University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RED MOUNTAIN.

The Wingdam stage had recovered its reputation
for sobriety. Since the eventful day when
it carried our beroine from her mountain home,
it had indulged in no other antics than the conventional
gallop from the foot of the mountain
to the door of the National Hotel. This harmless
frolic was in deference to time-honored custom.
The Wingdam stage had always arrived
in a burst of speed. Its intelligent horses knew
what was expected of them. The crack of the
driver's whip was like a ceremonial summons to
refreshment. It was responded to with an
alacrity and a sincerity of action which imposed
upon the youth of the settlement. The antmated
young faces that welcomed its imposing
approach would have been shadowed with a
serious disappointment had the caprice of its
driver asserted its supremacy over established
habit.

Since the day when we last followed its tortuous
way up the mountain, the Wingdam stage
had carried some illustrious passengers. It had
carried Judge Plunkett on his way to Sacramento,
when he was summoned to enlighten the
Supreme Court on some knotty question of
mining law; it had carried Dr. Duchesne, when a convocation
of regularly educated physicians furnished
him with a valid excuse for leaving his patients to participate
once more in the gayeties of city life; it had
carried a score or more of painted women whose self-imposed
mission it was to bewilder the modest dames
of Smith's Pocket with a glimpse of the latest San
Francisco fashions; it had carried a live member of
Congress, who came with two less famous statesmen
who aspired to seats in our own Legislature, to instruct
the males of Smith's Pocket as to their political
duties; it had carried three well-known San Francisco
capitalists, who contemplated substantial investments
in the auriferons boweis of Red Mountain; and last,
but not least, it had carried that promising specimen
of Young California, known to the readers of this
veritable history as Robert Shaw.

Despite these professional triumphs, Bill Green bore
himself with characteristic modesty. He conversed
familiarly with the residents of Smith's Pocket, at
times when no more important duties required his
attention. He sometimes, though rarely, gossiped
about the distinguished people he conducted into the
settlement, and speculated upon the effect their coming
would have upon its general prosperity. He
brought bundles for ladies who desired in their attire
to preserve harmonious relations with the greater
world that throbbed on the other side of the mountain,
and nodded pleasantly to school-girls who made
it a point to intercept the stage before its arrival at
the hotel, when it was given over to masculine inspection.
He permitted boys to climb with impunity upon
the rack, where the baggage of his passengers was

piled, and if he sometimes flourished his avenging
whip over their heads, he rarely let it fall about their
naked limbs. In return for these varied kindnesses,
Bill Green was everywhere treated with marked respect.

Something more than a year has passed since the
master bade farewell to the settlement of Smith's
Pocket. His memory is still cherished, for stories had
come up of his wonderful success in the city, and
strangers are shown the school-house where he was
once an humble and patient laborer. The school-house
has now a larger flock of attendant; but its
outward aspect is the same. The master's successor
is less a favorite than the master himself, and is wanting
somewhat in the old master's faculty of making
school popular with the young lady members of the
first families. He is diligent, faithful, and patient,
but he is neither young nor handsome.

In its material interests the settlement is flourishing.
A fine quartz mill is in successful operation near
the site of Smith's Pocket, and the mountain is honeycombed
with shafts and tunnels. Some of the prospectors
are successful; others live in hopes of forcing
the capricious goddess who reigns in the mountain to
recognize their existence. The settlement has kept
pace with the development of mineral wealth. An
Episcopal Church now rears its imposing front almost
in the face of the less pretentious pioneer of the
Methodist faith. The first families avail themselves
of this opportunity to assert more decisively their
aristocratic proclivities by attending the new church.
A billiard-saloon, within a little more than a stone's
throw, unblushingly contrasts its turbulent and profane
frequenters with the placid respectability of the
Sunday congregation. The Sabbath is kept after a
fashion not peculiar to the settlement. The miners
rest from their labors, but, I regret to say, add materially
to the labors of saloon-keepers. Some of them
submit to an hour's restraint in the morning for the
sake of a glimpse of the pretty feminice faces that lend
attractiveness to religious service, but a larger number
are coment to stare at the pretty faces as they pass
to and fro on their way to and from the church.

The advent of Robert Shaw at the settlement attracted
some attention. The son of a late distinguished
member of the San Francisco bar was a presumptive
capitalist. It was soon known, also, that he was
Mr. Gray's friend and agent, and that he knew the
little mountain girl whom all the old residents remembered
with paternal tenderness. Easy of approach,
frank and communicative, he soon established his
claims to consideration on personal grounds. He
tramped over the hills and descended into shafts with
as much ease and nerve as if he had been a miner all
his life. He had other accomplishments which might
not be appreciated in elegant social circles, but were
of service to a city visitor in a mining settlement.
Evenings in the saloon, he sang all the minstrel songs
of the day and danced to banjo accompaniment. He
introduced “Love Among the Roses” and the “Big
Sunflower” with decided success. At billiards he beat
the sporting men whom miners always like to see
beaten, and in sporting parlance “got away” with large
sums of their coin. But Napoleon invaded Russia,
and Bob was not greater than Napoleon. One quiet
Sunday afternoon he allowed himself to be bantered
into a game of “draw-poker.” The mistake was fatal
Bob lost steadily, so steadily, in fact, that he strongly
suspected his opponent of cheating. He watched him
narrowly until a movement gave certainty. Then
Bob, with characteristic warmth, made the charge
openly. A denial was accompanied with an insulting
epithet. Bob replied with a blow that knocked his
opponent down.

The crowd rushed in and separated the combatants.
Bob was now informed that he had baen playing with
the “best man” in the settlement. This “best man”
was known as “Butcher Bill.” He was a terrible
fighter and had never been whipped. He was a bully
but his personal strength and skill in the use of Nature's
weapons rendered him an object of dread even
among fighting men.

The saloon filled with a turbulent crowd. The miners
rolled around Bob. He was a stranger and a gentleman,
the other a professional gambler and a notorious
bully. Bob had sat down to a gentlemanly game
of poker, and the bully had resorted to his professional
tricks. If need be they would hang the gambler,
but Bob, their guest, should not be touched.

Bob cut short their expostulations by the announcement
that all he asked was a fair show. If they would
take care of Butcher Bill's friends, he would take care
of Butcher Bill. He was cool and smiling. As he
took off his coat he displayed a figure that went far to
reassure his friends. He was a picture of a trained
athlets. A broad, deep chest, heavy shoulders,
long arms, the muscles of which were hard as steel,
showed a physical force superior to that of his adversary.
But the latter was a veteran fighter, with
the confidence derived frem a hundred victories. He
had the carriage, endurance of a professional prize-fighter.

When two men really want to fight they are seldom
prevented. Friends only serve to cover a retreat,
when one party prefers that line of action. We have
not represented Bob as a model young man, but we
desire to give him credit for his good qualities. He
certainly had physical courage. On this occasion he
made his friends understand that he was in earnest,
and they yielded.

The crowd adjourned to the open air. It was a
warm Sabbath afternoon, and two churches stood rebukingly
in the distance. Women who had been
strolling through the street, sought the shelter of
some friendly house when the crowd appeared. Pale
and anxious faces looked wonderingly from the windows,
but these were unheeded. A circle of stakes
was driven into the ground, a rope stretched around
them forming a ring, and the crowd barred out. It
was agreed that the combatants should fight as they
pleased, until one should cry “enough,” or until one
should be incapable of continuing the battle.

I shall not afflict my readers with details. I would
gladly pass the event by, if consequences had not followed
which require to be accounted for. Even my
lady readers, who have doubtless a horror of Bob's
character, will be glad to know that he conducted himself
under these trying circumstances like a lad of
spirit.

Butcher Bill was inclined, at first to make short
work of his youthful antagonist. The latter, however,
parried the butcher boy's blows without any extraordinary

display of science. But it was observed that
the butcher's favorite “left-handers” were stopped on
the way to Bob's visage. It was observed, also, that
Bob seemed more intent upon studying his antagonist's
style than in exhibitions of his own. The gamblers
affected to sneer at Bob's tactics, but the miners
cheered every neat parry, and encouraged Bob with
more or less sage advice. But when, at the close of a
sharp spirit on the part of Bill, Bob followed him up
and succeeded in breaking his guard, there was a wild
shout of exultation. And when Bob planted two
stinging blows in quick succession on Bill's right eye,
fairly lifting him off his feet, there was such a yell as
had not been heard in Smith's Pocket within the memory
of the oldest inhabitant. But Bill was accustomed
to this kind of treatment. He recovered himself
quickly and continued the contest with more deliberation
but with scarcely less spirit. Occasionally he
gained a slight advantage, but the tide of affairs was,
on the whole, against him. It soon became a question
of endurance. The one who could stand the most
punishment and not lose his head was pretty sure to
be the winner. Bill's friends stood in a corner together,
their pistols cocked in their pock-ts, ready for
emergencies. The miners were more noisy in their
demonstrations, but not a few of them were prepared
to defend their champion against any mode of attack
that might be adopted.

It soon became evident that the end was approaching.
Bob was equal in science, in courage, and endurance
to his antagonist, and was superior in physical
force. The advantage of this element in a personal
encounter became more telling as the combatants became
more nearly exhausted. At last the redoubtable
Butcher Bill only rose to fall beneath the terrible
blows of his determined antagonist. He kept up a
show of fight after every hope of success was knocked
out of him, but in the end his friends admitted him
vanquisted, and carried him from the field.

The victor was badly bruised. His elegant sister
would hardly have recognizen him, as he was led,
nearly blind and covered with blood, from the scene
of his triumph. Mr. Gray would hardly have congratulated
himself on his choice of an agent had he
seen that agent after this Sunday afternoon's performance.
But Mr. Gray's old friend, Dr. Duchesne, exercised
the privilege of friendship, took the young
pugilist in charge, separated him from those who
would have celebrated his victory by orgies scarcely
less revolting, and finally locked him in a private room
in the National Hotel.

The next day Bob showed symptoms of fever. The
second day the symptoms were more decided. Dr
Duchesne administered the usual remedies, but the
fever refused to be dislodged. Then followed three
weeks of deitrium. One day the young man awoke to
consciousness, helpless as an infant, but with a full
recollection of the events that had preceded his illness.

Almost the first object that met his eye was a boy
sitting on a chair near the bed. The boy hopped down
the moment he saw that the patient was awake. As
the boy alighted on the floor. Bob had a view of a large
ody set upon a pair of short legs. The countenance
that presented itself above the large body was intelligent
and prepossessing. It beamed at that moment
with an expression of mingled pleasure and admiration.

“Who are you?” asked Bob.

“I'm Aristides.”

“Ah!” said Bob, a little confused, “I've heard
something about an Aristides.”

The classical youth's countenance expressed more
decided satisfaction at this intelligence. I am afraid
he thought it an honor to be remembered by a man
who had whipped Butcher Bill in a fair stand-up fight.

“I'm to tell Dr. Duchesne when you wake up,” said
Aristides, and he was off.

Bob had a little time for reflection. He had already
made the discovery that he had less strength than the
small boy who had just left him, and he hardly knew
how to account for the fact. He could not remember
when his limbs had refused to obey the dictates of his
will. The sense of helplessness was a kind of surprise.
It was a condition of the physical system he
had never contemplated as possible to him. It
seemed as if somebody had somehow taken an unfair
advantage of him. He remembered having been engaged
in a battle, compared to which his previous encounters
were but boys' play, and of being borne off a
victor. He supposed he must be the same fellow, but
could hardly understand where the part of him which
enabled him to sustain such a contest had gone.

Aristides hopped hightly into the room. Dr.
Duchesne followed. The bov pointed to the bed, his
face aglow with enthusiasm. He seemed impressed
with the idea that he had in some substantial manner
contributed to the patient's recovery.

“How do you find yourself:” asked the doctor,
placing his finger on his patient's pulse.

“D—d weak,” replied Bob.

“Well, we'll have you up shortly.”

“What's the matter, anyway.”

“Nothing but a little fever. It's Nature's way of
punishing an abuse of her forces.”

“Well,” said Bob, “if it's all the same to Nature, I
hope she'll call it even. I've got enough.”

“Nature will let you off this time, but I wouldn't
tempt her too often.”

“How long have I been down?”

“About three weeks.”

“That's a long time for a fellow not to know what's
going on.”

“Yes, when a follow isn't used to that sort of thing.
Keep quiet now.”

“All right. You're a good fellow, doctor.”

“Here's another good fellow,” said the doctor,
taking Aristides by the hand. This is Aristides Morpher,
a former pupil of your friend, Mr. Gray. He's
been your nurse.”

“Ah,” said Bob, “your'e the little fellow that used
to stand by Mliss. Do you remember Mliss?”

“Bet I do,” replied Aristides, with an emphatic nod
of his head.

“Good. Mliss remembers you. Mliss isn't a girl
to go back on her friends. Some of these days we'll go
down to `Frisco and see her.”

Ris y's round eyes almost started from their sockets
at this prospect. With the precipitancy characteristic
of his tender age, he started off to inform his parents
of his proposed visit to the city. The just Aristides
was not the only member of the Morpher family who

were what Bob would call “good fellows.” The fact
that Bob was a friend of Mr. Gray had served as a
passport to Mrs. Morpher's favor. In the week that
followed, many deticacies found their way from her
abundant table to the room of the prostrate Hercules;
and when the prostrate Hercules was again on his
feet, his first visit was to the Mountain Ranch.