Down the Mother Lode | Page 6

time called Pino.
Nothing remains of Auburn station. But the road bed of the old railway
is still to be found in certain wooded tracts which have not given way
to the fruit ranches; and the highway from Fair Oaks into Folsom
follows the old cuts and grades for several miles.
In the days preceding and immediately following the discovery of gold
in California, building was very difficult. Every stick of lumber in my
grandfather's house came by ship "around the Horn," and the fruit trees
grape vines, flowers, even bees, for his lovely garden: were all sent
from Europe.
In the smaller settlements there was seldom more than one large
building which could be used for social purposes, and this was often
the card room or bar room in connection with the hotel of the town.
So here is the tale that was told of one Sunday in Stinson's bar room, in
the late '50s at Auburn Station:
They tried to give a ball once a year at Stinson's. Persons came to it
from 30 miles about, particularly if they were women, and every
woman divided each dance among four men. When a man invited a
lady to come to a dance, in many instances he insisted upon the
privilege of buying her a silken gown and slippers to wear, and this was

not considered unusual, nor was she in any way obligated to him for it.
There were so few "ladies" that they were treated as little short of
divinities.
This Saturday night there had been no dance, and the men at Gentleman
Jack's table at Stinson's had played "three-card monte" on through the
dawn and the sunrise, and into broad daylight. The door was pushed
open, letting in a rush of cool, sweet air which guttered the candles set
in old bottles, and drove the heavy fog of tobacco smoke toward the
blackened ceiling. A voice boomed forth:
"Come on, now, gentlemen. Two ladies have come with posies in tall
silver vases and a white altar cloth for this table. The preacher's coming
over from Folsom, and there will be church held here in one hour. He's
a busy man today. An infant will be given a license to travel the long
and uncertain road to heaven, and a pair of happy lovers will be made
one."
"One - unhappy pair."
It's William Duncan. He's intoxicated again," drawled Gentleman Jack,
stretching his graceful length and smiling at a long, aristocratic figure
crouched over a small table in a corner. "His last strike turned out to be
only a small pocket, and so he drowns his woes in liquor, as usual." He
bowed to his recent card partners. "Gentlemen, I am sincerely sorry for
your losses this night. I shall sleep an hour before the holy man arrives.
He sauntered out, stuffing a buckskin bag of gold dust into his pocket.
"There lies my pocket - in his pocket," muttered Duncan. "No, Stinson"
raising his voice authoritatively, "I shall not go out. It is my desire to
pray for my sins today * * * and there has a letter come from overseas
which I must read - if I can. If I can - "
In an hour the room was cleared of smoke, greasy cards, poker chips
and empty bottles. The bar was in a small room apart. The poker table,
supplemented with a box, was covered with a handsome altar cloth
flanked by huge silver candlesticks and vases which had been carried
across the plains. Every individual in the community came to church
and stayed afterward for the christening. At least twenty men expressed
a wish to be god-father to the baby and the proud mother accepted all
offers. When the christening was over, William Duncan lurched to his
feet, his high-bred face full of tenderness, his long-fingered, fine
grained hands poised over the rosy child, while he quoted:

"May time who sheds his blight o'er all, And daily dooms some joy to
death. O'er thee let years so gently fall, They shall not crush one flower
beneath!"
"Ah, 'here comes the bride!' 'All the world's a stage!' Let us on with the
next scene," and he reeled back to his little table in the corner.
The kissing and congratulations after the wedding were interrupted by
the shouts of a man on horseback, and riding hard.
"Where's the minister? Send for Doc Miller! That beast of a Mexican
horse thief - he' shot Jim Muldoon down at Dolton's Bar. Jim caught
he's stealing his horse and I'm afraid the dirty greaser's killed him. We
got 'im, though, before he skipped. Somebody go down to Rattlesnake
for Doc Miller. They're bringing 'em both here."
When Doc Miller saw Muldoon stretched on the barroom table, the
same table which