Dick Boyle's Business Card Page #7

"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

								

knife he was carrying between his teeth flying with the shock from his
battered jaw. Boyle seized it--his knee still in the man's back--but
the prostrate body never moved beyond a slight contraction of the lower
limbs. The shock had broken the Indian's neck. He turned the inert
man on his back--the head hung loosely on the side. But in that brief
instant Boyle had recognized the "friendly" Indian of the station to
whom he had given the card.

He rose dizzily to his feet. The whole action had passed in a few
seconds of time, and had not even been noticed by the sole occupant of
the coach. He mechanically cocked his revolver, but the man beneath him
never moved again. Neither was there any sign of flight or reinforcement
from the thicket around him. Again the whole truth flashed upon him.
This spy and traitor had been left behind by the marauders to return to
the station and avert suspicion; he had been lurking around, but being
without firearms, had not dared to attack the pair together.

It was a moment or two before Boyle regained his usual elastic
good-humor. Then he coolly returned to the spring, "washed himself of
the Indian," as he grimly expressed it to himself, brushed his clothes,
picked up the shawl and flask, and returned to the coach. It was getting
dark now, but the glow of the western sky shone unimpeded through
the windows, and the silence gave him a great fear. He was relieved,
however, on opening the door, to find Miss Cantire sitting stiffly in
a corner. "I am sorry I was so long," he said, apologetically to her
attitude, "but"--

"I suppose you took your own time," she interrupted in a voice of
injured tolerance. "I don't blame you; anything's better than being
cooped up in this tiresome stage for goodness knows how long!"

"I was hunting for water," he said humbly, "and have brought you some."
He handed her the flask.

"And I see you have had a wash," she said a little enviously. "How spick
and span you look! But what's the matter with your necktie?"

He put his hand to his neck hurriedly. His necktie was loose, and had
twisted to one side in the struggle. He colored quite as much from the
sensitiveness of a studiously neat man as from the fear of discovery.
"And what's that?" she added, pointing to the shawl.

"One of my samples that I suppose was turned out of the coach and
forgotten in the transfer," he said glibly. "I thought it might keep you
warm."

She looked at it dubiously and laid it gingerly aside. "You don't mean
to say you go about with such things OPENLY?" she said querulously.

"Yes; one mustn't lose a chance of trade, you know," he resumed with a
smile.

"And you haven't found this journey very profitable," she said
dryly. "You certainly are devoted to your business!" After a pause,
discontentedly: "It's quite night already--we can't sit here in the
dark."

"We can take one of the coach lamps inside; they're still there. I've
been thinking the matter over, and I reckon if we leave one lighted
outside the coach it may guide your friends back." He HAD considered it,
and believed that the audacity of the act, coupled with the knowledge
the Indians must have of the presence of the soldiers in the vicinity,
would deter rather than invite their approach.

She brightened considerably with the coach lamp which he lit and brought
inside. By its light she watched him curiously. His face was slightly
flushed and his eyes very bright and keen looking. Man killing, except
with old professional hands, has the disadvantage of affecting the
circulation.

But Miss Cantire had noticed that the flask smelt of whiskey. The poor
man had probably fortified himself from the fatigues of the day.

"I suppose you are getting bored by this delay," she said tentatively.

"Not at all," he replied. "Would you like to play cards? I've got a
pack in my pocket. We can use the middle seat as a table, and hang the
lantern by the window strap."

She assented languidly from the back seat; he was on the front seat,
with the middle seat for a table between them. First Mr. Boyle showed
her some tricks with the cards and kindled her momentary and flashing
interest in a mysteriously evoked but evanescent knave. Then they played
euchre, at which Miss Cantire cheated adorably, and Mr. Boyle lost game
after game shamelessly. Then once or twice Miss Cantire was fain to
put her cards to her mouth to conceal an apologetic yawn, and her
blue-veined eyelids grew heavy. Whereupon Mr. Boyle suggested that she
should make herself comfortable in the corner of the coach with as many
cushions as she liked and the despised shawl, while he took the night
air in a prowl around the coach and a lookout for the returning party.
Doing so, he was delighted, after a turn or two, to find her asleep, and
so returned contentedly to his sentry round.

He was some distance from the coach when a low moaning sound in the
thicket presently increased until it rose and fell in a prolonged howl
that was repeated from the darkened plains beyond. He recognized the
voice of wolves; he instinctively felt the sickening cause of it. They
had scented the dead bodies, and he now regretted that he had left his
own victim so near the coach. He was hastening thither when a cry, this
time human and more terrifying, came from the coach. He turned towards
it as its door flew open and Miss Cantire came rushing toward him. Her
face was colorless, her eyes wild with fear, and her tall, slim figure
trembled convulsively as she frantically caught at the lapels of his
coat, as if to hide herself within its folds, and gasped breathlessly,--

"What is it? Oh! Mr. Boyle, save me!"

"They are wolves," he said hurriedly. "But there is no danger; they
would never attack you; you were safe where you were; let me lead you
back."

But she remained rooted to the spot, still clinging desperately to his
coat. "No, no!" she said, "I dare not! I heard that awful cry in my
sleep. I looked out and saw it--a dreadful creature with yellow eyes
and tongue, and a sickening breath as it passed between the wheels
just below me. Ah! What's that?" and she again lapsed in nervous terror
against him.

Boyle passed his arm around her promptly, firmly, masterfully. She
seemed to feel the implied protection, and yielded to it gratefully,
with the further breakdown of a sob. "There is no danger," he repeated
cheerfully. "Wolves are not good to look at, I know, but they wouldn't
have attacked you. The beast only scents some carrion on the plain,
and you probably frightened him more than he did you. Lean on me," he
continued as her step tottered; "you will be better in the coach."

"And you won't leave me alone again?" she said in hesitating terror.

"No!"

He supported her to the coach gravely, gently--her master and still more
his own for all that her beautiful loosened hair was against his cheek

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