The Luck of Roaring Camp | Page 7

When
everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and
whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still
whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree he
paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway
down to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and
knocked at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said

Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!"
replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause--an
embarrassing one--Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had
recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with
it,--the d--d little cuss," he said, and retired.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp
afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was
a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her
infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an
animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of
providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the
argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which
discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed
that they should send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty
miles,--where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky
suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident
that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would
for a moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows
at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us." A
disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as
in other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection.
It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept
Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they didn't
want any more of the other kind." This unkind allusion to the defunct
mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the
first symptom of the camp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing.
Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a
possible successor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly
that he and "Jinny"--the mammal before alluded to--could manage to
rear the child. There was something original, independent, and heroic
about the plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain
articles were sent for to Sacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he
pressed a bag of gold- dust into the expressman's hand, "the best that
can be got,--lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,--d--n the

cost!" Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate
of the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies.
Nature took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere
of the Sierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that
ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found
food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk
to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the
latter and good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been
father and mother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing the
helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us."
By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name
became apparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid,"
"Stumpy's Boy," "The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and
even by Kentuck's endearing diminutive of "The d--d little cuss." But
these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last
dismissed under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are
generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby
had brought "the luck" to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they
had been successful. "Luck" was the name agreed upon, with the prefix
of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the
mother, and the father was unknown. "It's better," said the
philosophical Oakhurst, "to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck,
and start him fair." A day was accordingly set apart for the christening.
What was meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine who has
already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring
Camp. The master of ceremonies was one "Boston," a noted wag, and
the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness. This
ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a burlesque of the
Church service, with pointed local allusions. The choir was properly
trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the
procession had marched to the grove with music and banners, and the
child had been