"Stranger!"
The voice was not loud, but clear and penetrating. I looked vainly up
and down the narrow, darkening trail. No one in the fringe of alder
ahead; no one on the gullied slope behind.
"O! stranger!"
This time a little impatiently. The California classical vocative,
"O," always meant business.
I looked up, and perceived for the first time on the ledge, thirty feet
above me, another trail parallel with my own, and looking down upon me
through the buckeye bushes a small man on a black horse.
Five things to be here noted by the circumspect mountaineer. FIRST, the
locality,—lonely and inaccessible, and away from the regular faring of
teamsters and miners. SECONDLY, the stranger's superior knowledge of
the road, from the fact that the other trail was unknown to the
ordinary traveler. THIRDLY, that he was well armed and equipped.
FOURTHLY, that he was better mounted. FIFTHLY, that any distrust or
timidity arising from the contemplation of these facts had better be
kept to one's self.
All this passed rapidly through my mind as I returned his salutation.
"Got any tobacco?" he asked.
I had, and signified the fact, holding up the pouch inquiringly.
"All right, I'll come down. Ride on, and I'll jine ye on the slide."
"The slide!" Here was a new geographical discovery as odd as the
second trail. I had ridden over the trail a dozen times, and seen no
communication between the ledge and trail. Nevertheless, I went on a
hundred yards or so, when there was a sharp crackling in the
underbrush, a shower of stones on the trail, and my friend plunged
through the bushes to my side, down a grade that I should scarcely have
dared to lead my horse. There was no doubt he was an accomplished
rider,—another fact to be noted.
As he ranged beside me, I found I was not mistaken as to his size; he
was quite under the medium height, and but for a pair of cold, gray
eyes, was rather commonplace in feature.
"You've got a good horse there," I suggested.
He was filling his pipe from my pouch, but looked up a little
surprised, and said, "Of course." He then puffed away with the nervous
eagerness of a man long deprived of that sedative. Finally, between the
puffs, he asked me whence I came.
I replied, "From Lagrange."
He looked at me a few moments curiously, but on my adding that I had
only halted there for a few hours, he said: "I thought I knew every man
between Lagrange and Indian Spring, but somehow I sorter disremember
your face and your name."
Not particularly caring that he should remember either, I replied half
laughingly, that, as I lived the other side of Indian Spring, it was
quite natural. He took the rebuff, if such it was, so quietly that as
an act of mere perfunctory politeness I asked him where he came from.
"Lagrange."
"And you are going to—"
"Well! that depends pretty much on how things pan out, and whether I
can make the riffle." He let his hand rest quite unconsciously on the
leathern holster of his dragoon revolver, yet with a strong suggestion
to me of his ability "to make the riffle" if he wanted to, and added:
"But just now I was reck'nin' on taking a little pasear with you."
There was nothing offensive in his speech save its familiarity, and the
reflection, perhaps, that whether I objected or not, he was quite able
to do as he said. I only replied that if our pasear was prolonged
beyond Heavytree Hill, I should have to borrow his beast. To my
surprise he replied quietly, "That's so," adding that the horse was at
my disposal when he wasn't using it, and HALF of it when he was. "Dick
has carried double many a time before this," he continued, "and kin do
it again; when your mustang gives out I'll give you a lift and room to
spare."
I could not help smiling at the idea of appearing before the boys at
Red Gulch en croupe with the stranger; but neither could I help being
oddly affected by the suggestion that his horse had done double duty
before. "On what occasion, and why?" was a question I kept to myself.
We were ascending the long, rocky flank of the divide; the narrowness
of the trail obliged us to proceed slowly, and in file, so that there
was little chance for conversation, had he been disposed to satisfy my
curiosity.
We toiled on in silence, the buckeye giving way to chimisal, the
westering sun, reflected again from the blank walls beside us, blinding
our eyes with its glare. The pines in the canyon below were olive
gulfs of heat, over which a hawk here and there drifted lazily, or,
rising to our level, cast a weird and gigantic shadow of slowly moving
wings on the mountain side. The superiority of the stranger's horse
led him often far in advance, and made me hope that he might forget me
entirely, or push on, growing weary of waiting. But regularly he would
halt by a bowlder, or reappear from some chimisal, where he had
patiently halted. I was beginning to hate him mildly, when at one of
those reappearances he drew up to my side, and asked me how I liked
Dickens!
Had he asked my opinion of Huxley or Darwin, I could not have been more
astonished. Thinking it were possible that he referred to some local
celebrity of Lagrange, I said, hesitatingly:—
"You mean—"
"Charles Dickens. Of course you've read him? Which of his books do
you like best?"
I replied with considerable embarrassment that I liked them all,—as I
certainly did.
He grasped my hand for a moment with a fervor quite unlike his usual
phlegm, and said, "That's me, old man. Dickens ain't no slouch. You
can count on him pretty much all the time."
With this rough preface, he launched into a criticism of the novelist,
which for intelligent sympathy and hearty appreciation I had rarely
heard equaled. Not only did he dwell upon the exuberance of his humor,
but upon the power of his pathos and the all-pervading element of his
poetry. I looked at the man in astonishment. I had considered myself
a rather diligent student of the great master of fiction, but the
stranger's felicity of quotation and illustration staggered me. It is
true, that his thought was not always clothed in the best language, and
often appeared in the slouching, slangy undress of the place and
period, yet it never was rustic nor homespun, and sometimes struck me
with its precision and fitness. Considerably softened toward him, I
tried him with other literature. But vainly. Beyond a few of the
lyrical and emotional poets, he knew nothing. Under the influence and
enthusiasm of his own speech, he himself had softened considerably;
offered to change horses with me, readjusted my saddle with
professional skill, transferred my pack to his own horse, insisted upon
my sharing the contents of his whisky flask, and, noticing that I was
unarmed, pressed upon me a silver-mounted Derringer, which he assured
me he could "warrant." These various offices of good will and the
diversion of his talk beguiled me from noticing the fact that the trail
was beginning to become obscure and unrecognizable. We were evidently
pursuing a route unknown before to me. I pointed out the fact to my
companion, a little impatiently. He instantly resumed his old manner
and dialect.
"Well, I reckon one trail's as good as another, and what hev ye got to
say about it?"
I pointed out, with some dignity, that I preferred the old trail.
"Mebbe you did. But you're jiss now takin' a pasear with ME. This yer
trail will bring you right into Indian Spring, and ONNOTICED, and no
questions asked. Don't you mind now, I'll see you through."
It was necessary here to make some stand against my strange companion.
I said firmly, yet as politely as I could, that I had proposed stopping
over night with a friend.
"Whar?"
I hesitated. The friend was an eccentric Eastern man, well known in
the locality for his fastidiousness and his habits as a recluse. A
misanthrope, of ample family and ample means, he had chosen a secluded
but picturesque valley in the Sierras where he could rail against the
world without opposition. "Lone Valley," or "Boston Ranch," as it was
familiarly called, was the one spot that the average miner both
respected and feared. Mr. Sylvester, its proprietor, had never
affiliated with "the boys," nor had he ever lost their respect by any
active opposition to their ideas. If seclusion had been his object, he
certainly was gratified. Nevertheless, in the darkening shadows of the
night, and on a lonely and unknown trail, I hesitated a little at
repeating his name to a stranger of whom I knew so little. But my
mysterious companion took the matter out of my hands.
"Look yar," he said, suddenly, "thar ain't but one place twixt yer and
Indian Spring whar ye can stop, and that is Sylvester's."
I assented, a little sullenly.
"Well," said the stranger, quietly, and with a slight suggestion of
conferring a favor on me, "ef yer pointed for Sylvester's—why—I DON'T
MIND STOPPING THAR WITH YE. It's a little off the road—I'll lose some
time—but taking it by and large, I don't much mind."
I stated, as rapidly and as strongly as I could, that my acquaintance
with Mr. Sylvester did not justify the introduction of a stranger to
his hospitality; that he was unlike most of the people here,—in short,
that he was a queer man, etc., etc.
To my surprise my companion answered quietly: "Oh, that's all right.
I've heerd of him. Ef you don't feel like checking me through, or if
you'd rather put 'C. O. D.' on my back, why it's all the same to me.
I'll play it alone. Only you just count me in. Say 'Sylvester' all the
time. That's me!"
What could I oppose to this man's quiet assurance? I felt myself
growing red with anger and nervous with embarrassment. What would the
correct Sylvester say to me? What would the girls,—I was a young man
then, and had won an entree to their domestic circle by my
reserve,—known by a less complimentary adjective among "the
boys,"—what would they say to my new acquaintance? Yet I certainly
could not object to his assuming all risks on his own personal
recognizances, nor could I resist a certain feeling of shame at my
embarrassment.
We were beginning to descend. In the distance below us already
twinkled the lights in the solitary rancho of Lone Valley. I turned to
my companion. "But you have forgotten that I don't even know your
name. What am I to call you?"
"That's so," he said, musingly. "Now, let's see. 'Kearney' would be a
good name. It's short and easy like. Thar's a street in 'Frisco the
same title; Kearney it is."
"But—" I began impatiently.
"Now you leave all that to me," he interrupted, with a superb
self-confidence that I could not but admire. "The name ain't no
account. It's the man that's responsible. Ef I was to lay for a man
that I reckoned was named Jones, and after I fetched him I found out on
the inquest that his real name was Smith, that wouldn't make no matter,
as long as I got the man."
The illustration, forcible as it was, did not strike me as offering a
prepossessing introduction, but we were already at the rancho. The
barking of dogs brought Sylvester to the door of the pretty little
cottage which his taste had adorned.
I briefly introduced Mr. Kearney. "Kearney will do—Kearney's good
enough for me," commented the soi-disant Kearney half-aloud, to my own
horror and Sylvester's evident mystification, and then he blandly
excused himself for a moment that he might personally supervise the
care of his own beast. When he was out of ear-shot I drew the puzzled
Sylvester aside.
"I have picked up—I mean I have been picked up on the road by a gentle
maniac, whose name is not Kearney. He is well armed and quotes
Dickens. With care, acquiescence in his views on all subjects, and
general submission to his commands, he may be placated. Doubtless the
spectacle of your helpless family, the contemplation of your daughter's
beauty and innocence, may touch his fine sense of humor and pathos.
Meanwhile, Heaven help you, and forgive me."
I ran upstairs to the little den that my hospitable host had kept
always reserved for me in my wanderings. I lingered some time over my
ablutions, hearing the languid, gentlemanly drawl of Sylvester below,
mingled with the equally cool, easy slang of my mysterious
acquaintance. When I came down to the sitting-room I was surprised,
however, to find the self-styled Kearney quietly seated on the sofa,
the gentle May Sylvester, the "Lily of Lone Valley," sitting with
maidenly awe and unaffected interest on one side of him, while on the
other that arrant flirt, her cousin Kate, was practicing the pitiless
archery of her eyes, with an excitement that seemed almost real.
"Who is your deliciously cool friend?" she managed to whisper to me at
supper, as I sat utterly dazed and bewildered between the enrapt May
Sylvester, who seemed to hang upon his words, and this giddy girl of
the period, who was emptying the battery of her charms in active
rivalry upon him. "Of course we know his name isn't Kearney. But how
romantic! And isn't he perfectly lovely? And who is he?"
I replied with severe irony that I was not aware what foreign potentate
was then traveling incognito in the Sierras of California, but that
when his royal highness was pleased to inform me, I should be glad to
introduce him properly. "Until then," I added, "I fear the
acquaintance must be Morganatic."
"You're only jealous of him," she said pertly. "Look at May—she is
completely fascinated. And her father, too." And actually, the
languid, world-sick, cynical Sylvester was regarding him with a boyish
interest and enthusiasm almost incompatible with his nature. Yet I
submit honestly to the clear-headed reason of my own sex, that I could
see nothing more in the man than I have already delivered to the reader.
In the middle of an exciting story of adventure, of which he, to the
already prejudiced mind of his fair auditors, was evidently the hero,
he stopped suddenly.
"It's only some pack train passing the bridge on the lower trail,"
explained Sylvester; "go on."
"It may be my horse is a trifle oneasy in the stable," said the alleged
Kearney; "he ain't used to boards and covering." Heaven only knows
what wild and delicious revelation lay in the statement of this fact,
but the girls looked at each other with cheeks pink with excitement as
Kearney arose, and, with quiet absence of ceremony, quitted the table.
"Ain't he just lovely?" said Kate, gasping for breath, "and so witty."
"Witty!" said the gentle May, with just the slightest trace of defiance
in her sweet voice; "witty, my dear? why, don't you see that his heart
is just breaking with pathos? Witty, indeed; why, when he was speaking
of that poor Mexican woman that was hung, I saw the tears gather in his
eyes. Witty, indeed!"
"Tears," laughed the cynical Sylvester, "tears, idle tears. Why, you
silly children, the man is a man of the world, a philosopher, quiet,
observant, unassuming."
"Unassuming!" Was Sylvester intoxicated, or had the mysterious
stranger mixed the "insane verb" with the family pottage? He returned
before I could answer this self-asked inquiry, and resumed coolly his
broken narrative. Finding myself forgotten in the man I had so long
hesitated to introduce to my friends, I retired to rest early, only to
hear, through the thin partitions, two hours later, enthusiastic
praises of the new guest from the voluble lips of the girls, as they
chatted in the next room before retiring.
At midnight I was startled by the sound of horses' hoofs and the
jingling of spurs below. A conversation between my host and some
mysterious personage in the darkness was carried on in such a low tone
that I could not learn its import. As the cavalcade rode away I raised
the window.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Sylvester, coolly, "only another one of those playful
homicidal freaks peculiar to the country. A man was shot by Cherokee
Jack over at Lagrange this morning, and that was the sheriff of
Calaveras and his posse hunting him. I told him I'd seen nobody but
you and your friend. By the way, I hope the cursed noise hasn't
disturbed him. The poor fellow looked as if he wanted rest."
I thought so, too. Nevertheless, I went softly to his room. It was
empty. My impression was that he had distanced the sheriff of
Calaveras about two hours.
