POKER JIM, GENTLEMAN (2)

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It was in the spring of 1860, that the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania concluded to confer the degree of Doctor of Medicine upon your humble servant. Whether the faculty of that now famous school allowed me to graduate on the principle that actuated the performers in a western band, who implored their audiences not to shoot, as they were doing the best they could, I cannot say, but graduate I did, and as with all other students of medicine, it was then that my troubles began. I was not long in discovering that the piece of crisp parchment which the members of the faculty had endorsed as showing the scientific qualifications of William Weymouth, M.D. and which entitled him to practice medicine, was no open sesame to fame and prosperity.

My parents were at that time living in Kentucky, in a small town that offered little encouragement to a young man beginning practice. The confidence of one’s old neighbors is of even slower growth than the beard for which the young doctor yearns, as a badge of wisdom and learning that he who runs may read.

The country in which I spent my boyhood—I was born in the state of Maine—was even less inviting than the state of my adoption. It is possible that I entertained a little of my mother’s prejudice against Yankeedom in those days. She was a native of Kentucky, and had never become thoroughly reconciled to the country to which my father had taken her soon after her marriage. It was in acquiescence to her homesick pleadings that my father finally moved to Kentucky, and settled in the little town wherein my parents lived for the rest of their days in such happiness as people of modest means can secure only among the warm hearted, generous people south of Mason and Dixon’s line.

Had my home surroundings offered any inducements to the professional career I had planned for myself, I should certainly have returned home to practice. My parents were living alone, and my natural impulse was to return to them and do the best I could at practice, as long as they should live. It was with some twinges of conscience, therefore, that I finally decided against going back to Kentucky to locate.

There were but three of us children, a brother, younger than myself, and a sister, two years older. My sister had married a gentleman from Memphis, and had long since gone to that city to live. My young brother had left home some years before I graduated, and no one knew what had become of him, much to my regret and to the sorrow of his parents, whose favorite, I must admit, the boy had ever been.

Jim had always been a wild lad, and was stamped as an incorrigible almost as soon as he could toddle alone. It was said that a little of the old strain of Indian blood, with which tradition had endowed our family, had cropped out in him. He was one of those rollicking, handsome dare-devils; that everybody fears and loves at the same moment. The very sight of Jim’s curly, black head and mischievous eyes struck the good neighbors with terror. Trouble was expected from the moment that boy put in an appearance—and the good folks were seldom disappointed. Sometimes they would acknowledge that “it might have been worse,” but such occasions were rare.

But all who knew the curly headed little rascal admitted that he possessed two excellent qualities; he was as brave as a lion, and kind-hearted to a fault. He would fight at “the drop of the hat,” and no boy ever heard him cry quits. He was as ready to split a cord of wood for a poor widow, as he was to tie a tin can to her house-dog’s tail, and that’s saying a great deal.

As the boy grew toward manhood, he fell in with evil associates, and as is always the case with boys of his peculiar disposition, he became thoroughly demoralized. Cards, whisky, horses and women—these were the unsubstantial foundation upon which rested the new world that his vicious companions opened up to him.

While living at the old home in Kentucky, I had always had a great controlling influence over little Jim, and even after I left home for college, I maintained a certain degree of influence over him. Gradually, however, our correspondence became infrequent, until we heard from each other only at very long intervals.

Knowing how much I thought of the lad, my parents never alluded to Jim’s discrepancies in their letters to me. I have sometimes thought that possibly they were actuated to a certain degree by false pride; they did not care to expose the failings of their idol to his natural rival in their affections—his brother. Whatever the explanation of the reticence of my parents may have been, I had no intimation of the true state of affairs until after the poor boy had fled from home, never to return.

It was the old story; a woman, a rival, a quarrel—ostensibly the outcome of a game of cards—the lie, a shot, and my young brother a fugitive. What a monotonous sameness there is in all such stories, to be sure. No one has invented a single new character or a single new situation in the play of passion, through all the ages. What new phases have the romanticists of the world added to human hopes, fears, sentiments, passions and vices in all the centuries? None—and yet the world demands originality of its authors!

It will be seen that I was between two fires, in deciding on my course after graduation—a sense of filial duty to my sorrowing and lonely parents, and a new-born professional ambition. As is usually the case, ambition conquered, and I decided to seek my fortune in new fields, far away from the paternal roof. California was, at that time, by no means a new sensation, but the novelty of the gold craze had not yet worn off. I had no particular ambition to seek my fortune in foreign lands, and as the Pacific coast was to ambitious Americans still the El Dorado of all youthful dreams, I very naturally turned my thoughts in that direction. I was not long in coming to a decision, and after writing my plans to my parents, I made my arrangements to depart for San Francisco.

The choice of routes to California was a very simple matter, for one who was within easy access of the Atlantic sea board. There was no railroad communication with the Pacific coast in those days, hence I was compelled to select from the several ocean routes that which promised to consume the least time. With this idea I embarked at New York City for San Francisco, on a steamer of the Panama line, and, after a pleasant and uneventful voyage, arrived in San Francisco, the portals of promise through which so many hopeful Jasons had passed before me in search of the Golden Fleece.

* * * * *

The San Francisco gambling house was the common ground upon which the flotsam and jetsam of the early cosmopolitan population of the city met. The proprietors of the gambling hells certainly knew human nature thoroughly, judging by the variety of excitement which they provided. Every known game and every variety of liquor distinguished for its vital-reaching propensities, was at the disposal of their patrons, day and night. The boast of the gambling house keeper was, that he had thrown away his front door key the day the house was opened.

When the gambling fever struck the good citizen or unwary visitor from the mines, he could have his choice of a variety of remedies; monte, faro, roulette, poker—anything he pleased, providing he had his “dust” with him.

And do not imagine that the proprietors and dealers of the games were low-browed, ugly ruffians. Smooth, sleek and handsome were the nimble fingered gentry who attended to the wants of the fever-stricken fools who had more ounces in their pockets than in their brain-pans—until the fever was cured, when the loss of balance was in the other direction. Many a college education was wasted—or utilized, if you please—on the dealer’s side of a “sweat-cloth” in some of those dens. My fine gentleman would not swing a pick—unless it were an ivory one with which he could take away a sturdy miner’s golden ounces much more quickly than the hapless fool had dug them with the implements of honest toil.

But the scene was an alluring one, nevertheless. The rattle of chips and dice; the ringing of silver and the clink of gold; the thud of the buckskin bags of gold dust as they were recklessly thrown upon the table; the duller, yet more portentous, shuffling of the cards; the whir of the wheel where rouge et noir was being played, were entertaining to my ear, untrained as it was to such sounds.

“Come up and make your bets, gentlemen! The game is made! Five — eleven — eighteen — twenty — twenty-two — twenty-four — twenty-eight — thirty-one. Red wins!”—and the never ending procession of excited fools stepped up to diversion and disaster.

There was one thing the proprietors of those gambling houses forgot—they should have had a suicide room and an undertaking department. It would have saved the city fathers a deal of trouble in the disposal of the large crop of unknown remains that the morning light disclosed in obscure corners of the city—poor fugitives from self; victims of dens where Venus, Momus, Terpsichore and Bacchus grovelled in the dirt yet held undisputed sway. There was a grim irony, and yet, withal, a tinge of comedy, in the farewell treat of fiery liquor with which the management bowed out its ruined guests—bowed them out of the den of iniquity and into a slough of despond from which they oft-times never emerged—on this side of eternity.

I was standing one evening in “The Palace”—a gambling den with the usual appurtenances of tributary and dependent vice—curiously watching the movements of the dealer at one of the numerous faro games. Every table was crowded with players and surrounded by spectators, some of whom, like myself, were mere curiosity seekers, but most of them being devotees of the shrine of the goddess, Chance, who were impatiently awaiting the occurrence of a vacancy at the table—when a bankrupt player should make way for fatter victims.

Sitting just opposite the dealer was a young lad, who could not have been more than seventeen years of age, betting away with a recklessness that would have done credit to a millionaire. The youngster was evidently flushed with liquor and laboring under the highest degree of excitement.

Standing just behind the boy, was a woman—evidently of the under world—who, it was easy to see, was influencing his betting. Whether this creature was giving direct advice and encouragement or not, I cannot say, but the lad was certainly trying to appear as brave and recklessly extravagant as possible, for the apparent purpose of impressing the woman. The furtive glance which the dealer exchanged with his charming “capper” now and then, was sufficient to enable even one of my limited experience, to form a correct conclusion as to the status of affairs.

Just opposite me and almost directly behind the dealer, stood a man who, I was certain, had been studying my face from time to time ever since I had taken my place among the spectators of the game. A stealthy glance at my vis À vis when he happened to be watching the boy’s playing—which seemed to be dividing his attention with myself—revealed a person of most striking appearance and unique individuality.

Apparently about twenty-five years of age, judging by his heavy black moustache and mature development; a tall, athletic figure; long curling locks of jet black hair hanging loosely down over his shoulders; eyes as black as sloes and as piercing as those of a hawk—the stranger was indeed a handsome and most picturesque character. His closely buttoned coat of fashionable cut, small, neat boots, and surmounting all, his broad-brimmed hat, made him even more striking, if possible. I glanced at his hands and noted that they were well formed, and of a color that indicated bath gentility and a life in which manual labor bore no part.

As I stole a second glance at the handsome stranger, our eyes met, and I fancied that he started slightly. He glanced away quickly, but as the boy in whom he appeared to take such an interest was apparently getting pretty near the end of his funds, I concluded that the unknown’s emotion—if indeed he had really displayed any—was due to the evident bad luck of his unconscious protegÉ. It was plain to me that he was interested in the boy, for there was an expression about the corners of his mouth, and an almost tender gleam in his eyes, that could not be mistaken by any one who possessed even a fair ability in character reading.

I knew not why the picturesque stranger interested me, but there seemed to be some indefinable attraction about him, which caused me to forget the game and watch him as closely as I could without risk of giving offense. As our eyes met, I experienced a peculiar sense of mutual recognition, and yet it was seemingly impossible, or at least, highly improbable, that we had ever met before.

But the occurrences of the next few minutes entirely diverted my mind for the time being from the question of recognition.

The poor, foolish boy soon exhausted his money, and vacated his place at the unholy altar. I saw him whisper to the female, in whose company he evidently was, and apparently request her to step aside with him. She did so, and they stood for some time in earnest, confidential discussion of a subject which their gestures made all too apparent. The bird was plucked, his charms were gone, and he was not only refused a “stake” wherewith to possibly retrieve his losses, but the light of his first romance was extinguished forever—or until he had procured more money, which, to the woman’s mind, probably amounted to the same thing.

The expression on that poor boy’s face was a horror and a sermon both in one. As the woman coldly and haughtily swept away from him, her tainted skirts swishing suggestively and ominously over the floor, gathering up tobacco and other filth which was purity itself beside her harpy-like soul, the lad stood gazing after her as if in a dream. He was stunned into obliviousness to everything but the realization of his disaster.

He stood for a moment as though incapable of motion, then with an expression of desperation in his eyes, and a countenance that was the typification of utterly hopeless despair, he passed through the green baize doors out into the night—his first black night of fathomless woe and absolute demoralization.

I had watched the boy from the time we left the table, and his expression, as the hawk that had plucked away his youthful plumage flew away from her victim, at once appealed to my young professional eye. I made my diagnosis almost intuitively, and instinctively started to follow the lad, as quickly as I could without attracting his attention. As I turned toward the exit, I caught a glimpse of some one just passing out. As the doors swung back before him, I recognized the stalwart form of the picturesque unknown.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and strolled leisurely along after the stranger. I do not know why, but I felt that the boy was safe. I was sure I could not be mistaken in my interpretation of the play of emotions that had animated the stranger’s face, as he watched the game which had ruined the poor lad whom he was evidently following.

I soon saw that I was right. The stranger caught up with the boy just as he stepped into the brilliant light that illuminated the sidewalk in front of the gambling den. Placing one hand upon the boy’s shoulder, he gently but firmly halted him, I meanwhile drawing back into the shadow of the outer door of the Palace, determined, with the best of motives, to see the thing through.

“Don’t be frightened, my lad,” said the man, “I just want to say a word to you, that’s all.”

The boy looked at him as though dazed for a moment, and then replied slowly:

“I’m not frightened, sir. You’re not apt to do anything worse to me than I’ve already done to myself. My money is all gone, and you can’t do any more than kill me, if you don’t want money. As for killing me,—well, I have more lead than gold left, and I’ve not forgotten how my father taught me to die, like a gentleman.” I fancied that the boy looked quite the hero as he spoke. There was a little touch of the southron born about him that brought my Kentucky home back to me. I had seen such boys there, and I knew—well, there was one who was something like that, whom I would have given the world to see, and my heart went out to that poor, unfortunate lad. And, yet, for some reason, I had an even kinder feeling for the man who was evidently going to act the friend and adviser of our mutual protegÉ.

“Pardon me for even suggesting that you might be frightened,” said the unknown, “but you are young; San Francisco has some queer ways and still queerer people, and it’s not every man who gets the drop on you who means well. I am free to say that I should be uneasy myself, were I to be similarly accosted, and they say I am—well, that I’m ‘no chicken’, you know. Where are you from, my boy?”

“I’m from Virginia, sir,” replied the boy, straightening up with a little of the Old Dominion pride, I thought.

“Ah!” exclaimed his new-found friend, “I was sure I detected a little of the old cavalier strain in your face. What is your name, may I ask?” “Gordon Cabell, sir.”

“Well, Master Cabell, I know your breed pretty well; I’m from—well, I’ve met southern boys before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly to you, and you mustn’t be offended. I’m going to be your friend, for to-night, at least, and you must listen to me.

“I’m not going to give you a moral lecture on gambling or liquor drinking. I presume that the Gordons, Cabells, and many more of your ancestors, have played cards, drunk whisky, raced horses, attended cock fights, and fought duels, and have done many other things that people with colder blood object to, but they did all these things like gentlemen, I’ll warrant you. Now, tell me, young fellow, did you ever know of a Cabell doing what you have done, and still worse, what you were going to do to-night?”

“Sir!” said the boy indignantly, reaching toward his pistol, “I will—”

“Oh, no you won’t, Master Cabell. Look me in the eye, please!” and the boy gazed at the stranger wonderingly, as he drew his tall form up to its full height, calmly folded his arms, and looked down upon him.

“I have already told you that I am your friend, Gordon, and the Cabells do not make targets of their friends. Give me your pistol, sir!”

The boy almost mechanically drew his pistol from the holster beneath his loose-fitting coat, and obeying the mandate of a will more powerful than his own, handed it to his companion.

“Thank you, Gordon,” said the stranger, “I’ll return it to you presently.

“Now, my boy, let us get to business. You have fallen among thieves, and have been plucked, like the unsuspecting, foolish pigeon that you are. I don’t want to know your past history; life is too short, but I do want a hand in your future.

“You are the scion of aristocratic stock. Your ancestors before you were worshippers at the shrine of beauty, but it was the beauty of purity and virtue. You have been dragging your family pride down into the dirt, and offering up your young soul upon an altar which a true son of the Old Dominion should loathe. You have squandered your money trying to beat a game that’s a ‘dead-open-and-shut’ against you. You are listening to one who knows whereof he speaks, I assure you, my boy.

“Not satisfied with what you had already done, which after all is easily remedied, you were about to stain your family name and record with a crime that nothing on earth could ever wipe out. You were about to kill—a fool, Gordon, who may yet be made a wise man.

“I once knew a boy who played the fool—much as you have done—and who is still expiating his folly. He might eventually have done as you were about to do, only he happened to be compelled to—well, he didn’t shoot himself, that’s one thing to his credit, although his family, and not himself, was perhaps the gainer by it, or will be sometime, if the truth is ever known. He couldn’t avoid the other—there was nothing about that of which he had cause to be ashamed, although the world, that knows not the circumstances, thinks differently.

“Now, Gordon, I’m going to stake you. Don’t say no—it is a loan if you please, or anything you choose to call it. Take this, and get out of this hell-hole of a town as quick as the Lord will let you.”

The boy stood for a moment with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and then hesitatingly took the proffered bag of dust.

“And you will really let me pay it back to you, sir, when I am able?” “I certainly will, if we ever meet again,” replied the man. “As I have already told you, my boy, I know your breed; it is not the kind that likes to remain under obligations to one who is an entire stranger. But, after all, your honorable intention clears the obligation.

“And, Gordon, here’s your pistol. I think it will be safer in your hands than it was a short time ago. And now I am going to give you a few parting words of advice.

“In the first place, young fellow, don’t gamble. If your blood is too red to heed this admonition, learn to play poker. It’s a scientific game and a square one, usually—always so among gentlemen. Never bet against another man’s game, nor play against a percentage. Gambling games of that kind are like the play of life, the percentage is in favor of the dealer, and it fetches you sooner or later.

“In the second place, young man, set up a shrine in your heart, and worship female purity and virtue; then you are safe. If you have a mother or sisters, don’t forget that a woman who is not fit for their society is not worthy of your regard.

“Youthful affection, my boy, is not inexhaustible. Keep it for future reference—and worthy objects. You may yet live to wish that the worldly heart of to-morrow were the young and fresh one of yesterday.

“And now, I must leave you. Good-night, my boy, and don’t forget what I have said to you.”

“But, sir,” cried the lad, “your name, who shall I—?”

His benefactor had disappeared in the darkness.

The boy stood for a time gazing blankly into the night in the direction in which the stranger had disappeared; then, drawing himself up proudly, as became a son of fair Virginia, he placed the bag of gold in his pocket and his pistol in its holster, cast a scornful glance toward the windows of the Palace and strode resolutely away.

* * * * *

A few days after the scene at the gaming house, I chanced to meet an old time friend of my father’s, hailing from Maine. Mr. Allen, it seemed, had “struck it rich” and was on his way back to the “States.” From this gentleman I received a glowing account of the wealth of the placer mining region in Tuolumne county, which at once determined my future course. When he informed me that the country where he had made his “pile” was not only rich in gold, but badly in need of doctors, I decided that Tuolumne should have at least one medical celebrity.

Investing some of my greatly diminished capital in an outfit which I thought might harmonize to a certain extent with the new field for which I was about to depart, I bade farewell to San Francisco and set my face toward the fame and the pot of gold that lay at the foot of the rainbow of my dreams.

* * * * *

It was a calm sultry evening in the month of July, 1860, that I embarked on board a steamboat plying between San Francisco and Stockton, the latter city being the gateway to the wonderful country distinguished by its wealth and scarcity of doctors, so graphically described by my friend, Mr. Allen.

The trip up the Sacramento river, although pleasant enough, had very little novelty about it, and I confess that I at first experienced a feeling of disappointment at the lack of entertainment which the scenery afforded.

Our route lay for a comparatively short distance up the Sacramento, the major portion of my journey being comprised by one of its tributaries—the San Joaquin—a stream that is insignificant enough during the dry season, but which in the early spring is formidable enough to those who live sufficiently near the river to get the benefit of its overflow during the spring freshets.

The San Joaquin river is, without doubt, the crookedest navigable stream in the world. There was never a snake that could contort himself into so fantastic an outline as presented by that lazily meandering branch of the Sacramento. So crooked is it, that one entertains a constant dread of running ashore; the bank is always dead ahead and unpleasantly near.

This serpentine river traverses a perfectly level plain throughout the navigable part of its course, its banks being flanked by tule beds which extend farther than the eye can see. Indeed, the valley of the San Joaquin is one vast bed of tules, extending fully one hundred and fifty miles. When, as sometimes happens during the dry season, the tule beds take fire, the spectacle, especially at night, is at once grand and terribly impressive. I remember on one occasion taking a night trip up the river during one of these fires. The scene in the vicinity of Monte Diablo, was one of the most majestic and awe inspiring I have ever witnessed. The name of “Devil’s Mountain” seemed singularly appropriate.

It was nearly three in the morning when I arrived at Stockton, and, as there was nothing to be gained by going ashore, I remained on board the boat, determined to get the full benefit of a morning nap. It seemed to me that I had just closed my eyes, when I was awakened by the yelling of the roustabouts and stage agents on the wharf. I had barely time to dress, hustle ashore and hurriedly swallow a cup of coffee, before my stage was ready to start, and I was off for Jacksonville—the particular town of Tuolumne county that I had determined to favor with my medical skill and fortune-hunting ambition.

There was nothing pleasant about that stage ride—it was memorable only for its inconveniences and its motley load pf passengers. A hot, dusty, bumping journey in the old time California stage makes pretty reading as Bret Harte has described it but I am free to say that the reality was not so enjoyable. The red dust of the California stage road gets into a fellow’s system so deeply that his ideas are likely to be of a practical or even profane sort, even though he be normally quite sentimental.

Picturesque, however, the ride certainly was. Several red-shirted, rough-bearded miners, lent just the right touch of local color, while the imitation frontiersman—of whom I was the type—was sufficiently well represented to afford a suitable foil for the genuine article, as typified by my brawny-chested, be-pistoled, unkempt fellow passengers.

In one corner of the stage was a little chap who was evidently what we would call a dude nowadays. This young gentleman had done his level best to put a bold front on matters, by rigging himself out like a cowboy. The result was somewhat ludicrous, as may be imagined. Nor was the poor little idiot by any means unconscious of his features of incongruity—he realized most keenly the absurdity of his position and the fact that he was being guyed. The miners, however, seemed to enjoy the situation immensely.

“Say, pardner,” said one tawny-bearded giant, leaning toward the innocent, and startling him so that his eye glasses nearly dropped off his nose—“Gimme a pull at yer pistol, wont ye?”

“Ah, beg pawdon, sir, what did you say?” stammered the dude.

“W’y I s’posed you could understan’ th’ English langwidge,” replied the miner, “but seein’ ez how ye don’t, I’ll translate her to ye. I asked ye ter give me a pull at yer whisky bottle.”

“Ah, really,” said the innocent, “I’d be chawmed, you know, doncher know, but I don’t carry the article. In fact, sir, I nevah drink.”

“Ye don’t say so? Well, I want ter know!” answered the miner. “Now, see hyar, sonny, seein’ ez how you aint got no whisky, jest gimme a chaw uv terbacker an’ we’ll call it squar’.”

“I—aw—I’m sorry to say that I don’t use tobacco, sir.”

“Sho! g’long, young feller! Is—that—so? How the h—l d’ye keep a goin’? Whut d’ye do fer excitement—p’raps ye plays poker, eh?” said the stalwart son of the pick.

“Oh no!” exclaimed the tenderfoot in dismay, “I nevah play cards!”

“Ye don’t tell me!” replied the miner. “Well, well, well! By the way, young feller; be keerful not ter lose ’em—ye mout need ’em ter git home with.”

“Need what, sir?” asked the victim.

“Yer wings!”—and the miners broke out in a huge guffaw that bade fair to dislocate a wheel of the stage, and impelled the driver to look anxiously and inquiringly at his passengers.

The tenderfoot collapsed and remained in a state of complete innocuousness until he arrived at his destination, which, fortunately for his sensitive organization, happened to be the first town where we changed horses. As he minced gingerly away toward the hotel, the miners winked at each other most prodigiously. Happening to catch the big fellow’s eye, by a happy inspiration I was impelled to wink also. This at once established me on a friendly footing with my rough companions, and, as I happened to have a bottle of fairly good liquor with me, the rest of the way into the regard of those simple miners was easily traversed.

During the conversation that naturally followed the unconventional formation of our acquaintance, the big-bearded fellow, who appeared to be the leader of the little party of miners, following the blunt fashion of the country, suddenly remarked:

“By the way, stranger, whut might yer name be, an’ whut part uv the diggin’s might yer be headin’ fer?”

“Well,” I replied smilingly, “it is about time we introduced ourselves, isn’t, it? My name is William Weymouth, recently of Kentucky, a doctor by profession, and bound for Jacksonville, where I contemplate digging gold when the weather will permit, and practicing medicine when it will not.”

“A doctor, an’ bound fer Jacksonville, eh? Well, Doc,” said my new acquaintance, reaching out his grimy paw with a cordiality that could not be mistaken, “I’m d—d glad ter know ye! Jacksonville is our town, an’ a h—l uv a good town she is at that, y’u bet! We’re jest gittin’ back from Frisco, an’ doin’ it on tick, too. We’ve been doin’ the sport racket down yonder, an’ I reckon the sports hev done us, eh, pards?” His “pards” having acquiesced, my brawny friend cut off a huge chew of “nigger heel,” stowed it away in his capacious cheek, and after a few preliminary expectorations that resembled geysers, continued:

“If it hadn’t been fer ole Tom McDougal up thar on the box, we’d a took Walker’s line back ter our claims”—and the big miner glanced gratefully in the direction of the generous Mr. McDougal.

“And now that I have found that you are to be my fellow townsmen,” I said pleasantly, “permit me to remind you that the introduction has been one-sided. What are your names, may I ask?”

The miner winked at his companions, laughed a little deep down in his huge red beard, and replied:

“D—d if I didn’t fergit that ther was two sides to the interdoocin’ bizness. Ye see, stranger, we aint payin’ much attention ter feller’s handles in the mines. Most enny ole thing’ll do fer a name. That’s why we sometimes fergits our manners. This yere gang is purty well supplied with names, but ye mightn’t hev sich good luck ev’ry time, ’specially in Tuolumne county, eh, pards?”

His “pards” having again nodded and winked their approval, my brawny friend proceeded with his introductions.

“I’m called in the diggin’s by sev’ral names an’ y’u kin do like the rest uv my fren’s—take yer pick. I’m mostly known as Big Brown, tho’ some folks calls me Big Sandy. When I was in the states, I b’lieve they used to call me Daniel W. Brown, but I wouldn’t swar to it. This feller nex’ ter me hyar, is the hon’able Mr. Dixie,’ or Snub-nose Dixie fer short, who aint never hed much ter say about his other name, if he ever had enny, eh, Dixie? That lantern-jawed cuss a settin’ long side uv y’u, is Deacon Jersey, utherwise an’ more favor’bly known ez Link Spears. We calls him Deacon, cuz he never was inside of a church in his hull life. He’s the only genooine deacon this side of the Sierras. Thar aint none uv the hypercrit’ erbout him, neither, I kin tell ye. Ye’ll find us fellers’ tastes kinder runs erlike, f’r instance,”—and Big Brown looked longingly in the direction of my “pistol” pocket.

“In the matter of thirst,” I suggested.

“Right y’u air, Doc! I kin see yer goin ter be a valooable addition to our diggin’s. We need a doctor ez kin tell whut’s the matter with a feller ’thout cuttin’ him wide open. Ye see, we likes ter keep our own han’s in, an’ don’t calkerlate ter leave much of the cuttin’ ter the doctor—ennyhow, ’till we’ve had our little innin’s, eh, boys?”

Once again the boys agreed, with, I thought, just a slight suspicion of gratified vanity in their expressions.

It was a long weary way to Jacksonville, but my time was well spent. Thanks to the kindness and garrulity of my new-found yet none the less sincere, friends, and the confidence engendered by my rapidly diminishing supply of stimulants, I found myself, by the time I arrived at my destination, fairly well acquainted with the town, its ways and its citizens.

Jacksonville, at the time I landed in the then thriving place, was one of the most noted mining centers in the placer country. Its location was most picturesque. Nestled among the foot-hills of the glorious Sierras on the banks of the Tuolumne river, and peopled by as cosmopolitan and heterogeneous a population as was ever gathered within the confines of one small town, my new home was attractive because of its novelty, if nothing more.

Ages and ages of alternately falling and receding waters, centuries of snow and enormous rainfalls, had washed down from the mountains into the valley of the Tuolumne, those auriferous particles, the great abundance of which had made Jacksonville spring into busy life and thriving prosperity, almost in a single day.

But the very elements which had laid the alluring foundation of the valley’s wealth, were even then conspiring to avenge the rifling of the rich deposits of the valley by the irreverent hands of the modern Argonauts.

The Tuolumne river was a variable stream. During the dry season, it was but a thin, disjointed, silvery ribbon, across which one could walk dry-shod, in places. But in the early spring, the little stream at which the wayfarer was wont to laugh, and in whose bed the eager miner delved with impunity and profit, took revenge upon the disturbers of its ancient course. It became a raging torrent, resistlessly carrying all before it and sometimes severely punishing for his temerity the unwary miner who had pitched his tent or built his rude cabin too near the river bank. But all the revenge which the Tuolumne had taken in all the years since the settlement of the valley, was as nothing to that which was yet to come. That vale of thrift, industry and smiling prosperity was destined to become a valley of death, destruction, desolation and ruin.

But were not Pompeii and Herculaneum, and in later days, our own San Francisco, joyful and unsuspecting to the last? And why should the people of Tuolumne dread a danger of which familiarity and fancied security had made them forgetful, or possibly even contemptuous. The average citizen of Jacksonville could calmly face death in a material form, and why should he concern himself with that which passed by upon the other side with each succeeding spring?

By no means the least attractive feature of Jacksonville was the rugged self-confidence and honesty of the majority of its people. Even the Chinese, who composed a large part of the population, seemed to be a better variety of the almond-eyed heathen than I had supposed could possibly exist. The hair-triggered sensibility and powder-and-ball ethics of the dominant race seemed to be most effective civilizers.

I am far from claiming that Jacksonville presented an ideal state of civilization, but this I do say, in justice to my old town; life and property were safer there than they are to-day in many more pretentious communities, that claim to rank as centers from which civilization radiates like the rays of a star. A sense of personal responsibility made the French the politest nation on the face of the earth; it was the foundation upon which the spirit of the “Old South” was builded firmer than a rock; it was the soul that beat back the furious waves of shot and shell that so often hailed upon the southern chivalry on many a hard fought field. A similar spirit of self-assertion and personal responsibility pervaded the Tuolumne valley, and raised its average moral standard to a height far beyond that of many a metropolis of a more vicious and effete civilization.

Warm-hearted, impulsive, honest, courageous, fiery-tempered, quick-triggered Argonauts of the Tuolumne valley—a health to those of you who still live, and peace to those who have laid down the pick and pan forever and have inspected their sluice-boxes for the last time! When the final “clean-up” comes, may the “find” be full of nuggets—“sixteen dollars to the ounce.”

There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot, Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’ “festive” rack were not to be consoled—they “quit him cold” and went over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d—d scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.A My fellow citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive, with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their stomachs.

A Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon—if he be still living.—Author.

The material comforts of the Tuolumne House aside, there was never a cheerier, heartier, pluckier boniface than George Keyse. He was to the manner born, and could take a gun or a knife away from an excited boarder quite as gracefully and quickly as he could, if necessary, turn his own flapjacks.

Mr. Keyse had an invaluable assistant in one Dave Smuggins, who officiated alternately as barkeeper, porter and hotel clerk. Smuggins was a well-bred man, and, it was said, was originally educated for the ministry. The only evidence at hand, however, was certain oratorical propensities that overcame him and made him forget his real position when he awakened the boarders early o’ mornings. I can hear him now, as he stood at the top of the stairway, yelling in stentorian tones—“Arouse all ye sleepers, an’ listen to the purty little airly birds singin’ praises tew the Lord! D—n yer bloody eyes! Git up!” saying which the modern psalmist discreetly went below and took his position behind the bar, ready to dispense “eye-openers” to the early caller.

Jacksonville proved to be not only a pleasant place of residence but an excellent field for my professional work. The climate was almost germ-proof, and it was a real pleasure to practice the semi-military surgery characteristic of my field of labor. Primary union was my speciality in those days, and I used to get results the memory of which sometimes makes me blush for those I occasionally get with our modern aseptic and antiseptic methods. No matter how much my patients might shoot or carve each other, any fellow who had life enough left in him to crawl or be carried off the field of battle, usually got well.

Beyond accompanying an occasional prospecting party, largely for recreation but partly in my professional capacity, I did but little in the way of mining. My practice gave me plenty to do, and was lucrative enough as practices go, so I soon settled down to as routine a life as my curious and lively surroundings would permit.

I was sitting in that portion of the Tuolumne House yclept by courtesy “the office,” quite late one evening, listening to the quaint talk of my miner friends and marvelling on the quantity of fluid the human body could lose by way of expectoration and still live, when I was recalled to a realization of the fact that I was a practitioner of medicine, by a voice at the hotel door.

“Say, Doc, kin I see y’u a minute?”

Looking up I saw standing in the doorway one of the boys, who was familiarly known as Toppy, his States’ name being Ike Dexter. Toppy motioned for me to come out on the porch, and impressed by his gravity of manner and earnestness of gesticulation, I hastened to comply.

“What is it, Toppy?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “thar’s one uv my friends whut’s bin an’ got hisself hurt, an’ I want y’u ter come an’ fix him up. He’s a very parti’cler friend, an’ I’d like ter hev yer do yer best on him. Ye needn’t say nuthin’ ter the boys about it, jes’ now, Doc.”

“Very well, Toppy, I’ll go with you, but what kind of an accident has befallen your friend?” I asked.

“Oh, I dunno ez ye could jes’ call it a accident, Doc. It’s jest a little shootin’ scrape, that’s all, an’ I reckon ye’d better take some ’stracters erlong.”

In accordance with the honest miner’s suggestion I did take some bullet extractors with me.

“Ye see, Doc,” said Toppy, by way of preparatory explanation of the case I was about to see, “this yere friend of mine hez bin down in ’Frisco fer a spell, an’ might hev staid thar a good while longer, only some feller picked a row with him. Thar wuz a duel, an’ duels ain’t so pop’lar down ’Frisco way ez they useter wuz, ’specially when somebody gits hurt. A real bad accident happened ter th’ uther feller, an’ he passed in his checks. Jim—that’s my friend—got a ball in his thigh, whut stuck thar, and ez he didn’t hev much time to hunt fer a doctor, he jest come up hyar, whar its kinder quiet like, an’ we thort we’d hev y’u sorter look arter the thing. Ye see, Jim won’t keer to git ’round much fer a few weeks—not ’till that little accident gits blowed over”—and Toppy’s eyes gleamed humorously.

My friend led me down to the river bank, and pushing aside a clump of willows revealed a small, rudely constructed row-boat.

“Ah!” I said, as I took my seat in the somewhat insecure-looking and cranky little craft, “It is evident that you have taken your friend to your own cabin.”

Toppy, as I well knew, had the only abode on the opposite bank of the river, where, high up on the hillside, in full though somewhat distant view of the little town, he had built a small but neat cabin, which nestled in the bosom of the hill, looking not unlike a child’s playhouse as seen from the town proper.

“Yep,” replied the miner, “thar’s whar he is. It aint best ter depen’ too much on pop’larity, ye know, Doc, an’ Jim’ll be a little safer over thar than in town. Nobody goes ter my place—less’n I invite ’em,” and Toppy grinned sardonically.

I recalled the fate of a poor devil who did go to his cabin without an invitation—from Toppy—in the early days of his housekeeping on the hillside, when a more or less charming little Mexican half-breed damsel was said to have presided over Toppy’s domestic affairs.

Being averse to the discussion of other people’s family matters, I had never conversed with my miner friend on that delicate subject. To tell the truth, there seemed to be very little encouragement for gossip in Jacksonville—town-talk was too direct a cut to the little collection of white head-boards that decorated a small plateau just outside the town. All my information on such subjects, was therefore derived from more subtle and less dangerous airy rumor.

The river was quite low, and a few vigorous pulls from Toppy’s stalwart arms brought us to the opposite shore, from which I could see, far up the hillside, the gleaming white walls of the miner’s rude little home, where lay my prospective patient.

Toppy was notoriously careless in his personal grooming, but the little half-breed had evidently inspired a coat of whitewash for the cabin, that endured longer than the sentiment with which its owner had inspired that swarthy little traitress. Possibly that gleaming white cabin was her monument—who knows? The river ran dangerously and temptingly near, considering how short a time it takes to fall a few hundred feet down a steep and rocky hillside, and rumor whispered that Pepita—well, no one knew where she was, and women were not so plentiful in the Tuolumne valley that hiding was easy.

But the Tuolumne kept its secret well, if secret there was. Its quick-sands told no tales. They could hide the precious gold of the river bottom; why not a mouldering skeleton?

On entering Toppy’s cabin, completely winded after my climb up the hill that constituted his front yard, I found my new patient lying on a cot in the middle of the room. He turned inquiringly toward the door as his host and I entered, and what was my amazement to see reflected in the dim light of the candle with which the cabin was illuminated, the features of the handsome unknown of the San Francisco gambling-house, whose adventure with the unfortunate young southerner I have already related. The recognition was evidently mutual, but I fancied that my patient looked at me with an expression slightly suggestive of annoyance.

Toppy’s introduction was laconic, and as characteristic as was he himself:

“Doc, this is Jim—Jim, this yer’s Doc Weymouth, an’ he’s all right, y’u bet, ’specially on bullets an’ sich things.”

I was used to California customs, hence the cognomen, “Jim” was sufficiently comprehensive and perfectly satisfactory to me, and after the brief introduction that my miner friend gave me, I proceeded to investigate the case.

As Toppy had already informed me of the circumstances that led to the reception of my patient’s wound, I made no inquiry in that direction. I found also, that Toppy was correct as to the location of the injury—as he had said, the ball had entered his friend’s thigh.

The wound had been inflicted several days before I saw my patient, and would probably have healed promptly enough if it had not been for the weary ride he had taken immediately after the shooting—-he had come to Jacksonville on horse back. The result of the necessary movement in the saddle, together with the hot sun and dust of the roads, had been to produce considerable inflammation of the injured part. I presume that nowadays the surgeon would seek for no other cause than germ infection for such a condition as followed the wound which my patient had received—but at that time things were different; the various sources of irritation to which he had been exposed were a reasonable explanation of the state in which I found his wound.

The wound was merely muscular, neither important vessels nor bone having been injured, and, much to my gratification, I almost immediately succeeded in finding and extracting the ball.

Jim, as I will now call him, stood my manipulations and the cutting necessary for the extraction of the bullet without the slightest indication that such operations were not an every-day experience with him. This was not without its effect upon Toppy, who looked upon his heroic friend with all the pride and tenderness imaginable.

When I was first introduced to the wounded man, he had merely nodded his head in greeting. He did not speak thereafter, until I had finished dressing the wound, Toppy meanwhile answering all necessary questions. It seemed to me, also, that my patient rather avoided scrutiny of his countenance. He either averted his face or shaded it with his hand, under the pretense that the flickering light of the candle which Toppy held for me affected his eyes, during the entire time of my surgical attention.

I gave this circumstance hardly a second thought; nothing seemed more natural than that my patient should desire to conceal any little involuntary expression of suffering that might have disturbed his features during my exceedingly painful manipulations. I was struck, however, by his conduct as I was preparing to leave.

“Doctor,” he said, “I am very sorry that my old friend, Toppy, insisted upon calling you to-night. I could have stood the racket till morning, and your rest was much more important than my worthless existence. I appreciate your kindness, sir, and wish that I could reciprocate in some more fitting manner than by mere financial compensation. However that’s the best I can do now;” saying which, my patient reached beneath the rude mattress upon which he was lying, drew out a bag of gold, and without further ceremony handed it to me.

“I wish it might have been more, doctor,” said Jim, “but I came away from ’Frisco in a deuce of a hurry, and without heeling myself properly. However, I have divided evenly with you, and I believe such a rate of compensation is usually considered fair by professional men,” and he smiled somewhat mischievously, his black eyes twinkling with humor.

My heart warmed toward my patient, I knew not why. It certainly was not because of his liberality, for that was common enough in that rude mining town, where the people were so crude as to believe that a physician’s services should be liberally compensated. I kept no books in those days, my patients were so wild and uncivilized that I did not find it necessary.

“I will see you again to-morrow, sir,” I said, as I nodded in recognition of the liberal fee that my interesting patient had given me, and extended my hand to bid him good-morning—for it was then long past midnight. “Oh, no,” replied Jim, hastily, “it will probably not be necessary, and my friend, Toppy, here, who is an exceptionally good nurse, can give me all the attention I require. Be assured, sir, that you shall be called in again if anything unfavorable arises. There’s something healing in the California air. The bullet is out and as I can rest quietly in Toppy’s cabin, there will be no further trouble, I am sure. I have been there before, Doctor,” and he smiled grimly.

“Very well then,” I said, “if you insist on assuming the responsibility of your own case, I suppose I have no right to protest. Remember your promise, however, and call me at the slightest intimation of trouble. I will learn how you are, from time to time, through Toppy, and if I should at any time hear an unfavorable report, I might be discourteous enough to call without an invitation.”

“I think we understand each other, Doctor,” replied Jim, “and now I believe I’ll take a nap; sleep has been a scarce commodity with me for a few days past.”

As I left the cabin I could not rid myself of the impression that there was something strangely familiar about my patient. My first acquaintance with him was certainly the night of the affair at the Palace in San Francisco, and yet, he impressed me differently from what might have been expected in meeting an entire stranger. I had an ill defined impression that Jim had been a factor in my life before. But when, and where? My mind was a blank upon this point, nor was I likely to become enlightened, considering the lack of encouragement with which inquiries into the personal histories of the early California citizen were usually met.

When we arrived at the bank of the river on our return to the town, Toppy safely secured his little boat to the overhanging willows and insisted on escorting me back to the hotel. Although this was unnecessary, I was very glad to have the kind-hearted fellow’s company, the more especially as I desired to learn something of my new and interesting patient.

Arriving at the Tuolumne House, I said—“Toppy, you have furnished me the opportunity of losing my sleep, and I propose to get even. It is almost daylight, and we may as well make a full night of it. I want to know more of your friend Jim. I don’t know why, but he greatly interests me. Not but that I am always interested in my patients, but my feeling toward your friend is rather a peculiar one. Suppose we find a quiet seat somewhere and talk a little about him?”

Toppy acquiesced, and having declined the cigar I proffered him, in favor of a stubby black pipe that he produced and lighted, we seated ourselves upon an old stump, a little way from the hotel.

“Well, Doc, I don’t s’pose it’s ness’ary fer me ter tell y’u that Jim’s my best friend. He’s the best I ever hed, since—well, since I come from the States. I’ve got good reasons fer likin’ him, ez you’ll obsarve.

“I fust met Jim at Angel’s Camp, about three years ago. I was prospectin’ round in Calaveras county, an’ used ter make my headquarters at Angel’s.

“I used ter booze a lot in them days—mor’n I do now, Doc. I guess my hide was stretchier then, an’ used ter hold more. I was allus a leetle bit excitable when I was drunk, an’ everlastin’ly gittin’ inter trouble. That’s how I fell in with Jim.

“I happened to be raisin’ partickler h—l round town one night, an’ drifted inter Ned Griffiths place. I’d been thar lots uv times, an’ ez everybody in Angel’s knowed me, an’ I was purty poplar, I’d never hed no trouble, till this night I’m tellin’ y’u about.

“It jest happened that a crowd uv fellers hed come down from Murphy’s camp ter have a little fun on ther own account, an’ it was jes’ my d—d luck ter run agin the gang ’bout the time they was beginnin’ ter feel ther oats purty lively, an’ of course, I hed ter git into a muss with ’em.

“Ez I didn’t hev no friends in the place at the time, an’ folks don’t mix in other fellers’ rows much in the diggin’s, I was buckin’ agin a dead tough game. Ez luck’d hev it, I happened ter git mixed up with the toughest cuss in the crowd—Three Fingered Jack, a feller what’ll ornyment a tree yit, y’u see if he don’t!B

B And ornament the gallows tree he did, several years later. Author.

“I got my gun out, all right, but the d—d thing was outer fix, an’ if it hadn’t been, I was too bilin’ drunk ter hit a cow at three paces.

“Well, Jack jest played with me with his knife, kinder carvin’ me up on the installment plan, ye know. He’d socked a few purty good sized holes inter my ole carkiss, an’ was gittin’ ready ter finish up the job in good shape, when Jim come in an’ took a han’ in the game with his own little bowie.

“I was too full er booze ter ’preciate the show, but they do say ez how Jim did a purty neat job. Jack got well arter a while, but he didn’t act very sosherble with the folks at Angel’s enny more.”

“When I found out how Jim had saved my life, y’u kin bet I didn’t lose no time a looking him up an’ squarin’ myself. I’d heard er Jim afore, an’ I knowed he was a gambler by perfession, but he played a game that night, that made a big winnin’ fer yores trooly, an’ I’ve jest bin layin’ fer a chance ter do him a good turn ever since. He may be a gambler, but he plays a squar’ game—an’ poker at that—that’s why they call him ‘Poker Jim.’ He’s a gentleman born an’ bred, that’s dead sartin, an’ he’s got more eddication an’ squar’ness than a hull lot er people whut never gambled in ther lives. When Poker Jim makes a promise, it’s kept. If he shud borrer a thousan’ dollars uv me—an’ he could hev it too, if I hed it, you bet! an’ he shud say, ‘Lookee hyar, Toppy, I’ll give this back to yer nex’ Monday et five o’clock,’ an’ he wasn’t on han’ with the stuff, w’y, then I’d know that suthin had happened to him. Poker Jim’ll keep enny promise that he makes, if he’s alive when the time fer squar’in things comes.”

“You have excellent reasons for loyalty to your friend Jim,” I said. “He certainly deserves your friendship and respect, no matter what his occupation may be. I have met him before, and under circumstances that proved him to be a truly noble character. But tell me, Toppy, how does it happen that you and Jim drifted apart?”

“Well, ye see, Doc, ’twas this way. The folks up at Angel’s got so virtoous arter a while, that gamblers was too rich fer ’em, an’ they ordered all the gams ter vamoose. Jim got ketched in the round-up ’long with the rest, an’ hed ter git out ’twixt the light uv two days. He couldn’t lick ’em all, less’n they’d come on one at a time, so he jest played git up an’ git with t’other sports. He went to Frisco ter play higher stakes than Angel’s Camp could put up, an’ I came down hyar. Ye see, I wasn’t none too pop’lar, on account er standin’ up fer Jim, an’ ez I don’t gin’rally fergit ter say my say, I got inter a little argyment with one uv the prominent citizens uv Angel’s one day. I was sober on that erkasyun an’, well—I come down ter Jacksonville fer my health. I writ ter Jim ez soon ez I got hyar, an’ told him whar I was, an’ ez soon ez he got inter trouble he knowed whar ter find a fren’ whut’ll stan’ by him ez long ez ther’s a shot in ther locker—savvy?”

“Well,” I said, “Poker Jim will soon be able to take care of himself again, and I hope he will not experience any annoyance from his recent duelling experience. He certainly is possessed of great courage, and I should dislike to see his bravery get him into further trouble.”

“Y’u kin jest bet Jim’s got sand! Y’u air all right on that pint, Doc. Thar ain’t no braver man livin’. D’ye know whut I seed him do one night up ter Sonora? Well, thar was eight of us fellers went up thar ter a fandango, an’ Jim went along ter kinder give the thing a little tone, ye know.

“‘Mericans aint none too pop’lar with the greasers nohow, ’cept with their women folks, an’ them fellers up thar was jes’ bilin’, when they seed us come inter ther ole fandango. When we got ter cuttin’ ’em out with their black eyed senoritas, they was ugly enough ter slit our throats, en it was jest our blind luck that fin’ly kep’ ’em from doin’ it.

“Jim don’t often drink enny licker, but he was a feelin’ purty good that night, an’ jest spilin’ fer a row with the d—d greasers. Things was goin’ too slow fer him, so he takes a piece er chalk, goes out inter the middle of the hall an’ draws a great big ’Merican eagle on the floor. Then he pulled his gun an’ called for some d—d greaser ter step on the bird! We seed he was in for it, an’ gathered ’round him ready fer the music ter begin. Each side was waitin’ fer t’other ter open the ball, when the feller what run the hall blowed the lights out. We grabbed Jim an’ hustled him out, an’ made him take leg bail ’long with the rest uv us. He wanted ter go back, but we wouldn’t hev it—the game was jest a little too stiff fer us, y’u bet! Oh, yes, Poker Jim is dead game, all right.

“An’ now, Doc, I’m goin’ ter tell ye suthin’ on the dead quiet. Jim’s got a wife an’ child down in Frisco. He married a little Spanish gal about two years ago, an’ she was a bute, I kin tell ye! They’ve got a little baby a year ole, an’ Jim’s the proudes’ feller y’u ever seed. Ez soon ez that Frisco scrape is through with, he’s goin’ ter send fer his family, an’ I’m goin’ ter quit my cabin an’ let Jim an’ his folks hev it. My place is kinder outer the way an’ private like, an’ that’ll jest suit Jim.”

“Well, Toppy,” I said, “I am more interested in your friend than ever, and I hope that you may soon consummate your plans to domicile him and his family among us.”

Day was now breaking, and the voice of the devout Dave Smuggins could be heard ringing through the halls and vibrating the very roof of the hotel, as he hoarsely shouted his pious appeal to the slumbering boarders.

Toppy accompanied me to the hotel bar and joined me in an “eye-opener,” after which he bade me good morning and returned home, while I prepared to do full justice to Keyse’s immortal flapjacks.

* * * * *

As Toppy had planned, Poker Jim subsequently became a citizen of Jacksonville. Advices from San Francisco showed the excitement caused by the duel to be practically over after a few weeks, and, his wound having healed, my patient quietly installed himself among the sporting element of our population, resuming the occupation that had earned for him the sobriquet of “Poker Jim.”

The inhabitants of Jacksonville had often heard of the cool, quiet gentleman who had called down and cut up Three Fingered Jack. Many of his fellow townsmen knew him personally. No questions were asked therefore, when Poker Jim quietly and unostentatiously identified himself with our thriving town. Nor did the citizens become more inquisitive, when, a short time afterward, Jim’s family arrived and took possession of Toppy’s cabin. A few curious looks were bestowed on Toppy, when it was learned that he had given up his cabin to the gambler and his family and had taken quarters at the Tuolumne House. Curiosity being at a discount in our little burg, however, and Toppy being inclined to keep his own counsel, there was no disposition to press matters to the point of disturbing his serenity.

The same conservative tendency with which the towns-people regarded the arrangement between Toppy and his friend Jim, also protected the family of the latter from intrusion. Jim never alluded to his domestic affairs, and, as Toppy did all of the necessary chores and errands for his friend’s family, the personnel of the latter was entirely a matter of speculation.

Despite the social prejudice which even a mining town entertains against the professional gambler, however leniently his occupation may be regarded, Poker Jim became very popular. His squareness and undisputed courage, associated with his quiet, unobtrusive demeanor and the never-failing accuracy with which he handled his revolver, gained for him an esteem which, if it was not respect, had about the same market value as that sentimental commodity.

Jim’s field of operation was necessarily such that I did not often come in contact with him. I had endeavored to cultivate him at first, but he seemed to be decidedly averse to continuing my acquaintance and even appeared to avoid me, much to my bewilderment. I often wondered why he should have conducted himself so strangely, and also why his appearance and ways seemed so familiar. I sometimes wished I might have the opportunity of conversing with him, but he so persistently avoided me that I finally gave up all hope of ever learning more about him.

Time passed quickly in Jacksonville, and in the pressure of work that was forced upon me by numerous cases of rheumatism and other effects of exposure during the stormy weather of the winter season, I found plenty to occupy my attention, hence I heard very little of the affairs of our people at large, for some time. I was therefore quite surprised one evening to find that my fellow citizens were in a state of rather pronounced excitement, and, incidentally, greatly concerned about the moral status of our community.

It seemed that a wave of moral purification had been gradually passing through the mining region from one town and camp to another and the fever of moral reaction had finally struck Jacksonville.

At a more or less informal meeting held at the Tuolumne House, at which Tennessee Dick presided with more enthusiasm than knowledge of parliamentary law, it was finally decided that the gambling element of Jacksonville was a superfluous and dangerous quantity in the body social, and must therefore be removed—and that quickly. With the gambling fraternity there was included in a sweepingly condemnatory resolution, certain other unwholesome elements in our primitive social system—of the feminine persuasion. It was noticeable that those of our citizens whose losses at the gambling table were largest and most recent, or whose morals in other directions were least worthy of commendation, were the noisiest champions of social reform. As is usually the case with meetings where the dominant impulse is to pretend a virtue though one has it not, the party of reform—and noise—carried the day.

The meeting was well timed, for the only man who might have interposed an objection to the sweeping tone of the final resolution was absent from town—Toppy had been in Stockton for several weeks. Poor fellow! He remained in blissful ignorance of the social revolution that menaced the safety of Poker Jim, until long after it was too late to defend his friend—in this world at least.

Public opinion developed into concerted popular action very quickly in California mining towns, and by the following morning, due notice had been served on every individual who was in any way identified with the undesirable element of the population, to leave town within twenty-four hours.

Most of the persons who were ordered to move on, had been in similar straits before, and were constantly on the qui vive of expectation of some such emergency. As practice makes perfect, and delay is not healthful after one has been told to leave a mining town for the good of its morals, the majority of the tabooed ones took time by the forelock and decamped early. Indeed, by nightfall, everybody who had been given the ultimatum by the citizens, had departed—with one exception.

* * * * *

It was nearly midnight of the day of the exodus. A large party of our citizens were congregated in the bar-room of the Tuolumne House, discussing the important event that had so effectually cleared the moral atmosphere of our town. The subtle essence of sanctity apparently had already pervaded our social fabric.

Mutual congratulations had been in order for some time, and the resultant libations had considerably disturbed the equilibrium of the crowd. Each man, however, felt that he was a thoroughly good fellow, and that everybody else present was pretty good. There was not a man in the crowd who did not feel that he was a modern Hercules, jubilating after the successful accomplishment of a task beside which his ancient prototype’s experience as chambermaid in the Augean Stables, was but a trifling thing indeed. Commingled with the self-congratulations of these moral reformers, were boastful remarks expressive of the awful things the speakers would have done, had not the persons who had contaminated the very air of our little burg, opportunely left in good season after having received their “notice to quit.”

The proceedings of the extempore mutual-admiration society-of-social-purists were at their height, and our citizens were fast becoming inflated to a superlative degree, when a step was heard on the hotel porch, the door opened, and there on the threshold, with a smile of mocking gravity upon his handsome face, stood—Poker Jim!

He had evidently been riding hard, for his boots and clothing were covered with the red dust of the Tuolumne roads, and his long curly hair was in a condition of dusty confusion that was totally unlike his usual immaculateness.

The sudden quiet that fell upon the noisy crowd was something phenomenal, and as a disinterested observer I was duly impressed by it. My fellow townsmen were not cowards, but they were now face to face with a quality of bravery which was more than physical indifference to danger. Poker Jim was a man whose presence conveyed the impression of great intellectual and moral power—and it was not without pronounced effect upon those rude miners.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Jim, blandly, “I hope I’m not intruding on this scene of festivity and rejoicing”—and he looked about him somewhat sarcastically. “As you do not seem at all disturbed by my presence,” he continued, “I conclude that my company is at least unobjectionable, and with your permission I will join your party,” and Jim strode up to the Bar, his huge spurs clinking a merry defiance as he walked.

“You see, gentlemen,” he continued, “I have a very important engagement which will temporarily necessitate my absence from town, and as I start early in the morning, I thought I would drop in and bid my fellow citizens good bye. It will save you the trouble of sending a committee to see me off—I prefer that you should not give yourselves any trouble on my account. Should you, however, appoint a committee to escort me back to town again, I shall not object. Indeed, I should feel obliged to you if you would turn out en masse and greet me with a brass band. And, now, fellow townsmen, friends and former patrons, have a parting drink with me. I see your hand but cannot call you.”

Whether it was because liquor was just then en rÉgle, the spontaneous revival of Jim’s popularity, or his cool, sarcastic assurance, is an open question, but the crowd fell to with a will, and everybody, with the exception of one man, drank with him. For the moment it seemed as though our citizens had forgotten that Jim was under the ban.

Among the party which had been celebrating the reform movement of our enterprising town, was a fellow by the name of Jeff Hosking, a comparatively recent addition to our population, who hailed from Murphy’s Camp. Whether Hosking had an old time grudge to settle with Poker Jim, no one ever knew, but it was afterward rumored that a feud of long standing had existed between them.

From whatever cause, however, the gentleman from Calaveras remained conspicuously apart from his sociable companions, insolently shaking his head in refusal of Jim’s proffered hospitality. To accentuate his discourtesy—for such conduct was considered the acme of rudeness in our little community—he smiled in a manner that was an unpleasant combination of superciliousness and contempt.

The assembled company looked at Jeff in open mouthed astonishment for a few seconds, but Jim affected not to notice the implied insult, much to the bewilderment of the rest of the party.

The situation was, to say the least, embarrassing, and Dixie, with a pardonable desire to smooth things over, said—

“Well, Jeff, what’s the matter; hev y’u lost yer appetite fer licker?”

“No sirree, Mister Dixie!” replied Hosking, “but I ain’t drinkin’ with no gamblers jest now, ’specially them that ain’t on the squar’, an’ some folks that I knows of, hain’t improved much since they was chased outer Murphy’s.”

“Drink your liquor, gentlemen,” said Jim, quietly, “and then we will investigate this very interesting affair!”

The liquor having been disposed of, Jim lounged leisurely toward his insulter, looked him steadily in the eye for a moment and then said—

“And some people’s manners have not greatly improved since they left Murphy’s. As for my squareness, that’s a matter for argument, but one which you are hardly competent to pass an opinion upon, unless you have changed greatly in the last few years. Now, Mr. Hosking, I’m going to tell you something that may interest you.

“At nine o’clock this morning, I was notified to change my location within twenty-four hours. I propose to get away from town as quietly and pleasantly as possible. Let me inform you, however, that until nine o’clock to-morrow morning, I am a citizen of Jacksonville, and shall stand for my rights and self-respect accordingly.”

“THERE WAS A SHORT, SHARP STRUGGLE, A HARMLESS SHOT, AND JIM’S INSULTER WAS LYING ON THE FLOOR WITH A CLEAN CUT IN HIS CHEST”

Emboldened by Jim’s apparent indisposition to begin a row, and, like all bullies, mistaking conservatism for cowardice, Hosking replied:

“Y’u make a mighty purty speech, mister man, but y’u aint on the squar’ jest the same, an’ I—”

We never knew what Hosking was going to say; his mouth was slapped so quickly that his intentions became a matter for conjecture.

It was impossible to see exactly what happened next—the two men sprang at each other so fiercely. There was a short, sharp struggle, a shot from Hosking’s revolver, that sped harmlessly over the heads of the crowd, lodging in the wall, and Jim, bowie in hand, was bounding toward the open door, leaving his insulter lying upon the floor with a clean cut in his chest through which his life was ebbing away as fast as the escaping blood could carry it!

As Jim ran, some one in the crowd fired a shot after him. Everybody rushed to the door, but he was in the saddle and away, amid a shower of pistol balls, which, much to my relief, apparently flew wide of their mark.

I was so interested in the safety of the fugitive that I forgot poor Jeff, and, with a pang of remorse, I hastened back to his side, only to find that Poker Jim’s work had been too skillful for any surgeon to undo. The man was dead!

* * * * *

With the killing of Hosking, well deserved though it may have been, Poker Jim’s popularity was a thing of the past. While under the ban of public sentiment, he had killed a reputable citizen of Jacksonville in a quarrel—he was now an outlaw, upon whose head a price was set. But he was not to be caught.

No one supposed that Jim would be mad enough to venture near his cabin, even to see his wife and child, yet the citizens set a watch over the place as a matter of ordinary precaution, and for the purpose of learning her destination whenever his wife should undertake to follow and join her husband. I, meanwhile, saw that Jim’s family wanted for nothing, a duty in which the sentiment of the town duly supported me, for, rude as they were, our people were tender-hearted to a fault. With uncouth yet delicate discernment the boys kept away from the little cabin, hence no visitor but myself ever crossed the threshold.

Toppy’s description of Jim’s wife had not been overdrawn—she was indeed beautiful, and as charming a woman as I ever met. She was plucky too—she was apparently not at all uneasy about her husband, and seemed to have perfect confidence in his ability to take care of himself. The child, a boy, resembled his father, and was such a sweet, pretty little fellow that I fell quite in love with him. The little one vaguely recalled to my mind a little curly-headed boy baby that I used to tote about when I was a lad, and who, I thought, was the cutest little brother that a boy ever had. I resolved that Jim’s family should not want a friend as long as I could care for them. Toppy’s loyalty I well knew, and I was therefore sure of being ably seconded on his return from Stockton.

But our towns-people were soon to have more important matters to think about than the capture of Poker Jim.

* * * * *

The latter part of the winter of 1860, and the early spring of 1861, will never be forgotten by the inhabitants of the Tuolumne valley. I certainly have reason to remember it as long as I may live.

As I have already intimated, the spring freshets of the California valleys were a matter of yearly experience. The inhabitants had become accustomed to them and had usually been able to escape serious disaster, hence they had never quite realized what the elements could do at their worst.

The winter had been a hard one; there had been an excessive rainfall, and reports from the mountain towns showed a greater amount of snow than had ever before been experienced in that region. When the mountain snows began to melt, therefore, and the terrific storms characteristic of the breaking up of the winter season came on, an enormous volume of water began pouring down into the valleys, which was as alarming as it was unprecedented.

We had heard vague rumors of serious trouble in the valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin, and, as the Tuolumne had risen to a point hitherto unheard of, the oldest settlers became somewhat uneasy.

Fearing lest the Tuolumne—which was fast becoming a raging torrent—might eventually become impassable, I saw that “Mrs. Jim,” as I used to call her, was well supplied with necessaries. I knew that the water rise would be of short duration—for so tradition had it—hence I was not uneasy about my interesting charges.

The river had finally risen to a point nearly two feet beyond the highest water mark ever known; it then began to subside and we felt much easier—the end was apparently in sight. But we deceived ourselves most thoroughly.

The people of Jacksonville, congratulating themselves on the beginning of the end of the greatest freshet in their experience, retired one night to sleep in fancied security, only to be rudely awakened the following morning by the surging of the waters of the Tuolumne against the very beds on which they slept. The water was seeking its revenge—a revenge that was soon to be fully accomplished.

Within twenty-four hours there was but one safe point in the entire town—the high ground upon which stood the Tuolumne House. Practically every other building in town, save one, was washed away. One sturdy miner upon whom fortune had smiled, had built himself a pretty little cottage, which he determined to save. He passed a cable through a door and a window at the corner of the house, and guyed it to a huge tree upon a hill opposite. The cottage swung about at the end of the rope until the waters subsided, when the triumphant miner anchored it in a new location, this time on higher ground—the original site of his home having gently slipped into the river. But Nelson was an exception; his brother miners were not so fortunate.

The hotel was full to overflowing and tents were at a premium. Mining was a forgotten industry. The chief occupation of the citizens was counting noses to see who was missing, and fishing up such articles of value as they could from amid the debris of the flood. For entertainment they counted the buildings and studied the wreckage that the waters brought down from the towns and camps higher up the valley. An occasional corpse was seen floating along among the flotsam and jetsam carried past by the raging river—a ghastly reminder of the seriousness of the situation.

Almost directly opposite the Tuolumne House was a dam in the river. There were times during the dry season when the Tuolumne was so low that one could walk across via this dam. Now, however, it was a veritable Niagara. It was interesting, as well as harrowing, to watch the destruction of the buildings as they toppled over the brink and broke up. Occasionally a house, larger than the rest, would lodge at the dam for some time before going over. At one point quite a mass of debris had collected and bade fair to remain indefinitely blocked up against a projecting part of the dam.

Just beyond the further end of the dam I could see Toppy’s little cabin, gleaming white and clearly cut against the dark green background of the hillside whereon it stood, far out of the way of all possible danger from the rising waters.

A group of our citizens was standing on safe ground near the hotel, quietly discussing the apparently hopeless misery and total destruction that had befallen our industrious little town, when our attention was attracted by a house, larger than any we had yet seen, which came drifting rapidly down the stream in full view.

As the house came nearer, Dixie called out—“By G—d, boys! thar’s a man in the winder!”

And so there was, and a badly frightened one at that! As he came well within sight, he could be seen waving a garment of some kind in wild and emphatic signals of distress. His voice could soon be heard, calling for assistance in a series of wild yells that would have done credit to an Indian war-dance.

There was great excitement among my fellow citizens for a few moments, and groans of despair at our inability to rescue the stranger were plentiful, when suddenly some one in the crowd yelled—

“Oh, h—l! It’s a d—d Chinaman, ez sure ez shootin’!”

And so it proved to be.

I trust that the philanthropy of my fellow townsmen will not be underestimated, if I frankly state that an unmistakable sigh of relief went up from the crowd when it was discovered that the poor devil whose fate it had just been bewailing, was a despised Mongolian.

The nationality of the hapless passenger in the floating house and the hopelessness of an attempt at rescue, even, if our citizens had been so disposed, served to silence the spectators of the Chinaman’s fate. In justice to my old friends, I will state that I have never doubted that an effort to save the luckless Mongolian would have been made, had any means of rescue been at hand. Not a boat was left in town, and even had there been a hundred at our disposal, it looked like certain death to attempt to traverse the terrific torrent that confronted us.

The Chinaman was apparently clearly doomed, and the end was only a question of minutes, a fact which the poor fellow himself appreciated even more keenly than we did, as was shown by the renewed vigor of his frantic cries for assistance, as he caught sight of the dam that his strange craft was so rapidly nearing.

But, as Big Brown was wont to say, “Nobody hez sich good luck ez er fool, ’ceptin’ a d—d Chinaman.” The house in which the luckless voyager was making his unwilling and terrible journey, caught upon the debris that had accumulated near the center of the dam! Here it remained poised for an instant, almost upon the very verge of destruction, then swinging squarely about in the rushing current, it lodged broad-side to, in such a manner that it came to a full stop and remained motionless.

The unfortunate Chinaman now redoubled his cries for assistance, and the crowd, in silent awe, awaited the giving way of the temporary obstruction and the inevitable destruction of the house and its unhappy tenant.

A moment later, a man was seen to emerge from the scrub pines near the water’s edge upon the opposite side of the river, some distance below Toppy’s cabin. He was dragging a small boat, that had evidently been concealed among the trees.

The man pushed his little craft into the swift running water, sprang in, and pulled boldly away from the bank! As he did so, he stood upright for a moment and turned his features squarely toward us. Even at that distance there was no mistaking that magnificent physique and fearless bearing!

“It’s Poker Jim, by G—d!” cried a number of men simultaneously. Almost automatically, several among the crowd drew their pistols and fired at the far-distant figure—a useless feat of bravery, as their target was probably beyond rifle-shot, to say nothing of trying to hit a man at that distance with a six-shooter.

“Hold on, boys!” cried Big Brown, in astonishment. “If he aint goin’ arter that d—d Chinaman I’ll eat my hat! Well, I’ll be kerflummuxed! If that don’t beat h—l!”

If there was anything the early settlers of the diggings worshipped, it was reckless, fool-hardy bravery. From that moment Jim was a hero, a Bayard, sans peur et sans reproche, before whose chivalry every man who saw his courageous act was ready to bow down to the very earth.

The crowd silently watched Jim for a moment, and then broke out in a chorus of “bravos!” and hand clappings which, although they impressed the object of their admiration not at all—even if he noticed them, which is doubtful—expressed in unmistakable language a sudden change in the sentiment of our towns-people toward him whom they had so recently outlawed.

The first burst of applause over with, we watched the brave fellow in almost breathless anxiety, as he skilfully directed his little boat toward the house, the Chinaman meanwhile having stopped his yelling for the moment, in anticipation of the approach of his rescuer.

Whether Jim had intended to bring up against the side of the house that lay up-stream, as seemed wisest, would be difficult to say; if such was his intention however, he certainly miscalculated, for his boat disappeared behind the end of the house which was farthest away from us.

The rest of the tragedy we could not see, for we had hardly lost sight of Jim before the obstructing debris gave way and the house shot over the dam, sweeping everything before it!

So died a hero!

A searching party went out a short time afterward, and, at great risk, found and secured the body of Poker Jim, battered and bruised, but still classically handsome and debonair, even in death. As the boys were sorrowfully returning to town with the body of the man whom a few hours before they had tried to kill, they spied upon a mass of wreckage that had lodged in a partially submerged tree-top a few feet from shore, a badly frightened but still yelling individual, at the sight of whom Big Brown almost collapsed.

It was the Chinaman!

* * * * *

Early the next morning, a cortÉge composed of every citizen who was able to walk, climbed slowly and sorrowfully up the road leading to the little cemetery, just back of town. At the head of the solemn procession were six stout miners, hat in hand, bearing upon a rude stretcher the body of Poker Jim. Just behind the body, another party was carrying a rough coffin, composed of pieces of wreckage, hastily thrown together.

By no means the least sorrowful feature of the funeral was the fact that we had no means of communication with the dead man’s wife, nor did we indeed, even know whether or not she had witnessed his death.

The cemetery reached, and the body having been laid in the clumsy coffin beside the grave which the kind-hearted miners had already dug, there was an embarrassing pause—

I had been asked to say a few words, in lieu of a clergyman, and had agreed to do so, on condition that some one else was selected to say something in behalf of the mining population proper. Dixie was selected to coÖperate with me, but was evidently waiting for me to give him his cue, so I was obliged to open the services as well as I could.

I was so overcome with emotion that I could hardly find voice to say a word. I finally managed, however, to give a brief eulogy of the dead man, revolving chiefly around the incident that happened in the San Francisco gambling-house on the occasion when I met Jim for the first time. My remarks were received with a running fire of muttered eulogies of the deceased hero, which were as sincere as they were inelegant.

Dixie now mustered up the necessary courage, mounted a stump and began:

“Feller citizens, we air hyar ter do a solemn dooty. One uv our most prom’nent an’ respected citizens is a lyin’ hyar dead, an’ we, ez his fren’s, air hyar ter give him a good send off. Poker Jim hez passed in his checks; he hez cashed in fer the las’ time, an’ thar aint nobody hyar whut’ll say that his last deal wasn’t a squar one. Sum mout say ez how Jim was a d—d fool, ter play agin sich a dead open-an’-shut game, with a d—d Chinaman fer stakes, but, my feller citizens, Jim cut the cards on the squar’, an’ he died ez squar’ ez enny man that ever stepped in shoe leather.

“An’ Jim died game, an’ with his boots on. He wasn’t no white-livered coyote, Jim wasn’t. Ef thar was enny yaller streaks in him, w’y nobody ever knowed it. He wuz a sandy man frum way up the creek, y’u bet! He wuz a dead-game cock fer fair.

“I wish we knowed whut Jim’s States’ name was, but thar aint nobody hyar ter tell us, an’ ez we hev allus knowed him as Poker Jim, w’y that’s the name we’ll bury him by. It was good ’nuff fer him, livin’, an’ it’s good ’nuff fer us, now that he’s dead.

“I aint no speechifier, ez y’u all know, an’ Doc, hyar, hez done the hansum thing by Jim in that line, so I aint a goin’ ter spile a good thing, but I’m jes’ goin’ ter say one thing, an’ say it plain. We all made mistakes on the diseased. He mout hev been a gambler—I don’t say ez he wasn’t—but, my fren’s, Poker Jim was a gentleman, an’ he died like one, d—d ef he didn’t!” And Dixie looked about him defiantly, as though challenging dissent and stamping it as hazardous.

A white head-board, rather more pretentious than was the prevailing fashion in Jacksonville, was erected at Jim’s grave. I was consulted regarding an epitaph, but could find no fault with the rudely carved inscription suggested by Dixie—

“HERE LIES THE BODY
OF
POKER JIM—GENTLEMAN.”

A few days later, the flood had subsided sufficiently to warrant an attempt at crossing the river. Having succeeded in procuring a large boat from one of the neighboring towns, a party of us crossed over to Toppy’s cabin in quest of Jim’s family.

There had been no sign of life about the place since the day of Jim’s death, hence I was not surprised to find the cabin empty. Not a trace of the dead man’s wife or child could be found! Nor were they ever heard of again. Whether the poor little woman had witnessed the disaster that made her a widow, and the raging Tuolumne had received the sorrowing, despairing mother and her innocent child, we never knew. I have always entertained a vague hope that Jim had already conveyed them to a place of safety when he met his death.

As our party was searching the cabin for clews to the disappearance of Jim’s family, Big Brown found upon a shelf in the little cupboard where Toppy’s rather primitive supply of dishes was kept, a letter, carefully sealed, and addressed to me. He handed me the letter, and I fancied his voice trembled a little as he said—

“Well, Doc, Jim never forgot his fren’s. I don’t know what Toppy’ll say when he gits back ter town.”

“Poor Toppy,” I said, “It will grieve him sorely, when he learns that the gallant Jim is gone forever.”

The burly miner watched me curiously as I opened and read the letter. The expression of my face as I read must have startled him, for he grasped me by the arm and exclaimed, “What’s the matter, Doc; air y’u sick?” I handed him the letter and staggered to a chair.

Big Brown laboriously read the letter through to the end; When he came to the signature he put his huge hand gently on my shoulder and said:

“Doc, ye needn’t be ashamed uv relations like him, even if he was a gambler. Who was he, anyhow?”

And I was not ashamed as I answered—

“My brother—little Jim.”


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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