A First Family of Tasajara

A First Family of Tasajara
Bret Harte

Bret Harte

A First Family of Tasajara

CHAPTER I

“It blows,” said Joe Wingate.

As if to accent the words of the speaker a heavy gust of wind at that moment shook the long light wooden structure which served as the general store of Sidon settlement, in Contra Costa. Even after it had passed a prolonged whistle came through the keyhole, sides, and openings of the closed glass front doors, that served equally for windows, and filled the canvas ceiling which hid the roof above like a bellying sail. A wave of enthusiastic emotion seemed to be communicated to a line of straw hats and sou-westers suspended from a cross-beam, and swung them with every appearance of festive rejoicing, while a few dusters, overcoats, and “hickory” shirts hanging on the side walls exhibited such marked though idiotic animation that it had the effect of a satirical comment on the lazy, purposeless figures of the four living inmates of the store.

Ned Billings momentarily raised his head and shoulders depressed in the back of his wooden armchair, glanced wearily around, said, “You bet, it’s no slouch of a storm,” and then lapsed again with further extended legs and an added sense of comfort.

Here the third figure, which had been leaning listlessly against the shelves, putting aside the arm of a swaying overcoat that seemed to be emptily embracing him, walked slowly from behind the counter to the door, examined its fastenings, and gazed at the prospect. He was the owner of the store, and the view was a familiar one,—a long stretch of treeless waste before him meeting an equal stretch of dreary sky above, and night hovering somewhere between the two. This was indicated by splashes of darker shadow as if washed in with india ink, and a lighter low-lying streak that might have been the horizon, but was not. To the right, on a line with the front door of the store, were several scattered, widely dispersed objects, that, although vague in outline, were rigid enough in angles to suggest sheds or barns, but certainly not trees.

“There’s a heap more wet to come afore the wind goes down,” he said, glancing at the sky. “Hark to that, now!”

They listened lazily. There was a faint murmur from the shingles above; then suddenly the whole window was filmed and blurred as if the entire prospect had been wiped out with a damp sponge. The man turned listlessly away.

“That’s the kind that soaks in; thar won’t be much teamin’ over Tasajara for the next two weeks, I reckon,” said the fourth lounger, who, seated on a high barrel, was nibbling—albeit critically and fastidiously—biscuits and dried apples alternately from open boxes on the counter. “It’s lucky you’ve got in your winter stock, Harkutt.”

The shrewd eyes of Mr. Harkutt, proprietor, glanced at the occupation of the speaker as if even his foresight might have its possible drawbacks, but he said nothing.

“There’ll be no show for Sidon until you’ve got a wagon road from here to the creek,” said Billings languidly, from the depths of his chair. “But what’s the use o’ talkin’? Thar ain’t energy enough in all Tasajara to build it. A God-forsaken place, that two months of the year can only be reached by a mail-rider once a week, don’t look ez if it was goin’ to break its back haulin’ in goods and settlers. I tell ye what, gentlemen, it makes me sick!” And apparently it had enfeebled him to the extent of interfering with his aim in that expectoration of disgust against the stove with which he concluded his sentence.

“Why don’t YOU build it?” asked Wingate, carelessly.

“I wouldn’t on principle,” said Billings. “It’s gov’ment work. What did we whoop up things here last spring to elect Kennedy to the legislation for? What did I rig up my shed and a thousand feet of lumber for benches at the barbecue for? Why, to get Kennedy elected and make him get a bill passed for the road! That’s MY share of building it, if it comes to that. And I only wish some folks, that blow enough about what oughter be done to bulge out that ceiling, would only do as much as I have done for Sidon.”

As this remark seemed to have a personal as well as local application, the storekeeper diplomatically turned it. “There’s a good many as DON’T believe that a road from here to the creek is going to do any good to Sidon. It’s very well to say the creek is an embarcadero, but callin’ it so don’t put anough water into it to float a steamboat from the bay, nor clear out the reeds and tules in it. Even if the State builds you roads, it ain’t got no call to make Tasajara Creek navigable for ye; and as that will cost as much as the road, I don’t see where the money’s comin’ from for both.”

“There’s water enough in front of ‘Lige Curtis’s shanty, and his location is only a mile along the bank,” returned Billings.

“Water enough for him to laze away his time fishin’ when he’s sober, and deep enough to drown him when he’s drunk,” said Wingate. “If you call that an embarcadero, you kin buy it any day from ‘Lige,—title, possession, and shanty thrown in,—for a demijohn o’ whiskey.”

The fourth man here distastefully threw back a half-nibbled biscuit into the box, and languidly slipped from the barrel to the floor, fastidiously flicking the crumbs from his clothes as he did so. “I reckon somebody’ll get it for nothing, if ‘Lige don’t pull up mighty soon. He’ll either go off his head with jim-jams or jump into the creek. He’s about as near desp’rit as they make ‘em, and havin’ no partner to look after him, and him alone in the tules, ther’ ‘s no tellin’ WHAT he may do.”

Billings, stretched at full length in his chair, here gurgled derisively. “Desp’rit!—ketch him! Why, that’s his little game! He’s jist playin’ off his desp’rit condition to frighten Sidon. Whenever any one asks him why he don’t go to work, whenever he’s hard up for a drink, whenever he’s had too much or too little, he’s workin’ that desp’rit dodge, and even talkin’ o’ killin’ himself! Why, look here,” he continued, momentarily raising himself to a sitting posture in his disgust, “it was only last week he was over at Rawlett’s trying to raise provisions and whiskey outer his water rights on the creek! Fact, sir,—had it all written down lawyer-like on paper. Rawlett didn’t exactly see it in that light, and told him so. Then he up with the desp’rit dodge and began to work that. Said if he had to starve in a swamp like a dog he might as well kill himself at once, and would too if he could afford the weppins. Johnson said it was not a bad idea, and offered to lend him his revolver; Bilson handed up his shot-gun, and left it alongside of him, and turned his head away considerate-like and thoughtful while Rawlett handed him a box of rat pizon over the counter, in case he preferred suthin’ more quiet. Well, what did ‘Lige do? Nothin’! Smiled kinder sickly, looked sorter wild, and shut up. He didn’t suicide much. No, sir! He didn’t kill himself,—not he. Why, old Bixby—and he’s a deacon in good standin’—allowed, in ‘Lige’s hearin’ and for ‘Lige’s benefit, that self-destruction was better nor bad example, and proved it by Scripture too. And yet ‘Lige did nothin’! Desp’rit! He’s only desp’rit to laze around and fish all day off a log in the tules, and soak up with whiskey, until, betwixt fever an’ ague and the jumps, he kinder shakes hisself free o’ responsibility.”

A long silence followed; it was somehow felt that the subject was incongruously exciting; Billings allowed himself to lapse again behind the back of his chair. Meantime it had grown so dark that the dull glow of the stove was beginning to outline a faint halo on the ceiling even while it plunged the further lines of shelves behind the counter into greater obscurity.

“Time to light up, Harkutt, ain’t it?” said Wingate, tentatively.

“Well, I was reckoning ez it’s such a wild night there wouldn’t be any use keepin’ open, and when you fellows left I’d just shut up for good and make things fast,” said Harkutt, dubiously. Before his guests had time to fully weigh this delicate hint, another gust of wind shook the tenement, and even forced the unbolted upper part of the door to yield far enough to admit an eager current of humid air that seemed to justify the wisdom of Harkutt’s suggestion. Billings slowly and with a sigh assumed a sitting posture in the chair. The biscuit-nibbler selected a fresh dainty from the counter, and Wingate abstractedly walked to the window and rubbed the glass. Sky and water had already disappeared behind a curtain of darkness that was illuminated by a single point of light—the lamp in the window of some invisible but nearer house—which threw its rays across the glistening shallows in the road. “Well,” said Wingate, buttoning up his coat in slow dejection, “I reckon I oughter be travelin’ to help the old woman do the chores before supper.” He had just recognized the light in his own dining-room, and knew by that sign that his long-waiting helpmeet had finally done the chores herself.

“Some folks have it mighty easy,” said Billings, with long-drawn discontent, as he struggled to his feet. “You’ve only a step to go, and yer’s me and Peters there”—indicating the biscuit-nibbler, who was beginning to show alarming signs of returning to the barrel again—“hev got to trapse five times that distance.”

“More’n half a mile, if it comes to that,” said Peters, gloomily. He paused in putting on his overcoat as if thinking better of it, while even the more fortunate and contiguous Wingate languidly lapsed against the counter again.

The moment was a critical one. Billings was evidently also regretfully eying the chair he had just quitted. Harkutt resolved on a heroic effort.

“Come, boys,” he said, with brisk conviviality, “take a parting drink with me before you go.” Producing a black bottle from some obscurity beneath the counter that smelt strongly of india-rubber boots, he placed it with four glasses before his guests. Each made a feint of holding his glass against the opaque window while filling it, although nothing could be seen. A sudden tumult of wind and rain again shook the building, but even after it had passed the glass door still rattled violently.

“Just see what’s loose, Peters,” said Billings; “you’re nearest it.”

Peters, still holding the undrained glass in his hand, walked slowly towards it.

“It’s suthin’—or somebody outside,” he said, hesitatingly.

The three others came eagerly to his side. Through the glass, clouded from within by their breath, and filmed from without by the rain, some vague object was moving, and what seemed to be a mop of tangled hair was apparently brushing against the pane. The door shook again, but less strongly. Billings pressed his face against the glass. “Hol’ on,” he said in a quick whisper,—“it’s ‘Lige!” But it was too late. Harkutt had already drawn the lower bolt, and a man stumbled from the outer obscurity into the darker room.

The inmates drew away as he leaned back for a moment against the door that closed behind him. Then dimly, but instinctively, discerning the glass of liquor which Wingate still mechanically held in his hand, he reached forward eagerly, took it from Wingate’s surprised and unresisting fingers, and drained it at a gulp. The four men laughed vaguely, but not as cheerfully as they might.

“I was just shutting up,” began Harkutt, dubiously.

“I won’t keep you a minit,” said the intruder, nervously fumbling in the breast pocket of his hickory shirt. “It’s a matter of business—Harkutt—I”—But he was obliged to stop here to wipe his face and forehead with the ends of a loose handkerchief tied round his throat. From the action, and what could be seen of his pale, exhausted face, it was evident that the moisture upon it was beads of perspiration, and not the rain which some abnormal heat of his body was converting into vapor from his sodden garments as he stood there.

“I’ve got a document here,” he began again, producing a roll of paper tremblingly from his pocket, “that I’d like you to glance over, and perhaps you’d”—His voice, which had been feverishly exalted, here broke and rattled with a cough.

Billings, Wingate, and Peters fell apart and looked out of the window. “It’s too dark to read anything now, ‘Lige,” said Harkutt, with evasive good humor, “and I ain’t lightin’ up to-night.”

“But I can tell you the substance of it,” said the man, with a faintness that however had all the distinctness of a whisper, “if you’ll just step inside a minute. It’s a matter of importance and a bargain”—

“I reckon we must be goin’,” said Billings to the others, with marked emphasis. “We’re keepin’ Harkutt from shuttin’ up.” “Good-night!” “Good-night!” added Peters and Wingate, ostentatiously following Billings hurriedly through the door. “So long!”

The door closed behind them, leaving Harkutt alone with his importunate intruder. Possibly his resentment at his customers’ selfish abandonment of him at this moment developed a vague spirit of opposition to them and mitigated his feeling towards ‘Lige. He groped his way to the counter, struck a match, and lit a candle. Its feeble rays faintly illuminated the pale, drawn face of the applicant, set in a tangle of wet, unkempt, party-colored hair. It was not the face of an ordinary drunkard; although tremulous and sensitive from some artificial excitement, there was no ENGORGEMENT or congestion in the features or complexion, albeit they were morbid and unhealthy. The expression was of a suffering that was as much mental as physical, and yet in some vague way appeared unmeaning—and unheroic.

“I want to see you about selling my place on the creek. I want you to take it off my hands for a bargain. I want to get quit of it, at once, for just enough to take me out o’ this. I don’t want any profit; only money enough to get away.” His utterance, which had a certain kind of cultivation, here grew thick and harsh again, and he looked eagerly at the bottle which stood on the counter.

“Look here, ‘Lige,” said Harkutt, not unkindly. “It’s too late to do anythin’ tonight. You come in to-morrow.” He would have added “when you’re sober,” but for a trader’s sense of politeness to a possible customer, and probably some doubt of the man’s actual condition.

“God knows where or what I may be tomorrow! It would kill me to go back and spend another night as the last, if I don’t kill myself on the way to do it.”

Harkutt’s face darkened grimly. It was indeed as Billings had said. The pitiable weakness of the man’s manner not only made his desperation inadequate and ineffective, but even lent it all the cheapness of acting. And, as if to accent his simulation of a part, his fingers, feebly groping in his shirt bosom, slipped aimlessly and helplessly from the shining handle of a pistol in his pocket to wander hesitatingly towards the bottle on the counter.

Harkutt took the bottle, poured out a glass of the liquor, and pushed it before his companion, who drank it eagerly. Whether it gave him more confidence, or his attention was no longer diverted, he went on more collectedly and cheerfully, and with no trace of his previous desperation in his manner. “Come, Harkutt, buy my place. It’s a bargain, I tell you. I’ll sell it cheap. I only want enough to get away with. Give me twenty-five dollars and it’s yours. See, there’s the papers—the quitclaim—all drawn up and signed.” He drew the roll of paper from his pocket again, apparently forgetful of the adjacent weapon.

“Look here, ‘Lige,” said Harkutt, with a business-like straightening of his lips, “I ain’t buyin’ any land in Tasajara,—least of all yours on the creek. I’ve got more invested here already than I’ll ever get back again. But I tell you what I’ll do. You say you can’t go back to your shanty. Well, seein’ how rough it is outside, and that the waters of the creek are probably all over the trail by this time, I reckon you’re about right. Now, there’s five dollars!” He laid down a coin sharply on the counter. “Take that and go over to Rawlett’s and get a bed and some supper. In the mornin’ you may be able to strike up a trade with somebody else—or change your mind. How did you get here? On your hoss?”

“Yes.”

“He ain’t starved yet?”

“No; he can eat grass. I can’t.”

Either the liquor or Harkutt’s practical unsentimental treatment of the situation seemed to give him confidence. He met Harkutt’s eye more steadily as the latter went on. “You kin turn your hoss for the night into my stock corral next to Rawlett’s. It’ll save you payin’ for fodder and stablin’.”

The man took up the coin with a certain slow gravity which was almost like dignity. “Thank you,” he said, laying the paper on the counter. “I’ll leave that as security.”