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"Oh, the glory of that spring day!" Page 63 
 
SUGAR-PINE MURMURINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON 
 
 AND 
 
 J. L. SARGENT. 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHORS 
 BY 
 
 THE WHITAKER & RAY COMPANY 
 
 INCORPORATED 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. 
 
 1899 
 
Copyright 1899 
 
 by 
 Elizabeth Sargent Wilson. 
 
We lovingly dedicate this book to our parents, 
 Julia E. and A. J. Sargent, through whose encour 
 agement and self-denial we are able to put it be 
 fore the public. 
 
 ELIZABETH SAEGENT WILSON. 
 
 J. L. SAEGENT. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Tailings 7 
 
 Nuggets 29 
 
 A Digger Injun 43 
 
 El Christo 51 
 
 Majel 59 
 
 The Justice of John Fannin 67 
 
 The Colonel and Betty Ann 77 
 
 Squealing Alex 95 
 
 Prince of Orange 101 
 
TAILINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON. 
 
TAILINGS. 
 
 Vohlmer stood listlessly in the cabin door shad 
 ing his eyes with his hand. He was not looking 
 at anything in particular. The scene was too fa 
 miliar to awaken conscious interest. 
 
 Each day for forty years his gaze had turned up 
 ward to that small patch of deep-blue sky, outlined 
 by the same grim mountains. The pine trees that 
 waved their boughs in friendly greeting had been 
 sighing in sympathy with him for forty summers 
 and winters, and the gulch ah! but the gulch had 
 changed. The old man s eyes never failed to kin 
 dle as his glance followed up and down that long 
 white line of tailings. The broad bed of gleaming 
 stones embodied all that this world had held of 
 joy or sorrow for nearly one-half of his life. No 
 wonder that the light in his eyes changed, and that 
 his mind became suddenly active whenever he 
 looked that way. 
 
 (9) . 
 
l(f TAILINGS. 
 
 His fancy pictured the gulch as he first had 
 known it. Then, instead of the long, hoary line of 
 smooth, hare stones, a clear, sparkling stream had 
 gurgled "between ferny hanks that spread away into 
 flowery hillsides, undefiled hy dumps of harren 
 rock, yawning shafts and wide-mouthed tunnels 
 unmistakable scars left by the miner s unerring 
 shovel-thrusts. 
 
 As he stands dreamily looking, Vohlmer sees 
 the camp spring into existence like a crop of mush 
 rooms. The tents and cabins, shelved grotesquely 
 on the precipitous mountain sides, seem keeping a 
 watchful eye on proceedings in the gulch below. 
 
 The eager throng were searching for the yellow 
 treasure that had lured them across desert and 
 ocean to this fair land of the Golden West. Most 
 earnest of them all was the brave young German 
 who had left home and friends and Fatherland 
 to gain the fortune that this land of plenty offered 
 so enticingly to all. His lithe limbs knew no fa 
 tigue, his hopeful heart no disappointment. Early 
 and late he labored, but to see each day close with 
 the fortune still in the tomorrow. Tomorrow al 
 ways stood before him with its bright halo of sue- 
 
TAILINGS. 11 
 
 cess. Never in the least did he doubt the awaiting 
 treasure. Yes, surely, he would strike it tomor 
 row; then he would write home and tell the loved 
 ones of his great luck, and soon he would follow 
 with enough for them all. Oh, the never-ending 
 bliss that would come with the fortune of tomor 
 row was entirely past telling. Only those who live 
 such dream lives know the bliss that may be en 
 joyed with nothing. 
 
 The tomorrows grew to months, and then to 
 years, but the letter home still remained unwritten. 
 The crowd in the gulch grew thinner, and one 
 after another the tents and cabins vanished as sud 
 denly and mysteriously as they came, leaving only 
 the mutilation which the gulch must carry for- 
 evermore. It was as if the flesh had been stripped 
 off and the naked bones left bleaching in the sun. 
 The little stream, as if ashamed, sank its muddy 
 waters out of sight beneath that dreary waste of 
 bare white stones. 
 
 Finally, the solitary occupant of the wee cabin, 
 stuck like a swallow s nest against the grim moun 
 tain side, was all that was left of the "City of 
 Middle Bar." Friends and Fatherland became a 
 
12 TAILINGS. 
 
 dim and shadowy remembrance. The cabin grew 
 dark and mossy, until it seemed a part of the moun 
 tain itself, and the gulch, with its serpentine bed 
 of rounded stones, appeared to have aged in sym 
 pathy with its hoary inhabitant, whose figure had 
 become stooped from long years of devotion to his 
 pick and shovel a devotion rewarded only by a 
 most frugal subsistence. The bushy hair and 
 beard framed a face beautiful in its expression of 
 patient hopefulness. The busy world with its har 
 rowing competition and conflicting struggles was 
 to him as remote as the planets that tracked his 
 tiny sky. 
 
 Still standing in the doorway gazing idly about, 
 Vohlmer said reflectively, "I will now go to town. 
 There is bacon to get, and that scoundrel shovel 
 has played out on me, and now I must buy a new 
 one again." 
 
 Vohlmer was always at war with his shovel. That 
 faithful article received never-ending reproaches 
 for having sacrificed youth and vigor in fidelity to 
 the interests of its master. 
 
 It was Saturday morning, the forenoon of which 
 was always devoted to housekeeping duties, and 
 
TAILINGS. 13 
 
 the afternoon to the trip to town for the weekly 
 paper, and to make whatever purchases were neces 
 sary. He never patronized the store which was 
 down on the river but half a mile from his cabin. 
 
 "It is a regular hell-trap," he would say. "On 
 one side is groceries and everything what a person 
 needs, and on the other side is those gamblers 
 around that table and drinking liquor at that bar. 
 A man goes to buy a paper of tea and come back 
 quick for supper, but first he stops to look at that 
 game, just to see which way it goes, then he takes 
 a hand, and next thing he knows his head is all 
 swelled up and his pockets flat down." 
 
 So Yohlmer bought his tea in town where a 
 brick wall lay between groceries and liquor. 
 
 After remarking that he would go to town, the 
 old man looked about to see if all was in order. 
 The disgraced shovel stood in the corner with a 
 pathetic lean toward the pick in silent appeal for 
 sympathy. On the bushes outside, the freshly 
 washed jumper and socks were spread to dry. Over 
 a bed of smoldering coals on the hearth sprawled 
 the funny three-legged Dutch oven in which was 
 baking the round loaf of bread, mysteriously 
 
14 TAILINGS. 
 
 evolved from a small lump of sour dough saved 
 from last week s baking and tucked in the flour 
 sack for safe-keeping. On the rough pine bunk, 
 where only a straw mattress saved the occupant 
 from dropping through the cracks and spending 
 his leisure in gathering his bones, the blankets 
 were neatly spread, and the stiff hair pillow, in its 
 calico slip, stood against the headboard in prim de 
 fiance of luxury or comfort. The pepper-sauce 
 bottle guarded the line of articles arranged along 
 the back of the small square table that served as 
 cupboard, sideboard and banquet table. Though 
 the whole interior was of crudest sort, aged and 
 weather-marked by years of service, there was a 
 tidy and wholesome air about everything. 
 
 During the many years of life in the gulch, the 
 monotonous routine had been broken but once. 
 That was when Katy and her brother came twice 
 a week from over the hill to take German lessons. 
 The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days of 
 their coming, and a warmth, such as it had not 
 felt for years, glowed in the old man s heart. Long 
 before the time for their appearance, Vohlmer 
 would be in the doorway, looking eagerly along 
 
TAILINGS. 15 
 
 the trail to see if they were coming, and the chil 
 dren were always sure to find him standing there 
 when they reached the hilltop, from which point 
 they never failed to shout a vociferous greeting 
 and to fling their banners to the breeze, as Jack 
 expressed it; the banners consisting of numerous 
 German exercises and something in a tin pail 
 which Katy was sure to be carrying to her friend. 
 "Here is a pail of buttermilk," she would say, on 
 reaching the cabin, or, "I brought you a pat of 
 butter, Vohlmer. Mama churned today." 
 
 Vohlmer would beamingly reply, as he carefully 
 wiped out the pail and set it on the table ready 
 for the next donation, "Oh Katy, you always bring 
 me something nice. I think you are my good 
 angel." 
 
 "I m afraid that I could never live up to being 
 an angel, but I am glad that you like the things, 
 and you are always making people happy by saying 
 something good of them." Here Katy cast a re 
 proachful glance at Jack, who sat snickering on 
 the bench. On the way, Katy had expostulated 
 with her brother because of the slovenly appear 
 ance of his exercises. 
 
16 TAI LINOS. 
 
 "Vohlmer will not like it," she urged. 
 
 "I don t care whether he likes it or not," re 
 torted Jack. "A fellow can t fuss all day over a 
 stupid old German lesson, just to please that old- 
 maid man." 
 
 "Shame!" Katy exclaimed, and walked on in in 
 dignant silence, to the great amusement of Jack, 
 who always rejoiced in arousing the ire of his gen 
 tle sister. 
 
 They would sit on the bench like three children, 
 Vohlmer in the middle, Katy on one side and Jack 
 on the other. 
 
 "Oh Katy, you have the wrong words here," 
 the simple-hearted teacher would say. "That does 
 not make sense; just hear what it says." 
 
 Then they would all laugh together, and while 
 Katy was making sense, he would point out still 
 greater deformities in Jack s sentences. 
 
 But Katy and her brother had gone away to 
 school, and the brief light made by their visits 
 had gone out. 
 
 Satisfied that everything was in order, Vohl 
 mer started for town, equipped with his gnarly 
 manzanita cane and the flour-sack in which to car 
 ry his purchases. 
 
TAILINGS. 17 
 
 It was four miles by the trail to town, all steep 
 traveling, either up hill or down, but he did not 
 mind that; he was so used to hills that it is doubt 
 ful if he would know how to behave on level 
 ground. His world was made entirely of moun 
 tains, and now, as he picked his way along the 
 narrow path, the charm of a perfect California!!. 
 December day transformed all about him into a 
 bewitching fairyland. Bathed in the soft, warm 
 sunshine and pure, invigorating air, the mere fact 
 of living became an ecstasy. Never did this simple 
 lover of nature fail to enjoy in fullest measure 
 the beauty and grandeur spread so lavishly about 
 him. No other pines ever murmured such soft, sweet 
 music; no other rocks were carved into such fan 
 tastic forms castles with turrets piercing the sky; 
 armies mounted and equipped for war; beasts and 
 bogies from dead and gone eras, needing only 
 imagination s mystic wand to stir all into life and 
 action. 
 
 "And here is a package for you," added the post 
 master, as Vohlmer reached in the stuffy postoffice 
 window for his paper. 
 
 "A package? for me?" he answered, in a dazed 
 and incredulous manner. 
 
18 TAILINGS. 
 
 "Yes, for you/ snapped the crabbed postmaster. 
 The government did not pay him to be civil to 
 Vohlmer their politics differed. 
 
 "There must be some mistake," the old man in 
 sisted. "No one would send me a package. It 
 is for some one else." 
 
 "There s no mistake about it," said the post 
 master. "No one else has such a fool name. Why 
 don t you take it, and not stand there looking like 
 an idiot?" 
 
 Vohlmer reached for the package, and sure 
 enough, it was plainly addressed to Mr. Gerhard 
 Vohlmer, Middle Bar, California. 
 
 "I wonder what it is?" he said, as he turned it 
 over and over in a bewildered way. 
 
 "Why don t you open it and find out?" asked the 
 postmaster, in a more affable tone, his curiosity 
 overcoming his bad manners. 
 
 But Vohlmer did not open it. He kept on turn 
 ing it about reverently and repeating to himself, 
 "I wonder what it is, and who could have sent mo 
 a package?" 
 
 The postmaster firmly declares that if other ap 
 plicants for mail had not driven Vohlmer from the 
 
TAILINGS. 19 
 
 window "the old fool would be standing there to 
 this very day, wondering who sent him his pack 
 age, and what was in it." 
 
 His small nature could not conceive how such 
 an ordinary event as the receipt of a little bundle 
 through the postoffice could cause a complete met 
 amorphosis in a person s life. His sterile soul was 
 not susceptible to the harvest that a small seed of 
 love could yield in a heart fallowed by forty years 
 of abstinence from human affection. 
 
 "Who is that man?" inquired the stranger who 
 had driven Yohlmer from the window. 
 
 "Oh, that s the Dutchman that lives down at 
 Middle Bar," replied the town gossip. "Went 
 there in 49 an s ben minin roun them hills ever 
 since, till he s turned into reg lar fossil." 
 
 "Turned into a tarnal old fool, I say," added the 
 postmaster. "When I handed him a package a 
 while ago, he just stood there turnin it round and 
 round and mumblin to himself, wonderin what 
 it was and who sent it to him. Didn t have sense 
 nough to open it and see. Great Scott! I felt 
 like punchin im," 
 
20 TAILINGS. 
 
 "Well," continued the gossip, "it s funny bout 
 them old fellers. There s lots of um scattered 
 round here mong the hills. They re sort o left 
 over from the old minin days. Never had sense 
 nough to quit. This here one s a sample. 
 
 "Always was queer. Why, when we wus all 
 workin down there together in 50, he just slaved 
 away as if his life depended on it. Couldn t hire 
 im to take a drink, an e wouldn t play a game 
 o cards or do nothing that makes life worth livin\ 
 He thinks to this day that Vs goin to strike it 
 in them good-fur-nothin diggin s." 
 
 "Is he married?" asked the stranger. 
 
 "Married !" Here the gossip s mirth overcame his 
 talking power for some time. 
 
 "Married! Well, that s too good! What in tar 
 nation thunder would he marry down there in 
 that gulch ? You must think women grow on man- 
 zanita bushes. He never goes nowhere, cept tu 
 town for his grub an paper, an e gets out quick s 
 e can, like town folks had some ketchin disease 
 that he d take if e stayed mong um." 
 
 "I ll never furgit one time Jim Albright wus 
 sick, an Vohlmer set up with m all night. Early 
 
TAILINGS. 21 
 
 in the evenin several uv us wus setting round the 
 cabin sympathizin with Jim. He had cholera mor- 
 bus an wus in turrible agony. As soon as Vohl- 
 mer come, he began fussin roun doin things; 
 slung the door open to let in fresh air, an e told 
 us we d kill Jim if we didn t quit dosin im with 
 whisky said what Jim needed wus a poultice. 
 That impressed us a heap; we all had rem nis- 
 cences uv poultices. We sat roun with great ex 
 pectations, lottin on somethin big an soft and 
 smelly, when what did that feller do but just take 
 a little old rag, an dip it in water, an put it on 
 Jim s stomick with an old flannel shirt on top uv 
 it. Then e covered im up tight an told im to 
 keep still. Well, we just sneaked out, one by 
 one, an went down tu the store, an it took us 
 till most mornin to work off the hilarity uv that 
 poultice. 
 
 "When the diggin s played out an the men wus 
 all leavin Vohlmer pursisted in stayin , though 
 we tried our best tu have im go with us to some 
 new place, but e said no, e d stay a while longer 
 an that we d find just as much there as any place 
 if we d just stick to it. Nothin was gained by 
 
22 
 
 TAILINGS. 
 
 bobbin roun frum place to place. Well, e hain t 
 bobbed none, but I ll bet e wishes e had many 
 a time." 
 
 "Did the men who left the diggings strike it in 
 the other places?" questioned the stranger. 
 
 The gossip stretched himself and began to edge 
 toward the door. 
 
 "Well, no, not to mount to nothin , but we 
 didn t stay in a gulch till we turned into a fossil." 
 
 "Preferred to do it in town," reflected the 
 stranger, as he watched the gossip saunter up the 
 street and settle himself in a vacant chair on the 
 saloon porch a self -organized ways and means 
 committee to dispose of the business of the town. 
 
 Vohlmer on turning from the postoffice window 
 had clutched his package tightly to himself 
 through an instinctive fear that it might in some 
 way be spirited away. In his eyes was that far- 
 off look that betrayed oblivion to all surroundings. 
 He neither heard nor saw, and his feet seemed not 
 to touch the earth. It was as if his mind had en 
 tirely parted company from the body, leaving the 
 latter But a mere thing mechanically covering the 
 distance from force of habit. 
 
TAILINGS. 23 
 
 Friendly greetings were entirely unnoticed. To 
 the old man, as he hastened on, there was no 
 ground beneath him, there were no people passing. 
 Neither rocks nor trees nor hills obstructed that 
 far-off gaze. No streams tumbled their noisy waters 
 down the gulches. The whole world might have 
 appeared before him clamoring for notice, but it 
 must have gone again ungratified. He did not 
 know when he was driven from the trail by San- 
 tho s train of broadly packed wood donkeys. 
 Neither did he hear Santho s friendly salute, nor 
 the maledictions that followed when the hot tem 
 pered vendor of wood found himself standing un 
 heeded; and when the sleepy cows, that Ben Thomas 
 was driving leisurely homeward, again drove him 
 to one side, he left the astonished Ben staring after 
 him in mute Dismay at receiving not the slightest 
 response to his cheery "Good-day!" and though 
 both Ben and the cows stood in the trail deliber 
 ating for a long time, Vohlmer s behavior still re 
 mained a mystery. 
 
 At last the little cabin in the gulch is reached, 
 and seated at the table Yohlmer again turns his 
 package over and over in a tender, reverent way, 
 
24 TAILINGS. 
 
 and repeats to himself, "I wonder what it is and 
 who could have sent me a package?" 
 
 He hesitated to open it, through a vague dread 
 that the inside might prove to be nothing after all. 
 The experience of so many empty tomorrows had 
 developed an unconscious expectation of fruitless 
 reward. 
 
 Finally, with trembling fingers, he untied the 
 string, and slowly removed the paper, stopping 
 after the accomplishment of each to ask again the 
 same oft-repeated questions. 
 
 Inside the paper is a neat, white pasteboard box, 
 and as he holds it in his hands, his heart beats as 
 if a mill-stamp were vigorously at work inside of 
 him. The trembling increases so that the pepper- 
 sauce bottle is on the verge of losing its dignity. 
 
 What floods of emotion were crowded into the 
 short interval that elapsed while he hesitated in 
 uncovering the box. The pent-in feelings of forty 
 years were suddenly loosed and seemed seeking 
 vent in wild torrents through every atom of his 
 being. He was torn by conflicting impulses. He 
 longed to plunge into the contents of the box, but 
 something held him back. He wanted to see in- 
 
TAILINGS. 25 
 
 stantly what was there, but the same something 
 commanded him to wait. Though the time in real 
 ity was so very short, there seemed to be more 
 crowded into it than in all of the preceding forty 
 years. 
 
 When at last the lid was lifted, there lay on the 
 pink tissue paper a card on which was written, "A 
 very Merry Christmas to Vohlmer, from Katy." 
 Great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks as he held 
 the card before him. It had been so long since 
 any friendly reminder of Christmas had come his 
 way that the day had ceased to be different from 
 any other. Now his thoughts traveled back over 
 the long, wasted years of his lonely life to the 
 happy holiday times in Fatherland, when the dear 
 ones wished him "Merry Christmas," and there 
 were joyous gatherings and loving tokens. His 
 head went down into his arms and great sobs shook 
 the old man s frame. 
 
 Reverently he unwound the tissue paper from 
 the two pairs of soft, warm woolen socks that Katy 
 knew would be comfortable during the winter 
 weather. With the tears still flowing, he turns 
 them about, and feels of them caressingly, until 
 
26 TAILINGS. 
 
 they seemed endowed with a hundred supernatural 
 qualities. They are a something sacred around 
 which all future thoughts shall cluster. Though 
 he returns them carefully to the box, he keeps 
 them near "by so that he can take them out at in 
 tervals during the preparation of his simple supper. 
 
 From this time life begins all over again, and 
 everything dates either so long before, or so long 
 after, the time that Katy s present came. After 
 these long years of isolation from friends and kin 
 dred, the small fact that someone thought enough 
 of him to send a present to him was enough of hap 
 piness to brighten the remainder of his life. 
 
 He never tired of telling how he went to town 
 and found a package in the postomce from Katy. 
 When acquaintances dropped in for a chat, he 
 would always show his socks, no matter how often 
 the same guest had before admired them or sound 
 ed their praises in glowing terms. They must al 
 ways be felt of, and their warmth and softness 
 duly admired. 
 
 "One could not be cold with those," he would 
 always add, as he put away his treasure to await 
 the coming of the next visitor; and though the 
 
TAILINGS. 27 
 
 were never degraded by the use to which or 
 dinary foot-apparel is destined, they really kept the 
 old man warm with a glow that pervaded his whole 
 being. 
 
NUGGETS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. L. SARGENT. 
 
NUGGETS. 
 
 Time went on; the old gray cabin nestling 
 among the grim, gray boulders grew grayer still. 
 
 Vohlmer s back grew a little more stooped, and 
 his step more feeble as the monotonous years went 
 by, but the kindly old eyes still held their trusting 
 light, and that superb, pathetic faith in the day he 
 was to "strike it" never faltered for a moment. 
 
 The gold in the gulch grew scarcer, and at last, 
 when even Ms patience could not extract enough 
 from the wornout tailings for his simple needs, 
 something desperate had to be done. 
 
 "I shall make me a garden," said Vohlmer, "and 
 those villain nuggets I shall hunt in the winter 
 time, when the water is plenty, and I have plenty 
 of grub in the house from the garden." 
 
 With method in this, as in all else he did, the 
 old man, when he turned to agriculture, home- 
 steaded eighty acres of the rough hill-land around 
 (31) 
 
32 NUGGETS. 
 
 the little cabin, and devoted all his waning energy 
 in the spring and summer to his garden. 
 
 A famous garden he made. Not even the Italian 
 market gardener could equal the quantity or the 
 quality of his vegetables, and it was all owing to 
 the moon. At a certain time of the moon certain 
 things were planted, at another time, other things; 
 unremitting care and ceaseless attention, they were 
 a matter of course, and didn t count the moon 
 did the whole business. 
 
 But in the winter time, when the water was 
 plenty, and the little storehouse full of the gar 
 den s fruits ah! that was the season. With new 
 vitality and an appetite for his chosen work made 
 keen by long abstinence, Vohlmer fell upon his 
 ruining tools; even his shovel was eulogized instead 
 of receiving its customary anathema, and every 
 morning, rain or frost, cloud or sunshine, saw the 
 bent old form toiling in the ground sluice, and 
 every Saturday heard the scratch of his scraper 
 and the cheery shake of his rocker as the weekly 
 clean-up was made. Once the nuggets of his dreams 
 took visible form; in a forgotten crevice, the 
 scraper brought out two, three, and even four dol- 
 
NUGGETS- 33 
 
 lar pieces. Few they were, though, and the cleanup 
 that week, while exceptionally good, was less than 
 an ounce. The nuggets became dreams once more 
 and the grim old ghost of despair began to hover, 
 at times, just above the rocky brow of the canon. 
 
 One day in March, when all the plants and buds 
 and grasses in the hills were waking and work 
 ing to make up for their winter sloth, Santho, the 
 wood-peddler, brought news of Katy s death in 
 far-off Santa Clara. "My Katrina, dead! It can 
 not be so/ While, with big tears coursing down 
 the wrinkled, weather-seamed cheeks, he crept 
 slowly out of the ground-sluice and up to the 
 cabin. 
 
 Santho, with a grunt, sat on the bank and medi 
 tatively rolled a cigarette; he had never seen a man 
 take news in just that way, and couldn t under 
 stand. Smoking brought enlightenment, and, the 
 cigarette finished, with a muttered "Pobre hom- 
 bre!" the Mexican rose to collect his scattered bur 
 ros. 
 
 Trouble sat lightly upon Santho; tomorrow 
 would be another day, and who knows what 
 manana may bring forth ! 
 
34 NUGGETS. 
 
 Vohlmer did not know, himself, at first how 
 great his trouble was. The memory of the bright- 
 faced girl had grown a part of his life, and in a 
 vague, unreasoning way, the day he should strike 
 it rich had become associated with his Christmas 
 gift and its donor until, in his dreaming brain, 
 nuggets, gowns of silk, jewels of price and gems 
 of the purest, all for Katy, were woven together 
 with so strong a web of love, that the rending of it 
 very nearly caused the old man s death. For weeks 
 after, he moped about the cabin, moving only 
 when compelled to, till at last the great heart and 
 steadfast faith wakened once more, and he began 
 again the fight, for bare existence this time. 
 
 "Ach Gott!" he said, "It is not right, this world, 
 but I shall go on; I shall live from my garden, and 
 those damned nuggets may stay in the gulch if 
 they like. It may be there is a Heaven, and my 
 Katrina shall be there when I come." 
 
 Four years went by, varied in monotony only by 
 the changing seasons. The gulch was worked no 
 more, the little garden patch and vineyard gave 
 their fruits more grudgingly each year, taxes were 
 unpaid, the old man s clothes were a mass of 
 
NUGGETS. 35 
 
 patches, and, to make bad matters worse, Jack, 
 Katy s brother, was back on a visit. He had been 
 back before, had Jack, and Vohlmer had con 
 ceived no very high opinion of him. 
 
 He went to college and came back disreputable; 
 reformed, was elected to the Assembly, and came 
 back more disreputable; went away again and came 
 back; reformed for good, he said, but Vohlmer 
 doubted. 
 
 "So," he mused, "Jack does not drink now, but 
 that drink devil, one can never tell what it shall 
 do. If it had been him, the rascal, and not my 
 Katrina. Ach! that is not good of me. One thing 
 he knows, the scoundrel. He has more mining 
 in his head than all the men in Calaveras county; 
 he shall smell the gold, the rascal." 
 
 He was right about the mining. Jack did know 
 it, and knew it better than many a man knows his 
 alphabet. Born and bred in the camps, the passion 
 for it was in his bones, and a large bump of in- 
 quisitiveness made him eagerly devour any infor 
 mation attainable. Once he knew a thing, he 
 knew it always. A keen observer, he read the 
 rocks and hills as a student reads an open book, 
 
36 NUGGETS. 
 
 and no man in all the Sierras could tell as much 
 about a quartz stringer or a ravine with as little 
 work as Jack. 
 
 Pocket-hunting was his hobby, and on the even 
 ing of the fifth day of his visit, he came into the 
 cabin, tired, dirty, and brimful of enthusiasm. 
 
 "I say, Vohlmer," he drawled, "What do you 
 think of this?" and shoved a pan containing a few 
 colors on the table, then proceeded with a most 
 fantastic war-dance on the dirt floor. 
 
 "Gott in Himmel!" muttered Vohlmer, "the 
 devil shall be drunk again. Sooner would I have 
 ten of those wild bob-tailed cats in my cabin than 
 this animal drunk." 
 
 "Nary drunk, Vohlmer, never again; but you 
 and I will have the price of a thousand drunks 
 before many moons, for those miserable specks, as 
 you call em, never lie. Now, see here, don t think 
 I m crazy; you know I know my business; just 
 you keep that orifice in your countenance closed 
 and listen to me." With wondering eyes and many 
 grumbling ejaculations, the old man sat and pre 
 pared to listen, half fearful of some practical joke, 
 and half hoping for a tale of some pocket that 
 
NUGGETS. 37 
 
 would fill his needs, or at least pay the taxes. "You 
 know, Vohlmer, or rather you don t know," Jack 
 began, "that the Midland vein runs through this 
 grasshopper ranche of yours; keep still; it is true 
 that the Midland mine is six miles away, but the 
 vein runs right straight here all the same. No, 
 we won t argue the matter; I know the vein is 
 here and that is enough." 
 
 "You know that in the Midland the vein is very 
 rich in spots, sponge gold Sabe? Eeally, it is 
 not in the vein, but in streaks of mixed spar and 
 quartz in the foot-wall, sometimes an open seam 
 filled with masses of gold that look huge, but are 
 just like a sponge and will mash up just the same 
 Eh? What? You found nuggets like that in a 
 crevice in the gulch, and you remember the exact 
 spot? Well, you re a nice old man, Yohlmer, if 
 you do have fits. You ve saved me about four 
 days work and I don t like work. Oh, you knew 
 that before, did you? Well, to resume the thread 
 of our narrative, as the poet hath it, I d have found 
 that crevice, with some work, for those colors in 
 the pan are that same sponge gold; as it is, the la 
 bor is saved, and we ll dig out the spondulia to 
 morrow. Let s go to bed." 
 
38 NUGGETS. 
 
 The morning saw the ill-assorted pair hard at 
 work in the gulch. Vohlmer scented the nuggets 
 of his dreams and Jack a stake that would give 
 him,, as he expressed it, "a boost along the straight 
 and narrow trail of righteousness." 
 
 Soon it became plain that other help would be 
 needed, the old man being utterly unable to stand 
 the wearing work, and the next day saw Santho 
 in his place. 
 
 "You cook, Vohlmer/ advised Jack. "Santho 
 and I will attend to this end of it. Besides, you 
 know, we can trust the Mexican, and we ll need 
 some one we can trust before we re done." 
 
 The crevice paid slowly at first, for a "busted 
 community" could not do things in a hurry, and 
 many things were needed to break the hard bed 
 rock. 
 
 But the little yellow specks came, and with them 
 came drills, hammers and dynamite; also grub and 
 a tax receipt. 
 
 Then work began in earnest and as the roar of 
 the exploding blasts rumbled and died away in 
 ever-lessening murmurs among the old gray hills, 
 spectators came to gape, to inquire, and to be told 
 
NUGGETS. 39 
 
 by the ever-truthful Jack that Vohlmer, Santho 
 & Co. were sinking a well, which, when deep 
 enough, they intended to pull up by the roots, cut 
 into the proper size and sell for postholes to any 
 farmer who might chance to need them. 
 
 Strikes like that cannot be kept secret forever, 
 and soon rumors of all sorts were flying on unreli 
 able wings through the canons and about the 
 camps. 
 
 A council of war was held in Mokelumne Hill 
 one night. Claim-jumpers, of course. The mat 
 ter had been discussed pro and con. for days, till 
 finally, by tacit consent, it was left to Jim King, 
 gambler, desperado, crook, and all-round confi 
 dence man, to investigate and report. "Boys," re 
 ported the committee of one, "It s no go. It s 
 true that the old Dutchman, Jack Cordelieu and 
 the greaser are taking out the yellow by the bucket 
 ful; I saw Jack yesterday and saw some of the 
 specimens. They beat anything I ever saw before, 
 but, my friends, they are not for us; the whole 
 country there is covered by that damned Dutch 
 man s agricultural patent, and us poor miners are 
 swindled once more by the land-grabbing for 
 eigner." 
 
40 NUGGETS. 
 
 "Confound the patent!" cried one. "Let s just 
 go and take the place; run em out and be done 
 with it." 
 
 "Johnson," asked King, "Do you know Corde- 
 lieu or the greaser? No? I thought not. The 
 runout business might do with some outfits, but I, 
 for one, will never try it on this. Fd sooner mon 
 key with a circular saw than with Jack. He is a 
 plumb devil, and the greaser is the fellow who 
 cleaned out every man in French George s only 
 last year; broke George s back across his knee and 
 threw him out the window; while the old Dutchman, 
 innocent, harmless, and peaceful as he is, can never 
 be scared the least little bit from any course he 
 thinks right; as I said at first, boys, ifs no go. 
 But" 
 
 "What?" yelled half the gang. 
 
 "We might buy it," continued King. "I talked 
 that way to Jack to day, and he half -intimated it 
 was for sale." 
 
 The idea took, and King was authorized to con 
 duct the negotiations. 
 
 On the very same evening, another council of 
 war was held in the old gray cabin, this one with 
 
NUGGETS. 41 
 
 Mr. John Cordelieu as chief exhorter. "See here, 
 Vohlmer," he began, when supper was over, "I 
 want you to listen. Santho knows what I am go 
 ing to say. Jim King was snooping around here 
 today, and, when he and his gang find out they 
 can t jump this place, they will want to "buy; we ll 
 sell." 
 
 "Not I," cried Vohlmer. "Shall I leave my 
 cabin and shall I sell just when I strike it rich? 
 No, Jack, we shall not sell/ and Santho gave an 
 approving grunt. 
 
 "Now, will you two dunderheads listen to me?" 
 Jack went on. "Here we have Wells-Fargo s re 
 ceipts for over twenty-three thousand dollars; 
 there s above seven thousand more in the cabin; we 
 can get at least twenty thousand for the hole. 
 Don t sell your cabin or the ranche, Vohlmer, let 
 em have a claim off the south end. What s more, 
 the streak s worked out. We re down over sixty 
 feet and. while there is a good show left, I ll bet my 
 head she pinches in less than four feet." 
 
 After much more argument, Jack s counsel pre 
 vailed; the claim was sold, and pinched, a.nd loud 
 was the roar from the disappointed jumpers. San 
 tho made a bee-line for Mexico with his money. 
 
42 NUGGETS. 
 
 Jack is superintendent and part owner of one of 
 the best paying quartz mines on the coast. 
 
 While Vohlmer Ah! Vohlmer; your dream 
 nuggets came, old man; but, oh, the pity of it! 
 From the old gray cabin, hid among the grim gray 
 hills, is going forth the wail heard since men have 
 been, and will be heard while men are; the old 
 cry of the lost, and the doubly pitiful greeting 
 which meets the fickle jade when she comes "Too 
 late!" 
 
"I won that string of beads." Page 50. 
 
A DIGGER INJDN 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON. 
 
A DIGGEK INJUN. 
 
 Mollie possesses that indescribable charm which 
 immediately establishes a bond of good feeling be 
 tween herself and everyone with whom she comes 
 in contact. She is bright, witty, sparkling. 
 There is a ring in her laugh that goes straight to 
 the heart. You feel happy in her presence. You 
 are glad when she comes near you, and sorry when 
 she goes away. You feel better for even thinking 
 of her, and yet Mollie is wicked yes, very, very 
 wicked. There is scarcely a vice in the calendar 
 that she has not tested by actual experience. 
 
 Mollie is now past thirty, but she was once six 
 teen. It was then that a Carson Valley farmer 
 discovered how altogether lovely Mollie was. So 
 enchanted was he with her pretty ways that he took 
 her to reign over his sundry pots and kettles, with 
 out due formality of law, however. 
 (45) 
 
46 A DIGGER INJUN. 
 
 The new life brought great happiness to the 
 pretty Indian maid. She let her hair grow long 
 and became quite vain of the silky mass that every 
 one so lavishly admired. She learned to sew and 
 cook, and took great pride in being just as much 
 like a white woman as possible. She was taken to 
 San Francisco once, and she is never so eloquent as 
 when recounting the experiences of that journey. 
 She went as far as Sacramento on the cars, and the 
 rest of the way by boat. It was the steamer that 
 made the first vivid impression. "Big river, big, 
 big river, lots bigger than Carson river, and a 
 great, big boat just like a house. You walk 
 around, you eat, you sleep, and all the time the 
 boat goes on, goes on, down, down the river. 
 Plenty women, plenty men. Some talk, some 
 read, some gamble all same Injun." (Mollie could 
 not conceive of card-playing that was not gam 
 bling.) "All the time the boat go down the river. 
 Bimeby everybody go to bed, boat go on just the 
 same. When we wake up in the morning, the boat 
 isn t going any more. Everybody goes off. We 
 are in a big, big town, an oh, lots of ships, and 
 big, big water like Lake Tahoe. There were so 
 
A DIGGER INJUN. 47 
 
 many streets, and such pretty things in the win 
 dows. Everything, yes, everything, and seemed 
 like everybody, too. I wanted to look at every 
 thing, and seemed like everybody wanted to look 
 at me. Every time I stop to look, pretty quick a 
 whole lot of people tKere too. Ask me my name, 
 ask me where I came from. One man ask me if 
 I was Spanish lady. Pretty quick I had to go 
 away; too many people look at me and talk to me. 
 Oh, but I was sorry I could not look some more. 
 So many things to see!" 
 
 This is but a small part of the story of that 
 memorable journey. Its charm is lost without 
 Mollie s bright face, her ringing laugh, her rhyth 
 mic motions, and the musical intonations of her 
 voice. It is Mollie, not the story, that holds the 
 listener spellbound. 
 
 One day the Carson Valley farmer decides to 
 take unto himself a white wife, so the Indian wo 
 man is sent back to her people. Poor Mollie s 
 heart is broken, badly broken, but hearts like Mol 
 lie s are soon mended. No sorrow could long keep 
 down that buoyant nature. As an effect of the 
 reactionary process, she gives herself entirely over 
 
48 A DIGGER INJUN. 
 
 to gaiety. Not a man of the tribe but must suc 
 cumb to her enchantment if she chooses to bring 
 him under her spell. Mollie is pronounced im 
 proper by even the most liberal-minded members 
 of a society where a moral code is most conspicu 
 ous by its absence. 
 
 In time, Mollie herself becomes a victim, and she 
 who has all at her disposal selects for her husband 
 the most worthless man of the tribe. Her devo 
 tion withstands beatings, drudgery, drunkenness 
 and neglect. One day he pitches her bodily into 
 the pile of stones below their wickiup. This is 
 too much. She puts herself together again as 
 best she can and leaves him for good. A new 
 epoch in her life begins. Great souls emanate 
 from unexpected sources, regardless of complexion 
 or condition, and Mollie s is a great soul. She no 
 longer centers her interest in a chosen few, but 
 gives out freely to all who come her way. She is 
 everyone s friend, and everyone is her friend. She 
 is the best basketmaker, the best pinenut picker, 
 the best gambler, the best daughter, the best com 
 panion, in the camp. She and her mother live in 
 a tiny hut a real house in Mollie s eyes, about 
 
A DIGGER INJUN. 49 
 
 which hovers an atmosphere of the Carson Valley 
 home. Her old horse, which is lame in every leg, 
 and her mother, who is also lame in every leg, ac 
 company her in all of her wanderings. They pre 
 sent a unique picture as they make their way along 
 the winding trails of the high Sierra. 
 
 They start out pretty evenly loaded, but soon 
 Mollie becomes sorry for her mother and puts her 
 load on the horse, then Mollie becomes sorry for 
 the horse, so takes the whole burden upon herself, 
 with the result that Mollie soon becomes sorry for 
 herself and there is another equal division. 
 
 Mollie talks very freely upon all matters, but 
 never hesitates to make a story thrilling with inci 
 dents manufactured for the occasion. 
 
 One morning I heard her familiar call below my 
 window. Upon looking out, I beheld her stoop 
 ing under a heavy burden. When I asked her if 
 she were going away, she laughed merrily and re 
 plied: 
 
 "No, I won all these things. "We gambled all 
 night and I cleaned out Big Susie s camp. They 
 haven t a thing left. First, I got all their money, 
 then I got all their baskets, then their clothes, 
 
50 A- DIGGER INJUN. 
 
 everything! If I had not let them keep one dress, 
 they would have nothing on. I won that string of 
 beads that Susie would not sell you, and Fm going 
 to give it to you. I am going to tell them that I 
 sold it to you, because they would laugh at me if 
 they knew I gave them to you when I could sell 
 them. When you look at them, I want you to 
 think of Mollie. Mollie is your friend. I must 
 go and sleep now. I gambled all night. Good 
 bye." 
 
EL CHRISTO 
 
 BY 
 
 J. L. SARGENT. 
 
EL CHRISTO. 
 
 This is the story of the Flight of The Christ. 
 It was told me long ago by old Manuel Escarrega, 
 when we were vaqueros together on the Rancho 
 Pescadero. 
 
 He was a queer old duffer, was Manuel. Some 
 thing less than a hundred years of mustang-riding 
 had made him crooked in body and pessimistic in 
 mind,, while his funny little round head was full of 
 more wonderful legends than would fill a good- 
 sized volume. All these happened in Mexico, and 
 on one occasion, when trying to convince him of 
 the contrary, he informed me very gravely that 
 no one man could be expected to know everything, 
 and, even if I "had been to the school of the padres 
 at Santa Clara, he had been born in Mexico and 
 knew what hp was talking about. 
 
 His dialect cannot be clothed in letters; his dic 
 tion, I shall attempt. Here is the story. 
 (53) 
 
54 EL CHRISTO. 
 
 "You see, Jackie, in Mexico one time everybody 
 is bad, mui diablo, like that pinto mustang you 
 ride the other day, and the Dios he see, and cry, 
 and say, Ay! ay! Pobre Mexicanos, el Diablo catch 
 you all; I go myself and tell you about the heaven 
 and make you good, all the Mexicanos/ 
 
 "So the Dios, he come to Mexico, come just like 
 one little baby, find himself Maria, the Madre, and 
 come, just one poor little baby, Himself. 
 
 "Now stay in Mexico this time one king, very 
 bad, and when he hear the Dios come, he is fraid 
 and send the men to kill all the babies. So/ the 
 king think, The Dios, he be kill, and I be Afraid no 
 more. 
 
 "But Maria, the Madre, she know the bad men 
 come to kill the Dios, El Christo, and she tell her 
 husband, Jose, Saddle up the mule quick, and we 
 run away so the men not kill us/ 
 
 "And Jose saddle up the mule in the night, and 
 Maria, she get on the mule with the little Christo. 
 All night, travel, travel, never stop one time. 
 
 "So, in the morning, they come along to one 
 place where some men plow, and the Madre, she 
 stop and say, Good morning, my boys; what you 
 
EL CHRISTO. 55 
 
 go to raise here? And the men say, Ah, madam, 
 we plow this ground for raise corn/ And the 
 Maria she say, All right, my boys, you raise plenty 
 corn here, and you, please, suppose you see some 
 men come and ask for one man with one woman 
 and one little boy, you say they pass in the same 
 time you plow this ground for raise corn. 
 
 "Then the Madre go on, and Whoo! the corn 
 come up, grow and grow, and the men look and 
 look, and can say no one word, and while they look, 
 the corn get ripe, ready to cut. 
 
 "So the men get sickles and commence to cut 
 the corn, and bimeby along come the men looking 
 for El Christo, and say, Hi, hombres! you see pass 
 here one man, with one woman on the mule, and 
 one little boy? and the men who cut the corn say, 
 Yes, yes; we see pass here in the same time we 
 plow this ground for plant the corn. Qui carajo! 
 the bad men say. Pass long time ago. No mat 
 ter. Chase them anyhow. Might be they not go 
 far. 
 
 "Then the men give spur the mustang and go 
 on. 
 
 "In the same time the Madre go quick and pret- 
 
56 EL CHRISTO. 
 
 ty soon come to another rancho and see the men 
 plow. Ho! my boys/ she call, what you go raise 
 here? Now the man who have this rancho, he 
 ia mean like wild mustang and he say, Bock we 
 raise rock here/ And the Madre, she say, All 
 right, my boys, you raise plenty rocks, and you 
 please, suppose you see some men come and ask for 
 one man, with one woman on the mule, and one 
 little boy, you say they pass in the same time you 
 plow this ground for plant rocks. 
 
 "So the Madre go on, and Whoo ! the rocks come 
 up, big like horse, like house, like church, all the 
 ground is full, and the ranchero see all the rancho 
 go, and sit down and cry, Ay! Ay! AyP 
 
 "Now the bad men come and see the rocks and 
 hear the ranchero make noise like one old, old, 
 coyote, and say, Hi, hombre! you see pass here one 
 man, with one woman on the mule, and one little 
 boy? 
 
 "And the ranchero cry, and say, Ay! Ay! I see, 
 I see! "She pass in the same time I plow this 
 ground for raise rocks. Ay! Ay! Ay! 
 
 "Then the bad men look and see all the rocks, 
 and say, Cajajo! No use to go more; pass too long 
 
EL CHRISTO. 57 
 
 ago; this rock be here bout three thousand years/ 
 and all go back and tell the king they no can find 
 El Christo. 
 
 "But the Madre go on, more slow now, for she 
 know the men go back. Pretty soon she go sleep, 
 for they travel long way, and while she sleep, one 
 snake come along the trail, stand up straight on 
 the tail, so, for that time the snake go just like 
 man, straight up; when the mule see the snake, 
 she scare, and jump, and the Madre, before she 
 can wake up, fall down in the trail. 
 
 "The Madre get up, all dust and mad, plenty, 
 and she curse the snake and the mule, and she tell 
 the snake, Tou make me dust; crawl in the dust 
 you; no more you stand on your tail, but go on 
 your belly/ And the mule she tell, Tretty near 
 you kill my boy, El Christo. You never can have 
 colt/ 
 
 "And the snake fall down on the belly and go 
 so all the time like now. Some day one mule got 
 one colt, and then the whole world is gone, so!" 
 And the last puff of smoke from Manuel s cigarette 
 floated wearily off through the evening. 
 
"A cross stands outlined against the blue." Page 61 
 
MAJEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON. 
 
MAJEL. 
 
 As I sit in my tent deep in the Matilija Canon, 
 the sky above me appears like a strip of frayed 
 blue ribbon, and I think of the time when I was 
 a child and it seemed as though if one were on the 
 mountain-top, there would be nothing to prevent 
 stepping right into heaven. 
 
 My gaze follows the serrate line and pauses 
 where a cross stands outlined against the blue. At 
 its foot is a mound that marks the resting-place of 
 a man and a woman. 
 
 While I sit dreaming there flashes before my 
 mental vision the old mission at San Buenaven 
 tura, It is the time of the annual fiesta when 
 the Indian youths and maids under the train 
 ing of the good fathers are betrothed. For weeks, 
 preparations have been under way, and now, after 
 mass, when the whole world seems pure and free 
 from sin, the happy throng files into the open, 
 (61) 
 
62 MAJEL. 
 
 where tables groan under their weight of oranges, 
 honey, nuts, raisins and dried figs. From the pits 
 is wafted the savory odor of barbecued meats. An 
 ox, half a dozen lambs, poultry and venison all cast 
 incense most seductive upon the senses. 
 
 Judas Iscariot is hung, then his body burned in 
 effigy. There are to be games, races and dancing. 
 A circus for the bull-fight and a cock-pit are also 
 provided. 
 
 Of all the happy company, but one face carries 
 the marks of misery. That is Majel, the beautiful 
 daughter of the old chief Matilija, who in his 
 stronghold has defied both missionaries and sol 
 diers, and absolutely refused to have aught to do 
 with the aliens. Thieves, he calls them, usurpers 
 of what Manitou had given direct to the Indians. 
 This conviction licensed Matilija to plunder stock 
 and provisions, not sparing even a padre s scalp or 
 gown could he but be caught unawares. 
 
 The fathers, in their zeal for the spread of that 
 faith which, in their belief, is the only road along 
 which travelers may reach God s throne, had cap 
 tured Majel and kept her an unwilling prisoner. 
 Once converted, her love and persuasion would 
 
MAJEL. 63 
 
 conquer the old chiefs heart. Then all would be 
 well. Their lives and property would be secure 
 from the enemies devastation. 
 
 Ah, the glory of that spring day! A canopy of 
 turquoise resting on pillars of pure gold! A car 
 pet of emerald with here and there diamonds 
 sparkling into rippling lakes and gurgling streams! 
 And the air! Intoxication came with every 
 draught of it! 
 
 Old Padre Angelo rubbed his dessicated hands 
 together as he drank in the situation, and mur 
 mured, "This is heaven; why should we pray for 
 more? God is here, why seek him afar?" 
 
 But Majel, in the sweet, mournful tone that 
 characterizes her namesake, sent a message far into 
 the mountains. It was caught and buried in the 
 heart of the man she loved, and he answered, 
 "Come." 
 
 She went, and the horror of it is past telling. 
 
 Through the night, as she fled up the canon, 
 terror struck her at every step. That dreadful 
 crackling of the bushes, the shimmer of wierd 
 shapes in the moonlight, and that blood-curdling 
 wail of the mountain lion made her brave heart 
 
6 4 MAJEL. 
 
 stand still. "The long, nameless note" of coyotes 
 became hellish noise as they raced over the ridges, 
 and the rolling of loose stones down the mountain 
 side sounded like armies in pursuit. But at last 
 it ends, as Majel, at dawn, bounds into the camp. 
 
 The joy of her return was expressed in the 
 grunts of old Matilija. Never before or since did 
 anyone know grunts to emit joy, but that day they 
 did. 
 
 Great preparation is made to celebrate the re 
 turn of Majel. 
 
 The old squaws, with their long, smooth pestles, 
 sit grinding pinenuts and acorns to flour, in mor 
 tars hollowed in boulders of granite. Younger 
 women were weaving baskets to be given to Majel 
 on her wedding day. The black zigzag designs on 
 the baskets are brightened by red feathers. Bead 
 bracelets and belts are threaded for the trousseau. 
 Skins are being scraped to cover the new wickiup 
 that is to be added to the village. 
 
 Gorgeous blankets are growing in racks where 
 skilled hands know well how to blend colors most 
 pleasing to the eye. 
 
 The men are off on a big hunt, and the children 
 play games and sing droning songs. 
 
MAJEL. 65 
 
 At last the feast is ready. Majel and Ysanga- 
 deva are led within the circle and stand hand in 
 hand ready for the benediction, when through the 
 canon reverberates the sharp cracking of rifles. 
 
 "Manitou!" cries the old chief, "Give me their 
 hearts blood." And he sprang with bow and ar 
 row ready. But too late; the soldiers are upon 
 them. Those not slaughtered were taken away 
 captive all but one. Majel in her fright 
 crouched in the shade of a rock and escaped no 
 tice. 
 
 When everything was quiet again, she crept 
 among the slain, seeking her loved ones. The 
 father was dead, but a faint flicker of life still 
 smoldered in the body of her lover. 
 
 The frail girl clasped him to her breast, deter 
 mined to fan the spark in life s glowing flame. 
 
 "Come back, my love," she sobbed, "and stay 
 with your Majel!" 
 
 The heavy eyelids opened and a smile answered 
 her. With this, she lifts him in her arms and be 
 gins to climb the steep mountainside. 
 
 Ah, the toil of it! At every step she seems to 
 slide back three in the slippery mountain shale. 
 
66 MAJEL. 
 
 Finally, far out on the point that commands a view 
 of the canon, the Ojai Valley, and on towards the 
 sea, Majel lays her precious charge on the ground. 
 
 "My own, we are safe here. You will be well 
 soon; then we will fly far, far away where none can 
 find us." 
 
 During the days that followed, berries were 
 brought, healing herbs applied, but on the fifth 
 day there was a little flash, and only ashes re 
 mained. 
 
 It was a holy burial. The tears that mingled 
 with the grave s fillinig are in heaven, bright jew 
 els in God s diadem. 
 
 As I look, I seem to hear floating down, the old, 
 sweet, words, "Come unto Me, all ye that are weary 
 and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." 
 
THE 
 JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN 
 
 BY 
 
 J. L. SARGENT. 
 
THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIK 
 
 With a Winchester rifle lying across his knees,, 
 hell in his heart and vacant eyes looking out 
 across the peaks and ridges of the Sierras, John 
 Fannin sat on the tiptop of Clinton s Butte. 
 
 A chaos of unutterable thoughts, half-formed 
 purposes, fragmentary ideas, all amalgamated with 
 the horrible sense of his utter misery, whirled and 
 danced and circled about his brain, leaving noth 
 ing clear, and giving him the fantastic feeling of 
 being himself and two or three new persons also. 
 
 The first great shock of his trouble was upon 
 him; just a word from the mouth of a vindictive 
 babbler, but one of those flashes of omniscience 
 which the Devil sometimes sends made Fannin see 
 the truth in all its crooked detail. Wearily his 
 mind went over the facts, as they had been re 
 viewed a thousand times since the morning the 
 dance at BelPs the night before; the crowd of men 
 (69) 
 
70 THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 
 
 taking a parting drink in the queer light, half 
 dawn, half candles; Cusack s sneering gibe at the 
 virtue of women in general and of Mrs. Fannin in 
 particular; the dirty, disfigured thing that stared 
 up from the floor with one unseeing eye when he 
 was finally torn away from it, and above all, worse 
 than all, the knowledge that came to him, even 
 before he struck, that Cusack spoke the truth. 
 
 Hurrying his wife home, before a rumor of the 
 fracas reached her, he grasped the Winchester and 
 struck out over the hills in the early dawn, any 
 where, anything, to think, not to think, absolutely 
 unreasoning, just with the instinct of a wounded 
 animal, which drives it into solitude. 
 
 Sitting for hours on the breezy mountain top, 
 the horrid whirl in his head began to slowly die, 
 and the cool, strong intellect which characterized 
 the man arose to resume its sway. 
 
 Recollection ran mechanically back over the last 
 two years, bringing up smiling phantoms of happy 
 hours, who fled again, dismayed at the devils of 
 the present. 
 
 Just two years it was since she had come to Tel 
 lurium, she and her father, who came as others had 
 
THE JUSTICE OF JOHN F ANN IN. 71 
 
 come and gone to try his luck at reducing the 
 camp s rich, but rebellious, ores. 
 
 Fannin then, as now, was superintendent of the 
 only mine in the district which returned in bul 
 lion over half the value of the ore. A college man, 
 an athlete, a student, a mighty hunter, a dweller 
 in camps and a denizen of cities, but a miner al 
 ways. 
 
 The ore of Tellurium fascinated Fannin as it 
 had others, but he, where they had failed, 
 succeeded, after a year s experimenting, in devel 
 oping a process by which the stuff could be worked 
 profitably. More experiments, and incessant 
 study, had brought his method near perfection; he 
 and his partners were wealthy men. 
 
 Others, spurred on by his success, came and 
 went in an everflowing tide, some making a little 
 headway, the majority a dismal failure, while Fan 
 ning process remained safely locked up in his head, 
 there to remain, as he said, until some one paid 
 him for the use of his brains. 
 
 Eva Johnston and her father had floated in with 
 the passing stream; the father floated out in a 
 coffin; Eva remained as Mrs. Fannin. 
 
72 THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 
 
 From the hour she climbed down from the 
 dirty stagecoach, her red hair white with dust, 
 she was the one woman in the world for John 
 Fannin. 
 
 Her graceful, cat-like motions, her big black 
 eyes, her mass of fiery hair, cast a spell over him 
 that was akin to lunacy. His wooing was as impet 
 uous as the rush of many waters, and carried her 
 away in its sweep and swirl, as a chip is carried 
 in a roaring stream. 
 
 Passionate herself, his passion struck an answer 
 ing chord, his splendid animal beauty appealed 
 to the animal in her, and she was won. When 
 won, she loved him, loved him as much as she 
 could love any one man, and the joy of her caresses 
 made him mad. 
 
 Hi! What days they were, those of the honey 
 moon! Fate sends such times to but a few, and 
 always, always, from those who receive, sometime 
 in the future is a payment wrung, heavy as the 
 past was light. 
 
 For six months their happiness was perfect; 
 then she had had enough of Fannin, and turned 
 to the next as lightly as a butterfly might flit from 
 rose to verbena. 
 
THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 73 
 
 He was the night-boss in Fannin s mine, this 
 other, his name Bob Maline, a man with the face 
 of a saint, and a past like charity, but who had 
 his own code of right and wrong, in which the 
 chief section was a large respect for the rights of 
 husbands. 
 
 "Women are plenty," quoth this mountain sage. 
 "And a man that will monkey with another man s 
 wife deserves the worst he can get." 
 
 Such were his scruples, yet against Eva Fan 
 ning wiles he fought just one week, then became 
 her slave and cursed himself right royally for being 
 so. 
 
 He despised himself for fifty reasons. Fannin 
 was the only man in the world for whom he had 
 any liking; besides, his weakness in yielding was 
 a constant reproach to his sturdy nature, but for 
 all that, indulgence did not cease, and the stolen 
 interviews went on, sweeter because stolen, while 
 the season of reproach after each was swallowed 
 up in the season of longing for the next to come. 
 
 The woman loved him as she had loved Fan 
 nin, passionately, yet the illicit love lasted longer, 
 measured by time, than the legitimate; for the in- 
 
74 THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 
 
 terviews were, of necessity, few, and passion s fuel, 
 as other combustibles, lasts longer when slowly 
 given to the flame. 
 
 Fannin, trusting, went his accustomed way, lov 
 ing always, seeing nothing, but feeling instinc 
 tively an undefined something which could not be 
 put in words. A knowledge of some change lay 
 latent in his brain, unknown to him, making its 
 presence felt only by a vague sensation of unrest. 
 
 Others were not so blind, yet things went on 
 without a ripple till the dance at Bell s, when 
 Cusack s gibe awoke Fanning dreaming wits, and 
 one flash of the devil s inspiration showed him the 
 entire situation. 
 
 From the top of Clinton s Butte, his brain 
 cleared up, his nerves steadied, John Fannin 
 looked down on Tellurium and saw the end. 
 
 He had tried, struggling in a vain endeavor to 
 disprove certainty, to establish innocence by a re 
 view of the past, but by every turn was met by 
 some circumstance trifling in itself, yet damning 
 when considered in the glare of recent knowledge. 
 A glance here, an intercepted smile there, a small 
 lie yonder, all these and others. Ah, Christ! How 
 well he knew those glances, those emiles! 
 
THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 75 
 
 Well! It was over. All that remained was jus 
 tice, and the dealing out thereof. 
 
 The wages of sin, that had heen settled long ago; 
 the hand to dole it, that was his; the manner 
 and the query was answered even as it arose. 
 
 In the canon, a mile beneath him, his eyes 
 caught two figures entering an abandoned tunnel; 
 one of them he knew, his wife, the other he guessed 
 at, and with a laugh caught up his rifle and 
 started down the mountain. 
 
 The next three days were busy times for John 
 Fannin. The tunnel was old, the ground at its 
 mouth was heavy, the timbers rotten, but further 
 in the hill, where it entered the solid rock, was 
 roomy, safe, and, better than all, dry. 
 
 Some judicious tampering with the rotten tim 
 bers, the insertion of a little blasting powder 
 above each set, connecting the different charges 
 and bringing the wires to a battery just outside, 
 concealment of every trace, and the trick was done. 
 
 He waited just two days. 
 
 On the afternoon of the second day, the meet 
 ing of the lovers was rudely interrupted. At the 
 mouth of the tunnel appeared John Fannin, who 
 
76 THE JUSTICE OF JOHN FANNIN. 
 
 advised them thus, "Don t disturb yourselves, you 
 two; you have evinced a great desire for each 
 other s company. I am going away and shall leave 
 you here together. I hope you don t tire of each 
 other before we meet again." 
 
 Then he touched the button of the battery. 
 
 A muffled explosion, the crash of falling earth, 
 a cloud of dust, and the tunnel s mouth was closed 
 with a thousand tons of debris, while in behind it 
 all, safe in the solid rock, shivered two human be 
 ings, awaiting the judgment of the All-wise One. 
 Who of us knows what mete to them was given? 
 
THE 
 COLONEL AND BETTY ANN 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON. 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 "I tell you, Tony, my very life s a hideous night 
 mare, all owing to the Colonel. He will surely be 
 the cause of my seeking an early grave." 
 
 As John drawled this mournful prediction, he 
 bent over the fireplace in a despondent attitude, 
 and gave the smouldering knots that were boiling 
 Tony McFadden s sooty pot of beans a vicious 
 poke. 
 
 "What s he up to now?" asked Tony. 
 
 "Up to! That s just it. He d be up to the top 
 of the Tower of Babel if the thing had ever been 
 finished. You see, a while back, when he made 
 such a terrible raid on Aratto s grape-patch, the 
 dirty dago was for having my life, and in order to 
 quiet him, I went Ealvers on enough barbed wire 
 to heighten his mongrel fence. It wouldn t keep 
 out smoke the way it was, part stone, part rail, and 
 some places only brush. But that s nothing. 
 (79) 
 
80 THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 There s no reason in them cowardly dagoes. 
 They re the kind that sneak up and stab a fellow 
 in the back. I never mind meeting a man when 
 there s a fair chance at self-defense. 
 
 "Well, I thought it was all fixed in that quarter, 
 and a sort of peace settled on my soul. 
 
 "I tell you, it s mighty upsetting to have one s 
 life in jeopardy! But this tranquility had no more 
 than fairly begun when a fresh scheme of the Colo 
 nel s knocked it into a cocked hat. 
 
 "You know, back of Aratto s winehouse, the 
 shed where he keeps his presses and things runs 
 right up to the fence. Without so much as saying, 
 By your leave," to the barbed wire, the Colonel 
 jumps up on the top of that shed and stands there 
 bobbing his head up and down, looking as wise as 
 Solomon, and parleying with the rest of the flock 
 in little low, jerky noises way down in his throat. 
 Before you could say Jack Robinson/ Betty Ann, 
 with a knowing cast of countenance, jumped up 
 beside him. That settled it. In a jiffy every last 
 goat was hurdle-racing through that blamed dago s 
 grapevines. 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTJ ANN. 81 
 
 "I tell you, they re a pair, the Colonel and Betty 
 Ann. If that billy-goat was a man, he d be Presi 
 dent. Yes, he d be Napoleon, or Moses, with 
 Betty Ann for prime minister. She s just as 
 knowing as he is, only tradition ordains that he 
 shall take the lead. Custom prevails, you know, 
 mong goats as well as people." 
 
 "Here, have another glass of dago red to keep 
 your spirits up," said Tony. "It s Aratto s last 
 batch; it s new yet, so goes to one s head pretty 
 bad. Have you bought any of it yet?" 
 
 John needed no second invitation, and after 
 smacking his lips in relish of embryo vinegar, he 
 drawled in his whining tone: 
 
 "No, I don t dare go near the place, though my 
 throat is parched to a blister. Ten thousand dev 
 ils couldn t send out as much fury as that dago 
 when he found them goats in his patch again. I 
 tell you, man, I m afraid to put my face outside 
 my cabin, and I lie shivering in terror the whole 
 night through, and feeling the very knife-blade 
 coming up between the slats of my back. It s no 
 joke going about this way with my life in peril." 
 
32 THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 The wine by this time was beginning to sizzle, 
 and John s sympathy for himself was increased as 
 his head grew light. He was of a teary tempera 
 ment, and always wept copiously when overcome 
 by any sort of lubricating beverage. 
 
 "Don t take it to heart so, John," said Tony. 
 "Aratto isn t so bad as you think him. I believe 
 it s mostly talk with him. He wouldn t really 
 hurt you." 
 
 "You may think so," blubbered John, "but you 
 don t know them devils. They re a bloodthirsty 
 lot. An honest American citizen stands no show 
 beside them, and their garden patches, and they 
 having the right to vote, the same as Christians. 
 If you put one of them out in the middle of the 
 Sahara Desert, with only a whisk-broom, he d 
 sweep up some sand, and have a crop of potatoes, 
 cabbages and things in less than a week s time. 
 It s bred in the bone, that and their thirst for mur 
 der. 
 
 "It s a beastly shame that Congress don t pass an 
 act to keep them foreigners out of the country." 
 
 "Well," answered Tony reflectively, " it s lucky 
 the act wasn t passed before you and I got here, or 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETT7 ANN. 83 
 
 we d have been forced to seek quarters in Cuba or 
 Manila, and in my opinion, a dago is nothing to 
 the savages we d have to face in either of them 
 countries." 
 
 "Oh," said John, "I don t want to see people 
 from civilized countries like England and Ireland 
 and Germany excluded, but there should be a law 
 against barbarians, such as dagoes and Chinamen." 
 
 Then came a pause in the conversation, the 
 thoughts of both men being too hazy to settle sat 
 isfactorily such a weighty question. 
 
 The day was sultry, and the Sierra were already 
 beginning to assume the yellow garb of summer. 
 In looking over the mountains, two bright green 
 spots stood out in bold relief against a background 
 of sere hills, with their sparse sprinkling of dry 
 grass and clusters of "digger pine." 
 
 One of these spots is Aratto s well-kept vine 
 yard, which spreads over a sloping hillside, 
 where the industrious Italian makes a frugal living 
 by selling wine and vegetables. The other is 
 Tony s scant grain crop, struggling for existence 
 on the flat, two miles beyond Tony s cabin. It 
 took much coaxing in favored spots to secure hay 
 enough for the old mare s winter fodder. 
 
84 THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 Tony and the old mare were inseparable. One 
 was seldom seen without the other. Their close 
 companionship was the result of Tony s stiff leg, 
 caused by a mining accident years before. Though 
 he could limp over the hills at an alarming speed,, 
 he kept the old mare to spare his leg, he said, but 
 just in what manner the sparing was done, no one 
 ever could discover. He stumped along the moun 
 tain trails with the mare s bridle thrown over his 
 arm, and the old creature jogging along behind 
 him. As she had four stiff legs, this seemed by all 
 means the most sensible arrangement. When ques 
 tioned as to why he was walking, Tony always re 
 plied that he was just sparing the mare in this 
 steep place. As there were few places that were 
 not steep, Tony was seldom seen mounted. 
 
 Only twice a year did the mare do any real ser 
 vice. That was in winter when she plowed the 
 patch and Aratto s vineyard, and again in summer 
 when she hauled the meagre hay crop on a sled to 
 the shed. 
 
 Both Tony and John mined about the gulches, 
 and the greater portion of their scant earnings 
 went for the product of the thrifty Italian s vine- 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 85 
 
 yard and the vile whiskey sold at the nearest store. 
 
 They sat there stupidly mumbling in the hot 
 cabin, when suddenly Tony straightened up and 
 gazed intently out the door. John began to fidget 
 as his glance followed Tony s. 
 
 "Just look at that, will you!" angrily ejaculated 
 Tony. "It makes a man breathe brimstone." 
 
 John looked, but the sight was not conducive to 
 peace of mind. 
 
 The illustrious flock of goats was leisurely saun 
 tering from the direction of Tony s wheatfield 
 toward the solitary oak tree under which the Colo 
 nel and his companions usually enjoyed their 
 siesta, 
 
 The Colonel was in the lead, closely followed 
 by Betty Ann, with the rest trailing along in a 
 bunch at their rear. They looked neither to the 
 right or left, and the lazy, satisfied gait at which 
 they proceeded was sure evidence of full stomachs. 
 
 "Just look at them! Just see their sides stick 
 ing out like wine barrels!" cried Tony, who was now 
 exercising an Indian pow-wow about the room. 
 "Have you no decency, man, that you let your vag 
 abond goats trespass on other people s property? 
 
86 THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 Think of the long winter days that the old mare 
 will go hungry in consequence, and her poor ribs 
 hollowing in just in proportion as theirs bulge 
 out, and more than twenty of them, and only one 
 of her. To the devil with you and your goats! 
 Damn you, man, I won t stand it." 
 
 John staggered to his feet, and, shaking his fist 
 at Tony, he cried, "Tony McFadden, you re insult 
 ing me, here in your own house. I won t take 
 such talk from no man. I demand satisfaction. 
 Yes, sir, I demand it. Do you hear?" 
 
 "And satisfaction you shall have," shrieked 
 Tony, his small black eyes snapping fire, and his 
 stiff leg spread at a broad angle so as to brace him 
 self in a firm and threatening attitude. "You re 
 dealing with no dago now, I ll have you know, but 
 with a gentleman who will meet you fair and 
 square in the open field. We ll fight it out in a 
 duel." 
 
 John s courage took a mighty tumble at Tony s 
 words and manner, notwithstanding the encour 
 aging influence of the wine. He managed to re 
 ply with a huge effort at bravado, "All right, sir; 
 choose your weapons." 
 
TEE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 87 
 
 "I ll use my shotgun," said Tony, "and I ll fill 
 you chuckful of lead, you sniveling blatherskite!" 
 
 John winced, and suddenly sat down through 
 an overpowering weakness in his knees. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if it s to he firearms, I ll use 
 my old horse-pistol, and may the Lord direct my 
 hand. Don t you have to have seconds, and sur 
 geons, and a code of law in duels? 
 
 "No," said Tony, "that s the old-fashioned way. 
 There s no use in all that tomfoolery. If we re 
 killed, that ends it, and we don t need no doctor. 
 If we re hurt, it s time enough then to send for 
 him. All we need to do is to pace off the distance, 
 count one, two, three, and fire!" 
 
 "Who ll do the counting?" asked John. 
 
 "We can draw lots," answered Tony. 
 
 "Yes, and you ll get it," protested John. 
 "There s no luck in me, and how do I know hut 
 you d fire before you counted the three? Don t 
 you see, it gives me no show. I won t agree to no 
 such risk. An outside party must do the count- 
 ing." 
 
 "All right, we ll get Aratto. He s near," replied 
 Tony. 
 
88 THE COLONEL AND BETT7 ANN. 
 
 "What the devil do you mean? I won t have 
 him," wildly ejaculated John. "He d give you 
 the wink just for the pure joy of seeing me mur 
 dered." 
 
 "Well, then, we ll get Joe Carson. He s a friend 
 to both of us and will do the fair thing," said 
 Tony. "I ll go after him." 
 
 "Very well," agreed John, "but don t inform 
 him that it s a duel. Just say we have a little 
 business, and need him for a witness." 
 
 "All right," Tony answered. "Set your time." 
 
 "Tomorrow at high noon," replied John in 
 tragic tones. "I ve read somewhere of things hap 
 pening at high noon, and it always sounded well, 
 but I never thought of its coming home to me in 
 this way. I seem to be reading now in next week s 
 Chronicle: John White, an honored and respected 
 citizen, and a California pioneer, foully shot 
 through the heart by a villainous one-legged Irish 
 man named Tony McFadden." 
 
 Here John again subsided into teary sorrow over 
 his demise, but Tony kept on stumping up and 
 down the cabin, his stiff leg coming down with an 
 ominous thud at each step. 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 89 
 
 "Come, get out of this," he said, "and don t 
 show me your ugly mug again till you re ready to 
 fight. Now, mind, you don t sneak out of it, you 
 sniv ling coward. Tomorrow, at noon, right out 
 there in front of this door/ 
 
 "Yes," wailed the crestfallen John. "We re en 
 emies now, and must act according." 
 
 In both cabins, that afternoon, there were great 
 preparations for the next day s event. Both wea 
 pons had been loaded but not used for years, so 
 their condition necessitated vigorous scouring and 
 much expenditure of oil. As the shotgun was a 
 hard kicker, Tony concluded to take its going off 
 for granted, and thus save himself an unnecessary 
 blow. 
 
 "There s no real comfort in a gun that shoots 
 both ways," he growled. 
 
 The horse-pistol was still more doubtful. There 
 was a tradition that in case it ever went off at all, 
 both pistol and shooter would go up in smoke. 
 So John, also, concluded to trust to Providence for 
 its behavior on the morrow. 
 
 The thoughts of the two men ran in very differ 
 ent channels as they sought their respective bunks 
 
90 THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 that night. Tony, though still in great rage over 
 the shortage in the old mare s already too scant 
 allowance, hegan to see the ludicrous side of the 
 contemplated settlement. 
 
 "The cowardly rascal needs a lesson for keeping 
 those blamed goats," he reflected. "He never pro 
 vides for them, so they have grown to be a regular 
 set of scavengers, and no one need tell me that ani 
 mals can t reason. Those goats have their beat all 
 laid out months ahead, and could show you the day 
 on the calendar when the mare s barley is most 
 nourishing. 
 
 "I wish I had thrashed the scoundrel on the 
 spot. That would have settled it. I don t like 
 this duel business, after all. One of us may get 
 hurt, but he insisted on it. He would have satis 
 faction, and I guess he s getting it. He ll suffer a 
 blamed sight more through fright than if his 
 whole head was shot off." 
 
 These thoughts carried Tony into dreamland, 
 where goats, horse-pistols and shotguns were hold 
 ing high carnival, and he was helplessly transfixed 
 as a target upon which they were exercising their 
 skill in a butting and shooting contest. 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 91 
 
 John was surely convinced that his last hour was 
 near at hand. In the mortal fear under which he 
 labored, he suffered every imaginable torment. 
 Dantean visions were but thin shadows of the 
 miseries that his poor soul endured. He resolved 
 to pray, but he tangled the Lord s prayer and 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep" into a snarl that he 
 could by no means unravel. He finally gave up 
 trying, and thought that he would repent of hi.s 
 sins, but his own shortcomings constantly slipped 
 out of sight behind the greater misdoings of his 
 fellow beings in a way that always brought him 
 back to a realization of his own hard fate. 
 
 During his many tribulations, it never occurred 
 to him that he could lighten life s burden by dis 
 posing of the goats. They had grown to be a part 
 of his existence, and he would as soon have 
 thought of dispensing with breath as with his flock. 
 The night dragged on, but no dreams flitted his 
 way. The weary hours lengthened into never-end 
 ing terrors that grew more and more gigantic as 
 morning approached. 
 
 At the appointed time, the three men were at the 
 designated spot. To Joe the affair was huge fun. 
 
92 THE COLONEL AND BETTJ ANN. 
 
 He afterwards declared that it was better than a 
 circus with a dozen sideshows, and that he 
 would not have missed it for a mint of money. He 
 greatly regretted that such a novel treat should be 
 wasted on so small an audience. He contrived to 
 look solemn, as befitted the occasion, but whenever 
 he glanced at John s quaking figure, it cost him a 
 severe struggle to "command his countenance." 
 
 While he paced oft the distance, he urged John 
 to keep up his courage, but when he told the men 
 to take their places, John stood stockstill, appar 
 ently unable to move hand or foot. Joe walked 
 up to him, took him by the arm and deliberately 
 marched him to his place, turned him about, and 
 stood him in position as if he were a tin soldier. 
 He stood pale and limp, his hands glued to his 
 sides, and the horse-pistol tucked securely under 
 arm. 
 
 "All ready, now," called Joe. 
 
 "Ow! Ow! Hold on!" screamed John. "I I I 
 ain t quite ready yet." 
 
 Joe waited some time, then again called 
 "Ready!" 
 
THE COLONEL AND BETTJ ANN. 93 
 
 "No! No! Not yet!" wailed the terror-stricken 
 John. "Anybody can see that I haven t half a 
 show. Him with a great, long gun reaching over 
 the whole distance right into a fellow s face, and I 
 with only a short bit of a shooter. Can t you see 
 it ain t even ? His distance should be greater than 
 mine." 
 
 "Oh, don t be squeamish, John," said Joe, en 
 couragingly. "Your pistol s the better weapon of 
 the two; besides, you know very well that his old 
 gun kicks. It never shoots straight any way." 
 
 " Yes, that s just it. It never shoots straight, so 
 of course he ll aim crooked and hit me by chance." 
 
 "Come! Come!" shouted Tony, "I m getting 
 tired of this. Do you think I m going to stand 
 here all day like a post, waiting for that bottle- 
 stopper? Screw up your courage and come to 
 time, or I ll make a sieve of you. When that 
 Three! sounds your soul will be in hell." 
 
 "Do you hear that, Joe," pleaded John. "Do 
 you hear what he s saying, when I m standing up 
 here like a martyr to be slaughtered in cold blood. 
 Go on, now, and no man can say that I didn t bear 
 the agonies of death with fortitude." 
 
94 *tiE COLONEL AND BETTY ANN. 
 
 "All right/ answered Joe. "One! Two! " 
 
 The "Three!" was never uttered. A wild shriek 
 rent the air. The pistol lay on the ground, and 
 John s legs were covering the distance between the 
 battleground and his cabin at a speed that would 
 have done credit to an ostrich. 
 
 As he fled past the oaktree, the Colonel arose 
 from among his sleeping companions, and quietly 
 gazed after the flying figure. A self-satisfied rip 
 ple fluttered from his throat as he settled back in 
 his place, assuring the vigilant Betty Ann that it 
 was nothing a woman could understand. 
 
SQUEALING ALEX 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON, 
 
SQUEALING ALEX. 
 
 Over the hill comes the queerest apparition. 
 His hair floats before him like a black banner, and 
 a ragged cotton bandana crowns him king of the 
 uniques. His tattered blouse reveals patches of 
 brown, shiny skin and the dilapidated overalls are 
 characteristically curved to accommodate the bend 
 of his short legs. He has a small, peaked face with 
 restless, beady eyes that seem constantly peering for 
 game. The upper lip shuts firmly upon the pro 
 truding under one as if foretelling the fate of un 
 fortunate woodchucks that get within range of 
 his gun. He speaks very little English, and when 
 addressed looks at the speaker with the faint trace 
 of a smile bending the corners of his mouth. 
 When talking his voice assumes a high squeaking 
 tone, for which reason he is called Squealing Alex. 
 His days are spent on the lake shore, where he 
 fishes for toothsome speckled victims, or in tramp- 
 
 (97) 
 
98 SQUEALING ALEX. 
 
 ing over the hills in search of "ground-hogs." If 
 successful, night finds him seated beside his camp 
 fire, eating roasted fish or ground-hog and supping 
 flour porridge. His wife is a filthy old squaw who 
 sits all day weaving coarse baskets. She drives a 
 close bargain and always gives the money to Alex 
 for safekeeping. His money pouch is the dressed 
 skin of a chipmunk. The real Indian character 
 istics are more marked in him than in any other 
 man of the tribe. He prefers to hunt and fish 
 during the summer when other Indians are work 
 ing for the whites. He carries more of the race 
 type in appearance, movements and habits than 
 the other men. In fact, he is an excellent speci 
 men of the degenerate native American. The 
 finest traits of the savage American yellow man 
 are gone and only the crudest elements of civiliza 
 tion assumed. 
 
 His contempt for whites is supreme. He is 
 never seen about the hotel kitchen, as he prefers 
 his own simple diet, and it is only upon very rare 
 occasions that he will talk to any white person. 
 
 Once he forgot to turn his back and the con 
 temptuous little smile gave way to more tragic 
 
SQUEALING ALEX. 99 
 
 expression. This was one day when a skillful hun 
 ter showed him his gun and told of a successful 
 bear hunt of the previous week. Not to be out 
 done. Alex recounted the thrilling experience of 
 his last raid upon a woodchuck burrow. As the 
 hunter spoke no Indian, and Alex knew but little 
 English, the adventures were mostly communicat 
 ed by means of pantomime. 
 
 Pointing to an imaginary woodchuck hole, Alex 
 placed himself in a attitude of waiting, with make- 
 believe gun ready for instant action. With head 
 thrust forward in eager expectation, he repeated in 
 suppressed hushes: "Sh! Sh! Sh!" to show that 
 all must be very still. Now he puts up one finger 
 and stretches up his neck in imitation of the cau 
 tious woodchuck s preparations for exit. Disap 
 pointment comes over his face; with a slow shake 
 of the head he repeats: "Little one little one!" 
 Again he waits, up come two fingers, the neck 
 stretches, but the look of disappointment and the 
 monotonous drone of "Little one little one!" tell 
 that the desired prey has not appeared. At last, 
 trembling with eagerness, the head moves up and 
 down, the suppressed "Sh! Sh!" is changed to a 
 
1 00 SQUEALING ALEX. 
 
 long-drawn "A-a-h!" of satisfaction. Mimic aim 
 is taken, a loud "Boom!" bursts from the puffed- 
 out cheeks. With face aglow he rushes to the 
 hole and drags forth the phantom prize. High 
 he holds it before the admiring gaze of his com 
 panion. Suddenly he turns and walks away as if 
 indignant at the part he had been playing. And 
 his sullen bearing during the following days gave 
 the impression that he thoroughly disapproved of 
 himself for having condescended to have friendly 
 intercourse with a white man. 
 
PRINCE OF ORANGE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SARGENT WILSON. 
 
PRINCE OF CHANGE. 
 
 "Angora, you d flirt with a mail-box. You re a 
 reproach to all decent goats/ 
 
 "Billy, when your love for me frapped, I re 
 solved a resolution. I said to myself, Angora 
 Woolyaphis Goat, don t make yourself miserable 
 over a small matter like that. That s the way all 
 married men do. Go thou and do likewise. " 
 
 "Billy, I do likewise, and as casting goat s eyes 
 at every good looking nanny that comes your way 
 is a fixed habit of yours, don t scowl at me when I 
 smile upon a nice William to my liking. Now take 
 that toboggan slide of yours off arid ponder." 
 
 William perched himself on the sunny side of a 
 granite boulder and reflected thus: "What in the 
 devil am I to do about it? She has the advantage 
 of me every way. To begin with, there s blood. 
 She s pure angora, while I m just ordinary, com 
 mon, smelly goat. Then she has intellect. Jim- 
 (103) 
 
104 PRINCE OF ORANGE. 
 
 miny! but she s smart! She s educated besides. 
 Why, she s been sneaking into backyards eating 
 newspapers ever since she was a kid. 
 
 "After a fill of that diet, plain earth is not good 
 enough for her. Why, she d pick flaws in the pal 
 aces of gold and pearl and sneer at the jeweled pav 
 ing stones of heaven. 
 
 "I wonder if it s true about those paving stones, 
 or if some old Billygoat of the past just made it 
 up. 
 
 "Well, to come back to Angora, I have political 
 aspirations; I want to be school trustee, and I think 
 I can work it if Angora don t get wind of it. If 
 she does, Fm a gone goat. 
 
 "I ll approach her and throw her off the track. 
 
 "Angora, my dear!" 
 
 "What is it, Billy?" 
 
 "I have an idea." 
 
 "Go put it in the safe deposit, my love, and in 
 the course of time it may sprout. It s the first 
 idea I ever knew you to possess. What sort of 
 an incubator did you use?" 
 
 "Damn it! What do you mean?" 
 
PRINCE OF ORANGE. 1Q5 
 
 "Billy, don t use such language; the kids will 
 pick it up." 
 
 "Well, Angora, you drive me mad. You poke 
 fun at everything I say or do." 
 
 "I ll be good, my love; now spread out your 
 idea." 
 
 "Now, it s this, my beauty. You know the elec 
 tion for school trustees comes off next week. Some 
 of the men have suggested that a woman be 
 elected." 
 
 "Who s the woman, Bill?" 
 
 "Well, several were mentioned, but none settled 
 on definitely. Now, Angora, if a woman is to be 
 trustee in this district, it s got to be you, if I have 
 to yank up all the trees in the forest and smash 
 every last voter s head with them." 
 
 "Billy, don t make a bigger fool of yourself than 
 the good Lord had in rnind when He constructed 
 you. I ll attend to the matter myself. Where s 
 my hat?" 
 
 "Play a waltz, Kidalina," said William, as An 
 gora sped away to the neighbors. "Your father 
 feels like dancing a bit." 
 
106 PRINCE OF ORANGE. 
 
 "Tra la la, tra la la, 
 
 Nanny goat! 
 You ll get left, you ll get left, 
 
 Don t you know t? 
 Tee he he, tee he he, 
 
 But tis jolly! 
 Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 By golly! 
 Rumty turn, Eumty turn 
 
 School trustee! 
 Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! 
 
 I ll be he!" 
 
 "I tell you, when it comes to politics, women 
 are not in it. They haven t that logical reasoning 
 power necessary for such work. They jump at 
 conclusions and keep things in a constant hubbub. 
 It s no place for them, anyway " 
 
 "What are you saying, Billy?" 
 
 "Oh, is that you, Angora? I was just saying that 
 some folks think politics is not the place for 
 women, but I don t agree with them." 
 
 "Why do they think so?" 
 
 "Well, they say you re thrown in contact with 
 disreputable men, for one thing/ 
 
PRINCE OF ORANGE. 1Q7 
 
 "Oh! Really! As we live with them the other 
 three hundred sixty-four and one-half days, I can t 
 see that they would tarnish us more than they 
 already have, that other six hours." 
 
 "Gosh! but the sun s hot, Angora. I m going 
 up in the shade of that rock to cool off." 
 
 Time dragged until the eventful Tuesday of the 
 election. The day was too sultry for much of any 
 contest or protest. One man, however, had energy 
 enough for a harangue. This was a certain goat 
 of Italian breed, a hard worker, who carried about 
 an aroma of fertilizing materials. 
 
 "I hera the peop talka the woma for trustee. 
 The woma for stay homa, cooka, sewa, washa, 
 churna, scruba, hava the baba; soma more time 
 left, diga the garda. No gooda for trustee. No 
 gooda worka thait for woma. Too harda she no 
 understanda the politica. Every day I whipa 
 my wifa I whipa my girla maka stay homa. My 
 wifa gooda woma, I nominata for trustee this 
 schoola William Oranga Goata." 
 
 And William was elected. 
 
 The first half mile of the homeward walk was 
 ecstatic, but at a turn in the road the pine tree 
 
108 PRINCE OF ORANGE. 
 
 that marked their abode stood like a spire against 
 the sky. Angora is under that tree awaiting his 
 return. During the next half mile, lead seemed 
 to settle in William s feet, and the last half mile 
 Whew! His whole inside felt hollowed out and 
 the cavity filled with mercury. 
 
 Angora s eyes measured him as he dragged him 
 self into her presence. There was a steely look in 
 them that seemed to take in the situation. The 
 mercury began to ooze through every pore in his 
 body. 
 
 "Well, Bill, who is trustee?" 
 
 "I am, Angora; I couldn t help it. They in 
 sisted, against my urgent protest; but I couldn t 
 control the gang. Sure, Angora. Yes, Angora; 
 I really did. 
 
 "Well, Angora, why don t you say something, 
 and not sit there looking at me like a refriger 
 ator?" 
 
 "William Orange Goat, when I have nothing to 
 say, I say it." 
 
 "Angora, you re enough to drive a man clean 
 crazy. You surely think something. What is 
 it?" 
 
PRINCE OF ORANGE. 1Q9 
 
 "William, I m thinking of the Battle of the 
 Boyne; also of Balaam s ass." 
 
 Through the coming months, things went on 
 smoothly. William could not imagine what had 
 struck Angora. "Butter wouldn t melt in her 
 mouth/ he declared,, and he felt leary as of a calm 
 before a terrible storm. 
 
 One day she announced that she was going to 
 Pine Grove. The convention met that day for the 
 nomination of county officers. William remained 
 at home and looked after the kids. His wife did 
 not return until late that night, when she calmly 
 announced that she had received the nomination 
 for county superintendent of schools. William 
 climbed to his perch in the rocks and cried real, 
 Billygoat tears. 
 
 He knew that she would be elected. She was, 
 and the agony a certain trustee endured under her 
 merciless administration goes down on the record 
 as a warning to all goat posterity. 
 
908946 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY