Frontier Stories Part 10

Partic.i.p.ating in the general ill-luck of the camp, Ca.s.s was not without his own individual mischance. He had resolutely determined to forget Miss Porter and all that tended to recall the unlucky ring, but, cruelly enough, she was the only thing that refused to be forgotten--whose undulating figure reclined opposite to him in the weird moonlight of his ruined cabin, whose voice mingled with the song of the river by whose banks he toiled, and whose eyes and touch thrilled him in his dreams. Partly for this reason, and partly because his clothes were beginning to be patched and torn, he avoided Red Chief and any place where he would be likely to meet her. In spite of this precaution he had once seen her driving in a pony carriage, but so smartly and fashionably dressed that he drew back in the cover of a wayside willow that she might pa.s.s without recognition. He looked down upon his red-splashed clothes and grimy, soil-streaked hands, and for a moment half hated her. His comrades seldom spoke of her--instinctively fearing some temptation that might beset his Spartan resolutions, but he heard from time to time that she had been seen at b.a.l.l.s and parties, apparently enjoying those very frivolities of her s.e.x she affected to condemn. It was a Sabbath morning in early spring that he was returning from an ineffectual attempt to enlist a capitalist at the county town to redeem the fortunes of Blazing Star. He was pondering over the narrowness of that capitalist, who had evidently but illogically connected Ca.s.s's present appearance with the future of that struggling camp, when he became so footsore that he was obliged to accept a "lift"

from a wayfaring teamster. As the slowly lumbering vehicle pa.s.sed the new church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Ca.s.s dared not ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his unshorn beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the road. A voice that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a resplendent vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually running, with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon.

As the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she panted:

"Why did you make me run so far, and why didn't you look up?"

Ca.s.s, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper, stammered that he had not seen her.

"And you did not hold down your head purposely?"

"No," said Ca.s.s.

"Why have you not been to Red Chief? Why didn't you answer my message about the ring?" she asked, swiftly.

"You sent nothing but the ring," said Ca.s.s, coloring, as he glanced at the teamster.

"Why, _that_ was a message, you born idiot."

Ca.s.s stared. The teamster smiled. Miss Porter gazed anxiously at the wagon. "I think I'd like a ride in there; it looks awfully good." She glanced mischievously around at the lingering and curious congregation.

"May I?"

But Ca.s.s deprecated that proceeding strongly. It was dirty; he was not sure it was even _wholesome_; she would be _so_ uncomfortable; he himself was only going a few rods farther, and in that time she might ruin her dress--

"Oh, yes," she said, a little bitterly, "certainly, my dress must be looked after. And--what else?"

"People might think it strange, and believe I had invited you,"

continued Ca.s.s, hesitatingly.

"When I had only invited myself? Thank you. Good-by."

She waved her hand and stepped back from the wagon. Ca.s.s would have given worlds to recall her, but he sat still, and the vehicle moved on in moody silence. At the first cross road he jumped down. "Thank you,"

he said to the teamster. "You're welcome," returned that gentleman, regarding him curiously, "but the next time a gal like that asks to ride in this yer wagon, I reckon I won't take the vote of any deadhead pa.s.senger. _Adios_, young fellow. Don't stay out late; ye might be ran off by some gal, and what would your mother say?" Of course the young man could only look unutterable things and walk away, but even in that dignified action he was conscious that its effect was somewhat mitigated by a large patch from a material originally used as a flour-sack, which had repaired his trousers, but still bore the ironical legend, "Best Superfine."

The summer brought warmth and promise and some blossom, if not absolute fruition to Blazing Star. The long days drew Nature into closer communion with the men, and hopefulness followed the discontent of their winter seclusion. It was easier, too, for Capital to be wooed and won into making a picnic in these mountain solitudes than when high water stayed the fords and drifting snow the Sierran trails. At the close of one of these Arcadian days Ca.s.s was smoking before the door of his lonely cabin when he was astounded by the onset of a dozen of his companions. Peter Drummond, far in the van, was waving a newspaper like a victorious banner. "All's right now, Ca.s.s, old man!" he panted as he stopped before Ca.s.s and shoved back his eager followers.

"What's all right?" asked Ca.s.s, dubiously.

"_You_! You kin rake down the pile now. You're hunky! You're on velvet.

Listen!"

He opened the newspaper and read, with annoying deliberation, as follows:--

"LOST.--If the finder of a plain gold ring, bearing the engraved inscription, 'May to Ca.s.s,' alleged to have been picked up on the high road near Blazing Star on the 4th March, 186--, will apply to Bookham & Sons, bankers, 1007 Y. Street, Sacramento, he will be suitably rewarded either for the recovery of the ring, or for such facts as may identify it, or the locality where it was found."

Ca.s.s rose and frowned savagely on his comrades. "No! no!" cried a dozen voices a.s.suringly. "It's all right! Honest Injun! True as gospel! No joke, Ca.s.s!"

"Here's the paper, Sacramento 'Union' of yesterday. Look for yourself,"

said Drummond, handing him the well-worn journal. "And you see," he added, "how darned lucky you are. It ain't necessary for you to produce the ring, so if that old biled owl of a Boompointer don't giv' it back to ye, it's all the same."

"And they say n.o.body but the finder need apply," interrupted another.

"That shuts out Boompointer or Kanaka Joe for the matter o' that."

"It's clar that it _means_ you, Ca.s.s, ez much ez if they'd given your name," added a third.

For Miss Porter's sake and his own Ca.s.s had never told them of the restoration of the ring, and it was evident that Mountain Charley had also kept silent. Ca.s.s could not speak now without violating a secret, and he was pleased that the ring itself no longer played an important part in the mystery. But what was that mystery, and why was the ring secondary to himself? Why was so much stress laid upon his finding it?

"You see," said Drummond, as if answering his unspoken thought, "that'ar gal--for it is a gal in course--hez read all about it in the papers, and hez sort o' took a shine to ye. It don't make a bit o'

difference who in thunder Ca.s.s _is_ or _waz_, for I reckon she's kicked him over by this time"--

"Sarved him right, too, for losing the girl's ring and then lying low and keeping dark about it," interrupted a sympathizer.

"And she's just weakened over the romantic, high-toned way you stuck to it," continued Drummond, forgetting the sarcasms he had previously hurled at this romance. Indeed the whole camp, by this time, had become convinced that it had fostered and developed a chivalrous devotion which was now on the point of pecuniary realization. It was generally accepted that "she" was the daughter of this banker, and also felt that in the circ.u.mstances the happy father could not do less than develop the resources of Blazing Star at once. Even if there were no relationship, what opportunity could be more fit for presenting to capital a locality that even produced engagement rings, and, as Jim Fauquier put it, "the men ez knew how to keep 'em." It was this sympathetic Virginian who took Ca.s.s aside with the following generous suggestion: "If you find that you and the old gal couldn't hitch hosses, owin' to your not likin' red hair or a game leg" (it may be here recorded that Blazing Star had, for no reason whatever, attributed these unprepossessing qualities to the mysterious advertiser), "you might let _me_ in. You might say ez how I used to jest worship that ring with you, and allers wanted to borrow it on Sundays. If anything comes of it--why--_we're pardners_!"

A serious question was the outfitting of Ca.s.s for what now was felt to be a diplomatic representation of the community. His garments, it hardly need be said, were inappropriate to any wooing except that of the "maiden all forlorn," which the advertiser clearly was not. "He might," suggested Fauquier, "drop in jest as he is--kinder as if he'd got keerless of the world, being lovesick." But Ca.s.s objected strongly, and was borne out in his objection by his younger comrades. At last a pair of white duck trousers, a red shirt, a flowing black silk scarf, and a Panama hat were procured at Red Chief, on credit, after a judicious exhibition of the advertis.e.m.e.nt. A heavy wedding-ring, the property of Drummond (who was not married), was also lent as a graceful suggestion, and at the last moment Fauquier affixed to Ca.s.s's scarf an enormous specimen pin of gold and quartz. "It sorter indicates the auriferous wealth o' this yer region, and the old man (the senior member of Bookham & Sons) needn't know I won it at draw-poker in Frisco," said Fauqier. "Ef you 'pa.s.s' on the gal, you kin hand it back to me and _I'll_ try it on."

Forty dollars for expenses was put into Ca.s.s's hands, and the entire community accompanied him to the cross roads where he was to meet the Sacramento coach, which eventually carried him away, followed by a benediction of waving hats and exploding revolvers.

That Ca.s.s did not partic.i.p.ate in the extravagant hopes of his comrades, and that he rejected utterly their matrimonial speculations in his behalf, need not be said.

Outwardly, he kept his own counsel with good-humored a.s.sent. But there was something fascinating in the situation, and while he felt he had forever abandoned his romantic dream, he was not displeased to know that it might have proved a reality. Nor was it distasteful to him to think that Miss Porter would hear of it and regret her late inability to appreciate his sentiment. If he really were the object of some opulent maiden's pa.s.sion, he would show Miss Porter how he could sacrifice the most brilliant prospects for her sake. Alone, on the top of the coach, he projected one of those satisfying conversations in which imaginative people delight, but which unfortunately never come quite up to rehearsal. "Dear Miss Porter," he would say, addressing the back of the driver, "if I could remain faithful to a dream of my youth, however illusive and unreal, can you believe that for the sake of lucre I could be false to the one real pa.s.sion that alone supplanted it?" In the composition and delivery of this eloquent statement an hour was happily forgotten: the only drawback to its complete effect was that a misplacing of epithets in rapid repet.i.tion did not seem to make the slightest difference, and Ca.s.s found himself saying "Dear Miss Porter, if I could be false to a dream of my youth, etc., etc., can you believe I could be _faithful_ to the one real pa.s.sion, etc., etc.," with equal and perfect satisfaction. As Miss Porter was reputed to be well off, if the unknown were poor, that might be another drawback.

The banking house of Bookham & Sons did not present an illusive nor mysterious appearance. It was eminently practical and matter of fact; it was obtrusively open and gla.s.sy; n.o.body would have thought of leaving a secret there that would have been inevitably circulated over the counter. Ca.s.s felt an uncomfortable sense of incongruity in himself, in his story, in his treasure, to this temple of disenchanting realism. With the awkwardness of an embarra.s.sed man he was holding prominently in his hand an envelope containing the ring and advertis.e.m.e.nt as a voucher for his intrusion, when the nearest clerk took the envelope from his hand, opened it, took out the ring, returned it, said briskly, "T' other shop, next door, young man," and turned to another customer.

Ca.s.s stepped to the door, saw that "T'other shop" was a p.a.w.nbroker's, and returned again with a flashing eye and heightened color. "It's an advertis.e.m.e.nt I have come to answer," he began again.

The clerk cast a glance at Ca.s.s's scarf and pin. "Place taken yesterday--no room for any more," he said, abruptly.

Ca.s.s grew quite white. But his old experience in Blazing Star repartee stood him in good stead. "If it's _your_ place you mean," he said coolly, "I reckon you might put a dozen men in the hole you're rattlin'

round in--but it's this advertis.e.m.e.nt I'm after. If Bookham isn't in, maybe you'll send me one of the grown-up sons." The production of the advertis.e.m.e.nt and some laughter from the bystanders had its effect. The pert young clerk retired, and returned to lead the way to the bank parlor. Ca.s.s's heart sank again as he was confronted by a dark, iron-gray man--in dress, features, speech, and action--uncompromisingly opposed to Ca.s.s--his ring and his romance. When the young man had told his story and produced his treasure he paused. The banker scarcely glanced at it, but said, impatiently:

"Well, your papers?"

"My papers?"

"Yes. Proof of your ident.i.ty. You say your name is Ca.s.s Beard. Good!

What have you got to prove it? How can I tell who you are?"

To a sensitive man there is no form of suspicion that is as bewildering and demoralizing at the moment as the question of his ident.i.ty. Ca.s.s felt the insult in the doubt of his word, and the palpable sense of his present inability to prove it. The banker watched him keenly but not unkindly.

"Come," he said at length, "this is not my affair; if you can legally satisfy the lady for whom I am only agent, well and good. I believe you can; I only warn you that you must. And my present inquiry was to keep her from losing her time with impostors, a cla.s.s I don't think you belong to. There's her card. Good day."

"MISS MORTIMER."

It was _not_ the banker's daughter. The first illusion of Blazing Star was rudely dispelled. But the care taken by the capitalist to shield her from imposture indicated a person of wealth. Of her youth and beauty Ca.s.s no longer thought.

The address given was not distant. With a beating heart he rung the bell of a respectable-looking house, and was ushered into a private drawing-room. Instinctively he felt that the room was only temporarily inhabited; an air peculiar to the best lodgings, and when the door opened upon a tall lady in deep mourning, he was still more convinced of an incongruity between the occupant and her surroundings. With a smile that vacillated between a habit of familiarity and ease, and a recent restraint, she motioned him to a chair.

"Miss Mortimer" was still young, still handsome, still fashionably dressed, and still attractive. From her first greeting to the end of the interview Ca.s.s felt that she knew all about him. This relieved him from the onus of proving his ident.i.ty, but seemed to put him vaguely at a disadvantage. It increased his sense of inexperience and youthfulness.