by Bret Harte
OUT OF A PIONEER'S TRUNK.
It was a slightly cynical, but fairly good-humored crowd that hadgathered before a warehouse on Long Wharf in San Francisco one afternoonin the summer of '51. Although the occasion was an auction, the bidders'chances more than usually hazardous, and the season and locality famousfor reckless speculation, there was scarcely any excitement among thebystanders, and a lazy, half-humorous curiosity seemed to have taken theplace of any zeal for gain.
It was an auction of unclaimed trunks and boxes--the personal luggage ofearly emigrants--which had been left on storage in hulk or warehouse atSan Francisco, while the owner was seeking his fortune in the mines. Thedifficulty and expense of transport, often obliging the gold-seekerto make part of his journey on foot, restricted him to the smallestimpedimenta, and that of a kind not often found in the luggage ofordinary civilization. As a consequence, during the emigration of'49, he was apt on landing to avail himself of the invitation usuallydisplayed on some of the doors of the rude hostelries on the shore:"Rest for the Weary and Storage for Trunks." In a majority of caseshe never returned to claim his stored property. Enforced absence,protracted equally by good or evil fortune, accumulated the high storagecharges until they usually far exceeded the actual value of the goods;sickness, further emigration, or death also reduced the number ofpossible claimants, and that more wonderful human frailty--absoluteforgetfulness of deposited possessions--combined together to leavethe bulk of the property in the custodian's hands. Under an understoodagreement they were always sold at public auction after a given time.Although the contents of some of the trunks were exposed, it was foundmore in keeping with the public sentiment to sell the trunks LOCKED andUNOPENED. The element of curiosity was kept up from time to time by theincautious disclosures of the lucky or unlucky purchaser, and generalbidding thus encouraged--except when the speculator, with the truegambling instinct, gave no indication in his face of what was drawn inthis lottery. Generally, however, some suggestion in the exterior ofthe trunk, a label or initials; some conjectural knowledge of its formerowner, or the idea that he might be secretly present in the hope ofgetting his property back for less than the accumulated dues, kept upthe bidding and interest.
A modest-looking, well-worn portmanteau had been just put up at asmall opening bid, when Harry Flint joined the crowd. The young man hadarrived a week before at San Francisco friendless and penniless, and hadbeen forced to part with his own effects to procure necessary foodand lodging while looking for an employment. In the irony of fate thatmorning the proprietors of a dry-goods store, struck with his good looksand manners, had offered him a situation, if he could make himselfmore presentable to their fair clients. Harry Flint was gazing halfabstractedly, half hopelessly, at the portmanteau without noticing theauctioneer's persuasive challenge. In his abstraction he was not awarethat the auctioneer's assistant was also looking at him curiously, andthat possibly his dejected and half-clad appearance had excited theattention of one of the cynical bystanders, who was exchanging a fewwords with the assistant. He was, however, recalled to himself a momentlater when the portmanteau was knocked down at fifteen dollars, andconsiderably startled when the assistant placed it at his feet with agrim smile. "That's your property, Fowler, and I reckon you look as ifyou wanted it back bad."
"But--there's some mistake," stammered Flint. "I didn't bid."
"No, but Tom Flynn did for you. You see, I spotted you from the first,and told Flynn I reckoned you were one of those chaps who came back fromthe mines dead broke. And he up and bought your things for you--like asquare man. That's Flynn's style, if he is a gambler."
"But," persisted Flint, "this never was my property. My name isn'tFowler, and I never left anything here."
The assistant looked at him with a grim, half-credulous, half-scornfulsmile. "Have it your own way," he said, "but I oughter tell ye, oldman, that I'm the warehouse clerk, and I remember YOU. I'm here for thatpurpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid for by somebody elseand given to you, it's nothing more to me. Take it or leave it."
The ridiculousness of quarreling over the mere form of his good fortunehere struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as abruptlydisappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Reaching his cheaplodging-house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, itcontained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, and suitable tohis urban needs. There were a few articles of jewelry, which he putreligiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of apurely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of prettyfaces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But therewas another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvelousresemblance to HIMSELF! In a flash of intelligence he understood it allnow. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for whomthe assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at theenvelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the nameby which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain now.And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and trust tolater fortune to justify himself.
Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himselfonce more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the largegambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods traderdisengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilized garbemboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered thesaloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when a mansuddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in hisface. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire againthe astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutchedthe weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his strengthfailing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into the furiouseyes of his adversary, and the man's grasp mechanically relaxed. Thehalf-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was accidentallydischarged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead. No one in thecrowd had stirred or interfered.
"You've done for Australian Pete this time, Mr. Fowler," said a voiceat his elbow. He turned gaspingly and recognized his strange benefactor,Flynn. "I call you all to witness, gentlemen," continued the gambler,turning dictatorially to the crowd, "that this man was FIRST attackedand was UNARMED." He lifted Flint's limp and empty hands and thenpointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. "Come!" Hecaught the half-paralyzed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.
"But," stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, "what doesit all mean? What made that man attack me?"
"I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missedit by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn't the square thing,and you're all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have hadagin' you."
"But," protested the unhappy Flint, "I never laid eyes on the manbefore, and my name isn't Fowler."
Flynn halted, and dragged him in a door way. "Who the devil are you?" heasked roughly.
Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically, Flint told him his scantstory. An odd expression came over the gambler's face.
"Look here," he said abruptly, "I have passed my word to the crowdyonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that youmight have had some row with that Sydney duck, Australian Pete, in themines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it's a lie, thatyour name ain't Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they'll jestpass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands of italtogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that d---clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is there herewho knows who you really are?"
"No one," said Flint, with sudden hopelessness.
"And you say you're an orphan, and ain't got any relations livin' thatyou're beholden to?"
"No one."
"Then, take my advice, and BE Fowler, and stick to it! Be Fowler untilFowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you've saved Fowler's life,as Pete would never have funked and lost his grit over Fowler as he didwith y
ou; and you've a right to his name."
He stopped, and the same odd, superstitious look came into his darkeyes.
"Don't you see what all that means? Well, I'll tell you. You're in thebiggest streak of luck a man ever had. You've got the cards in your ownhand! They spell 'Fowler'! Play Fowler first, last, and all the time.Good-night, and good luck, MR. FOWLER."
The next morning's journal contained an account of the justifiablekilling of the notorious desperado and ex-convict, Australian Pete, bya courageous young miner by the name of Fowler. "An act of firmnessand daring," said the "Pioneer," "which will go far to counteract theterrorism produced by those lawless ruffians."
In his new suit of clothes, and with this paper in his hand, Flintsought the dry-goods proprietor--the latter was satisfied and convinced.That morning Harry Flint began his career as salesman and as "ShelbyFowler."
From that day Shelby Fowler's career was one of uninterruptedprosperity. Within the year he became a partner. The same miraculousfortune followed other ventures later. He was mill owner, mine owner,bank director--a millionaire! He was popular, the reputation of hisbrief achievement over the desperado kept him secure from the attack ofenvy and rivalry. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There wasno danger of exposure by others--the one custodian of his secret, TomFlynn, died in Nevada the year following. He had quite forgotten hisyouthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; rememberednothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that hadfascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live anddie as Shelby Fowler.
His business a year later took him to Europe. He was entering a trainat one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, whohad just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at thewindow followed by a young lady in mourning.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau. That belongsto this young lady. This is yours."
Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainlywas not his, although it bore the initials "S. F." He was mechanicallyhanding it back to the porter, when his eyes fell on the young lady'sface. For an instant he stood petrified. It was the face of thedaguerreotype. "I beg pardon," he stammered, "but are these yourinitials?" She hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the question,but he saw she looked confused.
"No. A friend's."
She disappeared into another carriage, but from that moment Harry Flintknew that he had no other aim in life but to follow this clue and thebeautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at the nextstation, and discovered that she was going to York. On their arrival,he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few wordsdisclosed the fact that she was a fellow-countrywoman, although residingin England, and at present on her way to join some friends at Harrogate.Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied she lookeddisturbed.
They met again and again; the informality of his introduction wasoverlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectablyand responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of hisfuture. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned; buthe felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told her hisreal name and how he came to assume another's. He did so alone--scarcelya month after their first meeting. To his alarm, she burst into a floodof tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far beyond any apparentcause. When she had partly recovered, she said, in a low, frightenedvoice:--
"You are bearing MY BROTHER'S name. But it was a name that the unhappyboy had so shamefully disgraced in Australia that he abandoned it, and,as he lay upon his death-bed, the last act of his wasted life wasto write an imploring letter begging me to change mine too. For theinfamous companion of his crime who had first tempted, then betrayedhim, had possession of all his papers and letters, many of them from ME,and was threatening to bring them to our Virginia home and expose himto our neighbors. Maddened by desperation, the miserable boy twiceattempted the life of the scoundrel, and might have added that bloodguiltiness to his other sins had he lived. I DID change my name to mymother's maiden one, left the country, and have lived here to escape therevelations of that desperado, should he fulfill his threat."
In a flash of recollection Flint remembered the startled look that hadcome into his assailant's eye after they had clinched. It was the sameman who had too late realized that his antagonist was not Fowler. "ThankGod! you are forever safe from any exposure from that man," he said,gravely, "and the name of Fowler has never been known in San Franciscosave in all respect and honor. It is for you to take back--fearlesslyand alone!"
She did--but not alone, for she shared it with her husband.