Part 9

“Come back a minute,” interrupted Buffle. I forgot to come down with the dust for the drinks. Now I tell yer what—I want yer to go back to my camp—I’ve got plenty uv gold, an’ it’s no good to me, only fur gamblin’ an’ drinkin’; yer welcome to enough uv it to git yerself home, an’ git on yer feet when yer get thar.”

Berryn looked doubtingly at him as they entered the saloon.

“P’r’aps somebody here ken tell this gentleman my name?” said Buffle.

“Buffle!” said several voices in chorus.

“Bully! Now, p’r’aps you same fellers ken tell him ef I’m a man uv my word?”

“You bet,” responded the same chorus.

“An’ now, p’r’aps some uv yer’ll sell me a good hoss, pervidin’ yer don’t want him stole mighty sudden?”

Several men invited attention to their respective animals, tied near the door. Promptly selecting one, paying for it, and settling with the barkeeper, and mounting his own horse while Berryn mounted the new one, the two men galloped away, leaving the bystanders lost in astonishment, from which they only recovered after almost superhuman industry on the part of the barkeeper.

* * * * *

One evening, when the daily labors and household cares of the Fat Pocket Gulchites had ended, the residents of that quiet village were congregated, as usual, at the saloon. It was too early for gambling and fighting, and the boys chatted peacefully, pausing only a few times to drink “Here’s her,” which had become the standard toast of the Gulch. Conversation turned on Muggy’s invention, and a few bets were exchanged, which showed the boys were not quite sure it was a rocker, after all. Suddenly Sandytop, who had been leaning against the door-frame, and, looking in the direction of Buffle’s old cabin, ejaculated:

“_’Tis_ a rocker, boys—it’s a rocker, but—but not that kind.”

The boys poured out the door, and saw an unusual procession approaching Mrs. Berryn’s cabin; first came Uppercrust, the young ex-doctor, then an Irishwoman from a neighboring settlement, and then Muggy, bearing a baby’s cradle, neatly made of pine boards. The doctor and woman went in, and Muggy, dropping the cradle, ran at full speed to the saloon, and up to the bar, the crowd following.

Muggy looked along the line, saw all the glasses were filled and in hand, and then, raising his own, exclaimed, “Here’s her, boys!” and then went into a fully-developed boo-hoo. And he was not alone; for once the boys watered their liquor, and purer water God never made.

It was some moments before shirt-sleeves ceased to officiate as handkerchiefs; but just as the boys commenced to look savagely at each other, as if threatening cold lead if any one suspected undue tenderness, Sandytop, who had returned to his post at the door to give ease to the stream which his sleeve could not staunch, again startled the crowd by staring earnestly toward the hill over which led the trail, and exclaiming, “Good God!”

There was another rush to the door, and there, galloping down the trail, was Buffle and another man. The boys stared at each other, but said nothing—their gift of swearing was not equal to the occasion.

Steadily they stared at the two men, until Buffle, reining back a little, pointed his pistol threateningly. They took the hint, and after they were all inside, Sandytop closed the door and the shutters of the unglazed windows.

“Thar’s my shanty,” said Buffle, as they neared it from one side; “that one with two bar’ls fur a chimley. You jest go right in. I’ll be thar ez soon ez I put up the hosses.”

As they reached the front, both men started at the sight of the cradle.

“Why, I didn’t know you were a married man, Buffle?” said his companion.

“I—well—I—I—don’t tell everythin’,” stammered Buffle; and, catching the bridle of Berryn’s horse the moment his rider had dismounted, Buffle dashed off to the saloon, and took numerous solitary drinks, at which no one took offense. Then he turned, nodded significantly toward the old shanty, and asked:

“How long since?”

“Not quite yit—yer got him here in time, Buffle,” said Muggy.

“Thank the Lord!” said Buffle. His lips were very familiar with the name of the Lord, but they had never before used it in this sense.

Then, while several men were getting ready to ask Buffle where he found his man—Californians never ask questions in a hurry—there came from the direction of Buffle’s shanty the sound of a subdued cry.

“Gentlemen,” said the barkeeper, “there’s no more drinking at this bar to-night until—until I say so.”

No one murmured. No one swore. No one suggested a game. An old enemy of Buffle’s happened in, but that worthy, instead of feeling for his pistol, quietly left the leaning-post, and bowed his enemy into it.

The boys stood and sat about, studied the cracks in the floor, the pattern of the shutters, contemplated the insides of their hats, and chewed tobacco as if their lives depended on it.

Buffle made frequent trips to the door, and looked out. Suddenly he closed the door, and had barely time to whisper, “No noise, now, or I’ll shoot,” when the doctor walked in. The crowd arose.

“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the doctor—“as fine a boy as I ever saw.”

“My treat for the rest of the evening, boys,” said the barkeeper, hurriedly crowding glasses and bottles on the bar. “Her,” “Him,” “Him, Junior,” “Buffle,” “Doc.,” and “Old Rockershop,” as some happily inspired miner dubbed little Muggy, were drunk successively.

The door opened again, and in walked Allan Berryn. Glancing quickly about, he soon distinguished Buffle. He grasped his hand, looked him steadily in the eye, and exclaimed:

“Buffle, you——”

He was a Harvard graduate, and a fine talker, was Allan Berryn, but, when he had spoken two words, he somehow forgot the remainder of the speech he had made up on his way over; his silence for two or three seconds seemed of hours to every man who looked on his face, so that it was a relief to all when he gave Buffle a mighty hug, and then precipitately retreated.

Buffle looked sheepish, and shook himself.

“That feller can outhug a grizzly,” said he. “Boys,” he continued, “that chap’s been buckin’ agin luck sence he’s been in the diggin’s, an’ is clean busted. But his luck begun to turn this evening, an’ here’s what goes for keepin’ the ball a-rollin’. Here’s my ante;” saying which, he laid his old hat on the bar, took out his buckskin bag of gold-dust, and emptied it into the hat.

Bags came out of pockets all around, and were either entirely emptied, or had their contents largely diminished by knife-blades, which scooped out the precious dust, and dropped it into the hat.

“There,” said Buffle, looking into the hat, “I reckon that’ll kerry ’em back to their folks.”

For a fortnight the saloon was as quiet as a well-ordered prayer-meeting, and it was solemnly decided that no fight with pistols should take place nearer than The Bend, which was, at least, a mile from where the new resident’s cradle was located.

One pleasant, quiet evening, Buffle, who frequently passed an hour with Berryn on the latter’s woodpile, was seen approaching the saloon with a very small bundle, which, nevertheless, occupied both his arms and all his attention.

“It, by thunder,” said one. So it was; a wee, pink-faced, blue-eyed, fuzzy-topped little thing, with one hand frantically clutching three hairs of Buffle’s beard.

“See the little thing pull,” said one.

“Is that all the nose they hev at fust?” asked another, seriously.

“Can’t yer take them pipes out uv yer mouths when the baby’s aroun’?” indignantly demanded another.

Little Muggy edged his way through the crowd, threw away his quid of tobacco, took the baby from Buffle, and kissed it a dozen times.

“I’m goin’ home, fellers,” said Muggy, finally. “I’m wanted by the lawyers for cuttin’ a man that sassed me while I was shoe-makin’. But I’m a-goin’ to see my young uns, even if all creation wants me.”

“An’ I’m a-goin’, too,” said Buffle. “I’m wanted pretty bad by some that’s East, but I reckon I’m well enough hid by the har that’s grow’d sence I wuz a boy, an’ dug out from old Varmont. I’ve had a new taste uv decency lately, an’ I’m goin’ to see ef I can’t stan’ it for a stiddy diet. The chap over to the shanty sez he ken git me somethin’ to do, an’ ennythin’s better’n gamblin’, drinkin’, and fightin’”.

“It’s agin the law to kerry shootin’-irons there, Buffle,” suggested one.

“Yes, an’ they got a new kind uv a law there, to keep a man from takin’ his bitters,” said another.

“Yes,” said Buffle, “all that’s mighty tough, but ef a feller’s bound fur bed-rock, he might ez well git that all uv a sudden, ef he ken.”

Buffle started toward the door, stopped as if he had something else to say, started again, hesitated, feigned indignation at the baby, flushed the least bit, opened the door, partly closed it again, squeezed himself out and displaying only the tip of his nose, roared:

“This baby’s name is Allan Buffle Berryn—Allen _Buffle_ Berryn!” and then rushed at full speed to leave the baby at home, while the boys clinked glasses melodiously.

At the end of another fortnight there was a procession formed at Fat Pocket Gulch; two horses, one wearing a side-saddle, were brought to the door of Buffle’s old house, and Mrs. Berryn and her husband mounted them; they were soon joined by Buffle and Muggy.

For months after there was mourning far and wide among owners of mules and horses, for each Gulchite had been out stealing, that he might ride with the escort which was to see the Berryns safely to the crossing. An advance-guard was sent ahead, and the party were about to start, when Buffle suddenly dismounted and entered his old cabin; when he reappeared, a cloud of smoke followed him.

“Thar,” said he, a moment later, as flames were seen bursting through the roof, “no galoot uv a miner don’t live in that shanty after that. Git.”

Away galloped the party, the baby in the arms of its father. The crossing was safely reached, and the stage had room for the whole party, and, after a hearty hand-shaking all around, the stage started. Sandytop threw one of his only two shoes after it for luck.

As the stage was disappearing around a bend, a little way from the crossing, the back curtain was suddenly thrown up, a baby, backed by a white hat and yellow beard, was seen, and a familiar voice was heard to roar, “Allan _Buffle_ Berryn.”

MATALETTE’S SECTION.

“NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in _this_ part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’ rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life.”

The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.

Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages. He was as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.

Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.

When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money which bought the new horse.

When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.

Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.

“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle Conover, one day, at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange views. “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not expectin’ to see any women around—when who comes to the door but _her_. For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”

The latter clause of Syle’s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so young.

Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.

There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.

It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.

The editor of the _Bonpas Cornblade_, in a sonnet addressed to “H. M.,” compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered whether Helen’s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally timorous at first acquaintance.

But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section, and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.

The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither Indians nor burglars were known.

Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her dress.

“Ready?” asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.

“Yes,” whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.

“Who’s there?” shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.

“I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher,” replied a voice. “I’m wet, cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?”

“Certainly!” cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to a sigh of relief.

They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man, whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish from his face.

There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual interest in young ladies; but where a person’s face seems to show forth the owner’s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette’s, a minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a lively and tender interest.

Such seemed to be the young divine’s train of reasoning, and his consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping clothing for a suit of Matalette’s own, he addressed his conversation almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance might be trusted to tell the truth.

When the young preacher, according to the custom of his class and denomination, at that day, finally turned the course of conversation toward the one reputed object of his life, it was with a sigh which indicated, perhaps, how earnestly he regretted that the dominion of Satan in the world compelled him to withdraw his soul from such pure and unusual delights as had been his during that evening. And when, after offering a prayer with the family, Crewne followed Matalette to a chamber to rest, Helen bade him good-night with a bright smile which mixed itself up inextricably with his private devotions, his thoughts and his plans for forthcoming sermons, and seriously curtailed his night’s rest in addition.

In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it was arranged that he should retain Matalette’s clothing, and return within a few days for his own.

Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with which to purchase one.

It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted to—and the young man’s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he cast upon Helen’s handsome face.

Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by, and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never stopped his horse.

Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—he could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of Psalms.

He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen galloped up to him. As he turned his head to see who they might be, he observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner. As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.

“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion, “but it’s the preacher’s face.”

“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look. “Mr. Matalette took me in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed, refreshed, clothed and mounted. To rob a man who is so lavish of——”

“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t got the right pig by the ear. We’re not highwaymen. I’m the sheriff of this county, and Jim’s a constable. And as for Matalette, he’s a counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”

Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed:

“Impossible!”

“’Tis, eh?” said the sheriff. “Well, we’ve examined several lots of money he’s paid out lately, and there isn’t a good bill among ’em.”

Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.

“That’s some of his stock?” said he, looking it rapidly over. “_That_ seems good enough.”

“What will become of his poor daughter?” ejaculated the young preacher, with a vacant look.

“What, Helen?” queried the sheriff. “She’s the best engraver of counterfeits there is in the whole West.”

“Dreadful—dreadful!” exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over his eyes.

“Fact,” replied the sheriff. “You parsons have got a big job to do ’fore this world’s in the right shape, an’ sheriffs and constables ain’t needed. Wish you good luck at it, though ‘twill be bad for trade. You’ll keep mum ’bout this case, of course. We’ll catch ’em in the act finally; then there won’t be any danger about not getting a conviction, an’ our reward, that’s offered by the banks.”

The sheriff and his assistant galloped on to the village they had been approaching when they overtook Crewne; but the young minister did not accompany them, although the village toward which they rode was the one in which he was to preach that morning.

Perhaps he needed more time and quietness in which to compose his sermon. If this supposition is correct, it may account for the fact that the members of the Mount Pisgah congregation pronounced his sermon that day, from the text, “All is vanity,” one of his most powerful efforts.

In fact, old Mrs. Reets, who had for time immemorial entertained the probable angels who appeared at Mount Pisgah in ministerial guise, remarked that “preacher seemed all tuckered out by that talk; tuk his critter, an’ left town ’fore the puddin’ was done.”

That same evening, the sheriff and his deputy, with several special assistants, rode from Mount Pisgah toward Matalette’s section.

The night was dark, rainy and cloudy; the horses stumbled over roots and logs in the imperfectly made road; the low-hanging branches spitefully cut the faces of the riders, and brought several hats to grief, and snatched the sheriff’s pipe out of his mouth.

And yet the sheriff seemed in excellent spirits. To be sure, he softly whistled the air of, “Jordan is a hard road to travel,” which was the popular air twenty-five years ago, but there was a merry tone to his whistle. He stopped whistling suddenly, and remarked to the constable: