_THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH._
He was known in the Gulch as the Reverend Elias B. Hopkins, but it wasgenerally understood that the title was an honorary one, extorted by hismany eminent qualities, and not borne out by any legal claim which hecould adduce. "The Parson" was another of his _sobriquets_, which wassufficiently distinctive in a land where the flock was scattered and theshepherds few. To do him justice, he never pretended to have receivedany preliminary training for the ministry or any orthodox qualificationto practise it. "We're all working in the claim of the Lord," heremarked one day, "and it don't matter a cent whether we're hired forthe job or whether we waltzes in on our own account," a piece of roughimagery which appealed directly to the instincts of Jackman's Gulch. Itis quite certain that during the first few months his presence had amarked effect in diminishing the excessive use both of strong drinksand of stronger adjectives which had been characteristic of the littlemining settlement. Under his tuition, men began to understand that theresources of their native language were less limited than they hadsupposed, and that it was possible to convey their impressions withaccuracy without the aid of a gaudy halo of profanity.
We were certainly in need of a regenerator at Jackman's Gulch about thebeginning of '53. Times were flush then over the whole colony, butnowhere flusher than there. Our material prosperity had had a bad effectupon our morals. The camp was a small one, lying rather better than ahundred and twenty miles to the south of Ballarat, at a spot where amountain torrent finds its way down a rugged ravine on its way to jointhe Arrowsmith River. History does not relate who the original Jackmanmay have been, but at the time I speak of the camp it contained ahundred or so adults, many of whom were men who had sought an asylumthere after making more civilised mining centres too hot to hold them.They were a rough, murderous crew, hardly leavened by the fewrespectable members of society who were scattered among them.
Communication between Jackman's Gulch and the outside world wasdifficult and uncertain. A portion of the bush between it and Ballaratwas infested by a redoubtable outlaw named Conky Jim, who, with a smallgang as desperate as himself, made travelling a dangerous matter. It wascustomary, therefore, at the Gulch, to store up the dust and nuggetsobtained from the mines in a special store, each man's share beingplaced in a separate bag on which his name was marked. A trusty man,named Woburn, was deputed to watch over this primitive bank. When theamount deposited became considerable, a waggon was hired, and the wholetreasure was conveyed to Ballarat, guarded by the police and by acertain number of miners, who took it in turn to perform the office.Once in Ballarat, it was forwarded on to Melbourne by the regular goldwaggons. By this plan, the gold was often kept for months in the Gulchbefore being despatched, but Conky Jim was effectually checkmated, asthe escort party were far too strong for him and his gang. He appeared,at the time of which I write, to have forsaken his haunts in disgust,and the road could be traversed by small parties with impunity.
Comparative order used to reign during the daytime at Jackman's Gulch,for the majority of the inhabitants were out with crowbar and pick amongthe quartz ledges, or washing clay and sand in their cradles by thebanks of the little stream. As the sun sank down, however, the claimswere gradually deserted, and their unkempt owners, clay-bespattered andshaggy, came lounging into camp, ripe for any form of mischief. Theirfirst visit was to Woburn's gold store, where their clean-up of the daywas duly deposited, the amount being entered in the store-keeper's book,and each miner retaining enough to cover his evening's expenses. Afterthat all restraint was at an end, and each set to work to get rid of hissurplus dust with the greatest rapidity possible. The focus ofdissipation was the rough bar, formed by a couple of hogsheads spannedby planks, which was dignified by the name of the "Britannia drinkingsaloon." Here, Nat Adams, the burly bar-keeper, dispensed bad whisky atthe rate of two shillings a noggin, or a guinea a bottle, while hisbrother Ben acted as croupier in a rude wooden shanty behind, which hadbeen converted into a gambling hell, and was crowded every night. Therehad been a third brother, but an unfortunate misunderstanding with acustomer had shortened his existence. "He was too soft to live long,"his brother Nathaniel feelingly observed on the occasion of his funeral."Many's the time I've said to him, 'If you're arguin' a pint with astranger, you should always draw first, then argue, and then shoot, ifyou judge that he's on the shoot.' Bill was too purlite. He must needsargue first and draw after, when he might just as well have kivered hisman before talkin' it over with him." This amiable weakness of thedeceased Bill was a blow to the firm of Adams, which became soshort-handed that the concern could hardly be worked without theadmission of a partner, which would mean a considerable decrease in theprofits.
Nat Adams had had a roadside shanty in the Gulch before the discovery ofgold, and might, therefore, claim to be the oldest inhabitant. Thesekeepers of shanties were a peculiar race, and, at the cost of adigression, it may be interesting to explain how they managed to amassconsiderable sums of money in a land where travellers were few and farbetween. It was the custom of the "bushmen," _i.e._ bullock drivers,sheep tenders, and the other white hands who worked on the sheep-runs upcountry, to sign articles by which they agreed to serve their master forone, two, or three years at so much per year and certain daily rations.Liquor was never included in this agreement, and the men remained, perforce, total abstainers during the whole time. The money was paid in alump sum at the end of the engagement. When that day came round, Jimmy,the stockman, would come slouching into his master's office,cabbage-tree hat in hand.
"Morning, master!" Jimmy would say. "My time's up. I guess I'll draw mycheque and ride down to town."
"You'll come back, Jimmy."
"Yes, I'll come back. Maybe I'll be away three weeks, maybe a month. Iwant some clothes, master, and my bloomin' boots are well-nigh off myfeet."
"How much, Jimmy?" asks his master, taking up his pen.
"There's sixty pound screw," Jimmy answers thoughtfully; "and you mind,master, last March, when the brindled bull broke out o' the paddock.Two pound you promised me then. And a pound at the dipping. And a poundwhen Millar's sheep got mixed with ourn;" and so he goes on, for bushmencan seldom write, but they have memories which nothing escapes.
His master writes the cheque and hands it across the table. "Don't geton the drink, Jimmy," he says.
"No fear of that, master," and the stockman slips the cheque into hisleather pouch, and within an hour he is ambling off upon his long-limbedhorse on his hundred mile journey to town.
Now Jimmy has to pass some six or eight of the above-mentioned roadsideshanties in his day's ride, and experience has taught him that if heonce breaks his accustomed total abstinence, the unwonted stimulant hasan overpowering effect upon his brain. Jimmy shakes his head warily ashe determines that no earthly consideration will induce him to partakeof any liquor until his business is over. His only chance is to avoidtemptation; so, knowing that there is the first of these houses somehalf mile ahead, he plunges into a by-path through the bush which willlead him out at the other side.
Jimmy is riding resolutely along this narrow path, congratulatinghimself upon a danger escaped, when he becomes aware of a sunburned,black-bearded man who is leaning unconcernedly against a tree beside thetrack. This is none other than the shanty-keeper, who, having observedJimmy's man[oe]uvre in the distance, has taken a short cut through thebush in order to intercept him.
"Morning, Jimmy!" he cries, as the horseman comes up to him.
"Morning, mate; morning!"
"Where are ye off to to-day then?"
"Off to town," says Jimmy sturdily.
"No, now--are you though? You'll have bully times down there for a bit.Come round and have a drink at my place. Just by way of luck."
"No," says Jimmy, "I don't want a drink."
"Just a little damp."
"I tell ye I don't want one," says the stockman angrily.
"Well, ye needn't be so darned short about it. It's nothin' to mewhether you drinks or not. Good m
ornin'."
"Good mornin'," says Jimmy, and has ridden on about twenty yards whenhe hears the other calling on him to stop.
"See here, Jimmy!" he says, overtaking him again. "If you'll do me akindness when you're up in town I'd be obliged."
"What is it?"
"It's a letter, Jim, as I wants posted. It's an important one too, an' Iwouldn't trust it with every one; but I knows you, and if you'll takecharge on it it'll be a powerful weight off my mind."
"Give it here," Jimmy says laconically.
"I hain't got it here. It's round in my caboose. Come round for it withme. It ain't more'n quarter of a mile."
Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut thekeeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come in.
"Give me the letter," says Jimmy.
"It ain't altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute andit'll be right," and so the stockman is beguiled into the shanty.
At last the letter is ready and handed over. "Now, Jimmy," says thekeeper, "one drink at my expense before you go."
"Not a taste," says Jimmy.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" the other says in an aggrieved tone. "You're toodamned proud to drink with a poor cove like me. Here--give us back thatletter. I'm cursed if I'll accept a favour from a man whose too almightybig to have a drink with me."
"Well, well, mate, don't turn rusty," says Jim. "Give us one drink an'I'm off."
The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it tothe bushman. The moment he smells the old familiar smell his longing forit returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes shine more brightly,and his face becomes flushed. The keeper watches him narrowly. "You cango now, Jim," he says.
"Steady, mate, steady," says the bushman. "I'm as good a man as you. Ifyou stand a drink, I can stand one too, I suppose." So the pannikin isreplenished, and Jimmy's eyes shine brighter still.
"Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house," says the keeper,"and then it's time you were off." The stockman has a third gulp fromthe pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanishfor ever.
"Look here," he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of hispouch. "You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask 'em whatthey'll have, and tell them it's my shout. Let me know when the money'sdone."
So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeksor a month he lies about the shanty in a state of extreme drunkenness,and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At lastone fine morning the keeper comes to him. "The coin's done, Jimmy," hesays; "it's about time you made some more." So Jimmy has a good wash tosober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides offthrough the bush to the sheep-run, where he has another year ofsobriety, terminating in another month of intoxication.
All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of theinhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman's Gulch, so we mustreturn to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population therewere not numerous, and such as came about the time of which I speak wereeven rougher and fiercer than the original inhabitants. In particular,there came a brace of ruffians named Phillips and Maule, who rode intocamp one day and started a claim upon the other side of the stream.They outgulched the Gulch in the virulence and fluency of theirblasphemy, in the truculence of their speech and manner, and in theirreckless disregard of all social laws. They claimed to have come fromBendigo, and there were some amongst us who wished that the redoubtedConky Jim was on the track once more, as long as he would close it tosuch visitors as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings atthe "Britannia Bar" and at the gambling hell behind became more riotousthan ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in bloodshed, were ofconstant occurrence. The more peaceable frequenters of the bar began totalk seriously of lynching the two strangers who were the principalpromoters of disorder. Things were in this unsatisfactory condition whenour evangelist, Elias B. Hopkins, came limping into the camp,travel-stained and footsore, with his spade strapped across his back andhis Bible in the pocket of his moleskin jacket.
His presence was hardly noticed at first, so insignificant was the man.His manner was quiet and unobtrusive, his face pale, and his figurefragile. On better acquaintance, however, there was a squareness andfirmness about his clean-shaven lower jaw, and an intelligence in hiswidely-opened blue eyes, which marked him as a man of character. Heerected a small hut for himself, and started a claim close to thatoccupied by the two strangers who had preceded him. This claim waschosen with a ludicrous disregard for all practical laws of mining, andat once stamped the new-comer as being a green hand at his work. It waspiteous to observe him every morning as we passed to our work, diggingand delving with the greatest industry, but, as we knew well, withoutthe smallest possibility of any result. He would pause for a moment aswe went by, wipe his pale face with his bandanna handkerchief, and shoutout to us a cordial morning greeting, and then fall to again withredoubled energy. By degrees we got into the way of making ahalf-pitying, half-contemptuous inquiry as to how he got on. "I hain'tstruck it yet, boys," he would answer cheerily, leaning on his spade,"but the bed-rock lies deep just hereabouts, and I reckon we'll getamong the pay gravel to-day." Day after day he returned the same replywith unvarying confidence and cheerfulness.
It was not long before he began to show us the stuff that was in him.One night the proceedings were unusually violent at the drinking saloon.A rich pocket had been struck during the day, and the striker wasstanding treat in a lavish and promiscuous fashion, which had reducedthree parts of the settlement to a state of wild intoxication. A crowdof drunken idlers stood or lay about the bar, cursing, swearing,shouting, dancing, and here and there firing their pistols into the airout of pure wantonness. From the interior of the shanty behind therecame a similar chorus. Maule, Phillips, and the roughs who followed themwere in the ascendant, and all order and decency was swept away.
Suddenly, amid this tumult of oaths and drunken cries, men becameconscious of a quiet monotone which underlay all other sounds andobtruded itself at every pause in the uproar. Gradually first one manand then another paused to listen, until there was a general cessationof the hubbub, and every eye was turned in the direction whence thisquiet stream of words flowed. There, mounted upon a barrel, was Elias B.Hopkins, the newest of the inhabitants of Jackman's Gulch, with agood-humoured smile upon his resolute face. He held an open Bible in hishand, and was reading aloud a passage taken at random--an extract fromthe Apocalypse, if I remember right. The words were entirely irrelevant,and without the smallest bearing upon the scene before him; but heplodded on with great unction, waving his left hand slowly to thecadence of his words.
There was a general shout of laughter and applause at this apparition,and Jackman's Gulch gathered round the barrel approvingly, under theimpression that this was some ornate joke, and that they were about tobe treated to some mock sermon or parody of the chapter read. When,however, the reader, having finished the chapter, placidly commencedanother, and having finished that rippled on into another one, therevellers came to the conclusion that the joke was somewhat toolong-winded. The commencement of yet another chapter confirmed thisopinion, and an angry chorus of shouts and cries, with suggestions as togagging the reader, or knocking him off the barrel, rose from everyside. In spite of roars and hoots, however, Elias B. Hopkins ploddedaway at the Apocalypse with the same serene countenance, looking asineffably contented as though the babel around him were the mostgratifying applause. Before long an occasional boot pattered against thebarrel, or whistled past our parson's head; but here some of the moreorderly of the inhabitants interfered in favour of peace and order,aided curiously enough by the afore-mentioned Maule and Phillips, whowarmly espoused the cause of the little Scripture-reader. "The littlecuss has got grit in him," the latter explained, rearing his bulkyred-shirted form between the crowd and the object of its anger. "Hisways ain't our ways, and we're all welcome to our opinions, and to slingthem round from
barrels or otherwise, if so minded. What I says, andBill says, is, that when it comes to slingin' boots instead o' wordsit's too steep by half; an' if this man's wronged we'll chip in an' seehim righted." This oratorical effort had the effect of checking the moreactive signs of disapproval, and the party of disorder attempted tosettle down once more to their carouse, and to ignore the shower ofScripture which was poured upon them. The attempt was hopeless. Thedrunken portion fell asleep under the drowsy refrain, and the others,with many a sullen glance at the imperturbable reader, slouched off totheir huts, leaving him still perched upon the barrel. Finding himselfalone with the more orderly of the spectators, the little man rose,closed his book, after methodically marking with a lead pencil the exactspot at which he stopped, and descended from his perch. "To-morrownight, boys," he remarked in his quiet voice, "the reading will commenceat the 9th verse of the 15th chapter of the Apocalypse," with whichpiece of information, disregarding our congratulations, he walked awaywith the air of a man who has performed an obvious duty.
We found that his parting words were no empty threat. Hardly had thecrowd begun to assemble next night before he appeared once more upon thebarrel and began to read with the same monotonous vigour, tripping overwords, muddling up sentences, but still boring along through chapterafter chapter. Laughter, threats, chaff--every weapon short of actualviolence--was used to deter him, but all with the same want of success.Soon it was found that there was a method in his proceedings. Whensilence reigned, or when the conversation was of an innocent nature, thereading ceased. A single word of blasphemy, however, set it going again,and it would ramble on for a quarter of an hour or so, when it stopped,only to be renewed upon similar provocation. The reading was prettycontinuous during that second night, for the language of the oppositionwas still considerably free. At least it was an improvement upon thenight before.
For more than a month Elias B. Hopkins carried on this campaign. Therehe would sit, night after night, with the open book upon his knee, andat the slightest provocation off he would go, like a musical box whenthe spring is touched. The monotonous drawl became unendurable, but itcould only be avoided by conforming to the parson's code. A chronicswearer came to be looked upon with disfavour by the community, sincethe punishment of his transgression fell upon all. At the end of afortnight the reader was silent more than half the time, and at the endof the month his position was a sinecure.
Never was a moral revolution brought about more rapidly and morecompletely. Our parson carried his principle into private life. I haveseen him, on hearing an unguarded word from some worker in the gulches,rush across, Bible in hand, and perching himself upon the heap of redclay which surmounted the offender's claim, drawl through thegenealogical tree at the commencement of the New Testament in a mostearnest and impressive manner, as though it were especially appropriateto the occasion. In time an oath became a rare thing amongst us.Drunkenness was on the wane too. Casual travellers passing through theGulch used to marvel at our state of grace, and rumours of it went asfar as Ballarat, and excited much comment therein.
There were points about our evangelist which made him especially fittedfor the work which he had undertaken. A man entirely without redeemingvices would have had no common basis on which to work, and no means ofgaining the sympathy of his flock. As we came to know Elias B. Hopkinsbetter, we discovered that in spite of his piety there was a leaven ofold Adam in him, and that he had certainly known unregenerate days. Hewas no teetotaler. On the contrary, he could choose his liquor withdiscrimination, and lower it in an able manner. He played a masterlyhand at poker, and there were few who could touch him at "cut-throateuchre." He and the two ex-ruffians, Phillips and Maule, used to playfor hours in perfect harmony, except when the fall of the cards elicitedan oath from one of his companions. At the first of these offences theparson would put on a pained smile and gaze reproachfully at theculprit. At the second he would reach for his Bible, and the game wasover for the evening. He showed us he was a good revolver shot too, forwhen we were practising at an empty brandy bottle outside Adams' bar, hetook up a friend's pistol and hit it plumb in the centre at twenty-fourpaces. There were few things he took up that he could not make a show atapparently, except gold-digging, and at that he was the veriest dufferalive. It was pitiful to see the little canvas bag, with his nameprinted across it, lying placid and empty upon the shelf at Woburn'sstore, while all the other bags were increasing daily, and some hadassumed quite a portly rotundity of form, for the weeks were slippingby, and it was almost time for the gold-train to start off for Ballarat.We reckoned that the amount which we had stored at the time representedthe greatest sum which had ever been taken by a single convoy out ofJackman's Gulch.
Although Elias B. Hopkins appeared to derive a certain quietsatisfaction from the wonderful change which he had effected in thecamp, his joy was not yet rounded and complete. There was one thing forwhich he still yearned. He opened his heart to us about it one evening.
"We'd have a blessing on the camp, boys," he said, "if we only had aservice o' some sort on the Lord's day. It's a temptin' o' Providence togo on in this way without takin' any notice of it, except that maybethere's more whisky drunk and more card-playin' than on any other day."
"We hain't got no parson," objected one of the crowd.
"Ye fool!" growled another, "hain't we got a man as is worth any threeparsons, and can splash texts around like clay out o' a cradle? Whatmore d'ye want?"
"We hain't got no church!" urged the same dissentient.
"Have it in the open air," one suggested.
"Or in Woburn's store," said another.
"Or in Adams' saloon."
The last proposal was received with a buzz of approval, which showedthat it was considered the most appropriate locality.
Adams' saloon was a substantial wooden building in the rear of the bar,which was used partly for storing liquor and partly for a gamblingsaloon. It was strongly built of rough-hewn logs, the proprietor rightlyjudging, in the unregenerate days of Jackman's Gulch, that hogsheads ofbrandy and rum were commodities which had best be secured under lock andkey. A strong door opened into each end of the saloon, and the interiorwas spacious enough, when the table and lumber were cleared away, toaccommodate the whole population. The spirit barrels were heapedtogether at one end by their owner, so as to make a very fair imitationof a pulpit.
At first the Gulch took but a mild interest in the proceedings, but whenit became known that Elias B. Hopkins intended, after reading theservice, to address the audience, the settlement began to warm up to theoccasion. A real sermon was a novelty to all of them, and one comingfrom their own parson was additionally so. Rumour announced that itwould be interspersed with local hits, and that the moral would bepointed by pungent personalities. Men began to fear that they would beunable to gain seats, and many applications were made to the brothersAdams. It was only when conclusively shown that the saloon could containthem all with a margin that the camp settled down into calm expectancy.
It was as well that the building was of such a size, for the assemblyupon the Sunday morning was the largest which had ever occurred in theannals of Jackman's Gulch. At first it was thought that the wholepopulation was present, but a little reflection showed that this was notso. Maule and Phillips had gone on a prospecting journey among thehills, and had not returned as yet; and Woburn, the gold-keeper, wasunable to leave his store. Having a very large quantity of the preciousmetal under his charge, he stuck to his post, feeling that theresponsibility was too great to trifle with. With these three exceptionsthe whole of the Gulch, with clean red shirts, and such other additionsto their toilet as the occasion demanded, sauntered in a straggling linealong the clayey pathway which led up to the saloon.
The interior of the building had been provided with rough benches; andthe parson, with his quiet, good-humoured smile, was standing at thedoor to welcome them. "Good morning, boys," he cried cheerily, as eachgroup came lounging up. "Pass in! pass in. You'll find this is as good amorning
's work as any you've done. Leave your pistols in this barreloutside the door as you pass; you can pick them out as you come outagain; but it isn't the thing to carry weapons into the house of peace."His request was good-humouredly complied with, and before the last ofthe congregation filed in there was a strange assortment of knives andfirearms in this depository. When all had assembled the doors were shutand the service began--the first and the last which was ever performedat Jackman's Gulch.
The weather was sultry and the room close, yet the miners listened withexemplary patience. There was a sense of novelty in the situation whichhad its attractions. To some it was entirely new, others were waftedback by it to another land and other days. Beyond a disposition whichwas exhibited by the uninitiated to applaud at the end of certainprayers, by way of showing that they sympathised with the sentimentsexpressed, no audience could have behaved better. There was a murmur ofinterest, however, when Elias B. Hopkins, looking down on thecongregation from his rostrum of casks, began his address.
He had attired himself with care in honour of the occasion. He wore avelveteen tunic, girt round the waist with a sash of china silk, a pairof moleskin trousers, and held his cabbage-tree hat in his left hand. Hebegan speaking in a low tone, and it was noticed at the time that hefrequently glanced through the small aperture which served for a window,which was placed above the heads of those who sat beneath him.
"I've put you straight now," he said, in the course of his address;"I've got you in the right rut, if you will but stick in it." Here helooked very hard out of the window for some seconds. "You've learnedsoberness and industry, and with those things you can always make up anyloss you may sustain. I guess there isn't one of ye that won't remembermy visit to this camp." He paused for a moment, and three revolver shotsrang out upon the quiet summer air. "Keep your seats, damn ye!" roaredour preacher, as his audience rose in excitement. "If a man of yemoves, down he goes! The door's locked on the outside, so ye can't getout anyhow. Your seats, ye canting, chuckle-headed fools! Down with ye,ye dogs, or I'll fire among ye!"
Astonishment and fear brought us back into our seats, and we sat staringblankly at our pastor and each other. Elias B. Hopkins, whose whole faceand even figure appeared to have undergone an extraordinary alteration,looked fiercely down on us from his commanding position with acontemptuous smile on his stern face.
"I have your lives in my hands," he remarked; and we noticed as he spokethat he held a heavy revolver in his hand, and that the butt of anotherone protruded from his sash. "I am armed and you are not. If one of youmoves or speaks, he is a dead man. If not, I shall not harm you. You mustwait here for an hour. Why, you _fools_" (this with a hiss of contemptwhich rang in our ears for many a long day), "do you know who it is thathas stuck you up? Do you know who it is that has been playing it upon youfor months as a parson and a saint? Conky Jim, the bushranger, ye apes!And Phillips and Maule were my two right-hand men. They're off into thehills with your gold---- Ha! would ye?" This to some restive member ofthe audience, who quieted down instantly before the fierce eye and theready weapon of the bushranger. "In an hour they will be clear of anypursuit, and I advise you to make the best of it and not to follow, oryou may lose more than your money. My horse is tethered outside this doorbehind me. When the time is up I shall pass through it, lock it on theoutside, and be off. Then you may break your way out as best you can. Ihave no more to say to you, except that ye are the most cursed set ofasses that ever trod in boot-leather."
We had time to endorse mentally this outspoken opinion during the longsixty minutes which followed; we were powerless before the resolutedesperado. It is true that if we made a simultaneous rush we might bearhim down at the cost of eight or ten of our number. But how could such arush be organised without speaking, and who would attempt it without aprevious agreement that he would be supported? There was nothing for itbut submission. It seemed three hours at the least before the rangersnapped up his watch, stepped down from the barrel, walked backwards,still covering us with his weapon, to the door behind him, and thenpassed rapidly through it. We heard the creaking of the rusty lock, andthe clatter of his horse's hoofs as he galloped away.
It has been remarked that an oath had for the last few weeks been a rarething in the camp. We made up for our temporary abstention during thenext half-hour. Never was heard such symmetrical and heartfeltblasphemy. When at last we succeeded in getting the door off its hingesall sight of both rangers and treasure had disappeared, nor have we evercaught sight of either the one or the other since. Poor Woburn, true tohis trust, lay shot through the head across the threshold of his emptystore. The villains, Maule and Phillips, had descended upon the camp theinstant that we had been enticed into the trap, murdered the keeper,loaded up a small cart with the booty, and got safe away to some wildfastness among the mountains, where they were joined by their wilyleader.
Jackman's Gulch recovered from this blow, and is now a flourishingtownship. Social reformers are not in request there, however, andmorality is at a discount. It is said that an inquest has been heldlately upon an unoffending stranger who chanced to remark that in solarge a place it would be advisable to have some form of Sunday service.The memory of their one and only pastor is still green among theinhabitants, and will be for many a long year to come.
The Gully of Bluemansdyke, and Other stories Page 2
