Bulger's Reputation

"Bulger's Reputation" is a short story by Bret Harte that delves into themes of reputation, honor, and the complexities of human relationships in the American West. The narrative centers around Bulger, a character whose status and identity are shaped by the perceptions of those around him. Harte's rich prose and vivid characterizations explore the consequences of societal expectations and the quest for validation. Set against the backdrop of frontier life, the story captures the challenges individuals face in navigating their personal values and the opinions of their peers.

• Short story

								
We all remembered very distinctly Bulger's advent in Rattlesnake Camp.
It was during the rainy season--a season singularly inducive to settled
reflective impressions as we sat and smoked around the stove in Mosby's
grocery. Like older and more civilized communities, we had our periodic
waves of sentiment and opinion, with the exception that they were more
evanescent with us, and as we had just passed through a fortnight of
dissipation and extravagance, owing to a visit from some gamblers and
speculators, we were now undergoing a severe moral revulsion, partly
induced by reduced finances and partly by the arrival of two families
with grownup daughters on the hill. It was raining, with occasional warm
breaths, through the open window, of the southwest trades, redolent of
the saturated spices of the woods and springing grasses, which perhaps
were slightly inconsistent with the hot stove around which we had
congregated. But the stove was only an excuse for our listless,
gregarious gathering; warmth and idleness went well together, and it was
currently accepted that we had caught from the particular reptile which
gave its name to our camp much of its pathetic, lifelong search for
warmth, and its habit of indolently basking in it.

A few of us still went through the affectation of attempting to dry our
damp clothes by the stove, and sizzling our wet boots against it; but
as the same individuals calmly permitted the rain to drive in upon them
through the open window without moving, and seemed to take infinite
delight in the amount of steam they generated, even that pretense
dropped. Crotalus himself, with his tail in a muddy ditch, and the sun
striking cold fire from his slit eyes as he basked his head on a warm
stone beside it, could not have typified us better.

Percy Briggs took his pipe from his mouth at last and said, with
reflective severity:

"Well, gentlemen, if we can't get the wagon road over here, and if
we're going to be left out by the stagecoach company, we can at least
straighten up the camp, and not have it look like a cross between a
tenement alley and a broken-down circus. I declare, I was just sick
when these two Baker girls started to make a short cut through the camp.
Darned if they didn't turn round and take to the woods and the rattlers
again afore they got halfway. And that benighted idiot, Tom Rollins,
standin' there in the ditch, spattered all over with slumgullion 'til he
looked like a spotted tarrypin, wavin' his fins and sashaying backwards
and forrards and sayin', 'This way, ladies; this way!'"

"I didn't," returned Tom Rollins, quite casually, without looking up
from his steaming boots; "I didn't start in night afore last to dance
'The Green Corn Dance' outer 'Hiawatha,' with feathers in my hair and
a red blanket on my shoulders, round that family's new potato patch,
in order that it might 'increase and multiply.' I didn't sing 'Sabbath
Morning Bells' with an anvil accompaniment until twelve o'clock at
night over at the Crossing, so that they might dream of their Happy
Childhood's Home. It seems to me that it wasn't me did it. I might be
mistaken--it was late--but I have the impression that it wasn't me."

From the silence that followed, this would seem to have been clearly
a recent performance of the previous speaker, who, however, responded
quite cheerfully:

"An evenin' o' simple, childish gaiety don't count. We've got to start
in again FAIR. What we want here is to clear up and encourage decent
immigration, and get rid o' gamblers and blatherskites that are makin'
this yer camp their happy hunting-ground. We don't want any more
permiskus shootin'. We don't want any more paintin' the town red. We
don't want any more swaggerin' galoots ridin' up to this grocery and
emptyin' their six-shooters in the air afore they 'light. We want to put
a stop to it peacefully and without a row--and we kin. We ain't got no
bullies of our own to fight back, and they know it, so they know they
won't get no credit bullyin' us; they'll leave, if we're only firm. It's
all along of our cussed fool good-nature; they see it amuses us, and
they'll keep it up as long as the whisky's free. What we want to do is,
when the next man comes waltzin' along--"

A distant clatter from the rocky hillside here mingled with the puff of
damp air through the window.

"Looks as ef we might hev a show even now," said Tom Rollins, removing
his feet from the stove as we all instinctively faced toward the window.

"I reckon you're in with us in this, Mosby?" said Briggs, turning toward
the proprietor of the grocery, who had been leaning listlessly against
the wall behind his bar.

"Arter the man's had a fair show," said Mosby, cautiously. He deprecated
the prevailing condition of things, but it was still an open question
whether the families would prove as valuable customers as his present
clients. "Everything in moderation, gentlemen."

The sound of galloping hoofs came nearer, now swishing in the soft mud
of the highway, until the unseen rider pulled up before the door. There
was no shouting, however, nor did he announce himself with the usual
salvo of firearms. But when, after a singularly heavy tread and the
jingle of spurs on the platform, the door flew open to the newcomer,
he seemed a realization of our worst expectations. Tall, broad, and
muscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangled
a heavy navy revolver. His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasy
circle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet,
completely concealed his mouth. His costume of fringed buckskin was wild
and outre even for our frontier camp. But what was more confirmative
of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an
impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side
glance at us, he strode toward the bar.

"As there don't seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up
my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter," he
said. His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness
of frequent overstraining.

"Ye ain't got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?" asked Mosby,
evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.
We all looked at Briggs also; it was HIS affair after all--HE had
originated this opposition. To our surprise he said nothing.

The stranger leaned heavily on the counter.

"I was speaking to YOU," he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightly
accenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar. "Ye
don't seem to catch on."

Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs. To
our greater astonishment, Briggs said, quietly: "Why don't you answer
the stranger, Mosby?"

"Yes, yes," said Mosby, suavely, to the newcomer, while an angry flush
crossed his check as he recognized the position in which Briggs had

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