 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR.
BEFORE nine o'clock it was pretty well known
all along the river that the two partners of
the “Amity Claim” had quarrelled and separated
at daybreak. At that time the attention of their
nearest neighbor had been attracted by the sounds
of altercations and two consecutive pistol-shots.
Running out, he had seen, dimly, in the gray mist
that rose from the river, the tall form of Scott, one
of the partners, descending the hill toward the
cañon; a moment later, York, the other partner,
had appeared from the cabin, and walked in an
opposite direction toward the river, passing within
a few feet of the curious watcher. Later it was
discovered that a serious Chinaman, cutting wood
before the cabin, had witnessed part of the quarrel.
But John was stolid, indifferent, and reticent. “Me
choppee wood, me no fightee,” was his serene response
to all anxious queries. “But what did they
say, John?” John did not sabe. Colonel Starbottle
deftly ran over the various popular epithets
which a generous public sentiment might accept
as reasonable provocation for an assault. But John
did not recognize them. “And this yer 's the cattle,”
some thinks oughter be allowed to testify ag'in' a
White Man! Git — you heathen!”
Still the quarrel remained inexplicable. That
two men, whose amiability and grave tact had
earned for them the title of “The Peacemakers,”
in a community not greatly given to the passive virtues,
— that these men, singularly devoted to each
other, should suddenly and violently quarrel, might
well excite the curiosity of the camp. A few
of the more inquisitive visited the late scene of
conflict, now deserted by its former occupants.
There was no trace of disorder or confusion in the
neat cabin. The rude table was arranged as if
for breakfast; the pan of yellow biscuit still sat
upon that hearth whose dead embers might have
typified the evil passions that had raged there
but an hour before. But Colonel Starbottle's eye
— albeit somewhat bloodshot and rheumy — was
more intent on practical details. On examination,
a bullet-hole was found in the doorpost, and
another, nearly opposite, in the casing of the window.
The Colonel called attention to the fact that
the one “agreed with” the bore of Scott's revolver,
and the other with that of York's derringer.
“They must hev stood about yer,” said the Colonel,
taking position; “not mor'n three feet apart,
and — missed!” There was a fine touch of pathos
in the falling inflection of the Colonel's voice,
of wasted opportunity thrilled his auditors.
But the Bar was destined to experience a greater
disappointment. The two antagonists had not
met since the quarrel, and it was vaguely rumored
that, on the occasion of a second meeting, each had
determined to kill the other “on sight.” There
was, consequently, some excitement — and, it is to
be feared, no little gratification — when, at ten
o'clock, York stepped from the Magnolia Saloon
into the one long straggling street of the camp, at
the same moment that Scott left the blacksmith's
shop at the forks of the road. It was evident, at
a glance, that a meeting could only be avoided by
the actual retreat of one or the other.
In an instant the doors and windows of the
adjacent saloons were filled with faces. Heads
unaccountably appeared above the river-banks and
from behind bowlders. An empty wagon at the
cross-road was suddenly crowded with people, who
seemed to have sprung from the earth. There
was much running and confusion on the hillside.
On the mountain-road, Mr. Jack Hamlin had
reined up his horse, and was standing upright
on the seat of his buggy. And the two objects
of this absorbing attention approached each
other.
“York 's got the sun,” “Scott 'll line him on that
the cart; and then it was silent. But above
this human breathlessness the river rushed and
sang, and the wind rustled the tree-tops with an
indifference that seemed obtrusive. Colonel Starbottle
felt it, and in a moment of sublime preoccupation,
without looking around, waved his cane
behind him, warningly to all nature, and said,
“Shu!”
The men were now within a few feet of each
other. A hen ran across the road before one of
them. A feathery seed-vessel, wafted from a wayside
tree, fell at the feet of the other. And, unheeding
this irony of nature, the two opponents
came nearer, erect and rigid, looked in each other's
eyes, and — passed!
Colonel Starbottle had to be lifted from the cart.
“This yer camp is played out,” he said, gloomily,
as he affected to be supported into the Magnolia.
With what further expression he might have indicated
his feelings it was impossible to say, for
at that moment Scott joined the group. “Did
you speak to me?” he asked of the Colonel, dropping
his hand, as if with accidental familiarity, on
that gentleman's shoulder. The Colonel, recognizing
some occult quality in the touch, and some
unknown quantity in the glance of his questioner,
contented himself by replying, “No, sir,” with dignity.
A few rods away, York's conduct was as
fine chance; why did n't you plump him?” said
Jack Hamlin, as York drew near the buggy.
“Because I hate him,” was the reply, heard only
by Jack. Contrary to popular belief, this reply
was not hissed between the lips of the speaker, but
was said in an ordinary tone. But Jack Hamlin,
who was an observer of mankind, noticed that the
speaker's hands were cold, and his lips dry, as he
helped him into the buggy, and accepted the
seeming paradox with a smile.
When Sandy Bar became convinced that the
quarrel between York and Scott could not be
settled after the usual local methods, it gave no
further concern thereto. But presently it was
rumored that the “Amity Claim” was in litigation,
and that its possession would be expensively disputed
by each of the partners. As it was well
known that the claim in question was “worked
out” and worthless, and that the partners, whom
it had already enriched, had talked of abandoning
it but a day or two before the quarrel, this proceeding
could only be accounted for as gratuitous
spite. Later, two San Francisco lawyers made
their appearance in this guileless Arcadia, and
were eventually taken into the saloons, and —
what was pretty much the same thing — the confidences
of the inhabitants. The results of this
indeed, when the “Amity Claim” came to trial,
all of Sandy Bar that was not in compulsory
attendance at the county seat came there from curiosity.
The gulches and ditches for miles around
were deserted. I do not propose to describe that
already famous trial. Enough that, in the language
of the plaintiff's counsel, “it was one of no ordinary
significance, involving the inherent rights of
that untiring industry which had developed the
Pactolian resources of this golden land”; and, in
the homelier phrase of Colonel Starbottle, “A fuss
that gentlemen might hev settled in ten minutes
over a social glass, ef they meant business; or in
ten seconds with a revolver, ef they meant fun.”
Scott got a verdict, from which York instantly appealed.
It was said that he had sworn to spend
his last dollar in the struggle.
In this way Sandy Bar began to accept the
enmity of the former partners as a lifelong feud,
and the fact that they had ever been friends was
forgotten. The few who expected to learn from
the trial the origin of the quarrel were disappointed.
Among the various conjectures, that which
ascribed some occult feminine influence as the
cause was naturally popular, in a camp given to
dubious compliment of the sex. “My word for
it, gentlemen,” said Colonel Starbottle, who had
been known in Sacramento as a Gentleman of the
bottom of this.” The gallant Colonel then proceeded
to illustrate his theory, by divers sprightly
stories, such as Gentlemen of the Old School are
in the habit of repeating, but which, from deference
to the prejudices of gentlemen of a more recent
school, I refrain from transcribing here. But
it would appear that even the Colonel's theory was
fallacious. The only woman who personally might
have exercised any influence over the partners
was the pretty daughter of “old man Folinsbee,”
of Poverty Flat, at whose hospitable house —
which exhibited some comforts and refinements
rare in that crude civilization — both York and
Scott were frequent visitors. Yet into this charming
retreat York strode one evening, a month after
the quarrel, and, beholding Scott sitting there,
turned to the fair hostess with the abrupt query,
“Do you love this man?” The young woman
thus addressed returned that answer — at once
spirited and evasive — which would occur to most
of my fair readers in such an exigency. Without
another word, York left the house. “Miss Jo”
heaved the least possible sigh as the door closed
on York's curls and square shoulders, and then,
like a good girl, turned to her insulted guest.
“But would you believe it, dear?” she afterward
related to an intimate friend, “the other creature,
after glowering at me for a moment, got upon its
the last I 've seen of either.”
The same hard disregard of all other interests or
feelings in the gratification of their blind rancor
characterized all their actions. When York purchased
the land below Scott's new claim, and
obliged the latter, at a great expense, to make a
long détour to carry a “tail-race” around it, Scott
retaliated by building a dam that overflowed
York's claim on the river. It was Scott, who, in
conjunction with Colonel Starbottle, first organized
that active opposition to the Chinamen, which resulted
in the driving off of York's Mongolian laborers;
it was York who built the wagon-road and
established the express which rendered Scott's
mules and pack-trains obsolete; it was Scott who
called into life the Vigilance Committee which expatriated
York's friend, Jack Hamlin; it was
York who created the “Sandy Bar Herald,” which
characterized the act as “a lawless outrage,” and
Scott as a “Border Ruffian”; it was Scott, at the
head of twenty masked men, who, one moonlight
night, threw the offending “forms” into the yellow
river, and scattered the types in the dusty
road. These proceedings were received in the distant
and more civilized outlying towns as vague
indications of progress and vitality. I have before
me a copy of the “Poverty Flat Pioneer,” for the
week ending August 12, 1856, in which the editor,
“The new Presbyterian Church on C Street, at
Sandy Bar, is completed. It stands upon the lot
formerly occupied by the Magnolia Saloon, which
was so mysteriously burnt last month. The
temple, which now rises like a Phœnix from the
ashes of the Magnolia, is virtually the free gift of
H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy Bar, who purchased
the lot and donated the lumber. Other buildings
are going up in the vicinity, but the most noticeable
is the `Sunny South Saloon,' erected by Captain
Mat. Scott, nearly opposite the church. Captain
Scott has spared no expense in the furnishing
of this saloon, which promises to be one of the
most agreeable places of resort in old Tuolumne.
He has recently imported two new, first-class billiard-tables,
with cork cushions. Our old friend,
`Mountain Jimmy,' will dispense liquors at the
bar. We refer our readers to the advertisement
in another column. Visitors to Sandy Bar cannot
do better than give `Jimmy' a call.” Among
the local items occurred the following: “H. J.
York, Esq., of Sandy Bar, has offered a reward of
$100 for the detection of the parties who hauled
away the steps of the new Presbyterian Church, C
Street, Sandy Bar, during divine service on Sabbath
evening last. Captain Scott adds another
hundred for the capture of the miscreants who
broke the magnificent plate-glass windows of the
some talk of reorganizing the old Vigilance Committee
at Sandy Bar.”
When, for many months of cloudless weather,
the hard, unwinking sun of Sandy Bar had regularly
gone down on the unpacified wrath of these
men, there was some talk of mediation. In particular,
the pastor of the church to which I have
just referred — a sincere, fearless, but perhaps not
fully enlightened man — seized gladly upon the
occasion of York's liberality to attempt to reunite
the former partners. He preached an earnest sermon
on the abstract sinfulness of discord and rancor.
But the excellent sermons of the Rev. Mr.
Daws were directed to an ideal congregation that
did not exist at Sandy Bar, — a congregation of
beings of unmixed vices and virtues, of single impulses,
and perfectly logical motives, of preternatural
simplicity, of childlike faith, and grown-up
responsibilities. As, unfortunately, the people who
actually attended Mr. Daws's church were mainly
very human, somewhat artful, more self-excusing
than self-accusing, rather good-natured, and decidedly
weak, they quietly shed that portion of the
sermon which referred to themselves, and, accepting
York and Scott — who were both in defiant
attendance — as curious examples of those ideal
beings above referred to, felt a certain satisfaction
— which, I fear, was not altogether Christian-like
York and Scott to shake hands after the sermon,
he was disappointed. But he did not relax his
purpose. With that quiet fearlessness and determination
which had won for him the respect of
men who were too apt to regard piety as synonymous
with effeminacy, he attacked Scott in his
own house. What he said has not been recorded,
but it is to be feared that it was part of his sermon.
When he had concluded, Scott looked at
him, not unkindly, over the glasses of his bar, and
said, less irreverently than the words might convey,
“Young man, I rather like your style; but
when you know York and me as well as you do
God Almighty, it 'll be time to talk.”
And so the feud progressed; and so, as in more
illustrious examples, the private and personal enmity
of two representative men led gradually to
the evolution of some crude, half-expressed principle
or belief. It was not long before it was
made evident that those beliefs were identical with
certain broad principles laid down by the founders
of the American Constitution, as expounded by
the statesmanlike A.; or were the fatal quicksands,
on which the ship of state might be wrecked,
warningly pointed out by the eloquent B. The
practical result of all which was the nomination of
York and Scott to represent the opposite factions
of Sandy Bar in legislative councils.
For some weeks past, the voters of Sandy Bar
and the adjacent camps had been called upon, in
large type, to “Rally!” In vain the great pines
at the cross-roads — whose trunks were compelled
to bear this and other legends — moaned and protested
from their windy watch-towers. But one
day, with fife and drum, and flaming transparency,
a procession filed into the triangular grove at the
head of the gulch. The meeting was called to
order by Colonel Starbottle, who, having once
enjoyed legislative functions, and being vaguely
known as a “war-horse,” was considered to be a
valuable partisan of York. He concluded an
appeal for his friend, with an enunciation of principles,
interspersed with one or two anecdotes so
gratuitously coarse that the very pines might
have been moved to pelt him with their cast-off
cones, as he stood there. But he created a laugh,
on which his candidate rode into popular notice;
and when York rose to speak, he was greeted with
cheers. But, to the general astonishment, the new
speaker at once launched into bitter denunciation
of his rival. He not only dwelt upon Scott's deeds
and example, as known to Sandy Bar, but spoke
of facts connected with his previous career, hitherto
unknown to his auditors. To great precision of
epithet and directness of statement, the speaker
added the fascination of revelation and exposure.
The crowd cheered, yelled, and were delighted,
there was a unanimous call for “Scott!” Colonel
Starbottle would have resisted this manifest impropriety,
but in vain. Partly from a crude sense
of justice, partly from a meaner craving for excitement,
the assemblage was inflexible; and Scott
was dragged, pushed, and pulled upon the platform.
As his frowsy head and unkempt beard appeared
above the railing, it was evident that he was
drunk. But it was also evident, before he opened
his lips, that the orator of Sandy Bar — the one
man who could touch their vagabond sympathies
(perhaps because he was not above appealing to
them) — stood before them. A consciousness of
this power lent a certain dignity to his figure, and
I am not sure but that his very physical condition
impressed them as a kind of regal unbending and
large condescension. Howbeit, when this unexpected
Hector arose from the ditch, York's myrmidons
trembled.
“There 's naught, gentlemen,” said Scott, leaning
forward on the railing, — “there 's naught as
that man hez said as is n't true. I was run outer
Cairo; I did belong to the Regulators; I did desert
from the army; I did leave a wife in Kansas.
But thar 's one thing he did n't charge me with,
and, maybe, he 's forgotten. For three years, gentlemen,
I was that man's pardner! — ” Whether
applause artistically rounded and enforced the
climax, and virtually elected the speaker. That
fall he went to Sacramento, York went abroad;
and for the first time in many years, distance and
a new atmosphere isolated the old antagonists.
With little of change in the green wood, gray
rock, and yellow river, but with much shifting of
human landmarks, and new faces in its habitations,
three years passed over Sandy Bar. The two men,
once so identified with its character, seemed to
have been quite forgotten. “You will never return
to Sandy Bar,” said Miss Folinsbee, the “Lily
of Poverty Flat,” on meeting York in Paris, “for
Sandy Bar is no more. They call it Riverside
now; and the new town is built higher up on the
river-bank. By the by, `Jo' says that Scott has
won his suit about the `Amity Claim,' and that he
lives in the old cabin, and is drunk half his time.
O, I beg your pardon,” added the lively lady, as a
flush crossed York's sallow cheek; “but, bless me,
I really thought that old grudge was made up.
I 'm sure it ought to be.”
It was three months after this conversation, and
a pleasant summer evening, that the Poverty Flat
coach drew up before the veranda of the Union
Hotel at Sandy Bar. Among its passengers was
one, apparently a stranger, in the local distinction
demanded a private room and retired early to rest.
But before sunrise next morning he arose, and,
drawing some clothes from his carpet-bag, proceeded
to array himself in a pair of white duck
trousers, a white duck overshirt, and straw hat.
When his toilet was completed, he tied a red bandanna
handkerchief in a loop and threw it loosely
over his shoulders. The transformation was complete.
As he crept softly down the stairs and
stepped into the road, no one would have detected
in him the elegant stranger of the previous night,
and but few have recognized the face and figure of
Henry York of Sandy Bar.
In the uncertain light of that early hour, and in
the change that had come over the settlement, he
had to pause for a moment to recall where he
stood. The Sandy Bar of his recollection lay below
him, nearer the river; the buildings around
him were of later date and newer fashion. As he
strode toward the river, he noticed here a school-house
and there a church. A little farther on,
“The Sunny South” came in view, transformed
into a restaurant, its gilding faded and its paint
rubbed off. He now knew where he was; and,
running briskly down a declivity, crossed a ditch,
and stood upon the lower boundary of the Amity
Claim.
The gray mist was rising slowly from the river,
until it was caught among those rocky
altars, and held a sacrifice to the ascending sun.
At his feet the earth, cruelly gashed and scarred
by his forgotten engines, had, since the old days,
put on a show of greenness here and there, and
now smiled forgivingly up at him, as if things
were not so bad after all. A few birds were bathing
in the ditch with a pleasant suggestion of its
being a new and special provision of nature, and
a hare ran into an inverted sluice-box, as he approached,
as if it were put there for that purpose.
He had not yet dared to look in a certain direction.
But the sun was now high enough to paint
the little eminence on which the cabin stood. In
spite of his self-control, his heart beat faster as he
raised his eyes toward it. Its window and door
were closed, no smoke came from its adobe chimney,
but it was else unchanged. When within a
few yards of it, he picked up a broken shovel, and,
shouldering it with a smile, strode toward the door
and knocked. There was no sound from within.
The smile died upon his lips as he nervously
pushed the door open.
A figure started up angrily and came toward
him, — a figure whose bloodshot eyes suddenly
fixed into a vacant stare, whose arms were at first
outstretched and then thrown up in warning gesticulation,
and then fell forward in a fit.
But before he touched the ground, York had
him out into the open air and sunshine. In the
struggle, both fell and rolled over on the ground.
But the next moment York was sitting up, holding
the convulsed frame of his former partner on
his knee, and wiping the foam from his inarticulate
lips. Gradually the tremor became less frequent,
and then ceased; and the strong man lay
unconscious in his arms.
For some moments York held him quietly thus,
looking in his face. Afar, the stroke of a woodman's
axe — a mere phantom of sound — was all
that broke the stillness. High up the mountain,
a wheeling hawk hung breathlessly above them.
And then came voices, and two men joined
them.
“A fight?” No, a fit; and would they help
him bring the sick man to the hotel?
And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay,
unconscious of aught but the visions wrought by
disease and fear. On the eighth day, at sunrise,
he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon
York, and pressed his hand; then he spoke: —
“And it 's you. I thought it was only whiskey.”
York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly
working them backward and forward, as his
elbow rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile.
“And you 've been abroad. How did you like
Paris?”
“So, so. How did you like Sacramento?”
“Bully.”
And that was all they could think to say.
Presently Scott opened his eyes again.
“I 'm mighty weak.”
“You 'll get better soon.”
“Not much.”
A long silence followed, in which they could
hear the sounds of wood-chopping, and that Sandy
Bar was already astir for the coming day. Then
Scott slowly and with difficulty turned his face to
York, and said, —
“I might hev killed you once.”
“I wish you had.”
They pressed each other's hands again, but
Scott's grasp was evidently failing. He seemed to
summon his energies for a special effort.
“Old man!”
“Old chap.”
“Closer!”
York bent his head toward the slowly fading
face.
“Do ye mind that morning?”
“Yes.”
A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott's
blue eye, as he whispered, —
“Old man, thar was too much saleratus in that
bread.”
It is said that these were his last words. For
when the sun, which had so often gone down upon
the idle wrath of these foolish men, looked again
upon them reunited, it saw the hand of Scott fall
cold and irresponsive from the yearning clasp of
his former partner, and it knew that the feud of
Sandy Bar was at an end.
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |