by Gwen Bristow
Kearny Street was closely lined with tents, cloth houses, even a few genuine buildings. The most imposing of these was the new hotel called the Parker House, finished at last after a year of standing half built for lack of workmen. The Parker House had two stories and an attic, painted white, with gingerbread trimming. A number of gamblers had rented space for card tables there, Norman among them. The Chinese carpenters had torn down the old Calico Palace to make room for the new one, and Norman did not want to be idle.
Near the Parker House, Kendra saw the carpenters building the Calico Palace. Quaint figures in blue cotton, with straw hats shaped like umbrellas, and pigtails dangling halfway to their knees, they were working with the assurance of men who knew their trade. She saw Dwight Carson supervising them, but he did not see her; he was too busy to look around. It was important to make the most of every workman while you had him. You never could tell when any men, even these sensible Chinese, might catch the gold fever.
Out in the bay Kendra could see the poor deserted ships. Among them, her masts tall and gaunt and empty, was the Cynthia. How forsaken she looked, how desolate.
Kendra felt a rush of sympathy for Captain Pollock. No doubt he had been foolish, coming to San Francisco in the serene belief that what had befallen other captains could not befall him. But who on earth, she asked herself, had not sometimes been a fool? And the Cynthia need not be a total loss. So fine a ship could readily be sold for a hotel or warehouse. Pollock could get a good price and then go home by way of the Isthmus, knowing he had done the best any man could do.
At the store, Mr. Chase was selling boots and clothes to two miners who had come to town with full pokes in their hands but only rags and tatters on their backs. By the stove sat two croakers, exchanging complaints. Mr. Fenway was making entries in an account book, scowling as if he were going bankrupt instead of getting rich. As he saw Kendra he closed his book and dawdled over.
Ralph went to his own work in the storeroom, saying he would come back later to see her up the hill. When Kendra had bought what she needed, Mr. Fenway dragged over a chair and gave her a copy of the New York Tribune, seven weeks old, brought by the Panama. Kendra caught sight of herself in a mirror that hung on the wall behind the counter, a price tag on the frame. Marny had been right—she was flowering in her prospect of motherhood. Her skin glowed, her blue eyes were bright and clear. With a smile at her reflection she opened the newspaper.
Mr. Chase, having sold the miners their new clothes, went to the storeroom door and called Foxy.
“I’ve got to go out,” he said. “You show these gentlemen where to change.”
Ambling out, Foxy gave Kendra a grin of welcome. “Morning, Mrs. Shields,” he said, and opened a door leading to a hastily built little room at the back. The two miners, their arms piled with apparel, followed where he led. As was now usual with men returning from the mines, they were going to put on their new clothes right here, and throw out the old ones to add to the litter in the street.
As the miners went out Kendra heard the front door open, and saw Pocket and Hiram, down from the settlement at Sutter’s Fort, now grown to a busy town called Sacramento. She sprang up, and as they caught sight of her they exclaimed and hurried toward her.
Pocket and Hiram were lean and brown and hard-muscled. They had brand new shaves and haircuts, and like the miners they had bought new clothes in honor of this visit to town. They looked tough and handsome, but they did not look citified. It was not possible for Hiram’s thick rust-colored hair to stay tidy for long, nor for Pocket to wear any garment without stuffing it out of shape.
In high spirits, both men began to talk. They told her she looked beautiful, said Loren was a lucky man, and wished her happiness in her marriage. They said they had come to town on business. Their venture of making rockers was paying them well, and they wanted to put their surplus gold dust on the next steamer to be taken to the Mint in Philadelphia.
By this time gold was as cheap in Honolulu as it was in San Francisco, so a man could no longer send his dust there and change it for its value in coins. He had to send it to the Mint. This was a long and expensive business, but worth doing because real money was so much wanted in San Francisco that a man who had any could loan it at interest of ten per cent a month.
“We got to town yesterday,” said Hiram, “and left our gold dust here in the safe while we went looking for a place to sleep.”
“Where did you sleep?” asked Kendra.
“Parker House,” said Hiram. He growled and added, “If you’d call it sleeping.”
Pocket gave a sad sort of laugh. Hiram put both his big hands on the counter and heaved himself up to sit there. Pocket pulled over a box and sat down too, still laughing under his breath. Hiram vehemently continued,
“Has anybody told you about that place, Kendra? A ‘bedroom’ is a cubbyhole four feet by seven—”
“Hiram could hardly get in,” murmured Pocket.
Hiram was still venting his wrath. “—and that cubbyhole has two bunks. Yes, two, one above the other. And the walls between the rooms are nothing but sheets of cloth. If you light a candle your shadow on the cloth shows the neighbors what you are doing. If you speak to your roommate and don’t want them to hear, you have to whisper—”
“Hiram can’t whisper,” said Pocket.
“Most men can’t whisper,” Kendra said laughing.
Hiram certainly could not, nor did he try. He was roaring,
“The gamblers have taken nearly the whole second floor, and the games go on all night, and the racket—if I ever catch one of those gamblers—”
Kendra felt a flash of mischief. “Here comes one now,” she said. The front door was opening, and she had caught sight of Marny, with Norman and Rosabel behind her.
The men saw Marny too. Hiram leaped down from the counter and Pocket sprang up from the box. Rushing to them, Marny joyously embraced them both at once. She called Norman and Rosabel, introduced everybody all round, and explained how Norman happened to be at present one of the Parker House dealers. She was sorry Hiram and Pocket had been kept awake by the gamblers, but she declared that Norman had not been one of them. Not last night. Norman had left his table early because of important errands this morning.
Norman heard her with a faint smile. Norman’s business was gambling. If he had left his table early last night, it had been for his errands this morning, not for the sake of anybody else’s comfort. Much as he admired Marny’s talents he thought her exuberant concern for other people a waste of energy.
The croakers by the stove had quit croaking to look and listen. The two miners came out of the changing room resplendent in red shirts and corduroy breeches and bright new boots, and they too paused. As Mr. Chase was still out and Foxy had been sent back to the storeroom, Mr. Fenway lounged over to offer Norman his services.
Norman explained that he and Marny wanted to be the first to see some furnishings advertised by Chase and Fenway in the latest Alta. He supposed these could be seen at their warehouse?
Right, said Mr. Fenway. He would go with Norman and Marny and open the warehouse. However, they would have to wait till Mr. Chase came back; he had gone to look at some goods just unloaded from the Cynthia, and both partners could not be away from the store at once.
Very good, said Norman. He had another errand to attend to, so he would do this now. Marny and Rosabel could wait here till Mr. Chase returned, and he would meet them at the warehouse.
Mr. Fenway glanced at Rosabel. “And while she’s waiting,” he said solemnly, “maybe Miss Rosabel would like to see a fine new guitar that just came in.”
Rosabel said she would love to. Norman went out, and Mr. Fenway went to the storeroom to get the guitar. While he and Rosabel examined it, Marny and Kendra, Pocket and Hiram, sat down to talk. The miners joined the croakers by the stove.
Marny said Norman had gone to look at a roulette wheel advertised in the Alta by another firm. If it was any good he would snap it up before any
body else had a chance.
Pocket and Hiram told the girls about Sacramento. A town of tents, they said. Population always changing, men going to the mines or coming back. All of them half wild with excitement, whether of hope or success or despair. Riches thundering out of the hills, yet every day you met men begging the price of a meal.
They said everything at the mining camps was different now. Last year the miners had been men who lived in California and knew each other, in general a pretty decent lot. This year they were men who had poured in from everywhere, some of them good fellows, others trash from the back alleys of the world. It would be a brave man who would bring his wife to a mining camp this year. Last summer, you panned anywhere you pleased; now you had to stake a claim and be ready to defend it.
“And do you remember,” said Hiram, “how we used to leave our dust while we worked, and nobody bothered it? No more.”
He paused as he heard a tinkle of music. Rosabel sat on the counter, blissfully thrumming her new guitar. The miners and the croakers had turned their chairs eagerly. Rosabel began a song.
“I knew she’d buy that thing,” said Marny. “Well, that’s what we’re here for, to spend money.”
Her words about spending money caught the ear of Mr. Fenway. Leaving Rosabel to play her guitar, he came strolling over to say he had a mighty fine painting in the storeroom and maybe Marny would like to have a look.
Marny consented, and he called Bert and Foxy to bring the painting. Rosabel ended her song, the men by the stove gave her rapturous applause, and she began another. At Mr. Fenway’s direction Bert and Foxy set the painting against the wall.
About six feet by eight, the picture showed the sawmill in the mountains where the workman named Jim Marshall had first found gold in the water. Marny looked at it thoughtfully, walked a little way off and turned to study it again.
Mr. Fenway told them the artist was a man named Bruno Gregg. He had come around the Horn from New York, bringing oils and canvas with him. His picture was good, wasn’t it?
Marny said yes, the picture was good. But she would have liked it better if instead of scenery Mr. Bruno Gregg had chosen to paint a pretty woman with not too many clothes on.
Mr. Fenway sighed. Kendra spoke.
“I think men will be interested in this,” said Kendra. “The place where the first gold was found—why, that’s a historic spot.”
Marny thought a moment, and said Kendra might have an idea there. What did Pocket and Hiram think?
They agreed with Kendra. Hiram added that Bruno Gregg might also be good at painting women. While they talked Pocket spoke to Kendra in an undertone.
“I’d like to say something to you, please ma’am.”
She went with him back to the chair she had occupied before. Pocket stood by her, his elbow on the counter. At the other end of the counter Rosabel continued to play and sing for her delighted hearers. Pocket spoke in a low voice.
“I wanted to tell you, Kendra, how glad I am you’re married to a fine man now, and happy.”
How likable he was, thought Kendra. “Thank you, Pocket,” she said.
Pocket went on, “And—excuse me for getting personal, but—about Ted, did it happen the way I said it would?”
“Yes, Pocket,” she answered. “Just as you said it would. That’s over. I don’t care any more.”
Pocket smiled, his gentle endearing smile. “That makes me mighty happy, Kendra. I’m glad you’re in love again.”
Kendra did not tell him she was not in love again. She might have reminded him—he had gone past that episode with that other girl, but he had not been in love again. Maybe he never would be. Maybe all he would ever reach with a girl would be the sort of pleasant affection she had reached with Loren. Well, no doubt this was better than what either of them had had before.
For several minutes they listened while Rosabel went on singing to the music of her new guitar. She looked pretty as she sat there on the counter, her black curls dancing and her fingers skipping over the strings. Rosabel liked to play and sing and she liked to entertain admiring men.
The admiring men sat facing her, their backs to the stove. There were six of them: Bert and Foxy, the two miners in their bright new clothes, and the two croakers, looking happy now instead of sad. By the side wall Marny and Hiram and Mr. Fenway were discussing pictures for the Calico Palace.
The front door opened, and Kendra saw Mr. Chase. He was holding the door for some important personage to come in. Pocket spoke with regret.
“There’s Mr. Chase. Now Mr. Fenway will take Marny and Rosabel to the warehouse.”
Kendra looked up at Pocket. “Why don’t you and Hiram go along?”
“You don’t think they’ll mind?” he asked.
“Why no,” she said. “I think Marny will like your opinions.”
As she spoke, Kendra became aware that something was taking place. Rosabel’s music had stopped on a discord. Voices and other sounds were ceasing. One by one the men facing Rosabel were turning away from her. By the wall, Marny and Hiram and Mr. Fenway were turning too. Kendra looked where they were looking, toward the front door. She saw Captain Pollock, the important personage who had come in with Mr. Chase.
But Captain Pollock did not see her. He saw nothing in the room but Marny.
He stood looking at her. He stood motionless, a figure of fury and rage and breathless hate.
On Marny’s face was a look of shock. In spite of Kendra’s warnings, Marny had never until now realized the scope of Pollock’s wrath. For a moment the two of them stood without moving, silently challenging each other.
It was only a moment, only a flick of time. But like the time when Pollock’s eyes had thanked Kendra for her virgin presence as he doubled the Horn, this was a moment that struck and pierced. Now that Mr. Chase and Pollock had come in, there were fourteen persons in the room. For this instant, not one of them moved or spoke.
Later, all that most of them could say about it was, “Gosh, that man was mad, mad with her—I tell you, it was gruesome.”
Most of them knew Marny had come to San Francisco on the Cynthia, but they did not know about her adventure with Pollock, nor that he bore her any ill-will. But Kendra knew, and as she saw Pollock now she shivered before him as if before a cloud of evil.
The first of them to move was Hiram. He took a step toward Marny, not a heavy step, but the sound of it was as startling as a crash. Almost at the same time the rest of them unfroze. Mr. Chase demanded, “Say, captain, what’s the matter?” Pocket exclaimed, “Who is this man, Kendra? Why is he mad with Marny?”
Foxy and Bert and the strangers all began to ask what was wrong. Rosabel, sitting on the counter, hugged her new guitar as if afraid somebody was going to attack it.
Pollock took a stride toward Marny. He blurted, “Shameless creature!”
With a quick movement Marny had whipped out her little gun. “Keep your hands off me,” she ordered.
But neither her gun nor her speech was necessary. Hiram’s big powerful hands had already caught Pollock and halted him. Pollock was no weakling, but Hiram had spent the past year doing the hardest kind of physical work, and he stood like an oak tree. Pollock exclaimed,
“Do you know this woman?”
Hiram, still with no idea of why Pollock should dislike Marny, answered simply, “Yes, I know her. Let her alone.”
Mr. Chase, looking around at Marny with her gun, at Rosabel with her guitar, at Rosabel’s audience blinking in wonder, was asking at the same time, “What are we having here anyhow, Fenway? A variety show?”
Now, all of a sudden, they noticed Mr. Fenway.
He was walking across the floor toward Pollock, slowly, dragging his feet, but steadily, like the approach of fate. In his hand he held a big astonishing revolver. Without looking around he answered calmly,
“One thing we’re not having here, and that’s trouble.”
Hiram, seeing that Mr. Fenway’s gun made his own grip on Pollock needless, let
him go. Mr. Fenway took another step toward Pollock, serene with menace.
“Look, you,” he droned, “maybe you’d better get out of here.”
Wheeling toward him, Pollock demanded, “You’re ordering me out?”
“Yes I am,” drawled Mr. Fenway, “unless you behave yourself. I know you’re an important man. But there’s no man important enough to start disorder in my place of business.
“And do you know this woman?”
“Sure, I know her. She wasn’t raising any dust before you came in.”
Pollock shouted, “She is killing my ship.”
Standing like an embodiment of vengeance, he looked around to he sure they were all listening for what he was about to say. They were. Pollock pointed to Marny.
“Look, all of you!” he thundered. “Do you see this woman? She has brought evil to my ship. Evil and death. Out there in the bay my beautiful Cynthia is dying. Dying, because of this woman. My fair, unspotted Cynthia—”
He slumped into a chair, and dropped his head upon his hands. Disconsolate, despairing, he sat there.
As she saw him now, Kendra thought she understood him better than she ever had before. He was a man condemned to watch the slow disintegration of the being he loved. Kendra had never in her life seen anything so pitiful. With an impulsive movement she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Captain Pollock,” she said, “may I speak to you?”
He did not lift his head. He muttered, “What do you want?”
“I want to tell you,” she said gently, “the Cynthia isn’t lost. She’s a fine ship. She can still be put to service.”
Hiram gave her a nod of approval. But Pollock, still staring down between his knees at the floor, shook his head.