by Bret Harte
Produced by Donald Lainson
MRS. SKAGGS'S HUSBANDS
By Bret Harte
CONTENTS
MRS. SKAGGS'S HUSBANDS
HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON'S BAR
THE PRINCESS BOB AND HER FRIENDS
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR
MR. THOMPSON'S PRODIGAL
THE ROMANCE OR MADRONO HOLLOW
THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT
MRS. SKAGGS'S HUSBANDS.
PART I--WEST.
The sun was rising in the foot-hills. But for an hour the black massof Sierra eastward of Angel's had been outlined with fire, and theconventional morning had come two hours before with the down coach fromPlacerville. The dry, cold, dewless California night still lingeredin the long canyons and folded skirts of Table Mountain. Even on themountain road the air was still sharp, and that urgent necessity forsomething to keep out the chill, which sent the barkeeper sleepily amonghis bottles and wineglasses at the station, obtained all along the road.
Perhaps it might be said that the first stir of life was in thebar-rooms. A few birds twittered in the sycamores at the roadside, butlong before that glasses had clicked and bottles gurgled in the saloonof the Mansion House. This was still lit by a dissipated-lookinghanging-lamp, which was evidently the worse for having been up allnight, and bore a singular resemblance to a faded reveller of Angel's,who even then sputtered and flickered in HIS socket in an arm-chairbelow it,--a resemblance so plain that when the first level sunbeampierced the window-pane, the barkeeper, moved by a sentiment ofconsistency and compassion, put them both out together.
Then the sun came up haughtily. When it had passed the eastern ridge itbegan, after its habit, to lord it over Angel's, sending the thermometerup twenty degrees in as many minutes, driving the mules to the sparseshade of corrals and fences, making the red dust incandescent, andrenewing its old imperious aggression on the spiked bosses of the convexshield of pines that defended Table Mountain. Thither by nine o'clockall coolness had retreated, and the "outsides" of the up stage plungedtheir hot faces in its aromatic shadows as in water.
It was the custom of the driver of the Wingdam coach to whip up hishorses and enter Angel's at that remarkable pace which the woodcuts inthe hotel bar-room represented to credulous humanity as the usual rateof speed of that conveyance. At such times the habitual expression ofdisdainful reticence and lazy official severity which he wore on the boxbecame intensified as the loungers gathered about the vehicle, and onlythe boldest ventured to address him. It was the Hon. Judge Beeswinger,Member of Assembly, who to-day presumed, perhaps rashly, on the strengthof his official position.
"Any political news from below, Bill?" he asked, as the latter slowlydescended from his lofty perch, without, however, any perceptible comingdown of mien or manner.
"Not much," said Bill, with deliberate gravity. "The President o' theUnited States hezn't bin hisself sens you refoosed that seat in theCabinet. The ginral feelin' in perlitical circles is one o' regret."
Irony, even of this outrageous quality, was too common in Angel's toexcite either a smile or a frown. Bill slowly entered the bar-roomduring a dry, dead silence, in which only a faint spirit of emulationsurvived.
"Ye didn't bring up that agint o' Rothschild's this trip?" asked thebarkeeper, slowly, by way of vague contribution to the prevailing toneof conversation.
"No," responded Bill, with thoughtful exactitude. "He said he couldn'tlook inter that claim o' Johnson's without first consultin' the Bank o'England."
The Mr. Johnson here alluded to being present as the faded revellerthe barkeeper had lately put out, and as the alleged claim notoriouslypossessed no attractions whatever to capitalists, expectation naturallylooked to him for some response to this evident challenge. He did soby simply stating that he would "take sugar" in his, and by walkingunsteadily toward the bar, as if accepting a festive invitation. To thecredit of Bill be it recorded that he did not attempt to correct themistake, but gravely touched glasses with him, and after saying "Here'sanother nail in your coffin,"--a cheerful sentiment, to which "And thehair all off your head," was playfully added by the others,--he threwoff his liquor with a single dexterous movement of head and elbow, andstood refreshed.
"Hello, old major!" said Bill, suddenly setting down his glass. "Are YOUthere?"
It was a boy, who, becoming bashfully conscious that this epithet wasaddressed to him, retreated sideways to the doorway, where he stoodbeating his hat against the door-post with an assumption of indifferencethat his downcast but mirthful dark eyes and reddening cheek scarcelybore out. Perhaps it was owing to his size, perhaps it was to a certaincherubic outline of face and figure, perhaps to a peculiar trustfulnessof expression, that he did not look half his age, which was reallyfourteen.
Everybody in Angel's knew the boy. Either under the venerable titlebestowed by Bill, or as "Tom Islington," after his adopted father, hiswas a familiar presence in the settlement, and the theme of much localcriticism and comment. His waywardness, indolence, and unaccountableamiability--a quality at once suspicious and gratuitous in a pioneercommunity like Angel's--had often been the subject of fierce discussion.A large and reputable majority believed him destined for the gallows; aminority not quite so reputable enjoyed his presence without troublingthemselves much about his future; to one or two the evil predictions ofthe majority possessed neither novelty nor terror.
"Anything for me, Bill?" asked the boy, half mechanically, with the airof repeating some jocular formulary perfectly understood by Bill.
"Anythin' for you!" echoed Bill, with an overacted severity equally wellunderstood by Tommy,--"anythin' for you? No! And it's my opinion therewon't be anythin' for you ez long ez you hang around bar-rooms and spendyour valooable time with loafers and bummers. Git!"
The reproof was accompanied by a suitable exaggeration of gesture(Bill had seized a decanter) before which the boy retreated stillgood-humoredly. Bill followed him to the door. "Dern my skin, if hehezn't gone off with that bummer Johnson," he added, as he looked downthe road.
"What's he expectin', Bill?" asked the barkeeper.
"A letter from his aunt. Reckon he'll hev to take it out in expectin'.Likely they're glad to get shut o' him."
"He's leadin' a shiftless, idle life here," interposed the Member ofAssembly.
"Well," said Bill, who never allowed any one but himself to abusehis protege, "seein' he ain't expectin' no offis from the hands ofan enlightened constitooency, it IS rayther a shiftless life." Afterdelivering this Parthian arrow with a gratuitous twanging of the bow toindicate its offensive personality, Bill winked at the barkeeper, slowlyresumed a pair of immense, bulgy buckskin gloves, which gave his fingersthe appearance of being painfully sore and bandaged, strode to the doorwithout looking at anybody, called out, "All aboard," with a perfunctoryair of supreme indifference whether the invitation was heeded, remountedhis box, and drove stolidly away.
Perhaps it was well that he did so, for the conversation at once assumeda disrespectful attitude toward Tom and his relatives. It was more thanintimated that Tom's alleged aunt was none other than Tom's real mother,while it was also asserted that Tom's alleged uncle did not himselfparticipate in this intimate relationship to the boy to an extent whichthe fastidious taste of Angel's deemed moral and necessary. Popularopinion also believed that Islington, the adopted father, who receiveda certain stipend ostensibly for the boy's support, retained it asa reward for his reticence regarding these facts. "He ain't ruinin'hisself by wastin' it on Tom," said the barkeeper, who possiblypossessed positive knowledge of much of Islington's disbursements. Butat this point exhausted nature languishe
d among some of the debaters,and he turned from the frivolity of conversation to his severerprofessional duties.
It was also well that Bill's momentary attitude of didactic proprietywas not further excited by the subsequent conduct of his protege. Forby this time Tom, half supporting the unstable Johnson, who developeda tendency to occasionally dash across the glaring road, but checkedhimself mid way each time, reached the corral which adjoined the MansionHouse. At its farther extremity was a pump and horse-trough. Here,without a word being spoken, but evidently in obedience to some habitualcustom, Tom led his companion. With the boy's assistance, Johnsonremoved his coat and neckcloth, turned back the collar of his shirt, andgravely placed his head beneath the pump-spout. With equal gravity anddeliberation, Tom took his place at the handle. For a few momentsonly the splashing of water and regular strokes of the pump broke thesolemnly ludicrous silence. Then there was a pause in which Johnson puthis hands to his dripping head, felt of it critically as if it belongedto somebody else, and raised his eyes to his companion. "That oughtto fetch IT," said Tom, in answer to the look. "Ef it don't," repliedJohnson, doggedly, with an air of relieving himself of all furtherresponsibility in the matter, "it's got to, thet's all!"
If "it" referred to some change in the physiognomy of Johnson, "it" hadprobably been "fetched" by the process just indicated. The head thatwent under the pump was large, and clothed with bushy, uncertain-coloredhair; the face was flushed, puffy, and expressionless, the eyes injectedand full. The head that came out from under the pump was of smaller sizeand different shape, the hair straight, dark, and sleek, the facepale and hollow-cheeked, the eyes bright and restless. In the haggard,nervous ascetic that rose from the horse-trough there was very littletrace of the Bacchus that had bowed there a moment before. Familiaras Tom must have been with the spectacle, he could not help lookinginquiringly at the trough, as if expecting to see some traces of theprevious Johnson in its shallow depths.
A narrow strip of willow, alder, and buckeye--a mere dusty, ravelledfringe of the green mantle that swept the high shoulders of TableMountain--lapped the edge of the corral. The silent pair were quick toavail themselves of even its scant shelter from the overpowering sun.They had not proceeded far, before Johnson, who was walking quiterapidly in advance, suddenly brought himself up, and turned to hiscompanion with an interrogative "Eh?"
"I didn't speak," said Tommy, quietly.
"Who said you spoke?" said Johnson, with a quick look of cunning. "Incourse you didn't speak, and I didn't speak, neither. Nobody spoke. Wotmakes you think you spoke?" he continued, peering curiously into Tommy'seyes.
The smile which habitually shone there quickly vanished as the boystepped quietly to his companion's side, and took his arm without aword.
"In course you didn't speak, Tommy," said Johnson, deprecatingly. "Youain't a boy to go for to play an ole soaker like me. That's wot I likeyou for. Thet's wot I seed in you from the first. I sez, 'Thet 'ere boyain't goin' to play you, Johnson! You can go your whole pile on him,when you can't trust even a bar-keep.' Thet's wot I said. Eh?"
This time Tommy prudently took no notice of the interrogation, andJohnson went on: "Ef I was to ask you another question, you wouldn't goto play me neither,--would you, Tommy?"
"No," said the boy.
"Ef I was to ask you," continued Johnson, without heeding the reply, butwith a growing anxiety of eye and a nervous twitching of his lips,--"efI was to ask you, fur instance, ef that was a jackass rabbit thet jestpassed,--eh?--you'd say it was or was not, ez the case may be. Youwouldn't play the ole man on thet?"
"No," said Tommy, quietly, "it WAS a jackass rabbit."
"Ef I was to ask you," continued Johnson, "ef it wore, say, furinstance, a green hat with yaller ribbons, you wouldn't play me, and sayit did, onless,"--he added, with intensified cunning,--"onless it DID?"
"No," said Tommy, "of course I wouldn't; but then, you see, IT DID."
"It did?"
"It did!" repeated Tommy, stoutly; "a green hat with yellowribbons--and--and--a red rosette."
"I didn't get to see the ros-ette," said Johnson, with slow andconscientious deliberation, yet with an evident sense of relief; "butthat ain't sayin' it warn't there, you know. Eh?"
Tommy glanced quietly at his companion. There were great beads ofperspiration on his ashen-gray forehead and on the ends of his lankhair; the hand which twitched spasmodically in his was cold and clammy,the other, which was free, had a vague, purposeless, jerky activity, asif attached to some deranged mechanism. Without any apparent concern inthese phenomena, Tommy halted, and, seating himself on a log, motionedhis companion to a place beside him. Johnson obeyed without a word.Slight as was the act, perhaps no other incident of their singularcompanionship indicated as completely the dominance of this careless,half-effeminate, but self-possessed boy over this doggedly self-willed,abnormally excited man.
"It ain't the square thing," said Johnson, after a pause, with a laughthat was neither mirthful nor musical, and frightened away a lizard thathad been regarding the pair with breathless suspense,--"it ain't thesquare thing for jackass rabbits to wear hats, Tommy,--is it, eh?"
"Well," said Tommy, with unmoved composure, "sometimes they do andsometimes they don't. Animals are mighty queer." And here Tommy wentoff in an animated, but, I regret to say, utterly untruthful anduntrustworthy account of the habits of California fauna, until he wasinterrupted by Johnson.
"And snakes, eh, Tommy?" said the man, with an abstracted air, gazingintently on the ground before him.
"And snakes," said Tommy; "but they don't bite, at least not that kindyou see. There!--don't move, Uncle Ben, don't move; they're gone now.And it's about time you took your dose."
Johnson had hurriedly risen as if to leap upon the log, but Tommy hadas quickly caught his arm with one hand while he drew a bottle from hispocket with the other. Johnson paused, and eyed the bottle. "Ef you sayso, my boy," he faltered, as his fingers closed nervously around it; "say'when,' then." He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long draught,the boy regarding him critically. "When," said Tommy, suddenly. Johnsonstarted, flushed, and returned the bottle quickly. But the color thathad risen to his cheek stayed there, his eye grew less restless, andas they moved away again, the hand that rested on Tommy's shoulder wassteadier.
Their way lay along the flank of Table Mountain,--a wandering trailthrough a tangled solitude that might have seemed virgin and unbrokenbut for a few oyster-cans, yeast-powder tins, and empty bottles that hadbeen apparently stranded by the "first low wash" of pioneer waves.On the ragged trunk of an enormous pine hung a few tufts of gray haircaught from a passing grizzly, but in strange juxtaposition at its footlay an empty bottle of incomparable bitters,--the chef-d'oeuvre of ahygienic civilization, and blazoned with the arms of an all-healingrepublic. The head of a rattlesnake peered from a case that hadcontained tobacco, which was still brightly placarded with thehigh-colored effigy of a popular danseuse. And a little beyond this thesoil was broken and fissured, there was a confused mass of roughly hewntimber, a straggling line of sluicing, a heap of gravel and dirt, a rudecabin, and the claim of Johnson.
Except for the rudest purposes of shelter from rain and cold, the cabinpossessed but little advantage over the simple savagery of surroundingnature. It had all the practical directness of the habitation of someanimal, without its comfort or picturesque quality; the very birds thathaunted it for food must have felt their own superiority as architects.It was inconceivably dirty, even with its scant capacity for accretion;it was singularly stale, even in its newness and freshness of material.Unspeakably dreary as it was in shadow, the sunlight visited it ina blind, aching, purposeless way, as if despairing of mellowing itsoutlines or of even tanning it into color.
The claim worked by Johnson in his intervals of sobriety was representedby half a dozen rude openings in the mountain-side, with the heaped-updebris of rock and gravel before the mouth of each. They gave verylittle evidence of engineering skill or constructive purpose, or indee
dshowed anything but the vague, successively abandoned essays of theirprojector. To-day they served another purpose, for as the sun had heatedthe little cabin almost to the point of combustion, curling up the longdry shingles, and starting aromatic tears from the green pine beams,Tommy led Johnson into one of the larger openings, and with a sense ofsatisfaction threw himself panting upon its rocky floor. Here and therethe grateful dampness was condensed in quiet pools of water, or ina monotonous and soothing drip from the rocks above. Without lay thestaring sunlight,--colorless, clarified, intense.
For a few moments they lay resting on their elbows in blissfulcontemplation of the heat they had escaped. "Wot do you say," saidJohnson, slowly, without looking at his companion, but abstractlyaddressing himself to the landscape beyond,--"wot do you say to twostraight games fur one thousand dollars?"
"Make it five thousand," replied Tommy, reflectively, also to thelandscape, "and I'm in."
"Wot do I owe you now?" said Johnson, after a lengthened silence.
"One hundred and seventy-five thousand two hundred and fifty dollars,"replied Tommy, with business-like gravity.
"Well," said Johnson, after a deliberation commensurate with themagnitude of the transaction, "ef you win, call it a hundred and eightythousand, round. War's the keerds?"
They were in an old tin box in a crevice of a rock above his head. Theywere greasy and worn with service. Johnson dealt, albeit his right handwas still uncertain,--hovering, after dropping the cards, aimlesslyabout Tommy, and being only recalled by a strong nervous effort. Yet,notwithstanding this incapacity for even honest manipulation, Mr.Johnson covertly turned a knave from the bottom of the pack with suchshameless inefficiency and gratuitous unskilfulness, that even Tommy wasobliged to cough and look elsewhere to hide his embarrassment. Possiblyfor this reason the young gentleman was himself constrained, by way ofcorrection, to add a valuable card to his own hand, over and above thenumber he legitimately held.
Nevertheless, the game was unexciting, and dragged listlessly. Johnsonwon. He recorded the fact and the amount with a stub of pencil andshaking fingers in wandering hieroglyphics all over a pocket diary.Then there was a long pause, when Johnson slowly drew something from hispocket, and held it up before his companion. It was apparently a dullred stone.
"Ef," said Johnson, slowly, with his old look of simple cunning,--"efyou happened to pick up sich a rock ez that, Tommy, what might you sayit was?"
"Don't know," said Tommy.
"Mightn't you say," continued Johnson, cautiously, "that it was gold, orsilver?"
"Neither," said Tommy, promptly.
"Mightn't you say it was quicksilver? Mightn't you say that ef thar wasa friend o' yourn ez knew war to go and turn out ten ton of it a day,and every ton worth two thousand dollars, that he had a soft thing, avery soft thing,--allowin', Tommy, that you used sich language, whichyou don't?"
"But," said the boy, coming to the point with great directness, "DO youknow where to get it? have you struck it, Uncle Ben?"
Johnson looked carefully around. "I hev, Tommy. Listen. I know wharthar's cartloads of it. But thar's only one other specimen--the mate tothis yer--thet's above ground, and thet's in 'Frisco. Thar's an agintcomin' up in a day or two to look into it. I sent for him. Eh?"
His bright, restless eyes were concentrated on Tommy's face now, but theboy showed neither surprise nor interest. Least of all did he betrayany recollection of Bill's ironical and gratuitous corroboration of thispart of the story.
"Nobody knows it," continued Johnson, in a nervous whisper,--"nobodyknows it but you and the agint in 'Frisco. The boys workin' round yarpasses by and sees the old man grubbin' away, and no signs o' color, noteven rotten quartz; the boys loafin' round the Mansion House sees theold man lyin' round free in bar-rooms, and they laughs and sez, 'Playedout,' and spects nothin'. Maybe ye think they spects suthin now, eh?"queried Johnson, suddenly, with a sharp look of suspicion.
Tommy looked up, shook his head, threw a stone at a passing rabbit, butdid not reply.
"When I fust set eyes on you, Tommy," continued Johnson, apparentlyreassured, "the fust day you kem and pumped for me, an entire stranger,and hevin no call to do it, I sez, 'Johnson, Johnson,' sez I,' yer's aboy you kin trust. Yer's a boy that won't play you; yer's a chap that'swhite and square,'--white and square, Tommy: them's the very words Iused."
He paused for a moment, and then went on in a confidential whisper,"'You want capital, Johnson,' sez I, 'to develop your resources, andyou want a pardner. Capital you can send for, but your pardner,Johnson,--your pardner is right yer. And his name, it is TommyIslington.' Them's the very words I used."
He stopped and chafed his clammy hands upon his knees. "It's six monthsago sens I made you my pardner. Thar ain't a lick I've struck sensthen, Tommy, thar ain't a han'ful o' yearth I've washed, thar ain'ta shovelful o' rock I've turned over, but I tho't o' you. 'Share, andshare alike,' sez I. When I wrote to my agint, I wrote ekal for mypardner, Tommy Islington, he hevin no call to know ef the same was manor boy."
He had moved nearer the boy, and would perhaps have laid his handcaressingly upon him, but even in his manifest affection there wasa singular element of awed restraint and even fear,--a suggestion ofsomething withheld even his fullest confidences, a hopeless perceptionof some vague barrier that never could be surmounted. He may have beenat times dimly conscious that, in the eyes which Tommy raised to his,there was thorough intellectual appreciation, critical good-humor, evenfeminine softness, but nothing more. His nervousness somewhat heightenedby his embarrassment, he went on with an attempt at calmness which histwitching white lips and unsteady fingers made pathetically grotesque."Thar's a bill o' sale in my bunk, made out accordin' to law, of an ekalondivided half of the claim, and the consideration is two hundred andfifty thousand dollars,--gambling debts,--gambling debts from me to you,Tommy,--you understand?"--nothing could exceed the intense cunning ofhis eye at this moment,--"and then thar's a will."
"A will?" said Tommy, in amused surprise.
Johnson looked frightened.
"Eh?" he said, hurriedly, "wot will? Who said anythin' 'bout a will,Tommy?"
"Nobody," replied Tommy, with unblushing calm.
Johnson passed his hand over his cold forehead, wrung the damp ends ofhis hair with his fingers, and went on: "Times when I'm took bad ez Iwas to-day, the boys about yer sez--you sez, maybe, Tommy--it's whiskey.It ain't, Tommy. It's pizen,--quicksilver pizen. That's what's thematter with me. I'm salviated! Salviated with merkery.
"I've heerd o' it before," continued Johnson, appealing to the boy, "andez a boy o' permiskus reading, I reckon you hev too. Them men as worksin cinnabar sooner or later gets salviated. It's bound to fetch 'em sometime. Salviated by merkery."
"What are you goin' to do for it?" asked Tommy.
"When the agint comes up, and I begins to realize on this yer mine,"said Johnson, contemplatively, "I goes to New York. I sez to thebarkeep' o' the hotel, 'Show me the biggest doctor here.' He shows me.I sez to him, 'Salviated by merkery,--a year's standin',--how much?' Hesez, 'Five thousand dollars, and take two o' these pills at bedtime, andan ekil number o' powders at meals, and come back in a week.' And I goesback in a week, cured, and signs a certifikit to that effect."
Encouraged by a look of interest in Tommy's eye, he went on.
"So I gets cured. I goes to the barkeep', and I sez, 'Show me thebiggest, fashionblest house thet's for sale yer.' And he sez, 'Thebiggest, nat'rally b'longs to John Jacob Astor.' And I sez, 'Show him,'and he shows him. And I sez, 'Wot might you ask for this yer house?' Andhe looks at me scornful, and sez, 'Go 'way, old man; you must be sick.'And I fetches him one over the left eye, and he apologizes, and I giveshim his own price for the house. I stocks that house with mohoganyfurniture and pervisions, and thar we lives, you and me, Tommy, you andme!"
The sun no longer shone upon the hillside. The shadows of the pines werebeginning to creep over Johnson's claim, and the air within the cavernwas growing chill. In the gathering darkne
ss his eyes shone brightlyas he went on: "Then thar comes a day when we gives a big spread. Weinvites govners, members o' Congress, gentlemen o' fashion, and thelike. And among 'em I invites a Man as holds his head very high, a Man Ionce knew; but he doesn't know I knows him, and he doesn't remember me.And he comes and he sits opposite me, and I watches him. And he's veryairy, this Man, and very chipper, and he wipes his mouth with a whitehankercher, and he smiles, and he ketches my eye. And he sez, 'A glasso' wine with you, Mr. Johnson'; and he fills his glass and I fills mine,and we rises. And I heaves that wine, glass and all, right into hisdamned grinnin' face. And he jumps for me,--for he is very game, thisMan, very game,--but some on 'em grabs him, and he sez, 'Who be you?'And I sez, 'Skaggs! damn you, Skaggs! Look at me! Gimme back my wife andchild, gimme back the money you stole, gimme back the good name youtook away, gimme back the health you ruined, gimme back the last twelveyears! Give 'em to me, damn you, quick, before I cuts your heart out!'And naterally, Tommy, he can't do it. And so I cuts his heart out, myboy; I cuts his heart out."
The purely animal fury of his eye suddenly changed again to cunning."You think they hangs me for it, Tommy, but they don't. Not much, Tommy.I goes to the biggest lawyer there, and I says to him, 'Salviated bymerkery,--you hear me,--salviated by merkery.' And he winks at me,and he goes to the judge, and he sez, 'This yer unfortnet man isn'tresponsible,--he's been salviated by merkery.' And he brings witnesses;you comes, Tommy, and you sez ez how you've seen me took bad afore; andthe doctor, he comes, and he sez as how he's seen me frightful; and thejury, without leavin' their seats, brings in a verdict o' justifiableinsanity,--salviated by merkery."
In the excitement of his climax he had risen to his feet, but would havefallen had not Tommy caught him and led him into the open air. Inthis sharper light there was an odd change visible in his yellow-whiteface,--a change which caused Tommy to hurriedly support him, halfleading, half dragging him toward the little cabin. When they hadreached it, Tommy placed him on a rude "bunk," or shelf, and stood fora moment in anxious contemplation of the tremor-stricken man before him.Then he said rapidly: "Listen, Uncle Ben. I'm goin' to town--to town,you understand--for the doctor. You're not to get up or move on anyaccount until I return. Do you hear?" Johnson nodded violently. "I'll beback in two hours." In another moment he was gone.
For an hour Johnson kept his word. Then he suddenly sat up, and beganto gaze fixedly at a corner of the cabin. From gazing at it he began tosmile, from smiling at it he began to talk, from talking at it he beganto scream, from screaming he passed to cursing and sobbing wildly. Thenhe lay quiet again.
He was so still that to merely human eyes he might have seemed asleepor dead. But a squirrel, that, emboldened by the stillness, had enteredfrom the roof, stopped short upon a beam above the bunk, for he saw thatthe man's foot was slowly and cautiously moving toward the floor, andthat the man's eyes were as intent and watchful as his own. Presently,still without a sound, both feet were upon the floor. And then the bunkcreaked, and the squirrel whisked into the eaves of the roof. When hepeered forth again, everything was quiet, and the man was gone.
An hour later two muleteers on the Placerville Road passed a man withdishevelled hair, glaring, bloodshot eyes, and clothes torn with brambleand stained with the red dust of the mountain. They pursued him, whenhe turned fiercely on the foremost, wrested a pistol from his grasp, andbroke away. Later still, when the sun had dropped behind Payne's Ridge,the underbrush on Deadwood Slope crackled with a stealthy but continuoustread. It must have been an animal whose dimly outlined bulk, in thegathering darkness, showed here and there in vague but incessantmotion; it could be nothing but an animal whose utterance was at onceso incoherent, monotonous, and unremitting. Yet, when the sound camenearer, and the chaparral was parted, it seemed to be a man, and thatman Johnson.
Above the baying of phantasmal hounds that pressed him hard and drovehim on, with never rest or mercy; above the lashing of a spectral whipthat curled about his limbs, sang in his ears, and continually stung himforward; above the outcries of the unclean shapes that thronged abouthim,--he could still distinguish one real sound,--the rush and sweep ofhurrying waters. The Stanislaus River! A thousand feet below him droveits yellowing current. Through all the vacillations of his unseated mindhe had clung to one idea,--to reach the river, to lave in it, to swim itif need be, but to put it forever between him and the harrying shapes,to drown forever in its turbid depths the thronging spectres, to washaway in its yellow flood all stains and color of the past. And now hewas leaping from boulder to boulder, from blackened stump to stump,from gnarled bush to bush, caught for a moment and withheld by clingingvines, or plunging downward into dusty hollows, until, rolling,dropping, sliding, and stumbling, he reached the river-bank, whereonhe fell, rose, staggered forward, and fell again with outstretched armsupon a rock that breasted the swift current. And there he lay as dead.
A few stars came out hesitatingly above Deadwood Slope. A cold wind thathad sprung up with the going down of the sun fanned them into momentarybrightness, swept the heated flanks of the mountain, and ruffled theriver. Where the fallen man lay there was a sharp curve in the stream,so that in the gathering shadows the rushing water seemed to leap out ofthe darkness and to vanish again. Decayed drift-wood, trunks of trees,fragments of broken sluicing,--the wash and waste of many a mile,--sweptinto sight a moment, and were gone. All of decay, wreck, and foulnessgathered in the long circuit of mining-camp and settlement, all thedregs and refuse of a crude and wanton civilization, reappeared for aninstant, and then were hurried away in the darkness and lost. No wonderthat as the wind ruffled the yellow waters the waves seemed to lifttheir unclean hands toward the rock whereon the fallen man lay, as ifeager to snatch him from it, too, and hurry him toward the sea.
It was very still. In the clear air a horn blown a mile away was hearddistinctly. The jingling of a spur and a laugh on the highway overPayne's Ridge sounded clearly across the river. The rattling of harnessand hoofs foretold for many minutes the approach of the Wingdam coach,that at last, with flashing lights, passed within a few feet of therock. Then for an hour all again was quiet. Presently the moon, roundand full, lifted herself above the serried ridge and looked down uponthe river. At first the bared peak of Deadwood Hill gleamed white andskull-like. Then the shadows of Payne's Ridge cast on the slope slowlysank away, leaving the unshapely stumps, the dusty fissures, andclinging outcrop of Deadwood Slope to stand out in black and silver.Still stealing softly downward, the moonlight touched the bank and therock, and then glittered brightly on the river. The rock was bare andthe man was gone, but the river still hurried swiftly to the sea.
"Is there anything for me?" asked Tommy Islington, as, a week after,the stage drew up at the Mansion House, and Bill slowly entered thebar-room. Bill did not reply, but, turning to a stranger who had enteredwith him, indicated with a jerk of his finger the boy. The strangerturned with an air half of business, half of curiosity, and lookedcritically at Tommy. "Is there anything for me?" repeated Tommy, alittle confused at the silence and scrutiny. Bill walked deliberatelyto the bar, and, placing his back against it, faced Tommy with a look ofdemure enjoyment.
"Ef," he remarked slowly,--"ef a hundred thousand dollars down and halfa million in perspektive is ennything, Major, THERE IS!"
MRS. SKAGGS'S HUSBANDS.
PART II--EAST.
It was characteristic of Angel's that the disappearance of Johnson, andthe fact that he had left his entire property to Tommy, thrilled thecommunity but slightly in comparison with the astounding discovery thathe had anything to leave. The finding of a cinnabar lode at Angel'sabsorbed all collateral facts or subsequent details. Prospectors fromadjoining camps thronged the settlement; the hillside for a mile oneither side of Johnson's claim was staked out and pre-empted; tradereceived a sudden stimulus; and, in the excited rhetoric of the "WeeklyRecord," "a new era had broken upon Angel's." "On Thursday last," addedthat paper, "over five hundred dollars was taken in over the bar of theMansion House."
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Of the fate of Johnson there was little doubt. He had been last seenlying on a boulder on the river-bank by outside passengers of theWingdam night coach, and when Finn of Robinson's Ferry admitted to havefired three shots from a revolver at a dark object struggling in thewater near the ferry, which he "suspicioned" to be a bear, the questionseemed to be settled. Whatever might have been the fallibility ofhis judgment, of the accuracy of his aim there could be no doubt. Thegeneral belief that Johnson, after possessing himself of the muleteer'spistol, could have run amuck, gave a certain retributive justice to thisstory, which rendered it acceptable to the camp.
It was also characteristic of Angel's that no feeling of envy oropposition to the good fortune of Tommy Islington prevailed there. Thathe was thoroughly cognizant, from the first, of Johnson's discovery,that his attentions to him were interested, calculating, and speculativewas, however, the general belief of the majority,--a belief that,singularly enough, awakened the first feelings of genuine respect forTommy ever shown by the camp. "He ain't no fool; Yuba Bill seed thetfrom the first," said the barkeeper. It was Yuba Bill who applied forthe guardianship of Tommy after his accession to Johnson's claim, and onwhose bonds the richest men of Calaveras were represented. It wasYuba Bill, also, when Tommy was sent East to finish his education,accompanied him to San Francisco, and, before parting with his charge onthe steamer's deck, drew him aside, and said, "Ef at enny time you wantenny money, Tommy, over and 'bove your 'lowance, you kin write; but efyou'll take my advice," he added, with a sudden huskiness mitigatingthe severity of his voice, "you'll forget every derned ole spavined,string-halted bummer as you ever met or knew at Angel's,--ev'ry one,Tommy,--ev'ry one! And so--boy--take care of yourself--and--and Godbless ye, and pertikerly d--n me for a first-class A 1 fool." It wasYuba Bill, also, after this speech, glared savagely around, walked downthe crowded gang-plank with a rigid and aggressive shoulder, picked aquarrel with his cabman, and, after bundling that functionary into hisown vehicle, took the reins himself, and drove furiously to his hotel."It cost me," said Bill, recounting the occurrence somewhat later atAngel's,--"it cost me a matter o' twenty dollars afore the jedge thenext mornin'; but you kin bet high thet I taught them 'Frisco chapssuthin new about drivin'. I didn't make it lively in Montgomery Streetfor about ten minutes,--O no!"
And so by degrees the two original locaters of the great Cinnabar lodefaded from the memory of Angel's, and Calaveras knew them no more. Infive years their very names had been forgotten; in seven the name of thetown was changed; in ten the town itself was transported bodily to thehillside, and the chimney of the Union Smelting Works by night flickeredlike a corpse-light over the site of Johnson's cabin, and by daypoisoned the pure spices of the pines. Even the Mansion House wasdismantled, and the Wingdam stage deserted the highway for a shorter cutby Quicksilver City. Only the bared crest of Deadwood Hill, as ofold, sharply cut the clear blue sky, and at its base, as of old, theStanislaus River, unwearied and unresting, babbled, whispered, andhurried away to the sea.
A midsummer's day was breaking lazily on the Atlantic. There was notwind enough to move the vapors in the foggy offing, but where the vaguedistance heaved against a violet sky there were dull red streaks that,growing brighter, presently painted out the stars. Soon the brown rocksof Greyport appeared faintly suffused, and then the whole ashen line ofdead coast was kindled, and the lighthouse beacons went out one by one.And then a hundred sail, before invisible, started out of the vaporyhorizon, and pressed toward the shore. It was morning, indeed, and someof the best society in Greyport, having been up all night, were thinkingit was time to go to bed.
For as the sky flashed brighter it fired the clustering red roofs ofa picturesque house by the sands that had all that night, from openlattice and illuminated balcony, given light and music to the shore.It glittered on the broad crystal spaces of a great conservatory thatlooked upon an exquisite lawn, where all night long the blended odorsof sea and shore had swooned under the summer moon. But it wroughtconfusion among the colored lamps on the long veranda, and startleda group of ladies and gentlemen who had stepped from the drawing-roomwindow to gaze upon it. It was so searching and sincere in its way,that, as the carriage of the fairest Miss Gillyflower rolled away, thatpeerless young woman, catching sight of her face in the oval mirror,instantly pulled down the blinds, and, nestling the whitest shoulders inGreyport against the crimson cushions, went to sleep.
"How haggard everybody is! Rose, dear, you look almost intellectual,"said Blanche Masterman.
"I hope not," said Rose, simply. "Sunrises are very trying. Look howthat pink regularly puts out Mrs. Brown-Robinson, hair and all!"
"The angels," said the Count de Nugat, with a polite gesture towardthe sky, "must have find these celestial combinations very bad for thetoilette."
"They're safe in white,--except when they sit for their pictures inVenice," said Blanche. "How fresh Mr. Islington looks! It's reallyuncomplimentary to us."
"I suppose the sun recognizes in me no rival," said the young man,demurely. "But," he added, "I have lived much in the open air, andrequire very little sleep."
"How delightful!" said Mrs. Brown-Robinson, in a low, enthusiasticvoice and a manner that held the glowing sentiment of sixteen and thepractical experiences of thirty-two in dangerous combination;--"howperfectly delightful! What sunrises you must have seen, and in suchwild, romantic places! How I envy you! My nephew was a classmate ofyours, and has often repeated to me those charming stories you tell ofyour adventures. Won't you tell some now? Do! How you must tire of usand this artificial life here, so frightfully artificial, you know" (ina confidential whisper); "and then to think of the days when you roamedthe great West with the Indians, and the bisons, and the grizzly bears!Of course, you have seen grizzly bears and bisons?"
"Of course he has, dear," said Blanche, a little pettishly, throwinga cloak over her shoulders, and seizing her chaperon by the arm; "hisearliest infancy was soothed by bisons, and he proudly points to thegrizzly bear as the playmate of his youth. Come with me, and I'll tellyou all about it. How good it is of you," she added, sotto voce, toIslington, as he stood by the carriage,--"how perfectly good it is ofyou to be like those animals you tell us of, and not know your fullpower. Think, with your experiences and our credulity, what stories youMIGHT tell! And you are going to walk? Good night, then." A slim, glovedhand was frankly extended from the window, and the next moment thecarriage rolled away.
"Isn't Islington throwing away a chance there?" said Captain Merwin, onthe veranda.
"Perhaps he couldn't stand my lovely aunt's superadded presence. Butthen, he's the guest of Blanche's father, and I dare say they see enoughof each other as it is."
"But isn't it a rather dangerous situation?"
"For him, perhaps; although he's awfully old, and very queer. Forher, with an experience that takes in all the available men in bothhemispheres, ending with Nugat over there, I should say a man more orless wouldn't affect her much, anyway. Of course," he laughed, "theseare the accents of bitterness. But that was last year."
Perhaps Islington did not overhear the speaker; perhaps, if he did, thecriticism was not new. He turned carelessly away, and sauntered outon the road to the sea. Thence he strolled along the sands toward thecliffs, where, meeting an impediment in the shape of a garden wall, heleaped it with a certain agile, boyish ease and experience, and struckacross an open lawn toward the rocks again. The best society of Greyportwere not early risers, and the spectacle of a trespasser in an eveningdress excited only the criticism of grooms hanging about the stables, orcleanly housemaids on the broad verandas that in Greyport architecturedutifully gave upon the sea. Only once, as he entered the boundaries ofCliffwood Lodge, the famous seat of Renwyck Masterman, was he aware ofsuspicious scrutiny; but a slouching figure that vanished quickly in thelodge offered no opposition to his progress. Avoiding the pathway tothe lodge, Islington kept along the rocks until, reaching a littlepromontory and rustic pavilion, he sat down and gazed upon the sea.
She had plucked somewhere a large fan-shaped leaf, which she heldparasol-wise, shading the blond masses of her hair, and hiding her grayeyes. She had changed her festal dress, with its amplitude of flounceand train, for a closely fitting half-antique habit whose scant outlineswould have been trying to limbs less shapely, but which prettilyaccented the graceful curves and sweeping lines of this Greyportgoddess. As Islington rose, she came toward him with a franklyoutstretched hand and unconstrained manner. Had she observed him first?I don't know.
They sat down together on a rustic seat, Miss Blanche facing the sea,and shading her eyes with the leaf.
"I don't really know how long I have been sitting here," said Islington,"or whether I have not been actually asleep and dreaming. It seemed toolovely a morning to go to bed. But you?"
From behind the leaf, it appeared that Miss Blanche, on retiring, hadbeen pursued by a hideous winged bug which defied the efforts of herselfand maid to dislodge. Odin, the Spitz dog, had insisted upon scratchingat the door. And it made her eyes red to sleep in the morning. And shehad an early call to make. And the sea looked lovely.
"I'm glad to find you here, whatever be the cause," said Islington, withhis old directness. "To-day, as you know, is my last day in Greyport,and it is much pleasanter to say good by under this blue sky than evenbeneath your father's wonderful frescos yonder. I want to remember you,too, as part of this pleasant prospect which belongs to us all, ratherthan recall you in anybody's particular setting."
"I know," said Blanche, with equal directness, "that houses are one ofthe defects of our civilization; but I don't think I ever heard the ideaas elegantly expressed before. Where do you go?"
"I don't know yet. I have several plans. I may go to South America andbecome president of one of the republics,--I am not particular which. Iam rich, but in that part of America which lies outside of Greyport itis necessary for every man to have some work. My friends think Ishould have some great aim in life, with a capital A. But I was born avagabond, and a vagabond I shall probably die."
"I don't know anybody in South America," said Blanche, languidly. "Therewere two girls here last season, but they didn't wear stays in thehouse, and their white frocks never were properly done up. If you go toSouth America, you must write to me."
"I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in yourgreenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom."
"Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came hereone day. Do you know him?"
Islington laughed. "I am afraid not. But let me present this in a lessbusiness-like fashion."
"Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,--or willyou choose yourself?"
They had both risen as by a common instinct.
"Good by."
The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant.
"Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?"
"But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright."
Yet, after a long pause, the leaf fluttered down, and a pair of verybeautiful but withal very clear and critical eyes met his. Islington wasconstrained to look away. When he turned again, she was gone.
"Mister Hislington,--sir!"
It was Chalker, the English groom, out of breath with running.
"Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--"
"A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, Imean don't," said Islington, snappishly.
"I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. Inthe lib'ry."
A little amused even through the utter dissatisfaction with himselfand vague loneliness that had suddenly come upon him, Islington, as hewalked toward the lodge, asked, "Why isn't he a gent?
"No gent--beggin' your pardin, sir--'ud guy a man in sarvis, sir. Takesme 'ands so, sir, as I sits in the rumble at the gate, and puts 'emdownd so, sir, and sez, 'Put 'em in your pocket, young man,--or is ita road agint you expects to see, that you 'olds hup your 'ands, handcrosses 'em like to that,' sez he. ''Old 'ard,' sez he, 'on the shortcurves, or you'll bust your precious crust,' sez he. And hasks for you,sir. This way, sir."
They entered the lodge. Islington hurried down the long Gothic hall, andopened the library door.
In an arm-chair, in the centre of the room, a man sat apparentlycontemplating a large, stiff, yellow hat with an enormous brim, thatwas placed on the floor before him. His hands rested lightly between hisknees, but one foot was drawn up at the side of his chair in a peculiarmanner. In the first glance that Islington gave, the attitude in someodd, irreconcilable way suggested a brake. In another moment he dashedacross the room, and, holding out both hands, cried, "Yuba Bill!"
The man rose, caught Islington by the shoulders, wheeled him round,hugged him, felt of his ribs like a good-natured ogre, shook his handsviolently, laughed, and then said, somewhat ruefully, "And how ever didyou know me?"
Seeing that Yuba Bill evidently regarded himself as in some elaboratedisguise, Islington laughed, and suggested that it must have beeninstinct.
"And you?" said Bill, holding him at arm's length, and surveying himcritically,--"you!--toe think--toe think--a little cuss no higher nor atrace, a boy as I've flicked outer the road with a whip time in agin, aboy ez never hed much clothes to speak of, turned into a sport!"
Islington remembered, with a thrill of ludicrous terror, that he stillwore his evening dress.
"Turned," continued Yuba Bill, severely,--"turned into a restyourantwaiter,--a garsong! Eh, Alfonse, bring me a patty de foy grass and anomelette, demme!"
"Dear old chap!" said Islington, laughing, and trying to put hishand over Bill's bearded mouth, "but you--YOU don't look exactly likeyourself! You're not well, Bill." And indeed, as he turned toward thelight, Bill's eyes appeared cavernous, and his hair and beard thicklystreaked with gray.
"Maybe it's this yer harness," said Bill, a little anxiously. "When Ihitches on this yer curb" (he indicated a massive gold watch-chain withenormous links), "and mounts this 'morning star,'" (he pointed to a verylarge solitaire pin which had the appearance of blistering his wholeshirt-front), "it kinder weighs heavy on me, Tommy. Otherwise I'm allright, my boy,--all right." But he evaded Islington's keen eye, andturned from the light.
"You have something to tell me, Bill," said Islington, suddenly, andwith almost brusque directness; "out with it."
Bill did not speak, but moved uneasily toward his hat.
"You didn't come three thousand miles, without a word of warning, totalk to me of old times," said Islington, more kindly, "glad as I wouldhave been to see you. It isn't your way, Bill, and you know it. We shallnot be disturbed here," he added, in reply to an inquiring glance thatBill directed to the door, "and I am ready to hear you."
"Firstly, then," said Bill, drawing his chair nearer Islington, "answerme one question, Tommy, fair and square, and up and down."
"Go on," said Islington, with a slight smile.
"Ef I should say to you, Tommy,--say to you to-day, right here, you mustcome with me,--you must leave this place for a month, a year,
two yearsmaybe, perhaps forever,--is there anything that 'ud keep you,--anything,my boy, ez you couldn't leave?"
"No," said Tommy, quietly; "I am only visiting here. I thought ofleaving Greyport to-day."
"But if I should say to you, Tommy, come with me on a pasear to Chiny,to Japan, to South Ameriky, p'r'aps, could you go?"
"Yes," said Islington, after a slight pause.
"Thar isn't ennything," said Bill, drawing a little closer, and loweringhis voice confidentially,--"ennything in the way of a young woman--youunderstand, Tommy--ez would keep you? They're mighty sweet about here;and whether a man is young or old, Tommy, there's always some woman asis brake or whip to him!"
In a certain excited bitterness that characterized the delivery ofthis abstract truth, Bill did not see that the young man's face flushedslightly as he answered "No."
"Then listen. It's seven years ago, Tommy, thet I was working one o'the Pioneer coaches over from Gold Hill. Ez I stood in front o' thestage-office, the sheriff o' the county comes to me, and he sez, 'Bill,'sez he, 'I've got a looney chap, as I'm in charge of, taking 'im down tothe 'sylum in Stockton. He'z quiet and peaceable, but the insides don'tlike to ride with him. Hev you enny objection to give him a lift on thebox beside you?' I sez, 'No; put him up.' When I came to go and get upon that box beside him, that man, Tommy,--that man sittin' there, quietand peaceable, was--Johnson!
"He didn't know me, my boy," Yuba Bill continued, rising and putting hishands on Tommy's shoulders,--"he didn't know me. He didn't know nothingabout you, nor Angel's, nor the quicksilver lode, nor even his own name.He said his name was Skaggs, but I knowd it was Johnson. Thar was times,Tommy, you might have knocked me off that box with a feather; tharwas times when if the twenty-seven passengers o' that stage hed foundtheirselves swimming in the American River five hundred feet belowthe road, I never could have explained it satisfactorily to thecompany,--never.
"The sheriff said," Bill continued hastily, as if to preclude anyinterruption from the young man,--"the sheriff said he had beenbrought into Murphy's Camp three years before, dripping with water, andsufferin' from perkussion of the brain, and had been cared for generallyby the boys 'round. When I told the sheriff I knowed 'im, I got him toleave him in my care; and I took him to 'Frisco, Tommy, to 'Frisco,and I put him in charge o' the best doctors there, and paid his boardmyself. There was nothin' he didn't have ez he wanted. Don't look thatway, my dear boy, for God's sake, don't!"
"O Bill," said Islington, rising and staggering to the window, "why didyou keep this from me?"
"Why?" said Bill, turning on him savagely,--"why? because I warn't afool. Thar was you, winnin' your way in college; thar was YOU, risin' inthe world, and of some account to it; yer was an old bummer, ez good ezdead to it,--a man ez oughter been dead afore! a man ez never denied it!But you allus liked him better nor me," said Bill, bitterly.
"Forgive me, Bill," said the young man, seizing both his hands. "I knowyou did it for the best; but go on."
"Thar ain't much more to tell, nor much use to tell it, as I can see,"said Bill, moodily. "He never could be cured, the doctors said, for hehad what they called monomania,--was always talking about his wife anddarter that somebody had stole away years ago, and plannin' revengeon that somebody. And six months ago he was missed. I tracked him toCarson, to Salt Lake City, to Omaha, to Chicago, to New York,--andhere!"
"Here!" echoed Islington.
"Here! And that's what brings me here to-day. Whethers he's crazy orwell, whethers he's huntin' you or lookin' up that other man, you mustget away from here. You mustn't see him. You and me, Tommy, will go awayon a cruise. In three or four years he'll be dead or missing, and thenwe'll come back. Come." And he rose to his feet.
"Bill," said Islington, rising also, and taking the hand of his friend,with the same quiet obstinacy that in the old days had endeared him toBill, "wherever he is, here or elsewhere, sane or crazy, I shall seekand find him. Every dollar that I have shall be his, every dollar that Ihave spent shall be returned to him. I am young yet, thank God, and canwork; and if there is a way out of this miserable business, I shall findit."
"I knew," said Bill, with a surliness that ill concealed his evidentadmiration of the calm figure before him--"I knew the partikler styleof d--n fool that you was, and expected no better. Good by, then--GodAlmighty! who's that?"
He was on his way to the open French window, but had started back, hisface quite white and bloodless, and his eyes staring. Islington ran tothe window, and looked out. A white skirt vanished around the corner ofthe veranda. When he returned, Bill had dropped into a chair.
"It must have been Miss Masterman, I think; but what's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Bill, faintly; "have you got any whiskey handy?"
Islington brought a decanter, and, pouring out some spirits, handed theglass to Bill. Bill drained it, and then said, "Who is Miss Masterman?"
"Mr. Masterman's daughter; that is, an adopted daughter, I believe."
"Wot name?"
"I really don't know," said Islington, pettishly, more vexed than hecared to own at this questioning.
Yuba Bill rose and walked to the window, closed it, walked back againto the door, glanced at Islington, hesitated, and then returned to hischair.
"I didn't tell you I was married--did I?" he said suddenly, looking upin Islington's face with an unsuccessful attempt at a reckless laugh.
"No," said Islington, more pained at the manner than the words.
"Fact," said Yuba Bill. "Three years ago it was, Tommy,--three yearsago!"
He looked so hard at Islington, that, feeling he was expected to saysomething, he asked vaguely, "Who did you marry?"
"Thet's it!" said Yuba Bill; "I can't ezactly say; partikly, though, ashe devil! generally, the wife of half a dozen other men."
Accustomed, apparently, to have his conjugal infelicities a theme ofmirth among men, and seeing no trace of amusement on Islington's graveface, his dogged, reckless manner softened, and, drawing his chaircloser to Islington, he went on: "It all began outer this: we was comingdown Watson's grade one night pretty free, when the expressman turns tome and sez, 'There's a row inside, and you'd better pull up!' I pullsup, and out hops, first a woman, and then two or three chaps swearingand cursin', and tryin' to drag some one arter them. Then it 'pear'd,Tommy, thet it was this woman's drunken husband they was going to putout for abusin' her, and strikin' her in the coach; and if it hadn'tbeen for me, my boy, they'd hev left that chap thar in the road. But Ifixes matters up by putting her alongside o' me on the box, and we droveon. She was very white, Tommy,--for the matter o' that, she was alwaysone o' these very white women, that never got red in the face,--but shenever cried a whimper. Most wimin would have cried. It was queer, butshe never cried. I thought so at the time.
"She was very tall, with a lot o' light hair meandering down the back ofher head, as long as a deer-skin whip-lash, and about the color. She hedeyes thet'd bore you through at fifty yards, and pooty hands and feet.And when she kinder got out o' that stiff, narvous state she was in, andwarmed up a little, and got chipper, by G-d, sir, she was handsome,--shewas that!"
A little flushed and embarrassed at his own enthusiasm, he stopped, andthen said, carelessly, "They got off at Murphy's."
"Well," said Islington.
"Well, I used to see her often arter thet, and when she was alone sheallus took the box-seat. She kinder confided her troubles to me, how herhusband got drunk and abused her; and I didn't see much o' him, forhe was away in 'Frisco arter thet. But it was all square, Tommy,--allsquare 'twixt me and her.
"I got a going there a good deal, and then one day I sez to myself,'Bill, this won't do,' and I got changed to another route. Did you everknow Jackson Filltree, Tommy?" said Bill, breaking off suddenly.
"No."
"Might have heerd of him, p'r'aps?"
"No," said Islington, impatiently.
"Jackson Filltree ran the express from White's out to Summit, 'cross theNorth Fork of the Yuba. On
e day he sez to me, 'Bill, that's a mighty badford at the North Fork.' I sez, 'I believe you, Jackson.' 'It'll gitme some day, Bill, sure,' sez he. I sez, 'Why don't you take the lowerford?' 'I don't know,' sez he, 'but I can't.' So ever after, when Imet him, he sez, 'That North Fork ain't got me yet.' One day I was inSacramento, and up comes Filltree. He sez, 'I've sold out the expressbusiness on account of the North Fork, but it's bound to get me yet,Bill, sure'; and he laughs. Two weeks after they finds his body belowthe ford, whar he tried to cross, comin' down from the Summit way. Folkssaid it was foolishness: Tommy, I sez it was Fate! The second day arterI was changed to the Placerville route, thet woman comes outer thehotel above the stage-office. Her husband, she said, was lying sick inPlacerville; that's what she said; but it was Fate, Tommy, Fate. Threemonths afterward, her husband takes an overdose of morphine for deliriumtremems, and dies. There's folks ez sez she gave it to him, but it'sFate. A year after that I married her,--Fate, Tommy, Fate!
"I lived with her jest three months," he went on, after a longbreath,--"three months! It ain't much time for a happy man. I've seena good deal o' hard life in my day, but there was days in that threemonths longer than any day in my life,--days, Tommy, when it was atoss-up whether I should kill her or she me. But thar, I'm done. You area young man, Tommy, and I ain't goin' to tell things thet, old as I am,three years ago I couldn't have believed."
When at last, with his grim face turned toward the window, he satsilently with his clinched hands on his knees before him, Islingtonasked where his wife was now.
"Ask me no more, my boy,--no more. I've said my say." With a gesture asof throwing down a pair of reins before him, he rose, and walked to thewindow.
"You kin understand, Tommy, why a little trip around the world 'ud do megood. Ef you can't go with me, well and good. But go I must."
"Not before luncheon, I hope," said a very sweet voice, as BlancheMasterman suddenly stood before them. "Father would never forgive me ifin his absence I permitted one of Mr. Islington's friends to go in thisway. You will stay, won't you? Do! And you will give me your arm now;and when Mr. Islington has done staring, he will follow us into thedining-room and introduce you."
"I have quite fallen in love with your friend," said Miss Blanche, asthey stood in the drawing-room looking at the figure of Bill, strolling,with his short pipe in his mouth, through the distant shrubbery. "Heasks very queer questions, though. He wanted to know my mother's maidenname."
"He is an honest fellow," said Islington, gravely.
"You are very much subdued. You don't thank me, I dare say, for keepingyou and your friend here; but you couldn't go, you know, until fatherreturned."
Islington smiled, but not very gayly.
"And then I think it much better for us to part here under thesefrescos, don't you? Good by."
She extended her long, slim hand.
"Out in the sunlight there, when my eyes were red, you were very anxiousto look at me," she added, in a dangerous voice.
Islington raised his sad eyes to hers. Something glittering upon her ownsweet lashes trembled and fell.
"Blanche!"
She was rosy enough now, and would have withdrawn her hand, butIslington detained it. She was not quite certain but that her waistwas also in jeopardy. Yet she could not help saying, "Are you sure thatthere isn't anything in the way of a young woman that would keep you?"
"Blanche!" said Islington in reproachful horror.
"If gentlemen will roar out their secrets before an open window, witha young woman lying on a sofa on the veranda, reading a stupid Frenchnovel, they must not be surprised if she gives more attention to themthan her book."
"Then you know all, Blanche?"
"I know," said Blanche, "let's see--I know the partiklar styleof--ahem!--fool you was, and expected no better. Good by." And, glidinglike a lovely and innocent milk snake out of his grasp, she slippedaway.
To the pleasant ripple of waves, the sound of music and light voices,the yellow midsummer moon again rose over Greyport. It looked uponformless masses of rock and shrubbery, wide spaces of lawn and beach,and a shimmering expanse of water. It singled out particular objects,--awhite sail in shore, a crystal globe upon the lawn, and flashed uponsomething held between the teeth of a crouching figure scaling the lowwall of Cliffwood Lodge. Then, as a man and woman passed out from underthe shadows of the foliage into the open moonlight of the garden path,the figure leaped from the wall, and stood erect and waiting in theshadow.
It was the figure of an old man, with rolling eyes, his trembling handgrasping a long, keen knife,--a figure more pitiable than pitiless, morepathetic than terrible. But the next moment the knife was stricken fromhis hand, and he struggled in the firm grasp of another figure thatapparently sprang from the wall beside him.
"D--n you, Masterman!" cried the old man, hoarsely; "give me fair play,and I'll kill you yet!"
"Which my name is Yuba Bill," said Bill, quietly, "and it's time thisd--n fooling was stopped."
The old man glared in Bill's face savagely. "I know you. You're oneof Masterman's friends,--d--n you,--let me go till I cut his heartout,--let me go! Where is my Mary?--where is my wife?--there she is!there!--there!--there! Mary!" He would have screamed, but Bill placedhis powerful hand upon his mouth, as he turned in the direction of theold man's glance. Distinct in the moonlight the figures of Islington andBlanche, arm in arm, stood out upon the garden path.
"Give me my wife!" muttered the old man hoarsely, between Bill'sfingers. "Where is she?"
A sudden fury passed over Yuba Bill's face. "Where is your wife?" heechoed, pressing the old man back against the garden wall, and holdinghim there as in a vice. "Where is your wife?" he repeated, thrusting hisgrim sardonic jaw and savage eyes into the old man's frightened face."Where is Jack Adam's wife? Where is MY wife? Where is the she-devilthat drove one man mad, that sent another to hell by his own hand, thateternally broke and ruined me? Where! Where! Do you ask where? Injail in Sacramento,--in jail, do you hear?--in jail for murder,Johnson,--murder!"
The old man gasped, stiffened, and then, relaxing, suddenly slipped,a mere inanimate mass, at Yuba Bill's feet. With a sudden revulsion offeeling, Yuba Bill dropped at his side, and, lifting him tenderly inhis arms, whispered, "Look up, old man, Johnson! look up, forGod's sake!--it's me,--Yuba Bill! and yonder is your daughter,and--Tommy!--don't you know--Tommy, little Tommy Islington?"
Johnson's eyes slowly opened. He whispered, "Tommy! yes, Tommy! Sit byme, Tommy. But don't sit so near the bank. Don't you see how the riveris rising and beckoning to me,--hissing, and boilin' over the rocks?It's gittin higher!--hold me, Tommy,--hold me, and don't let me go yet.We'll live to cut his heart out, Tommy,--we'll live--we'll--" His headsank, and the rushing river, invisible to all eyes save his, leapedtoward him out of the darkness, and bore him away, no longer to thedarkness, but through it to the distant, peaceful shining sea.