A few days after Grump went to Placerville for a new pick for the Pet—the old one was too heavy for a light man, Grump said. Pet himself felt rather lonesome working on his neighbor's claim, so he sauntered down the creek, and got a kind word from almost every man. His ridiculous anatomy had escaped the grave so long, he was so industrious and so inoffensive, that the boys began to have a sort of affection for the boy who had come so far to "help the folks."
Finally, some weak miner, unable to hold the open secret any longer, told the Pet about Grump's operation in dust. Great was the astonishment of the young man, and puzzling miners gained sympathy from the weak eyes and open mouth of the Pet as he meandered homeward, evidently as much at a loss as themselves.
Unlucky was the spirit which prompted Grump in the selection of his claim! It was just beyond a small bend which the Run made, and was, therefore, out of sight of the claims of the other men belonging to the camp. And it came to pass that while Pet was standing on his own claim, leaning on his spade, and puzzling his feeble brain, there came down the Run the great Broady, chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, who were working several miles above.
Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation, had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week's industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small, ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous energy.
Poor Pet's resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump's, exclaimed:
"Let him go, or I'll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!"
The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying orders, but Grump's hands imparted to his command considerable moral force.
No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump's grasp than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully away.
The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.
"They've fit!" gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, "an' the boy—boy's hed to—lay him out."
It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.
"How did it come 'bout?" asked the colonel of Pet.
"Broady done it," replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; "he pounded the boy, and I tackled him—then he fired."
The doubter went around and raised the dying man's head. Pet seemed collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:
"What made you pour your dust into my pouch?"
"'Cause," whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet's neck, and drawing him closer, "'cause I'm yer dad; give this to yer mar," and on Pet's homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.
The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:
"Pet, yer an orphan."
Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud.
This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed:
"Boys, here's corpse—corpse is the best-looking man in camp."
And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in His own image.
The body was placed in a rude coffin, and borne to the grave on a litter of spades, followed by every man in camp, the colonel supporting the only family mourner. Each man threw a shovelful of dirt upon the coffin before the filling began. As the last of the surface of the coffin disappeared from view, Pet raised a loud cry and wept bitterly, at which operation he was joined by the whole party.
WARDELOW'S BOY.
WARDELOW'S BOY.
New Boston has once been the most promising of the growing cities of the West, according to some New York gentleman who constituted a land improvement company, distributed handsome maps gratis, and courted susceptible Eastern editors. Its water-power was unrivaled; ground for all desirable public buildings, and for a handsome park with ready-grown trees and a natural lake, had been securely provided for by the terms of the company's charter; building material abounded; the water was good; the soil of unequaled fertility; while the company, with admirable forethought, had a well-stocked store on the ground, and had made arrangements to send to the town a skillful physician and a popular preacher.
A reasonable number of colonists found their way to the ground in the pleasant Spring time, and, in spite of sundry local peculiarities not mentioned in the company's circular, they might have remained, had not a mighty freshet, in June, driven them away, and even saved some of them the trouble of moving their houses.
When, however, most of the residences floated down the river, some of them bearing their owners on their roofs, such of the inhabitants as had money left the promised land for ever; while the others made themselves such homes as they could in the nearest settlements which were above water, and fraternized with the natives through the medium of that common bond of sympathy in the Western lowlands, the ague.
Only a single one of the original inhabitants remained, and he, although he might have chosen the best of the abandoned houses for his residence, or even the elegant but deserted "company's store," continued to inhabit the cabin he had built upon his arrival. The solid business men of the neighboring town of Mount Pisgah, situated upon a bluff, voted him a fool whenever his name was mentioned; but the wives of these same men, when they chanced to see old Wardelow passing by, with the wistful face he always wore, looked after him tenderly, and never lost an opportunity to speak to him kindly. When they met at tea-parties, or quilting-bees, or sewing-societies, or in other gatherings exclusively feminine, there were not a few of them who had the courage to say that the world would be better if more men were like old Wardelow.
For love seemed the sole motive of old Wardelow's life. The cemetery which the thoughtful projectors of New Boston had presented to the inhabitants had for its only occupant the wife of old Wardelow; and she had been conveyed thereto by a husband who was both young and handsome. The freshet which had, soon afterward, swept the town, had carried with it Wardelow's only child, a boy of seven years, who had been playing in a boat which he, in some way, unloosed.
From that day the father had found no trace of his child, yet he never ceased hoping for his return. Every steamboat captain on the river knew the old man, and the roughest of them had cheerfuly replied in the affirmative when asked if they wouldn't bring up a small boy who might some day come on board, report himself as Stevie Wardelow, and ask to be taken to New Boston.
Almost every steamboat man, from captain and pilot down to fireman and roustabout, carried and posted Wardelow's circulars wherever they went—up Red River, the Yazoo, the White, the Arkansas, the Missouri, and all the smaller tributaries of the Mississippi.
New Boston had long been dropped from the list of post-towns, but every cross-road for miles around had a fingerboard showing the direction and telling the distance to New Boston. Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow's residence, was an immense signboard bearing the name of "New Boston Landing," and on the other side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a skiff marked "Wardelow" tied near the staging.
The old man never went to Mount Pisgah for stores, or up the river to fish, or even into his own cornfield and garden, without affixing to his door a placard telling where he had gone and when he would return.
When he went to the cemetery, which he frequently did, a statement to that effect, and a plan showing the route to and through the cemetery, was always appended to his door, and, as he could never clearly imagine his boy as having passed the childhood in which he had last seen him, all the signboards, placards, and circulars were in large capital letters.
Even when the river overflowed its banks, which it did nearly every Spring, the old man did not leave his house. He would not have another story built upon it, as he was advised to do, lest Stevie might fail to recognize it on his return; but, after careful study, he had the house raised until the foundation was above high-water mark, and then had the ground made higher, but sloped so gradually that the boy could not notice the change.
When one after another of the city's "plots," upon which deserted houses stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought them himself—they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer.
Of friends he had almost none. Although he was intelligent, industrious, ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject, and as that was of no particular interest to other people, and became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of business.
Affixing a placard to his door.The old man never left his house without affixingto his door a placard telling where he had gone andwhen he would return.
Affixing a placard to his door.The old man never left his house without affixingto his door a placard telling where he had gone andwhen he would return.
There were a few exceptions to this rule. Old Mrs. Perry, who passed for a saint, and whose life did not belie her reputation, used to drive her old pony up to New Boston about once a month, carrying some home-made delicacy with her, and chatting sympathetically for an hour or two.
Among the Mount Pisgah merchants there was one—who had never had a child of his own—who always pressed the old man's hand warmly, and admitted the possibility of whatever new hope Wardelow might express.
The pastors of the several churches at Mount Pisgah, however much they disagreed on doctrinal points, were in perfect accord as to the beauty of a character which was so completely under the control of a noble principle that had no promise of money in it; most of them, therefore, paid the old man professional visits, from which they generally returned with more benefit than they had conferred.
Time had rolled on as usual, in spite of Wardelow's great sorrow. The Mexican war was just breaking out when New Boston was settled, and Wardelow's hair was black, and Mount Pisgah was a little cluster of log huts; but when Lincoln was elected, Wardelow had been gray and called old for nearly ten years, and Mount Pisgah had quite a number of two-story residences and brick stores, and was a county town, with court-house and jail all complete.
None of the railway lines projected toward and through Mount Pisgah had been completed, however, nor had the town telegraphic communication with anywhere; so, compared with localities enjoying the higher benefits of civilization, Mount Pisgah and its surroundings constituted quite a paradise for horse-thieves.
There were still sparsely settled places, too, which needed the ministrations of the Methodist circuit-rider.
The young man who had been sent by the Southern Illinois Conference to preach the Word on the Mount Pisgah circuit was great-hearted and impetuous, and tremendously in earnest in all that he did or said; but, like all such men, he paid the penalty of being in advance of his day and generation by suffering some terrible fits of depression over the small results of his labor.
And so, following the example of most of his predecessors on the Mount Pisgah circuit, he paid many a visit to old Wardelow, to learn strength from this perfect example of patient faith.
As the circuit-rider left the old man one evening, and sought his faithful horse in the deserted barn in which he had tied him, he was somewhat astonished to find the horse unloosed, and another man quietly leading him away.
Courage and decision being among the qualities which are natural to the successful circuit-rider, he sprang at the thief and knocked him down. The operator in horse-flesh speedily regained his feet, however, and as he closed with the preacher the latter saw, under the starlight, the gleam of a knife.
Commending himself to the Lord, he made such vigorous efforts for the safety of his body that, within two or three moments, he had the thief face downward on the ground, his own knee on the thief's back, one hand upon the thief's neck, and in his other hand the thief's knife. Then the circuit-rider delivered a short address.
"My sinful friend," said he, "when two men get into such a scrape as this, and one of them is in your line of business, one or the other will have to die, and I don't propose to be the one. I haven't finished the work which the Master has given me to do. If you've any dying messages to send to anybody, I give you my word as a preacher that they shall be delivered, but you must speak quick. What's your name?"
"I'll give you five hundred dollars to let me off—you may holler for help and tie my hand, and—"
"No use—speak quick," hissed the preacher—"what's your name?"
"Stephen Wardelow," gasped the thief.
"What!" roared the preacher, loosening his grasp, but instantly tightening it again.
"Stephen Wardelow," replied the thief. "But I haven't got any messages to send to anybody. I haven't a relative in the world, and nobody would care if I was dead. I might as well go now as any time. Hit square when yodolet me have it—that's all!"
"Where's your parents?" asked the preacher.
"Dead, I reckon," the thief answered. "Leastways, I know mother is, and dad lived in a fever an' aguerish place, an' I s'pose he's gone, too, before this."
"Where did he live?"
"I don't know—some new settlement somewheres in Illinois. I got lost in the river when I was a little boy, an' was picked up by a tradin'-boat an' sold for a nearly-white nigger—I s'pose Iwaspretty dark."
There was a silence; the captive lay perfectly quiet, as if expecting the fatal blow. Suddenly a voice was heard:
"Not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight—it's me, parson, Sheriff Peters—not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight, I've been a-lookin' on here, where I'd tracked the thief myself, and would have grabbed him if you hadn't been about half a minute ahead of me. And if you want to know my honest opinion—my professional opinion—it's just this: There was stuff for a splendid sheriff spiled when you went a-preachin'. How you'd get along when it come to collectin' taxes, I don't know, never havin' been at any meetin' where you took up a collection; but when it come to an arrest, you'd be just chain-lightning ground down to a pint. The pris'ner's yours, and so's all the rewards that's offered for him, though they're not offered for a man of the namehegives. But, honest, now, don't you think there's a chance of mitigatin' circumstances in his case? Let's talk it over—I'll help you tie him so he can't slip you."
The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame behind him, then he tied the prisoner's feet and legs in several places, tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper, whispering as he did so:
"I've carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy now. Let's see—confound it!—the poor old fellow is describing the child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here's a point or two!—'brown eyes, black hair'—oh, bully! here's the best thing yet!—'first joint of the left fore-finger gone.'"
The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the prisoner's hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of optics inquired of the other.
At length the sheriff remarked: "He'syourpris'ner."
The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner's face, and said:
"Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?"
The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher said:
"Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched everywhere foryou, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was all the time hoping for your return—that he had grown old before his time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?" The thief dropped his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. "Your fatherisalive; he isn't far from this cabin; he's very sick; I've just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I think so much of him that I'd rather kill you this instant than let him know what business you've been in."
"Them's my sentiments, too," remarked the sheriff.
"Let me see him!" exclaimed the prisoner, clasping and raising his manacled hands, while his face filled with an earnestness which was literally terrible—"let me see him, if it's only for a few minutes! You needn't be afraid thatI'lltell him what I am, andyouwon't be mean enough to do it, if I don't try to run away. Have mercy on me! You don't know what it is to never have had anybody to love you, and then suddenly to find that thereissome one that wants you!"
The preacher turned to the officer and said:
"I'm a law-abiding citizen, sheriff."
And the sheriff replied:
"He'syourpris'ner."
"Then suppose I let him go, on his promise to stick to his father for the rest of his life!"
"He's your pris'ner," repeated the sheriff.
"Suppose, then, I were to insist upon your taking him into custody."
"Why, then," said the sheriff, speaking like a man in the depths of meditation, "I would let him go myself, and—and I'd have to shootyouto save my reputation as a faithful officer."
The preacher made a peculiar face. The prisoner exclaimed:
"Hurry, you brutes!"
The preacher said, at last:
"Let him loose."
The sheriff removed the handcuffs, dived into his own pocket, brought out a pocket-comb and glass, and handed them to the thief; then he placed the lantern in front of him, and said:
"Fix yourself up a little. Your hat's a miz'able one—I'll swap with you. You've got to make up some cock-and-bull story now, for the old man'll want to know everything. You might say you'd been a sheriff down South somewhere since you got away from the feller that owned you."
The preacher paused over a knot in one of the cords on the prisoner's legs, and said:
"Say you were a circuit-rider—that's more near the literal truth."
The sheriff seemed to demur somewhat, and he said, at length:
"Without meanin' any disrespect, parson, don't you think 'twould tickle the old man and the citizens more to think he'd been a sheriff? They wouldn't dare to ask him so many questions then, either. And it might be onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has naturally got some of the p'ints of a real sheriff about him."
"You insist upon it that he's my prisoner," said the preacher, tugging away at his knot, "and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And," continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, "he'sgotto be a circuit-rider, and I'm going to make one of him. Do you hear that, young man? I'm the man that's setting you free and giving you to your father!"
"You can make anything you please out of me," said the prisoner. "Only hurry!"
"As you say, parson," remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness; "he'syourprisoner, but Icouldmake a splendid deputy out of him if you'd let him take my advice. And I'd agree to work for his nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might get to be!—therehassheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I've heard of one that went to Congress."
"Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes," said the preacher, leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow's cabin; "they get as high as heaven!"
"Oh!" remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.
Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father's house. The preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:
"Father!"
The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:
"Stevie!"
The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving him a mighty hug.
The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings, that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having become religious himself.
The Circuit Preacher
The Circuit Preacher
TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK.
TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK.
"Luck? Why, I never seed anything like it! Yer might give him the sweepin's of a saloon to wash, an' he'd pan out a nugget ev'ry time—do it ez shure as shootin'!"
This rather emphatic speech proceeded one day from the lips of Cairo Jake, an industrious washer of the golden sands of California; but it was evident to all intelligent observers that even language so strong as to seem almost figurative did not fully express Cairo Jake's conviction, for he shook his head so positively that his hat fell off into the stream, which found a level only an inch or two below Jacob's boottops, and he stamped his right foot so vigorously as to endanger his equilibrium.
"Well," sighed a discontented miner from New Jersey, "Providence knows His own bizness best, I s'pose; but I could have found him a feller that could have made a darn sight better use of his good luck—ef he'd had any—than Tom Chafflin.Hedon't know nothin' 'bout the worth of money—never seed him drunk in my life, an' he don't seem to get no fun out of keerds."
"Providence'll hev a season's job a-satisfyin'you, old Redbank," replied Cairo Jake; "but it's all-fired queer, for all that. Ef a feller could only learn how he done it, 'twouldn't seem so funny; but he don't seem to have no way in p'tickler about him that a feller ken find out."
"Fact," said Redbank, with a solemn groan. "I've studied his face—why, ef I'd studied half ez hard at school I'd be a president, or missionary, or somethin' now—but I don't make it out. Once I 'llowed 'twas cos he didn't keer, an' was kind o' reckless—sort o' went it blind. So I tried it on a-playin' monte."
"Well, how did it work?" asked the gentleman from Cairo.
"Work?" echoed the Jerseyman, with the air of an unsuccessful candidate musing over the "saddest words of thought or pen;" "I started with thirteen ounces, an' in twenty minutes I was borryin' the price of a drink from the dealer.That'show it worked."
Certain other miners looked sorrowful; it was evident that they, too, had been reckless, and had trusted to luck, and that in a place where gold-digging and gambling were the only two means of proving the correctness of their theory, it was not difficult to imagine by which one they were disappointed.
"Long an' short of it's jest this," resumed Cairo Jake, straightening himself for a moment, and picking some coarse gravel from his pan, "Tom Chafflin's always in luck. His claim pays better'n anybody else's; he always gets the lucky number at a raffle, his shovel don't never break, an' his chimbly ain't always catchin' a-fire. He's gone down to 'Frisco now, an' I'll bet a dozen ounces that jest cos he's aboard, the old boat'll go down an' back without runnin' aground a solitary durned time."
No one took up Cairo Jake's bet, so that it was evident he uttered the general sentiment of the mining camp of Quicksilver Bar.
Every man, in the temporary silence which followed Jake's summary, again bent industriously over his pan, until the scene suggested an amateur water-cure establishment returning thanks for basins of gruel, when suddenly the whole line was startled into suspension of labor by the appearance of London George, who was waving his hat with one hand and a red silk handkerchief with the other, while with his left foot he was performing certainpasnot necessary to successful pedestrianism.
"Quicksilver Bar hain't up to snuff—oh, no! Ain't a-catchin' up with Frisco—not at all! Little Chestnut don't know how to run a saloon, an' make other shops weep—not in the least—not at all—oh, no!"
"Eh?" inquired half a dozen.
"Don't b'leeve me if you don't want to, but just bet against it 'fore you go to see—that's all!" continued London George, fanning himself with his hat.
"George," said Judge Baggs, with considerable asperity, "ef youarean Englishman, try to speak your native tongue, an' explain what you mean by actin' ez ef you'd jes' broke out of a lunatic 'sylum. Speak quick, or I'll fine you drinks for the crowd."
"Just as lieve you would," said the unabashed Briton, "seein'—seein' Chestnut's got a female—a woman—a lady cashier—there! Guess them San Francisco saloons ain't the only ones that knows what's what—not any!"
"I don't b'leeve a word of it," said the judge, washing his hands rather hastily; "but I'll jest see for myself."
Cairo Jake looked thoughtfully on the retreating form of the judge, and remarked:
"He'll feel ashamed of hisself when he gits thar an' finds he'll hev to drink alone. Reckon I'll go up, jest to keep him from feelin' bad."
Several others seemed impressed by the same idea, and moved quite briskly in the direction of Chestnut's saloon.
The judge, protected by his age and a pair of green spectacles, boldly entered, while his followers dispersed themselves sheepishly just outside the open door, past which they marched and re-marched as industriously as a lot of special sentries.
There was no doubt about it. Chestnut had installed a lady at the end of the bar, and as, between breakfast and dinner, there was but little business done at the saloon, the lady was amusing herself by weighing corks and pebbles in the tiny scales which were to weigh the metallic equivalent for refreshments.
The judge contemplated the arrangements with considerable satisfaction, and immediately called up all thirsty souls present.
Those outside the door entered with the caution of veterans in an enemy's country, and with a bashfulness that was painful to contemplate. They stood before the bar, they glanced cautiously to the right, and gently inclined their heads backward, until only a line of eyes and noses were visible from the cashier's desk.
Then the judge raised his green glasses a moment, and smiled benignantly on the new cashier as he raised his liquor aloft; then he turned to his party, and they drank the toast as solemnly as if they were the soldiers of Miles Standish fortifying the inner man against fear of the Pequods. Then they separated into small groups, and conversed gravely on subjects in which they had not the slightest interest, while each one pretended not to look toward the cashier, and each one saw what the others were earnestly striving to do.
But when the judge settled the score, and chatted for several minutes with the receiver of treasure, and the lady—young, and rather pretty, and quite pleasant and modest and business-like—laughed merrily at something the judge said, an idea gradually dawned upon the bystanders, and within a few moments the boys feverishly awaited their chances to treat the crowd, for the sole purpose of having an excuse to speak to the new cashier, and to stand within three feet of her for about the space of a minute.
Great was the excitement on the Creek when the party returned, and testified to the entire accuracy of London George's report.
Every one went to the saloon that night—therehadbeen some games arranged to take place at certain huts, but they were postponed by mutual consent.
Even the Dominie—an ex-preacher, who had never yet set foot upon the profane floor of the saloon—appeared there that evening in search of some one so exceeding hard to find that the Dominie was compelled to make several tours of all the tables and benches in the room.
Chestnut himself, when questioned, said she had come by the way of the Isthmus with her father and mother, who had both died of the Chagres fever before reaching San Francisco—that some friends of her family and his had been trying to get her something to do in 'Frisco, and that he had engaged her at an ounce a day; and, furthermore, that he would be greatly obliged if the boys at Quicksilver wouldn't marry her before she had worked out her passage-money from 'Frisco, which he had advanced. But the boys at Quicksilver were not so thoughtful of Chestnut's interests as they might have been. They began to buy blacking and neckties and white shirts, and to patronize the barber.
No one had any opportunity for love-making, for the lady's working hours were all spent in public, and in a business which caused frequent interruptions of even the most agreeable conversation.
It soon became understood that certain men had proposed and been declined, and betting on who would finally capture the lady was the most popular excitement in camp.
Cool-headed betting men watched closely the countenance of Sunrise (as some effusive miner had named the new cashier) as each man approached to pay in his coin or dust, and though they were intensely disgusted by its revelations, they unhesitatingly offered two to one that Dominie would be the fortunate man.
To be sure, she saw less of the Dominie than of any one else, for, though he did not drink, or pay for the liquor consumed by any one else, he occasionally came in to get a large coin changed, and then it was noticed that Sunrise regarded him with a sort of earnestness which she never exhibited toward any one else.
"Too bad!" sighed Cairo Jake. "Somebody ort to tell her that he's only a preacher, an' she'll only throw herself away ef she takes him. Ef any stranger wuz to insult her, Dominie wouldn't be man 'nuff to draw on him."
"Beats thunder, though!" sighed Redbank, "how them preachers kin take folks in. Thar's Chestnut himself,he'stook with Dominie—'stead of orderin' him out, he talks with him an' her just ez ef he'd as lieve get rid of her as not."
Tom gave Sunrise several hearty kisses.Tom walked rapidly to the cashier's desk, and gaveSunrise several hearty kisses.
Tom gave Sunrise several hearty kisses.Tom walked rapidly to the cashier's desk, and gaveSunrise several hearty kisses.
"Boat's a-comin'!" shouted Cairo Jake, looking toward the place, half a mile below, where the creek emptied into the river. "See her smoke? Like 'nuff Tom Chafflin's on board. He wuz a-goin' to try to come back by the first boat, an' of course he's done it—jest his luck. Ef he'd only come sooner, somebody besides the preacher would hev got her—you kin just bet your bottom ounce on it. Let's go down an' see ef he's got any news."
Several miners dropped tools and pans, and followed Jake to the landing, and gave a hearty welcome to Tom Chafflin.
He certainly looked like anything but a lucky man; he was good-looking, and seemed smart, but his face wore a dismal expression, which seemed decidedly out of place on the countenance of a habitually lucky man.
"Things hain't gone right, Tom?" asked Cairo Jake.
"Never went worse," declared Tom, gloomily. "Guess I'll sell out, an' try my luck somewheres else."
"Efyou'd only come a little sooner!" sighed Jake, "you'd hev hed a chance that would hev made ev'rything seem to go right till Judgment Day. I'll show yer."
Jake opened the saloon-door, and there sat Sunrise, as bright, modest, and pleasant-looking as ever.
With the air of a man who has conferred a great benefit, and is calmly awaiting his rightful reward, Jake turned to Tom; but his expression speedily changed to one of hopeless wonder, and then to one of delight, as Tom Chafflin walked rapidly up to the cashier's desk, pushed the Dominie one side and the little scales the other, and gave Sunrise several very hearty kisses, to which the lady didn't make the slightest objection—in fact, she blushed deeply, and seemed very happy.
"That's what I went to 'Frisco to look for," explained Tom, to the staring bystander, "but I couldn't find out a word about her."
"Don't wonder yer looked glum, then," said Cairo Jake; "but—but it's jest your luck!"
"Dominie here was going down to hurry you back," said Sunrise; "but—"
"But we'll give him a different job now, my dear," said Tom, completing the sentence.
And they did.
OLD TWITCHETT'S TREASURE.
OLD TWITCHETT'S TREASURE.
Old Twitchett was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one, it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare and beautiful stones.
It was Twitchett's own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd, instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of high-toned, civilized beings—there was no accounting for tastes—but then he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley couldn't have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one, couldn't fry a sick man's pork, or make his coffee.
But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed—he always was queer. He kept himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired, delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.
At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it, and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his hut. They had taken turns in carrying him—for he was wasted and light—until they reached Crockey's store, and when they laid him down, while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.
Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey's best brandy, but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey's he would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them to kneel beside him.
"I'm very grateful, boys, for your kindness—I wish I could reward you; but haven't got anything—I've got nothing at all. The only treasure I had I buried—buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die alone—I didn't wan't those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can—I wish you'd git it, and—it's a dying man's last request—take it—and—"
If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt beside the dead man's face, and with averted eyes listened for the remainder of Twitchett's last sentence.
Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which, according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other's faces, and each man placed his dexter fore-finger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith whispered:
"Virtue is its own reward—hey, Sam?"
"You bet," whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. "It's on the square now, between us?"
"Square as a die," whispered Boylston.
"When'll we go for it?" asked Sam Baker.
"Can't go till after the fun'ril," virtuously whispered Boylston. "'Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that's made our fortunes."
"Fact," remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds he examined the mirror, and whispered:
"Nary a sign—might's well tell the boys."
The announcement of Twitchett's death was the signal for an animated discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased's religious evidences—no distribution of black crape—no tearful beating down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to Twitchett's good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came to deceased's gold—his money—the bystanders exhibited an interest which was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal kinship.
Each man knew all about Twitchett's money, though no two agreed. He had hid it—he had been unlucky, and had not found much—he had slyly sent it home—he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which always drew blanks—he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled derisively—they didn't like to laugh at the deacon's gray hairs, but hewasqueer.
Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett's administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly, and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and constitute himself sole legatee.
But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward of virtue.
"He didn't say what kind of a can it was," remarked Mr. Baker, after the outskirts of Bender had been left behind.
"Just what I thought," replied Boylston; "pity he couldn't hev lasted long enough for us to hev asked him. But I've been a-workin' some sums about different kinds of cans—I learned how from Phipps, this afternoon—he's been to college, an' his head's cram-full of sech puzzlin' things. It took multiplyin' with four figures to git the answer, but I couldn't take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin' 'bout how the find would pan out."
"Well?" inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had just stumbled.
"Well," replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light his pipe, "the smallest can a-goin' is a half-pound powder-can, and that'll hold over two thousand dollars worth—eventhatwouldn't be bad for a single night's work—eh?"
"Just so," responded Mr. Baker; "then there's oyster-cans an' meat-cans."
"Yes," said Boylston, "an' the smallest of 'em's good fur ten thousand, ef it's full. An' when yer come to five-pound powders—why, one of them would make two fellers rich!"
They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn's Bar. The diggings at the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were Twitchett's executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay before them?
They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett's hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division.
Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce.
Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.
Suddenly Boylston's pick brought to light something yellow and round—something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin.
"You've wonone, bet," whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.
"Not efthisis it," growled Boylston; "it don't weigh more'n ounce can, wrapper and all. Might's well see what 'tis, though."
The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a small package, labeled: "My only treasures."
Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr. Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.
Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.
"Gold in that, mebbe," suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it. Itwasgold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man's friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.
Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward; wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn's Bar; depressing was the general nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser, strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old Twitchett's grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his hands.