Notes by Flood and Field Page #6

"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.

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"Moving off?"

"Hush! Don't speak so loud. Moving off. Ah! wot's that? Don't you
hear?--there! listen!"

We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath the floor.

"It's them wot he sent!--Old Altascar sent. They've been here all night.
I heard 'em first in the creek, when they came to tell the old man to
move farther off. They came nearer and nearer. They whispered under the
door, and I saw their eyes on the step--their cruel, hard eyes. Ah, why
don't they quit?"

I tell the men to search the room and see if they can find any further
traces of the family, while Tryan resumes his old attitude. It is so
much like the figure I remember on the breezy night that a superstitious
feeling is fast overcoming me. When they have returned, I tell them
briefly what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again:

"Why don't they quit, then? They have the stock--all gone--gone, gone
for the hides and hoofs," and he groans bitterly.

"There are other boats below us. The shanty cannot have drifted far, and
perhaps the family are safe by this time," says the coxswain, hopefully.

We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, and carry him to
the boat. He is still grasping the Bible in his right hand, though its
strengthening grace is blank to his vacant eye, and he cowers in the
stern as we pull slowly to the steamer while a pale gleam in the sky
shows the coming day.

I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the steamer, and I had
seen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, I wrapped myself in a blanket
near the boiler and presently fell asleep. But even then the figure of
the old man often started before me, and a sense of uneasiness about
George made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams. I was awakened
at about eight o'clock in the morning by the engineer, who told me one
of the old man's sons had been picked up and was now on board.

"Is it George Tryan?" I ask quickly.

"Don't know; but he's a sweet one, whoever he is," adds the engineer,
with a smile at some luscious remembrance. "You'll find him for'ard."

I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find, not George, but the
irrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little dirtier and
rather more dilapidated than I can remember having seen him.

He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, dry clothes
that have been put out for his disposal. I cannot help thinking that
circumstances have somewhat exalted his usual cheerfulness. He puts me
at my ease by at once addressing me:

"These are high old times, ain't they? I say, what do you reckon's
become o' them thar bound'ry moniments you stuck? Ah!"

The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a spasm of
admiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great exertion, he has at
last pulled on his feet.

"So you've picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean crazy? He must
have been soft to have stuck there instead o' leavin' with the old
woman. Didn't know me from Adam; took me for George!"

At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness, Wise was
evidently divided between amusement and chagrin. I took advantage of the
contending emotions to ask about George.

"Don't know whar he is! If he'd tended stock instead of running about
the prairie, packin' off wimmin and children, he might have saved
suthin. He lost every hoof and hide, I'll bet a cooky! Say you," to a
passing boatman, "when are you goin' to give us some grub? I'm hungry
'nough to skin and eat a hoss. Reckon I'll turn butcher when things is
dried up, and save hides, horns, and taller."

I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which under softer
climatic influences might have borne such goodly fruit.

"Have you any idea what you'll do, Wise?" I ask.

"Thar ain't much to do now," says the practical young man. "I'll have to
lay over a spell, I reckon, till things comes straight. The land ain't
worth much now, and won't be, I dessay, for some time. Wonder whar the
ole man'll drive stakes next."

"I meant as to your father and George, Wise."

"Oh, the old man and I'll go on to 'Miles's,' whar Tom packed the old
woman and babies last week. George'll turn up somewhar atween this and
Altascar's ef he ain't thar now."

I ask how the Altascars have suffered.

"Well, I reckon he ain't lost much in stock. I shouldn't wonder if
George helped him drive 'em up the foothills. And his casa's built
too high. Oh, thar ain't any water thar, you bet. Ah," says Wise, with
reflective admiration, "those greasers ain't the darned fools people
thinks 'em. I'll bet thar ain't one swamped out in all 'er Californy."
But the appearance of "grub" cut this rhapsody short.

"I shall keep on a little farther," I say, "and try to find George."

Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned upon
him.

"I don't think you'll save much. What's the percentage--workin' on
shares, eh!"

I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his opinion of me,
and with a sadder feeling than his assurance of George's safety might
warrant, I walked away.

From others whom we picked up from time to time we heard of George's
self-sacrificing devotion, with the praises of the many he had helped
and rescued. But I did not feel disposed to return until I had seen
him, and soon prepared myself to take a boat to the lower VALDA of the
foothills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrangements, bade
farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sitting
by the furnace fires quite passive and composed. Then our boat head
swung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.

It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. Our course lay
nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in the
creek of the Espiritu Santo. From time to time the wrecks of barns
were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming
implements.

We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the "LLANO DE ESPIRITU
SANTO." As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water
into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October
over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant
hills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are rowing
silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing
benumbed and depressed as then. The water, too, is getting more shallow
as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly
over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide
to have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, bearing to the north of
the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the
right to avoid, I recognize. We pull close alongside and I call to the
men to stop.

There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, "L. E. S.
I." Tied halfway down was a curiously worked riata. It was George's. It

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