Openings in the Old Trail | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, [email protected].

OPENINGS IN THE OLD TRAIL
by Bret Harte

CONTENTS
OPENINGS IN THE OLD TRAIL
I. A MERCURY OF THE FOOT-HILLS II. COLONEL
STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF III. THE LANDLORD OF
THE BIG FLUME HOTEL IV. A BUCKEYE HOLLOW
INHERITANCE V. THE REINCARNATION OF SMITH VI. LANTY
FOSTER'S MISTAKE VII. AN ALI BABA OF THE SIERRAS VIII.
MISS PEGGY'S PROTEGES IX. THE GODDESS OF EXCELSIOR

OPENINGS IN THE OLD TRAIL
by Bret Harte

A MERCURY OF THE FOOT-HILLS
It was high hot noon on the Casket Ridge. Its very scant shade was
restricted to a few dwarf Scotch firs, and was so perpendicularly cast
that Leonidas Boone, seeking shelter from the heat, was obliged to
draw himself up under one of them, as if it were an umbrella.
Occasionally, with a boy's perversity, he permitted one bared foot to
protrude beyond the sharply marked shadow until the burning sun
forced him to draw it in again with a thrill of satisfaction. There was no
earthly reason why he had not sought the larger shadows of the
pine-trees which reared themselves against the Ridge on the slope
below him, except that he was a boy, and perhaps even more
superstitious and opinionated than most boys. Having got under this
tree with infinite care, he had made up his mind that he would not
move from it until its line of shade reached and touched a certain stone
on the trail near him! WHY he did this he did not know, but he clung to
his sublime purpose with the courage and tenacity of a youthful
Casabianca. He was cramped, tickled by dust and fir sprays; he was
supremely uncomfortable--but he stayed! A woodpecker was
monotonously tapping in an adjacent pine, with measured intervals of
silence, which he always firmly believed was a certain telegraphy of
the bird's own making; a green-and-gold lizard flashed by his foot to
stiffen itself suddenly with a rigidity equal to his own. Still HE stirred
not. The shadow gradually crept nearer the mystic stone--and touched it.
He sprang up, shook himself, and prepared to go about his business.
This was simply an errand to the post-office at the cross-roads, scarcely
a mile from his father's house. He was already halfway there. He had
taken only the better part of one hour for this desultory journey!
However, he now proceeded on his way, diverging only to follow a
fresh rabbit-track a few hundred yards, to note that the animal had

doubled twice against the wind, and then, naturally, he was obliged to
look closely for other tracks to determine its pursuers. He paused also,
but only for a moment, to rap thrice on the trunk of the pine where the
woodpecker was at work, which he knew would make it cease work for
a time--as it did. Having thus renewed his relations with nature, he
discovered that one of the letters he was taking to the post-office had
slipped in some mysterious way from the bosom of his shirt, where he
carried them, past his waist-band into his trouser-leg, and was about to
make a casual delivery of itself on the trail. This caused him to take out
his letters and count them, when he found one missing. He had been
given four letters to post--he had only three. There was a big one in his
father's handwriting, two indistinctive ones of his mother's, and a
smaller one of his sister's--THAT was gone! Not at all disconcerted, he
calmly retraced his steps, following his own tracks minutely, with a
grim face and a distinct delight in the process, while
looking--perfunctorily--for the letter. In the midst of this slow progress
a bright idea struck him. He walked back to the fir-tree where he had
rested, and found the lost missive. It had slipped out of his shirt when
he shook himself. He was not particularly pleased. He knew that
nobody