Devil's Ford by Bret Harte (best sci fi novels of all time txt) 📕

Whatever might have been his other deficiencies as an escort, Whiskey Dick was a good horseman, and, in spite of his fractious brute, exhibited such skill and confidence as to at once satisfy the young girls of his value to them in the management of their own horses, to whom side-saddles were still an alarming novelty. Jessie, who had probably already learned from her sister the purport of Dick’s confidences, had received him with equal cordiality and perhaps a more unqualified amusement; and now, when fairly lifted into the saddle by his tremulous but respectful hands, made a very charming picture of youthful and rosy satisfaction. And when Christie, more fascinating than ever in her riding-habit, took her place on the other side of Dick, as they sallied from the gate, that gentleman felt his cup of happiness complete. His triumphal entree into the world of civilization and fashion was secure. He did not regret the untasted liquor; here was an experience in after years to lean his back against comfortably in barrooms, to entrance or defy mankind. He had even got so far as to formulate in fancy the sentence: “I remember, gentlemen, that one afternoon, being on a pasear with two fash’nable young ladies,” etc., etc.

At present, however, he was obliged to confine himself to the functions of an elegant guide and cicerone—when not engaged in “having it out” with his horse. Their way lay along the slope, crossing the high-road at right angles, to reach the deeper woods beyond. Dick would have lingered on the highway—ostensibly to point out to his companions the new flume that had taken the place of the condemned ditch, but really in the hope of exposing himself in his glory to the curious eyes of the wayfaring world.

Unhappily the road was deserted in the still powerful sunlight, and he was obliged to seek the cover of the woods, with a passing compliment to the parent of his charges. Waving his hands towards the flume, he said, “Look at that work of your father’s; there ain’t no other man in Californy but Philip Carr ez would hev the grit to hold up such a bluff agin natur and agin luck ez that yer flume stands for. I don’t say it ‘cause you’re his daughters, ladies! That ain’t the style, ez YOU know, in sassiety, Miss Carr,” he added, turning to Christie as the more socially experienced. “No! but there ain’t another man to be found ez could do it. It cost already two hundred thousand; it’ll cost five hundred thousand afore it’s done; and every cent of it is got out of the yearth beneath it, or HEZ got to be out of it. ‘Tain’t ev’ry man, Miss Carr, ez hev got the pluck to pledge not only what he’s got, but what he reckons to git.”

“But suppose he don’t get it?” said Christie, slightly contracting her brows.

“Then there’s the flume to show for it,” said Dick.

“But of what use is the flume, if there isn’t any more gold?” continued Christie, almost angrily.

“That’s good from YOU, miss,” said Dick, giving way to a fit of hilarity. “That’s good for a fash’nable young lady—own daughter of Philip Carr. She sez, says she,” continued Dick, appealing to the sedate pines for appreciation of Christie’s rare humor, “‘Wot’s the use of a flume, when gold ain’t there?’ I must tell that to the boys.”

“And what’s the use of the gold in the ground when the flume isn’t there to work it out?” said Jessie to her sister, with a cautioning glance towards Dick.

But Dick did not notice the look that passed between the sisters. The richer humor of Jessie’s retort had thrown him into convulsions of laughter.

“And now SHE says, wot’s the use o’ the gold without the flume? ‘Xcuse me, ladies, but that’s just puttin’ the hull question that’s agitatin’ this yer camp inter two speeches as clear as crystal. There’s the hull crowd outside—and some on ‘em inside, like Fairfax, hez their doubts—ez says with Miss Christie; and there’s all of us inside, ez holds Miss Jessie’s views.”

“I never heard Mr. Munroe say that the flume was wrong,” said Jessie quickly.

“Not to you, nat’rally,” said Dick, with a confidential look at Christie; “but I reckon he’d like some of the money it cost laid out for suthin’ else. But what’s the odds? The gold is there, and WE’RE bound to get it.”

Dick was the foreman of a gang of paid workmen, who had replaced the millionaires in mere manual labor, and the WE was a polite figure of speech.

The conversation seemed to have taken an unfortunate turn, and both the girls experienced a feeling of relief when they entered the long gulch or defile that led to Indian Spring. The track now becoming narrow, they were obliged to pass in single file along the precipitous hillside, led by this escort. This effectually precluded any further speech, and Christie at once surrendered herself to the calm, obliterating influences of the forest. The settlement and its gossip were far behind and forgotten. In the absorption of nature, her companions passed out of her mind, even as they sometimes passed out of her sight in the windings of the shadowy trail. As she rode alone, the fronds of breast-high ferns seemed to caress her with outstretched and gently-detaining hands; strange wildflowers sprang up through the parting underbrush; even the granite rocks that at times pressed closely upon the trail appeared as if cushioned to her contact with star-rayed mosses, or lightly flung after her long lassoes of delicate vines. She recalled the absolute freedom of their al-fresco life in the old double cabin, when she spent the greater part of her waking hours under the mute trees in the encompassing solitude, and, half regretting the more civilized restraints of this newer and more ambitious abode, forgot that she had ever rebelled against it. The social complication that threatened her now seemed to her rather the outcome of her half-civilized parlor than of the sylvan glade. How easy it would have been to have kept the cabin, and then to have gone away entirely, than for her father to have allowed them to be compromised with the growing fortunes of the settlement! The suspicions and distrust that she had always felt of their fortunes seemed to grow with the involuntary admission of Whiskey Dick that they were shared by others who were practical men. She was fain to have recourse to the prospect again to banish these thoughts, and this opened her eyes to the fact that her companions had been missing from the trail ahead of her for some time. She quickened her pace slightly to reach a projecting point of rock that gave her a more extended prospect. But they had evidently disappeared.

She was neither alarmed nor annoyed. She could easily overtake them soon, for they would miss her, and return or wait for her at the spring. At the worst she would have no difficulty in retracing her steps home. In her present mood, she could readily spare their company; indeed she was not sorry that no other being should interrupt that sympathy with the free woods which was beginning to possess her.

She was destined, however, to be disappointed. She had not proceeded a hundred yards before she noticed the moving figure of a man beyond her in the hillside chaparral above the trail. He seemed to be going in the same direction as herself, and, as she fancied, endeavoring to avoid her. This excited her curiosity to the point of urging her horse forward until the trail broadened into the level forest again, which she now remembered was a part of the environs of Indian Spring. The stranger hesitated, pausing once or twice with his back towards her, as if engaged in carefully examining the dwarf willows to select a switch. Christie slightly checked her speed as she drew nearer; when, as if obedient to a sudden resolution, he turned and advanced towards her. She was relieved and yet surprised to recognize the boyish face and figure of George Kearney. He was quite pale and agitated, although attempting, by a jaunty swinging of the switch he had just cut, to assume the appearance of ease and confidence.

Here was an opportunity. Christie resolved to profit by it. She did not doubt that the young fellow had already passed her sister on the trail, but, from bashfulness, had not dared to approach her. By inviting his confidence, she would doubtless draw something from him that would deny or corroborate her father’s opinion of his sentiments. If he was really in love with Jessie, she would learn what reasons he had for expecting a serious culmination of his suit, and perhaps she might be able delicately to open his eyes to the truth. If, as she believed, it was only a boyish fancy, she would laugh him out of it with that camaraderie which had always existed between them. A half motherly sympathy, albeit born quite as much from a contemplation of his beautiful yearning eyes as from his interesting position, lightened the smile with which she greeted him.

“So you contrived to throw over your stupid business and join us, after all,” she said; “or was it that you changed your mind at the last moment?” she added mischievously. “I thought only we women were permitted that!” Indeed, she could not help noticing that there was really a strong feminine suggestion in the shifting color and slightly conscious eyelids of the young fellow.

“Do young girls always change their minds?” asked George, with an embarrassed smile.

“Not, always; but sometimes they don’t know their own mind— particularly if they are very young; and when they do at last, you clever creatures of men, who have interpreted their ignorance to please yourselves, abuse them for being fickle.” She stopped to observe the effect of what she believed a rather clear and significant exposition of Jessie’s and George’s possible situation. But she was not prepared for the look of blank resignation that seemed to drive the color from his face and moisten the fire of his dark eyes.

“I reckon you’re right,” he said, looking down.

“Oh! we’re not accusing you of fickleness,” said Christie gayly; “although you didn’t come, and we were obliged to ask Mr. Hall to join us. I suppose you found him and Jessie just now?”

But George made no reply. The color was slowly coming back to his face, which, as she glanced covertly at him, seemed to have grown so much older that his returning blood might have brought two or three years with it.

“Really, Mr. Kearney,”