The Girl of the Golden West, David Belasco [read with me txt] 📗

in the centre of the room.

That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician's stand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

"My first selection, friends, will be 'The Little--'," announced the Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

"Aw, give us 'Old Dog Tray,'" cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seat at the card table.

Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right on tuning up.

"I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?" asked Trinidad in a low voice, taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar.

Mysteriously, Nick's eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone was listening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he said:

"You've got the first chance, Trin; I gave 'er your message."

Trinidad Joe fairly beamed upon him.

"Whisky for everybody, Nick!" he ordered bumptuously; and as before the little barkeeper's face wore an expression of pleasure not a whit less than that of the man whom, presently, he followed to the faro table with a bottle and four glasses.

As soon as Trinidad had seated himself the Minstrel struck a chord and announced impressively:

"'Old Dog Tray,' gents, 'or Echoes from Home'!" He cleared his throat, and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled:


"How of-ten do I pic-ture
The old folks down at home,
And of-ten wonder if they think of me,
Would an-gel mother know me,
If back there I did roam,
Would old dog Tray re-member me."


At the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up to this time, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place, arose from his seat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a cigar-box there and took from it a stamp, which he put on his letter. This he carried to a mail-box attached to the door; then, returning, he threw himself dejectedly down in a chair and put his head in his hands, where it remained throughout the song.

At the conclusion of his solo, the Minstrel's emotions were seemingly deeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped audibly; whereupon, Nick came to his relief with a stiff drink which, apparently, went to the right spot, for presently the singer's voice rang out vigorously: "Now, boys!"

No second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by all, the singers beating time with their feet and chips.

ALL.
"Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin' there
beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea--"

JAKE.
"On the lea--"

ALL.
"How of-ten would she bless me
in all them days so fair--
Would old dog Tray re-member me--"

SONORA.
"Re-member me."

All the while the miners had been singing, the sad and morose-looking individual had been steadily growing more and more disconsolate; and when Sonora rumbled out the last deep note in his big, bass voice, he heaved a great sob and broke down completely.

In surprised consternation everyone turned in the direction from whence had come the sound. But it was Sonora who, affected both by the pathos of the song and the sight of the pathetic figure before them, quietly went over and laid a hand upon the other's arm.

"Why, Larkins--Jim--what's the trouble--what's the matter?" he asked, a thousand thoughts fluttering within his breast. "I wouldn't feel so bad."

With a desperate effort Larkins, his face twitching perceptibly, the lines about his eyes deepening, struggled to control himself. At last, after taking in the astonished faces about him, he plunged into his tale of woe.

"Say, boys, I'm homesick--I'm broke--and what's more, I don't care who knows it." He paused, his fingers opening and closing spasmodically, and for a moment it seemed as if he could not continue--a moment of silence in which the Minstrel began to pick gently on his banjo the air of Old Dog Tray.

"I want to go home!" suddenly burst from the unfortunate man's lips. "I'm tired o' drillin' rocks; I want to be in the fields again; I want to see the grain growin'; I want the dirt in the furrows at home; I want old Pensylvanny; I want my folks; I'm done, boys, I'm done, I'm done . . .!" And with these words he buried his face in his hands.


"Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin'--"


sang the Minstrel, dolefully.

Men looked at one another and were distressingly affected; The Polka had never witnessed a more painful episode. Throwing a coin at the Minstrel, Sonora stopped him with an impatient gesture; the latter nodded understandingly at the same time that Nick, apparently indifferent to Larkin's collapse, began to dance a jig behind the bar. A look of scowling reproach instantly appeared on Sonora's face. It was uncalled-for since, far from being heartless and indifferent to the man's misfortunes, the little barkeeper had taken this means to distract the miners' attention from the pitiful sight.

"Boys, Jim Larkins 'lows he's goin' back East," announced Sonora. "Chip in every mother's son o' you."

Immediately every man at the faro table demanded cash from The Sidney Duck; a moment later they, as well as the men who were not playing cards, threw their money into the hat which Sonora passed around. It was indeed a well-filled hat that Sonora held out to the weeping man.

"Here you are, Jim," he said simply.

The sudden transition from poverty to comparative affluence was too much for Larkins! Looking through tear-dimmed eyes at Sonora he struggled for words with which to express his gratitude, but they refused to come; and at last with a sob he turned away. At the door, however, he stopped and choked out: "Thank you, boys, thank you."

The next moment he was gone.

At once a wave of relief swept over the room. Indeed, the incident was forgotten before the unfortunate man had gone ten paces from The Polka, for then it was that Trinidad suddenly rose in his seat, lunged across the table for The Sidney Duck's card-box, and cried out angrily:

"You're cheatin'! That ain't a square deal! You're a cheat!"

In a moment the place was in an uproar. Every man at the table sprung to his feet; chairs were kicked over; chips flew in every direction; guns came from every belt; and so occupied were the men in watching The Sidney Duck that no one perceived the Lookout sneak out through the door save Nick, who was returning from the dance-hall with a tray of empty glasses. But whether or not he was aware that the Australian's confederate was bent upon running away he made no attempt to stop him, for in common with every man present, including Sonora and Trinidad, who had seized the gambler and brought him out in front of his card-table, Nick's eyes were fastened upon another man whom none had seen enter, but whose remarkable personality, now as often, made itself felt even though he spoke not a word.

"Lift his hand!" cried Sonora, looking as if for sanction at the newcomer, who stood in the centre of the room, calmly smoking a huge cigar.

Forcing up The Sidney Duck's arms, Trinidad threw upon the table a deck of cards which he had found concealed about the other's person, bursting out with:

"There! Look at that, the infernal, good-for-nothin' cheat!"

"String 'im up!" suggested Sonora, and as before he shot a questioning look at the man, who was regarding the scene with bored interest.

"You bet!" shouted Trinidad, pulling at the Australian's arm.

"For 'eaven's sake, don't, don't, don't!" wailed The Sidney Duck, terror-stricken.

The Sheriff of Manzaneta County, for such was the newcomer's office, raised his steely grey eyes inquisitorially to Nick's who, with a hostile stare at the Australian, emitted:

"Chicken lifter!"

"String 'im! String 'im!" insisted Trinidad, at the same time dragging the culprit towards the door.

"No, boys, no!" cried the unfortunate wretch, struggling uselessly to break away from his captors.

At this stage the Sheriff of Manzaneta County took a hand in the proceedings, and drawled out:

"Well, gentlemen--" He stopped short and seemingly became reflective. Instantly, as was their wont whenever the Sheriff spoke, all eyes fixed themselves upon him. Indeed, it needed but a second glance at this cool, deliberate individual to see how great was his influence upon them. He was tall,--fully six feet one,--thin, and angular; his hair and moustache were black enough to bring out strongly the unhealthy pallor of his face; his eyes were steel grey and were heavily fringed and arched; his nose straight and his mouth hard, determined, but just, the lips of which were thin and drawn tightly over brilliantly-white teeth; and his soft, pale hands were almost feminine looking except for the unusual length of his fingers. On his head was a black beaver hat with a straight brim; a black broadcloth suit--cut after the "'Frisco" fashion of the day--gave every evidence that its owner paid not a little attention to it. From the bosom of his white, puffed shirt an enormous diamond, held in place by side gold chains, flashed forth; while glittering on his fingers was another stone almost as large. Below his trousers could plainly be seen the highly-polished boots; the heels and instep being higher than those generally in use. In a word, it was impossible not to get the impression that he was scrupulously immaculate and careful about his attire. And his voice--the voice that tells character as nothing else does--was smooth and drawling, though fearlessness and sincerity could easily be detected in it. Such was Mr. Jack Rance, Gambler and Sheriff of Manzaneta County.

"This is a case for you, Jack Rance," suddenly spoke up Sonora.

"Yes," chimed in Trinidad; and then as he gave the Australian a rough shake, he added: "Here's the Sheriff to take charge of you."

But Mr. Jack Rance, the Sheriff of Manzaneta County, was never known to move otherwise than slowly, deliberately. Taking from his pocket a smoothly-creased handkerchief he proceeded to dust languidly first one and then the other of his boots; and not until he had succeeded in flicking the last grain of dust from them did he take up the business in hand.

"Gentlemen, what's wrong with the cyards?" he now began in his peculiar drawling voice.

Sonora pointed to the faro table.

"The Sidney Duck's cheated!" he said--an accusation which was responsible for a renewal of outcries and caused a number of men to pounce upon the faro dealer.

Trinidad ran a significant hand around his collar.

"String 'im! Come on, you--!" once more he cried. But on seeing the Sheriff raise a restraining hand he desisted from