A Waif of the Mountains
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But that night he was restless, and gradually his thoughts turned into a new channel. A momentous problem presented itself for solution.
“If I’ve improved so much after goin’ six days without drinkin’, won’t I feel a blamed sight better, if I try it for six weeks–six months–six years–forever.”
And as an extraordinary, a marvelous resolution simmered and finally crystallized, he chortled.
“What’ll the boys say? What’ll the parson think? What’ll I think? What would that good old mother of mine think, if she was alive? But she died afore she knowed what a good for nothin’ man her boy turned out to be. God rest her soul!” he added softly, “she must have prayed over me a good many hundred times; if she’s kept track of me all these years, this is an answer to her prayers.”
Budge Isham was the partner of Wade, and shared his cabin with him. He slept across the room, and noticed how his friend tossed and muttered in his sleep.
“Great Gee!” he exclaimed, “but Wade’s got it pretty bad; I wonder if it’s the jim jams that is getting hold of him; I’ll sleep with one eye open, for he will need looking after. What a blessed thing it is that he has only one more day. Then he can celebrate and be happy. I have no doubt that by the end of another week, he will have brought things up to their old average.”
And with this conclusion, the man who a few years before took the first honors at Yale, shifted his position, so as to keep an eye on his comrade, and straightway proceeded to drop into a sound slumber, which was not broken until the sun rose on the following morning.
The sympathy for Wade was general. Had he not insisted upon carrying out in spirit and letter the full punishment pronounced upon him, there would have been a unanimous agreement to commute his term by one or two days at least; but all knew the grit or “sand” of the fellow too well to propose it.
His actions on the seventh day caused considerable disquietude. He had labored in the mines, in a desultory fashion up to that time, but he did not do a stroke of work during the concluding hours of his ordeal. It was observed by his partner, Budge Isham, that his appetite was unusually good and he seemed to be in high spirits. His friends attributed this to the closeness of his reward for his abstention, but he took several walks up the mountain side and was gone for a good while. He wore a smiling face and Vose Adams declared that he overheard him communing with himself, when he thought he was too far off for the act to be noticed.
“No use of talkin’,” whispered Vose; “Wade ain’t quite himself; he’s a little off and won’t be exactly right till after two or three days.”
“He has my sympathy,” remarked the parson, “but it will serve as a lesson which he will always remember.”
“And won’t we remember it?” said Ike Hoe, with a shudder. “When we’re disposed to say one of them unproper words, the picture of that miserable scamp going a full week without a touch of Mountain Dew, will freeze up our lips closer than a clam.”
That night the usual group was gathered at the Heavenly Bower. There were the same merry jests, the reminiscences, the conjectures how certain diggings would pan out, the small talk and the general good feeling. Common hardship and suffering had brought these rough men close to one another. They were indulgent and charitable and each one would have eagerly risked his life for the sake of the rest. Quick to anger, they were equally quick to forgive, mutually rejoicing in good fortune, and mutually sympathetic in sorrow.
There was more than one furtive glance at Ruggles, who was among the first arrivals. Whispers had passed around of his strange actions, and the surprise would not have been great had it been found that he had gone clean daft; but nothing in his manner indicated anything of that nature. He was as full of quip and jest as ever, and none was in higher or more buoyant spirits than he.
He suddenly called:
“Dawson, what time is it?”
The latest comer among them carried a watch which he drew out and examined.
“It is exactly half-past nine.”
“When did my punishment begin?”
“A week ago to-night, precisely at this hour; I began to fear that you had forgotten it.”
“No danger of my ever forgetting it,” grimly responded Ruggles; “what I want to know is whether I have served out my full term.”
“You have unquestionably.”
“Is there anyone here disposed to dispute this statement?” asked Wade, standing very erect and looking around in the faces of his friends.
No one interposed an objection. He had not only the sympathy but the respect of every one.
“You sarved your time like a man,” remarked Ike Hoe; “the week is up and you’ve give good measure.”
“Which the same being the case, I invite all to come forward and liquidate.”
Never was an invitation responded to with more enthusiasm. The grinning Ortigies set out a couple of bottles, intending as a matter of course to join in the celebration. He feelingly remarked:
“Wade, my heart bled for you and thar ain’t a pard here that wouldn’t have been willing to take your place–that is for a limited time,” the landlord hastened to add.
Each tumbler was half-filled with the fiery stuff and all looked in smiling expectancy at their host to give the cue. He poured a small quantity into his glass, and elevating it almost to a level with his lips, looked over the top.
“Are you ready, pards? here goes.”
Up went every glass and down went the stuff. But there was one exception. While the glass was at his lips, and while the familiar odor was in his nostrils, Wade Ruggles deliberately inverted the tumbler and emptied the contents on the floor.
It was the strangest incident that had ever occurred in New Constantinople.
CHAPTER VI
TEACHER AND PUPIL
The group looked at Wade Ruggles in breathless amazement. He had invited them to the bar to join in celebrating his release from thralldom; all had filled their glasses and he had raised his own to his lips, though several noticed that there was only a small amount of liquid in the tumbler. Then, when every glass was upraised and there was a general gurgling, he had turned his glass upside down and spilled every drop on the floor.
Before anyone could think of suitable terms in which to express his emotions, Wade said, with a smile that rather added than detracted from his seriousness:
“Pards, never again does a drop of that stuff go down my throat! I’ve suffered hell, but I’ve come out of the flames, and the one that fetched me through is the little gal which lays asleep in the next room.”
He did not attempt to deliver a temperance lecture to his friends, nor did they trifle with him. They questioned him closely as to how he had reached this extraordinary decision, and he gave a vivid and truthful account of his experience. It made several of the men thoughtful, but most of them felt dubious about his persistence in the new path he had laid out for himself.
“You know, boys, whether I’ve got a will of my own,” he quietly replied; “just wait and see how this thing comes out.”
It was noticed that Parson Brush was the most interested inquirer, and, though he had comparatively little to say, he left the Bower unusually early. He had begun his system of instruction with Nellie Dawson, and reported that she was making remarkably good progress. Had the contrary been the fact, it may be doubted whether it would have been safe for him to proclaim it.
And now the scene changes. It is the close of a radiant summer day in the Sierras. Far down in the cañon-like chasm between the mountainous spurs, nestled the little mining settlement, which had been christened but a short time before, New Constantinople. Here and there tiny wounds had been gouged into the ribs of the mountain walls, and the miners were pecking away with pick and shovel, deepening the hurts in their quest for the yellow atoms or dark ore which had been the means of bringing every man thousands of miles to the spot.
Far up toward the clouds were the towering, craggy peaks, with many a rent and yawn and table-land and lesser elevation, until, as if to check the climbing ambition of the prodigious monster, nature had flung an immense blanket of snow, whose ragged and torn edges lapped far down the sides of the crests. Ages ago the chilling blanket was tucked around the mountain tops, there to remain through the long stretch of centuries to follow.
Down the valley, at the bottom of the winding cañon, the air palpitated with the fervor of the torrid zone. He who attempted to plod forward panted and perspired, but a little way up the mountain side, the cool breath crept downward from the regions of perpetual ice and snow, through the balsamic pines and cedars, with a revivifying power that was grateful to all who felt its life-giving embrace.
The sun hovered in a sky of unclouded azure. It shot its arrows into the gullies, ravines and gorges, but made no impression on the frozen covering far up in cloudland itself. Long pointed ravelings on the lower edge of the mantle showed where some of the snow had turned to water, which changed again to ice, when the sun dipped below the horizon.
The miners were pigmies as they toiled in the sides of the towering mountain walls, where they had toiled for many a day. On the lip of a projecting crag, half a mile above were three other pigmies, who neither toiled nor spun. Viewed through a glass, it was seen that they wore stained feathers in their black hair dangling about their shoulders, with the blankets wrapped round their forms descending to their moccasined feet. They were watching in grim silence these proofs of the invasion of their homes by the children of another race, and mayhap were conjuring some scheme for driving them back into the great sea across which they had sailed to occupy the new land.
One of the Indians was a chieftain. He had come in violent contact with these hated creatures and he bore on his person the scars of such meeting. All carried bows and arrows, though others of their tribe had learned the use of the deadly firearms, which has played such havoc with the American race.
Suddenly the chief uttered an exclamation. Then drawing an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder, he fitted it to the string of his long bow, and pointing downward toward the group of miners, launched the shaft. Except for the power of gravity, it would have been a foolhardy effort, but guided by the wisp of feather twisted around the reed, the missile spun far outward over the cañon, and dived through the vast reach of space, as if it were endowed with life and determined to seek out and pierce the intruders. The black eyes of the three warriors followed the arrow until it was only a flickering speck, far below them; but, before that moment arrived, they saw that it was speeding wide of the mark. When at last, the sharp point struck the flinty rock, and the missile doubled over upon itself and dropped harmlessly to the bottom of the cañon, it was at such a distance from the miners, that they knew nothing of it. They never looked up, nor were they aware of the futile anger of the red men, who seeing how useless was everything of that nature, turned about and soon passed from view.
The incident was typical of the futility of the red man struggling against his inevitable doom at the hands of his white brother.
Half way between the bottom of the cañon and the lower fringe of the vast mantle of snow, a waterfall tumbled over the edge of a rock, and with many a twist and eddy found its way to the small stream, which rippled along the bottom of the gorge, until its winding course carried it beyond sight. Now and then a rift of wind blew aside some of the foam, like a wisp of snow, and brought the murmur more clearly to the ear of the listener, shutting out for the time, the faint hollow roar that was wafted from the region of pines and cedars. It was a picture of lonely grandeur and desolation, made all the more impressive by the tiny bits of life, showing in the few spots along the mountain wall.
At the rear of the row of cabins, and elevated perhaps fifty feet above, was the comparatively smooth face of a rock, several square rods in extent. At the base was abundant footing for two persons, Parson Brush and Nellie Dawson. The teacher had marked on the dark face of the rock with a species of chalk, all the letters large and small of the alphabet. They were well drawn, for the parson, like others in the settlement, was a man of education, though his many years of roughing it had greatly rusted his book knowledge.
Standing to one side of his artistic work, like a teacher of the olden time, the parson, with a long, trimmed branch in his hand, pointed at the different letters in turn and patiently waited for his little pupil to pronounce their names.
It never would have done to make the child keep her feet like an ordinary mortal. With great labor, three of the miners had carried a stone of considerable size to the spot, which served her as a seat, while receiving instruction. It is true that she never sat still for more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish the indispensable necessity of a chair.
“You are doing very well, my dear,” said the parson, encouragingly; “you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet. I notice that the ‘d’s’ and ‘b’s’ and ‘h’s’ and ‘q’s’ puzzle you a little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now time that we took a lesson in spelling.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, Mr. Brush,” protested the queen, rising from the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; “I never can spell.”
“What is it to spell?”
“I don’t know; what is it?”
“I can best answer your question by showing you. Have you ever seen a cat?”
“Do you mean a pussy?”
“Yes; some folks call it that.”
“Oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,–I guess it must have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along. Her name was Nellie, the same as mine.”
“What became of her?”
“She died,” was the sorrowful reply; “I guess she was homesick.”
“That was too bad. Now will you tell me what letter that is?”
“Why, Mr. Brush, don’t you know?”
“Yes, but I wish to find out whether you know.”
“It is C; anybody knows that.”
“And this one?”
“A.”
“That is right; now this one?”
“T; I hope you will remember, Mr. Brush, because I don’t like to tell you so often.”
The teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening up like a jumping-jack. Then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the word itself. Nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly exclaimed with glowing face:
“Why, that’s ‘cat’!”
“Of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?”
After one or two trials she did it successfully.
“There! you have learned to spell ‘cat.’ You see how easy it is.”
“Does that spell ‘pussy’ too?”
“No,–only ‘cat.’ After a time you will be able to spell big words.”
“Let me try something else, Mr. Brush.”
The next word tackled was ‘dog,’ which was soon mastered. When this was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. He was trying to think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not readily do so.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is another. Now give me the name of that letter,”
“D.”
“And that?”
“A.”
“And that?”
“M.”
“Now say them quickly, ‘d-a-m;’ what is the word?”
“Why, it’s ‘dam’; O, Mr. Brush, I heard you say that is a bad word.”
The teacher was thunderstruck and stammered:
“I didn’t think of that, but there are two kinds of ‘dam’ and this one is not a bad word. It means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is put up to stop the flow of water.”
CHAPTER VII
PUPIL AND TEACHER
Mr. Brush glanced nervously around, to learn whether any of his friends were within hearing, shuddering to think what the consequences might be. He believed that he could explain the matter to some of the folks, but the majority were so radical in their views that they would refuse to admit the distinction, and would take him to task for teaching improper language to his young pupil. It caused him another shudder at the thought that the same penalty that Wade Ruggles had undergone might be visited upon him, though it is doubtful if the issue would have been similar.
“Ahem, Miss Nellie, when we go back home, will you promise me to say nothing about this part of your lesson?”
“You mean ’bout that bad word?”
“Yes,–let’s forget all about it.”
“I’ll try, but mebbe I’ll forget to forget it.”
“Likely enough,” gloomily reflected the parson; “suppose we try some other words. Ah, we have a visitor.”
At that moment Budge Isham climbed into view and sauntered smilingly toward them. Brush added a whispered warning to the little one not to forget her promise, though, since Isham was an educated man, there ought not to have been anything to fear in his case, but the teacher knew his waggish nature, and had good reason to fear the mischief he would delight in creating.
“Good day,” was his cheery greeting, as he came up; “I hope I am not intruding, but I thought I should like to see how you are getting on, Nellie.”
“Oh, Mr. Brush says I am learning real fast; I can spell ‘cat,’ and ‘dog,’ and ‘dam.’”
Budge raised his hands in horror.
“What in the name of heaven, parson, does she mean?”
“Mr. Isham,” said the gentleman, severely, “are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?”
“Explain yourself.”
“It is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. I am sorry you forgot yourself, but I will overlook it this time.”
Budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out.
“I doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by Nellie, if you please.”
Thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. Isham assumed a grave expression.
“The only criticism I can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. You know as well as I that if this should be submitted to a jury at the Heavenly Bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty.”
“I’m afraid it would,” responded the parson; “it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part–”
“Which is the plea that Bidwell and Ruggles made, but it didn’t answer. However, I’ll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while I shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. The trouble, however,” he added with a smile, “is to make her overlook it.”
“She has promised she will do so.”
“Since that promise was made just before I got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it.”
“I will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind,” said the parson resolutely.
Budge Isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto.
“Mr. Brush, I feel so tired.”
Her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them.
“Does your head hurt you?” inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest.
“No, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days.”
“It isn’t wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge.”
The teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded.
“You have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we’ll leave the spelling for to-morrow. Suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?”
Nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. She was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. Budge Isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. His frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. He quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of Nellie herself. At the conclusion of the lesson, Budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that Mr. Brush was the best teacher in New Constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. Then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves.
These were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. He occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. She patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven.
“Mr. Brush,” she finally said, “do you know why I love you?”
“I suppose it must be because I am so handsome,” he replied with a smile.
“No; it isn’t that, for you ain’t handsome.”
“Whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and I hope you will always do that. No; I don’t know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can’t help it.”
This was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. Then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley.
“I love you ’cause you’re good.”
Even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience.
“I am thankful to hear you say that, but, Nellie, I am not good.”
“Yes, you is, but if you ain’t good, why ain’t you good?”
The logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child.
“I suppose the true reason is because I am bad. I am sorry to say it, but I have drifted far away from where I ought to be.”
The dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. Turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked:
“Will you do what I ask you?”
He almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation:
“If it is my power I will do it, though it kills me.”
“Oh, I don’t want it to kill you; this won’t hurt you; will you do it, Mr. Brush?”
“Yes, God helping me.”
“Do like Mr. Ruggles.”
“How’s that?” asked the parson with a sinking heart.
“Don’t drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words.”
“Heavens!” thought the parson; “she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some One who is thus calling me back to duty. Yes, my child, I will do what you ask.”
“You is as good and nice as you can be now, but then you will be a good deal gooder and nicer,” said she, warmly kissing him.
“I hope so,” he added, rising to his feet, with the feeling that he was not himself but some one else, and that that some one else was the young man away among the distant hills of Missouri, before he wandered to the West, and in doing so, wandered from the path along which he had attempted to guide and lead others.
“I call myself her teacher,” he mused, as he reached down and took the tiny hand in his own, “but she is the teacher and I am the pupil.”
They had started in the direction of the cabins, when they heard curious shouts and outcries in that direction. “There’s something strange going on down there,” he said, peering toward the point; “I wonder what it can be; let us hurry and find out.”