CHAPTER XIX
SUNDAY AT HANGMAN'S GULCH
It was now about four o'clock. The crowd dispersed slowly in differentdirections, and to its different occupations and amusements. We wanderedabout, all eyes and ears. As yet we had not many acquaintances, andcould not enter into the intimate bantering life of the old-timers.There was enough to interest us, however. A good many were beginning toshow the drink. After a long period of hard labour even the mostrespectable of the miners would have at times strange reactions. That isanother tale, however; and on this Sunday the drinking was productiveonly of considerable noise and boasting. Two old codgers, head to head,were bragging laboriously of their prowess as cooks. A small butinterested group egged them on.
"Flapjacks?" enunciated one laboriously; "flapjacks? Why, my fren',_you_ don't know nothin' about flapjacks. I grant you," said he,laying one hand on the other's arm, "I grant ye that maybe,_maybe_, mind you, you may know about mixin' flapjacks, and evenabout cookin' flapjacks. But wha' do you know about _flippin'flapjacks_?" He removed his hand from the other's arm. "Nawthin!"said he. "Now _I_ am an exper'; a real exper'! When I want to flipa flapjack I just whirl her up through the chimney and catch her byholdin' the frying pan out'n the window!"
I found at another point a slender, beardless young chap, with brightblack eyes, and hectic cheeks, engaged in sketching one of the minerswho posed before him. His touch was swift and sure, and his faculty atcatching a likeness remarkable. The sketch was completed and paid for inten minutes; and he was immediately besieged by offers from men whowanted pictures of themselves or their camps. He told me, betweenstrokes of the pencil, that he found this sort of thing moreremunerative than the mining for which he had come to the country, as hecould not stand the necessary hard work. Paper cost him two dollars anda half a sheet; but that was about all his expense. Alongside the streeta very red-faced, bulbous-nosed and ancient ruin with a patriarchalwhite beard was preparing to give phrenological readings. I had seen himearlier in the day, and had been amused at his impressive glib patter.Now, however, he had become foolishly drunk. He mounted the same boxesthat had served as the executive desk, and invited custom. After amoment's hesitation a burly, red-faced miner shouldered his way throughthe group and sat down on the edge of the boxes.
In the earlier and soberer part of the afternoon the phrenologist hadskilfully steered his way by the safe stars of flattery. Now, as he ranhis hands uncertainly through the miner's thick hair, a look ofmystification crept into his bleary eyes. He felt again more carefully.
"Most 'xtraor'nary!" he muttered. "Fren's," said he, still feeling atthe man's head, "this person has the most extraor'nary bump of'quisitiveness. Never felt one like it, 'xcept on th' cranium of a verycelebrated thief an' robber. His bump of benev'lence 's a reg'lar hole.Bump of truthfulness don' somehow seem to be there at all. Bump ofcowardice is 's big 's an egg. This man, fren's," said he, dropping thevictim's head and advancing impressively, "is a very dangerouscharacter. Look out for 'm. He's a liar, an' a thief, an' a coward, an'a----"
"Well, you old son of a gun!" howled the miner, rising to his feet.
He seized the aged phrenologist, and flung him bodily straight throughthe sides of a large tent, and immediately dove after him in pursuit.There came from that tent a series of crashes, howls of rage and joy,the sounds of violent scuffling, and then there burst out through thedoorway the thoroughly sobered phrenologist, his white beard streamingover one shoulder, his pop eyes bulging out, his bulbous nose quitepurple, pursued by the angry miner and a score of the overjoyed populaceinterrupted in their gambling. Everybody but the two principals wasgasping with laughter. It looked as though the miner might do his victima serious injury, so I caught the pursuer, around the shoulders and heldhim fast. He struggled violently, but was no match for my bulk, and Irestrained him until he had cooled down somewhat, and had ceased tryingto bite and kick me. Then all at once he laughed, and I released him. Ofthe phrenologist nothing remained but a thin cloud of dust hanging inthe still air.
Yank and I then thought of going back to camp, and began to look aroundafter Johnny, who had disappeared, when McNally rolled up, inviting usto sup with him.
"You don't want to go home yet," he advised us. "Evening's the time tohave fun. Never mind your friend; he's all right. Now you realize thedisadvantage of living way off where you do. My hang-out is just downthe street. Let's have a drink."
We accepted both his invitations. Then, after the supper, pipes alight,we sauntered down the street, a vast leisure expanding our horizons. Atthe street corner stood a tall, poetic-looking man, with dreamer's eyes,a violin clasped under his chin. He was looking straight past us all outinto the dusk of the piney mountains beyond, his soul in the music hewas producing. They were simple melodies, full of sentiment, and heplayed as though he loved them. Within the sound of his bow a deadsilence reigned. Men stood with eyes cast down, their faces sobered,their eyes adream. One burly, reckless, red-faced individual, who hadbeen bullying it up and down the street, broke into a sob which heviolently suppressed, and then looked about fiercely, as thoughchallenging any one to have heard. The player finished, tucked hisviolin and bow under his arm, and turned away. For a moment the crowdremained motionless, then slowly dispersed. This was John Kelly, afamous wandering minstrel of the camps, a strange, shy, poetic man, whonever lacked for dust nor for friends, and who apparently sought forneither.
Under the softening influence of the music the crowd led a better lifefor about ten minutes.
We entered the gambling rooms, of which there were two, and had a drinkof what McNally called "42 calibre whiskey" at the bar of each. In oneof them we found Johnny, rather flushed, bucking a faro bank. Yanksuggested that he join us, but he shook his head impatiently, and wemoved on. In a tremendous tent made by joining three or four ordinarytents together, a very lively fiddle and concertina were in full blast.We entered and were pounced upon by a boisterous group of laughing men,seized by the shoulders, whirled about, and examined from behind.
"Two gentlemen and a lady!" roared out one of them. "Gentlemen on thatside; ladies on this. See-lect your pardners for the waltz!"
There was a great rushing to and fro in preparation. Men bowed to eachother with burlesque dancing school formality, offered arms, or acceptedthem with bearlike coyness. We stood for a moment rather bewildered, notknowing precisely what to do.
"You belong over that side," McNally instructed us. "I go over here; I'ma 'lady.'"
"Why?" I asked.
"Ladies," explained McNally, "are those who have patches on the seats oftheir pants."
As in most social gatherings, we saw that here too the fair sex were inthe majority.
Everybody danced very vigorously, with a tremendous amount of stamping.It seemed a strenuous occupation after a week of hard work, and yet itwas great fun. Yank pirouetted and balanced and "sasshayed" andtom-fooled in a manner wonderful to behold. We ended flushed anduproarious; and all trooped to the bar, which, it seemed, was the realreason for the existence of this dance hall.
The crowd was rough and good natured, full of high spirits, and inclinedto practical jokes of a pretty stiff character. Of course there was theinevitable bully, swaggering fiercely and truculently back and forth,his belt full of weapons. Nobody took him very seriously; but, on theother hand, everybody seemed to take mighty good care not to rundefinitely counter to him. In the course of his wanderings he came toour end of the bar, and jostled McNally aside. McNally was at the momentlighting his pipe, so that in his one hand he held a burning match andin the other a glass of whiskey. Without the slightest hurry orexcitement, his blue eyes twinkling as humorously as ever, McNallydumped the whiskey over the bully's shock head with his left hand andtouched the match to it with his right. The alcohol sizzled up in amomentary blue flame, without damage save for a very singed head ofhair.
"Man on fire! Man on fire!" yelled McNally. "Put him out!"
The miners rose to the occasion joyously, and "put him out" in th
e mostliteral fashion; so that no more was seen of that bully.
About ten o'clock we were getting tired; and probably the reaction fromthe "42 calibre whiskey" was making us drowsy. We hunted up Johnny,still at his faro game; but he positively and impatiently declined toaccompany us. He said he was ahead--or behind--I forget which. I noticeboth conditions have the same effect of keeping a man from quitting. Wetherefore left him, and wandered home through the soft night, whereinwere twinkling stars, gentle breezes, little voices, and the silhouettesof great trees.