by Bret Harte
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR.
Before nine o'clock it was pretty well known all along the river thatthe two partners of the "Amity Claim" had quarrelled and separated atdaybreak. At that time the attention of their nearest neighbor hadbeen attracted by the sounds of altercations and two consecutivepistol-shots. Running out, he had seen, dimly, in the gray mist thatrose from the river, the tall form of Scott, one of the partners,descending the hill toward the canyon; a moment later, York, theother partner, had appeared from the cabin, and walked in an oppositedirection toward the river, passing within a few feet of the curiouswatcher. Later it was discovered that a serious Chinaman, cuttingwood before the cabin, had witnessed part of the quarrel. But John wasstolid, indifferent, and reticent. "Me choppee wood, me no fightee,"was his serene response to all anxious queries. "But what did they SAY,John?" John did not sabe. Colonel Starbottle deftly ran over the variouspopular epithets which a generous public sentiment might accept asreasonable provocation for an assault. But John did not recognize them."And this yer's the cattle," said the Colonel, with some severity, "thatsome thinks oughter be allowed to testify ag'in' a White Man! Git--youheathen!"
Still the quarrel remained inexplicable. That two men, whose amiabilityand grave tact had earned for them the title of "The Peacemakers," ina community not greatly given to the passive virtues,--that these men,singularly devoted to each other, should suddenly and violentlyquarrel, might well excite the curiosity of the camp. A few of the moreinquisitive visited the late scene of conflict, now deserted by itsformer occupants. There was no trace of disorder or confusion in theneat cabin. The rude table was arranged as if for breakfast; the pan ofyellow biscuit still sat upon that hearth whose dead embers might havetypified the evil passions that had raged there but an hour before. ButColonel Starbottle's eye--albeit somewhat bloodshot and rheumy--was moreintent on practical details. On examination, a bullet-hole was found inthe doorpost, and another, nearly opposite, in the casing of the window.The Colonel called attention to the fact that the one "agreed with" thebore of Scott's revolver, and the other with that of York's derringer."They must hev stood about yer," said the Colonel, taking position; "notmor'n three feet apart, and--missed!" There was a fine touch of pathosin the falling inflection of the Colonel's voice, which was not withouteffect. A delicate perception of wasted opportunity thrilled hisauditors.
But the Bar was destined to experience a greater disappointment. The twoantagonists had not met since the quarrel, and it was vaguely rumoredthat, on the occasion of a second meeting, each had determined to killthe other "on sight." There was, consequently, some excitement--and,it is to be feared, no little gratification--when, at ten o'clock, Yorkstepped from the Magnolia Saloon into the one long straggling street ofthe camp, at the same moment that Scott left the blacksmith's shop atthe forks of the road. It was evident, at a glance, that a meeting couldonly be avoided by the actual retreat of one or the other.
In an instant the doors and windows of the adjacent saloons were filledwith faces. Heads unaccountably appeared above the river-banks and frombehind bowlders. An empty wagon at the cross-road was suddenly crowdedwith people, who seemed to have sprung from the earth. There was muchrunning and confusion on the hillside. On the mountain-road, Mr. JackHamlin had reined up his horse, and was standing upright on the seat ofhis buggy. And the two objects of this absorbing attention approachedeach other.
"York's got the sun," "Scott'll line him on that tree," "He's waitin'to draw his fire," came from the cart; and then it was silent. Butabove this human breathlessness the river rushed and sang, and thewind rustled the tree-tops with an indifference that seemed obtrusive.Colonel Starbottle felt it, and in a moment of sublime preoccupation,without looking around, waved his cane behind him, warningly to allnature, and said, "Shu!"
The men were now within a few feet of each other. A hen ran across theroad before one of them. A feathery seed-vessel, wafted from a waysidetree, fell at the feet of the other. And, unheeding this irony ofnature, the two opponents came nearer, erect and rigid, looked in eachother's eyes, and--passed!
Colonel Starbottle had to be lifted from the cart. "This yer camp isplayed out," he said, gloomily, as he affected to be supported intothe Magnolia. With what further expression he might have indicated hisfeelings it was impossible to say, for at that moment Scott joined thegroup. "Did you speak to me?" he asked of the Colonel, dropping hishand, as if with accidental familiarity, on that gentleman's shoulder.The Colonel, recognizing some occult quality in the touch, and someunknown quantity in the glance of his questioner, contented himself byreplying, "No, sir," with dignity. A few rods away, York's conductwas as characteristic and peculiar. "You had a mighty fine chance; whydidn't you plump him?" said Jack Hamlin, as York drew near the buggy."Because I hate him," was the reply, heard only by Jack. Contraryto popular belief, this reply was not hissed between the lips of thespeaker, but was said in an ordinary tone. But Jack Hamlin, who was anobserver of mankind, noticed that the speaker's hands were cold, andhis lips dry, as he helped him into the buggy, and accepted the seemingparadox with a smile.
When Sandy Bar became convinced that the quarrel between York and Scottcould not be settled after the usual local methods, it gave no furtherconcern thereto. But presently it was rumored that the "Amity Claim" wasin litigation, and that its possession would be expensively disputed byeach of the partners. As it was well known that the claim in questionwas "worked out" and worthless, and that the partners, whom it hadalready enriched, had talked of abandoning it but a day or two beforethe quarrel, this proceeding could only be accounted for as gratuitousspite. Later, two San Francisco lawyers made their appearance in thisguileless Arcadia, and were eventually taken into the saloons, and--whatwas pretty much the same thing--the confidences of the inhabitants. Theresults of this unhallowed intimacy were many subpoenas; and, indeed,when the "Amity Claim" came to trial, all of Sandy Bar that was not incompulsory attendance at the county seat came there from curiosity. Thegulches and ditches for miles around were deserted. I do not propose todescribe that already famous trial. Enough that, in the language of theplaintiff's counsel, "it was one of no ordinary significance, involvingthe inherent rights of that untiring industry which had developed thePactolian resources of this golden land"; and, in the homelier phraseof Colonel Starbottle, "A fuss that gentlemen might hev settled in tenminutes over a social glass, ef they meant business; or in ten secondswith a revolver, ef they meant fun." Scott got a verdict, from whichYork instantly appealed. It was said that he had sworn to spend his lastdollar in the struggle.
In this way Sandy Bar began to accept the enmity of the former partnersas a lifelong feud, and the fact that they had ever been friends wasforgotten. The few who expected to learn from the trial the origin ofthe quarrel were disappointed. Among the various conjectures, thatwhich ascribed some occult feminine influence as the cause was naturallypopular, in a camp given to dubious compliment of the sex. "My wordfor it, gentlemen," said Colonel Starbottle, who had been known inSacramento as a Gentleman of the Old School, "there's some lovelycreature at the bottom of this." The gallant Colonel then proceeded toillustrate his theory, by divers sprightly stories, such as Gentlemen ofthe Old School are in the habit of repeating, but which, from deferenceto the prejudices of gentlemen of a more recent school, I refrain fromtranscribing here. But it would appear that even the Colonel's theorywas fallacious. The only woman who personally might have exercisedany influence over the partners was the pretty daughter of "old manFolinsbee," of Poverty Flat, at whose hospitable house--which exhibitedsome comforts and refinements rare in that crude civilization--both Yorkand Scott were frequent visitors. Yet into this charming retreat Yorkstrode one evening, a month after the quarrel, and, beholding Scottsitting there, turned to the fair hostess with the abrupt query, "Do youlove this man?" The young woman thus addressed returned that answer--atonce spirited and evasive--which would occur to most of my fair readersin such an exigency. Without another word, York left the house. "MissJo" heaved th
e least possible sigh as the door closed on York's curlsand square shoulders, and then, like a good girl, turned to her insultedguest "But would you believe it, dear?" she afterward related to anintimate friend, "the other creature, after glowering at me for amoment, got upon its hind legs, took its hat, and left, too; and that'sthe last I've seen of either."
The same hard disregard of all other interests or feelings in thegratification of their blind rancor characterized all their actions.When York purchased the land below Scott's new claim, and obliged thelatter, at a great expense, to make a long detour to carry a "tail-race"around it, Scott retaliated by building a dam that overflowed York'sclaim on the river. It was Scott, who, in conjunction with ColonelStarbottle, first organized that active opposition to the Chinamen,which resulted in the driving off of York's Mongolian laborers; it wasYork who built the wagon-road and established the express which renderedScott's mules and pack-trains obsolete; it was Scott who called intolife the Vigilance Committee which expatriated York's friend,Jack Hamlin; it was York who created the "Sandy Bar Herald," whichcharacterized the act as "a lawless outrage," and Scott as a "BorderRuffian"; it was Scott, at the head of twenty masked men, who, onemoonlight night, threw the offending "forms" into the yellow river, andscattered the types in the dusty road. These proceedings were receivedin the distant and more civilized outlying towns as vague indicationsof progress and vitality. I have before me a copy of the "Poverty FlatPioneer," for the week ending August 12, 1856, in which the editor,under the head of "County Improvements," says: "The new PresbyterianChurch on C Street, at Sandy Bar, is completed. It stands upon the lotformerly occupied by the Magnolia Saloon, which was so mysteriouslyburnt last month. The temple, which now rises like a Phoenix from theashes of the Magnolia, is virtually the free gift of H. J. York, Esq.,of Sandy Bar, who purchased the lot and donated the lumber. Otherbuildings are going up in the vicinity, but the most noticeable is the'Sunny South Saloon,' erected by Captain Mat. Scott, nearly opposite thechurch. Captain Scott has spared no expense in the furnishing of thissaloon, which promises to be one of the most agreeable places ofresort in old Tuolumne. He has recently imported two new, first-classbilliard-tables, with cork cushions. Our old friend, 'MountainJimmy,' will dispense liquors at the bar. We refer our readers to theadvertisement in another column. Visitors to Sandy Bar cannot do betterthan give 'Jimmy' a call." Among the local items occurred the following:"H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy Bar, has offered a reward of $100 forthe detection of the parties who hauled away the steps of the newPresbyterian Church, C Street, Sandy Bar, during divine service onSabbath evening last. Captain Scott adds another hundred for the captureof the miscreants who broke the magnificent plate-glass windows of thenew saloon on the following evening. There is some talk of reorganizingthe old Vigilance Committee at Sandy Bar."
When, for many months of cloudless weather, the hard, unwinking sun ofSandy Bar had regularly gone down on the unpacified wrath of thesemen, there was some talk of mediation. In particular, the pastor of thechurch to which I have just referred--a sincere, fearless, but perhapsnot fully enlightened man--seized gladly upon the occasion of York'sliberality to attempt to reunite the former partners. He preached anearnest sermon on the abstract sinfulness of discord and rancor. Butthe excellent sermons of the Rev. Mr. Daws were directed to an idealcongregation that did not exist at Sandy Bar,--a congregation of beingsof unmixed vices and virtues, of single impulses, and perfectly logicalmotives, of preternatural simplicity, of childlike faith, and grown-upresponsibilities. As, unfortunately, the people who actually attendedMr. Daws's church were mainly very human, somewhat artful, moreself-excusing than self-accusing, rather good-natured, and decidedlyweak, they quietly shed that portion of the sermon which referred tothemselves, and, accepting York and Scott--who were both in defiantattendance--as curious examples of those ideal beings above referredto, felt a certain satisfaction--which, I fear, was not altogetherChristian-like--in their "raking-down." If Mr. Daws expected York andScott to shake hands after the sermon, he was disappointed. But he didnot relax his purpose. With that quiet fearlessness and determinationwhich had won for him the respect of men who were too apt to regardpiety as synonymous with effeminacy, he attacked Scott in his own house.What he said has not been recorded, but it is to be feared that it waspart of his sermon. When he had concluded, Scott looked at him, notunkindly, over the glasses of his bar, and said, less irreverently thanthe words might convey, "Young man, I rather like your style; but whenyou know York and me as well as you do God Almighty, it'll be time totalk."
And so the feud progressed; and so, as in more illustrious examples, theprivate and personal enmity of two representative men led gradually tothe evolution of some crude, half-expressed principle or belief. It wasnot long before it was made evident that those beliefs were identicalwith certain broad principles laid down by the founders of the AmericanConstitution, as expounded by the statesmanlike A; or were the fatalquicksands, on which the ship of state might be wrecked, warninglypointed out by the eloquent B. The practical result of all which was thenomination of York and Scott to represent the opposite factions of SandyBar in legislative councils.
For some weeks past, the voters of Sandy Bar and the adjacent camps hadbeen called upon, in large type, to "RALLY!" In vain the great pinesat the cross-roads--whose trunks were compelled to bear this and otherlegends--moaned and protested from their windy watch-towers. But oneday, with fife and drum, and flaming transparency, a procession filedinto the triangular grove at the head of the gulch. The meetingwas called to order by Colonel Starbottle, who, having once enjoyedlegislative functions, and being vaguely known as a "war-horse," wasconsidered to be a valuable partisan of York. He concluded an appeal forhis friend, with an enunciation of principles, interspersed with one ortwo anecdotes so gratuitously coarse that the very pines might have beenmoved to pelt him with their cast-off cones, as he stood there. But hecreated a laugh, on which his candidate rode into popular notice; andwhen York rose to speak, he was greeted with cheers. But, to the generalastonishment, the new speaker at once launched into bitter denunciationof his rival. He not only dwelt upon Scott's deeds and example, as knownto Sandy Bar, but spoke of facts connected with his previous career,hitherto unknown to his auditors. To great precision of epithet anddirectness of statement, the speaker added the fascination of revelationand exposure. The crowd cheered, yelled, and were delighted, but whenthis astounding philippic was concluded, there was a unanimous callfor "Scott!" Colonel Starbottle would have resisted this manifestimpropriety, but in vain. Partly from a crude sense of justice, partlyfrom a meaner craving for excitement, the assemblage was inflexible; andScott was dragged, pushed, and pulled upon the platform.
As his frowsy head and unkempt beard appeared above the railing, it wasevident that he was drunk. But it was also evident, before he opened hislips, that the orator of Sandy Bar--the one man who could touch theirvagabond sympathies (perhaps because he was not above appealing tothem)--stood before them. A consciousness of this power lent a certaindignity to his figure, and I am not sure but that his very physicalcondition impressed them as a kind of regal unbending and largecondescension. Howbeit, when this unexpected Hector arose from theditch, York's myrmidons trembled.
"There's naught, gentlemen," said Scott, leaning forward on therailing,--"there's naught as that man hez said as isn't true. I was runouter Cairo; I did belong to the Regulators; I did desert from the army;I did leave a wife in Kansas. But thar's one thing he didn't charge mewith, and, maybe, he's forgotten. For three years, gentlemen, I wasthat man's pardner!--" Whether he intended to say more, I cannot tell;a burst of applause artistically rounded and enforced the climax, andvirtually elected the speaker. That fall he went to Sacramento, Yorkwent abroad; and for the first time in many years, distance and a newatmosphere isolated the old antagonists.
With little of change in the green wood, gray rock, and yellow river,but with much shifting of human landmarks, and new faces in itshabitations, three years passed over Sandy Bar. The
two men, once soidentified with its character, seemed to have been quite forgotten."You will never return to Sandy Bar," said Miss Folinsbee, the "Lily ofPoverty Flat," on meeting York in Paris, "for Sandy Bar is no more.They call it Riverside now; and the new town is built higher up on theriver-bank. By the by, 'Jo' says that Scott has won his suit about the'Amity Claim,' and that he lives in the old cabin, and is drunk half histime. O, I beg your pardon," added the lively lady, as a flush crossedYork's sallow cheek; "but, bless me, I really thought that old grudgewas made up. I'm sure it ought to be."
It was three months after this conversation, and a pleasant summerevening, that the Poverty Flat coach drew up before the veranda of theUnion Hotel at Sandy Bar. Among its passengers was one, apparently astranger, in the local distinction of well-fitting clothes and closelyshaven face, who demanded a private room and retired early to rest. Butbefore sunrise next morning he arose, and, drawing some clothes from hiscarpet-bag, proceeded to array himself in a pair of white duck trousers,a white duck overshirt, and straw hat. When his toilet was completed, hetied a red bandanna handkerchief in a loop and threw it loosely over hisshoulders. The transformation was complete. As he crept softly down thestairs and stepped into the road, no one would have detected in him theelegant stranger of the previous night, and but few have recognized theface and figure of Henry York of Sandy Bar.
In the uncertain light of that early hour, and in the change that hadcome over the settlement, he had to pause for a moment to recall wherehe stood. The Sandy Bar of his recollection lay below him, nearer theriver; the buildings around him were of later date and newer fashion.As he strode toward the river, he noticed here a schoolhouse and there achurch. A little farther on, "The Sunny South" came in view, transformedinto a restaurant, its gilding faded and its paint rubbed off. He nowknew where he was; and, running briskly down a declivity, crossed aditch, and stood upon the lower boundary of the Amity Claim.
The gray mist was rising slowly from the river, clinging to thetree-tops and drifting up the mountain-side, until it was caught amongthose rocky altars, and held a sacrifice to the ascending sun. At hisfeet the earth, cruelly gashed and scarred by his forgotten engines,had, since the old days, put on a show of greenness here and there, andnow smiled forgivingly up at him, as if things were not so bad afterall. A few birds were bathing in the ditch with a pleasant suggestion ofits being a new and special provision of nature, and a hare ran into aninverted sluice-box, as he approached, as if it were put there for thatpurpose.
He had not yet dared to look in a certain direction. But the sun was nowhigh enough to paint the little eminence on which the cabin stood. Inspite of his self-control, his heart beat faster as he raised his eyestoward it. Its window and door were closed, no smoke came from its adobechimney, but it was else unchanged. When within a few yards of it, hepicked up a broken shovel, and, shouldering it with a smile, strodetoward the door and knocked. There was no sound from within. The smiledied upon his lips as he nervously pushed the door open.
A figure started up angrily and came toward him,--a figure whosebloodshot eyes suddenly fixed into a vacant stare, whose arms wereat first outstretched and then thrown up in warning gesticulation,--afigure that suddenly gasped, choked, and then fell forward in a fit.
But before he touched the ground, York had him out into the open air andsunshine. In the struggle, both fell and rolled over on the ground. Butthe next moment York was sitting up, holding the convulsed frame of hisformer partner on his knee, and wiping the foam from his inarticulatelips. Gradually the tremor became less frequent, and then ceased; andthe strong man lay unconscious in his arms.
For some moments York held him quietly thus, looking in his face. Afar,the stroke of a wood-man's axe--a mere phantom of sound--was allthat broke the stillness. High up the mountain, a wheeling hawk hungbreathlessly above them. And then came voices, and two men joined them.
"A fight?" No, a fit; and would they help him bring the sick man to thehotel?
And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, unconscious of aughtbut the visions wrought by disease and fear. On the eighth day, atsunrise, he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, andpressed his hand; then he spoke:--
"And it's you. I thought it was only whiskey."
York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly working them backwardand forward, as his elbow rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile.
"And you've been abroad. How did you like Paris?"
"So, so. How did YOU like Sacramento?"
"Bully."
And that was all they could think to say. Presently Scott opened hiseyes again.
"I'm mighty weak."
"You'll get better soon."
"Not much."
A long silence followed, in which they could hear the sounds ofwood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was already astir for the comingday. Then Scott slowly and with difficulty turned his face to York, andsaid,--
"I might hev killed you once."
"I wish you had."
They pressed each other's hands again, but Scott's grasp was evidentlyfailing. He seemed to summon his energies for a special effort.
"Old man!"
"Old chap."
"Closer!"
York bent his head toward the slowly fading face.
"Do ye mind that morning?"
"Yes."
A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott's blue eye, as hewhispered,--
"Old man, thar WAS too much saleratus in that bread."
It is said that these were his last words. For when the sun, which hadso often gone down upon the idle wrath of these foolish men, lookedagain upon them reunited, it saw the hand of Scott fall cold andirresponsive from the yearning clasp of his former partner, and it knewthat the feud of Sandy Bar was at an end.