A Waif of the Plains by Bret Harte (the best ebook reader for android .txt) 📕

“Ef ye hear o’ anythin’ happenin’, ye’ll know what’s up,” he said, in a low, hoarse, but perfectly audible whisper. “Me and them’s bound to part company afore long. Tell the fellows at Deadman’s Gulch to look out for me at any time.”

Although Clarence was not going to Deadman’s Gulch, knew nothing of it, and had a faint suspicion that Jim was equally ignorant, yet as one or two of the passengers glanced anxiously at the demure, gray-eyed boy who seemed booked for such a baleful destination, he really felt the half-delighted, half-frightened consciousness that he was starting in life under fascinating immoral pretenses. But the forward spring of the fine-spirited horses, the quickened motion, the glittering sunlight, and the thought that he really was leaving behind him all the shackles of dependence and custom, and plunging into a life of freedom, drove all else from his mind. He turned at last from this hopeful, blissful future, and began to examine his fellow passengers with boyish curiosity. Wedged in between two silent men on the front seat, one of whom seemed a farmer, and the other, by his black attire, a professional man, Clarence was finally attracted by a black-mantled, dark-haired, bonnetless woman on the back seat, whose attention seemed to be monopolized by the jocular gallantries of her companions and the two men before her in the middle seat. From her position he could see little more than her dark eyes, which occasionally seemed to meet his frank curiosity in an amused sort of way, but he was chiefly struck by the pretty foreign sound of her musical voice, which was unlike anything he had ever heard before, and—alas for the inconstancy of youth—much finer than Mrs. Peyton’s. Presently his farmer companion, casting a patronizing glance on Clarence’s pea-jacket and brass buttons, said cheerily—

“Jest off a voyage, sonny?”

“No, sir,” stammered Clarence; “I came across the plains.”

“Then I reckon that’s the rig-out for the crew of a prairie schooner, eh?” There was a laugh at this which perplexed Clarence. Observing it, the humorist kindly condescended to explain that “prairie schooner” was the current slang for an emigrant wagon.

“I couldn’t,” explained Clarence, naively looking at the dark eyes on the back seat, “get any clothes at Stockton but these; I suppose the folks didn’t think there’d ever be boys in California.”

The simplicity of this speech evidently impressed the others, for the two men in the middle seats turned at a whisper from the lady and regarded him curiously. Clarence blushed slightly and became silent. Presently the vehicle began to slacken its speed. They were ascending a hill; on either bank grew huge cottonwoods, from which occasionally depended a beautiful scarlet vine.

“Ah! eet ees pretty,” said the lady, nodding her black-veiled head towards it. “Eet is good in ze hair.”

One of the men made an awkward attempt to clutch a spray from the window. A brilliant inspiration flashed upon Clarence. When the stage began the ascent of the next hill, following the example of an outside passenger, he jumped down to walk. At the top of the hill he rejoined the stage, flushed and panting, but carrying a small branch of the vine in his scratched hands. Handing it to the man on the middle seat, he said, with grave, boyish politeness— “Please—for the lady.”

A slight smile passed over the face of Clarence’s neighbors. The bonnetless woman nodded a pleasant acknowledgment, and coquettishly wound the vine in her glossy hair. The dark man at his side, who hadn’t spoken yet, turned to Clarence dryly.

“If you’re goin’ to keep up this gait, sonny, I reckon ye won’t find much trouble gettin’ a man’s suit to fit you by the time you reach Sacramento.”

Clarence didn’t quite understand him, but noticed that a singular gravity seemed to overtake the two jocular men on the middle seat, and the lady looked out of the window. He came to the conclusion that he had made a mistake about alluding to his clothes and his size. He must try and behave more manly. That opportunity seemed to be offered two hours later, when the stage stopped at a wayside hotel or restaurant.

Two or three passengers had got down to refresh themselves at the bar. His right and left hand neighbors were, however, engaged in a drawling conversation on the comparative merits of San Francisco sandhill and water lots; the jocular occupants of the middle seat were still engrossed with the lady. Clarence slipped out of the stage and entered the barroom with some ostentation. The complete ignoring of his person by the barkeeper and his customers, however, somewhat disconcerted him. He hesitated a moment, and then returned gravely to the stage door and opened it.

“Would you mind taking a drink with me, sir?” said Clarence politely, addressing the farmer-looking passenger who had been most civil to him. A dead silence followed. The two men on the middle seat faced entirely around to gaze at him.

“The Commodore asks if you’ll take a drink with him,” explained one of the men to Clarence’s friend with the greatest seriousness.

“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” returned that gentleman, changing his astonished expression to one of the deepest gravity, “seeing it’s the Commodore.”

“And perhaps you and your friend will join, too?” said Clarence timidly to the passenger who had explained; “and you too, sir?” he added to the dark man.

“Really, gentlemen, I don’t see how we can refuse,” said the latter, with the greatest formality, and appealing to the others. “A compliment of this kind from our distinguished friend is not to be taken lightly.”

“I have observed, sir, that the Commodore’s head is level,” returned the other man with equal gravity.

Clarence could have wished they had not treated his first hospitable effort quite so formally, but as they stepped from the coach with unbending faces he led them, a little frightened, into the barroom. Here, unfortunately, as he was barely able to reach over the counter, the barkeeper would have again overlooked him but for a quick glance from the dark man, which seemed to change even the barkeeper’s perfunctory smiling face into supernatural gravity.

“The Commodore is standing treat,” said the dark man, with unbroken seriousness, indicating Clarence, and leaning back with an air of respectful formality. “I will take straight whiskey. The Commodore, on account of just changing climate, will, I believe, for the present content himself with lemon soda.”

Clarence had previously resolved to take whiskey, like the others, but a little doubtful of the politeness of countermanding his guest’s order, and perhaps slightly embarrassed by the fact that all the other customers seemed to have gathered round him and his party with equally immovable faces, he said hurriedly:

“Lemon soda for me, please.”

“The Commodore,” said the barkeeper with impassive features, as he bent forward and wiped the counter with professional deliberation, “is right. No matter how much a man may be accustomed all his life to liquor, when he is changing climate, gentlemen, he says ‘Lemon soda for me’ all the time.”

“Perhaps,” said Clarence, brightening, “you will join too?”

“I shall be proud on this occasion, sir.”

“I think,” said the tall man, still as ceremoniously unbending as before, “that there can be but one toast here, gentlemen. I give you the health of the Commodore. May his shadow never be less.”

The health was drunk solemnly. Clarence felt his cheeks tingle and in his excitement drank his own health with the others. Yet he was disappointed that there was not more joviality; he wondered if men always drank together so stiffly. And it occurred to him that it would be expensive. Nevertheless, he had his purse all ready ostentatiously in his hand; in fact, the paying for it out of his own money was not the least manly and independent pleasure he had promised himself. “How much?” he asked, with an affectation of carelessness.

The barkeeper cast his eye professionally over the barroom. “I think you said treats for the crowd; call it twenty dollars to make even change.”

Clarence’s heart sank. He had heard already of the exaggeration of California prices. Twenty dollars! It was half his fortune. Nevertheless, with an heroic effort, he controlled himself, and with slightly nervous fingers counted out the money. It struck him, however, as curious, not to say ungentlemanly, that the bystanders craned their necks over his shoulder to look at the contents of his purse, although some slight explanation was offered by the tall man.

“The Commodore’s purse, gentlemen, is really a singular one. Permit me,” he said, taking it from Clarence’s hand with great politeness. “It is one of the new pattern, you observe, quite worthy of inspection.” He handed it to a man behind him, who in turn handed it to another, while a chorus of “suthin quite new,” “the latest style,” followed it in its passage round the room, and indicated to Clarence its whereabouts. It was presently handed back to the barkeeper, who had begged also to inspect it, and who, with an air of scrupulous ceremony insisted upon placing it himself in Clarence’s side pocket, as if it were an important part of his function. The driver here called “all aboard.” The passengers hurriedly reseated themselves, and the episode abruptly ended. For, to Clarence’s surprise, these attentive friends of a moment ago at once became interested in the views of a new passenger concerning the local politics of San Francisco, and he found himself utterly forgotten. The bonnetless woman had changed her position, and her head was no longer visible. The disillusion and depression that overcame him suddenly were as complete as his previous expectations and hopefulness had been extravagant. For the first time his utter unimportance in the world and his inadequacy to this new life around him came upon him crushingly.

The heat and jolting of the stage caused him to fall into a slight slumber and when he awoke he found his two neighbors had just got out at a wayside station. They had evidently not cared to waken him to say “Good-by.” From the conversation of the other passengers he learned that the tall man was a well-known gambler, and the one who looked like a farmer was a ship captain who had become a wealthy merchant. Clarence thought he understood now why the latter had asked him if he came off a voyage, and that the nickname of “Commodore” given to him, Clarence, was some joke intended for the captain’s understanding. He missed them, for he wanted to talk to them about his relative at Sacramento, whom he was now so soon to see. At last, between sleeping and waking, the end of his journey was unexpectedly reached. It was dark, but, being “steamer night,” the shops and business places were still open, and Mr. Peyton had arranged that the stage-driver should deliver Clarence at the address of his relative in “J Street,”—an address which Clarence had luckily remembered. But the boy was somewhat discomfited to find that it was a large office or banking-house. He, however, descended from the stage, and with his small pack in his hand entered the building as the stage drove off, and, addressing one of the busy clerks, asked for “Mr. Jackson Brant.”

There was no such person in the office. There never had been any such person. The bank had always occupied that building. Was there not some mistake in the number? No; the name, number, and street had been deeply engrafted in the boy’s recollection. Stop! it might be the name of a customer who had given his address at the bank. The clerk who made this suggestion disappeared promptly to make inquiries in the counting-room. Clarence, with a rapidly beating heart, awaited him. The clerk returned. There