Days of '49/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
1
The next day was Sunday. The only difference that this made in the life of the city was that a few people here and there gathered together and worshipped God, and more than usual got drunk; but business went on the same; stores were open, saloons crowded, gambling houses packed.
Ezekiel Preble held two services on the Plaza from the top of a barrel, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; and men whittled and chewed tobacco as they listened, or in low voices discussed their own affairs, moving off toward a bar when they were tired of listening. Preble was a powerful preacher and spoke almost entirely in Biblical phrases; but they were more powerful sinners.
During the morning service two droning voices conversed:
"Nobody 'pears to know just where the colonel's gone, though some was saying yest’day they seen him ridin' off with that there Tesler gal an' her Pa."
"She's right purty they say. I ain't seen her yit."
"Say, did y'ever see a woman you felt like you'd do whatever she wanted if she'd just smile a little?"
"Naw. I ain't never been much of a hand to be a fool over women."
"Well, the colonel he's a right smart hand over women."
"Le's get a drink."
"That's a whack!"
2
At the same hour that the Rev. Ezekiel Preble was preaching his morning sermon on the Plaza, Doña Elvira Eton sat in silken déshabille, smoking black tobacco and, with a kind of dainty loathing and through narrowed eyes, watched a wretched woman who, with arms on the table before her, writhed about in her chair, rubbing her hands with fumbling vagueness across a dirty tangled head.
She was sobering up. She had been drunk when she came the previous afternoon and, though beyond knowing what she was doing or where she was, had clamorously demanded more to drink. There was no talking with her. She appeared quite used to making scenes when she was not given enough to drink; and, being given a bottle of whisky, had soon gone off into snoring slumbers. Now with headache and confused blurred senses, she was coming out of the stupor that was about as near to a blessing as anything she was likely ever to get out of life.
She was a thin woman, young, wasted by sin; the little devils that live in hard liquor had drunk her blood, eaten her bones. She was dirty, in ragged clothes; but, fallen as she was, there remained a glimmer of the personality rather than of good appearance that had once made her a favorite with men.
The "good Doña" eyed her with disgust, and the faint line of an unconscious sneer lay like a shadow on her own shapely lips. That a woman, any woman, should go so low was beyond Elvira's understanding. But then Elvira had been schooled in sin and its arts from youth; this woman had been plunged into it, falling from a good home.
Elvira felt contempt and physical loathing, but the more miserable this woman, the more miserable she could make Hales.
The drunken woman opened and closed her mouth, licking her lips, making wry faces, as if indeed tasting wormwood. With head half adroop and one eye nearly closed while a hand fumbled through her hair, pulling and rubbing, she turned her gaze doubtfully upon Elvira. The miserable creature was as full of oaths as her body of aches. She stared fixedly at Elvira, then—
"I guess you're real. But what the am I doin' here? I want a drink—hair of dog that bit me. Whole skin of dog. St. Bernard skin. You ever drunk? Huh?"
"Not really, no."
"No? Uh—do I get that drink?"
"Must you have it?" Elvira inquired uneasily, afraid the woman would have a tantrum if she didn't get it, and soon be unconscious if she did.
"Must is right! An' I don't mean tomorrow. I mean now, right now. Hear me?"
Elvira called Tota from the next room:
"Bring a glass of whisky, Tota."
The woman eyed the negress with a kind of suspicious scrutiny, then shouted:
"Bring the bottle. They don't make glasses big 'nough for me. Not any more. An' be in a hurry or I'll yell."
"You're not going to get drunk again, surely?"
"Ain't I? Huh. Just as fast as I can get there. That's all I been doing for weeks. But say, what am I doin' here, with you? How'd I get here?"
"You know me?" asked Elvira, a little surprised.
"Know you? Huh! Yes, I know you. Yes. You're Elvira Eton. I used to be pretty, too."
"And your name?" asked Elvira innocently.
"Raggy-tail Mag. That's me. Life's funny, ain't it? An' I got a head on me—ow, what a head! You've never been tight? Don't you like the stuff?"
"Not much, no. A little wine."
"Bah, wine! I want something you can taste. An' you'll get to whisky yet. Oh, yes, you will. Wait till you have to make up to ever' lousy tramp that wants a kiss—then's when you've got to get drunk an' stay there. Uh-huh. Where's that nigger wench with my drink?"
Tota came with bottle and whisky glass and, as she was placing them on the table, the woman who called herself Raggy-tail Mag snatched bottle and glass and began trying to fill the glass. The liquor spilled as if the devil himself were tantalizing her by jerking her hand one way and jostling her arm another—her hands were that shaky—while the maddening odor of the spilled whisky increased her desire. With an oath she threw the glass to the floor, and bending her head she opened her mouth, placed her lips around the bottle, raised it with both trembling hands, tipped back her head and gulped.
That's better," she said, putting down the bottle, and eyeing with satisfaction what was left.
"What is your real name?" asked Elvira.
"Who wants to know?"
"I shall help you if I can."
"Help me? Help me! You're a liar. You're up to something. I know women. I'm a woman—used to be one, anyhow. Pretty, too. Ask your colonel."
"My colonel?"
The woman laughed derisively.
"Don't play innocence with me. Everybody knows you and him. You're after something. The colonel's not a bad fellow. Hones'. Just a man. Don't want a woman 'round him longer than she stays pretty. You'll learn that sometime. Ha-ha-ha! Can't blame a man for that. He's born that way—man is. Of course he'll lie to you, an' play hell with you. But us women do the same. It's a game. Woman loses. I don't blame the colonel. Not any more. He's no good, but I was bad. Lord, how I loved that man—once. Not any more. You've got me here to learn things about him. But if you think I'm goin' to tell lies about him so you can throw 'em up to him, you're crazy. I'm not. Bah!"
She drank again. The whisky had warmed her tongue.
Elvira peered at her closely, searching her as one woman searches another; and she was surprised, somehow vaguely jealous, that this creature should speak well of Col. Nevinson.
"Why do you talk of Colonel Nevinson? I haven't mentioned him. Haven't even thought of him," said Elvira.
"You," said the woman indifferently, "are a liar."
Elvira smiled a little. It meant nothing, that "liar"; nothing more than when one player says "check" to the other across a chessboard.
"Then tell me about him. He appears to mean so much to you, this colonel."
"Huhn?" The woman eyed the beautiful Doña with hostile scrutiny. "You love him? I'll bet you don't. I did—once. I've loved lots of men—'cept the one I should. Men an' whisky. When I get a whiff of the old corn juice—I'll just take another drink right now." She did—a large drink. Then: "There's nothin' to tell. I met the colonel in Washington. I was a fool over him. When I heard he was comin' to California I got on the boat. I'm tellin' the truth. You don't like it. You want me to lie, don't you? Say he took me away from my husband, don't you? Ruined me, don't you? I won't. So there! Fooled you."
"But here, after you got here? What happened?"
The woman returned to her whisky bottle, then with pathetic flippancy:
"I tried to make him jealous an' it didn't work. He pitched me out. I felt so bad I got drunk. Been drunk ever since. Be drunk again in about ten minutes. You'll see. Maybe less."
"What's your real name?"
"What the hell do you care?"
"I don't, really; but I am interested. I mean to help you, because I can see that you are a woman of good family. The colonel did tell me of you. You told my negro Sam—he found you—that your name was Anna Hales."
"I must've been drunker than usual. I'm an awful liar when I'm drunk."
"That is your name, isn't it? The colonel said that it was. He feels awfully sorry for you."
"Was, once. But one day I said to myself—right after I run across Hubert Lee. He recognized me. Knew me back in the States. I said, 'Look here, Ann. He's dead now, the man whose name you're using. He was always too good for you. So from now on, you're goin' the rest of the way to hell under your own name.' I was Ann May Taylor. May Taylor—Mag Taylor—Ragged Mag, that's me. Ask anybody. Closer I get to hell, better woman I'm getting to be—hee-hee-hee! Funny, ain't it?"
"Where is he now?"
"Dead. Killed in the war, thank God. Though at that I guess he knows what I am now. Uh! Hope not."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure of what?"
"That he is dead."
"Yes, I'm sure. What you talkin' about him for anyhow? My God, we're not fit to mention his name. He was a gentleman, damn you!"
She began to weep and at the same time to try to drink from the mouth of the bottle.
Elvira felt an impulse to throw the woman out, forget her; but for the moment her sympathy dominated.
"Listen to me, Anna. I"
"Mag, I told you."
"You need rest, good food. Clothes."
"You're up to something?"
"I swear I am not. I heard of you, how miserable you were. I wanted to see you."
"Why are you so good?" asked Anna.
"I think it terrible that a woman such as you should have had such luck."
Anna stared. She said, "Oh, oh, oh!" in broken sounds of pain; then with a rush arose and dropped at Elvira's feet, seizing the silk of Elvira's skirt, burying her face in it . "I will be good—take me out of hell. I swear to! Whisky—I won't touch it—I swear—oh, you—are an angel—Oh!"
"Don't! Don't!" said Elvira quickly, startled, pulling at her skirt, shrinking. "Don't be a fool!"
But the woman did not notice; she was weeping in a kind of hysteria, so full of pain and hope that it seemed repentance.
3
At about this same hour, José de Sola, with the wary idleness of a man who, though he knows that every shadow may hide an enemy, is too proud to be afraid, sat on the portico of the Parker House.
Dick Hales had spoken with José, half urging the young Spaniard to join with him.
"An officer I used to know has been at me," said Hales. "The Army has received word from the East that so many emigrant trains are starting late, and so badly equipped that a lot of them are going to be caught this fall in the mountains. Scouts are going into the mountains to meet these trains and help them through. How about going with them?"
Don José shook his head, smiling faintly, then with deliberate enunciation:
"Why, señor, should it be I that help these emigrant people into my country. I do not like Americanos."
"Trains are full of women and children."
"Our women are insulted. Our children have their fathers robbed, killed—whipped!"
"Anyhow," said Hales, "I think I'll ride through the mines. Shall we go together?"
"An' deeg gold?" said José contemptuously in English.
"No, no. That is not why I'll go, if I do go. I've heard so much about the mines that I'd like to see them."
"Señor Hales, you are my friend, caballero. It would be a pleasure to go with you. But I go to the mines, today, tomorrow, the next day—I do not know when. But some day soon I go to bear a gift of the de Solas to some—" the words came through clenched teeth—"Americano gentlemen!"
"Don José, it's not for me to tell you what honor requires. But be damn sure you kill the right men!"
"Kill? Ah, no, señor. A dead horse does not feel the branding iron. They will live, those men, till God gives them blessing. But the gift of the de Solas will remain with them to the grave. Mediante Dios!"
Some time passed while José sat alone on the portico watching men.
A native Californian, on a travel-worn horse, rode slowly down the street, looking about with the dazed curiosity of a countryman when he comes for the first time into a city. He was a small, half-Indian sort of fellow. The entire left hip of the horse he was on had been branded with a rudely drawn cross in a circle.
José got up and, going down a step or two, called:
"Benito! Benito, this way!"
Benito turned quickly in his saddle, looking to and fro as if half believing the devil was playing tricks; then he caught sight of José standing near a column and spurred his horse into bounds that carried him across the street, as if about to dash up the hotel steps; but he reined up shortly, saluted, grinned, highly pleased with himself.
"God is the best friend! I find you before I am off my horse! My tongue it was saying, 'The devil take such a town that has more people in it than one can speak with in an hour!' I was telling myself, ‘I will never find Don José—' then I hear his voice. I bring good, good news and the love of Don Esteban, who gnaws his knuckles and looks in anger upon the ground. We have found one, señor!"
"And he lives?" asks José intently.
"Ha-ah, he lives!" Benito answered with triumph. "Ah, but, señor, he lied to us! In his pain he lied in telling where we could find the others whose faces Don Esteban carries in his eyes. Gringos, gringos! The devil take them off! To lie at such a time. What liars they are, señor! And the country fills so fast with gringos that Don Esteban curses them all, for their very shadows, like grass in springtime, hide whom he seeks. But if he asked for my words, as he does for no man's, and has wool in his ears when you talk, I would tell him that one devil is so like another that the good angels dance when any one is flayed. Now I have been on the way to you since"
"Enough. Enough," said Don José impatiently. "Your tongue, as ever, rattles like a leaf in the wind."
"The good God, señor, gave me breath to blow words of his making. The padre told me when I was a little child, and more honest than a man can be, that Spanish is spoken in Heaven, so why not on earth? If I have that in my mouth which is heard in Heaven, then"
"So one has been found," said Don José. "But I, Benito, I have learned nothing."
"Our good Don Gil Diego—it was his horse, señor, that they stole"
"As if I know not that!" said José angrily.
"Our good Don Gil would have killed this gringo. But Don Esteban cries, 'No!'"
"I came up here as Don Esteban sent word for me to do," said José. "I have looked at every horse in this city. I have talked with every dealer of horses. No one has seen the horse we search for. So it must be those men did not come to the city. As you have found one at the mines, the others must be there. I have long been tired of waiting for you to come and show me where my brother waits. Let us go, now!"
"Oh, but, señor! Let Benito breathe. This is a city, and I have gold"
"Gold?"
"Ho, enough to buy an infidel from the devil," said Benito, slapping at a pouch at his saddle horn. "There is more gold in this country than"
"How came you with gold?"
"Don Gil gave it to me, for you, señor. Many horses were sold," said Benito, just about as convincingly as if he had told the truth.
"I have no need of it. I'll get my horse. We leave at once."
"Oh, but, señor, I am hungry as a padre on fast day. I have not eaten!"
"Drink of air and bite sunshine as we ride. That is food enough for a vaquero."
"But I starve, señor!"
"Bite on your tongue, Benito. I like your silence."
"Por Dios! If you think I talk, wait to hear Señor Ferdinand! Ho, a merry fellow, full of song and wit. He makes gringos laugh when they fear death and give up their gold. It is better than a fandango to watch him rob them!"
"Name of the devil!" cried Don José. "What have you to do with robbers?"
"God punish the wicked!" said Benito in pious alarm, cringing before José's glance. "I have but heard him boast and act out what he has done. But I am sure he lies, señor, for the fun of talking. He gave me bed and food last night at his rancho. We will stay there tonight"
"We will eat from saddle bags and have the earth for a pillow. How does it come you know this man?"
"Ah, señor," said Benito, showing a most injured air, but he looked watchfully to see if Don José believed, "you fly in a rage at poor Benito who would not steal a bone from a dog. Don Gil one day brought him into our camp with his guitar. As he departed, this wicked Ferdinand told us of where he had a home, and said there was a welcome for honest travelers. I remembered this when night came upon me and his house was near. It is called the Cowden rancho. Before God, Señor José, I speak as it is written by the Angel who keeps the Book of Man's Deeds!"
Don José, with many things in his own mind, had scarcely more than half listened.
Within an hour they rode together from the city, Benito munching tortillas and drinking wine from an earthen bottle, but not so busily as to keep his tongue quiet.
4
It was on this same Sunday morning that Martin O'Day and Bill Burton reached Sacramento.
"We're not going to spend a dollar more than 's need for the outfit," Burton said. "We'll keep the rest of it for good luck."
A fellow, tall by nature but bowed as if the bones inside of him that hold a man straight had begun to crumble, came up to Burton, greeting him with the pitiful eagerness of one glad to see a friend who is generous. His face was long and well-shaped, but whisky, like acid, had eaten into his features; his cheeks were covered with gray and black bristles as if, now and then, trying to pull himself back to decency, he shaved. The man's eyes were a bit blurred, his voice was husky, but his words were chosen with the air of a gentleman and there was a certain poise in his very beggary.
"Ah, Mr. Burton, sir! You are yet in California? Pleased to see you. How times have changed, Mr. Burton! When I first met you at the mines"
"'Lo, Cowden," said Burton.
"I have not been fortunate in my speculations, but—er—if it won't inconvenience you, sir—a slight—eh—ah—"
"I believe I owe you a couple of ounces," said Burton, who owed him nothing. "Glad to have you 'mind me."
"Ah, surely, Mr. Burton, you don't think I would speak of so small a matter if—thank you, sir. Thank you."
"Cowden, why don't you go back to your ranch? You used to say whether or not you found gold you still had that to go"
"I have sold it, Mr. Burton. Yes. Yes. I sold it to Colonel Nevinson, quite recently when he was up here. Good day, and thank you, sir. Thank you."
He hurried off with doddering haste toward the nearest saloon.
"There's one fellow this gold's sure played hell with," said Burton. "He come to California eight or ten years ago. Married a Spanish girl. Her father's rich. Old Cowden had a ranch he used to talk about, somewhere near the city. Had ever'thing a man wants, or ought to want. Plenty to eat, nothing to do. First off, he joined the rush. Got to gamblin', drinkin'. Now look at 'im!"