The Comstock Club

It was useless to try to reason the matter with Miller. He merely said: "It shall be my way. It was a square deal. I meant it so from the first; only," he added, sadly, "I wish Wright and Corrigan and Brewster could have lived to know it." Then turning quickly to Harding, he said: "Harding, how much is that indebtedness which has worried you so long?"

Harding replied that the mortgage was $8,000, while the personal debts amounted to $3,000 more.

"Then," said Miller, "you can pay the debts and have nearly $30,000 more with which to build your house and barns, to stock and fix your place for a home."

The tears came to Harding's eyes, but he could not answer.

"Never mind, old boy," said Miller; "did I not tell you I would make things all right for you?"

Then Carlin got up, went into the adjoining room, brought out the watch which had been Wright's and told Miller how Wright, under the shadow of death, had bequeathed the watch to him.

For the first time Miller broke down and burst into tears.

When he recovered somewhat the command of himself, he said:

"Now, I have a proposition to make. Let us all give up this mining. It is a hard life, and generally ends either in poverty or in a fatal accident. I am going to San Francisco. The place to make money is where there is money, and I am going to try my skill at the other end of the line."

"You are right," said Carlin. "I am never going down into the Comstock again. I made up my mind to that yesterday. I am going back to Illinois."

"And I am going to Pennsylvania," said Ashley.

"I gave up mining yesterday, also," said Harding; "at least on the Comstock. I do not mind the labor or the danger, but it is not a life that fits a man for a contented old age."

Suddenly Miller said: "Harding, were you ever in the Eastern States?"

"No," said Harding; "the present boundary of my life is limited to California and Nevada."

"Well," said Miller, "if we all give ourselves credit for all the good we ever dreamed of doing, still neither of us, indeed, all of us together, are not worthy to be named on the same day with James Brewster. His body must go East, and on its arrival there only an aged woman and two little orphan children await to receive it. I think it would be shabby to send the dust of the great-hearted and great-souled man there unattended. What say you, Ashley and Harding, will you not escort the body to its old home?"

Both at once assented. A dispatch was prepared announcing Brewster's death, and adding that his body would be shipped the next evening escorted by two brother miners, Herbert Ashley and Samuel Harding. This was signed by the superintendent of the Bullion company.

The superintendent also made a written statement that he had examined the effects of Brewster and found that, less the expenses of embalming, transportation, etc., together with $80 due Brewster from the Bullion company, there was left the sum of $840.25. With this statement a bill of exchange on Boston for the $840.25 was enclosed, and Ashley took charge of it.

The bills were all paid. The money due Brewster's orphans, according to Miller's calculation, was also converted into a bill of exchange payable to Mabel and Mildred Brewster. Ashley and Harding took charge of the first and left the second of exchange to be forwarded by Colonel Savage, and before night all preparations for leaving the next day were made.

The next morning Corrigan's funeral took place with all the ostentatious parade which Virginia City was famous for in the flush times when some one who had been a favorite had passed away. At the hall of the Miners' Union Colonel Savage delivered a eulogy which was infinitely more beautiful than some of the orations which have been treasured among the gems of the century.

He was followed by Strong in a eulogy that touched every heart. Here is a sample:

"Gentle and unpretentious was Barney Corrigan. There was no disguise in his nature. Could his heart have been worn outside his breast, and could it, every moment, have thrown off pictures of the emotions that warmed it, to those who knew him well, those pictures would have thrown no new light on his nature.

"Generous and true was he; true as a man, a friend a citizen. His walk through life was an humble one, but it was, nevertheless, grand. So brave was he that he performed heroic acts as a matter of course, and all unconscious that he was a hero.

"So he toiled on, his path lighted by his own genial eyes, and strewn behind him with generous deeds.

"When death came to him the blessed anæsthetic which made him indifferent to his sufferings was the thought that in a little while he would rescue a friend in peril, or feel the grasp of the spirit hand of his mother.

"Noble was his life; consecrated will be the ground that receives his mortal part. The world was better that he lived; it is sadder that he has died.

"With tears we part with him; our souls send tender 'all hails and farewells' out to his soul that has fled, and we pray that his sleep may be sweet."

The Colonel, Professor and Alex, with Miller, Carlin, Ashley and Harding, rode in the mourning carriages. These were followed by a long line of carriages and quite one thousand miners on foot. At the grave the services were simply a prayer and a hymn sung by the Cornish quartette. They made his grave close beside that of Wright's; they ordered a duplicate stone to be placed above it, and left him to his long sleep.

Yap Sing was paid off and a handsome present made him, the furniture and food in the Club house was distributed among poor families in the neighborhood, and on the evening train the four living men, with the body of their dead friend, moved out of Virginia City.

A great crowd was at the depot to see them off, and the last hands wrung were those of the Professor, the Colonel and Alex.

On the way to Reno, Carlin said to Miller: "One thing I cannot understand, Miller; whatever possessed that broker to turn over that money to you when he was not compelled to?"

"I have no idea in the world," said Miller, "except that we are old friends."

"But did you never do him any great favor, Miller – any particularly great favor?" asked Carlin.

"No," said Miller, "I cannot think of any." But after a moment's silence he added: "By the way, come to think of it, I did do him a little favor once. I saved his life."

"How was it?" asked Carlin. "Why," answered Miller, "he and myself had a running fight with a band of renegade Indians. There were seven or eight of them at first, and we got them reduced to four, when one of them killed the broker's horse. It was a very close game then. It required the promptest kind of work. When the horse fell the broker was thrown violently on his shoulder and the side of his head and was too stunned to gather his wits together for a few minutes. I had a gentle horse, so sprang down from him and let him go. I got behind a low rock and succeeded in stopping two of the Indians, when the others concluded it was no even thing and took the back track. But the broker was "powerful" nervous when I got up to him. The worst of all was, I had to ride and tie with him for seventeen miles, and he was so badly demoralized that I had to do all the walking."

At Reno Miller bade the others good-bye and took the west-bound train. Carlin sent a dispatch to an Illinois town. Late in the night the east-bound Overland express came in; the body of Brewster was put on board, the three friends entered a sleeper and the long ride began.

CHAPTER XIX

Following a long established habit our three travelers were up next morning shortly after dawn.

The train was then thundering over the desert northeast of Wadsworth. Carlin noticed the country and said:

"This must be almost on the spot where poor Wright saw his wonderful mirage."

As he spoke the bending rays of the rising sun swept along the sterile earth, and a shimmer in the air close to the ground revealed how swiftly the heat waves were advancing.

"It is as Wright said; the desert grows warm at once, so soon as the morning sun strikes it," said Harding. "Heavens, how awful a desolation. It is as though the face-cloth had been lifted from a dead world."

"Do you remember what Wright told us, about the appalling stillness of this region?" asked Ashley. "One can realize a little of it by looking out. Were the train not here what would there be for sound to act upon?"

"Is it not pitiful," said Harding, "to think of a grand life like Wright's being worn out as his was? He met the terrors here when but a boy. From that time on there was but blow after blow of this merciless world's buffetings until the struggle closed in a violent and untimely death."

"You forget," said Ashley, "that a self-contained soul and royal heart like his, are their own comforters. He had joys that the selfish men of this world never know."

All that day the conversation was only awakened at intervals and then was not long continued. Not only the sorrow in their hearts was claiming their thoughts and imposing the silence which real sorrow covets; but the swift changes wrought in the week just passed, had really resulted in an entire revolution in all their thoughts and plans.

It was to them an epoch. The breakfast station came, later the dinner, later the supper station. All the day the train swept on up the Humboldt valley. Along the river bottom were meadows, but about the only change in the monotonous scenery, was from desert plains to desert mountains and back again to the plains.

Night came down in Eastern Nevada. When they awoke next morning the train was skirting the northwest shore of Great Salt Lake and the rising sun was painting the splendors that, with lavish extravagance, the dawn always pictures there on clear days, and no spot has more clear days during the year.

Ogden was reached at nine o'clock in the morning, the transfer to the Union Pacific train was made; breakfast eaten, and toward noon, the beauties of Echo Canyon began to unfold. Green River was crossed in the gloaming; in the morning Laramie was passed, at noon Cheyenne, and the train was now on a down grade toward the East. With the next morning men were seen gathering their crops; the desert had been left behind and the travelers were now entering the granary of the Republic.

Late that night the train entered Omaha. The usual delay was made; the transfers effected and early next morning the journey across Iowa, so wonderful to one who has been long in the desert, began. Ashley darted from side to side of the coach that he might not lose one bit of the view; but Harding sat still, by the window, hardly moving, but straining his eyes over the low waves of green, which, in the stillness of the summer day, seemed like a sea transfixed.

Carlin was strangely restless. He did not seem to heed the scenery around him. He studied his guidebook and every quarter of an hour looked at his watch. When spoken to, he answered in an absent-minded way; it was plain that he was absorbed by some overmastering thought.