Stories by American Authors, Volume 6 by Various

V >> Various >> Stories by American Authors, Volume 6

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And then he paused to eat a few.

He was silent so long at this occupation that they all laughed.

"Well, well!" said he, laying down his fork, and smiling innocently;
"what be you all laughin' at? Not but what I allers like to hev folks
laugh--but then--I didn't see nothin' to laugh at. Still perhaps, they
was suthin' to laugh at that I didn't see; sometimes one man'll be
lookin' down into his plate, all taken up with his vittles, and others
that's lookin' around the room, may see the kittens frolickin', or some
such thing. 'Tain't the fust time I've known all hands to laugh all to
onct, when I didn't see nothin'."

Susan helped him again, and secured another brief respite.

"Ephraim," said he, after awhile, "you ain't skilled to cook oysters
like this, I don' believe. You ought to get married! I was sayin' to
Susan t'other day--well, now, mother, have I said an'thing out o' the
way?--well, I don' s'pose 'twas just my place to hev said an'thing about
gittin' married, to Ephraim, seein's--"

"Come, come, father," said Aunt Lyddy, "that'll do, now. You must let
Ephraim alone, and not joke him about such things."

Meanwhile Susan had hastily gone into the pantry to look for a pie,
which she seemed unable at once to find.

"Pie got adrift?" called out Joshua. "Seems to me you don' hook on to it
very quick. Now that looks good," he added, when she came out. "That
looks like cookin'! All I meant was, 't Ephraim ought not to be doin'
his own cookin'--that is--if you can call it cookin'--but then, of
course, 'tis cookin'--there's all kinds o' cookin'. I went cook myself,
when I was a boy."

After supper, Aunt Lyddy sat down to knit, and Joshua drew his chair up
to an open window, to smoke his pipe. In this vice Aunt Lyddy encouraged
him. The odor of Virginia tobacco was a sweet savor in her nostrils. No
breezes from Araby ever awoke more grateful feelings than did the
fragrance of Uncle Joshua's pipe. To Aunt Lyddy it meant quiet and
peace.

Susan and Eph sat down on the broad flag door-stone, and talked quietly
of the simple news of the neighborhood, and of the days when they used
to go to school, and come home, always together.

"I didn't much think, then," said Eph, "that I should ever bring up
where I have, and get ashore before I was fairly out to sea!"

"Jehiel's schooner got ashore on the bar, years ago," said Susan, "and
yet they towed her off, and I saw her this morning, from my chamber
window, before sunrise, all sail set, going by to the eastward."

"I know what you mean," said Eph. "But here--I got mad once, and I
almost had a right to, and I can't get started again; I never shall. I
can get a livin', of course; but I shall always be pointed out as a
jail-bird, and could no more get any footin' in the world than
Portuguese Jim."

Portuguese Jim was the sole professional criminal of the town, a weak,
good-natured, knock-kneed vagabond, who stole hens, and spent every
winter in the House of Correction as an "idle and disorderly person."

Susan laughed outright at the picture. Eph smiled, too, but a little
bitterly.

"I suppose it was more ugliness than anything else," he said, "that made
me come back here to live, where everybody knows I've been in jail and
is down on me."

"They are not down on you," said Susan. "Nobody is down on you. It's all
your own imagination. And if you had gone anywhere that you was a
stranger, you know that the first thing that you would have done would
have been to call a meetin' and tell all the people that you had burned
down a man's barn, and been in the State's-prison, and that you wanted
them all to know it at the start; and you wouldn't have told them why
you did it, and how young you was then, and how Eliphalet treated your
mother, and how you was going to pay him for all he lost. Here,
everybody knows that side of it. In fact," she added, with a little
twinkle in her eye, "I have sometimes had an idea that the main thing
they don't like is to see you savin' every cent to pay to Eliphalet."

"And yet it was on your say that I took up that plan," said Eph. "I
never thought of it till you asked me when I was goin' to begin to pay
him up."

"And you ought to," said Susan. "He has a right to the money--and then
you don't want to be under obligations to that man all your life. Now,
what you want to do is to cheer up and go around among folks. Why, now,
you're the only fish-buyer there is that the men don't watch when he's
weighin' their fish. You'll own up to that, for one thing, won't you?"

"Well, they are good fellows that bring fish to me," he said.

"They weren't good fellows when they traded at the great wharf," said
Susan. "They had a quarrel down there once a week, reg'larly."

"Well, suppose they do trust me in that," said Eph. "I can never rub out
that I've been in State's-prison."

"You don't want to rub it out. You can't rub anything out that's ever
been; but you can do better than rub it out."

"What do you mean?"

"Take things just the way they are," said Susan, "and show what can be
done. Perhaps you'll stake a new channel out, for others to follow in
that haven't half so much chance as you have. And that's what you will
do, too," she added.

"Susan!" he said, "if there's anything I can ever do, in this world or
the next, for you or your folks, that's all I ask for, the chance to do
it. Your folks and you shall never want for anything while I'm alive.

"There's one thing sure," he added, rising. "I'll live by myself and be
independent of everybody, and make my way all alone in the world; and if
I can make 'em all finally own up and admit that I'm honest with 'em,
I'm satisfied. That's all I'll ever ask of anybody. But there's one
thing that worries me sometimes--that is, whether I ought to come here
so often. I'm afraid, sometimes, that it'll hinder your father from
gettin' work, or--something--for you folks to be friends with me."

"I think such things take care of themselves," said Susan, quietly. "If
a chip won't float, let it sink."

"Good-night," said Eph, and he walked off, and went home to his echoing
house.

After that, his visits to Joshua's became less frequent.

* * * * *

It was a bright day in March--one of those which almost redeem the
reputation of that desperado of a month. Eph was leaning on his fence,
looking now down the bay and now to where the sun was sinking in the
marshes. He knew that all the other men had gone to the town-meeting,
where he had had no heart to intrude himself--that free democratic
parliament where he had often gone with his father in childhood; where
the boys, rejoicing in a general assembly of their own, had played ball
outside, while the men debated gravely within. He recalled the time when
he himself had so proudly given his first vote for President, and how
his father had introduced him then to friends from distant parts of the
town. He remembered how he had heard his father speak there, and how
respectfully everybody had listened to him. That was in the long ago,
when they had lived at the great farm. And then came the thought of the
mortgage, and of Eliphalet's foreclosure, and--

"Hallo, Eph!"

It was one of the men from whom he took fish--a plain-spoken, sincere
little man.

"Why wa'n't you down to town-meet'n'?"

"I was busy," said Eph.

"How'd ye like the news?"

"What news?"

There was never any good news for him now.

"Hain't heard who's selected town-clerk?"

"No."

Had they elected Eliphalet, and so expressed their settled distrust of
him, and sympathy for the man whom he had injured?

"Who's elected?" he asked, harshly.

"You be!" said the man; "went in flyin', all hands clappin' and stompin'
their feet!"

An hour later the doctor drove up, stopped, and walked toward the
kitchen door. As he passed the window, he looked in.

Eph was lying on his face, upon the settle, as he had first seen him
there, his arms beneath his head.

"I will not disturb him now," said the doctor.

* * * * *

One breezy afternoon, in the following summer, Captain Seth laid aside
his easy every-day clothes, and transformed himself into a stiff
broadcloth image, with a small silk hat and creaking boots. So attired,
he set out in a high open buggy, with his wife, also in black, but with
gold spectacles, to the funeral of an aunt. As they pursued their
jog-trot journey along the Salt Hay Road, and came to Ephraim Morse's
cottage, they saw Susan sitting in a shady little porch, at the front
door, shelling peas, and looking down the bay.

"How is everything, Susan?" called out Captain Seth; "'bout time for Eph
to be gitt'n' in?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding and smiling, and pointing with a pea-pod;
"that's our boat, just coming up to the wharf, with her peak down."

THE DENVER EXPRESS.

BY A.A. HAYES.

I.

Any one who has seen an outward-bound clipper ship getting under way and
heard the "shanty-songs" sung by the sailors as they toiled at capstan
and halliards, will probably remember that rhymeless but melodious
refrain--

"I'm bound to see its muddy waters
Yeo ho! that rolling river;
Bound to see its muddy waters
Yeo ho! the wild Missouri."

Only a happy inspiration could have impelled Jack to apply the adjective
"wild" to that ill-behaved and disreputable river, which, tipsily
bearing its enormous burden of mud from the far North-west, totters,
reels, runs its tortuous course for hundreds on hundreds of miles; and
which, encountering the lordly and thus far well-behaved Mississippi at
Alton, and forcing its company upon this splendid river (as if some
drunken fellow should lock arms with a dignified pedestrian),
contaminates it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

At a certain point on the banks of this river, or rather--as it has the
habit of abandoning and destroying said banks--at a safe distance
therefrom, there is a town from which a railroad takes its departure for
its long climb up the natural incline of the Great Plains, to the base
of the mountains; hence the importance to this town of the large but
somewhat shabby building serving as terminal station. In its smoky
interior, late in the evening and not very long ago, a train was nearly
ready to start. It was a train possessing a certain consideration. For
the benefit of a public easily gulled and enamored of grandiloquent
terms, it was advertised as the "Denver Fast Express;" sometimes, with
strange unfitness, as the "Lightning Express"; "elegant" and "palatial"
cars were declared to be included therein; and its departure was one of
the great events of the twenty-four hours, in the country round about. A
local poet described it in the "live" paper of the town, cribbing from
an old Eastern magazine and passing off as original, the lines--

"Again we stepped into the street,
A train came thundering by,
Drawn by the snorting iron steed
Swifter than eagles fly.

Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked,
Far rolled the smoky cloud,
Echoed the hills, the valleys shook,
The flying forests bowed."

The trainmen, on the other hand, used no fine phrases. They called it
simply "Number Seventeen"; and, when it started, said it had "pulled
out."

On the evening in question, there it stood, nearly ready. Just behind
the great hissing locomotive, with its parabolic headlight and its
coal-laden tender, came the baggage, mail, and express cars; then the
passenger coaches, in which the social condition of the occupants seemed
to be in inverse ratio to their distance from the engine. First came
emigrants, "honest miners," "cow-boys," and laborers; Irishmen, Germans,
Welshmen, Mennonites from Russia, quaint of garb and speech, and
Chinamen. Then came long cars full of people of better station, and last
the great Pullman "sleepers," in which the busy black porters were
making up the berths for well-to-do travellers of diverse nationalities
and occupations.

It was a curious study for a thoughtful observer, this motley crowd of
human beings sinking all differences of race, creed, and habits in the
common purpose to move Westward--to the mountain fastnesses, the
sage-brush deserts, the Golden Gate.

The warning bell had sounded, and the fireman leaned far out for the
signal. The gong struck sharply, the conductor shouted, "All aboard,"
and raised his hand; the tired ticket-seller shut his window, and the
train moved out of the station, gathered way as it cleared the outskirts
of the town, rounded a curve, entered on an absolutely straight line,
and, with one long whistle from the engine, settled down to its work.
Through the night hours it sped on, past lonely ranches and infrequent
stations, by and across shallow streams fringed with cottonwood trees,
over the greenish-yellow buffalo grass; near the old trail where many a
poor emigrant, many a bold frontiersman, many a brave soldier, had laid
his bones but a short time before.

Familiar as they may be, there is something strangely impressive about
all night journeys by rail; and those forming part of an American
transcontinental trip are almost weird. From the windows of a
night-express in Europe, or the older portions of the United States, one
looks on houses and lights, cultivated fields, fences, and hedges; and,
hurled as he may be through the darkness, he has a sense of
companionship and semi-security. Far different is it when the long train
is running over those two rails which, seen before night set in, seemed
to meet on the horizon. Within, all is as if between two great seaboard
cities; the neatly dressed people, the uniformed officials, the handsome
fittings, the various appliances for comfort. Without are now long,
dreary levels, now deep and wild canons, now an environment of strange
and grotesque rock-formations, castles, battlements, churches, statues.
The antelope fleetly runs, and the coyote skulks away from the track,
and the gray wolf howls afar off. It is for all the world, to one's
fancy, as if a bit of civilization, a family or community, its
belongings and surroundings complete, were flying through regions
barbarous and inhospitable.

From the cab of Engine No. 32, the driver of the Denver Express saw,
showing faintly in the early morning, the buildings grouped about the
little station ten miles ahead, where breakfast awaited his passengers.
He looked at his watch; he had just twenty minutes in which to run the
distance, as he had run it often before. Something, however, travelled
faster than he. From the smoky station out of which the train passed the
night before, along the slender wire stretched on rough poles at the
side of the track, a spark of that mysterious something which we call
electricity flashed at the moment he returned the watch to his pocket;
and in five minutes' time, the station-master came out on the platform,
a little more thoughtful than his wont, and looked eastward for the
smoke of the train. With but three of the passengers in that train has
this tale specially to do, and they were all in the new and comfortable
Pullman "City of Cheyenne." One was a tall, well-made man of about
thirty--blond, blue-eyed, bearded, straight, sinewy, alert. Of all in
the train he seemed the most thoroughly at home, and the respectful
greeting of the conductor, as he passed through the car, marked him as
an officer of the road. Such was he--Henry Sinclair, assistant engineer,
quite famed on the line, high in favor with the directors, and a rising
man in all ways. It was known on the road that he was expected in
Denver, and there were rumors that he was to organize the parties for
the survey of an important "extension." Beside him sat his pretty young
wife. She was a New Yorker--one could tell at first glance--from the
feather of her little bonnet, matching the gray travelling dress, to the
tips of her dainty boots; and one, too, at whom old Fifth Avenue
promenaders would have turned to look. She had a charming figure, brown
hair, hazel eyes, and an expression at once kind, intelligent, and
spirited. She had cheerfully left a luxurious home to follow the young
engineer's fortunes; and it was well known that those fortunes had been
materially advanced by her tact and cleverness.

The third passenger in question had just been in conversation with
Sinclair, and the latter was telling his wife of their curious meeting.
Entering the toilet-room at the rear of the car, he said, he had begun
his ablutions by the side of another man, and it was as they were
sluicing their faces with water that he heard the cry:

"Why, Major, is that you? Just to think of meeting you here!"

A man of about twenty-eight years of age, slight, muscular, wiry, had
seized his wet hand and was wringing it. He had black eyes, keen and
bright, swarthy complexion, black hair and mustache. A keen observer
might have seen about him some signs of a _jeunesse orageuse_, but his
manner was frank and pleasing. Sinclair looked him in the face, puzzled
for a moment.

"Don't you remember Foster?" asked the man.

"Of course I do," replied Sinclair. "For a moment I could not place you.
Where have you been and what have you been doing?"

"Oh," replied Foster, laughing, "I've braced up and turned over a new
leaf. I'm a respectable member of society, have a place in the express
company, and am going to Denver to take charge."

"I am very glad to hear it, and you must tell me your story when we have
had our breakfast."

The pretty young woman was just about to ask who Foster was, when the
speed of the train slackened, and the brakeman opened the door of the
car and cried out in stentorian tones:

"Pawnee Junction; twenty minutes for refreshments!"

* * * * *

II.

When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold excitement broke out, more than
twenty years ago, and people painted "PIKE'S PEAK OR BUST" on the
canvas covers of their wagons and started for the diggings, they
established a "trail" or "trace" leading in a south-westerly direction
from the old one to California.

At a certain point on this trail a frontiersman named Barker built a
forlorn ranch-house and _corral_, and offered what is conventionally
called "entertainment for man and beast."

For years he lived there, dividing his time between fighting the Indians
and feeding the passing emigrants and their stock. Then the first
railroad to Denver was built, taking another route from the Missouri,
and Barker's occupation was gone. He retired with his gains to St. Louis
and lived in comfort.

Years passed on, and the "extension" over which our train is to pass was
planned. The old pioneers were excellent natural engineers, and their
successors could find no better route than they had chosen. Thus it was
that "Barker's" became, during the construction period, an important
point, and the frontiersman's name came to figure on time-tables.
Meanwhile the place passed through a process of evolution which would
have delighted Darwin. In the party of engineers which first camped
there was Sinclair, and it was by his advice that the contractors
selected it for division headquarters. Then came drinking "saloons," and
gambling-houses--alike the inevitable concomitant and the bane of
Western settlements; then scattered houses and shops, and a shabby
so-called hotel, in which the letting of miserable rooms (divided from
each other by canvas partitions) was wholly subordinated to the business
of the bar. Before long, Barker's had acquired a worse reputation than
even other towns of its type, the abnormal and uncanny aggregations of
squalor and vice which dotted the plains in those days; and it was at
its worst when Sinclair returned thither and took up his quarters in the
engineers' building. The passion for gambling was raging, and to pander
thereto were collected as choice a lot of desperadoes as ever "stocked"
cards or loaded dice. It came to be noticed that they were on excellent
terms with a man called "Jeff" Johnson, who was lessee of the hotel; and
to be suspected that said Johnson, in local parlance, "stood in with"
them. With this man had come to Barker's his daughter Sarah, commonly
known as "Sally," a handsome girl with a straight, lithe figure, fine
features, reddish auburn hair, and dark blue eyes. It is but fair to say
that even the "toughs" of a place like Barker's show some respect for
the other sex, and Miss Sally's case was no exception to the rule. The
male population admired her; they said she "put on heaps of style"; but
none of them had seemed to make any progress in her good graces.

On a pleasant afternoon, just after the track had been laid some miles
west of Barker's, and construction trains were running with some
regularity to and from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the rude veranda
of the engineers' quarters, smoking his well-colored meerschaum and
looking at the sunset. The atmosphere had been so clear during the day
that glimpses were had of Long's and Pike's peaks, and as the young
engineer gazed at the gorgeous cloud-display he was thinking of the
miners' quaint and pathetic idea that the dead "go over the Range."

"Nice-looking, ain't it, Major?" asked a voice at his elbow, and he
turned to see one of the contractors' officials taking a seat near him.

"More than nice-looking, to my mind, Sam," he replied. "What is the news
to-day?"

"Nothin' much. There's a sight of talk about the doin's of them faro an'
keno sharps. The boys is gittin' kind o' riled, fur they allow the game
ain't on the square wuth a cent. Some of 'em down to the tie-camp wuz
a-talkin' about a vigilance committee, an' I wouldn't be surprised ef
they meant business. Hev yer heard about the young feller that come in a
week ago from Laramie an' set up a new faro-bank?"

"No. What about him?"

"Wa'al, yer see he's a feller thet's got a lot of sand an' ain't afeared
of nobody, an' he's allowed to hev the deal to his place on the square
every time. Accordin' to my idee, gamblin's about the wust racket a
feller kin work, but it takes all sorts of men to make a world, an' ef
the boys is bound to hev a game, I calkilate they'd like to patronize
his bank. Thet's made the old crowd mighty mad, an' they're a-talkin'
about puttin' up a job of cheatin' on him an' then stringin' him up. Be
sides, I kind o' think there's some cussed jealousy on another lay as
comes in. Yer see the young feller--Cyrus Foster's his name--is sweet on
thet gal of Jeff Johnson's. Jeff wuz to Laramie before he come here, an'
Foster knowed Sally up thar. I allow he moved here to see her. Hello! Ef
thar they ain't a-comin' now."

Down a path leading from the town, past the railroad buildings, and well
on the prairie, Sinclair saw the girl walking with the "young feller."
He was talking earnestly to her, and her eyes were cast down. She looked
pretty and, in a way, graceful; and there was in her attire a noticeable
attempt at neatness, and a faint reminiscence of by-gone fashions. A
smile came to Sinclair's lips as he thought of a couple walking up Fifth
Avenue during his leave of absence not many months before, and of a
letter, many times read, lying at that moment in his breast-pocket.

"Papa's bark is worse than his bite," ran one of its sentences. "Of
course he does not like the idea of my leaving him and going away to
such dreadful and remote places as Denver and Omaha, and I don't know
what else; but he will not oppose me in the end, and when you come on
again--"

"By thunder!" exclaimed Sam; "ef thar ain't one of them cussed sharps a
watchin' 'em."

Sure enough, a rough-looking fellow, his hat pulled over his eyes, half
concealed behind a pile of lumber, was casting a sinister glance toward
the pair.

"The gal's well enough," continued Sam; "but I don't take a cent's wuth
of stock in thet thar father of her'n. He's in with them sharps, sure
pop, an' it don't suit his book to hev Foster hangin' round. It's ten to
one he sent that cuss to watch 'em. Wa'al, they're a queer lot, an' I'm
afeared thar's plenty of trouble ahead among 'em. Good luck to you,
Major," and he pushed back his chair and walked away.

After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was sitting at the table in
his office, busy with maps and plans, the door was thrown open, and
Foster, panting for breath, ran in.

"Major Sinclair," he said, speaking with difficulty, "I've no claim on
you, but I ask you to protect me. The other gamblers are going to hang
me. They are more than ten to one. They will track me here, and unless
you harbor me, I'm a dead man."

Sinclair rose from his chair in a second and walked to the window. A
party of men were approaching the building. He turned to Foster:

"I do not like your trade," said he; "but I will not see you murdered if
I can help it. You are welcome here." Foster said "Thank you," stood
still a moment, and then began to pace the room, rapidly clinching his
hands, his whole frame quivering, his eyes flashing fire--"for all the
world," Sinclair said, in telling the story afterward, "like a fierce
caged tiger."

"My God!" he muttered, with concentrated intensity, "to be _trapped_,
TRAPPED like this!"

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