THE horse which Mr. Tom Ruger rode kept the path, steep and rugged though it was, without any guidance from him, and its mate followed demurely. They were accustomed to it; and many a mile had they traversed in this way, taking turns at carrying their owner and master. Indeed, the trio seemed inseparable, and “as happy as Tom Ruger and his horses” was a phrase that was very often heard in every mining camp and settlement.
As for Mr. Tom Ruger himself, very little was known of him save what had been learned during the two years that he had sojourned among them. Where he came from never was known, nor asked but once by the same person. All that could be said of him might be summed up in the following statement:
“The finest-looking, the best-dressed, and the best-mannered man on the Pacific coast, and the best horseman.”
These were the words of “mine host” at the Ten Mile House, and, as he was a gentleman whose word was as good as his paper, we will accept them as truth.
As Mr. Ruger rode down the mountain-side that beautiful Autumn day, dressed in the finest of broadcloth, with linen of the most immaculate whiteness, smoking what appeared to be a very good cigar, and humming to himself a fragment of some old song, he looked strangely out of place.
So thought Miss Fanny Borlan as she looked out of the stage-window, and caught her first glimpse of him just where his path intersected the stage-road; and she would have asked the driver about him, had he not been so near.
Mr. Ruger caught sight of her face about that time, and tossing away the cigar, he lifted his hat to her in the most approved style.
She acknowledged the salute by a bow, and when he rode up to the side of the stage, and made some casual remark about the fine weather, she did not choose to consider it out of the way to receive this advance toward a traveling acquaintance with seeming cordiality.
“Have you traveled far?” he asked.
“From the Atlantic coast, sir.”
“The same journey that I intend to take some of these days, only that I hope to substitute the word Pacific at its termination. I hope you are near the end of your journey in this direction?”
“My destination is Ten Mile Gulch, I believe; but you have such horrid names out here.”
“I presume they do appear somewhat queer to a stranger, but they nearly all have the merit of being appropriate. You stop at the settlement?”
“I do not know. My brother wrote to me to come to Ten Mile Gulch. Is it the name of a town?”
“Both of a village and a mining district, from which the village takes its name. Is your brother a miner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I presume he intended to meet you at the settlement. You will no doubt find him at the tavern; if not, I will tell him of your arrival, for my way leads through the mines.”
“Thank you, sir. My brother’s name is John Borlan.”
“I am somewhat acquainted with him,” said Mr. Ruger, “though in this region of strange names we call him Jack. My name is Thomas Ruger.”
“Tom, in California style?” she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye.
“Yes, Miss Borlan,” he said, also smiling. “Tom Ruger is well known where Thomas Ruger never was heard of. And now I will bid you good-day, Miss Borlan, for I am in something of a hurry to reach the settlement. If I do not find Jack there, I will go on to the mines and tell him.”
“Ah, Miss, you don’t have such men as Tom Ruger out where you come from,” said the driver, as Tom disappeared up the road. “And them nags of his’n can’t be beat this side of the mountains. He makes a heap o’ money with ’em.”
“What! a horse-jockey?” exclaimed Miss Borlan.
“We don’t call him that, miss. Some says he’s a sportin’ man, which ain’t nothin’ agin him, for the country’s new, ye see. He’s got heaps o’ money anyway, and there ain’t a camp nor a town on the coast that don’t know Tom Ruger. Ah, ye don’t have such men as Tommy. He’d be at home in a palace, now wouldn’t he? And it’s jest the same in a miner’s shanty. Ye don’t have such men as he. If he takes a likin’ to anybody, he sticks to ’em through thick and thin; but if he gits agin ye once, he’s—the—very—deuce. Ah, ye don’t have no such man out where you come from.”
She did not care to dispute this point. In fact, after what she had seen and heard, she was inclined to believe that there was no such men as Tom Ruger out where she had come from; so she made no reply; and the driver, following out his train of thought, rattled on about Tom Ruger until they came in sight of Ten Mile Gulch, winding up his narrative with the sage, but rather unexpected, remark, that there weren’t no such men as Tom Ruger out where she had come from.
THE barroom at the Miners’ Home might have been more crowded at some former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen faces and forms of the two dozen Ten Milers who were congregated there that beautiful Autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.
Ten Mile Gulch had turned out en masse, and those same Ten Milers were distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. Further than that we do not care to go at present.
But there was one face and one form absent. No more would the genial atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest, no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass him the whisky-straight. Alas! Bill Foster had passed in his checks, and gone the way of all Ten Milers.
And it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden treasure from their work, for Bill had not gone in the ordinary way. At night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the morning they found him just outside the domicile of Jack Borlan, with a small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. Such was life at Ten Mile Gulch.
Who made the puncture?
Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit themselves.
Mr. Bob Watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might have concluded that whittling was his best hold. Not so, however; he whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left eye of a very flattering representation of Yankee Sullivan which graced the wall.
By a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.
“Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?” asks Watson.
“We’re waiting for you,” said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased witness of the knife-throwing and its results.
“Well, you need not,” retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at Yankee’s other eye, and with very good success. “You know my sentiments, gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin’.”
“It—might—have—done,” said the tall Miler, doubtfully; “but I wouldn’t like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment of the occasion.”
“Bet yer ten to one ye don’t swing him!” cried Watson, springing to his feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been whittling. “Twenty to one Jack Borlan don’t choke this heat! Who takes me? who? who?”
No one seemed disposed to take him.
“Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long ago. What do you say, Borlan?”
The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and turned to Watson. “There have been cases where the prisoner had the benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson.”
“Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let’s have one, gentlemen. I’ll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now, who’ll defend the prisoner at the bar?”
“I’ll make a feeble attempt that way,” was the reply that came from the doorway. All eyes turned, and recognized Tom Ruger.
“This is betwixt us Ten Milers,” said Watson. “Borlan is guilty, and we’re bound to hang him before sundown; but we want to do the fair thing, and give him the benefit of a trial. Who of you Ten Milers will defend him?”
“I told you I would defend Mr. Borlan,” said Tom Ruger, as he removed his silk hat and wiped his broad forehead with the finest of silk handkerchiefs.
“I tell you we won’t have any outsiders in this game,” said Watson.
“I really dislike to contradict you, Mr. Watson,” remarked Tom Ruger, as he very carefully readjusted his hat. “Very sorry, Mr. Watson, and I do hope you’ll pardon me when I repeat that I will defend Mr. Borlan—with—my—life!”
This remark surprised no one more than Jack Borlan. He had never spoken to Mr. Ruger a dozen times in his life, and he could not account for such disinterestedness. However, there was not much time for conjecture, for Mr. Watson had taken offense.
“With your death, Tom Ruger, if you interfere!” cried Watson, jumping down from his elevation.
It did look that way; but Mr. Ruger had not strolled up and down that auriferous coast without acquiring some knowledge of the usual means of defense in that sunny clime, as well as some practice. It was quite warm for a moment; then Mr. Borlan, believing it to be his duty, as client, to aid his counsel in the defense, went in gladly.
Still it was quite warm; also somewhat smoky from the powder that had been burned; likewise noisy. Not so noisy, however, that Mr. Borlan could not hear his counsel say:
“Clear yourself, Borlan! My horses are down at the ford!”
Mr. Borlan followed the advice of his counsel, and Mr. Ruger followed Mr. Borlan. The Ten Milers—some of them—followed both counsel and client.
It was neck and heels until the horses were reached. After that the pursuers were left at a great disadvantage.
“I’ll have his heart!” ejaculated Watson. Which heart he meant we have no means of knowing. “Give me a horse! quick!”
They brought a mule.
“Wait here, every man of you!” Watson shouted back over the shaved tail of his substitute for a horse. “I’ll bring him back, dead or alive, or my name ain’t Watson!”
And over the way the stage had stopped, and Fanny Borlan had reached Ten Mile Gulch at last.
A LITTLE after sunrise, the next morning, Mr. Tom Ruger might have been seen leisurely riding along the bridle-path between the mines and the settlement of Ten Mile Gulch. He was headed toward the village, and was nine and three-quarter miles nearer to it than the mines. He had found another good cigar somewhere, and was humming the self-same tune as on the previous afternoon; but the riderless horse was not with him.
As Mr. Ruger rode into the only street in the village, his approach was heralded, and the Ten Milers, who were waiting for Watson’s return, filed out of the Miners’ Home, and took stations in the street.
Mr. Ruger took note of this demonstration, and, with a very business-like air, examined the contents of his holsters. He also noticed that patched noses and heads, and canes and crutches, were the predominating features in the group of Ten Milers, with an occasional closed eye and a bandaged hand to vary the monotony.
Miss Fanny Borlan, from her window at the Ten Mile House, also noticed the dilapidated looks of the frequenters of the Miners’ Home, and wondered if they kept a hospital there. Then she saw Mr. Ruger, and bowed and smiled as he drew up at her window.
“So you arrived all safe, Miss Borlan? How do you like the place?”
“Better than the inhabitants,” she answered, with a glance over the way. “Than those, I mean. Is it a hospital?”
“For the present I believe it is.”
“And will be for some time to come, if they all stay till they’re cured. But have you seen Jack?”
“Yes—last evening. He was very sorry that he could not wait for you, but it may be as well, however. He has gone down to San Francisco, and he will wait for you there. The stage leaves here in about two hours, and I advise you to take passage in it, if you are not too much fatigued.”
“I’m not tired a bit, Mr. Ruger. I will go back. Thank you for the trouble you have taken.”
“No trouble, Miss Borlan. Give my respects to Jack, and tell him I will be down in a week or two. Good-morning.”
While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of any one.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he said, as he rode up in front of them.
“Not to you, Tom Ruger,” spoke a tall Ten Miler—the only one, by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day’s trial unscathed. “Not to you, Tom Ruger! Where’s Borlan?”
“He’s gone down the coast on business,” said Ruger, “and may not be back for several months.”
“We’ll not wait for him,” was the miner’s reply.
At the same time he drew a revolver.
“You had better wait,” said Ruger, also producing a revolver.
The Ten Miler paused, and looked around at his companions. They did not present a formidable array of fighting stock. In fact, they were the sorest-looking men that Ten Mile Gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed surveyed them, he seemed to think he had better wait.
“YOU HAD BETTER WAIT,” SAID RUGER, ALSO PRODUCING A REVOLVER.
“You’ll wait for Mr. Borlan?” queried Ruger.
“I reckon we’d better,” answered the unscathed.
“And while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at Mr. Watson,” suggested Ruger. “At the present time he is reposing in the shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented William Foster’s rural habitation. Good-morning, gentlemen; and don’t get impatient.”
If Mr. Ruger had any fear of treachery, he did not exhibit it, for he never turned his head as he rode off toward the valley. Nor was there any danger; for beneath his suggestions about Mr. Watson the unscathed had detected a thing or two.
“I’m glad we waited,” he said. “I begin to see a thing or two. Them as is able will follow me up the Gulch.”
About half a score went with him. Mr. Watson was still enjoying the shade of the acacia-bush. In fact, he couldn’t get away, which Mr. Ruger well knew.
“It’s all up with me, Gulchers,” whispered Watson. “Ruger was too many for me, and I ought to have known it. You’ll find Bill Foster’s dust in a flour-sack, in my cabin. My respects to Borlan when you see him, and tell him I beg his pardon for discommoding him. Give what dust is honestly mine to him. It’s all I can do now. Good-by, boys. I’m jest played out; but take my advice and never buck against Tom Ruger. He’s too many for any dozen chaps on the coast. I knew ’twas all up with me the minute Tom came in, for he can look right through a feller’s heart. But never mind! It’s too late to help it now. I staked everything I had against Foster’s pile, and I’m beat, beat, beat!”
These were the last words Mr. Bob Watson ever spoke, as many a surviving Ten Miler will tell you, and they buried him in the spot where he died, without any beautiful stone to mark the place.
MISS FANNY BORLAN found Jack awaiting her at San Francisco.
“What made you run away?”
“Why, Fanny, didn’t Tom tell you about it?” queried Jack.
“Tom? Oh, you mean Mr. Ruger. He only sent me down here.”
“Just like him, Fan; very few words he ever wastes. Ah, sister, we don’t have such men out East.”
“So the stage-driver told me,” said Fanny, demurely.
“There, Fan, you’re poking fun now. Wait till I get through. Only for Tom, you would have found me at Ten Mile Gulch, hanging by the neck to the limb of that tree just in front of the Home.”
“Hanging, Jack?”
“Hanging, Fan—lynched for a murder I never committed. Tom came along just in the nick of time, and—Well, Fan, perhaps you saw some of the Ten Milers before you came away?”
“Yes, Jack; and there was only one whole nose in the lot, and I do believe that was out of joint. But, oh, Jack! if they had taken your life!”
“Never mind now, sis. Tom was too many for ’em; and here I am safe. We’ll wait here till Tom comes down, for I’ve got one of his horses, which he thinks more of than he does of himself; then for home, sis.”
Mr. Tom Ruger went down, as he said he would, and remained with them several days. On the morning that they were to sail, Fanny said to Tom:
“I wish you were going with us, Mr. Ruger. We shall miss you very much. Won’t you go?”
Mr. Ruger was talking with Jack at the time, but he heard Fanny—he always heard what she said.
He did not reply at once, however, but said to Jack, in a low tone:
“Jack, you know what I have been—can I ever become worthy of her?”
And Jack answered, promptly:
“God bless you, Tom, you are worthy now!”
“Thank you, Jack—if you believe!”
Then he went over to Fanny.
“I will go,” was all he said.
It was a great wonder to both Jack and his sister how Tom could have got ready for the journey on so short a notice; but one day, more than a year afterward, Tom said to Jack:
“Old friend, I’m not what I was, I hope. Ever since I first saw Fanny on the road to Ten Mile Gulch, I have tried to live differently. I hope I am better, for she said last night that she would take me for better or worse.”
And Jack wondered no more.
