Part 3

Shirt-sleeves and trowsers-legs were hurriedly rolled down, shirt-collars were buttoned, hats were dusted, and then each man went leisurely out, with the air of having merely happened to leave the saloon—an air which imposed upon no disinterested observer.

Coming up the trail beside the creek were a middle-aged gentleman and a young lady, both on horseback.

The gentleman’s dress and general style plainly indicated that he was not a miner, nor a storekeeper, nor a barkeeper; while it was equally evident that the lady was neither a washerwoman, a cook, nor a member of either of the very few professions which were open to ladies on the Pacific Coast in those days.

This much every miner quickly decided for himself; but after so deciding, each miner reached the uttermost extremity of his wits, and devoted himself to staring.

The couple reined up before the saloon, and the gentleman drew something small and black and square from his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “we are looking for an old friend of ours, and have traced him to this camp. We scarcely know whether it would be any use to give his name, but here is his picture. Can any one remember having seen the person here?”

Every one looked toward Colonel Two, he being the man with the most practical tongue in camp.

The colonel took the picture, and Weasel slipped up behind him and looked over his shoulder. The colonel looked at the picture, abruptly handed it back, looked at the young lady, and then gazed vacantly into space, and seemed very uncomfortable.

“Been here, but gone,” said the colonel, at length.

“Where did he go, do you know?” asked the gentleman, while the lady’s eyes dropped wearily.

“Nobody knows—only been gone a day or two,” replied the colonel.

The colonel had a well-developed heart, and, relying on what he considered the correct idea of Jim Hockson’s mission, ventured to say:

“He’ll be back in a day or two—left all his things.”

Suddenly Weasel raised his diminutive voice, and said:

“The detec——”

The determined grip of the colonel’s hand interrupted the communication which Weasel attempted to make, and the colonel hastily remarked:

“Ther’s a feller gone for him that’s sure to fetch him back.”

“Who—who is it?” asked the young lady, hesitatingly.

“Well, ma’am,” said the colonel, “as yer father—I s’pose, leastways—said, ’tain’t much use to give names in this part of the world, but the name he’s goin’ by is Jim Hockson.”

The young lady screamed and fell.

IV.

“WHETHER to do it or not, is what bothers me,” soliloquized Mr. Weasel, pacing meditatively in front of the saloon. “The old man offers me two thousand to get Tarpaulin away from them fellers, and let him know where to meet him an’ his daughter. Two thousand’s a pretty penny, an’ the bein’ picked out by so smart a lookin’ man is an honor big enough to set off agin’ a few hundred dollars more. But, on t’other hand, if they catch him, they’ll come back here, an’ who knows but what they’ll want the old man an’ girl as bad as they wanted Tarpaulin? A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush—better keep near the ones I got, I reckon. Here they come now!”

As Mr. Weasel concluded his dialogue with himself, Mr. Botayne and Millicent approached, in company with the colonel.

The colonel stopped just beyond the saloon, and said:

“Now, here’s your best p’int—you can see the hill-trail fur better’n five miles, an’ the crick fur a mile an’ a half. I’ll jest hev a shed knocked together to keep the lady from the sun. An’ keep a stiff upper lip, both of yer—trust Jim Hockson; nobody in the mines ever knowed him to fail.”

Millicent shivered at the mention of Jim’s name, and the colonel, unhappily ignorant of the cause of her agitation, tried to divert her mind from the chances of harm to Tarpaulin by growing eloquent in praise of Jim Hockson.

Suddenly the colonel himself started and grew pale. He quickly recovered himself, however, and, with the delicacy of a gentleman, walked rapidly away, as Millicent and her father looked in the direction from which the colonel’s surprise came.

There, handcuffed, with beard and hair singed close, clothes torn and face bleeding, walked Ethelbert Brown between the two detectives, while Jim Hockson, with head bowed and hands behind his back, followed a few yards behind.

Some one gave the word at the saloon, and the boys hurried out, but the colonel pointed significantly toward the sorrowful couple, while with the other hand he pointed an ugly pistol, cocked, toward the saloon.

Millicent hurried from her father’s side, and flung her arms about the sorry figure of her lover; and Jim Hockson, finding his pathway impeded, raised his eyes, and then blushed violently.

“Sorry for you, sir,” said one of the detectives, touching his hat to Mr. Botayne, “but can’t help being glad we got a day ahead of you.”

“What amount of money will buy your prisoner?” demanded the unhappy father.

“Beg pardon, sir—very sorry, but—we’d be compounding felony in that case, you know,” replied one of the officers, gazing with genuine pity on the weeping girl.

“Don’t worry,” whispered the colonel in Mr. Botayne’s ear; “we’ll clean out them two fellers, and let Tarpaulin loose again. _Ev’ry_ feller come here for _somethin’_, darn it!” with which sympathizing expression the colonel again retired.

“I’ll give you as much as the bank offers,” said Mr. Botayne.

“Very sorry, sir; but can’t,” replied the detective. “We’d be just as bad then in the eyes of the law as before. Reward, five thousand, bank lose twenty-five thousand—thirty thousand, in odd figures, is least we could take. Even _that_ wouldn’t be reg’lar; but it would be a safe risk, seeing all the bank cares for’s to get its money back.”

Mr. Botayne groaned.

“We’ll make it as pleasant as we can for you, sir,” continued the detective, “if you and the lady’ll go back on the ship with us. We’ll give him the liberty of the ship as soon as we’re well away from land. We’d consider it our duty to watch him, of course; but we’d try to do it so’s not to give offense—we’ve _got_ hearts, though we _are_ in this business. Hope you can buy him clear when you get home, sir?”

“I’ve sacrificed everything to get here—I can never clear him,” sighed Mr. Botayne.

“_I_ can!” exclaimed a clear, manly voice.

Millicent raised her eyes, and for the first time saw Jim Hockson.

She gave him a look in which astonishment, gratitude and fear strove for the mastery, and he gave her a straight-forward, honest, respectful look in return.

The two detectives dropped their lower jaws alarmingly, and raised their eyebrows to their hat-rims.

“The bank at San Francisco has an agent here,” said Jim. “Colonel, won’t you fetch him?”

The colonel took a lively double-quick, and soon returned with a business-looking man.

“Mr. Green,” said Jim, “please tell me how much I have in your bank?”

The clerk looked over a small book he extracted from his pocket, and replied, briefly:

“Over two thousand ounces.”

“Please give these gentlemen a check, made whatever way they like it, for the equivalent of thirty thousand dollars. I’ll sign it,” said Jim.

The clerk and one of the detectives retired to an adjacent hut, and soon called Jim. Jim joined them, and immediately he and the officer returned to the prisoner.

“It’s all right, Maxley,” said the officer; “let him go.”

The officer removed the handcuffs, and Ethelbert Brown was free. His first motion was to seize Jim’s hand.

“Hockson, tell me why you helped those detectives,” said he.

“Revenge!” replied Jim.

“For what?” cried Brown, changing color.

“Gaining Millie Botayne’s love,” replied Jim.

Brown looked at Millicent, and read the story from her face.

He turned toward Jim a wondering look, and asked, slowly:

“Then, why did you free me?”

“Because she loved you,” said Jim, and then he walked quietly away.

V.

“WHY, Miss Peekin!”

“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.

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.”