Under the Redwoods. Bret Harte

of this kind of frivolous existence carried to a man-like excess. Besides being a patron of amusements, Mr. Wade gambled, raced, and drank. He was often home late, and sometimes not at all. Not that this conduct was exceptional in the “roaring days” of Heavy Tree Hill, but it had given Mrs. Wade perhaps an undue preference for a less certain, even if a more serious life. His tragic death was, of course, a kind of martyrdom, which exalted him in the feminine mind to a saintly memory; yet Mrs. Wade was not without a certain relief in that. It was voiced, perhaps crudely, by the widow of Abner Drake in a visit of condolence to the tearful Mrs. Wade a few days after Wade’s death. “It’s a vale o’ sorrow, Mrs. Wade,” said the sympathizer, “but it has its ups and downs, and I recken ye’ll be feelin’ soon pretty much as I did about Abner when HE was took. It was mighty soothin’ and comfortin’ to feel that whatever might happen now, I always knew just whar Abner was passin’ his nights.” Poor slim Mrs. Wade had no disquieting sense of humor to interfere with her reception of this large truth, and she accepted it with a burst of reminiscent tears.

      A long volleying shower had just passed down the level landscape, and was followed by a rolling mist from the warm saturated soil like the smoke of the discharge. Through it she could see a faint lightening of the hidden sun, again darkening through a sudden onset of rain, and changing as with her conflicting doubts and resolutions. Thus gazing, she was vaguely conscious of an addition to the landscape in the shape of a man who was passing down the road with a pack on his back like the tramping “prospectors” she had often seen at Heavy Tree Hill. That memory apparently settled her vacillating mind; she determined she would NOT go to the dance. But as she was turning away from the window a second figure, a horseman, appeared in another direction by a cross-road, a shorter cut through her domain. This she had no difficulty in recognizing as one of the strangers who were getting up the dance. She had noticed him at church on the previous Sunday. As he passed the house he appeared to be gazing at it so earnestly that she drew back from the window lest she should be seen. And then, for no reason whatever, she changed her mind once more, and resolved to go to the dance. Gravely announcing this fact to the wife of her superintendent who kept house with her in her loneliness, she thought nothing more about it. She should go in her mourning, with perhaps the addition of a white collar and frill.

      It was evident, however, that Santa Ana thought a good deal more than she did of this new idea, which seemed a part of the innovation already begun by the building up of the new hotel. It was argued by some that as the new church and new schoolhouse had been opened by prayer, it was only natural that a lighter festivity should inaugurate the opening of the hotel. “I reckon that dancin’ is about the next thing to travelin’ for gettin’ up an appetite for refreshments, and that’s what the landlord is kalkilatin’ to sarve,” was the remark of a gloomy but practical citizen on the veranda of “The Valley Emporium.” “That’s so,” rejoined a bystander; “and I notice on that last box o’ pills I got for chills the directions say that a little ‘agreeable exercise’—not too violent—is a great assistance to the working o’ the pills.”

      “I reckon that that Mr. Brooks who’s down here lookin’ arter mill property, got up the dance. He’s bin round town canvassin’ all the women folks and drummin’ up likely gals for it. They say he actooally sent an invite to the Widder Wade,” remarked another lounger. “Gosh! he’s got cheek!”

      “Well, gentlemen,” said the proprietor judicially, “while we don’t intend to hev any minin’ camp fandangos or ‘Frisco falals round Santa Any—(Santa Ana was proud of its simple agricultural virtues)—I ain’t so hard-shelled as not to give new things a fair trial. And, after all, it’s the women folk that has the say about it. Why, there’s old Miss Ford sez she hasn’t kicked a fut sence she left Mizoori, but wouldn’t mind trying it agin. Ez to Brooks takin’ that trouble—well, I suppose it’s along o’ his bein’ HEALTHY!” He heaved a deep dyspeptic sigh, which was faintly echoed by the others. “Why, look at him now, ridin’ round on that black hoss o’ his, in the wet since daylight and not carin’ for blind chills or rhumatiz!”

      He was looking at a serape-draped horseman, the one the widow had seen on the previous night, who was now cantering slowly up the street. Seeing the group on the veranda, he rode up, threw himself lightly from his saddle, and joined them. He was an alert, determined, good-looking fellow of about thirty-five, whose smooth, smiling face hardly commended itself to Santa Ana, though his eyes were distinctly sympathetic. He glanced at the depressed group around him and became ominously serious.

      “When did it happen?” he asked gravely.

      “What happen?” said the nearest bystander.

      “The Funeral, Flood, Fight, or Fire. Which of the four F’s was it?”

      “What are ye talkin’ about?” said the proprietor stiffly, scenting some dangerous humor.

      “YOU,” said Brooks promptly. “You’re all standing here, croaking like crows, this fine morning. I passed YOUR farm, Johnson, not an hour ago; the wheat just climbing out of the black adobe mud as thick as rows of pins on paper—what have YOU to grumble at? I saw YOUR stock, Briggs, over on Two-Mile Bottom, waddling along, fat as the adobe they were sticking in, their coats shining like fresh paint—what’s the matter with YOU? And,” turning to the proprietor, “there’s YOUR shed, Saunders, over on the creek, just bursting with last year’s grain that you know has gone up two hundred per cent. since you bought it at a bargain—what are YOU growling at? It’s enough to provoke a fire or a famine to hear you groaning—and take care it don’t, some day, as a lesson to you.”

      All this was so perfectly true of the prosperous burghers that they could not for a moment reply. But Briggs had recourse to what he believed to be a retaliatory taunt.

      “I heard you’ve been askin’ Widow Wade to come to your dance,” he said, with a wink at the others. “Of course she said ‘Yes.’”

      “Of course she did,” returned Brooks coolly. “I’ve just got her note.”

      “What?” ejaculated the three men together. “Mrs. Wade comin’?”

      “Certainly! Why shouldn’t she? And it would do YOU good to come too, and shake the limp dampness out o’ you,” returned Brooks, as he quietly remounted his horse and cantered away.

      “Darned ef I don’t think he’s got his eye on the widder,” said Johnson faintly.