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“WHO brought me?”
“Tenbrook; he’s as strong as a horse. Slung you up on his shoulders like a feather pillow.”
“Oh!”
“And then, as the wagon required some repairing from the brute’s attack, we concluded to take it leisurely, and let you rest here for a while.”
“And where is—where are THEY?”
“At work on the wagon. I determined to stay with you, though you are perfectly safe here.”
“I suppose I ought—to thank—this man, papa?”
“Most certainly, though of course, I have already done so. But he was rather curt in reply. These half-savage men have such singular ideas. He said the beast would never have attacked you except for the honey-pot which it scented. That’s absurd.”
“Then it’s all my fault?”
“Nonsense! How could YOU know?”
“And I’ve made all this trouble. And frightened the horses. And spoilt the wagon. And made the man run down and bring me up here when he didn’t want to!”
“My dear child! Don’t be idiotic! Amy! Well, really!”
For the idiotic one was really wiping two large tears from her lovely blue eyes. She subsided into an ominous silence, broken by a single sniffle. “Try to go to sleep, dear; you’ve had quite a shock to your nerves, added her father soothingly. She continued silent, but not sleeping.
“I smell coffee.”
“Yes, dear.”
“You’ve been having coffee, papa?”
“We DID have some, I think,” said the wretched man apologetically, though why he could not determine.
“Before I came up? while the bear was trying to eat me?”
“No, after.”
“I’ve a horrid taste in my mouth. It’s the honey. I’ll never eat honey again. Never!”
“Perhaps it’s the whiskey.”
“What?”
“The whiskey. You were quite faint and chilled, you know. We gave you some.”
“Out of—that—black—bottle?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“I’d like some coffee. I don’t think he’d begrudge me that, if he did save my life.”
“I dare say there’s some left.” Her father at once bestirred himself and presently brought her some coffee in a tin cup. It was part of Miss Amy’s rapid convalescence, or equally of her debilitated condition, that she made no comment on the vessel. She lay for some moments looking curiously around the cabin; she had no doubt it had a worse look in the daylight, but somehow the firelight brought out a wondrous luxury of color in the bark floor and thatching. Besides, it was not “smelly,” as she feared it would be; on the contrary the spicy aroma of the woods was always dominant. She remembered that it was this that always made a greasy, oily picnic tolerable. She raised herself on her elbow, seeing which her father continued confidently, “Perhaps, dear, if you sat up for a few moments you might be strong enough presently to walk down with me to the wagon. It would save time.”
Amy instantly lay down again. “I don’t know what you can be thinking of, papa. After this shock really I don’t feel as if I could STAND alone, much less WALK. But, of course,” with pathetic resignation, “if you and Mr. Waterhouse supported me, perhaps I might crawl a few steps at a time.”
“Nonsense, Amy. Of course, this man Tenbrook will carry you down as he brought you up. Only I thought,—but there are steps, they’re coming now. No!—only HE.”
The sound of crackling in the underbrush was followed by a momentary darkening of the open door of the cabin. It was the tall figure of the mountaineer. But he did not even make the pretense of entering; standing at the door he delivered his news to the interior generally. It was to the effect that everything was ready, and the two other men were even then harnessing the horses. Then he drew back into the darkness.
“Papa,” said Amy, in a sudden frightened voice, “I’ve lost my bracelet.”
“Haven’t you dropped it somewhere there in the bunk?” asked her father.
“No. It’s on the floor of the wagon. I remember now it fell off when I tumbled! And it will be trodden upon and crushed! Couldn’t you run down, ahead of me, and warn them, papa, dear? Mr. Tenbrook will have to go so slowly with me.” She tumbled out of the bunk with singular alacrity, shook herself and her skirts into instantaneous gracefulness, and fitted the velvet cap on her straying hair. Then she said hurriedly, “Run quick, papa dear, and as you go, call him in and say I am quite ready.”
Thus adjured, the obedient parent disappeared in the darkness. With him also disappeared Miss Amy’s singular alacrity. Sitting down carefully again on the edge of the bunk, she leaned against the post with a certain indefinable languor that was as touching as it was graceful. I need not tell any feminine readers that there was no dissimulation in all this,—no coquetry, no ostentation,—and that the young girl was perfectly sincere! But the masculine reader might like to know that the simple fact was that, since she had regained consciousness, she had been filled with remorse for her capricious and ungenerous rejection of Tenbrook’s proffered service. More than that, she felt she had periled her life in that moment of folly, and that this man—this hero—had saved her. For hero he was, even if he did not fulfill her ideal,—it was only SHE that was not a heroine. Perhaps if he had been more like what she wished she would have felt this less keenly; love leaves little room for the exercise of moral ethics. So Miss Amy Forester, being a good girl at bottom, and not exactly loving this man, felt towards him a frank and tender consideration which a more romantic passion would have shrunk from showing. Consequently, when Tenbrook entered a moment later, he found Amy paler and more thoughtful, but, as he fancied, much prettier than before, looking up at him with eyes of the sincerest solicitude.
Nevertheless, he remained standing near the door, as if indicating a possible intrusion, his face wearing a look of lowering abstraction. It struck her that this might be the effect of his long hair and general uncouthness, and this only spurred her to a fuller recognition of his other qualities.
“I am afraid,” she began, with a charming embarrassment, “that instead of resting satisfied with your kindness in carrying me up here, I will have to burden you again with my dreadful weakness, and ask you to carry me down also. But all this seems so little after what you have just done and for which I can never, NEVER hope to thank you!” She clasped her two little hands together, holding her gloves between, and brought them down upon her lap in a gesture as prettily helpless as it was unaffected.
“I have done scarcely anything,” he said, glancing away towards the fire, “and—your father has thanked me.”
“You have saved my life!”
“No! no!” he said quickly. “Not that! You were in no danger, except from my rifle, had I missed.”
“I see,” she said eagerly, with a little posthumous thrill at having been after all a kind of heroine, “and it was a wonderful shot, for you were so careful not to touch me.”
“Please don’t say any more,” he said, with a slight movement of half awkwardness, half impatience. “It was a rough job, but it’s over now.”
He stopped and chafed his red hands abstractedly together. She could see that he had evidently just washed them—and the glaring ring was more in evidence than ever. But the thought gave her an inspiration.
“You’ll at least let me shake hands with you!” she said, extending both her own with childish frankness.
“Hold on, Miss Forester,” he said, with sudden desperation. “It ain’t the square thing! Look here! I can’t play this thing on you!—I can’t let you play it on me any longer! You weren’t in any danger,—you NEVER were! That bear was only a half-wild thing I helped to ra’r myself! It’s taken sugar from my hand night after night at the door of this cabin as it might have taken it from yours here if it was alive now. It slept night after night in the brush, not fifty yards away. The morning’s never come yet—till now,” he said hastily, to cover an odd break in his voice, “when it didn’t brush along the whole side of this cabin to kinder wake me up and say ‘So long,’ afore it browsed away into the canyon. Thar ain’t a man along the whole Divide who didn’t know it; thar ain’t a man along the whole Divide that would have drawn a bead or pulled a trigger on it till now. It never had an enemy but the bees; it never even knew why horses and cattle were frightened of it. It wasn’t much of a pet, you’d say, Miss Forester; it wasn’t much to meet a lady’s eye; but we of the woods must take our friends where we find ‘em and of our own kind. It ain’t no fault of yours, Miss, that you didn’t know it; it ain’t no fault of yours what happened; but when it comes to your THANKING me for it, why—it’s—it’s rather rough, you see—and gets me.” He stopped short as desperately and as abruptly as he had begun, and stared blankly at the fire.
A wave of pity and shame swept over the young girl and left its high tide on her cheek. But even then it was closely followed by the feminine instinct of defence and defiance. The REAL hero—the GENTLEMAN—she reasoned bitterly, would have spared her all this knowledge.
“But why,” she said, with knitted brows, “why, if you knew it was so precious and so harmless—why did you fire upon it?”
“Because,” he said almost fiercely, turning upon her, “because you SCREAMED, and THEN I KNEW IT HAD FRIGHTENED YOU!” He stopped instantly as she momentarily recoiled from him, but the very brusqueness of his action had dislodged a tear from his dark eyes that fell warm on the back of her hand, and seemed to blot out the indignity. “Listen, Miss,” he went on hurriedly, as if to cover up his momentary unmanliness. “I knew the bear was missing to-night, and when I heard the horses scurrying about I reckoned what was up. I knew no harm could come to you, for the horses were unharnessed and away from the wagon. I pelted down that trail ahead of them all like grim death, calkilatin’ to get there before the bear; they wouldn’t have understood me; I was too high up to call to the creature when he did come out, and I kinder hoped you wouldn’t see him. Even when he turned towards the wagon, I knew it wasn’t YOU he was after, but suthin’ else, and I kinder hoped, Miss, that you, being different and quicker-minded than the rest, would see it too. All the while them folks were yellin’ behind me to fire—as if I didn’t know my work. I was half-way down—and then you screamed! And then I forgot everything,—everything but standing clear of hitting you,—and I fired. I was that savage that I wanted to believe that he’d gone mad, and would have touched you, till I got down there and found the honey-pot lying alongside of him. But there,—it’s all over now! I wouldn’t have let on a word to you only I couldn’t bear to take YOUR THANKS for it, and I couldn’t bear to have you thinking me a brute for dodgin’ them.” He stopped, walked to the fire, leaned against the chimney under the shallow pretext of kicking the dull embers into a blaze, which, however, had only the effect of revealing his two glistening eyes as he turned back again and came towards her. “Well,” he said, with an ineffectual laugh, “it’s all over now, it’s all in the day’s work, I reckon,—and now, Miss, if you’re ready, and will just fix yourself your own way so as to ride easy, I’ll carry you down.” And slightly bending his strong figure, he dropped on one knee beside her with extended arms.
Now it is one thing to be carried up a hill in temperate, unconscious blood and practical business fashion by a tall, powerful man with steadfast, glowering eyes, but quite another thing to be carried down again by the same man, who has been crying, and when you are conscious that you are going to cry too, and your tears may be apt to mingle. So Miss Amy Forester said: “Oh, wait, please! Sit down a moment. Oh, Mr. Tenbrook, I am so very, very sorry,” and, clapping her hand to her eyes, burst into tears.
“Oh, please, please don’t, Miss Forester,” said Jack, sitting down on the end of the bunk with frightened eyes, “please don’t do that! It ain’t worth it. I’m only a brute to have said anything.”
“No, no! You are SO noble, SO forgiving!” sobbed Miss Forester, “and I have made you go and kill the only thing you cared for, that was all your own.”
“No, Miss,—not all my own, either,—and that makes it so rough. For it was only left in trust with me by a friend. It was her only companion.”
“HER only companion?” echoed Miss Forester, sharply lifting her bowed head.
“Except,” said Jack hurriedly, miscomprehending the emphasis with masculine fatuity,—“except the dying man for whom she lived and sacrificed her whole life. She gave me this ring, to always remind me of my trust. I suppose,” he added ruefully, looking down upon it, “it’s no use now. I’d better take it off.”
Then Amy eyed the monstrous object with angelic simplicity. “I certainly should,” she said with infinite sweetness; “it would only remind you of your loss. But,” she added, with a sudden, swift, imploring look of her blue eyes, “if you could part with it to me, it would be such a reminder and token of—of your forgiveness.”
Jack instantly handed it to her. “And now,” he said, “let me carry you down.”
“I think,” she said hesitatingly, “that—I had better try to walk,” and she rose to her feet.
“Then I shall know that you have not forgiven me,” said Jack sadly.
“But I have no right to trouble”—
Alas! she had no time to finish her polite objection, for the next moment she felt herself lifted in the air, smelled the bark thatch within an inch of her nose, saw the firelight vanish behind her, and subsiding into his curved arms as in a hammock, the two passed forth into the night together.
“I can’t find, your bracelet anywhere, Amy,” said her father, when they reached the wagon.
“It was on the floor in the lint,” said Amy reproachfully. “But, of course, you never thought of that!”
My pen halts with some diffidence between two conclusions to this veracious chronicle. As they agree in result, though not in theory or intention, I may venture to give them both. To one coming from the lips of the charming heroine herself I naturally yield the precedence. “Oh, the bear story! I don’t really remember whether that was before I was engaged to John or after. But I had known him for some time; father introduced him at the Governor’s ball at Sacramento. Let me see!—I think it was in the winter of ‘56. Yes! it was very amusing; I always used to charge John with having trained that bear to attack our carriage so that he might come in as a hero! Oh, of course, there are a hundred absurd stories about him,—they used to say that he lived all alone in a cabin like a savage, and all that sort of thing, and was a friend of a dubious woman in the locality, whom the common people made a heroine of,—Miggles, or Wiggles, or some such preposterous name. But look at John there; can you conceive it?” The listener, glancing at a very handsome, clean-shaven fellow, faultlessly attired, could not conceive such an absurdity. So I therefore simply give the opinion of Joshua Bixley, Superintendent of the Long Divide Tunnel Company, for what it is worth: “I never took much stock in that bear story, and its captivating old Forester’s daughter. Old Forester knew a thing or two, and when he was out here consolidating tunnels, he found out that Jack Tenbrook was about headed for the big lead, and brought him out and introduced him to Amy. You see, Jack, clear grit as he was, was mighty rough style, and about as simple as they make ‘em, and they had to get up something to account for that girl’s taking a shine to him. But they seem to be happy enough—and what are you going to do about it?”
And I transfer this philosophic query to the reader.
THE YOUNGEST PROSPECTOR IN CALAVERAS
He was scarcely eight when it was believed that he could have reasonably laid claim to the above title. But he never did. He was a small boy, intensely freckled to the roots of his tawny hair, with even a suspicion of it in his almond-shaped but somewhat full eyes, which were the greenish hue of a ripe gooseberry. All this was very unlike his parents, from whom he diverged in resemblance in that fashion so often seen in the Southwest of America, as if the youth of the boundless West had struck a new note of independence and originality, overriding all conservative and established rules of heredity. Something of this was also shown in a singular and remarkable reticence and firmness of purpose, quite unlike his family or schoolfellows. His mother was the wife of a teamster, who had apparently once “dumped” his family, consisting of a boy and two girls, on the roadside at Burnt Spring, with the canvas roof of his wagon to cover them, while he proceeded to deliver other freight, not so exclusively his own, at other stations along the road, returning to them on distant and separate occasions with slight additions to their stock, habitation, and furniture. In this way the canvas roof was finally shingled and the hut enlarged, and, under the quickening of a smiling California sky and the forcing of a teeming California soil, the chance-sown seed took root and became known as Medliker’s Ranch, or “Medliker’s,” with its bursting garden patch and its three sheds or “lean-to’s.”
The girls helped their mother in a childish, imitative way; the boy, John Bunyan, after a more desultory and original fashion—when he was not “going to” or ostensibly “coming from” school, for he was seldom actually there. Something of this fear was in the mind of Mrs. Medliker one morning as she looked up from the kettle she was scrubbing, with premonition of “more worriting,” to behold the Reverend Mr. Staples, the local minister, hale John Bunyan Medliker into the shanty with one hand. Letting Johnny go, he placed his back against the door and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. Johnny dropped into a chair, furtively glancing at the arm by which Mr. Staples had dragged him, and feeling it with the other hand to see if it was really longer.
“I’ve been requested by the schoolmaster,” said the Rev. Mr. Staples, putting his handkerchief back into his broad felt hat with a gasping smile, “to bring our young friend before you for a matter of counsel and discipline. I have done so, Sister Medliker, with some difficulty,”—he looked down at John Bunyan, who again felt his arm and was satisfied that it WAS longer—“but we must do our dooty, even with difficulty to ourselves, and, perhaps, to others. Our young friend, John Bunyan, stands on a giddy height—on slippery places, and,” continued Mr. Staples, with a lofty disregard to consecutive metaphor, “his feet are taking fast hold of destruction.” Here the child drew a breath of relief, possibly at the prospect of being on firm ground of any kind at last; but Sister Medliker, to whom the Staples style of exordium had only a Sabbath significance, turned to her offspring abruptly:—
“And what’s these yer doin’s now, John? and me a slavin’ to send ye to school?”
Thus appealed to, Johnny looked for a reply at his feet, at his arm, and at the kettle. Then he said: “I ain’t done nothin’, but he”—indicating Staples—“hez been nigh onter pullin’ off my arm.”
“It’s now almost a week ago,” continued Mr. Staples, waving aside the interruption with a smile of painful Christian tolerance, “or perhaps ten days—I won’t be too sure—that the schoolmaster discovered that Johnny had in his possession two or three flakes of fine river gold—each of the value of half a dollar, or perhaps sixty-two and one half cents. On being questioned where he got them he refused to say; although subsequently he alleged that he had ‘found’ them. It being a single instance, he was given the benefit of the doubt, and nothing more was said about it. But a few days after he was found trying to pass off, at Mr. Smith’s store, two other flakes of a different size, and a small nugget of the value of four or five dollars. At this point I was called in; he repeated to me, I grieve to say, the same untruthfulness, and when I suggested to him the obvious fact that he had taken it from one of the miner’s sluice boxes and committed the grievous sin of theft, he wickedly denied it—so that we are prevented from carrying out the Christian command of restoring it even ONE fold, instead of four or five fold as the Mosaic Law might have required. We were, alas! unable to ascertain anything from the miners themselves, though I grieve to say they one and all agreed that their ‘take’ that week was not at all what they had expected. I even went so far as to admit the possibility of his own statement, and besought him at least to show me where he had found it. He at first refused with great stubbornness of temper, but later consented to accompany me privately this afternoon to the spot.” Mr. Staples paused, and sinking his voice gloomily, and with his eyes fixed upon Johnny, continued slowly: “When I state that, after several times trying to evade me on the way, he finally led me to the top of Bald Hill, where there is not a scrap of soil, and not the slightest indication, and still persisted that he found it THERE, you will understand, Sister Medliker, the incorrigibility of his conduct, and how he has added the sin of ‘false witness’ to his breaking the Eighth Commandment. But I leave him to your Christian discipline! Let us hope that if, through his stiff-necked obduracy, he has haply escaped the vengeance of man’s law, he will not escape the rod of the domestic tabernacle.”
“Ye kin leave him to me,” said Mrs. Medliker, in her anxiety to get rid of the parson, assuming a confidence she was far from feeling.
“So be it, Sister Medliker,” said Staples, drawing a long, satisfactory breath; “and let us trust that when you have rastled with his flesh and spirit, you will bring us joyful tidings to Wednesday’s Mother’s Meeting.”
He clapped his soft hat on his head, cast another glance at the wicked Johnny, opened the door with his hand behind him, and backed himself into the road.
“Now, Johnny,” said Mrs. Medliker, setting her lips together as the door closed, “look me right in the face, and say where you stole that gold.”
But Johnny evidently did not think that his mother’s face at that moment offered any moral support, for he did not look at her; but, after gazing at the kettle, said slowly, “I didn’t steal no gold.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Medliker triumphantly, “if ye didn’t steal it, you’d say right off HOW ye got it.”
Children are often better logicians than their elders. To John Bunyan the stealing of gold and the mere refusal to say where he got it were two distinct and separate things; that the negation of the second proposition meant the affirmation of the first he could not accept. But then children are also imitative, and fearful of the older intellect. It struck Johnny that his mother might be right, and that to her it really meant the same thing. So, after a moment’s silence he replied more confidently, “I suppose I stoled it.”
But he was utterly unprepared for the darkening change in his mother’s face, and her furious accents. “You stole it?—you STOLE it, you limb! And you sit there and brazenly tell me! Who did you steal it from? Tell me quick, afore I wring it out of you!”
Completely astounded and bewildered at this new turn of affairs, Johnny again fell back upon the dreadful truth, and gasped, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, you devil! Did you take it from Frazer’s?”
“No.”
“From the Simmons Brothers?”
“No.”
“From the Blazing Star Company?”
“No.”
“From a store?”
“No.”
“Then, in created goodness!—WHERE did you get it?”
Johnny raised his brown-gooseberry eyes for a single instant to his mother’s and said, “I found it.”
Mrs. Medliker gasped again and stared hopelessly at the ceiling. Yet she was conscious of a certain relief. After all, it was POSSIBLE that he had found it—liar as he undoubtedly was.
“Then why don’t you say where, you awful child?”
“Don’t want to!”
Johnny would have liked to add that he saw no reason why he should tell. Other people who found gold were not obliged to tell. There was Jim Brody, who had struck a lead and kept the locality secret. Nobody forced him to tell. Nobody called him a thief; nobody had dragged him about by the arm until he showed it. Why was it wrong that a little boy should find gold? It wasn’t agin the Commandments. Mr. Staples had never got up and said, “Thou shalt not find gold!” His mother had never made him pray not to find it! The schoolmaster had never read him awful stories of boys who found gold and never said anything about it, and so came to a horrid end. All this crowded his small boy’s mind, and, crowding, choked his small boy’s utterance.