The Further Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

by Greg Matthews

  “Amen,” says I.

  “Are you making fun of me, boy?”

  “No, sir … mister, I’m just the religious type. Pap was a preacher and I sung gospel before I could talk even.”

  “Well, you set that nigger to work and you’ll maybe strike it rich for the glory of the Lord.”

  He told us more about what God wants before he’ll let us be happy, all of it miserable, and the others told him to quiet down with his religion or they’ll throw him out too. He called them all sinners and blasphemers then filled his mouth with a wad of tobacco and never told all the other things God let him in on. A few mile further on we seen the screecher sat by the side of the road looking real sad, so God must of give him the word too. The men let him come aboard again, but only if he’ll keep his mouth shut, and we rode along all afternoon with nothing but dust around our ears.

  The road never led to the diggings at all. Just before sundown we come to a town, and the sign outside says: SACRAMENTO.

  It’s a big town, big as St. Joe, with trees in the streets and buildings all new with no paint on most of them yet, so they must of been built around the trees that was already there. There’s a light in every window and people crammed on the sidewalks rushing along like they got to get somewhere fast, saloons mostly. There’s teams and wagons wheel to wheel everywhere and arguments about who backs up for who and more noise all over than I heard since the buffalo hunt.

  Jim and me rode around town till it’s truly dark, just drinking in the bustle and confusement. We seen a river right up close to the last buildings on the west side of town, so deep it’s got three-masted ships and even a sidewheel steamer anchored there that must of come upriver from San Francisco.

  “What we goin’ to do now, Huck?” asks Jim.

  “What we ain’t going to do is put ourselfs up in a hotel and the horses in a livery stable. We ain’t got no cash for it. Let’s keep on going out the other side of town and find somewhere quiet we can make camp.”

  That’s what we done, only we had to go a considerable way to get past the tent city that’s around Sacramento. Finally we went in among a stand of trees way off from other people and made a fire and et and slept, but it warn’t easy after all that exciteration.

  Next morning we swallered the last of our supplies, which reminded me we not only got to get more food but also mining tools and such, none of which can be got by the power of prayer.

  “Jim,” says I, “you stay here and mind things while I go back to town and figure a way to get us some dollars. I reckon it’s best if we don’t get noticed together too much with so many people around. There’s bound to be some that seen them wanted posters sometime or other.”

  He’s agreeable so I saddled up Jupiter and rode back into Sacramento, which is even more crowded by day and twice as noisy. I never knowed where to start, just pushed along through the streets looking for hardware stores. There warn’t more than about one every ten yards, so the goods we need is all there for the buying, but no dollars to buy with. Finally I figured the only way is to sell the rest of Lydia’s jewels, so I went into a half dozen stores but they warn’t interested except the last one, where the storekeeper looked at me sorrowful and offered five dollars, which is just insulting, so I never sold them.

  I watched men buying supplies. You never needed dollars so long as you had gold dust that got weighed out right there on the counter, but I ain’t got no gold dust neither. It was worrisome, and all the shouting and laughing and jawing flying around give me a headache, which is proberly why my brain never give me no answer on the problem of cash. I ask the nearest miner how I can raise a grubstake from nothing at all and he says there ain’t no way unless I wash dishes in a hotel or eating house. I never wanted to do nothing like that, too proud I reckon. Famous outlaws don’t do no humble work.

  I soldiered on around town trying to figure a way and come to a street that’s blocked off at one end with a big crowd of men all jumping up and down and standing on wagons and other men’s shoulders and rooftops and hanging out of windows to see something special. It got me curious, so I rode up close and stood in the saddle to get a look. The whole street was empty except for the sidewalks which is packed both sides, and the other end was blocked with people too. Then I seen why. A pistol fired and two horses with riders started off at full gallop from this end and charged along the street till they got to the far end, and the air was full of cheering and yelling from the crowd. When the horses was reined in some men hollered for joy and some cussed, so it’s a horserace with betting. I pushed in closer and ask a man if they always run races like this and he tells me only on Sundays, which is today. Then he says:

  “That’s a powerful-looking animal you got under you. Fixing to race him, boy?”

  “I reckon I am,” says I, not even stopping to give it consideration.

  “Well get in there and make your pitch,” he says. “I’ll bet a couple ounces on that black crittur. He looks like a real mile-eater.”

  I pushed Jupiter through by telling the crowd I aim to race so’s they’ll let us by, and when I come into the open street another race just finished and cheers and groans went up and little bags of gold changed hands. Then a man with a big hat and a red flannel shirt hollers:

  “Who’s next?”

  Up rides a man on a bay horse and dropped a little bag into Redshirt’s hand. Redshirt bounced it up and down a time or three, weighing it right there in his hand.

  “Five hundred,” says the rider, and Redshirt give him a nod and hollers:

  “Who’ll take on this noble beast and nobler rider for a purse of five hundred dollars?”

  “Me!” says I, loud as I can.

  “Where’s your bet?” he says. “Let’s see the weight of your pouch.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He rolled his eyes and the men around him give a laugh, and he says weary-like:

  “Show the color of your dust, boy. You can’t make a bet without putting up a stake.”

  “I ain’t got one,” says I, feeling foolish.

  “Then step aside for someone who has, and don’t waste no more valuable time.”

  “What if I bet my saddle?” says I.

  “That’s no good. We race for big money here, boy. Go play somewhere else and leave men’s business to men.”

  “How about if I throw in my rifle too?”

  “That? Why, it looks older’n my granny,” he says, and got another laugh, which got me angersome.

  “All right, then,” says I, “I’ll throw in my horse too.”

  “Now you’re talking like a man,” he says, and turns to the crowd and yells:

  “Place your bets! The bay versus the black!”

  There’s a delay for a minute or two while bets got made up and down the street. I give my Hawken to Redshirt for safekeeping then me and the other rider lined up together. He’s on a fine horse, but not so good as Jupiter so I warn’t worried.

  “Are you ready?” asks Redshirt with his pistol raised.

  “Ready,” says both of us.

  He fired and we thundered away up the street, less than a quarter mile. It warn’t no contest. Jupiter and me come in way ahead without no bother and trotted back to collect our winnings.

  “Care to do it again?” says Redshirt.

  “Ain’t no reason why not,” says I. “Jupiter can run all day.”

  Redshirt bawled for runners but no one brung his horse forward. They seen the way I won so easy, and I wished I had of held Jupiter back some so’s it would of looked like a harder race, but too late now.

  “Is there no one with a horse to match the black cannonball?” hollers Redshirt.

  There warn’t, and he says:

  “Sorry, boy, you’ll have to step down for other riders.”

  “One moment, if you please,” calls a voice, and the crowd at the end of the street parted to let a man through. When he come into the open he’s the handsomest person I ever seen, with light brown skin and long black h
air and a fine mustache, Spaniard I reckon. He’s got on tight black britches with silver buttons up the sides and a short black jacket and a flat-brimmed hat the same, and he’s toting a pearl-handled silver pistol across his belly. His saddle is just littered with silver stars and shapes all over, even the bridle and stirrups, but best of all is his horse, pale yeller-brown with a white mane and tail and socks and face. I only ever seen that kind of color on a rocking horse before. They rode up with the horse picking up his hoofs real dainty, prancing almost, and the Spaniard was sat on him like a king, all noble and majestical and proud. There’s a heap of muttering run through the crowd when they seen him, but it ain’t the kind of sound that says they’re impressed like I am, more like they ain’t partial to him, which is a puzzlement on account of he don’t look mean or nothing. He prances up to me and says:

  “Señor, will you do me the honor of contesting with my poor beast?”

  “I reckon I will, thank you,” says I, being polite in return.

  “Make your bets,” says Redshirt, only he sounds kind of sour now.

  “I will match the five hundred dollars the young señor has this moment won,” says the Spaniard.

  “I’m agreeable,” says I, and he give Redshirt a little clinking bag to hold, coins, not dust, and I done the same with mine.

  “Get back to Mexico, greaser!” shouts a man, and the Spaniard turned to him, smiling with all his teeth, white and flashing like snow.

  “Señor,” he says, real pleasant-like. “I have never seen Mexico, nor has my father. I am a Californio.”

  “You’re a goddamn greaser!” shouts the man.

  “I would not think to disagree with a man of your breeding, señor,” he says, still smiling, then he turns to me and says:

  “We begin, yes?”

  “Yessir,” says I.

  He’s the elegantest-spoke person I ever heard. The man in the crowd warn’t finished yet though.

  “Goddamn greaser!” he shouts again, but some others told him to quit so’s they can lay their bets. They was real excited about seeing a race between two real good horses. Then the Spaniard says to Redshirt and me:

  “Señors, two horses such as these should I think prove their spirit in a race worthy of them. The street is too short, no? Beyond Sacramento perhaps one mile in the direction we face there is a large rock standing alone. To this rock and return is a true test, you agree?”

  Everyone liked the plan and the end of the street got cleared. Someone rode out to the rock to make sure we both go around and not turn short of it. When he’s ready he’s supposed to fire a pistol to let us know, only he’s so far away no one heard it if he done it. Redshirt reckoned he’s had plenty of time to get there so me and the Spaniard lined up. He tips his hat to me and says:

  “May the best horse win, señor.”

  I tipped mine back to him and we waited with my heart hammering real hard on account of I ain’t so sure of winning this time. Redshirt fired and we shot away like lead from a barrel. Jupiter run like the wind all the way along the street and out past the edge of town on a road heading south, but that yeller horse kept up easy with his white mane flying, and the Spaniard laughed over them pounding roofs, just for the joy of it I reckon. I ducked my head behind Jupiter’s neck and hunched low, trying to see the big rock through all that black mane in my eyes, and there it is way up ahead with a man and horse stood in front of it.

  We streaked for it side by side and swung around back of it without hardly slowing down, me on the inside so I got a little way ahead, but not for long because here comes the Spaniard and we’re neck and neck again, pounding along back to town through our own dust. I drummed my heels into Jupiter and he give me all he could, but it ain’t enough to pull ahead. Now I can hear the crowd hollering we’re so close, then we’re thundering up the street for the finish. The Spaniard give another laugh and pulled ahead till I’m back by his tail, and I larruped Jupiter some across the shoulders with the reins, which I never done before but I hated to see him beat. He sprung ahead till we’re side by side again but it ain’t no use, because just before we shot across the finish line drawed across the street the Spaniard pulled ahead by a clear neck and won. I had to comfort myself thinking Jupiter would of done it if he hadn’t of been in another race just before.

  We pulled up sharp to keep from running into the crowd at the end of the street and went over to Redshirt with the horses blowing hard and the crowd yelling fit to bust.

  “Here you are, boy,” says Redshirt, and handed me both pouches.

  “But I never won it,” says I, and made to hand them over to the Spaniard, but Redshirt says:

  “Yes you did, boy. You won by a head and there’s not a man here that’ll say different.”

  The men around him all agreed. I looked at the Spaniard and he’s just smiling. Says I:

  “You won fair and square. The money ain’t mine, it’s yours.”

  When I tried to give it to him all the men set up a commotion and the one that yelled “Greaser!” before started up again. The others joined in and pretty soon everyone was yelling it. I tried to give him the pouches anyway but he just smiled and waved them away. He even had the gumption to tip his hat to the crowd, which only made them madder, then he made his horse go down on one knee and give them a bow from the saddle, done real mocking with his teeth showing all the while, and when he finished the show he turned his horse and rode through the crowd real slow. They kept on yelling at him but let him by, and he never even looked at them, just ambled through like he’s all alone out on the plains looking at the horizon or something.

  The whole thing made me disgusted it’s so mean-minded. I grabbed my Hawken off Redshirt and rode after the Spaniard and catched him up. He’s got another man with him now, a Spaniard too but not so fancy dressed.

  “Pardon me, sir … señor, you got this money coming to you I reckon.”

  “You have heard your fellow Americans grant you the prize. Why do you not agree with them?”

  “They never seen it straight. You won easy and the money’s yours, so take it.”

  “I will accept my own, but you will keep yours,” he says.

  “But you won it.”

  “I do not wish to have it. Keep your American gold dust.”

  He sounded kind of snotty now, so what happened back at the race must of upset him even if he never let them know out of proudness.

  “There ain’t no need to say it like that,” says I, giving him his own pouch. “I never agreed with them.”

  “That is true,” he says. “It is hard to see a small bird among vultures. You will accept my apology, but you will keep your gold dust. Your clothing tells me you are not wealthy.”

  “Not till I won the first race I warn’t, but I’m rich now.”

  He turned to the other Spaniard and says a few words and they both laughed like it’s a big joke, then he says to me:

  “Our pardon, señor, but five hundred dollars does not make a man rich.”

  “Well it’s a heap more’n I had before today.”

  “You are a gold miner from the east?”

  “I aim to be. I just got here yesterday.”

  “What is your name?”

  “John Hawken.”

  “I am Don Esteban Hernando Rodrigo Alonso Vicente Miguel Luis Espinoza de Villamarga,” he says.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says I, looking around for all the rest, but it’s only him he’s talking about. With a name like that it’s a wonderment his horse can carry him. He says:

  “You have much to learn in California, Juan Hawken. Much you learn will make you sad, but you are young and sadness will fall from your shoulders like rain from the leaves. You will take food with us, yes?”

  “Thank you kindly. I ain’t had a morsel since breakfast time.”

  We pushed along through the streets to the river road and followed it south out of town to where it’s quiet and peaceful. Esteban says:

  “My compadre
is called Ramon.”

  “How do, Ramon,” says I, but he only nodded a fraction, not familiar with the language I reckon.

  “How does a man who is not rich come to own such a horse as yours?” asks Esteban.

  “My Pap won him in a card game, then he died of cholera.”

  “That is unfortunate,” he says, only I can tell he don’t give a can of beans what happened, but then why should he?

  “Perhaps that was the first of the sad things you must learn in California,” he says.

  “It does not matter. You were journeying to California with hope in your heart. If not for that hope you would not have been in the mountains and your father would never have died of disease. California is a beautiful woman who lures men on to fortune and death. Never let yourself fall into her arms. Juan Hawken, or she will crush you with love and feast upon your flesh.”

  “I reckon I’ll keep a sharp lookout,” says I, considerable surprised there’s cannibal women in the state. Says I:

  “Don’t you do nothing but race your horse for a living?”

  Esteban turned it into Spaniard for Ramon and they both laughed, then Esteban says:

  “I am the son of a grandee.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It is better to be the son of a grandee than the son of a peon.”

  I never liked to ask, but I reckon peon must be Spaniard talk for trash the way he spits it out, which makes me wonder why he’s talking to me. He goes on:

  “My father has an estancia in the south. There are kings who have less. My father’s house is called Casa Grande. There is no finer house in California. On my father’s land are more cattle than can be gathered in one place. There the sun always shines upon us. Here in the north it is cold. I do not like it.”

  “How come you’re here then, Esteban?”

  “Call me please Don Esteban.”

  “Excuse me, I never intentioned no offense.”

  “You are an ignorant American, but your heart is true. For this reason I forgive you.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  He talked on about the way things is down south, kind of arrogant like his family invited God to dinner every week regular, and he says the estancia uses Injuns like the cotton plantations down the Mississippi uses niggers.