Bulger's Reputation Page #4

"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

								

unwashed, longhaired tramp and bully, who must be forty if a day, and
that innocent gal of sixteen. It was simply disgustin'!"

I need not say that the older cynics and critics already alluded to at
once improved the occasion. 'What more could be expected? Women,
the world over, were noted for this sort of thing! This long-haired,
swaggering bully, with his air of mystery, had captivated them, as he
always had done since the days of Homer. Simple merit, which sat lowly
in barrooms, and conceived projects for the public good around the
humble, unostentatious stove, was nowhere! Youth could not too soon
learn this bitter lesson. And in this case youth too, perhaps, was
right in its conjectures, for this WAS, no doubt, the little game of the
perfidious Bulger. We recalled the fact that his unhallowed appearance
in camp was almost coincident with the arrival of the two families.
We glanced at Briggs; to our amazement, for the first time he looked
seriously concerned. But Mosby in the meantime leaned his elbows lazily
over the counter and, in a slow voice, added fuel to the flame.

"I wouldn't hev spoken of it before," he said, with a sidelong glance
at Briggs, "for it might be all in the line o' Bulger's 'business,'
but suthin' happened the other night that, for a minit, got me! I was
passin' the Bakers' shanty, and I heard one of them gals a singing a
camp-meeting hymn. I don't calkilate to run agin you young fellers in
any sparkin' or canoodlin' that's goin' on, but her voice sounded so
pow'ful soothin' and pretty thet I jest stood there and listened. Then
the old woman--old Mother Baker--SHE joined in, and I listened too. And
then--dern my skin!--but a man's voice joined in--jest belching outer
that cabin!--and I sorter lifted myself up and kem away.

"That voice, gentlemen," said Mosby, lingering artistically as he took
up a glass and professionally eyed it before wiping it with his towel,
"that voice, cumf'bly fixed thar in thet cabin among them wimen folks,
was Bulger's!"

Briggs got up, with his eyes looking the darker for his flushed face.
"Gentlemen," he said huskily, "thar's only one thing to be done. A lot
of us have got to ride over to Sawyer's Dam tomorrow morning and pick up
as many square men as we can muster; there's a big camp meeting goin'
on there, and there won't be no difficulty in that. When we've got a big
enough crowd to show we mean business, we must march back here and ride
Bulger out of this camp! I don't hanker arter Vigilance Committees, as
a rule--it's a rough remedy--it's like drinkin' a quart o' whisky agin
rattlesnake poison but it's got to be done! We don't mind being sold
ourselves but when it comes to our standin' by and seein' the only
innocent people in Rattlesnake given away--we kick! Bulger's got to be
fired outer this camp! And he will be!"

But he was not.

For when, the next morning, a determined and thoughtful procession of
the best and most characteristic citizens of Rattlesnake Camp filed into
Sawyer's Dam, they found that their mysterious friends had disappeared,
although they met with a fraternal but subdued welcome from the general
camp. But any approach to the subject of their visit, however,
was received with a chilling dissapproval. Did they not know that
lawlessness of any kind, even under the rude mantle of frontier justice,
was to be deprecated and scouted when a "means of salvation, a power of
regeneration," such as was now sweeping over Sawyer's Dam, was at hand?
Could they not induce this man who was to be violently deported to
accompany them willingly to Sawyer's Dam and subject himself to the
powerful influence of the "revival" then in full swing?

The Rattlesnake boys laughed bitterly, and described the man of whom
they talked so lightly; but in vain. "It's no use, gentlemen," said
a more worldly bystander, in a lower voice, "the camp meetin's got a
strong grip here, and betwixt you and me there ain't no wonder. For the
man that runs it--the big preacher--has got new ways and methods that
fetches the boys every time. He don't preach no cut-and-dried gospel; he
don't carry around no slop-shop robes and clap 'em on you whether they
fit or not; but he samples and measures the camp afore he wades into
it. He scouts and examines; he ain't no mere Sunday preacher with a
comfortable house and once-a-week church, but he gives up his days and
nights to it, and makes his family work with him, and even sends 'em
forward to explore the field. And he ain't no white-choker shadbelly
either, but fits himself, like his gospel, to the men he works among. Ye
ought to hear him afore you go. His tent is just out your way. I'll go
with you."

Too dejected to offer any opposition, and perhaps a little curious to
see this man who had unwittingly frustrated their design of lynching
Bulger, they halted at the outer fringe of worshipers who packed the
huge inclosure. They had not time to indulge their cynicisms over this
swaying mass of emotional, half-thinking, and almost irresponsible
beings, nor to detect any similarity between THEIR extreme methods and
the scheme of redemption they themselves were seeking, for in a
few moments, apparently lifted to his feet on a wave of religious
exultation, the famous preacher arose. The men of Rattlesnake gasped for
breath.

It was Bulger!

But Briggs quickly recovered himself. "By what name," said he, turning
passionately towards his guide, "does this man--this impostor--call
himself here?"

"Baker."

"Baker?" echoed the Rattlesnake contingent.

"Baker?" repeated Lance Forester, with a ghastly smile.

"Yes," returned their guide. "You oughter know it too! For he sent his
wife and daughters over, after his usual style, to sample your camp, a
week ago! Come, now, what are you givin' us?"
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