Bulger's Reputation Page #2

"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

								

placed him. "Of course, you're welcome to what doings I hev here, but I
reckoned these gentlemen over there," with a vicious glance at Briggs,
"might fix ye up suthin' better; they're so pow'ful kind to your sort."

The stranger threw down a gold piece on the counter and said: "Fork out
your whisky, then," waited until his glass was filled, took it in his
hand, and then, drawing an empty chair to the stove, sat down beside
Briggs. "Seein' as you're that kind," he said, placing his heavy hand
on Briggs's knee, "mebbe ye kin tell me ef thar's a shanty or a cabin at
Rattlesnake that I kin get for a couple o' weeks. I saw an empty one at
the head o' the hill. You see, gennelmen," he added confidentially as
he swept the drops of whisky from his long mustache with his fingers and
glanced around our group, "I've got some business over at Bigwood," our
nearest town, "but ez a place to stay AT it ain't my style."

"What's the matter with Bigwood?" said Briggs, abruptly.

"It's too howlin', too festive, too rough; thar's too much yellin'
and shootin' goin' day and night. Thar's too many card sharps and gay
gamboliers cavortin' about the town to please me. Too much permiskus
soakin' at the bar and free jimjams. What I want is a quiet place what
a man kin give his mind and elbow a rest from betwixt grippin' his
shootin' irons and crookin' in his whisky. A sort o' slow, quiet, easy
place LIKE THIS."

We all stared at him, Percy Briggs as fixedly as any. But there was not
the slightest trace of irony, sarcasm, or peculiar significance in his
manner. He went on slowly:

"When I struck this yer camp a minit ago; when I seed that thar ditch
meanderin' peaceful like through the street, without a hotel or free
saloon or express office on either side; with the smoke just a curlin'
over the chimbley of that log shanty, and the bresh just set fire to and
a smolderin' in that potato patch with a kind o' old-time stingin' in
your eyes and nose, and a few women's duds just a flutterin' on a line
by the fence, I says to myself: 'Bulger--this is peace! This is wot
you're lookin' for, Bulger--this is wot you're wantin'--this is wot
YOU'LL HEV!'"

"You say you've business over at Bigwood. What business?" said Briggs.

"It's a peculiar business, young fellow," returned the stranger,
gravely. "Thar's different men ez has different opinions about it. Some
allows it's an easy business, some allows it's a rough business; some
says it's a sad business, others says it's gay and festive. Some wonders
ez how I've got into it, and others wonder how I'll ever get out of it.
It's a payin' business--it's a peaceful sort o' business when left to
itself. It's a peculiar business--a business that sort o' b'longs to
me, though I ain't got no patent from Washington for it. It's MY OWN
business." He paused, rose, and saying, "Let's meander over and take a
look at that empty cabin, and ef she suits me, why, I'll plank down
a slug for her on the spot, and move in tomorrow," walked towards the
door. "I'll pick up suthin' in the way o' boxes and blankets from the
grocery," he added, looking at Mosby, "and ef thar's a corner whar I kin
stand my gun and a nail to hang up my revolver--why, I'm all thar!"

By this time we were no longer astonished when Briggs rose also, and not
only accompanied the sinister-looking stranger to the empty cabin, but
assisted him in negotiating with its owner for a fortnight's occupancy.
Nevertheless, we eagerly assailed Briggs on his return for some
explanation of this singular change in his attitude toward the stranger.
He coolly reminded us, however, that while his intention of excluding
ruffianly adventurers from the camp remained the same, he had no right
to go back on the stranger's sentiments, which were evidently in accord
with our own, and although Mr. Bulger's appearance was inconsistent with
them, that was only an additional reason why we should substitute a
mild firmness for that violence which we all deprecated, but which might
attend his abrupt dismissal. We were all satisfied except Mosby, who had
not yet recovered from Briggs's change of front, which he was pleased
to call "craw-fishing." "Seemed to me his account of his business was
extraordinary satisfactory! Sorter filled the bill all round--no mistake
thar," he suggested, with a malicious irony. "I like a man that's
outspoken."

"I understood him very well," said Briggs, quietly.

"In course you did. Only when you've settled in your MIND whether he
was describing horse-stealing or tract-distributing, mebbe you'll let ME
know."

It would seem, however, that Briggs did not interrogate the stranger
again regarding it, nor did we, who were quite content to leave matters
in Briggs's hands. Enough that Mr. Bulger moved into the empty cabin the
next day, and, with the aid of a few old boxes from the grocery, which
he quickly extemporized into tables and chairs, and the purchase of some
necessary cooking utensils, soon made himself at home. The rest of the
camp, now thoroughly aroused, made a point of leaving their work in
the ditches, whenever they could, to stroll carelessly around Bulger's
tenement in the vague hope of satisfying a curiosity that had become
tormenting. But they could not find that he was doing anything of a
suspicious character--except, perhaps, from the fact that it was
not OUTWARDLY suspicious, which I grieve to say did not lull them to
security. He seemed to be either fixing up his cabin or smoking in his
doorway. On the second day he checked this itinerant curiosity by taking
the initiative himself, and quietly walking from claim to claim and from
cabin to cabin with a pacific but by no means a satisfying interest. The
shadow of his tall figure carrying his inseparable gun, which had not
yet apparently "stood in the corner," falling upon an excavated bank
beside the delving miners, gave them a sense of uneasiness they could
not explain; a few characteristic yells of boisterous hilarity from
their noontide gathering under a cottonwood somehow ceased when Mr.
Bulger was seen gravely approaching, and his casual stopping before
a poker party in the gulch actually caused one of the most reckless
gamblers to weakly recede from "a bluff" and allow his adversary to
sweep the board. After this it was felt that matters were becoming
serious. There was no subsequent patrolling of the camp before the
stranger's cabin. Their curiosity was singularly abated. A general
feeling of repulsion, kept within bounds partly by the absence of any
overt act from Bulger, and partly by an inconsistent over-consciousness
of his shotgun, took its place. But an unexpected occurrence revived it.

One evening, as the usual social circle were drawn around Mosby's stove,
the lazy silence was broken by the familiar sounds of pistol shots and a
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