Sally Dows | Page 3

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SALLY DOWS
by Bret Harte

CONTENTS
SALLY DOWS
THE CONSPIRACY OF MRS. BUNKER
THE TRANSFORMATION OF BUCKEYE CAMP
THEIR UNCLE FROM CALIFORNIA

SALLY DOWS.
PROLOGUE.
THE LAST GUN AT SNAKE RIVER.
What had been in the cool gray of that summer morning a dewy

country lane, marked only by a few wagon tracks that never encroached
upon its grassy border, and indented only by the faint footprints of a
crossing fox or coon, was now, before high noon, already crushed,
beaten down, and trampled out of all semblance of its former
graciousness. The heavy springless jolt of gun-carriage and caisson had
cut deeply through the middle track; the hoofs of crowding cavalry had
struck down and shredded the wayside vines and bushes to bury them
under a cloud of following dust, and the short, plunging double-quick
of infantry had trodden out this hideous ruin into one dusty level chaos.
Along that rudely widened highway useless muskets, torn
accoutrements, knapsacks, caps, and articles of clothing were scattered,
with here and there the larger wrecks of broken-down wagons, roughly
thrown aside into the ditch to make way for the living current. For two
hours the greater part of an army corps had passed and repassed that
way, but, coming or going, always with faces turned eagerly towards an
open slope on the right which ran parallel to the lane. And yet nothing
was to be seen there. For two hours a gray and bluish cloud, rent and
shaken with explosion after explosion, but always closing and
thickening after each discharge, was all that had met their eyes.
Nevertheless, into this ominous cloud solid moving masses of men in
gray or blue had that morning melted away, or emerged from it only as
scattered fragments that crept, crawled, ran, or clung together in groups,
to be followed, and overtaken in the rolling vapor.
But for the last half hour the desolated track had stretched empty and
deserted. While there was no cessation of the rattling, crackling, and
detonations on the fateful slope beyond, it had still been silent. Once or
twice it had been crossed by timid, hurrying wings, and frightened and
hesitating little feet, or later by skulkers and stragglers from the main
column who were tempted to enter it from the hedges and bushes where
they had been creeping and hiding. Suddenly a prolonged yell from the
hidden slope beyond--the nearest sound that had yet been heard from
that ominous distance--sent them to cover again. It was followed by the
furious galloping of horses