The Girl of the Golden West (3 page)

More anxiously than ever now the son regarded his father. His
inspection left no doubt in his mind that the end could not be far
off. With great earnestness he implored him to lie down; but the
dying man shook his head and continued to grow more and more
excited.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded. "No—you think you do, but
you don't. There was a time when I had plenty of money. It pleased
me greatly to pay all your expenses—to see that you received the
best education possible both at home and abroad. Then the gringos
came. Little by little these
cursed 
Americanos
 have taken all that I had from
me. But as they have sown so shall they reap. I have taken my
revenge, and you shall take more!" He paused to get his breath;
then in a terrible voice he cried: "Yes, I have robbed—robbed! For
the last three years, almost, your father has been a bandit!"

The son sprang to his feet.

"A bandit? You, father, a Ramerrez, a bandit?"

"Ay, a bandit, an outlaw, as you also will be when I am no more,
and rob, rob, rob, these 
Americanos
. It is my command
and—you—have—sworn…"

The son's eyes were rivetted upon his father's face as the old
man fell back, completely exhausted, upon his couch of rawhides.
With a strange conflict of emotions, the young man remained
standing in silence for a few brief seconds that seemed like hours,
while the pallor of death crept over the face before him, leaving
no doubt that, in the solemnity of the moment his father had spoken
nothing but the literal truth. It was a hideous avowal to hear from
the dying lips of one whom from earliest childhood he had been
taught to revere as the pattern of Spanish honour and nobility. And
yet the thought now uppermost in young Ramerrez's mind was that
oddly enough he had not been taken by surprise. Never by a single
word had any one of his father's followers given him a hint of the
truth. So absolute, so feudal was the old man's mastery over his
men that not a whisper of his occupation had ever reached his son's
ears. Nevertheless, he now told himself that in some curious,
instinctive way, he had 
known
,—or rather, had refused
to know, putting off the hour of open avowal, shutting his eyes to
the accumulating facts that day by day had silently spoken of
lawlessness and peril. Three years, his father had just said; well,
that explained how it was that no suspicions had ever awakened
until after he had completed his education and returned home from
his travels. But since then a child must have noted that something
was wrong: the grim, sinister faces of the men, constantly on
guard, as though the old 
hacienda
 were in a
state of siege; the altered disposition of his father, always given
to gloomy moods, but lately doubly silent and saturnine, full of
strange savagery and smouldering fire. Yes, somewhere in the back
of his mind he had known the whole, shameful truth; had known the
purpose of those silent, stealthy excursions, and equally silent
returns,—and more than once the broken heads and bandaged arms that
coincided so oddly with some new tale of a daring hold-up that he
was sure to hear of, the next time that he chanced to ride into
Monterey. For three years, young Ramerrez had known that sooner or
later he would be facing such a moment as this, called upon to make
the choice that should make or mar him for life. And now, for the
first time he realised why he had never voiced his suspicions,
never questioned, never hastened the time of decision,—it was
because even now he did not know which way he wished to decide! He
knew only that he was torn and racked by terrible emotions, that on
one side was a mighty impulse to disregard the oath he had blindly
taken and refuse to do his father's bidding; and on the other, some
new and unguessed craving for excitement and danger, some inherited
lawlessness in his blood, something akin to the intoxication of the
arena, when the thunder of the bull's hoofs rang in his ears. And
so, when the old man's lips opened once more, and shaped, almost
inaudibly, the solemn words:

"You have sworn,—" the scales were turned and the son bowed his
head in silence.

A moment later and the room was filled with men who fell on
their knees. On every face, save one, there was an expression of
overwhelming grief and despair; but on that one, ashen grey as it
was with the agony of approaching death, there was a look of
contentment as he made a sign to the padre that he was now ready
for him to administer the last rites of his church.

The Polka Saloon!

How the name stirs the blood and rouses the imagination!

No need to be a Forty-Niner to picture it all as if there that
night: the great high and square room lighted by candles and the
warm, yellow light of kerosene lamps; the fireplace with its huge
logs blazing and roaring; the faro tables with the little rings of
miners around them; and the long, pine bar behind which a typical
barkeeper of the period was busily engaged in passing the bottle to
the men clamorous for whisky in which to drink the health of the
Girl.

And the spirit of the place! When and where was there ever such
a fine fellowship—transforming as it unquestionably did an ordinary
saloon into a veritable haven of good cheer for miners weary after
a long and often discouraging day in the gulches?

In a word, the Polka was a marvellous tribute to its
girl-proprietor's sense of domesticity. Nothing that could insure
the comfort for her patrons was omitted. Nothing, it would seem,
could occur that would disturb the harmonious aspect of the
scene.

But alas! the night was yet young.

Now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured and
musically-inclined company were waiting arrived. Clear above the
babel of voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player
began singing in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument:

"Camp town ladies sing this song
Dooda! Dooda!
 Camp town race track five miles long
Dooda! Dooda! Day!"

Throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than
an occasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody. For once, at
any rate, it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did
the chorus, which had been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd
and was rip-roaring along at a great rate, reach the second line
than there sounded the reports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the
direction of the street. The effect was magical: every voice
trailed off into uncertainty and then ceased.

Instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush
fell upon the room, the joyous light of battle in every eye, if
nothing else, attesting the approach of the foe; while all present,
after listening contemptuously to a series of wild and unearthly
yells which announced an immediate arrival, sprang to their feet
and concentrated their glances on the entrance of the saloon
through which there presently burst a party of lively boys from The
Ridge.

A psychological moment followed, during which the occupants of
The Polka Saloon glared fiercely at the newcomers, who, needless to
say, returned their hostile stares. The chances of war, judging
from past performances, far outnumbered those of peace. But as
often happens in affairs of this kind when neither side is
unprepared, the desire for gun-play gave way to mirthless laughter,
and, presently, the hilarious crowd from the rival camp, turning
abruptly on their heels, betook themselves en masse into the
dance-hall.

For the briefest of periods, there was a look of keen
disappointment on the faces of the Cloudy Mountain boys as they
gazed upon the receding figures of their sworn enemies; but almost
in as little time as it takes to tell it there was a tumultuous
lining up at the bar, the flat surface of which soon resounded with
the heavy blows dealt it by the fists of the men desirous of
accentuating the rhythm when roaring out:

"Gwine to run all night,
 Gwine to run all day,
 Bet my money on a bob-tail nag,
 Somebody bet on the bay!"

Among those standing at the bar, and looking out of bleared eyes
at a flashy lithograph tacked upon the wall which pictured a
Spanish woman in short skirts and advertised "Espaniola Cigaroos,"
were two miners: one with curly hair and a pink-and-white
complexion; the other, tall, loose-limbed and good-natured looking.
They were known respectively as Handsome Charlie and Happy
Halliday, and had been arguing in a maudlin fashion over the
relative merits of Spanish and American beauties. The moment the
song was concluded they banged their glasses significantly on the
bar; but since it was an unbroken rule of the house that at the
close of the musician's performance he should be rewarded by a
drink, which was always passed up to him, they needs must wait. The
little barkeeper paid no attention to their demands until he had
satisfied the thirst of the old concertina player who, presently,
could be seen drawing aside the bear-pelt curtain and passing
through the small, square opening of the partition which separated
the Polka Saloon from its dance-hall.

"Not goin', old Dooda Day, are you?" The question, almost a
bellow, which, needless to say, was unanswered, came from Sonora
Slim who, with his great pal Trinidad Joe, was playing faro at a
table on one side of the room. Apparently, both were losing
steadily to the dealer whose chair, placed up against the
pine-boarded wall, was slightly raised above the floor. This last
individual was as fat and unctuous looking as his confederate, the
Look-out, was thin and sneaky; moreover, he bore the sobriquet of
The Sidney Duck and, obviously, was from Australia.

"Say, what did the last eight do?" Sonora now asked, turning to
the case-keeper.

"Lose."

"Well, let the tail go with the hide," returned Sonora,
resignedly.

"And the ace—how many times did it win?" inquired Trinidad.

"Four times," was the case-keeper's answer.

All this time a full-blooded Indian with long, blue-black hair,
very thick and oily, had been watching the game with excited eyes.
His dress was part Indian and part American, and he wore all kinds
of imitation jewelry including a huge scarf-pin which flashed from
his vivid red tie. Furthermore, he possessed a watch,—a large,
brassy-looking article,—which he brought out on every possible
occasion. When not engaged in helping himself to the dregs that
remained in the glasses carelessly left about the room, he was
generally to be found squatted down on the floor and playing a
solitaire of his own devising. But now he reached over Sonora's
shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of the
dealer.

"Give Billy Jackrabbit fer two dolla' Mexican chip," he demanded
in a guttural voice.

The Sidney Duck did as requested. While he was shuffling the
cards for a new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the
music that floated in from the dance-hall. The tune seemed to have
an unusually exhilarating effect on Happy Halliday, for letting out
a series of whoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with
the evident intention of getting his fill of the music, not
forgetting to yell back just before he disappeared:

"Root hog or die, boys!"

Happy's boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appear
immediately on Handsome's face, which might be interpreted as one
of envy at his friend's exuberant condition; at all events, he
proceeded forthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in
rapid succession.

Meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly
against the boys. In fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous
note in Sonora's voice when, presently, he blurted out:

"See here, gambolier Sid, you're too lucky!"

"You bet!" approved Trinidad, and then added:

"More chips, Australier!"

But Trinidad's comment, as well as his request, only brought
forth the oily smile that The Sidney Duck always smiled when any
reference was made to his game. It was his policy to fawn upon all
and never permit himself to think that an insult was intended. So
he gathered in Trinidad's money and gave him chips in return. For
some seconds the men played on without anything disturbing the game
except the loud voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the
dance-hall. But the boys were to hear something more from there
besides, "Round goes the wheel!" For, all at once there came to
their ears the sounds of an altercation in which it was not
difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of Happy Halliday.

"Now, git, you loafer!" he was saying in tones that left no
doubt in the minds of his friends that Happy was hot under the
collar over something.

A shot followed.

"Missed, by the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Happy, deeply humiliated
at his failure to increase the mortuary record of the camp.

The incident, however, passed unnoticed by the faro players; not
a man within sound of the shot, for that matter, inquired what the
trouble was about; and even Nick, picking up his tray filled with
glasses and a bottle, walked straightway into the dance-hall
looking as if the matter were not worth a moment's thought.

At Nick's going the Indian's face brightened; it gave him the
opportunity for which he had been waiting. Nobly he maintained his
reputation as a thief by quietly going behind the bar and lifting
from a box four cigars which he stowed away in his pockets. But
even that, apparently did not satisfy him, for when he espied the
butt of a cigar, flung into the sawdust on the floor by a man who
had just come in, he picked it up before squatting down again to
resume his card playing.

The newcomer, a man of, say, forty years, came slowly into the
room without a word of salutation to anyone. In common with his
fellow-miners, he wore a flannel shirt and boots. The latter gave
every evidence of age as did his clothes which, nevertheless, were
neat. His face wore a mild, gentle look and would have said that he
was companionable enough; yet it was impossible not to see that he
was not willingly seeking the cheer of the saloon but came there
solely because he had no other place to go. In a word, he had every
appearance of a man down on his luck.

Men were continually coming in and going out, but no one paid
the slightest attention to him, even though a succession of audible
sighs escaped his lips. At length he went over to the counter and
took a sheet or two of the paper,—which was kept there for the few
who desired to write home,—a quill-pen and ink; and picking up a
small wooden box he seated himself upon it before a desk—which had
been built from a rude packing-case—and began wearily and
laboriously to write.

"The lone star now rises!"

It was the stentorian voice of the caller of the
wheel-of-fortune. One would have thought that the sound would have
had the effect of a thunder-clap upon the figure at the desk; but
he gave no sign whatever of having heard it; nor did he see the
suspicious glance which Nick, entering at that moment, shot at
Billy Jackrabbit who was stealing noiselessly towards the
dance-hall where the whoops were becoming so frequent and evincing
such exuberance of spirits that the ubiquitous, if generally
unconcerned, Nick felt it incumbent to give an explanation of
them.

"Boys from The Ridge cuttin' up a bit," he tendered
apologetically, and took up a position at the end of the bar where
he could command a view of both rooms.

As a partial acknowledgment that he had heard Nick's
communication, Sonora turned round slightly in his seat at the faro
table and shot a glance towards the dance-hall. Contempt showed on
his rugged features when he turned round again and addressed the
stocky, little man sitting at his elbow.

"Well, I don't dance with men for partners! When I shassay,
Trin, I want a feminine piece of flesh an' blood"—he sneered, and
then went on to amplify—"with garters on."

"You bet!" agreed his faithful, if laconic pal, on feeling the
other's playful dig in his ribs.

The subject of men dancing together was a never-ceasing topic of
conversation between these two cronies. But whatever the attitude
of others Sonora knew that Trinidad would never fail him when it
came to nice discriminations of this sort. His reference to an
article of feminine apparel, however, was responsible for his
recalling the fact that he had not as yet received his daily
assurance from the presiding genius of the bar that he stood well
in the estimation of the only lady in the camp. Therefore, leaving
the table, he went over to Nick and whispered:

"Has the Girl said anythin' about me to-day, Nick?"

Now the role of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new
one to the barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than
he with their good qualities as well as their failings. Every
morning before going to work in the placers it was their custom to
stop in at The Polka for their first drink—which was, generally,
"on the house." Invariably, Nick received them in his
shirt-sleeves,—for that matter he was the proud possessor of the
sole "biled shirt" in the camp,—and what with his red flannel
undershirt that extended far below the line of his cuffs, his
brilliantly-coloured waistcoat and tie, and his hair combed down
very low in a cow-lick over his forehead, he was indeed an odd
little figure of a man as he listened patiently to the boys'
grievances and doled out sympathy to them. On the other hand,
absolutely devoted to the fair proprietress of the saloon,—though
solely in the character of a good comrade,—he never ceased trying
to advance her interests; and since one and all of her customers
believed themselves to be in love with her, one of his most
successful methods was to flatter each one in turn into thinking
that he had made a tremendous impression upon her. It was not a
difficult thing to do inasmuch as long custom and repetition had
made him an adept at highly-coloured lying.

"Well, you got the first chance," asseverated Nick, dropping his
voice to a whisper.

Sonora grinned from ear to ear; he expanded his broad chest and
held his head proudly; and waving his hand in lordly fashion he
sung out:

"Cigars for all hands and drinks, too, Nick!"

The genial prevaricator could scarcely restrain himself from
laughing outright as he watched the other return to his place at
the faro table; and when, in due course, he served the concoctions
and passed around the high-priced cigars, there was a smile on his
face which said as plainly as if spoken that Sonora was not the
only person present that had reason to be pleased with himself.