Notes by Flood and Field Page #7

"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

								

had been cut with some sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil of
the mound was deeply dented with horses' hoofs. The stake was covered
with horsehairs. It was a record, but no clue.

The wind had grown more violent as we still fought our way forward,
resting and rowing by turns, and oftener "poling" the shallower surface,
but the old VALDA, or bench, is still distant. My recollection of the
old survey enables me to guess the relative position of the meanderings
of the creek, and an occasional simple professional experiment to
determine the distance gives my crew the fullest faith in my ability.
Night overtakes us in our impeded progress. Our condition looks more
dangerous than it really is, but I urge the men, many of whom are still
new in this mode of navigation, to greater exertion by assurance of
perfect safety and speedy relief ahead. We go on in this way until about
eight o'clock, and ground by the willows. We have a muddy walk for a few
hundred yards before we strike a dry trail, and simultaneously the white
walls of Altascar's appear like a snowbank before us. Lights are moving
in the courtyard; but otherwise the old tomblike repose characterizes
the building.

One of the peons recognized me as I entered the court, and Altascar met
me on the corridor.

I was too weak to do more than beg his hospitality for the men who had
dragged wearily with me. He looked at my hand, which still unconsciously
held the broken riata. I began, wearily, to tell him about George and
my fears, but with a gentler courtesy than was even his wont, he gravely
laid his hand on my shoulder.

"POCO A POCO, senor--not now. You are tired, you have hunger, you have
cold. Necessary it is you should have peace."

He took us into a small room and poured out some French cognac, which he
gave to the men that had accompanied me. They drank and threw themselves
before the fire in the larger room. The repose of the building was
intensified that night, and I even fancied that the footsteps on the
corridor were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard's habitual gravity
was deeper; we might have been shut out from the world as well as
the whistling storm, behind those ancient walls with their time-worn
inheritor.

Before I could repeat my inquiry he retired. In a few minutes two
smoking dishes of CHUPA with coffee were placed before us, and my men
ate ravenously. I drank the coffee, but my excitement and weariness kept
down the instincts of hunger.

I was sitting sadly by the fire when he reentered.

"You have eat?"

I said, "Yes," to please him.

"BUENO, eat when you can--food and appetite are not always."

He said this with that Sancho-like simplicity with which most of his
countrymen utter a proverb, as though it were an experience rather than
a legend, and, taking the riata from the floor, held it almost tenderly
before him.

"It was made by me, senor."

"I kept it as a clue to him, Don Altascar," I said. "If I could find
him--"

"He is here."

"Here! and"--but I could not say "well!" I understood the gravity of
the old man's face, the hushed footfalls, the tomblike repose of the
building, in an electric flash of consciousness; I held the clue to the
broken riata at last. Altascar took my hand, and we crossed the corridor
to a somber apartment. A few tall candles were burning in sconces before
the window.

In an alcove there was a deep bed with its counterpane, pillows, and
sheets heavily edged with lace, in all that splendid luxury which the
humblest of these strange people lavish upon this single item of their
household. I stepped beside it and saw George lying, as I had seen him
once before, peacefully at rest. But a greater sacrifice than that he
had known was here, and his generous heart was stilled forever.

"He was honest and brave," said the old man, and turned away. There
was another figure in the room; a heavy shawl drawn over her graceful
outline, and her long black hair hiding the hands that buried her
downcast face. I did not seem to notice her, and, retiring presently,
left the loving and loved together.

When we were again beside the crackling fire, in the shifting shadows
of the great chamber, Altascar told me how he had that morning met the
horse of George Tryan swimming on the prairie; how that, farther on, he
found him lying, quite cold and dead, with no marks or bruises on his
person; that he had probably become exhausted in fording the creek, and
that he had as probably reached the mound only to die for want of that
help he had so freely given to others; that, as a last act, he had freed
his horse. These incidents were corroborated by many who collected
in the great chamber that evening--women and children--most of them
succored through the devoted energies of him who lay cold and lifeless
above.

He was buried in the Indian mound--the single spot of strange perennial
greenness which the poor aborigines had raised above the dusty plain. A
little slab of sandstone with the initials "G. T." is his monument,
and one of the bearings of the initial corner of the new survey of the
"Espiritu Santo Rancho."
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