A Ward of Colonel Starbottle's

"A Ward of Colonel Starbottle's" is a short story by Bret Harte that revolves around themes of love, social class, and the complexities of human relationships in the American West. The narrative follows Colonel Starbottle, a colorful and charismatic character, as he navigates the challenges of caring for his ward, a young woman named Miss Isabel from a respectable family. The story explores the interactions between the Colonel, his ward, and other characters in their small community, blending humor and poignant moments to highlight the contrasts between societal expectations and individual desires. Through engaging storytelling, Harte captures the spirit of frontier life while delving into the intricacies of personal connections.

• Short story

								
"The kernel seems a little off color to-day," said the barkeeper as
he replaced the whiskey decanter, and gazed reflectively after the
departing figure of Colonel Starbottle.

"I didn't notice anything," said a bystander; "he passed the time o' day
civil enough to me."

"Oh, he's allus polite enough to strangers and wimmin folk even when he
is that way; it's only his old chums, or them ez like to be thought so,
that he's peppery with. Why, ez to that, after he'd had that quo'll with
his old partner, Judge Pratt, in one o' them spells, I saw him the next
minit go half a block out of his way to direct an entire stranger; and
ez for wimmin!--well, I reckon if he'd just got a head drawn on a man,
and a woman spoke to him, he'd drop his battery and take off his hat to
her. No--ye can't judge by that!"

And perhaps in his larger experience the barkeeper was right. He might
have added, too, that the colonel, in his general outward bearing and
jauntiness, gave no indication of his internal irritation. Yet he was
undoubtedly in one of his "spells," suffering from a moody cynicism
which made him as susceptible of affront as he was dangerous in
resentment.

Luckily, on this particular morning he reached his office and entered
his private room without any serious rencontre. Here he opened his desk,
and arranging his papers, he at once set to work with grim persistency.
He had not been occupied for many minutes before the door opened to Mr.
Pyecroft--one of a firm of attorneys who undertook the colonel's office
work.

"I see you are early to work, Colonel," said Mr. Pyecroft cheerfully.

"You see, sir," said the colonel, correcting him with a slow
deliberation that boded no good--"you see a Southern gentleman--blank
it!--who has stood at the head of his profession for thirty-five years,
obliged to work like a blank n*gger, sir, in the dirty squabbles of
psalm-singing Yankee traders, instead of--er--attending to the affairs
of--er--legislation!"

"But you manage to get pretty good fees out of it--Colonel?" continued
Pyecroft, with a laugh.

"Fees, sir! Filthy shekels! and barely enough to satisfy a debt of
honor with one hand, and wipe out a tavern score for the entertainment
of--er--a few lady friends with the other!"

This allusion to his losses at poker, as well as an oyster supper
given to the two principal actresses of the "North Star Troupe," then
performing in the town, convinced Mr. Pyecroft that the colonel was in
one of his "moods," and he changed the subject.

"That reminds me of a little joke that happened in Sacramento last week.
You remember Dick Stannard, who died a year ago--one of your friends?"

"I have yet to learn," interrupted the colonel, with the same deadly
deliberation, "what right HE--or ANYBODY--had to intimate that he
held such a relationship with me. Am I to understand, sir, that
he--er--publicly boasted of it?"

"Don't know!" resumed Pyecroft hastily; "but it don't matter, for if he
wasn't a friend it only makes the joke bigger. Well, his widow didn't
survive him long, but died in the States t'other day, leavin' the
property in Sacramento--worth about three thousand dollars--to
her little girl, who is at school at Santa Clara. The question of
guardianship came up, and it appears that the widow--who only knew you
through her husband--had, some time before her death, mentioned YOUR
name in that connection! He! he!"

"What!" said Colonel Starbottle, starting up.

"Hold on!" said Pyecroft hilariously. "That isn't all! Neither the
executors nor the probate judge knew you from Adam, and the Sacramento
bar, scenting a good joke, lay low and said nothing. Then the old fool
judge said that 'as you appeared to be a lawyer, a man of mature years,
and a friend of the family, you were an eminently fit person, and ought
to be communicated with'--you know his hifalutin' style. Nobody says
anything. So that the next thing you'll know you'll get a letter from
that executor asking you to look after that kid. Ha! ha! The boys said
they could fancy they saw you trotting around with a ten year old girl
holding on to your hand, and the Senorita Dolores or Miss Bellamont
looking on! Or your being called away from a poker deal some night by
the infant, singing, 'Gardy, dear gardy, come home with me now, the
clock in the steeple strikes one!' And think of that old fool judge not
knowing you! Ha! ha!"

A study of Colonel Starbottle's face during this speech would have
puzzled a better physiognomist than Mr. Pyecroft. His first look of
astonishment gave way to an empurpled confusion, from which a single
short Silenus-like chuckle escaped, but this quickly changed again into
a dull coppery indignation, and, as Pyecroft's laugh continued, faded
out into a sallow rigidity in which his murky eyes alone seemed to keep
what was left of his previous high color. But what was more singular,
in spite of his enforced calm, something of his habitual old-fashioned
loftiness and oratorical exaltation appeared to be returning to him as
he placed his hand on his inflated breast and faced Pyceroft.

"The ignorance of the executor of Mrs. Stannard and the--er--probate
judge," he began slowly, "may be pardonable, Mr. Pyecroft, since his
Honor would imply that, although unknown to HIM personally, I am at
least amicus curiae in this question of--er--guardianship. But I am
grieved--indeed I may say shocked--Mr. Pyecroft, that the--er--last
sacred trust of a dying widow--perhaps the holiest trust that can
be conceived by man--the care and welfare of her helpless orphaned
girl--should be made the subject of mirth, sir, by yourself and the
members of the Sacramento bar! I shall not allude, sir, to my own
feelings in regard to Dick Stannard, one of my most cherished friends,"
continued the colonel, in a voice charged with emotion, "but I can
conceive of no nobler trust laid upon the altar of friendship than the
care and guidance of his orphaned girl! And if, as you tell me, the
utterly inadequate sum of three thousand dollars is all that is left for
her maintenance through life, the selection of a guardian sufficiently
devoted to the family to be willing to augment that pittance out of his
own means from time to time would seem to be most important."

Before the astounded Pyecroft could recover himself, Colonel Starbottle
leaned back in his chair, half closing his eyes, and abandoned himself,
quite after his old manner, to one of his dreamy reminiscences.

"Poor Dick Stannard! I have a vivid recollection, sir, of driving out
with him on the Shell Road at New Orleans in '54, and of his saying,
'Star'--the only man, sir, who ever abbreviated my name--'Star, if
anything happens to me or her, look after our child! It was during that
very drive, sir, that, through his incautious neglect to fortify himself
against the swampy malaria by a glass of straight Bourbon with a pinch
of bark in it, he caught that fever which undermined his constitution.

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