He tugs his beard, all vexed over the situation and says:
“I see you won’t be persuaded. Do you have everything you need?”
“I can’t think of nothing else except maybe a heap of luck.”
“Then goodbye and may God protect you both.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you and the rest all get to California safe and find a mess of gold.”
We shook hands. He even done it with Jim. Then we rode off.
26
Hard Riding—A Bad Luck Meeting—Strong Words and Apologies—A Parting Shot—Journey’s End
It was a shame to leave decent folk behind, specially now I knowed they suspicioned me all along but never breathed a word, real hospitality I call it, and it give me another reason for hating the bulldog. One of these days I reckon it’ll come to a showdown between him and me. I never wanted him dead, just off my back, but he ain’t ever going to be content while I’m free and I ain’t ever going to be truly free while he’s on my trail, I seen that clear as day. It’s one of them problems that ain’t got no ready-made answer to it. You just got to see how the wind blows and bend this way and that to stay footstood long as you can. Maybe Bob and Jesse will kill Bulldog on their own account they’re so mad at the way he let me go for honor’s sake, but it’s a mite too much to hope for.
We left the camp at a full gallop and made plenty of noise deliberate so if the bulldog and them hear it they’ll figure we headed due west like I want them to. After a mile or two we turned south and crossed the river, freezing cold, and shivered our way alongside the mountains till dawn, then stopped awhile to dry out. When the sun come up we headed west again and started up into the Sierras through a pass with steep sides covered in trees and rocks, grand-looking but we never had time to admire no scenery and pressed on till noon, then rested again and let the horses feed. Jim says:
“De bulldog ain’t goin’ to fin’ us hereabouts, Huck, not lessen he gets real lucky. All dese mountains jumbled up de perfec’ hidin’ place.”
He ain’t wrong, but I got something else on my mind. Says I:
“Dang it, we clean disremembered Frank. We never even got to tell him goodbye. Still, I reckon he won’t miss us none, not so long as he’s got a book to scribble inventions in.”
“You right dere, Huck. He ain’t nothin’ but a spoil’ chile moster de time an’ bein’ crazy don’ worry him none. Anyways, we got our own selfs to worry on wid de bulldog snappin’ at our britches.”
I never wasted no more regretfulness over Frank. We rode on all afternoon and passed from one valley to another, heading mainly west till dusk. We rested and et but never lit no fire, and next day followed the valley up and up into the range, so high the air turned cold. That night we had a fire under a deep ledge where no one can see it that ain’t right on top of it, and in the morning there’s a mist that slowed us considerable. We never knowed which way is west, just followed our noses till it burned away under the sun, and pretty soon we come to a high pass where two valleys joined and rode over the ridge and seen a lake stretched out below us, real big with mountains snugged up close around it.
It took all morning to pick our way down to it and when we got there the easiest thing was to follow the shoreline for awhile, looking at the peaks stood upside-down in the lake and the clouds drifting across the water. An hour or two later we seen two men camped on the shore with a small fire and two horses tethered nearby. It ain’t them that’s after us, but we never wanted to risk getting seen by no one and was just turning away from the lake to go around them through the trees when they seen us. We kept on heading for them so they won’t suspicion we’re scared and a minute later come up to them. Then I wished it had of been Bulldog, because it’s Pap and Morg.
Pap never reckernized me till I’m right up close, then his eyes got wide and he took a step or three back away from me.
“Noooooo …” he says, kind of moaning.
“What’s ailing you?” says Morg, then he looks at Jim and me again and his whole body kind of drawed up tall and he says:
“It ain’t them is it?…”
Pap never answered, just stared at me like I’m a ghost.
“Afternoon, Pap,” says I, and he sat on the ground and put his head in his hands and moaned some more.
“Hell’s fire,” says Morg. “It ain’t possible.… Are you truly his boy?”
“The one and only, and this here’s Jim.”
“You better get down and see to your Pap,” he says.
I done it and laid a hand on Pap’s shoulder. He give a horrible cry and shook free without daring to look at me, guilt I reckon, for all he knowed he’s put me through.
“Where’d you spring from?” says Morg, and I seen he’s scared too, even if he’s a big man. Says I:
“We was with a bunch of wagons but had to leave it fast on account of there’s a detective on our trail. He’s got a notion I killed Judge Thatcher back in St. Petersburg, but I reckon you two won’t know nothing about that, being law-abiding both.”
Morg gave Pap a look, but Pap warn’t in no shape for talking.
“Why should we know about it?” says Morg, trying to look innocent but it never worked. A dog with a stole pie in his mouth would of looked more innocent than Morg—handsomer too.
“On account of I seen Pap’s hoofprint on the judge’s doorstep in the snow is why!”
My voice is kind of high with strong feelings that rushed over me all of a sudden, surprise at meeting up with Pap after all this time, and temper because he got me in trouble and never tried to get me out and also, real strange, I’m glad he got this far without getting scalped or dead of thirst or nothing. How can you figure a jumble of feelings like that? I’m twitching like a fly in a spider web I’m so jumbled up over it, and I turn on Pap and screech:
“You done it and let me take the blame! Why’d you do it! I never done you no harm! You’re my own Pap and you would of let me hang! And you burned the widow’s house down too, you trashpile!”
I took off my hat and swiped his bowed head with it till my arm got tired, and when I quit there’s tears on my face, real mortifying in the company of growed men but I can’t help it. Pap never looked up once, still with his face hid in his hands and his long hair spilled over his knuckles. Then his back started to shake and out from that mess of greasy hair come a sobbing that quivered and jerked like a nervous mule. I wanted to push him over with my boot and pat him comforting on the shoulder both at the same time, mighty confusing for a growing boy, so I made up my mind and pushed him over. He give a thin little scream and huddled there on his hands and knees still shaking and sobbing, the pitifullest thing you ever seen. Morg says:
“Hold on there.… That ain’t no way for a boy to treat his Pap.”
“You shuddup!” I holler at him. “He ain’t no Pap of mine, not after what he done! There’s people dead on account of him!”
“You just hush and show some respect!” yells Morg back at me. “He’s been on the downhill slope ever since we left Missouri, so just treat him gentle.”
“I’ll treat him!” says I. “I’ll treat him the way he deserves!”
And I pounded Pap’s back with both fists till they was sore from hitting against his knobbly backbone and ribs, he’s so skinny. It made me ashamed even while I’m doing it to be whaling a skinny man like that but I can’t stop I’m so filled with jumble. Then Jim come over and grabbed hold of my hands and hauled me away.
“It ain’t no good to whomp him, Huck,” he says.
He let me go gradual and I stood shaking like a leaf in a storm with the teeth chattering in my head even if I ain’t cold. Morg kind of shuffled from one foot to the other and frowned plenty, not sure what he’s supposed to do. Then Pap come to life and looked up with both eyes ablaze and points a trembling finger at Morg.
“He done it!” he screams. “He done the judge! I never! I told him not to but he done it!”
“Who done the fire!” yells Morg back at him.
“Who done the fire that took a woman’s life! It was you, you house-burnin’ woman-killer!”
Then he turns to me and says:
“I never even met up with him before then! I ain’t no house-burner, and it was accidental with the judge, I swear!”
“Liar!” shouts Pap, still on his knees. “Liar! Liar! You opened his throat when he never told where the safe is! You done it deliberate! I never wanted to burn the widow, just her house to pay her back!”
“Whose idea was it to get money off the judge, answer me that! Who told he’s got a safe full of money in his office! You, that’s who, and there warn’t even no safe there, you danged idiot fool!”
“I never killed him!” screeches Pap. “I never killed no one deliberate!”
I could feel Jim trembling next to me, shaking all over, and he says real quiet:
“You burned my fambly even if you never intentioned it. You burned ’em to cinders. I got no kin on accounter you.”
“Who says you can butt in, nigger!” yells Morg. “You get back in your place!”
“You shuddup and leave him alone!” yells I. “He’s worth a million of you!”
“Why, you little squirter.… I’ll tan the hide off you for that!”
“You better not try or I’ll kill you!”
Morg boggled his eyes and open and shut his mouth then come at me, only Jim knocked him down before he got close, which come as a mighty big shock to a white man.
“You … you nigger!… I’ll kill you for that!” he says, and picks himself up ready to fight. I lifted my Hawken but Jim pushed it away and let Morg come at him. He never got no closer than Jim’s fist at full stretch and went down again and was disinclined to get up this time. Pap watched it all with a gleam in his eye, glad to see someone bigger than him knock Morg down, and I seen there ain’t no love lost between them, only guilt and scaredness to keep them together. Then Jim points at Pap and says:
“Say you sorry for what you done.”
Pap never understood, just stared at him, and Jim took the Hawken off me and aimed at Pap. I knowed he won’t truly use it, but it give me a queer feeling to see him aim at my own Pap. I never stopped him though. Jim says:
“Say you sorry for de way you burned my woman an’ chillern, an’ say it loud.”
“I won’t …” he says.
“Dang that nigger,” says Morg. “He reckons he’s white.…”
“Say it,” says Jim between his teeth, and I wonder if maybe he’ll use the gun after all if Pap don’t do it, but I still never stopped him.
“I ain’t apologizing to no nigger,” says Pap, but he don’t sound too certain on it.
Jim cocked the hammer and Pap scuttled backwards like a crawfish. Jim’s face was real grim. I never seen him like this before, full of rage and deadliness.
“I ain’t about to tell you again,” he says.
“I never wanted to kill no one,” mumbles Pap.
“But you done it anyhow, so now you got to say you sorry for it.”
“Well all right.…” he mumbles, “I reckon I’m sorry.”
“Don’ say it to de groun’! De groun’ don’ care! You say it to me!” yells Jim, and he took a few steps forward and practickly poked the barrel in Pap’s eye.
“I’m sorry!” bawls Pap, frightened for sure now.
“Say it again an’ lookit me when you says it.”
So Pap done it, then bowed his head, ashamed for apologizing to a nigger. Morg looked at him like he’s dirt, for the same reason I guess. Both of them never felt as bad about the murders as they done about getting knocked down and stood over by a nigger. Jim says:
“You want de big one to ’pologize for gettin’ you in trouble, Huck?”
“I reckon not. He’d likely say it, but he won’t mean a word of it, just saving his hide. There ain’t no point.”
“What you wanter do wid both of ’em?”
“If we was near sivilization I’d haul Morg to town and make him confess he done it, but we ain’t, and even if we was he’d only do it with a gun at his head and that kind of confession don’t count in the eyes of the law.”
“Maybe yo Pap’d tell de way it happen.”
“If he did then Morg’d just tell about the house-burning. Pap’d likely hang for that, so they ain’t neither of them going to tell nothing.”
“That’s right, boy,” says Morg, grinning. “You’re over a barrel.”
It’s like he says. There ain’t a way I can ever get free of the murder charge now. Even if I made them put a confession on paper it ain’t no proof they writ it with their own hands and not me forging again, so it won’t mean nothing whichever way. I’m barrelized definite, and it’s like a bitter cold wind whispering through me, blowing away all the hopes I been keeping stashed away in the back of my head till there ain’t no hopes left, not a one, and no chance ever for a peaceful life without no sword over me, as they say. But it’s mighty strange how you get to feeling calm when that last piece of hope is gone, and looking at Morg and Pap now I seen them for the pathetic kind they both is and never wanted to spend no more time in sight of them than we already done. I took the Hawken off Jim and say:
“We ain’t in California yet.”
We went to the horses and mounted up, and Pap and Morg got on their feet again, glad we ain’t going to kill them or nothing. Says I:
“Don’t neither of you come near us again ever.”
We rode by and kept on along the lake shore, and a minute later there’s a bang! and a ball went whistling by. We turned and seen the two of them wrestling over a rifle, but can’t tell which one done the shooting. It don’t make no difference now; they’re both of them trash past caring. Jim and me rode on and there warn’t no more shooting while we’re still in rifle-reach nor after, so they never shot each other. I reckon they been leaning one on the other ever since the judge got murdered, telling theirselfs they’re both good as the next man, only secretly disbelieving it and feeling the truth gnaw away inside of them like a grub in rotten wood.
Three days more is what it took to clear the Sierras. There’s snow atop the highest peaks now so it must be early fall. The trains still moving west better move fast or else get trapped in the mountains when the real snowfall starts. Nights was already chilly up here and we traveled quick as we can from sunup till dusk, and like I say, three days done the trick. One morning we rode up a ridge and looked over and seen a big wide stretch of land below, and I never needed no sign to know it’s California.
“Jim,” says I, “this is the place.”
“You sure, Huck?”
“Positive certain. That there’s what we come all this way for.”
We looked a long time at that country rolling away into the distance. There’s clouds drifting along here and there sending shadows rippling over the ground like you see fish do in shallow water, and way off to the north there’s a storm with a gray curtain of rain hanging underneath moving along slow. To the south it’s clear and bright with sunshine, and in between there’s three different rainbows, which is a lucky number.
We rode on down out of the mountains with our heads full of golden dreams. Brass colored is how we should of seen them, but we never knowed it then. It was fine country all right, forest and hills with game running around, and creeks and open land and birds crowding in the air. I brung down two ducks and we et like kings on our first night in California, and afterwards we sat smoking our pipes and looking up at them California stars.
27
The Jumping-off Place—A Race for Gold—The Smiling Winner—Spaniard Hospitality—An Expensive Surprise
Next day we come across a road and followed it west and joined up with a bunch of wagons and men on foot headed for the goldfields. They never give us no suspicioning looks so we figured it’s safe and got into place behind the last wagon, which is full of forty-niners. A man on the tailboard yells:
“You headed for the diggings?”
“Yessir. We aim to get gold rich,
” says I.
“It’ll happen! It’ll happen!” he hollers, twitching all over he’s so excited. “We’re practickly there! Did you know it? Practickly right there, and there’s gold enough for everyone!”
“That’s a comfort,” says I, polite.
“Comfort?” he says. “That’s what you get in a featherbed full of virgins! That’s what I’m getting myself pretty soon now, a featherbed with all them virgins in it! That’s real comfortable I reckon!”
He screeched on about how rich he’ll be this time next week till someone else in the wagon told him to quit hollering or he’ll tie up his jaw, but it never stopped him and a half mile down the road they pushed him out and flung his bag out after him. He never minded none, too full of exciteration to care, and he run down the road faster than the wagons to get there ahead of them. One of the men that pushed him out says to me:
“There goes a pure-born peabrain. This time next week he’ll be crying his eyes out because he never turned over no nuggets with the first spadeful of dirt. Where are you from?”
“Ohio, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. You don’t sound like an Ohian to me, more like a Missourian.”
“We moved to Missouri when I was still kind of small.”
“That nigger belong to you?”
“He’s a free nigger.”
“Is that so? Well you’ll be needing a strong back like he’s got on him. Only fools reckon you can get rich in one day. I don’t believe none of them stories. If the Lord wanted us to get rich in one day he would of put gold under every rock in the land. You got to work for riches, that’s a fact.”
“I reckon so.”
“You lose anyone on the way across, boy?”
“All my kin, Pap and brother Bob, both dead of cholera.”
“Happened to my partner. There proberly ain’t a soul come through without they lost someone. That’s another price the Lord asks for riches, the misery you got to feel beforehand.”
The Further Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Page 41