CHAPTER XLIX.

SOME VERY QUEER CUSTOMERS.

Out on the Divide, in the extreme southern part of Virginia City, they do much better shooting than that mentioned in the last chapter—also, much worse. Out there, one morning, a man fired six shots at his brother-in-law and missed him every time, though the practice all took place within the bounds of a small door-yard. During the afternoon of the same day some men at a saloon were discussing the morning’s shooting, and all agreed that it was scandalous—was a discredit to their end of the town, and to Washoe. That to shoot at a man six times, and not hit him, was shameful. After awhile, with these things occurring, it would go abroad that a Washoe man could not hit the side of a barn.

After much more talk about the disgraceful affair of the morning, a man from Pioche—a lively camp in the eastern part of Nevada (they kill a man there every week or two) bantered a Comstocker, whom he knew to be a fine shot with a pistol, to go out into the back yard with him and do some shooting, just to show the “boys” how it should be done.

In the saloon—which also was a grocery-store—was a box of eggs, and the Piocher proposed, that they each shoot two eggs off the bare head of the other, at the distance of ten paces, the one missing, to treat the crowd. The Comstocker was determined not to be bluffed by a man from the other end of the State, so to the back yard all hands adjourned. Each man used his own six-shooter. The Comstocker first “busted” his egg on the top of the Piocher’s head, and the feat was loudly applauded by all present.

[Illustration: THE TRIAL OF SKILL.]

It was then the Piocher’s time to shoot, and an egg was produced to be placed upon the head of the Comstocker, but when he removed his hat, there was a general laugh, as the top of his head was as smooth as a billiard-ball.

For full five minutes all hands tried to make an egg stand on the smooth pate of the Comstocker. It couldn’t be done. The Piocher then taunted the Comstocker with having gone into the arrangement knowing that he was safe. The latter told him to set up his egg, and it was all right—he was there. The Pioche man stood contemplating the bald pate before him for a time, then turned, and went into the saloon. A moment after he came out with a small handful of flour, which he dabbed upon the bald head of the Comstocker, and then triumphantly planted in it his egg, fell back ten paces, and knocked it off. The Comstock man then told him to set up his second egg and shoot at it, as he didn’t want to have his head chalked twice during the same game. This was done, and the wreck of the second egg streamed over the Comstocker’s pate.

The Piocher now stood out with his last egg on his head. The Comstocker raised his pistol and fired. The Piocher bounded a yard into the air, and the egg rolled unscathed from his head.

“I’ve lost!” cried the Comstocker. “Let all come up and drink. By a slip of the finger, I’ve put half the width of my bullet through the top of his left ear!” and so it proved upon measurement.

All Washoe men, however, do not stand fire so well as this pair of egg-shooters. On one occasion a “sport,” of herculean frame, and wearing a huge black beard that gave him a most ferocious appearance, cheated a miner out of four or five hundred dollars in a game of draw-poker. As he made his last losing, the miner saw the cheat, and demanded the return of all the money he had lost. The big gambler laughed in his face. The miner, who was quite a small man, left the place wearing an ugly look. Some of those present, who knew the miner, told the big sport that he had better leave, as his man had gone off to “heel himself,” and there would soon be trouble.

But the big man was not alarmed—he was not going to be frightened away. He sat in a chair in a rear room of the saloon, near an open window, his head thrown back, and his legs cocked up. He didn’t care how many weapons the miner might bring.

“Why, gentlemen,” said he, “you don’t know me!—you don’t know who I am! I’m the Wild Boar of Tehama! The click of a six-shooter is music to my ear, and a bowie-knife is my looking-glass—” Here he happened to look toward the door, and saw the miner entering the door with a shot-gun, when he said: “But a shot-gun lets me out!” and he went through the window behind him, head first.

A very different sort of man from the “Wild Boar of Tehama” was Blazer. Blazer was a man who never felt himself at peace except “when at war.” He would leave his dinner any day, if he thought he could find a fight. When unable to “mix” in a “muss” of some kind, he was the most miserable dog alive. A week without a battle, and he began to think there was nothing in the world worth living for.

Although Blazer seldom won more than one fight out of ten, it was all the same to him. He rather enjoyed a good pommelling.

One night some of Blazer’s friends—because they were his enemies—happened to be passing through a part of Virginia City called the “Barbary Coast,” on account of its being the roughest and worst place in the town—the “Five Points” of the place. As Blazer’s friends were passing through this region of blood and robberies, their attention was attracted to a “shebang” near at hand, by a terrible uproar within its doors. There was a smashing of glass, a crashing of chairs, bottles, and tumblers; fierce yells, bitter curses, and, in short, a fearful commotion.

Thinking one of the voices heard above the din had a familiar sound, Blazer’s friends entered the place. As they pushed in at the door they saw Blazer surrounded by half a dozen “Coasters,” who were giving it to him right and left. Blazer’s nose was flattened; one eye closed; his upper lip laid open, his face covered with blood, and his clothes nearly torn off his back. A clip under the ear sent him to “grass,” when those nearest him began jumping upon him and kicking him in the ribs. His friends rushed to his rescue. The breath was completely knocked and kicked out of poor Blazer, and he lay stretched senseless on the floor.

Some water dashed in his face revived him. Recognizing his friends, he smiled as amiably as was possible, with his distorted upper lip, and huskily whispered: “Boys, it’s gorgeous! I’ve struck a perfect paradise!”

Somewhat of the same pattern as Blazer was the youth encountered on this same “Barbary Coast” one night by a policeman whose beat was among the “dives” in that region.

“Where was that row just now?” said the policeman. The question was addressed to a wall-eyed young hoodlum, who, with hands thrust nearly to his knees in his breeches pockets, lounged against a lamp-post.

“Ro-o-ow?” listlessly drawled the short-haired youth. “I hain’t seen nuthin’ of no row.”

“You hain’t?” said the policeman, eyeing the young gentleman over.

“N-o; I hain’t!” reiterated the fellow, with a sneering Bowery drawl. “Do yer sup-pose I’d be a loafin’ here if ther’ was any row a-goin? Not much!”

“I was told down street,” said the policeman, “that there was a regular row in one of the shebangs up this way. Now I want to know where it was—do you understand?”

“Wa-all, I dunno, but I guess maybe ther’ mout a bin a little misunderstandin’ or sumpthin’ o’ that sort in at Broncho Sall’s saloon. ’Bout a minit or so ago I seed Wasatch Sam roll out ’er thare and seed him spit out some feller’s ear, as he went ’long by here; but I don’t reckon there’s bin any pertickler row—hain’t seed nuthin’ o’ none.”

The same policeman one night heard a sound of scuffling in a Barbary Coast “dive” and ran in to see was what going on. As he entered the place, he saw two men struggling upon the floor. The uppermost man arose from the prostrate and bleeding form of his antagonist as the policeman approached, and said: “I’m a quiet man, a man who wouldn’t harm a fly, but when I’m crowded too far, I will remonstrate!” whereupon he spat out the nose of the man who was lying on the floor.

Curious characters are frequently encountered in towns of the silver-mines—queer customers from all parts of the world. A few drinks generally bring out the peculiarities of these men. One day an odd-looking, wiry old chap, evidently from some ranch in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and apparently a man rich in flocks and herds, made his way to the bar of one of the first-class two-bit saloons of Virginia City. His “keg” was evidently “full” to overflowing, yet he was still athirst. Cocking one eye upon the bar-keeper and the other on the array of bottles before him, he thrust his right hand deep into his breeches’ pocket and there stirred up a stunning jingle of coin. Turning to a gentleman standing near, the little old man said: “Stranger, excuse me, but will yer jine in a drink?”

“Please excuse me, sir,” said the gentleman addressed, “I’ve just drank.”

“Stand another, can’t yer?”

“No; I’m much obliged. I don’t wish to drink.”

Turning to another gentleman, the old fellow said: “Take a drink, sir—with me?”

“No, sir; I thank you, I’ve just been to dinner,” and this man turned and walked away.

The little old man of the mountains looked annoyed and irritated, and turning from the bar, he walked across the saloon to where three or four gentlemen were conversing together: “Gentlemen,” said he, “you must excuse me, I’m a stranger here, but I never like to drink alone. Now, will you oblige me by all comin’ up and takin’ a drink at my expense? I’m one of your sociable kind, and never like to go in a drove by myself.”

Thinking the old fellow had drank about as much as was good for him, all declined the proffered treat. This exasperated the old chap. Jerking his cap off his head and slapping it against his thigh, he broke loose with: “Well, now, this beats my time! Not a man in this room that will drink with me! Damme! I’ll go forth into the street and bring in the rabble! I’ll be like that old rancher down in the Valley of Galilee, that the Bible tells of. He was one of my kind. When he had a frolic he wanted to see things whiz!”

“Which of the old patriarchs was that?” asked a gentleman present, who thought it might be worth while to draw the old fellow out.

“I’m not much of a biblist,” said the old man, “but I mean that jolly old cock that lived somewhere down in Galilee or Nazareth. The old gentleman, you know, that gave the big blow-out when his oldest gal got married. You recollect he killed a lot of oxen, and sheep, and calves, and goats, and had a tearin’ barbacue, invitin’ all the neighbors for miles round. But devil a one came near the house. All too durned high-toned! Then what does that old chap do but git up on his ear and swear the thing shall be a success. So he sends his hired man out to gather up all of the old bummers and deadbeats, the lame, halt, and blind, sayin: ‘Bring ’em all in, and we’ll have a regular tear—the big blow-out of the season!’

“Then the hungry and thirsty old bummers and guttersnipes all came charging in from the back alleys, and tumblin’ up from the lumber-yards, and they piled in and they made it hot for that lunch, and whiskey, and lager-beer, and they fiddled and danced till they all got blind drunk and broke up in a row. But the gal had a stavin’ lively weddin’ after all!

“Now that’s the kind of man I am. Ef you _gentlemen_ won’t drink with me, damme, I’ll go out and bring in the rabble and we’ll eat up all the free-lunch, drink ourselves disorderly, and have a reg’lar weddin’ feast right hyar!”

This little oration had the desired effect. All in the room shook hands with the old chap and took a drink with him, when he exultantly exclaimed, bringing his fist down upon the counter, as he emptied his glass: “Damme, you don’t know Old Sol Winters down hyar; but he’s a pretty big Injun when he’s at home, up in Orion Valley!”

Another curious old ’coon was “Old Taggart.” Old Taggart is dead. We planted him under the sod in 1874. Where the soul of Old Taggart has gone to, nobody knows. Old Taggart was a good sort of man, but had his “ways.” Old Taggart didn’t fear death. As he lay on his death-bed, he was conscious, calm, and serene to the last. Said he toward the close:

“During these many years I have thought it all over, and I am ready to take the chances.”

Being what is called a “pious” woman, Old Taggart’s wife was a good deal disturbed by the thought of seeing her husband die without having “experienced religion.” She worried the old man a good deal toward the last on this account.

Old Taggart said: “Wife, I’m as sorry for all the bad things I have done during my life, and as much ashamed of all the mean things, as any man could be.”

Still the old lady wanted to see him “experience a change of heart.” So she sent for Deacon Dudley to come and talk to the old man. The deacon came, and, seating himself by the bedside, turned to the sick man and told him about the wonders and the glories of heaven. He told him all about the New Jerusalem, where the streets are paved with gold, and where angels “touch the soft lyre and tune the vocal lay.” He then asked Old Taggart if he didn’t think he’d like to go up there.

“No;” said Old Taggart, “I don’t think I should feel at home in the kind of place you tell about.”

“But, my dear friend,” said the Deacon, “you are at the point of death—you should not talk in this way about heaven!”

“Well, Deacon, I’ll jist die and trust to the Almighty. I’ll jist settle down wherever he puts me. I don’t know nothin’ about the lay of the land in ’tother world myself, but I’ll chance Him.”

“I’m surprised, my good friend, to hear that you don’t want to be one of that heavenly band that sit before the throne, playing on golden harps, and singing praises forever and forever!”

“Me play on a harp, Deacon?” said Old Taggart, smiling faintly.

“Yes; upon the wondrous golden harp!” briskly replied the Deacon.

“There,” said Old Taggart, doggedly, “I don’t want to go to that part of heaven. The Lord will give me a place out in some of the back settlements, like. He’ll find a place for me, I’ll be bound!”

“It’s wicked to talk as you are doing,” said the Deacon. “You have the worst ideas about heaven of any man I ever saw!”

“Can’t help it, Deacon,” said Old Taggart, “its all nonsense to talk about me playin’ a harp. I tell you plainly, Deacon, that I don’t want to go among the musicians up there. It wouldn’t suit me!”

“This is absolutely sinful!” said the Deacon.

“Can’t help it,” said the old man, “can’t help it! It’s no use of talkin’; I’ll die my own way, and trust to the Almighty. I’ve a notion that when Old Taggart comes to Him, He will make him comfortable somewheres up there in the kingdom.”

Here Old Taggart gave a gasp or two, and was dead. He has probably found a place “up there.”

Then there was Old Daniels, a queer old fellow who lived at Gold Hill. Old Daniels would sometimes get so drunk that he didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. Very late one night some wags found Old Daniels lying in an alley so much intoxicated that they at first thought he was dead. They got a hand-barrow and carried him out to the graveyard. They there found the grave of a Chinaman that had been opened in order that the bones of the defunct might be sent back to China. The old shattered coffin of the Chinaman still lay beside the open grave, and alongside of the coffin they laid Old Daniels.

The wags then secreted themselves near the spot in order to see how the old fellow would act when he came to his senses, for he was sleeping like a log. They were obliged to wait a long time—till very weary of it—but about daylight, when the air began to grow cold, Old Daniels began to toss and tumble uneasily, and presently was fully awake. He arose to a sitting posture and began a deliberate survey of his surroundings—the empty coffin by his side, the open grave, the tombstones all round.

“The day of resurrection!” said he solemnly, then took another survey of the graveyard. “Yes;” said he, “the day of resurrection, and I’m the first son of a gun out of the ground!”

In the early days, a Frenchman brought to Nevada half a dozen camels, which he placed on his ranche, on the Carson River, a few miles below Dayton. The climate and the herbage of the country appear to be well adapted to the requirements of the animals, and they have thriven and increased and multiplied until the herd now numbers about forty, of all ages. These camels are used in packing salt from the deserts, for carrying wood, hay, and freight of all kinds, and they carry quite as large loads as do the camels of Arabia. They are not allowed to be brought into the streets of Virginia City during daylight, for the reason that they frighten mules and horses, and cause dangerous runaways. Mules cannot endure the sight of them. Of nights, however, the camels come into town and pass along the back streets.

One moonlight night, as the animals were solemnly stalking along an unfrequented street, a pair of Teutons, who had probably been enjoying themselves at some festival until a late hour, turned into the street through which the camels were passing: “O, Sheorge,” cried one of the men, to his companion, “yoost see dem awful big gooses!”

The other took one look, and said: “Mine Gott, Levi, we petter run home quick. I dinks dare coomes der raisurrection!” and both took to their heels.

[Illustration]