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The five impulsive millionaires of Devil's Ford fulfilled not a few
of their most extravagant promises. In less than six weeks Mr.
Carr and his daughters were installed in a new house, built near
the site of the double cabin, which was again transferred to the
settlement, in order to give greater seclusion to the fair guests.
It was a long, roomy, one-storied villa, with a not unpicturesque
combination of deep veranda and trellis work, which relieved the
flat monotony of the interior and the barrenness of the freshly-
cleared ground. An upright piano, brought from Sacramento,
occupied the corner of the parlor. A suite of gorgeous furniture,
whose pronounced and extravagant glories the young girls
instinctively hid under home-made linen covers, had also been
spoils from afar. Elsewhere the house was filled with ornaments
and decorations that in their incongruity forcibly recalled the
gilded plate-glass mirrors of the bedroom in the old cabin. In the
hasty furnishing of this Aladdin's palace, the slaves of the ring
had evidently seized upon anything that would add to its glory,
without reference always to fitness.

"I wish it didn't look so cussedly like a robber's cave," said
George Kearney, when they were taking a quiet preliminary survey of
the unclassified treasures, before the Carrs took possession.

"Or a gambling hell," said his brother reflectively.

"It's about the same thing, I reckon," said Dick Mattingly, who was
supposed, in his fiery youth, to have encountered the similarity.

Nevertheless, the two girls managed to bestow the heterogeneous
collection with tasteful adaptation to their needs. A crystal
chandelier, which had once lent a fascinating illusion to the game
of Monte, hung unlighted in the broad hall, where a few other
bizarre and public articles were relegated. A long red sofa or
bench, which had done duty beside a billiard-table found a place
here also. Indeed, it is to be feared that some of the more rustic
and bashful youths of Devil's Ford, who had felt it incumbent upon
them to pay their respects to the new-comers, were more at ease in
this vestibule than in the arcana beyond, whose glories they could
see through the open door. To others, it represented a recognized
state of probation before their re-entree into civilization again.
"I reckon, if you don't mind, miss," said the spokesman of one
party, "ez this is our first call, we'll sorter hang out in the
hall yer, until you'r used to us." On another occasion, one
Whiskey Dick, impelled by a sense of duty, paid a visit to the new
house and its fair occupants, in a fashion frankly recounted by him
afterwards at the bar of the Tecumseh Saloon.

"You see, boys, I dropped in there the other night, when some of
you fellers was doin' the high-toned 'thankee, marm' business in
the parlor. I just came to anchor in the corner of the sofy in the
hall, without lettin' on to say that I was there, and took up a
Webster's dictionary that was on the table and laid it open--
keerless like, on my knees, ez if I was sorter consultin' it--and
kinder dozed off there, listenin' to you fellows gassin' with the
young ladies, and that yer Miss Christie just snakin' music outer
that pianner, and I reckon I fell asleep. Anyhow, I was there nigh
on to two hours. It's mighty soothin', them fashionable calls;
sorter knocks the old camp dust outer a fellow, and sets him up

It would have been well if the new life of the Devil's Ford had
shown no other irregularity than the harmless eccentricities of its
original locaters. But the news of its sudden fortune, magnified
by report, began presently to flood the settlement with another
class of adventurers. A tide of waifs, strays, and malcontents of
old camps along the river began to set towards Devil's Ford, in
very much the same fashion as the debris, drift, and alluvium had
been carried down in bygone days and cast upon its banks. A few
immigrant wagons, diverted from the highways of travel by the fame
of the new diggings, halted upon the slopes of Devil's Spur and on
the arid flats of the Ford, and disgorged their sallow freight of
alkali-poisoned, prematurely-aged women and children and maimed and
fever-stricken men. Against this rude form of domesticity were
opposed the chromo-tinted dresses and extravagant complexions of a
few single unattended women--happily seen more often at night
behind gilded bars than in the garish light of day--and an equal
number of pale-faced, dark-moustached, well-dressed, and
suspiciously idle men. A dozen rivals of Thompson's Saloon had
sprung up along the narrow main street. There were two new hotels--
one a "Temperance House," whose ascetic quality was confined only
to the abnegation of whiskey--a rival stage office, and a small
one-storied building, from which the "Sierran Banner" fluttered
weekly, for "ten dollars a year, in advance." Insufferable in the
glare of a Sabbath sun, bleak, windy, and flaring in the gloom of a
Sabbath night, and hopelessly depressing on all days of the week,
the First Presbyterian Church lifted its blunt steeple from the
barrenest area of the flats, and was hideous! The civic
improvements so enthusiastically contemplated by the five
millionaires in the earlier pages of this veracious chronicle--the
fountain, reservoir, town-hall, and free library--had not yet been
erected. Their sites had been anticipated by more urgent buildings
and mining works, unfortunately not considered in the sanguine
dreams of the enthusiasts, and, more significant still, their cost
and expense had been also anticipated by the enormous outlay of
their earnings in the work upon Devil's Ditch.

Nevertheless, the liberal fulfilment of their promise in the new
house in the suburbs blinded the young girls' eyes to their
shortcomings in the town. Their own remoteness and elevation above
its feverish life kept them from the knowledge of much that was
strange, and perhaps disturbing to their equanimity. As they did
not mix with the immigrant women--Miss Jessie's good-natured
intrusion into one of their half-nomadic camps one day having been
met with rudeness and suspicion--they gradually fell into the way
of trusting the responsibility of new acquaintances to the hands of
their original hosts, and of consulting them in the matter of local
recreation. It thus occurred that one day the two girls, on their
way to the main street for an hour's shopping at the Villa de Paris
and Variety Store, were stopped by Dick Mattingly a few yards from
their house, with the remark that, as the county election was then
in progress, it would be advisable for them to defer their
intention for a few hours. As he did not deem it necessary to add
that two citizens, in the exercise of a freeman's franchise, had
been supplementing their ballots with bullets, in front of an
admiring crowd, they knew nothing of that accident that removed
from Devil's Ford an entertaining stranger, who had only the night
before partaken of their hospitality.

A week or two later, returning one morning from a stroll in the
forest, Christie and Jessie were waylaid by George Kearney and
Fairfax, and, under pretext of being shown a new and romantic
trail, were diverted from the regular path. This enabled Mattingly
and Maryland Joe to cut down the body of a man hanged by the
Vigilance Committee a few hours before on the regular trail, and to
remonstrate with the committee on the incompatibility of such
exhibitions with a maidenly worship of nature.

"With the whole county to hang a man in," expostulated Joe, "you
might keep clear of Carr's woods."

It is needless to add that the young girls never knew of this act
of violence, or the delicacy that kept them in ignorance of it.
Mr. Carr was too absorbed in business to give heed to what he
looked upon as a convulsion of society as natural as a geological
upheaval, and too prudent to provoke the criticism of his daughters
by comment in their presence.

An equally unexpected confidence, however, took its place. Mr.
Carr having finished his coffee one morning, lingered a moment over
his perfunctory paternal embraces, with the awkwardness of a
preoccupied man endeavoring by the assumption of a lighter interest
to veil another abstraction.

"And what are we doing to-day, Christie?" he asked, as Jessie left
the dining-room.

"Oh, pretty much the usual thing--nothing in particular. If George
Kearney gets the horses from the summit, we're going to ride over
to Indian Spring to picnic. Fairfax--Mr. Munroe--I always forget
that man's real name in this dreadfully familiar country--well,
he's coming to escort us, and take me, I suppose--that is, if
Kearney takes Jessie."

"A very nice arrangement," returned her father, with a slight
nervous contraction of the corners of his mouth and eyelids to
indicate mischievousness. "I've no doubt they'll both be here.
You know they usually are--ha! ha! And what about the two
Mattinglys and Philip Kearney, eh?" he continued; "won't they be

"It isn't their turn," said Christie carelessly; "besides, they'll
probably be there."

"And I suppose they're beginning to be resigned," said Carr,

"What on earth are you talking of, father?"

She turned her clear brown eyes upon him, and was regarding him
with such manifest unconsciousness of the drift of his speech, and,
withal, a little vague impatience of his archness, that Mr. Carr
was feebly alarmed. It had the effect of banishing his assumed
playfulness, which made his serious explanation the more

"Well, I rather thought that--that young Kearney was paying
considerable attention to--to--to Jessie," replied her father, with
hesitating gravity.

"What! that boy?"

"Young Kearney is one of the original locators, and an equal
partner in the mine. A very enterprising young fellow. In fact,
much more advanced and bolder in his conceptions than the others.
I find no difficulty with him."

At another time Christie would have questioned the convincing
quality of this proof, but she was too much shocked at her father's
first suggestion, to think of anything else.

"You don't mean to say, father, that you are talking seriously of
these men--your friends--whom we see every day--and our only

"No, no!" said Mr. Carr hastily; "you misunderstand. I don't
suppose that Jessie or you--"

"Or ME! Am I included?"

"You don't let me speak, Christie. I mean, I am not talking
seriously," continued Mr. Carr, with his most serious aspect, "of
you and Jessie in this matter; but it may be a serious thing to
these young men to be thrown continually in the company of two
attractive girls."

"I understand--you mean that we should not see so much of them,"
said Christie, with a frank expression of relief so genuine as to
utterly discompose her father. "Perhaps you are right, though I
fail to discover anything serious in the attentions of young
Kearney to Jessie--or--whoever it may be--to me. But it will be
very easy to remedy it, and see less of them. Indeed, we might
begin to-day with some excuse."

"Yes--certainly. Of course!" said Mr. Carr, fully convinced of his
utter failure, but, like most weak creatures, consoling himself
with the reflection that he had not shown his hand or committed
himself. "Yes; but it would perhaps be just as well for the
present to let things go on as they were. We'll talk of it again--
I'm in a hurry now," and, edging himself through the door, he
slipped away.

"What do you think is father's last idea?" said Christie, with, I
fear, a slight lack of reverence in her tone, as her sister
reentered the room. "He thinks George Kearney is paying you too
much attention."

"No!" said Jessie, replying to her sister's half-interrogative,
half-amused glance with a frank, unconscious smile.

"Yes, and he says that Fairfax--I think it's Fairfax--is equally
fascinated with ME."

Jessie's brow slightly contracted as she looked curiously at her

"Of all things," she said, "I wonder if any one has put that idea
into his dear old head. He couldn't have thought it himself."

"I don't know," said Christie musingly; "but perhaps it's just as
well if we kept a little more to ourselves for a while."

"Did father say so?" said Jessie quickly.

"No, but that is evidently what he meant."

"Ye-es," said Jessie slowly, "unless--"

"Unless what?" said Christie sharply. "Jessie, you don't for a
moment mean to say that you could possibly conceive of anything

"I mean to say," said Jessie, stealing her arm around her sister's
waist demurely, "that you are perfectly right. We'll keep away
from these fascinating Devil's Forders, and particularly the
youngest Kearney. I believe there has been some ill-natured
gossip. I remember that the other day, when we passed the shanty
of that Pike County family on the slope, there were three women at
the door, and one of them said something that made poor little
Kearney turn white and pink alternately, and dance with suppressed
rage. I suppose the old lady--M'Corkle, that's her name--would
like to have a share of our cavaliers for her Euphemy and Mamie. I
dare say it's only right; I would lend them the cherub
occasionally, and you might let them have Mr. Munroe twice a week."

She laughed, but her eyes sought her sister's with a certain
watchfulness of expression.

Christie shrugged her shoulders, with a suggestion of disgust.

"Don't joke. We ought to have thought of all this before."

"But when we first knew them, in the dear old cabin, there wasn't
any other woman and nobody to gossip, and that's what made it so
nice. I don't think so very much of civilization, do you?" said
the young lady pertly.

Christie did not reply. Perhaps she was thinking the same thing.
It certainly had been very pleasant to enjoy the spontaneous and
chivalrous homage of these men, with no further suggestion of
recompense or responsibility than the permission to be worshipped;
but beyond that she racked her brain in vain to recall any look or
act that proclaimed the lover. These men, whom she had found so
relapsed into barbarism that they had forgotten the most ordinary
forms of civilization; these men, even in whose extravagant
admiration there was a certain loss of self-respect, that as a
woman she would never forgive; these men, who seemed to belong to
another race--impossible! Yet it was so.

"What construction must they have put upon her father's acceptance
of their presents--of their company--of her freedom in their
presence? No! they must have understood from the beginning that
she and her sister had never looked upon them except as transient
hosts and chance acquaintances. Any other idea was preposterous.
And yet--"

It was the recurrence of this "yet" that alarmed her. For she
remembered now that but for their slavish devotion they might claim
to be her equal. According to her father's account, they had come
from homes as good as their own; they were certainly more than her
equal in fortune; and her father had come to them as an employee,
until they had taken him into partnership. If there had only been
sentiment of any kind connected with any of them! But they were
all alike, brave, unselfish, humorous--and often ridiculous. If
anything, Dick Mattingly was funniest by nature, and made her laugh
more. Maryland Joe, his brother, told better stories (sometimes of
Dick), though not so good a mimic as the other Kearney, who had a
fairly sympathetic voice in singing. They were all good-looking
enough; perhaps they set store on that--men are so vain.

And as for her own rejected suitor, Fairfax Munroe, except for a
kind of grave and proper motherliness about his protecting manner,
he absolutely was the most indistinctive of them all. He had once
brought her some rare tea from the Chinese camp, and had taught her
how to make it; he had cautioned her against sitting under the
trees at nightfall; he had once taken off his coat to wrap around
her. Really, if this were the only evidence of devotion that could
be shown, she was safe!

"Well," said Jessie, "it amuses you, I see."

Christie checked the smile that had been dimpling the cheek nearest
Jessie, and turned upon her the face of an elder sister.

"Tell me, have YOU noticed this extraordinary attention of Mr.
Munroe to me?"

"Candidly?" asked Jessie, seating herself comfortably on the table
sideways, and endeavoring, to pull her skirt over her little feet.
"Honest Injun?"

"Don't be idiotic, and, above all, don't be slangy! Of course,

"Well, no. I can't say that I have."

"Then," said Christie, "why in the name of all that's preposterous,
do they persist in pairing me off with the least interesting man of
the lot?"

Jessie leaped from the table.

"Come now," she said, with a little nervous laugh, "he's not so bad
as all that. You don't know him. But what does it matter now, as
long as we're not going to see them any more?"

"They're coming here for the ride to-day," said Christie
resignedly. "Father thought it better not to break it off at

"Father thought so!" echoed Jessie, stopping with her hand on the

"Yes; why do you ask?"

But Jessie had already left the room, and was singing in the hall.

Devil's Ford by Bret Harte
General Fiction
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