Notes by Flood and Field Page #3

"Notes by Flood and Field" is a collection of short stories and sketches by Bret Harte, set against the backdrop of the American West during the Gold Rush. Known for his vivid characters and rich storytelling, Harte captures the struggles, humor, and eccentricities of life in mining camps and frontier towns. Through his unique narrative style, he explores themes of humanity, morality, and the diverse experiences of those drawn to the promise of wealth and adventure. The book showcases Harte's mastery of regional literature, blending a sense of place with keen social observations.

• Essay

								

and echoed in my throbbing pulse as, guided by the star, I sought the
house again.

But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform. The
door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting beside
the table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as
though he were hunting up prophecies against the "Greaser." I turned to
enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lying
beside the house, on the platform. The broad chest heaving with healthy
slumber, and the open, honest face were familiar. It was George, who had
given up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wake
him, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. And I
went to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquil
figure soothing me to sleep.

I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose and
grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed,
ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of the
day to my sleep-bewildered eyes. I looked around me. The wind had been
magically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A dash
of cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, helped to
brighten me. It was still early, but the family had already breakfasted
and dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that the
unfortunate Tom had already "packed" his relatives away. I felt more
cheerful--there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start of
a good night's rest. After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George,
in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.

We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and baked
with summer's heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed its
banks. I still retain a vivid impression of that morning's ride, the
far-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky, the
crisp dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often by
the well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs and
picturesque with flying riata. He rode powerful native roan, wild-eyed,
untiring in stride and unbroken in nature. Alas! the curves of beauty
were concealed by the cumbrous MACHILLAS of the Spanish saddle, which
levels all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the cruel
bit that can gripe, and if need be, crush the jaw it controls.

Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me, as we
again bear down into sunlit space. Can this be "Chu Chu," staid and
respectable filly of American pedigree--Chu Chu, forgetful of plank
roads and cobblestones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white
feet beneath me? George laughs out of a cloud of dust. "Give her her
head; don't you see she likes it?" and Chu Chu seems to like it, and
whether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous of
the roan, "blood" asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude
of years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creek
widens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the opposite side,
carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us. Cattle are
scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast
restless herds. George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as
if to include them all in his vaquero's loop, and says, "Ours!"

"About how many, George?"

"Don't know."

"How many?"

"'Well, p'r'aps three thousand head," says George, reflecting. "We don't
know, takes five men to look 'em up and keep run."

"What are they worth?"

"About thirty dollars a head."

I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughing
George. Perhaps a recollection of the domestic economy of the Tryan
household is expressed in that look, for George averts his eye and says,
apologetically:

"I've tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you know he says
it ain't no use to settle down, just yet. We must keep movin'. In fact,
he built the shanty for that purpose, lest titles should fall through,
and we'd have to get up and move stakes further down."

Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a herd we are
passing, and with an exclamation he puts his roan into the center of
the mass. I follow, or rather Chu Chu darts after the roan, and in a few
moments we are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs.
"TORO!" shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the band opens a
way for the swinging riata. I can feel their steaming breaths, and their
spume is cast on Chu Chu's quivering flank.

Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes as Jove might
have chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as peacefully range the downs of
Devon, but lean and hungry Cassius-like bovines, economically got up to
meet the exigencies of a six months' rainless climate, and accustomed to
wrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding dust.

"That's not our brand," says George; "they're strange stock," and he
points to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign of
Venus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing. But
the herd are closing round us with low mutterings, and George has again
recourse to the authoritative "TORO," and with swinging riata divides
the "bossy bucklers" on either side. When we are free, and breathing
somewhat more easily, I venture to ask George if they ever attack
anyone.

"Never horsemen--sometimes footmen. Not through rage, you know, but
curiosity. They think a man and his horse are one, and if they meet a
chap afoot, they run him down and trample him under hoof, in the
pursuit of knowledge. But," adds George, "here's the lower bench of the
foothills, and here's Altascar's corral, and that White building you see
yonder is the casa."

A whitewashed wall enclosed a court containing another adobe building,
baked with the solar beams of many summers. Leaving our horses in the
charge of a few peons in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in the
sun, we entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agreeable
coolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a plunge in cool water,
from its contrast with the external glare and heat. In the center of a
low-ceiled apartment sat an old man with a black-silk handkerchief tied
about his head, the few gray hairs that escaped from its folds relieving
his gamboge-colored face. The odor of CIGARRITOS was as incense added to
the cathedral gloom of the building.

As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive us, George
advanced with such a heightened color, and such a blending of tenderness
and respect in his manner, that I was touched to the heart by so much
devotion in the careless youth. In fact, my eyes were still dazzled by
the effect of the outer sunshine, and at first I did not see the white

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