A couple of days after the stranger had left; Bob was ready for his ride east. The warm day at the lake meant it was going to be a hot one down in the valley. With his mount Grummer tied to a fence, Bob sat on a bench underneath the shade of some pine trees. The first leg out of Fridays going east was up the Kingsbury Grade over Daggett Pass. The ride was punishing for any pony, with a two-thousand-foot climb and then a four-thousand-foot drop down into the Carson Valley. It was the most arduous leg on Bob’s route, but it was perhaps the least likely to be attacked by Indians. Grummer was a bay colt, a little bigger than the other ponies. Although not the fastest horse, he was strong, and he was the first choice for the Kingsbury Grade, which needed a sure-footed horse of character. Grummer’s stamina was even more important on the way back to Fridays, riding west from the Carson Valley, when the climb was twice as high.
Bob was waiting for Tyler’s return; Tyler rode between Friday’s and Webster’s Station on California’s American River. On his ride east out of Webster’s, Tyler had arguably the most beautiful ride of any rider in the service. Lake Tahoe was always a glorious sight as he rounded Echo Summit. He had never envied Bob riding the desert east beyond the Sierras, even less so with the current Indian troubles. As much as Tyler enjoyed his ride, he looked forward to arriving at Friday’s, where there was always a good meal waiting. This day he was particularly hungry, so he rode furiously down from the summit and along the Lake’s southern shoreline.
On a warm, dusty day, an eastbound rider out of California could always be seen a few miles off. The stationmaster’s office window faced south and it looked straight down the approaching road. Ted shouted down to Bob that he thought Tyler was about ten minutes out. Bob mounted Grummer and was ready as Tyler burst into Friday’s courtyard. With a cheery exchange, Tyler threw down the mochila into Ted’s waiting arms. Ted extracted the enclosed dispatches and sorted through them quickly. Satisfied that none were for his own personal attention, he added the few which were in his care, along with the nugget left by the stranger. Having strapped the mochila closed, he tossed it up to Bob.
Bob was already into a canter before he shouted his farewell. The ride with Grummer and his other mounts, through the Carson and Eagle Valleys, were pretty uneventful. The day had become noticeably stickier as the temperature rose. Having mounted his fourth horse at Dayton, Bob rode upward to his next stop, Millers Station. As Bob came over the rise, a pall of black smoke was distinguishable on the horizon. For a month Indians had attacked stations and set fire to remote cabins up and down the Carson River. A sudden sense of urgency gripped him. Miller’s Station was now a visible speck but still more than five miles away. Turning back was not an option; his only thought was getting to Miller’s as quickly as possible. His mount out of Dayton was a chestnut filly, and she responded to his encouragement as they sped down toward the distant station.
To his left, on the far side of some Piñon pines, Bob became aware of some swirling dust. It could have been a small dust twister or a small group of mustangs; regrettably, it was neither. It was four piebald ponies ridden at full gallop by four Paiutes. It was going to be a race. Although the Indians were no more than two hundred yards to Bob’s left, there were many Piñon pines between him and his pursuers. By the time they could have joined the trail, Bob should have gained some valuable distance. But now was the time, before they came from behind to try a shot or two. Raising his sixgun, Bob fired off three rounds. He hit one of the ponies and as it stumbled an Indian was unceremoniously thrown over his pony’s head.
Two Indians were making for the trail, but the third tried his best to keep a parallel course. It was a masterful piece of riding. The Indian swerved and careened around every onrushing Piñon pine. Despite the trees, the Paiute was seemingly closer. Bob fired again, a shot that must have gone close over the piebald’s neck, but there was no perceptible slowing of the Indian’s progress. A second shot hit one of the Piñon pines and a shower of pine needles momentarily flew around the Paiute’s face. Bob loved horses, but in a case like this, the pony made a better target than its rider. Holding as steady as he could, with the chestnut pounding the ground beneath her, Bob fired once more. The Indian pony was hit in the flank; it skidded through the dust, taking large clumps of sage as it went. The unseated warrior was able to hang onto the neck of his badly wounded animal, but his chase was over.
There was no way to reload and there were still two Indians in hot pursuit. With horror, Bob realized, in his fierce determination to get an accurate shot off, that he was no longer riding the trail. Somehow the chestnut filly had headed into the brush and was no longer on a straight course for Miller’s Station, where the only conceivable help might be. Bob could not now change course without lessening the distance between himself and his murderous foe. His enemies were gaining ground, his pony seemed measurably slower, and desperation started to flood the young rider’s senses. His chest ached with each pounding heartbeat, while his clenched fingers feverishly shook his will for greater haste through the reins. In sudden terror, Bob became aware that at least one of his would-be assassins was whooping his unintelligible cries within earshot.
As his mind raced, Bob felt reality slow down; every second seemed an indeterminable amount of time. In slow motion he was aware of a piebald pony next to his chestnut filly. He sensed a tomahawk above his head. With sudden dexterity Bob threw his empty six-gun at the Indian’s face. The Indian’s expression changed from murderous intent to one of anguish, but he managed to duck as the empty gun barely missed its target. Bob had bought himself a few extra seconds as their two ponies momentarily drifted apart. The Indian recovered his lost momentum and was again on course to deliver a decisive blow.
Bob was desperate for any kind of weapon. His hand fumbled around his saddle and he touched something hard inside the mochila. The tomahawk came crashing down but Bob was able to avoid its full force by throwing his body forward. The blow hit him on the top of his left arm. The Paiute went to strike again but instead of bringing the tomahawk down, the Indian crashed to floor. The Paiute was now lying in the dirt; a throbbing pain tore through his head and blood filled his nostrils. Bob had managed to open the mochila and grab the hard object. Hurling it straight, he had hit the leering face just above the eye. The Indian had toppled like a coconut shy and the rider-less piebald pony was now running off into the desert.
The fourth Indian rode past his fallen comrade. He, too, was now gaining ground. Bob chanced a look backward, and the warrior was no more than fifty feet behind. Bob now had nothing to use as a weapon. It would take a miracle to escape. The chestnut was still pounding the ground but the gap between the two riders was closing rapidly. A piece of Piñon pine debris flew off a nearby tree. Bob was unsure at first, but there it was again, an audible “WIZ-ZZZ.” Someone was firing a rifle from a now much nearer Miller’s Station. Taking a chance on it being friendly fire, Bob jerked his chestnut at a right angle. At the instant the pursuing Indian realized what was happening, it was too late. One bullet hit him in the shoulder and a second hit him in the chest.
With constant threat of Indian attack, everyone at Miller’s was in a heightened state of nervousness and a constant vigil was being kept. The stationmaster, Abe, had watched the approaching dust cloud from the southwest. He had realized it might be a white man in trouble. At first it was too far to discern, but after a short time it was clear that a lone rider was being pursued by a number of Indians. Abe had aimed his rifle, waiting for them to come into range. For a while it was too risky, the fear of hitting the lone rider made him wait. But it looked like a pretty desperate situation, so he chanced a couple of shots. Then, suddenly, he had a clear shot and wasted no time bringing the Indian down.
Out in the brush, a mile or so from Miller’s station, an Indian with blood in his eye sat upright in the dirt. He was looking at what had knocked him from his pony. It was a shiny yellow rock! The Indian picked it up and threw it with disgust into the sage.
Old Ben
awoke to a dull pain in his right shoulder. The bullet was still lodged there, but the burning sensation had passed. His assailant was dead. The attack had been unprovoked.
He had walked into a prospector’s camp late at night in the hopes of sharing a meal and the warmth of the camp fire. The prospector, who had been less than friendly, went for his gun. Despite being quick, Old Ben was quicker. The prospector was dead and Old Ben was only wounded.
He had lived in the Sierra Mountains long before the Comstock bonanza of Virginia City. He had known them as a haven of tranquility, but now his solitude was disturbed by an endless stream of wagons and horses. He had known when the fish were plentiful in the shallows of Lake Tahoe. The fishing had been easy but now there were too many fishermen. He had lived among the Indians with no trouble. However, these silver miners were gun-happy, they had no respect. He had been forced to kill a dozen of them.
Old Ben had slept the night in the camp, after eating the prospector’s rations. The ground was moist and his coat was damp. He needed to leave the shade of the trees to find the warm morning sun. He walked towards the steep mountain road, which would take him back over to the lake. Upon reaching the road, his sudden appearance so startled the horses of an oncoming wagon that they reared in fright. The road was narrow. One horse lost its footing and slipped, and the wagon overturned. The wagon, horses, and occupants somersaulted down the steep slope, hundreds of feet, until the wagon broke against the pine trees. It was unlikely that any man or animal could have survived such a fall. Anyway, Old Ben cared not; he was more concerned with finding warmth.
As he reached the top of the road the sun greeted him, and beautiful Lake Tahoe lay at his feet. A group of men, who had stopped near the top of the road, were also enjoying the sight.
“GRIZZLY!” shouted a fear-filled voice.
The firing of half-a-dozen guns echoed among the granite boulders. The big creature fell backwards. Its bellowed moan continuing for several seconds till it became faint. The lips stiffened, the tongue lolled to one side, and the eyes in its huge head grew dull and glassy, life gently slipped away and was gone. Old Ben was dead!
Mark Twain spent a sleepless night. He had written a will, leaving what few belongings he possessed to his brother Orion. His dictionary he had left to his friend Steve Gillis.
Steve Gillis was Mark’s confidant, work colleague and friend. There was one honor a friend could achieve beyond being asked to be the best man at a wedding, and that was to be their chosen second in an affair of honor. Fighting a duel and getting married may be considered identical by many, but a duel had one advantage over marriage brevity! Unfortunately, it was the permanent state of death that bothered Mark through his sleepless night. He had been deliberately carefree throughout his young life, and now it was so damn serious. How had it changed so dramatically and in so short a time?
He had loved being a reporter at The Territorial Enterprise in Virginia City. Exciting news sold newspapers; the truth was often dull and boring. You had to give the public what the public wanted; a little bit of scandal, some controversy, veiled innuendos, veiled accusations, stories of betrayal, and tales of corruption. It was in these areas that a great reporter shone with inventive intrigue and inspired imagination. A lack of originality was a virtue of an undertaker, but a reporter had to aspire to give a story life so there would be no need for an undertaker or indeed burial.
What had he done, that was so awful? He had posed a question as to the honesty of some of the ladies of the Women Institute in Carson City. It had been a question, just a mere suggestion, concerning the handling of their financial dealings. No direct accusation, no individual singled out. It was tame in comparison to some of his past work. After a brief outrage, it should have been forgotten but for some reason The Daily Union, the opposing paper in Virginia City, had sought to make an issue out of it. Their reporter, James Laird, had written a rebuttal directly accusing Twain of lying, and calling the Enterprise a rag of deceit. It was certainly a lack of originality when you had nothing more inventive than to accuse your rival newspaper of not telling the truth. The Daily Union could take the moral high ground, but they would never sell more newspapers!
The stupidest thing about a duel, besides getting yourself killed, was all you had to do was win it and you were vindicated. It did not matter how much in the wrong you might be; if you were the victor, to you went the absolution. This seemed to Mark more of a distortion of the truth than any story he could ever invent. However, honor had to be preserved.
It was all too civilized; an appointment at dawn; a pair of dueling pistols firing one shot apiece; two gentlemen seconds above reproach to ensure that the rules of engagement were not tampered with. Gentlemen never fought on a street in broad daylight or in the view of bystanders. They went to a remote location at a time when there would be no innocents abroad. A killing of an adversary in a duel was never considered murder; it was the simple upholding of honor. Whatever the outcome, after both parties had discharged their weapons, the result would be accepted and no reprisals were to be sought on either side.
Still, it was all stupidity to Mark, who had come out west with his older brother three years earlier. On their journey, which had been mostly by stage, Mark had carried an aging derringer that he had feared to fire, just in case it malfunctioned. He was not used to firearms and indeed had never fired one. Now he needed some practice, otherwise he was going to face certain death, unless his opponent was going to miss too! He thought of approaching his opponent of the Daily Union and suggesting that they agree to deliberately miss each other. Still, Mark did not know if he could miss on purpose and feared he might kill Laird by accident! It was also a risk trusting Laird to agree to such an arrangement; if he refused he could hold Mark up to ridicule.
“I’m committing suicide,” he had told Steve. “What do I know of fighting duels?”
“It’s a great honor, Sam,” Steve had replied, calling Twain by his given name. “You’re fighting for the glory of the Enterprise.”
“And the demise of yours truly!” Twain had countered. “I understand Laird doesn’t want to fight the duel either, so why are we pursuing this folly?”
“Because of Joe.” Steve ended the conversation on those three words. The words continued to run through Twain’s mind, as he tossed and turned in bed.
Joe Goodman was the editor of The Territorial Enterprise. He had flown into an unholy rage when he had seen the rebuke in The Daily Union. Initially, Mark had tried to placate Joe by saying that he was not much insulted. Mark watched Joe turn several shades of purple and every vein in his head bulge as he told his star reporter that he did not care that Mark was not much insulted. It was the paper that had been insulted, the editor who had been insulted, everyone associated with the paper that had been insulted. Joe demanded an immediate apology to be printed on the Union’s front page and everyone was on tenterhooks while they waited for the Union’s response. A messenger boy arrived at the Enterprise workshop with a note from the Union’s editor addressed to Joe Goodman. Unopened, it had been taken up to Joe’s office on the second floor above the workshop.
Joe called Mark up to his office, and had him sit down. “Grim news for you!” he said as he handed the delivered note to Mark. The note was brief, unsigned, and to the point. It read “No apology and no retraction!” Mark looked up from the note and at his editor, not knowing how these events would play out. He looked for some clue on Joe’s face, but his editor was expressionless. “Nothing left for it Mark.”
Still, not quite following his editor’s lead, Mark shifted uneasily in his chair and asked what Joe intended to do. The answer was like a thunderbolt!
“We shall all stand behind you. You as a loyal member of the Enterprise staff shall demand satisfaction of the scoundrel, who called you a liar and besmirched the greatest newspaper in the territory!”
The news filtered through to the boys in the workshop, and as Mark came down the stairs, every employee gathered to greet
him. Some of his fellow workers clapped, and others rushed to shake his hand, or slap him on the back. For a moment, he was a hero………, a very reluctant and worried hero!
Mark Twain had been a hapless witness as the demand for satisfaction had been composed; all he was asked to do was to sign it. He was now being swept along by the euphoria of others. At the Union paper they were expecting a messenger boy to deliver some form of reply. However, the Enterprise had upped the stakes. It was Goodman’s idea for Steve Gillis to deliver the demand for satisfaction to James Laird in front of the Union editor and for Steve to inquire who Laird’s second would be. Steve’s reputation with a gun was well known, and the knowledge that he would be Mark’s chosen second added an air of defiance to the demand. The Enterprise had pushed the rival newspaper into an inescapable corner; it was either total capitulation or see the matter through to the bitter end. James Laird was of the mind to apologize, but he could tell it was already too late.
It was all set. The demand for satisfaction had been accepted. The duel would take place an hour after sunrise at the base of Gold Hill, the day after tomorrow. Steve had met with Laird’s second and the weapons were chosen. A doctor was to be in attendance, and his services were to be paid by the Enterprise. Despite the interest of employees from both papers, Mark had requested that there would be no additional persons to be present.
Steve could feel Mark’s apprehension and tried his best to encourage his friend. He told Twain that they would get up early and take some target practice before the appointed hour. This did nothing to calm Twain’s nerves and he knew he would not sleep a wink for the next two nights!
The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe Page 2