Part 16

“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 want 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 forefinger 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 doorsill—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 clothes-broom.

“‘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 Ripsons’ 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 Sim 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.