Selected Stories of Bret Harte | Page 9

following spring, and to invite
one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck,
who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that
this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical
in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for
by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolve
could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority
meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it.
And it did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow
lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and
every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a

tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down
giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog
had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned.
"Water put the gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. "It been here
once and will be here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly
leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring
Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber,
and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the
fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered camp. When
the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was
gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner;
but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had
disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from
the bank recalled them.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they said,
a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did
anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly
crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his
arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the
child was cold and pulseless. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened
his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying
too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he repeated;
"he's a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me
now;" and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man
is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that
flows forever to the unknown sea.

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of November, 1850, he was

conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night.
Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he
approached, and exchanged 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 these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was
another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected;
"likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which
he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat
boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately suffered
the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a
prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction,
quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked
it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper
persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were
then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and
temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable characters.
I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex,
however, to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was
only in such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat
ventured to sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his
pockets of the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said Jim
Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire
stranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity
residing in the breasts