A First Family of Tasajara

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A FIRST FAMILY OF TASAJARA


By Bret Harte




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."

"Don't want it, 'Lige," said Harkutt, pushing it back.

"I'd rather leave it."

"But suppose you have a chance to sell it to somebody at Rawlett's?"
continued Harkutt, with a precaution that seemed ironical.

"I don't think there's much chance of that."

He remained quiet, looking at Harkutt with an odd expression as
he rubbed the edge of the coin that he held between his fingers
abstractedly on the counter. Something in his gaze--rather perhaps
the apparent absence of anything in it approximate to the present
occasion--was beginning to affect Harkutt with a vague uneasiness.
Providentially a resumed onslaught of wind and rain against the panes
effected a diversion. "Come," he said, with brisk practicality, "you'd
better hurry on to Rawlett's before it gets worse. Have your clothes
dried by his fire, take suthin' to eat, and you'll be all right." He
rubbed his hands cheerfully, as if summarily disposing of the situation,
and incidentally of all 'Lige's troubles, and walked with him to the
door. Nevertheless, as the man's look remained unchanged, he hesitated
a moment with his hand on the handle, in the hope that he would say
something, even if only to repeat his appeal, but he did not. Then
Harkutt opened the door; the man moved mechanically out, and at the
distance of a few feet seemed to melt into the rain and darkness.
Harkutt remained for a moment with his face pressed against the glass.
After an interval he thought he heard the faint splash of hoofs in the
shallows of the road; he opened the door softly and looked out.

The light had disappeared from the nearest house; only an uncertain bulk
of shapeless shadows remained. Other remoter and more vague outlines
near the horizon seemed to have a funereal suggestion of tombs and grave
mounds, and one--a low shed near the road--looked not unlike a halted
bier. He hurriedly put up the shutters in a momentary lulling of the
wind, and re-entering the store began to fasten them from within.

While thus engaged an inner door behind the counter opened softly and
cautiously, projecting a brighter light into the deserted apartment from
some sacred domestic interior with the warm and wholesome incense of
cooking. It served to introduce also the equally agreeable presence of a
young girl, who, after assuring herself of the absence of every one but
the proprietor, idly slipped into the store, and placing her rounded
elbows, from which her sleeves were uprolled, upon the counter, leaned
lazily upon them, with both hands supporting her dimpled chin, and gazed
indolently at him; so indolently that, with her pretty face once
fixed in this comfortable attitude, she was constrained to follow his
movements with her eyes alone, and often at an uncomfortable angle. It
was evident that she offered the final but charming illustration of the
enfeebling listlessness of Sidon.

"So those loafers have gone at last," she said, meditatively. "They'll
take root here some day, pop. The idea of three strong men like that
lazing round for two mortal hours doin' nothin'. Well!" As if to
emphasize her disgust she threw her whole weight upon the counter by
swinging her feet from the floor to touch the shelves behind her.

Mr. Harkutt only replied by a slight grunt as he continued to screw on
the shutters.

"Want me to help you, dad?" she said, without moving.

Mr. Harkutt muttered something unintelligible, which, however, seemed to
imply a negative, and her attention here feebly wandered to the roll of
paper, and she began slowly and lazily to read it aloud.

"'For value received, I hereby sell, assign, and transfer to Daniel D.
Harkutt all my right, titles and interest in, and to the undivided
half of, Quarter Section 4, Range 5, Tasajara Township'--hum--hum," she
murmured, running her eyes to the bottom of the page. "Why, Lord! It's
that 'Lige Curtis!" she laughed. "The idea of HIM having property! Why,
dad, you ain't been THAT silly!"

"Put down that paper, miss," he said, aggrievedly; "bring the candle
here, and help me to find one of these infernal screws that's dropped."

The girl indolently disengaged herself from the counter and Elijah
Curtis's transfer, and brought the candle to her father. The screw was
presently found and the last fastening secured. "Supper gettin' cold,
dad," she said, with a slight yawn. Her father sympathetically responded
by stretching himself from his stooping position, and the two passed
through the private door into inner domesticity, leaving the already
forgotten paper lying with other articles of barter on the counter.




CHAPER II.


With the closing of the little door behind them they seemed to have shut
out the turmoil and vibration of the storm. The reason became apparent
when, after a few paces, they descended half a dozen steps to a lower
landing. This disclosed the fact that the dwelling part of the Sidon
General Store was quite below the level of the shop and the road, and
on the slope of the solitary undulation of the Tasajara plain,--a little
ravine that fell away to a brawling stream below. The only arboreous
growth of Tasajara clothed its banks in the shape of willows and alders
that set compactly around the quaint, irregular dwelling which straggled
down the ravine and looked upon a slope of bracken and foliage on either
side. The transition from the black, treeless, storm-swept plain to this
sheltered declivity was striking and suggestive. From the opposite bank
one might fancy that the youthful and original dwelling had ambitiously
mounted the crest, but, appalled at the dreary prospect beyond, had
gone no further; while from the road it seemed as if the fastidious
proprietor had tried to draw a line between the vulgar trading-post,
with which he was obliged to face the coarser civilization of the place,
and the privacy of his domestic life. The real fact, however, was that
the ravine furnished wood and water; and as Nature also provided one
wall of the house,--as in the well-known example of aboriginal cave
dwellings,--its peculiar construction commended itself to Sidon on the
ground of involving little labor.

Howbeit, from the two open windows of the sitting-room which they had
entered only the faint pattering of dripping boughs and a slight murmur
from the swollen brook indicated the storm that shook the upper plain,
and the cool breath of laurel, syringa, and alder was wafted through
the neat apartment. Passing through that pleasant rural atmosphere
they entered the kitchen, a much larger room, which appeared to serve
occasionally as a dining-room, and where supper was already laid out.
A stout, comfortable-looking woman--who had, however, a singularly
permanent expression of pained sympathy upon her face--welcomed them in
tones of gentle commiseration.

"Ah, there you be, you two! Now sit ye right down, dears; DO. You
must be tired out; and you, Phemie, love, draw up by your poor father.
There--that's right. You'll be better soon."

There was certainly no visible sign of suffering or exhaustion on the
part of either father or daughter, nor the slightest apparent earthly
reason why they should be expected to exhibit any. But, as already
intimated, it was part of Mrs. Harkutt's generous idiosyncrasy to look
upon all humanity as suffering and toiling; to be petted, humored,
condoled with, and fed. It had, in the course of years, imparted a
singularly caressing sadness to her voice, and given her the habit of
ending her sentences with a melancholy cooing and an unintelligible
murmur of agreement. It was undoubtedly sincere and sympathetic, but at
times inappropriate and distressing. It had lost her the friendship of
the one humorist of Tasajara, whose best jokes she had received with
such heartfelt commiseration and such pained appreciation of the evident
labor involved as to reduce him to silence.

Accustomed as Mr. Harkutt was to his wife's peculiarity, he was not
above assuming a certain slightly fatigued attitude befitting it. "Yes,"
he said, with a vague sigh, "where's Clemmie?"

"Lyin' down since dinner; she reckoned she wouldn't get up to supper,"
she returned soothingly. "Phemie's goin' to take her up some sass and
tea. The poor dear child wants a change."

"She wants to go to 'Frisco, and so do I, pop," said Phemie, leaning
her elbow half over her father's plate. "Come, pop, say do,--just for a
week."