Under the Redwoods

Under the Redwoods
Bret Harte

Bret Harte

Under the Redwoods

JIMMY’S BIG BROTHER FROM CALIFORNIA

As night crept up from the valley that stormy afternoon, Sawyer’s Ledge was at first quite blotted out by wind and rain, but presently reappeared in little nebulous star-like points along the mountain side, as the straggling cabins of the settlement were one by one lit up by the miners returning from tunnel and claim. These stars were of varying brilliancy that evening, two notably so—one that eventually resolved itself into a many-candled illumination of a cabin of evident festivity; the other into a glimmering taper in the window of a silent one. They might have represented the extreme mutations of fortune in the settlement that night: the celebration of a strike by Robert Falloner, a lucky miner; and the sick-bed of Dick Lasham, an unlucky one.

The latter was, however, not quite alone. He was ministered to by Daddy Folsom, a weak but emotional and aggressively hopeful neighbor, who was sitting beside the wooden bunk whereon the invalid lay. Yet there was something perfunctory in his attitude: his eyes were continually straying to the window, whence the illuminated Falloner festivities could be seen between the trees, and his ears were more intent on the songs and laughter that came faintly from the distance than on the feverish breathing and unintelligible moans of the sufferer.

Nevertheless he looked troubled equally by the condition of his charge and by his own enforced absence from the revels. A more impatient moan from the sick man, however, brought a change to his abstracted face, and he turned to him with an exaggerated expression of sympathy.

“In course! Lordy! I know jest what those pains are: kinder ez ef you was havin’ a tooth pulled that had roots branchin’ all over ye! My! I’ve jest had ‘em so bad I couldn’t keep from yellin’! That’s hot rheumatics! Yes, sir, I oughter know! And” (confidentially) “the sing’ler thing about ‘em is that they get worse jest as they’re going off—sorter wringin’ yer hand and punchin’ ye in the back to say ‘Good-by.’ There!” he continued, as the man sank exhaustedly back on his rude pillow of flour-sacks. “There! didn’t I tell ye? Ye’ll be all right in a minit, and ez chipper ez a jay bird in the mornin’. Oh, don’t tell me about rheumatics—I’ve bin thar! On’y mine was the cold kind—that hangs on longest—yours is the hot, that burns itself up in no time!”

If the flushed face and bright eyes of Lasham were not enough to corroborate this symptom of high fever, the quick, wandering laugh he gave would have indicated the point of delirium. But the too optimistic Daddy Folsom referred this act to improvement, and went on cheerfully: “Yes, sir, you’re better now, and”—here he assumed an air of cautious deliberation, extravagant, as all his assumptions were—“I ain’t sayin’ that—ef—you—was—to—rise—up” (very slowly) “and heave a blanket or two over your shoulders—jest by way o’ caution, you know—and leanin’ on me, kinder meander over to Bob Falloner’s cabin and the boys, it wouldn’t do you a heap o’ good. Changes o’ this kind is often prescribed by the faculty.” Another moan from the sufferer, however, here apparently corrected Daddy’s too favorable prognosis. “Oh, all right! Well, perhaps ye know best; and I’ll jest run over to Bob’s and say how as ye ain’t comin’, and will be back in a jiffy!”

“The letter,” said the sick man hurriedly, “the letter, the letter!”

Daddy leaned suddenly over the bed. It was impossible for even his hopefulness to avoid the fact that Lasham was delirious. It was a strong factor in the case—one that would certainly justify his going over to Falloner’s with the news. For the present moment, however, this aberration was to be accepted cheerfully and humored after Daddy’s own fashion. “Of course—the letter, the letter,” he said convincingly; “that’s what the boys hev bin singin’ jest now—

‘Good-by, Charley; when you are away,
Write me a letter, love; send me a letter, love!’

“That’s what you heard, and a mighty purty song it is too, and kinder clings to you. It’s wonderful how these things gets in your head.”

“The letter—write—send money—money—money, and the photograph—the photograph—photograph—money,” continued the sick man, in the rapid reiteration of delirium.

“In course you will—to-morrow—when the mail goes,” returned Daddy soothingly; “plenty of them. Jest now you try to get a snooze, will ye? Hol’ on!—take some o’ this.”

There was an anodyne mixture on the rude shelf, which the doctor had left on his morning visit. Daddy had a comfortable belief that what would relieve pain would also check delirium, and he accordingly measured out a dose with a liberal margin to allow of waste by the patient in swallowing in his semi-conscious state. As he lay more quiet, muttering still, but now unintelligibly, Daddy, waiting for a more complete unconsciousness and the opportunity to slip away to Falloner’s, cast his eyes around the cabin. He noticed now for the first time since his entrance that a crumpled envelope bearing a Western post-mark was lying at the foot of the bed. Daddy knew that the tri-weekly post had arrived an hour before he came, and that Lasham had evidently received a letter. Sure enough the letter itself was lying against the wall beside him. It was open. Daddy felt justified in reading it.

It was curt and businesslike, stating that unless Lasham at once sent a remittance for the support of his brother and sister—two children in charge of the writer—they must find a home elsewhere. That the arrears were long standing, and the repeated promises of Lasham to send money had been unfulfilled. That the writer could stand it no longer. This would be his last communication unless the money were sent forthwith.

It was by no means a novel or, under the circumstances, a shocking disclosure to Daddy. He had seen similar missives from daughters, and even wives, consequent on the varying fortunes of his neighbors; no one knew better than he the uncertainties of a miner’s prospects, and yet the inevitable hopefulness that buoyed him up. He tossed it aside impatiently, when his eye caught a strip of paper he had overlooked lying upon the blanket near the envelope. It contained a few lines in an unformed boyish hand addressed to “my brother,” and evidently slipped into the letter after it was written. By the uncertain candlelight Daddy read as follows:—

Dear Brother, Rite to me and Cissy rite off. Why aint you done it? It’s so long since you rote any. Mister Recketts ses you dont care any more. Wen you rite send your fotograff. Folks here ses I aint got no big bruther any way, as I disremember his looks, and cant say wots like him. Cissy’s kryin’ all along of it. I’ve got a hedake. William Walker make it ake by a blo. So no more at present from your loving little bruther Jim.

The quick, hysteric laugh with which Daddy read this was quite consistent with his responsive, emotional nature; so, too, were the ready tears that sprang to his eyes. He put the candle down unsteadily, with a casual glance at the sick man. It was notable, however, that this look contained less sympathy for the ailing “big brother” than his emotion might have suggested. For Daddy was carried quite away by his own mental picture of the helpless children, and eager only to relate his impressions of the incident. He cast another glance at the invalid, thrust the papers into his pocket, and clapping on his hat slipped from the cabin and ran to the house of festivity. Yet it was characteristic of the man, and so engrossed was he by his one idea, that to the usual inquiries regarding his patient he answered, “he’s all right,” and plunged at once into the incident of the dunning letter, reserving—with the instinct of an emotional artist—the child’s missive until the last. As he expected, the money demand was received with indignant criticisms of the writer.

“That’s just like ‘em in the States,” said Captain Fletcher; “darned if they don’t believe we’ve only got to bore a hole in the ground and snake out a hundred dollars. Why, there’s my wife—with a heap of hoss sense in everything else—is allus wonderin’ why I can’t rake in a cool fifty betwixt one steamer day and another.”

“That’s nothin’ to my old dad,” interrupted Gus Houston, the “infant” of the camp, a bright-eyed young fellow of twenty; “why, he wrote to me yesterday that if I’d only pick up a single piece of gold every day and just put it aside, sayin’ ‘That’s for popper and mommer,’ and not fool it away—it would be all they’d ask of me.”

“That’s so,” added another; “these ignorant relations is just the ruin o’ the mining industry. Bob Falloner hez bin lucky in his strike to-day, but he’s a darned sight luckier in being without kith or kin that he knows of.”

Daddy waited until the momentary irritation had subsided, and then drew the other letter from his pocket. “That ain’t all, boys,” he began in a faltering voice, but gradually working himself up to a pitch of pathos; “just as I was thinking all them very things, I kinder noticed this yer poor little bit o’ paper lyin’ thar lonesome like and forgotten, and I—read it—and well—gentlemen—it just choked me right up!” He stopped, and his voice faltered.

“Go slow, Daddy, go slow!” said an auditor smilingly. It was evident that Daddy’s sympathetic weakness was well known.

Daddy read the child’s letter. But, unfortunately, what with his real emotion and the intoxication of an audience, he read it extravagantly, and interpolated a child’s lisp (on no authority whatever), and a simulated infantile delivery, which, I fear, at first provoked the smiles rather than the tears of his audience. Nevertheless, at its conclusion the little note was handed round the party, and then there was a moment of thoughtful silence.

“Tell you what it is, boys,” said Fletcher, looking around the table, “we ought to be doin’ suthin’ for them kids right off! Did you,” turning to Daddy, “say anythin’ about this to Dick?”

“Nary—why, he’s clean off his head with fever—don’t understand a word—and just babbles,” returned Daddy, forgetful of his roseate diagnosis a moment ago, “and hasn’t got a cent.”

“We must make up what we can amongst us afore the mail goes to-night,” said the “infant,” feeling hurriedly in his pockets. “Come, ante up, gentlemen,” he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon the table.

“Hold on, boys,” said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. “You’ve got enough to do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I’ve none! Let this be my affair. I’ve got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my passage home, and I’ll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for that old skeesicks—what’s his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts”—he made a memorandum from the letter—“and I’ll send it by express. Meantime, you fellows sit down there and write something—you know what—saying that Dick’s hurt his hand and can’t write—you know; but asked you to send a draft, which you’re doing. Sabe? That’s all! I’ll skip over to the express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the whiskey while I’m gone.” He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared.

“There goes a white man, you bet!” said Fletcher admiringly, as the door closed behind their host. “Now, boys,” he added, drawing a chair to the table, “let’s get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game.”

Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as to the matter to be conveyed. Daddy’s plea for an extended explanatory and sympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written to Ricketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner.

“But what about poor little Jim’s letter? That ought to be answered,” said Daddy pathetically.

“If Dick hurt his hand so he can’t write to Ricketts, how in thunder is he goin’ to write to Jim?” was the reply.

“But suthin’ oughter be said to the poor kid,” urged Daddy piteously.

“Well, write it yourself—you and Gus Houston make up somethin’ together. I’m going to win some money,” retorted Fletcher, returning to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and Houston.

“Ye can’t write it in Dick’s name, because that little brother knows Dick’s handwriting, even if he don’t remember his face. See?” suggested Houston.

“That’s so,” said Daddy dubiously; “but,” he added, with elastic cheerfulness, “we can write that Dick ‘says.’ See?”

“Your head’s level, old man! Just you wade in on that.”

Daddy seized the pen and “waded in.” Into somewhat deep and difficult water, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffled once or twice as he wrote. “Suthin’ like this,” he said, after a pause:—

DEAR LITTLE JIMMIE,—Your big brother havin’ hurt his hand, wants me to tell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1. He says he don’t forget you and little Cissy, you bet! and he’s sendin’ money to old Ricketts straight off. He says don’t you and Cissy mind whether school keeps or not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines. He says he’d have written before, but he’s bin follerin’ up a lead mighty close, and expects to strike it rich in a few days.

“You ain’t got no sabe about kids,” said Daddy imperturbably; “they’ve got to be humored like sick folks. And they want everythin’ big—they don’t take no stock in things ez they are—even ef they hev ‘em worse than they are. ‘So,’” continued Daddy, reading to prevent further interruption, “‘he says you’re just to keep your eyes skinned lookin’ out for him comin’ home any time—day or night. All you’ve got to do is to sit up and wait. He might come and even snake you out of your beds! He might come with four white horses and a nigger driver, or he might come disguised as an ornary tramp. Only you’ve got to be keen on watchin’.’ (Ye see,” interrupted Daddy explanatorily, “that’ll jest keep them kids lively.) ‘He says Cissy’s to stop cryin’ right off, and if Willie Walker hits yer on the right cheek you just slug out with your left fist, ‘cordin’ to Scripter.’ Gosh,” ejaculated Daddy, stopping suddenly and gazing anxiously at Houston, “there’s that blamed photograph—I clean forgot that.”

“And Dick hasn’t got one in the shop, and never had,” returned Houston emphatically. “Golly! that stumps us! Unless,” he added, with diabolical thoughtfulness, “we take Bob’s? The kids don’t remember Dick’s face, and Bob’s about the same age. And it’s a regular star picture—you bet! Bob had it taken in Sacramento—in all his war paint. See!” He indicated a photograph pinned against the wall—a really striking likeness which did full justice to Bob’s long silken mustache and large, brown determined eyes. “I’ll snake it off while they ain’t lookin’, and you jam it in the letter. Bob won’t miss it, and we can fix it up with Dick after he’s well, and send another.”

Daddy silently grasped the “infant’s” hand, who presently secured the photograph without attracting attention from the card-players. It was promptly inclosed in the letter, addressed to Master James Lasham. The “infant” started with it to the post-office, and Daddy Folsom returned to Lasham’s cabin to relieve the watcher that had been detached from Falloner’s to take his place beside the sick man.

Meanwhile the rain fell steadily and the shadows crept higher and higher up the mountain. Towards midnight the star points faded out one by one over Sawyer’s Ledge even as they had come, with the difference that the illumination of Falloner’s cabin was extinguished first, while the dim light of Lasham’s increased in number. Later, two stars seemed to shoot from the centre of the ledge, trailing along the descent, until they were lost in the obscurity of the slope—the lights of the stage-coach to Sacramento carrying the mail and Robert Falloner. They met and passed two fainter lights toiling up the road—the buggy lights of the doctor, hastily summoned from Carterville to the bedside of the dying Dick Lasham.

The slowing up of his train caused Bob Falloner to start from a half doze in a Western Pullman car. As he glanced from his window he could see that the blinding snowstorm which had followed him for the past six hours had at last hopelessly blocked the line. There was no prospect beyond the interminable snowy level, the whirling flakes, and the monotonous palisades of leafless trees seen through it to the distant banks of the Missouri. It was a prospect that the mountain-bred Falloner was beginning to loathe, and although it was scarcely six weeks since he left California, he was already looking back regretfully to the deep slopes and the free song of the serried ranks of pines.

The intense cold had chilled his temperate blood, even as the rigors and conventions of Eastern life had checked his sincerity and spontaneous flow of animal spirits begotten in the frank intercourse and brotherhood of camps. He had just fled from the artificialities of the great Atlantic cities to seek out some Western farming lands in which he might put his capital and energies. The unlooked-for interruption of his progress by a long-forgotten climate only deepened his discontent. And now—that train was actually backing! It appeared they must return to the last station to wait for a snow-plough to clear the line. It was, explained the conductor, barely a mile from Shepherdstown, where there was a good hotel and a chance of breaking the journey for the night.

Shepherdstown! The name touched some dim chord in Bob Falloner’s memory and conscience—yet one that was vague. Then he suddenly remembered that before leaving New York he had received a letter from Houston informing him of Lasham’s death, reminding him of his previous bounty, and begging him—if he went West—to break the news to the Lasham family. There was also some allusion to a joke about his (Bob’s) photograph, which he had dismissed as unimportant, and even now could not remember clearly. For a few moments his conscience pricked him that he should have forgotten it all, but now he could make amends by this providential delay. It was not a task to his liking; in any other circumstances he would have written, but he would not shirk it now.

Shepherdstown was on the main line of the Kansas Pacific Road, and as he alighted at its station, the big through trains from San Francisco swept out of the stormy distance and stopped also. He remembered, as he mingled with the passengers, hearing a childish voice ask if this was the Californian train. He remembered hearing the amused and patient reply of the station-master: “Yes, sonny—here she is again, and here’s her passengers,” as he got into the omnibus and drove to the hotel. Here he resolved to perform his disagreeable duty as quickly as possible, and on his way to his room stopped for a moment at the office to ask for Ricketts’ address. The clerk, after a quick glance of curiosity at his new guest, gave it to him readily, with a somewhat familiar smile. It struck Falloner also as being odd that he had not been asked to write his name on the hotel register, but this was a saving of time he was not disposed to question, as he had already determined to make his visit to Ricketts at once, before dinner. It was still early evening.