Part II.Other Sketches
Other Sketches
The Bad Man From Bodie.
It wasnot a prepossessing face that entered Jack Hamlin’s office one morning in Bodie, California.
“I say, young fellow, my name is Jim Slack, and I want ter talk ter you.”
“All right, go ahead, and I’ll try and be a cheerful listener,” responded Jack.
“I’m looking for a pardner and it struck me that you’d be the right feller for the job,” and the visitor tried to smile a persuasive smile, but the attempt was a failure. The scar which began at his ear and extended down to his throat was unbecoming, and his right ear which looked as if a bite had been taken from it gave his head a one-sided appearance. His eyes possessed a shifty, uncertain look, his beard was of a reddish hue and two weeks’ growth. His clothes were ragged, ill-fitting and dirty.
Fastidious Jack Hamlin took his visitor in at a glance and laughed.
“So, you’d like me for a partner, would you?”
“Yes, I heard as how you were a spikilator like, and I want ter give yer a chance ter git rich quick.” He continued, “I am the owner of some of the most valyable claims in the Lundy deestrict; I own the Sheepherder, the Dutchman, the Julia Lundy and some other valyable prospects. I want yer to grub stake me and one-half of all I own is yers.” Here the visitor gave Jack a furtive side glance, but presently looked away.
“So, I have the pleasure of talking to the honorable James Slack of whom I have heard so much and I amfurther honored by being invited to become his partner, for the mere pittance of a grub stake?” And Jack laughed a merry laugh which did not please Slack. “You are the man that has several scalps already attached to your belt and you’d probably like to add mine to the collection, eh?”
Jim Slack winced under these insinuations, but he was hungry and he diplomatically kept his temper.
“Those were all accidents and they never could prove it different,” sullenly replied Slack. “I did not come here to be joshed, but ter give yer a chance ter get rich quick.”
“Very kind, indeed; here, take this and go and get a square meal, I think you’ll enjoy that,” and Jack tossed a gold piece to his caller. “Come again and we’ll talk the matter over,” and Jack returned to his work.
Jim Slack was probably the worst character in Mono county. He had been suspected of stage robbery, but so clever was his disguise that he could not be convicted. It was known that he had killed three men, an Irishman, a German, and a Chinaman, but he managed to save his neck through some legal quibble. When he was drinking, he would become almost a demon and assail friend or foe, if thwarted.
Jack Hamlin had made several thousand dollars about this time in mining speculations, and the money troubled him. He was never cut out to be an accumulator and money burnt a hole in his pocket.
“I believe I’ll take a chance with you,” he said, when Slack returned, “but I want a straight out and out deal. Go over and have Tom Stephens draw up the papers and I’ll arrange the credit for you at the store.”
No time was lost by Slack in obeying orders, and the next morning he started for his mines in the high Sierras with an outfit, the like of which he never before enjoyed.He swore everlasting fealty to Hamlin, but the latter waived all this “cheap talk,” as he called it, telling Slack he expected to hear good reports from him.
Two months passed by, and a visit was projected by his new partner to Slack’s mines. The latter came down from his eyrie, the twain meeting at Lundy, a little camp at the base of the mountain.
In drawing up the contract, Jim Slack had agreed to cut out liquor, and much stress was placed upon this part of the agreement.
It was quite late in the evening when Jack and his comrade started up the mountain for the mines. The location was far above the timber belt and in a spot of almost everlasting snow.
It was too dark to make any inspection of the mines that evening and a log fire was speedily burning for the weather was very cold on this July evening.
The bed was uninviting, composed mostly of wild beasts’ skins, the odor of which was strong and lingering.
To Jack’s surprise the first act of his host was to produce a whiskey bottle which he placed to his mouth, taking a long swig, offering the same to Hamlin.
“No, thank you,” said Jack, “I don’t like your brand.”
“Good shot, that leaves the more for me,” and the miner took another big swig.
Quiet reigned for a few minutes, when suddenly, with a demoniacal yell, Slack drew his gun and aiming it at one of the windows, emptied the six shots in as many seconds, crying out, “I got him then, didn’t you see him? It was Paddy Mann, whom they say I killed last year. There, I saw him tumble over the cliff,” and the now thoroughly drunken man shrieked with laughter.
Another libation was indulged in, and looking at the other window Slack shuddered, exclaiming, “Ah, there isthe Dutchman after me; what does he want? Let me take a pop at him,” and again was the revolver emptied into the window, provoking much maudlin merriment from the gunner.
Hamlin laid quietly in bed all this time, feeling a sense of more security by so doing, but on the alert with his own gun if it became necessary to defend himself.
The bottle was again produced and the liquor went gurgling down Slack’s throat. “That was Hans Schmidt that I finished. What was he doing around here, do you suppose?”
“Hold on, hold on,” he shrieked, “here comes Ah Lim, the Chinaman, I can see him dodging behind the rocks; let me go out and pepper him.”
Six shots again rang out in the air, and throwing himself on the ill-smelling bed, Slack pulled one of the skins over his head to shut out the gruesome sight his imagination had conjured up.
“That Chinaman ought to know better ’n to come round this yere cabin. I told him so, but he, too, has fallen over the slide and I’ll never be bothered by him. They been coming purty thick tonight, but I’ve done a good job, and now I’ll have another drink.”
The big bottle was nearly emptied and Slack again threw himself on the bed, apparently oblivious of Jack’s presence.
After a few moments of quiet, the drunken man fell into a stupor, snoring heavily. Hamlin saw his chance to escape, but he realized that he was taking desperate chances. Were he to inadvertantly awaken the sleeper, he might be number four.
Patiently waiting till the sleeper gave evidence of being soundly at rest, he made for the door, which he quickly opened and passed out, hastening with all speed for the friendly timber a quarter of a mile away.
The night was clear, the moon shining brightly, like it does in the lofty Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Jack had reached the timber belt, when an awful shriek rang out upon the air, followed immediately by six rapidly fired shots. Looking backward, the tall form of Jim Slack could be seen coming down the snowy trail, and Jack accelerated his own speed. Again and again did the pursuer empty his revolver at the fleeing Hamlin, who could not hold his distance against this man of the mountains.
The forest was growing thicker, and Jack saw his only chance for escape was to hide from his pursuer, so dodged quickly behind a huge fir tree, just as a sharp bend was made in the road.
With bated breath he waited the coming of his pursuer who passed by three minutes later, gun in hand and shrieking and cursing like a demon.
Jack watched him, following him as closely as he dared, till the little camp of Lundy was reached.
Slack pursued his way to the hotel bar room, which was crowded with the usual habitues.
It will always remain a mystery as to how the affair happened, but it is said that Jim Slack opened fire on his old enemy, Ed Clancy, who retreated, only to reappear in the rear, where he poured a volley into Slack. The latter fell, and, standing over the dying man, Clancy emptied his second gun into the prostrate body.
The magistrate of the camp was a witness of the killing, and promptly exonerated Clancy from any blame.
The following telegram was put on the wires immediately for the San Francisco papers.
“James Slack, widely known as the ‘Bad man from Bodie,’ was killed in a pistol fight tonight by Edward Clancy. The killing was justifiable. Slack has relatives in San Francisco.”
About noon on the following day a message was received by the postmaster of Lundy reading:
“San Francisco, California, July 15.“Please take care of James Slack’s body till my arrival. I come on first train.Signed, His Mother.”
“San Francisco, California, July 15.
“Please take care of James Slack’s body till my arrival. I come on first train.
Signed, His Mother.”
Four days later, the lumbering stage coach drew up in front of the hotel, and a little, old lady alighted. She was modestly attired and possessed a sweet, gentle face.
“I am Mrs. Slack, the mother of James Slack, the man who was killed a few days ago. Where will I find his remains?”
Every hat was doffed as the old lady passed out into the back room where laid all there was of James Slack.
There were no tears in her eyes as she stooped down and kissed the dead man on the forehead.
“My poor little Jimmie,” she murmured, “my poor little Jimmie.”
It was decided to bury the remains at Lundy and a grave had already been dug for that purpose, over which some heartless fellow had placed a head board, bearing the following inscription:
“Jim Slack, the toughest cuss in all Mono diggin’s.”
“This here don’t go, I tell yer,” said big Bill Hall, the hotel man, “and this is what I’ll do with sich a board,” and seizing it threw it over the Geiger grade, where it went clankety, clankety, clankety, down 2,000 feet to the creek below.
“Who can sing a hymn in this here crowd?” enquired Bill.
“I used ter know a couple of hymns when I went to Sunday School,” ventured Dick Byzicks, and one or two others owned up that they, too, knew a hymn or two and the volunteers stepped to the side of the woods to rehearse.
It was an unusually quiet day in Lundy. The bar room was closed, the first time in its history. Heads were uncovered as the little cortege proceeded slowly from the hotel to the newly made grave. Jack Hamlin walked with the little mother. A quartette of pretty fair voices sang “Rock of Ages,” and “Nearer My God to Thee.” Hamlin read a few passages from the only Bible in camp and the body was laid at rest.
A representative from the May Lundy mine, whose stockholders lived in Calais, Maine, called on Mrs. Slack, offering her $10,000 for her son’s prospects, and after a little negotiation, the deal, was consummated, Jack Hamlin generously waiving his partnership rights in favor of Mrs. Slack.
A little marble monument marks the last resting place of Jim Slack, which bears the following legend and no mark of disrespect has ever been shown the grave:
“Sacred to the memory of James Slack, who died July 15th, A. D. 18—. Erected by his mother, who always loved her son.”