WE all remembered very distinctly Bulger’s advent in Rattlesnake Camp. It was during the rainy season—a season singularly inducive to settled reflective impressions as we sat and smoked around the stove in Mosby’s grocery. Like older and more civilized communities, we had our periodic waves of sentiment and opinion, with the exception that they were more evanescent with us, and as we had just passed through a fortnight of dissipation and extravagance, owing to a visit from some gamblers and speculators, we were now undergoing a severe moral revulsion, partly induced by reduced finances and partly by the arrival of two families with grownup daughters on the hill. It was raining, with occasional warm breaths, through the open window, of the southwest trades, redolent of the saturated spices of the woods and springing grasses, which perhaps were slightly inconsistent with the hot stove around which we had congregated. But the stove was only an excuse for our listless, gregarious gathering; warmth and idleness went well together, and it was currently accepted that we had caught from the particular reptile which gave its name to our camp much of its pathetic, lifelong search for warmth, and its habit of indolently basking in it.
A few of us still went through the affectation of attempting to dry our damp clothes by the stove, and sizzling our wet boots against it; but as the same individuals calmly permitted the rain to drive in upon them through the open window without moving, and seemed to take infinite delight in the amount of steam they generated, even that pretense dropped. Crotalus himself, with his tail in a muddy ditch, and the sun striking cold fire from his slit eyes as he basked his head on a warm stone beside it, could not have typified us better.
Percy Briggs took his pipe from his mouth at last and said, with reflective severity:
“Well, gentlemen, if we can’t get the wagon road over here, and if we’re going to be left out by the stagecoach company, we can at least straighten up the camp, and not have it look like a cross between a tenement alley and a broken-down circus. I declare, I was just sick when these two Baker girls started to make a short cut through the camp. Darned if they didn’t turn round and take to the woods and the rattlers again afore they got halfway. And that benighted idiot, Tom Rollins, standin’ there in the ditch, spattered all over with slumgullion ’til he looked like a spotted tarrypin, wavin’ his fins and sashaying backwards and forrards and sayin’, ‘This way, ladies; this way!’”
“I didn’t,” returned Tom Rollins, quite casually, without looking up from his steaming boots; “I didn’t start in night afore last to dance ‘The Green Corn Dance’ outer ‘Hiawatha,’ with feathers in my hair and a red blanket on my shoulders, round that family’s new potato patch, in order that it might ‘increase and multiply.’ I didn’t sing ‘Sabbath Morning Bells’ with an anvil accompaniment until twelve o’clock at night over at the Crossing, so that they might dream of their Happy Childhood’s Home. It seems to me that it wasn’t me did it. I might be mistaken—it was late—but I have the impression that it wasn’t me.”
From the silence that followed, this would seem to have been clearly a recent performance of the previous speaker, who, however, responded quite cheerfully:
“An evenin’ o’ simple, childish gaiety don’t count. We’ve got to start in again fair. What we want here is to clear up and encourage decent immigration, and get rid o’ gamblers and blatherskites that are makin’ this yer camp their happy hunting-ground. We don’t want any more permiskus shootin’. We don’t want any more paintin’ the town red. We don’t want any more swaggerin’ galoots ridin’ up to this grocery and emptyin’ their six-shooters in the air afore they ’light. We want to put a stop to it peacefully and without a row—and we kin. We ain’t got no bullies of our own to fight back, and they know it, so they know they won’t get no credit bullyin’ us; they’ll leave, if we’re only firm. It’s all along of our cussed fool good-nature; they see it amuses us, and they’ll keep it up as long as the whisky’s free. What we want to do is, when the next man comes waltzin’ along—”
A distant clatter from the rocky hillside here mingled with the puff of damp air through the window.
“Looks as ef we might hev a show even now,” said Tom Rollins, removing his feet from the stove as we all instinctively faced toward the window.
“I reckon you’re in with us in this, Mosby?” said Briggs, turning toward the proprietor of the grocery, who had been leaning listlessly against the wall behind his bar.
“Arter the man’s had a fair show,” said Mosby, cautiously. He deprecated the prevailing condition of things, but it was still an open question whether the families would prove as valuable customers as his present clients. “Everything in moderation, gentlemen.”
The sound of galloping hoofs came nearer, now swishing in the soft mud of the highway, until the unseen rider pulled up before the door. There was no shouting, however, nor did he announce himself with the usual salvo of firearms. But when, after a singularly heavy tread and the jingle of spurs on the platform, the door flew open to the newcomer, he seemed a realization of our worst expectations. Tall, broad, and muscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangled a heavy navy revolver. His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasy circle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet, completely concealed his mouth. His costume of fringed buckskin was wild and outre even for our frontier camp. But what was more confirmative of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side glance at us, he strode toward the bar.
“As there don’t seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter,” he said. His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness of frequent overstraining.
“Ye ain’t got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?” asked Mosby, evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger. We all looked at Briggs also; it was his affair after all—he had originated this opposition. To our surprise he said nothing.
The stranger leaned heavily on the counter.
“I was speaking to you,” he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightly accenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar. “Ye don’t seem to catch on.”
Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs. To our greater astonishment, Briggs said, quietly: “Why don’t you answer the stranger, Mosby?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mosby, suavely, to the newcomer, while an angry flush crossed his check as he recognized the position in which Briggs had placed him. “Of course, you’re welcome to what doings I hev here, but I reckoned these gentlemen over there,” with a vicious glance at Briggs, “might fix ye up suthin’ better; they’re so pow’ful kind to your sort.”
The stranger threw down a gold piece on the counter and said: “Fork out your whisky, then,” waited until his glass was filled, took it in his hand, and then, drawing an empty chair to the stove, sat down beside Briggs. “Seein’ as you’re that kind,” he said, placing his heavy hand on Briggs’s knee, “mebbe ye kin tell me ef thar’s a shanty or a cabin at Rattlesnake that I kin get for a couple o’ weeks. I saw an empty one at the head o’ the hill. You see, gennelmen,” he added confidentially as he swept the drops of whisky from his long mustache with his fingers and glanced around our group, “I’ve got some business over at Bigwood,” our nearest town, “but ez a place to stay at it ain’t my style.”
“What’s the matter with Bigwood?” said Briggs, abruptly.
“It’s too howlin’, too festive, too rough; thar’s too much yellin’ and shootin’ goin’ day and night. Thar’s too many card sharps and gay gamboliers cavortin’ about the town to please me. Too much permiskus soakin’ at the bar and free jimjams. What I want is a quiet place what a man kin give his mind and elbow a rest from betwixt grippin’ his shootin’ irons and crookin’ in his whisky. A sort o’ slow, quiet, easy place like this.”
We all stared at him, Percy Briggs as fixedly as any. But there was not the slightest trace of irony, sarcasm, or peculiar significance in his manner. He went on slowly:
“When I struck this yer camp a minit ago; when I seed that thar ditch meanderin’ peaceful like through the street, without a hotel or free saloon or express office on either side; with the smoke just a curlin’ over the chimbley of that log shanty, and the bresh just set fire to and a smolderin’ in that potato patch with a kind o’ old-time stingin’ in your eyes and nose, and a few women’s duds just a flutterin’ on a line by the fence, I says to myself: ‘Bulger—this is peace! This is wot you’re lookin’ for, Bulger—this is wot you’re wantin’—this is wot you’ll hev!’”
“You say you’ve business over at Bigwood. What business?” said Briggs.
“It’s a peculiar business, young fellow,” returned the stranger, gravely. “Thar’s different men ez has different opinions about it. Some allows it’s an easy business, some allows it’s a rough business; some says it’s a sad business, others says it’s gay and festive. Some wonders ez how I’ve got into it, and others wonder how I’ll ever get out of it. It’s a payin’ business—it’s a peaceful sort o’ business when left to itself. It’s a peculiar business—a business that sort o’ b’longs to me, though I ain’t got no patent from Washington for it. It’s my own business.” He paused, rose, and saying, “Let’s meander over and take a look at that empty cabin, and ef she suits me, why, I’ll plank down a slug for her on the spot, and move in tomorrow,” walked towards the door. “I’ll pick up suthin’ in the way o’ boxes and blankets from the grocery,” he added, looking at Mosby, “and ef thar’s a corner whar I kin stand my gun and a nail to hang up my revolver—why, I’m all thar!”
By this time we were no longer astonished when Briggs rose also, and not only accompanied the sinister-looking stranger to the empty cabin, but assisted him in negotiating with its owner for a fortnight’s occupancy. Nevertheless, we eagerly assailed Briggs on his return for some explanation of this singular change in his attitude toward the stranger. He coolly reminded us, however, that while his intention of excluding ruffianly adventurers from the camp remained the same, he had no right to go back on the stranger’s sentiments, which were evidently in accord with our own, and although Mr. Bulger’s appearance was inconsistent with them, that was only an additional reason why we should substitute a mild firmness for that violence which we all deprecated, but which might attend his abrupt dismissal. We were all satisfied except Mosby, who had not yet recovered from Briggs’s change of front, which he was pleased to call “craw-fishing.” “Seemed to me his account of his business was extraordinary satisfactory! Sorter filled the bill all round—no mistake thar,” he suggested, with a malicious irony. “I like a man that’s outspoken.”
“I understood him very well,” said Briggs, quietly.
“In course you did. Only when you’ve settled in your mind whether he was describing horse-stealing or tract-distributing, mebbe you’ll let me know.”
It would seem, however, that Briggs did not interrogate the stranger again regarding it, nor did we, who were quite content to leave matters in Briggs’s hands. Enough that Mr. Bulger moved into the empty cabin the next day, and, with the aid of a few old boxes from the grocery, which he quickly extemporized into tables and chairs, and the purchase of some necessary cooking utensils, soon made himself at home. The rest of the camp, now thoroughly aroused, made a point of leaving their work in the ditches, whenever they could, to stroll carelessly around Bulger’s tenement in the vague hope of satisfying a curiosity that had become tormenting. But they could not find that he was doing anything of a suspicious character—except, perhaps, from the fact that it was not outwardly suspicious, which I grieve to say did not lull them to security. He seemed to be either fixing up his cabin or smoking in his doorway. On the second day he checked this itinerant curiosity by taking the initiative himself, and quietly walking from claim to claim and from cabin to cabin with a pacific but by no means a satisfying interest. The shadow of his tall figure carrying his inseparable gun, which had not yet apparently “stood in the corner,” falling upon an excavated bank beside the delving miners, gave them a sense of uneasiness they could not explain; a few characteristic yells of boisterous hilarity from their noontide gathering under a cottonwood somehow ceased when Mr. Bulger was seen gravely approaching, and his casual stopping before a poker party in the gulch actually caused one of the most reckless gamblers to weakly recede from “a bluff” and allow his adversary to sweep the board. After this it was felt that matters were becoming serious. There was no subsequent patrolling of the camp before the stranger’s cabin. Their curiosity was singularly abated. A general feeling of repulsion, kept within bounds partly by the absence of any overt act from Bulger, and partly by an inconsistent over-consciousness of his shotgun, took its place. But an unexpected occurrence revived it.
One evening, as the usual social circle were drawn around Mosby’s stove, the lazy silence was broken by the familiar sounds of pistol shots and a series of more familiar shrieks and yells from the rocky hill road. The circle quickly recognized the voices of their old friends the roisterers and gamblers from Sawyer’s Dam; they as quickly recognized the returning shouts here and there from a few companions who were welcoming them. I grieve to say that in spite of their previous attitude of reformation a smile of gratified expectancy lit up the faces of the younger members, and even the older ones glanced dubiously at Briggs. Mosby made no attempt to conceal a sigh of relief as he carefully laid out an extra supply of glasses in his bar. Suddenly the oncoming yells ceased, the wild gallop of hoofs slackened into a trot, and finally halted, and even the responsive shouts of the camp stopped also. We all looked vacantly at each other; Mosby leaped over his counter and went to the door; Briggs followed with the rest of us. The night was dark, and it was a few minutes before we could distinguish a straggling, vague, but silent procession moving through the moist, heavy air on the hill. But, to our surprise, it was moving away from us—absolutely leaving the camp! We were still staring in expectancy when out of the darkness slowly emerged a figure which we recognized at once as Captain Jim, one of the most reckless members of our camp. Pushing us back into the grocery he entered without a word, closed the door behind him, and threw himself vacantly into a chair. We at once pressed around him. He looked up at us dazedly, drew a long breath, and said slowly:
“It’s no use, gentlemen! Suthin’s got to be done with that Bulger; and mighty quick.”
“What’s the matter?” we asked eagerly.
“Matter!” he repeated, passing his hand across his forehead. “Matter! Look yere! Ye all of you heard them boys from Sawyer’s Dam coming over the hill? Ye heard their music—mebbe ye heard us join in the chorus? Well, on they came waltzing down the hill, like old times, and we waitin’ for ’em. Then, jest as they passed the old cabin, who do you think they ran right into—shooting iron, long hair and mustache, and all that—standing there plump in the road? why, Bulger!”
“Well?”
“Well!—Whatever it was—don’t ask me—but, dern my skin, ef after a word or two from him—them boys just stopped yellin’, turned round like lambs, and rode away, peaceful-like, along with him. We ran after them a spell, still yellin’, when that thar Bulger faced around, said to us that he’d ‘come down here for quiet,’ and ef he couldn’t hev it he’d have to leave with those gentlemen who wanted it too! And I’m gosh darned ef those gentlemen—you know ’em all—Patsey Carpenter, Snapshot Harry, and the others—ever said a darned word, but kinder nodded ‘So long’ and went away!”
Our astonishment and mystification were complete; and I regret to say, the indignation of Captain Jim and Mosby equally so. “If we’re going to be bossed by the first newcomer,” said the former, gloomily, “I reckon we might as well take our chances with the Sawyer’s Dam boys, whom we know.”
“Ef we are going to hev the legitimate trade of Rattlesnake interfered with by the cranks of some hidin’ horse thief or retired road agent,” said Mosby, “we might as well invite the hull of Joaquin Murietta’s gang here at once! But I suppose this is part o’ Bulger’s particular ‘business,’” he added, with a withering glance at Briggs.
“I understand it all,” said Briggs, quietly. “You know I told you that bullies couldn’t live in the same camp together. That’s human nature—and that’s how plain men like you and me manage to scud along without getting plugged. You see, Bulger wasn’t going to hev any of his own kind jumpin’ his claim here. And I reckon he was pow’ful enough to back down Sawyer’s Dam. Anyhow, the bluff told—and here we are in peace and quietness.”
“Until he lets us know what is his little game,” sneered Mosby.
Nevertheless, such is the force of mysterious power that although it was exercised against what we firmly believed was the independence of the camp, it extorted a certain respect from us. A few thought it was not a bad thing to have a professional bully, and even took care to relate the discomfiture of the wicked youth of Sawyer’s Dam for the benefit of a certain adjacent and powerful camp who had looked down upon us. He himself, returning the same evening from his self-imposed escort, vouchsafed no other reason than the one he had already given. Preposterous as it seemed, we were obliged to accept it, and the still more preposterous inference that he had sought Rattlesnake Camp solely for the purpose of acquiring and securing its peace and quietness. Certainly he had no other occupation; the little work he did upon the tailings of the abandoned claim which went with his little cabin was scarcely a pretense. He rode over on certain days to Bigwood on account of his business, but no one had ever seen him there, nor could the description of his manner and appearance evoke any information from the Bigwoodians. It remained a mystery.
It had also been feared that the advent of Bulger would intensify that fear and dislike of riotous Rattlesnake which the two families had shown, and which was the origin of Briggs’s futile attempt at reformation. But it was discovered that since his arrival the young girls had shown less timidity in entering the camp, and had even exchanged some polite conversation and good-humoured badinage with its younger and more impressible members. Perhaps this tended to make these youths more observant, for a few days later, when the vexed question of Bulger’s business was again under discussion, one of them remarked, gloomily:
“I reckon there ain’t no doubt what he’s here for!”
The youthful prophet was instantly sat upon after the fashion of all elderly critics since Job’s. Nevertheless, after a pause he was permitted to explain.
“Only this morning, when Lance Forester and me were chirping with them gals out on the hill, who should we see hanging around in the bush but that cussed Bulger! We allowed at first that it might be only a new style of his interferin’, so we took no notice, except to pass a few remarks about listeners and that sort o’ thing, and perhaps to bedevil the girls a little more than we’d hev done if we’d been alone. Well, they laughed, and we laughed—and that was the end of it. But this afternoon, as Lance and me were meandering down by their cabin, we sorter turned into the woods to wait till they’d come out. Then all of a suddent Lance stopped as rigid as a pointer that’s flushed somethin’, and says, ‘B’gosh!’ And thar, under a big redwood, sat that slimy hypocrite Bulger, twisting his long mustaches and smiling like clockwork alongside o’ little Meely Baker—you know her, the pootiest of the two sisters—and she smilin’ back on him. Think of it! that unknown, unwashed, longhaired tramp and bully, who must be forty if a day, and that innocent gal of sixteen. It was simply disgustin’!”
I need not say that the older cynics and critics already alluded to at once improved the occasion. ‘What more could be expected? Women, the world over, were noted for this sort of thing! This long-haired, swaggering bully, with his air of mystery, had captivated them, as he always had done since the days of Homer. Simple merit, which sat lowly in barrooms, and conceived projects for the public good around the humble, unostentatious stove, was nowhere! Youth could not too soon learn this bitter lesson. And in this case youth too, perhaps, was right in its conjectures, for this was, no doubt, the little game of the perfidious Bulger. We recalled the fact that his unhallowed appearance in camp was almost coincident with the arrival of the two families. We glanced at Briggs; to our amazement, for the first time he looked seriously concerned. But Mosby in the meantime leaned his elbows lazily over the counter and, in a slow voice, added fuel to the flame.
“I wouldn’t hev spoken of it before,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Briggs, “for it might be all in the line o’ Bulger’s ‘business,’ but suthin’ happened the other night that, for a minit, got me! I was passin’ the Bakers’ shanty, and I heard one of them gals a singing a camp-meeting hymn. I don’t calkilate to run agin you young fellers in any sparkin’ or canoodlin’ that’s goin’ on, but her voice sounded so pow’ful soothin’ and pretty thet I jest stood there and listened. Then the old woman—old Mother Baker—she joined in, and I listened too. And then—dern my skin!—but a man’s voice joined in—jest belching outer that cabin!—and I sorter lifted myself up and kem away.
“That voice, gentlemen,” said Mosby, lingering artistically as he took up a glass and professionally eyed it before wiping it with his towel, “that voice, cumf’bly fixed thar in thet cabin among them wimen folks, was Bulger’s!”
Briggs got up, with his eyes looking the darker for his flushed face. “Gentlemen,” he said huskily, “thar’s only one thing to be done. A lot of us have got to ride over to Sawyer’s Dam tomorrow morning and pick up as many square men as we can muster; there’s a big camp meeting goin’ on there, and there won’t be no difficulty in that. When we’ve got a big enough crowd to show we mean business, we must march back here and ride Bulger out of this camp! I don’t hanker arter Vigilance Committees, as a rule—it’s a rough remedy—it’s like drinkin’ a quart o’ whisky agin rattlesnake poison but it’s got to be done! We don’t mind being sold ourselves but when it comes to our standin’ by and seein’ the only innocent people in Rattlesnake given away—we kick! Bulger’s got to be fired outer this camp! And he will be!”
But he was not.
For when, the next morning, a determined and thoughtful procession of the best and most characteristic citizens of Rattlesnake Camp filed into Sawyer’s Dam, they found that their mysterious friends had disappeared, although they met with a fraternal but subdued welcome from the general camp. But any approach to the subject of their visit, however, was received with a chilling dissapproval. Did they not know that lawlessness of any kind, even under the rude mantle of frontier justice, was to be deprecated and scouted when a “means of salvation, a power of regeneration,” such as was now sweeping over Sawyer’s Dam, was at hand? Could they not induce this man who was to be violently deported to accompany them willingly to Sawyer’s Dam and subject himself to the powerful influence of the “revival” then in full swing?
The Rattlesnake boys laughed bitterly, and described the man of whom they talked so lightly; but in vain. “It’s no use, gentlemen,” said a more worldly bystander, in a lower voice, “the camp meetin’s got a strong grip here, and betwixt you and me there ain’t no wonder. For the man that runs it—the big preacher—has got new ways and methods that fetches the boys every time. He don’t preach no cut-and-dried gospel; he don’t carry around no slop-shop robes and clap ’em on you whether they fit or not; but he samples and measures the camp afore he wades into it. He scouts and examines; he ain’t no mere Sunday preacher with a comfortable house and once-a-week church, but he gives up his days and nights to it, and makes his family work with him, and even sends ’em forward to explore the field. And he ain’t no white-choker shadbelly either, but fits himself, like his gospel, to the men he works among. Ye ought to hear him afore you go. His tent is just out your way. I’ll go with you.”
Too dejected to offer any opposition, and perhaps a little curious to see this man who had unwittingly frustrated their design of lynching Bulger, they halted at the outer fringe of worshipers who packed the huge inclosure. They had not time to indulge their cynicisms over this swaying mass of emotional, half-thinking, and almost irresponsible beings, nor to detect any similarity between their extreme methods and the scheme of redemption they themselves were seeking, for in a few moments, apparently lifted to his feet on a wave of religious exultation, the famous preacher arose. The men of Rattlesnake gasped for breath.
It was Bulger!
But Briggs quickly recovered himself. “By what name,” said he, turning passionately towards his guide, “does this man—this impostor—call himself here?”
“Baker.”
“Baker?” echoed the Rattlesnake contingent.
“Baker?” repeated Lance Forester, with a ghastly smile.
“Yes,” returned their guide. “You oughter know it too! For he sent his wife and daughters over, after his usual style, to sample your camp, a week ago! Come, now, what are you givin’ us?”