BULGER'S REPUTATION
We all remembered very distinctly Bulger's advent in Rattlesnake Camp.It was during the rainy season--a season singularly inducive to settledreflective impressions as we sat and smoked around the stove in Mosby'sgrocery. Like older and more civilized communities, we had our periodicwaves of sentiment and opinion, with the exception that they were moreevanescent with us, and as we had just passed through a fortnight ofdissipation and extravagance, owing to a visit from some gamblers andspeculators, we were now undergoing a severe moral revulsion, partlyinduced by reduced finances and partly by the arrival of two familieswith grownup daughters on the hill. It was raining, with occasional warmbreaths, through the open window, of the southwest trades, redolent ofthe saturated spices of the woods and springing grasses, which perhapswere slightly inconsistent with the hot stove around which we hadcongregated. But the stove was only an excuse for our listless,gregarious gathering; warmth and idleness went well together, and it wascurrently accepted that we had caught from the particular reptile whichgave its name to our camp much of its pathetic, lifelong search forwarmth, and its habit of indolently basking in it.
A few of us still went through the affectation of attempting to dry ourdamp clothes by the stove, and sizzling our wet boots against it; butas the same individuals calmly permitted the rain to drive in upon themthrough the open window without moving, and seemed to take infinitedelight in the amount of steam they generated, even that pretensedropped. Crotalus himself, with his tail in a muddy ditch, and the sunstriking cold fire from his slit eyes as he basked his head on a warmstone beside it, could not have typified us better.
Percy Briggs took his pipe from his mouth at last and said, withreflective severity:
"Well, gentlemen, if we can't get the wagon road over here, and ifwe're going to be left out by the stagecoach company, we can at leaststraighten up the camp, and not have it look like a cross between atenement alley and a broken-down circus. I declare, I was just sickwhen these two Baker girls started to make a short cut through the camp.Darned if they didn't turn round and take to the woods and the rattlersagain afore they got halfway. And that benighted idiot, Tom Rollins,standin' there in the ditch, spattered all over with slumgullion 'til helooked like a spotted tarrypin, wavin' his fins and sashaying backwardsand forrards and sayin', 'This way, ladies; this way!'"
"I didn't," returned Tom Rollins, quite casually, without looking upfrom his steaming boots; "I didn't start in night afore last to dance'The Green Corn Dance' outer 'Hiawatha,' with feathers in my hair anda red blanket on my shoulders, round that family's new potato patch,in order that it might 'increase and multiply.' I didn't sing 'SabbathMorning Bells' with an anvil accompaniment until twelve o'clock atnight over at the Crossing, so that they might dream of their HappyChildhood's Home. It seems to me that it wasn't me did it. I might bemistaken--it was late--but I have the impression that it wasn't me."
From the silence that followed, this would seem to have been clearlya recent performance of the previous speaker, who, however, respondedquite cheerfully:
"An evenin' o' simple, childish gaiety don't count. We've got to startin again FAIR. What we want here is to clear up and encourage decentimmigration, and get rid o' gamblers and blatherskites that are makin'this yer camp their happy hunting-ground. We don't want any morepermiskus shootin'. We don't want any more paintin' the town red. Wedon't want any more swaggerin' galoots ridin' up to this grocery andemptyin' their six-shooters in the air afore they 'light. We want to puta stop to it peacefully and without a row--and we kin. We ain't got nobullies of our own to fight back, and they know it, so they know theywon't get no credit bullyin' us; they'll leave, if we're only firm. It'sall along of our cussed fool good-nature; they see it amuses us, andthey'll keep it up as long as the whisky's free. What we want to do is,when the next man comes waltzin' along--"
A distant clatter from the rocky hillside here mingled with the puff ofdamp air through the window.
"Looks as ef we might hev a show even now," said Tom Rollins, removinghis feet from the stove as we all instinctively faced toward the window.
"I reckon you're in with us in this, Mosby?" said Briggs, turning towardthe proprietor of the grocery, who had been leaning listlessly againstthe wall behind his bar.
"Arter the man's had a fair show," said Mosby, cautiously. He deprecatedthe prevailing condition of things, but it was still an open questionwhether the families would prove as valuable customers as his presentclients. "Everything in moderation, gentlemen."
The sound of galloping hoofs came nearer, now swishing in the soft mudof the highway, until the unseen rider pulled up before the door. Therewas no shouting, however, nor did he announce himself with the usualsalvo of firearms. But when, after a singularly heavy tread and thejingle of spurs on the platform, the door flew open to the newcomer,he seemed a realization of our worst expectations. Tall, broad, andmuscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangleda heavy navy revolver. His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasycircle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet,completely concealed his mouth. His costume of fringed buckskin was wildand outre even for our frontier camp. But what was more confirmativeof our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making animpression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a sideglance at us, he strode toward the bar.
"As there don't seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put upmy mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter," hesaid. His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarsenessof frequent overstraining.
"Ye ain't got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?" asked Mosby,evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.We all looked at Briggs also; it was HIS affair after all--HE hadoriginated this opposition. To our surprise he said nothing.
The stranger leaned heavily on the counter.
"I was speaking to YOU," he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightlyaccenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar. "Yedon't seem to catch on."
Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs. Toour greater astonishment, Briggs said, quietly: "Why don't you answerthe stranger, Mosby?"
"Yes, yes," said Mosby, suavely, to the newcomer, while an angry flushcrossed his check as he recognized the position in which Briggs hadplaced him. "Of course, you're welcome to what doings I hev here, but Ireckoned these gentlemen over there," with a vicious glance at Briggs,"might fix ye up suthin' better; they're so pow'ful kind to your sort."
The stranger threw down a gold piece on the counter and said: "Fork outyour whisky, then," waited until his glass was filled, took it in hishand, and then, drawing an empty chair to the stove, sat down besideBriggs. "Seein' as you're that kind," he said, placing his heavy handon Briggs's knee, "mebbe ye kin tell me ef thar's a shanty or a cabin atRattlesnake that I kin get for a couple o' weeks. I saw an empty one atthe head o' the hill. You see, gennelmen," he added confidentially ashe swept the drops of whisky from his long mustache with his fingers andglanced around our group, "I've got some business over at Bigwood," ournearest town, "but ez a place to stay AT it ain't my style."
"What's the matter with Bigwood?" said Briggs, abruptly.
"It's too howlin', too festive, too rough; thar's too much yellin'and shootin' goin' day and night. Thar's too many card sharps and gaygamboliers cavortin' about the town to please me. Too much permiskussoakin' at the bar and free jimjams. What I want is a quiet place whata man kin give his mind and elbow a rest from betwixt grippin' hisshootin' irons and crookin' in his whisky. A sort o' slow, quiet, easyplace LIKE THIS."
We all stared at him, Percy Briggs as fixedly as any. But there was notthe slightest trace of irony, sarcasm, or peculiar significance in hismanner. He went on slowly:
"When I struck this yer camp a minit ago; when I seed that thar ditchmeanderin' peaceful like through the street, without a hotel or freesaloon or express office on either side; with the
smoke just a curlin'over the chimbley of that log shanty, and the bresh just set fire to anda smolderin' in that potato patch with a kind o' old-time stingin' inyour eyes and nose, and a few women's duds just a flutterin' on a lineby the fence, I says to myself: 'Bulger--this is peace! This is wotyou're lookin' for, Bulger--this is wot you're wantin'--this is wotYOU'LL HEV!'"
"You say you've business over at Bigwood. What business?" said Briggs.
"It's a peculiar business, young fellow," returned the stranger,gravely. "Thar's different men ez has different opinions about it. Someallows it's an easy business, some allows it's a rough business; somesays it's a sad business, others says it's gay and festive. Some wondersez how I've got into it, and others wonder how I'll ever get out of it.It's a payin' business--it's a peaceful sort o' business when left toitself. It's a peculiar business--a business that sort o' b'longs tome, though I ain't got no patent from Washington for it. It's MY OWNbusiness." He paused, rose, and saying, "Let's meander over and take alook at that empty cabin, and ef she suits me, why, I'll plank downa slug for her on the spot, and move in tomorrow," walked towards thedoor. "I'll pick up suthin' in the way o' boxes and blankets from thegrocery," he added, looking at Mosby, "and ef thar's a corner whar I kinstand my gun and a nail to hang up my revolver--why, I'm all thar!"
By this time we were no longer astonished when Briggs rose also, and notonly accompanied the sinister-looking stranger to the empty cabin, butassisted him in negotiating with its owner for a fortnight's occupancy.Nevertheless, we eagerly assailed Briggs on his return for someexplanation of this singular change in his attitude toward the stranger.He coolly reminded us, however, that while his intention of excludingruffianly adventurers from the camp remained the same, he had no rightto go back on the stranger's sentiments, which were evidently in accordwith our own, and although Mr. Bulger's appearance was inconsistent withthem, that was only an additional reason why we should substitute amild firmness for that violence which we all deprecated, but which mightattend his abrupt dismissal. We were all satisfied except Mosby, who hadnot yet recovered from Briggs's change of front, which he was pleasedto call "craw-fishing." "Seemed to me his account of his business wasextraordinary satisfactory! Sorter filled the bill all round--no mistakethar," he suggested, with a malicious irony. "I like a man that'soutspoken."
"I understood him very well," said Briggs, quietly.
"In course you did. Only when you've settled in your MIND whether hewas describing horse-stealing or tract-distributing, mebbe you'll let MEknow."
It would seem, however, that Briggs did not interrogate the strangeragain regarding it, nor did we, who were quite content to leave mattersin Briggs's hands. Enough that Mr. Bulger moved into the empty cabin thenext day, and, with the aid of a few old boxes from the grocery, whichhe quickly extemporized into tables and chairs, and the purchase of somenecessary cooking utensils, soon made himself at home. The rest of thecamp, now thoroughly aroused, made a point of leaving their work inthe ditches, whenever they could, to stroll carelessly around Bulger'stenement in the vague hope of satisfying a curiosity that had becometormenting. But they could not find that he was doing anything of asuspicious character--except, perhaps, from the fact that it wasnot OUTWARDLY suspicious, which I grieve to say did not lull them tosecurity. He seemed to be either fixing up his cabin or smoking in hisdoorway. On the second day he checked this itinerant curiosity by takingthe initiative himself, and quietly walking from claim to claim and fromcabin to cabin with a pacific but by no means a satisfying interest. Theshadow of his tall figure carrying his inseparable gun, which had notyet apparently "stood in the corner," falling upon an excavated bankbeside the delving miners, gave them a sense of uneasiness they couldnot explain; a few characteristic yells of boisterous hilarity fromtheir noontide gathering under a cottonwood somehow ceased when Mr.Bulger was seen gravely approaching, and his casual stopping beforea poker party in the gulch actually caused one of the most recklessgamblers to weakly recede from "a bluff" and allow his adversary tosweep the board. After this it was felt that matters were becomingserious. There was no subsequent patrolling of the camp before thestranger's cabin. Their curiosity was singularly abated. A generalfeeling of repulsion, kept within bounds partly by the absence of anyovert act from Bulger, and partly by an inconsistent over-consciousnessof his shotgun, took its place. But an unexpected occurrence revived it.
One evening, as the usual social circle were drawn around Mosby's stove,the lazy silence was broken by the familiar sounds of pistol shots and aseries of more familiar shrieks and yells from the rocky hill road. Thecircle quickly recognized the voices of their old friends the roisterersand gamblers from Sawyer's Dam; they as quickly recognized the returningshouts here and there from a few companions who were welcoming them. Igrieve to say that in spite of their previous attitude of reformation asmile of gratified expectancy lit up the faces of the younger members,and even the older ones glanced dubiously at Briggs. Mosby made noattempt to conceal a sigh of relief as he carefully laid out an extrasupply of glasses in his bar. Suddenly the oncoming yells ceased, thewild gallop of hoofs slackened into a trot, and finally halted, and eventhe responsive shouts of the camp stopped also. We all looked vacantlyat each other; Mosby leaped over his counter and went to the door;Briggs followed with the rest of us. The night was dark, and it was afew minutes before we could distinguish a straggling, vague, but silentprocession moving through the moist, heavy air on the hill. But, to oursurprise, it was moving away from us--absolutely LEAVING the camp! Wewere still staring in expectancy when out of the darkness slowly emergeda figure which we recognized at once as Captain Jim, one of the mostreckless members of our camp. Pushing us back into the grocery heentered without a word, closed the door behind him, and threw himselfvacantly into a chair. We at once pressed around him. He looked up at usdazedly, drew a long breath, and said slowly:
"It's no use, gentlemen! Suthin's GOT to be done with that Bulger; andmighty quick."
"What's the matter?" we asked eagerly.
"Matter!" he repeated, passing his hand across his forehead. "Matter!Look yere! Ye all of you heard them boys from Sawyer's Dam coming overthe hill? Ye heard their music--mebbe ye heard US join in the chorus?Well, on they came waltzing down the hill, like old times, and wewaitin' for 'em. Then, jest as they passed the old cabin, who do youthink they ran right into--shooting iron, long hair and mustache, andall that--standing there plump in the road? why, Bulger!"
"Well?"
"Well!--Whatever it was--don't ask ME--but, dern my skin, ef after aword or two from HIM--them boys just stopped yellin', turned round likelambs, and rode away, peaceful-like, along with him. We ran after thema spell, still yellin', when that thar Bulger faced around, said to usthat he'd 'come down here for quiet,' and ef he couldn't hev it he'dhave to leave with those gentlemen WHO WANTED IT too! And I'm goshdarned ef those GENTLEMEN--you know 'em all--Patsey Carpenter, SnapshotHarry, and the others--ever said a darned word, but kinder nodded 'Solong' and went away!"
Our astonishment and mystification were complete; and I regret to say,the indignation of Captain Jim and Mosby equally so. "If we're going tobe bossed by the first newcomer," said the former, gloomily, "I reckonwe might as well take our chances with the Sawyer's Dam boys, whom weknow."
"Ef we are going to hev the legitimate trade of Rattlesnake interferedwith by the cranks of some hidin' horse thief or retired road agent,"said Mosby, "we might as well invite the hull of Joaquin Murietta'sgang here at once! But I suppose this is part o' Bulger's particular'business,'" he added, with a withering glance at Briggs.
"I understand it all," said Briggs, quietly. "You know I told youthat bullies couldn't live in the same camp together. That's humannature--and that's how plain men like you and me manage to scud alongwithout getting plugged. You see, Bulger wasn't going to hev any of hisown kind jumpin' his claim here. And I reckon he was pow'ful enough toback down Sawyer's Dam. Anyhow, the bluff told--and here we are in peaceand quietness."
"Until he
lets us know what is his little game," sneered Mosby.
Nevertheless, such is the force of mysterious power that although it wasexercised against what we firmly believed was the independence of thecamp, it extorted a certain respect from us. A few thought it was not abad thing to have a professional bully, and even took care to relate thediscomfiture of the wicked youth of Sawyer's Dam for the benefit ofa certain adjacent and powerful camp who had looked down upon us.He himself, returning the same evening from his self-imposed escort,vouchsafed no other reason than the one he had already given.Preposterous as it seemed, we were obliged to accept it, and the stillmore preposterous inference that he had sought Rattlesnake Camp solelyfor the purpose of acquiring and securing its peace and quietness.Certainly he had no other occupation; the little work he did upon thetailings of the abandoned claim which went with his little cabin wasscarcely a pretense. He rode over on certain days to Bigwood on accountof his business, but no one had ever seen him there, nor could thedescription of his manner and appearance evoke any information from theBigwoodians. It remained a mystery.
It had also been feared that the advent of Bulger would intensify thatfear and dislike of riotous Rattlesnake which the two familieshad shown, and which was the origin of Briggs's futile attempt atreformation. But it was discovered that since his arrival the younggirls had shown less timidity in entering the camp, and had evenexchanged some polite conversation and good-humoured badinage with itsyounger and more impressible members. Perhaps this tended to make theseyouths more observant, for a few days later, when the vexed questionof Bulger's business was again under discussion, one of them remarked,gloomily:
"I reckon there ain't no doubt WHAT he's here for!"
The youthful prophet was instantly sat upon after the fashion ofall elderly critics since Job's. Nevertheless, after a pause he waspermitted to explain.
"Only this morning, when Lance Forester and me were chirping with themgals out on the hill, who should we see hanging around in the bush butthat cussed Bulger! We allowed at first that it might be only a newstyle of his interferin', so we took no notice, except to pass a fewremarks about listeners and that sort o' thing, and perhaps to bedevilthe girls a little more than we'd hev done if we'd been alone. Well,they laughed, and we laughed--and that was the end of it. But thisafternoon, as Lance and me were meandering down by their cabin, wesorter turned into the woods to wait till they'd come out. Then all ofa suddent Lance stopped as rigid as a pointer that's flushed somethin',and says, 'B'gosh!' And thar, under a big redwood, sat that slimyhypocrite Bulger, twisting his long mustaches and smiling like clockworkalongside o' little Meely Baker--you know her, the pootiest of thetwo sisters--and she smilin' back on him. Think of it! that unknown,unwashed, longhaired tramp and bully, who must be forty if a day, andthat innocent gal of sixteen. It was simply disgustin'!"
I need not say that the older cynics and critics already alluded to atonce improved the occasion. 'What more could be expected? Women,the world over, were noted for this sort of thing! This long-haired,swaggering bully, with his air of mystery, had captivated them, as healways had done since the days of Homer. Simple merit, which sat lowlyin barrooms, and conceived projects for the public good around thehumble, unostentatious stove, was nowhere! Youth could not too soonlearn this bitter lesson. And in this case youth too, perhaps, wasright in its conjectures, for this WAS, no doubt, the little game of theperfidious Bulger. We recalled the fact that his unhallowed appearancein camp was almost coincident with the arrival of the two families.We glanced at Briggs; to our amazement, for the first time he lookedseriously concerned. But Mosby in the meantime leaned his elbows lazilyover the counter and, in a slow voice, added fuel to the flame.
"I wouldn't hev spoken of it before," he said, with a sidelong glanceat Briggs, "for it might be all in the line o' Bulger's 'business,'but suthin' happened the other night that, for a minit, got me! I waspassin' the Bakers' shanty, and I heard one of them gals a singing acamp-meeting hymn. I don't calkilate to run agin you young fellers inany sparkin' or canoodlin' that's goin' on, but her voice sounded sopow'ful soothin' and pretty thet I jest stood there and listened. Thenthe old woman--old Mother Baker--SHE joined in, and I listened too. Andthen--dern my skin!--but a man's voice joined in--jest belching outerthat cabin!--and I sorter lifted myself up and kem away.
"That voice, gentlemen," said Mosby, lingering artistically as he tookup a glass and professionally eyed it before wiping it with his towel,"that voice, cumf'bly fixed thar in thet cabin among them wimen folks,was Bulger's!"
Briggs got up, with his eyes looking the darker for his flushed face."Gentlemen," he said huskily, "thar's only one thing to be done. A lotof us have got to ride over to Sawyer's Dam tomorrow morning and pick upas many square men as we can muster; there's a big camp meeting goin'on there, and there won't be no difficulty in that. When we've got a bigenough crowd to show we mean business, we must march back here and rideBulger out of this camp! I don't hanker arter Vigilance Committees, asa rule--it's a rough remedy--it's like drinkin' a quart o' whisky aginrattlesnake poison but it's got to be done! We don't mind being soldourselves but when it comes to our standin' by and seein' the onlyinnocent people in Rattlesnake given away--we kick! Bulger's got to befired outer this camp! And he will be!"
But he was not.
For when, the next morning, a determined and thoughtful procession ofthe best and most characteristic citizens of Rattlesnake Camp filed intoSawyer's Dam, they found that their mysterious friends had disappeared,although they met with a fraternal but subdued welcome from the generalcamp. But any approach to the subject of their visit, however,was received with a chilling dissapproval. Did they not know thatlawlessness of any kind, even under the rude mantle of frontier justice,was to be deprecated and scouted when a "means of salvation, a power ofregeneration," such as was now sweeping over Sawyer's Dam, was at hand?Could they not induce this man who was to be violently deported toaccompany them willingly to Sawyer's Dam and subject himself to thepowerful influence of the "revival" then in full swing?
The Rattlesnake boys laughed bitterly, and described the man of whomthey talked so lightly; but in vain. "It's no use, gentlemen," saida more worldly bystander, in a lower voice, "the camp meetin's got astrong grip here, and betwixt you and me there ain't no wonder. For theman that runs it--the big preacher--has got new ways and methods thatfetches the boys every time. He don't preach no cut-and-dried gospel; hedon't carry around no slop-shop robes and clap 'em on you whether theyfit or not; but he samples and measures the camp afore he wades intoit. He scouts and examines; he ain't no mere Sunday preacher with acomfortable house and once-a-week church, but he gives up his days andnights to it, and makes his family work with him, and even sends 'emforward to explore the field. And he ain't no white-choker shadbellyeither, but fits himself, like his gospel, to the men he works among. Yeought to hear him afore you go. His tent is just out your way. I'll gowith you."
Too dejected to offer any opposition, and perhaps a little curious tosee this man who had unwittingly frustrated their design of lynchingBulger, they halted at the outer fringe of worshipers who packed thehuge inclosure. They had not time to indulge their cynicisms over thisswaying mass of emotional, half-thinking, and almost irresponsiblebeings, nor to detect any similarity between THEIR extreme methods andthe scheme of redemption they themselves were seeking, for in afew moments, apparently lifted to his feet on a wave of religiousexultation, the famous preacher arose. The men of Rattlesnake gasped forbreath.
It was Bulger!
But Briggs quickly recovered himself. "By what name," said he, turningpassionately towards his guide, "does this man--this impostor--callhimself here?"
"Baker."
"Baker?" echoed the Rattlesnake contingent.
"Baker?" repeated Lance Forester, with a ghastly smile.
"Yes," returned their guide. "You oughter know it too! For he sent hiswife and daughters over, after his usual style, to sample your camp, aweek ago! Come, now, what are you givin' us
?"