“Pardon me, sir,” says I. “Was he from hereabouts?”
“No, son,” says he. “Him and his partner had a claim up on Little Deer Creek. He did the murder two days back and was stupid enough to stay around the camps when he should of run for the mountains or Frisco. Two men from Little Deer in here for supplies spotted him and made an arrest. It’s a damn shame it had to happen. Up till now it’s been mighty law-abiding right across the diggings. They say him and his partner argued over a bottle of whiskey. Some men are born fools.”
He looked up past Jesse to the skies all heavy with rain then stamped off through the mud to the saloon. It’s a fair guess that the partner which got murdered is Bob, so I reckon they must of quit keeping company with the bulldog after he give me a chance to slide away back behind the Sierras. Well, they ain’t going to do me no harm now. I watched Jesse’s boots swing back and forth slow in the wind with raindrops falling off his toecaps and heels, then I got my supplies and went back to the claim. It ain’t no surprise to me that Jesse done what he done. If ever a man wanted to do hurt to someone it’s him, so I never shed no tears, and when I told Jim he feels the same.
We kept working steady on the cabin and the walls got higher day by day, only the rain slowed us some. We got the ridgepole up and fitted snug with a little help off the men from the claim across the creek in return for helping them build a cabin too. There’s plenty more doing the same all over now that winter’s coming. When the roof is done we aim to fix up a stable for the horses so they got a roof over their heads and don’t have to stand under the trees for shelter. We was real proud of what we done so far, but Frank got a chill and had to stay in the tent while we raised up the roof beams, working fast as we can so Frank can have someplace warm to rest up in and get his strength back.
We never had no proper shingles so we bought planks brung upriver from Sacramento and used them, with canvas stretched over the top and tarred for rainproofing. We never had no time nor bricks for a fireplace but got a stove from the store that done just fine for warming the place and a bed too, and we figured Frank has got to get better tucked up snug inside. But he never. He started to cough, and the coughing got worse and he brung up yeller stuff, real thick, then brown, and Jim says in a whisper:
“He ain’t goin’ to get no better, Huck, I kin feel it. My own Ma dieder lung fever de same way.”
“Maybe if we fetched in a doctor.…”
“Dere ain’t no doc, Huck, lessen it be some horse doc callin’ hisself de genuine kin’. Dere ain’t nothin’ we kin do ’cept keep him warm an’ fed I reckon.”
We kept the stove roaring hot and fed him soup and broth seeing as he ain’t got the strength no more to chew on nothing solid. His face was red and sweaty and he got skinnier every time we looked, but he never complained like you would of expected Frank to do. And here’s a strange thing; we seen he ain’t always Frank no more by the way he talks, sometimes like Obadiah even if he ain’t had no liquor to make the change, and that’s when we knowed he’s fixing to die. On Thanksgiving the men from the other claim invited us over to celebrate with a turkey and drinking in their cabin which they just finished, but Jim says he’ll stay with Frank. I never et my fill and never got drunk neither, and left early which they was understanding about. I got Frank a book of empty paper and some pens and ink for a present to distractify him from the pain he’s in, and when I handed it all over he says:
“Is it Christmas already as I speak?”
“Well, near enough, Obadiah,” says I, reckernizing his way of talking.
“But I have no present for you, not one,” he says, and coughed awhile. “You have done me proud without thought for cost notwithstanding. I thank you profusely with an abundance of plenitude. I must put this to some good use.…”
“You could write a letter, if you got folks back east I mean.”
“There is no one, only Frank and myself, and I do not know his whereabouts, nor indeed his location.”
“I reckon Frank would of drawed another invention,” says I.
“Perchance haply so, but I am no mean hand at sketching myself.”
“If you like you can do a picture of me. I ain’t never been drawed.”
It ain’t exactly true, seeing as I got my face on them wanted posters, but Frank and Obadiah don’t even know who me and Jim truly are, so I ain’t about to get catched out on the lie.
“An excellent idea,” he says. “Sit where I can see you.”
I got him propped up so’s he can rest the book on his knees and sat myself on a barrel because we ain’t got no chairs yet and he got started. Jim sat quiet and smoked and I stayed still as I can, just listening to the rain hammer down hard on the roof and Obadiah breathing in and out real fast, like his chest has only got room for a cupful of air. There warn’t no other sounds, just him and the rain and the fire crackling soft in the stove. I sat there still as a stump with my eyes on him but he never once looked at me, which is a peculiar way to do a body’s picture, but I never mentioned it and kind of drifted off inside my head.
A year ago Jim and me was in Pap’s cabin back home, listening to the stove and feeling glad we ain’t out in the snow. Now we’re two thousand mile away in another cabin and I’m a wanted man with my share of sixteen thousand dollars buried under the floor and getting my picture drawed by two men in the same person that ain’t got much longer to live. I run over all that happened in the past year piece by piece right up till now, just like a storybook, and it’s hard to figure how all of it happened to me, one little piece of the story stuck onto the next and the next, getting more and more complexified along the way. When I done my best to make sense of it the only fact I’m certain sure of is the story ain’t ended yet. I would of give anything if I could just close up the book and rest easy awhile till I got everything figured out, then I can open it again and go on, but it ain’t possible. Them pages keep on getting turned anyhow.
Finally Obadiah says:
“It is finished to completion.”
I got off the barrel, my legs and back considerable stiffened by now from all that stillness, and he showed me what he done. It ain’t a picture of me at all, just some kind of contraption with rods and levers like Frank was forever drawing. Says I:
“It’s a real fine likeness. I’d be proud if you put your name on it for me.”
“My name? Yes, the patent office will require it. This design will not fall into unscrupulous hands that may steal its originality of concept for their own enrichment at my expense. That has happened many times before without number.”
I can’t figure if he’s Frank or Obadiah, but he warn’t bothered none himself so it ain’t important. He says:
“This will make my fortune. Nothing resembling its likeness has ever been seen in the civilized world.”
“I reckon you’re right,” says I, “but I ain’t exactly sure which part is which. Maybe you could explanate it for me.”
“Certainly,” he says. “You know, do you not, that my previous profession was that of undertaker?”
“You told me a long time back.”
“Yes, indeed, and that I am also an inventor of devices of a mechanical nature?”
“I recollect that too,” says I.
“Well then, this before you is the perfect blending of these two influences.”
“It is? I mean, sure it is, only what is it?”
He lifts his chin kind of proud and says:
“It is the very first valve-operated air-pressure device for coffin descent.”
“That’s what I figured,” says I.
“Have you ever witnessed a funeral, young Jeff?”
“I seen a couple or three.”
“And how was the deceased lowered to eternal rest on these sad occasions?”
“The usual way, with ropes.”
“Exactly. Since time immemorial and possibly longer man has lowered his dear departed by means of muscle and sinew. Now, for the first time in history science will
come to our aid. Do you see this metal flask? It is a chamber for the containment of air at high pressure, and to it are affixed these hollow metal rods which will stand upright in the four corners of the open grave. A platform between them will support the coffin at ground level, its position maintained by air pressure within the rods and chamber. These will have been filled with air from a detachable set of bellows before the mourners arrive at the graveside. When the service has been concluded this lever is pulled, releasing air slowly from the chamber through a hole of mere pinprick dimensions, thus ensuring a steady descent of the coffin platform. The rods are then withdrawn for further use with the chamber.”
All that talk was too much for him and he coughed and spit awhile, then wants to know what I think.
“I reckon it’s the cleverest thing I ever seen. Jim, come and see what Mr. Jennings done.”
He come over and I told how it works and he declared it’s the fanciest machine he ever seen a drawing of, then Obadiah done a whole string of coughs and had to lie back down, and when his chest let him he says:
“Jeff, you will make sure my design is shown to important people, will you not?”
“I surely will. First chance I get I’ll send it to the president, and when dead folks all over the country is getting lowered into their graves with your contraption I bet they put up a statue in Washington so the whole world knows who invented it.”
He fell asleep after that, tired out I guess, and he laid there with his breath rasping and bubbling and the sweat pouring off him. It ain’t respectful to say it, I know, but he smelled like a dead dog, and Jim and me had to step outside once in a while to get a sniff of fresh air. We slept on and off, catnapping, and got woke by Obadiah calling out.
“Mother, …” he calls, “are you there?…”
I went over and he looks at me and says:
“Mother?…”
“Well … all right,” says I.
“The front window needs fixing, I fear,” he wheezes. “I can hear it rattling … or is someone knocking?…”
“There ain’t no one there, only the wind. I’ll fix it directly.”
“One thing more …” he says.
“What might that be?” says I, but he never told, just give a sigh and closed his eyes. After awhile I got up bravery and touched him on the forehead where he’s got this vein that kind of throbs, only it ain’t throbbing now. Jim says:
“He ain’t here no mo’, Huck.”
You can’t sleep with a dead man in the room so we used up the rest of the night stitching him in a blanket, and come the dawn Jim dug a grave away in the trees. We never had no air-pressure machine so Jim lifted him down without no help from science and we both done the spadework burying him. Jim says:
“Dere ain’t no preacher, Huck. You reckon you kin say de words?”
“I’ll give it a try,” says I, and cleared my throat some.
“This here is Obadiah or Frank, one or other of ’em or maybe both. It don’t hardly matter which, only that they’re dead with just us to be sorry over it. But I reckon two friends that’s sad is better than nothing. Amen.”
We planted a cross too. It seemed like the right thing to do.
The weeks run by swift after that but we never counted them up on no calendar. No one done much mining on account of the weather. It never snowed or nothing, but outdoors work ain’t easy in pouring rain and mist and cold. Jim and me never felt no obligation to do more toiling than we felt inclined to, which ain’t much, except when the sky fined up every few days. Even then all we done was finish off the stable. There ain’t nothing like bags of gold hid under the floor to make you feel lazified and easy. Then come a day just before Christmas when there’s a knocking on the door and it’s one of them from the claim across the creek.
“I just come from the store,” he says. “There’s a feller there asking after you.”
“After me?” says I.
“Says he’s looking for a boy called Jeff and a nigger.”
“Did he give his name?”
“He never offered it and I never asked.”
“Well how does he look?”
“Like anyone else I reckon. I told him where you’re located so he’ll likely be along anytime. He kin of yours?”
“Proberly so,” says I. “Thank you kindly.”
“Merry Christmas,” he says, and squelched away through the mud.
Jim heard it all and says:
“What you reckon, Huck, de bulldog?”
“It’s got to be. There ain’t no one else looking for us.”
“We goin’ to run or fight?”
“Dangblast it, why don’t he just go home or fall off his horse and break his head?”
“He ain’t about to do nothin’ you wants him to, Huck. Lessen you aim to kill him we got to run.”
I ain’t no killer, so we got all our totables together in a rush and I primed my Hawken just in case Bulldog is in a fighting mood. Jim dug up the gold and I went out to saddle the horses, only I never got the job finished. There’s a heavy mist hiding everything except for a few trees close by, and I heard a horse splashing across the creek and heading up the slope toward the cabin. Then I seen him. I can’t tell if it’s the bulldog or not, but I ain’t taking no chances. I put the saddle I got in my hands down gentle so he never heard and picked up the Hawken which I brung outside with me. He got down off his horse and knocked on the cabin door, and I snuck up behind him and put the gun to my shoulder and say:
“Don’t you move, Bulldog. I got my rifle aimed square at you.”
He never turned, just says:
“I been called a bobcat and a squawman and a liar, but I ain’t ever been called a bulldog before.”
He ain’t wearing his buckskins no more and he’s sawed his Injun braids off, but I reckernized his voice even from behind.
“Thaddeus?…”
“I been called that too. Reckon I can turn around now?”
The door opened real quick and Jim stood there with a hatchet in his hand and a surprised look on his face.
“Afternoon, Jim,” says Thaddeus. “You two must be fixing to start a war hereabouts.”
I put down my rifle and we shook hands and danced around in the mud awhile, then I brung the saddles back inside and stabled Thaddeus’s horse. He set a bottle of whiskey on the table and me and Jim cooked up a meal and the cabin never knowed a minute’s quiet all the rest of the day and halfway into the night. I told Thaddeus everything that happened since I busted out of Fort Kearney, only I left out the part about Pap and Morg. When I finished he told how the Naismith train suffered terrible across the desert and was whittled down considerable by cholera too, which killed Colonel Naismith and plenty more. Thaddeus got elected leader and brung all them that was left across the Sierras and into California safe.
“When we got to Sacramento the train split up in just one day,” he says. “Some went north and some went south to the diggin’s down along the San Joaquin and Stanislaus. I figured I may as well turn my hand to mining myself and went up around the Yuba. Had a peck of luck too, after I tried three different claims, then I got into argument with my partners and seen it’s time I moved on. I ain’t never wanted no big house or nothin’, just so’s I got enough not to die like a dog. So I headed south and got a notion to ask after you two along the way seeing as I ain’t in no hurry. I was mighty curious to see if you come all the way to California like you wanted. I must of asked around a thousand times if anyone seen you, but no one had, only I ain’t the only one that’s been asking. Three times along the Feather River I got told someone else is lookin’ for you, and I reckon it’s got to be your bulldog friend. Seems to me he ain’t the kind to give up easy. He’s moving north to south goin’ through all the diggin’s with a fine-tooth comb. If I found you just by askin’ around the general store you can bet he won’t have no trouble locating your door same as I done. You boys best be figuring on whether to fight or run I reckon.”
That’
s two times in one day I got handed the same choice, and like it or not we got to decide, only this time there ain’t no panic. Says I:
“We got to run. I ain’t about to shoot Bulldog even if he’s begging for it, only I just know he’ll follow on wherever we go. I’m wanted clear across the country now and he’s got the law on his side.”
“There’s only one answer,” says Thaddeus. “You got to leave the country. Outside of America you ain’t done no crimes and there ain’t nothin’ Bulldog could do even if he catched you up.”
“It’s a good plan I guess, only where? Mexico maybe?”
“Too close and too hot,” he says. “Also they got terrible food down there that don’t give your bowels no peace. You got to plan bigger’n that if you aim to get free of persecution. How much gold you got, if it ain’t a personal question?”
“Around sixteen thousand dollars, we figure.”
“Well you got to pardon me for never dusting the floor with my beard. I never knowed I’m in the company of rich men. You boys has had better luck than most. I reckon not one in a thousand has struck it rich, so you can be gratified at what you got even if the rest of the news is bad. Why, with that kind of money you can go anywhere in the whole world and live like kings if you got a mind to. All you need to do is go to Frisco and pay your passage on a ship to any place that takes your fancy. There ain’t no problem to it.”
“Well all right, but where?”
He give it some hard thinking, then he says:
The Further Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Page 46