A Waif of the Plains.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 438, 18 January 1890, Page 4

A Waif of the Plains.

BY BRET HARTE.

Author of ‘ The Argonauts,’ ‘ The Luck of Roaring Camp,’ ‘Cressy,’ Etc.

Copyright 1889—By the Author

CHAPTER VI. When Clarence was once more in the busy street before the bank it seemed clear bo his boyish mind that, being now cast adrift upon the world and responsible to no one, there was no reason why he should nob at once proceed to the neaiest gold mines ! The idea of returning to Mr Pey ton and Su*y, a* a disowned and abondoned outcast, was not to be thought of. He would purchase some kind of an outfit, such as he had seen the miners carry, and start off as soon as he had got his supper. But although one of his most delightful anticipations had been the unfettered freedom of ordering a meal at a restaurant, on entering the first one he found himself the object of so much curio-ity, partly from his size and partly from his dress, which the unfortunate boy was beginning to suspect was really preposterous, that he turned away with a stammered excuse, and did nob try another. Further on he found a baker’s shop where he refreshed himself with some gingerbread and lemon soda. At an adjacent grocery he purchased some herrings, smoked beef, and biscuits, as provisions for his ‘ pack’ or kit. Then began his real quest for an outfit. In an hour he had secured —ostensibly for some friend to avoid curious inquiry—a pan, a blanket, a shovel and pick, all of which he deposited at the baker’s— his unosbentat'ous headquarters—with the exception of a pair of disguiring high bunts that half hid his sailor trousers, which he kept to put on at the last. Even to his inexperience the cost of these articles seemed enormous ; when his purchases were complete, of his entire capital scarcely four dollars remained ! Yet in the fond illu-ions of boyhood theseappointmenisseemed possessed of far more value than the gold he had given in exchange for them, and he had enjoyed a child’s delight in besting the transforming magic of money. Meanwhile the feverish contact of the crowded street had, strange to say, increased his loneline-s, while the ruder joviality i f its dissipations began to fill him with a vague uneasiness ; the pussing glimpse of dancing halls and gaudily-whirling figures that seemed only feminine in their apparel; the shouts a d boisterous choruses from concert rooms ; the groups of drunken roy-terers that congregated around the doors of saloons or hilariously charging down the streets, elbowe 1 him against the wall, or humorously insisted on his company, discomposed and frightened him. He had known rude companionship before ; bub it was serious, practical and under control there was something in this vulgar degr dation of intellect and power qualities that Clarence had always boyishly worshipped—which sickened and disillusionised him. Later on a pistol shot in a crowd beyond, the rush of eager men past him, the disclosure of a limp and helpless figure against the wall, the closing of the crowd again around it, although it stirred him with a fearful curiosity, actually shocked him less hopelessly than bhoir brutish enjoyments and abandonment.

It was in one of these rushes that he had been crushed against a swinging door which, giving way to his pressure, disclosed to his wondering eyes a long gib teringly-adorned, and brightly-lit room, densely filled with a silent, attentive throng in attitudes of decorous abstraction and pre-occupation that even the shouts and tumult at its very doors could not disturb. Men of all ranks and conditions, plainly or elaborately clad, were grouped together under this magic spell of silence and attention. The table-' before them were covered with cards and loose heaps of gold and silver, A clicking, the rattling of an ivory ball, and the frequent, formal, lazy reiteration of some unintelligble sentence was all that he heard. But by a sudden instinct he understood it all. It was a gambling saloon ! Encouraged by the decorous stillness, and the fact that everybody appeared too much engaged to notice him, the boy drew timidly beside one of the tables. It was covered with a number of cards, on which were placed certain sums of money. Looking down, Clarence saw that he was standing before a card that as yet had nothing on it. A single player at his side looked up. glanced at Clarence curiously, and then placed half a dozen gold pieces on the vacant card. Absorbed in the general aspect of the room and the players, Clarence did not notice that his neighbour won twice, and even thrice , upon this card. Becoming aware, however, that the player while gathering in his gai..s, was smilingly regarding him, he moved in some embarrassment to the other end of the table where there seemed another gap in the crowd. It so chanced that there was also another vacant card. The pr- vious neighbour of Clarence instantly shoved a sum of money across the table on the vacant card and won 1 At this the other players began to regard Clarence singularly, one or two of the spectators smiled, and the boy, colouring, moved awkwardly away. But his sleeve was caught by the successful player, who, detaining him gently, pub three gold pieces into his hand. 4 That’s your share, sonny,* he whispered. 4 Share—for what what ?’ stammered the astounded Clarence. 4 For bringing me “ the luck,” * said the man.' ' Clarence stared. ‘ Am I—to—to play with it?' he said, glancing at the coins and

then at the table, in his ignorance of the stranger’s meaning. ‘ No, no !’ said the man hurriedly, * don’t do that, you’ll lose it, sonny, sure ! Don't you see you bring the luck to other*, not to yourself. Keep it, old man, and run home !’ * I don’t want it ! I won’t have it!’ said Clarence, with a swift recollection of the manipulation of his purse that morning, and a sudden distrust of all mankind. ‘ There !’ He turned back to the table and laid the money on the vacant card he saw. In another moment, as it seemed to him, it was raked away by the dealer. A sense of relief came over him.

‘ There,’ said the man with the awed voice and a strange fatuous look in his eye. ‘ What did I tell you ? You see it’s alius so ! Now,’ be added roughly, ‘Get up and get out o’ this afore you lose the boots and shirt off ye.’ Clarence did not wait for a second command. With another glance around the room he began to make his way througn the crowd towards the front. But in that parting glance he caught a glance of a woman presiding over a ‘ wheel of fortune ’ in a corner, whose face seemed familiar. He looked again timidly. In spite of an extra ordinary head-dress or crown that she wore as the G ddess of * Fortune,’ he recognised, twisted in its tinsel, a certain scai let vine which he had seen before; in spite of the hoarse formula which she was continually repeating, he recognised the foreign accent. It was the woman of the stage coach ! With a sudden dread that she might recognise him and likewise demand his services ‘ for luck,’ he turned and fled. Once more in the open air, there came upon him a vague loathing and horror of the restless madness and feverish di-traction of this half-civilised city. It was the more powerful that it was vague, and the outcome of some inward instinct. He found himself longing for the pure air and sympathetic loveliness of the plains and wilderness : he begap to yearn for the companionship of his humbler associates the teamst- r, the scout Gildersleeve, and even Jim H oker. But above all ami before all was the wild desire to get away from these maddening streets and their bewildering occupants. He ran back to the baker’s, gathered his purchases together, took advantage of a friendly doorway to strap them on his boyish shoulders, slipped into a side street, and struck out at once for the outskirts.

It had been his first intention to take stage to the nearest mining district, but the diminution of his small capital forbade that outlay, and he decided to walk there by the high road, of whose general direction he had informed himself. In half an hour the lights of the flat, struggling city, and their refl-ction in the shallow turbid river before it, had sunk well behind him. The air was coot and soft; a yellow moon swam in the slight haze that lose above the tide*, in the distance a few scatteied cotton woods and sycamores marked like sentinels the road. When he had walked some distance he sat down beneath one of them, made a frugal supper from the dry rations in his pack, but in the absence of any spring < he was forced to quench his thiivt with a glass of water in a viayside tavern. Here he was good-humouredly ottered something stronger, which he declined, and replied to certain curious interrogations by saying that he expected to overtake some friends in a waggon further on. A ne« distrust of mankind had begun to make the b.>y an adept in innocent falsehood, the more deceptive as his careless, cheerful manner the result of his relief at leaving the city, and his perfect ea-e in the loving companionship of night and nature, certainly gave no indica ion of his homelessness and poverty. It was long Da-*t midnight when, weary in body but s ill hopeful and happy in mind, he turned off the dusty road into a vast rolling expanse of wild oats, with a sense of security of rest as a traveller to his inn. Here, completely screened from view by the tall stalks of grain that rose thickly around him to the h- ight of a man’s shoulder, he beat down a few of them for a bed on which he deposited his blanket. Placing his pack for a pillow he curled himself up in his blanket and spetdily fell asleep. He awoke at sunrise refreshed, invigorated, and hungry. But he was forced to deter his first self-prepared breakfast until he had reached water, and a less dangerous place than the wild oat field to build his first self-prepared camp fire. This he found a mile further on, near some dwarf willows on the bank of a half dry stream. Of his various efiorts to prepare his fir«t meal the lire was the most succes-ful ; tho coffee was somewhat too substantially thick, and the bacon and herring lacked definiteness of quality from having been cooked in the same vessel. In tnis boyish picnic he missed Susy, and recalled, perhaps a little bitterly, her coldness at parting. But the novelty of his situation, the brilliant sunshine, and sense of freeoom, and the road already awaking to dusty life with passing teams, dismissed anything but the future from his mind. Readjusting his pack he stepped on cheerily. Ac noon he was overtaken by a teamster, who in return for a match to light his pipe gave him a lift of a dozen miles, it is to be feared that Clarence’s account of himself was equally fanciful with his previous story, and chat the teamster parted Irom him with a genuine regret and a hope that he would soon be overtaken by hie friend along the road. ‘ And mind you ain’t such a fool agin to let ’em make you tote their dodd—blasted tools fur then) !’ he added unsuspnctingly, pointing bo Clarence’s mining outfit. Thus saved the heaviest part of the day’s journey, for the road was continually rising from the plains during the last six miles, Clarence was able yet to cover a considerable distance on foot before he halted for supper. Here he was again fortunate. An empty lumber team —waceringat the same spring, its driver ottered to bake Clarence’s purchases—for the boy had profited by his late friend’s suggestion to personally detach himself from his equipment - to Buckeye Mills for a dollar, which would also include a ‘shakedown pa-sage’ for himself on the floor ot the waggon. ‘ I reckon you ve bin foolin’ away in Sacramento the money yer parents give yer fur return stage fare, eh ? Don’t die, sonny,’ he added grimly, as the now artful Clarence smiled diplomatically. ‘l’ve bin thar myi-elf!’ Luckily the excuse that he was ‘tired and sleepy’ prevented further dangerous questioning, arid the boy was soon really in deep slumber on the svaggon floor.

He awoke betimes to find himself already in the mountains. Buckeye Mills was a queer settlement, and Clarence prudently stopp- d all embarrassing inquiry for his friend by dropping off the waggon with his equipment as they entered it, and hurriedly saying * Good-bye ’ from a cross-road through the woods. He had learned that the nearest mining camp was five miles away, and its direction was indicated by a long wooden ‘flume’ or water-way that alternately appeared and disappeared on the flank of the mountain opposite. The cooler and dryer air. the grateful shadow of pi e and bay, and the spicy balsamic odours that everywhere greeted him thrilled and exhilarated him. The trail plunging sometimes into an undisturbed forest, he started the birds before him like a flight of ar rows through its dim recesses; at times he hung breathlessly over the • blue depths of canons where the same forests were

repeated a thousand feet below. Towards noon he struck into a rude road evidently the thoroughfare of the locality—and was surprised to find that it—as well as the adjacent soil wherever disturbed—was a deep Indian red! Everywhere; along its sides, powdering the banks and boles of trees with its ruddy stain; in billows and hillocks of piled dir: on the road, or in liquid paint-like pools, when a trickling stream had found a gutter across it, there was always the same deep sanguinary colour. Once or twice it became more vivid, in contact with the white teeth of quartz that peeped through it from the hill side or crossed the r >ad in crumbled strata. One of those piecesClaienee picked up with a quickened pulse ! It was veined and streaked with shining mica and tiny glittering cubes of mineral that looked like gold I

The road now began to descend toward a winding stream, shrunken by draught and ditching, that glared dazzlingly in the sunlight from its white bars of sand, or glistened in shining sheets and channels. Along its banks, and even encroaching upon its bed, were scattered a few mud cabins, strange looking wooden troughsand gutters, and here and there, glancing through the leaves, the white canvass of tents. The stumps of felled trees and blackened spaces, as of recent fires, marked the stream on either side. A sudden sense of disappointment overcame Clarence. It looked vulgar, common, and wor-e than all— familiar. It was like the unlovely outskirts of a dozen other prosaic settlements he had seen in less romantic localities. In that muddy red stream, pouring out of a wooden gutter, in which three or four bearded, slouching, halfnaked figures were raking like chiffonniere -«, there was nothing to suggest the royal metal. Yet he was so absorbed in gazing at the scene, and had walked so rapidly during the past lew minutes, that he was startled on turning a sharp corner of the road to come abruptly up'-n an outlying dwelling. It was a nondescript building, half canvass and half boards. The interior seen through the half - open door was fitted up with side shelves, and a counter carelessly piled with provisions, groceries, clothing, and hardware—with no attempt at display or even ordinary selection—and a table on which stood a demi john and three or tour dirty glasses. Two roughlydres ed men, whose long m itted beards and hair left only their eyes and lips visible in the tangled hirssute wilderness below their slouched hats, were leaning against th ) opposite sides of the doorway smoking. Almost thrown against them in the rapid momentum of his descent, Clarence halted violently. ‘ V- ell, sonny, you needn't capsize the shanty,’ said the first man, without taking his i ipe from his lips.

‘ If yer looking fur yer ma, she and your Aunt Jans hev jest gone over to Parson Doolittle's to take tea,’observed the second man lazily. ‘She alio wed that you’d wait.’ ‘ I’m—l’m—going to—to the mines,’ explained Clarence with some hesitation. ‘ I s ppose this is the way ?’ The two men took their pipes from their lips, looked at each other, completely wiped every vestige of expression lrom their faces with the back of their bands, turned their eyes into the interior of the cabin and said, * Will yer come yer, now, will yer?’ Thus adjured, a half a dozen men, also bearded and carrying pipes in their mouths, straggled out of the shanty and, filing in front of it, squatted down with their backs against the boards and gazed comfortably at the boy. Clarence began to feel uneasy. ‘ I’ll give,’ said one, taking out his pipe and grimly eyeing Clarence, ‘ a hundred dollars for him as ho stands.’ ‘ And seein’ as he’s got that bran-new rig out. o’ tools,’ said another, ‘ I’ll give a hundred and titty—and the drinks. I've bin, 1 he added, apologetically, * wantin’ suthin’ like this along time.’ ‘ Well, gen’lemen,’ said the man who had first spoken to him, * lookin’ at him by and large; takin’ in, so to speak, the gin’ral gait of him in single harness, bearin’ in mind the perfect fieshness of him, and the coolness and size of his cheek, the easy downyness, previousness, and utter done-care-a-damativeness of his coming yer. I think two hundred ain’t too much for him, and we’ll call it a bargain.’ Clarence’s previous experience of this grim, smileless Californian chaff was not calculated to resbnre his confidence. He drew away from the cabin and repeated doggedly. ‘ I asked you if this was the way to the mines.’

‘ It are the mines, and these yere are the miners,’ said the first speaker, gravely. ‘ Permit me to interiloose ’em. This yore's Shasta Tim, this yere’s Shortcard Bil‘y, this is Nasty Bob, and this Slumgullion Dick. This yer’s the Dook o’ Chatham street, the Livin’ Skeleton, and me !’

‘ May we ask, fair young sir,’ said the Living Skeleton, who, however, seemed in fairly robust condition, ‘whence came ye on tho wings of the morning, and whose Marble Halls ye hev left desolate ?’ ‘ I came across the plains, and gob into Stockton two days ago on Mr Peyton’s train,’ said Clarence, indignantly, seeing no reason now to conceal anything. I came to S icramenbo to find my cousin who isn’ living there any more. I don’t see anything funny in that ! I came here to the mines to dig gold—because—because, Mr Silsbee, the man who «as to bring me here and might have found my cousin for me, was killed by Indians.’ 4 Hold up, sonny. Let me help ye,’ said the first speaker, rising to his feet. ‘ You didn’t get killed bv Injins because you got lo fl t out of train with Siisbee’s infant darter. Peyton picked you up while you was takin’ care of her, and two days after you kem up to the broken-down Silsbee waggons, with all the folks lyin' there slartered.’ 4 Yes, sir,' said Clarence, breathless with astotii-hmenb. ‘ And,’ continued the man, putting his hand gravely to his head as if to assist his memory, ‘ when you was all alone on the plains with that little child you saw one of those redskins as near to you as I be wa*chin’ the train, and you didn’t breathe or move while he was there ?’ - ‘ Yes, sir,’ said Clarence, eagerly. ‘ And you was shot at by Peyton, he thinkin’ you was an Injin in the Mesquite grass? And you once shota buffalo that had bin pitched with you down a gu.ly—all by yourself ?’ * Yes,’ said Clarence, crimson with wonder and pleasure. ‘ You know me, then ?’ 4 Well, ye e-es,’ said the man, gravely, parting his moustache with his fingers. 4 You see, you’ve been here before.' (To be Continued.)