Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands

"Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands" is a humorous and insightful short story by Bret Harte, set in the American West during the late 19th century. The narrative follows Mrs. Skaggs, a resilient and resourceful woman who has had multiple husbands, each with their own unique quirks and characteristics. The story explores themes of gender roles, love, and the complexity of relationships, all while offering a satirical look at frontier life. Harte's deft storytelling and vibrant characters make this tale a delightful reflection on the challenges and triumphs of marriage in a rugged landscape.

• Short story

								
PART I--WEST.

The sun was rising in the foot-hills. But for an hour the black mass
of Sierra eastward of Angel's had been outlined with fire, and the
conventional morning had come two hours before with the down coach from
Placerville. The dry, cold, dewless California night still lingered
in the long canyons and folded skirts of Table Mountain. Even on the
mountain road the air was still sharp, and that urgent necessity for
something to keep out the chill, which sent the barkeeper sleepily among
his bottles and wineglasses at the station, obtained all along the road.

Perhaps it might be said that the first stir of life was in the
bar-rooms. A few birds twittered in the sycamores at the roadside, but
long before that glasses had clicked and bottles gurgled in the saloon
of the Mansion House. This was still lit by a dissipated-looking
hanging-lamp, which was evidently the worse for having been up all
night, and bore a singular resemblance to a faded reveller of Angel's,
who even then sputtered and flickered in HIS socket in an arm-chair
below it,--a resemblance so plain that when the first level sunbeam
pierced the window-pane, the barkeeper, moved by a sentiment of
consistency and compassion, put them both out together.

Then the sun came up haughtily. When it had passed the eastern ridge it
began, after its habit, to lord it over Angel's, sending the thermometer
up twenty degrees in as many minutes, driving the mules to the sparse
shade of corrals and fences, making the red dust incandescent, and
renewing its old imperious aggression on the spiked bosses of the convex
shield of pines that defended Table Mountain. Thither by nine o'clock
all coolness had retreated, and the "outsides" of the up stage plunged
their hot faces in its aromatic shadows as in water.

It was the custom of the driver of the Wingdam coach to whip up his
horses and enter Angel's at that remarkable pace which the woodcuts in
the hotel bar-room represented to credulous humanity as the usual rate
of speed of that conveyance. At such times the habitual expression of
disdainful reticence and lazy official severity which he wore on the box
became intensified as the loungers gathered about the vehicle, and only
the boldest ventured to address him. It was the Hon. Judge Beeswinger,
Member of Assembly, who to-day presumed, perhaps rashly, on the strength
of his official position.

"Any political news from below, Bill?" he asked, as the latter slowly
descended from his lofty perch, without, however, any perceptible coming
down of mien or manner.

"Not much," said Bill, with deliberate gravity. "The President o' the
United States hezn't bin hisself sens you refoosed that seat in the
Cabinet. The ginral feelin' in perlitical circles is one o' regret."

Irony, even of this outrageous quality, was too common in Angel's to
excite either a smile or a frown. Bill slowly entered the bar-room
during a dry, dead silence, in which only a faint spirit of emulation
survived.

"Ye didn't bring up that agint o' Rothschild's this trip?" asked the
barkeeper, slowly, by way of vague contribution to the prevailing tone
of conversation.

"No," responded Bill, with thoughtful exactitude. "He said he couldn't
look inter that claim o' Johnson's without first consultin' the Bank o'
England."

The Mr. Johnson here alluded to being present as the faded reveller
the barkeeper had lately put out, and as the alleged claim notoriously
possessed no attractions whatever to capitalists, expectation naturally
looked to him for some response to this evident challenge. He did so
by simply stating that he would "take sugar" in his, and by walking
unsteadily toward the bar, as if accepting a festive invitation. To the
credit of Bill be it recorded that he did not attempt to correct the
mistake, but gravely touched glasses with him, and after saying "Here's
another nail in your coffin,"--a cheerful sentiment, to which "And the
hair all off your head," was playfully added by the others,--he threw
off his liquor with a single dexterous movement of head and elbow, and
stood refreshed.

"Hello, old major!" said Bill, suddenly setting down his glass. "Are YOU
there?"

It was a boy, who, becoming bashfully conscious that this epithet was
addressed to him, retreated sideways to the doorway, where he stood
beating his hat against the door-post with an assumption of indifference
that his downcast but mirthful dark eyes and reddening cheek scarcely
bore out. Perhaps it was owing to his size, perhaps it was to a certain
cherubic outline of face and figure, perhaps to a peculiar trustfulness
of expression, that he did not look half his age, which was really
fourteen.

Everybody in Angel's knew the boy. Either under the venerable title
bestowed by Bill, or as "Tom Islington," after his adopted father, his
was a familiar presence in the settlement, and the theme of much local
criticism and comment. His waywardness, indolence, and unaccountable
amiability--a quality at once suspicious and gratuitous in a pioneer
community like Angel's--had often been the subject of fierce discussion.
A large and reputable majority believed him destined for the gallows; a
minority not quite so reputable enjoyed his presence without troubling
themselves much about his future; to one or two the evil predictions of
the majority possessed neither novelty nor terror.

"Anything for me, Bill?" asked the boy, half mechanically, with the air
of repeating some jocular formulary perfectly understood by Bill.

"Anythin' for you!" echoed Bill, with an overacted severity equally well
understood by Tommy,--"anythin' for you? No! And it's my opinion there
won't be anythin' for you ez long ez you hang around bar-rooms and spend
your valooable time with loafers and bummers. Git!"

The reproof was accompanied by a suitable exaggeration of gesture
(Bill had seized a decanter) before which the boy retreated still
good-humoredly. Bill followed him to the door. "Dern my skin, if he
hezn't gone off with that bummer Johnson," he added, as he looked down
the road.

"What's he expectin', Bill?" asked the barkeeper.

"A letter from his aunt. Reckon he'll hev to take it out in expectin'.
Likely they're glad to get shut o' him."

"He's leadin' a shiftless, idle life here," interposed the Member of
Assembly.

"Well," said Bill, who never allowed any one but himself to abuse
his protege, "seein' he ain't expectin' no offis from the hands of
an enlightened constitooency, it IS rayther a shiftless life." After
delivering this Parthian arrow with a gratuitous twanging of the bow to
indicate its offensive personality, Bill winked at the barkeeper, slowly
resumed a pair of immense, bulgy buckskin gloves, which gave his fingers
the appearance of being painfully sore and bandaged, strode to the door

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