Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy (1888) was published in Harte’s collection Stories in Light and Shadow
“Ye kin never tell how these things will pan out.”
An illustration for the story Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy by the author Bret Harte
Britton & Rey, Miners Coat of Arms, San Francisco, 1850s
They were partners. The avuncular title was bestowed on them by Cedar Camp, possibly in recognition of a certain matured good humor, quite distinct from the spasmodic exuberant spirits of its other members, and possibly from what, to its youthful sense, seemed their advanced ages—which must have been at least forty! They had also set habits even in their improvidence, lost incalculable and unpayable sums to each other over euchre regularly every evening, and inspected their sluice-boxes punctually every Saturday for repairs—which they never made. They even got to resemble each other, after the fashion of old married couples, or, rather, as in matrimonial partnerships, were subject to the domination of the stronger character; although in their case it is to be feared that it was the feminine Uncle Billy—enthusiastic, imaginative, and loquacious—who swayed the masculine, steady-going, and practical Uncle Jim. They had lived in the camp since its foundation in 1849; there seemed to be no reason why they should not remain there until its inevitable evolution into a mining-town. The younger members might leave through restless ambition or a desire for change or novelty; they were subject to no such trifling mutation. Yet Cedar Camp was surprised one day to hear that Uncle Billy was going away.
The rain was softly falling on the bark thatch of the cabin with a muffled murmur, like a sound heard through sleep. The southwest trades were warm even at that altitude, as the open door testified, although a fire of pine bark was flickering on the adobe hearth and striking out answering fires from the freshly scoured culinary utensils on the rude sideboard, which Uncle Jim had cleaned that morning with his usual serious persistency. Their best clothes, which were interchangeable and worn alternately by each other on festal occasions, hung on the walls, which were covered with a coarse sailcloth canvas instead of lath-and-plaster, and were diversified by pictures from illustrated papers and stains from the exterior weather. Two “bunks,” like ships’ berths,—an upper and lower one,—occupied the gable-end of this single apartment, and on beds of coarse sacking, filled with dry moss, were carefully rolled their respective blankets and pillows. They were the only articles not used in common, and whose individuality was respected.
Uncle Jim, who had been sitting before the fire, rose as the square bulk of his partner appeared at the doorway with an armful of wood for the evening stove. By that sign he knew it was nine o’clock: for the last six years Uncle Billy had regularly brought in the wood at that hour, and Uncle Jim had as regularly closed the door after him, and set out their single table, containing a greasy pack of cards taken from its drawer, a bottle of whiskey, and two tin drinking-cups. To this was added a ragged memorandum-book and a stick of pencil. The two men drew their stools to the table.
“Hol’ on a minit,” said Uncle Billy.
His partner laid down the cards as Uncle Billy extracted from his pocket a pill-box, and, opening it, gravely took a pill. This was clearly an innovation on their regular proceedings, for Uncle Billy was always in perfect health.
“What’s this for?” asked Uncle Jim half scornfully.
“Agin ager.”
“You ain’t got no ager,” said Uncle Jim, with the assurance of intimate cognizance of his partner’s physical condition.
“But it’s a pow’ful preventive! Quinine! Saw this box at Riley’s store, and laid out a quarter on it. We kin keep it here, comfortable, for evenings. It’s mighty soothin’ arter a man’s done a hard day’s work on the river-bar. Take one.”
Uncle Jim gravely took a pill and swallowed it, and handed the box back to his partner.
“We’ll leave it on the table, sociable like, in case any of the boys come in,” said Uncle Billy, taking up the cards. “Well. How de we stand?”
Uncle Jim consulted the memorandum-book. “You were owin’ me sixty-two thousand dollars on the last game, and the limit’s seventy-five thousand!”
“Je whillikins!” ejaculated Uncle Billy. “Let me see.”
He examined the book, feebly attempted to challenge the additions, but with no effect on the total. “We oughter hev made the limit a hundred thousand,” he said seriously; “seventy-five thousand is only triflin’ in a game like ours. And you’ve set down my claim at Angel’s?” he continued.
“I allowed you ten thousand dollars for that,” said Uncle Jim, with equal gravity, “and it’s a fancy price too.”
The claim in question being an unprospected hillside ten miles distant, which Uncle Jim had never seen, and Uncle Billy had not visited for years, the statement was probably true; nevertheless, Uncle Billy retorted:—
“Ye kin never tell how these things will pan out. Why, only this mornin’ I was taking a turn round Shot Up Hill, that ye know is just rotten with quartz and gold, and I couldn’t help thinkin’ how much it was like my ole claim at Angel’s. I must take a day off to go on there and strike a pick in it, if only for luck.”
Suddenly he paused and said, “Strange, ain’t it, you should speak of it to-night? Now I call that queer!”
He laid down his cards and gazed mysteriously at his companion. Uncle Jim knew perfectly that Uncle Billy had regularly once a week for many years declared his final determination to go over to Angel’s and prospect his claim, yet nevertheless he half responded to his partner’s suggestion of mystery, and a look of fatuous wonder crept into his eyes. But he contented himself by saying cautiously, “You spoke of it first.”
“That’s the more sing’lar,” said Uncle Billy confidently. “And I’ve been thinking about it, and kinder seeing myself thar all day. It’s mighty queer!” He got up and began to rummage among some torn and coverless books in the corner.
“Where’s that ‘Dream Book’ gone to?”
“The Carson boys borrowed it,” replied Uncle Jim.
“Anyhow, yours wasn’t no dream—only a kind o’ vision, and the book don’t take no stock in visions.” Nevertheless, he watched his partner with some sympathy, and added, “That reminds me that I had a dream the other night of being in ‘Frisco at a small hotel, with heaps o’ money, and all the time being sort o’ scared and bewildered over it.”
“No?” queried his partner eagerly yet reproachfully. “You never let on anything about it to me! It’s mighty queer you havin’ these strange feelin’s, for I’ve had ’em myself. And only to-night, comin’ up from the spring, I saw two crows hopping in the trail, and I says, ‘If I see another, it’s luck, sure!’ And you’ll think I’m lyin’, but when I went to the wood-pile just now there was the third one sittin’ up on a log as plain as I see you. Tell ‘e what folks ken laugh—but that’s just what Jim Filgee saw the night before he made the big strike!”
They were both smiling, yet with an underlying credulity and seriousness as singularly pathetic as it seemed incongruous to their years and intelligence. Small wonder, however, that in their occupation and environment—living daily in an atmosphere of hope, expectation, and chance, looking forward each morning to the blind stroke of a pick that might bring fortune—they should see signs in nature and hear mystic voices in the trackless woods that surrounded them. Still less strange that they were peculiarly susceptible to the more recognized diversions of chance, and were gamblers on the turning of a card who trusted to the revelation of a shovelful of upturned earth.
It was quite natural, therefore, that they should return from their abstract form of divination to the table and their cards. But they were scarcely seated before they heard a crackling step in the brush outside, and the free latch of their door was lifted. A younger member of the camp entered. He uttered a peevish “Halloo!” which might have passed for a greeting, or might have been a slight protest at finding the door closed, drew the stool from which Uncle Jim had just risen before the fire, shook his wet clothes like a Newfoundland dog, and sat down. Yet he was by no means churlish nor coarse-looking, and this act was rather one of easy-going, selfish, youthful familiarity than of rudeness. The cabin of Uncles Billy and Jim was considered a public right or “common” of the camp. Conferences between individual miners were appointed there. “I’ll meet you at Uncle Billy’s” was a common tryst. Added to this was a tacit claim upon the partners’ arbitrative powers, or the equal right to request them to step outside if the interviews were of a private nature. Yet there was never any objection on the part of the partners, and to-night there was not a shadow of resentment of this intrusion in the patient, good-humored, tolerant eyes of Uncles Jim and Billy as they gazed at their guest. Perhaps there was a slight gleam of relief in Uncle Jim’s when he found that the guest was unaccompanied by any one, and that it was not a tryst. It would have been unpleasant for the two partners to have stayed out in the rain while their guests were exchanging private confidences in their cabin. While there might have been no limit to their good will, there might have been some to their capacity for exposure.
Uncle Jim drew a huge log from beside the hearth and sat on the driest end of it, while their guest occupied the stool. The young man, without turning away from his discontented, peevish brooding over the fire, vaguely reached backward for the whiskey-bottle and Uncle Billy’s tin cup, to which he was assisted by the latter’s hospitable hand. But on setting down the cup his eye caught sight of the pill-box.
“Wot’s that?” he said, with gloomy scorn. “Rat poison?”
“Quinine pills—agin ager,” said Uncle Jim. “The newest thing out. Keeps out damp like Injin-rubber! Take one to follow yer whiskey. Me and Uncle Billy wouldn’t think o’ settin’ down, quiet like, in the evening arter work, without ’em. Take one—ye’r welcome! We keep ’em out here for the boys.”
Accustomed as the partners were to adopt and wear each other’s opinions before folks, as they did each other’s clothing, Uncle Billy was, nevertheless, astonished and delighted at Uncle Jim’s enthusiasm over his pills. The guest took one and swallowed it.
“Mighty bitter!” he said, glancing at his hosts with the quick Californian suspicion of some practical joke. But the honest faces of the partners reassured him.
“That bitterness ye taste,” said Uncle Jim quickly, “is whar the thing’s gittin’ in its work. Sorter sickenin’ the malaria—and kinder water-proofin’ the insides all to onct and at the same lick! Don’t yer see? Put another in yer vest pocket; you’ll be cryin’ for ’em like a child afore ye get home. Thar! Well, how’s things agoin’ on your claim, Dick? Boomin’, eh?”
The guest raised his head and turned it sufficiently to fling his answer back over his shoulder at his hosts. “I don’t know what you’d call ‘boomin’,'” he said gloomily; “I suppose you two men sitting here comfortably by the fire, without caring whether school keeps or not, would call two feet of backwater over one’s claim ‘boomin’;’ I reckon you’d consider a hundred and fifty feet of sluicing carried away, and drifting to thunder down the South Fork, something in the way of advertising to your old camp! I suppose you’d think it was an inducement to investors! I shouldn’t wonder,” he added still more gloomily, as a sudden dash of rain down the wide-throated chimney dropped in his tin cup—”and it would be just like you two chaps, sittin’ there gormandizing over your quinine—if yer said this rain that’s lasted three weeks was something to be proud of!”
It was the cheerful and the satisfying custom of the rest of the camp, for no reason whatever, to hold Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy responsible for its present location, its vicissitudes, the weather, or any convulsion of nature; and it was equally the partners’ habit, for no reason whatever, to accept these animadversions and apologize.
“It’s a rain that’s soft and mellowin’,” said Uncle Billy gently, “and supplin’ to the sinews and muscles. Did ye ever notice, Jim”—ostentatiously to his partner—”did ye ever notice that you get inter a kind o’ sweaty lather workin’ in it? Sorter openin’ to the pores!”
“Fetches ’em every time,” said Uncle Billy. “Better nor fancy soap.”
Their guest laughed bitterly. “Well, I’m going to leave it to you. I reckon to cut the whole concern to-morrow, and ‘lite’ out for something new. It can’t be worse than this.”
The two partners looked grieved, albeit they were accustomed to these outbursts. Everybody who thought of going away from Cedar Camp used it first as a threat to these patient men, after the fashion of runaway nephews, or made an exemplary scene of their going.
“Better think twice afore ye go,” said Uncle Billy.
“I’ve seen worse weather afore ye came,” said Uncle Jim slowly. “Water all over the Bar; the mud so deep ye couldn’t get to Angel’s for a sack o’ flour, and we had to grub on pine nuts and jackass-rabbits. And yet—we stuck by the camp, and here we are!”
The mild answer apparently goaded their guest to fury. He rose from his seat, threw back his long dripping hair from his handsome but querulous face, and scattered a few drops on the partners. “Yes, that’s just it. That’s what gets me! Here you stick, and here you are! And here you’ll stick and rust until you starve or drown! Here you are,—two men who ought to be out in the world, playing your part as grown men,—-stuck here like children ‘playing house’ in the woods; playing work in your wretched mud-pie ditches, and content. Two men not so old that you mightn’t be taking your part in the fun of the world, going to balls or theatres, or paying attention to girls, and yet old enough to have married and have your families around you, content to stay in this God-forsaken place; old bachelors, pigging together like poor-house paupers. That’s what gets me! Say you like it? Say you expect by hanging on to make a strike—and what does that amount to? What are your chances? How many of us have made, or are making, more than grub wages? Say you’re willing to share and share alike as you do—have you got enough for two? Aren’t you actually living off each other? Aren’t you grinding each other down, choking each other’s struggles, as you sink together deeper and deeper in the mud of this cussed camp? And while you’re doing this, aren’t you, by your age and position here, holding out hopes to others that you know cannot be fulfilled?”
Accustomed as they were to the half-querulous, half-humorous, but always extravagant, criticism of the others, there was something so new in this arraignment of themselves that the partners for a moment sat silent. There was a slight flush on Uncle Billy’s cheek, there was a slight paleness on Uncle Jim’s. He was the first to reply. But he did so with a certain dignity which neither his partner nor their guest had ever seen on his face before.
“As it’s our fire that’s warmed ye up like this, Dick Bullen,” he said, slowly rising, with his hand resting on Uncle Billy’s shoulder, “and as it’s our whiskey that’s loosened your tongue, I reckon we must put up with what ye’r’ saying, just as we’ve managed to put up with our own way o’ living, and not quo’ll with ye under our own roof.”
The young fellow saw the change in Uncle Jim’s face and quickly extended his hand, with an apologetic backward shake of his long hair. “Hang it all, old man,” he said, with a laugh of mingled contrition and amusement, “you mustn’t mind what I said just now. I’ve been so worried thinking of things about myself and, maybe, a little about you, that I quite forgot I hadn’t a call to preach to anybody—least of all to you. So we part friends, Uncle Jim, and you too, Uncle Billy, and you’ll forget what I said. In fact, I don’t know why I spoke at all—only I was passing your claim just now, and wondering how much longer your old sluice-boxes would hold out, and where in thunder you’d get others when they caved in! I reckon that sent me off. That’s all, old chap!”
Uncle Billy’s face broke into a beaming smile of relief, and it was his hand that first grasped his guest’s; Uncle Jim quickly followed with as honest a pressure, but with eyes that did not seem to be looking at Bullen, though all trace of resentment had died out of them. He walked to the door with him, again shook hands, but remained looking out in the darkness some time after Dick Bullen’s tangled hair and broad shoulders had disappeared.
Meantime, Uncle Billy had resumed his seat and was chuckling and reminiscent as he cleaned out his pipe.
“Kinder reminds me of Jo Sharp, when he was cleaned out at poker by his own partners in his own cabin, comin’ up here and bedevilin’ us about it! What was it you lint him?”
But Uncle Jim did not reply; and Uncle Billy, taking up the cards, began to shuffle them, smiling vaguely, yet at the same time somewhat painfully. “Arter all, Dick was mighty cut up about what he said, and I felt kinder sorry for him. And, you know, I rather cotton to a man that speaks his mind. Sorter clears him out, you know, of all the slumgullion that’s in him. It’s just like washin’ out a pan o’ prospecting: you pour in the water, and keep slushing it round and round, and out comes first the mud and dirt, and then the gravel, and then the black sand, and then—it’s all out, and there’s a speck o’ gold glistenin’ at the bottom!”
“Then you think there was suthin’ in what he said?” said Uncle Jim, facing about slowly.
An odd tone in his voice made Uncle Billy look up. “No,” he said quickly, shying with the instinct of an easy pleasure-loving nature from a possible grave situation. “No, I don’t think he ever got the color! But wot are ye moonin’ about for? Ain’t ye goin’ to play? It’s mor’ ‘n half past nine now.”
Thus adjured, Uncle Jim moved up to the table and sat down, while Uncle Billy dealt the cards, turning up the Jack or right bower—but without that exclamation of delight which always accompanied his good fortune, nor did Uncle Jim respond with the usual corresponding simulation of deep disgust. Such a circumstance had not occurred before in the history of their partnership. They both played in silence—a silence only interrupted by a larger splash of raindrops down the chimney.
“We orter put a couple of stones on the chimney-top, edgewise, like Jack Curtis does. It keeps out the rain without interferin’ with the draft,” said Uncle Billy musingly.
“What’s the use if”—
“If what?” said Uncle Billy quietly.
“If we don’t make it broader,” said Uncle Jim half wearily.
They both stared at the chimney, but Uncle Jim’s eye followed the wall around to the bunks. There were many discolorations on the canvas, and a picture of the Goddess of Liberty from an illustrated paper had broken out in a kind of damp, measly eruption. “I’ll stick that funny handbill of the ‘Washin’ Soda’ I got at the grocery store the other day right over the Liberty gal. It’s a mighty perty woman washin’ with short sleeves,” said Uncle Billy. “That’s the comfort of them picters, you kin always get somethin’ new, and it adds thickness to the wall.”
Uncle Jim went back to the cards in silence. After a moment he rose again, and hung his overcoat against the door.
“Wind’s comin’ in,” he said briefly.
“Yes,” said Uncle Billy cheerfully, “but it wouldn’t seem nat’ral if there wasn’t that crack in the door to let the sunlight in o’ mornin’s. Makes a kind o’ sundial, you know. When the streak o’ light’s in that corner, I says ‘six o’clock!’ when it’s across the chimney I say ‘seven!’ and so ’tis!”
It certainly had grown chilly, and the wind was rising. The candle guttered and flickered; the embers on the hearth brightened occasionally, as if trying to dispel the gathering shadows, but always ineffectually. The game was frequently interrupted by the necessity of stirring the fire. After an interval of gloom, in which each partner successively drew the candle to his side to examine his cards, Uncle Jim said:—
“Say?”
“Well!” responded Uncle Billy.
“Are you sure you saw that third crow on the wood-pile?”
“Sure as I see you now—and a darned sight plainer. Why?”
“Nothin’, I was just thinkin’. Look here! How do we stand now?”
Uncle Billy was still losing. “Nevertheless,” he said cheerfully, “I’m owin’ you a matter of sixty thousand dollars.”
Uncle Jim examined the book abstractedly. “Suppose,” he said slowly, but without looking at his partner, “suppose, as it’s gettin’ late now, we play for my half share of the claim agin the limit—seventy thousand—to square up.”
“Your half share!” repeated Uncle Billy, with amused incredulity.
“My half share of the claim,—of this yer house, you know,—one-half of all that Dick Bullen calls our rotten starvation property,” reiterated Uncle Jim, with a half smile.
Uncle Billy laughed. It was a novel idea; it was, of course, “all in the air,” like the rest of their game, yet even then he had an odd feeling that he would have liked Dick Bullen to have known it. “Wade in, old pard,” he said. “I’m on it.”
Uncle Jim lit another candle to reinforce the fading light, and the deal fell to Uncle Billy. He turned up Jack of clubs. He also turned a little redder as he took up his cards, looked at them, and glanced hastily at his partner. “It’s no use playing,” he said. “Look here!” He laid down his cards on the table. They were the ace, king and queen of clubs, and Jack of spades,—or left bower,—which, with the turned-up Jack of clubs,—or right bower,—comprised all the winning cards!
“By jingo! If we’d been playin’ fourhanded, say you an’ me agin some other ducks, we’d have made ‘four’ in that deal, and h’isted some money—eh?” and his eyes sparkled. Uncle Jim, also, had a slight tremulous light in his own.
“Oh no! I didn’t see no three crows this afternoon,” added Uncle Billy gleefully, as his partner, in turn, began to shuffle the cards with laborious and conscientious exactitude. Then dealing, he turned up a heart for trumps. Uncle Billy took up his cards one by one, but when he had finished his face had become as pale as it had been red before. “What’s the matter?” said Uncle Jim quickly, his own face growing white.
Uncle Billy slowly and with breathless awe laid down his cards, face up on the table. It was exactly the same sequence in hearts, with the knave of diamonds added. He could again take every trick.
They stared at each other with vacant faces and a half-drawn smile of fear. They could hear the wind moaning in the trees beyond; there was a sudden rattling at the door. Uncle Billy started to his feet, but Uncle Jim caught his arm. “Don’t leave the cards! It’s only the wind; sit down,” he said in a low awe-hushed voice, “it’s your deal; you were two before, and two now, that makes you four; you’ve only one point to make to win the game. Go on.”
They both poured out a cup of whiskey, smiling vaguely, yet with a certain terror in their eyes. Their hands were cold; the cards slipped from Uncle Billy’s benumbed fingers; when he had shuffled them he passed them to his partner to shuffle them also, but did not speak. When Uncle Jim had shuffled them methodically he handed them back fatefully to his partner. Uncle Billy dealt them with a trembling hand. He turned up a club. “If you are sure of these tricks you know you’ve won,” said Uncle Jim in a voice that was scarcely audible. Uncle Billy did not reply, but tremulously laid down the ace and right and left bowers.
He had won!
A feeling of relief came over each, and they laughed hysterically and discordantly. Ridiculous and childish as their contest might have seemed to a looker-on, to each the tension had been as great as that of the greatest gambler, without the gambler’s trained restraint, coolness, and composure. Uncle Billy nervously took up the cards again.
“Don’t,” said Uncle Jim gravely; “it’s no use—the luck’s gone now.”
“Just one more deal,” pleaded his partner.
Uncle Jim looked at the fire, Uncle Billy hastily dealt, and threw the two hands face up on the table. They were the ordinary average cards. He dealt again, with the same result. “I told you so,” said Uncle Jim, without looking up.
It certainly seemed a tame performance after their wonderful hands, and after another trial Uncle Billy threw the cards aside and drew his stool before the fire. “Mighty queer, warn’t it?” he said, with reminiscent awe. “Three times running. Do you know, I felt a kind o’ creepy feelin’ down my back all the time. Criky! what luck! None of the boys would believe it if we told ’em—least of all that Dick Bullen, who don’t believe in luck, anyway. Wonder what he’d have said! and, Lord! how he’d have looked! Wall! what are you starin’ so for?”
Uncle Jim had faced around, and was gazing at Uncle Billy’s good-humored, simple face. “Nothin’!” he said briefly, and his eyes again sought the fire.
“Then don’t look as if you was seein’ suthin’—you give me the creeps,” returned Uncle Billy a little petulantly. “Let’s turn in, afore the fire goes out!”
The fateful cards were put back into the drawer, the table shoved against the wall. The operation of undressing was quickly got over, the clothes they wore being put on top of their blankets. Uncle Billy yawned, “I wonder what kind of a dream I’ll have to-night—it oughter be suthin’ to explain that luck.” This was his “good-night” to his partner. In a few moments he was sound asleep.
Not so Uncle Jim. He heard the wind gradually go down, and in the oppressive silence that followed could detect the deep breathing of his companion and the far-off yelp of a coyote. His eyesight becoming accustomed to the semi-darkness, broken only by the scintillation of the dying embers of their fire, he could take in every detail of their sordid cabin and the rude environment in which they had lived so long. The dismal patches on the bark roof, the wretched makeshifts of each day, the dreary prolongation of discomfort, were all plain to him now, without the sanguine hope that had made them bearable. And when he shut his eyes upon them, it was only to travel in fancy down the steep mountain side that he had trodden so often to the dreary claim on the overflowed river, to the heaps of “tailings” that encumbered it, like empty shells of the hollow, profitless days spent there, which they were always waiting for the stroke of good fortune to clear away. He saw again the rotten “sluicing,” through whose hopeless rifts and holes even their scant daily earnings had become scantier. At last he arose, and with infinite gentleness let himself down from his berth without disturbing his sleeping partner, and wrapping himself in his blanket, went to the door, which he noiselessly opened. From the position of a few stars that were glittering in the northern sky he knew that it was yet scarcely midnight; there were still long, restless hours before the day! In the feverish state into which he had gradually worked himself it seemed to him impossible to wait the coming of the dawn.
But he was mistaken. For even as he stood there all nature seemed to invade his humble cabin with its free and fragrant breath, and invest him with its great companionship. He felt again, in that breath, that strange sense of freedom, that mystic touch of partnership with the birds and beasts, the shrubs and trees, in this greater home before him. It was this vague communion that had kept him there, that still held these world-sick, weary workers in their rude cabins on the slopes around him; and he felt upon his brow that balm that had nightly lulled him and them to sleep and forgetfulness. He closed the door, turned away, crept as noiselessly as before into his bunk again, and presently fell into a profound slumber.
But when Uncle Billy awoke the next morning he saw it was late; for the sun, piercing the crack of the closed door, was sending a pencil of light across the cold hearth, like a match to rekindle its dead embers. His first thought was of his strange luck the night before, and of disappointment that he had not had the dream of divination that he had looked for. He sprang to the floor, but as he stood upright his glance fell on Uncle Jim’s bunk. It was empty. Not only that, but his blankets—Uncle Jim’s own particular blankets—were gone!
A sudden revelation of his partner’s manner the night before struck him now with the cruelty of a blow; a sudden intelligence, perhaps the very divination he had sought, flashed upon him like lightning! He glanced wildly around the cabin. The table was drawn out from the wall a little ostentatiously, as if to catch his eye. On it was lying the stained chamois-skin purse in which they had kept the few grains of gold remaining from their last week’s “clean up.” The grains had been carefully divided, and half had been taken! But near it lay the little memorandum-book, open, with the stick of pencil lying across it. A deep line was drawn across the page on which was recorded their imaginary extravagant gains and losses, even to the entry of Uncle Jim’s half share of the claim which he had risked and lost! Underneath were hurriedly scrawled the words:—
“Settled by your luck, last night, old pard.—James Foster.”
It was nearly a month before Cedar Camp was convinced that Uncle Billy and Uncle Jim had dissolved partnership. Pride had prevented Uncle Billy from revealing his suspicions of the truth, or of relating the events that preceded Uncle Jim’s clandestine flight, and Dick Bullen had gone to Sacramento by stage-coach the same morning. He briefly gave out that his partner had been called to San Francisco on important business of their own, that indeed might necessitate his own removal there later. In this he was singularly assisted by a letter from the absent Jim, dated at San Francisco, begging him not to be anxious about his success, as he had hopes of presently entering a profitable business, but with no further allusions to his precipitate departure, nor any suggestion of a reason for it. For two or three days Uncle Billy was staggered and bewildered; in his profound simplicity he wondered if his extraordinary good fortune that night had made him deaf to some explanation of his partner’s, or, more terrible, if he had shown some “low” and incredible intimation of taking his partner’s extravagant bet as real and binding. In this distress he wrote to Uncle Jim an appealing and apologetic letter, albeit somewhat incoherent and inaccurate, and bristling with misspelling, camp slang, and old partnership jibes. But to this elaborate epistle he received only Uncle Jim’s repeated assurances of his own bright prospects, and his hopes that his old partner would be more fortunate, single-handed, on the old claim. For a whole week or two Uncle Billy sulked, but his invincible optimism and good humor got the better of him, and he thought only of his old partner’s good fortune. He wrote him regularly, but always to one address—a box at the San Francisco post-office, which to the simple-minded Uncle Billy suggested a certain official importance. To these letters Uncle Jim responded regularly but briefly.
From a certain intuitive pride in his partner and his affection, Uncle Billy did not show these letters openly to the camp, although he spoke freely of his former partner’s promising future, and even read them short extracts. It is needless to say that the camp did not accept Uncle Billy’s story with unsuspecting confidence. On the contrary, a hundred surmises, humorous or serious, but always extravagant, were afloat in Cedar Camp. The partners had quarreled over their clothes—Uncle Jim, who was taller than Uncle Billy, had refused to wear his partner’s trousers. They had quarreled over cards—Uncle Jim had discovered that Uncle Billy was in possession of a “cold deck,” or marked pack. They had quarreled over Uncle Billy’s carelessness in grinding up half a box of “bilious pills” in the morning’s coffee. A gloomily imaginative mule-driver had darkly suggested that, as no one had really seen Uncle Jim leave the camp, he was still there, and his bones would yet be found in one of the ditches; while a still more credulous miner averred that what he had thought was the cry of a screech-owl the night previous to Uncle Jim’s disappearance, might have been the agonized utterance of that murdered man. It was highly characteristic of that camp—and, indeed, of others in California—that nobody, not even the ingenious theorists themselves, believed their story, and that no one took the slightest pains to verify or disprove it. Happily, Uncle Billy never knew it, and moved all unconsciously in this atmosphere of burlesque suspicion. And then a singular change took place in the attitude of the camp towards him and the disrupted partnership. Hitherto, for no reason whatever, all had agreed to put the blame upon Billy—possibly because he was present to receive it. As days passed that slight reticence and dejection in his manner, which they had at first attributed to remorse and a guilty conscience, now began to tell as absurdly in his favor. Here was poor Uncle Billy toiling through the ditches, while his selfish partner was lolling in the lap of luxury in San Francisco! Uncle Billy’s glowing accounts of Uncle Jim’s success only contributed to the sympathy now fully given in his behalf and their execration of the absconding partner. It was proposed at Bigg’s store that a letter expressing the indignation of the camp over his heartless conduct to his late partner, William Fall, should be forwarded to him. Condolences were offered to Uncle Billy, and uncouth attempts were made to cheer his loneliness. A procession of half a dozen men twice a week to his cabin, carrying their own whiskey and winding up with a “stag dance” before the premises, was sufficient to lighten his eclipsed gayety and remind him of a happier past. “Surprise” working parties visited his claim with spasmodic essays towards helping him, and great good humor and hilarity prevailed. It was not an unusual thing for an honest miner to arise from an idle gathering in some cabin and excuse himself with the remark that he “reckoned he’d put in an hour’s work in Uncle Billy’s tailings!” And yet, as before, it was very improbable if any of these reckless benefactors really believed in their own earnestness or in the gravity of the situation. Indeed, a kind of hopeful cynicism ran through their performances. “Like as not, Uncle Billy is still in ‘cahoots’ (i.e., shares) with his old pard, and is just laughin’ at us as he’s sendin’ him accounts of our tomfoolin’.”
And so the winter passed and the rains, and the days of cloudless skies and chill starlit nights began. There were still freshets from the snow reservoirs piled high in the Sierran passes, and the Bar was flooded, but that passed too, and only the sunshine remained. Monotonous as the seasons were, there was a faint movement in the camp with the stirring of the sap in the pines and cedars. And then, one day, there was a strange excitement on the Bar. Men were seen running hither and thither, but mainly gathering in a crowd on Uncle Billy’s claim, that still retained the old partners’ names in “The Fall and Foster.” To add to the excitement; there was the quickly repeated report of a revolver, to all appearance aimlessly exploded in the air by some one on the outskirts of the assemblage. As the crowd opened, Uncle Billy appeared, pale, hysterical, breathless, and staggering a little under the back-slapping and hand-shaking of the whole camp. For Uncle Billy had “struck it rich”—had just discovered a “pocket,” roughly estimated to be worth fifteen thousand dollars!
Although in that supreme moment he missed the face of his old partner, he could not help seeing the unaffected delight and happiness shining in the eyes of all who surrounded him. It was characteristic of that sanguine but uncertain life that success and good fortune brought no jealousy nor envy to the unfortunate, but was rather a promise and prophecy of the fulfillment of their own hopes. The gold was there—Nature but yielded up her secret. There was no prescribed limit to her bounty. So strong was this conviction that a long-suffering but still hopeful miner, in the enthusiasm of the moment, stooped down and patted a large boulder with the apostrophic “Good old gal!”
Then followed a night of jubilee, a next morning of hurried consultation with a mining expert and speculator lured to the camp by the good tidings; and then the very next night—to the utter astonishment of Cedar Camp—Uncle Billy, with a draft for twenty thousand dollars in his pocket, started for San Francisco, and took leave of his claim and the camp forever!
When Uncle Billy landed at the wharves of San Francisco he was a little bewildered. The Golden Gate beyond was obliterated by the incoming sea-fog, which had also roofed in the whole city, and lights already glittered along the gray streets that climbed the grayer sand-hills. As a Western man, brought up by inland rivers, he was fascinated and thrilled by the tall-masted sea-going ships, and he felt a strange sense of the remoter mysterious ocean, which he had never seen. But he was impressed and startled by smartly dressed men and women, the passing of carriages, and a sudden conviction that he was strange and foreign to what he saw. It had been his cherished intention to call upon his old partner in his working clothes, and then clap down on the table before him a draft for ten thousand dollars as his share of their old claim. But in the face of these brilliant strangers a sudden and unexpected timidity came upon him. He had heard of a cheap popular hotel, much frequented by the returning gold-miner, who entered its hospitable doors—which held an easy access to shops—and emerged in a few hours a gorgeous butterfly of fashion, leaving his old chrysalis behind him. Thence he inquired his way; hence he afterwards issued in garments glaringly new and ill fitting. But he had not sacrificed his beard, and there was still something fine and original in his handsome weak face that overcame the cheap convention of his clothes. Making his way to the post-office, he was again discomfited by the great size of the building, and bewildered by the array of little square letter-boxes behind glass which occupied one whole wall, and an equal number of opaque and locked wooden ones legibly numbered. His heart leaped; he remembered the number, and before him was a window with a clerk behind it. Uncle Billy leaned forward.
“Kin you tell me if the man that box 690 b’longs to is in?”
The clerk stared, made him repeat the question, and then turned away. But he returned almost instantly, with two or three grinning heads besides his own, apparently set behind his shoulders. Uncle Billy was again asked to repeat his question. He did so.
“Why don’t you go and see if 690 is in the box?” said the first clerk, turning with affected asperity to one of the others.
The clerk went away, returned, and said with singular gravity, “He was there a moment ago, but he’s gone out to stretch his legs. It’s rather crampin’ at first; and he can’t stand it more than ten hours at a time, you know.”
But simplicity has its limits. Uncle Billy had already guessed his real error in believing his partner was officially connected with the building; his cheek had flushed and then paled again. The pupils of his blue eyes had contracted into suggestive black points. “Ef you’ll let me in at that winder, young fellers,” he said, with equal gravity, “I’ll show yer how I kin make you small enough to go in a box without crampin’! But I only wanted to know where Jim Foster lived.”
At which the first clerk became perfunctory again, but civil. “A letter left in his box would get you that information,” he said, “and here’s paper and pencil to write it now.”
Uncle Billy took the paper and began to write, “Just got here. Come and see me at”— He paused. A brilliant idea had struck him; he could impress both his old partner and the upstarts at the window; he would put in the name of the latest “swell” hotel in San Francisco, said to be a fairy dream of opulence. He added “The Oriental,” and without folding the paper shoved it in the window.
“Don’t you want an envelope?” asked the clerk.
“Put a stamp on the corner of it,” responded Uncle Billy, laying down a coin, “and she’ll go through.” The clerk smiled, but affixed the stamp, and Uncle Billy turned away.
But it was a short-lived triumph. The disappointment at finding Uncle Jim’s address conveyed no idea of his habitation seemed to remove him farther away, and lose his identity in the great city. Besides, he must now make good his own address, and seek rooms at the Oriental. He went thither. The furniture and decorations, even in these early days of hotel-building in San Francisco, were extravagant and overstrained, and Uncle Billy felt lost and lonely in his strange surroundings. But he took a handsome suite of rooms, paid for them in advance on the spot, and then, half frightened, walked out of them to ramble vaguely through the city in the feverish hope of meeting his old partner. At night his inquietude increased; he could not face the long row of tables in the pillared dining-room, filled with smartly dressed men and women; he evaded his bedroom, with its brocaded satin chairs and its gilt bedstead, and fled to his modest lodgings at the Good Cheer House, and appeased his hunger at its cheap restaurant, in the company of retired miners and freshly arrived Eastern emigrants. Two or three days passed thus in this quaint double existence. Three or four times a day he would enter the gorgeous Oriental with affected ease and carelessness, demand his key from the hotel-clerk, ask for the letter that did not come, go to his room, gaze vaguely from his window on the passing crowd below for the partner he could not find, and then return to the Good Cheer House for rest and sustenance. On the fourth day he received a short note from Uncle Jim; it was couched in his usual sanguine but brief and business-like style. He was very sorry, but important and profitable business took him out of town, but he trusted to return soon and welcome his old partner. He was also, for the first time, jocose, and hoped that Uncle Billy would not “see all the sights” before he, Uncle Jim, returned. Disappointing as this procrastination was to Uncle Billy, a gleam of hope irradiated it: the letter had bridged over that gulf which seemed to yawn between them at the post-office. His old partner had accepted his visit to San Francisco without question, and had alluded to a renewal of their old intimacy. For Uncle Billy, with all his trustful simplicity, had been tortured by two harrowing doubts: one, whether Uncle Jim in his new-fledged smartness as a “city” man—such as he saw in the streets—would care for his rough companionship; the other, whether he, Uncle Billy, ought not to tell him at once of his changed fortune. But, like all weak, unreasoning men, he clung desperately to a detail—he could not forego his old idea of astounding Uncle Jim by giving him his share of the “strike” as his first intimation of it, and he doubted, with more reason perhaps, if Jim would see him after he had heard of his good fortune. For Uncle Billy had still a frightened recollection of Uncle Jim’s sudden stroke for independence, and that rigid punctiliousness which had made him doggedly accept the responsibility of his extravagant stake at euchre.
With a view of educating himself for Uncle Jim’s company, he “saw the sights” of San Francisco—as an over-grown and somewhat stupid child might have seen them—with great curiosity, but little contamination or corruption. But I think he was chiefly pleased with watching the arrival of the Sacramento and Stockton steamers at the wharves, in the hope of discovering his old partner among the passengers on the gang-plank. Here, with his old superstitious tendency and gambler’s instinct, he would augur great success in his search that day if any one of the passengers bore the least resemblance to Uncle Jim, if a man or woman stepped off first, or if he met a single person’s questioning eye. Indeed, this got to be the real occupation of the day, which he would on no account have omitted, and to a certain extent revived each day in his mind the morning’s work of their old partnership. He would say to himself, “It’s time to go and look up Jim,” and put off what he was pleased to think were his pleasures until this act of duty was accomplished.
In this singleness of purpose he made very few and no entangling acquaintances, nor did he impart to any one the secret of his fortune, loyally reserving it for his partner’s first knowledge. To a man of his natural frankness and simplicity this was a great trial, and was, perhaps, a crucial test of his devotion. When he gave up his rooms at the Oriental—as not necessary after his partner’s absence—he sent a letter, with his humble address, to the mysterious lock-box of his partner without fear or false shame. He would explain it all when they met. But he sometimes treated unlucky and returning miners to a dinner and a visit to the gallery of some theatre. Yet while he had an active sympathy with and understanding of the humblest, Uncle Billy, who for many years had done his own and his partner’s washing, scrubbing, mending, and cooking, and saw no degradation in it, was somewhat inconsistently irritated by menial functions in men, and although he gave extravagantly to waiters, and threw a dollar to the crossing-sweeper, there was always a certain shy avoidance of them in his manner. Coming from the theatre one night Uncle Billy was, however, seriously concerned by one of these crossing-sweepers turning hastily before them and being knocked down by a passing carriage. The man rose and limped hurriedly away; but Uncle Billy was amazed and still more irritated to hear from his companion that this kind of menial occupation was often profitable, and that at some of the principal crossings the sweepers were already rich men.
But a few days later brought a more notable event to Uncle Billy. One afternoon in Montgomery Street he recognized in one of its smartly dressed frequenters a man who had a few years before been a member of Cedar Camp. Uncle Billy’s childish delight at this meeting, which seemed to bridge over his old partner’s absence, was, however, only half responded to by the ex-miner, and then somewhat satirically. In the fulness of his emotion, Uncle Billy confided to him that he was seeking his old partner, Jim Foster, and, reticent of his own good fortune, spoke glowingly of his partner’s brilliant expectations, but deplored his inability to find him. And just now he was away on important business. “I reckon he’s got back,” said the man dryly. “I didn’t know he had a lock-box at the post-office, but I can give you his other address. He lives at the Presidio, at Washerwoman’s Bay.” He stopped and looked with a satirical smile at Uncle Billy. But the latter, familiar with Californian mining-camp nomenclature, saw nothing strange in it, and merely repeated his companion’s words.
“You’ll find him there! Good-by! So long! Sorry I’m in a hurry,” said the ex-miner, and hurried away.
Uncle Billy was too delighted with the prospect of a speedy meeting with Uncle Jim to resent his former associate’s supercilious haste, or even to wonder why Uncle Jim had not informed him that he had returned. It was not the first time that he had felt how wide was the gulf between himself and these others, and the thought drew him closer to his old partner, as well as his old idea, as it was now possible to surprise him with the draft. But as he was going to surprise him in his own boarding-house—probably a handsome one—Uncle Billy reflected that he would do so in a certain style.
He accordingly went to a livery stable and ordered a landau and pair, with a negro coachman. Seated in it, in his best and most ill-fitting clothes, he asked the coachman to take him to the Presidio, and leaned back in the cushions as they drove through the streets with such an expression of beaming gratification on his good-humored face that the passers-by smiled at the equipage and its extravagant occupant. To them it seemed the not unusual sight of the successful miner “on a spree.” To the unsophisticated Uncle Billy their smiling seemed only a natural and kindly recognition of his happiness, and he nodded and smiled back to them with unsuspecting candor and innocent playfulness. “These yer ‘Frisco fellers ain’t all slouches, you bet,” he added to himself half aloud, at the back of the grinning coachman.
Their way led through well-built streets to the outskirts, or rather to that portion of the city which seemed to have been overwhelmed by shifting sand-dunes, from which half-submerged fences and even low houses barely marked the foe of highway. The resistless trade-winds which had marked this change blew keenly in his face and slightly chilled his ardor. At a turn in the road the sea came im sight, and sloping towards it the great Cemetery of Lone Mountain, with white shafts and marbles that glittered in the sunlight like the sails of ships waiting to be launched down that slope into the Eternal Ocean. Uncle Billy shuddered. What if it had been his fate to seek Uncle Jim there!
“Dar’s yar Presidio!” said the negro coachman a few moments later, pointing with his whip, “and dar’s yar Wash’woman’s Bay!”
Uncle Billy stared. A huge quadrangular fort of stone with a flag flying above its battlements stood at a little distance, pressed against the rocks, as if beating back the encroaching surges; between him and the fort but farther inland was a lagoon with a number of dilapidated, rudely patched cabins or cottages, like stranded driftwood around its shore. But there was no mansion, no block of houses, no street, not another habitation or dwelling to be seen!
Uncle Billy’s first shock of astonishment was succeeded by a feeling of relief. He had secretly dreaded a meeting with his old partner in the “haunts of fashion”; whatever was the cause that made Uncle Jim seek this obscure retirement affected him but slightly; he even was thrilled with a vague memory of the old shiftless camp they had both abandoned. A certain instinct—-he knew not why, or less still that it might be one of delicacy—made him alight before they reached the first house. Bidding the carriage wait; Uncle Billy entered, and was informed by a blowzy Irish laundress at a tub that Jim Foster, or “Arkansaw Jim,” lived at the fourth shanty “beyant.” He was at home, for “he’d shprained his fut.” Uncle Billy hurried on, stopped before the door of a shanty scarcely less rude than their old cabin, and half timidly pushed it open. A growling voice from within, a figure that rose hurriedly, leaning on a stick, with an attempt to fly, but in the same moment sank back in a chair with an hysterical laugh—and Uncle Billy stood in the presence of his old partner! But as Uncle Billy darted forward, Uncle Jim rose again, and this time with outstretched hands. Uncle Billy caught them, and in one supreme pressure seemed to pour out and transfuse his whole simple soul into his partner’s. There they swayed each other backwards and forwards and sideways by their still clasped hands, until Uncle Billy, with a glance at Uncle Jim’s bandaged ankle, shoved him by sheer force down into his chair.
Uncle Jim was first to speak. “Caught, b’gosh! I mighter known you’d be as big a fool as me! Look you, Billy Fall, do you know what you’ve done? You’ve druv me out er the streets whar I was makin’ an honest livin’, by day, on three crossin’s! Yes,” he laughed forgivingly, “you druv me out er it, by day, jest because I reckoned that some time I might run into your darned fool face,”—another laugh and a grasp of the hand,—”and then, b’gosh! not content with ruinin’ my business by day, when I took to it at night; you took to goin’ out at nights too, and so put a stopper on me there! Shall I tell you what else you did? Well, by the holy poker! I owe this sprained foot to your darned foolishness and my own, for it was getting away from you one night after the theatre that I got run into and run over!
“Ye see,” he went on, unconscious of Uncle Billy’s paling face, and with a naïvete, though perhaps not a delicacy, equal to Uncle Billy’s own, “I had to play roots on you with that lock-box business and these letters, because I did not want you to know what I was up to, for you mightn’t like it, and might think it was lowerin’ to the old firm, don’t yer see? I wouldn’t hev gone into it, but I was played out, and I don’t mind tellin’ you now, old man, that when I wrote you that first chipper letter from the lock-box I hedn’t eat anythin’ for two days. But it’s all right now,” with a laugh. “Then I got into this business—thinkin’ it nothin’—jest the very last thing—and do you know, old pard, I couldn’t tell anybody but you—and, in fact, I kept it jest to tell you—I’ve made nine hundred and fifty-six dollars! Yes, sir, nine hundred and fifty-six dollars! solid money, in Adams and Co.’s Bank, just out er my trade.”
“Wot trade?” asked Uncle Billy.
Uncle Jim pointed to the corner, where stood a large, heavy crossing-sweeper’s broom. “That trade.”
“Certingly,” said Uncle Billy, with a quick laugh.
“It’s an outdoor trade,” said Uncle Jim gravely, but with no suggestion of awkwardness or apology in his manner; “and thar ain’t much difference between sweepin’ a crossin’ with a broom and raking over tailing with a rake, only—wot ye get with a broom you have handed to ye, and ye don’t have to pick it up and fish it out er the wet rocks and sluice-gushin’; and it’s a heap less tiring to the back.”
“Certingly, you bet!” said Uncle Billy enthusiastically, yet with a certain nervous abstraction.
“I’m glad ye say so; for yer see I didn’t know at first how you’d tumble to my doing it, until I’d made my pile. And ef I hadn’t made it, I wouldn’t hev set eyes on ye agin, old pard—never!”
“Do you mind my runnin’ out a minit?” said Uncle Billy, rising. “You see, I’ve got a friend waitin’ for me outside—and I reckon”—he stammered—”I’ll jest run out and send him off, so I kin talk comf’ble to ye.”
“Ye ain’t got anybody you’re owin’ money to,” said Uncle Jim earnestly, “anybody follerin’ you to get paid, eh? For I kin jest set down right here and write ye off a check on the bank!”
“No,” said Uncle Billy. He slipped out of the door, and ran like a deer to the waiting carriage. Thrusting a twenty-dollar gold-piece into the coachman’s hand, he said hoarsely, “I ain’t wantin’ that kerridge just now; ye ken drive around and hev a private jamboree all by yourself the rest of the afternoon, and then come and wait for me at the top o’ the hill yonder.”
Thus quit of his gorgeous equipage, he hurried back to Uncle Jim, grasping his ten thousand dollar draft in his pocket. He was nervous, he was frightened, but he must get rid of the draft and his story, and have it over. But before he could speak he was unexpectedly stopped by Uncle Jim.
“Now, look yer, Billy boy!” said Uncle Jim; “I got suthin’ to say to ye—and I might as well clear it off my mind at once, and then we can start fair agin. Now,” he went on, with a half laugh, “wasn’t it enough for me to go on pretendin’ I was rich and doing a big business, and gettin’ up that lock-box dodge so as ye couldn’t find out whar I hung out and what I was doin’—wasn’t it enough for me to go on with all this play-actin’, but you, you long-legged or’nary cuss! must get up and go to lyin’ and play-acting too!”
“Me play-actin’? Me lyin’?” gasped Uncle Billy.
Uncle Jim leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Do you think you could fool me? Do you think I didn’t see through your little game o’ going to that swell Oriental, jest as if ye’d made a big strike—and all the while ye wasn’t sleepin’ ‘or eatin’ there, but jest wrastlin’ yer hash and having a roll down at the Good Cheer! Do you think I didn’t spy on ye and find that out? Oh, you long-eared jackass-rabbit!”
He laughed until the tears came into his eyes, and Uncle Billy laughed too, albeit until the laugh on his face became quite fixed, and he was fain to bury his head in his handkerchief.
“And yet,” said Uncle Jim, with a deep breath, “gosh! I was frightened—jest for a minit! I thought, mebbe, you had made a big strike—when I got your first letter—and I made up my mind what I’d do! And then I remembered you was jest that kind of an open sluice that couldn’t keep anythin’ to yourself, and you’d have been sure to have yelled it out to me the first thing. So I waited. And I found you out, you old sinner!” He reached forward and dug Uncle Billy in the ribs.
“What would you hev done?” said Uncle Billy, after an hysterical collapse.
Uncle Jim’s face grew grave again. “I’d hev—I’d—hev cl’ared out! Out er ‘Frisco! out er Californy! out er Ameriky! I couldn’t have stud it! Don’t think I would hev begrudged ye yer luck! No man would have been gladder than me.” He leaned forward again, and laid his hand caressingly upon his partner’s arm—”Don’t think I’d hev wanted to take a penny of it—but I—thar! I couldn’t hev stood up under it! To hev had you, you, you that I left behind, comin’ down here rollin’ in wealth and new partners and friends, and arrive upon me—and this shonty—and”—he threw towards the corner of the room a terrible gesture, none the less terrible that it was illogical and inconsequent, to all that had gone before—”and—and—that broom!”
There was a dead silence in the room. With it Uncle Billy seemed to feel himself again transported to the homely cabin at Cedar Camp and that fateful night, with his partner’s strange, determined face before him as then. He even fancied that he heard the roaring of the pines without, and did not know that it was the distant sea.
But after a minute Uncle Jim resumed:—
“Of course you’ve made a little raise somehow, or you wouldn’t be here?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Billy eagerly. “Yes! I’ve got”— He stopped and stammered. “I’ve got—a—few hundreds.”
“Oh, oh!” said Uncle Jim cheerfully. He paused, and then added earnestly, “I say! You ain’t got left, over and above your d—d foolishness at the Oriental, as much as five hundred dollars?”
“I’ve got,” said Uncle Billy, blushing a little over his first deliberate and affected lie, “I’ve got at least five hundred and seventy-two dollars. Yes,” he added tentatively, gazing anxiously at his partner, “I’ve got at least that.”
“Jee whillikins!” said Uncle Jim, with a laugh. Then eagerly, “Look here, pard! Then we’re on velvet! I’ve got nine hundred; put your five with that, and I know a little ranch that we can get for twelve hundred. That’s what I’ve been savin’ up for—that’s my little game! No more minin’ for me. It’s got a shanty twice as big as our old cabin, nigh on a hundred acres, and two mustangs. We can run it with two Chinamen and jest make it howl! Wot yer say—eh?” He extended his hand.
“I’m in,” said Uncle Billy, radiantly grasping Uncle Jim’s. But his smile faded, and his clear simple brow wrinkled in two lines.
Happily Uncle Jim did not notice it. “Now, then, old pard,” he said brightly, “we’ll have a gay old time to-night—one of our jamborees! I’ve got some whisky here and a deck o’ cards, and we’ll have a little game, you understand, but not for ‘keeps’ now! No, siree; we’ll play for beans.”
A sudden light illuminated Uncle Billy’s face again, but he said, with a grim desperation, “Not to-night! I’ve got to go into town. That fren’ o’ mine expects me to go to the theayter, don’t ye see? But I’ll be out to-morrow at sun-up, and we’ll fix up this thing o’ the ranch.”
“Seems to me you’re kinder stuck on this fren’,” grunted Uncle Jim.
Uncle Billy’s heart bounded at his partner’s jealousy. “No—but I must, you know,” he returned, with a faint laugh.
“I say—it ain’t a her, is it?” said Uncle Jim.
Uncle Billy achieved a diabolical wink and a creditable blush at his lie.
“Billy!”
“Jim!”
And under cover of this festive gallantry Uncle Billy escaped. He ran through the gathering darkness, and toiled up the shifting sands to the top of the hill, where he found the carriage waiting.
“Wot,” said Uncle Billy in a low confidential tone to the coachman, “wot do you ‘Frisco fellers allow to be the best, biggest, and riskiest gamblin’-saloon here? Suthin’ high-toned, you know?”
The negro grinned. It was the usual case of the extravagant spendthrift miner, though perhaps he had expected a different question and order.
“Dey is de ‘Polka,’ de ‘El Dorado,’ and de ‘Arcade’ saloon, boss,” he said, flicking his whip meditatively. “Most gents from de mines prefer de ‘Polka,’ for dey is dancing wid de gals frown in. But de real prima facie place for gents who go for buckin’ agin de tiger and straight-out gamblin’ is de Arcade.'”
“Drive there like thunder!” said Uncle Billy, leaping into the carriage.
True to his word, Uncle Billy was at his partner’s shanty early the next morning. He looked a little tired, but happy, and had brought a draft with him for five hundred and seventy-five dollars, which he explained was the total of his capital. Uncle Jim was overjoyed. They would start for Napa that very day, and conclude the purchase of the ranch; Uncle Jim’s sprained foot was a sufficient reason for his giving up his present vocation, which he could also sell at a small profit. His domestic arrangements were very simple; there was nothing to take with him—there was everything to leave behind. And that afternoon, at sunset, the two reunited partners were seated on the deck of the Napa boat as she swung into the stream.
Uncle Billy was gazing over the railing with a look of abstracted relief towards the Golden Gate, where the sinking sun seemed to be drawing towards him in the ocean a golden stream that was forever pouring from the Bay and the three-hilled city beside it. What Uncle Billy was thinking of, or what the picture suggested to him, did not transpire; for Uncle Jim, who, emboldened by his holiday, was luxuriating in an evening paper, suddenly uttered a long-drawn whistle, and moved closer to his abstracted partner. “Look yer,” he said, pointing to a paragraph he had evidently just read, “just you listen to this, and see if we ain’t lucky, you and me, to be jest wot we air—trustin’ to our own hard work—and not thinkin’ o’ ‘strikes’ and ‘fortins.’ Jest unbutton yer ears, Billy, while I reel off this yer thing I’ve jest struck in the paper, and see what d—d fools some men kin make o’ themselves. And that theer reporter wot wrote it—must hev seed it reely!”
Uncle Jim cleared his throat, and holding the paper close to his eyes read aloud slowly:—
“‘A scene of excitement that recalled the palmy days of ’49 was witnessed last night at the Arcade Saloon. A stranger, who might have belonged to that reckless epoch, and who bore every evidence of being a successful Pike County miner out on a “spree,” appeared at one of the tables with a negro coachman bearing two heavy bags of gold. Selecting a faro-bank as his base of operations, he began to bet heavily and with apparent recklessness, until his play excited the breathless attention of every one. In a few moments he had won a sum variously estimated at from eighty to a hundred thousand dollars. A rumor went round the room that it was a concerted attempt to “break the bank” rather than the drunken freak of a Western miner, dazzled by some successful strike. To this theory the man’s careless and indifferent bearing towards his extraordinary gains lent great credence. The attempt, if such it was, however, was unsuccessful. After winning ten times in succession the luck turned, and the unfortunate “bucket” was cleared out not only of his gains, but of his original investment, which may be placed roughly at twenty thousand dollars. This extraordinary play was witnessed by a crowd of excited players, who were less impressed by even the magnitude of the stakes than the perfect sang froid and recklessness of the player, who, it is said, at the close of the game tossed a twenty-dollar gold-piece to the banker and smilingly withdrew. The man was not recognized by any of the habitués of the place.’
“There!” said Uncle Jim, as he hurriedly slurred over the French substantive at the close, “did ye ever see such God-forsaken foolishness?”
Uncle Billy lifted his abstracted eyes from the current, still pouring its unreturning gold into the sulking sun, and said, with a deprecatory smile, “Never!”
Nor even in the days of prosperity that visited the Great Wheat Ranch of “Fall and Foster” did he ever tell his secret to his partner.
