Old Misery/Chapter 2

R. PETERS, gambler but no stoic, stood at the end of the bar in the largest gambling resort in Nevada City and shuffled a handful of double-eagles as a man shuffles cards. He was waiting to keep an important appointment with some of the profession from Marysville and was filling in the time with a desultory conversation with the head bartender. As he talked and listened he idly watched the groups about the different games.

Personally he cared only for poker and faro. He was portly of build, and, although a wicked derringer was in each waistcoat pocket, there was nothing of the gambling man in either his appearance or bearing. His round face beamed with genuine good-nature. That he was a citizen of some eminence in the community was testified to by the bartender's eagerness to draw a fresh glass of lager without being requested to do so. He was proud to be the recipient of any remarks Mr. Peters might be so good as to utter.

“And so Old Misery has fetched that young gal back,” murmured the drink-mixer as Mr. Peters rested his elbows on the bar and watched Phelps, a Grass Valley millionaire and looking a beggar in his ragged attire and ruin of a hat, methodically stake small sums at roulette.

“Uh huh. Brought her back. Girl's all right, Little wild, like a young colt, that's all. Her grandfather, old Miguel, must be the devil to live with. Don't blame her for cutting loose once in a while. Misery found her in a gambling place. Of course she had no business there.”

“Is it true about Old Misery killing one of Murieta's men?”

“True as the deuce is a low card. Plumb between the eyes. Scar-Faced Luis. When's Misery going back to camp?”

“To-morrow, he 'lows. Told the girl to start in the morning. He's on a little spree. Claimed in here the trip to the bay broke up the one he had started on after selling the last bear.”

“Heard some one saying he threatened a man who made talk about Bill Williams,” lazily prompted Mr. Peters.

“It was a greenhorn. When he saw Bill coming he yanks out a Allen pepper-box and let on he was about to shoot. Misery pulled his butcher-knife and promised to split his heart at thirty feet. Greenhorn ran.”

“Coroner has held an Allen isn't a deadly weapon,” mused Mr. Peters with a yawn. “Any one who'd hurt Bill Williams ought to be carved. Bill's clever's a kitten. Still there's always the chance of a stranger not understanding him. I’ve told Misery he ought to quit fetching him down here. I’m glad he fetched Maria back.”

“If old Miguel don't beat her again.”

Mr. Peters shrugged his broad shoulders and assured the other:

“He won't do it again. Old Misery told him words he'll always remember.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a drunken sailor bursting through the doorway and with wide steps bearing down on the bar. His weathered face and scant locks suggested many years on the deep. But his eyes, focused on the bar, were young and lively with anticipation. In order not to shift his course he rumbled to Mr. Peters:

“Avast there, mate. Plenty of anchorage. Don't foul my hawser.”

The bartender eyed him stonily.

Mr. Peters smiled indulgently, and reminded him:

“No more, Ben. You know Weymouth Mass has passed word you've had enough. Two weeks of it now.”

But Ben was very determined; and from the gaze cast back at the door it was plain he feared pursuit. Scowling ferociously at the bartender and fumbling awkwardly for his sheath knife, he growled:

“Dish up the grog, or you'll be drifting astern.”

Mr. Peters laughed softly and warned him:

“Here comes Weymouth to give you your needings. I don't know what he'll do when he learns rum makes you blood-hungry.”

“Hell and blue water, mate! Don't tell him,” the sailor earnestly begged of the bartender.

The man taking long strides down the room stood several inches over six feet and wore a huge beard that reached to his belt. Sailor Ben hung his head like a child caught at pantry-sweets.

The newcomer, originally known by another name but now dubbed “Weymouth Mass” because of an early habit of boasting that the second oldest town in Massachusetts was his birthplace, clamped a mighty hand on the old sailor's shoulder and in a deep bass rebuked him:

“It won't do, Ben, and you know it. You know it's time for you to stand a four weeks' watch on deck. You know you’ve got to begin now. Why dread it? No more liquor, or you'll be called forward.” Then to the gambler:

“Lawd! But he’s an awful trial, Mr. Peters. His watch below, as he calls it, was up yesterday. And here he is ravin' 'round after more rum. Two weeks and one day ago he came down here and went to a slop-shop and bought a new outfit, as he always does when he starts in on a spree.”

The sailor glanced down at his stained clothes and apologetically explained:

“Always like to start that way. Makes me feel I'm just ashore from a long cruise.”

“He wastes my dust to get drunk on,” berated Weymouth Mass. To the bartender:

“He can have just one glass of beer to wash out his throat.”

“Any luck the last trip?” inquired Mr. Peters, amusedly watching the sailor struggle between the desire to bolt the beer and blurred reason's urging that he make it last.

The miner glanced about to make sure there were no eavesdroppers and confidentially whispered:

“I believe we were on the track of the mother-lode when Ben ran away and bought his outfit. I chased him way to Marysville where he was finishing his watch below deck. To-morrow I'll take him up to Old Misery's place and get him in trim.”

“I signed, sir, on terms of a month on deck and no grog, and two weeks below with grog,” sullenly reminded Ben.

“Silence, you graceless dog!” roared Weymouth Mass. “You’re a day over the limit.”

Dropping his voice he continued to Mr. Peters: “Every one knows a Dutchman is lucky. Of course every one knows a sailor's lucky; luckier'n a Dutchman. Luckier'n a fool, even.”

“Of course,” readily agreed the gambler.

“And that an old sailor, drunk, is luckier'n anything on two legs.”

“Draw to it every time!” heartily agreed Mr. Peters.

“And that's why I say I must strike it rich some time and make enough to return to Weymouth, Massachusetts, and for Ben to drink himself to death. Sometimes I think Old Misery don’t put much stock in Ben's luck.”

“Oh, he must,” insisted Mr. Peters. “They say he's whooping it up again.”

“Only for a day. Came down and sold a bear and started in, then had to quit to go to the bay. He's just licking up a few drinks he overlooked by going away. There's a man who knows how to handle liquor.”

“He can handle a lot of it,” admiringly declared the gambler.

The bartender nodded violently.

“What's the news from Marysville?”

“Word come there's more murders up Bidwell's Bar way. They say Joaquin did the job. Two men was noosed with a rope and dragged off their hosses and killed. That's greaser style.”

Mr. Peters looked very grave and muttered:

“Some day that Mexican will stop a large hunk of lead. More than a year of his deviltry now. We've had enough.”

“That's about all I heard—was mighty busy chasing around after Ben. I did hear that a new play-actor woman, a Lola Montez, is coming to Marysville Soon and will probably come here, or Grass Valley, and give a show.”

“She's a humdinger!” muttered Mr. Peters. Gilbert, hesitating in the doorway, glanced about the long room; then advanced toward the bar. His gaze was a bit wild and swung uneasily from side to side.

“Acts like somebody was chasing him,” commented the miner as he took the sailor by the shoulder and dragged him from the bar. “I’ve got to get Ben to bed. Good luck.”

“May you always fill your hand if it's stronger'n the other man's,” heartily replied Mr. Peters.

Then he rested his elbows on the bar and watched the easterner. Gilbert halted, discovered he was close to a monte table and with a little shudder edged away. He was jingling some coins in his pocket and seemed undecided as to what he would do. Mr. Peters’ gaze became interested. He believed the young man might make a big winning.

A drunken old sailor was readily accepted as having the best luck in hunting gold. There were the three sober sailors who first worked Murderer's Bar and took out eleven pounds of gold a day; had they been half-seas over undoubtedly they would have taken out twenty. And this newcomer acted erratic enough to suggest a mental unbalance. Mr. Peters was a firm believer in the luck of an irresponsible man, especially if he were a greenhorn. Of course some friendly person should be near to drag him away when he was at the top of his winnings.

“That fellow's to cards what old Ben is to gold mines,” he mused.

Gilbert was now lingering near the faro game. Mr. Peters endorsed his choice. It was his favorite bank game, and there was less chance for trickery in it than in monte. Besides, an American usually was the dealer. Mr. Peters was disappointed when Gilbert turned and approached the bar. Evidently the greenhorn lacked spirit and was not worth considering. In a low voice Gilbert called for a glass of beer. While it was being drawn he kept glancing at the tables.

“Believes he shouldn't lay a bet, but wants to like hell,” mused the gambler, his opinion of the young man growing more favorable.

He was wrong in his conclusion. Instead of struggling against temptation to gamble Gilbert was striving to bring himself to the point where he would risk Joaquin's three hundred dollars of stolen gold in an effort to win back the money he had lost so foolishly at monte. But his experience in the El Dorado had so sickened his soul he could not bear to risk even chance money.

During the last forty-eight hours he had lived more than had his grandfather, still hale and hearty at ninety three. And all the peaks of his experiences were very bitter to contemplate. Since arriving, an unwilling passenger, in Nevada City he had thought much of his home. The memories always terminated with him taking his lamp and going up to the low-ceilinged bedroom where hung a cardboard motto reading, “Waste not; want not.” And what a woeful waster he had been; a waster of other people's money. By accident he had taken the wrong stage; rather he had been shanghaied into it. He had seen nothing of the Mexican girl since leaving the stage, and he hoped he never would see her again. Nor did he care to meet again the dreadful old man who seemed to be her companion.

“I never dreamed of doing it,” he muttered to his glass of beer, and unconscious of the portly man at his elbow.

Then he neglected his beer and once more wearily endeavored to rearrange his thoughts and discover why he had done it. He feared it was because Maria had made him think of the dark-complexioned girl back home, but he tried not to admit as much. And what would the Vermont girl think if she could know the company he had kept after landing in San Francisco! She was sure to learn much of it. Therein was the curse of living. He must tell the men in Coloma, and they would write back home. Doubtless they would refuse to believe he had spent so much time cooped up in the hotel. They were more likely to credit him with spending the days in wild dissipation.

“I’ll never go back,” he sighed. Then quite fiercely: “I simply can't go back after that.”

He forgot the beer and turned away to stare at the tables. The sight of them sickened him; so many hideous monsters. Never again was he to risk a penny on a game of chance; only he did not know it. In fact, he was still striving to screw up his courage to the necessary pitch. But it couldn't be done on beer, and the thought of whisky gagged him.

From the rouge-et-noir game a monotonous voice was calling:

“Make your bets, gentlemen. The game is made—Five—Eleven—Seventeen—Twenty—”

He lost the other numbers, but with staccato clearness came the announcement:

“Red Wins!”

If he only had had the courage and had staked his three hundred on the red He started abruptly for the door.

With a quickness and lightness of step never to be suspected in a man of his bulk Mr. Peters kept at his heels. A few feet from the door he placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.

“Oh, my God!” gasped Gilbert, cringing beneath what he believed to be the hand of lynch-law.

Mr. Peters pushed him between red curtains and into a small room and thrust him into a chair. It was horribly reminiscent of the alcove in the El Dorado, and he glanced at the wall for heavy hangings concealing a window.

“None of that, youngster! I know the look,” growled Mr. Peters.

“I wasn't thinking to do anything wrong,” insisted Gilbert.

“You’ve made a fool of yourself. Probably lost your pile, and think you can get it back by jumping into Deer Crick,” continued the gambler sternly. “Yes, that's what your game is, damn you! You haven't guts enough to use either a gun or a knife, but must go to cluttering up the crick and cause folks to lose time in fishing you out. You will gamble, and when you lose you will snuff out your candle and leave us decent men to pay for burying you and spend time writing lying letters home to make them think you was killed by a cave-in or by Indians.”

“I’ve got to do something harder than dying,” protested Gilbert. “But it never would have happened if the sign hadn't said it was a masquerade and that no weapons would be admitted.”

Never before had he ever felt such a longing to confide at least a portion of his troubles in some one.

“It's true I helped him get away, but I didn't know who he was. Or I’d died first.”

“Easy. Easy. Of course you didn't know,” soothed the gambler, believing the young fellow's mind had snapped.

“I didn't even know what had happened until I heard men talking about it afterward. The girl Maria may have known, but I didn't.”

Mr. Peters gazed at him sharply.

“Maria? Red shoes and stockings? Uh huh. How does Maria figure in it?”

“It was at her table that I lost the money,” explained Gilbert, rather surprised that the comfortable-looking stranger did not already know this.

He believed he already had mentioned losing the money.

“Of course. Quite so,” said Mr. Peters, pursing his lips and inflating his round cheeks.

“I won a little, lost a little. Then I drank something. I don't know just how it all happened.”

“The sleek young witch!” muttered Mr. Peters. “And some fools say it doesn't pay the house to dress them rich and have them for dealers!”

“Then he got away. Then I took the wrong coach and find myself up here.”

“Uh huh! Now it clears up,” declared Mr. Peters. “But you listen keen; it ain't my place to keep a big game waiting while I stop idiots from jumping into Deer Crick. And I won't stand for it!”

“Lord, sir! I wasn't going to do that,” cried Gilbert. “Not that I don't feel miserable enough; but I've made up my mind I must take my medicine. If it wasn't for that man getting away it would all be as simple as it is hard to do. You see, I was feeling lonely. The girl was dealing cards. I risked some money of my own as an excuse to talk with her. I lost it. Lost all of it. Then I lost part of the other money. I knew I must get it back. I lost all of it.”

“They always do,” sympathetically murmured Mr. Peters.

And for his own benefit: “Well, I’ll be damned"

For he was finding the plot intricate to follow.

“But if I go to Coloma and tell the men what I’ve done, as I’ve intended to do right along, I’ll have to admit I was in the El Dorado when the men got away. It'll be known I was there. I'll be taken back to the city and men will look at me and remember me. Then—”

He could not finish the terrible picture.

“Sounds like a Chinese theater,” mumbled Mr. Peters.

“I was taking the money to men in Coloma. Men from my home state. Vermont.”

“Uh huh. Found the road again.” And the gambler's eyes quickened. “The Coloma men must be hunting for you and wanting their money.”

“Not for some time, perhaps. The home folks got the money together and sent it in care of Wells, Fargo at San Francisco—I was to take it out to Coloma from San Francisco. The Coloma men won't know that I’ve landed. I came around South America.”

“Then just what are you fretting about?”

“But I’ve got to hustle to Coloma and tell them what I’ve done. Then it'll be known I was in the El Dorado when the men got away. Folks in the city already believe I helped them. I didn't have a coin left when the men jumped through the window. The leader lost a small bag of gold, and I picked it up. I’m living out of it now.”

And he groaned in misery.

“Well, I’ll be cussed if you ain't scattered the deck all over the floor!” exclaimed Mr. Peters. “Who do you mean by the men who got away?”

“I don't know. One of them is called ‘Joaquin,’” was the listless reply.

“Beautiful!” gasped Mr. Peters. “No wonder you're afraid of having your neck stretched. You've gambled away other folks' money and must change your name and play dead, or be hung for lending a hand to Murieta. See here, son. I’d 'lowed you was just crazy. Seems to me you've had about as much good luck as a deuce in a euchre deck. My name's Peters. I don't blab. Talk some more if you want to.”

“I must go to Coloma at once and tell everything. I believe my courage will be up to it by to-morrow.”

“Hold up! Don't overplay your hand before the draw!” sternly commanded Mr. Peters. “I heard Joaquin had robbed a faro bank and had escaped, but I’d heard nothing about any one helping him. You're either California’s champion liar or its most unfortunate idiot.”

“I’m not a liar. I’m crazy thinking about it. I came in here hoping I would dare to risk what money I have in trying to get back what I’ve lost. But I couldn't do it.”

“Uh huh,” drawled Mr. Peters, watching him through half-closed eyes.

Gilbert's face worked spasmodically for a moment; then he got a fresh grip on himself and bitterly continued:

“I can't dodge the truth. I'm a thief. Probably will be hung. If I’d only invested the money! That would have been a breach of trust, but it would have shown my good will. There was fourteen hundred dollars. All lost. If I'd only bought a mine!”

“Lord! That's rich Fourteen hundred. Buy a mine. Never mind that now, sonny. You simply lost at a Frisco table instead of in a patch of rocks. The girl asked you to try your luck, I s'pose?”

“I didn't have to play,” muttered Gilbert. “She was running the game. That was her business. I knew that when I bet. Looked like one of the Walker girls back home—the dark one.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“They gave away some kind of wine. It made me feel good for a while. Seemed as if I owned the whole world.”

“The young witch cold-decked you! And many ships at sea are bringing thousands to the bay to learn by the same experience,” sighed Mr. Peters. “Why, sonny, if I wasn't an honest gambler I could make my fortune. Never heard of Joaquin Murieta before landing in Frisco?”

Gilbert shook his head.

“I only heard what men in the street said and what they said on the boat. Back East we don't get much news except that every one is finding gold.”

“Never even heard of Joaquin Murieta back East!” helplessly repeated Mr. Peters; and his fleshy cheeks expanded like toy balloons. “Sonny, you've made me believe the world's a lot bigger than I ever thought it was.”

Then he frowned heavily and drummed his fat fingers on the table.

“Wait a minute,” he growled. “Let’s glance over your cards. You're in for a heap of trouble if you don't lay low for a while. It won't do the Coloma men any good if you get hung. Nevada City is no place for you. By this time men are searching the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys for the young fellow who helped Joaquin to escape. They'll be up here, nosing around.

“In a few months, maybe less, after several new crowds have swarmed up from Frisco, and several old crowds from the mines have swarmed down to Frisco, you'll be all right. The Coloma men can wait. They'll learn you got the money from the express office, and they'll think you got tapped on the head. You've got to drop out of sight for a bit. Now I have a friend who has a camp in the foot-hills. Queer cuss, but all right. I'll see if he'll take you along. I'll have to tell him every thing; but he's to be trusted.

“If he says ‘yes’ you can go with him and get your nerve back, grow some whiskers, hunt for gold and try to make up the money you lost. You're too much of a damn fool to be wicked, and it won't help any one if you're hung. I'll stake you for an outfit if you lack money.”

“I bought an outfit before I gambled. And I have some of the money left that that man—Joaquin—dropped. Thank you just as much.”

“All right. It's a pity you didn't kill that fellow in stead of showing him the window. It would have put several times your losses back in your pocket. Where's your traps?”

“Hotel de Paris. Haven't been there since I left them. Drunken man threatened me with a knife.”

“You’ve had it exciting. Get your belongings and come back here. There's a lodging-house in back. I'll speak to Kelly and have a bunk held for you. Entrance is the door around the corner. If I can find my friend I'll drop in and look you up so you can meet him to-night. There's a big game on I'm afraid I'll have to miss—”

“I’m sorry to bother you—”

“Cut the cards!” growled the gambler. “This country is made up in part of men from the East; and you come from mighty far off. Pennsylvania's my home. And let me tell you this for your own good: Outside of chopping trees, building cabins, using their long rifles, the Pikes are about the numbest lot we have. The Isthmus or Horn trip is s'posed to rub the corners off a man and educate him. Folks from Pike County come straight across the plains and miss that sort of an education. This is the idea: You place all you can raise on one bet, that for pure ignorance of life out here you beat any Pike greenhorn who ever came over the ridge. What you need, son, is to go to school to experience and try to learn something.”

“I’m sure you're right,” humbly agreed Gilbert.

“Then maybe there's a chance for you, son. If my friend won't take you along—and he's got quite a queer collection as it is—we'll have to plan something else. We must pick out something that ain't too public. If ever you do make a big strike and must gamble, come to me. That'll be keeping it among friends.”

Chuckling over this amiable invitation, Mr. Peters rose and swept back the curtains. Instead of looking for his Marysville rivals he went outside with Gilbert and walked much of the way to the Hotel de Paris, then turned off to conduct his search.

The town surpassed Marysville, thirty-five miles down the river, in gaiety and wealth. The narrow ridge between the south and middle forks of the Yuba was one of the richest mining districts in the state, and the town was the center for many thousands of miners. Confidence in quartz-mining was reviving and men were beginning to talk “ledges” instead of “ounce-diggings.”

All California had commenced with the pan in seeking treasure. Progress had been rapid; first to the “rocker” stage, four times cheaper than the pan; then to the “longtom,” four times more efficient than the rocker. The third step had been the permanent sluice, three times cheaper than the tom. Now as a crowning achievement the hydraulic process had been invented in this year of young Gilbert's troubles. By this method the cost of extracting gold was to be reduced from several dollars to a cent or less for each cubic yard.

Quartz mills were still in need of great improvements, but men of vision were now convinced that quartz must constitute the last era of mining. The first experience had been bitter, as rock assaying twenty-five cents a pound yielded, when crushed, only two or three cents, due to inability to save all the gold. And the cost of reduction was from forty to fifty dollars a ton. Ledge men were now boasting the work could be done for from six to fifteen dollars a ton as the outside figure.

Mr. Peters, serene of visage, swiftly threaded his way through the gaping groups of Pike County men, by chattering, gregarious Frenchmen, affably nodded greetings to fresh-shaven men in stove-pipe hats, and all the time sought to find some trace of his friend. He depended more on his ears than his eyes. He would pause a few moments before a drinking place or gambling-hall, then shake his head and pass on without bothering to glance inside.

After covering Main, Broad and Kiota Streets he swung back to Kelly's, thinking his friend might have entered the gambling-hall during his absence. He paused at the door and listened but did not enter. Deciding his quest was useless for the night, he turned the corner and entered the lodging-room to inform Gilbert the search would be resumed in the morning.

The young man had not retired but was surrounded by a dozen miners, each plastered with dried white mud from eyebrows to heels. Mr. Peters frowned and kept back; then regained his usual amiable expression as he observed his new acquaintance was not being taken into custody. And as he listened he smiled wearily.

“Now just one more peek at that, friend,” pleaded one of the men. “What did you say you called it?”

“It's the Norwegian telescope,” patiently explained Gilbert. “You can look through it and study the bottom of rivers and see if any gold is there.”

“My God! If that ain't grand and noble!” exclaimed the miner, turning to the others.

They loudly seconded his praise of the worthless device.

“Feed me through a stamp-mill if he ain't heeled the best for finding gold of any man that ever come to Deer Crick!” loudly cried Phelps, the Grass Valley millionaire. “Cleverer than hell!”

“He’s shrewd. He's keen,” added a third man. “Think of his blowing in here and having such a contraption! Rest of us never had sense enough to dream there was such a thing. What he ought to do is to get a charter and rent that telescope out. Charge so much a ton for every ton of gold raked off the river bottom.”

“You fellers just hold your hosses,” commanded the first speaker. “Now, friend, just show the boys the other inventions.” Then in a loud whisper to the gaping circle:

“This young feller will corner all the gold on the ridge. He's got some of the dadderndest riggings you ever see.”

“He can't beat that telescope. That's the meat for me,” cried Phelps.

He insisted on examining it once more.

Gilbert reached in his blanket-roll and pulled out what looked to be a small kettle.

“Hell! Now what's that?” bawled a red-haired man.

“A dirt-boiling machine,” explained Gilbert.

“By Judas! If that ain't the neatest 'rangement I ever saw!” bellowed a Georgia man, one of the few pioneers who knew anything about gold-mining when the first great rush was composed largely of greenhorns.

In a hushed voice he continued:

“Just think of it, boys! All he has to do when he finds pay dirt is to boil it—and there's only the gold left, pure and solid Lawdy! But I wish I had one of them! Wish I could afford one of them! Any more miracles, partner?”

“Only my gold-magnet,” replied Gilbert, fumbling in his blankets. “The merchant wanted me to buy lots of things, but I picked out what I believed to be the three best.”

“If you can beat that dirt-boiler you must have a !” cried the Georgia man.

“If he can beat that river-telescope then I can fly like an eagle,” declared the red-haired man.

Gilbert held up a small object about two inches square. The circle contracted and loudly marveled and begged permission to examine it. As it passed from hand to hand it was made the recipient of hushed encomiums. Gilbert was requested to explain just how it worked, the Georgia man laboring under the impression it was worn on the brow like a diadem.

He gratified them by placing it over his heart and informing them:

“The man said I was to wear it here, next to my skin. It detects gold. When I walk over a spot containing gold it gives me a mild shock.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated an Ohio man.

A man from Rhode Island passionately vowed he would have one like it if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to Frisco and sell his claim to buy it.

Phelps, of Grass Valley, hoarsely insisted it was too precious to belong to any one man as its ownership would permit the lucky owner to locate all the gold in California before any one else could get a smell. He urged that a company be formed on the spot and the magnet be bought on a royalty basis.

“If we can arrange it that way I’ll sell my ledge for what I can and take the next boat home,” he concluded.

Mr. Peters, whose silent laughter had brought tears to his eyes, now began to wonder how he could rescue a greenhorn who was stamping himself thoroughly on the memory of every man in the circle of fun-makers. By morning Gilbert would be the butt of the town and one of the best known men on Deer Creek.

Pistol shots, followed by loud cries and cheers, and sounding close to the thin rear wall, permitted the gambler to effect a rescue. The circle broke up at the first explosion, some diving under bunks, others rushing toward the door. Then came a hoarse voice shouting something unintelligible.

Mr. Peters exclaimed: “That's him at last!”

The men under the bunks reappeared and the Georgia man shouted:

“It's him, and there's fun going on outside!”

“Old Misery or I'm a liar!” delightedly yelped Phelps. “He’s in the theater next door.”

The men rushed through the exit.

Gilbert saw the gambler for the first time. Before he could speak Mr. Peters was sternly commanding:

“Throw that stuff away. Don't show it again. Don't call attention to yourself again. Come with me. My friend is next door.”

Astounded to hear his San Francisco purchases so brutally condemned, Gilbert replaced them in the blankets and hastened after his new friend, his mind in a whirl. There was a small riot at the entrance of the play-house as a dozen men endeavored to enter without bothering to buy tickets. Mr. Peters knew the man at the door, slipped a coin into his hand and ushered Gilbert inside while the others shifted their attention to the ticket window. Several employees of the theater were being shooed from the stage and down the aisles by a score of mud-spattered men.

In the act of climbing on to the stage was Old Misery, his white hair and beard somewhat tousled. As he gained the stage he sounded a terrific whoop. He had interrupted an act by a troupe of Chinese jugglers and knife throwers. Five men were huddled at the left of the stage. At the other end, standing spread-eagle against a stout wall of planks, was a little dried-up celestial. Several knives were sticking into the planks a foot or more from his emaciated body.

“Kola, wanmayanka yo!” shouted the mountain man. “I have had a war-dream. Where are the men to sit at the drum? He-hi-hi-hi! Where are the men at the drum?”

The enthusiastic audience now understood his desire, and a man in the front row bawled back:

“We’re here at the drum, old hoss. Let her flicker!”

And he began to stamp his feet and others did likewise. The mountain man began a northern war-dance, exclaiming at short intervals, “How-how-how!” This appealed to the humor of the audience, and they answered in kind. Suddenly the mountain man ceased his stamping and posturing and whirled on the frightened Chinamen and began passing them down from the stage. The little man against the planking remained motionless, his eyes closed.

With the stage cleared behind him the mountain man announced:

“I’ll show you some knife-heaving what is heaving. Toss up your knives, you hellions!”

With howls of delight the spectators responded, led by a Pike County man whose bowie-knife had a home-made wooden handle. It was followed by a similar weapon having the handle ornate with silver, contributed by a Mexican-Chinese man who was hoping to see blood flow. Other knives sailed to the stage, endangering the mountain man. As they fell Old Misery gathered them up, oblivious to those passing close to his head. And as he stooped and secured the knives he repeatedly cautioned the little Chinaman to remain as he was.

The little man was either very brave or too frightened to move; for he maintained his position, his legs straddling far apart, his arms outstretched. Old Misery emitted another whoop and leaped nimbly back till the full width of the stage was between him and the target.

In the wings was a table covered with a dragon decorated cloth.

On this the assortment of knives was dumped, and the mountain man yelled:

“I’ve had a war-dream! I’ve dreamed of four bears and a hawk! I’m more red'n white. I carry a sacred owl pack. I've fought Blackfeet and lived with the Crows and Chippewas. He-hi-hi-hi. Give me more drums! I’ve seen the white-haired raven. I’ve sung the Arrow-Song.”

He added half a dozen boasts in as many Indian tongues; then snapped back his arm. Gilbert winced and cried aloud as a heavy blade spun to the planking and stood deeply embedded within two inches of the target's left side.

A thundering shout rewarded the cast. Then the house became very quiet.

The mountain man cried: “Watch me shave him close!”

The deafening applause was renewed as the mountain man threw the knives so rapidly that it seemed as if there were an endless stream of them glittering across the stage. And a hedge of steel crept up from the right foot and along the leg, and above and below the out stretched arm. When the silver-handled knife sank snugly beside the yellow throat there was a general gasp of delicious doubt.

“A hundred dollars he draws blood!” cried Phelps, of Grass Valley.

“Take you! Make it five hundred" snapped Mr. Peters.

“Five hundred it is!”

The sporting possibilities of the target being wounded or killed appealed to others; and as Old Misery turned back to the table for more knives bets were made fast and furious. But no blood was drawn. With his heart at a standstill Gilbert watched the hedge encircle the uptilted head and creep down the left side.

As he cast the last blade the mountain man leaped high in the air and cracked his moccasins together three times, sounded his war-whoop, and shouted:

“Now you've seen some real knife-heaving.”

He leaped across the stage and began plucking the blades from the planking and tossing them to the foot lights, each striking point downward, until they stood in along row.

“Pick out your own weepins,” he invited.

Then drawing a bag from the bosom of his fringed-buckskin shirt, he placed the little Chinaman's hands together, filled them with gold and leaped from the stage.

“If he can do that when on a spree what couldn't he do when he's sober?” groaned Phelps of Grass Valley as he paid his wager to Mr. Peters.

“We must go,” huskily whispered Gilbert. “I don't want to meet that man.”

“You young fool, he won't hurt you. That's my friend; the old mountain man I quit a big game to find,” growled Mr. Peters.

“No! No! I can’t meet him!” cried Gilbert. “He’s the man with the big bear! He said he would cut my heart out!”