Chapter V: “WHY, Miss Peekin!” (1)

“It’s a fact: Eben Javash, that went out better’n a year ago, hez got back, and he wuz at the next diggins an’ heerd all about it. ‘T seems the officers ketched Brown, an’ Jim Hockson gave ’em thirty thousand dollars to pay them an’ the bank too, and then they let him go. Might’s well ha kept his money, though, seein’ Brown washed overboard on the way back.

“I ain’t a bettin’ man,” said the deacon, “but I’d risk our white-faced cow that them thirty thousand dollars preached the greatest sermon ever heerd in Californy—ur in Crankett either.”

Miss Peekin threw a withering glance at the deacon; it was good he was not on trial for heresy, with Miss Peekin for judge and jury. She continued:

“Eben says there was a fellow named Weasel that hid close by, an’ heerd all ’twas said, and when he went to the rum-shop an’ told the miners, they hooray’d for Jim ez ef they wuz mad. Just like them crazy fellers—they hain’t no idee when money’s wasted.”

“The Lord waste all the money in the world that way!” devoutly exclaimed the deacon.

“An’ that feller Weasel,” continued Miss Peekin, giving the deacon’s pet cat a vicious kick, “though he’d always been economical, an’ never set a bad example before by persuadin’ folk to be intemprit, actilly drored a pistol, and fit with a feller they called Colonel Two—fit for the chance of askin’ the crowd to drink to Jim Hockson, an’ then went aroun’ to all the diggins, tellin’ about Jim, an’ wastin’ his money treatin’ folks to drink good luck to Jim. Dis—graceful!”

“It’s what _I’d_ call a powerful conversion,” remarked the deacon.

“But ther’s more,” said Miss Peekin, with a sigh, and yet with an air of importance befitting the bearer of wonderful tidings.

“What?” eagerly asked Mrs. Crankett.

“Jim’s back,” said Miss Peekin.

“Mercy on us!” cried Mrs. Crankett.

“The Lord bless and prosper him!” earnestly exclaimed the deacon.

“Well,” said Miss Peekin, with a disgusted look, “I s’pose He will, from the looks o’ things; fur Eben sez that when Weasel told the fellers how it all wuz, they went to work an’ put gold-dust in a box fur Jim till ther wus more than he giv fur Brown, an’ fellers from all round’s been sendin’ him dust ever since. He’s mighty sight the richest man anywhere near this town.”

“Good—bless the Lord!” said the deacon, with delight.

“Ye hain’t heerd all of it, though,” continued Miss Peekin, with a funereal countenance. “They’re going to be married.”

“Sakes alive!” gasps Mrs. Crankett.

“It’s so,” said Miss Peekin; “an’ they say she sent for him, by way of the Isthmus, an’ he come back that way. Bad enough to marry him, when poor Brown hain’t been dead six months, but to _send_ for him——”

“Wuz a real noble, big-hearted, womanly thing to do,” declared Mrs. Crankett, snatching off her spectacles; “an’ I’d hev done it myself ef I’d been her.”

The deacon gave his old wife an enthusiastic hug; upon seeing which Miss Peekin hastily departed, with a severely shocked expression of countenance and a nose aspiring heavenward.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MAKING HIS MARK.

BLACK HAT was, in 1851, about as peaceful and well-regulated a village as could be found in the United States.

It was not on the road to any place, so it grew but little; the dirt paid steadily and well, so but few of the original settlers went away.

The march of civilization, with its churches and circuses, had not yet reached Black Hat; marriages never convulsed the settlement with the pet excitement of villages generally, and the inhabitants were never arrayed at swords’ point by either religion, politics or newspapers.

To be sure, the boys gambled every evening and all day Sunday; but a famous player, who once passed that way on a prospecting-trip, declared that even a preacher would get sick of such playing; for, as everybody knew everybody else’s game, and as all men who played other than squarely had long since been required to leave, there was an utter absence of pistols at the tables.

Occasional disagreements took place, to be sure—they have been taking place, even among the best people, since the days of Cain and Abel; but all difficulties at Black Hat which did not succumb to force of jaw were quietly locked in the bosoms of the disputants until the first Sunday.

Sunday, at Black Hat, orthodoxically commenced at sunset on Saturday, and was piously extended through to working-time on Monday morning, and during this period of thirty-six hours there was submitted to arbitrament, by knife or pistol, all unfinished rows of the week.

On Sunday was also performed all of the hard drinking at Black Hat; but through the week the inhabitants worked as steadily and lived as peacefully as if surrounded by church-steeples, court-houses and jails.

Whether owing to the inevitable visitations of the great disturber of affairs in the Garden of Eden, or only in the due course of that developement which affects communities as well as species, we know not, but certain it is that suddenly the city fathers at Black Hat began to wear thoughtful faces and wrinkled brows, to indulge in unusual periods of silence, and to drink and smoke as if these consoling occupations were pursued more as matters of habit than of enjoyment.

The prime cause of the uneasiness of these good men was a red-faced, red-haired, red-whiskered fellow, who had been nicknamed “Captain,” on account of the military cut of the whiskers mentioned above.

The captain was quite a good fellow; but he was suffering severely from “the last infirmity of noble minds”—ambition.

He had gone West to make a reputation, and so openly did he work for it that no one doubted his object; and so untiring and convincing was he, that, in two short weeks, he had persuaded the weaker of the brethren at Black Hat that things in general were considerably out of joint. And as a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump, every man at Black Hat was soon discussing the captain’s criticisms, and was neglecting the more peaceable matters of cards and drink, which had previously occupied their leisure hours.

The captain was always fully charged with opinions on every subject, and his eloquent voice was heard at length on even the smallest matter that interested the camp. One day a disloyal miner remarked:

“Captain’s jaw is a reg’lar air-trigger; reckon he’ll run the camp when Whitey leaves.”

Straightway a devout respecter of the “powers that be” carried the remark to Whitey, the chief of the camp.

Now, it happened that Whitey, an immense but very peaceable and sensible fellow, had just been discussing with some of his adherents the probable designs of the captain, and this new report seemed to arrive just in time, for Whitey instantly said:

“Thar he goes agin, d’ye see, pokin’ his shovel in all aroun’. Now, ef the boys want me to leave, they kin say so, an’ I’ll go. ‘Tain’t the easiest claim in the world to work, runnin’ this camp ain’t, an’ I’ll never hanker to be chief nowhar else; but seein’ I’ve stuck to the boys, an’ seen ’em through from the fust, ’twouldn’t be exactly gent’emanly, ‘pears to me.”

And for a moment Whitey hid his emotions in a tin cup, from which escaped perfumes suggesting the rye-fields of Kentucky.

“Nobody wants you to go, Whitey,” said Wolverine, one of the chief’s most faithful supporters. “Didn’t yer kick that New Hampshire feller out of camp when he kept a-sayin’ the saloon wuz the gate o’ hell?”

“Well,” said the chief, with a flush of modest pride, “I don’t deny it; but _I_ won’t remind the boys of it, ef they’ve forgot it.”

“An’ didn’t yer go to work,” said another, “when all the fellers was a-askin’ what was to be done with them Chinesers—didn’t yer just order the boys to clean ’em out to wunst?”

“That ain’t the best thing yer dun, neither!” exclaimed a third. “I wonder does any of them galoots forgit how the saloon got a-fire when ev’rybody was asleep—how the chief turned out the camp, and after the barkeeper got out the door, how the chief rushed in an’ rolled out all three of the barrels, and then went dead-bent fur the river with his clothes all a-blazin’? Whar’d we hev been for a couple of weeks ef it hadn’t bin fur them bar’ls?”

The remembrance of this gallant act so affected Wolverine, that he exclaimed:

“Whitey, we’ll stick to yer like tar-an’-feather, an’ ef cap’n an’ his friends git troublesome we’ll jes’ show ’em the trail, an’ seggest they’re big enough to git up a concern uv their own, instid of tryin’ to steal somebody else’s.”

The chief felt that he was still dear to the hearts of his subjects, and so many took pains that day to renew their allegiance that he grew magnanimous—in fact, when the chief that evening invited the boys to drink, he pushed his own particular bottle to the captain—an attention as delicate as that displayed by a clergyman when he invites into his pulpit the minister of a different creed.

Still the captain labored. So often did the latter stand treat that the barkeeper suddenly ran short of liquor, and was compelled, for a week, to restrict general treats to three per diem until he could lay in a fresh stock.

The captain could hit corks and half-dollars in the air almost every time, but no opportunity occurred in which he could exercise his marksmanship for the benefit of the camp.

He also told any number of good stories, at which the boys, Whitey included, laughed heartily; he sang jolly songs, with a very fair tenor voice, and all the boys joined in the chorus; and he played a banjo in style, which always set the boys to capering as gracefully as a crowd of bachelor bears.

But still Whitey remained in camp and in office, and the captain, who was as humane as he was ambitious, had no idea of attempting to remove the old chief by force.

On Monday night the whole camp retired early, and slept soundly. Monday had at all times a very short evening at Black Hat, for the boys were generally weary after the duties and excitements of Sunday; but on this particular Monday a slide had threatened on the hillside, and the boys had been hard at work cutting and carrying huge logs to make a break or barricade.

So, soon after supper they took a drink or two, and sprinkled to their several huts, and Black Hat was at peace,

There were no dogs or cats to make night hideous—no uneasy roosters to be sounding alarm at unearthly hours—no horrible policemen thumping the sidewalks with clubs—no fashionable or dissipated people rattling about in carriages. Excepting an occasional cough, or sneeze, or over-loud snore, the most perfect peace reigned at Black Hat.

THEY FOUND HIM SENSELESS, AND CARRIED HIM TO THE SALOON, WHERE
THE CANDLES WERE ALREADY LIGHTED. ONE OF THE MINERS, WHO
HAD BEEN A DOCTOR, PROMPTLY EXAMINED HIS BRUISES.
]

Suddenly a low but heavy rumble, and a trembling of the ground, roused every man in camp, and, rushing out of their huts, the miners saw a mass of stones and earth had been loosened far up the hillside, and were breaking over the barricade in one place, and coming down in a perfect torrent.

They were fortunately moving toward the river on a line obstructed by no houses, though the hut of old Miller, who was very sick, was close to the rocky torrent.

But while they stared, a young pine-tree, perhaps a foot thick, which had been torn loose by the rocks and brought down by them, suddenly tumbled, root first, over a steep rock, a few feet in front of old Miller’s door. The leverage exerted by the lower portion of the stem threw the whole tree into a vertical position for an instant; then it caught the wind, tottered, and finally fell directly on the front of old Miller’s hut, crushing in the gable and a portion of the front door, and threatening the hut and its unfortunate occupant with immediate destruction.

A deep groan and many terrible oaths burst from the boys, and then, with one impulse, they rushed to the tree and attempted to move it; but it lay at an angle of about forty-five degrees from the horizontal, its roots heavy with dirt, on the ground in front of the door, and its top high in the air.

The boys could only lift the lower portion; but should they do so, then the hut would be entirely crushed by the full weight of the tree.

There was no window through which they could get Miller out, and there was no knowing how long the frail hut could resist the weight of the tree.

Suddenly a well-known voice was heard shouting:

“Keep your head level, Miller, old chap—we’ll hev you out of that in no time. Hurry up, somebody, and borrow the barkeeper’s ropes. While I’m cuttin’, throw a rope over the top, and when she commences to go, haul all together and suddenly, then ‘twill clear the hut.”

In an instant later the boys saw, by the bright moonlight, the captain, bareheaded, barefooted, with open shirt, standing on the tree directly over the crushed gable, and chopping with frantic rapidity.

“Hooray for cap’en!” shouted some one.

“Hooray!” replied the crowd, and a feeble “hooray” was heard from between the logs of old Miller’s hut.

Two or three men came hurrying back with the ropes, and one of them was dexterously thrown across a branch of the tree. Then the boys distributed themselves along both ends of the rope.

“Easy!” screamed the captain. “Plenty of time. I’ll give the word. When I say, ‘Now,’ pull quick and all together. I won’t be long.”

And big chips flew in undiminished quantity, while a commendatory murmur ran along both lines of men, and Whitey, the chief, knelt with his lips to one of the chinks of the hut, and assured old Miller that he was perfectly safe.

“Now!” shrieked the captain, suddenly.

In his excitement, he stepped toward the top instead of the root of the tree; in an instant the top of the tree was snatched from the hut, but it tossed the unfortunate captain into the air as easily as a sling tosses a stone.

Every one rushed to the spot where he had fallen. They found him senseless, and carried him to the saloon, where the candles were already lighted. One of the miners, who had been a doctor, promptly examined his bruises, and exclaimed:

“He’s two or three broken ribs, that’s all. It’s a wonder he didn’t break every bone in his body. He’ll be around all right inside of a month.”

“Gentlemen,” said Whitey, “I resign. All in favor of the cap’en will please say ‘I.’”

“I,” replied every one.

“I don’t put the noes,” continued Whitey, “because I’m a peaceable man, and don’t want to hev to kick any man mean enough to vote no. Cap’en, you’r boss of this camp, and I’m yourn obediently.”

The captain opened his eyes slowly, and replied:

“I’m much obliged, boys, but I won’t give Whitey the trouble. Doctor’s mistaken—there’s someting broken inside, and I haven’t got many minutes more to live.”

“Do yer best, cap’en,” said the barkeeper, encouragingly. “Promise me you’ll stay alive, and I’ll go straight down to ’Frisco, and get you all the champagne you can drink.”

“You’re very kind,” replied the captain, faintly; “but I’m sent for, and I’ve got to go. I’ve left the East to make my mark, but I didn’t expect to make it in real estate. Whitey, I was a fool for wanting to be chief of Black Hat, and you’ve forgiven me like a gentleman and a Christian. It’s getting dark—I’m thirsty—I’m going—gone!”

The doctor felt the captain’s wrist, and said:

“Fact, gentlemen, he’s panned his last dirt.”

“Do the honors, boys,” said the barkeeper, placing glasses along the bar.

Each man filled his glass, and all looked at Whitey.

“Boys,” said Whitey, solemnly, “ef the cap’en hed struck a nugget, good luck might hev spiled him; ef he’d been chief of Black Hat, or any other place, he might hev got shot. But he’s made his mark, so nobody begrudges him, an’ nobody can rub it out. So here’s to ‘the cap’en’s mark, a dead sure thing.’ Bottoms up.”

The glasses were emptied in silence, and turned bottoms uppermost on the bar.

The boys were slowly dispersing, when one, who was strongly suspected of having been a Church-member, remarked:

“He was took of a sudden, so he shouldn’t be stuck up.”

Whitey turned to him, and replied, with some asperity:

“Young man, you’ll be lucky ef _you’re_ ever stuck up as high as the captain.”

And all the boys understood what Whitey meant.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CODAGO.

TWO o’clock A.M. is supposed to be a popular sleeping hour the world over, and as Flatfoot Bar was a portion of the terrestrial sphere, it was but natural to expect its denizens to be in bed at that hour.

Yet, on a certain morning twenty years ago, when there was neither sickness nor a fashionable entertainment to excuse irregular hours in camp, a bright light streamed from the only window of Chagres Charley’s residence at Flatfoot Bar, and inside of the walls of Chagres Charley’s domicile were half a dozen miners engaged in earnest conversation.

Flatfoot Bar had never formally elected a town committee, for the half-dozen men aforesaid had long ago modestly assumed the duties and responsibilities of city fathers, and so judicious had been their conduct, that no one had ever expressed a desire for a change in the government.

The six men, in half a dozen different positions, surrounded Chagres Charley’s fire, and gazed into it as intently as if they were fire-worshipers awaiting the utterances of a salamanderish oracle.

But the doughty Puritans of Cromwell’s time, while they trusted in God, carefully protected their powder from moisture, and the devout Mohammedan, to this day, ties up his camel at night before committing it to the keeping of the higher powers; so it was but natural that the anxious ones at Flatfoot Bar vigorously ventilated their own ideas while they longed for light and knowledge.

“They ain’t ornaments to camp, no way you can fix it. them Greasers ain’t,” said a tall miner, bestowing an effective kick upon a stick of firewood, which had departed a short distance from his neighbors.

“Mississp’s right, fellers,” said the host. “They ain’t got the slightest idee of the duties of citizens. They show themselves down to the saloon, to be sure, an’ I never seed one of ’em a-waterin’ his liquor; but when you’ve sed that, you’ve sed ev’rythin’.”

“Our distinguished friend speaks truthfully,” remarked Nappy Boney, the only Frenchman in camp, and possessing a nickname playfully contracted from the name of the first emperor. “_La gloire_ is nothing to them. Comprehends any one that they know not even of France’s most illustrious son, _le petit caporal_?”

“That’s bad, to be sure,” said Texas, cutting an enormous chew of tobacco, and passing both plug and knife; “but that might be overlooked; mebbe the schools down in Mexico ain’t up with the times. What I’m down on is, they hain’t got none of the eddication that comes nateral to a gentleman, even ef he never seed the outside of a schoolhouse. Who ever heerd of one of ’em hevin’ a difficulty with any gentleman, at the saloon or on the crick? They drar a good deal of blood, but it’s allers from some of their own kind, an’ up there by ’emselves. Ef they hed a grain of public spirit, not to say liberality, they’d do some of their amusements before the rest of us, instead of gougin’ the camp out of _its_ constitutional amusements. Why, I’ve knowed the time when I’ve held in fur six hours on a stretch, till there could be fellers enough around to git a good deal of enjoyment out of it.”

“They wash out a sight of dust!” growled Lynn Taps, from the Massachusetts shoe district; “but I never could git one of ’em to put up an ounce on a game—they jest play by ’emselves, an’ keep all their washin’s to home.”

“Blarst ’em hall! let’s give ’em tickets-o’-leave, an’ show ’em the trail!” roared Bracelets, a stout Englishman, who had on each wrist a red scar, which had suggested his name and unpleasant situations. “I believe in fair play, but I darsn’t keep my eyes hoff of ’em sleepy-lookin’ tops, when their flippers is anywheres near their knives, you know.”

“Well, what’s to be done to ’em?” demanded Lynn Taps. “All this jawin’s well enough, but jaw never cleared out anybody ‘xcep’ that time Samson tried, an’ _then_ it came from an individual that wasn’t related to any of _this_ crowd.”

“Let ’em alone till next time they git into a muss, an’ then clean ’em all out of camp,” said Chagres Charley. “Let’s hev it onderstood that while this camp cheerfully recognizes the right of a gentleman to shoot at sight an’ lay out his man, that it considers stabbin’ in the dark’s the same thing as murder. Them’s our principles, and folks might’s well know ’em fust as last. Good Lord! what’s that?”

All the men started to their feet at the sound of a long, loud yell.

“That’s one of ’em now!” ejaculated Mississip, with a huge oath. “Nobody but a Greaser ken holler that way—sounds like the last despairin’ cry of a dyin’ mule. There’s only eight or nine of ’em, an’ each of us is good fur two Greasers apiece—let’s make ’em git this minnit.”

And Mississip dashed out of the door, followed by the other five, revolvers in hand.

The Mexicans lived together, in a hut made of raw hides, one of which constituted the door.

The devoted six reached the hut, Texas snatched aside the hide, and each man presented his pistol at full cock.

But no one fired; on the contrary, each man slowly dropped his pistol, and opened his eyes.

There was no newly-made corpse visible, nor did any Greasers savagely wave a bloody stiletto.

But on the ground, insensible, lay a Mexican woman, and about her stood seven or eight Greasers, each looking even more dumb, incapable, and solemn than usual.

The city fathers felt themselves in an awkward position, and Mississip finally asked, in the meekest of tones:

“What’s the matter?”

“She Codago’s wife,” softly replied a Mexican. “They fight in Chihuahua—he run away—she follow. She come here now—this minute—she fall on Codago—she say something, we know not—he scream an’ run.”

“He’s a low-lived scoundrel!” said Chagres Charley, between his teeth. “Ef _my_ wife thort enough of me to follow me to the diggin’s, I wouldn’t do much runnin’ away. He’s a reg’lar black-hearted, white-livered——”

“Sh—h—h!” whispered Nappy, the Frenchman. “The lady is recovering, and she may have a heart.”

“_Maria, Madre purissima!_” low wailed the woman. “_Mi nino—mi nino perdido!_”

“What’s she a-sayin’?” asked Lynn Taps, in a whisper.

“She talk about little boy lost,” said the Mexican.

“An’ her husband gone, too, poor woman!” said Chagres Charley, in the most sympathizing tones ever heard at Flatfoot Bar. “But a doctor’d be more good to her jes’ now than forty sich husbands as her’n. Where’s the nearest doctor, fellers?” continued Chagres Charley.

“Up to Dutch Hill,” said Texas; “an’ I’ll see he’s fetched inside of two hours.”

Saying which, Texas dropped the raw-hide door, and hurried off.

The remaining five strolled slowly back to Chagres Charley’s hut.

“Them Greasers hain’t never got nothin’,” said Mississip, suddenly; “an’ that woman’ll lay thar on the bare ground all night ’fore they think of makin’ her comfortable. Who’s got an extra blanket?”

“I!” said each of the four others; and Nappy Boney expressed the feeling of the whole party by exclaiming:

“The blue sky is enough good to cover man when woman needs blankets.”

Hastily Mississip collected the four extra blankets and both of his own, and, as he sped toward the Mexican hut, he stopped several times by the way to dexterously snatch blankets from sleeping forms.

“Here you be,” said he, suddenly entering the Mexican hut, and startling the inmates into crossing themselves violently. “Make the poor thing a decent bed, an’ we’ll hev a doctor here pretty soon.”

Mississip had barely vanished, when a light scratching was heard on the door.

A Mexican opened it, and saw Nappy Boney, with extended hand and bottle.

SUDDENLY, BY THE GLARE OF A FRESH LIGHT, THE BOYS SAW THE FACE OF A
RATHER DIRTY, LARGE-EYED, BROWN-SKINNED MEXICAN BABY.
]

“It is the _eau-de-vie_ of _la belle France_,” he whispered. “Tenderly I have cherished, but it is at the lady’s service.”

Chagres Charley, Lynn Taps and Bracelets were composing their nerves with pipes about the fire they had surrounded early in the morning. Lynn Taps had just declared his disbelief of a soul inside of the Mexican frame, when the door was thrown open and an excited Mexican appeared.

“Her tongue come back!” he cried. “She say she come over mountain—she bring little boy—she no eat, it was long time. Soon she must die, boy must die. What she do? She put round boy her cloak, an’ leave him by rock, an’ hurry to tell. Maybe coyote get him. What can do?”

“What can we do?” echoed Lynn Taps; “turn out every galoot in camp, and foller her tracks till we find it. Souls or no souls, don’t make no diff’rence. I’ll tramp my legs off, ’fore that child shall be left out in the snow in them mountains.”

Within five minutes every man in camp had been aroused.

Each man swore frightfully at being prematurely turned out—each man hated the Greasers with all his heart and soul and strength; but each man, as he learned what was the matter, made all possible haste, and fluently cursed all who were slower than himself.

In fact, two or three irrepressible spirits, consuming with delay, started alone on independent lines of search.

Chagres Charley appeared promptly, and assumed command.

“Boys,” said he, “we’ll sprinkle out into a line a couple of miles long, and march up the mountain till we reach the snow. When I think it’s time, I’ll fire three times, an’ then each feller’ll face an’ tramp to the right, keepin’ a keerful lookout for a woman’s tracks p’intin’ t’ward camp. Ther can’t be no mistakin’ ’em, for them sennyritas hez the littlest kind o’ feet. When any feller finds her tracks, he’ll fire, an’ then we’ll rally on him. I wish them other fellers, instid of goin’ off half-cocked, hed tracked Codago, the low-lived skunk. To think of him runnin’ away from wife, an’ young one, too! Forward, git!”

“They _hain’t_ got no souls—that’s what made him do it, Charley,” said Lynn Taps, as the men deployed.

Steadily the miners ascended the rugged slope; rocks, trees, fallen trunks and treacherous holes impeded their progress, but did not stop them.

A steady wind cut them to the bone, and grew more keen and fierce as they neared the snow.

Suddenly Chagres Charley fired, and the boys faced to the right—a moment later another shot rallied the party; those nearest it found Nappy Boney in a high state of excitement, and leaning over a foot-print.

“_Mon Dieu!_” he cried; “they have not the _esprit_, those Mexicans; but her footprints might have been made by the adorable feet of one of my countrywomen, it is so small.”

“Yes,” said Mississip; “an’ one of them fellers that started ahead hez found it fust, fur here’s a man’s track a-goin’ up.”

Rapidly the excited miners followed the tracks through the snow, and found them gradually leading to the regular trail across the mountain, which trail few men ventured upon at that season. Suddenly the men in advance stopped.

“Here ’tis, I reckon!” cried Mississip, springing across a small cleft in the rocks, and running toward a dark object lying on the sheltered side of a small cliff. “Good God!” he continued, as he stooped down; “it’s Codago! An’ he’s froze stiff.”

“Serve him right, cuss him,” growled Lynn Taps. “I almost wish he _had_ a soul, so he could catch it good an’ hot, now he’s gone!”

“He’s got his pack with him,” shouted Mississip, “and a huggin’ it ez tight ez ef he could take it to—to wherever he’s gone to.”

“No man with a soul could hev ben cool enough to pack up his traps after seein’ that poor woman’s face,” argued Lynn Taps.

Mississip tore off a piece of his trowsers, struck fire with flint and steel, poured on whisky, and blew it into a flame.

Rapidly the miners straggled up the trail, and halted opposite Mississip.

“Well, I’ll be durned!” shouted the latter; “he ain’t got no shirt on, an’ there’s an ugly cut in his arm. It beats anything I ever seed!”

One by one the miners leaped the cleft, and crowded about Mississip and stared.

It was certainly Codago, and there was certainly his pack, made up in his poncho, in the usual Greaser manner, and held tightly in his arms.

But while they stared, there was a sudden movement of the pack itself.

Lynn Taps gave a mighty tug at it, extricated it from the dead man’s grasp, and rapidly undid it.

Suddenly, by the glare of a fresh light, the boys saw the face of a rather dirty, large-eyed, brown-skinned Mexican baby; and the baby, probably by way of recognition, raised high a voice such as the boys never heard before on that side of the Rocky Mountains.

“Here’s what that cut in his arm means,” shouted a miner who had struck a light on the trail; “there’s a finger-mark, done in blood on the snow, by the side of the trail, an’ a-pintin’ right to that ledge; an’ here’s his shirt a-flappin’ on a stick stuck in a snow-bank lookin’ t’ward camp.”

“There ain’t no doubt ’bout what the woman said to him, or what made him yell an’ git, boys,” said Chagres Charley, solemnly, as he took a blanket from his shoulders and spread it on the ground.

Mississip took off his hat, and lifting the poor Mexican from the snow, laid him in the blanket. Lynn Taps hid the baby, rewrapped, under his own blanket, and hurried down the mountain, while four men picked up Codago and followed.

Lynn Taps scratched on the raw-hide door; the doctor opened it.

Lynn Taps unrolled the bundle, and its occupant again raised its voice.

The woman, who was lying motionless and with closed eyes, sprang to her feet in an instant, and as Lynn Taps laid his burden on the blankets, the woman, her every dull feature softened and lighted with motherly tenderness, threw her arms about the astonished Yankee, and then fell sobbing at his feet.

“You’ve brought her the only medicine that’ll do her any good,” said the doctor, giving the baby a gentle dig under the ribs as he picked up his saddle-bags.

Lynn Taps made a hasty escape, and reached the saloon, which had been hurriedly opened as the crowd was heard approaching.

The bearers of the body deposited it gently on the floor, and the crowd filed in quietly.

Lynn Taps walked up to the bar, and rapped upon it.

“Walk up, boys,” said he; “fill high; hats off. Here’s Codago. Maybe he _didn’t_ have a soul, but if he _didn’t_, souls ain’t needed in this world. Bottoms up, every man.”

The toast was drunk quietly and reverently, and when it was suggested that the Greasers themselves should have participated, they were all summoned, and the same toast was drank again.

The next day, as the body of Codago was being carried to a newly dug grave, on the high ground overlooking the creek, and the Mexicans stood about, as if dumb staring and incessant smoking were the only proprieties to be observed on such occasions, Lynn Taps thoughtfully offered his arm to the weeping widow, and so sorrowful was she throughout the performance of the sad rites, that Lynn Taps was heard to remark that, however it might be with the men, there could be no doubt about Mexican women’s possessing souls. As a few weeks later the widow became Mrs. Lynn Taps, there can be no doubt that her second husband’s final convictions were genuine.

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THE LAST PIKE AT JAGGER’S BEND.

WHERE they came from no one knew. Among the farmers near the Bend there was ample ability to conduct researches beset by far more difficulties than was that of the origin of the Pikes; but a charge of buckshot which a good-natured Yankee received one evening, soon after putting questions to a venerable Pike, exerted a depressing influence upon the spirit of investigation. They were not bloodthirsty, these Pikes, but they had good reason to suspect all inquirers of being at least deputy sheriffs, if not worse; and a Pike’s hatred of officers of the law is equaled in intensity only by his hatred for manual labor.

But while there was doubt as to the fatherland of the little colony of Pikes at Jagger’s Bend, their every neighbor would willingly make affidavit as to the cause of their locating and remaining at the Bend. When humanitarians and optimists argued that it was because the water was good and convenient, that the Bend itself caught enough drift-wood for fuel, and that the dirt would yield a little gold when manipulated by placer and pan, all farmers and stockowners would freely admit the validity of these reasons; but the admission was made with a countenance whose indignation and sorrow indicated that the greater causes were yet unnamed. With eyes speaking emotions which words could not express, they would point to sections of wheatfields minus the grain-bearing heads—to hides and hoofs of cattle unslaughtered by themselves—to mothers of promising calves, whose tender bleatings answered not the maternal call—to the places which had once known fine horses, but had been untenanted since certain Pikes had gone across the mountains for game. They would accuse no man wrongfully, but in a country where all farmers had wheat and cattle and horses, and where prowling Indians and Mexicans were not, how could these disappearances occur?

But to people owning no property in the neighborhood—to tourists and artists—the Pike settlement at the Bend was as interesting and ugly as a skye-terrier. The architecture of the village was of original style, and no duplicate existed. Of the half-dozen residences, one was composed exclusively of sod; another of bark; yet another of poles, roofed with a wagon-cover, and plastered on the outside with mud; the fourth was of slabs, nicely split from logs which had drifted into the Bend; the fifth was of hide stretched over a frame strictly gothic from foundation to ridgepole; while the sixth, burrowed into the hillside, displayed only the barrel which formed its chimney.

A more aristocratic community did not exist on the Pacific Coast. Visit the Pikes when you would, you could never see any one working. Of churches, school-houses, stores and other plebeian institutions, there were none; and no Pike demeaned himself by entering trade, or soiled his hands by agriculture.

Yet unto this peaceful, contented neighborhood there found his way a visitor who had been everywhere in the world without once being made welcome. He came to the house built of slabs, and threatened the wife of Sam Trotwine, owner of the house; and Sam, after sunning himself uneasily for a day or two, mounted a pony, and rode off for a doctor to drive the intruder away.

When he returned he found all the men in the camp seated on a log in front of his own door, and then he knew he must prepare for the worst—only one of the great influences of the world could force every Pike from his own door at exactly the same time. There they sat, yellow-faced, bearded, long-backed and bent, each looking like the other, and all like Sam; and, as he dismounted, they all looked at him.

“How is she?” said Sam, tying his horse and the doctor’s, while the latter went in.

“Well,” said the oldest man, with deliberation, “the wimmin’s all thar ef that’s any sign.”

Each man on the log inclined his head slightly but positively to the left, thus manifesting belief that Sam had been correctly and sufficiently answered. Sam himself seemed to regard his information in about the same manner.

Suddenly the raw hide which formed the door of Sam’s house was pushed aside, and a woman came out and called Sam, and he disappeared from his log.

As he entered his hut, all the women lifted sorrowful faces and retired; no one even lingered, for the Pike has not the common human interest in other people’s business; he lacks that, as well as certain similar virtues of civilization.

Sam dropped by the bedside, and was human; his heart was in the right place; and though heavily intrenched by years of laziness and whisky and tobacco, it _could_ be brought to the front, and it came now.

The dying woman cast her eyes appealingly at the surgeon, and that worthy stepped outside the door. Then the yellow-faced woman said:

“Sam, doctor says I ain’t got much time left.”

“Mary,” said Sam, “I wish ter God I could die fur yer. The children——”

“It’s them I want to talk about, Sam,” replied his wife. “An’ I wish they could die with me, rather’n hev ’em liv ez I’ve hed to. Not that you ain’t been a kind husband to me, for you hev. Whenever I wanted meat yev got it, somehow; an’ when yev been ugly drunk, yev kep’ away from the house. But I’m dyin’, Sam, and it’s cos you’ve killed me.”

“Good God, Mary!” cried the astonished Sam, jumping up; “yure crazy—here, doctor!”

“Doctor can’t do no good, Sam; keep still, and listen, ef yer love me like yer once said yer did; for I hevn’t got much breath left,” gasped the woman.

“Mary,” said the aggrieved Sam, “I swow to God I dunno what yer drivin’ at.”

“It’s jest this, Sam,” replied the woman: “Yer tuk me, tellin’ me ye’d love me an’ honor me an’ pertect me. You mean to say, now, yev done it? I’m a-dyin’, Sam—I hain’t got no favors to ask of nobody, an’ I’m tellin’ the truth, not knowin’ what word’ll be my last.”

“Then tell a feller where the killin’ came in, Mary, for heaven’s sake,” said the unhappy Sam.

“It’s come in all along, Sam,” said the woman; “there is women in the States, so I’ve heerd, that marries fur a home, an’ bread an’ butter, but you promised more’n that, Sam. An’ I’ve waited. An’ it ain’t come. An’ there’s somethin’ in me that’s all starved and cut to pieces. An’ it’s your fault, Sam. I tuk yer fur better or fur wuss, an’ I’ve never grumbled.”

“I know yer hain’t, Mary,” whispered the conscience-stricken Pike. “An’ I know what yer mean. Ef God’ll only let yer be fur a few years, I’ll see ef the thing can’t be helped. Don’t cuss me, Mary—I’ve never knowed how I’ve been a-goin’. I wish there was somethin’ I could do ’fore you go, to pay yer all I owe yer. I’d go back on everything that makes life worth hevin’.”

“Pay it to the children, Sam,” said the sick woman, raising herself in her miserable bed. “I’ll forgive yer everything if you’ll do the right thing fur them. Do—do—everything!” said the woman, throwing up her arms and falling backward. Her husband’s arm caught her; his lips brought to her wan face a smile, which the grim visitor, who an instant later stole her breath, pityingly left in full possession of the rightful inheritance from which it had been so long excluded.

Sam knelt for a moment with his face beside his wife—what he said or did the Lord only knew, but the doctor, who was of a speculative mind, afterward said that when Sam appeared at the door he showed the first Pike face in which he had ever seen any signs of a soul.

Sam went to the sod house, where lived the oldest woman in the camp, and briefly announced the end of his wife. Then, after some consultation with the old woman, Sam rode to town on one of his horses, leading another. He came back with but one horse and a large bundle; and soon the women were making for Mrs. Trotwine her last earthly robe, and the first new one she had worn for years. The next day a wagon brought a coffin and a minister, and the whole camp silently and respectfully followed Mrs. Trotwine to a home with which she could find no fault.

For three days all the male Pikes in the camp sat on the log in front of Sam’s door, and expressed their sympathy as did the three friends of Job—that is, they held their peace. But on the fourth their tongues were unloosed. As a conversationalist the Pike is not a success, but Sam’s actions were so unusual and utterly unheard of, that it seemed as if even the stones must have wondered and communed among themselves.

“I never heard of such a thing,” said Brown Buck; “he’s gone an’ bought new clothes for each of the four young ’uns.”

“Yes,” said the patriarch of the camp, “an’ this mornin’, when I went down to the bank to soak my head, ’cos last night’s liquor didn’t agree with it, I seed Sam with all his young ’uns as they wuz a washin’ their face an’ hands with soap. They’ll ketch their death an’ be on the hill with their mother ’fore long, if he don’t look out; somebody ort to reason with him.”

“’Twon’t do no good,” sighed Limping Jim. “He’s lost his head, an’ reason just goes into one ear and out at t’other. When he was scrapin’ aroun’ the front door t’other day, an’ I asked him what he wuz a-layin’ the ground all bare an’ desolate for, he said he was done keepin’ pig-pen. Now everybody but him knows he never had a pig. His head’s gone, just mark my words.”

On the morning of the fourth day Sam’s friends had just secured a full attendance on the log, and were at work upon their first pipes, when they were startled by seeing Sam harness his horse in the wagon and put all his children into it.

“Whar yer bound fur, Sam?” asked the patriarch.

Sam blushed as near as a Pike could, but answered with only a little hesitation:

“Goin’ to take ’em to school to Maxfield—goin’ to do it ev’ry day.”

The incumbent of the log were too nearly paralyzed to remonstrate, but after a few moments of silence the patriarch remarked, in tones of feeling, yet decision:

“He’s hed a tough time of it, but he’s no bizness to ruin the settlement. I’m an old man myself, an’ I need peace of mind, so I’m goin’ to pack up my traps and mosey. When the folks at Maxfield knows what he’s doin’, they’ll make him a constable or a justice, an’ I’m too much of a man to live nigh any sich.”

And next day the patriarch wheeled his family and property to parts unknown.

A few days later Jim Merrick, a brisk farmer a few miles from the Bend, stood in front of his own house, and shaded his eyes in solemn wonder. It couldn’t be—he’d never heard of such a thing before—yet it was—there was no doubt of it—there was a Pike riding right toward him, in open daylight. He could swear that Pike had often visited him—that is, his wheatfield and corral—after dark, but a daylight visit from a Pike was as unusual as a social call of a Samaritan upon a Jew. And when Sam—for it was he—approached Merrick and made his business known, the farmer was more astonished and confused than he had ever been in his life before. Sam wanted to know for how much money Merrick would plow and plant a hundred and sixty acres of wheat for him, and whether he would take Sam’s horse—a fine animal, brought from the States, and for which Sam could show a bill of sale—as security for the amount until he could harvest and sell his crop. Merrick so well understood the Pike nature, that he made a very liberal offer, and afterward said he would have paid handsomely for the chance.

A few days later, and the remaining Pikes at the Bend experienced the greatest scare that had ever visited their souls. A brisk man came into the Bend with a tripod on his shoulder, and a wire chain, and some wire pins, and a queer machine under his arm, and before dark the Pikes understood that Sam had deliberately constituted himself a renegade by entering a quarter section of land. Next morning two more residences were empty, and the remaining fathers of the hamlet adorned not Sam’s log, but wandered about with faces vacant of all expression save the agony of the patriot who sees his home invaded by corrupting influences too powerful for him to resist.

Then Merrick sent up a gang-plow and eight horses, and the tender green of Sam’s quarter section was rapidly changed to a dull-brown color, which is odious unto the eye of the Pike. Day by day the brown spot grew larger, and one morning Sam arose to find all his neighbors departed, having wreaked their vengeance upon him by taking away his dogs. And in his delight at their disappearance, Sam freely forgave them all.

Regularly the children were carried to and from school, and even to Sunday-school—regularly every evening Sam visited the grave on the hillside, and came back to lie by the hour looking at the sleeping darlings—little by little farmers began to realize that their property was undisturbed—little by little Sam’s wheat grew and waxed golden; and then there came a day when a man from ’Frisco came and changed it into a heavier gold—more gold than Sam had ever seen before. And the farmers began to stop in to see Sam, and their children came to see his, and kind women were unusually kind to the orphans, and as day by day Sam took his solitary walk on the hillside, the load on his heart grew lighter, until he ceased to fear the day when he, too, should lie there.

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FIRST PRAYER AT HANNEY’S.

HANNEY’S DIGGINGS certainly needed a missionary, if any place ever did; but, as one of the boys once remarked during a great lack of water, “It had to keep on a-needin’.” Zealous men came up by steamer via the Isthmus, and seemed to consume with their fiery haste to get on board the vessel for China and Japan, and carry the glad tidings to the heathen. Self-sacrificing souls gave up home and friends, and hurried across, overland, to brave the Pacific and bury themselves among the Australasian savages. But, though they all passed in sight of Hanney’s, none of them paused to give any attention to the souls who had flocked there. Men came out from ’Frisco and the East to labor with the Chinese miners, who were the only peaceable and well-behaved people in the mines; but the white-faced, good-natured, hard-swearing, generous, heavy-drinking, enthusiastic, murderous Anglo-Saxons they let severely alone. Perhaps they thought that hearts in which the good seed had once been sown, but failed to come up into fruit, were barren soil; perhaps they thought it preferable to be killed and eaten by cannibals than to be tumbled into a gulch by a revolver-shot, while the shootist strolled calmly off in company with his approving conscience, never thinking to ascertain whether his bullet had completed the business, or whether a wounded man might not have to fight death and coyotes together.

At any rate, the missionaries let Hanney’s alone. If any one with an unquenchable desire to carry the Word where it is utterly unknown, a digestion without fear, and a full-proof article of common sense (these last two requisites are absolute), should be looking for an eligible location, Hanney’s is just the place for him, and he need give himself no trouble for fear some one would step in before him. If he has several dozens of similarly constituted friends, they can all find similar locations by betaking themselves to any mining camp in the West.

As Hanney’s had no preacher, it will be readily imagined it had no church. With the first crowd who located there came an insolvent rumseller from the East. He called himself Pentecost, which was as near his right name as is usual with miners, and the boys dubbed his shop “Pentecost Chapel” at once. The name, somehow, reached the East, for within a few months there reached the post-office at Hanney’s a document addressed to “Preacher in charge of Pentecost Chapel.” The postmaster went up and down the brook in high spirits, and told the boys; they instantly dropped shovel and pan, formed line, and escorted the postmaster and document to the chapel. Pentecost acknowledged the joke, and stood treat for the crowd, after which he solemnly tore the wrapper, and disclosed the report of a certain missionary society. Modestly expressing his gratification at the honor, and his unworthiness of it, he moved that old Thompson, who had the loudest voice in the crowd, should read the report aloud, he, Pentecost, volunteering to furnish Thompson all necessary spirituous aid during the continuance of his task. Thompson promptly signified his acquiescence, cleared his throat with a glass of amber-colored liquid, and commenced, the boys meanwhile listening attentively, and commenting critically.

“Too much cussed heavenly twang,” observed one, disapprovingly, as one letter largely composed of Scriptural extracts was read.

“Why the deuce didn’t he shoot?” indignantly demanded another, as a tale of escape from heathen pursuers was read.

“Shet up wimmen in a derned dark room! Well, _I’ll_ be durned!” soliloquized a yellow-haired Missourian, as Thompson read an account of a Zenana. “Reckon they’d set an infernal sight higher by wimmen if they wuz in the diggins’ six months—hey, fellers?”

“You bet!” emphatically responded a majority of those present.

Before the boys became very restive, Thompson finished the pamphlet, including a few lines on the cover, which stated that the society was greatly in need of funds, and that contributions might be sent to the society’s financial agent in Boston. Thompson gracefully concluded his service by passing the hat, with the following net result: Two revolvers, one double-barreled pistol, three knives, one watch, two rings (both home-made, valuable and fearfully ugly), a pocket-inkstand, a silver tobacco-box, and forty or fifty ounces of dust and nuggets. Boston Bill, who was notoriously absent-minded, dropped in a pocket-comb, but, on being sternly called to order by old Thompson, cursed himself most fluently, and redeemed his disgraceful contribution with a gold double-eagle. “The Webfoot,” who was the most unlucky man in camp, had been so wrought upon by the tale of one missionary who had lost his all many times in succession, sympathetically contributed his only shovel, for which act he was enthusiastically cursed and liberally treated at the bar, while the shovel was promptly sold at auction to the highest bidder, who presented it, with a staggering slap between the shoulders, to its original owner. The remaining non-legal tenders were then converted into gold-dust, and the whole dispatched by express, with a grim note from Pentecost, to the society’s treasurer at Boston. As the society was controlled by a denomination which does not understand how good can come out of evil, no detail of this contribution ever appeared in print. But a few months thereafter there _did_ appear at Hanney’s a thin-chested, large-headed youth, with a heavily loaded mule, who announced himself as duly accredited by the aforementioned society to preach the Gospel among the miners. The boys received him cordially, and Pentecost offered him the nightly hospitality of curling up to sleep in front of the barroom fireplace. His mule’s load proved to consist largely of tracts, which he vigorously distributed, and which the boys used to wrap up dust in. He nearly starved while trying to learn to cook his own food, so some of the boys took him in and fed him. He tried to persuade the boys to stop drinking, and they good-naturedly laughed; but when he attempted to break up the “little game” which was the only amusement of the camp—the only _steady_ amusement, for fights were short and irregular—the camp rose in its wrath, and the young man hastily rose and went for his mule.

“THOMPSON GRACEFULLY CONCLUDED HIS SERVICE BY PASSING THE HAT.”
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