The Mystery of Metropolisville | Page 2

of speculative madness. Its history resembles the history of
other Western towns of the sort so strongly, that I should not take the
trouble to write about it, nor ask you to take the trouble to read about it,
if the history of the town did not involve also the history of certain
human lives--of a tragedy that touched deeply more than one soul. And
what is history worth but for its human interest? The history of Athens
is not of value on account of its temples and statues, but on account of
its men and women. And though the "Main street" of Metropolisville is
now a country road where the dog-fennel blooms almost undisturbed
by comers and goers, though the plowshare remorselessly turns over
the earth in places where corner lots were once sold for a hundred
dollars the front foot, and though the lot once sacredly set apart (on the

map) as "Depot Ground" is now nothing but a potato-patch, yet there
are hearts on which the brief history of Metropolisville has left traces
ineffaceable by sunshine or storm, in time or eternity.

CHAPTER I.
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE STAGECOACH.
"Git up!"
No leader of a cavalry charge ever put more authority into his tones
than did Whisky Jim, as he drew the lines over his four bay horses in
the streets of Red Owl Landing, a village two years old, boasting three
thousand inhabitants, and a certain prospect of having four thousand a
month later.
Even ministers, poets, and writers of unworldly romances are
sometimes influenced by mercenary considerations. But stage-drivers
are entirely consecrated to their high calling. Here was Whisky Jim, in
the very streets of Red Owl, in the spring of the year 1856, when
money was worth five and six per cent a month on bond and mortgage,
when corner lots doubled in value over night, when everybody was
frantically trying to swindle everybody else--here was Whisky Jim,
with the infatuation of a life-long devotion to horse-flesh, utterly
oblivious to the chances of robbing green emigrants which a season of
speculation affords. He was secure from the infection. You might have
shown him a gold-mine under the very feet of his wheel-horses, and he
could not have worked it twenty-four hours. He had an itching palm,
which could be satisfied with nothing but the "ribbons" drawn over the
backs of a four-in-hand.
"Git up!"
The coach moved away--slowly at first--from the front door of the large,
rectangular, unpainted Red Owl Hotel, dragging its wheels heavily
through the soft turf of a Main street from which the cotton-wood trees
had been cut down, but in which the stumps were still standing, and

which remained as innocent of all pavement as when, three years
before, the chief whose name it bore, loaded his worldly goods upon
the back of his oldest and ugliest wife, slung his gun over his shoulder,
and started mournfully away from the home of his fathers, which he,
shiftless fellow, had bargained away to the white man for an annuity of
powder and blankets, and a little money, to be quickly spent for whisky.
And yet, I might add digressively, there is comfort in the saddest
situations. Even the venerable Red Owl bidding adieu to the home of
his ancestors found solace in the sweet hope of returning under
favorable circumstances to scalp the white man's wife and children.
"Git up, thair! G'lang!" The long whip swung round and cracked
threateningly over the haunches of the leaders, making them start
suddenly as the coach went round a corner and dipped into a hole at the
same instant, nearly throwing the driver, and the passenger who was
enjoying the outride with him, from their seats.
"What a hole!" said the passenger, a studious-looking young man, with
an entomologist's tin collecting-box slung over his shoulders.
The driver drew a long breath, moistened his lips, and said in a cool
and aggravatingly deliberate fashion:
"That air blamed pollywog puddle sold las' week fer tew thaousand."
[Illustration: THE SUPERIOR BEING.]
"Dollars?" asked the young man.
Jim gave him an annihilating look, and queried: "Didn' think I meant
tew thaousand acorns, did ye?"
"It's an awful price," said the abashed passenger, speaking as one might
in the presence of a superior being.
Jim was silent awhile, and then resumed in the same slow tone, but
with something of condescension mixed with it:

"Think so, do ye? Mebbe so, stranger. Fool what bought that tadpole
lake done middlin' well in disposin' of it, how-sumdever."
Here the Superior Being came to a dead pause, and waited to be
questioned.
"How's that?" asked the young man.
After a proper interval of meditation, Jim said: "Sol' it this week. Tuck
jest twice what he invested in his frog-fishery."
"Four thousand?" said the passenger