Harry Carey in The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 1919
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of PokerFlat on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious ofa change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two orthree men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, andexchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air,which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in theseindications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause wasanother question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected;"likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief withwhich he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from hisneat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had latelysuffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses,and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuousreaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts thathad provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town ofall improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two menwho were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch,and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionablecharacters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It isbut due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety wasprofessional, and it was only in such easily established standards ofevil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in thiscategory. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possibleexample, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pocketsof the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said JimWheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entirestranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equityresiding in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to winfrom Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none theless coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He wastoo much of a gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at best anuncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of thedealer.A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flatto the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who wasknown to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation thearmed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a youngwoman familiarly known as the "Duchess"; another who had won the titleof "Mother Shipton"; and "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robberand confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from thespectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when thegulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, theleader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden toreturn at the peril of their lives.As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in afew hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from MotherShipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. Thephilosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly toMother Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeatedstatements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to thealarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rodeforward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, heinsisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, "Five Spot," for thesorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not drawthe party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted hersomewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shiptoneyed the possessor of "Five Spot" with malevolence, and Uncle Billyincluded the whole party in one sweeping anathema.The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced theregenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offersome invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. Itwas distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the partysoon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills intothe dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow anddifficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon theground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the partyhalted.The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre,surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite,sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlookedthe valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp,had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely halfthe journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished; and the party were notequipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to hiscompanions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of"throwing up their hand before the game was played out." But they werefurnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place offood, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, itwas not long before they were more or less under its influence. UncleBilly passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, theDuchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst aloneremained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession whichrequired coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in hisown language, he "couldn't afford it." As he gazed at his recumbentfellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habitsof life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him.He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his handsand face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits,and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting hisweaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him.Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which,singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity forwhich he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose athousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky,ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow.And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of thenew-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as the"Innocent," of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before overa "little game," and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entirefortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth.After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculatorbehind the door and thus addressed him: "Tommy, you're a good littleman, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again." Hethen handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, andso made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiasticgreeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to PokerFlat to seek his fortune. "Alone?" No, not exactly alone; in fact(a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurstremember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the TemperanceHouse? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods hadobjected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to bemarried, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky itwas they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocentdelivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen,emerged from behind the pine-tree where she had been blushing unseen,and rode to the side of her lover.Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still lesswith propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was notfortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently tokick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy wassober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power thatwould not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simsonfrom delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact thatthere was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily,the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he wasprovided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by thediscovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. "Piney canstay with Mrs. Oakhurst," said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess,"and I can shift for myself."Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy frombursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled toretire up the caon until he could recover his gravity. There heconfided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg,contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returnedto the party, he found them seated by a fire--for the air hadgrown strangely chill and the sky overcast--in apparently amicableconversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlishfashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest andanimation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holdingforth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and MotherShipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. "Is this yer ad---d picnic?" said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed thesylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in theforeground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes thatdisturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for hefelt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rockedthe tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomyaisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs, wasset apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted they unaffectedlyexchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heardabove the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent MotherShipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidenceof simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire wasreplenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minuteswere asleep.Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed andcold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowingstrongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leaveit--snow!He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers,for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy hadbeen lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain anda curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had beentethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidlydisappearing in the snow.The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire withhis usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumberedpeacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; thevirgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as thoughattended by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanketover his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn.It came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes, that dazzled andconfused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appearedmagically changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up thepresent and future in two words--"Snowed in!"A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for theparty, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the feloniousfingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudencethey might last ten days longer. "That is," said Mr. Oakhurst,_sotto voce_ to the Innocent, "if you're willing to board us. If youain't--and perhaps you'd better not--you can wait till Uncle Billygets back with provisions." For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst couldnot bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so offeredthe hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentallystampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and MotherShipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection."They'll find out the truth about us _all_ when they find outanything," he added, significantly, "and there's no good frighteningthem now."Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal ofMr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforcedseclusion. "We'll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow'llmelt, and we'll all go back together." The cheerful gayety of theyoung man and Mr. Oakhurst's calm infected the others. The Innocent,with the aid of pine-boughs, extemporized a thatch for the rooflesscabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of theinterior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of thatprovincial maiden to their fullest extent. "I reckon now you're usedto fine things at Poker Flat," said Piney. The Duchess turned awaysharply to conceal something that reddened her cheeks throughtheir professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to"chatter." But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for thetrail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. Hestopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally revertedto the whiskey, which he had prudently _cachd_. "And yet it don'tsomehow sound like whiskey," said the gambler. It was not until hecaught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm andthe group around it that he settled to the conviction that it was"square fun."Whether Mr. Oakhurst had _cachd_ his cards with the whiskey assomething debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say.It was certain that, in Mother Shipton's words, he "didn't saycards once," during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by anaccordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from hispack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulationof this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctantmelodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pairof bone castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening wasreached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands,sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certaindefiant tone and Covenanter's swing to its chorus, rather than anydevotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who atlast joined in the refrain: "I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in His army." The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserablegroup, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in tokenof the vow.At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and thestars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whoseprofessional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possibleamount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehowmanaged to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excusedhimself to the Innocent by saying that he had "often been a weekwithout sleep." "Doing what?" asked Tom. "Poker!" replied Oakhurst,sententiously; "when a man gets a streak of luck--nigger-luck--hedon't get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continued thegambler, reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about itfor certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out whenit's going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad lucksince we left Poker Flat--you come along, and slap you get into it,too. If you can hold your cards right along, you're all right. For,"added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance-- "'I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in His army,'" The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtainedvalley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store ofprovisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities ofthat mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over thewintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But itrevealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut--a hopeless,uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores towhich the castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear airthe smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away.Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rockyfastness hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her lastvituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with acertain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informedthe Duchess. "Just you go out there and cuss, and see." She then setherself to the task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchesswere pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was asoothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the factthat she didn't swear and wasn't improper.When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of theaccordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by theflickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the achingvoid left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed byPiney--story-telling. Neither Mr., Oakhurst nor his female companionscaring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would havefailed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chancedupon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the_Iliad_. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of thatpoem--having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten thewords--in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest ofthat night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bullyand wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the caonseemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listenedwith quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in thefate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the"swift-footed Achilles."So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passedover the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and againfrom leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by daycloser around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they lookedfrom their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that toweredtwenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult toreplenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, nowhalf hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The loversturned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other's eyes, andwere happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing gamebefore him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumedthe care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton--once the strongest of theparty--seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day shecalled Oakhurst to her side. "I'm going," she said, in a voice ofquerulous weakness, "but don't say anything about it. Don't waken thekids. Take the bundle from under my head and open it." Mr. Oakhurstdid so. It contained Mother Shipton's rations for the last week,untouched. "Give 'em to the child," she said, pointing to the sleepingPiney. "You've starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what theycall it," said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and,turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer wasforgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to thesnow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside and showed him a pair ofsnow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. "There'sone chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to Piney;"but it's there," he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. "If you canreach there in two days she's safe." "And you?" asked Tom Simson."I'll stay here," was the curt reply.The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" saidthe Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompanyhim. "As far as the caon," he replied. He turned suddenly and kissedthe Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame and her trembling limbsrigid with amazement.Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and thewhirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that someone had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few dayslonger. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other'sfaces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting theposition of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around theDuchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. Thatnight the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder theprotecting pines, invaded the very hut.Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, whichgradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess creptcloser to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can youpray?" "No, dear," said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowingexactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney'sshoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purerpillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, theyfell asleep.The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts ofsnow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like white-winged birds,and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the riftedclouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain,all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantlemercifully flung from above.They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voicesand footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingersbrushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told,from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that hadsinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away,leaving them still locked in each other's arms.But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, theyfound the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. Itbore the following, written in pencil, in a firm hand: + BENEATH THIS TREE LIES THE BODY OF JOHN OAKHURST, WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850, AND HANDED IN HIS CHECKS ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850. + And pulseless and cold, with a derringer by his side and a bullet inhis heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he whowas at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of PokerFlat.
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