by Bret Harte
HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON'S BAR.
It had been raining in the valley of the Sacramento. The North Forkhad overflowed its banks and Rattlesnake Creek was impassable. The fewboulders that had marked the summer ford at Simpson's Crossing wereobliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the foothills. The upstage was stopped at Grangers; the last mail had been abandoned in thetules, the rider swimming for his life. "An area," remarked the"Sierra Avalanche," with pensive local pride, "as large as the State ofMassachusetts is now under water."
Nor was the weather any better in the foothills. The mud lay deep on themountain road; wagons that neither physical force nor moral objurgationcould move from the evil ways into which they had fallen, encumbered thetrack, and the way to Simpson's Bar was indicated by broken-down teamsand hard swearing. And farther on, cut off and inaccessible, rainedupon and bedraggled, smitten by high winds and threatened by high water,Simpson's Bar, on the eve of Christmas day, 1862, clung like a swallow'snest to the rocky entablature and splintered capitals of Table Mountain,and shook in the blast.
As night shut down on the settlement, a few lights gleamed throughthe mist from the windows of cabins on either side of the highway nowcrossed and gullied by lawless streams and swept by marauding winds.Happily most of the population were gathered at Thompson's store,clustered around a red-hot stove, at which they silently spat in someaccepted sense of social communion that perhaps rendered conversationunnecessary. Indeed, most methods of diversion had long since beenexhausted on Simpson's Bar; high water had suspended the regularoccupations on gulch and on river, and a consequent lack of money andwhiskey had taken the zest from most illegitimate recreation. Even Mr.Hamlin was fain to leave the Bar with fifty dollars in his pocket,--theonly amount actually realized of the large sums won by him in thesuccessful exercise of his arduous profession. "Ef I was asked," heremarked somewhat later,--"ef I was asked to pint out a purty littlevillage where a retired sport as didn't care for money could exercisehisself, frequent and lively, I'd say Simpson's Bar; but for a young manwith a large family depending on his exertions, it don't pay." As Mr.Hamlin's family consisted mainly of female adults, this remark is quotedrather to show the breadth of his humor than the exact extent of hisresponsibilities.
Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat that evening in thelistless apathy begotten of idleness and lack of excitement. Even thesudden splashing of hoofs before the door did not arouse them. DickBullen alone paused in the act of scraping out his pipe, and liftedhis head, but no other one of the group indicated any interest in, orrecognition of, the man who entered.
It was a figure familiar enough to the company, and known in Simpson'sBar as "The Old Man." A man of perhaps fifty years; grizzled and scantof hair, but still fresh and youthful of complexion. A face full ofready, but not very powerful sympathy, with a chameleon-like aptitudefor taking on the shade and color of contiguous moods and feelings. Hehad evidently just left some hilarious companions, and did not at firstnotice the gravity of the group, but clapped the shoulder of the nearestman jocularly, and threw himself into a vacant chair.
"Jest heard the best thing out, boys! Ye know Smiley, over yar,--JimSmiley,--funniest man in the Bar? Well, Jim was jest telling the richestyarn about--"
"Smiley's a ---- fool," interrupted a gloomy voice.
"A particular ---- skunk," added another in sepulchral accents.
A silence followed these positive statements. The Old Man glancedquickly around the group. Then his face slowly changed. "That's so,"he said reflectively, after a pause, "certingly a sort of a skunk andsuthin of a fool. In course." He was silent for a moment as in painfulcontemplation of the unsavoriness and folly of the unpopular Smiley."Dismal weather, ain't it?" he added, now fully embarked on the currentof prevailing sentiment. "Mighty rough papers on the boys, and no showfor money this season. And tomorrow's Christmas."
There was a movement among the men at this announcement, but whether ofsatisfaction or disgust was not plain. "Yes," continued the Old Man inthe lugubrious tone he had, within the last few moments, unconsciouslyadopted,--"yes, Christmas, and to-night's Christmas eve. Ye see, boys,I kinder thought--that is, I sorter had an idee, jest passin' like, youknow--that may be ye'd all like to come over to my house to-night andhave a sort of tear round. But I suppose, now, you wouldn't? Don't feellike it, may be?" he added with anxious sympathy, peering into the facesof his companions.
"Well, I don't know," responded Tom Flynn with some cheerfulness."P'r'aps we may. But how about your wife, Old Man? What does SHE say toit?"
The Old Man hesitated. His conjugal experience had not been a happy one,and the fact was known to Simpson's Bar. His first wife, a delicate,pretty little woman, had suffered keenly and secretly from the jealoussuspicions of her husband, until one day he invited the whole Bar to hishouse to expose her infidelity. On arriving, the party found the shy,petite creature quietly engaged in her household duties, and retiredabashed and discomfited. But the sensitive woman did not easily recoverfrom the shock of this extraordinary outrage. It was with difficultyshe regained her equanimity sufficiently to release her lover from thecloset in which he was concealed and escape with him. She left a boy ofthree years to comfort her bereaved husband. The Old Man's present wifehad been his cook. She was large, loyal, and aggressive.
Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with great directness thatit was the "Old Man's house," and that, invoking the Divine Power, ifthe case were his own, he would invite whom he pleased, even if inso doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he furtherremarked, should contend against him vainly. All this delivered with aterseness and vigor lost in this necessary translation.
"In course. Certainly. Thet's it," said the Old Man with a sympatheticfrown. "Thar's no trouble about THET. It's my own house, built everystick on it myself. Don't you be afeard o' her, boys. She MAY cut up atrifle rough,--ez wimmin do,--but she'll come round." Secretly the OldMan trusted to the exaltation of liquor and the power of courageousexample to sustain him in such an emergency.
As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson's Bar, had notspoken. He now took his pipe from his lips. "Old Man, how's that yerJohnny gettin' on? Seems to me he didn't look so peart last time I seedhim on the bluff heavin' rocks at Chinamen. Didn't seem to take muchinterest in it. Thar was a gang of 'em by yar yesterday,--drownded outup the river,--and I kinder thought o' Johnny, and how he'd miss 'em!May be now, we'd be in the way ef he wus sick?"
The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture ofJohnny's deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker,hastened to assure him that Johnny was better and that a "little funmight 'liven him up." Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying,"I'm ready. Lead the way, Old Man: here goes," himself led the way witha leap, a characteristic howl, and darted out into the night. As hepassed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from thehearth. The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closelyfollowing and elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietorof Thompson's grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the roomwas deserted.
The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind their temporarytorches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flittingin the gloom like drunken will-o'-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.Their way led up Pine-Tree Canyon, at the head of which a broad, low,bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountain-side. It was the home ofthe Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked whenhe worked at all. Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicatedeference to their host, who came up panting in the rear.
"P'r'aps ye'd better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go in and seethet things is all right," said the Old Man, with an indifference hewas far from feeling. The suggestion was graciously accepted, thedoor opened and closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their backsagainst the wall and cowering under the eaves, waited and listened.
For a few moments there was no sound but the drip
ping of water from theeaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestling boughs above them. Then themen became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and suspicion passed fromthe one to the other. "Reckon she's caved in his head the first lick!""Decoyed him inter the tunnel and barred him up, likely." "Got him downand sittin' on him." "Prob'ly bilin suthin to heave on us: stand clearthe door, boys!" For just then the latch clicked, the door slowlyopened, and a voice said, "Come in out o' the wet."
The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife. It was thevoice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternaturalhoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of prematureself-assertion can give. It was the face of a small boy that looked upat theirs,--a face that might have been pretty and even refined butthat it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hardexperience from without. He had a blanket around his shoulders and hadevidently just risen from his bed. "Come in," he repeated, "and don'tmake no noise. The Old Man's in there talking to mar," he continued,pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from whichthe Old Man's voice came in deprecating accents. "Let me be," he added,querulously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, andwas affecting to toss him into the fire, "let go o' me, you d----d oldfool, d'ye hear?"
Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smotheredlaugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a longtable of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room. Johnny thengravely proceeded to a cupboard and brought out several articles whichhe deposited on the table. "Thar's whiskey. And crackers. And redherons. And cheese." He took a bite of the latter on his way to thetable. "And sugar." He scooped up a mouthful en route with a small andvery dirty hand. "And terbacker. Thar's dried appils too on the shelf,but I don't admire 'em. Appils is swellin'. Thar," he concluded, "nowwade in, and don't be afeard. I don't mind the old woman. She don'tb'long to ME. S'long."
He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than acloset, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dimrecess a small bed. He stood there a moment looking at the company, hisbare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.
"Hello, Johnny! You ain't goin' to turn in agin, are ye?" said Dick.
"Yes, I are," responded Johnny, decidedly.
"Why, wot's up, old fellow?"
"I'm sick."
"How sick!"
"I've got a fevier. And childblains. And roomatiz," returned Johnny,and vanished within. After a moment's pause, he added in the dark,apparently from under the bedclothes,--"And biles!"
There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked at each other, and atthe fire. Even with the appetizing banquet before them, it seemed as ifthey might again fall into the despondency of Thompson's grocery, whenthe voice of the Old Man, incautiously lifted, came deprecatingly fromthe kitchen.
"Certainly! Thet's so. In course they is. A gang o' lazy drunkenloafers, and that ar Dick Bullen's the ornariest of all. Didn't hevno more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and noprovision. Thet's what I said: 'Bullen,' sez I, 'it's crazy drunk youare, or a fool,' sez I, 'to think o' such a thing.' 'Staples,' I sez,'be you a man, Staples, and 'spect to raise h-ll under my roof andinvalids lyin' round?' But they would come,--they would. Thet's wot youmust 'spect o' such trash as lays round the Bar."
A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunate exposure.Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether the Old Man's iratecompanion had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing hercontemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a back door was suddenlyslammed with great violence. A moment later and the Old Man reappeared,haply unconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst, andsmiled blandly.
"The old woman thought she'd jest run over to Mrs. McFadden's for asociable call," he explained, with jaunty indifference, as he took aseat at the board.
Oddly enough it needed this untoward incident to relieve theembarrassment that was beginning to be felt by the party, and theirnatural audacity returned with their host. I do not propose to recordthe convivialities of that evening. The inquisitive reader will acceptthe statement that the conversation was characterized by the sameintellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, the samefastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, and the same logicaland coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening, which distinguishsimilar gatherings of the masculine sex in more civilized localities andunder more favorable auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence ofany; no liquor was uselessly spilt on floor or table in the scarcity ofthat article.
It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. "Hush,"said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice ofJohnny from his adjacent closet: "O dad!"
The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently hereappeared. "His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad," he explained, "andhe wants rubbin'." He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the tableand shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup withan embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined theircontents and said hopefully, "I reckon that's enough; he don't needmuch. You hold on all o' you for a spell, and I'll be back"; andvanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. Thedoor closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctlyaudible:--
"Now, Sonny, whar does she ache worst?"
"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful fromyer to yer. Rub yer, dad."
A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:
"Hevin' a good time out yer, dad?"
"Yes, sonny."
"To-morrer's Chrismiss, ain't it?"
"Yes, Sonny. How does she feel now?"
"Better rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it allabout?"
"O, it's a day."
This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was asilent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:
"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things toeverybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar'sa man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o'Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives thingsto chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what shetried to play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet'sa mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest toaggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar. . . . Why, dad!"
In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sighof the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct.Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on, "Don't you take on now,fur I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?"
The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests weresitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and alean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin' on suthin,--some little gameor 'nother. They're all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommencedhis rubbing.
"I'd like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny, reflectively,after a pause.
The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, thatif Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel he'd havelots of money, etc., etc.
"Yes," said Johnny, "but you don't. And whether you strike it or I winit, it's about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty cur'o's aboutChrismiss,--ain't it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?"
Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of hisguests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man's reply wasso low as to be inaudible beyond the room.
"Yes," said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, "I've heerdo' HIM before. Thar, that'll do, dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did.Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now," he added in a muffledwhisper, "sit down yer by me till I go asleep." To assure himself ofobedience, he disengaged one hand from the blanket and, grasping hisfather's sleeve, again composed himself to rest.
"Hello!"
Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily toward him.
"Whar's the boys?" said the Old Man.
"Gone up the canyon on a little pasear. They're coming back for me in aminit. I'm waitin' round for 'em. What are you starin' at, Old Man?" headded with a forced laugh; "do you think I'm drunk?"
The Old Man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick's eyeswere humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to thechimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed."Liquor ain't so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don't you git up," hecontinued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve fromJohnny's hand. "Don't you mind manners. Sit jest whar you be; I'm goin'in a jiffy. Thar, that's them now."
There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded"Good night" to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would havefollowed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped hissleeve. He could have easily disengaged it: it was small, weak, andemaciated. But perhaps because it WAS small, weak, and emaciated, hechanged his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested hishead upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlierpotations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes,reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him--asleep.
Meantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. "Areyou ready?" said Staples. "Ready," said Dick; "what's the time?" "Pasttwelve," was the reply; "can you make it?--it's nigh on fifty miles, theround trip hither and yon." "I reckon," returned Dick, shortly. "Whar'sthe mare?" "Bill and Jack's holdin' her at the crossin'." "Let 'em holdon a minit longer," said Dick.
He turned and re-entered the house softly. By the light of the gutteringcandle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open.He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallenback in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line withhis collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him,on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanketthat hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp withperspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glancedover his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. Witha sudden resolution he parted his huge mustaches with both hands andstooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievousblast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth,and lit up the room with a shameless glow from which Dick fled inbashful terror.
His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of themwere struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, whichas Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow horse.
It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose toher rising haunches, from her arched spine hidden by the stiff machillasof a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there was not aline of equine grace. In her half-blind but wholly vicious white eyes,in her protruding under lip, in her monstrous color, there was nothingbut ugliness and vice.
"Now then," said Staples, "stand cl'ar of her heels, boys, and up withyou. Don't miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your offstirrup QUICK. Ready!"
There was a leap, a scrambling struggle, a bound, a wild retreat of thecrowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred theearth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice ofDick somewhere in the darkness, "All right!"
"Don't take the lower road back onless you're hard pushed for time!Don't hold her in down hill! We'll be at the ford at five. G'lang!Hoopa! Mula! GO!"
A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in therocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.
*****
Sing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse of chivalrousmen! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, thefearsome ride and grewsome perils of the Flower of Simpson's Bar! Alack!she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute andswaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot!
It was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. Forin that time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections andpractised all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she thrownup her Roman nose in a straight line with the reins, and, resisting bitand spur, struck out madly across country. Twice had she reared, and,rearing, fallen backward; and twice had the agile Dick, unharmed,regained his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And a milebeyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dickknew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform hisenterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks,and changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied andmaddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richardpretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and well-feignedcries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away.Nor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in thechronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough that in another moment, as it seemedto Dick, she was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek.As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond thepoint of balking, and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, theydashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A few momentsof kicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on theopposite bank.
The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level.Either the plunge in Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire,or the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness ofher rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wantonconceits. Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once sheshied, but it was from a new freshly painted meeting-house at thecrossing of the county road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits,patches of freshly springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattlinghoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughedslightly, but there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By twoo'clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the plain.Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken andpassed by a "man on a Pinto hoss,"--an event sufficiently notable forremark. At half past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout.Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out ofthe plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of blackobjects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata, Jovita boundedforward, and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville and drew upbefore the wooden piazza of "The Hotel of All Nations."
What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of thisrecord. Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had beenhanded over to a sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasantconsciousness, Dick sallied out with the bar-keeper for a tour ofthe sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons andgambling-houses; but, avoiding these, they stopped before severalclosed shops, and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry rousedthe proprietors from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of theirmagazines and expose their wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, butoftener by interest and some concern in their needs, and the interviewwas invariably concluded by a drink. It was three o'clock beforethis pleasantry was given over, and with a small waterproof bag ofindia-rubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the hotel. Buthere he was waylaid by Beauty,--Beauty opulent in charms, affluent indress, persuasive in speech, and Spanish in accent! In vain she repeatedthe invitation in "Excelsior," happily scorned by all Alpine-climbingyouth, and rejected by this child of the Sierras,--a rejection softenedin this instance by a laugh and his last go
ld coin. And then he sprangto the saddle and dashed down the lonely street and out into thelonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line of houses,the spires, and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again andwere lost in the distance.
The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines ofadjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half past four before Dickreached the meeting-house and the crossing of the county road. To avoidthe rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, inwhose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was apoor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita,gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoningfury, and a half-hour later reached the long level that led toRattlesnake Creek. Another half-hour would bring him to the creek. Hethrew the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, andbegan to sing.
Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a lesspractised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped fromthe bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose ashadowy horse and rider. "Throw up your hands," commanded this secondapparition, with an oath.
Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. Heknew what it meant and was prepared.
"Stand aside, Jack Simpson, I know you, you d----d thief. Let me passor--"
He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with aterrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shakeof her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on theimpediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwaymanrolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundredyards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet,dropped helplessly at his side.
Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand. But afew moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girthsthat had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took sometime. He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he saw that the easternstars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost theirghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Daywas upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgotthe pain of his wound, and mounting again dashed on toward RattlesnakeCreek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in hissaddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.
Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!
For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustionfrom loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept downthe hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrongroad, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?
It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen,more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistlessriver between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that nightRichard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickeningeast, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. Inthat brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little roomat Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son roseupon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots,and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, graspedthe bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashedinto the yellow water. A cry rose from the opposite bank as the headof a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battlingcurrent, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirlingdrift-wood.
*****
The Old Man started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, thecandle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody wasrapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before thedripping half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.
"Dick?"
"Hush! Is he awake yet?"
"No,--but, Dick?--"
"Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey QUICK!" The Old Man flew andreturned with--an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his strengthwas not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the handle of thedoor, and motioned to the Old Man.
"Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can't."
The Old Man unstrapped the pack and laid it before the exhausted man.
"Open it, quick!"
He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poortoys,--cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paintand tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievablyruined by water; and on the third--ah me! there was a cruel spot.
"It don't look like much, that's a fact," said Dick, ruefully . . . ."But it's the best we could do. . . . Take 'em, Old Man, and put 'em inhis stocking, and tell him--tell him, you know--hold me, Old Man--" TheOld Man caught at his sinking figure. "Tell him," said Dick, with a weaklittle laugh,--"tell him Sandy Claus has come."
And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one armhanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar andfell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowlyafter, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffablelove. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountainas if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.