HANNEY’S DIGGINGS certainly needed a missionary, if any place ever did; but, as one of the boys once remarked during a great lack of water, “It had to keep on a-needin’.” Zealous men came up by steamer via the Isthmus, and seemed to consume with their fiery haste to get on board the vessel for China and Japan, and carry the glad tidings to the heathen. Self-sacrificing souls gave up home and friends, and hurried across, overland, to brave the Pacific and bury themselves among the Australasian savages. But, though they all passed in sight of Hanney’s, none of them paused to give any attention to the souls who had flocked there. Men came out from ’Frisco and the East to labor with the Chinese miners, who were the only peaceable and well-behaved people in the mines; but the white-faced, good-natured, hard-swearing, generous, heavy-drinking, enthusiastic, murderous Anglo-Saxons they let severely alone. Perhaps they thought that hearts in which the good seed had once been sown, but failed to come up into fruit, were barren soil; perhaps they thought it preferable to be killed and eaten by cannibals than to be tumbled into a gulch by a revolver-shot, while the shootist strolled calmly off in company with his approving conscience, never thinking to ascertain whether his bullet had completed the business, or whether a wounded man might not have to fight death and coyotes together.
At any rate, the missionaries let Hanney’s alone. If any one with an unquenchable desire to carry the Word where it is utterly unknown, a digestion without fear, and a full-proof article of common sense (these last two requisites are absolute), should be looking for an eligible location, Hanney’s is just the place for him, and he need give himself no trouble for fear some one would step in before him. If he has several dozens of similarly constituted friends, they can all find similar locations by betaking themselves to any mining camp in the West.
As Hanney’s had no preacher, it will be readily imagined it had no church. With the first crowd who located there came an insolvent rumseller from the East. He called himself Pentecost, which was as near his right name as is usual with miners, and the boys dubbed his shop “Pentecost Chapel” at once. The name, somehow, reached the East, for within a few months there reached the post-office at Hanney’s a document addressed to “Preacher in charge of Pentecost Chapel.” The postmaster went up and down the brook in high spirits, and told the boys; they instantly dropped shovel and pan, formed line, and escorted the postmaster and document to the chapel. Pentecost acknowledged the joke, and stood treat for the crowd, after which he solemnly tore the wrapper, and disclosed the report of a certain missionary society. Modestly expressing his gratification at the honor, and his unworthiness of it, he moved that old Thompson, who had the loudest voice in the crowd, should read the report aloud, he, Pentecost, volunteering to furnish Thompson all necessary spirituous aid during the continuance of his task. Thompson promptly signified his acquiescence, cleared his throat with a glass of amber-colored liquid, and commenced, the boys meanwhile listening attentively, and commenting critically.
“Too much cussed heavenly twang,” observed one, disapprovingly, as one letter largely composed of Scriptural extracts was read.
“Why the deuce didn’t he shoot?” indignantly demanded another, as a tale of escape from heathen pursuers was read.
“Shet up wimmen in a derned dark room! Well, I’ll be durned!” soliloquized a yellow-haired Missourian, as Thompson read an account of a Zenana. “Reckon they’d set an infernal sight higher by wimmen if they wuz in the diggins’ six months—hey, fellers?”
“You bet!” emphatically responded a majority of those present.
Before the boys became very restive, Thompson finished the pamphlet, including a few lines on the cover, which stated that the society was greatly in need of funds, and that contributions might be sent to the society’s financial agent in Boston. Thompson gracefully concluded his service by passing the hat, with the following net result: Two revolvers, one double-barreled pistol, three knives, one watch, two rings (both home-made, valuable and fearfully ugly), a pocket-inkstand, a silver tobacco-box, and forty or fifty ounces of dust and nuggets. Boston Bill, who was notoriously absent-minded, dropped in a pocket-comb, but, on being sternly called to order by old Thompson, cursed himself most fluently, and redeemed his disgraceful contribution with a gold double-eagle. “The Webfoot,” who was the most unlucky man in camp, had been so wrought upon by the tale of one missionary who had lost his all many times in succession, sympathetically contributed his only shovel, for which act he was enthusiastically cursed and liberally treated at the bar, while the shovel was promptly sold at auction to the highest bidder, who presented it, with a staggering slap between the shoulders, to its original owner. The remaining non-legal tenders were then converted into gold-dust, and the whole dispatched by express, with a grim note from Pentecost, to the society’s treasurer at Boston. As the society was controlled by a denomination which does not understand how good can come out of evil, no detail of this contribution ever appeared in print. But a few months thereafter there did appear at Hanney’s a thin-chested, large-headed youth, with a heavily loaded mule, who announced himself as duly accredited by the aforementioned society to preach the Gospel among the miners. The boys received him cordially, and Pentecost offered him the nightly hospitality of curling up to sleep in front of the barroom fireplace. His mule’s load proved to consist largely of tracts, which he vigorously distributed, and which the boys used to wrap up dust in. He nearly starved while trying to learn to cook his own food, so some of the boys took him in and fed him. He tried to persuade the boys to stop drinking, and they good-naturedly laughed; but when he attempted to break up the “little game” which was the only amusement of the camp—the only steady amusement, for fights were short and irregular—the camp rose in its wrath, and the young man hastily rose and went for his mule.
“THOMPSON GRACEFULLY CONCLUDED HIS SERVICE BY PASSING THE HAT.”
But at the time of which this story treats a missionary would have fared even worse, for the boys where wholly absorbed by a very unrighteous, but still very darling, pleasure. A pair of veteran knifeists, who had fought each other at sight for almost ten years every time they met, had again found themselves in the same settlement, and Hanney’s had the honor to be that particular settlement. “Judge” Briggs, one of the heroes, had many years before discussed with his neighbor, Billy Bent, the merits of two opposing brands of mining shovels. In the course of the chat they drank considerable villainous whisky, and naturally resorted to knives as final arguments. The matter might have ended here, had either gained a decided advantage over the other; but both were skillful—each inflicted and received so near the same number of wounds, that the wisest men in camp were unable to decide which whipped. Now, to average Californians in the mines this is a most distressing state of affairs; the spectators and friends of the combatants waste a great deal of time, liquor, and blood on the subject, while the combatants themselves feel unspeakably uneasy on the neutral ground between victory and defeat. At Sonora, where Billy and the Judge had their first encounter, there was no verdict, so the Judge indignantly shook the dust from his feet and went elsewhere. Soon Billy happened in at the same place, and a set-to occurred at sight, in which the average was not disarranged. Both men went about, for a month or two, in a patched-up condition, and then Billy roamed off, to be soon met by the Judge with the usual result. Both men were known by reputation all through the gold regions, and the advent of either at any “gulch,” or “washin’,” was the best advertisement the saloon-keepers could desire. In the East, hundreds of men would have tried to reason the men out of this feud, and some few would have forcibly separated them while fighting; but in the diggings any interference in such matters is considered impertinent, and deserving of punishment.
Hanney’s had been fairly excited for a week, for the Judge had arrived the week before, and his points had been carefully scrutinized and weighed, time and again, by every man in the camp. There seemed nothing unusual about him—he was of middle size, and long hair and beard, a not unpleasant expression, and very dirty clothes; he never jumped a claim, always took his whisky straight, played as fair a game of poker as the average of the boys, and never stole a mule from any one whiter than a Mexican. The boys had just about ascertained all this, and made their “blind” bets on the result of the next fight, when the whole camp was convulsed with the intelligence that Billy Bent had also arrived. Work immediately ceased, except in the immediate vicinity of the champions, and the boys stuck close to the chapel, that being the spot where the encounter should naturally take place. Miners thronged in from fifty miles around, and nothing but a special mule express saved the camp from the horror of Pentecost’s bar being inadequate to the demand. Between “straight bets” and “hedging” most of the gold-dust in camp had been “put up,” for a bet is the only California backing of an opinion. As the men did not seem to seek each other, the boys had ample time to “grind things down to a pint,” as the camp concisely expressed it, and the matter had given excuse for a dozen minor fights, when order was suddenly restored one afternoon by the entrance of Billy and his neighbors, just as the Judge and his neighbors were finishing a drink.
The boys immediately and silently formed a ring, on the outer edge of which were massed all the men who had been outside, and who came pouring in like flies before a shower. No one squatted or hugged the wall, for it was understood that these two men fought only with knives, so the spectators were in a state of abject safety.
The Judge, after settling for the drinks, turned, and saw for the first time his enemy.
“Hello, Billy!” said he, pleasantly; “let’s take a drink first.”
Billy, who was a red-haired man, with a snapping-turtle mouth, but not a vicious-looking man for all that, briefly replied, “All right,” and these two determined enemies clinked their glasses with the unconcern of mere social drinkers.
But, after this, they proceeded promptly to business; the Judge, who was rather slow on his guard, was the owner of a badly cut arm within three minutes by the barkeeper’s watch, but not until he had given Billy, who was parrying a thrust, an ugly gash in his left temple.
There was a busy hum during the adjustment of bets on “first blood,” and the combatants very considerately refrained from doing serious injury during this temporary distraction; but within five minutes more they had exchanged chest wounds, but too slight to be dangerous.
Betting became furious—each man fought so splendidly, that the boys were wild with delight and enthusiasm. Bets were roared back and forth, and when Pentecost, by virtue of his universally conceded authority, commanded silence, there was a great deal of finger-telegraphy across the circle, and head-shaking in return.
Such exquisite carving had never before been seen at Hanney’s—that was freely admitted by all. Men pitied absent miners all over the State, and wondered why this delightful lingering, long-drawn-out system of slaughter was not more popular than the brief and commonplace method of the revolver. The Webfoot rapturously and softly quoted the good Doctor Watt’s:
“My willing soul would stay
In such a place as this,
And——”
when suddenly his cup of bliss was dashed to the ground, for Billy, stumbling, fell upon his own knife, and received a severe cut in the abdomen.
Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience enough in such matters to know it. In an instant the men who had been calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help the sufferer. Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter; half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded man. No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded man at exactly the right moment. After a brief examination, he gave his opinion in the following professional style:
“No go, Billy; you’re done for.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?”
“Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly.
“I’m a ruined man—I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of bitter anguish. “I wish I’d gone under, too.”
“Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “you didn’t do him, yer know.”
“That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever know which of us whipped.”
And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to drink.
Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on the bench seemed to need most just then. He had asked for some one who could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person. Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly. But still his mind seemed burdened. Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out:
“I don’t want—to make—to make it uncomfortable—for—for any of—you fellers, but—is ther’ a—a preacher in the camp?”
The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front. But none appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to another, gave a smothered cry.
“Oh, God, hez a miserable wretch got to cut hisself open, and then flicker out, without anybody to say a prayer for him?”
The boys looked sorrowful—if gold-dust could have bought prayers, Billy would have had a first-class assortment in an instant.
“There’s Deacon Adams over to Pattin’s,” suggested a bystander; “an’ they do say he’s a reg’lar rip-roarer at prayin’! But ’twould take four hours to go and fetch him.”
“Too long,” said the Doctor.
“Down in Mexico, at the cathedral,” said another, “they pray for a feller after he’s dead, when yer pay ’em fur it, an’ they say it’s jist the thing—sure pop. I’ll give yer my word, Billy, an’ no go back, that I’ll see the job done up in style fur yer, ef that’s any comfort.”
“I want to hear it myself,” groaned the sufferer; “I don’t feel right; can’t nobody pray—nobody in the crowd?”
Again the boys looked inquiringly at each other, but this time it was a little shyly. If he had asked for some one to go out and steal a mule, or kill a bear, or gallop a buck-jumping mustang to ’Frisco, they would have fought for the chance; but praying—praying was entirely out of their line.
The silence became painful: soon slouched hats were hauled down over moist eyes, and shirt-sleeves and bare arms seemed to find something unusual to attend to in the boys’ faces. Big Brooks commenced to blubber aloud, and was led out by old Thompson, who wanted a chance to get out of doors so he might break down in private. Finally matters were brought to a crisis by Mose—no one knew his other name. Mose uncovered a sandy head, face and beard, and remarked:
“I don’t want to put on airs in this here crowd, but ef nobody else ken say a word to the Lord about Billy Bent, I’m a-goin’ to do it myself. It’s a bizness I’ve never bin in, but ther’s nothin’ like tryin’. This meetin’ ’ll cum to order to wunst.”
“Hats off in church, gentlemen!” commanded Pentecost.
Off came every hat, and some of the boys knelt down, as Mose knelt beside the bench, and said:
“Oh, Lord, here’s Billy Bent needs ‘tendin’ to! He’s panned out his last dust, an’ he seems to hev a purty clear idee that this is his last chance. He wants you to give him a lift, Lord, an’ it’s the opinion of this house thet he needs it. ‘Tain’t none of our bizness what he’s done, an’ ef it wuz, you’d know more about it than we cud tell yer; but it’s mighty sartin that a cuss that’s been in the diggins fur years needs a sight of mendin’ up before he kicks the bucket.”
“That’s so,” responded two or three, very emphatically.
“Billy’s down, Lord, an’ no decent man b’lieves that the Lord ’ud hit a man when he’s down, so there’s one or two things got to be done—either he’s got to be let alone, or he’s got to be helped. Lettin’ him alone won’t do him or anybody else enny good, so helpin’s the holt, an’ as enny one uv us tough fellers would help ef we knew how to, it’s only fair to suppose thet the Lord ’ll do it a mighty sight quicker. Now, what Billy needs is to see the thing in thet light, an’ you ken make him do it a good deal better than we ken. It’s mighty little fur the Lord to do, but it’s meat an’ drink an’ clothes to Billy just now. When we wuz boys, sum uv us read some promises ef you’rn in thet Book thet wes writ a good spell ago by chaps in the Old Country, an’ though Sunday-school teachers and preachers mixed the matter up in our minds, an’ got us all tangle-footed, we know they’re dar, an’ you’ll know what we mean. Now, Lord, Billy’s jest the boy—he’s a hard case, so you can’t find no better stuff to work on—he’s in a bad fix, thet we can’t do nuthin’ fur, so it’s jest yer chance. He ain’t exactly the chap to make an A Number One Angel ef, but he ain’t the man to forget a friend, so he’ll be a handy feller to hev aroun’.”
“Feel any better, Billy?” said Mose, stopping the prayer for a moment.
“A little,” said Billy, feebly; “but you want to tell the whole yarn. I’m sorry for all the wrong I’ve done.”
“He’s sorry for all his deviltry, Lord——”
“An’ I ain’t got nothin’ agin the Judge,” continued the sufferer.
“An’ he don’t bear no malice agin the Judge, which he shouldn’t, seein’ he generally gin as good as he took. An’ the long an’ short of it, Lord, is jest this—he’s a dyin’, an’ he wants a chance to die with his mind easy, an’ nobody else can make it so, so we leave the whole job in your hands, only puttin’ in, fur Billy’s comfort, thet we recollect hearing how yer forgiv’ a dyin’ thief, an’ thet it ain’t likely yer a-goin’ to be harder on a chap thet’s alwas paid fur what he got. Thet’s the whole story. Amen.”
Billy’s hand, rapidly growing cold, reached for that of Mose, and he said, with considerable effort:
“Mose, yer came in ez handy as a nugget in a gone-up claim. God bless yer, Mose. I feel better inside. Ef I get through the clouds, an’ hev a livin’ chance to say a word to them as is the chiefs dar, thet word ’ll be fur you, Mose. God bless yer, Mose, an’ ef my blessin’s no account, it can’t cuss yer, ennyhow. This claim’s washed out, fellers, an’ here goes the last shovelful, to see ef ther’s enny gold in it er not.”
And Billy departed this life, and the boys drank to the repose of his soul.