by Bret Harte
CHAPTER VIII
As Christie and Jessie Carr looked from the windows of the coach, whosedust-clogged wheels were slowly dragging them, as if reluctant, nearerthe last stage of their journey to Devil's Ford, they were consciousof a change in the landscape, which they could not entirely charge upontheir changed feelings. The few bared open spaces on the upland, thelong stretch of rocky ridge near the summit, so vivid and so velvetyduring their first journey, were now burnt and yellow; even the briefopenings in the forest were seared as if by a hot iron in the scorchingrays of a half year's sun. The pastoral slopes of the valley below werecloaked in lustre-leather: the rare watercourses along the road hadfaded from the waiting eye and ear; it seemed as if the long and drysummer had even invaded the close-set ranks of pines, and had blown asimoom breath through the densest woods, leaving its charred red asheson every leaf and spray along the tunnelled shade. As they leaned outof the window and inhaled the half-dead spices of the evergreens, theyseemed to have entered the atmosphere of some exhausted passion--of somefierce excitement that was even now slowly burning itself out.
It was a relief at last to see the straggling houses of Devil's Ford farbelow come once more into view, as they rounded the shoulder of Devil'sSpur and began the long descent. But as they entered the town a changemore ominous and startling than the desiccation of the landscapeforced itself upon them. The town was still there, but where werethe inhabitants? Four months ago they had left the straggling streetthronged with busy citizens--groups at every corner, and a chaosof merchandise and traders in the open plaza or square beside thePresbyterian church. Now all was changed. Only a few wayfarers liftedtheir heads lazily as the coach rattled by, crossing the deserted squarelittered with empty boxes, and gliding past empty cabins or vacant shopwindows, from which not only familiar faces, but even the window sashesthemselves, were gone. The great unfinished serpent-like flume, crossingthe river on gigantic trestles, had advanced as far as the town,stooping over it like some enormous reptile that had sucked its lifeblood and was gorged with its prey.
Whiskey Dick, who had left the stage on the summit to avail himself ofa shorter foot trail to the house, that would give him half an hour'sgrace to make preparations, met them at the stage office with a buggy.A glance at the young girls, perhaps, convinced him that the graces ofelegant worldly conversation were out of place with the revelation heread on their faces. Perhaps, he, too, was a trifle indisposed. Theshort journey to the house was made in profound silence.
The villa had been repainted and decorated, and it looked fresher, andeven, to their preoccupied minds, appeared more attractive than ever.Thoughtful hands had taken care of the vines and rose-bushes on thetrellises; water--that precious element in Devil's Ford--had not beenspared in keeping green through the long drought the plants which thegirls had so tenderly nurtured. It was the one oasis in which the summerstill lingered; and yet a singular sense of loss came over the girls asthey once more crossed its threshold. It seemed no longer their own.
"Ef I was you, Miss Christie, I'd keep close to the house for a day ortwo, until--until--things is settled," said Dick; "there's a heap o'tramps and sich cattle trapsin' round. P'raps you wouldn't feel solonesome if you was nearer town--for instance, 'bout wher' you useterlive."
"In the dear old cabin," said Christie quickly; "I remember it; I wishwe were there now."
"Do you really? Do you?" said Whiskey Dick, with suddenly twinklingeyes. "That's like you to say it. That's what I allus said," continuedDick, addressing space generally; "if there's any one ez knows howto come square down to the bottom rock without flinchin', it's yourhigh-toned, fash'nable gals. But I must meander back to town, and letthe boys know you're in possession, safe and sound. It's right mean thatFairfax and Mattingly had to go down to Lagrange on some low businessyesterday, but they'll be back to-morrow. So long."
Left alone, the girls began to realize their strange position. They hadconceived no settled plan. The night they left San Francisco they hadwritten an earnest letter to their father, telling him that on learningthe truth about the reverses of Devil's Ford, they thought it their dutyto return and share them with others, without obliging him to prefer therequest, and with as little worry to him as possible. He would find themready to share his trials, and in what must be the scene of their workhereafter.
"It will bring father back," said Christie; "he won't leave us herealone; and then together we must come to some understanding withhim--with THEM--for somehow I feel as if this house belonged to us nolonger."
Her surmise was not far wrong. When Mr. Carr arrived hurriedly fromSacramento the next evening, he found the house deserted. His daughterswere gone; there were indications that they had arrived, and, for somereason, suddenly departed. The vague fear that had haunted his guiltysoul after receiving their letter, and during his breathless journey,now seemed to be realized. He was turning from the empty house, whosereproachful solitude frightened him, when he was confronted on thethreshold by the figure of Fairfax Munroe.
"I came to the stage office to meet you," he said; "you must have leftthe stage at the summit."
"I did," said Carr angrily. "I was anxious to meet my daughters quickly,to know the reason of their foolish alarm, and to know also who had beenfrightening them. Where are they?"
"They are safe in the old cabin beyond, that has been put up ready toreceive them again," said Fairfax quietly.
"But what is the meaning of this? Why are they not here?" demanded Carr,hiding his agitation in a burst of querulous rage.
"Do YOU ask, Mr. Carr?" said Fairfax sadly. "Did you expect them toremain here until the sheriff took possession? No one knows better thanyourself that the money advanced you on the deeds of this homestead hasnever been repaid."
Carr staggered, but recovered himself with feeble violence.
"Since you know so much of my affairs, how do you know that this claimwill ever be pressed for payment? How do you know it is not the advanceof a--a--friend?"
"Because I have seen the woman who advanced it," said Fairfaxhopelessly. "She was here to look at the property before your daughterscame."
"Well?" said Carr nervously.
"Well! You force me to tell you something I should like to forget. Youforce me to anticipate a disclosure I expected to make to you only whenI came to ask permission to woo your daughter Jessie; and when I tellyou what it is, you will understand that I have no right to criticiseyour conduct. I am only explaining my own."
"Go on," said Carr impatiently.
"When I first came to this country, there was a woman I lovedpassionately. She treated me as women of her kind only treat men likeme; she ruined me, and left me. That was four years ago. I love yourdaughter, Mr. Carr, but she has never heard it from my lips. I would notwoo her until I had told you all. I have tried to do it ere this, andfailed. Perhaps I should not now, but--"
"But what?" said Carr furiously; "speak out!"
"But this. Look!" said Fairfax, producing from his pocket the packet ofletters Jessie had found; "perhaps you know the handwriting?"
"What do you mean?" gasped Carr.
"That woman--my mistress--is the woman who advanced you money, and whoclaims this house."
The interview, and whatever came of it, remained a secret with the twomen. When Mr. Carr accepted the hospitality of the old cabin again, itwas understood that he had sacrificed the new house and its furnitureto some of the more pressing debts of the mine, and the act went far torestore his waning popularity. But a more genuine feeling of relief wasexperienced by Devil's Ford when it was rumored that Fairfax Munroe hadasked for the hand of Jessie Carr, and that some promise contingent uponthe equitable adjustment of the affairs of the mine had been givenby Mr. Carr. To the superstitious mind of Devil's Ford and its fewremaining locators, this new partnership seemed to promise that unityof interest and stability of fortune that Devil's Ford had lacked. Butnothing could be done until the rainy season had fairly set in; untilthe long-looked-for element that was to magically
separate the gold fromthe dross in those dull mounds of dust and gravel had come of its ownfree will, and in its own appointed channels, independent of the feebleauxiliaries that had hopelessly riven the rocks on the hillside, or hungincomplete and unfinished in lofty scaffoldings above the settlement.
The rainy season came early. At first in gathered mists on the higherpeaks that were lifted in the morning sun only to show a fresher fieldof dazzling white below; in white clouds that at first seemed to be meredrifts blown across from those fresh snowfields, and obscuring theclear blue above; in far-off murmurs in the hollow hills and gulches;in nearer tinkling melody and baby prattling in the leaves. It camewith bright flashes of sunlight by day, with deep, monotonous shadow atnight; with the onset of heavy winds, the roar of turbulent woods,the tumultuous tossing of leafy arms, and with what seemed the silentdissolution of the whole landscape in days of steady and uninterrupteddownfall. It came extravagantly, for every canyon had grown into atorrent, every gulch a waterspout, every watercourse a river, and allpouring into the North Fork, that, rushing past the settlement, seemedto threaten it with lifted crest and flying mane. It came dangerously,for one night the river, leaping the feeble barrier of Devil's Ford,swept away houses and banks, scattered with unconscious irony thelaboriously collected heaps of gravel left for hydraulic machinery, andspread out a vast and silent lake across the submerged flat.
In the hurry and confusion of that night the girls had thrown open theircabin to the escaping miners, who hurried along the slope that was nowthe bank of the river. Suddenly Christie felt her arm grasped, and shewas half-led, half-dragged, into the inner room. Her father stood beforeher.
"Where is George Kearney?" he asked tremulously.
"George Kearney!" echoed Christie, for a moment believing the excitementhad turned her father's brain. "You know he is not here; he is in SanFrancisco."
"He is here--I tell you," said Carr impatiently; "he has been here eversince the high water, trying to save the flume and reservoir."
"George--here!" Christie could only gasp.
"Yes! He passed here a few moments ago, to see if you were all safe,and he has gone on towards the flume. But what he is trying to do ismadness. If you see him, implore him to do no more. Let him abandon theaccursed flume to its fate. It has worked already too much woe upon usall; why should it carry his brave and youthful soul down with it?"
The words were still ringing in her ears, when he suddenly passed away,with the hurrying crowd. Scarcely knowing what she did, she ran out,vaguely intent only on one thought, seeking only the one face, latelyso dear in recollection that she felt she would die if she never saw itagain. Perplexed by confused voices in the woods, she lost track ofthe crowd, until the voices suddenly were raised in one loud outcry,followed by the crashing of timber, the splashing of water, a silence,and then a dull, continuous roar. She ran vaguely on in the direction ofthe reservoir, with her father's injunction still in her mind, until aterrible idea displaced it, and she turned at right angles suddenly, andran towards the slope leading down to the submerged flat. She had barelyleft the shelter of the trees behind her before the roar of waterseemed to rise at her very feet. She stopped, dazed, bewildered, andhorror-stricken, on the edge of the slope. It was the slope no longer,but the bank of the river itself!
Even in the gray light of early morning, and with inexperienced eyes,she saw all too clearly now. The trestle-work had given way; the curvingmile of flume, fallen into the stream, and, crushed and dammed againstthe opposite shore, had absolutely turned the whole river through thehalf-finished ditch and partly excavated mine in its way, a few rodsfurther on to join the old familiar channel. The bank of the river waschanged; the flat had become an island, between which and the slopewhere she stood the North Fork was rolling its resistless yellowtorrent. As she gazed spellbound, a portion of the slope beneath hersuddenly seemed to sink and crumble, and was swallowed up in the rushingstream. She heard a cry of warning behind her, but, rooted to the spotby a fearful fascination, she heeded it not.
Again there was a sudden disruption, and another part of the slope sankto rise no more; but this time she felt herself seized by the waist anddragged back. It was her father standing by her side.
He was flushed and excited, gazing at the water with a strangeexultation.
"Do you see it? Do you know what has happened?" he asked quickly.
"The flume has fallen and turned the river," said Christie hurriedly."But--have you seen him--is he safe?"
"He--who?" he answered vacantly.
"George Kearney!"
"He is safe," he said impatiently. "But, do you see, Christie? Do youknow what this means?"
He pointed with his tremulous hand to the stream before them.
"It means we are ruined," said Christie coldly.
"Nothing of the kind! It means that the river is doing the work of theflume. It is sluicing off the gravel, deepening the ditch, and alteringthe slope which was the old bend of the river. It will do in ten minutesthe work that would take us a year. If we can stop it in time, orcontrol it, we are safe; but if we can not, it will carry away the bedand deposit with the rest, and we are ruined again."
With a gesture of impotent fury, he dashed away in the direction of anequally excited crowd, that on a point of the slope nearer the islandwere gesticulating and shouting to a second group of men, who on theopposite shore were clambering on over the choked debris of the flumethat had dammed and diverted the current. It was evident that the sameidea had occurred to them, and they were risking their lives in theattempt to set free the impediments. Shocked and indignant as Christiehad been at the degrading absorption of material interests at sucha moment, the element of danger lifted the labors of these men intoheroism, and she began to feel a strange exultation as she watched them.Under the skilful blows of their axes, in a few moments the vast bodyof drift began to disintegrate, and then to swing round and move towardsthe old channel. A cheer went up, but as suddenly died away again. Anoverlapping fringe of wreckage had caught on the point of the island andarrested the whole mass.
The men, who had gained the shore with difficulty, looked back with acry of despair. But the next moment from among them leaped a figure,alert, buoyant, invincible, and, axe in hand, once more essayed thepassage. Springing from timber to timber, he at last reached the pointof obstruction. A few strokes of the axe were sufficient to clear it;but at the first stroke it was apparent that the striker was also losinghis hold upon the shore, and that he must inevitably be carried awaywith the tossing debris. But this consideration did not seem to affecthim; the last blow was struck, and as the freed timbers rolled on,over and over, he boldly plunged into the flood. Christie gave a littlecry--her heart had bounded with him; it seemed as if his plunge hadsplashed the water in her eyes. He did not come to the surface until hehad passed the point below where her father stood, and then strugglingfeebly, as if stunned or disabled by a blow. It seemed to her that hewas trying to approach the side of the river where she was. Would he doit? Could she help him? She was alone; he was hidden from the view ofthe men on the point, and no succor could come from them. There was afringe of alder nearly opposite their cabin that almost overhung thestream. She ran to it, clutched it with a frantic hand, and, leaningover the boiling water, uttered for the first time his name:
"George!"
As if called to the surface by the magic of her voice, he rose a fewyards from her in mid-current, and turned his fading eyes towards thebank. In another moment he would have been swept beyond her reach, butwith a supreme effort he turned on one side; the current, striking himsideways, threw him towards the bank, and she caught him by his sleeve.For an instant it seemed as if she would be dragged down with him. Forone dangerous moment she did not care, and almost yielded to the spell;but as the rush of water pressed him against the bank, she recoveredherself, and managed to lift him beyond its reach. And then she satdown, half-fainting, with his white face and damp curls upon her breast.
"George, darlin
g, speak to me! Only one word! Tell me, have I savedyou?"
His eyes opened. A faint twinkle of the old days came to them--a boyishsmile played upon his lips.
"For yourself--or Jessie?"
She looked around her with a little frightened air. They were alone.There was but one way of sealing those mischievous lips, and she foundit!
"That's what I allus said, gentlemen," lazily remarked Whiskey Dick,a few weeks later, leaning back against the bar, with his glass inhis hand. "'George,' sez I, 'it ain't what you SAY to a fash'nable,high-toned young lady; it's what you DOES ez makes or breaks you.' Andthat's what I sez gin'rally o' things in the Ford. It ain't what Carrand you boys allows to do; it's the gin'ral average o' things ez IS donethat gives tone to the hull, and hez brought this yer new luck to youall!"