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Publisher : Pearson; 3rd edition (June 13, 2013)
Language : English
Paperback : 792 pages
ISBN-10 : 0133129454
ISBN-13 : 978-0133129458
Item Weight : 3.11 pounds
Dimensions : 8.4 x 1.2 x 10.8 inches
Best Sellers Rank: #1,859,269 in Books
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and others who are calling on them with possible matrimony in prospective.
They may pass along the street about the middle of the afternoon and such
“ragging out” was never seen before in this camp. The curious have
investigated the tracks made by their little gaiters in the red dust of the
upper road and report them the smallest feet ever seen in this section. Billy
Devins of the Blue-jay claim is thought to have the best show with the
eldest, and Goldberry of the lively stable with the youngest. No. He won’t
let his best horse and buggy to anybody now and takes her out riding three
times a week. But they’re snappy and uncertain, and nobody can count on
them for a certainty. So runs the week’s news, which he picks up with
sundry drinks.
He enjoys the luxury of a hotel dinner—a dinner he is not obliged to
prepare with his own hands—a decidedly plain dinner in metropolitan
estimation, but to him, commencing with soup and ending with pie, a
sumptuous repast. It is moonlight and he takes his way back by the old trail
home. Old not in years, but in association. It is but the track of twenty years
or so, yet for him how old is it in thought. How many, many times he has
travelled over it.
That poker game is going on in one corner of the Magnolia. The “hard
case” from over the hill is trying to beat it. He has been so trying every
Sunday night in that same saloon and in that same corner for the last twenty
years. He has grown old in trying. It has kept him poor, yet he thinks he can
play poker. He is encouraged in this impression by a considerate few. He
works for them. They “scoop him in” regularly. He will go home to-morrow
morning, and during the week wash out a couple of ounces more for the
benefit of “Scotty” and “Texas.” It is 11 o’clock and time to go home. That
three-mile walk is before him; he has taken as many drinks as is prudent,
possibly one or two more. The camp saloon revelries are beginning to quiet
down. Most of the prominent drunks have fallen in the cause. The chronic
drunk of the camp is talking at the bar. But he will thus talk all night; he
never stops talking—or drinking. He has been here more or less drunk ever
since 1852. He is phenomenal and not a standard for ordinary intemperates.
Almost every camp has known such a drunkard. Some are alive yet. They
are of the immortal few not born to die. It would be madness to compete
with such.
So he sets out on his lonely walk. Of how much has he thought while
plodding over it. Here the same big buckeye brushes against his face as it
did in the “spring of ’50,” when he was twenty years younger and had a
sweetheart in the “States,” whose memory was fresh and warm. It has all
died out since. The letters became less and less, the years more and more,
and then all came to a dead standstill and he received the village paper, and
there, appropriately below the column of deaths, he read of her marriage,
whereat he went to camp and plunged wildly into all the concert saloon
could give and made things howl and boldly challenged the chronic poker
game and won. The trail turns suddenly. It has run over the rocks by the
river, its trail at times for many feet almost illegible, a vague smoothly-
worn streak over ledge and loose boulders, polished and strewn with new
white sand and pebbles by some unusually high freshet. But here the
shelving bank suddenly ceases. It becomes a precipice. Up the hard-worn
path in the red earth he climbs forty, fifty, sixty feet. It is closely hedged
with chemisal. Now he emerges near the brow of the high rocky bluff. In all
its moonlit glory surges, bubbles, and roars the river below. Its yellow
muddiness of the day is now changed to a dark shade of brown, with
tremulous silver bars. Night and the moon are the artists.
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