The Complete Works of Artemus Ward, part 4 | Page 8

Blaze rendered them such signal
service in his capacity of agent that they were very sorry when he
tendered his resignation.
"You are some sixteen hundred dollars behind in your accounts, Mr.
Blaze," said the President, "but in view of your faithful and efficient
services we shall throw off eight hundred dollars off that amount."
Mr. Blaze seemed touched by this generosity. A tear stood in his eye
and his bosom throbbed audibly.
"You WILL throw off eight hundred dollars--you WILL?" he at last
cried, seizing the President's hand and pressing it passionately to his
lips.
"I will," returned the President.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Blaze, "I'm a gentleman, I AM, you bet! And I

won't allow no Stage Company to surpass me in politeness. I'LL
THROW OFF THE OTHER EIGHT HUNDRED, AND WE'LL CALL
IT SQUARE! No gratitude, sir--no thanks; it is my duty."
. . . .
I get back to San Francisco in a few weeks, and am to start home
Overland from here.
The distance from Sacramento to Atchison, Kansas, by the Overland
stage route, is 2200 miles, but you can happily accomplish a part of the
journey by railroad. The Pacific Railroad id completed twelve miles to
Folsom, leaving only 2188 miles to go by stage. This breaks the
monotony; but as it is midwinter and as there are well substantiated
reports of the Piute savages being in one of their sprightly moods when
they scalp people, I do not I may say that I do not leave the Capital of
California in a light-hearted and joyous manner. But "leaves have their
time to fall," and I have my time to leave, which is now.
We ride all day and all night, and ascend and descend some of the most
frightful hills I ever saw. We make Johnson's Pass, which is 6752 feet
high, about two o'clock in the morning, and go down the great
Kingsbury grade with locked wheels. The driver, with whom I sit
outside, informs me, as we slowly roll down this fearful mountain road,
which looks down on either side into an appalling ravine, that he has
met accidents in his time, and cost the California Stage Company a
great deal of money; "because," he says, "juries is agin us on principle,
and every man who sues us is sure to recover. But it will never be so
agin, not with ME, you bet."
"How is that?" I said.
It was frightfully dark. It was snowing withal, and notwithstanding the
brakes were kept hard down, the coach slewed wildly, often fairly
touching the brink of the black precipice.
"How is that?" I said.
"Why, you see," he replied, "that corpses never sue for damages, but
maimed people do. And the next time I have a overturn I shall go round
and keerfully examine the passengers. Them as is dead I shall let alone;
but them as is mutilated I shall finish with the king-bolt! Dead folks
don't sue. They ain't on it."
Thus with anecdote did this driver cheer me up.
4.5. WASHOE.

We reach Carson City about nine o'clock in the morning. It is the
capital of the silver-producing territory of Nevada.
They shoot folks here somewhat, and the law is rather partial than
otherwise to first-class murderers.
I visit the territorial Prison, and the Warden points out the prominent
convicts to me thus:
"This man's crime was horse-stealing. He is here for life."
"This man is in for murder. He is here for three years."
But shooting isn't as popular in Nevada as it once was. A few years
since they used to have a dead man for breakfast every morning. A
reformed desperado told my that he supposed he had killed men
enough to stock a graveyard. "A feeling of remorse," he said,
"sometimes comes over me! But I'm an altered man now. I hain't killed
a man for over two weeks! What'll yer poison yourself with?" he added,
dealing a resonant blow on the bar.
There used to live near Carson City a notorious desperado, who never
visited town without killing somebody. He would call for liquor at
some drinking-house, and if anybody declined joining him he would at
once commence shooting. But one day he shot a man too many. Going
into the St. Nicholas drinking-house he asked the company present to
join him in a North American drink. One individual was rash enough to
refuse. With a look of sorrow rather than anger the desperado revealed
his revolver, and said, "Good God! MUST I kill a man every time I
come to Carson?" and so saying he fired and killed the individual on
the spot. But this was the last murder the bloodthirsty miscreant ever
committed, for the aroused citizens pursued him with rifles and shot
him