Old Misery/Chapter 1

N OLD man and a young man jostled against each other in front of the Rassette House at Bush and Sansome Streets one afternoon in late April. The first was in San Francisco contrary to his inclination and was striving to kill his sense of loneliness with much whisky. From early manhood he had wandered far and wide west of the Missouri River and never felt so much at ease as when alone in a hostile Indian country, or when exploring little-known mountains. The other already was wishing himself back in the placid, orderly life of quiet Vermont. He had had his high hopes but the long voyage through the Straits of Magellan, marked by much physical suffering, had profoundly depressed him. When he bumped into the white-whiskered, white-haired mountain man he was clinging to but one desire; to crawl into a stationary bed and remain there. He was scarcely conscious of the collision until the old man jolted him to attention by belligerently warning:

“Keep the trail, younker. This place is more mixed up than a Crow village, but there's foot-room for all if you don't play the hog.”

Joseph Gilbert, just landed, glanced at the man meekly, too miserable to resent any fault-finding. Followed by characterizations of “greenhorn” and the like he wearily carried his large carpet-bag into the hotel. He had been one of the first ashore, inwardly vowing he would return overland regardless of all perils. At the wharf he had found a splendid omnibus—he first supposed it to be the private equipage of a millionaire—and had requested the driver to set him down at any good hotel. He would not have noticed the mountain man at all if it had not been for his curious garb. Suits of buckskin were not seen in Vermont. In Frisco on this prime April day in 'fifty-three a man could have worn a bathrobe through the business section and attracted no attention. Gilbert unconsciously tucked away in memory a recollection of the queer old man cased in clothes of skin. The house was heavily patronized but he secured a room, turned his money over to the clerk and went to bed.

There followed days of recuperation and soul-building; rather pleasant after he had been initiated, into the luxury of taking;some of his meals in bed, in Home folks would have been much scandalized could they have known of such unheard-of ways of living. Fortunately a continent stretched between the Rassette House and the Vermont village. Finally his voracious appetite told him he was well, and conscience rebuked him for not being about his business.

On the second morning of May he awoke to discover a new Joseph Gilbert, one who loudly scoffed at the breakfast-in-bed habit. This new fellow bounded to the middle of the floor and made haste to get outside and discover the world. He was secretly dismayed on descending to the office to be presented with a bill at the rate of ten dollars a day, plus certain extras. Back home a dollar a day at the Commercial House would have entitled him to the best, although only a hopeless invalid would have been permitted to eat in bed.

However, Joseph had money to match his good clothes, and he paid without any visible qualms. He realized he must reconstruct his lines of thought to fit in with the new environment. One must not heed the cost when every man was a potential millionaire. The Rassette House had taken no money from him, he told himself; some gold mine in the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada was paying the bills. And in rather an exuberant frame of mind he left his bag and went forth to transact certain business. His plans had been made ahead with New England thoroughness and he could leave almost immediately for Coloma and plunge into the thrilling work of picking up chunks of gold.

As he strolled up Bush Street he changed his original ideas about the city. He was glad he had not followed his first plan of wearing his old clothes. The day of ragged hats and stogy boots and rough shirts was rapidly passing, especially in San Francisco. He saw all nationalities and all sorts of dress, but he missed the rough-garbed, frowsy type so often pictured in the Illustrated News.

There were immaculately clad Englishmen; easterners and Southerners in the latest Parisian modes; men from South America and Mexico, barbaric with silver buttons and gold chains. French workmen were neat in their blouses; and there had been a certain smartness in the old man's heavily-fringed collar, or cape, and fringed trousers. There were many men, all erroneously dubbed “Yanks,” in black broadcloth coats with long skirts, black trousers, black satin waistcoats, and stove-pipe hats. After walking a block the young pilgrim decided the Anglo-Saxon Gallic and Celtic men were very proud of their beards; and he forthwith decided to encourage his own frail whiskers to grow. Oriental types, and men whose natal land he could not guess, gave much color and dash to the streaming street scenes.

His first stop was at the Wells, Fargo and Company's office. He assumed the entire morning would be required in transacting his pieces of business. After briefly examining his credentials a clerk bruskly demanded how he “would have it.” And he began stacking twenty dollar gold pieces in piles of ten. On finishing the seventh pile he noticed Gilbert's embarrassment and asked:

“Bothered about carrying it? Haven't you a belt? Nuisance to pack it around with you. Better let us send it on to await your order at Coloma.”

Gilbert was nettled at the clerk's quickness in arriving at conclusions. Then again, how was he to know the fourteen hundred dollars would be waiting for him at Coloma? Back home the president of the bank would have used a day in deciding on the best mode of procedure.

“I'll take it with me,” he told the clerk. “I haven't a belt. Perhaps I can leave it here until I buy one.”

“Wait a minute,” barked the clerk. He darted to the rear of the room and quickly returned with a worn but serviceable money-belt.

“Step around the corner and slip it on.”

Gilbert did as told. Then, sensitively alive to the fact that high prices ruled in San Francisco, he inquired:

“How much do you tax me for that?”

“Nothing. Fellow threw it aside when he came in from the mines. We're glad to get rid of it. But we can give you an order and save you packing that stuff to Coloma. Joaquin's mighty busy these days, from Shasta to Sonoma.”

Gilbert knew nothing about the individual mentioned, and he thought the remark irrelevant; and he rather resented the imputation he could not look out for himself.

“It ain't heavy. I'll carry it. Thank you.”

He was used to hard work, and the weight of the gold would have been nothing had it been on his back; but, never having worn a heavy belt before, he quickly found it to be an inconvenience. He felt as if he had increased his waist measure by several feet and that every one was staring at him. As this diffidence wore off he proceeded to secure an outfit. Remembering the clerk's intimation that danger might attend a man carrying gold, his first purchase was an Allen revolver, pepper-box pattern. This weapon, earnestly assured the merchant, was far better than a Colt navy revolver, thirty-eight caliber and weighing two pounds and ten ounces. He prided himself he shopped shrewdly, making his selections sparingly and with much care although the man displayed a multitude of devices and solemnly insisted each was vitally necessary in gold-mining. He bought two blankets, rolled his purchases in them, carried the bundle to the hotel, and deposited it with his carpet-bag.

His next move was to find a room in a boarding-house; for he planned to take the boat to Sacramento in the morning and did not intend to pay ten dollars for another twenty-four hours at the Rassette House. He found a place near the wharves where he could enjoy a poor room and bed for two dollars without being murdered, and shifted his luggage.

Left free to enjoy the day, he discovered his principal interest was in food. He was especially pleased with Winn's Branch at Montgomery and Washington Streets as no liquors were served and the place was as clean as a Puritan kitchen. His appetite was ravenous and threatened to put him in the ten-dollar-a-day class—aside from his room rent. It was ingrained prudence and New England thrift, however, rather than any fear of being penniless among strangers, that troubled him. According to his upbringing it was “wicked” to spend so much money on one's self. Yet he could not resist the appeal of a tempting window-display, the lure of spotless table-cloths and the appetizing aromas. And, although feeling guilty, his mind purred sleekly as he indulged in broiled quail and coffee at Carleton's on Commercial Street.

This was followed two hours later by a lunch beyond his powers of analysis in a French cabaret. When he was not eating he was fighting the temptation of a mutton-chop in an English lunch-house, a boiled dinner in an American dining-room, or some hot, thirst-provoking dish in a Mexican fonda. And he succumbed to roast suckling-pig in a German wirthschaft. The Chinese chow-chows were too smelly, and the Italian osterie too mysterious.

Food being his obsession, the markets naturally interested and amazed him. He had never imagined any mart could offer for sale such a variety of game, ranging from squirrels to bears, from curlew to geese, all garnished with a bewildering assortment of sea foods. He gloated over the display. To escape temptation he walked up Russian Hill and saw the spot where José Forni was hanged, the first legal execution in San Francisco. He wandered out Pacific Street toward Lone Mountain, where it was planned to locate a new cemetery, but the exercise made him hungry and he soon turned back. Although another year was to pass before the mercantile depression would reach its lowest level the markets already were feeling the over-supply of goods, and auctions were being held on many streets. He gained the impression that this quick method of vending was the principal occupation in the city.

It shocked his sense of thrift to observe the great quantity of discarded clothing. Nothing like such waste was to be found in New England. And the mountains of empty bottles caused him to fear the people at the bay were very bibulous. Toward early evening he wandered down to the steamboat company's office and paid ten dollars for a cabin to Sacramento. He could have gone “deck” for seven dollars; and back home none was so affluent as not to save the difference. He eased his conscience by telling himself the undiscovered gold-mine was paying the shot. Yet the latent fear that he was too rapidly succumbing to extravagance influenced him to forego his plan of attending the theater. By not buying a theater-ticket he would save the difference between cabin and deck passage. He would stroll the streets for an hour, eat a light supper (for one must live) and go to bed.

He passed the gambling-halls on Commercial Street, and wondered that men could be so weak as to risk their money on games of chance. He loitered around the ugly, fenced-in plaza, or Portsmouth Square, and took in Dupont and Kearney Streets, ignorant of the ruffianism that lurked in that quarter. The sound of orchestra music brought him to a halt before a brilliantly lighted place. It faced the plaza, but the name, “El Dorado,” told him nothing. A stream of well-dressed men and a sprinkling of women were entering. A few were coming out. A sign by the door read:

“What's the admission?” he asked a man outside the door.

“Free gratis for nothing,” replied the door-tender. “Shell out your guns and knives.”

“I am unarmed,” Gilbert informed him.

“None of that,” growled the man.

He seized Gilbert by the shoulders and whirled him about and pawed him over most dexterously.

“Well, if you ain't!” exclaimed the man. “Move along.”

Halting inside the door, Gilbert watched several men surrender their arms in exchange for a bit of pasteboard. There were a few who disclaimed possessing either knife or pistol, and these were promptly searched; and in all instances, Gilbert observed, took their bits of pasteboard. Then the quietness of the place was disturbed by a loud whoop, and a figure in fringed buckskin was demanding entrance.

The white hair and yellowish-white beard, and the peculiar garments, at once identified him in Gilbert's mind as the man he had blundered into in front of the hotel. “Shell out your guns and knives,” directed the outer door-tender.

He was joined by an employee stationed inside the door.

“I'll shell 'em out in a Snake village or a Crow camp. I'll shell 'em out when I squat to smoke a pipe with the Sioux. But I don't give 'em up in this lodge,” stoutly and loudly refused the mountain man.

“Then you don't go in, old man.”

The mountain man stared at the door-tender curiously, and his voice was low as he remarked:

“Son, when folks tell Old Misery he can't do a thing, that thing is the very thing he hankers to do. I come with a peace-pipe; but I can paint for war afore you can tell your true name. I'm looking for some one, a streak of scarlet. A tempest'ous young female hellion. Good gal, but she will sneak away from her old grandpap when he forgits hisself and fetches her a crack. I've hunted through a hundred and forty-eight places like this, looking for her. All I want to do is to take a peek inside. Then I'll back-trail.”

“Nary a look till you've shelled out your weapons,” was the firm reply.

Old Misery stroked his beard reflectively. It was obvious to the two men he was weakening.

The second man spoke up and ordered:

“You clear out of here. No place for an old codger like you.”

Old Misery slowly swung his head about to glance at the speaker, and he placidly agreed:

“Mebbe you're right. But, you see, I've always had to find out things for myself. I'll go away—”

“Shuffle along. You're blocking the door.”

“Erhuh. I'll go away,” gently repeated the mountain man. “I'll be gone long enough to take a few snorts of red liquor. When I'm tuned up as I oughter be to enj'y it, I'm coming back and coming through that door. But I ain't ornery, and I won't jump you two grass-and-root Injuns. You'll have warning. You'll hear my war-cry and have time to get your tribe together. Then you hear me make the eagle scream.”

He swung away with the long, sure stride of the mountain man.

The outside guard stared after him blankly; then exploded:

“What 'n hell you make of him, Bill?”

“I dunno,” wearily replied the second man, retreating inside the door. “If he shows up again, which he won't, just heave him over the plaza fence.”

Gilbert was glad the ancient man had not been permitted to enter. The old fellow appeared to be in a quarrelsome mood, and he might recognize the young man who had bumped against him, and make a scene. He also was glad the old fellow had not been misused.

Turning his attention to the long room, he made two discoveries: he was in a gambling-hall, and only a few of those present were masked. Although advertised as a masquerade there was no merriment. Instead of a gay scene of make-believe there were various tables, each with its group of devotees. Almost all the games were presided over by beautiful women elegantly dressed. As his gaze lifted he saw pictures on the wall that made him blush; but as no one appeared to notice them he tarried and slowly ventured down the room.

On his right was a long bar glittering with silver and glass. Back of it and along the other walls was a profusion of mirrors. Bartenders in spotless white were deftly mixing drinks. At the end of the hall, in a balcony that extended nearly across the room, was an orchestra of seven pieces. Gilbert decided he had never heard music until this night. On the left and near the entrance was a roulette wheel. Beyond it, along the wall as well as down the middle of the room, were various bank games. Nearly all the men present wore stove pipe hats, although here and there was a slouch hat. Dress, however, was indicative of nothing in the El Dorado; nor in San Francisco. A tatterdemalion might be a millionaire, while the well-groomed, exquisitely attired individual most likely was a gambler.

Just in front of Gilbert a man and a richly dressed woman sat side by side at a rouge-et-noir table. The man had his arm around the woman's waist and with untiring good-nature was supplying her with money while she feverishly placed bets and repeatedly lost. Their deportment embarrassed Gilbert and he passed on below the bar and halted before a curtained alcove. Just above him were the musicians, the best money could hire in San Francisco, and he watched them for some minutes. He felt at ease because his presence was completely ignored. He renewed his scrutiny of the tables.

Close at hand was a monte game with the usual Mexican dealer, only now it was a young woman. Around it were gathered those desiring a simple game, and monte was ever the favorite with novices. The dealer, too, must have been an attraction. Her crimson lips, her flushed cheeks, and her half-closed, riotous eyes, and the perpetual little smile quirking the corners of her mouth, all made her a tantalizing picture. Red high-heeled slippers and red stockings contrasted vividly with the draperies of black lace and the black lace scarf falling from the top of her high-piled hair. The bodice of her [gown] was shockingly low-cut, decided the Vermonter, whose ideas of evening toilet had been gathered at church socials back home.

At first he disapproved of the woman, or girl—he could not decide on her age. Finally he concluded she was several years younger than himself, and that if not for her bizarre costume she would remind him of one of the Walker girls at home—the dark one. Back of her was a faro layout, endorsed by gamblers and all who preferred big wagers. A low exclamation as some one made a big winning caused the group at the monte table to melt away and view the lucky man.

The girl, left without a patron, smiled at Gilbert, nodded pleasantly and softly called out:

“It is jus' to match the card, Senor Americano.”

Her voice held only a trace of accent and his inborn prejudice against “foreign women” vanished. He suddenly discovered he was lonesome. The orchestra was playing a wailing southern melody that almost made him homesick. He diffidently approached the table, trying to assume an air of worldliness.

She continued smiling in a friendly way and murmured:

“Ah, my boy is in luck to-night. I see luck in his face. A ver' bold caballero. He will make a big keeling.”

He glanced about to discover her boy. She divined his perplexity and laughed at him and explained:

“You, Senor Americano. Luck is in your face. Maria reads the face. She knows when young men come to lose or come to win. My gold trembled when you came to the table.”

Before he could tell her he never gambled she was shrugging her bare shoulders and adding:

“But it is not Maria's money you win. What do I care? It is jus' to match the card. It is ver' simple.”

She was so “neighborly” he longed to talk with her. He mumbled something about “never gambling.” She apparently did not hear him, and began shuffling the cards and nodded for him to place his bet. After all, his paying for the privilege of talking with her a bit would not be gambling. And he fished a gold piece from his pocket and put it down without understanding the game in the least.

He was astounded to find he had won enough to keep him at an excellent hotel for two days. His New England bias, the reflection of teaching rather than the result of experience, began to fade. Surely the institution of gaming could not be wholly evil when it good-naturedly bestowed gold on him. Out of decency he would risk what he had won. In truth, aside from his winning he believed he owed something for the music and the melodious voice so artfully encouraging, praising and admiring him. He learned he was daring and skilful. He threw down a coin and won again.

The girl laughed delightedly, and cooed:

“Let the caballero remember what Maria says. He has luck in his face. Once in a big while a man wins at cards and with women. Is it not so? Sí.”

Gilbert's face grew warm beneath the bold compliment, yet he approved of it. He had always suspected he had a reckless streak in his makeup.

The girl continued: “It is the man who does not care for a bit of gold, or a bit of love, who always wins. Is it not? Sí.”

A rapid calculation told Gilbert he would soon have winnings sufficient to pay all expenses he had incurred in San Francisco. What was especially refreshing was the girl's joy at his success. Then came the insidious, ambitious thought to make the game pay all his expenses from New York. A turn of the card would do it. He trebled his bet as a starter, and lost.

“Nex' time,” she gaily encouraged. “Always make it twice the losings and senor mus' always get it back. Ver' brave in the face. It is such Maria would always have win.”

Flushed and irritated at having the greater part of his gains swept away, Gilbert resolved to win them back. He pulled his gold from his pocket, but lacked enough to double the last wager.

Before he could venture what he had the girl was murmuring: “Senor is hones'. He will pay out of his winnings. Maria knows an hones' man.” She placed some coins to one side. “It is not allowed, but senor is hones'.”

She was a good girl, he told himself. She wanted him to win. He was sure to win next time. He nodded to show he accepted the bank's credit and put down his money. The card was dealt, and he was dismayed to see his gold crossing the table. She pouted in pretty chagrin.

“Nev' mind,” she soothed. “Behind the curtains senor can take off his money-belt. Then come back while he has the game alone. Last night a young Americano lost and lost, but took away sixteen t'ousand dollars with him before he stopped.”

Her liquid eyes opened and grew very round as she imparted this bit of information.

There was no question about his removing the money-belt she so shrewdly guessed he was wearing; he owed her money. It was nothing serious, yet it bothered him and wounded his pride. He could easily explain to the Coloma men he had run out of funds and had borrowed a trifle. He passed behind the curtains and got at his belt and extracted three twenty-dollar gold pieces. That would cover the debt to the girl. His fare to Sacramento and room rent for the night were paid. As he was replacing the belt he realized he must have something to live on and pay stage-coach fare, and he might as well borrow it from the belt now as later. Then temptation took him by the throat and demanded why he lacked courage to bet at least three times more in an effort to recover his losses. And his fumbling fingers pulled out several more double-eagles.

When he returned to the table a waiter had just left, after depositing a large goblet of champagne.

“For you, Senor Americano. A gif' from the house,” the girl informed him.

He scarcely knew the taste of liquor and never had seen champagne. But it looked very harmless, and excitement had parched his throat. He sipped, approved and emptied the goblet.

“Mighty good tasting cider,” he endorsed as he paid his debt.

He won a “bravo” by proceeding to bet, winning and losing for some minutes. Suddenly he realized he had the courage of a small lion. It hurt him scarcely any when he lost. He was a millionaire in optimism. High gods were smiling on him. The gold pieces multiplied and dwindled. When they crossed the table he smiled reassuringly at the girl; they would return. All the time he was conscious of the music and found it a pleasing background while he dramatized himself in a dashing rôle.

The waiter brought a fresh goblet, and he tossed it off and his luck ceased see-sawing and he won quite steadily. He was more than a thousand dollars ahead and drank to his luck. Now his heart was that of a full grown Numidian lion. All others in the room, except the laughing girl, were pygmies. He never felt so scornful of humanity in his life before.

His ambition expanded. Expense money and the winnings before him were nothing. The El Dorado looked to have much gold. Surely his gold-mine was here in stead of in the hills. And he found himself returning an empty goblet to the table without remembering having picked it up. At times the face of the laughing girl was a bit blurred. It impressed him as being very humorous that the El Dorado should be conducted, and music furnished, just for his benefit. He laughed heartily at the quaintness of it all.

He found himself emerging from the alcove with a handful of gold. He could not recall whether he retired to conceal his winnings or to borrow from the belt. The latter thought was dismissed as being impossible. He could not have lost his winnings without knowing it. However, there were the table and the smiling girl and she was waiting for him to place a bet. That he should continue to be the only player at the table touched his curiosity none. Had he seen her signal to the floorman to steer away would-be patrons of the game he would have found nothing sinister in it. With kindly egotism he would have set it down to her preference for his company. He was fond of Maria. He put down all his gold and raised the goblet, and over the rim saw the double eagles traitorously desert him for the other side of the table. He replaced the goblet untasted and made for the alcove.

There must have been moments of realization and moments of frenzy behind the curtains before he came to himself partly sobered; for the empty belt on the small table was ripped to pieces, showing how desperately he had searched. And one of his trousers pockets was inside out. He dug his hand into the other and found it empty. The shock quite sobered him. His head was aching severely. It was incredible, monstrous. He pawed back the heavy hangings on the wall, thinking they were the curtains between the alcove and the hall. He found a window and forced it open and rested his head on the sill while the night air played over him and further restored his wits. He had his ticket to Sacramento, his blanket roll and carpet-bag, and that was all.

Turning back to the curtains, he stood between them, clutching them with both hands, and glared at the smiling monte dealer; only now she was smiling on a grizzled miner and coaxing:

“Senor has the luck in his face. Is it not? Sí.” “None o' that for me, you hussy,” growled the miner as he passed on.

Had he had his Allen's revolver with him Gilbert's despair might have urged him to end his existence, thereby probably inflicting serious injury on several in the main hall. He rushed to the table and fiercely accused: “You've ruined me!”

“La, la,” she derisively returned, leaning back and resting her slim brown hands on her hips and tilting her head to smile up at him. “Men always blame the woman. Is it not? Sí. If senor will bet like a mad-man how could Maria stop him? Let him get more gold and come back and break my poor little bank.”

“God help me!” groaned Gilbert, too overwhelmed to sustain an angry mood. “It was not my money I lost. I am a thief!”

The girl's laugh died out. A slim-built man, wearing a rich Mexican costume and a narrow half-mask, had paused behind Gilbert in time to hear the agonized confession, and he laughed aloud. Gilbert heard the laugh but was beyond resenting it. The world was now divided into two factions: those who would mock and deride, and those, whom he had called friends, who would be horrified by his crime. Neither pity nor exculpation awaited him. The gay caballero swung around the table and nodded slightly as he glanced down into the awe-filled eyes of the girl and then passed on to the faro table where some forty thousand dollars in gold were stacked in double-eagles and fifty-dollar slugs. Five other masked men, all wearing the Mexican costume, were also deeply interested in the faro game. Gilbert returned to the alcove and the open window.

The door-tender was yawning and wishing the night was over. He turned his head to remark as much to the man stationed a few feet inside the entrance. Then his mind was diverted by a hand clutching his collar and jamming him back against the door-casing; and the white-bearded man in buckskin was informing him:

“Never told a lie in my life when I could help it. Promised on the pipe to come back, and here I be. Fit as a fiddle now to wade through—!”

He frightened the helpless door-tender by lifting a raucous voice and beginning to sing something in a strange tongue. Then in English he was crying:

“Whoop! Sorter prickles your hide, does it? It oughter. The scalp-dance song of the Chippewa. They sing it when returning from the Sioux country with scalps on long poles. I'm fit as a fiddle, I tell you. I'm 'Old Misery,' half timber-wolf, half grizzly, and I'm going inside with my war-paint on.”

The second man recovered from his astonishment and sprang through the door. The door-tender, now he was being reënforced, remembered he was hired for his muscular ability, and he attacked the old man. There was a rare flurry of revolving arms and legs that attracted and held the attention of the patrons.

Then a man was shooting along the floor on his stomach toward the roulette wheel, and the other caromed against the end of the bar.

The mountain man was standing erect, grinning ferociously and defying:

“I never give up my weepins. Let the head Injun of this wigwam call in his braves and chuck me out. Whoop! 'I'm dancing round a man's scalp.' There's a song for you! I've heard it when it meant bloody heads. Bring on your fighting men; for I'm looking for a streak of scarlet, whose old grandpap wants her back with him; and I'm gentle's hell looking for trouble.”

Down the room Maria gave a squeal of fear.

Old Misery's quick gaze picked her out, and he bellowed:

“You young limb of sin, come here! You white folks keep back. That gal's got to go with me into the mountains. Any one cuts in and he'll think he's met up with old Flat Mouth, chief of the Pillager Chippewas. Maria, I'm waiting.”

She started hurriedly up the room. The dealer of the faro game yelled:

“Don't let any one out! I'm robbed! Six masked men, dressed like greasers!”

Gilbert heard the clamor and started to leave the alcove. Six men came through the curtains; and the one who had laughed at him flung him half across the table.

From the hall men were shouting:

“Some one brings us guns!”

The leader of the bandits thrust his hand through the curtains and with two shots extinguished as many lights.

One of the masked men exclaimed in English:

“We must shoot our way out before they get guns!”

Gilbert realized they were in some great trouble; that there was danger of some one being killed. He yanked back the wall curtains and revealed the open window. As women shrieked in the hall, and as men shouted and cursed and scrambled to obtain weapons, the bandits leaped through the opening, the leader going last. And each was carrying a heavy bag in each hand with the exception of the leader who carried one bag, a small one.

As the leader lighted on the sidewalk Gilbert, now thoroughly scared, landed on his back, sending him on his hands and knees into the road. Gilbert rolled against the side of the building and struck something that jingled. The bandit leader, now erect, fired shots through the open window but did not see the figure against the wall He turned and ran after his men. Gilbert got to his feet and, clutching the bag under his coat, ran in the opposite direction.

It was pandemonium inside the hall. Maria crawled under a table and Old Misery dragged her out and yelled commands in her small ear. Then he was through the alcove and through the window and running like a deer after the six men, now far up the street. And as he ran he fired with a Colt's thirty-eight. One of the men dropped behind a drygoods box. On ran the mountain man, sounding his Chippewa war-whoop, alternating it with a similar defiance in the Crow and Blackfoot tongues. A streak of flame shot over the top of the box. Old Misery left the ground, and while in mid-air fired down at the crouching figure.

He was standing by the dead body when men began pouring around the corner of the hall and jumping through the alcove window.

“Is it Joaquin?” cried the foremost.

The mountain man removed the mask and grunted in disgust.

“Only one of his men. Chief told him to drop back and git my scalp as I was the only man in the street. Lucky I fit my way in there to-night, or you wouldn't 'a' had even one pelt to show. I don't want his ha'r. I'll be going.”

“See anything of a young feller, dressed like a' eastern greenhorn, or an Englishman?” cried the faro dealer.

“No. If you send horsemen outside the city you may pick up their trails. They'll split up. Better watch the boats. Some may try to git away by water.”

He turned and trotted around to the entrance of the El Dorado, and this time no one attempted to halt him. The place was in great confusion. The name of “Joaquin Murieta” was being tossed about in tones of fear.

“Faugh! A grass-'n'-root Injun could make these greenhorns run,” he derided.

Then he passed to the monte table where the girl Maria sat with head bowed and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you get him?” she whispered without lifting her head.

“Along of stopping to make sure of you and making my word good to old Miguel I didn't have a chance to catch even a' ox. Now you git to cover and change into honest clothes. You'd shame a 'Rikara squaw. You're going back with me in the morning. You'll be lucky if somebody don't think you stood in cahoots with that—skunk. He was round your table. And I can remember when they hung a woman of your race in Downieville.”

She shivered with fear, and whispered:

“I have been a bad girl, Senor Comandante. I will be at the boat in the morning.”

“You ain't bad at heart, Maria. Just a trifle wild. Your grandpap won't lambast you again. I've give him his orders. But this trick was nervy and like Joaquin. Wish I could 'a' come to grips with him. But he can't keep it up. They'll yet be showing his head and 'Three-Fingered Jack's' crippled hand right here in this town.”

At the same moment the mountain man was finishing his prophecy Gilbert was blocks away, making for his lodgings. It was some time before he could locate the house, and he might have been remarked for his wild expression and disheveled appearance had not the visit of the Sonora Tiger thrown that section of the city into an uproar.

Once his heart nearly ceased beating as he halted in the shadow of a wall and heard a man telling a group of other men:

“They weren't all greasers, I tell you. Joaquin had help from a young fool of an American or an Englishman, who was losing a pot of gold at the monte table while waiting for the band to strike. He was in that small room two or three times before they got the gold, two bags to a man. And he went through the winder with them. If I lay my peepers on him he'll stretch a rope fine.”

Death at the hands of a mob seemed very close. He flattened himself against the wall, hoping the darkness would save him. Help came in the guise of the fire-bell. He did not know what it meant, but every denizen of San Francisco knew who had lived there a year. Joaquin Murieta was forgotten for the time. The frightened populace poured from hotels and lodging-houses and homes, from gambling-halls and drinking-resorts. Important business conferences were broken up, and theaters were emptied. A hoarse shouting filled the streets; then came the punctuating clamor of the racing fire-companies. The tramping of feet over the planked streets gave off a dull booming sound.

Gilbert pressed on, and a man directly in front of him yelled:

“By heavens! If it ain't the Rassette House!”

The wild thought entered Gilbert's head to claim he lost his gold in the fire. This suggested the fiction Joaquin had robbed him of it in the El Dorado. But he knew he could not persevere in any deception. Some of the Gilberts might be fools, but it was an honest strain. However, it was the burning of the hotel Gilbert had quit that morning that afforded him a safe passage to his humble lodgings. A strong northeast wind was blowing, and only the improvements in fire protection saved the entire city from being consumed. Men were running to their stores and offices to save precious papers.

Gilbert, running madly for his room near the wharves, was not noticed. All was confusion. Panting from fear rather than from exhaustion, Gilbert stood at his window and watched the ruddy splotch on the sky widen and brighten. He did not remember the bag he had brought along with him and had dropped on the bed until he tried to sleep. It contained three hundred dollars. It be longed to some one, perhaps to the management of the El Dorado. But the hall had taken more than a hundred dollars of his money and fourteen hundred of gold he had been carrying in trust for certain men in Coloma. He counted the three hundred dollars as his legitimately. Toward morning he dozed off a bit; then feared he would miss the boat and arose and set forth with his luggage at sunrise.

In a small eating-house on the wharf he obtained beefsteak and coffee and heard the proprietor discussing the fire and Joaquin, the mountain robber, with his patrons.

“Greasers probably got clear of the town. Must 'a' had hosses close by,” he remarked.

“Some talk about a young Englishman helping them to get away,” mumbled a customer.

“Young American, not English,” corrected the proprietor. “The men ain't taking any chances! All boats will be watched.”

“They all say the greasers rode for it, but that the young feller never quit the town,” spoke up another. “He's the one they plan to pick up. Figure he planned the robbery, knowing the lay of the land. El Dorado people say that window is hid by hangings and ain't been open for a long time. No one with weapons got by the door.

“Young feller opened the window and guns was passed in to him by a greaser outside. He stuck to the monte table till the outlaws come by. He either give them guns then, or left them in the little room, where all they had to do was step in and get them.”

“That was damn well planned!” exclaimed the proprietor. “Those cusses are keen all right.”

“That old man who come in and got every one to watching him strikes me as being another of the band,” suggested a third man.

Hoots of derision greeted this surmise, and the proprietor indignantly cried:

“No truth in it. That was Old Misery from up in the hills. Sells bears and animals to the miners and the towns. Good Lawd! He's the one that shot and killed one of the band. They say the dead man is 'Scar-Faced' Luis, Joaquin's best shot.”

“Be back in a minute,” Gilbert told the proprietor, who was broiling his steak. “Feel ailing and want to get some whisky.”

“Keep squatting,” said the proprietor, and he set forth a bottle.

It warmed his stomach and made him feel better, and he tried another. Then he was able to eat his breakfast. With bold step he left the eating-house and went to discover what new evil fate had in store for him. His artificial courage vanished the moment he beheld two grim-visaged men, with big revolvers in their belts, standing at the foot of the gang-plank with the ship's officers. He mingled with the gathering crowd to escape their gaze. He was still striving to discover some way of boarding the boat unseen when he halted beside a handsome woman whose seductive eyes met his and frankly appraised his eastern clothes and beardless face.

To a short stout man who appeared to be attending her she remarked:

“Look here, Roger. He'd make a good juvenile. He has the air.”

Roger examined Gilbert's confused face critically and growled:

“None of that, Lola. You'd have every cub in California trailing after you. Then there'll be more trouble. Wait till after we've played Sacramento and the other towns before casting your siren spell.”

She laughed heartily and again directed her bold gaze at Gilbert's flushed face. Desperation dispelled embarrassment. He managed to smile and ask:

“Are you a play-actress?”

“Good lord, young man!” loudly exploded Roger. “Mean you don't know by sight the wonderful and beautiful Lola Montez?”

“I've heard lots about her. I shall go and see her if she plays in Sacramento,” recklessly lied Gilbert.

“You're a dear,” said the actress. “But I'll wager you've heard naughty stories about me. Nevertheless, you shall be my theater guest at Sacramento. Roger, you be sure he gets a ticket.”

“If all your admirers are passed in free we won't have a cent in the house,” grumbled Roger. “I'll fix him.”

Miss Montez was laughing shrilly at the compliment as the crowd surged forward. She was beaming on Gilbert coquettishly as they mounted the gang-plank. Gilbert with his face turned toward the actress thrust out his ticket and felt it plucked from his fingers.

One of the men with revolvers called out:

“Pleasant trip, Miss Montez. Many nuggets, and come back soon.”

She laughed shrilly and waved her hand. Once on deck Gilbert glanced back and saw the two citizens stop and sharply question three young men. Then he took his luggage to his cabin and ventured forth to find Miss Montez. He believed she was his shield and buckler. But she had retired to her cabin to make up some sleep.

Roger, however, was at the bar telling the thirsty crowd what a great actress Lola Montez was. Gilbert worked to his side so as to be identified with him; and he prayed that the boat would start. Each second he expected a posse to invade the deck and find him and drag him forth. His fright was accented by comments of the drinkers on the robbery—Joaquin's visit took precedence over the fire as the latter was stopped after the hotel was destroyed.

“No man had a pistol or a knife on him when he passed through the door except that old goat of a mountain man,” a voice declared. “That proves some one had the pistols inside, waiting for the Mexican."

“But if every one was searched how could any one carry 'em in?” some one inquired.

“It was that young cuss who lit out with Joaquin,” insisted the first speaker. “And he didn't have any pistol or knife when he went in. Door-tender remembers he's the only man who told the truth when he said he was unarmed. But he opened the winder in the little room, and pistols was passed in to him. Joaquin was smart to pick a night when no one would be wearing pistols.”

“If they could pass pistols through the window why didn't the robbers enter that way?” asked a Sacramento merchant. “Now I was there, and I figure it out this way. A woman carried the pistols in.”

“Damn me, pard! That sounds like book wisdom!" exclaimed the first speaker. “That's how it was played. The young feller who opened the winder got the pistols from the woman and had them ready for the robbers!”

Gilbert feared he would be recognized. He imagined men were casting curious glances at him; yet he did not dare leave the now garrulous Roger. Other male members of the troupe joined the two, so that one would get the impression the easterner was a member of the company. At last the long white hundred-thousand-dollar craft—it cost the owners thirty thousand to send it from New York to the bay—began to vibrate. The crowd at the bar hurried on deck and the young man drew his first free breath. The electric telegraph was being discussed, but had not yet connected San Francisco with the outside towns. In Roger's company Gilbert watched the sights of this, the beginning of the two-hundred-mile journey. Barring accident they would reach Sacramento in ten hours.

Scarcely had the boat got under way than Gilbert's attention was held by a man in buckskin, standing well forward and leaning on a Hawkins rifle. He did not need to glimpse the bearded face to know it was the old mountain man. White locks were streaming from under the hat fashioned out of wildcat's skin. In watching the man he saw nothing of beautiful Oakland across the bay. Old Misery remained motionless, ever staring to the northeast. There was no sign of the Mexican girl. Fearing the mountain man would turn about and recognize him, he retired to his cabin and lay down.

He experienced a rare fright when the boat made Benecia, twenty-five miles from the bay, and a detachment of soldiers from the military post came aboard. The soldiers, however, were not looking for fugitives and lost no time in dropping on the deck and going to sleep. They were bound for Fort Reading, far up the Sacramento. The boat proceeded. The little town, once the capital of the state, now the principal depot of commissary stores of the Department of the Pacific and containing the machine-shops of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, slipped astern.

On the south side of the straits insignificant Martinez, pleasantly situated with a background of low-rounded hills and still boasting redwoods despite the intrusion of sawmills, was unseen by the perturbed voyager. Not until the boat entered Suisun Bay did Gilbert venture to leave his cabin. He did not wander more than twenty feet from it for fear of meeting the mountain man. But the latter remained in the bow, still staring toward the northeast. Gilbert was now convinced the Mexican girl Maria was keeping close in her cabin if aboard. He believed she had provided weapons for the bandits. His recollections were very clear in spots, much as a man emerges occasionally from a heavy fog long enough to get his bearings. From the moment the bandit leader laughed at him he recalled everything. And he suspected the fellow was near the monte table some time before his memory picked him up.

Yet Joaquin Murieta of the yellow-and-black serape was but a name to the easterner. As men talked of his daring and bloody deeds Gilbert for the first time realized that securing gold from the ground was but a part of a miner's endeavor; there remained the task of conveying the treasure to an express-office. Ghastly stories of murdered men found on trails and in lonely cabins, over a range of five hundred miles, dropped into Gilbert's ears as the passengers strolled by his position. One man recalled how the governor's recent reward-offer had been found pinned to a murdered deputy-sheriff's shirt, with the outlaw's defiance added, to the effect:

From the odds and ends of gossip Gilbert began to build up a picture of the fellow. Joaquin was a fiend, reckless to the point of insanity and yet as cunning as a fox. His hunting-ground was described as extending from Shasta to Sonoma, from Nevada City and Marys ville to Sacramento, through Livermore Pass near Martinez, throughout Mariposa and far south.

“He always keeps the Sacramento and the San Joaquin between him and the coast so he can't be cooped up,” insisted one man.

“Yet he was in Frisco last night,” reminded his companion.

From another group came the proud assertion:

“I seen him once. Blackest hair you ever see, and curly. Eyes black. Wore four dragoon revolvers, and always that yaller-and-black striped serape.”

Other bandits were mentioned, Claudio of the Coast, John Irving and Salamon Pico, but all such, Gilbert gathered, were mere incidents of lawlessness when compared with Murieta. The latter was an institution. He wondered at being alive after being in contact with such a blood-thirsty creature.

“An' that Mex gal was Ana Benites, one of his gang,” declared a miner.

Gilbert stole back to his cabin. Mention of the girl brought uppermost in his mind the ordeal confronting him once he reached Coloma. He must confess his sin and wait for the Vermont men to fix his punishment. Soul-sick, he took no interest in the changing scenes. Lying face down and feeding on his misery, he fell asleep.

It was late afternoon and hoarse commands were being shouted when he awoke. And he knew the long journey was ended. The bulk of the impatient passengers had swarmed ashore by the time he gained the deck. He saw nothing of the mountain man. He was glad to walk beside Lola Montez as she crossed the top of the eight-foot levee. He spoke to her. She was in a bad humor and treated him disdainfully. Roger, however, was amiably drunk and vowed he loved Gilbert as a brother.

Once clear of the levee, Gilbert slipped away from the theatrical people and followed a group of miners to a large hotel which proved to be the starting-point for the many stage-coaches. The framed houses, invariably painted white and trimmed with green, reminded him of New England and filled him with homesickness. He was surprised to find he was hungry, secured a seat at the second table and ate heartily. Then he went to bed.

At five o'clock in the morning the hotel was clamorous with activity. Hurriedly dressing and descending to the office, he learned he would have time to eat before the Coloma stage left if he “looked sharp.” When he worked his way to the street it was to find the broad thoroughfare filled with four-horse coaches, drawn up four and five abreast. Each had its destination painted on the sides, and he commenced a frantic search for the one marked “Coloma.”

He became confused and bewildered by the yelling and bawling of the drivers and the activity of the “runners” in dragging men to this or that vehicle. Then there was the persistency of groups ahead of him in turning back for “just one more,” and the determination of those behind him in moving forward. Nor did the restless horses and the profane rivalry of the hostlers tend to clarify his wits. Yet there was no difficulty in finding any coach did a man ignore the commotion and use his eyes.

From the welter of discordant sounds emerged a heavy voice crying: “Coloma! Who's bound for Coloma? Only two seats left. Step smart”

Gilbert frantically plunged toward the voice and collided with a man turning back for a parting dram. Then he was violently seized by a man who yelled in his ear:

“Placerville, called Hangtown! Take you there in five hours (the running time was eight). One seat left!”

“No! No!” Gilbert told him. “I want—”

“Ho, Joey! Gent bound for your place!” bawled the “runner”; and he clung to Gilbert until a husky fellow had fought his way through the crowd to relieve him.

“I'm going to Coloma,” Gilbert informed him.

This runner smelled strongly of morning whisky, and his eyes were inclined to roll. Yet his manner was assuring and his smile benevolent as he seized Gilbert's carpet bag and forcibly rammed him along between two lines of impatient coaches.

“I'm going—” began Gilbert.

“All right, pard. We can book you to hell 'n' back 'fore you can tell it,” heartily boomed the runner. “We'll put you through hell fluking. Got the best driver in the world. Yuba Bill. But can't he handle the ribbons!”

And he dropped the bag and all but hurled Gilbert in the middle seat of the huge, high-hung coach. Gilbert landed heavily, and his bag shot up into his lap. A big man clambered in and pushed him away from the side. Another man entered from the other side. Wedged firmly between the two, his blanket-roll and bag on his knees, Gilbert was still marveling at the expeditious fashion of filling a coach when the coaches ahead began to move.

Then all were in motion. Drivers cracked their whips and swore explosively at the leaders and took homicidal chances of running down the scurrying hostlers. Passengers whooped joyously. For half a mile the mad pell-mell continued; then the procession began to break up as the coaches turned off in different directions. Finally Gilbert's conveyance had the road to itself.

It was his first sight of California away from a town. He missed the fences and walls and ditches and low farm-houses of Vermont. It was a strange world, and he would have been exhilarated by the illimitable stretches of plain and undulating hills if not for the realization that every speeding mile was taking him that much nearer to the climax of his shame.

A low soft laugh behind him interrupted his dismal brooding. He managed to twist his head. There was no mistaking her although the evening gown of lace was replaced by a prim white blouse and brown skirt. A soft white hat surmounted the coils of black hair. Nor was there any mistaking the old man asleep at her side, his dark-veined hands clutching the barrel of a Hawkins rifle held upright between his knees.

“You?” mumbled Gilbert. “You're going to Coloma?”

Her white teeth showed, and she shook her head and murmured:

“No more than you go to Coloma, senor.”

“I'm going there,” he fiercely muttered.

She stared at him in bewilderment for a few seconds, then softly asked:

“How can senor go to Coloma this way?”

“Doesn't the driver know the road?” he impatiently replied.

The girl appeared to be stupid.

“Si. But this is the stage for Nevada City.”

“Hi, driver! Stop! I must get out!” he cried, trying to rise.

Ceasing her silent laughter, she leaned forward and hissed in his ear:

“Keep still. One can always go to Coloma. But Nevada City! All the gold in the world is around it!”

“Huh?” bawled the driver, beginning to rein in. “What's the row in there?”

“Never mind, Yuba. It is all right,” shrilly called back the girl. “A ver' great caballero would ride faster.