Brown of Calaveras
A subdued tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar smoke and
boot heels at the windows of the Wingdam stagecoach, made it
evident that one of the inside passengers was a woman. A
disposition on the part of loungers at the stations to congregate
before the window, and some concern in regard to the appearance of
coats, hats, and collars, further indicated that she was lovely.
All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin, on the box seat, noted with the smile
of cynical philosophy. Not that he depreciated the sex, but that
he recognized therein a deceitful element, the pursuit of which
sometimes drew mankind away from the equally uncertain
blandishments of poker--of which it may be remarked that Mr. Hamlin
was a professional exponent.
So that when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel and leaped
down, he did not even glance at the window from which a green veil
was fluttering, but lounged up and down with that listless and
grave indifference of his class, which was, perhaps, the next thing
to good breeding. With his closely buttoned figure and self-
contained air he was a marked contrast to the other passengers,
with their feverish restlessness and boisterous emotion; and even
Bill Masters, a graduate of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his
overflowing vitality, his intense appreciation of lawlessness and
barbarism, and his mouth filled with crackers and cheese, I fear
cut but an unromantic figure beside this lonely calculator of
chances, with his pale Greek face and Homeric gravity.
The driver called "All aboard!" and Mr. Hamlin returned to the
coach. His foot was upon the wheel, and his face raised to the
level of the open window, when, at the same moment, what appeared
to him to be the finest eyes in the world suddenly met his. He
quietly dropped down again, addressed a few words to one of the
inside passengers, effected an exchange of seats, and as quietly
took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin never allowed his philosophy to
interfere with decisive and prompt action.
I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint upon the
other passengers--particularly those who were making themselves
most agreeable to the lady. One of them leaned forward, and
apparently conveyed to her information regarding Mr. Hamlin's
profession in a single epithet. Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or
whether he recognized in the informant a distinguished jurist from
whom, but a few evenings before, he had won several thousand
dollars, I cannot say. His colorless face betrayed no sign; his
black eyes, quietly observant, glanced indifferently past the legal
gentleman, and rested on the much more pleasing features of his
neighbor. An Indian stoicism--said to be an inheritance from his
maternal ancestor--stood him in good service, until the rolling
wheels rattled upon the river gravel at Scott's Ferry, and the
stage drew up at the International Hotel for dinner. The legal
gentleman and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood ready to
assist the descending goddess, while Colonel Starbottle, of
Siskiyou, took charge of her parasol and shawl. In this
multiplicity of attention there was a momentary confusion and
delay. Jack Hamlin quietly opened the OPPOSITE door of the coach,
took the lady's hand--with that decision and positiveness which a
hesitating and undecided sex know how to admire--and in an instant
had dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground, and again
lifted her to the platform. An audible chuckle on the box, I fear,
came from that other cynic, "Yuba Bill," the driver. "Look
keerfully arter that baggage, Kernel," said the expressman, with
affected concern, as he looked after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily
bringing up the rear of the triumphant procession to the waiting-
room.
Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner. His horse was already saddled,
and awaiting him. He dashed over the ford, up the gravelly hill,
and out into the dusty perspective of the Wingdam road, like one
leaving pleasant fancy behind him. The inmates of dusty cabins by
the roadside shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after
him, recognizing the man by his horse, and speculating what "was up
with Comanche Jack." Yet much of this interest centered in the
horse, in a community where the time made by "French Pete's" mare
in his run from the Sheriff of Calaveras eclipsed all concern in
the ultimate fate of that worthy.
The sweating flanks of his gray at length recalled him to himself.
He checked his speed, and, turning into a by-road, sometimes used
as a cutoff, trotted leisurely along, the reins hanging listlessly
from his fingers. As he rode on, the character of the landscape
changed and became more pastoral. Openings in groves of pine and
sycamore disclosed some rude attempts at cultivation--a flowering
vine trailed over the porch of one cabin, and a woman rocked her
cradled babe under the roses of another. A little farther on Mr.
Hamlin came upon some barelegged children wading in the willowy
creek, and so wrought upon them with a badinage peculiar to himself
that they were emboldened to climb up his horse's legs and over his
saddle, until he was fain to develop an exaggerated ferocity of
demeanor, and to escape, leaving behind some kisses and coin. And
then, advancing deeper into the woods, where all signs of
habitation failed, he began to sing--uplifting a tenor so
singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so subduing and tender,
that I wot the robins and linnets stopped to listen. Mr. Hamlin's
voice was not cultivated; the subject of his song was some
sentimental lunacy borrowed from the Negro minstrels; but there
thrilled through all some occult quality of tone and expression
that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it was a wonderful sight to
see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of cards in his pocket
and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before him through
the dim woods with a plaint about his "Nelly's grave" in a way that
overflowed the eyes of the listener. A sparrow hawk, fresh from
his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr. Hamlin a kindred
spirit, stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the
superiority of man. With a superior predatory capacity, HE
couldn't sing.
But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad, and
at his former pace. Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded
hillsides, stumps, and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of
woodland and ravine, and indicated his approach to civilization.
Then a church steeple came in sight, and he knew that he had
reached home. In a few moments he was clattering down the single
narrow street that lost itself in a chaotic ruin of races, ditches,
and tailings at the foot of the hill, and dismounted before the
gilded windows of the "Magnolia" saloon. Passing through the long
barroom, he pushed open a green-baize door, entered a dark passage,
opened another door with a passkey, and found himself in a dimly
lighted room whose furniture, though elegant and costly for the
locality, showed signs of abuse. The inlaid center table was
overlaid with stained disks that were not contemplated in the
original design. The embroidered armchairs were discolored, and
the green velvet lounge, on which Mr. Hamlin threw himself, was
soiled at the foot with the red soil of Wingdam.
Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a
highly colored painting above him representing a young creature of
opulent charms. It occurred to him then, for the first time, that
he had never seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that if he
should, he would not, probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he
was thinking of another style of beauty. But just then someone
knocked at the door. Without rising, he pulled a cord that
apparently shot back a bolt, for the door swung open, and a man
entered.
The newcomer was broad-shouldered and robust--a vigor not borne out
in the face, which, though handsome, was singularly weak, and
disfigured by dissipation. He appeared to be also under the
influence of liquor, for he started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said,
"I thought Kate was here," stammered, and seemed confused and
embarrassed.
Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn on the Wingdam
coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and ready for business.
"You didn't come up on the stage," continued the newcomer, "did
you?"
"No," replied Hamlin; "I left it at Scott's Ferry. It isn't due
for half an hour yet. But how's luck, Brown?"
Damn bad," said Brown, his face suddenly assuming an expression of
weak despair; "I'm cleaned out again, Jack," he continued, in a
whining tone that formed a pitiable contrast to his bulky figure,
"can't you help me with a hundred till tomorrow's cleanup? You see
I've got to send money home to the old woman, and--you've won
twenty times that amount from me."
The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but Jack
overlooked it, and handed the sum to his visitor. "The old-woman
business is about played out, Brown," he added, by way of
commentary; "why don't you say you want to buck agin' faro? You
know you ain't married!"
"Fact, sir," said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the mere
contact of the gold with the palm of the hand had imparted some
dignity to his frame. "I've got a wife--a damned good one, too, if
I do say it--in the States. It's three year since I've seen her,
and a year since I've writ to her. When things is about straight,
and we get down to the lead, I'm going to send for her."
"And Kate?" queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous smile.
Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance, to cover his
confusion, which his weak face and whisky-muddled intellect but
poorly carried out, and said:
"Damn it, Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you know. But
come, what do you say to a little game? Give us a show to double
this hundred."
Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. Perhaps he
knew that the man was predestined to lose the money, and preferred
that it should flow back into his own coffers rather than any
other. He nodded his head, and drew his chair toward the table.
At the same moment there came a rap upon the door.
"It's Kate," said Mr. Brown.
Mr. Hamlin shot back the bolt, and the door opened. But, for the
first time in his life, he staggered to his feet, utterly unnerved
and abashed, and for the first time in his life the hot blood
crimsoned his colorless cheeks to his forehead. For before him
stood the lady he had lifted from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown--
dropping his cards with a hysterical laugh--greeted as:
"My old woman, by thunder!"
They say that Mrs. Brown burst into tears, and reproaches of her
husband. I saw her, in 1857, at Marysville, and disbelieve the
story. And the WINGDAM CHRONICLE, of the next week, under the head
of "Touching Reunion," said: "One of those beautiful and touching
incidents, peculiar to California life, occurred last week in our
city. The wife of one of Wingdam's eminent pioneers, tired of the
effete civilization of the East and its inhospitable climate,
resolved to join her noble husband upon these golden shores.
Without informing him of her intention, she undertook the long
journey, and arrived last week. The joy of the husband may be
easier imagined than described. The meeting is said to have been
indescribably affecting. We trust her example may be followed."
Whether owing to Mrs. Brown's influence, or to some more successful
speculations, Mr. Brown's financial fortune from that day steadily
improved. He bought out his partners in the "Nip and Tuck" lead,
with money which was said to have been won at poker, a week or two
after his wife's arrival, but which rumor, adopting Mrs. Brown's
theory that Brown had forsworn the gaming-table, declared to have
been furnished by Mr. Jack Hamlin. He built and furnished the
"Wingdam House," which pretty Mrs. Brown's great popularity kept
overflowing with guests. He was elected to the Assembly, and gave
largess to churches. A street in Wingdam was named in his honor.
Yet it was noted that in proportion as he waxed wealthy and
fortunate, he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his wife's
popularity increased, he became fretful and impatient. The most
uxorious of husbands, he was absurdly jealous. If he did not
interfere with his wife's social liberty, it was because it was
maliciously whispered that his first and only attempt was met by an
outburst from Mrs. Brown that terrified him into silence. Much of
this kind of gossip came from those of her own sex whom she had
supplanted in the chivalrous attentions of Wingdam, which, like
most popular chivalry, was devoted to an admiration of power,
whether of masculine force or feminine beauty. It should be
remembered, too, in her extenuation that since her arrival, she had
been the unconscious priestess of a mythological worship, perhaps
not more ennobling to her womanhood than that which distinguished
an older Greek democracy. I think that Brown was dimly conscious
of this. But his only confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose INFELIX
reputation naturally precluded any open intimacy with the family,
and whose visits were infrequent.
It was midsummer, and a moonlit night; and Mrs. Brown, very rosy,
large-eyed, and pretty, sat upon the piazza, enjoying the fresh
incense of the mountain breeze, and, it is to be feared, another
incense which was not so fresh, nor quite as innocent. Beside her
sat Colonel Starbottle and Judge Boompointer, and a later addition
to her court in the shape of a foreign tourist. She was in good
spirits.
"What do you see down the road?" inquired the gallant Colonel, who
had been conscious, for the last few minutes, that Mrs. Brown's
attention was diverted.
"Dust," said Mrs. Brown, with a sigh. "Only Sister Anne's 'flock
of sheep.'"
The Colonel, whose literary recollections did not extend farther
back than last week's paper, took a more practical view. "It ain't
sheep," he continued; "it's a horseman. Judge, ain't that Jack
Hamlin's gray?"
But the Judge didn't know; and as Mrs. Brown suggested the air was
growing too cold for further investigations, they retired to the
parlor.
Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he generally retired after
dinner. Perhaps it was to show his contempt for his wife's
companions; perhaps, like other weak natures, he found pleasure in
the exercise of absolute power over inferior animals. He had a
certain gratification in the training of a chestnut mare, whom he
could beat or caress as pleased him, which he couldn't do with Mrs.
Brown. It was here that he recognized a certain gray horse which
had just come in, and, looking a little farther on, found his
rider. Brown's greeting was cordial and hearty, Mr. Hamlin's
somewhat restrained. But at Brown's urgent request, he followed
him up the back stairs to a narrow corridor, and thence to a small
room looking out upon the stable yard. It was plainly furnished
with a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a rack for guns and whips.
"This yer's my home, Jack," said Brown, with a sigh, as he threw
himself upon the bed, and motioned his companion to a chair. "Her
room's t'other end of the hall. It's more'n six months since we've
lived together, or met, except at meals. It's mighty rough papers
on the head of the house, ain't it?" he said, with a forced laugh.
"But I'm glad to see you, Jack, damn glad," and he reached from the
bed, and again shook the unresponsive hand of Jack Hamlin.
"I brought ye up here, for I didn't want to talk in the stable;
though, for the matter of that, it's all round town. Don't strike
a light. We can talk here in the moonshine. Put up your feet on
that winder, and sit here beside me. Thar's whisky in that jug."
Mr. Hamlin did not avail himself of the information. Brown of
Calaveras turned his face to the wall and continued:
"If I didn't love the woman, Jack, I wouldn't mind. But it's
loving her, and seeing her, day arter day, goin' on at this rate,
and no one to put down the brake; that's what gits me! But I'm
glad to see ye, Jack, damn glad."
In the darkness he groped about until he had found and wrung his
companion's hand again. He would have detained it, but Jack
slipped it into the buttoned breast of his coat, and asked,
listlessly, "How long has this been going on?"
"Ever since she came here; ever since the day she walked into the
Magnolia. I was a fool then; Jack, I'm a fool now; but I didn't
know how much I loved her till then. And she hasn't been the same
woman since.
"But that ain't all, Jack; and it's what I wanted to see you about,
and I'm glad you've come. It ain't that she doesn't love me any
more; it ain't that she fools with every chap that comes along,
for, perhaps, I staked her love and lost it, as I did everything
else at the Magnolia; and, perhaps, foolin' is nateral to some
women, and thar ain't no great harm done, 'cept to the fools. But,
Jack, I think--I think she loves somebody else. Don't move, Jack;
don't move; if your pistol hurts ye, take it off.
"It's been more'n six months now that she's seemed unhappy and
lonesome, and kinder nervous and scared-like. And sometimes I've
ketched her lookin' at me sort of timid and pitying. And she
writes to somebody. And for the last week she's been gathering her
own things--trinkets, and furbelows, and jew'lry--and, Jack, I
think she's goin' off. I could stand all but that. To have her
steal away like a thief--" He put his face downward to the pillow,
and for a few moments there was no sound but the ticking of a clock
on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit a cigar, and moved to the open
window. The moon no longer shone into the room, and the bed and
its occupant were in shadow. "What shall I do, Jack?" said the
voice from the darkness.
The answer came promptly and clearly from the window-side: "Spot
the man, and kill him on sight."
"But, Jack?"
"He's took the risk!"
"But will that bring HER back?"
Jack did not reply, but moved from the window toward the door.
"Don't go yet, Jack; light the candle, and sit by the table. It's
a comfort to see ye, if nothin' else."
Jack hesitated, and then complied. He drew a pack of cards from
his pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the bed. But Brown's
face was turned to the wall. When Mr. Hamlin had shuffled the
cards, he cut them, and dealt one card on the opposite side of the
table and toward the bed, and another on his side of the table for
himself. The first was a deuce, his own card, a king. He then
shuffled and cut again. This time "dummy" had a queen, and himself
a four-spot. Jack brightened up for the third deal. It brought
his adversary a deuce, and himself a king again. "Two out of
three," said Jack, audibly.
"What's that, Jack?" said Brown.
"Nothing."
Then Jack tried his hand with dice; but he always threw sixes, and
his imaginary opponent aces. The force of habit is sometimes
confusing.
Meanwhile, some magnetic influence in Mr. Hamlin's presence, or the
anodyne of liquor, or both, brought surcease of sorrow, and Brown
slept. Mr. Hamlin moved his chair to the window, and looked out on
the town of Wingdam, now sleeping peacefully--its harsh outlines
softened and subdued, its glaring colors mellowed and sobered in
the moonlight that flowed over all. In the hush he could hear the
gurgling of water in the ditches, and the sighing of the pines
beyond the hill. Then he looked up at the firmament, and as he did
so a star shot across the twinkling field. Presently another, and
then another. The phenomenon suggested to Mr. Hamlin a fresh
augury. If in another fifteen minutes another star should fall--
He sat there, watch in hand, for twice that time, but the
phenomenon was not repeated.
The clock struck two, and Brown still slept. Mr. Hamlin approached
the table and took from his pocket a letter, which he read by the
flickering candlelight. It contained only a single line, written
in pencil, in a woman's hand:
"Be at the corral, with the buggy, at three."
The sleeper moved uneasily, and then awoke. "Are you there Jack?"
"Yes."
"Don't go yet. I dreamed just now, Jack--dreamed of old times. I
thought that Sue and me was being married agin, and that the
parson, Jack, was--who do you think?--you!"
The gambler laughed, and seated himself on the bed--the paper still
in his hand.
"It's a good sign, ain't it?" queried Brown.
"I reckon. Say, old man, hadn't you better get up?"
The "old man," thus affectionately appealed to, rose, with the
assistance of Hamlin's outstretched hand.
"Smoke?"
Brown mechanically took the proffered cigar.
"Light?"
Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it for
his companion. He continued to hold it until it was consumed, and
dropped the fragment--a fiery star--from the open window. He
watched it as it fell, and then returned to his friend.
"Old man," he said, placing his hands upon Brown's shoulders, "in
ten minutes I'll be on the road, and gone like that spark. We
won't see each other agin; but, before I go, take a fool's advice:
sell out all you've got, take your wife with you, and quit the
country. It ain't no place for you, nor her. Tell her she must
go; make her go, if she won't. Don't whine because you can't be a
saint, and she ain't an angel. Be a man--and treat her like a
woman. Don't be a damn fool. Good-by."
He tore himself from Brown's grasp, and leaped down the stairs like
a deer. At the stable door he collared the half-sleeping hostler
and backed him against the wall. "Saddle my horse in two minutes,
or I'll--" The ellipsis was frightfully suggestive.
"The missis said you was to have the buggy," stammered the man.
"Damn the buggy!"
The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous hands of the astounded
hostler could manipulate buckle and strap.
"Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin?" said the man, who, like all his
class, admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was really
concerned in his welfare.
"Stand aside!"
The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, Jack was
into the road. In another moment, to the man's half-awakened eyes,
he was but a moving cloud of dust in the distance, toward which a
star just loosed from its brethren was trailing a stream of fire.
But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam turnpike, miles
away, heard a voice, pure as a skylark’s, singing afield. They who
were asleep turned over on their rude couches to dream of youth and
love and olden days. Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers,
already at work, ceased their labors and leaned upon their picks,
to listen to a romantic vagabond ambling away against the rosy
sunrise.
-THE END-
Bret Harte's short story: Brown of Calaveras
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