by Bret Harte
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD PIONEER OF '49.
A thick fog, dense, impenetrable, bluish-grey and raw, marked the adventof the gentle summer of 1854 on the California coast. The brief immaturespring was scarcely yet over; there were flowers still to be seen on theoutlying hills around San Francisco, and the wild oats were yet green onthe Contra Costa mountains. But the wild oats were hidden under a dimIndia-inky veil, and the wild flowers accepted the joyless embraces ofthe fog with a staring waxen rigidity. In short, the weather was souncomfortable that the average Californian was more than ever inclinedto impress the stranger aggressively with the fact that fogs werehealthy, and that it was the "finest climate on the earth."
Perhaps no one was better calculated or more accustomed to impress thestranger with this belief than Mr. Peter Dumphy, banker and capitalist.His outspoken faith in the present and future of California wasunbounded. His sincere convictions that no country or climate was everbefore so signally favoured, his intoleration of any criticism or beliefto the contrary, made him a representative man. So positive andunmistakable was his habitual expression on these subjects, that it wasimpossible to remain long in his presence without becoming impressedwith the idea that any other condition of society, climate, orcivilization than that which obtained in California, was a mistake.Strangers were brought early to imbibe from this fountain; timid andweak Californians, in danger of a relapse, had their faith renewed andtheir eyesight restored by bathing in this pool that Mr. Dumphy keptalways replenished. Unconsciously, people at last got to echoing Mr.Dumphy's views as their own, and much of the large praise that appearedin newspapers, public speeches, and correspondence, was first voiced byDumphy. It must not be supposed that Mr. Dumphy's positiveness ofstatement and peremptory manner were at all injurious to his socialreputation. Owing to that suspicion with which most frontier communitiesregard polite concession and suavity of method, Mr. Dumphy's brusquefrankness was always accepted as genuine. "You always know what PeteDumphy means," was the average criticism. "He ain't goin' to lie toplease any man." To a conceit that was so freely and shamelesslyexpressed as to make hesitating and cautious wisdom appear weak andunmanly beside it, Mr. Dumphy added the rare quality of perfectunconscientiousness unmixed with any adulterating virtue. It was withsuch rare combative qualities as these that Mr. Dumphy sat that morningin his private office and generally opposed the fog without, or ratherits influence upon his patrons and society at large. The face he offeredto it was a strong one, although superficially smooth, for since thereader had the honour of his acquaintance, he had shaved off his beard,as a probably unnecessary indication of character. It was still early,but he had already despatched much business with that prompt decisionwhich made even an occasional blunder seem heroic. He was signing aletter that one of his clerks had brought him, when he said briskly,without looking up--"Send Mr. Ramirez in."
Mr. Ramirez, who had already called for three successive days withoutobtaining an audience of Dumphy, entered the private room with anexcited sense of having been wronged, which, however, instantlydisappeared, as far as external manifestation was concerned, on hiscontact with the hard-headed, aggressive, and prompt Dumphy.
"How do?" said Dumphy, without looking up from his desk. Mr. Ramirezuttered some objection to the weather, and then took a seat uneasilynear Dumphy. "Go on," said Dumphy, "I can listen."
"It is I who came to listen," said Mr. Ramirez, with great suavity. "Itis of the news I would hear."
"Yes," said Mr. Dumphy, signing his name rapidly to several documents,"Yes, _Yes_, YES." He finished them, turned rapidly upon Ramirez, andsaid "Yes!" again, in such a positive manner as to utterly shipwreckthat gentleman's self-control. "Ramirez!" said Dumphy abruptly, "howmuch have you got in that thing?"
Mr. Ramirez, still floating on a sea of conjecture, could only say, "Eh!Ah! It is what?"
"How _deep_ are you? How much would you _lose_?"
Mr. Ramirez endeavoured to fix his eyes upon Dumphy's. "How--much--wouldI lose?--if how? If what?"
"What--money--have--you--got--in--it?" said Mr. Dumphy, emphasising eachword sharply with the blunt end of his pen on the desk.
"No money! I have much interest in the success of Madame Devarges!"
"Then you're not 'in' much! That's lucky for you. Read thatletter.--Show him in!"
The last remark was in reply to a mumbled interrogatory of the clerk,who had just entered. Perhaps it was lucky for Mr. Ramirez that Mr.Dumphy's absorption with his new visitor prevented his observation ofhis previous visitor's face. As he read the letter, Ramirez's face firstturned to an ashen-grey hue, then to a livid purple, then he smacked hisdry lips thrice, and said "_Car['a]mba!_" then with burning eyes he turnedtowards Dumphy.
"You have read this?" he asked, shaking the letter towards Dumphy.
"One moment," interrupted Dumphy, finishing the conversation with hislatest visitor, and following him to the door. "Yes," he continued,returning to his desk and facing Ramirez. "Yes!" Mr. Ramirez could onlyshake the letter and smile in a ghastly way at Dumphy. "Yes," saidDumphy, reaching forward and coolly taking the letter out of Ramirez'shand, "Yes. Seems she is going to get married," he continued, consultingthe letter. "Going to marry the brother, the man in possession. Thatputs you all right; any way, the cat jumps; and it lets _you_ out." Withthe air of having finished the interview, Mr. Dumphy quietly returnedthe letter, followed by Ramirez's glaring eyes, to a pigeon-hole in hisdesk, and tapped his desk with his penholder.
"And you--you?" gasped Ramirez hoarsely, "you?"
"Oh, _I_ didn't go into it a dollar. Yet it was a good investment. Shecould have made out a strong case. You had possession of the deed orwill, hadn't you? There was no evidence of the existence of the otherwoman," continued Mr. Dumphy, in his usually loud voice, overlooking thecautionary gestures of Mr. Ramirez with perfect indifference. "Hello!How do?" he added to another visitor. "I was sending you a note." Mr.Ramirez rose. His long finger nails were buried in the yellow flesh ofhis palms. His face was quite bloodless, and his lips were dry. "What'syour hurry?" said Dumphy, looking up. "Come in again; there's anothermatter I want you to look into, Ramirez! We've got some money out onclaim that ought to have one or two essential papers to make it right. Idaresay they're lying round somewhere where you can find 'em. Draw on mefor the expense." Mr. Dumphy did not say this slyly, nor with any darksignificance, but with perfect frankness. Virtually it said--"You're ascamp, so am I; whether or not this other man who overhears us is onelikewise, it matters not." He took his seat again, turned to the latestcomer, and became oblivious of his previous companion.
Luckily for Mr. Ramirez, when he reached the street he had recovered thecontrol of his features, if not his natural colour. At least the fog,which seemed to lend a bluish-grey shade to all complexions, allowed hisown livid cheek to pass unnoticed. He walked quickly, and it appearedalmost unconsciously towards the water, for it was not until he reachedthe steamboat wharf that he knew where he was. He seemed to have takenone step from Mr. Dumphy's office to the pier. There was nothing betweenthese two objects in his consciousness. The interval was utterlyannihilated. The steamboat did not leave for Sacramento until eight thatevening, and it was only ten o'clock now. He had been conscious of thisas he walked, but he could not have resisted this one movement, even ifa futile one, towards the object of his revengeful frenzy. Ten hours towait--ten hours to be passive, inactive--to be doing nothing! How couldhe pass the time? He could sharpen his knife. He could buy a new one. Hecould purchase a better pistol. He remembered passing a gunsmith's shopwith a display of glittering weapons in its window. He retraced hissteps, and entered the shop, spending some moments in turning over thegunsmith's various wares. Especially was he fascinated by a longbroad-bladed bowie-knife. "My own make," said the tradesman, withprofessional pride, passing a broad, leathery thumb along the keen edgeof the blade. "It'll split a half-dollar. See!"
He threw a half-dollar on the counter, and with a quick, straight,down-darting stab pierced it i
n halves. Mr. Ramirez was pleased, andprofessed a desire to make the experiment himself. But the pointslipped, sending the half-dollar across the shop and cutting a longsplintering furrow in the counter. "Yer narves ain't steady. And ye trytoo hard," said the man, coolly. "Thet's the way it's apt to be with yougents. Ye jest work yourself up into a fever 'bout a little thing likethet, ez if everything depended on it. Don't make sich a big thing ofit. Take it easy like this," and with a quick, firm, workmanlike strokethe tradesman repeated the act successfully. Mr. Ramirez bought theknife. As the man wrapped it up in paper, he remarked with philosophickindness--"I wouldn't try to do it agin this mornin'. It's early in theday, and I've noticed thet gents ez hez been runnin' free all nightain't apt to do theirselves justice next mornin'. Take it quietly aloneby yourself, this arternoon; don't think you're goin' to do anythin'big, and you'll fetch it, sure!"
When Mr. Ramirez was in the street again he looked at his watch. Eleveno'clock! Only one hour gone. He buttoned his coat tightly over the knifein his breast pocket, and started on again feverishly. Twelve o'clockfound him rambling over the sand hills near the Mission Dolores. In oneof the by-streets he came upon a woman looking so like the one thatfilled all his thoughts, that he turned to look at her again with aglance so full of malevolence that she turned from him in terror. Thiscircumstance, his agitation, and the continual dryness of his lips senthim into a saloon, where he drank freely, without, however, increasingor abating his excitement. When he returned to the crowded streets againhe walked quickly, imagining that his manner was noticed by others, insuch intervals as he snatched from the contemplation of a singleintention. There were several ways of doing it. One was to tax her withher deceit and then kill her in the tempest of his indignation. Anotherand a more favourable thought was to surprise her and her newaccomplice--for Mr. Ramirez, after the manner of most jealous reasoners,never gave her credit for any higher motive than that she had shown tohim--and kill them both. Another and a later idea was to spend thestrength of his murderous passion upon the man, and then to enjoy herdiscomfiture, the failure of her plans, and perhaps her appeals forforgiveness. But it would still be two days before he could reach them.Perhaps they were already married. Perhaps they would be gone! In allthis wild, passionate, and tumultuous contemplation of an effect, therenever had been for a single moment in his mind the least doubt of theadequacy of the cause. That he was a _dupe_,--a hopeless, helplessdupe,--was sufficient. Since he had read the letter, hisself-consciousness had centred upon a single thought, expressed to himin a single native word, "Bobo." It was continually before his eyes. Hespelled it on the signs in the street. It kept up a dull monotonous echoin his ears. "Bobo." Ah! she should see!
It was past noon, and the fog had deepened. Afar from the bay came thesounds of bells and whistles. If the steamer should not go? If sheshould be delayed, as often happened, for several hours? He would godown to the wharf and inquire. In the meantime, let the devil seize thefog! Might the Holy St. Bartholomew damn for ever the cowardly dog of acaptain and the coyote crew who would refuse to go! He came sharplyenough down Commercial Street, and then, when opposite the ArcadeSaloon, with the instinct that leads desperate men into desperateplaces, he entered and glared vindictively around him. The immense room,bright with lights and glittering with gilding and mirrors, seemed quietand grave in contrast with the busy thoroughfare without. It was stilltoo early for the usual _habitu['e]s_ of the place; only a few of the longgambling tables were occupied. There was only a single _monte_ bank"open," and to this Ramirez bent his steps with the peculiarpredilections of his race. It so chanced that Mr. Jack Hamlin wastemporarily in charge of the interests of this bank, and was dealing ina listless, perfunctory manner. It may be parenthetically remarked thathis own game was faro. His present position was one of pure friendlinessto the absent dealer, who was taking his dinner above stairs. Ramirezflung a piece of gold on the table and lost. Again he attempted fortuneand lost. He lost the third time. Then his pent-up feelings found ventin the characteristic "_Car['a]mba!_" Mr. Jack Hamlin looked up. It was notthe oath, it was not the expression of ill-humour, both of which werecommon enough in Mr. Hamlin's experience, but a certain distinguishingquality in the voice which awoke Jack's peculiarly retentive memory. Helooked up, and, to borrow his own dialect, at once "spotted" the ownerof the voice. He made no outward sign of his recognition, but quietlypursued the game. In the next deal Mr. Ramirez won! Mr. Hamlin quietlyextended his _croupe_ and raked down Mr. Ramirez's money with thelosers'.
As Mr. Hamlin doubtless had fully expected, Mr. Ramirez rose with apassionate scream of rage. Whereat Mr. Hamlin coolly pushed back Mr.Ramirez's stake and winnings without looking up. Leaving it upon thetable, Ramirez leaped to the gambler's side.
"You would insult me, so! You would ch--ee--at! eh? You would take mymoney, so!" he said, hoarsely, gesticulating passionately with one hand,while with the other he grasped as wildly in his breast.
Mr. Jack Hamlin turned a pair of dark eyes on the speaker, and said,quietly, "Sit down, Johnny!"
With the pent-up passion of the last few hours boiling in his blood,with the murderous intent of the morning still darkling in his mind,with the passionate sense of a new insult stinging him to madness, Mr.Ramirez should have struck the gambler to the earth. Possibly that washis intention as he crossed to his side; possibly that was hisconviction as he heard himself--_he_--Victor Ramirez! whose presence intwo days should strike terror to two hearts in One HorseGulch!--addressed as Johnny! But he looked into the eyes of Mr. Hamlinand hesitated. What he saw there I cannot say. They were handsome eyes,clear and well opened, and had been considered by several members of afond and confiding sex as peculiarly arch and tender. But, it must beconfessed, Mr. Ramirez returned to his seat without doing anything.
"Ye don't know that man," said Mr. Hamlin to the two players nearesthim, in a tone of the deepest confidence, which was, however, singularlyenough, to be heard distinctly by every one at the table, includingRamirez. "You don't know him, but I do! He's a desprit character,"continued Mr. Hamlin, glancing at him and quietly shuffling the cards,"a very desprit character! Make your game, gentlemen! Keeps a cattleranch in Sonoma, and a private graveyard whar he buries his own dead.They call him the 'Yaller Hawk of Sonoma.' He's outer sorts jest now:probably jest killed some one up thar, and smells blood." Mr. Ramirezsmiled a ghastly smile, and affected to examine the game minutely andcritically as Mr. Hamlin paused to rake in the gold. "He's artful--isJohnny!" continued Mr. Hamlin, in the interval of shuffling, "artful andsly! Partikerly when he's after blood! See him sittin' thar and smilin'.He doesn't want to interrupt the game. He knows, gentlemen, thet in fiveminutes from now, Jim will be back here and I'll be free. Thet's whathe's waitin' for! Thet's what's the matter with the 'Yaller Slaughtererof Sonoma!' Got his knife ready in his breast, too. Done up in brownpaper to keep it clean. He's mighty pertikler 'bout his weppins isJohnny. Hez a knife for every new man." Ramirez rose with an attempt atjocularity, and pocketed his gains. Mr. Hamlin affected not to noticehim until he was about to leave the table. "He's goin' to wait for meoutside," he exclaimed. "In five minutes, Johnny," he called toRamirez's retreating figure. "If you can't wait, I'll expect to see youat the Marysville Hotel next week, Room No. 95, the next room, Johnny,the next room!"
The Mr. Ramirez who reached the busy thoroughfare again was so differentfrom the Mr. Ramirez who twenty minutes before had entered the Arcadethat his identity might have easily been doubted. He did not evenbreathe in the same way; his cheek, although haggard, had resumed itscolour; his eyes, which hitherto had been fixed and contemplative, hadreturned to their usual restless vivacity. With the exception that atfirst he walked quickly on leaving the saloon, and once or twicehurriedly turned to see if anybody were following him, his manner wastotally changed. And this without effusion of blood, or the indulgenceof an insatiable desire for revenge! As I prefer to deal with Mr.Ramirez without affecting to know any more of that gentleman than he didhimself, I am unable to explain any more c
learly than he did to himselfthe reason for this change in his manner, or the utter subjection of hismurderous passion. When it is remembered that for several hours he hadhad unlimited indulgence, without opposition, in his own instincts, butthat for the last twenty minutes he had some reason to doubt theiromnipotence, perhaps some explanation may be adduced. I only know thatby half-past six Mr. Ramirez had settled in his mind that physicalpunishment of his enemies was not the most efficacious means of revenge,and that at half-past seven he had concluded _not_ to take theSacramento boat. And yet for the previous six hours I have reason tobelieve that Mr. Ramirez was as sincere a murderer as ever suffered thepenalty of his act, or to whom circumstances had not offered a Mr.Hamlin to at upon a constitutional cowardice.
Mr. Ramirez proceeded leisurely down Montgomery Street until he came toPacific Street. At the corner of the street his way was for a momentstopped by a rattling team and waggon that dashed off through the fog inthe direction of the wharf. Mr. Ramirez recognised the express and mailfor the Sacramento boat. But Mr. Ramirez did not know that the expresscontained a letter which ran as follows--
"DEAR MADAM,--Yours of the 10th received, and contents noted. Am willing to make our services contingent upon your success. We believe your present course will be quite as satisfactory as the plan you first proposed. Would advise you not to give a personal interview to Mr. Ramirez, but refer him to Mr. Gabriel Conroy. Mr. Ramirez's manner is such as to lead us to suppose that he might offer violence, unless withheld by the presence of a third party.--Yours respectfully,
"PETER DUMPHY."
