CHAPTER L.

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS.

Occasionally persons not usually found training in the ranks of the festive throng of Comstockers are out until the “wee sma’” hours, and meet with adventures quite as strange as was that of the two Germans who encountered a herd of camels at a time when they supposed that there were no animals of the kind nearer than the desert of Sahara.

One of the pillars of the church, a powerful exhorter and a liberal disburser of psalmody before the Lord, went astray one Fourth of July night, and even got into a German dance-house before his patriotism was fully expended. However, he recollected himself presently, and took his departure. As he was meandering along the street, with his hat resting in a style of graceful bravado on his left ear, he was met by a policeman who knew him and advised him to get home.

“Home? No, sir!—no sir!” cried the exhorter. “Live while you live. Life is short, sir; we are like flowers of the field, sir—lilies of the valley. Let us not be proud nor puffed up, for we are all worms of the dust! I’m not proud, sir—nozur! I’ve been among the daughters of the Teuton, sir; even among the cunning dancers whose feet are beautiful on the mountains—whose feet twinkle as alabaster in the waters of the Jordan—also have I been among the sons of Jubal, even such as handle the harp, the fiddle, and the psaltry. I have danced even as David danced, and drank wine even as Noah, when he began to be a husbandman. But tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Virginia!” The policeman—a “son of Belial,” the fuddled pillar called him—now began to talk very plainly, and the godly reveller caught a glimpse of the error of his ways, and changed his tune.

“Woe is me!” cried he, “how could I dare to burn incense unto Baal and walk after strange gods! Silver spread into plates is brought from Tarshish, and gold from Uphaz, but who shall be able to keep shekels of silver, wedges of gold, or rings of jasper from these greedy Delilahs—Delilahs not to be appeased with hair, whose hands a whole wig would not stay! For the mountains I will take up a wailing, and for the habitations of the wilderness a lamentation. I flee from the daughters of the Teuton; they are as black as the tents of Kedar. How can I face that good woman, Hanner?—bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh—for in the day that I see her face will there come, that selfsame day, a blowing of trumpets, a breaking of seals, and a pouring out of vials! No, sir; don’t talk to me or wrestle with me, even as the angel wrestled with Jacob at the ford of Jabbok; whither thou goest I cannot go; whither thou lodgest I cannot lodge. I’m the speckled bird of the mountains of Gilboa—a hungry pelican in the wilderness, sir! I go to the unsealing—to the breaking of seals, and the blowing of trumpets—yea, I go to face Hanner!” and the “speckled bird of Gilboa” spread its wings and took its zigzag flight to meet the good Hannah, mighty blower of trumpets, breaker of seals, and outpourer of vials before the Lord.

These matters—churches and pillars of churches—bring up the “old French Doctor,” of Virginia City, who was one of the oddities of the place. Whole volumes of his curious sayings might be given. The old man is now dead, but he is still remembered and quoted along the Comstock by those who knew him in life. The old doctor—for a wonder—had been to church, and came away delighted.

“Ah, my dear boy,” said he, “I have to-day listen to one ver’ excellent narratif by ze reverence preacher. It was about David and Nasan. You see Nasan he vish to make to David one grand reproof. So Nasan he come to David one day, and tell to him one ver’ long, big sheep story. He fool David—Nasan do—wiz ze story of ze sheep and ze big rich man zat steal ze sheep of ze poor man, till by and by David become ver’ moche interest in ze narratif—become ver’ much enrage wiz ze rich man. Wiz zat, and precisement at zat moment, Nasan he jump up on ze top of a bench and he proclaim to David: ‘Zou art ze man! I see ze wool in you teef!’ Ah, my boy, zat was one gran’ reproof—one ver’ big what you call sell, on Monsieur David—eh?”

“Uncle Pete,” the curb-stone philosopher, always had his “say” on all topics of the day, and he also looked after the welfare of such of the rising generation as fell in his way. His disciples were generally of the genus “hoodlum.” Propped at ease against a favorite lamp-post, with one of these before him, he would say: “Young man, don’t you go to strivin’ for a big name, or frettin’ yourself to make a mark in the world. It’s all wanity and wexation of spirit. Study to become a philosopher. Look at me! Life has no terrors for me; yet I toil not, neither do I spin. To live without care is my philosophy. That’s a motto to live up to. All else is wanity. What does a man get by doin’ things, makin’ inwentions and the like? Nuthin.

“Look at Christopher Columbus! What does he get for the trouble he had in discovering America? He gits called a swindler and a imposture. He had all his trouble for nuthin’, for they have found out that he wasn’t the feller that discovered America after all. It was some Laplander—one of them fellers away up north. But he never said nuthin’ about it until lately. The next generation will find out that the Laplander was a humbug.

“What does William H. Shakespeare git for the trouble he had in writin’ them plays o’ his? He gits busted out intirely. They now say there never was no sich man as William H. Shakespeare, and I believe ’em. No one man could a-done it.

“What was the use of William Tell shootin’ old Geyser? He run a big risk of passin’ in his own checks, and now they say there never was no sich man. He’d better staid up in the mountains and prospected.

“See the life that Robinson Crusoe led on that ‘lone barren isle,’ as the song says, and now they say there never was no Crusoe.

“Young man, don’t you never try to discover America, nor the steam-engine, nor the cotton-gin, nor the telegraft—as old Moss did—’cause you’ll find out when its too late to be of any benefit to you that it wasn’t you at all, but some other jackass that died before you was born, and don’t know whether he ever done anything or not. Lead the life of a philosopher, young man. Get all you can out of the world, and never do nothin’ for the world—then you are ahead of the world and are a true philosopher!” The disciples of Uncle Pete are many and promising.

The inebriated individual who took his friend by the button and read to him the following lecture on matrimony, was also something of a philosopher: “Now, don’t get married, Afferd—don’t git married! If you git married yer gone up the flume—busted out. You won’t be married a week ’fore yer wife’ll put on her worst shoes and stick ’em rite up on the stove under your nose. When she gits all the clothes she wants, she’ll have a sick sister down to San Jose; wants two hunerd fifty dollar go see’r poor sisser. Goes; sisser dies; father-in-lor straitened sirkstances; wants two hunerd fifty more—bury poor sisser. Goes into hunerd fifty dollar wuth mournin’, then wants more money to come home on. Comes home’n calls you nassy, dirty, drunken beas’—don’t you git married, Afferd—don’t!”

This man should have had a dog such as that owned by the ranchman on Truckee Meadows. This rancher once brought his dog to Virginia City. The dog rode into town by the side of his master on a load of potatoes. He was not a pretty dog. He was a tall, gaunt, shaggy-haired, wild-eyed, brindle beast of unrecorded pedigree. When the wagon halted in town some men who were lounging in the neighborhood began to remark upon the ungainly appearance of the countryman’s dog.

“Fellers,” said the owner of the animal, coming to the front, “that air ain’t a purty dog, I know—he’s like me, makes no pertentions to nat’ral beauty—but he’s jist the durndest knowenest dog what ever wore har. Now, he’s got more instink, that dog has, an’ more savey, an’ pen’tration into human natur, right in that ugly old cabeza of his, nor can be found in the heds of a whole plaza full of eddicated town dogs—poodles and sich.

“Now, that’s what I pride in him fur—his reg’lar human sense. I tell yer, fellers, he’s jist the durndest dog out! Now, ef I come home from town perfectly sober (when I’ve left him to see after the ranch), it would do your hearts good to see that dog show off what a sense of appreciation he’s got of me. Fellers, his gorgeous tail then stands aloft; he skyugles about; he runs on afore me, a-scrapin’ up the yearth with his hind feet, sendin’ the chips a-flyin’; he holds up his head and barks in a cheerful, manly tone of voice, escortin’ me forward, and feelin’ prouder’n ef he’d holed a woodchuck!

“But let me come home full of tangle-leg, sheep-herder’s delight, and tarant’ler juice, and that is the durndest shamedest dog above ground. He jist takes one look at me and he knows it all. Down goes his tail, he lops his years, hangs his head, squats his back, and slinks away, and crawls under the barn—acturly ashamed to be seen about the primises for fear somebody’ll find out I own him!”

Just previous to the Senatorial contest which resulted in his election, the Hon. J. P. Jones had the following funny adventure in Virginia City with a man who came to hire himself out as a “fighter”:

Mr. Jones and several friends were in one of the first-class saloons, sipping their wine, smoking and chatting, when a rather strange-looking customer entered the place, and, sauntering up to the group, began the operation of “eying over” the gentlemen composing it.

He was a man of middle age and medium height, with arms disproportionately long, great, spreading hands, and knotty fingers. His angular, ungainly form was poorly and scantily clad, and he was topped out with a curious little bullet-head, set upon a very short allowance of neck. From the sides of his little, round head stood leaning out two great pulpy ears, and all that appeared on his face in the way of beard was a jet-black stubbed moustache. This seemed to have been planted a hair at a time with a pegging-awl and hammer, the latter coming down on the defenseless nose as each bristle was inserted, and so intimidating said organ that it had ever since remained crouched out of sight behind the hairy stockade. A large, livid scar described a semi-circle round one of his projecting cheek-bones, and passing down entered the corner of his mouth, giving to the feature an ugly upward hitch on that side. Wabbling his little, glittering grey eyes over the party before him, until said orbs rested upon the rotund form and rosy face of Mr. Jones, he pulled off the hirsute ten-pin ball which he would have called his head, a scrap of hat, and making an awkward bow, said:

“J. P. Jones, I believe?”

“That is my name, sir,” said Jones.

“Correct,” sententiously observed the strange visitor.

“Do you want to see me?” said Jones.

“About three minutes, and in private, if you please.”

Mr. Jones led the way to a large private room in the rear of the saloon.

“Mr. Jones, sir, you don’t know me,” said the fellow, “but when you lived in old Tuolumne, I war also in that part of Californey—in the adjinin’ county. Mr. Jones, I’m the ‘Taranterler of Calaveras;’ I’m a war-hoss of the hills and a fighter from h—l!”

“I don’t dispute your word, sir,” said J. P., “but how does your being ‘war-horse of the hills’ concern me?”

“I’m here to tell you. Here, now, you are goin’ into this here contest, and it’s liable to be a very lively one. About ’lection day it’ll be all-fired hot. Now what you’ll need will be a good fighter; a feller to stand up, knock down, and drag out for you; a man what can go to the polls and knock down right an’ left—wade through everything!”

Mr. Jones said he had not thought it would be necessary to have such a man at the polls on election day.

“Oh, but it will!” cried the man of muscle. “You see you don’t know about them things. I’ll manage it all for you.”

“So you want me to hire you as my fighter?”

“Jest so!”

“What would be your price from now till after election? You see as I’ve never yet had occasion to hire a fighter, I don’t know much about the value of such service.”

“Well, I couldn’t undertake the job short of $1,000; there’ll be lots of work to do.”

“Ain’t that pretty high?”

“Of course it’s a considerable sum, but thar’s a terrible rough set over here. These Washoe fellow are nearly h—l themselves, and they are more on the cut and shoot than is healthy. You see $1,000 is no money at all when you calkerlate the risk. I’m liable to be chopped all to pieces, riddled with bullets, and either killed out and out or crippled for life. You see $1,000 is no money at all.”

“Well, come to look at it in that light, I don’t know but your price is reasonable enough.”

“Cheap! of course it is. I rather like your style or I wouldn’t undertake the job at that figger. Come—is it a bargain? Am I your man, at the figger named?”

“Well, not so fast. If I am to have a fighter, I want the best that is to be had. I don’t want a fellow that will be kicked and cuffed about town by every bummer. I am able to pay for a first-class fighter, and I won’t have anything else!”

“Ain’t I a fighter?” rolling his eyes fiercely and thrusting first his right, then his left arm, straight out from the shoulder, ducking his head comically about and poising himself on one foot; “will anybody kick and cuff me? me, the war-hoss of the hills; the Taranterler of Calaveras? Not much!”

“Have you ever whipped anybody?”

“Ever whipped anybody? Me—have I ever whipped anybody? Ha! ha! ha! You make me laugh. Next you will be asking if I was ever whipped. Show me your man—show me your men—for I ain’t perticular about ’em coming one at a time. Bring ’em on, and I’ll whip all that can stand in this room in one minute by the clock!”

“Well,” said “J. P.,” “I think you’ll do; but, as I said before, I want the best man in the country. My fighter must be a regular lightning striker. Now I have another man in my eye. He is something of a fighter. Has a graveyard of his own of considerable size. It lies between the pair of you. The best man is the man for my money.”

“D—n your man! Bring him on. D—n me, I’ll devour him! Show him to the Taranterler!”

“Remain here two minutes and I’ll bring him in.”

Now, before coming into the room with the fellow, Mr. Jones had observed James N. Cartter—commonly known on the Pacific Coast as Big Jim Cartter—sauntering around the saloon. As is well known to everybody in this city, and pretty generally throughout the towns and cities of Nevada and California, Jim Cartter is a powerfully-built man, standing over six feet in his stockings, a man who is “on the shoulder” and who is at home with either knife or pistol, as more than one grave can testify. Calling to Cartter, Mr. Jones briefly made known the situation and invited him in to interview the “war-hoss of the hills.”

This was as good a thing as Cartter wanted, and into the room they went.

“Here,” said Jones, as they entered the room, “is the man. Nobody will disturb you here, and after all is over the best man is the man for my coin.”

Jim waltzed into the room with his hat standing on two hairs and a wicked smile playing upon his features. Said he:

“Is this the blessed infant that has come to eat me up? Is this the Calaveras skunk that has come over here to set himself up as ‘Chief?’ Move back the chairs!”

With this Cartter began to wriggle from side to side in the effort to “shuck” himself of the long-tailed black coat he always wore, and in so doing he displayed on one side that famous old white-handled, sixteen-inch bowie-knife, his constant companion, and on the other the butt of a navy revolver.

“So this is the lop-eared cur of Calaveras who comes here to set up as a fighter? Move the chairs to the wall!” cried Cartter still wriggling at his coat.

“Mr. Jones,” cried the mighty devourer of men, “Mr. Jones this man is a friend of yours. I can’t fight any friend of yours. With any friend of yours I am a lamb; I could not harm a hair of his head!”

“No friend at all. He is a fighter like yourself. Besides, what has friendship got to do with a transaction involving $1,000? I want the best man I can find. If you whip this fellow I hire you as my fighter. That’s all there is about it.”

“That’s fair and business-like, you skunk!” cried Cartter. “Peel yourself and waltz out here!”

“Mr. Jones,” said the “war-hoss of the hills,” in a mild conciliatory tone, “I am satisfied that this man is a friend of yours. You might insult me and banter me and tear me all to pieces, but against a friend of yours I’d never lift a hand. Now your friend is of the right stripe; I like his looks. Thar’s no use of two good men a-fightin for nothin, so I’ll tell you what you best do. You give him $500 and me $500 an’ we’ll work together. The two of us could chaw up the town—we’d be a terror to it.”

“No,” said Jones, “you won’t do. You ain’t game, you—”

“He’s a dunghill!” chipped in Cartter.

“I can’t fight in a room,” said the fellow; “I have never yet had a fight in a room. I don’t like it.”

[Illustration: THE SCARED BULLY.]

“I guess you’re not struck after it anywhere!” said Cartter.

“It is rather close to fight in a room,” said Jones. Then turning to the fellow, whose eyes were still wandering in the direction of Cartter’s coat-tails, he handed him a twenty-dollar gold piece, saying; “Take this: I hire you for my open-air fighter. You are never to fight for me except in the open air and where there is a good chance for you to run.”

“Thank you Mr. Jones,” said the fellow, pocketing the coin and making for the door. “Thank you, and if I ever see a show to put in a lick for you I’ll not forget to do it.”

“Provided you have a chance to run,” sneered Cartter.

Turning as he was passing out of the door, the fellow said:

“It’s all very nice, Mr. Jones, but that is either Jim Cartter or the devil, and you can’t ring him in on me!”

[Illustration]