Stories in Light and Shadow - Bret Harte (best love novels of all time txt) 📗

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 poorhouse 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’ four-handed, 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