Part 11 (1/2)

”How is he gettin' on, Gabe?” asked one of the loungers.

”So, so,” said Gabriel. ”You'll want to s.h.i.+ft those bandages again,” he said, turning to Briggs, ”afore the doctor comes. I'd come back in an hour, but I've got to drop in and see how Steve's gettin' on, and it's a matter of two miles from home.”

”But he says he won't let anybody tech him but you,” said Mr. Briggs.

”I know he _says_ so,” said Gabriel, soothingly; ”but he'll get over that. That's what Stimson sed when he was took worse, but he got over that, and I never got to see him except in time to lay him out.”

The justice of this was admitted even by Briggs, although evidently disappointed. Gabriel was walking to the door, when another voice from the stove stopped him.

”Oh, Gabe! you mind that emigrant family with the sick baby camped down the gulch! Well, the baby up and died last night.”

”I want to know,” said Gabriel, with thoughtful gravity.

”Yes, and that woman's in a heap of trouble. Couldn't you kinder drop in in pa.s.sing and look after things?”

”I will,” said Gabriel thoughtfully.

”I thought you'd like to know it, and I thought she'd like me to tell you,” said the speaker, settling himself back again over the stove with the air of a man who had just fulfilled, at great personal sacrifice and labour, a work of supererogation.

”You're always thoughtful of other folks, Johnson,” said Briggs, admiringly.

”Well, yes,” said Johnson, with a modest serenity; ”I allers allow that men in Californy ought to think of others besides themselves. A little keer and a little _sabe_ on my part, and there's that family in the gulch made comfortable with Gabe around 'em.”

Meanwhile this homely inciter of the unselfish virtues of One Horse Gulch had pa.s.sed out into the rain and darkness. So conscientiously did he fulfil his various obligations, that it was nearly one o'clock before he reached his rude hut on the hill-side, a rough cabin of pine logs, so unpretentious and wild in exterior as to be but a slight improvement on nature. The vines clambered unrestrainedly over the bark-thatched roof; the birds occupied the crevices of the walls, the squirrel ate his acorns on the ridge pole without fear and without reproach.

Softly drawing the wooden peg that served as a bolt, Gabriel entered with that noiselessness and caution that were habitual to him. Lighting a candle by the embers of a dying fire, he carefully looked around him.

The cabin was divided into two compartments by the aid of a canvas stretched between the walls, with a flap for the doorway. On a pine table lay several garments apparently belonging to a girl of seven or eight--a frock grievously rent and torn, a frayed petticoat of white flannel already patched with material taken from a red s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of stockings so excessively and sincerely darned, as to have lost nearly all of their original fabric in repeated bits of relief that covered almost the entire structure. Gabriel looked at these articles ruefully, and, slowly picking them up, examined each with the greatest gravity and concern. Then he took off his coat and boots, and having in this way settled himself into an easy dishabille, he took a box from the shelf, and proceeded to lay out thread and needles, when he was interrupted by a child's voice from behind the canvas screen.

”Is that you, Gabe?”--”Yes.”

”Oh, Gabe, I got tired and went to bed.”

”I see you did,” said Gabriel drily, picking up a needle and thread that had apparently been abandoned after a slight excursion into the neighbourhood of a rent and left hopelessly sticking in the petticoat.

”Yes, Gabe; they're so awfully old!”

”Old!” repeated Gabe, reproachfully. ”Old! Lettin' on a little wear and tear, they're as good as they ever were. That petticoat is stronger,”

said Gabriel, holding up the garment and eyeing the patches with a slight glow of artistic pride--”stronger, Olly, than the first day you put it on.”

”But that's five years ago, Gabe.”

”Well,” said Gabriel, turning round and addressing himself impatiently to the screen, ”wot if it is?”

”And I've growed.”

”Growed!” said Gabriel, scornfully. ”And haven't I let out the tucks, and didn't I put three fingers of the best sacking around the waist?

You'll just ruin me in clothes.”

Olly laughed from behind the screen. Finding, however, no response from the grim worker, presently there appeared a curly head at the flap, and then a slim little girl, in the scantiest of nightgowns, ran, and began to nestle at his side, and to endeavour to enwrap herself in his waistcoat.