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Romance of California Life

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Title: Romance of California Life

Author: John Habberton


        
Release date: October 22, 2004 [eBook #13832]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANCE OF CALIFORNIA LIFE ***

ROMANCE OF CALIFORNIA LIFE

Illustrated by Pacific Slope Stories,
Thrilling, Pathetic and Humorous

by

JOHN HABBERTON

Author Of "Helen's Babies"

1880







[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE]




INTRODUCTION


Many of the sketches contained in "Some Folks" were written by me during
the past five years, and some of them published by Mr. Leslie in his
_Illustrated Newspaper_ and his _Chimney Corner_, from which journals
they have been collected by friends who believe that in these stories is
displayed better workmanship than I have since done. For myself, I can
claim for them only an unusual degree of that unliterary and unpopular
quality called truthfulness. Although at present mildly tolerated in the
East, I was "brought up" in the West, and have written largely from
recollection of "some folks" I have known, veritable men and women,
scenes and incidents, and otherwise through the memories of Western
friends of good eyesight and hearing powers.

Should any one accuse me of having imitated Bret Harte's style, I shall
accept the accusation as a compliment, for I know of no other American
story writer so worthy to be taken as a teacher by men who acceptably
tell the stories of new countries. For occasionally introducing
characters and motives that would not be considered disgraceful in
virtuous communities, I can only plead in excuse the fact that, even in
the New West, some folks will occasionally be uniformly thoughtful,
respectable and honest, just as individuals sometimes are in the East.

JOHN HABBERTON.

NEW YORK, July 1st, 1877.




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.




CONTENTS.

THE SCHOOLTEACHER AT BOTTLE FLAT

JIM HOCKSON'S REVENGE

MAKING HIS MARK

CODAGO

THE LAST PIKE AT JAGGER'S BEND

FIRST PRAYER AT HANNEY'S

THE NEW SHERIFF OF BUNKER COUNTY

MAJOR MARTT'S FRIEND

BUFFLE

MATALETTE'S SECTION

A STORY OF TEN MILE GULCH

CAPTAIN SAM'S CHANGE

MISS FEWNE'S LAST CONQUEST

MARKSON'S HOUSE

GRUMP'S PET

WARDELOW'S BOY

TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK

OLD TWITCHETT'S TREASURE

BLIZZER'S WIFE

A BOARDING-HOUSE ROMANCE

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS

THE HARDHACK MISTAKE

THE CARMI CHUMS

LITTLE GUZZY

A ROMANCE OF HAPPY REST

TWO POWERFUL ARGUMENTS

MR. PUTCHETT'S LOVE

THE MEANEST MAN AT BLUGSEY'S

DEACON BARKER'S CONVERSION

JOE GATTER'S LIFE INSURANCE

THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY

JUDE

A LOVE OF A COTTAGE

THE BLEIGHTON RIVALS

BUDGE AND TODDIE AT AUNT ALICE'S

SAILING UP STREAM

FREE SPEECH




ILLUSTRATIONS


FRONTISPIECE

TOLEDO AND THE COMMITTEE'S VISIT

"HE HELD IT UNDER THE LIGHT"

"THEY FOUND HIM SENSELESS," ETC

FINDING THE BABY

THE GOLDEN HARVEST

PASSING THE HAT

EAST PATTEN

THE ROUGH GREETING

THE BABY'S NAME

THE DESERTED COTTAGE

THE PRAIRIE FARM

AN INVITATION TO WAIT

A LOVELY EXPERIENCE--"SPILED"

A STRANGE PROCEDURE

THE PLACARD ON THE DOOR

THE CIRCUIT PREACHER

KISSING SUNRISE

A DISCOVERY

THE LIKENESS

MOTHER AND SON MEET

COUNTRY INQUISITIVENESS

HUSBAND AND WIFE

IN PRISON

RUM VALLEY

NEAR HIS END

THE BONNEYS EMIGRATE

MR. PUTCHETT'S NEW FRIEND

"GOOD-BY, LITTLE ANGEL!"

COOL IN FACE OF DANGER

"THAT'S PET'S MOTHER"

THE RICH MAN'S CHURCH

TALKING OVER INSURANCE

THE MEETING

"GET HIM! GET JOHNNY!"

DOWN THE STREAM

THE WELCOME HOME

THE COTTAGE

"I CAME TO PLEAD FOR THE MAJOR"

PROCESS OF BEING LOCKED UP

BREAKFAST



SOME FOLKS.




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 bar-keeper--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--"

"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."

[Illustration: TOLEDO AND THE COMMITTEEMEN'S VISIT TO THE
SOHOOLTEACHER.]

"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 raided 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 afeared 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 afeared 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?" 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 glassware, 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 straightforward, 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. Disgraceful!"

"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.




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_ wont 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
markmanship 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.

"Mississip'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."

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

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.

"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 rawhide door; the doctor opened it.

Lynn Tapps 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. Buttoms 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, find 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.

"Shot 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 bar-room 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.

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 no
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.

[Illustration: 'THOMPSON GRACEFULLY CONCLUDED HIS SERVICE BY PASSING THE
HAT.']

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 bar-keeper'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 clashed 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 digging 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
store-keeper 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 _was_ 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 hain'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 tiptoe 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 roach 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.

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.

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

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 post-master 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 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 succombed 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.

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.

[Illustration: "COME IN," ROARED BUFFLES'S PARTNER. "COME IN, HANG YER,
IF YER LIFE'S INSURED!' THE DOOR OPENED SLOWLY, AND A WOMAN ENTERED.]

"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 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 Pat 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 everything" 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 Buflle'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,

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