A Waif of the Mountains

CHAPTER X
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

The four years of stupendous war came to an end. The sun of the Southern Confederacy went down in gloom and defeat behind the hills of Appomattox, never to rise again, and blessed peace brooded over a reunited nation, which shall endure through the coming ages to the end of time.

It was only the faint echoes of the mighty struggle that, faintly reverberating across prairie and mountain, reached the little mining settlement nestling among the solitudes of the Sierras. Vose Adams made more frequent journeys to Sacramento, in order to gather news of the terrific events, which were making history at an appalling rate. Upon his return, the miners gathered round Parson Brush, or some other one with a good voice, who stood up, with every eye centred on him and every ear keyed to the highest point and they listened with breathless interest until the thrilling story was read through to the end.

The same diversity of sentiment that appeared at first continued to the last, but the parson’s earnest words and his insistence that no quarrels should take place among the neighbors prevented any outbreak, though more than once the point was perilously near.

“If your sympathies are with the Union or with the South,” he said impressively, “there is nothing to prevent your taking up arms, but it must be on the battle field and not here.”

And this wise counsel prevailed. Now and then some ardent partisan shouldered his rifle, bade his friends a hasty good-by and hurried away. One by one, they went until the new recruits numbered five. Thus the population of New Constantinople dwindled to about one-half, and retaining its exclusive tastes, permitted no new comers to join them, so that the boom which in its early days was so confidently looked for sank to zero and vanished. In truth it looked as if New Constantinople was doomed to die of dry rot.

Strange news came now and then from the men who had gone to the war. Maurice Dawson wrote often to his daughter Nellie, whose letters, it can well be understood were the bright spots in his life of adventure and danger. She had improved wonderfully under the careful tuition of Parson Brush, who, gaining experience, as he saw the brightness of her mind, found his work of the most pleasant nature conceivable. She displayed a thirst for knowledge and made advances which astonished him. The books needed for her instruction were procured by Vose Adams in Sacramento, and she valued such presents more than anything else. The teacher declared many a time, with a certain pride, that she put him upon his mettle to make clear the abstruse problems with which he wrestled when in college.

“How she will surprise the boys and her father when they come back,” reflected the parson; “it won’t take her much longer to reach the point beyond which I cannot lead her.”

To her friends who remained, the growth and improvement of the girl were astonishing. Probably no one of her sex ever gave nature itself a better chance to show what she can do with a healthy frame, when untrammeled by the fashions and requirements of modern usages. Her lithe, comely figure was perfect. She never knew an hour’s illness. The cheeks had the rose tint of health, the eyes were clear, the teeth perfect and her spirits buoyant. As one of the men expressed it, she was like a burst of sunshine in the settlement.

But Parson Brush was thoughtful. He saw that she was crossing the line into young womanhood, and that her own interests demanded that she should go out into the world of which he had told her so much; that she should meet those of her own sex and learn the mysteries of her own being. The affection of her friends could not make up for this lack. It cost the honest fellow many a pang when he thought of this, but his consolation lay in the inevitable conclusion that nothing could be done until the return of her parent or until his wishes were made known.

“If it so happens that he shall fall in battle, then a grave problem must be met. It will not do for her to remain here; I will talk it over with the others and we shall make some arrangement for her good,” and with this conclusion he was content to await the issue of events.

Occasionally the parson received a letter from the father. The missives were models in their way, telling of his experiences in the service of the battles, of the prospect of victory and his faith in the final triumph of the great struggle. He thanked the teacher for his interest in his child and assured him that his kindness would never be forgotten by father or daughter.

Vose Adams continued his frequent journeys to Sacramento, for those were stirring times and he was as anxious as his friends for news. Always on his return he was met by Nellie some distance down the winding trail, and, as soon as she was in sight, he held up the plump letter for which she yearned, and over which she was made happy beyond expression, and he never failed to carry back with him the reply of the child, who knew how much it cheered the brave soldier in the distant East and South fighting the battles of his country.

For two years and more there was not a break in this correspondence. Dawson must have been a good soldier, for, though he enlisted as a private, he was soon promoted, and before the close of the two years, was a full fledged captain, with the brevet of major. It was about this time that one of his letters gave the story of Gettysburg. In the hell-blast of Pickett’s charge two of his old friends, who had left New Constantinople to fight for the South, were riddled, and another, marching at the captain’s side, had his head blown off by an exploding shell. Thus in one engagement three of the old residents of the mining settlement were wiped out.

Only once or twice was any news received of Al Bidwell. It was known that Ruggles was with the Army of Northern Virginia, but no tidings came of Budge Isham and Ike Hoe. The continued silence was accepted as almost certain proof of their death, and yet both were well and unharmed.

One day in early summer, two sunburned, shaggy men rode down the mountain side and drew up their horses in front of the Heavenly Bower. They had ridden from the East and had come through many hardships and dangers. One of them wore a partial uniform of blue, while the other was of a faded, butternut tinge. The two had been engaged for years in trying to slay each other, inclusive of their respective friends, but failing in the effort, gave it up when the final surrender took place at Appomattox. Both were from New Constantinople, and they now turned their faces in that direction. Starting from widely separated points their lines of travel converged and finally joined. When they met, there was a moment of mutual sharp scrutiny, then an exclamation of delight, a fervent handclasp and a moistening of the eyes, as both exclaimed:

“God bless you, old boy! There’s no one in the world I would rather meet than you! Shake again!”

And they did, and henceforward they followed the same trail and “drank from the same canteen.” They shared their rations with each other, and in the regions of the West, where danger lurked in the air, one watched while the other slept, ready to interpose his body as a shield between peril and his comrade.

And what splendid soldiers the Civil War made! How those veterans could fight! What pluck, what coolness, what nerve, what daring they displayed! There was one stormy night beyond the Mississippi, when a band of jayhawkers, believing the two men carried a few hundred dollars, formed a plan for shooting both for the sake of the plunder. There were six of the outlaws at the opening of proceedings, but at the close just half the number was left, and one of them carried away a wound with him, from which he could never recover, while the defenders did not receive a scratch.

“When I heard that rebel yell of yours,” remarked the veteran who wore the blue, “it tingled through my veins as it did at Chancellorsville, Antietam and various other scenes of unpleasantness. I couldn’t help sailing in.”

“I didn’t mean to let out the yawp,” returned his companion, “but when the shooting began, it was so like old times I couldn’t help it. It was real enjoyable.”

“Yes,” was the dry response, “but rather more so for us than for the other fellows.”

Three days later a band of Indians concluded to try their hand upon the veterans, but the trouble was that the red men could not get a fair chance. Before they arrived within effective striking distance, the veterans began shooting, and whenever they shot somebody fell. The thing became so monotonous that the hostiles gave it up in disgust and drew off. Thenceforward the old soldiers had comparatively an easy time of it.

And so, after a ride of more than two thousand miles on horseback, these two men entered Dead Man’s Gulch and drew rein in front of the Heavenly Bower. Their coming caused a sensation, for their looks showed they were veterans of the war and were certain to bring important news. The couple smiled and whispered to each other, for they saw that no one suspected their identity.

Among the wondering group that gathered round was Nellie Dawson. She was profoundly interested, for Vose Adams had made two journeys to and from Sacramento without bringing a letter from her father. Doubtless these men could tell her something, and she stood on the edge of the group, waiting for them to speak and for the opportunity to question them.

“Do you see her?” whispered one of the men.

“Yes; gracious! hasn’t she grown? Why, she was a little girl when we left and now she’s a young woman.”

“Blessed if she isn’t! She wears such long dresses that you can see only the tiny toes of her shoes; we’ve obsarved a good many purty women since we left these parts, but nothing that could come up to her.”

“You can bet your life! She hasn’t any idee of who we are, nor have the boys, but it looks to me as if the parson is a little suspicious.”

Although the patronage of the Heavenly Bower had shrunk a good deal, Landlord Ortigies was as genial and hospitable as ever. The new arrivals had time only for a few secret comments, when he came forward:

“Strangers, you’re welcome to the best we have, which isn’t anything to boast of; look as if you had rid a good many miles and you must be as tired and thirsty as your animals. If you’ll turn ’em over to Vose Adams, he’ll ’tend to them, and, if you’ll allow me, you shall have a good meal, which before the same, I beg to tender you some distilled home brewed Mountain Dew.”

Thanking the landlord for his offer, the men dismounted and waited outside, while he brought forth two glasses, half-filled with the fiery stuff of the poetical name. One of the men took his and eagerly swallowed it. The other held his aloft, where under the bright sunlight it glowed crimson like blood. With his hand motionless for a moment, he slowly inverted the glass and allowed the liquid to run out on the ground.

“Max, I reckon you haven’t forgot when I done something like that some four years ago,” said the man, turning toward the astonished host.

CHAPTER XI
WAITING

“Wade Ruggles, as I’m alive!” exclaimed the delighted landlord, rushing forward and grasping his hand. Instantly the group closed in, and there was such laughing and handshaking that for a time nothing was clearly distinguished.

“I was suspicious,” remarked the parson; “but, though you both had beards when you went away, these have grown so much that they have greatly altered your appearance.”

He scanned the other man closely, but before the parson had identified him, several others had done so.

“It’s Al Bidwell!”

“Yes,” replied the laughing Ruggles; “that’s the fellow, but I’m sorry to say that since they made a major-general of him, he’s become a reg’lar dude. He doesn’t go out when it rains for fear of soiling his uniform, and the noise of powder makes him sick, so be careful how you handle the delicate fellow.”

“Well, you do not need to be told,” was the hearty response of the parson, “that no one could be more welcome than you; let’s shake hands all around again.”

It was some minutes before the flurry was over, for the delight on both sides was unbounded and the joy of the reunion great.

One member of the group lingered in the background. Her face was flushed with delighted expectancy, but with a coyness unknown in her earlier years, she hesitated on the outer edge of the circle. She could not mingle with the rush and waited until the flurry was over. The men were scarcely less embarrassed than she, and while not appearing to see her, both were watching her every movement. When the time came that the meeting could no longer be delayed, Ruggles walked to her and extended his hand.

“Well, Nellie, aren’t you glad to see me?”

The crinkling of the whiskers at the side of the invisible mouth showed that he was laughing, and indeed his white teeth gleamed through his wealth of beard. Nellie promptly advanced and met him half way.

“Mr. Ruggles, I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you again.”

He had been asking himself whether it would do to kiss this vision of loveliness. He wished to do so, but was afraid. However, the question was settled by the girl, who, instead of taking the hand, flung her arms about his neck and saluted him fervently, that is as well as she could under the conditions.

Al Bidwell came forward and was received in the same manner. Then, as the two men stepped back and looked admiringly at her, she said:

“I can see you are the same and yet those beards make you look different; I love to think of you as you were when you bade us good-by and rode off four years ago.”

“We shall be glad to fix up our faces in the old style,” said Ruggles, while his companion nodded assent. If she had asked them to cut off their heads they would have unhesitatingly agreed to do it.

“No doubt we’ve changed somewhat,” said Bidwell, “but not one half so much as you.”

“As I!” she repeated in astonishment; “why, I am just the same,” and she looked down at her dress, as if seeking the explanation of his remark; “I haven’t changed a bit.”

“Not in goodness and all that sort of thing, but we left a little girl and now I’m blessed if we don’t find a young woman, and yet it’s the same little girl after all.”

The maidenly blush darkened her face and she laughed.

“You couldn’t expect me to stand still all these years.”

“No; though we would have been glad if you had done so.”

The three were standing apart, the others with commendable delicacy leaving them to themselves. Nellie laid her arm on the sleeve of Ruggles, and looking up yearningly in his face she asked:

“Can you give me any news of father?”

“Being as him and me was on different sides, I haven’t seen or heard a thing of him since we parted in San Francisco, but I hope all has gone well with him.”

She turned to Bidwell, who said:

“Me and him was thrown together once or twice and I met him after Gettysburg, where neither of us got a scratch, which is more than tens of thousands of others can say. Then I seen him in front of Petersburg, where we had the same good luck agin, but in the fighting round there we lost track of each other. Are you worried about him, little gal?”

“Very much,” she mournfully replied; “never once did Vose Adams come back from Sacramento without one or two letters from him, but he has now done so twice, and I haven’t heard a word. I fear father is dead; if he is, my heart is broken and I shall die too.”

What could they say to cheer her, for Vose Adams made still another journey westward with the same dismal emptiness of the mail bag, so far as she was concerned. Every one did his utmost to cheer her, but none succeeded. The ground taken was that the parent had set out on his return, but had been hindered by some cause which would be explained when he finally arrived. When not one of the men himself believed the story, how could he hope to make the mourning daughter believe it?

Felix Brush took a different stand from the others. He early settled into the belief that Captain Dawson was dead, and that it was wrong to encourage hope on the part of the child when the disappointment must be more bitter in the end.

“If you are never to see him again in this world,” he said, at the close of a sultry afternoon, as the two were seated on a rocky ledge near the cabin in which she had made her home all alone during her parent’s long absence, “what a blessed memory he leaves behind him! Died on the field of battle, or in camp or hospital, in the service of his country,–what more glorious epitaph can patriot desire?”

“If he is dead then I shall die; I shall pray that I may do so, so that I shall soon see him again.”

“My dear child, you must show some of the courage of your parent and prove that you are a soldier’s daughter. Your blow is a severe one, but it has fallen upon thousands of others, and they have bravely met it. You are young; you have seen nothing of the great world around you–”

“I do not care to see anything of it,” she interrupted with a sigh.

“You will feel different when you have recovered from the blow. It is an amazing world, my dear. The cities and towns; the great ocean; the works of art; the ships and steamboats; the vast structures; the railways; the multitudes of people; the lands beyond the seas, with still more marvelous scenes,–all these will expand like fairy land before you and make you wonder that you ever should have wished to leave such a realm of beauty and miracles while in your youth.”

Nellie sat for some time in silence, and then rose to her feet with a weary sigh. Without speaking, she turned to walk away, but not in the direction of her own home.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To look for him,” was her sorrowful reply.

It was what he suspected and feared. He knew she had done the same thing night after night for weeks past, even when the rains fell and the chilling blasts made her shiver with discomfort. He could not interpose, and with the reflection that perhaps it was as well, he turned mournfully aside and walked slowly toward the cabins.

Meanwhile, Nellie Dawson passed beyond the limits of the settlement until all the houses were behind her. She did not sit down, but folding her arms, after gathering her shawl about her, bent her gaze upon the trail, which wound in and out at the bottom of the cañon below, for a fourth of a mile, when a mass of projecting rocks hid it from sight.

Night was closing in. Already the grim walls, thousands of feet in height, were wrapped in gloom, and few eyes beside hers could have traced the devious mule path for more than a hundred yards from where she stood. The clear sky was studded with stars, but the moon had not yet climbed from behind the towering peaks, which would shut out its light until near the zenith.

The soft murmur of the distant waterfall, the sound of voices behind her, the faint, hollow roar, which always is present in a vast solitude, filled the great space around her and made the stillness grander and more impressive.

All this had been in her ears many a time before, and little heed did she give to it now. Her musings were with that loved one, who had been silent for so many weeks, and for whose coming she longed with an unspeakable longing. She knew the course of the trail so well, though she had never been far over it, that she was aware at what point he must first appear, if he ever appeared, and upon that point she centered her attention.

“Something tells me that when father comes it will be in the night time,” she said; “I know he has tried hard to reach me, and what could it be that held him back? I will not believe he is dead until–”

Her heart gave a quicker throb, for surely that was a faint sound in the path, though too far off for her to perceive the cause. She could not tell its precise nature, but fancied it was the footfall of some animal. She took several quick steps forward on tiptoe, with head extended, peering and listening, with all her senses at the highest tension.

Hark! she heard it again. Surely it was the noise of hoofs, for it was repeated and the sounds ran into each other as if the animal were trotting or galloping, or mayhap there was more than one of them.

Yes; some one was drawing nigh on the back of horse or mule. There was no mistaking the hoof beats, and in the gloom the figure of an animal and his rider assumed vague form, growing more distinct each moment. Nellie broke into a run, her arms outstretched and her hair flying.

“Father! father! I know it is you! It is I–Nellie, your own Nellie, who has waited so long for you! You have come at last!”