ON a certain day in November, 1850, there meandered into the new mining camp of Painter Bar, State of California, an individual who was instantly pronounced, all voices concurring, the ugliest man in the camp. The adjective ugly was applied to the man’s physiognomy alone; but time soon gave the word, as applied to him, a far wider significance. In fact, the word was not at all equal to the requirements made of it, and this was probably what influenced the pre-fixing of numerous adjectives, sacred and profane, to this little word of four letters.
The individual in question stated that he came from “no whar in pu’tiklar,” and the savage, furtive glance that shot from his hyena-like eyes seemed to plainly indicate why the land of his origin was so indefinitely located. A badly broken nose failed to soften the expression of his eyes, a long, prominent, dull-red scar divided one of his cheeks, his mustache was not heavy enough to hide a hideous hare-lip; while a ragged beard, and a head of stiff, bristly red hair, formed a setting which intensified rather than embellished the peculiarities we have noted.
The first settlers, who seemed quite venerable and dignified, now that the camp was nearly a fortnight old, were in the habit of extending hospitality to all newcomers until these latter could build huts for themselves; but no one hastened to invite this beauty to partake of cracker, pork and lodging-place, and he finally betook himself to the southerly side of a large rock, against which he placed a few boughs to break the wind.
The morning after his arrival, certain men missed provisions, and the ugly man was suspected; but so depressing, as one miner mildly put it, was his aspect when even looked at inquiringly, that the bravest of the boys found excuse for not asking questions of the suspected man.
“Ain’t got no chum,” suggested Bozen, an ex-sailor, one day, after the crowd had done considerable staring at this unpleasant object; “ain’t got no chum, and’s lonesome—needs cheerin’ up.” So Bozen philanthropically staked a new claim near the stranger, apart from the main party. The next morning found him back on his old claim, and volunteering to every one the information that “stranger’s a grump—a reg’lar grump.” From that time forth “Grump” was the only name by which the man was known.
Time rolled on, and in the course of a month Painter Bar was mentioned as an old camp. It had its mining rules, its saloon, blacksmith-shop, and faro-bank, like the proudest camp on the Run, and one could find there colonels, judges, doctors, and squires by the dozen, besides one deacon and a dominie or two.
Still, the old inhabitants kept an open eye for newcomers, and displayed an open-hearted friendliness from whose example certain Eastern cities might profit.
But on one particular afternoon, the estimable reception committee were put to their wit’s end. They were enjoying their otium cum dignitate on a rude bench in front of the saloon, when some one called attention to an unfamiliar form which leaned against a stunted tree a few rods off.
It was of a short, loose-jointed young man, who seemed so thin and lean, that Black Tom ventured the opinion that “that feller had better hold tight to the groun’, ter keep from fallen’ upards.” His eyes were colorless, his nose was enormous, his mouth hung wide open and then shut with a twitch, as if its owner were eating flies, his chin seemed to have been entirely forgotten, and his thin hair was in color somewhere between sand and mud.
As he leaned against the tree he afforded a fine opportunity for the study of acute and obtuse angles. His neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists, back, knees and feet all described angles, and even the toes of his shocking boots deflected from the horizontal in a most decided manner.
“Somebody ort to go say somethin’ to him,” said the colonel, who was recognized as leader by the miners.
“Fact, colonel,” replied one of the men; “but what’s a feller to say to sich a meanderin’ bone-yard ez that? Might ask him, fur perliteness sake, to take fust pick uv lots in a new buryin’ ground; but then Perkins died last week, yur know.”
“Say somethin’, somebody,” commanded the colonel, and as he spoke his eyes alighted on Slim Sam, who obediently stepped out to greet the newcomer.
“Mister,” said Sam, producing a plug of tobacco, “hev a chaw?”
“I don’t use tobacco,” languidly replied the man, and his answer was so unexpected that Sam precipitately retired.
Then Black Tom advanced, and pleasantly asked:
“What’s yer fav’rit game, stranger?”
“Blind man’s buff,” replied the stranger.
“What’s that?” inquired Tom, blushing with shame at being compelled to display ignorance about games; “anything like going it blind at poker?”
“Poker?—I don’t know what that is,” replied the youth.
“He’s from the country,” said the colonel, compassionately, “an’ hesn’t hed the right schoolin’. P’r’aps,” continued the colonel, “he’d enjoy the cockfight at the saloon to-night—these country boys are pretty well up on roosters. Ask him, Tom.”
Tom put the question, and the party, in deep disgust, heard the man reply:
“No, thank you; I think it’s cruel to make the poor birds hurt each other.”
“Look here,” said the good-natured Bozen, “the poor lubber’s all gone in amidships—see how flat his breadbasket is. I say, messmate,” continued Bozen, with a roar, and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, “come and splice the main-brace.”
“No, thank you,” answered the unreasonable stranger; “I don’t drink.”
The boys looked incredulously at each other, while the colonel arose and paced the front of the saloon two or three times, looking greatly puzzled. He finally stopped and said:
“The mizzable rat isn’t fit to be out uv doors, an’ needs takin’ keer ov. Come here, feller,” called the colonel; “be kinder sociable—don’t stand there a gawpin’ at us ez ef we wuz a menagerie.”
The youth approached slowly, stared through the crowd, and finally asked:
“Is there any one here from Pawkin Centre?”
No one responded.
“Some men went out to Californy from Pawkin Centre, and I didn’t know but some of ’em was here. I come from ther’ myself—my name’s Mix,” the youth continued.
“Meanin’ no disrespect to your dad,” said the colonel, “Mr. Mix, Senior, ortn’t to hev let you come out here—you ain’t strong enough—you’ll git fever ’n ager ’fore you’ve washed dirt half a day.”
“I ain’t got no dad,” replied the stranger; “leastways he ran away ten years ago, an’ mother had a powerful hard time since, a-bringin’ up the young uns, an’ we thought I might help along a big sight if I was out here.”
The colonel was not what in the States would be called a prayer-meeting man, but he looked steadily at the young man, and inwardly breathed a very earnest “God have mercy on you all.” Then he came back to the more immediate present, and, looking about, asked:
“Who’s got sleepin’-room for this young man?”
“I hev,” quickly answered Grump, who had approached, unnoticed, while the newcomer was being interviewed.
Every one started, and Grump’s countenance did not gather amiability as he sneakingly noticed the general distrust.
“Yer needn’t glare like that,” said he, savagely; “I sed it, an’ I mean it. Come along, youngster—it’s about the time I generally fry my pork.”
And the two beauties walked away together, while the crowd stared in speechless astonishment.
“He won’t make much out uv that boy, that’s one comfort,” said Black Tom, who had partially recovered from his wonder. “You ken bet yer eye-teeth that his pockets wouldn’t pan out five dollars.”
“Then what does he want uv him?” queried Slim Sam.
“Somethin’ mean an’ underhand, for certain,” said the colonel, “and the boy must be purtected. And I hereby app’int this whole crowd to keep an eye on Grump, an’ see he don’t make a slave of the boy, an’ don’t rob him of dust. An’ I reckon I’ll take one of yer with me, an’ keep watch of the old rascal to-night. I don’t trust him wuth a durn.”
That night the boys at the saloon wrinkled their brows like unto an impecunious Committee of Ways and Means, as they vainly endeavored to surmise why Grump could want that young man as a lodger. Men who pursued whittling as an aid to reason made pecks of chips and shavings, and were no nearer a solution than when they began.
There were a number of games played, but so great was the absentmindedness of the players, that several hardened scamps indulged in some most unscrupulous “stocking” of the cards without detection. But even one of these, after having dealt himself both bowers and the king, besides two aces, suddenly imagined he had discovered Grump’s motive, and so earnest was he in exposing that nefarious wretch, that one of his opponents changed hands with him. Even the barkeeper mixed the bottles badly, and on one occasion, just as the boys were raising their glasses, he metaphorically dashed the cup from their lips by a violent, “I tell you what,” and an unsatisfactory theory. Finally the colonel arose.
“Boys,” said he, in the tone of a man whose mind is settled, “’taint ’cos the youngster looked like lively comp’ny, fur he didn’t. ’Taint ’cos Grump wanted to do him a good turn, fur ’tain’t his style. Cons’kently, thar’s sumthin’ wrong. Tom, I reckon I take you along.”
And Tom and the colonel departed.
During the month which had elapsed since his advent, Grump had managed to build him a hut of the usual mining pattern, and the colonel and Tom stealthily examined its walls, front and rear, until they found crevices which would admit the muzzle of a revolver, should it be necessary. Then they applied their eyes to the same cracks, and saw the youth asleep on a pile of dead grass, with Grump’s knapsack for a pillow, and one of Grump’s blankets over him. Grump himself was sitting on a fragment of stone, staring into the fire, with his face in his hands.
He sat so long that the worthy colonel began to feel indignant; to sit in a cramped position on the outside of a house, for the sake of abused human nature, was an action more praiseworthy than comfortable, and the colonel began to feel personally aggrieved at Grump’s delay. Besides, the colonel was growing thirsty.
Suddenly Grump arose, looked down at the sleeping youth, and then knelt beside him. The colonel briskly brought his pistol to bear on him, and with great satisfaction noted that Tom’s muzzle occupied a crack in the front walls, and that he himself was out of range.
A slight tremor seemed to run through the sleeper; “and no wonder,” said the colonel, when he recounted the adventure to the boys; “anybody’d shiver to hev that catamount glarin’ at him.”
Grump arose, and softly went to a corner which was hidden by the chimney.
“Gone for his knife, I’ll bet,” whispered the colonel to himself. “I hope Tom don’t spile my mad by firin’ fust.”
Grump returned to view; but instead of a knife, he bore another blanket, which he gently spread over his sleeping guest, then he lay down beside Mix with a log of wood for a pillow.
The colonel withdrew his pistol, and softly muttered to himself a dozen or two enormous oaths; then he arose, straightened out his cramped legs, and started to find Tom. That worthy had started on a similar errand, and on meeting, the two stared at each other in the moonlight as blankly as a couple of well-preserved mummies.
“S’pose the boys ’ll believe us?” whispered the colonel.
“We ken bring ’em down to see the show themselves, ef they don’t,” replied Tom.
The colonel’s report was productive of the choicest assortment of ejaculations that had been heard in camp since Natchez, the leader of the Vinegar Gulch Boys, joined the Church and commenced preaching.
The good-natured Bozen was for drinking Grump’s health at once, but the colonel demurred. So did Slim Sam.
“He’s goin’ to make him work on sheers, or some hocus-pocusin’ arrangement, an’ he can’t afford to hev him git sick. That’s what his kindness amounts to,” said Sam.
“Ur go fur his gratitude—and dust, when he gets any,” suggested another, and no one repelled the insinuation.
It was evident, however, that there was but little chance of either inquest or funeral from Grump’s, and the crowd finally dispersed with the confirmed assurance that there would be one steady cause of excitement for some time to come.
Next morning young Mix staked a claim adjoining Grump. The colonel led him aside, bound him to secrecy, and told him that there was a far richer dirt further down the stream. The young man pointed toward the hut, and replied:
“He sed ’twas payin’ dirt, an’ I ort to take his advice, seein’ he giv me a pick an’ shovel an’ pan—sed he’d hev to git new ones anyhow.”
“Thunder!” ejaculated the colonel, more puzzled than ever, knowing well how a miner will cling as long as possible to tools with which he is acquainted.
“Jest wait till that boy gets a bag of dust,” said a miner, when the colonel had narrated the second wonder. “The express agent ’ll be here next week to git what fellers wants to send to their folks—the boy’ll want to send some to his’n—his bag ’ll be missin’ ’bout then—jist wait, and ef my words don’t come true, call me greaser.”
The colonel pondered over the prophecy, and finally determined on another vigil outside Grump’s hut.
Meanwhile, Grump’s Pet, as Mix had been nicknamed, afforded the camp a great deal of amusement. He was not at all reserved, and was easily drawn out on the subject of his protector, of whom he spoke in terms of unmeasured praise.
“By the piper that played before Moses,” said one of the boys one day, “ef half that boy sez is true, some day Grump ’ll hev wings sprout through his shirt, an’ ’ll be sittin’ on the sharp edge uv a cloud an’ playin’ onto a harp, jist like the other angels.”
As for Grump himself, he improved so much that suspicion was half disarmed when one looked at him; nevertheless the colonel deemed it prudent to watch the Pet’s landlord on the night preceding the express day.
The colonel timed himself by counting the games of old sledge that were played. At the end of the sixth game after dark he made his way to Grump’s hut and quietly located himself at the same crack as before.
The Pet and his friend were both lying down, but by the light of the fire the colonel could see the eyes of the former were closed, while those of the latter were wide open. The moments flew by, and still the two men remained in the same positions, the Pet apparently fast asleep, and Grump wide awake.
The interior of a miner’s hut, though displaying great originality of design, and ingenious artistic effects, becomes after a time rather a tiresome object of contemplation. The colonel found it so, and he relieved his strained eyes by an occasional amateur astronomical observation. On turning his head, with a yawn, from one of these, he saw inside the hut a state of affairs which caused him to feel hurriedly for his pistol.
Grump had risen upon one elbow, and was stealthily feeling with his other hand under the Pet’s head.
“Ha!” thought the colonel; “right at last.”
Slowly Grump’s hand emerged from beneath the Pet’s head, and with it came a leather bag containing gold dust.
The colonel drew a perfect bead on Grump’s temple.
“I’ll jest wait till you’re stowin’ that away, my golden-haired beauty,” said the colonel, within himself, “an’ then we’ll see what cold lead’s got to say about it.”
Grump untied the bag, set it upon his own pillow, drew forth his own pouch, and untied it; the colonel’s aim remained true to its unconscious mark.
“Ef that’s the game,” continued the colonel, to himself, “I reckon the proper time to play my trump is just when you’re a-pourin’ from his bag into your’n. It ’ll be ez good’s a theatre, to bring the boys up to see how ’twas done. Lord! I wish he’d hurry up!”
Grump placed a hand upon each bag, and the colonel felt for his trigger. Grump’s left hand opened wide the mouth of Pet’s bag, and his right hand raised his own; in a moment he had poured out all his own gold into Pet’s bag, tied it, and replaced it under Pet’s head.
The colonel retired quietly for a hundred yards, or more, then he started for the saloon like a man inspired by a three-days’ thirst. As he entered the saloon the crowd arose.
“Any feller ken say I lie,” meekly spoke the colonel, “an’ I won’t shoot. I wouldn’t believe it ef I hedn’t seen it with my own eyes. Grump’s poured all his gold into the Pet’s pouch!”
The whole party, in chorus, condemned their optical organs to supernatural warmth; some, more energetic than the rest, signified that the operation should extend to their lungs and lives. But the doubter of the party again spoke:
“Mind yer,” said he, “to-morrow he’ll be complainin’ that the Pet stole it, an’ then he’ll claim all in the Pet’s pouch.”
The colonel looked doubtful; several voices expressed dissent; Bozen, reviving his proposition to drink to Grump, found opinion about equally balanced, but conservative. It was agreed, however, that all the boys should “hang around” the express agent next day, and should, if Grump made the Pet any trouble, dispose of him promptly, and give the Pet a clear title to all of Grump’s rights and properties.
The agent came, and one by one the boys deposited their dust, saw it weighed, and took their receipts. Presently there was a stir near the door, and Grump and Pet entered. Pet’s gold was weighed, his mother’s name given, and a receipt tendered.
“Thinks he’s goin’ to hev conviction in writin’,” whispered the doubter to the colonel.
But the agent finished his business, took the stage, and departed. Grump started to the door to see the last of it. The doubter was there before him, and saw a big tear in the corner of each of Grump’s eyes.
A few days after Grump went to Placerville for a new pick for the Pet—the old one was too heavy for a light man, Grump said. Pet himself felt rather lonesome working on his neighbor’s claim, so he sauntered down the creek, and got a kind word from almost every man. His ridiculous anatomy had escaped the grave so long, he was so industrious and so inoffensive, that the boys began to have a sort of affection for the boy who had come so far to “help the folks.”
Finally, some weak miner, unable to hold the open secret any longer, told the Pet about Grump’s operation in dust. Great was the astonishment of the young man, and puzzling miners gained sympathy from the weak eyes and open mouth of the Pet as he meandered homeward, evidently as much at a loss as themselves.
Unlucky was the spirit which prompted Grump in the selection of his claim! It was just beyond a small bend which the Run made, and was, therefore, out of sight of the claims of the other men belonging to the camp. And it came to pass that while Pet was standing on his own claim, leaning on his spade, and puzzling his feeble brain, there came down the Run the great Broady, chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, who were working several miles above.
Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation, had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week’s industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small, ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous energy.
Poor Pet’s resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump’s, exclaimed:
“Let him go, or I’ll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!”
The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying orders, but Grump’s hands imparted to his command considerable moral force.
No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump’s grasp than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully away.
The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.
“They’ve fit!” gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, “an’ the boy—boy’s hed to—lay him out.
It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.
“How did it come ’bout?” asked the colonel of Pet.
“Broady done it,” replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; “he pounded the boy, and I tackled him—then he fired.”
The doubter went around and raised the dying man’s head. Pet seemed collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:
“What made you pour your dust into my pouch?”
“‘Cause,” whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet’s neck, and drawing him closer, “‘cause I’m yer dad; give this to yer mar,” and on Pet’s homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.
The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:
“Pet, yer an orphan.”
Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud.
This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed:
“Boys, here’s corpse—corpse is the best-looking man in camp.”
And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in His own image.
The body was placed in a rude coffin, and borne to the grave on a litter of spades, followed by every man in camp, the colonel supporting the only family mourner. Each man threw a shovelful of dirt upon the coffin before the filling began. As the last of the surface of the coffin disappeared from view, Pet raised a loud cry and wept bitterly, at which operation he was joined by the whole party.