1 We Come to Town

I have often thought that California is very fortunate in its eastern approach. It is easy to dilate upon the beauty and picturesqueness of this majestic state. All who have travelled in it know so well what a satisfying delight it is to the eye, that they need no words of to stimulate their enthusiasm and start their praise a-flowing. There are many countries where the grass grows as green and the apple trees and the peach trees are blooming in the spring sunshine, great masses of white and pink, but there is no other so fair upon which you come so abruptly from the desert. No food contents like that which a hungry man eats, and there is no beauty like the beauty which the eye meets after gazing long upon the unsightly and the hideous.

When we left the Mormon capital with the emigrant train, we veered neither to the right nor to the left, but kept as straight a path for California as the mountains would let us. I shall not recount all the gloomy plains we crossed, all the bleak mountain fastnesses we scaled, but the worst was the last. The impressions made upon me by our passage through the Nevada desert are almost as vivid now as they were when my eyes in reality and not in imagination looked upon that wide waste; that mighty picture of desolation; that land where God has willed that nothing should live.

It chanced that in our desire to hurry on and to follow the direct course, we crossed the worst part of the State. For many days our train drew its weary length like a wounded serpent over the dead earth. Often I would ride with Henry ahead of the others, but the view was ever the same, alkali marshes, from which a ghostly vapor was rising, mountains of dull, dark earth, bare of trees and grass, and even of stores. Nature had been dead here thousands of years. We seemed to be riding through the graveyard of the planet itself. At night the wind rose sometimes, and its voice was like the lament of the air over the decay and desolation that lay beneath.

Fortunately our train, warned by the fate of some that had gone before us, took a very large supply of water and provisions. We were in no danger of perishing or even suffering from hunger and thirst, but there was none in the party, though many were experienced borderers, upon whom the gloom of the country did not lie heavy.

“When I was with the old Constitution a-fightin’ the Barbary pirates I heard some talk o’ a country away to the south of the pirates’ nests that wuz all sand and sunshine, whar the sand burnt your feet and the sun burnt your head,” said Starboard Sam one day as he rode up beside me, “but I never reckined to find another sech out here.”

“That was the Sahara that you heard of, Sam,” said Henry, “I guess it was no more sterile than this, though it may be hotter.”

“This is enough fur me,” said Sam, drawing his hand across his perspiring forehead. “Ef it’s any hotter than this down in that Saharay I guess the fellers that live thar would like to visit old Satan hisself fur a while jest to cool off.”

We emerged from this desert, crossed the stupendous chain of the Sierra Nevada and descended into the vale of California. It was that season of the year when the foothills and the plains were glowing with the most intense color, while over all swam the purple skies. I felt that it was worth all our hardships and dangers to reach this garden of the gods.

We went to Sacramento, where our train broke up. Pike, Bonneau, Sam, Henry and I had agreed to stick together, and as we believed that five made a strong enough party we did not seek any additions. We bought tools and provisions in Sacramento and went off on a prospecting tour among the hills, but we did not have any luck and in short time found ourselves back in Sacramento. We made various expeditions, but bad fortune was still our companion. We found a little gold, but never more than enough to purchase tools and provisions for another hunt.

By this time, too, all of us had a very bad case of fever. I mean the gold fever. We talked gold. We though of nothing but gold. We even dreamed gold. Every day we were hearing of men who had made great strikes. Now it was a poor devil who had arrived from the east with a few dollars in his pocket and had uncovered a fortune with his pick in a month after his arrival. Then it was some man who had given up hope and was preparing to quit when at the last moment he found his “pile.”

Often these tales were not exaggerations, for we met the lucky men and talked with them. Moreover, we saw the gold they had dug from the earth or washed from the sandy river beds, and the most persevering disbelief had to stop at the actual exhibit. And every time we looked upon the new gold our fever grew. We would begin the search for hidden treasures with renewed energies, but all our work came to naught. That luck which had brought us through so many dangers on the great plains seemed to have deserted us now. We began to realize what a lottery gold-hunting is. There seemed to be no premium on energy, foresight, industry and sobriety. The sluggards, the drunkards and the fools found gold just as quickly as the others, and often more quickly.

In spite of our health and strength, we felt the chill of despondency. Other men whom we knew, were getting rich, but the elusive gold always evaded us. We had accumulated a great store of muscle and fine appetites, but very little money. We might have given up entirely had it not been for the strong hold which this odd life had taken upon us and a sense of some shame at the thought of abandoning a plan which we had come so far and through so much to carry out.

When we had been in California a year we concluded to go to San Francisco for the sake of novelty and we hoped also that it would lighten our spirits.

The San Francisco of that day was not grand to look at, but it was mighty interesting. The news of the gold discoveries had been carried to all countries. The whole world was throbbing and thrilling with the excitement of this, the first and greatest of such finds, and it seemed to me that all its people were rushing to San Francisco. The bustle and the strange sights of this embryonic city interested us greatly at first, but we soon grew tired of it, and were anxious to get away. This desire was increased by the evident fact that we must soon do something to improve our condition. But where to go and what to do none of us could say.

We sat in the little shanty that we called our room, one warm evening discussing our prospects.

“Let’s chuck up the whole gold business,” said Starboard Sam, “and ship aboard some trim craft fur the South Seas. I tell ye, lads, there’s life in the breath o’ the salt water, and ye’ll all like it. Every one o’ ye would make a good sailor, an’ think o’ the fun we’d hev. We kin cruise down to the Sandwich Islands, and on to Otaheite, an’ to all them other fine islands I’ve seen or heard my old mates talk about. We kin see new people and new countries and we kin have adventures, boys, to which them we had on the plains won’t be the toss o’ a penny to. What d’ye say, lads? Let’s take ship and sail to the Coral Islands.”

“Vy not?” said Bonneau, with his usual eagerness and energy—the love of adventure was developed in him as strongly as it was in the old sailor. “We have been zee explorers already on zee great plains! Vy not go now and explore zee great sea? Cannot ve who have been through so many dangaires to-gezzer do anyzing and find anyzing?”

“We don’t seem to hev found much gold yet,” said Pike, dryly.

“But zat is anozzer matter! I do not mean ve can find everyzing in zee bowels of zee earth!”

“Well, I’m agin the proposition anyway,” said Pike. “We started out to find gold. Fur what did we fight the Injuns but to git across the continent and come here whar the gold is! Do you think we ought to throw it up now, jest because we’ve had a little bit uv discouragement. No, siree! I’m in favor of stickin’ to it ez long ez we kin walk.”

“And so am I,” said Henry.

“And so am I,” said I.

The matter ended at that, for Sam and Bonneau were overruled and never raised the question again. In fact, they acquiesced very cheerfully in the decision of the majority.

Then we decided to go the next evening to the theatre and see the play Hamlet that had newly come to town.

The Nonpareil Theatre which was to be Hamlet’s temporary home, was a one-story building of rough boards, stained a flaring yellow on the outside. Over the entrance were some rudely painted figures which Henry said were intended as a symbol that the house was the home of Thespis.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed the performance. None of us, except Bonneau, had ever seen a real play before, and the imperfections, no matter how great, were of small import to us. Five hundred men, most of whom were in their shirt sleeves and carried pistols openly, applauded with us.

As we left the theatre my attention was attracted by a very large man who was just passing in front of us. Large men are common, and it was not his size that caused me to take a second look at him. It was his gait, which was very much like Sam’s. He rolled from side to side as if the floor were sagging about under him. I knew that the man either was or had been a sailor.

As the crowd pressed up behind us I was pushed, though not violently, against the sailor. He threw himself around and exclaimed:

“Look out, lad, whar ye treadin’! Ye might step on a rattlesnake and get bit.”

I apologized hastily and in my politest manner, and then stopped to look at the man’s face. There was a deep scar across one side of it, and the other was drawn and livid, as if it had been disfigured by a great burn. He must always have had an evil look, but the scar and burn together greatly increased the truculency of his expression.

“Wa’al, what are ye starin’ at, boy?” he demanded in a voice like the rasping of a file. “Don’t ye like my face? Ye ain’t bound to wear it, ye know.”

Then he burst into a hoarse laugh, after which he added:

“I’ll let ye off this time, but I’ll tell ye it’s a bad practice to be treadin’ on the toes o’ gen’lemen and then starin’ them out o’ countenance.”

I did not like the man’s tone at all, but his reckless look and swaggering manner claimed my attention. He was a very powerful man, larger even than Pike, who was considerably over six feet high and broad in proportion. His face and hands were as brown as a South Sea Islander’s, and his wrists and the backs of his hands were covered with tattooing.

By this time all of us had passed out of the theatre, and most of the men had gone. The sailor noticed my inquisitive looks, and swaggered more than ever. He cocked his head on one side and began to sing:

He rolled this out in a deep, hoarse chant, and if ever a man looked like a pirate and a cutthroat, it was he. He put his left hand on his hip, the other on the butt of a pistol in his belt, and swung from side to side as he sang. Starboard Sam, who was just behind, pricked up his ears at the sound of the song and pushed forward for a better view of the man’s face. I saw a look of surprise come into Sam’s eyes, but he said nothing.

A small, yellow-faced, weazened man whom I had not noticed before, was walking just in front of the strange sailor. As the big fellow swaggered about he knocked against the little man. The latter turned upon him and cursed him in a foreign tongue.

“Don’t get so riled, Pedro,” said the sailor, “’cause if ye say much more ye might get the daylights knocked out o’ ye.”

The little man shrank back, for the sailor spoke in a savage tone. The latter burst out again:

Then he bent his knee, drew up his right foot and gave the little man a violent kick on the shin. The victim made a hissing sound like a cat, and snatched a crooked-bladed knife from somewhere in his clothes. But before he could use it the sailor struck him a violent blow on the wrist and the knife flew into the street. Then he seized the little man’s hands in both his powerful ones and twisted his wrists until I almost thought I could hear the bones crack.

The little man’s face became yellower and more ghastly than ever and he screamed with the pain. His countenance fell before the malevolent gaze of the sailor and his form shrank and drooped as if the spirit and life had quite gone out of him. It was not pain alone that mastered him, but inborn fear which no effort of the will could control. His face expressed hatred and dread of the man who held him in his grip. Then in his foreign tongue he begged piteously for mercy. I could not understand a word, but what he meant was too plain to be mistaken.

“Don’t ye sass me ag’in, Pedro,” said the sailor, “or I’ll t’ar ye in pieces same ez ef I wuz a shark!”

He was putting an extra twist on the man’s wrists, when a tall gaunt figure strode forward, two hands seized the sailor by the shoulder and hurled him back with a force which tore him loose from the little man and sent him reeling against the theatre.

The newcomer was Pike, and involuntarily Henry and I exclaimed, “Hurrah!”

The big sailor remained for a moment against the side of the building, glaring with murderous eyes at Pike, while the little yellow man ran forward, seized one of Pike’s hands in both of his, and in a voluble fashion began to pour out what sounded like thanks.

“Don’t hol’ my hand,” said Pike, pulling loose, “I may need it in a minute.”

And it certainly looked as if he would, for the big sailor had now drawn a knife. He meant murder. His face showed it plainly, but Pike was too quick for him, for before he could use his blade, the muzzle of a horse pistol was swinging within a foot of his nose.

“You’re a leetle slow at this sort uv game,” said Pike. “In fact, you ain’t in it at all this time.”

And the big frontiersman laughed a deep, dry chuckle away down in his throat. The sailor fingered the hilt of his knife and glowered. But all his glowering did him no good. The muzzle of that big horse pistol still swung under his nose, and the weapon seemed to be at least two feet long.

“What business is it o’ yours?” growled out the sailor,

“It’s anybody’s business,” returned Pike, “when a big man’s imposin’ on a leetle un, an’ I’m ’tendin’ to my business, as you kin see.”

A number of people had gathered around, and there was a chorus of approval at these words. Several other pistols were drawn, and one friendly voice said:

“Ef yer need any help, pardner, in polishin’ off the big scoundrel with the picture on him, jest call on me.”

It was apparent which way the sympathies of the crowd lay, and the sailor recognized that fact. With an air that he intended for careless gayety, though the evil look did not go out of his eyes, he thrust the knife back in his belt and said in an offhand manner:

“Wa’al pardner, hev it your way, I don’t mind. Ef you want to take this little yaller devil under your pertection, ’tain’t no business o’ mine. Only he don’t want to come interferin’ with me and givin’ sass to a gen’leman who hez sailed all the seas an’ ain’t afraid o’ nobody, no, not he”

Then he looked around at us with a gaze which seemed to defy heaven and hell together.

Pike let his pistol swing by his side, though he still held it in a tight grip, as if to be ready to use it at a moment’s notice.

“Now be off, lettle un,” he said to the yellow-faced man, “an’ keep away from this feller, or next time thar may not be anybody to interfere fur ye.”

The little man dived away in the crowd and the darkness. The sailor’s eyes followed his retreating form until it disappeared. Then he turned to us, gave us a low bow, as if we were the dearest friends he had in the world, and said:

“Now, gen’lemen, I’ve had the delight o’ your company fur most five minutes, and so I’m that much richer in experience. I don’t know your names. Kain’t say that I want to. But if the big gen’leman with the pistol thar is through, and hain’t more to say on the pints under dispute, or nuthin’ else, I’ll go, much as it pains me to far myself from sech delightful company; from the most elegant gen’lemen I’ve met in all my travels, which hev purty nigh kivered this big round earth, ef I do say it myself. ”

“I guess I’ve said all I wanted to say, an’ just ez I wanted to say it,” said Pike, grimly, in reply to this long speech.

“Then let me compliment ye on hevin’ things ez ye want to hev ’em,” said the sailor, “an’, now gen’lemen, I must t’ar myself away.”

Thus speaking, he bowed, low again, while the expression of his face grew more villainous than ever, and walked away, singing:

“I’d advise you to keep your hand on your pistol, Pike, when that fellow is around,” said Henry, as we walked home in the dark.

“You’re mor’n half right about thet, Kid,” said Pike. “Wasn’t he a peculiar-lookin’ imp, though.”

“He ees a devil!” exclaimed Bouneau, with great energy. “He ees like the Sicilian bravo. He will stick a knife in your back, Monsieur Pike, ven you not thinking of him. Look out for yourself, Monsieur Pike. ”

“You bet I’ll do that,” said Pike.

We talked of nothing but the sailor until we reached our room. Starboard Sam alone was silent. I was sure that he was keeping back something, but I said nothing until we came to the room. Then I said, in order to draw him out:

“Sam, why are you so quiet? Have you been struck by lightning?”

“The next thing to it,” replied Sam. “I know that pirate that wanted to put the dirk in Pike.”

“You know him!” exclaimed Pike, in great surprise. “Then who wuz he?”

“Hank Halftrigger,” replied Sam.

“Hank Halftrigger?” asked Pike. “An’ who in tarnation is Hank Halftrigger?”

“You lads jest make yourselves comferble,” replied Sam, “an’ I’ll tell ye.”

We sat down on the empty nail kegs which served us as chairs, and were ready to hear Sam’s story.

►   ▲