The Night Doings At 'Deadman's'
A Story that is UntrueIt was a singularly sharp night, and clear as the heart of a diamond.Clear nights have a trick of being keen. In darkness you may be cold andnot know it; when you see, you suffer. This night was bright enough tobite like a serpent. The moon was moving mysteriously along behind thegiant pines crowning the South Mountain, striking a cold sparkle fromthe crusted snow, and bringing out against the black west and ghostlyoutlines of the Coast Range, beyond which lay the invisible Pacific. Thesnow had piled itself, in the open spaces along the bottom of the gulch,into long ridges that seemed to heave, and into hills that appeared totoss and scatter spray. The spray was sunlight, twice reflected: dashedonce from the moon, once from the snow.In this snow many of the shanties of the abandoned mining camp wereobliterated (a sailor might have said they had gone down), and atirregular intervals it had overtopped the tall trestles which had oncesupported a river called a flume; for, of course, 'flume' is flumen.Among the advantages of which the mountains cannot deprive thegold-hunter is the privilege of speaking Latin. He says of his deadneighbour, 'He has gone up the flume.' This is not a bad way to say,'His life has returned to the Fountain of Life.'While putting on its armour against the assaults of the wind, thissnow had neglected no coign of vantage. Snow pursued by the wind is notwholly unlike a retreating army. In the open field it ranges itself inranks and battalions; where it can get a foothold it makes a stand;where it can take cover it does so. You may see whole platoons of snowcowering behind a bit of broken wall. The devious old road, hewn out ofthe mountainside, was full of it. Squadron upon squadron had struggledto escape by this line, when suddenly pursuit had ceased. A moredesolate and dreary spot than Deadman's Gulch in a winter midnight it isimpossible to imagine. Yet Mr. Hiram Beeson elected to live there, thesole inhabitant.Away up the side of the North Mountain his little pine-log shantyprojected from its single pane of glass a long, thin beam of light, andlooked not altogether unlike a black beetle fastened to the hillsidewith a bright new pin. Within it sat Mr. Beeson himself, before aroaring fire, staring into its hot heart as if he had never before seensuch a thing in all his life. He was not a comely man. He was grey; hewas ragged and slovenly in his attire; his face was wan and haggard; hiseyes were too bright. As to his age, if one had attempted to guess it,one might have said forty-seven, then corrected himself and saidseventy-four. He was really twenty-eight. Emaciated he was; as much,perhaps, as he dared be, with a needy undertaker at Bentley's Flat and anew and enterprising coroner at Sonora. Poverty and zeal are an upperand a nether millstone. It is dangerous to make a third in that kind ofsandwich.As Mr. Beeson sat there, with his ragged elbows on his raggedknees, his lean jaws buried in his lean hands, and with no apparentintention of going to bed, he looked as if the slightest movement wouldtumble him to pieces. Yet during the last hour he had winked no fewerthan three times.There was a sharp rapping at the door. A rap at that time of nightand in that weather might have surprised an ordinary mortal who haddwelt two years in the gulch without seeing a human face, and could notfail to know that the country was impassable; but Mr. Beeson did not somuch as pull his eyes out of the coals. And even when the door waspushed open he only shrugged a little more closely into himself, as onedoes who is expecting something that he would rather not see. You mayobserve this movement in women when, in a mortuary chapel, the coffin isborne up the aisle behind them.But when a long old man in a blanket overcoat, his head tied up ina handkerchief and nearly his entire face in a muffler, wearing greengoggles and with a complexion of glittering whiteness where it could beseen, strode silently into the room, laying a hard, gloved hand on Mr.Beeson's shoulder, the latter so far forgot himself as to look up withan appearance of no small astonishment; whomever he may have beenexpecting, he had evidently not counted on meeting anyone like this.Nevertheless, the sight of this unexpected guest produced in Mr. Beesonthe following sequence: a feeling of astonishment; a sense ofgratification; a sentiment of profound good will. Rising from his seat,he took the knotty hand from his shoulder, and shook it up and down witha fervour quite unaccountable; for in the old man's aspect was nothingto attract, much to repel. However, attraction is too general a propertyfor repulsion to be without it. The most attractive object in the worldis the face we instinctively cover with a cloth. When it becomes stillmore attractive -- fascinating -- we put seven feet of earth above it.'Sir,' said Mr. Beeson, releasing the old man's hand, which fellpassively against his thigh with a quiet clack, 'it is an extremelydisagreeable night. Pray be seated; I am very glad to see you.'Mr. Beeson spoke with an easy good breeding that one would hardlyhave expected, considering all things. Indeed, the contrast between hisappearance and his manner was sufficiently surprising to be one of thecommonest of social phenomena in the mines. The old man advanced a steptoward the fire, glowing cavernously in the green goggles. Mr. Beesonresumed.'You bet your life I am!'Mr. Beeson's elegance was not too refined; it had made reasonableconcessions to local taste. He paused a moment, letting his eyes dropfrom the muffled head of his guest, down along the row of mouldy buttonsconfining the blanket overcoat, to the greenish cowhide boots powderedwith snow, which had begun to melt and run along the floor in littlerills. He took an inventory of his guest, and appeared satisfied. Whowould not have been? Then he continued:'The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in keeping with mysurroundings; but I shall esteem myself highly favoured if it is yourpleasure to partake of it, rather than seek better at Bentley's Flat.'With a singular refinement of hospitable humility Mr. Beeson spokeas if a sojourn in his warm cabin on such a night, as compared withwalking fourteen miles up to the throat in snow with a cutting crust,would be an intolerable hardship. By way of reply, his guest unbuttonedthe blanket overcoat. The host laid fresh fuel on the fire, swept thehearth with the tail of a wolf, and added:'But I think you'd better skedaddle.'The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his broad soles tothe heat without removing his hat. In the mines the hat is seldomremoved except when the boots are. Without further remark Mr. Beesonalso seated himself in a chair which had been a barrel, and which,retaining much of its original character, seemed to have been designedwith a view to preserving his dust if it should please him to crumble.For a moment there was silence; then, from somewhere among the pines,came the snarling yelp of a coyote; and simultaneously the door rattledin its frame. There was no other connection between the two incidentsthan that the coyote has an aversion to storms, and the wind was rising;yet there seemed somehow a kind of supernatural conspiracy between thetwo, and Mr. Beeson shuddered with a vague sense of terror. He recoveredhimself in a moment and again addressed his guest.'There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, andthen if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over the worst ofthe way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike -- I dare say youknow the place.'The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that hedid, but that he did indeed.'Two years ago,' began Mr. Beeson, 'I, with two companions,occupied this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred we left,along with the rest. In ten hours the gulch was deserted. That evening,however, I discovered I had left behind me a valuable pistol (that isit) and returned for it, passing the night here alone, as I have passedevery night since. I must explain that a few days before we left, ourChinese domestic had the misfortune to die while the ground was frozenso hard that it was impossible to dig a grave in the usual way. So, onthe day of our hasty departure, we cut through the floor there, and gavehim such burial as we could. But before putting him down I had theextremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to that beamabove his grave, where you may see it at this moment, or, preferably,when warmth has given you leisure for observation.'I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death fromnatural causes? I had, of course, nothing to do with that, and returnedthrough no irresistible attraction, or morbid fascination, but onlybecause I had forgotten a pistol. That is clear to you, is it not, sir?'The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a man of few words,if any. Mr. Beeson continued:'According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a kite: he cannot goto heaven without a tail. Well, to shorten this tedious story -- which,however, I thought it my duty to relate -- on that night, while I washere alone and thinking of anything but him, that Chinaman came back forhis pigtail.'He did not get it.'At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank silence. Perhaps hewas fatigued by the unwonted exercise of speaking; perhaps he hadconjured up a memory that demanded his undivided attention. The wind wasnow fairly abroad, and the pines along the mountainside sang withsingular distinctness. The narrator continued:'You say you do not see much in that, and I must confess I do notmyself.'But he keeps coming!'There was another long silence, during which both stared into thefire without the movement of a limb. Then Mr. Beeson broke out, almostfiercely, fixing his eyes on what he could see of the impassive face ofhis auditor:'Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no intention of troublinganyone for advice. You will pardon me, I am sure' -- here he becamesingularly persuasive -- 'but I have ventured to nail that pigtail fast,and have assumed that somewhat onerous obligation of guarding it. So itis quite impossible to act on your considerate suggestion.'Do you play me for a Modoc?'Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrust thisindignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was as if he hadstruck him on the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was aprotest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for a coward -- to beplayed for a Modoc: these two expressions are one. Sometimes it is aChinaman. Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question frequentlyaddressed to the ear of the suddenly dead.Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment's pause,during which the wind thundered in the chimney like the sound of clodsupon a coffin, he resumed:'But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life of thelast two years has been a mistake -- a mistake that corrects itself; yousee how. The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground is frozen,too. But you are very welcome. You may say at Bentley's -- but that isnot important. It was very tough to cut; they braid silk into theirpigtails. Kwaagh.'Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. Hislast word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath, opened hiseyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep sleep.What he said was this:'They are swiping my dust!'Then the aged stranger, who had not uttered one word since hisarrival, arose from his seat and deliberately laid off his outerclothing, looking as angular in his flannels as the late SignorinaFestorazzi, an Irish woman, six feet in height, and weighing fifty-sixpounds, who used to exhibit herself in her chemise to the people of SanFrancisco. He then crept into one of the 'bunks,' having first placed arevolver in easy reach, according to the custom of the country. Thisrevolver he took from a shelf, and it was the one which Mr. Beeson hadmentioned as that for which he had returned to the gulch two years before.In a few moments Mr. Beeson awoke, and seeing that his guest hadretired he did likewise. But before doing so he approached the long,plaited wisp of pagan hair and gave it a powerful tug, to assure himselfthat it was fast and firm. The two beds-mere shelves covered withblankets not overclean-faced each other from opposite sides of the room,the little square trap-door that had given access to the Chinaman'sgrave being midway between. This, by the way, was crossed by a doublerow of spikeheads. In his resistance to the supernatural, Mr. Beeson hadnot disdained the use of material precautions.The fire was now low, the flames burning bluely and petulantly,with occasional flashes, projecting spectral shadows on the walls --shadows that moved mysteriously about, now dividing, now uniting. Theshadow of the pendent queue, however, kept moodily apart, near the roofat the farther end of the room, looking like a note of admiration. Thesong of the pines outside had now risen to the dignity of a triumphalhymn. In the pauses the silence was dreadful.It was during one of these intervals that the trap in the floorbegan to lift. Slowly and steadily it rose, and slowly and steadily rosethe swaddled head of the old man in the bunk to observe it. Then, with aclap that shook the house to its foundation, it was thrown clean back,where it lay with its unsightly spikes pointing threateningly upward.Mr. Beeson awoke, and without rising, pressed his fingers into his eyes.He shuddered; his teeth chattered. His guest was now reclining on oneelbow, watching the proceedings with the goggles that glowed like lamps.Suddenly a howling gust of wind swooped down the chimney,scattering ashes and smoke in all directions, for a moment obscuringeverything. When the fire-light again illuminated the room there wasseen, sitting gingerly on the edge of a stool by the hearth-side, aswarthy little man of prepossessing appearance and dressed withfaultless taste, nodding to the old man with a friendly and engaging smile.'From San Francisco, evidently,' thought Mr. Beeson, who havingsomewhat recovered from his fright was groping his way to a solution ofthe evening's events.But now another actor appeared upon the scene. Out of the squareblack hole in the middle of the floor protruded the head of the departedChinaman, his glassy eyes turned upward in their angular slits andfastened on the dangling queue above with a look of yearningunspeakable. Mr. Beeson groaned, and again spread his hands upon hisface. A mild odour of opium pervaded the place. The phantom, clad onlyin a short blue tunic quilted and silken but covered with grave-mould,rose slowly, as if pushed by a weak spiral spring. Its knees were at thelevel of the floor, when with a quick upward impulse like the silentleaping of a flame it grasped the queue with both hands, drew up itsbody and took the tip in its horrible yellow teeth. To this it clung ina seeming frenzy, grimacing ghastly, surging and plunging from side toside in its efforts to disengage its property from the beam, bututtering no sound. It was like a corpse artificially convulsed by meansof a galvanic battery. The contrast between its superhuman activity andits silence was no less than hideous!Mr. Beeson cowered in his bed. The swarthy little gentlemanuncrossed his legs, beat an impatient tattoo with the toe of his bootand consulted a heavy gold watch. The old man sat erect and quietly laidhold of the revolver.Bang!Like a body cut from the gallows the Chinaman plumped into theblack hole below, carrying his tail in his teeth. The trap-door turnedover, shutting down with a snap. The swarthy little gentleman from SanFrancisco sprang nimbly from his perch, caught something in the air withhis hat, as a boy catches a butterfly, and vanished into the chimney asif drawn up by suction.From away somewhere in the outer darkness floated in through theopen door a faint, far cry -- a long, sobbing wail, as of a childdeath-strangled in the desert, or a lost soul borne away by theAdversary. It may have been the coyote.In the early days of the following spring a party of miners ontheir way to new diggings passed along the gulch, and straying throughthe deserted shanties found in one of them the body of Hiram Beeson,stretched upon a bunk, with a bullet hole through the heart. The ballhad evidently been fired from the opposite side of the room, for in oneof the oaken beams overhead was a shallow blue dint, where it had strucka knot and been deflected downward to the breast of its victim. Stronglyattached to the same beam was what appeared to be an end of a rope ofbraided horsehair, which had been cut by the bullet in its passage tothe knot. Nothing else of interest was noted, excepting a suit of mouldyand incongruous clothing, several articles of which were afterwardidentified by respectable witnesses as those in which certain deceasedcitizen's of Deadman's had been buried years before. But it is not easyto understand how that could be, unless, indeed, the garments had beenworn as a disguise by Death himself -- which is hardly credible.
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