Tales of Trail and Town

“No.”

“Then, in created goodness!—WHERE did you get it?”

Johnny raised his brown-gooseberry eyes for a single instant to his mother’s and said, “I found it.”

Mrs. Medliker gasped again and stared hopelessly at the ceiling. Yet she was conscious of a certain relief. After all, it was POSSIBLE that he had found it—liar as he undoubtedly was.

“Then why don’t you say where, you awful child?”

“Don’t want to!”

Johnny would have liked to add that he saw no reason why he should tell. Other people who found gold were not obliged to tell. There was Jim Brody, who had struck a lead and kept the locality secret. Nobody forced him to tell. Nobody called him a thief; nobody had dragged him about by the arm until he showed it. Why was it wrong that a little boy should find gold? It wasn’t agin the Commandments. Mr. Staples had never got up and said, “Thou shalt not find gold!” His mother had never made him pray not to find it! The schoolmaster had never read him awful stories of boys who found gold and never said anything about it, and so came to a horrid end. All this crowded his small boy’s mind, and, crowding, choked his small boy’s utterance.

“You jest wait till your father comes home,” said Mrs. Medliker, “and he’ll see whether you ‘want to’ or not. And now get yourself off to bed and stay there.”

Johnny knew that his father—whose teams had increased to five wagons, and whose route extended forty miles further—was not due for a week, and that the catastrophe was yet remote. His present punishment he had expected. He went into the adjoining bedroom, which he occupied with his sister, and began to undress. He lingered for some time over one stocking, and finally cautiously removed from it a small piece of flake gold which he had kept concealed all day under his big toe, to the great discomfort of that member. But this was only a small, ordinary self-martyrdom of boyhood. He scratched a boyish hieroglyphic on the metal, and when his mother’s back was turned scraped a small hole in the adobe wall, inserted the gold in it, and covered it up with a plaster made of the moistened debris. It was safe—so was his secret—for it need not, perhaps, be stated here that Johnny HAD told the truth and HAD honestly found the gold! But where?—yes, that was his own secret! And now, Johnny, with the instinct of all young animals, dismissed the whole subject from his mind, and, reclining comfortably upon his arm, fell into an interesting study of the habits of the red ant as exemplified in a crack of the adobe wall, and with the aid of a burnt match succeeded in diverting for the rest of the afternoon the attention of a whole laborious colony.

The next morning, however, brought trouble to him in the curiosity of his sisters, heightened by their belief that he could at any moment be taken off to prison—which was their understanding of their mother’s story. I grieve to say that to them this invested him with a certain romantic heroism, from the gratification of which the hero himself was not exempt. Nevertheless, he successfully evaded their questioning, and on broader impersonal grounds. As girls, it was none of their business! He wasn’t a-going to tell them HIS secrets! And what did they know about gold, anyway? They couldn’t tell it from brass! The attitude of his mother was, however, still perplexing. She was no longer actively indignant, but treated him with a mysterious reserve that was the more appalling. The fact was that she no longer believed in his theft,—indeed, she had never seriously accepted it,—but his strange reticence and secretiveness piqued her curiosity, and even made her a little afraid of him. The capacity for keeping a secret she believed was manlike, and reminded her—for no reason in the world—of Jim Medliker, her husband, whom she feared. Well, she would let them fight it out between them. More than that, she was finally obliged to sink her reserve in employing him in the necessary “chores” for the house, and he was sent on an errand to the country store at the cross-roads. But he first extracted his gold-flake from the wall, and put it in his pocket.

On arriving at the store, it was plain even to his boyish perceptions that the minister had circulated his miserable story. Two or three of the customers spoke to each other in a whisper, and looked at him. More than that, when he began his homeward journey he saw that two of the loungers were evidently following him. Half in timidity and half in boyish mischief he once or twice strayed from the direct road, and snatched a fearful joy in observing their equal divergence. As he passed Mr. Staples’s house he saw that reverend gentleman sneak out of his back gate, and, without seeing the two others, join in the inquisitorial procession. But the events of the past day had had their quickening effect upon Johnny’s intellect. A brilliantly wicked thought struck him. As he was passing a perfectly bare spot on the road he managed, without being noticed, to cast his glittering flake of gold on the sterile ground at the other side of the road, where the minister’s path would lie. Then, at a point where the road turned, he concealed himself in the brush. The Reverend Mr. Staples hurried forward as he lost sight of the boy in the sweep of the road, but halted suddenly. Johnny’s heart leaped. The minister looked around him, stooped, picked up the piece of gold, thrust it hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket, and continued his way. When he reached the turn of the road, before passing it, he availed himself of his solitude to pause and again examine the treasure, and again return it to his pocket. But, to Johnny’s surprise, he here turned back, walked quickly to the spot where he had found it, carefully examined the locality, kicking the loose soil and stones around with his feet until he had apparently satisfied himself that there was no more, and no gold-bearing indications in the soil. At this moment, however, the two other inquisitors came in sight, and Mr. Staples turned quickly and hurried on. Before he had passed the brush where Johnny was concealed, the two men overtook him and exchanged greetings. They both spoke of “Johnny” and his crime; of having followed him with a view of finding out where he went to procure his gold, and of his having again evaded them. Mr. Staples agreed with their purpose, but, to Johnny’s intense astonishment, SAID NOTHING ABOUT HIS OWN FIND! When they had passed on, the boy slipped from his place of concealment and followed them at a distance until his own house came in view. Here the two men diverged, but the minister continued on towards the other “store” and post-office on the main road.

He would have told his mother what he had seen, and his surprise that the minister had not spoken of finding the gold to the other men, but he was checked, first by his mother’s attitude towards him, which was clearly the same as the minister’s, and, second, by the knowledge that she would have condemned his dropping the gold in the minister’s path,—though he knew not WHY,—or asked his reason for it, which he was equally sure he could not formulate, though he also knew not why. But that evening, as he was returning from the spring with water, he heard the minister’s voice in the kitchen. It had been a day of surprises and revelations to Johnny, but the climax seemed to be reached as he entered the room; and he now stood transfixed and open-mouthed as he heard Mr. Staples say:—

“It’s all very well, Sister Medliker, to comfort your heart with vain hopes and delusions. A mother’s leanin’s is the soul’s deceivin’s,—and yer leanin’ on a broken reed. If the boy truly found that gold he’d have come to ye and said: ‘Behold, mother, I have found gold in the highways and byways; rejoice and be exceedin’ glad!’ and hev poured it inter yer lap. Yes,” continued Mr. Staples aggressively to the boy, as he saw him stagger back with his pail in hand, “yes, sir, THAT would have been the course of a Christian child!”

For a moment Johnny felt the blood boiling in his ears, and a thousand words seemed crowding in his throat. “Then”—he gasped and choked. “Then”—he began again, and stopped with the suffocation of indignation.

But Mr. Staples saw in his agitation only an awakened conscience, and, nudging Mrs. Medliker, leaned eagerly forward for a reply. “Then,” he repeated, with suave encouragement, “go on, Johnny! Speak it out!”

“Then,” said Johnny, in a high, shrill falsetto that startled them, “then wot for did YOU pick up that piece o’ gold in the road this arternoon, and say nothin’ of it to the men who followed ye? Ye did; I seed yer! And ye didn’t say nothin’ of it to anybody; and ye ain’t sayin’ nothin’ of it now ter maw! and ye’ve got it in yer vest! And it’s mine, and I dropped it! Gimme it.”

Astonishment, confusion, and rage swelled and empurpled Staples’ face. It was HIS turn to gasp for breath. Yet in the same moment he made an angry dash at the boy. But Mrs. Medliker interfered. This was an entirely new feature in the case. Great is the power of gold. A single glance at the minister’s confusion had convinced her that Johnny’s accusation was true, and it was Johnny’s MONEY—constructively HERS—that the minister was concealing. His mere possession of that gold had more effect in straightening out her loose logic than any sense of hypocrisy.

“You leave the boy be, Brother Staples,” said Mrs. Medliker sharply. “I reckon wot’s his is hisn, spite of whar he got it.”

Mr. Staples saw his mistake, and smiled painfully as he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. “I believe I DID pick up something,” he said, “that may or may not have been gold, but I have dropped it again or thrown it away; and really it is of little concern in our moral lesson. For we have only HIS word that it was really his! How do we KNOW it?”

“Cos it has my marks on it,” said Johnny quickly; “it had a criss-cross I scratched on it. I kin tell it good enuf.”

Mr. Staples turned suddenly pale and rose. “Of course,” he said to Mrs. Medliker with painful dignity, “if you set so much value upon a mere worldly trifle, I will endeavor to find it. It may be in my other pocket.” He backed out of the door in his usual fashion, but instantly went over to the post-office, where, as he afterwards alleged, he had changed the ore for coin in a moment of inadvertence. But Johnny’s hieroglyphics were found on it, and in some mysterious way the story got about. It had two effects that Johnny did not dream of. It had forced his mother into an attitude of complicity with him; it had raised up for him a single friend. Jake Stielitzer, quartz miner, had declared that Burnt Spring was “playing it low down” on Johnny! That if they really believed that the boy took gold from their sluice boxes, it was their duty to watch their CLAIMS and not the boy. That it was only their excuse for “snooping” after him, and they only wanted to find his “strike,” which was as much his as their claims were their own! All this with great proficiency of epithet, but also a still more recognized proficiency with the revolver, which made the former respected.

“That’s the real nigger in the fence, Johnny,” said Jake, twirling his huge mustache, “and they only want to know where your lead is,—and don’t yer tell ‘em! Let ‘em bile over with waitin’ first, and that’ll put the fire out. Does yer pop know?”

“No,” said Johnny.

“Nor yer mar?”

“No.”

Jake whistled. “Then it’s only YOU, yourself?”

Johnny nodded violently, and his brown eyes glistened.

“It’s a heap of information to be packed away in a chap of your size, Johnny. Makes you feel kinder crowded inside, eh? MUST keep it to yourself, eh?”

“Have to,” said Johnny with a gasp that was a little like a sigh.

It caused Jake to look at him attentively. “See here, Johnny,” he said, “now ef ye wanted to tell somebody about it,—somebody as was a friend of yours,—ME, f’r instance?”

Johnny slowly withdrew the freckled, warty little hand that had been resting confidingly in Jake’s and gently sidled away from him. Jake burst into a loud laugh.

“All right, Johnny boy,” he said with a hearty slap upon the boy’s back, “keep yer head shut ef yer wanter! Only ef anybody else comes bummin’ round ye, like this, jest turn him over TO ME, and I’ll lift him outer his boots!”

Jake kept his word, and his distance thereafter. Indeed, it was after this first and last conversation with him that the influence of his powerful protection was so strong that all active criticisms of Johnny ceased, and only a respectful surveillance of his movements lingered in the settlement. I do not know that this was altogether distasteful to the child; it would have been strange, indeed, if he had not felt at times exalted by this mysterious influence that he seemed to have acquired over his fellow creatures. If he were merely hunting blackberries in the brush, he was always sure, sooner or later, to find a ready hand offered to help and accompany him; if he trapped a squirrel or tracked down a wild bees’ hoard, he generally found a smiling face watching him. Prospectors sometimes stopped him with: “Well, Johnny, as a chipper and far-minded boy, now WHAR would YOU advise us to dig?” I grieve to say that Johnny was not above giving his advice,—and that it was invariably of not the smallest use to the recipient.

And so the days passed. Mr. Medliker’s absence was protracted, and the hour of retribution and punishment still seemed far away. The blackberries ripened and dried upon the hillside, and the squirrels had gathered their hoards; the bees no longer came and went through the thicket, but Johnny was still in daily mysterious possession of his grains of gold! And then one day—after the fate of all heroic humanity—his secret was imperilled by the blandishments and machinations of the all-powerful sex.

Florry Fraser was a little playmate of Johnny’s. Why, with his doubts of his elder sister’s intelligence and integrity, he should have selected a child two years younger, and of singular simplicity, was, like his other secret, his own. What SHE saw in him to attract her was equally strange; possibly it may have been his brown-gooseberry eyes or his warts; but she was quite content to trot after him, like a young squaw, carrying his “bow-arrow,” or his “trap,” supremely satisfied to share his woodland knowledge or his scanter confidences. For nobody who knew Johnny suspected that she was privy to his great secret. Howbeit, wherever his ragged straw hat, thatched with his tawny hair, was detected in the brush, the little nankeen sunbonnet of Florry was sure to be discerned not far behind. For two weeks they had not seen each other. A fell disease, nurtured in ignorance, dirt, and carelessness, was striking right and left through the valleys of the foothills, and Florry, whose sister had just recovered from an attack, had been sequestered with her. But one morning, as Johnny was bringing his wood from the stack behind the house, he saw, to his intense delight, a picket of the road fence slipped aside by a small red hand, and a moment after Florry squeezed herself through the narrow opening. Her round cheeks were slightly flushed, and there was a scrap of red flannel around her plump throat that heightened the whiteness of her skin.

“My!” said Johnny, with half-real, half-affected admiration, “how splendiferous!”

“Sore froat,” said Florry, in a whisper, trying to insert her two chubby fingers between the bandage and her chin. “I mussent go outer the garden patch! I mussent play in the woods, for I’ll be seed! I mussent stay long, for they’ll ketch me outer bed!”

“Outer bed?” repeated Johnny, with intense admiration, as he perceived for the first time that Florry was in a flannel nightgown, with bare legs and feet.

“Ess.”

Whereupon these two delightful imps chuckled and wagged their heads with a sincere enjoyment that this mere world could not give! Johnny slipped off his shoes and stockings and hurriedly put them on the infant Florry, securing them from falling off with a thick cord. This added to their enjoyment.

“We can play cubby house in the stone heap,” whispered Florry.

“Hol’ on till I tote in this wood,” said Johnny. “You hide till I come back.”

Johnny swiftly delivered his load with an alacrity he had never shown before. Then they played “cubby house”—not fifty feet from the cabin, with a hushed but guilty satisfaction. But presently it palled. Their domain was too circumscribed for variety. “Robinson Crusoe up the tree” was impossible, as being visible from the house windows. Johnny was at his wits’ end. Florry was fretful and fastidious. Then a great thought struck him and left him cold. “If I show you a show, you won’t tell?” he said suddenly.

“No.”

“Wish yer-ma-die?”

“Ess.”

“Got any penny?”

“No.”

“Got any slate pencil?”

“No.”