Chapter IV (3)

The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame behind him, then he tied the prisoner's feet and legs in several places, tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper, whispering as he did so:

"I've carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy now. Let's see--confound it!--the poor old fellow is describing the child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here's a point or two!--'brown eyes, black hair'--oh, bully! here's the best thing yet!--'first joint of the left fore-finger gone.'"

The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the prisoner's hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of optics inquired of the other.

At length the sheriff remarked: "He's _your_ pris'ner."

The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner's face, and said:

"Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?"

The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher said:

"Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched everywhere for _you_, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was all the time hoping for your return--that he had grown old before his time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?" The thief dropped his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. "Your father _is_ alive; he isn't far from this cabin; he's very sick; I've just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I think so much of him that I'd rather kill you this instant than let him know what business you've been in."

"Them's my sentiments, too," remarked the sheriff.

"Let me see him!" exclaimed the prisoner, clasping and raising his manacled hands, while his face filled with an earnestness which was literally terrible--"let me see him, if it's only for a few minutes! You needn't be afraid that _I'll_ tell him what I am, and _you_ won't be mean enough to do it, if I don't try to run away. Have mercy on me! You don't know what it is to never have had anybody to love you, and then suddenly to find that there _is_ some one that wants you!"

The preacher turned to the officer and said:

"I'm a law-abiding citizen, sheriff."

And the sheriff replied:

"He's _your_ pris'ner."

"Then suppose I let him go, on his promise to stick to his father for the rest of his life!"

"He's your pris'ner," repeated the sheriff.

"Suppose, then, I were to insist upon your taking him into custody."

"Why, then," said the sheriff, speaking like a man in the depths of meditation, "I would let him go myself, and--and I'd have to shoot _you_ to save my reputation as a faithful officer."

The preacher made a peculiar face. The prisoner exclaimed:

"Hurry, you brutes!"

The preacher said, at last:

"Let him loose."

The sheriff removed the handcuffs, dived into his own pocket, brought out a pocket-comb and glass, and handed them to the thief; then he placed the lantern in front of him, and said:

"Fix yourself up a little. Your hat's a miz'able one--I'll swap with you. You've got to make up some cock-and-bull story now, for the old man'll want to know everything. You might say you'd been a sheriff down South somewhere since you got away from the feller that owned you."

The preacher paused over a knot in one of the cords on the prisoner's legs, and said:

"Say you were a circuit-rider--that's more near the literal truth."

The sheriff seemed to demur somewhat, and he said, at length:

"Without meanin' any disrespect, parson, don't you think 'twould tickle the old man and the citizens more to think he'd been a sheriff? They wouldn't dare to ask him so many questions then, either. And it might be onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has naturally got some of the p'ints of a real sheriff about him."

"You insist upon it that he's my prisoner," said the preacher, tugging away at his knot, "and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And," continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, "he's _got_ to be a circuit-rider, and I'm going to make one of him. Do you hear that, young man? I'm the man that's setting you free and giving you to your father!"

"You can make anything you please out of me," said the prisoner. "Only hurry!"

"As you say, parson," remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness; "he's _your_ prisoner, but I _could_ make a splendid deputy out of him if you'd let him take my advice. And I'd agree to work for his nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might get to be!--there _has_ sheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I've heard of one that went to Congress."

"Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes," said the preacher, leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow's cabin; "they get as high as heaven!"

"Oh!" remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.

Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father's house. The preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:

"Father!"

The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:

"Stevie!"

The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving him a mighty hug.

* * * * *

The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings, that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having become religious himself.

TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK.

"Luck? Why, I never seed anything like it! Yer might give him the sweepin's of a saloon to wash, an' he'd pan out a nugget ev'ry time--do it ez shure as shootin'!"

This rather emphatic speech proceeded one day from the lips of Cairo Jake, an industrious washer of the golden sands of California; but it was evident to all intelligent observers that even language so strong as to seem almost figurative did not fully express Cairo Jake's conviction, for he shook his head so positively that his hat fell off into the stream, which found a level only an inch or two below Jacob's boottops, and he stamped his right foot so vigorously as to endanger his equilibrium.

"Well," sighed a discontented miner from New Jersey, "Providence knows His own bizness best, I s'pose; but I could have found him a feller that could have made a darn sight better use of his good luck--ef he'd had any--than Tom Chafflin. _He_ don't know nothin' 'bout the worth of money--never seed him drunk in my life, an' he don't seem to get no fun out of keerds."

"Providence'll hev a season's job a-satisfyin' _you_, old Redbank," replied Cairo Jake; "but it's all-fired queer, for all that. Ef a feller could only learn how he done it, 'twouldn't seem so funny; but he don't seem to have no way in p'tickler about him that a feller ken find out."

"Fact," said Redbank, with a solemn groan. "I've studied his face--why, ef I'd studied half ez hard at school I'd be a president, or missionary, or somethin' now--but I don't make it out. Once I 'llowed 'twas cos he didn't keer, an' was kind o' reckless--sort o' went it blind. So I tried it on a-playin' monte."

"Well, how did it work?" asked the gentleman from Cairo.

"Work?" echoed the Jerseyman, with the air of an unsuccessful candidate musing over the "saddest words of thought or pen;" "I started with thirteen ounces, an' in twenty minutes I was borryin' the price of a drink from the dealer. _That's_ how it worked."

Certain other miners looked sorrowful; it was evident that they, too, had been reckless, and had trusted to luck, and that in a place where gold-digging and gambling were the only two means of proving the correctness of their theory, it was not difficult to imagine by which one they were disappointed.

"Long an' short of it's jest this," resumed Cairo Jake, straightening himself for a moment, and picking some coarse gravel from his pan, "Tom Chafflin's always in luck. His claim pays better'n anybody else's; he always gets the lucky number at a raffle, his shovel don't never break, an' his chimbly ain't always catchin' a-fire. He's gone down to 'Frisco now, an' I'll bet a dozen ounces that jest cos he's aboard, the old boat'll go down an' back without runnin' aground a solitary durned time."

No one took up Cairo Jake's bet, so that it was evident he uttered the general sentiment of the mining camp of Quicksilver Bar.

Every man, in the temporary silence which followed Jake's summary, again bent industriously over his pan, until the scene suggested an amateur water-cure establishment returning thanks for basins of gruel, when suddenly the whole line was startled into suspension of labor by the appearance of London George, who was waving his hat with one hand and a red silk handkerchief with the other, while with his left foot he was performing certain _pas_ not necessary to successful pedestrianism.

"Quicksilver Bar hain't up to snuff--oh, no! Ain't a-catchin' up with Frisco--not at all! Little Chestnut don't know how to run a saloon, an' make other shops weep--not in the least--not at all--oh, no!"

"Eh?" inquired half a dozen.

"Don't b'leeve me if you don't want to, but just bet against it 'fore you go to see--that's all!" continued London George, fanning himself with his hat.

"George," said Judge Baggs, with considerable asperity, "ef you _are_ an Englishman, try to speak your native tongue, an' explain what you mean by actin' ez ef you'd jes' broke out of a lunatic 'sylum. Speak quick, or I'll fine you drinks for the crowd."

"Just as lieve you would," said the unabashed Briton, "seein'--seein' Chestnut's got a female--a woman--a lady cashier--there! Guess them San Francisco saloons ain't the only ones that knows what's what--not any!"

"I don't b'leeve a word of it," said the judge, washing his hands rather hastily; "but I'll jest see for myself."

Cairo Jake looked thoughtfully on the retreating form of the judge, and remarked:

"He'll feel ashamed of hisself when he gits thar an' finds he'll hev to drink alone. Reckon I'll go up, jest to keep him from feelin' bad."

Several others seemed impressed by the same idea, and moved quite briskly in the direction of Chestnut's saloon.

The judge, protected by his age and a pair of green spectacles, boldly entered, while his followers dispersed themselves sheepishly just outside the open door, past which they marched and re-marched as industriously as a lot of special sentries.

There was no doubt about it. Chestnut had installed a lady at the end of the bar, and as, between breakfast and dinner, there was but little business done at the saloon, the lady was amusing herself by weighing corks and pebbles in the tiny scales which were to weigh the metallic equivalent for refreshments.

The judge contemplated the arrangements with considerable satisfaction, and immediately called up all thirsty souls present.

Those outside the door entered with the caution of veterans in an enemy's country, and with a bashfulness that was painful to contemplate. They stood before the bar, they glanced cautiously to the right, and gently inclined their heads backward, until only a line of eyes and noses were visible from the cashier's desk.

Then the judge raised his green glasses a moment, and smiled benignantly on the new cashier as he raised his liquor aloft; then he turned to his party, and they drank the toast as solemnly as if they were the soldiers of Miles Standish fortifying the inner man against fear of the Pequods. Then they separated into small groups, and conversed gravely on subjects in which they had not the slightest interest, while each one pretended not to look toward the cashier, and each one saw what the others were earnestly striving to do.

But when the judge settled the score, and chatted for several minutes with the receiver of treasure, and the lady--young, and rather pretty, and quite pleasant and modest and business-like--laughed merrily at something the judge said, an idea gradually dawned upon the bystanders, and within a few moments the boys feverishly awaited their chances to treat the crowd, for the sole purpose of having an excuse to speak to the new cashier, and to stand within three feet of her for about the space of a minute.

Great was the excitement on the Creek when the party returned, and testified to the entire accuracy of London George's report.

Every one went to the saloon that night--there _had_ been some games arranged to take place at certain huts, but they were postponed by mutual consent.

Even the Dominie--an ex-preacher, who had never yet set foot upon the profane floor of the saloon--appeared there that evening in search of some one so exceeding hard to find that the Dominie was compelled to make several tours of all the tables and benches in the room.

Chestnut himself, when questioned, said she had come by the way of the Isthmus with her father and mother, who had both died of the Chagres fever before reaching San Francisco--that some friends of her family and his had been trying to get her something to do in 'Frisco, and that he had engaged her at an ounce a day; and, furthermore, that he would be greatly obliged if the boys at Quicksilver wouldn't marry her before she had worked out her passage-money from 'Frisco, which he had advanced. But the boys at Quicksilver were not so thoughtful of Chestnut's interests as they might have been. They began to buy blacking and neckties and white shirts, and to patronize the barber.

No one had any opportunity for love-making, for the lady's working hours were all spent in public, and in a business which caused frequent interruptions of even the most agreeable conversation.

It soon became understood that certain men had proposed and been declined, and betting on who would finally capture the lady was the most popular excitement in camp.

Cool-headed betting men watched closely the countenance of Sunrise (as some effusive miner had named the new cashier) as each man approached to pay in his coin or dust, and though they were intensely disgusted by its revelations, they unhesitatingly offered two to one that Dominie would be the fortunate man.

To be sure, she saw less of the Dominie than of any one else, for, though he did not drink, or pay for the liquor consumed by any one else, he occasionally came in to get a large coin changed, and then it was noticed that Sunrise regarded him with a sort of earnestness which she never exhibited toward any one else.

"Too bad!" sighed Cairo Jake. "Somebody ort to tell her that he's only a preacher, an' she'll only throw herself away ef she takes him. Ef any stranger wuz to insult her, Dominie wouldn't be man 'nuff to draw on him."

"Beats thunder, though!" sighed Redbank, "how them preachers kin take folks in. Thar's Chestnut himself, _he's_ took with Dominie--'stead of orderin' him out, he talks with him an' her just ez ef he'd as lieve get rid of her as not."

"Boat's a-comin'!" shouted Cairo Jake, looking toward the place, half a mile below, where the creek emptied into the river. "See her smoke? Like 'nuff Tom Chafflin's on board. He wuz a-goin' to try to come back by the first boat, an' of course he's done it--jest his luck. Ef he'd only come sooner, somebody besides the preacher would hev got her--you kin just bet your bottom ounce on it. Let's go down an' see ef he's got any news."

Several miners dropped tools and pans, and followed Jake to the landing, and gave a hearty welcome to Tom Chafflin.

He certainly looked like anything but a lucky man; he was good-looking, and seemed smart, but his face wore a dismal expression, which seemed decidedly out of place on the countenance of a habitually lucky man.

"Things hain't gone right, Tom?" asked Cairo Jake.

"Never went worse," declared Tom, gloomily. "Guess I'll sell out, an' try my luck somewheres else."

"_Ef_ you'd only come a little sooner!" sighed Jake, "you'd hev hed a chance that would hev made ev'rything seem to go right till Judgment Day. I'll show yer."

Jake opened the saloon-door, and there sat Sunrise, as bright, modest, and pleasant-looking as ever.

With the air of a man who has conferred a great benefit, and is calmly awaiting his rightful reward, Jake turned to Tom; but his expression speedily changed to one of hopeless wonder, and then to one of delight, as Tom Chafflin walked rapidly up to the cashier's desk, pushed the Dominie one side and the little scales the other, and gave Sunrise several very hearty kisses, to which the lady didn't make the slightest objection--in fact, she blushed deeply, and seemed very happy.

"That's what I went to 'Frisco to look for," explained Tom, to the staring bystander, "but I couldn't find out a word about her."

"Don't wonder yer looked glum, then," said Cairo Jake; "but--but it's jest your luck!"

"Dominie here was going down to hurry you back," said Sunrise; "but--"

"But we'll give him a different job now, my dear," said Tom, completing the sentence.

And they did.

OLD TWITCHETT'S TREASURE.

Old Twitchett was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one, it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare and beautiful stones.

It was Twitchett's own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd, instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of high-toned, civilized beings--there was no accounting for tastes--but then he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley couldn't have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one, couldn't fry a sick man's pork, or make his coffee.

But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed--he always was queer. He kept himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired, delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.

At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it, and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his hut. They had taken turns in carrying him--for he was wasted and light--until they reached Crockey's store, and when they laid him down, while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.

Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey's best brandy, but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey's he would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them to kneel beside him.

"I'm very grateful, boys, for your kindness--I wish I could reward you; but haven't got anything--I've got nothing at all. The only treasure I had I buried--buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die alone--I didn't wan't those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can--I wish you'd git it, and--it's a dying man's last request--take it--and--"

If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt beside the dead man's face, and with averted eyes listened for the remainder of Twitchett's last sentence.

Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which, according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other's faces, and each man placed his dexter fore-finger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith whispered:

"Virtue is its own reward--hey, Sam?"

"You bet," whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. "It's on the square now, between us?"

"Square as a die," whispered Boylston.

"When'll we go for it?" asked Sam Baker.

"Can't go till after the fun'ril," virtuously whispered Boylston. "'Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that's made our fortunes."

"Fact," remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds he examined the mirror, and whispered:

"Nary a sign--might's well tell the boys."

The announcement of Twitchett's death was the signal for an animated discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased's religious evidences--no distribution of black crape--no tearful beating down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to Twitchett's good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came to deceased's gold--his money--the bystanders exhibited an interest which was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal kinship.

Each man knew all about Twitchett's money, though no two agreed. He had hid it--he had been unlucky, and had not found much--he had slyly sent it home--he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which always drew blanks--he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled derisively--they didn't like to laugh at the deacon's gray hairs, but he _was_ queer.

Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett's administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly, and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and constitute himself sole legatee.

But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward of virtue.

"He didn't say what kind of a can it was," remarked Mr. Baker, after the outskirts of Bender had been left behind.

"Just what I thought," replied Boylston; "pity he couldn't hev lasted long enough for us to hev asked him. But I've been a-workin' some sums about different kinds of cans--I learned how from Phipps, this afternoon--he's been to college, an' his head's cram-full of sech puzzlin' things. It took multiplyin' with four figures to git the answer, but I couldn't take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin' 'bout how the find would pan out."

"Well?" inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had just stumbled.

"Well," replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light his pipe, "the smallest can a-goin' is a half-pound powder-can, and that'll hold over two thousand dollars worth--even _that_ wouldn't be bad for a single night's work--eh?"

"Just so," responded Mr. Baker; "then there's oyster-cans an' meat-cans."

"Yes," said Boylston, "an' the smallest of 'em's good fur ten thousand, ef it's full. An' when yer come to five-pound powders--why, one of them would make two fellers rich!"

They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn's Bar. The diggings at the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were Twitchett's executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay before them?

They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett's hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division.

Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce.

Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.

Suddenly Boylston's pick brought to light something yellow and round--something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin.

"You've won _one_, bet," whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.

"Not ef _this_ is it," growled Boylston; "it don't weigh more'n ounce can, wrapper and all. Might's well see what 'tis, though."

The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a small package, labeled: "_My only treasures_."

Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr. Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.

Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.

"Gold in that, mebbe," suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it. It _was_ gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man's friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.

Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward; wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn's Bar; depressing was the general nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser, strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old Twitchett's grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his hands.

BLIZZER'S WIFE.

The mining-camp of Tough Case, though small, had its excitements, as well as did many camps of half a dozen saloon-power; and on the first day of November, 1850, it was convulsed by the crisis of by far the greatest excitement it had ever enjoyed.

It was not a lucky "find," for some of the largest nuggets in the State had been taken out at Tough Case. It was not a grand spree, for _all_ sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that the honor of his village should not suffer.

No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until to-day it had reached its culmination.

Blizzer's wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day's boat.

Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen of Tough Case.

Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an ounce of gold-dust for an hour's labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw's self-asserting red hair.

Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money. For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist, who had carefully studied Blizzer's cranium and the usually accepted laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut, frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of preservation.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.

A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded the river, exclaimed:

"She's comin'!"

Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door; numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the door-sill--an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up in ordinary.

The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and shoved out a plank.

Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would have justified an extra spree.

Sundry barrels were rolled out, but not even old Guzzle inspected the brand; barrels and bags of onions and potatoes were stacked on the bank, but though the camp was sadly in need of vegetables, no one expressed becoming exultation.

All eyes were fixed on the steamer-end of the gang-plank, and every heart beat wildly as Blizzer appeared, leading a figure displaying only the top of a big bonnet and a blanket-shawl hanging on one arm.

They stepped on the gang-plank, they reached the shore, and then the figure raised its head and dropped the shawl.

"Thunder!" ejaculated Fourteenth Street, and immediately retired and drank himself into a deplorable condition.

The remaining observers dispersed respectfully; but the reckless manner in which they wandered through mud-puddles and climbed over barrels and potato-sacks, indicated plainly that their disappointment had been severe.

After another liquid bet had been paid, and while sleeves but lately tenderly protected were carelessly drying damp mustaches, an old miner remarked:

"Reckon that's why he left the States;" and the emphatic "You bet!" which followed his words showed that the Tough Caseites were unanimous on the subject of Mrs. Blizzer.

For she was short and fat, and had a pug nose, and a cast in one eye; her forehead was low and square, and her hair was of a color which seemed "fugitive," as the paper-makers say. Her hands were large and pudgy, her feet afforded broad foundations for the structure above them, and her gait was not suggestive of any popular style. Besides, she seemed ten years older than her husband, who was not yet thirty.

For several days boots were allowed to grow rusty and chins unshaven, as the boys gradually drank and worked themselves into a dumb forgetfulness of their lately cherished ideals.

But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim Ripson's, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up his voice, and remarked:

"'Pears to me Blizzer's beginnin' to look scrumptious. He used to be the shabbiest man in camp."

Through the open door the boys saw Blizzer carrying a pail of water; and though water-carrying in the American manner is not an especially graceful performance, Blizzer certainly looked unusually neat.

Palette, who had spoiled many canvases and paintbrushes in the East, attentively studied Blizzer in detail, and found his hair was combed, his shirt buttoned at the collar, and his trowsers lacking the California soil which always adorns the seat and knees of orthodox mining pantaloons.

"It's her as did it," said Pat Fadden; "an' 'tain't all she's done. Fhat d'ye tink she did dhis mornin'? I was a-fixin' me pork, jist as ivery other bye in camp allers does it, an' jist then who should come along but hersilf. I tuk off me pork, and comminced me breakfast, when sez she to me, sez she, 'Ye don't ate it widout gravy, do ye?' 'Gravy, is it?' sez I. 'Nobody iver heard of gravy here,' sez I. 'Thin it's toime,' sez she, an' she poured off the fat, an' crumbled a bit of cracker in the pan, an' put in some wather, an' whin I thought the ould thing 'ud blow up for the shteam it made, she poured the gravy on me plate--yes, she did."

There were but a few men at Tough Case who were not willing to have their daily fare improved, and as Mrs. Blizzer did not make a tour of instruction, the boys made it convenient to stand near Mrs. Blizzer's own fire, and see the mysteries of cooking.

As a natural consequence, Sim Ripson began to have inquiries for articles which he had never heard of, much less sold, and he found a hurried trip to 'Frisco was an actual business necessity.

As several miners took their departure, after one of these culinary lessons, Arkansas Bill, with a mysterious air, took Fourteenth Street aside.

"Forty," said he, in a most appealing tone, "ken _you_ see what 'twas about? She kep' a-lookin' at my left han' all the time, ez ef she thort there wuz somethin' the matter with it. Mebbe she thort I was tuckin' biscuits up my sleeves, like keerds in a live game. _Ken_ you see any thin' the matter with that paw?"

The aristocratic young reprobate gave the hand a critical glance, and replied:

"Perhaps she thought you didn't know what buttons and buttonholes were made for."

"Thunder!" exclaimed the miner, with an expression of countenance which Archimedes might have worn when he made his famous discovery.

From that day forward the gentleman from Arkansas instituted a rigid buttonhole inspection before venturing from his hut, besides purchasing a share in a new clothesbroom.

"'Pears to me I don't see Blizzer playin' keerds with you fellers ez much ez he wuz," remarked Uncle Ben one evening at the store.

"No," said Flipp, the champion euchre-player, with a sad face and a strong oath. "He used to lose his ounces like a man. But t'other night I knocked at his door, and asked him to come down an' hev a han'. He didn't say nothin', but _she_ up an' sed he'd stopped playin'. I reely tuk it to be my duty to argy with her, an' show her how tough it wuz to cut off a feller's enjoyment; but she sed 'twas too high-priced fur the fun it fetched."

"That ain't the wust, nuther," said Topjack Flipp's usual partner. "There wuz Arkansas Bill an' Jerry Miller, thet used to be ez fond of ther little game ez anybody. Now, ev'ry night they go up thar to Blizzer's, an' jest do nothin' but sit aroun' an' talk. It's enough to make a marble statoo cuss to see good men spiled that way."

"Somethin' 'stonishin' 'bout what comes of it, though," resumed the deacon. "'Twas only yestiddy thet Bill was kerryin' a bucket of dirt to the crick, an' jest ez he got there his foot slipped in, an' he went kerslosh. Knowin' Bill's language on sech occasions ain't what a church-member ort to hear, I was makin' it convenient to leave, when along come _her_, an' he choked off ez suddin ez a feller on the gallers."

Day by day the boys dug dirt, and carried it to the creek, and washed out the precious gold; day by day the denizens of Tough Case worked as many hours and as industriously as men anywhere. But no Tough Caseite was so wicked as to work on Sunday.

Sunday at Tough Case commenced at sunset on Saturday, after the good old Puritan fashion, and lasted through until working-time on Monday morning. But beyond this matter of time the Puritan parallel could not be pursued, for on Sunday was transacted all the irregular business of the week; on Sunday was done all the hard drinking and heavy gambling; and on Sunday were settled such personal difficulties as were superior to the limited time and low liquor-pressure of the week.

The evening sun of the first Saturday of Mrs. Blizzer's residence at Tough Case considered his day's work done, and retired under the snowy coverlets the Sierras lent him. The tired miners gladly dropped pick, shovel, and pan, but bedclothing was an article which at that moment they scorned to consider; there was important business and entertainment, which would postpone sleep for many hours.

The express would be along in the morning, and no prudent man could sleep peaceably until he had deposited his gold dust in the company's strong box. Then there were two or three old feuds which _might_ come to a head--they always _did_ on Sunday. And above all, Redwing, a man with enormous red whiskers, had been threatening all week to have back the money Flipp had won from him on the preceding Sunday, and Redwing had been very lucky in his claim all week, and the two men were very nearly matched, and were magnificent players, so the game promised to last many hours, and afford handsome opportunities for outside betting.

Sim Ripson understood his business. By sunset he had all his bottles freshly filled, and all his empty boxes distributed about the room for seats, and twice as many candles lighted as usual, and the card-tables reinforced by some upturned barrels. He also had a neat little woodpile under the bar to serve as a barricade against stray shots.

The boys dropped in pleasantly, two or three at a time, and drank merrily with each other; and the two or three who were not drinking men sauntered in to compare notes with the others.

There were no aristocrats or paupers at Tough Case, nor any cliques; whatever the men were at home, here they were equal, and Sim Ripson's was the general gathering-place for everybody.

But in the course of two or three hours there was a perceptible change of the general tone at Sim Ripson's--it was so every Saturday night, or Sunday morning. Old Hatchetjaw said it was because Sim Ripson's liquor wasn't good; Moosoo, the Frenchman, maintained it was due to the absence of chivalrous spirit; Crosstree, the sailor, said it was always so with landsmen; Fourteenth Street privately confided to several that 'twas because there was no good blood in camp; the amateur phrenologist ascribed it to an undue cerebral circulation; and Uncle Ben, the deacon, insisted upon it that the fiend, personally, was the disturbing element.

Probably all of them were right, for it seemed impossible that the Sunday excitements at Sim Ripson's could proceed from any single cause--their proportions were too magnificent.

Drinking, singing, swearing, gambling, and fighting, the Tough Caseites made night so hideous that Uncle Ben spent half the night in earnest prayer for these misguided men, and the remainder of it in trying to make up his mind to start for home.

But by far the greater number of the boys, on that particular night, surrounded the table at which sat Redwing and Flip. Both were playing their best, and as honestly as each was compelled to do by his adversary's watchfulness.

Each had several times accused the other of cheating; each had his revolver at his right hand; and the crowd about them had the double pleasure of betting on the game and on which would shoot first.

Suddenly Redwing arose, as Flipp played an ace on his adversary's last card, and raked the dust toward himself.

"Yer tuk that ace out of yer sleeve--I seed yer do it. Give me back my ounces," said Redwing.

"It's a lie!" roared the great Flipp, springing to his feet, and seizing Redwing's pistol-arm.

The weapon fell, and both men clutched like tigers. Sim Ripson leaped over the bar and separated them.

"No rasslin' here!" said he. "When gentlemen gits too mad to hold in, an' shoots at sight, I hev to stan' it, but rasslin's vulgar--you'll hev to go out o' doors to do it."

"I'll hev it out with him with pistols, then!" cried Redwing, picking up his weapon.

"'Greed!" roared Flip, whose pistol lay on the table. "We'll do it cross the crick, at daylight.

"It's daylight now," said Sim Ripson, hurriedly, after looking out of his window at the end of the bar.

He was a good storekeeper, was Sam Ripson, and he knew how to mix drinks, but he had an unconquerable aversion to washing blood stains out of the floor.

The two gamblers rushed out of the door, pistols in hand, and the crowd followed, each man talking at the top of his voice, and betting on the chances of the combatants.

Suddenly, above all the noise, they heard a cracked soprano voice singing with some unauthorized flatting and sharping:

"Another six days' work is done,
Another Sabbath is begun.
Return, my soul, enjoy thy rest,
Improve the day thy God has blessed."

Redwing stopped, and dropped his head to one side, as if expecting more; Flipp stopped; everybody did. Arkansas Bill, whose good habits had been laid aside late Saturday afternoon, exclaimed:

"Well, I'll be blowed!"

Bill didn't mean anything of the sort, but the tone in which he said it expressed precisely the feeling of the crowd. The voice was again heard:

"Oh, that our thoughts and thanks may rise,
As grateful incense to the skies;
And draw from heaven that sweet repose
Which none but he that feels it knows."

Redwing turned abruptly on his heel.

"Keep the ounces," said he. "Ther's an old woman to hum that thinks a sight o' me--I reckon, myself, I'm good fur somethin' besides fillin' a hole in the ground."

That night Sim Ripson complained that it had been the poorest Sunday he had ever had at Tough Case; the boys drank, but it was a sort of nerveless, unbusinesslike way that Sim Ripson greatly regretted; and very few bets were settled in Sim Ripson's principal stock in trade.

When Sim finally learned the cause of his trouble, he promptly announced his intention of converting Mrs. Blizzer to common sense, and as he had argued Uncle Ben, first into a perfect frenzy and then into silence, the crowd considered Mrs. Blizzer's faith doomed.

Monday morning, bright and early, as men with aching heads were taking their morning bitters, Mrs. Blizzer appeared at Sim Ripson's store, and purchased a bar of soap.

"Boys heard ye singin' yesterday," said Sim.

"Yes?" inquired Mrs. Blizzer.

"Yes--all of 'em delighted," said Sim, gallantly. "But ye don't believe in no sich stuff, I s'pose, do ye?"

"What stuff?" asked Mrs. Blizzer.

"Why, 'bout heaven an' hell, an' the Bible, an' all them things. Do ye know what the Greek fur hell meant? An' do ye know the Bible's all the time contradictin' itself?" I can show ye--"

"I tell you what I _do_ know, Mr. Ripson," said the woman; "I know some things in my heart that no mortal bein' never told me, an' they couldn't be skeered out by all the dictionaries an' commentators a-goin; that's what I know."

And Mrs. Blizzer departed, while the astonished theologian sheepishly admitted that he owed drinks to the crowd.

While the ex-deacon, Uncle Ben, was trying to determine to go home, he found quite a pretty nugget that settled his mind, and he announced that same night, at the store, that all his mining property was for sale, as he was going back East.

"I'll go with you, Uncle Ben," said Fourteenth Street.

The crowd was astounded; men of Fourteenth Street's calibre seldom had pluck enough to go to the mines, and their getting away, or their doing _any_ thing that required manliness, was of still more unfrequent occurrence.

"I know it," said the young man, translating the glances which met his eye. "You fellows think I don't amount to much, anyway. Perhaps I don't. I came out here because I fell out with a girl I thought I loved. She acted like a fool, and I made up my mind _all_ women were fools. But that wife of Blizzer's has shown me more about true womanliness than all the girls I ever knew, and I'm going back to try it over again."

One morning a small crowd of early drinkers at Sim Ripson's dropped their glasses, yet did not go briskly out to work as usual. In fact, they even hung aloof, in a most ungentlemanly manner, from Jerry Miller, who had just stood treat, and both these departures from the usual custom indicated that something unusual was the matter. Finally, Topjack remarked:

"He's a stranger, an' typhus is a bad thing to hev aroun', but _somethin'_ 'ort to be done for him. 'Taint the thing to ax fur volunteers, fur it's danger without no chance of pleasin' excitement. We might throw keerds aroun', one to each feller in the camp, and him as gets ace of spades is to tend to the poor cuss."

"I think Jerry ought to go himself," argued Flipp.

"He's been exposed already, by lookin' in to the feller's shanty, an's prob'bly hurt ez bad as he's goin' to be."

"I might go," said Sim Ripson, who, in his character of barkeeper, had to sustain a reputation for bravery and public spirit, "but 'twouldn't do to shut up the store, ye know, an' specially the bar--nobody'd stan' it."

"Needn't trouble yerselves," said Arkansas Bill, who had entered during the conversation; "_she's_ thar."

"Thunder!" exclaimed Topjack, frowning, and then looking sheepish.

"Yes," continued Bill; "she stopped me ez I wuz comin' along, an' sed she'd jist heerd of it, an' was a-goin'. I tol' her ther' wuz men enough in camp to look out fur him, but she said she reckoned she could do it best. Wants some things from 'Frisco, though, an' I'm a-goin' for 'em."

And Arkansas Bill departed, while the men at Sim Ripson's sneaked guiltily down to the creek.

For many days the boys hung about the camp's single street every morning, unwilling to go to work until they had seen Mrs. Blizzer appear in front of the sick man's hut. The boys took turns at carrying water, making fires, and serving Mrs. Blizzer generally, and even paid handsomely for the chance.

One morning Mrs. Blizzer failed to appear at the usual hour. The boys walked about nervously--they smoked many pipes, and took hurried drinks, and yet she did not appear. The boys looked suggestingly at her husband, and he himself appeared to be anxious; but being one of the shiftless kind, he found anxiety far easier than action.

Suddenly Arkansas Bill remarked, "I can't stan' it any longer," and walked rapidly toward the sick man's hut, and knocked lightly on the door, and looked in. There lay the sick man, his eyes partly open, and on the ground, apparently asleep, and with a very purple face, lay Mrs. Blizzer.

"Do somethin' for her," gasped the sick man; "give her a chance, for God's sake. I don't know how long I've been here, but I kind o' woke up las' night ez ef I'd been asleep; she wuz a-standin' lookin' in my eyes, an' hed a han' on my cheek. 'I b'lieve it's turned,' sez she, still a-lookin'. After a bit she sez: 'It's turned sure,' an' all of a sudden she tumbled. I couldn't holler--I wish to God I could."

Arkansas Bill opened the door, and called Blizzer, and the crowd followed Blizzer, though at a respectful distance. In a moment Blizzer reappeared with his wife, no longer fat, in his arms, and Arkansas Bill hurried on to open Blizzer's door. The crowd halted, and didn't know what to do, until Moosoo, the little Frenchman, lifted his hat, upon, which every man promptly uncovered his head.

A moment later Arkansas Bill was on Sim Ripson's horse, and galloping off for a doctor, and Sim Ripson, who had always threatened sudden death to any one touching his beloved animal, saw him, and refrained even from profanity. The doctor came, and the boys crowded the door to hear what he had to say.

"Hum!" said the doctor, a rough miner himself, "new arrival--been fat--worn out--rainy season just coming on--not much chance. No business to come to California--ought to have had sense enough to stay home."

"Look a' here, doctor," said Arkansas Bill, indignantly; "she's got this way a-nussin' a feller--stranger, too--that ev'ry _man_ in camp wuz afeard to go nigh."

"Is that so?" asked the doctor, in a tone considerably softened; "then she shall get well, if my whole time and attention can bring it about."

The sick woman lay in a burning fever for days, and the boys industriously drank her health, and bet heavy odds on her recovery. No singing was 'allowed anywhere in camp, and when an old feud broke out afresh between two miners, and they drew their pistols, a committee was appointed to conduct them at least two miles from camp, before allowing them to shoot.

The Sundays were allowed to pass in the commonplace quietness peculiar to the rest of the week, and men who were unable to forego their regular weekly spree were compelled to emigrate. Sim Ripson, though admitting that the change was decidedly injurious to his business, declared that he would cheerfully be ruined in business rather than have that woman disturbed; he was ever heard to say that, though of course there was no such place as heaven, there _ought_ to be, for such woman.

One evening, as the crowd were quietly drinking and betting, Arkansas Bill suddenly opened the door of the store, and cried: "She's mendin'! The fever's broke--'sh-h!"

"My treat, boys," said Sim Ripson, hurrying glasses and favorite bottles on the bar.

The boys were just clinking glasses with Blizzer himself, who, during his wife's absence and illness, had drifted back to the store, when Arkansas Bill again opened the door.

"She's a-sinkin', all of a sudden!" he gasped. "Blizzer, yer wanted."

The two men hurried away, and the crowd poured out of the store. By the light of a fire in front of the hut in which the sick woman lay, they saw Blizzer enter, and Arkansas Bill remain outside the hut, near the door.

The boys stood on one foot, put their hands into their pockets and took them out again, snapped their fingers, and looked at each other, as if they wanted to talk about something that they couldn't. Suddenly the doctor emerged from the hut, and said something to Arkansas Bill, and the boys saw Arkansas Bill put both hands up to his face. Then the boys knew that their sympathy could help Blizzer's wife no longer.