A Guest at the Ludlow, and Other Stories

by Bill Nye

  A PROPHET AND A PIUTE

  VI

  I have bought some more real estate. It occurred in Oakland, California.In making the purchase I had the assistance of a prophet, and I hope theprophet will not be overbalanced by the loss. It came about in this way:A prophet on a bicycle came to Oakland suddenly very hard up a few weeksago, and began to ride up and down on his two-wheeler, warning thepeople to flee to the high ground, and thus escape the wrath to come,for, he said, the waters of the great deep would arise at about themiddle of the month and smite the people of Oakland and slay them, andfloat the pork barrels out of their cellars, and fill their cisternswith people who had sneered at his prophecy.

  This gentleman was an industrious prophet and did a good business in hisline. He attracted much notice, and had all he could do at his tradefor several weeks. Many Oakland people were frightened, especially asWiggins, the great intellectual Sahara of the prophet industry, alsoprophesied a high wave which would rise at least above the bills at thePalace Hotel in San Francisco. With the aid of these two giftedmiddle-weight prophets, I was enabled to secure some good bargains incorner lots and improved property in Oakland at ten per cent. of theestimated value. In other words, I put my limited powers as a prophetagainst those of Professor Wiggins, the painstaking and conscientiousseer of Canada, and the bicycle prophet of the Pacific slope. I amwilling to stand or fall by the result.

  As a prophet I have never attracted attention in this country, mostlybecause I have been too busy with other things. Also because there wasso little prophesying to be done in these degenerate days that I did notcare to take hold of the industry; but I have ever been ready topurchase at a great discount the desirable residences of thosecontemplating a general collapse of the universe, or a tidal wave whichwould wipe out the general government and cover with a placid sea themighty republic which God has heretofore, for some reason, smiled upon.Moreover, I can hardly believe that the Deity would commission a man togo out over California on a bicycle to warn people, when a few redmessages and a standing notice in the newspapers would do the work inless time. Reasoning in this manner with a sturdy logic worthy of myrich and unctious past, I have secured some good trades in down-townproperty, and shall await the coming devastation with a calm andentirely unruffled breast.

  California, at any season of the year, is a miracle of beauty, as almostevery one knows. Nature heightens the effect for the tenderfoot bycompelling him to cross the Alpine heights of the Sierra NevadaMountains and freeze approximately to death in the cold heart of a snowblockade. Thus, weather-beaten and sore, he reaches the rolling greenhills and is greeted with the rich odor of violets. I submitted to theinsults of a tottering monopoly for a week, in the heart of the winter,and, tired and sick at soul, with chilblains on my feet and liniment onmy other lineaments, I burst forth one bright morning into the realm ofeternal summer. The birds sang in my frozen bosom. I shed the gunnysackwraps from my tender feet even as a butterfly or a tramp bursts his hullin the spring time, and I laughed two or three coarse, outdoor laughs,which shook the balmy branches of the tall pomegranate trees andtwittered in the dense foliage of the magnolia.

  The railroad was very kind to me at first. That was when I was buying myticket. Later on it became more harsh and even reproached me at times.Conductors woke me up two or three times in the night to gaze fondly onmy ticket and look as if they were sorry they ever parted with it. Onthe Central Pacific passengers are not permitted to give their ticketsto the porter on retiring. You must wake up and converse with theconductor at all hours of the night, and hold a lantern for him while heslowly spells out the hard words on your ticket. I did not like this,and several times I murmured in a querulous tone to the conductor. Buthe did not mind it. He went on doing the behests of his employer, and inthat way endearing himself to the great adversary of souls.

  I said to an official of the road: "Do you not think this is the worstmanaged road in the United States--always excepting the Western NorthCarolina Railroad, which is an incorporated insult to humanity?"

  "Well," he replied, "that depends, of course, on the standpoint fromwhich you view it. If we were trying to divert travel to the SouthernPacific, also the rolling stock, the good-will, the culverts, thedividends, the frogs, the snowsheds, the right of way and the new-laidtrain figs, everything except the first, second and third mortgages,which would naturally revert to the government, would you not think wewere managing the business with a steady hand and a watchful eye?"

  I said I certainly should. I then wrung his hand softly and stole away,as he also began to do the same thing.

  _I improved the time by cultivating the acquaintance ofthe beautiful and picturesque outcasts known as the Piute Indians_ (Page57)]

  At Reno we had a day or two in which to observe the city from the carplatform, while waiting for the blockade to be raised. We could not goaway from the train further than five hundred feet, for it might startat any moment. That is one beauty about a snow blockade. It entitles youto a stop-over, but you must be ready to hop on when the train starts. Iimproved the time by cultivating the acquaintance of the beautiful andpicturesque outcasts known as the Piute Indians. They are a quiet,reserved set of people, who, by saying nothing, sometimes obtain areputation for deep thought. I always envy anybody who can do that. Suchmen make good presidential candidates. Candidates, I say, mind you. Thetime has come in this country when it is hard to unite goodqualifications as a candidate with the necessary qualities for asuccessful official.

  The Piute, in March or April, does not go down cellar and bring up hisgladiolus, or remove the banking from the side of his villa. He does notmulch the asparagus bed, or prune the pie-plant, or rake the front yard,or salt the hens. He does not even wipe his heartbroken and neglectednose. He makes no especial change in his great life-work because springhas come. He still looks serious, and like a man who is laboring underthe impression that he is about to become the parent of a thought. Thesechildren of the Piute brave never mature. They do not take their placesin the histories or the school readers of our common country. The Piutewears a bright red lap-robe over his person, and generally a stiffQuaker hat, with a leather band. His hair is very thick, black andcoarse, and is mostly cut off square in the neck, by means of an adz, Ijudge, or possibly it is eaten off by moths. The Piute is never baldduring life. After he is dead he becomes bald and beloved.

  Johnson Sides is a well-known Piute who had the pleasure of meeting meat Reno. He said he was a great admirer of mine and had all my writingsin a scrap-book at home. He also said that he wished I would come andlecture for his tribe. I afterward learned that he was an earnest andhopeful liar from Truckee. He had no scrap-book at all. Also no home.

  Mr. Sides at one time became quite civilized, distinguishing himselffrom his tribe by reading the Bible and imprisoning the lower drapery ofhis linen garment in the narrow confines of a pair of cavalry trousers,instead of giving it to the irresponsible breeze, as other Piutes did.He then established a hotel up the valley in the Sierras, and decided tolead a life of industry. He built a hostelry called theShack-de-Poker-Huntus, and advertised in the _Carson Appeal_, a paperwhich even the editor, Sam Davis, says fills him with wonder andamazement when he knows that people actually subscribe for it. Very soonPiutes began to go to the shack to spend the heated term. Every Piutewho took the _Appeal_ saw the advertisement, which went on to state thathot and cold water could be got into every room in the house, and thatelectric bells, baths, silver-voiced chambermaids, over-charges, andeverything else connected with a first-class hotel, could be found atthat place. So the Piute people locked up their own homes, and,ejecting the cat, they spat on the fire, and moved to the new summerhotel. They took their friends with them. They had no money, but theyknew Johnson Sides, and they visited him all summer.

  In the fall Mr. Sides closed the house, and resuming his blanket he wentback to live with his tribe. When the butcher wagon called the next daythe driver found a notice of sale, and in the language of Sol SmithRussell,
"Good reasons given for selling."

  Mr. Sides had been a temperance man now for a year, at least externally,but with the humiliation of this great financial wreck came a wilddesire to flee to the maddening bowl, having been monkeying with themadding crowd all summer. So, silently, he obtained a bottle of Renoembalming fluid and secreted himself behind a tree, where he was askedto join himself in a social nip. He had hardly wiped away an idle tearwith the corner of his blanket and replaced the stopper in his tear jugwhen the local representative of the U. G. J. E. T. A. of Reno came uponhim. He was reported to the lodge, and his character bade fair to besmirched so badly that nothing but saltpeter and a consistent life couldsave it. At this critical stage Mr. Davis, of the _Appeal_, came to hisaid, and not only gave him the support and encouragement of his columns,but told Mr. Sides that he would see that the legislature took speedyaction in removing his alcoholic disabilities. Through the untiringefforts of Mr. Davis, therefore, a bill was framed "whereby the drinktaken by Johnson Sides, of Nevada, be and is hereby declared null andvoid."

  On a certain day Mr. Davis told him that the bill would come up forfinal passage and no doubt pass without opposition, but a purse wouldhave to be raised to defray the expenses. The tribe began to collectwhat money they had and to sell their grasshoppers in order to raisemore.

  Johnson Sides and his people gathered on the day named, and seatedthemselves in the galleries. Slim old warriors with firm faces andbeetling brows, to say nothing of having their hair roached, but yetwith no flies on them to speak of, sat in the front seats. Large,corpulent squaws, wearing health costumes, secured by telegraph wire,listened to the proceedings, knowing no more of what was going on thanother people do who go to watch the legislature. Finally, however, SamDavis came and told Mr. Sides that he was now pure as the driven snow. Isaw him last week, but it seemed to me it was about time to get somemore special legislation for him.

  Once Mr. Davis met Mr. Sides on the street and was so glad to see himthat he said: "Johnson, I like you first-rate, and should always be gladto see you. Whenever you can, let me know where you are."

  The next week Sam got quite a lot of telegrams from along therailroad--for the Indians ride free on account of their sympathies withthe road. These telegrams were dated at different stations. They werehopeful and even cheery, and were all marked "collect." They read aboutas follows:

  _Sam Davis, Carson, Nev._:

  WINNEMUCCA, NEV., March 31.

  I am here. JOHNSON SIDES.

  Every little while for quite a long time Mr. Davis would get a bright,reassuring telegram, sometimes in the middle of the night, when he wasasleep, informing him that Johnson Sides was "there," and he then wouldgo back to bed cheered and soothed and sustained.