Dick Boyle's Business Card Page #6

"Dick Boyle's Business Card" is a short story by Bret Harte, an author known for his depictions of life in the American West. The narrative centers around a humorous and satirical exploration of social status and identity through the lens of a business card that represents the ambitions and pretensions of its titular character, Dick Boyle. Set against the backdrop of a mining town, the story highlights the clash between appearances and reality, showcasing Harte's trademark wit and keen observations of human nature. With its clever commentary on commerce and social interaction, the tale reflects the broader themes of aspiration and self-presentation in the rapidly changing landscape of 19th-century America.

• Short story

								

in what seemed their utter abandonment--that it instinctively affected
them alike. And as I am writing of human nature I am compelled to say
that they both burst into a fit of laughter that for the moment stopped
all other expression!

"It was so kind of them to leave the coach," said Miss Cantire faintly,
as she took her handkerchief from her wet and mirthful eyes. "But what
made them run away?"

Boyle did not reply; he was eagerly examining the coach. In that brief
hour and a half the dust of the plain had blown thick upon it, and
covered any foul stain or blot that might have suggested the awful
truth. Even the soft imprint of the Indians' moccasined feet had been
trampled out by the later horse hoofs of the cavalrymen. It was these
that first attracted Boyle's attention, but he thought them the marks
made by the plunging of the released coach horses.

Not so his companion! She was examining them more closely, and suddenly
lifted her bright, animated face. "Look!" she said; "our men have been
here, and have had a hand in this--whatever it is."

"Our men?" repeated Boyle blankly.

"Yes!--troopers from the post--the escort I told you of. These are the
prints of the regulation cavalry horseshoe--not of Foster's team, nor of
Indian ponies, who never have any! Don't you see?" she went on eagerly;
"our men have got wind of something and have galloped down here--along
the ridge--see!" she went on, pointing to the hoof prints coming
from the plain. "They've anticipated some Indian attack and secured
everything."

"But if they were the same escort you spoke of, they must have known you
were here, and have"--he was about to say "abandoned you," but checked
himself, remembering they were her father's soldiers.

"They knew I could take care of myself, and wouldn't stand in the way
of their duty," said the young girl, anticipating him with quick
professional pride that seemed to fit her aquiline nose and tall figure.
"And if they knew that," she added, softening with a mischievous smile,
"they also knew, of course, that I was protected by a gallant stranger
vouched for by Mr. Foster! No!" she added, with a certain blind, devoted
confidence, which Boyle noticed with a slight wince that she had never
shown before, "it's all right! and 'by orders,' Mr. Boyle, and when
they've done their work they'll be back."

But Boyle's masculine common sense was, perhaps, safer than Miss
Cantire's feminine faith and inherited discipline, for in an instant
he suddenly comprehended the actual truth! The Indians had been there
FIRST; THEY had despoiled the coach and got off safely with their booty
and prisoners on the approach of the escort, who were now naturally
pursuing them with a fury aroused by the belief that their commander's
daughter was one of their prisoners. This conviction was a dreadful one,
yet a relief as far as the young girl was concerned. But should he tell
her? No! Better that she should keep her calm faith in the triumphant
promptness of the soldiers--and their speedy return.

"I dare say you are right," he said cheerfully, "and let us be thankful
that in the empty coach you'll have at least a half-civilized shelter
until they return. Meantime I'll go and reconnoitre a little."

"I will go with you," she said.

But Boyle pointed out to her so strongly the necessity of her remaining
to wait for the return of the soldiers that, being also fagged out
by her long climb, she obediently consented, while he, even with
his inspiration of the truth, did not believe in the return of the
despoilers, and knew she would be safe.

He made his way to the nearest thicket, where he rightly believed the
ambush had been prepared, and to which undoubtedly they first retreated
with their booty. He expected to find some signs or traces of their
spoil which in their haste they had to abandon. He was more successful
than he anticipated. A few steps into the thicket brought him full
upon a realization of more than his worst convictions--the dead body of
Foster! Near it lay the body of the mail agent. Both had been evidently
dragged into the thicket from where they fell, scalped and half
stripped. There was no evidence of any later struggle; they must have
been dead when they were brought there.

Boyle was neither a hard-hearted nor an unduly sensitive man. His
vocation had brought him peril enough by land and water; he had often
rendered valuable assistance to others, his sympathy never confusing his
directness and common sense. He was sorry for these two men, and would
have fought to save them. But he had no imaginative ideas of death. And
his keen perception of the truth was consequently sensitively alive only
to that grotesqueness of aspect which too often the hapless victims of
violence are apt to assume. He saw no agony in the vacant eyes of the
two men lying on their backs in apparently the complacent abandonment of
drunkenness, which was further simulated by their tumbled and disordered
hair matted by coagulated blood, which, however, had lost its sanguine
color. He thought only of the unsuspecting girl sitting in the lonely
coach, and hurriedly dragged them further into the bushes. In doing this
he discovered a loaded revolver and a flask of spirits which had been
lying under them, and promptly secured them. A few paces away lay the
coveted trunks of arms and ammunition, their lids wrenched off and
their contents gone. He noticed with a grim smile that his own trunks of
samples had shared a like fate, but was delighted to find that while the
brighter trifles had attracted the Indians' childish cupidity they
had overlooked a heavy black merino shawl of a cheap but serviceable
quality. It would help to protect Miss Cantire from the evening wind,
which was already rising over the chill and stark plain. It also
occurred to him that she would need water after her parched journey, and
he resolved to look for a spring, being rewarded at last by a trickling
rill near the ambush camp. But he had no utensil except the spirit
flask, which he finally emptied of its contents and replaced with the
pure water--a heroic sacrifice to a traveler who knew the comfort of a
stimulant. He retraced his steps, and was just emerging from the thicket
when his quick eye caught sight of a moving shadow before him close to
the ground, which set the hot blood coursing through his veins.

It was the figure of an Indian crawling on his hands and knees towards
the coach, scarcely forty yards away. For the first time that afternoon
Boyle's calm good-humor was overswept by a blind and furious rage. Yet
even then he was sane enough to remember that a pistol shot would alarm
the girl, and to keep that weapon as a last resource. For an instant he
crept forward as silently and stealthily as the savage, and then, with
a sudden bound, leaped upon him, driving his head and shoulders down
against the rocks before he could utter a cry, and sending the scalping

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