Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy

"Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy" is a charming short story by Bret Harte that explores the themes of friendship and the simple joys of life in a small frontier town. The narrative centers on two eccentric characters, Uncle Jim and Uncle Billy, who are well-known among the locals for their humorous banter and unique perspectives on life. Their interactions reveal deeper insights into human nature, community, and the bond that forms through shared experiences. Harte's engaging storytelling style captures the essence of the American West, blending humor with poignant moments that resonate with readers.

• Short story

								
They were partners. The avuncular title was bestowed on them by Cedar
Camp, possibly in recognition of a certain matured good humor, quite
distinct from the spasmodic exuberant spirits of its other members,
and possibly from what, to its youthful sense, seemed their advanced
ages--which must have been at least forty! They had also set habits
even in their improvidence, lost incalculable and unpayable sums to
each other over euchre regularly every evening, and inspected their
sluice-boxes punctually every Saturday for repairs--which they never
made. They even got to resemble each other, after the fashion of old
married couples, or, rather, as in matrimonial partnerships, were
subject to the domination of the stronger character; although in
their case it is to be feared that it was the feminine Uncle
Billy--enthusiastic, imaginative, and loquacious--who swayed the
masculine, steady-going, and practical Uncle Jim. They had lived in the
camp since its foundation in 1849; there seemed to be no reason why
they should not remain there until its inevitable evolution into a
mining-town. The younger members might leave through restless ambition
or a desire for change or novelty; they were subject to no such trifling
mutation. Yet Cedar Camp was surprised one day to hear that Uncle Billy
was going away.

The rain was softly falling on the bark thatch of the cabin with a
muffled murmur, like a sound heard through sleep. The southwest trades
were warm even at that altitude, as the open door testified, although
a fire of pine bark was flickering on the adobe hearth and striking out
answering fires from the freshly scoured culinary utensils on the rude
sideboard, which Uncle Jim had cleaned that morning with his usual
serious persistency. Their best clothes, which were interchangeable and
worn alternately by each other on festal occasions, hung on the
walls, which were covered with a coarse sailcloth canvas instead of
lath-and-plaster, and were diversified by pictures from illustrated
papers and stains from the exterior weather. Two "bunks," like ships'
berths,--an upper and lower one,--occupied the gable-end of this single
apartment, and on beds of coarse sacking, filled with dry moss, were
carefully rolled their respective blankets and pillows. They were the
only articles not used in common, and whose individuality was respected.

Uncle Jim, who had been sitting before the fire, rose as the square bulk
of his partner appeared at the doorway with an armful of wood for the
evening stove. By that sign he knew it was nine o'clock: for the last
six years Uncle Billy had regularly brought in the wood at that hour,
and Uncle Jim had as regularly closed the door after him, and set out
their single table, containing a greasy pack of cards taken from its
drawer, a bottle of whiskey, and two tin drinking-cups. To this was
added a ragged memorandum-book and a stick of pencil. The two men drew
their stools to the table.

"Hol' on a minit," said Uncle Billy.

His partner laid down the cards as Uncle Billy extracted from his pocket
a pill-box, and, opening it, gravely took a pill. This was clearly an
innovation on their regular proceedings, for Uncle Billy was always in
perfect health.

"What's this for?" asked Uncle Jim half scornfully.

"Agin ager."

"You ain't got no ager," said Uncle Jim, with the assurance of intimate
cognizance of his partner's physical condition.

"But it's a pow'ful preventive! Quinine! Saw this box at Riley's store,
and laid out a quarter on it. We kin keep it here, comfortable, for
evenings. It's mighty soothin' arter a man's done a hard day's work on
the river-bar. Take one."

Uncle Jim gravely took a pill and swallowed it, and handed the box back
to his partner.

"We'll leave it on the table, sociable like, in case any of the boys
come in," said Uncle Billy, taking up the cards. "Well. How do we
stand?"

Uncle Jim consulted the memorandum-book. "You were owin' me sixty-two
thousand dollars on the last game, and the limit's seventy-five
thousand!"

"Je whillikins!" ejaculated Uncle Billy. "Let me see."

He examined the book, feebly attempted to challenge the additions, but
with no effect on the total. "We oughter hev made the limit a hundred
thousand," he said seriously; "seventy-five thousand is only triflin'
in a game like ours. And you've set down my claim at Angel's?" he
continued.

"I allowed you ten thousand dollars for that," said Uncle Jim, with
equal gravity, "and it's a fancy price too."

The claim in question being an unprospected hillside ten miles distant,
which Uncle Jim had never seen, and Uncle Billy had not visited for
years, the statement was probably true; nevertheless, Uncle Billy
retorted:--

"Ye kin never tell how these things will pan out. Why, only this mornin'
I was taking a turn round Shot Up Hill, that ye know is just rotten with
quartz and gold, and I couldn't help thinkin' how much it was like my
ole claim at Angel's. I must take a day off to go on there and strike a
pick in it, if only for luck."

Suddenly he paused and said, "Strange, ain't it, you should speak of it
to-night? Now I call that queer!"

He laid down his cards and gazed mysteriously at his companion. Uncle
Jim knew perfectly that Uncle Billy had regularly once a week for
many years declared his final determination to go over to Angel's and
prospect his claim, yet nevertheless he half responded to his partner's
suggestion of mystery, and a look of fatuous wonder crept into his eyes.
But he contented himself by saying cautiously, "You spoke of it first."

"That's the more sing'lar," said Uncle Billy confidently. "And I've been
thinking about it, and kinder seeing myself thar all day. It's mighty
queer!" He got up and began to rummage among some torn and coverless
books in the corner.

"Where's that 'Dream Book' gone to?"

"The Carson boys borrowed it," replied Uncle Jim. "Anyhow, yours wasn't
no dream--only a kind o' vision, and the book don't take no stock in
visions." Nevertheless, he watched his partner with some sympathy, and
added, "That reminds me that I had a dream the other night of being in
'Frisco at a small hotel, with heaps o' money, and all the time being
sort o' scared and bewildered over it."

"No?" queried his partner eagerly yet reproachfully. "You never let
on anything about it to ME! It's mighty queer you havin' these strange
feelin's, for I've had 'em myself. And only to-night, comin' up from
the spring, I saw two crows hopping in the trail, and I says, 'If I see
another, it's luck, sure!' And you'll think I'm lyin', but when I went
to the wood-pile just now there was the THIRD one sittin' up on a log as
plain as I see you. Tell 'e what folks ken laugh--but that's just what
Jim Filgee saw the night before he made the big strike!"

They were both smiling, yet with an underlying credulity and seriousness
as singularly pathetic as it seemed incongruous to their years and

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