by Bret Harte
proceedings, which only recalled anunpleasant experience, and was wandering with pick, pan, and walletfar from the camp. These accoutrements, as I have before intimated,justified any form of aimless idleness under the equally aimless titleof "prospecting." He had at the end of three hours' relaxation reachedthe highway to Red Chief, half hidden by blinding clouds of dust tornfrom the crumbling red road at every gust which swept down the mountainside. The spot had a familiar aspect to Cass, although some freshly-dugholes near the wayside, with scattered earth beside them, showed thepresence of a recent prospector. He was struggling with his memory, whenthe dust was suddenly dispersed and he found himself again at the sceneof the murder. He started: he had not put foot on the road since theinquest. There lacked only the helpless dead man and the contrastingfigure of the alert young woman to restore the picture. The body wasgone, it was true, but as he turned he beheld Miss Porter, at a fewpaces distant, sitting on her horse as energetic and observant as on thefirst morning they had met. A superstitious thrill passed over him andawoke his old antagonism.
She nodded to him slightly. "I came here to refresh my memory," shesaid, "as Mr. Hornsby thought I might be asked to give my evidence againat Blazing Star."
Cass carelessly struck an aimless blow with his pick against the sod anddid not reply.
"And you?" she queried.
"I stumbled upon the place just now while prospecting, or I shouldn't behere."
"Then it was YOU made these holes?"
"No," said Cass, with ill-concealed disgust. "Nobody but a strangerwould go foolin' round such a spot."
He stopped, as the rude significance of his speech struck him, and addedsurlily, "I mean--no one would dig here."
The girl laughed and showed a set of very white teeth in her square jaw.Cass averted his face.
"Do you mean to say that every miner doesn't know that it's lucky to digwherever human blood has been spilt?"
Cass felt a return of his superstition, but he did not look up. "I neverheard it before," he said, severely.
"And you call yourself a California miner?"
"I do."
It was impossible for Miss Porter to misunderstand his curt speech andunsocial manner. She stared at him and colored slightly. Lifting herreins lightly, she said: "You certainly do not seem like most of theminers I have met."
"Nor you like any girl from the East I ever met," he responded.
"What do you mean?" she asked, checking her horse.
"What I say," he answered, doggedly. Reasonable as this reply was, itimmediately struck him that it was scarcely dignified or manly. Butbefore he could explain himself Miss Porter was gone.
He met her again that very evening. The trial had been summarilysuspended by the appearance of the Sheriff of Calaveras and his posse,who took Joe from that self-constituted tribunal of Blazing Star andset his face southward and toward authoritative although more cautiousjustice. But not before the evidence of the previous inquest had beenread, and the incident of the ring again delivered to the public.
It is said the prisoner burst into an incredulous laugh and asked to seethis mysterious waif. It was handed to him. Standing in the veryshadow of the gallows tree--which might have been one of the pines thatsheltered the billiard room in which the Vigilance Committee held theirconclave--the prisoner gave way to a burst of merriment, so genuineand honest that the judge and jury joined in automatic sympathy. Whensilence was restored an explanation was asked by the Judge. But therewas no response from the prisoner except a subdued chuckle.
"Did this ring belong to you?" asked the Judge, severely, the jury andspectators craning their ears forward with an expectant smile alreadyon their faces. But the prisoner's eyes only sparkled maliciously as helooked around the court.
"Tell us, Joe," said a sympathetic and laughter-loving juror, under hisbreath. "Let it out and we'll make it easy for you."
"Prisoner," said the Judge, with a return of official dignity, "rememberthat your life is in peril. Do you refuse?"
Joe lazily laid his arm on the back of his chair with (to quote thewords of an animated observer) "the air of having a Christian hope and asequence flush in his hand," and said: "Well, as I reckon I'm not up yerfor stealin' a ring that another man lets on to have found, and as furas I kin see, hez nothin' to do with the case, I do!" And as it was herethat the Sheriff of Calaveras made a precipitate entry into the room,the mystery remained unsolved.
The effect of this freshly-important ridicule on the sensitive mind ofCass might have been foretold by Blazing Star had it ever taken thatsensitiveness into consideration. He had lost the good humor and easypliability which had tempted him to frankness, and he had graduallybecome bitter and hard. He had at first affected amusement over his ownvanished day dream--hiding his virgin disappointment in his own breast;but when he began to turn upon his feelings he turned upon his comradesalso. Cass was for a while unpopular. There is no ingratitude sorevolting to the human mind as that of the butt who refuses to be oneany longer. The man who rejects that immunity which laughter generallycasts upon him and demands to be seriously considered deserves no mercy.
It was under these hard conditions that Cass Beard, convicted of overtsentimentalism, aggravated by inconsistency, stepped into the Red Chiefcoach that evening. It was his habit usually to ride with the driver,but the presence of Hornsby and Miss Porter on the box seat changedhis intention. Yet he had the satisfaction of seeing that neither hadnoticed him, and as there was no other passenger inside, he stretchedhimself on the cushion of the back seat and gave way to moodyreflections. He quite determined to leave Blazing Star, to settlehimself seriously to the task of money getting, and to return tohis comrades, some day, a sarcastic, cynical, successful man, and sooverwhelm them with confusion. For poor Cass had not yet reached thatsuperiority of knowing that success would depend upon his ability toforego his past. Indeed, part of his boyhood had been cast among thesemen, and he was not old enough to have learned that success was not tobe gauged by their standard. The moon lit up the dark interior of thecoach with a faint poetic light. The lazy swinging of the vehicle thatwas bearing him away--albeit only for a night and a day--the solitude,the glimpses from the window of great distances full of vaguepossibilities, made the abused ring potent as that of Gyges. He dreamedwith his eyes open. From an Alnaschar vision he suddenly awoke.The coach had stopped. The voices of men, one in entreaty, one inexpostulation, came from the box. Cass mechanically put his hand to hispistol pocket.
"Thank you, but I INSIST upon getting down."
It was Miss Porter's voice. This was followed by a rapid,half-restrained interchange of words between Hornsby and the driver.Then the latter said, gruffly,--
"If the lady wants to ride inside, let her."
Miss Porter fluttered to the ground. She was followed by Hornsby. "Justa minit, Miss," he expostulated, half shamedly, half brusquely, "yedon't onderstand me. I only--"
But Miss Porter had jumped into the coach.
Hornsby placed his hand on the handle of the door. Miss Porter graspedit firmly from the inside. There was a slight struggle.
All of which was part of a dream to the boyish Cass. But he awokefrom it--a man! "Do you," he asked, in a voice he scarcely recognizedhimself,--"Do you want this man inside?"
"No!"
Cass caught at Hornsby's wrist like a young tiger. But alas! whatavailed instinctive chivalry against main strength? He only succeededin forcing the door open in spite of Miss Porter's superior strategy,and--I fear I must add, muscle also--and threw himself passionately atHornsby's throat, where he hung on and calmly awaited dissolution.But he had, in the onset, driven Hornsby out into the road and themoonlight.
"Here! Somebody take my lines." The voice was "Mountain Charley's," thedriver. The figure that jumped from the box and separated the strugglingmen belonged to this singularly direct person.
"You're riding inside?" said Charley, interrogatively, to Cass. Beforehe could reply Miss Porter's voice came from the window.
"H
e is!"
Charley promptly bundled Cass into the coach.
"And YOU?" to Hornsby, "onless you're kalkilatin' to take a little'pasear' you're booked OUTSIDE. Get up."
It is probable that Charley assisted Mr. Hornsby as promptly to hisseat, for the next moment the coach was rolling on.
Meanwhile Cass, by reason of his forced entry, had been deposited inMiss Porter's lap, whence, freeing himself, he had attempted to climbover the middle seat, but in the starting of the coach was again thrownheavily against her hat and shoulder; all of which was inconsistentwith the attitude of dignified reserve he had intended to display. MissPorter, meanwhile, recovered her good humor.
"What a brute he was, ugh!" she said, retying the ribbons of her bonnetunder her square chin, and smoothing out her linen duster.
Cass tried to look as if he had forgotten the whole affair. "Who? Oh,yes I see!" he responded, absently.
"I suppose I ought to thank you," she went on with a smile, "but youknow, really, I could have kept him out if you hadn't pulled his wristfrom outside. I'll show you. Look! Put your hand on the handle there!Now, I'll hold the lock inside firmly. You see, you can't turn thecatch!"
She indeed held the lock fast. It was a firm hand, yet soft--theirfingers had touched over the handle--and looked white in the moonlight.He made no reply, but sank back again in his seat with a singularsensation in the fingers that had touched hers. He was in the shadow,and, without being seen, could abandon his reserve and glance at herface. It struck him that he had never really seen her before. She wasnot so tall as she had appeared to be. Her eyes were not large, but herpupils were black, moist, velvety, and so convex as to seem embossedon the white. She had an indistinctive nose, a rather colorlessface--whiter at the angles of the mouth and nose through the relief oftiny freckles like grains of pepper. Her mouth was straight, dark, red,but moist as her eyes. She had drawn herself into the corner of the backseat, her wrist put through and hanging over the swinging strap, theeasy lines of her plump figure swaying from side to side with the motionof the coach. Finally, forgetful of any presence in the dark corneropposite, she threw her head a little farther back, slipped a triflelower, and placing two well-booted feet upon the middle seat, completeda charming and wholesome picture.
Five minutes elapsed. She was looking straight at the moon. Cass Beardfelt his dignified reserve becoming very much like awkwardness. He oughtto be coldly polite.
"I hope you're not flustered, Miss, by the--by the--" he began.
"I?" She straightened herself up in the seat, cast a curious glance intothe dark corner, and then, letting herself down again, said: "Oh, dear,no!"
Another five minutes elapsed. She had evidently forgotten him. Shemight, at least, have been civil. He took refuge again in his reserve.But it was now mixed with a certain pique.
Yet how much softer her face looked in the moonlight! Even her squarejaw had lost that hard, matter-of-fact, practical indication which wasso distasteful to him, and always had suggested a harsh criticism of hisweakness. How moist her eyes were--actually shining in the light! Howthat light seemed to concentrate in the corner of the lashes, and thenslipped--a flash--away! Was she? Yes, she was crying.
Cass melted. He moved. Miss Porter put her head out of the window anddrew it back in a moment, dry-eyed.
"One meets all sorts of folks traveling," said Cass, with what he wishedto make appear a cheerful philosophy.
"I dare say. I don't know. I never before met any one who was rude tome. I have traveled all over the country alone, and with all kinds ofpeople ever since I was so high. I have always gone my own way, withouthindrance or trouble. I always do. I don't see why I shouldn't. Perhapsother people mayn't like it. I do. I like excitement. I like to see allthat there is to see. Because I'm a girl I don't see why I cannot goout without a keeper, and why I cannot do what any man can do that isn'twrong, do you? Perhaps you do--perhaps you don't. Perhaps you like agirl to be always in the house dawdling or thumping a piano or readingnovels. Perhaps you think I'm bold because I don't like it, and won'tlie and say I do."
She spoke sharply and aggressively, and so evidently in answer to Cass'sunspoken indictment against her, that he was not surprised when shebecame more direct.
"You know you were shocked when I went to fetch that Hornsby, thecoroner, after we found the dead body."
"Hornsby wasn't shocked," said Cass, a little viciously.
"What do you mean?" she said, abruptly.
"You were good friends enough until--"
"Until he insulted me just now, is that it?"
"Until he thought," stammered Cass, "that because you were--youknow--not so--so--so careful as other girls, he could be a littlefreer."
"And so, because I preferred to ride a mile with him to see somethingreal that had happened, and tried to be useful instead of looking inshop windows in Main Street or promenading before the hotel--"
"And being ornamental," interrupted Cass. But this feeble andun-Cass-like attempt at playful gallantry met with a sudden check.
Miss Porter drew herself together, and looked out of the window. "Do youwish me to walk the rest of the way home?"
"No," said Cass, hurriedly, with a crimson face and a sense ofgratuitous rudeness.
"Then stop that kind of talk, right there!"
There was an awkward silence. "I wish I was a man," she said, halfbitterly, half earnestly. Cass Beard was not old and cynical enough toobserve that this devout aspiration is usually uttered by those who haveleast reason to deplore their own femininity; and, but for the rebuffhe had just received, would have made the usual emphatic dissent ofour sex, when the wish is uttered by warm red lips and tender voices--adissent, it may be remarked, generally withheld, however, when themasculine spinster dwells on the perfection of woman. I dare say MissPorter was sincere, for a moment later she continued, poutingly:
"And yet I used to go to fires in Sacramento when I was only ten yearsold. I saw the theatre burnt down. Nobody found fault with me then."
Something made Cass ask if her father and mother objected to her boyishtastes. The reply was characteristic if not satisfactory,--
"Object? I'd like to see them do it."
The direction of the road had changed. The fickle moon now abandonedMiss Porter and sought out Cass on the front seat. It caressed theyoung fellow's silky moustache and long eyelashes, and took some of thesunburn from his cheek.
"What's the matter with your neck?" said the girl, suddenly.
Cass looked down, blushing to find that the collar of his smart "duck"sailor shirt was torn open. But something more than his white, soft,girlish skin was exposed; the shirt front was dyed quite red with bloodfrom a slight cut on the shoulder. He remembered to have felt a scratchwhile struggling with Hornsby.
The girl's soft eyes sparkled. "Let ME," she said, vivaciously. "Do! I'mgood at wounds. Come over here. No--stay there. I'll come over to you."
She did, bestriding the back of the middle seat and dropping at hisside. The magnetic fingers again touched his; he felt her warm breath onhis neck as she bent toward him.
"It's nothing," he said, hastily, more agitated by the treatment thanthe wound.
"Give me your flask," she responded, without heeding. A stingingsensation as she bathed the edges of the cut with the spirit brought himback to common sense again. "There," she said, skillfully extemporizinga bandage from her handkerchief and a compress from his cravat. "Now,button your coat over your chest, so, and don't take cold." She insistedupon buttoning it for him; greater even than the feminine delight in aman's strength is the ministration to his weakness. Yet, when this wasfinished, she drew a little away from him in some embarrassment--anembarrassment she wondered at, as his skin was finer, his touch gentler,his clothes cleaner, and--not to put too fine a point upon it--heexhaled an atmosphere much sweeter than belonged to most of the men herboyish habits had brought her in contact with--not excepting her ownfather. Later she even exempted her mother from the possession of thisdivine e
ffluence. After a moment she asked, suddenly, "What are yougoing to do with Hornsby?"
Cass had not thought of him. His short-lived rage was past with theoccasion that provoked it. Without any fear of his adversary he wouldhave been content and quite willing to meet him no more. He only said,"That will depend upon him."
"Oh, you won't hear from him again," said she, confidently, "but youreally ought to get up a little more muscle. You've no more than agirl." She stopped, a little confused.
"What shall I do with your handkerchief?" asked the uneasy Cass, anxiousto change the subject.
"Oh, keep it, if you want to, only don't show it to everybody as you didthat ring you found." Seeing signs of distress in his face, she added:"Of course that was all nonsense. If you had cared so much for the ringyou couldn't have talked about it, or shown it. Could you?"
It relieved him to think that this might be true; he certainly had notlooked at it in that light before.
"But did you really find it?" she asked, with sudden gravity. "Really,now?"
"Yes."
"And there was no real May in the case?"
"Not that I know of," laughed Cass, secretly pleased.
But Miss Porter, after eying him critically for a moment jumped up andclimbed back again