The Girl of the Golden West (4 page)

Then occurred one of those terpsichorean performances which
never failed to shock old Sonora's sense of the fitness of things.
For the next moment two Ridge boys, dancing together, waltzed
through the opening between the two rooms and, letting out
ear-piercing whoops with every rotation, whirled round and round
the room until they brought up against the bar where they,
breathlessly, called for drinks.

An angry lull fell upon the room; the card game stopped.
However, before anyone seated there could give vent to his
resentment at this boisterous intrusion of the men from the rival
camp, the smooth, oily and inviting voice of the unprincipled
Sidney Duck, scenting easy prey because of their inebriated
condition, called out in its cockney accent:

"'Ello, boys—'ow's things at The Ridge?"

"Wipes this camp off the earth!" returned a voice that was
provocative in the extreme—a reply that instantly brought every man
at the faro table to his feet. For a time, at least, it seemed as
if the boys from The Ridge would get the trouble they were looking
for.

A murmur of angry amazement arose, while Sonora, his watery blue
eyes glinting, followed up his explosive, "What!" with a suggestive
movement towards his hip. But quick as he was Nick was still
quicker and had The Ridge boy, as well as Sonora, covered before
their hands had even reached their guns.

"You…!" the little barkeeper's sentence was bristled out and
contained along with the expletives some comparatively mild words
which gave the would-be combatants to understand that any such
foolishness would not be tolerated in The Polka unless he himself
"'lowed it to be ne'ssary."

Not unnaturally The Ridge boys failed to see anything offensive
in language that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of
any further attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they
wisely yielded to superior quickness at the draw. With a whoop of
resignation they rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of
the caller was exhorting the gents—whose partners were mostly big,
husky, hairy-faced men clumsily enacting parts generally assigned
to members of the gentler sex—to swing:

"With the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the
left-hand gent, first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first
partner swing with the left-hand gent, and the partner in the
centre, and gents all around!"

Back at the faro table now,—the incident having passed quickly
into oblivion,—Sonora called to the dealer for "a slug's worth of
chips"—a request that was promptly acceded to. But they had played
only a few minutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was
heard singing:

"Wait for the waggon,
 Wait for the waggon,
 Wait for the waggon,
 And we'll all take a ride.
 Wait for the waggon—"

"Here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of The
Ridge!" broke in Nick, whose province it was to act as master of
ceremonies; and coming forward as the singer emerged from the
dance-hall he introduced him to the assembled company in the most
approved music-hall manner:

"Allow me to present to you, Jake Wallace the Camp favour-ite!"
he said with an exaggeratedly low bow.

"How-dy, Jake! Hello, Jake, old man! How be you, Jake!" were
some of the greetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed
in a long linen duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand,
acknowledged the words of welcome with a broad grin as he stood
bowing in the centre of the room.

That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of
his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes,
one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small
platform—a musician's stand—at one end of the bar; nor could there
be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did
not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron
shield inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it
could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him
fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

"My first selection, friends, will be 'The Little—'," announced
the Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

"Aw, give us 'Old Dog Tray,'" cut in Sonora, impatiently from
his seat at the card table.

Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right
on tuning up.

"I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?" asked Trinidad in a low
voice, taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the
bar.

Mysteriously, Nick's eyes wandered about the room to see if
anyone was listening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he
said:

"You've got the first chance, Trin; I gave 'er your
message."

Trinidad Joe fairly beamed upon him.

"Whisky for everybody, Nick!" he ordered bumptuously; and as
before the little barkeeper's face wore an expression of pleasure
not a whit less than that of the man whom, presently, he followed
to the faro table with a bottle and four glasses.

As soon as Trinidad had seated himself the Minstrel struck a
chord and announced impressively:

"'Old Dog Tray,' gents, 'or Echoes from Home'!" He cleared his
throat, and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled:

"How of-ten do I pic-ture
 The old folks down at home,
 And of-ten wonder if they think of me,
 Would an-gel mother know me,
 If back there I did roam,
 Would old dog Tray re-member me."

At the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up
to this time, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place,
arose from his seat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a
cigar-box there and took from it a stamp, which he put on his
letter. This he carried to a mail-box attached to the door; then,
returning, he threw himself dejectedly down in a chair and put his
head in his hands, where it remained throughout the song.

At the conclusion of his solo, the Minstrel's emotions were
seemingly deeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped
audibly; whereupon, Nick came to his relief with a stiff drink
which, apparently, went to the right spot, for presently the
singer's voice rang out vigorously: "Now, boys!"

No second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by
all, the singers beating time with their feet and chips.

ALL.
"Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin'
there beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea—"

JAKE.
"On the lea—"

ALL.
"How of-ten would she bless me
in all them days so fair—
Would old dog Tray re-member me—"

SONORA.
"Re-member me."

All the while the miners had been singing, the sad and
morose-looking individual had been steadily growing more and more
disconsolate; and when Sonora rumbled out the last deep note in his
big, bass voice, he heaved a great sob and broke down
completely.

In surprised consternation everyone turned in the direction from
whence had come the sound. But it was Sonora who, affected both by
the pathos of the song and the sight of the pathetic figure before
them, quietly went over and laid a hand upon the other's arm.

"Why, Larkins—Jim—what's the trouble—what's the matter?" he
asked, a thousand thoughts fluttering within his breast. "I
wouldn't feel so bad."

With a desperate effort Larkins, his face twitching perceptibly,
the lines about his eyes deepening, struggled to control himself.
At last, after taking in the astonished faces about him, he plunged
into his tale of woe.

"Say, boys, I'm homesick—I'm broke—and what's more, I don't care
who knows it." He paused, his fingers opening and closing
spasmodically, and for a moment it seemed as if he could not
continue—a moment of silence in which the Minstrel began to pick
gently on his banjo the air of Old Dog Tray.

"I want to go home!" suddenly burst from the unfortunate man's
lips. "I'm tired o' drillin' rocks; I want to be in the fields
again; I want to see the grain growin'; I want the dirt in the
furrows at home; I want old Pensylvanny; I want my folks; I'm done,
boys, I'm done, I'm done …!" And with these words he buried his
face in his hands.

"Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you
waitin'—"

sang the Minstrel, dolefully.

Men looked at one another and were distressingly affected; The
Polka had never witnessed a more painful episode. Throwing a coin
at the Minstrel, Sonora stopped him with an impatient gesture; the
latter nodded understandingly at the same time that Nick,
apparently indifferent to Larkin's collapse, began to dance a jig
behind the bar. A look of scowling reproach instantly appeared on
Sonora's face. It was uncalled-for since, far from being heartless
and indifferent to the man's misfortunes, the little barkeeper had
taken this means to distract the miners' attention from the pitiful
sight.

"Boys, Jim Larkins 'lows he's goin' back East," announced
Sonora. "Chip in every mother's son o' you."

Immediately every man at the faro table demanded cash from The
Sidney Duck; a moment later they, as well as the men who were not
playing cards, threw their money into the hat which Sonora passed
around. It was indeed a well-filled hat that Sonora held out to the
weeping man.

"Here you are, Jim," he said simply.

The sudden transition from poverty to comparative affluence was
too much for Larkins! Looking through tear-dimmed eyes at Sonora he
struggled for words with which to express his gratitude, but they
refused to come; and at last with a sob he turned away. At the
door, however, he stopped and choked out: "Thank you, boys, thank
you."

The next moment he was gone.

At once a wave of relief swept over the room. Indeed, the
incident was forgotten before the unfortunate man had gone ten
paces from The Polka, for then it was that Trinidad suddenly rose
in his seat, lunged across the table for The Sidney Duck's
card-box, and cried out angrily:

"You're cheatin'! That ain't a square deal! You're a cheat!"

In a moment the place was in an uproar. Every man at the table
sprung to his feet; chairs were kicked over; chips flew in every
direction; guns came from every belt; and so occupied were the men
in watching The Sidney Duck that no one perceived the Lookout sneak
out through the door save Nick, who was returning from the
dance-hall with a tray of empty glasses. But whether or not he was
aware that the Australian's confederate was bent upon running away
he made no attempt to stop him, for in common with every man
present, including Sonora and Trinidad, who had seized the gambler
and brought him out in front of his card-table, Nick's eyes were
fastened upon another man whom none had seen enter, but whose
remarkable personality, now as often, made itself felt even though
he spoke not a word.

"Lift his hand!" cried Sonora, looking as if for sanction at the
newcomer, who stood in the centre of the room, calmly smoking a
huge cigar.

Forcing up The Sidney Duck's arms, Trinidad threw upon the table
a deck of cards which he had found concealed about the other's
person, bursting out with:

"There! Look at that, the infernal, good-for-nothin' cheat!"

"String 'im up!" suggested Sonora, and as before he shot a
questioning look at the man, who was regarding the scene with bored
interest.

"You bet!" shouted Trinidad, pulling at the Australian's
arm.

"For 'eaven's sake, don't, don't, don't!" wailed The Sidney
Duck, terror-stricken.

The Sheriff of Manzaneta County, for such was the newcomer's
office, raised his steely grey eyes inquisitorially to Nick's who,
with a hostile stare at the Australian, emitted:

"Chicken lifter!"

"String 'im! String 'im!" insisted Trinidad, at the same time
dragging the culprit towards the door.

"No, boys, no!" cried the unfortunate wretch, struggling
uselessly to break away from his captors.

At this stage the Sheriff of Manzaneta County took a hand in the
proceedings, and drawled out:

"Well, gentlemen—" He stopped short and seemingly became
reflective.

Instantly, as was their wont whenever the Sheriff spoke, all
eyes fixed themselves upon him. Indeed, it needed but a second
glance at this cool, deliberate individual to see how great was his
influence upon them. He was tall,—fully six feet one,—thin, and
angular; his hair and moustache were black enough to bring out
strongly the unhealthy pallor of his face; his eyes were steel grey
and were heavily fringed and arched; his nose straight and his
mouth hard, determined, but just, the lips of which were thin and
drawn tightly over brilliantly-white teeth; and his soft, pale
hands were almost feminine looking except for the unusual length of
his fingers. On his head was a black beaver hat with a straight
brim; a black broadcloth suit—cut after the "'Frisco" fashion of
the day—gave every evidence that its owner paid not a little
attention to it. From the bosom of his white, puffed shirt an
enormous diamond, held in place by side gold chains, flashed forth;
while glittering on his fingers was another stone almost as large.
Below his trousers could plainly be seen the highly-polished boots;
the heels and instep being higher than those generally in use. In a
word, it was impossible not to get the impression that he was
scrupulously immaculate and careful about his attire. And his
voice—the voice that tells character as nothing else does—was
smooth and drawling, though fearlessness and sincerity could easily
be detected in it. Such was Mr. Jack Rance, Gambler and Sheriff of
Manzaneta County.

"This is a case for you, Jack Rance," suddenly spoke up
Sonora.

"Yes," chimed in Trinidad; and then as he gave the Australian a
rough shake, he added: "Here's the Sheriff to take charge of
you."