“Go slow, Daddy, go slow!” said an auditor smilingly. It was evident that Daddy’s sympathetic weakness was well known.
Daddy read the child’s letter. But, unfortunately, what with his real emotion and the intoxication of an audience, he read it extravagantly, and interpolated a child’s lisp (on no authority whatever), and a simulated infantile delivery, which, I fear, at first provoked the smiles rather than the tears of his audience. Nevertheless, at its conclusion the little note was handed round the party, and then there was a moment of thoughtful silence.
“Tell you what it is, boys,” said Fletcher, looking around the table, “we ought to be doin’ suthin’ for them kids right off! Did you,” turning to Daddy, “say anythin’ about this to Dick?”
“Nary—why, he’s clean off his head with fever—don’t understand a word—and just babbles,” returned Daddy, forgetful of his roseate diagnosis a moment ago, “and hasn’t got a cent.”
“We must make up what we can amongst us afore the mail goes to-night,” said the “infant,” feeling hurriedly in his pockets. “Come, ante up, gentlemen,” he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon the table.
“Hold on, boys,” said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. “You’ve got enough to do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I’ve none! Let this be my affair. I’ve got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my passage home, and I’ll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for that old skeesicks—what’s his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts”—he made a memorandum from the letter—“and I’ll send it by express. Meantime, you fellows sit down there and write something—you know what—saying that Dick’s hurt his hand and can’t write—you know; but asked you to send a draft, which you’re doing. Sabe? That’s all! I’ll skip over to the express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the whiskey while I’m gone.” He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared.
“There goes a white man, you bet!” said Fletcher admiringly, as the door closed behind their host. “Now, boys,” he added, drawing a chair to the table, “let’s get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game.”
Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as to the matter to be conveyed. Daddy’s plea for an extended explanatory and sympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written to Ricketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner.
“But what about poor little Jim’s letter? That ought to be answered,” said Daddy pathetically.
“If Dick hurt his hand so he can’t write to Ricketts, how in thunder is he goin’ to write to Jim?” was the reply.
“But suthin’ oughter be said to the poor kid,” urged Daddy piteously.
“Well, write it yourself—you and Gus Houston make up somethin’ together. I’m going to win some money,” retorted Fletcher, returning to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and Houston.
“Ye can’t write it in Dick’s name, because that little brother knows Dick’s handwriting, even if he don’t remember his face. See?” suggested Houston.
“That’s so,” said Daddy dubiously; “but,” he added, with elastic cheerfulness, “we can write that Dick ‘says.’ See?”
“Your head’s level, old man! Just you wade in on that.”
Daddy seized the pen and “waded in.” Into somewhat deep and difficult water, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffled once or twice as he wrote. “Suthin’ like this,” he said, after a pause:—
DEAR LITTLE JIMMIE,—Your big brother havin’ hurt his hand, wants me to tell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1. He says he don’t forget you and little Cissy, you bet! and he’s sendin’ money to old Ricketts straight off. He says don’t you and Cissy mind whether school keeps or not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines. He says he’d have written before, but he’s bin follerin’ up a lead mighty close, and expects to strike it rich in a few days.
“You ain’t got no sabe about kids,” said Daddy imperturbably; “they’ve got to be humored like sick folks. And they want everythin’ big—they don’t take no stock in things ez they are—even ef they hev ‘em worse than they are. ‘So,’” continued Daddy, reading to prevent further interruption, “‘he says you’re just to keep your eyes skinned lookin’ out for him comin’ home any time—day or night. All you’ve got to do is to sit up and wait. He might come and even snake you out of your beds! He might come with four white horses and a nigger driver, or he might come disguised as an ornary tramp. Only you’ve got to be keen on watchin’.’ (Ye see,” interrupted Daddy explanatorily, “that’ll jest keep them kids lively.) ‘He says Cissy’s to stop cryin’ right off, and if Willie Walker hits yer on the right cheek you just slug out with your left fist, ‘cordin’ to Scripter.’ Gosh,” ejaculated Daddy, stopping suddenly and gazing anxiously at Houston, “there’s that blamed photograph—I clean forgot that.”
“And Dick hasn’t got one in the shop, and never had,” returned Houston emphatically. “Golly! that stumps us! Unless,” he added, with diabolical thoughtfulness, “we take Bob’s? The kids don’t remember Dick’s face, and Bob’s about the same age. And it’s a regular star picture—you bet! Bob had it taken in Sacramento—in all his war paint. See!” He indicated a photograph pinned against the wall—a really striking likeness which did full justice to Bob’s long silken mustache and large, brown determined eyes. “I’ll snake it off while they ain’t lookin’, and you jam it in the letter. Bob won’t miss it, and we can fix it up with Dick after he’s well, and send another.”
Daddy silently grasped the “infant’s” hand, who presently secured the photograph without attracting attention from the card-players. It was promptly inclosed in the letter, addressed to Master James Lasham. The “infant” started with it to the post-office, and Daddy Folsom returned to Lasham’s cabin to relieve the watcher that had been detached from Falloner’s to take his place beside the sick man.
Meanwhile the rain fell steadily and the shadows crept higher and higher up the mountain. Towards midnight the star points faded out one by one over Sawyer’s Ledge even as they had come, with the difference that the illumination of Falloner’s cabin was extinguished first, while the dim light of Lasham’s increased in number. Later, two stars seemed to shoot from the centre of the ledge, trailing along the descent, until they were lost in the obscurity of the slope—the lights of the stage-coach to Sacramento carrying the mail and Robert Falloner. They met and passed two fainter lights toiling up the road—the buggy lights of the doctor, hastily summoned from Carterville to the bedside of the dying Dick Lasham.
The slowing up of his train caused Bob Falloner to start from a half doze in a Western Pullman car. As he glanced from his window he could see that the blinding snowstorm which had followed him for the past six hours had at last hopelessly blocked the line. There was no prospect beyond the interminable snowy level, the whirling flakes, and the monotonous palisades of leafless trees seen through it to the distant banks of the Missouri. It was a prospect that the mountain-bred Falloner was beginning to loathe, and although it was scarcely six weeks since he left California, he was already looking back regretfully to the deep slopes and the free song of the serried ranks of pines.
The intense cold had chilled his temperate blood, even as the rigors and conventions of Eastern life had checked his sincerity and spontaneous flow of animal spirits begotten in the frank intercourse and brotherhood of camps. He had just fled from the artificialities of the great Atlantic cities to seek out some Western farming lands in which he might put his capital and energies. The unlooked-for interruption of his progress by a long-forgotten climate only deepened his discontent. And now—that train was actually backing! It appeared they