Roughing It, Part 5. - Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said:
"You ruther hold over me, pard. I reckon I can't call that hand. Ante
and pass the buck."
"How? I beg pardon. What did I understand you to say?"
"Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we've both got the
bulge, somehow. You don't smoke me and I don't smoke you. You see, one
of the boys has passed in his checks and we want to give him a good
send-off, and so the thing I'm on now is to roust out somebody to jerk
a little chin-music for us and waltz him through handsome."
"My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your observations
are wholly incomprehensible to me. Cannot you simplify them in some way?
At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope now. Would it
not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to categorical statements
of fact unencumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and
allegory?"
Another pause, and more reflection. Then, said Scotty:
"I'll have to pass, I judge."
"How?"
"You've raised me out, pard."
"I still fail to catch your meaning."
"Why, that last lead of yourn is too many for me--that's the idea. I
can't neither-trump nor follow suit."
The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his head
on his hand and gave himself up to thought.
Presently his face came up, sorrowful but confident.
"I've got it now, so's you can savvy," he said. "What we want is a
gospel-sharp. See?"
"A what?"
"Gospel-sharp. Parson."
"Oh! Why did you not say so before? I am a clergyman--a parson."
"Now you talk! You see my blind and straddle it like a man. Put it
there!"--extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister's small
hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent
gratification.
"Now we're all right, pard. Let's start fresh. Don't you mind my
snuffling a little--becuz we're in a power of trouble. You see, one of
the boys has gone up the flume--"
"Gone where?"
"Up the flume--throwed up the sponge, you understand."
"Thrown up the sponge?"
"Yes--kicked the bucket--"
"Ah--has departed to that mysterious country from whose bourne no
traveler returns."
"Return! I reckon not. Why pard, he's dead!"
"Yes, I understand."
"Oh, you do? Well I thought maybe you might be getting tangled some
more. Yes, you see he's dead again--"
"Again? Why, has he ever been dead before?"
"Dead before? No! Do you reckon a man has got as many lives as a cat?
But you bet you he's awful dead now, poor old boy, and I wish I'd never
seen this day. I don't want no better friend than Buck Fanshaw.
I knowed him by the back; and when I know a man and like him, I freeze to
him--you hear me. Take him all round, pard, there never was a bullier
man in the mines. No man ever knowed Buck Fanshaw to go back on a
friend. But it's all up, you know, it's all up. It ain't no use.
They've scooped him."
"Scooped him?"
"Yes--death has. Well, well, well, we've got to give him up. Yes
indeed. It's a kind of a hard world, after all, ain't it? But pard, he
was a rustler! You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully
boy with a glass eye! Just spit in his face and give him room according
to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in.
He was the worst son of a thief that ever drawed breath. Pard, he was on
it! He was on it bigger than an Injun!"
"On it? On what?"
"On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight, you understand.
He didn't give a continental for any body. Beg your pardon, friend, for
coming so near saying a cuss-word--but you see I'm on an awful strain, in
this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so
mild. But we've got to give him up. There ain't any getting around
that, I don't reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him--"
"Preach the funeral discourse? Assist at the obsequies?"
"Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it--that's our little game. We are
going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He was always nifty
himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch
--solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a
nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug hat--how's that for high?
And we'll take care of you, pard. We'll fix you all right. There'll be
a kerridge for you; and whatever you want, you just 'scape out and we'll
'tend to it. We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind, in
No. 1's house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn,
if you don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard,
for anybody that knowed him will tell you that he was one of the whitest
men that was ever in the mines. You can't draw it too strong. He never
could stand it to see things going wrong. He's done more to make this
town quiet and peaceable than any man in it. I've seen him lick four
Greasers in eleven minutes, myself. If a thing wanted regulating, he
warn't a man to go browsing around after somebody to do it, but he would
prance in and regulate it himself. He warn't a Catholic. Scasely. He
was down on 'em. His word was, 'No Irish need apply!' But it didn't
make no difference about that when it came down to what a man's rights
was--and so, when some roughs jumped the Catholic bone-yard and started
in to stake out town-lots in it he went for 'em! And he cleaned 'em,
too! I was there, pard, and I seen it myself."
"That was very well indeed--at least the impulse was--whether the act was
strictly defensible or not. Had deceased any religious convictions?
That is to say, did he feel a dependence upon, or acknowledge allegiance
to a higher power?"
More reflection.
"I reckon you've stumped me again, pard. Could you say it over once
more, and say it slow?"
"Well, to simplify it somewhat, was he, or rather had he ever been
connected with any organization sequestered from secular concerns and
devoted to self-sacrifice in the interests of morality?"
"All down but nine--set 'em up on the other alley, pard."
"What did I understand you to say?"
"Why, you're most too many for me, you know. When you get in with your
left I hunt grass every time. Every time you draw, you fill; but I don't
seem to have any luck. Lets have a new deal."
"How? Begin again?"
"That's it."
"Very well. Was he a good man, and--"
"There--I see that; don't put up another chip till I look at my hand.
A good man, says you? Pard, it ain't no name for it. He was the best
man that ever--pard, you would have doted on that man. He could lam any
galoot of his inches in America. It was him that put down the riot last
election before it got a start; and everybody said he was the only man
that could have done it. He waltzed in with a spanner in one hand and a
trumpet in the other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter in less
than three minutes. He had that riot all broke up and prevented nice
before anybody ever got a chance to strike a blow. He was always for
peace, and he would have peace--he could not stand disturbances. Pard,
he was a great loss to this town. It would please the boys if you could
chip in something like that and do him justice. Here once when the Micks
got to throwing stones through the Methodis' Sunday school windows, Buck
Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon and took a couple of
six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sunday school. Says he, 'No
Irish need apply!' And they didn't. He was the bulliest man in the
mountains, pard! He could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold
more tangle-foot whisky without spilling it than any man in seventeen
counties. Put that in, pard--it'll please the boys more than anything
you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother."
"Never shook his mother?"
"That's it--any of the boys will tell you so."
"Well, but why should he shake her?"
"That's what I say--but some people does."
"Not people of any repute?"
"Well, some that averages pretty so-so."
"In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to his own
mother, ought to--"
"Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string.
What I was a drivin' at, was, that he never throwed off on his mother
--don't you see? No indeedy. He give her a house to live in, and town
lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her
all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox I'm d---d if he
didn't set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying
it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly.
"You've treated me like a gentleman, pard, and I ain't the man to hurt
your feelings intentional. I think you're white. I think you're a
square man, pard. I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll
lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse! Put it
there!" [Another fraternal hand-shake--and exit.]
The obsequies were all that "the boys" could desire. Such a marvel of
funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The plumed hearse, the
dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags
drooping at half mast, the long, plodding procession of uniformed secret
societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines,
carriages of officials, and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted
multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for
years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in
Virginia was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral.
Scotty Briggs, as a pall-bearer and a mourner, occupied a prominent place
at the funeral, and when the sermon was finished and the last sentence of
the prayer for the dead man's soul ascended, he responded, in a low
voice, but with feelings:
"AMEN. No Irish need apply."
As the bulk of the response was without apparent relevancy, it was
probably nothing more than a humble tribute to the memory of the friend
that was gone; for, as Scotty had once said, it was "his word."
Scotty Briggs, in after days, achieved the distinction of becoming the
only convert to religion that was ever gathered from the Virginia roughs;
and it transpired that the man who had it in him to espouse the quarrel
of the weak out of inborn nobility of spirit was no mean timber whereof
to construct a Christian. The making him one did not warp his generosity
or diminish his courage; on the contrary it gave intelligent direction to
the one and a broader field to the other.
If his Sunday-school class progressed faster than the other classes, was
it matter for wonder? I think not. He talked to his pioneer small-fry
in a language they understood! It was my large privilege, a month before
he died, to hear him tell the beautiful story of Joseph and his brethren
to his class "without looking at the book." I leave it to the reader to
fancy what it was like, as it fell, riddled with slang, from the lips of
that grave, earnest teacher, and was listened to by his little learners
with a consuming interest that showed that they were as unconscious as he
was that any violence was being done to the sacred proprieties!
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The first twenty-six graves in the Virginia cemetery were occupied by
murdered men. So everybody said, so everybody believed, and so they will
always say and believe. The reason why there was so much slaughtering
done, was, that in a new mining district the rough element predominates,
and a person is not respected until he has "killed his man." That was
the very expression used.
If an unknown individual arrived, they did not inquire if he was capable,
honest, industrious, but--had he killed his man? If he had not, he
gravitated to his natural and proper position, that of a man of small
consequence; if he had, the cordiality of his reception was graduated
according to the number of his dead. It was tedious work struggling up
to a position of influence with bloodless hands; but when a man came with
the blood of half a dozen men on his soul, his worth was recognized at
once and his acquaintance sought.
In Nevada, for a time, the lawyer, the editor, the banker, the chief
desperado, the chief gambler, and the saloon keeper, occupied the same
level in society, and it was the highest. The cheapest and easiest way
to become an influential man and be looked up to by the community at
large, was to stand behind a bar, wear a cluster-diamond pin, and sell
whisky. I am not sure but that the saloon-keeper held a shade higher
rank than any other member of society. His opinion had weight. It was
his privilege to say how the elections should go. No great movement
could succeed without the countenance and direction of the
saloon-keepers. It was a high favor when the chief saloon-keeper
consented to serve in the legislature or the board of aldermen.
Youthful ambition hardly aspired so much to the honors of the law, or the
army and navy as to the dignity of proprietorship in a saloon.
To be a saloon-keeper and kill a man was to be illustrious. Hence the
reader will not be surprised to learn that more than one man was killed
in Nevada under hardly the pretext of provocation, so impatient was the
slayer to achieve reputation and throw off the galling sense of being
held in indifferent repute by his associates. I knew two youths who
tried to "kill their men" for no other reason--and got killed themselves
for their pains. "There goes the man that killed Bill Adams" was higher
praise and a sweeter sound in the ears of this sort of people than any
other speech that admiring lips could utter.
The men who murdered Virginia's original twenty-six cemetery-occupants
were never punished. Why? Because Alfred the Great, when he invented
trial by jury and knew that he had admirably framed it to secure justice
in his age of the world, was not aware that in the nineteenth century the
condition of things would be so entirely changed that unless he rose from
the grave and altered the jury plan to meet the emergency, it would prove
the most ingenious and infallible agency for defeating justice that human
wisdom could contrive. For how could he imagine that we simpletons would
go on using his jury plan after circumstances had stripped it of its
usefulness, any more than he could imagine that we would go on using his
candle-clock after we had invented chronometers? In his day news could
not travel fast, and hence he could easily find a jury of honest,
intelligent men who had not heard of the case they were called to try
--but in our day of telegraphs and newspapers his plan compels us to swear
in juries composed of fools and rascals, because the system rigidly
excludes honest men and men of brains.
I remember one of those sorrowful farces, in Virginia, which we call a
jury trial. A noted desperado killed Mr. B., a good citizen, in the most
wanton and cold-blooded way. Of course the papers were full of it, and
all men capable of reading, read about it. And of course all men not
deaf and dumb and idiotic, talked about it. A jury-list was made out,
and Mr. B. L., a prominent banker and a valued citizen, was questioned
precisely as he would have been questioned in any court in America:
"Have you heard of this homicide?"
"Yes."
"Have you held conversations upon the subject?"
"Yes."
"Have you formed or expressed opinions about it?"
"Yes."
"Have you read the newspaper accounts of it?"
"Yes."
"We do not want you."
A minister, intelligent, esteemed, and greatly respected; a merchant of
high character and known probity; a mining superintendent of intelligence
and unblemished reputation; a quartz mill owner of excellent standing,
were all questioned in the same way, and all set aside. Each said the
public talk and the newspaper reports had not so biased his mind but that
sworn testimony would overthrow his previously formed opinions and enable
him to render a verdict without prejudice and in accordance with the
facts. But of course such men could not be trusted with the case.
Ignoramuses alone could mete out unsullied justice.
When the peremptory challenges were all exhausted, a jury of twelve men
was impaneled--a jury who swore they had neither heard, read, talked
about nor expressed an opinion concerning a murder which the very cattle
in the corrals, the Indians in the sage-brush and the stones in the
streets were cognizant of! It was a jury composed of two desperadoes,
two low beer-house politicians, three bar-keepers, two ranchmen who could
not read, and three dull, stupid, human donkeys! It actually came out
afterward, that one of these latter thought that incest and arson were
the same thing.
The verdict rendered by this jury was, Not Guilty. What else could one
expect?
The jury system puts a ban upon intelligence and honesty, and a premium
upon ignorance, stupidity and perjury. It is a shame that we must
continue to use a worthless system because it was good a thousand years
ago. In this age, when a gentleman of high social standing, intelligence
and probity, swears that testimony given under solemn oath will outweigh,
with him, street talk and newspaper reports based upon mere hearsay, he
is worth a hundred jurymen who will swear to their own ignorance and
stupidity, and justice would be far safer in his hands than in theirs.
Why could not the jury law be so altered as to give men of brains and
honesty and equal chance with fools and miscreants? Is it right to show
the present favoritism to one class of men and inflict a disability on
another, in a land whose boast is that all its citizens are free and
equal? I am a candidate for the legislature. I desire to tamper with
the jury law. I wish to so alter it as to put a premium on intelligence
and character, and close the jury box against idiots, blacklegs, and
people who do not read newspapers. But no doubt I shall be defeated
--every effort I make to save the country "misses fire."
My idea, when I began this chapter, was to say something about
desperadoism in the "flush times" of Nevada. To attempt a portrayal of
that era and that land, and leave out the blood and carnage, would be
like portraying Mormondom and leaving out polygamy. The desperado
stalked the streets with a swagger graded according to the number of his
homicides, and a nod of recognition from him was sufficient to make a
humble admirer happy for the rest of the day. The deference that was
paid to a desperado of wide reputation, and who "kept his private
graveyard," as the phrase went, was marked, and cheerfully accorded.
When he moved along the sidewalk in his excessively long-tailed
frock-coat, shiny stump-toed boots, and with dainty little slouch hat
tipped over left eye, the small-fry roughs made room for his majesty;
when he entered the restaurant, the waiters deserted bankers and
merchants to overwhelm him with obsequious service; when he shouldered
his way to a bar, the shouldered parties wheeled indignantly, recognized
him, and --apologized.
They got a look in return that froze their marrow, and by that time a
curled and breast-pinned bar keeper was beaming over the counter, proud
of the established acquaintanceship that permitted such a familiar form
of speech as:
"How're ye, Billy, old fel? Glad to see you. What'll you take--the old
thing?"
The "old thing" meant his customary drink, of course.
The best known names in the Territory of Nevada were those belonging to
these long-tailed heroes of the revolver. Orators, Governors,
capitalists and leaders of the legislature enjoyed a degree of fame, but
it seemed local and meagre when contrasted with the fame of such men as
Sam Brown, Jack Williams, Billy Mulligan, Farmer Pease, Sugarfoot Mike,
Pock Marked Jake, El Dorado Johnny, Jack McNabb, Joe McGee, Jack Harris,
Six-fingered Pete, etc., etc. There was a long list of them. They were
brave, reckless men, and traveled with their lives in their hands. To
give them their due, they did their killing principally among themselves,
and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered it small
credit to add to their trophies so cheap a bauble as the death of a man
who was "not on the shoot," as they phrased it. They killed each other
on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed themselves
--for they held it almost shame to die otherwise than "with their boots
on," as they expressed it.
I remember an instance of a desperado's contempt for such small game as a
private citizen's life. I was taking a late supper in a restaurant one
night, with two reporters and a little printer named--Brown, for
instance--any name will do. Presently a stranger with a long-tailed coat
on came in, and not noticing Brown's hat, which was lying in a chair, sat
down on it. Little Brown sprang up and became abusive in a moment. The
stranger smiled, smoothed out the hat, and offered it to Brown with
profuse apologies couched in caustic sarcasm, and begged Brown not to
destroy him. Brown threw off his coat and challenged the man to fight
--abused him, threatened him, impeached his courage, and urged and even
implored him to fight; and in the meantime the smiling stranger placed
himself under our protection in mock distress. But presently he assumed
a serious tone, and said:
"Very well, gentlemen, if we must fight, we must, I suppose. But don't
rush into danger and then say I gave you no warning. I am more than a
match for all of you when I get started. I will give you proofs, and
then if my friend here still insists, I will try to accommodate him."
The table we were sitting at was about five feet long, and unusually
cumbersome and heavy. He asked us to put our hands on the dishes and
hold them in their places a moment--one of them was a large oval dish
with a portly roast on it. Then he sat down, tilted up one end of the
table, set two of the legs on his knees, took the end of the table
between his teeth, took his hands away, and pulled down with his teeth
till the table came up to a level position, dishes and all! He said he
could lift a keg of nails with his teeth. He picked up a common glass
tumbler and bit a semi-circle out of it. Then he opened his bosom and
showed us a net-work of knife and bullet scars; showed us more on his
arms and face, and said he believed he had bullets enough in his body to
make a pig of lead. He was armed to the teeth. He closed with the
remark that he was Mr. ---- of Cariboo--a celebrated name whereat we shook
in our shoes. I would publish the name, but for the suspicion that he
might come and carve me. He finally inquired if Brown still thirsted for
blood. Brown turned the thing over in his mind a moment, and then--asked
him to supper.
With the permission of the reader, I will group together, in the next
chapter, some samples of life in our small mountain village in the old
days of desperadoism. I was there at the time. The reader will observe
peculiarities in our official society; and he will observe also, an
instance of how, in new countries, murders breed murders.
CHAPTER XLIX.
An extract or two from the newspapers of the day will furnish a
photograph that can need no embellishment:
FATAL SHOOTING AFFRAY.--An affray occurred, last evening, in a
billiard saloon on C street, between Deputy Marshal Jack Williams
and Wm. Brown, which resulted in the immediate death of the latter.
There had been some difficulty between the parties for several
months.
An inquest was immediately held, and the following testimony
adduced:
Officer GEO. BIRDSALL, sworn, says:--I was told Wm. Brown was drunk
and was looking for Jack Williams; so soon as I heard that I started
for the parties to prevent a collision; went into the billiard
saloon; saw Billy Brown running around, saying if anybody had
anything against him to show cause; he was talking in a boisterous
manner, and officer Perry took him to the other end of the room to
talk to him; Brown came back to me; remarked to me that he thought
he was as good as anybody, and knew how to take care of himself; he
passed by me and went to the bar; don't know whether he drank or
not; Williams was at the end of the billiard-table, next to the
stairway; Brown, after going to the bar, came back and said he was
as good as any man in the world; he had then walked out to the end
of the first billiard-table from the bar; I moved closer to them,
supposing there would be a fight; as Brown drew his pistol I caught
hold of it; he had fired one shot at Williams; don't know the effect
of it; caught hold of him with one hand, and took hold of the pistol
and turned it up; think he fired once after I caught hold of the
pistol; I wrenched the pistol from him; walked to the end of the
billiard-table and told a party that I had Brown's pistol, and to
stop shooting; I think four shots were fired in all; after walking
out, Mr. Foster remarked that Brown was shot dead.