

Bravely the three great catches accepted every invitation, and, though
it was a very unusual addition to his regular duties, the Reverend
Abednego Choker faithfully attended all the evening festivities, to the
end that they might be decorously closed with prayer, as had from time
immemorial been the custom of Hardhack.

And the causes of all these efforts on the part of Hardhack society
enjoyed themselves intensely. Young men of respectable inclinations, who
have lived for several years in a society composed principally of
scoundrels, and modified only by the occasional presence of an honest
miner or a respectable mule-driver, would have considered as Elysium a
place far less proper and agreeable than Hardhack. In fact, the trio was
so delighted, that its eligibility soon became diminished in quantity.

Faxton, at one of the first parties, made an unconditional surrender to
a queenly damsel, while Nathan, having found his old schoolday
sweetheart still unmarried, whispered something in her ear (probably the
secret of some rare cosmetic), which filled her cheeks with roses from
that time forth.

But Crewne, the handsomest and most brilliant of the three, still
remained, and over him the fight was far more intense than in the
opening of the campaign, when weapons were either rusty or untried, and
the chances of success were seemingly more numerous.

But to designate any particular lady as surest of success seemed
impossible. Even Nathan and Faxton, when besought for an opinion by the
two ladies who now claimed their innermost thoughts, could only say that
no one but Crewne knew, and perhaps even _he_ didn’t.

Crewne was a very odd boy, they said—excellent company, the best of good
fellows, the staunchest of friends, and the very soul of honor; but
there were some things about him they never _could_ understand. In fact,
he was something like that sum of all impossibilities, a schoolgirl’s
hero.

“But, Harry,” said the prospective Mrs. Faxton, with rather an angry
pout for a Church-member in full communion, “just see what splendid
girls are dying for him! I’m sure there are no nicer girls anywhere than
in Hardhack, and he needn’t be so stuck up——”

“My dear,” interrupted Faxton, “I say it with fear and trembling, but
perhaps Crewne don’t want to be in love at all.”

An indignant flash of doubt went over the lady’s face.

“Just notice him at a party,” continued Faxton. “He seems to distribute
his attentions with exact equality among all the ladies present, as if
he were trying to discourage the idea that he was a marrying man.”

“Well,” said the lady, still indignant, “I think you might ask him and
settle the matter.”

“Excuse me, my dear,” replied Faxton. “I have seen others manifest an
interest in Crewne’s affairs, and the result was discouraging. I’d
rather not try the experiment.”

A few mornings later Mrs. Leekins, who took the place of a newspaper at
Hardhack, was seen hurrying from house to house on her own street, and
such housekeepers as saw her instantly discovered that errands must be
made to houses directly in Mrs. Leekins’s route.

Mrs. Leekins’s story was soon told. Crewne had suddenly gone to the
city, first purchasing the cottage which Deacon Twinkham had built
several years before for a son who had never come back from sea.

Crewne had hired old Mrs. Bruff to put the cottage to rights, and to
arrange the carpets and furniture, which he was to forward immediately.
But who was to be mistress of the cottage Mrs. Leekins was unable to
tell, or even to guess.

The clerks at the store had been thoroughly pumped; but while they
admitted that one young lady had purchased an unusual quantity of
inserting, another had ordered a dress pattern of gray empress cloth,
which was that year the fashionable material and color for traveling
dresses.

Old Mrs. Bruff had received unusual consideration and unlimited tea, but
even the most systematic question failed to elicit from her anything
satisfactory.

At any rate, it was certain that Crewne was absent from Hardhack, and it
was evident that _he_ had decided who was to be the lady of the cottage,
so the season of festivity was brought to an abrupt close, and the
digestions of Hardhack were snatched from ruin.

From kitchen-windows were now wafted odors of boiled corned beef and
stewed apples, instead of the fragrance of delicate preserves and
delicious turkey.

Young ladies, when they met in the street, greeted each other with a
shade less of cordiality than usual, and fathers and mothers in Israel
cast into each other’s eyes searching and suspicious glances.

One afternoon, when the pious matrons of Hardhack were gathering at the
pastor’s residence to take part in the regular weekly mothers’
prayer-meeting, the mail-coach rolled into town, and Mrs. Leekins, who
was sitting by the window, as she always did, exclaimed:

“He’s come back—there he is—on the seat with the driver!”

Every one hurried to the window, and saw that Mrs. Leekins had spoken
truly, for there sat Crewne with a pleasant smile on his face, while on
top of the stage were several large trunks marked C.

“Must have got a handsome fit-out,” suggested Mrs. Leekins.

The stage stopped at the door of Crewne’s new cottage, and Crewne got
out. The pastor entered the parlor to open the meeting, and was
selecting a hymn, when Mrs. Leekins startled the meeting by ejaculating:

“Lands alive!”

The meeting was demoralized; the sisters hastened to the window, and the
good pastor, laying down his hymnbook, followed in time to see Crewne
helping out a well-dressed and apparently young and handsome lady.

“Hardhack girls not good ’nough for him, it seems!” sneered Mrs.
Leekins.

A resigned and sympathetic sigh broke from the motherly lips present,
then Mrs. Leekins cried:

“Gracious sakes! married a widder with children!”


[Illustration:

  THE SISTERS HASTENED TO THE WINDOW.
]


It certainly seemed that she told the truth, for Crewne lifted out two
children, the youngest of whom seemed not more than three years old.

The gazers abruptly left the window, and the general tone of the meeting
was that of melancholy resignation.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Why didn’t he ever say he was a married man?” asked the prospective
Mrs. Faxton, of her lover, that evening.

“Partly because he is too much of a gentleman to talk of his own
affairs,” replied Faxton; “but principally because there had been, as he
told me this afternoon, an unfortunate quarrel between them, which drove
him to the mines. A few days ago he heard from her, for the first time
in three years, and they’ve patched up matters, and are very happy.”

“Well,” said the lady, with considerable decision, “Hardhack will never
forgive him.”

Hardhack did, however, for Crewne and his two friends drew about them a
few of their old comrades, who took unto themselves wives from the
people about them, and made of Hardhack one of the pleasantest villages
in the State.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            THE CARMI CHUMS.


THE Carmi Chums was the name they went by all along the river. Most
other roustabouts had each a name of his own; so had the Carmi Chums for
that matter, but the men themselves were never mentioned
individually—always collectively.

No steamboat captain who wanted only a single man ever attempted to hire
half of the Carmi Chums at a time—as easy would it have been to have
hired half of the Siamese Twins. No steamboat mate who knew them ever
attempted to “tell off” the Chums into different watches, and any mate
who, not knowing them, committed this blunder, and adhered to it after
explanation was made, was sure to be two men short immediately after
leaving the steamer’s next landing.

There seemed no possible way of separating them; they never fell out
with each other in the natural course of events; they never fought when
drunk, as other friendly roustabouts sometimes did, for the Carmi Chums
never got drunk; there never sprang up any coolness between them because
of love for the same lady, for they did not seem to care at all for
female society, unless they happened to meet some old lady whom one
might love as a mother rather than as a sweetheart.

Even professional busybodies, from whose presence roustabouts are no
freer than Church-members, were unable to provoke the Carmi Chums even
to suspicion, and those of them who attempted it too persistently were
likely to have a difficulty with the slighter of the Chums.

This man, who was called Black, because of the color of his hair, was
apparently forty years of age, and of very ordinary appearance, except
when an occasional furtive, frightened look came into his face and
attracted attention.

His companion, called Red, because his hair was of the hue of the
carrots, and because it was occasionally necessary to distinguish him
from his friend, seemed of about the same age and degree of ordinaries
as Black, but was rather stouter, more cheery, and, to use the favorite
roustabout simile, held his head closer to the current.

He seemed, when Black was absent-minded (as he generally was while off
duty), to be the leading spirit of the couple, and to be tenderly alive
to all of his partner’s needs; but observing roustabouts noticed that
when freight was being moved, or wood taken on board, Black was always
where he could keep an eye on his chum, and where he could demand
instant reparation from any wretch who trod upon Red’s toes, or who,
with a shoulder-load of wood, grazed Red’s head, or touched Red with a
box or barrel.

Next to neighborly wonder as to the existence of the friendship between
the Chums, roustabouts with whom the couple sailed concerned themselves
most with the cause of the bond between them. Their searches after first
causes were no more successful, however, than those of the naturalists
who are endeavoring to ascertain who laid the cosmic egg.

They gave out that they came from Carmi, so, once or twice, when
captains with whom the Chums were engaged determined to seek a cargo up
the Wabash, upon which river Carmi was located, inquisitive roustabouts
became light-hearted. But, alas, for the vanity of human hopes! when the
boat reached Carmi the Chums could not be found, nor could any
inhabitant of Carmi identify them by the descriptions which were given
by inquiring friends.

At length they became known, in their collective capacity, as one of the
institutions of the river. Captains knew them as well as they knew
Natchez or Piankishaw Bend, and showed them to distinguished passengers
as regularly as they showed General Zach. Taylor’s plantation, or the
scene of the Grand Gulf “cave,” where a square mile of Louisiana dropped
into the river one night. Captains rather cultivated them, in fact,
although it was a difficult bit of business, for roustabouts who
wouldn’t say “thank you” for a glass of French brandy, or a genuine,
old-fashioned “plantation cigar,” seemed destitute of ordinary handles
of which a steamboat captain could take hold.

Lady passengers took considerable notice of them, and were more
successful than any one else at drawing them into conversation. The
linguistic accomplishments of the Chums were not numerous, but it did
one good to see Black lose his scared, furtive look when a lady
addressed him, and to see the affectionate deference with which he
appealed to Red, until that worthy was drawn into the conversation. When
Black succeeded in this latter-named operation, he would, by insensible
stages, draw himself away, and give himself up to enthusiastic
admiration of his partner, or, apparently, of his conversational
ability.

The Spring of 1869 found the Chums in the crew of the _Bennett_, “the
peerless floating palace of the Mississippi,” as she was called by those
newspapers whose reporters had the freedom of the _Bennett’s_ bar; and
the same season saw the _Bennett_ staggering down the Mississippi with
so heavy a load of sacked corn, that the gunwales amidships were fairly
under water.

The river was very low, so the _Bennett_ kept carefully in the channel;
but the channel of the great muddy ditch which drains half the Union is
as fickle as disappointed lovers declare women to be, and it has no more
respect for great steamer-loads of corn than Goliath had for David.

A little Ohio river-boat, bound upward, had reported the sudden
disappearance of a woodyard a little way above Milliken’s Bend, where
the channel hugged the shore, and with the woodyard there had
disappeared an enormous sycamore-tree, which had for years served as a
tying-post for steamers.

As live sycamores are about as disinclined to float as bars of lead are,
the captain and pilot of the _Bennett_ were somewhat concerned—for the
sake of the corn—to know the exact location of the tree.

Half a mile from the spot it became evident, even to the passengers
clustered forward on the cabin-deck, that the sycamore had remained
quite near to its old home, for a long, rough ripple was seen directly
across the line of the channel.

Then arose the question as to how much water was on top of the tree, and
whether any bar had had time to accumulate.

The steamer was stopped, the engines were reversed and worked by hand to
keep the _Bennett_ from drifting downstream, a boat was lowered and
manned, the Chums forming part of her crew, and the second officer went
down to take soundings; while the passengers, to whom even so small a
cause for excitement was a godsend, crowded the rail and stared.

The boat shot rapidly down stream, headed for the shore-end of the
ripple. She seemed almost into the boiling mud in front of her when the
passengers on the steamer heard the mate in the boat shout: “Back all!”

The motion of the oars changed in an instant, but a little too late,
for, a heavy root of the fallen giant, just covered by the water, caught
the little craft, and caused it to careen so violently that one man was
thrown into the water. As she righted, another man went in.

“Confound it!” growled the captain, who was leaning out of the
pilot-house window. “I hope they can swim. Still, ’tain’t as bad as it
would be if we had any more cargo to take aboard.”

“It’s the Chums,” remarked the pilot, who had brought a glass to bear
upon the boat.

“Thunder!” exclaimed the captain, striking a bell. “Below there! Lower
away another boat—lively!” Then, turning to the passengers, he
exclaimed: “Nobody on the river’d forgive me if I lost the Chums.
’Twould be as bad as Barnum losing the giraffe.”

The occupants of the first boat were evidently of the captain’s own
mind, for they were eagerly peering over her side, and into the water.

Suddenly the pilot dropped his glass, extemporized a trumpet with both
hands, and shouted:

“Forrard—forrard! One of ’em’s up!” Then he put his mouth to the
speaking-tube, and screamed to the engineer: “Let her drop down a
little, Billy!”

The sounding party headed toward a black speck, apparently a hundred
yards below them, and the great steamer slowly drifted downstream. The
speck moved toward shore, and the boat, rapidly shortening distance,
seemed to scrape the bank with her port oars.

“Safe enough now, I guess!” exclaimed Judge Turner, of one of the
Southern Illinois circuits.

The Judge had been interrupted in telling a story when the accident
occurred, and was in a hurry to resume.

“As I was saying,” said he, “he hardly looked like a professional
horse-thief. He was little and quiet, and had always worked away
steadily at his trade. I believed him when he said ’twas his first
offense, and that he did it to raise money to bury his child; and I was
going to give him an easy sentence, and ask the Governor to pardon him.
The laws have to be executed, you know, but there’s no law against mercy
being practiced afterward. Well, the sheriff was bringing him from jail
to hear the verdict and the sentence, when the short man, with red hair,
knocked the sheriff down, and off galloped that precious couple for the
Wabash. I saw the entire——”

“The deuce!” interrupted the pilot, again dropping his glass.

The Judge glared angrily; the passengers saw, across the shortened
distance, one of the Chums holding by a root to the bank, and trying to
support the other, whose shirt hung in rags, and who seemed exhausted.

“Which one’s hurt?” asked the captain. “Give me the glass.”

But the pilot had left the house and taken the glass with him.

The Judge continued:

“I saw the whole transaction through the window. I was so close that I
saw the sheriff’s assailant’s very eyes. I’d know that fellow’s face if
I saw it in Africa.”

“Why, they’re _both_ hurt!” exclaimed the captain. “They’ve thrown a
coat over one, and they’re crowdin’ around the other. What the——They’re
comin’ back without ’em—need whisky to bring ’em to, I suppose. Why
didn’t I send whisky down by the other boat? There’s an awful amount of
time being wasted here. What’s the matter, Mr. Bell?” shouted the
captain, as the boat approached the steamer.

“Both dead!” replied the officer.

“Both? Now, ladies and gentlemen,” exclaimed the captain, turning toward
the passengers, who were crowded forward just below him, “I want to know
if that isn’t a streak of the meanest kind of luck? Both the Chums gone!
Why, I won’t be able to hold up my head in New Orleans. How came it that
just those two fellows were knocked out?”

“Red tumbled out, and Black jumped in after him,” replied the officer.
“Red must have been caught in an eddy and tangled in the old tree’s
roots—clothes torn almost off—head caved in. Black must have burst a
blood-vessel—his face looked like a copper pan when he reached shore,
and he just groaned and dropped.”

The captain was sorry, so sorry that he sent a waiter for brandy. But
the captain was human—business was business—the rain was falling, and a
big log was across the boat’s bow; so he shouted:

“Hurry up and bury ’em, then. You ought to have let the second boat’s
crew gone on with that, and you have gone back to your soundings. They
_was_ the Chums, to be sure, but now they’re only dead roustabouts.
Below there! Pass out a couple of shovels!”

“Perhaps some ladies would go down with the boat, captain—and a
preacher, too, if there’s one aboard,” remarked the mate, with an
earnest but very mysterious expression.

“Why, what in thunder does the fellow mean?” soliloquized the captain,
audibly. “Women—and a preacher—for dead roustabouts? What do you mean,
Mr. Bell?”

“Red’s a woman,” briefly responded the mate.

The passengers all started—the captain brought his hands together with a
tremendous clap, and exclaimed:

“Murder will out! But who’d have thought _I_ was to be the man to find
out the secret of the Carmi Chums? Guess I’ll be the biggest man on the
New Orleans levee, after all. Yes, certainly—of course some ladies’ll
go—and a preacher, too, if there’s such a man aboard. Hold up,
though—we’ll _all_ go. Take your soundings, quick, and we’ll drop the
steamer just below the point, and tie up. I wonder if there’s a preacher
aboard?”

No one responded for the moment; then the Judge spoke.

“Before I went into the law I was the regularly settled pastor of a
Presbyterian Church,” said he. “I’m decidedly rusty now, but a little
time will enable me to prepare myself properly. Excuse me, ladies and
gentlemen.”

The sounding-boat pulled away, and the Judge retired to his stateroom.
The ladies, with very pale faces, gathered in a group and whispered
earnestly with each other; then ensued visits to each other’s
staterooms, and the final regathering of the ladies with two or three
bundles. The soundings were taken, and, as the steamer dropped
downstream, men were seen cutting a path down the rather steep clay
bank. The captain put his hands to his mouth and shouted:

“Dig only _one_ grave—make it wide enough for two.”

And all the passengers nodded assent and satisfaction.

Time had been short since the news reached the steamer, but the
_Bennett’s_ carpenter, who was himself a married man, had made a plain
coffin by the time the boat tied up, and another by the time the grave
was dug. The first one was put upon a long handbarrow, over which the
captain had previously spread a tablecloth, and, followed by the ladies,
was deposited by the side of the body of Red. Half an hour later, the
men placed Black in the other coffin, removed both to the side of the
grave, and signalled the boat.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the captain.

The Judge appeared with a very solemn face, his coat buttoned tight to
his throat, and the party started. Colonel May, of Missouri, who read
Voltaire and didn’t believe in anything, maliciously took the Judge’s
arm, and remarked:

“You didn’t finish your story, Judge.”

The Judge frowned reprovingly.

“But, really,” persisted the colonel, “I don’t want curiosity to divert
my mind from the solemn services about to take place. Do tell me if they
ever caught the rascals.”

“They never did,” replied the Judge. “The sheriff hunted and advertised,
but he could never hear a word of either of them. But I’d know either
one of them at sight. Sh—h——here we are at the grave.”

The passengers, officers, and crew gathered about the grave. The Judge
removed his hat, and, as the captain uncovered the faces of the dead,
commenced:

“‘I am the resurrection and the life’—Why, there’s the horse-thief now,
colonel! I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen. ‘He that believeth
in——’”

Just then the Judge’s eye fell upon the dead woman’s face, and he
screamed:

“And there’s the sheriff’s assailant!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             LITTLE GUZZY.


BOWERTON was a very quiet place. It had no factories, mills, or mines,
or other special inducements to offer people looking for new localities;
and as it was not on a railroad line, nor even on an important
post-road, it gained but few new inhabitants.

Even of travelers Bowerton saw very few. An occasional enterprising
peddler or venturesome thief found his way to the town, and took away
such cash as came in their way while pursuing their respective callings;
but peddlers were not considered exactly trustworthy as news-bearers,
while house-breakers, when detained long enough to be questioned, were
not in that communicative frame of mind which is essential to one who
would interest the general public.

When, therefore, the mail-coach one day brought to Bowerton an old lady
and a young one, who appeared to be mother and daughter, excitement ran
high.

The proprietor of the Bowerton House, who was his own clerk, hostler,
and table-waiter, was for a day or two the most popular man in town;
even the three pastors of the trio of churches of Bowerton did not
consider it beneath their dignity to join the little groups which were
continually to be seen about the person of the landlord, and listening
to the meagre intelligence he was able to give.

The old lady was quite feeble, he said, and the daughter was very
affectionate and very handsome. He didn’t know where they were going,
but they registered themselves from Boston. Name was Wyett—young lady’s
name was Helen. He hoped they wouldn’t leave for a long time—travelers
weren’t any too plenty at Bowerton, and landlords found it hard work to
scratch along. Talked about locating at Bowerton if they could find a
suitable cottage. Wished ’em well, but hoped they’d take their time, and
not be in a hurry to leave the Bowerton House, where—if _he_ did say it
as shouldn’t—they found good rooms and good board at the lowest living
price.

The Wyetts finally found a suitable cottage, and soon afterward they
began to receive heavy packages and boxes from the nearest railway
station.

Then it was that the responsible gossips of Bowerton were worked nearly
to death, but each one was sustained by a fine professional pride which
enabled them to pass creditably through the most exciting period.

For years they had skillfully pried into each other’s private affairs,
but then they had some starting-place, some clue; now, alas! there was
not in all Bowerton a single person who had emigrated from Boston, where
the Wyetts had lived. Worse still, there was not a single Bowertonian
who had a Boston correspondent.

To be sure, one of the Bowerton pastors had occasional letters from a
missionary board, whose headquarters were at the Hub, but not even the
most touching appeals from members of his flock could induce him to
write the board concerning the newcomers.

But Bowerton was not to be balked in its striving after accurate
intelligence.

From Squire Brown, who leased Mrs. Wyett a cottage, it was learned that
Mrs. Wyett had made payment by check on an excellent Boston bank. The
poor but respectable female who washed the floors of the cottage
informed the public that the whole first floor was to be carpeted with
Brussels.

The postmaster’s clerk ascertained and stated that Mrs. Wyett received
_two_ religious papers per week, whereas no one else in Bowerton took
more than one.

The grocer said that Mrs. Wyett was, by jingo, the sort of person _he_
liked to trade with—wouldn’t have anything that wasn’t the very best.

The man who helped to do the unpacking was willing to take oath that
among the books were a full set of Barnes, Notes, and two sets of
commentaries, while Mrs. Battle, who lived in the house next to the
cottage, and who was suddenly, on hearing the crashing of crockery next
door, moved to neighborly kindness to the extent of carrying in a nice
hot pie to the newcomers, declared that, as she hoped to be saved, there
wasn’t a bit of crockery in that house which wasn’t pure china.

Bowerton asked no more. Brussels carpets, religious tendencies, a bank
account, the ability to live on the best that the market afforded, and
to eat it from china, and china only—why, either one of these
qualifications was a voucher of respectability, and any two of them
constituted a patent of aristocracy of the Bowerton standard.

Bowerton opened its doors, and heartily welcomed Mrs. and Miss Wyett.

It is grievous to relate, but the coming of the estimable people was the
cause of considerable trouble in Bowerton.

Bowerton, like all other places, contained lovers, and some of the young
men were not so blinded by the charms of their own particular lady
friends as to be oblivious to the beauty of Miss Wyett.

She was extremely modest and retiring, but she was also unusually
handsome and graceful, and she had an expression which the young men of
Bowerton could not understand, but which they greatly admired.

It was useless for plain girls to say that they couldn’t see anything
remarkable about Miss Wyett; it was equally unavailing for good-looking
girls to caution their gallants against too much of friendly regard even
for a person of whose antecedents they really knew scarcely anything.

Even casting chilling looks at Miss Wyett when they met her failed to
make that unoffending young lady any less attractive to the young men of
Bowerton, and critical analysis of Miss Wyett’s style of dressing only
provoked manly comparisons, which were as exasperating as they were
unartistic.

Finally Jack Whiffer, who was of a first family, and was a store-clerk
besides, proposed to Miss Wyett and was declined; then the young ladies
of Bowerton thought that perhaps Helen Wyett had some sense after all.

Then young Baggs, son of a deceased Congressman, wished to make Miss
Wyett mistress of the Baggs mansion and sharer of the Baggs money, but
his offer was rejected.

Upon learning this fact, the maidens of Bowerton pronounced Helen a
noble-spirited girl to refuse to take Baggs away from the dear, abused
woman who had been engaged to him for a long time.

Several other young men had been seen approaching the Wyett cottage in
the full glory of broadcloth and hair-oil, and were noticeably depressed
in spirits for days afterward, and the native ladies of marriageable age
were correspondingly elated when they heard of it.

When at last the one unmarried minister of Bowerton, who had been the
desire of many hearts, manfully admitted that he had proposed and been
rejected, and that Miss Wyett had informed him that she was already
engaged, all the Bowerton girls declared that Helen Wyett was a darling
old thing, and that it was perfectly shameful that she couldn’t be let
alone.

After thus proving that their own hearts were in the right place, all
the Bowerton girls asked each other who the lucky man could be.

Of course he couldn’t be a Bowerton man, for Miss Wyett was seldom seen
in company with _any_ gentleman. He must be a Boston man—he was probably
very literary—Boston men always were.

Besides, if he was at all fit for her, he must certainly be very
handsome.

Suddenly Miss Wyett became the rage among the Bowerton girls. Blushingly
and gushingly they told her of their own loves, and they showed her
their lovers, or pictures of those gentlemen.

Miss Wyett listened, smiled and sympathized, but when they sat silently
expectant of similar confidences, they were disappointed, and when they
endeavored to learn even the slightest particular of Helen Wyett’s love,
she changed the subject of conversation so quickly and decidedly that
they had not the courage to renew the attempt.

But while most Bowertonians despaired of learning much more about the
Wyetts, and especially about Helen’s lover, there was one who had
resolved not only to know the favored man, but to do him some frightful
injury, and that was little Guzzy.

Though Guzzy’s frame was small, his soul was immense, and Helen’s
failure to comprehend Guzzy’s greatness when he laid it all at her feet
had made Guzzy extremely bilious and gloomy.

Many a night, when Guzzy’s soul and body should have been taking their
rest, they roamed in company up and down the quiet street on which the
Wyetts’ cottage was located, and Guzzy’s eyes, instead of being fixed on
sweet pictures in dreamland, gazed vigilantly in the direction of Mrs.
Wyett’s gate.

He did not meditate inflicting personal violence on the hated wretch who
had snatched away Helen from his hopes—no, personal violence could
produce suffering but feeble compared with that under which the victim
would writhe as Guzzy poured forth the torrent of scornful invective
which he had compiled from the memories of his bilious brain and the
pages of his “Webster Unabridged.”

At length there came a time when most men would have despaired.

Love is warm, but what warmth is proof against the chilling blasts and
pelting rains of the equinoctial storm?

But then it was that the fervor of little Guzzy’s soul showed itself;
for, wrapped in the folds of a waterproof overcoat, he paced his
accustomed beat with the calmness of a faithful policeman.

And he had his reward.

As one night he stood unseen against the black background of a high
wall, opposite the residence of Mrs. Wyett, he heard the gate—_her_
gate—creak on its hinges.

It could be no ordinary visitor, for it was after nine o’clock—it must
be _he_.

Ha! the lights were out! He would be disappointed, the villain! Now was
the time, while his heart would be bleeding with sorrow, to wither him
with reproaches. To be sure, he seemed a large man, while Guzzy was very
small, but Guzzy believed his own thin legs to be faithful in an
emergency.

The unknown man knocked softly at the front door, then he seemed to tap
at several of the windows.

Suddenly he raised one of the windows, and Guzzy, who had not until then
suspected that he had been watching a house-breaker, sped away like the
wind and alarmed the solitary constable of Bowerton.

That functionary requested Guzzy to notify Squire Jones, justice of the
peace, that there was business ahead, and then hastened away himself.

Guzzy labored industriously for some moments, for Squire Jones was very
old, and very cautious, and very stupid; but he was at last fully
aroused, and then Guzzy had an opportunity to reflect on the greatness
which would be his when Bowerton knew of his meritorious action.

And Helen Wyett—what would be her shame and contrition when she learned
that the man whose love she had rejected had become the preserver of her
peace of mind and her portable personal property?

He could not exult over _her_, for that would be unchivalrous; but would
not her own conscience reproach her bitterly?

Perhaps she would burst into tears in the court-room, and thank him
effusively and publicly! Guzzy’s soul swelled at the thought, and he
rapidly composed a reply appropriate to such an occasion. Suddenly Guzzy
heard footsteps approaching, and voices in earnest altercation.

Guzzy hastened into the squire’s office, and struck an attitude
befitting the importance of a principal witness.

An instant later the constable entered, followed by two smart-looking
men, who had between them a third man, securely handcuffed.

The prisoner was a very handsome, intelligent-looking young man, except
for a pair of restless, over-bright eyes.

“There’s a difference of opinion ’bout who the prisoner belongs to,”
said the constable, addressing the squire; “and we agreed to leave the
matter to you. When I reached the house, these gentlemen already had him
in hand, and they claim he’s an escaped convict, and that they’ve
tracked him from the prison right straight to Bowerton.”

The prisoner gave the officers a very wicked look, while these officials
produced their warrants and handed them to the justice for inspection.

Guzzy seemed to himself to grow big with accumulating importance.

“The officers seem to be duly authorized,” said the squire, after a long
and minute examination of their papers; “but they should identify the
prisoner as the escaped convict for whom they are searching.”

“Here’s a description,” said one of the officers, “in an advertisement:
‘Escaped from the Penitentiary, on the —th instant, William Beigh,
_alias_ Bay Billy, _alias_ Handsome; age, twenty-eight; height, five
feet ten; complexion dark, hair black, eyes dark brown, mole on left
cheek; general appearance handsome, manly, and intelligent. A skillful
and dangerous burglar. Sentenced in 1866 to five years’ imprisonment—two
years yet to serve.’ That,” continued the officer, “describes him to a
dot; and, if there’s any further doubt, look here!”

As he spoke, he unclasped a cloak which the prisoner wore, and disclosed
the striped uniform of the prison.

“There seems no reasonable doubt in this case; and the prisoner will
have to go back to prison,” said the justice. “But I must detain him
until I ascertain whether he has stolen anything from Mrs. Wyett’s
residence. In case he has done so, we can prosecute at the expiration of
his term.”

The prisoner seemed almost convulsed with rage, though of a sort which
one of the officers whispered to the other he did not exactly
understand.

Guzzy eyed him resentfully, and glared at the officers with considerable
disfavor.

Guzzy was a law-abiding man, but to have an expected triumph belittled
and postponed because of foreign interference was enough to blind almost
_any_ man’s judicial eyesight.

“Well,” said one of the officers, “put him in the lock-up’ and
investigate in the morning; we won’t want to start until then, after the
tramp he’s given us. Oh, Bay Billy, you’re a smart one—no mistake about
that. Why in thunder don’t you use your smartness in the right
way?—there’s more money in business than in cracking cribs.”

“Besides the moral advantage,” added the squire, who was deacon as well,
and who, now that he had concluded his official duties, was not adverse
to laying down the higher law.

“Just so,” exclaimed the officer; “and for his family’s sake, too. Why,
would you believe it, judge? they say Billy has one of the finest wives
in the commonwealth—handsome, well-educated, religious, rich, and of
good family. Of course she didn’t know what his profession was when she
married him.”

Again the prisoner seemed convulsed with that strange rage which the
officer did not understand. But the officers were tired, and they were
too familiar with the disapprobation of prisoners to be seriously
affected by it; so, after an appointment by the squire, and a final
glare of indignation from little Guzzy, they started, under the
constable’s guidance, to the lock-up.

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and there appeared, with uncovered
head, streaming hair, weeping yet eager eyes, and mud-splashed garments,
Helen Wyett.


[Illustration:

  “WE MAY AS WELL FINISH THIS CASE TO-NIGHT, IF MISS WYETT IS PREPARED
  TO TESTIFY,” SAID THE JUDGE.
]


Every one started, the officers stared, the squire looked a degree or
two less stupid, and hastened to button his dressing-gown; the restless
eyes of the convict fell on Helen’s beautiful face, and were restless no
longer; while little Guzzy assumed a dignified pose, which did not seem
at all consistent with his confused and shamefaced countenance.

“We may as well finish this case to-night, if Miss Wyett is prepared to
testify,” said the squire, at length. “Have you lost anything, Miss
Wyett?”

“No,” said Helen; “but I have found my dearest treasure—my own husband!”

And putting her arms around the convict’s neck, she kissed him, and
then, dropping her head upon his shoulder, she sobbed violently.

The squire was startled into complete wakefulness, and as the moral
aspect of the scene presented itself to him, he groaned:

“Onequally yoked with an onbeliever.”

The officers looked as if they were depraved yet remorseful convicts
themselves, while little Guzzy’s diminutive dimensions seemed to
contract perceptibly.

At length the convict quieted his wife, and persuaded her to return to
her home, with a promise from the officers that she should see him in
the morning.

Then the officers escorted the prisoner to the jail, and Guzzy sneaked
quietly out, while the squire retired to his slumbers, with the firm
conviction that if Solomon had been a justice of the peace at Bowerton,
his denial of the newness of anything under the sun would never have
been made.

Now, the jail at Bowerton, like everything else in the town, was
decidedly antiquated, and consisted simply of a thickly-walled room in a
building which contained several offices and living apartments.

It was as extensive a jail as Bowerton needed, and was fully strong
enough to hold the few drunken and quarrelsome people who were
occasionally lodged in it.

But Beigh, _alias_ Bay Billy, _alias_ Handsome, was no ordinary and
vulgar jail-bird, the officers told him, and, that he and they might
sleep securely, they considered it advisable to carefully iron his
hands.

A couple of hours rolled away, and left Beigh still sitting moody and
silent on the single bedstead in the Bowerton jail.

Suddenly the train of his thoughts was interrupted by a low “stt—stt”
from the one little, high, grated window of the jail.

The prisoner looked up quickly, and saw the shadow of a man’s head
outside the grating.

“Hello!” whispered Beigh, hurrying under the window.

“Are you alone?” inquired the shadow.

“Yes,” replied the prisoner.

“All right, then,” whispered the voice. “There _are_ secrets which no
vulgar ears should hear. My name is Guzzy. I have been in love with your
wife. I hadn’t any idea she was married; but I’ve brought you my
apology.”

“I’ll forgive you,” whispered the criminal; “but——”

“’Tain’t that kind of apology,” whispered Guzzy. “It’s a steel one—a
tool—one of those things that gunsmiths shorten gun-barrels with. If
they can saw a rifle-barrel in two in five minutes, you ought to get out
of here inside of an hour.”

“Not quite,” whispered Beigh. “My hands and feet are ironed.”

“Then I’ll do the job myself,” whispered Guzzy, as he applied the tool
to one of the bars; “for it will be daylight within two hours.”

The unaccustomed labor—for Guzzy was a bookkeeper—made his arms ache
severely, but still he sawed away.

He wondered what his employer would say should he be found out, but
still he sawed.

Visions of the uplifted hands and horror-struck countenances of his
brother Church-members came before his eyes, and the effect of his
example upon his Sunday-school class, should he be discovered, tormented
his soul; but neither of those influences affected his saw.

Bar after bar disappeared, and when Guzzy finally stopped to rest, Beigh
saw a small square of black sky, unobstructed by any bars whatever.

“Now,” whispered Guzzy, “I’ll drop in a small box you can stand on, so
you can put your hands out and let me file off your irons. I brought a
file or two, thinking they might come handy.”

Five minutes later the convict, his hands unbound, crawled through the
window, and was helped to the ground by Guzzy.


[Illustration]


Seizing the file from the little bookkeeper, Beigh commenced freeing his
feet. Suddenly he stopped and whispered:

“You’d better go now. I can take care of myself, but if those cursed
officers should take a notion to look around, it would go hard with
_you_. Run, God bless you, run!”

But little Guzzy straightened himself and folded his arms.

The convict rasped away rapidly, and finally dropped the file and the
fragments of the last fetter. Then he seized little Guzzy’s hand.

“My friend,” said he, “criminal though I am, I am man enough to
appreciate your manliness and honor. I think I am smart enough to keep
myself free, now I am out of jail. But, if ever you want a friend, tell
Helen, _she_ will know where I am, and I will serve you, no matter what
the risk and pain.”

“Thank you,” said Guzzy; “but the only favor I’ll ever ask of you might
as well be named now, and you ought to be able to do it without risk or
pain either. It’s only this: be an honest man, for Helen’s sake.”

Beigh dropped his head.

“There _are_ men who would die daily for the sake of making her happy,
but you’ve put it out of their power, seeing you’ve married her,”
continued Guzzy. “_I’m_ nothing to her, and can’t be, but for her sake
to-night I’ve broken open the gunsmith’s shop, broken a jail, and”—here
he stooped, and picked up a bundle—“robbed my own employer’s store of a
suit of clothes for you, so you mayn’t be caught again in those prison
stripes. If I’ve made myself a criminal for her sake: can’t her husband
be an honest man for the same reason?”

The convict wrung the hand of his preserver. He seemed to be trying to
speak, but to have some great obstruction in his throat.

Suddenly a bright light shone on the two men, and a voice was heard
exclaiming, in low but very ferocious tones:

“Do it, you scoundrel, or I’ll put a bullet through your head!”

Both men looked up to the window of the cell, and saw a bull’s-eye
lantern, the muzzle of a pistol, and the face of the Bowerton constable.

The constable’s right eye, the sights of his pistol and the breast of
the convict were on the same visual line.

Without altering his position or that of his weapon, the constable
whispered:

“I’ve had you covered for the last ten minutes. I only held in to find
out who was helping you; but I heard too much for _my_ credit as a
faithful officer. Now, what are you going to do?”

“Turn over a new leaf,” said the convict, bursting into tears.

“Then get out,” whispered the officer, “and be lively, too—it’s almost
daybreak.”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said little Guzzy, when the constable
hurriedly whispered:

“Wait until _I_ get out of hearing.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The excitement which possessed Bowerton the next morning, when the
events of the previous night were made public, was beyond the
descriptive powers of the best linguists in the village.

Helen Wyett a burglar’s wife!

At first the Bowertonians scarcely knew whether it would be proper to
recognize her at all, and before they were able to arrive at a
conclusion the intelligence of the convict’s escape, the breaking open
of the gunsmith’s shop, the finding of the front door of Cashing’s store
ajar, and the discovery by Cashing that at least one suit of valuable
clothing had been taken, came upon the astonished villagers and rendered
them incapable of reason, and of every other mental attribute except
wonder.

That the prisoner had an accomplice seemed certain, and some suspicious
souls suggested that the prisoner’s wife _might_ have been the person;
but as one of the officers declared he had watched her house all night
for fear of some such attempt, that theory was abandoned.

Under the guidance of the constable, who zealously assisted them in
every possible manner, the officers searched every house in Bowerton
that might seem likely to afford a hiding-place, and then departed on
what they considered the prisoner’s most likely route.

For some days Helen Wyett gave the Bowertonians no occasion to modify
their conduct toward her, for she kept herself constantly out of sight.

When, however, she did appear in the street again, she met only the
kindest looks and salutations, for the venerable Squire Jones had talked
incessantly in praise of her courage and affection, and the Squire’s
fellow-townsmen knew that when their principal magistrate was affected
to tenderness and mercy, it was from causes which would have simply
overwhelmed any ordinary mortal.

It was months before Bowerton gossip descended again to its normal
level; for a few weeks after the escape of Beigh, little Guzzy, who had
never been supposed to have unusual credit, and whose family certainly
hadn’t any money, left his employer and started an opposition store.

Next to small scandal, finance was the favorite burden of conversation
at Bowerton, so the source of Guzzy’s sudden prosperity was so
industriously sought and surmised that the gossips were soon at needles’
points about it.

Then it was suddenly noised abroad that Mrs. Baggs, Sr., who knew
everybody, had given Guzzy a letter of introduction to the Governor of
the State.

Bowerton was simply confounded. What _could_ he want? The Governor had
very few appointments at his disposal, and none of them were fit for
Guzzy, except those for which Guzzy was not fit.

Even the local politicians became excited, and both sides consulted
Guzzy.

Finally, when Guzzy started for the State capital, and Helen Wyett, as
people still called her, accompanied him, the people of Bowerton put on
countenances of hopeless resignation, and of a mute expectation which
nothing could astonish.

It might be an elopement—it might be that they were going as
missionaries; but no one expressed a positive opinion, and every one
expressed a perfect willingness to believe anything that was supported
by even a shadow of proof.

Their mute agony was suddenly ended, for within forty-eight hours Guzzy
and his traveling companion returned.

The latter seemed unusually happy for the wife of a convict, while the
former went straight to Squire Jones and the constable’s.

Half an hour later all Bowerton knew that William Beigh, _alias_ Bay
Billy, _alias_ Handsome, had received a full and free pardon from the
Governor.

The next day Bowerton saw a tall, handsome stranger, with downcast eyes,
walk rapidly through the principal street and disappear behind Mrs.
Wyett’s gate.

A day later, and Bowerton was electrified by the intelligence that the
ex-burglar had been installed as a clerk in Guzzy’s store.

People said that it was a shame—that nobody knew how soon Beigh might
take to his old tricks again. Nevertheless, they crowded to Guzzy’s
store, to look at him, until shrewd people began to wonder whether Guzzy
hadn’t really taken Beigh as a sort of advertisement to draw trade.

A few months later, however, they changed their opinions, for the
constable, after the expiration of his term of office, and while under
the influence of a glass too much, related the whole history of the
night of Beigh’s first arrival at Bowerton.

The Bowertonians were law-abiding people; but, somehow, Guzzy’s
customers increased from that very day, and his prosperity did not
decline even after “Guzzy & Beigh” was the sign over the door of the
store which had been built and stocked with Mrs. Wyett’s money.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        A ROMANCE OF HAPPY REST.


HAPPY REST is a village whose name has never appeared in gazetteer or
census report. This remark should not cause any depreciation of the
faithfulness of public and private statisticians, for Happy Rest
belonged to a class of settlements which sprang up about as suddenly as
did Jonah’s Gourd, and, after a short existence, disappeared so quickly
that the last inhabitant generally found himself alone before he knew
that anything unusual was going on.

When the soil of Happy Rest supported nothing more artificial than a
broken wagon wheel, left behind by some emigrants going overland to
California, a deserter from a fort near by discovered that the soil was
auriferous.

His statement to that effect, made in a barroom in the first town he
reached thereafter, led to his being invited to drink, which operation
resulted in certain supplementary statements and drinks.

Within three hours every man within five miles of that barroom knew that
the most paying dirt on the continent had been discovered not far away,
and three hours later a large body of gold-hunters, guided by the
deserter, were _en route_ for the auriferous locality; while a
storekeeper and a liquor-dealer, with their respective stocks-in-trade,
followed closely after.

The ground was found; it proved to be tolerably rich; tents went up,
underground residences were burrowed, and the grateful miners ordered
the barkeeper to give unlimited credit to the locality’s discoverer. The
barkeeper obeyed the order, and the ex-warrior speedily met his death in
a short but glorious contest with John Barleycorn.

There was no available lumber from which to construct a coffin, and the
storekeeper had no large boxes; but as the liquor-seller had already
emptied two barrels, these were taken, neatly joined in the centre, and
made to contain the remains of the founder of the hamlet. The method of
his death and origin of his coffin led a spirituous miner to suggest
that he rested happily, and from this remark the name of the town was
elaborated.

Of course, no ladies accompanied the expedition. Men who went West for
gold did not take their families with them, as a rule, and the settlers
of new mining towns were all of the masculine gender.

When a town had attained to the dignity of a hotel, members of the
gentler sex occasionally appeared, but—with the exception of an
occasional washerwoman—their influence was decidedly the reverse of that
usually attributed to woman’s society.

For the privileges of their society, men fought with pistols and knives,
and bought of them disgrace and sorrow for gold. But at first Happy Rest
was unblessed and uncursed by the presence of any one who did not wear
pantaloons.

On the fifth day of its existence, however, when the arrival of an
express agent indicated that Capital had formally acknowledged the
existence of Happy Rest, there was an unusual commotion in the
never-quiet village.

An important rumor had spread among the tents and gopher-holes, and, one
after another, the citizens visited the saloon, took the barkeeper
mysteriously aside, and, with faces denoting the greatest concern,
whispered earnestly to him. The barkeeper felt his importance as the
sole custodian of all the village news, but he replied with affability
to all questions:

“Well, yes; there _hed_ a lady come; come by the same stage as the
express agent. What kind?—Well, he really couldn’t say—some might think
one way, an’ some another. _He_ thought she was a real lady, though she
wouldn’t ’low anything to be sent her from the bar, and she hedn’t
brought no baggage. Thought so—_knowed_ she was a lady—in fact, would
bet drinks for the crowd on it. ’Cos why?—’Cos nobody heerd her cuss or
seed her laugh. H’d bet three to two she was a lady—_might_ bet two to
one, ef he got his dander up on the subject. Then, on t’other hand,
she’d axed for Major Axel, and the major, ez everybody know’d, was—well,
he wasn’t ’xactly a saint. Besides, as the major hedn’t come to Happy
Rest, nohow, it looked ez if he was dodgin’ her for somethin’. Where was
she stopping?—up to Old Psalmsinger’s. Old Psalm hed turned himself out
of house an’ home, and bought her a new tea-kettle to boot. If anybody
know’d anybody that wanted to take three to two, send him along.”

A few men called to bet, and bets were exchanged all over the camp, but
most of the excitement centred about the storekeeper’s.

Argonauts, pioneers, heroes, or whatever else the early gold-seekers
were, they were likewise mortal men, so they competed vigorously for the
few blacking-brushes, boxes of blacking, looking-glasses, pocket-combs
and neckties which the store contained. They bought toilet-soap, and
borrowed razors; and when they had improved their personal appearance to
the fullest possible extent, they stood aimlessly about, like unemployed
workmen in the market-place. Each one, however, took up a position which
should rake the only entrance to old Psalmsinger’s tent.

Suddenly, two or three scores of men struck various attitudes, as if to
be photographed, and exclaimed in unison:

“There she is!”

From the tent of old Psalmsinger there had emerged the only member of
the gentler sex who had reached Happy Rest.

For only a moment she stood still and looked about her, as if uncertain
which way to go; but before she had taken a step, old Psalmsinger raised
his voice, and said:

“I thort it last night, when I only seed her in the moonlight, but I
_know_ it now—she’s a lady, an’ no mistake. Ef I was a bettin’ man, I’d
bet all my dust on it, an’ my farm to hum besides!”

A number of men immediately announced that they would bet, in the
speaker’s place, to any amount, and in almost any odds. For, though old
Psalm, by reason of non-participation in any of the drinks, fights, or
games with which the camp refreshed itself, was considered a mere
nonentity, it was generally admitted that men of his style could tell a
lady or a preacher at sight.

The gentle unknown finally started toward the largest group of men,
seeing which, several smaller groups massed themselves on the larger
with alacrity.

As she neared them, the men could see that she was plainly dressed, but
that every article of attire was not only neat but tasteful, and that
she had enough grace of form and carriage to display everything to
advantage. A few steps nearer, and she displayed a set of sad but
refined features, marred only by an irresolute, purposeless mouth.

Then an ex-reporter from New York turned suddenly to a graceless young
scamp who had once been a regular ornament to Broadway, and exclaimed:

“Louise Mattray, isn’t it?”

“’Tis, by thunder!” replied the young man. “I knew I’d seen her
somewhere. Wonder what she’s doing here?”

The reporter shrugged his shoulders.

“Some wild-goose speculation, I suppose. Smart and gritty—if _I_ had her
stick I shouldn’t be here—but she always slips up—can’t keep all her
wires well in hand. Was an advertising agent when I left the East—picked
up a good many ads, too, and made folks treat her respectfully, when
they’d have kicked a man out of doors if he’d come on the same errand.”

“Say she’s been asking for Axel,” remarked the young man.

“That so!” queried the reporter, wrinkling his brow, and hurrying
through his mental notebook. “Oh, yes—there was some talk about them at
one time. Some said they were married—_she_ said so, but she never took
his name. She had a handsome son, that looked like her and the major,
but she didn’t know how to manage him—went to the dogs, or worse, before
he was eighteen.”

“Axell here?” asked the young man.

“No,” replied the reporter; “and ’twouldn’t do her any good if he was.
The major’s stylish and good-looking, and plays a brilliant game, but he
hasn’t any more heart than is absolutely necessary to his circulation.
Besides, his——”

The reporter was interrupted by a heavy hand falling on his shoulder,
and found, on turning, that the hand belonged to “The General.”

The general was not a military man, but his title had been conferred in
recognition of the fact that he was a born leader. Wherever he went the
general assumed the reins of government, and his administration had
always been popular as well as judicious.

But at this particular moment the general seemed to feel unequal to what
was evidently his duty, and he, like a skillful general, sought a
properly qualified assistant, and the reporter seemed to him to be just
the man he wanted.

“Spidertracks,” said the general, with an air in which authority and
supplication were equally prominent, “you’ve told an awful sight of lies
in your time. Don’t deny it, now—nobody that ever reads the papers will
b’leeve you. Now’s yer chance to put yer gift of gab to a respectable
use. The lady’s bothered, and wants to say somethin’ or ask somethin’,
and she’ll understand your lingo better’n mine. Fire away now, lively!”

The ex-shorthand-writer seemed complimented by the general’s address,
and stepping forward and raising the remains of what had once been a
hat, said:

“Can I serve you in any way, madame?”

The lady glanced at him quickly and searchingly, and then, seeming
assured of the reporter’s honesty, replied:

“I am looking for an old acquaintance of mine—one Major Axell.”

“He is not in camp, ma’am,” said Spidertracks. “He was at Rum Valley a
few days ago, when our party was organized to come here.”

“I was there yesterday,” said the lady, looking greatly disappointed,
“and was told he started for here a day or two before.”

“Some mistake, ma’am, I assure you,” replied Spidertracks. “I should
have known of his arrival if he had come. I’m an old newspaper man,
ma’am, and can’t get out of the habit of getting the news.”

The lady turned away, but seemed irresolute. The reporter followed her.

“If you will return to Rum Valley, ma’am, I’ll find the major for you,
if he is hereabouts,” said he. “You will be more comfortable there, and
I will be more likely than you to find him.”

The lady hesitated for a moment longer; then she drew from her pocket a
diary, wrote a line or two on one of its leaves, tore it out and handed
it to the reporter.

“I will accept your offer, and be very grateful for it, for I do not
bear this mountain traveling very well. If you find him, give him this
scrawl and tell him where I am—that will be sufficient.”

“Trust me to find him, ma’am,” replied Spidertracks. “And as the stage
is just starting, and there won’t be another for a week, allow me to see
you into it. Any baggage?”

“Only a small hand-bag in the tent,” said she.

They hurried off together, Spidertracks found the bag, and five minutes
later was bowing and waving his old hat to the cloud of dust which the
departing stage left behind it. But when even the dust itself had
disappeared, he drew from his pocket the paper the fair passenger had
given him.

“’Tain’t sealed,” said he, reasoning with himself, “so there can’t be
any secrets in it. Let’s see—hello! ‘Ernest is somewhere in this
country; I wish to see you about _him_—and about nothing else.’
Whew-w-w! What splendid material for a column, if there was only a live
paper in this infernal country! Looking for that young scamp, eh? There
_is_ something to her, and I’ll help her if I can. Wonder if I’d
recognize him if I saw him again? I _ought_ to, if he looks as much like
his parents as he used to do. ’Twould do my soul good to make the poor
woman smile once; but it’s an outrageous shame there’s no good daily
paper here to work the whole thing up in. With the chase, and fighting,
and murder that _may_ come of it, ’twould make the leading sensation for
a week!”

The agonized reporter clasped his hands behind him and walked slowly
back to where he had left the crowd. Most of the citizens had, on seeing
the lady depart, taken a drink as a partial antidote to dejection, and
strolled away to their respective claims, regardless of the occasional
mud which threatened the polish on their boots; but two or three
gentlemen of irascible tempers and judicial minds lingered, to decide
whether Spidertracks had not, by the act of seeing the lady to the
stage, made himself an accessory to her departure, and consequently a
fit subject for challenge by every disappointed man in camp.

The reporter was in the midst of a very able and voluble defense, when
the attention of his hearers seemed distracted by something on the trail
by which the original settlers had entered the village.

Spidertracks himself looked, shaded his eyes, indulged in certain
disconnected fragments of profanity, and finally exclaimed:

“Axell himself, by the white coat of Horace Greeley! Wonder who he’s got
with him! They seem to be having a difficulty about something!”

The gentlemen who had arraigned Spidertracks allowed him to be acquitted
by default. Far better to them was a fight near by than the most
interesting lady afar off.

They stuck their hands into their pockets, and stared intently. Finally
one of them, in a tone of disgusted resignation, remarked:

“Axell ought to be ashamed of hisself; he’s draggin’ along a little
feller not half the size _he_ is. Blamed if he ain’t got his match,
though; the little feller’s jest doin’ some gellorious chawin’ an’
diggin’.”

The excitement finally overcame the inertia of the party, and each man
started deliberately to meet the major and his captive. Spidertracks,
faithful to his profession, kept well in advance of the others. Suddenly
he exclaimed to himself:

“Good Lord! don’t they know each other? The major didn’t wear that beard
when in New York; but the boy—he’s just the same scamp, in spite of his
dirt and rags. If _she_ were to see them now—but, pshaw! ’twould all
fall flat—no live paper to take hold of the matter and work it up.”

“There, curse your treacherous heart!” roared the major, as he gave his
prisoner a push which threw him into the reporter’s arms. “Now we’re in
a civilized community, and you’ll have a chance of learning the opinions
of gentlemen on such irregularities. Tried to kill me, gentlemen, upon
my honor!—did it after I had shared my eatables and pocket-pistol with
him, too. Did it to get my dust. Got me at a disadvantage for a moment,
and made a formal demand for the dust, and backed his request with a
pistol—my own pistol, gentlemen! I’ve only just reached here; I don’t
yet know who’s here, but I imagine there’s public spirit enough to
discourage treachery. Will some one see to him while I take something?”

Spidertracks drew his revolver, mildly touched the young man on the
shoulder, and remarked:

“Come on.”

The ex-knight of the pencil bowed his prisoner into an abandoned
gopher-hole (_i. e._, an artificial cave,) cocked his revolver, and then
stretched himself on the ground and devoted himself to staring at the
unfortunate youth. To a student of human nature Ernest Mattray was
curious, fascinating, and repulsive. Short, slight, handsome, delicate,
nervous, unscrupulous, selfish, effeminate, dishonest, and cruel, he was
an excellent specimen of what city life could make of a boy with no
father and an irresolute mother.

The reporter, who had many a time studied faces in the Tombs, felt
almost as if at his old vocation again as he gazed into the restless
eyes and sullen features of the prisoner.

Meanwhile Happy Rest was becoming excited. There had been some little
fighting done since the settlement of the place, but as there had been
no previous attempt at highway robbery and murder made in the vicinity,
the prisoner was an object of considerable interest.

In fact, the major told so spirited a story, that most of the
inhabitants strolled up, one after another, to look at the innovator,
while that individual himself, with the modesty which seems inseparable
from true greatness, retired to the most secluded of the three
apartments into which the cave was divided, and declined all the
attentions which were thrust upon him.

The afternoon had faded almost into evening, when a decrepit figure, in
a black dress and bonnet, approached the cave, and gave Spidertracks a
new element for the thrilling report he had composed and mentally
rearranged during his few hours of duty as jailer.

“Beats the dickens,” muttered the reporter to himself, “how these
Sisters of Charity always know when a tough case has been caught.
Natural enough in New York. But where did _she_ come from? Who told her?
Cross, beads, and all. Hello! Oh, Louise Mattray, you’re a deep one; but
it’s a pity your black robe isn’t quite long enough to hide the very
tasty dress you wore this morning? Queer dodge, too—wonder what it
means? Wonder if she’s caught sight of the major, and don’t want to be
recognized?”

The figure approached.

“May I see the prisoner?” she asked.

“No one has a better right, Mrs. Mattray,” said the guardian of the
cave, with a triumphant smile, while the poor woman started and
trembled. “Don’t be frightened—no one is going to hurt you. Heard all
about it, I suppose?—know who just missed being the victim?”

“Yes,” said the unhappy woman, entering the cave.

When she emerged it was growing quite dark. She passed the reporter with
head and vail down, and whispered:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the reporter, quickly. “Going to stay until you
see how things go with him?”

She shook her head and passed on.

The sky grew darker. The reporter almost wished it might grow so dark
that the prisoner could escape unperceived, or so quickly that a random
shot could not find him. There were strange noises in camp.

The storekeeper, who never traveled except by daylight, was apparently
harnessing his mules to the wagon—he was moving the wagon itself to the
extreme left of the camp, where there was nothing to haul but wood, and
even that was still standing in the shape of fine old trees.

There seemed to be an unusual clearness in the air, for Spidertracks
distinctly heard the buzz of some earnest conversation. There seemed
strange shadows floating in the air—a strange sense of something moving
toward him—something almost shapeless, yet tangible—something that
approached him—that gave him a sense of insecurity and then of alarm.
Suddenly the indefinable something uttered a yell, and resolved itself
into a party of miners, led by the gallant and aggrieved major himself,
who shouted:

“Lynch the scoundrel, boys—that’s the only thing to do!”

The excited reporter sprang to his feet in an agony of genuine humanity
and suppressed itemizing, and screamed:

“Major, wait a minute—you’ll be sorry if you don’t!”

But the gallant major had been at the bar for two or three hours,
preparing himself for this valorous deed, and the courage he had there
imbibed knew not how to brook delay—not until the crowd had reached the
mouth of the cave and found it dark, and had heard one unduly prudent
miner suggest that it might be well to have a light, so as to dodge
being sliced in the dark.

“Bring a light quick, then,” shouted the major. “_I’ll_ drag him out
when it comes; he knows _my_ grip, curse him!”

A bunch of dried grass was hastily lighted and thrown into the cave, and
the major rapidly followed it, while as many miners as could crowd in
after him hastened to do so. They found the major, with white face and
trembling limbs, standing in front of the lady for whose sake they had
done so much elaborate dressing in the morning, and who they had
afterwards wrathfully seen departing in the stage.

The major rallied, turned around, and said:

“There’s some mistake here, gentlemen. Won’t you have the kindness to
leave us alone?”

Slowly—very slowly—the crowd withdrew. It seemed to them that, in the
nature of things, the lady ought to have it out with the major with
pistols or knives for disturbing her, and that they, who were in all the
sadness of disappointment at failure of a well-planned independent
execution, ought to see the end of the whole affair. But a beseeching
look from the lady herself finally cleared the cave, and the major
exclaimed:

“Louise, what does this mean?”

“It means,” said the lady, with most perfect composure, “that, thanks to
a worthless father and a bad bringing-up by an incapable mother, Ernest
has found his way into this country. I came to find him, and I found him
in this hole, to which his affectionate father brought him to-day. It is
about as well, I imagine, that I helped him to escape, seeing to what
further kind attentions you had reserved him.”

“Please don’t be so icy, Louise,” begged the major. “He attempted to rob
and kill me, the young rascal; besides, I had not the faintest idea of
who he was.”

“Perhaps,” said the lady, still very calm, “you will tell me from whom
he inherited the virtues which prompted his peculiar actions towards
you? His _mother_ has always earned her livelihood honorably.”

“Louise,” said the major, with a humility which would have astonished
his acquaintance, “won’t you have the kindness to reserve your sarcasm
until I am better able to bear it? You probably think I have no heart—I
acknowledge I have thought as much myself—but _something_ is making me
feel very weak and tender just now.”

The lady looked critically at him for a moment, and then burst into
tears.

“Oh, God!” she sobbed, “what else is there in store for this poor,
miserable, injured life of mine?”

“Restitution,” whispered the major softly—“if you will let me make it,
or try to make it.”

The weeping woman looked up inquiringly, and said only the words:

“And she?”

“My first wife?” answered the major. “Dead—_really_ dead, Louise, as I
hope to be saved. She died several years ago, and I longed to do you
justice then, but the memory of our parting was too much for my cowardly
soul. If you will take me as I am, Louise, I will, as long as I live,
remember the past, and try to atone for it.”

She put her hand in his, and they left the gopher-hole together. As they
disappeared in the outer darkness, there emerged from one of the
compartments of the cave an individual whose features were
indistinguishable in the darkness, but who was heard to emphatically
exclaim:

“If I had the dust, I’d start a live daily here, just to tell the whole
story; though the way he got out didn’t do _me_ any particular credit.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

For days the residents of Happy Rest used all available mental
stimulants to aid them in solving the mystery of the major and the
wonderful lady; but, as the mental stimulants aforesaid were all
spirituous, the results were more deplorable than satisfactory. But
when, a few days later, the couple took the stage for Rum Valley, the
enterprising Spidertracks took an outside passage, and at the end of the
route had his persistency rewarded by seeing, in the Bangup House, a
Sister of Charity tenderly embrace the major’s fair charge, start at the
sight of the major, and then, after some whispering by the happy mother,
sullenly extend a hand, which the major grasped heartily, and over which
there dropped something which, though a drop of water, was not a
rain-drop. Then did Spidertracks return to the home of his adoption, and
lavish the stores of his memory; and for days his name was famous, and
his liquor was paid for by admiring auditors.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        TWO POWERFUL ARGUMENTS.


“GOT him?”

“You bet!”

The questioner looked pleased, yet not as if his pleasure engendered any
mental excitement. The man who answered spoke in an ordinary, careless
tone, and with unmoved countenance, as if he were merely signifying the
employment of an additional workman, or the purchase of a desirable
rooster.

Yet the subject of the brief conversation repeated above was no other
than Bill Bowney, the most industrious and successful of the
horse-thieves and “road-agents” that honored the southern portion of
California with their presence.

Nor did Bowney restrict himself to the duty of redistributing the
property of other people. Perhaps he belonged to that class of political
economists which considers superfluous population an evil; perhaps he
was a religious enthusiast, and ardently longed that all mankind should
speedily see the pearly gates of the New Jerusalem.

Be his motives what they might, it is certain that when an unarmed man
met Bowney, entered into a discussion with him, and lived verbally to
report the same, he was looked upon with considerably more interest than
a newly-made Congressman or a ten-thousand-acre farmer was able to
inspire.

The two men whose conversation we have recorded studied the ears of
their own horses for several minutes, after which the first speaker
asked:

“How did you do it?”

“Well,” replied the other man, “ther’ wasn’t anything p’tickler ’bout
it. Me an’ him wuzn’t acquainted, so he didn’t suspect me. But I know’d
his face—he wuz p’inted out to me once, durin’ the gold-rush to Kern
River, an’ I never forgot him. I wuz on a road I never traveled
before—goin’ to see an old greaser, ownin’ a mighty pretty piece of
ground I wanted—when all of a sudden I come on a cabin, an’ thar stood
Bill in front of it, a-smokin’. I axed him fur a light, an’ when he came
up to give it to me, I grabbed him by the shirt-collar an’ dug the spur
into the mare. ’Twus kind of a mean trick, imposin’ on hospitality
that-a-way; but ’twuz Bowney, you know. He hollered, an’ I let him walk
in front, but I kep’ him covered with the revolver till I met some
fellers, that tied him good an’ tight. ’Twuzn’t excitin’ wurth a
durn—that is, ixcep’ when his wife—I s’pose ’twuz—hollered, then I
a’most wished I’d let him go.”

“Sheriff got him?” inquired the first speaker.

“Well, no,” returned the captor. “Sheriff an’ judge mean well, I s’pose;
but they’re slow—mighty slow. Besides, he’s got friends, an’ they might
be too much fur the sheriff some night. We tuk him to the Broad Oak, an’
we thought we’d ax the neighbors over thar to-night, to talk it over. Be
thar?”

“You bet!” replied the first speaker. “And I’ll bring my friends;
nothing like having plenty of witnesses in important legal cases.”

“Jus’ so,” responded the other. “Well, here’s till then;” and the two
men separated.

The Broad Oak was one of those magnificent trees which are found
occasionally through Southern California, singly or dispersed in
handsome natural parks.

The specimen which had so impressed people as to gain a special name for
itself was not only noted for its size, but because it had occasionally
been selected as the handiest place in which Judge Lynch could hold his
court without fear of molestation by rival tribunals.

Bill Bowney, under favorable circumstances, appeared to be a very
homely, lazy, sneaking sort of an individual; but Bill Bowney, covered
with dust, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes torn, and his hands and feet
tightly bound, had not a single attractive feature about him.

He stared earnestly up into the noble tree under whose shadow he lay;
but his glances were not of admiration—they seemed, rather, to be
resting on two or three fragments of rope which remained on one of the
lower limbs, and to express sentiments of the most utter loathing and
disgust.

The afternoon wore away, and the moon shone brilliantly down from the
cloudless sky.

The tramp of a horse was heard at a distance, but rapidly growing more
distinct, and soon Bowney’s captor galloped up to the tree.

Then another horse was heard, then others, and soon ten or a dozen men
were gathered together.

Each man, after dismounting, walked up to where the captive lay, and
gave him a searching look, and then they joined those who had already
preceded them, and who were quietly chatting about wheat, cattle,
trees—everything but the prisoner.

Suddenly one of the party separated himself from the others, and
exclaimed:

“Gentlemen, there don’t seem to be anybody else a-comin’—we might as
well ’tend to bizness. I move that Major Burkess takes the chair, if
there’s no objections.”

No objections were made, and Major Burkess—a slight, peaceable,
gentlemanly-looking man—stepped out of the crowd, and said:

“You all know the object of this meeting, gentlemen. The first thing in
order is to prove the identity of the prisoner.”

“Needn’t trouble yourself ’bout that,” growled the prisoner. “I’m Bill
Bowney; an’ yer too cowardly to untie me, though ther _be_ a dozen uv
yer.”

“The prisoner admits he is Bill Bowney,” continued the major, “but of
course no gentleman will take offense at his remarks. Has any one any
charge to make against him?”

“Charges?” cried an excitable farmer. “Didn’t I catch him untying my
horse, an’ ridin’ off on him from Budley’s? Didn’t I tell him to drop
that anamile, an’ didn’t he purty near drop _me_ instead?
Charges?—here’s the charge!” concluded the farmer, pointing
significantly to a scar on his own temple.

“Pity I didn’t draw a better bead!” growled the prisoner. “The hoss only
fetched two ounces.”

“Prisoner admits stealing Mr. Barke’s horse, and firing on Mr. Barke.
Any further evidence?”

“Rather,” drawled an angular gentleman. “I was goin’ up the valley by
the stage, an’ all of a sudden the driver stopped where there wasn’t no
station. There was fellers had hold of the leaders, an’ there was
pistols p’inted at the driver an’ folks in general. Then our money an’
watches was took, an’ the feller that took mine had a cross-cut scar on
the back of his hand—right hand; maybe somebody’ll look at Bill’s.”

The prisoner was carried into the moonlight, and the back of his right
hand was examined by the major. The prisoner was again placed under the
tree.

“The cut’s there, as described,” said the major. “Anything else?”

“Ther’s this much,” said another. “I busted up flat, you all know, on
account of the dry season, last year, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ left but my
hoss. Bill Bowney knowed it as well’s anybody else, yet he come and
stole that hoss. It pawed like thunder, an’ woke me up—fur ’twas night,
an’ light as ’tis now—an’ I seed Bowney a-ridin’ him off. ’Twas a
sneakin’, mean, cowardly trick.”

The prisoner hung his head; he would plead guilty to theft and attempt
to kill, and defy his captors to do their worst; but when meanness and
cowardice were proved against him, he seemed ashamed of himself.

“Prisoner virtually admits the charge,” said the major, looking
critically at Bowney.

“Gentlemen,” said Caney, late of Texas, “what’s the use of wastin’ time
this way? Everybody knows that Bowney’s been at the bottom of all the
deviltry that’s been done in the county this three year. Highway
robbery’s a hangin’ offense in Texas an’ every other well-regilated
State; so’s hoss-stealin’, an’ so’s shootin’ a man in the back, an’ yit
Bowney’s done ev’ry one of ’em over an’ over agin. Ev’rybody knows what
we come here fur, else what’s the reason ev’ry man’s got a nice little
coil o’ rope on his saddle fur? The longer the bizness is put off, the
harder it’ll be to do. I move we string him up instanter.”

“Second the motion!” exclaimed some one.

“I move we give him a chance to save himself,” said a quiet farmer from
New England. “When he’s in the road-agent business, he has a crowd to
help him. Now, ’twould do us more good to clean _them_ out than him
alone, so let’s give him a chance to leave the State if he’ll tell who
his confederates are. Somebody’ll have to take care of him, of course,
till we can catch them, and make sure of it.”

“’Twon’t cost the somebody much, then,” said the prisoner, firmly; “an’
I’d give a cool thousand for a shot at any low-lived coyote that ’ud ax
me to do sich an ungentlemanly thing.”

“Spoke like a man,” said Caney, of Texas. “I hope ye’ll die easy for
that, Bill.”

“The original motion prevails,” said the major; “all in favor will say
ay.”

A decided “ay” broke from the party.

“Whoever has the tallest horse will please lead him up and unsaddle
him,” said the major, after a slight pause. “The witnesses will take the
prisoner in charge.”

A horse was brought under the limb, with the fragments of rope upon it,
and the witnesses, one of them bearing a piece of rope, approached the
prisoner.

The silence was terrible, and the feelings of all present were greatly
relieved when Bill Bowney—placed on the horse, and seeing the rope
hauled taught and fastened to a bough by a man in the tree—broke into a
frenzy of cursing, and displayed the defiant courage peculiar to an
animal at bay.

“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the major, as Bowney stopped
for breath.

“Better own up, and save yourself and reform, and help rid the world of
those other scoundrels,” pleaded the New Englander.

“Don’t yer do it, Bill—don’t yer do it!” cried Caney, of Texas. “Stick
to yer friends, an’ die like a man!”

“That’s me!” said the prisoner, directing a special volley of curses at
the New Englander. “It’s ben said here that I wuz sneakin’ an’ cowardly;
ther’s _one_ way of givin’ that feller the lie—hurry up an’ do it!”

“When I raise my hand,” said the major, “lead the horse away; and may
the Lord have mercy on your soul, Bowney!”

“Amen!” fervently exclaimed the New Englander.

Again there was a moment of terrible silence, and when a gentle wind
swept over the wild oats and through the tree, there seemed to sound on
the air a sigh and a shudder.

Suddenly all the horses started and pricked up their ears.

“Somebody’s comin’!” whispered one of the party. “Sheriff’s got wind of
the arrangements, maybe!”

“Comes from the wrong direction,” cried Caney, of Texas, quickly. “It’s
somebody on foot—an’ tired—an’ light-footed—ther’s two or three—dunno
what kind o’ bein’s they _ken_ be. Thunder an’ lightnin’!”

Caney’s concluding remark was inspired by the sudden appearance of a
woman, who rushed into the shadow of the tree, stopped, looked wildly
about for a moment, and then threw herself against the prisoner’s feet,
and uttered a low, pitiful cry.

There was a low murmur from the crowd, and the major cried:

“Take him down; give him fifteen minutes with his wife, and see she
doesn’t untie him.”


[Illustration:

  “TAKE HIM DOWN; GIVE HIM FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH HIS WIFE.”
]


The man in the tree loosened the rope, Bowney was lifted off and placed
on the ground again, and the woman threw herself on the ground beside
him, caressed his ugly face, and wailed pitifully. The judge and jury
fidgeted about restlessly. Still the horses stood on the alert, and soon
three came through the oats—three children, all crying.

As they saw the men they became dumb, and stood mute and frightened,
staring at their parents.

They were not pretty—they were not even interesting. Mother and children
were alike—unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, and clothed in dirty, faded
calico. The children were all girls—the oldest not more than ten years
old, and the youngest scarce five. None of them pleaded for the
prisoner, but still the woman wailed and moaned, and the children stood
staring in dumb piteousness.

The major stood quietly gazing at the face of his watch. There was not
in Southern California a more honest man than Major Burkess; yet the
minute-hand of his watch had not indicated more than one-half of fifteen
minutes, when he exclaimed:

“Time’s up!”

The men approached the prisoner—the woman threw her arms around him, and
cried:

“My husband! Oh, God!”

“Madam,” said the major, “your husband’s life is in his own hands. He
can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the
State.”

“I’ll tell you who they are?” cried the woman.

“God curse yer if yer do!” hissed Bowney from between his teeth.

“Better let him be, madam,” argued Caney, of Texas. “He’d better die
like a man than go back on his friends. Might tell us which of ’em was
man enough to fetch you and the young uns here? We’ll try to be easy on
him when we ketch him.”

“None of ’em,” sobbed the woman. “We walked, an’ I took turns totin’ the
young uns. My husband! Oh, God! my husband!”

“Beg yer pardon, ma’am,” said Bowney’s captor, “but nobody can’t b’leeve
that; it’s nigh onto twenty mile.”

“I’d ha’ done it ef it had been fifty,” cried the woman, angrily, “when
_he_ wuz in trouble. Oh, God! Oh, God! Don’t yer b’leeve it? Then look
here!” She picked up the smallest child as she spoke, and in the dim
light the men saw that its little feet were torn and bleeding. “’Twas
their blood or his’n,” cried the woman, rapidly, “an’ I didn’t know how
to choose between ’em. God hev mercy on me! I’m nigh crazy!”

Caney, of Texas, took the child from its mother and carried it to where
the moonlight was unobstructed. He looked carefully at its feet, and
then shouted:

“Bring the prisoner out here.”

Two men carried Bowney to where Caney was standing, and the whole party,
with the woman and remaining children, followed.

“Bill,” said Caney, “_I_ ain’t a askin’ yer to go back on yer friends,
but _them_ is—look at ’em.”

And Caney held the child’s feet before the father’s eyes, while the
woman threw her arms around his neck, and the two older children crept
up to the prisoner, and laid their faces against his legs.

“They’re a-talkin’ to yer, Bill,” resumed Caney, of Texas, “an’ they’re
the convincenist talkers _I_ ever seed.”

The desperado turned his eyes away; but Caney moved the child so its
bleeding feet were still before its father’s eyes.

The remaining men all retired beneath the shadow of the tree, for the
tender little feet were talking to them, too, and they were ashamed of
the results.

Suddenly Bowney uttered a deep groan.

“’Tain’t no use a-tryin’,” said he, in a resigned tone. “Everybody’ll be
down on me, an’ after all I’ve done, too! But yer ken hev their names,
curse yer!”

The woman went into hysterics; the children cried; Caney, of Texas,
ejaculated, “Bully!” and then kissed the poor little bruised feet.

The New Englander fervently exclaimed, “Thank God!”

“I’ll answer fur him till we get ’em,” said Caney, after the major had
written down the names Bowney gave him; “an’,” continued Caney,
“somebody git the rest of these young uns an’ ther mother to my cabin
powerful quick. Good Lord, don’t I jist wish they wuz boys! I’d adopt
the hull family.”

The court informally adjourned _sine die_, but had so many meetings
afterward at the same place to dispose of Bowney’s accomplices, that his
freedom was considered fairly purchased, and he and his family were
located a good way from the scenes of his most noted exploits.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          MR. PUTCHETT’S LOVE.


JUST after two o’clock, on a July afternoon, Mr. Putchett mounted
several steps of the Sub-Treasury in Wall Street, and gazed inquiringly
up and down the street.

To the sentimental observer Mr. Putchett’s action, in taking the
position we have indicated, may have seemed to signify that Mr. Putchett
was of an aspiring disposition, and that in ascending the steps he
exemplified his desire to get above the curbstone whose name was used as
a qualifying adjective whenever Mr. Putchett was mentioned as a broker.
Those persons, however, who enjoyed the honor of Mr. Putchett’s
acquaintance immediately understood that the operator in question was in
funds that day, and that he had taken the position from which he could
most easily announce his moneyed condition to all who might desire
assistance from him.

It was rather late in the day for business, and certain persons who had
until that hour been unsuccessful in obtaining the accommodations
desired were not at all particular whether their demands were satisfied
in a handsome office, or under the only roof that can be enjoyed free of
rent.

There came to Mr. Putchett oddly-clothed members of his own profession,
and offered for sale securities whose numbers Mr. Putchett compared with
those on a list of bonds stolen; men who deposited with him small
articles of personal property—principally jewelry—as collaterals on
small loans at short time and usurious rates; men who stood before him
on the sidewalk, caught his eye, summoned him by a slight motion of the
head, and disappeared around the corner, whither Mr. Putchett followed
them only to promptly transact business and hurry back to his
business-stand.

In fact, Mr. Putchett was very busy, and as in his case business
invariably indicated profit, it was not wonderful that his rather
unattractive face lightened and expressed its owner’s satisfaction at
the amount of business he was doing. Suddenly, however, there attacked
Mr. Putchett the fate which, in its peculiarity of visiting people in
their happiest hours, has been bemoaned by poets of genuine and doubtful
inspiration, from the days of the sweet singer of Israel unto those of
that sweet singer of Erin, whose recital of experience with young
gazelles illustrates the remorselessness of the fate alluded to.

Plainly speaking, Mr. Putchett went suddenly under a cloud, for during
one of his dashes around the corner after a man who had signaled him,
and at the same time commenced to remove a ring from his finger, a
small, dirty boy handed Mr. Putchett a soiled card, on which was
penciled:

“Bayle is after you, about that diamond.”

Despite the fact that Mr. Putchett had not been shaved for some days,
and had apparently neglected the duty of facial ablution for quite as
long a time, he turned pale and looked quickly behind him and across the
street; then muttering “Just my luck!” and a few other words more
desponding than polite in nature, he hurried to the Post-Office, where
he penciled and dispatched a few postal-cards, signed in initials only,
announcing an unexpected and temporary absence. Then, still looking
carefully and often at the faces in sight, he entered a newspaper office
and consulted a railway directory. He seemed in doubt, as he rapidly
turned the leaves; and when he reached the timetable of a certain road
running near and parallel to the seaside, the change in his countenance
indicated that he had learned the whereabouts of a city of refuge.

An hour later Mr. Putchett, having to bid no family good-by, to care for
no securities save those stowed away in his capacious pockets, and freed
from the annoyance of baggage by reason of the fact that he had on his
back the only outer garments that he owned, was rapidly leaving New York
on a train, which he had carefully assured himself did not carry the
dreaded Bayle.

Once fairly started, Mr. Putchett in some measure recovered his spirits.
He introduced himself to a brakeman by means of a cigar, and questioned
him until he satisfied himself that the place to which he had purchased
a ticket was indeed unknown to the world, being far from the city,
several miles from the railroad, and on a beach where boats could not
safely land. He also learned that it was not a fashionable Summer
resort, and that a few farmhouses (whose occupants took Summer boarders)
and an unsuccessful hotel were the only buildings in the place.

Arrived at his destination, Mr. Putchett registered at the hotel and
paid the week’s board which the landlord, after a critical survey of his
new patron, demanded in advance.

Then the exiled operator tilted a chair in the barroom, lit an execrable
cigar, and, instead of expressing sentiments of gratitude appropriate to
the occasion, gave way to profane condemnations of the bad fortune which
had compelled him to abandon his business.

He hungrily examined the faces of the few fishermen of the neighboring
bay who came in to drink and smoke, but no one of them seemed likely to
need money—certainly no one of them seemed to have acceptable
collaterals about his person or clothing. On the contrary, these men,
while each one threw Mr. Putchett a stare of greater or less magnitude,
let the financier alone so completely that he was conscious of a severe
wound in his self-esteem.

It was a strange experience, and at first it angered him so that he
strode up to the bar, ordered a glass of best brandy, and defiantly
drank alone; but neither the strength of the liquor nor the intensity of
his anger prevented him from soon feeling decidedly lonely.

At the cheap hotel at which he lodged when in New York there was no one
who loved him or even feared him, but there were a few men of his own
kind who had, for purposes of mutual recreation, tabooed business
transactions with each other, and among these he found a grim sort of
enjoyment—of companionship, at least. Here, however, he was so utterly
alone as to be almost frightened, and the murmuring and moaning of the
surf on the beach near the hotel added to his loneliness a sense of
terror.

Almost overcome by dismal forebodings, Mr. Putchett hurried out of the
hotel and toward the beach. Once upon the sands, he felt better; the few
people who were there were strangers, of course, but they were women and
children; and if the expression of those who noticed him was wondering,
it was inoffensive—at times even pitying, and Mr. Putchett was in a
humor to gratefully accept even pity.

Soon the sun fell, and the people straggled toward their respective
boarding-houses, and Mr. Putchett, to fight off loneliness as long as
possible, rose from the bench on which he had been sitting and followed
the party up the beach.

He had supposed himself the last person that left the beach, but in a
moment or two he heard a childish voice shouting:

“Mister, mister! I guess you’ve lost something!”

Mr. Putchett turned quickly, and saw a little girl, six or seven years
of age, running toward him. In one hand she held a small pail and wooden
shovel, and in the other something bright, which was too large for her
little hand to cover.

She reached the broker’s side, turned up a bright, healthy face, opened
her hand and displayed a watch, and said:

“It was right there on the bench where you were sitting. I couldn’t
think what it was, it shone so.”


[Illustration:

  MR. PUTCHETT’S NEW FRIEND.
]


Mr. Putchett at first looked suspiciously at the child, for he had at
one period of his life labored industriously in the business of dropping
bogus pocketbooks and watches, and obtaining rewards from persons
claiming to be their owners.

Examining the watch which the child handed him, however, he recognized
it as one upon which he had lent twenty dollars earlier in the day.

First prudently replacing the watch in the pocket of his pantaloons, so
as to avoid any complication while settling with the finder, he handed
the child a quarter.

“Oh, no, thank you,” said she, hastily; “mamma gives me money whenever I
need it.”

The experienced operator immediately placed the fractional currency
where it might not tempt the child to change her mind. Then he studied
her face with considerable curiosity, and asked:

“Do you live here?”

“Oh, no,” she replied; “we’re only spending the Summer here. We live in
New York.”

Mr. Putchett opened his eyes, whistled, and remarked:

“It’s very funny.”

“Why, I don’t think so,” said the child, very innocently. “Lots of
people that board here come from New York. Don’t you want to see my
well? I dug the deepest well of anybody to-day. Just come and see—it’s
only a few steps from here.”

Mechanically, as one struggling with a problem above his comprehension,
the financier followed the child, and gazed into a hole, perhaps a foot
and a half deep, on the beach.

“That’s my well,” said she, “and that one next it is Frank’s. Nellie’s
is way up there. I guess hers _would_ have been the biggest, but a wave
came up and spoiled it.”

Mr. Putchett looked from the well into the face of its little digger,
and was suddenly conscious of an insane desire to drink some of the
water. He took the child’s pail, dipped some water, and was carrying it
to his lips, when the child spoiled what was probably the first
sentimental feeling of Mr. Putchett’s life by hastily exclaiming:

“You mustn’t drink that—it’s salty!”

The sentimentalist sorrowfully put the bitter draught away, and the
child rattled on:

“If you’re down here to-morrow, I’ll show you where we find
scallop-shells; maybe you can find some with pink and yellow spots on
them. _I’ve_ got some. If you don’t find any, I’ll give you one.”

“Thank you,” said her companion.

Just then some one shouted “Alice!” and the child exclaiming, “Mamma’s
calling me; good-by,” hurried away, while the broker walked slowly
toward the hotel with an expression of countenance which would have
hidden him from his oldest acquaintance.

Mr. Putchett spent the evening on the piazza instead of in the barroom,
and he neither smoked nor drank. Before retiring he contracted with the
colored cook to shave him in the morning, and to black his boots; and he
visited the single store of the neighborhood and purchased a shirt, some
collars, and a cravat.

When in the morning he was duly shaved, dressed and brushed, he
critically surveyed himself in the glass, and seemed quite dissatisfied.
He moved from the glass, spread a newspaper on the table, and put into
it the contents of his capacious pockets. A second examination before
the glass seemed more satisfactory in result, thus indicating that to
the eye of Mr. Putchett his well-stuffed pockets had been unsightly in
effect.

The paper and its contents he gave the landlord to deposit in the hotel
safe; then he ate a hurried, scanty breakfast, and again sought the
bench on the beach.

No one was in sight, for it was scarcely breakfast-time at the
boarding-houses; so he looked for little Alice’s well, and mourned to
find that the tide had not even left any sign of its location.

Then he seated himself on the bench again, contemplating his boots,
looked up the road, stared out to sea, and then looked up the road
again, tried to decipher some of the names carved on the bench, walked
backward and forward, looking up the road at each turn he made, and in
every way indicated the unpleasant effect of hope deferred.

Finally, however, after two hours of fruitless search, Mr. Putchett’s
eyes were rewarded by the sight of little Alice approaching the beach
with a bathing-party. He at first hurried forward to meet her, but he
was restrained by a sentiment found alike in curbstone-brokers and in
charming young ladies—a feeling that it is not well to give one’s self
away without first being sufficiently solicited to do so.

He noticed, with a mingled pleasure and uneasiness, that little Alice
did not at first recognize him, so greatly had his toilet altered his
general appearance.

Even after he made himself known, he was compelled to submit to further
delay, for the party had come to the beach to bathe, and little Alice
must bathe, too.

She emerged from a bathing-house in a garb very odd to the eyes of Mr.
Putchett, but one which did not at all change that gentleman’s opinion
of the wearer. She ran into the water, was thrown down by the surf, she
was swallowed by some big waves and dived through others, and all the
while the veteran operator watched her with a solicitude, which, despite
his anxiety for her safety, gave him a sensation as delightful as it was
strange.

The bath ended, Alice rejoined Mr. Putchett and conducted him to the
spot where the wonderful shells with pink and yellow spots were found.
The new shell-seeker was disgusted when the child shouted “Come along!”
to several other children, and was correspondingly delighted when they
said, in substance, that shells were not so attractive as once they
were.

Mr. Putchett’s researches in conchology were not particularly
successful, for while he manfully moved about in the uncomfortable and
ungraceful position peculiar to shell-seekers, he looked rather at the
healthy, honest, eager little face near him than at the beach itself.

Suddenly, however, Mr. Putchett’s opinion of shells underwent a radical
change, for the child, straightening herself and taking something from
her pocket, exclaimed:

“Oh, dear, somebody’s picked up all the pretty ones. I thought, may be,
there mightn’t be any here, so I brought you one; just see what pretty
pink and yellow spots there are on it.”

Mr. Putchett looked, and there came into his face the first flush of
color that had been there—except in anger—for years. He had occasionally
received presents from business acquaintances, but he had correctly
looked at them as having been forwarded as investments, so they awakened
feelings of suspicion rather than of pleasure.

But at little Alice’s shell he looked long and earnestly, and when he
put it into his pocket he looked for two or three moments far away, and
yet at nothing in particular.

“Do you have a nice boarding-house?” asked Alice, as they sauntered
along the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up pebbles and to dig
wells.

“Not very,” said Mr. Putchett, the sanded barroom and his own rather
dismal chamber coming to his mind.

“You ought to board where we do,” said Alice, enthusiastically. “We have
_heaps_ of fun. Have you got a barn?”

Mr. Putchett confessed that he did not know.

“Oh, we’ve got a splendid one!” exclaimed the child. “There’s stalls,
and a granary, and a carriage-house and _two_ lofts in it. We put out
hay to the horses, and they eat it right out of our hands—aren’t afraid
a bit. Then we get into the granary, and bury ourselves all up in the
oats, so only our heads stick out. The lofts are just _lovely_: one’s
full of hay and the other’s full of wheat, and we chew the wheat, and
make gum of it. The hay-stalks are real nice and sweet to chew, too.
They only cut the hay last week, and we all rode in on the wagon—one,
two, three, four—seven of us. Then we’ve got two croquet sets, and the
boys make us whistles and squalks.”

“Squalks?” interrogated the broker.

“Yes; they’re split quills, and you blow in them. They don’t make very
pretty music, but it’s ever so funny. We’ve got two big swings and a
hammock, too.”

“Is the house very full?” asked Mr. Putchett.

“Not so very,” replied the child. “If you come there to board, I’ll make
Frank teach you how to make whistles.”

That afternoon Mr. Putchett took the train for New York, from which city
he returned the next morning with quite a well-filled trunk. It was
afterward stated by a person who had closely observed the capitalist’s
movements during his trip, that he had gone into a first-class
clothier’s and demanded suits of the best material and latest cut,
regardless of cost, and that he had pursued the same singular coarse at
a gent’s furnishing store, and a fashionable jeweler’s.

Certain it is that on the morning of Mr. Putchett’s return a gentleman
very well dressed, though seemingly ill at ease in his clothing, called
at Mrs. Brown’s boarding-house, and engaged a room, and that the younger
ladies pronounced him very stylish and the older ones thought him very
odd. But as he never intruded, spoke only when spoken to, and devoted
himself earnestly and entirely to the task of amusing the children, the
boarders all admitted that he was very good-hearted.

Among Alice’s numerous confidences, during her second stroll with Mr.
Putchett, was information as to the date of her seventh birthday, now
very near at hand. When the day arrived, her adorer arose unusually
early, and spent an impatient hour or two awaiting Alice’s appearance.
As she bade him good-morning, he threw about her neck a chain, to which
was attached an exquisite little watch; then, while the delighted child
was astonishing her parents and the other boarders, Mr. Putchett betook
himself to the barn in a state of abject sheepishness. He did not appear
again until summoned by the breakfast-bell, and even then he sat with a
very red face, and with eyes directed at his plate only. The child’s
mother remonstrated against so much money being squandered on a child,
and attempted to return the watch, but he seemed so distressed at the
idea that the lady dropped the subject.

For a fortnight, Mr. Putchett remained at the boarding-house, and grew
daily in the estimation of every one. From being thought queer and
strange, he gradually gained the reputation of being the best-hearted,
most guileless, most considerate man alive. He was the faithful squire
of all the ladies, both young and old, and was adored by all the
children. His conversational powers—except on matters of business—were
not great, but his very ignorance on all general topics, and the
humility born of that ignorance, gave to his manners a deference which
was more gratifying to most ladies than brilliant loquacity would have
been. He even helped little Alice to study a Sunday-school lesson, and
the experience was so entirely new to him, that he became more deeply
interested than the little learner herself. He went to church on Sunday,
and was probably the most attentive listener the rather prosy old pastor
had.

Of course he bathed—everybody did. A stout rope was stretched from a
post on the shore to a buoy in deep water where it was anchored, and
back and forth on this rope capered every day twenty or thirty hideously
dressed but very happy people, among whom might always be seen Mr.
Putchett with a child on his shoulder.

One day the waves seemed to viciously break near the shore, and the
bathers all followed the rope out to where there were swells instead of
breakers. Mr. Putchett was there, of course, with little Alice. He
seemed perfectly enamored of the water, and delighted in venturing as
far to the sea as the rope would allow, and there ride on the swells,
and go through all other ridiculously happy antics peculiar to
ocean-lovers who cannot swim.

Suddenly Mr. Putchett’s hand seemed to receive a shock, and he felt
himself sinking lower than usual, while above the noise of the surf and
the confusion of voices he heard some one roar:

“The rope has broken—scramble ashore!”


[Illustration:

  HE THREW UP HIS HAND AS A SIGNAL THAT THE LINE SHOULD BE DRAWN IN.
]


The startled man pulled frantically at the piece of rope in his hand,
but found to his horror that it offered no assistance; it was evident
that the break was between him and the shore. He kicked and paddled
rapidly, but seemed to make no headway, and while Alice, realizing the
danger, commenced to cry piteously, Mr. Putchett plainly saw on the
shore the child’s mother in an apparent frenzy of excitement and terror.

The few men present—mostly boarding-house keepers and also ex-sailors
and fishermen—hastened with a piece of the broken rope to drag down a
fishing-boat which lay on the sand beyond reach of the tide. Meanwhile a
boy found a fishing-line, to the end of which a stone was fastened and
thrown toward the imperiled couple.

Mr. Putchett snatched at the line and caught it, and in an instant half
a dozen women pulled upon it, only to have it break almost inside Mr.
Putchett’s hands. Again it was thrown, and again the frightened broker
caught it. This time he wound it about Alice’s arm, put the end into her
hand, kissed her forehead, said, “Good-by, little angel, God bless you,”
and threw up his hand as a signal that the line should be drawn in. In
less than a minute little Alice was in her mother’s arms, but when the
line was ready to be thrown again, Mr. Putchett was not visible.

By this time the boat was at the water’s edge, and four men—two of whom
were familiar with rowing—sat at the oars, while two of the old
fishermen stood by to launch the boat at the proper instant. Suddenly
they shot it into the water, but the clumsy dip of an oar turned it
broadside to the wave, and in an instant it was thrown, waterlogged,
upon the beach. Several precious moments were spent in righting the boat
and bailing out the water, after which the boat was safely launched, the
fishermen sprang to the oars, and in a moment or two were abreast the
buoy.

Mr. Putchett was not to be seen—even had he reached the buoy it could
not have supported him, for it was but a small stick of wood. One of the
boarders—he who had swamped the boat—dived several times, and finally
there came to the surface a confused mass of humanity which separated
into the forms of the diver and the broker.

A few strokes of the oars beached the boat, and old “Captain” Redding,
who had spent his Winters at a government life-saving station, picked up
Mr. Putchett, carried him up to the dry sand, laid him face downward,
raised his head a little, and shouted:

“Somebody stand between him and the sun so’s to shade his head! Slap his
hands, one man to each hand. Scrape up some of that hot, dry sand, and
pile it on his feet and legs. Everybody else stand off and give him
air.”

The captain’s orders were promptly obeyed, and there the women and
children, some of them weeping, and all of them pale and silent, stood
in a group in front of the bathing-house and looked up.

“Somebody run to the hotel for brandy,” shouted the captain.

“Here’s brandy,” said a strange voice, “and I’ve got a hundred dollars
for you if you bring him to life.”

Every one looked at the speaker, and seemed rather to dislike what they
saw. He was a smart-looking man, but his face seemed very cold and
forbidding; he stood apart, with arms folded, and seemed regardless of
the looks fastened upon him. Finally Mrs. Blough, one of the most
successful and irrepressible gossips in the neighborhood, approached him
and asked him if he was a relative of Mr. Putchett’s.

“No, ma’am,” replied the man, with unmoved countenance. “I’m an officer
with a warrant for his arrest, on suspicion of receiving stolen goods.
I’ve searched his traps at the hotel and boarding-house this morning,
but can’t find what I’m looking for. It’s been traced to him, though—has
he shown any of you ladies a large diamond?”

“No,” said Mrs. Blough, quite tartly, “and none of us would have
believed it of him, either.”

“I suppose not,” said the officer, his face softening a little. “I’ve
seen plenty of such cases before, though. Besides, it isn’t my first
call on Putchett—not by several.”

Mrs. Blough walked indignantly away, but, true to her nature, she
quickly repeated her news to her neighbors.

“He’s coming to!” shouted the captain, turning Mr. Putchett on his back
and attempting to provoke respiration. The officer was by his side in a
moment. Mr. Putchett’s eyes had closed naturally, the captain said, and
his lips had moved. Suddenly the stranger laid a hand on the collar of
the insensible man, and disclosed a cord about his neck.

“Captain,” said the officer, in a voice very low, but hurried and
trembling with excitement, “Putchett’s had a very narrow escape, and I
hate to trouble him, but I must do my duty. There’s been a five thousand
dollar diamond traced to him. He advanced money on it, knowing it was
stolen. I’ve searched his property and can’t find it, but I’ll bet a
thousand it’s on that string around his neck—that’s Putchett all over.
Now, you let me take it, and I’ll let him alone; nobody else need know
what’s happened. He seems to have behaved himself here, judging by the
good opinion folks have of him, and he deserves to have a chance which
he won’t get if I take him to jail.”

The women had comprehended, from the look of the stranger and the
captain, that something unusual was going on, and they had crowded
nearer and nearer, until they heard the officer’s last words.

“You’re a dreadful, hateful man!” exclaimed little Alice.

The officer winced.

“Hush, daughter,” said Alice’s mother; then she said: “Let him take it,
captain; it’s too awful to think of a man’s going right to prison from
the gates of death.”

The officer did not wait for further permission, but hastily opened the
bathing-dress of the still insensible figure.

Suddenly the officer started back with an oath, and the people saw,
fastened to a string and lying over Mr. Putchett’s heart, a small
scallop-shell, variegated with pink and yellow spots.

“It’s one I gave him when I first came here, because he couldn’t find
any,” sobbed little Alice.

The officer, seeming suddenly to imagine that the gem might be secreted
in the hollow of the shell, snatched at it and turned it over. Mr.
Putchett’s arm suddenly moved; his hand grasped the shell and carried it
toward his lips; his eyes opened for a moment and fell upon the officer,
at the sight of whom Mr. Putchett shivered and closed his eyes again.

“That chill’s a bad sign,” muttered the captain.

Mr. Putchett’s eyes opened once more, and sought little Alice; his face
broke into a faint smile, and she stooped and kissed him. The smile on
his face grew brighter for an instant, then he closed his eyes and
quietly carried the case up to a Court of Final Appeals, before which
the officer showed no desire to give evidence.

Mr. Putchett was buried the next day, and most of the people in the
neighborhood were invited to the funeral. The story went rapidly about
the neighborhood, and in consequence there were present at the funeral a
number of uninvited persons: among these were the cook, barkeeper and
hostler of the hotel, who stood uncomfortably a little way from the
house until the procession started, when they followed at a respectful
distance in the rear.

When the grave was reached, those who dug it—who were also of those who
carried the bier—were surprised to find the bottom of the coffin-box
strewn and hidden with wild flowers and scraps of evergreen.

The service of the Church of England was read, and as the words, “Ashes
to ashes; dust to dust,” were repeated, a bouquet of wild flowers was
tossed over the heads of the mourners and into the grave. Mrs. Blough,
though deeply affected by the services, looked quickly back to see who
was the giver, and saw the officer (who had not been seen before that
day) with such an embarrassed countenance as to leave no room for doubt.
He left before daylight next morning, to catch a very early train; but
persons passing the old graveyard that day beheld on Putchett’s grave a
handsome bush of white roses, which bush old Mrs. Gale, living near the
hotel, declared was a darling pot-plant which had been purchased of her
on the previous evening by an ill-favored man who declared he _must_
have it, no matter how much he paid for it.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     THE MEANEST MAN AT BLUGSEY’S.


TO miners, whose gold-fever had not reached a ridiculous degree of heat,
Blugsey’s was certainly a very satisfactory location. The dirt was rich,
the river ran dry, there was plenty of standing-room on the banks, which
were devoid of rocks, the storekeeper dealt strictly on the square, and
the saloon contained a pleasing variety of consolatory fluids, which
were dispensed by Stumpy Flukes, ex-sailor, and as hearty a fellow as
any one would ask to see.

All thieves and claim-jumpers had been shot as fast as discovered, and
the men who remained had taken each other’s measures with such accuracy,
that genuine fights were about as unfrequent as prayer-meetings.

The miners dug and washed, ate, drank, swore and gambled with that
delightful freedom which exists only in localities where society is
established on a firm and well-settled basis.

Such being the condition of affairs at Blugsey’s, it seemed rather
strange one morning, hours after breakfast, to see, sprinkled in every
direction, a great number of idle picks, shovels and pans; in fact, the
only mining implements in use that morning were those handled by a
single miner, who was digging and carrying and washing dirt with an
industry which seemed to indicate that he was working as a substitute
for each and every man in the camp.

He was anything but a type of gold-hunters in general; he was short and
thin, and slight and stooping, and greatly round-shouldered; his eyes
were of a painfully uncertain gray, and one of them displayed a cast
which was his only striking feature; his nose had started as a very
retiring nose, but had changed its mind half-way down; his lips were
thin, and seemed to yearn for a close acquaintance with his large ears;
his face was sallow and thin, and thickly seamed, and his chin appeared
to be only one of Nature’s hasty afterthoughts. Long, thin gray hair
hung about his face, and imparted the only relief to the monotonous
dinginess of his features and clothing.

Such being the appearance of the man, it was scarcely natural to expect
that miners in general would regard him as a special ornament to the
profession.

In fact, he had been dubbed “Old Scrabblegrab” on the second day of his
occupancy of Claim No. 32, and such of his neighbors as possessed the
gift of tongues had, after more intimate acquaintance with him,
expressed themselves doubtful of the ability of language to properly
embody Scrabblegrab’s character in a single name.

The principal trouble was, that they were unable to make anything at all
of his character; there was nothing about him which they could
understand, so they first suspected him, and then hated him violently,
after the usual manner of society toward the incomprehensible.

And on the particular morning which saw Scrabblegrab the only worker at
Blugsey’s, the remaining miners were assembled in solemn conclave at
Stumpy Fluke’s saloon, to determine what was to be done with the
detested man.

The scene was certainly an impressive one; for such quiet had not been
known at the saloon since the few moments which intervened between the
time, weeks before, when Broadhorn Jerry gave the lie to Captain Greed,
and the captain, whose pistol happened to be unloaded, was ready to
proceed to business.

The average miner, when sober, possesses a degree of composure and
gravity which would be admirable even in a judge of ripe experience, and
miners, assembled as a deliberative body, can display a dignity which
would drive a venerable Senator or a British M. P. to the uttermost
extreme of envy.

On the occasion mentioned above, the miners ranged themselves near the
unoccupied walls, and leaned at various graceful and awkward angles.
Boston Ben, who was by natural right the ruler of the camp, took the
chair—that is, he leaned against the centre of the bar. On the other
side of the bar leaned Stumpy Flukes, displaying that degree of
conscious importance which was only becoming to a man who, by virtue of
his position, was sole and perpetual secretary and recorder to all
stated meetings at Blugsey’s.

Boston Ben glanced around the room, and then collectively announced the
presence of a quorum, the formal organization of the meeting, and its
readiness for deliberation, by quietly remarking:

“Blaze away!”

Immediately one of the leaners regained the perpendicular, departed a
pace from the wall, rolled his tobacco neatly into one cheek, and
remarked:

“We’ve stood it long enough—the bottom’s clean out of the pan, Mr.
Chairman. Scrabblegrab’s declined bitters from half the fellers in camp,
an’ though his gray old top-knot’s kept ’em from takin’ satisfaction in
the usual manner, they don’t feel no better ’bout it than they did.”

The speaker subsided into his section of wall, composed himself into his
own especial angles, and looked like a man who had fully discharged a
conscientious duty.

From the opposite wall there appeared another speaker, who indignantly
remarked:

“Goin’ back on bitters ain’t a toothful to what he’s done. There’s young
Curly, that went last week. That boy played his hand in a style that
would take the conceit clean out uv an angel. But all to onct Curly took
to lookin’ flaxed, an’ the judge here overheard Scrabblegrab askin’
Curly what he thort his mother’d say ef she knew he was makin’ his money
that way? The boy took on wuss an’ wuss, an’ now he’s vamosed. Don’t
b’lieve me ef yer don’t want ter, fellers—here’s the judge hisself.”

The judge briskly advanced his spectacles, which had gained him his
title, and said:

“True ez gospel; and when I asked him ef he wasn’t ashamed of himself
fur takin’ away the boy’s comfort, he said No, an’ that I’d be a more
decent man ef I’d give up keards myself.”

“He’s alive yit!” said the first speaker, in a tone half of inquiry and
half of reproof.

“I know it,” said the judge, hastening to explain. “I’d lent my
pepperbox to Mose when he went to ’Frisco, an’ the old man’s too little
fur a man uv my size to hit.”

The judge looked anxiously about until he felt assured his explanation
had been generally accepted. Then he continued:

“What’s he good fur, anyhow? He can’t sing a song, except somethin’
about ‘Tejus an’ tasteless hours,’ that nobody ever heard before, an’
don’t want to agin; he don’t drink, he don’t play keards, he don’t even
cuss when he tumbles into the river. Ev’ry man’s got his p’ints, an’ ef
he hain’t got no good uns, he’s sure to have bad uns. Ef he’d only show
’em out, there might be somethin’ honest about it; but when a feller
jist eats an’ sleeps an’ works, an’ never shows any uv the tastes uv a
gentleman, ther’s somethin’ wrong.”

“I don’t wish him any harm,” said a tall, good-natured fellow, who
succeeded the judge; “but the feller’s looks is agin the reputation uv
the place. In a camp like this here one, whar society’s first-class—no
greasers nur pigtails nur loafers—it ain’t the thing to hev anybody
around that looks like a corkscrew that’s been fed on green apples and
watered with vinegar—it’s discouragin’ to gentlemen that might hev a
notion of stakin’ a claim, fur the sake uv enjoyin’ our social
advantages.”

“N-none uv yer hev got to the wust uv it yit,” remarked another. “The
old cuss is too fond uv his dust. Billy Banks seen him a-buyin’ pork up
to the store, an’ he handled his pouch ez ef ’twas eggs instid of
gold-dust—poured it out as keerful ez yer please, an’ even scraped up a
little bit he spilt. Now, when I wuz a little rat, an’ went to
Sunday-school, they used to keep a-waggin’ at me ’bout evil
communication a-corruptin’ o’ good manners. That’s what _he’ll_ do—fust
thing yer know, _other_ fellers’ll begin to be stingy, an’ think
gold-dust wuz made to save instid uv to buy drinks an’ play keards fur.
_That’s_ what it’ll come to.”

“Beggin’ ev’rybody’s pardon,” interposed a deserter from the army, “but
these here perceedin’s is irreg’lar. ’Tai’nt the square thing to take
evidence till the pris’ner’s in court.”

Boston Ben immediately detailed a special officer to summon Old
Scrabblegrab, declared a recess of five minutes, and invited the boys to
drink with him.

Those who took sugar in theirs had the cup dashed from their lips just
as they were draining the delicious dregs, for the officer and culprit
appeared, and the chairman rapped the assembly to order.

Boston Ben had been an interested attendant at certain law-courts in the
States, so in the calm consciousness of his acquaintance with legal
procedure he rapidly arraigned Scrabblegrab.

“Scrabblegrab, you’re complained uv for goin’ back on bitters, coaxin’
Curly to give up keards, thus spoilin’ his fun, an’ knockin’
appreciatin’ observers out of their amusement; uv insultin’ the judge,
uv not cussin’ when you stumble into the river, uv not havin’ any good
p’ints, an’ not showin’ yer bad ones; uv bein’ a set-back on the tone uv
the place—lookin’ like a green-apple-fed, vinegar-watered corkscrew, or
words to that effect; an’, finally, in savin’ yer money. What hev you
got to say agin’ sentence bein’ passed on yer?”


[Illustration:

  “I DON’T GENERALLY SHOOT TILL THE OTHER FELLER DRAWS.”
]


The old man flushed as the chairman proceeded, and when the indictment
reached its end, he replied, in a tone which indicated anything but
respect for the court:

“I’ve got just this to say, that I paid my way here, I’ve asked no odds
of any man sence I’ve ben here, an’ that anybody that takes pains to
meddle with my affairs is an impudent scoundrel!”

Saying which, the old man turned to go, while the court was paralyzed
into silence.

But Tom Dosser, a new arrival, and a famous shot, now stepped in front
of the old man.

“I ax yer parding,” said Tom, in the blandest of tones, “but, uv course,
yer didn’t mean me when yer mentioned impudent scoundrels?”

“Yes, I did—I meant you, and ev’rybody like yer,” replied the old man.

Tom’s hand moved toward his pistol. The chairman expeditiously got out
of range. Stumpy Flukes promptly retired to the extreme end of the bar,
and groaned audibly.

The old man _was_ in the wrong; but, then, wasn’t it _too_ mean, when
blood was so hard to get out, that these difficulties _always_ took
place just after he’d got the floor clean?

“I don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws,” explained Tom
Dosser, while each man in the room wept with emotion as they realized
they had lived to see Tom’s skill displayed before their very eyes—“I
don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws; but you’d better be
spry. I usually make a little allowance for age, but——”

Tom’s further explanations were indefinitely delayed by an abnormal
contraction of his trachea, the same being induced by the old man’s
right hand, while his left seized the unhappy Thomas by his waist-belt,
and a second later the dead shot of Blugsey’s was tossed into the middle
of the floor, somewhat as a sheaf of oats is tossed by a practiced hand.

“Anybody else?” inquired the old man. “I’ll back Vermont bone an’ muscle
agin’ the hull passel of ye, even if I _be_ a deacon. ‘The angel of the
Lord encampeth round about them that fear him.’”

“The angel needn’t hurry hisself,” said Tom Dosser, picking himself up,
one joint at a time. “Ef that’s the crowd yer travelin’ with, and
they’ve got a grip anything like yourn, I don’t want nothin’ to do with
’em.”

Boston Ben looked excited, and roared:

“This court’s adjourned _sine die_.”

Then he rushed up to the newly announced deacon, caught him firmly by
the right hand, slapped him heartily between the shoulders, and
inquired, rather indignantly:

“Say, old Angelchum, why didn’t you ever let folks know yer style,
instead uv trottin’ ‘round like a melancholy clam with his shells shut
up tight? That’s what this crowd wants to know! Now yev opened down to
bed-rock, we’ll git English Sam from Sonora, an’ git up the tallest kind
uv a rasslin’ match.”

“Not unless English Sam meddles with my business, you won’t,” replied
the deacon, quickly. “I’ve got enough to do fightin’ speretual foes.”

“Oh,” said Boston Ben, “we’ll manage it so the church folks needn’t
think ’twas a set-up job. We’ll put Sam up to botherin’ yer, and yer can
tackle him at sight. Then——”

“Excuse me, Boston,” interrupted Tom Dosser, “but yer don’t hit the
mark. I’m from Vermont myself, an’ deacons there don’t fight for the fun
of it, whatever they may do in the village _you_ hail from.” Then,
turning to the old man, Tom asked: “What part uv the old State be ye
from, deacon, an’ what fetched ye out?”

“From nigh Rutland,” replied the deacon, “I hed a nice little place
thar, an’ wuz doin’ well. But the young one’s eyes is bad. None uv the
doctors thereabouts could do anythin’ fur ’em. Took her to Boston;
nobody thar could do anythin’—said some of the European doctors were the
only ones that could do the job safely. Costs money goin’ to Europe an’
payin’ doctors—I couldn’t make it to hum in twenty year; so I come
here.”

“Only child?” inquired Tom Dosser, while the boys crowded about the two
Vermonters, and got up a low buzz of sympathetic conversation.

The old man heard it all, and to his lonesome and homesick soul it was
so sweet and comforting, that it melted his natural reserve, and made
him anxious to unbosom himself to some one. So he answered Tom:

“Only child of my only darter.”

“Father dead?” inquired Tom Dosser.

“Better be,” replied the deacon, bitterly. “He left her soon after they
were married.”

“Mean skunk!” said Tom, sympathetically.

“I want to judge as I’d _be_ judged,” replied the deacon; “but I feel ez
ef I couldn’t call that man bad enough names. Hesby was ez good a gal ez
ever lived, but she went to visit some uv our folks at Burlington, an’
fust thing I know’d she writ me she’d met this chap, and they’d been
married, an’ wanted us to forgive her; but he was so good, an’ she loved
him so dearly.”

“Good for the gal,” said Tom, and a murmur of approbation ran through
the crowd.

“Of course, we forgave her. We’d hev done it ef she married Satan
himself,” continued the deacon. “But we begged her to bring her husband
up home, an’ let us look at him. Whatever was good enough for _her_ to
love was good enough for us, and we meant to try to love Hesby’s
husband.”

“Done yer credit, deacon, too,” declared Tom, and again the crowd
uttered a confirmatory murmur. “Ef some folks—deacons, too—wuz ez
good—But go ahead, deac’n.”

“Next thing we heard from her, he had gone to the place he was raised
in; but a friend of his, who went with him, came back, an’ let out he’d
got tight, an’ been arrested. She writ him right off, beggin’ him to
come home, and go with her up to our place, where he could be out of
temptation an’ where she’d love him dearer than ever.”

“Pure gold, by thunder!” ejaculated Tom, while a low “You bet,” was
heard all over the room.

Tom’s eyes were in such a condition that he thought the deacon’s were
misty, and the deacon noticed the same peculiarities about Tom.

“She never got a word from him,” continued the deacon; “but one of her
own came back, addressed in his writing.”

“The infernal scoundrel!” growled Tom, while from the rest of the boys
escaped epithets which caused the deacon, indignant as he was, to shiver
with horror.

“She was nearly crazy, an’ started to find him, but nobody knowed where
he was. The postmaster said he’d come to the office ev’ry day for a
fortnight, askin’ for a letter, so he must hev got hers.”

“Ef all women had such stuff in ’em,” sighed Tom, “there’ll be one fool
less in California. ’Xcuse me, deac’n.”

“She never gev up hopin’ he’d come back,” said the deacon, in accents
that seemed to indicate labored breath “an’ it sometimes seems ez ef
such faith’d be rewarded by the Lord some time or other. She teaches
Pet—that’s her child—to talk about her papa, an’ to kiss his pictur; an’
when she an’ Pet goes to sleep, his pictur’s on the pillar between ’em.”

“An’ the idee that any feller could be mean enough to go back on such a
woman! Deacon, I’d track him right through the world, an’ just tell him
what you’ve told us. Ef _that_ didn’t fetch him, I’d consider it a
Christian duty an’ privilege to put a hole through him.”

“I couldn’t do that,” replied the deacon, “even ef I was a man uv blood;
fur Hesby loves him, an’ he’s Pet’s dad; Besides, his pictur looks like
a decent young chap—ain’t got no hair on his face, an’ looks more like
an innercent boy than anythin’ else. Hesby thinks Pet looks like him,
an’ I couldn’t touch nobody looking like Pet. Mebbe you’d like to see
her pictur,” continued the deacon, drawing from his pocket an ambrotype,
which he opened and handed Tom.

“Looks sweet ez a posy,” said Tom, regarding it tenderly. “Them little
lips uv hern look jest like a rose when it don’t know whether to open a
little further or not.”

The deacon looked pleased, and extracted another picture, and remarked,
as he handed it to Tom:

“That’s Pet’s mother.”


[Illustration:

  THE DEACON LOOKED PLEASED, AND EXTRACTED ANOTHER
  PICTURE, AND REMARKED, AS HE HANDED IT TO TOM, “THAT’S PET’S MOTHER.”
  TOM TOOK IT, LOOKED AT IT, AND SCREAMED, “MY WIFE!”
]


Tom took it, looked at it, and screamed:

“_My wife!_”

He threw himself on the floor, and cried as only a big-hearted man _can_
cry.

The deacon gazed wildly about, and gasped:

“What’s his name?—tell me quick!”

“Tom Dosser!” answered a dozen or more.

“That’s him! Bless the Lord!” cried the deacon, and finding a seat,
dropped into it, and buried his face in his hands.

For several moments there was a magnificent attempt at silence, but it
utterly failed. The boys saw that the deacon and Tom were working a very
large claim, and to the best of their ability they assisted.

Stumpy Flukes, under the friendly shelter of the bar, was able to fully
express his feelings through his eyelids, but the remainder of the
party, by taking turns at staring out the windows, and contemplating the
bottles behind the bar, managed to delude themselves into the belief
that their eyes were invisible. Finally, Tom arose. “Deacon—boys,” he
said, “I never got that letter. I wus afeard she’d hear about my scrape,
so I wrote her all about it, ez soon ez I got sober, an’ begged her to
forgive me. An’ I waited an’ hoped an’ prayed for an answer, till I
growed desperate, an’ came out here.”

“She never heerd from you, Thomas,” sighed the deacon.

“Deac’n,” said Tom, “do you s’pose I’d hev kerried this for years”—here
he drew out a small miniature of his wife—“ef I hadn’t loved her? Yes,
an’ this too,” continued Tom, producing a thin package, wrapped in
oilskin. “There’s the only two letters I ever got from her, an’, just
’cos her hand writ ’em, I’ve had ’em just where I took ’em from for four
years. I got ’em at Albany, fore I got on that cussed tare, an’ they was
both so sweet an’ wifely, that I’ve never dared to read ’em since, fur
fear that thinkin’ on what I’d lost would make me even wuss than I am.
But I ain’t afeard now,” said Tom, eagerly tearing off the oilskin, and
disclosing two envelopes.

He opened one, took out the letter, opened it with trembling hands,
stared blankly at it, and handed it to the deacon.

“Thar’s my letter now—I got ’em in the wrong envelope!”

“Thomas,” said the deacon, “the best thing you can do is to deliver that
letter yourself. An’ don’t let any grass grow under your feet, ef you
ken help it.”

“I’m goin’ by the first hoss I ken steal,” said Tom.

“An’ tell her I’ll be along ez soon as I pan out enough,” continued the
deacon.

“An’ tell her,” said Boston Ben, “that the gov’nor won’t be much behind
you. Tell her that when the crowd found out how game the old man was,
and what was on his mind, that the court was so ashamed of hisself that
he passed around the hat for Pet’s benefit, and”—here Boston Ben
thoughtfully weighed the hat in his hands—“and that the apology’s heavy
enough to do Europe a dozen times; I know it, for I’ve had to travel
myself occasionally.”

Here he deposited the venerable tile with its precious contents on the
floor in front of the deacon. The old man looked at it, and his eyes
filled afresh, as he exclaimed:

“God bless you! I wish I could do something for you in return.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Boston Ben, “unless—you—You _couldn’t_ make up
your mind to a match with English Sam, could you?”

“Come, boys,” interrupted Stumpy Flukes; “it’s my treat—name your
medicine—fill high—all charged?—now then—bottom up, to ‘The meanest man
at Blugsey’s’!”

“That _did_ mean _you_, deacon!” exclaimed Tom; “but I claim it myself
now, so—so I won’t drink it.”

The remainder of the crowd clashed glasses, while Tom and his
father-in-law bowed profoundly. Then the whole crowd went out to steal
horses for the two men, and had them on the trail within an hour. As
they rode off, Stumpy Flukes remarked:

“There’s a splendid shot ruined for life.”

“Yes,” said Boston Ben, with a deep sigh struggling out of his manly
bosom, “an’ a bully rassler, too. The Church has got a good deal to
answer fur, fur sp’ilin’ that man’s chances.”


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      DEACON BARKER’S CONVERSION.


OF the several pillars of the Church at Pawkin Centre, Deacon Barker was
by all odds the strongest. His orthodoxy was the admiration of the
entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy
driving distance of the Deacon’s native village. He it was who had
argued the late pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church into that state of
disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious
fever, into the Church triumphant; and it was also Deacon Barker whose
questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor’s shoes had
cast such consternation into divinity-schools, far and near, that soon
it was very hard to find a candidate for ministerial honors at Pawkin
Centre.

Nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. Be the weather what it
might, the Deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in
time to join in the first hymn, and on every Thursday night, at a
quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the
good Deacon’s cane and shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the
aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. Nor did
the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to
vibrate to the voice of the Deacon, as he made, in scriptural language,
humble confessions and tearful pleadings before the throne, or—still
strictly scriptural in expression—he warned and exhorted the impenitent.
The contribution-box always received his sixpence as long as specie
payment lasted, and the smallest fractional currency note thereafter;
and to each of the regular annual offerings to the missionary cause, the
Bible cause, and kindred Christian enterprises, the Deacon regularly
contributed his dollar and his prayers.

The Deacon could quote scripture in a manner which put Biblical
professors to the blush, and every principle of his creed so bristled
with texts, confirmatory, sustentive and aggressive, that doubters were
rebuked and free-thinkers were speedily reduced to speechless humility
or rage. But the unregenerate, and even some who professed
righteousness, declared that more fondly than to any other scriptural
passage did the good Deacon cling to the injunction, “Make to yourselves
friends of the mammon of unrighteousness.” Meekly insisting that he was
only a steward of the Lord, he put out his Lord’s money that he might
receive it again with usury, and so successful had he been that almost
all mortgages held on property near Pawkin Centre were in the hands of
the good Deacon, and few were the foreclosure sales in which he was not
the seller.

The new pastor at Pawkin Centre, like good pastors everywhere, had
tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, “How
are we to reach the impenitent in our midst!” The said impenitent were,
with but few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding
people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with Yankee-thrift
as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was
constantly threatening. At length, like many another pastor, he called a
meeting of the brethren, to prayerfully consider this momentous
question. The Deacon came, of course, and so did all the other pillars,
and many of them presented their views. Brother Grave thought the final
doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; Deacon Struggs
had an abiding conviction that it was the Man of Sin holding dominion in
their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; Deacon
Ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if
those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but
he was promptly though covertly rebuked by the good Deacon Barker, who
reminded the brethren that “it is the _Spirit_ that quickeneth”; Brother
Flite, who hadn’t any money, thought the Church ought to build a
“working-man’s chapel,” but this idea was promptly and vigorously
combated by all men of property in the congregation. By this time the
usual closing hour had arrived, and after a benediction the faithful
dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.

Early next morning the good Deacon Barker, with his mind half full of
the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took
his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to
finish the incomplete structure. There was Moggs, but Moggs had been
busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price
for a day’s work. Stubb was idle, but Stubb was slow. Augur—Augur used
liquor, and the Deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of
_his_ money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff.
But there was Hay—he hadn’t seen him at work for a long time—perhaps he
would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.

The Deacon knocked at Hay’s door, and Hay himself shouted:

“Come in.”

“How are ye, George,” said the Deacon, looking hastily about the room,
and delightfully determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed Mrs. Hay
and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast-table, that he
had been providentially guided to the right spot. “How’s times with ye?”

“Not very good, Deac’n,” replied Hay. “Nothin’ much doin’ in town.”

“Money’s awful sceerce,” groaned the Deacon.

“Dreadful,” responded George, devoutly thanking the Lord that he owed
the Deacon nothing.

“Got much to do this winter?” asked the Deacon.

“Not by a d—day’s job—not a single day,” sorrowfully replied Hay.

The Deacon’s pious ear had been shocked by the young man’s imperfectly
concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a
rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man
from the path of rectitude.

“I’m fixin’ my cow-shed—might p’raps give ye a job on’t. ‘Spose ye’d do
it cheap, seein’ how dull ev’ry thin’ is?”

The sad eyes of Mrs. Hay grew bright in an instant. Her husband’s heart
jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so he said, as calmly as
possible:

“Three dollars is reg’lar pay.”

The Deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.

“Too much,” said he; “I’d better hire a common lab’rer at a dollar ’n a
half, an’ boss him myself. It’s only a cow-shed, ye know.”

“Guess, though, ye won’t want the nails druv no less p’ticler, will ye,
Deac’n?” inquired Hay. “But I tell yer what I’ll do—I’ll throw off fifty
cents a day.”

“Two dollars ort to be enough, George,” resumed the Deacon.
“Carpenterin’s pooty work, an’ takes a sight of headpiece sometimes, but
there’s no intellec’ required to work on a cow-shed. Say two dollars,
an’ come along.”

The carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three
dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could
get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too
horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied:

“Two an’ a quarter, an’ I’m your man.”

“Well,” said the Deacon, “it’s a powerful price to pay for work on a
cow-shed, but I s’pose I mus’ stan’ it. Hurry up; thar’s the
mill-whistle blowin’ seven.”

Hay snatched his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears out of his
wife’s eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the Deacon looking
on.

“George,” said the Deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his
hammer in mid-air, “think it over agen, an’ say two dollars.”

Hay gave the good Deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the
force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual
vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at
the industry of his _employe_.

The air was bracing, the Winter sun shone brilliantly, the Deacon’s
breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not yet freed itself
from the influences of the Sabbath. Besides, he had secured a good
workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the
Deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. He rambled through his mind for a
text which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back
Sunday, and Sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. And
here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects,
though he _was_ higher-priced than he should be. How was the cause of
the Master to be prospered if His servants made no effort? Then there
came to the Deacon’s mind the passage, “——he which converteth the sinner
from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a
multitude of sins.” What particular sins of his own needed hiding the
Deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly
admitted to himself and the Lord that he had them, in a general way.
Then, with that directness and grace which were characteristic of him,
the Deacon solemnly said:

“George, what is to be the sinner’s doom?”

“I dunno,” replied George, his wrath still warm; “‘pears to me you’ve
left that bizness till pretty late in life, Deac’n!”

“Don’t trifle with sacrid subjec’s, George,” said the Deacon, still very
solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. “The wicked
shall be cast into hell, with—”

“They can’t kerry their cow-sheds with ’em, neither,” interrupted
George, consolingly.

“Come, George,” said the good Deacon, in an appealing tone, “remember
the apostle says, ‘Suffer the word of exhortation.’”

“’Xcuse me, Deac’n, but one sufferin’ at a time; I ain’t through
sufferin’ at bein’ beaten down yet. How about deac’ns not being ‘given
to filthy lucre?’”

The good Deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the
apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the
unregenerate. He commenced an industrious search for a text which should
completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual
interrupted him with:

“Out with it, Deac’n—ye had a meetin’ las’ night to see what was to be
done with the impenitent. I was there—that is, I sot on a stool jest
outside the door, an’ I heerd all ’twas said. Ye didn’t agree on
nothin’—mebbe ye’v fixed it up sence. Any how, ye’v sot me down fur one
of the impenitent, an’ yer goin’ fur me. Well——”

“Go on nailin’,” interrupted the economical Deacon, a little testily;
“the noise don’t disturb me; I can hear ye.”

“Well, what way am I so much wickeder ’n you be—you an’ t’other folks at
the meetin’-house?” asked Hay.

“George, I never saw ye in God’s house in my life,” replied the Deacon.

“Well, s’pose ye hevn’t—is God so small He can’t be nowheres ‘xcept in
your little meetin’-house? How about His seein’ folks in their closets?”

“George,” said the Deacon, “ef yer a prayin’ man, why don’t ye jine
yerself unto the Lord’s people?”

“Why? ’Cos the Lord’s people, as you call ’em, don’t want me. S’pose I
was to come to the meetin’-house in these clothes—the only ones I’ve
got—d’ye s’pose any of the Lord’s people ’d open a pew-door to me? An’
s’pose my wife an’ children, dressed no better ’n I be, but as good ’s I
can afford, was with me, how d’ye s’pose I’d feel?”

“Pride goeth before a fall, an’ a haughty sperit before,” groaned the
Deacon, when the carpenter again interrupted.

“I’d feel as ef the people of God was a gang of insultin’ hypocrites,
an’ ez ef I didn’t ever want to see ’em again. Ef that kind o’ pride’s
sinful, the devil’s a saint. Ef there’s anythin’ wrong about a man’s
feelin’ so about himself and them God give him, God’s to blame for it
himself; but seein’ it’s the same feelin’ that makes folks keep
’emselves strait in all other matters, I’ll keep on thinkin’ it’s
right.”

“But the preveleges of the Gospel, George,” remonstrated the Deacon.

“Don’t you s’pose I know what they’re wuth?” continued the carpenter.
“Haven’t I hung around in front of the meetin’-house Summer nights, when
the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin’ and what else I
could hear? Hezn’t my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn’t
both of us prayed an’ groaned an’ cried in our hearts, not only ’cos we
couldn’t join in it all ourselves, but ’cos we couldn’t send the
children either, without their learnin’ to hate religion ’fore they
fairly know’d what ’twas? Haven’t I sneaked in to the vestibule Winter
nights, an’ sot just where I did last night, an’ heard what I’d ’a liked
my wife and children to hear, an’ prayed for the time to come when the
self-app’inted elect shouldn’t offend the little ones? An’ after sittin’
there last night, an’ comin’ home and tellin’ my wife how folks was
concerned about us, an’ our rejoicin’ together in the hope that some day
our children could hev the chances we’re shut out of now, who should
come along this mornin’ but one of those same holy people, and Jewed me
down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on.”

The Deacon _had_ a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well
as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few
minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:

“Reckon Flite’s notion was right, after all—ther’ ort to be a
workin’-man’s chapel.”

“Ort?” responded Hay; “who d’ye s’pose ’d go to it?


[Illustration]


Nobody? Ye can rent us second-class houses, an’ sell us second-hand
clothin’, and the cheapest cuts o’ meat, but when it comes to cheap
religion—nobody knows its value better ’n we do. We don’t want to go
into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don’t know how to use, an’
we don’t expect to be asked into society where our talk an’ manners
might make some better eddicated people laugh. But when it comes to
religion—God knows nobody needs an’ deserves the very best article more
’n _we_ do.”

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to
look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly
examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great
deal of reason, and yet—God’s people deserved to hold their position,
if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather
triumphantly:

“What _is_ to be done, then?”

“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror
of the pious old man. “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out
to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes
along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it. Reform yer own
people, Deac’n. ’Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad
enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer
own.”

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand
still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the
Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God’s people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell
tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform.
Of course there was—weren’t we all poor sinners?—when we would do good
wasn’t evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to
complain, when they wern’t, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he
were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and
others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to
reform _him_? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of
reform was necessary? “Be not carried about with divers and strange
doctrines.” The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed
the injunction, “Commit thy way unto the Lord.”

But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full
day’s work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old
judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon’s red cow made an
addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from
comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God’s
house until God’s people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon’s really
human heart something terrible. If they _would_ be so proud—and yet,
people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray
and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could
scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn’t be many such, else this
out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn’t a full
congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke,
and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the
subject of their eternal welfare.

What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the
sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known
all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired
him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his
best in the labor market? “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Gracious! he
could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter’s voice delivering
that text. What _had_ brought that text into his head just now?—he had
never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his
conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of
one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at
Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such
hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever
really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford
its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if
Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the
money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive
of sleep. “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” There! he
could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory
passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it
didn’t seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon
questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had
a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the
Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business
manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals
as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of
their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price,
and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only
suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money
enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of
money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least
thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and
other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the
children—oh, the thing couldn’t be done for less than two hundred and
fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had
only wondered what it _would_ cost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn’t spoken with Hay about his soul—next
time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn’t employed Hay.
He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent
had never taken place. “No man can come to me except the Father which
sent me draw him”—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted
it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the
Almighty’s plans.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Hah! _Could_
that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with
such—such—tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of
life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose——

Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a
patient’s bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him
(the doctor was pious and imaginative) “Abraham on Mount Moriah.” The
village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him
he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony,
and passed on. He neared the carpenter’s house, stopped, tottered, and
looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his
way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw
him and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and
had come to give him warning.

“George,” said the Deacon, “I’ve been doin’ a heap of thinkin’ ’bout
what we talked of yesterday. I’ve come to say that if you like I’ll lend
you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye’v a mind to, without note,
security or int’rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you
an’ yer hull fam’ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the
Savin’s Bank, at interest, to go on doin’ the same with when necessary.
An’ all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An’ ef nobody
else’s pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord” the
Deacon finished the sentence to himself—“have mercy on my soul.” Then he
said, aloud:

“That’s all.”

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon’s speech, had dropped his
axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued,
the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow
inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said
“That’s all,” George Hay seized the Deacon’s hard old hand, gave it a
grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner,
and exclaimed:

“Deacon, God’s people are reformin’!”

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light
before.

“Deacon, that money ’ll do more good than all the prayin’ ye ever done.
’Xcuse me—I must tell Mary,” and the carpenter dashed into the house.
Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the
Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the
window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing
which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane
than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight
the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He
would die in the poorhouse if he were so extravagant again. Three
hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails,
labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West?
Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! One
suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and
nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was
in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought
back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street
without meeting one of Hay’s children with a paper of hooks and eyes or
a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front
windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay’s door, a little
distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no
one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night
and pawned everything? No—the door opened—there they came. It couldn’t
be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine
a-looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane,
hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide
open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked
around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—the president of the
Pawkin Savings’ Institution had invited the whole family into his pew!
Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:

                  “From all that dwell below the skies
                   Let the Creator’s praise arise”;

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ,
and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a
standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hays’ conversion, but
something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon
himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully
believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be
some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he
intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the
poorhouse as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his
Father’s house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his
treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on
the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the
tin-shop and the rum-shop the Deacon’s conversion is constantly
discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty
power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten
and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church daily thanks the
Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      JOE GATTER’S LIFE INSURANCE.


GOOD? He was the model boy of Bungfield. While his idle school-mates
were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading
Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into
currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates
purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey’s store, it was the
industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their
purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the
street-corners and cast sheep’s eyes at the girls, the business-like
Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with
eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he
expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at
parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in
short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority
he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his
heart.

For Joe’s money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had
it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read “Tackey &
Gatter.” Then the Squire wanted Joe’s soul, too, and so earnest was he
that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.

“’Twont do, Squire,” said he; “religion’s all very well in its place,
but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents,
because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer
gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion’s out of
place.”

“The human soul’s of more cons’kence than many eggs, Joseph,” argued the
Squire.

“That’s just it,” replied Joe; “money don’t hit the value of the soul
any way, and there’s no use trying to mix ’em. And while we’re talking,
don’t you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses
barrel with the brown sugar?—’twill make it weigh better.”

The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good
a partner as a man could want.

In one of Joe’s leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die,
nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too
exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies
ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men
in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned
before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had
squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of
divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.

The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and
endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he
had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it
twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good
Squire took his revenge.

“Joseph,” said he, “you ain’t through with insurance yet—you need to
insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there’s only one
Agent that does it.”

The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew
the Squire was right—he had heard that same story from every minister he
had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a half
cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.

Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who
represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the
insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that
if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would
have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted
Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him,
make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they
soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective
creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe
accepted that much promptly, as he did _anything_ which could be had
without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault
with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach
himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the
Reverend Barzillai Driftwood’s church had no debt, and that its
contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small,
so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of
crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto
the day of burning.

Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe’s saving act, and
sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds
were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe’s religious act
was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as
only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was
noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made
things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in
the debt of Tackey & Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe’s
assurance that the colors were fast, but the first wash-day failed to
confirm Joe’s statement. The proprietor of the stage line between
Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward
heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than
proper.

Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability.
And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced
discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds
of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in
Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the
bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at “runney” flour bought
for “A 1 Superfine” of Tackey & Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable
husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies
who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also
signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active
demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any
commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was
soon enabled to choose from a full supply.

Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his
investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was
successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful
shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest
which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance
policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with
economy and thrift. But the church—the church seemed an unmitigated
drag. Joe attended all the church meetings—determined to get the worth
of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses—he
had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church
money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did
not balance the amount of his contribution.

Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no
nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day
when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from
the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:

“Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to
taking, partner—that ’gainst fire risks in the next world, you know.
’Twill be tough if there’s any mistake—church does take a sight of
money.”


[Illustration:

  JOE AND HIS VENERABLE PARTNER TALKING OVER INSURANCE MATTERS.
]


“Joseph,” said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, “I’ve always been afeard
they didn’t look enough into your evidences when they took you into that
church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he’s all
the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you don’t
know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there’s mighty little
hope for you, church or no church.”

“Know in my heart!” cried Joe. “That’s a pretty kind of security. Is
that what I’ve been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my
heart in the first place, and saved the money. What’s the use of
believing all these knotty points, if they don’t make a sure thing for a
man?”

“If your belief don’t make you any better or happier, Joseph,” rejoined
the Squire, “you’d better look again and see if you’ve got a good hold
of it; those that’s got a clear title don’t find their investment as
slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the
ones that’s made a mistake.”

Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his
partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn’t begun. He believed
in justification by faith; now, wasn’t his faith strong—first-class, he
might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn’t he believed everything that
_all_ the ministers had insisted upon as essential? And what _was_
faith, if it wasn’t believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had
got him into this scrape—now he must see him through.

“Squire,” said he, “isn’t faith the same thing as believing?”

“Well,” said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk
the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, “that depends on
how you believe. Here’s a verse on the subject: ‘Thou believest in God;
thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.’”

Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn’t an aristocrat, but would _any_ one fancy
such companionship as the Squire referred to?

“Here,” said the Squire, turning the leaves, “is another passage bearin’
on the subject. ‘O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee
from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore, _fruits_ meet for
repentance.’”

Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to
introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.

“Now, see what it says in another place,” continued the Squire, “Not
every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of
heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.”

“Yes,” said Joe, grateful for hearing of no more horrible believers,
“but what _is_ his will but believing on him? Don’t the Bible say that
they that believe shall be saved?”

“Joseph,” said the Squire, “when you believed in my store, you put in
your time and money there. When you believed in hoss-tradin’ you devoted
yourself to practicing it. When you believed life insurance was a good
thing, you took out policies and paid for them, though you _have_
complained of the Patagonian dividends. Now, if you do believe in God,
what have you done to prove it?”

“I’ve paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues,” said Joe,
wrathfully, “not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ.”

“That wasn’t for God, Joseph,” said the Squire; “’twas all for you. God
never’ll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work. You’ll
find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those
that’s going into the kingdom of heaven—they’re the people that give
food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners,
while those that don’t do these things _don’t_ go in, to put it mildly.
He don’t say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving
away property don’t happen till a man’s belief is pretty strong.”

Joe felt troubled. Could it really be that his eternal insurance was
going to cost more money? Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung,
President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.—the Colonel didn’t believe in
anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the
Colonel’s courage.

Joe’s meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor
fellow who owed Joe some money. Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars,
discounted ten per cent. for ninety days, and secured by a chattel
mortgage on Sam’s horse and wagon. But Sam had been sick during most of
the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace,
that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.

It was easy to see by Sam’s hopeless eye and strained features that he
had not come to pay—he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as
uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and
wagon, his only means of support. As for Joe, he had got that hundred
dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and
his partner had been talking about. It was utterly unbusinesslike—he
knew it—he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but,
try as he might, he could not succeed. Joe thought briskly; he
determined to try an experiment.

“Sam,” said he, “got the money?”

“No,” Sam replied; “luck’s agin me—I’ve got to stand it, I suppose.”

“Sam,” said Joe, “I’ll give you all the time you need, at legal
interest.”

Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try
good deeds upon. But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and
the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which
made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes. He hurried
into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe
replied:

“I’ve got a dividend, Squire—one of those we were talking about.”

“How’s that?” asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.

“I’ll show you,” said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has
just put in writing his promise to Sam.

“Joseph,” said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to
assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, “it beats the widow’s
mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you’ve given Him more than you
ever had in all your life until to-day.”

Joe handed Sam the paper, and it was to the teamster the strongest
evidence of Christianity he had ever seen in Bungfield. He had known of
some hard cases turning from the saloon and joining the church, but none
of these things were so wonderful as this action of Joe Gatter’s. Sam
told the story, in strict confidence, to each of his friends, and the
good seed was thus sown in soil that it had never reached before.

It would be pleasant to relate that Joe forthwith ceased shaving notes
and selling antiquated grease for butter, and that he devoted the rest
of his days and money to good deeds, but it wouldn’t be true. Those of
our readers who have always consistently acted according to their own
light and knowledge are, of course, entitled to throw stones at Joe
Gatter; but most of us know to our sorrow why he didn’t always act
according to the good promptings he received. Our only remaining duty is
to say that when, thereafter, Joe’s dividends came seldom, he knew who
to blame.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY.


LOUD and long rang the single church-bell at Backley, but its industry
was entirely unnecessary, for the single church at Backley was already
full from the altar to the doors, and the window-sills and altar-steps
were crowded with children. The Backleyites had been before to the
regular yearly temperance meetings, and knew too well the relative
merits of sitting and standing to wait until called by the bell. Of
course no one could afford to be absent, for entertainments were
entirely infrequent at Backley; the populace was too small to support a
course of lectures, and too moral to give any encouragement to circuses
and minstrel troupes, but a temperance meeting was both moral and cheap,
and the children might all be taken without extra cost.

For months all the young men and maidens at Backley had been practising
the choruses of the songs which the Temperance Glee Club at a
neighboring town was to sing at the meeting. For weeks had large
posters, printed in the reddest of ink, announced to the surrounding
country that the parent society would send to Backley, for this especial
occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor
made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of
the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the
lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain
fractional currency represented but a small amount of money.

The bell ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze
into the aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air;
Squire Breet called the meeting to order, and was himself elected
permanent Chairman; the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that
intemperance might cease to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs,
with rousing choruses; a pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate
(both pupils of the Backley High School), delivered a dialogue in which
the pretended drunkard was handled severely; a tableau of “The
Drunkard’s Home” was given; and then the parent society’s brilliant
orator took the platform.

The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing,
besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present
that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and
unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the
brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with
harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of
police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that
alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of
statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the
money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many
comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would
support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.

Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard’s family and
the awfulness of the drunkard’s death, and sat down amid a perfect
thunder of applause.

The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive
countenances; the Cornet Quartette played “Don’t you go, Tommy”; the
smallest young lady sang “Father, dear father, come Home with me Now”;
and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open
for remarks.

A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from
some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and looking
round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.

“Put him out!” “It’s a shame!” “Disgraceful!” were some of the cries
which were heard in the room.

“Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley,” said the Chairman, rapping
vigorously to call the audience to order, “and though not a member of
the Association, he is entitled to a hearing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; “your
words are the first respectful ones I’ve ever heard in Backley, an’ I do
assure you I appreciate ’em. But I want the audience to understand I
ain’t drunk—I haven’t had a cent for two days, an’ nobody’s treated me.”

By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of
excitement. A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!—they
had never heard of such a thing in their lives. Verily, Backley was
going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual
occurrences.

“I ’spose, Mr. Chairman,” continued Joe Digg, “that the pint of
temp’rance meetin’s is to stop drunkenness, an’ as I’m about the only
fully developed drunkard in town, I’m most likely to know what this
meetin’s ’mounted to.”

Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness
of Joe Digg’s position.

“I believe ev’ry word the gentleman has said,” continued the drunkard,
“and”—here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim
“Bless the Lord!” and burst into tears—“and he could have put it all a
good deal stronger without stretchin’ the truth. An’ the sorrer of a
drunkard’s home can be talked about ‘till the Dictionary runs dry, an’
then ye don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. But hain’t none of ye ever laughed
’bout lockin’ the stable door after the hoss is stolen? That’s just what
this temp’rance meetin’ an’ all the others comes to.”

A general and rather indignant murmur of dissent ran through the
audience.

“Ye don’t believe it,” continued Joe Digg, “but I’ve been a drunkard,
an’ I’m one yet, an’ ye all got sense enough to understan’ that I ort to
know best about it.”

“Will the gentleman have the kindness to explain?” asked the lecturer.

“I’m a comin’ to it, sir, ef my head ’ll see me through,” replied the
drunkard. “You folks all b’leeve that its lovin’ liquor that makes men
drink it; now, ’taint no sech thing. I never had a chance to taste fancy
drinks, but I know that every kind of liquor _I_ ever got hold of was
more like medicine than anything nice.”

“Then what _do_ they drink for?” demanded the excitable member.

“I’ll tell you,” said Joe, “if you’ll have a little patience. I have to
do it in my own way, for I ain’t used to public speakin’. You all know
who I am. My father was a church-member, an’ so was mother. Father done
day’s work, fur a dollar’n a quarter a day. How much firewood an’
clothes an’ food d’ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat
what come cheapest, an’ when some of the women here wuz a sittin’
comfortable o’ nights, a knittin’ an’ sewin’ an’ readin’, mother wuz
hangin’ aroun’ the butchershop, tryin’ to beat the butcher down on the
scraps that wasn’t good enough for you folks. Soon as we young ’uns was
big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I’ve worked for men in
this room twelve an’ fourteen hours a day. I don’t blame ’em—they didn’t
mean nothin’ out of the way—they worked just as long ’emselves, an’ so
did their boys. But they allers had somethin’ inside to keep ’em up, an’
I didn’t. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some men that
kep’ liquor in the field, an’ found how it helped me along, that I took
it, an’ thought ’twas a reg’lar God’s-blessin’? An’ when I foun’ ’twas
a-hurtin’ me, how was I to go to work an’ giv’ it up, when it stood me
instead of the eatables I didn’t have, an’ never had, neither?”

“You should hev prayed,” cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet;
“prayed long an’ earnest.”


[Illustration:

  THE TEMPERANCE MEETING.
]


“Deacon,” said Joe Digg, “I’ve heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to
twenty year; did prayin’ ever comfort _your_ stomach?”

The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was
suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:

“There’s lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an’ ev’ry where’s
else—people that don’t get half fed, an’ do get worked half to death.
Nobody _means_ to ’buse ’em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an’
whisky’s the best friend they’ve got.”

“I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself,” said Deacon
Towser, jumping up again, “an’ I’m the first man in the field, an’ the
last man to quit. But I don’t drink no liquor, an’ my boys don’t,
neither.”

“But ye don’t start in the mornin’ with hungry little faces a hauntin’
ye—ye don’t take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an’
leave the meat an’ butter at home for the wife an’ young ’uns. An’ ye go
home without bein’ afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin’ herself aroun’
among a lot of puny young ’uns that don’t know what’s the matter with
’em. Jesus Christ hissef broke down when it come to the cross, deac’n,
an’ poor human bein’s sometimes reaches a pint where they can’t stan’ no
more, an’ when its wife an’ children that brings it on, it gits a man
awful.”

“The gentleman is right, I have no doubt,” said the Chairman, “so far as
a limited class is concerned, but of course no such line of argument
applies to the majority of cases. There are plenty of well-fed, healthy,
and lazy young men hanging about the tavern in this very village.”

“I know it,” said Joe Digg, “an’ I want to talk about them too. I don’t
want 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 meetin’s 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) outmanœuvred 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.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 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 haint 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!”


[Illustration:

  “GET HIM—GET JOHNNY!” CRIED THE WOMAN, FALLING ON HER
  KNEES, AND SEIZING JUDE’S HAND.
]


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.

“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 ain’t 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.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that:
      was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
      was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).