The Night-Doing's at Deadman's

A Story that isUntrue

IT was a singularly sharp night, and clear as the heart of adiamond. Clear nights have a trick of be- ing keen. In darknessyou may be cold and not know it; when you see, you suffer. Thisnight was bright enough to bite like a serpent. The moon wasmoving mysteriously along behind the giant pines crowning theSouth Mountain, striking a cold sparkle from the crusted snow,and bringing out against the black west and ghostly outlines ofthe Coast Range, beyond which lay the invisible Pa- cific. Thesnow had piled itself, in the open spaces along the bottom of thegulch, into long ridges that seemed to heave, and into hills thatappeared to toss and scatter spray. The spray was sunlight, twicereflected: dashed once from the moon, once from the snow.
In this snow many of the shanties of the aban- doned mining campwere obliterated (a sailor might have said they had gone down),and at irregular in- tervals it had overtopped the tall trestleswhich had once supported a river called a flume; for, of course,'flume' is flumen. Among the advantages of which the mountainscannot deprive the gold-hunter is the privilege of speaking Latin.He says of his dead neighbour, 'He has gone up the flume.' Thisis not a bad way to say, 'His life has returned to the Fountainof Life.'
While putting on its armour against the assaults of the wind,this snow had neglected no coign of van- tage. Snow pursued bythe wind is not wholly unlike a retreating army. In the openfield it ranges itself in ranks and battalions; where it can geta foothold it makes a stand; where it can take cover it does so.You may see whole platoons of snow cowering behind a bit ofbroken wall. The devious old road, hewn out of the mountainside,was full of it. Squad- ron upon squadron had struggled to escapeby this line, when suddenly pursuit had ceased. A more desolateand dreary spot than Deadman's Gulch in a winter midnight it isimpossible to imagine. Yet Mr. Hiram Beeson elected to livethere, the sole inhabitant.
Away up the side of the North Mountain his little pine-log shantyprojected from its single pane of glass a long, thin beam oflight, and looked not altogether unlike a black beetle fastenedto the hillside with a bright new pin. Within it sat Mr. Beesonhimself, before a roaring fire, staring into its hot heart as ifhe had never before seen such a thing in all his life. He was nota comely man. He was grey; he was ragged and slovenly in hisattire; his face was wan and haggard; his eyes were too bright.As to his age, if one had attempted to guess it, one might havesaid forty-seven, then corrected himself and said seventy-four.He was really twenty- eight. Emaciated he was; as much, perhaps,as he dared be, with a needy undertaker at Bentley's Flat and anew and enterprising coroner at Sonora. Pov- erty and zeal are anupper and a nether millstone. It is dangerous to make a third inthat kind of sandwich.
As Mr. Beeson sat there, with his ragged elbows on his raggedknees, his lean jaws buried in his lean hands, and with noapparent intention of going to bed, he looked as if the slightestmovement would tumble him to pieces. Yet during the last hour hehad winked no fewer than three times.
There was a sharp rapping at the door. A rap at that time ofnight and in that weather might have surprised an ordinary mortalwho had dwelt two years in the gulch without seeing a human face,and could not fail to know that the country was impass- able; butMr. Beeson did not so much as pull his eyes out of the coals. Andeven when the door was pushed open he only shrugged a little moreclosely into himself, as one does who is expecting some- thingthat he would rather not see. You may observe this movement inwomen when, in a mortuary chapel, the coffin is borne up theaisle behind them.
But when a long old man in a blanket overcoat, his head tied upin a handkerchief and nearly his entire face in a muffler,wearing green goggles and with a complexion of glitteringwhiteness where it could be seen, strode silently into the room,laying a hard, gloved hand on Mr. Beeson's shoulder, the lat- terso far forgot himself as to look up with an ap- pearance of nosmall astonishment; whomever he may have been expecting, he hadevidently not counted on meeting anyone like this. Nevertheless,the sight of this unexpected guest produced in Mr. Beeson thefollowing sequence: a feeling of aston- ishment; a sense ofgratification; a sentiment of pro- found good will. Rising fromhis seat, he took the knotty hand from his shoulder, and shook itup and down with a fervour quite unaccountable; for in the oldman's aspect was nothing to attract, much to repel. However,attraction is too general a property for repulsion to be withoutit. The most attractive object in the world is the face weinstinctively cover with a cloth. When it becomes still moreattractive --fascinating--we put seven feet of earth above it.
'Sir,' said Mr. Beeson, releasing the old man's hand, which fellpassively against his thigh with a quiet clack, 'it is anextremely disagreeable night. Pray be seated; I am very glad tosee you.'
Mr. Beeson spoke with an easy good breeding that one would hardlyhave expected, considering all things. Indeed, the contrastbetween his appear- ance and his manner was sufficientlysurprising to be one of the commonest of social phenomena in themines. The old man advanced a step toward the fire, glowingcavernously in the green goggles. Mr. Beeson resumed.
'You bet your life I am!'
Mr. Beeson's elegance was not too refined; it had made reasonableconcessions to local taste. He paused a moment, letting his eyesdrop from the muffled head of his guest, down along the row ofmouldy buttons confining the blanket overcoat, to the greenishcowhide boots powdered with snow, which had begun to melt and runalong the floor in little rills. He took an inventory of hisguest, and ap- peared satisfied. Who would not have been? Then hecontinued:
'The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in keeping with mysurroundings; but I shall esteem myself highly favoured if it isyour pleasure to partake of it, rather than seek better atBentley's Flat.'
With a singular refinement of hospitable humil- ity Mr. Beesonspoke as if a sojourn in his warm cabin on such a night, ascompared with walking four- teen miles up to the throat in snowwith a cutting crust, would be an intolerable hardship. By way ofreply, his guest unbuttoned the blanket overcoat. The host laidfresh fuel on the fire, swept the hearth with the tail of a wolf,and added:
'But I think you'd better skedaddle.'
The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his broad soles tothe heat without removing his hat. In the mines the hat is seldomremoved except when the boots are. Without further remark Mr.Beeson also seated himself in a chair which had been a bar- rel,and which, retaining much of its original char- acter, seemed tohave been designed with a view to preserving his dust if itshould please him to crumble. For a moment there was silence;then, from somewhere among the pines, came the snarling yelp of acoyote; and simultaneously the door rattled in its frame. Therewas no other connection between the two incidents than that thecoyote has an aver- sion to storms, and the wind was rising; yetthere seemed somehow a kind of supernatural conspiracy betweenthe two, and Mr. Beeson shuddered with a vague sense of terror.He recovered himself in a moment and again addressed his guest.
'There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, andthen if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over theworst of the way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike--Idare say you know the place.'
The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that hedid, but that he did indeed.
'Two years ago,' began Mr. Beeson, 'I, with two companions,occupied this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred weleft, along with the rest. In ten hours the gulch was deserted.That evening, however, I discovered I had left behind me a val-uable pistol (that is it) and returned for it, passing the nighthere alone, as I have passed every night since. I must explainthat a few days before we left, our Chinese domestic had themisfortune to die while the ground was frozen so hard that it wasim- possible to dig a grave in the usual way. So, on the day ofour hasty departure, we cut through the floor there, and gave himsuch burial as we could. But before putting him down I had theextremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to thatbeam above his grave, where you may see it at this mo- ment, or,preferably, when warmth has given you leisure for observation.
'I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death fromnatural causes? I had, of course, noth- ing to do with that, andreturned through no irresist- ible attraction, or morbidfascination, but only be- cause I had forgotten a pistol. That isclear to you, is it not, sir?'
The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a man of few words,if any. Mr. Beeson continued:
'According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a kite: he cannotgo to heaven without a tail. Well, to shorten this tedious story--which,however, I thought it my duty to relate--on that night, while Iwas here alone and thinking of anything but him, that Chinamancame back for his pigtail.
'He did not get it.'
At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank si- lence. Perhapshe was fatigued by the unwonted exercise of speaking; perhaps hehad conjured up a memory that demanded his undivided attention.The wind was now fairly abroad, and the pines along themountainside sang with singular distinctness. The narratorcontinued:
'You say you do not see much in that, and I must confess I do notmyself.
'But he keeps coming!'
There was another long silence, during which both stared into thefire without the movement of a limb. Then Mr. Beeson broke out,almost fiercely, fixing his eyes on what he could see of theimpassive face of his auditor:
'Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no inten- tion oftroubling anyone for advice. You will par- don me, I am sure'--herehe became singularly persuasive--'but I have ventured to nailthat pig- tail fast, and have assumed that somewhat onerousobligation of guarding it. So it is quite impossible to act onyour considerate suggestion.
'Do you play me for a Modoc?'
Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrustthis indignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was asif he had struck him on the side of the head with a steelgauntlet. It was a protest, but it was a challenge. To bemistaken for a coward--to be played for a Modoc: these two ex-pressions are one. Sometimes it is a Chinaman. Do you play me fora Chinaman? is a question frequently addressed to the ear of thesuddenly dead.
Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment'spause, during which the wind thundered in the chimney like thesound of clods upon a coffin, he resumed:
'But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life ofthe last two years has been a mis- take--a mistake that correctsitself; you see how. The grave! No; there is no one to dig it.The ground is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may sayat Bentley's--but that is not important. It was very tough tocut; they braid silk into their pig- tails. Kwaagh.'
Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. Hislast word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath,opened his eyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fellinto a deep sleep. What he said was this:
'They are swiping my dust!'
Then the aged stranger, who had not uttered one word since hisarrival, arose from his seat and de- liberately laid off hisouter clothing, looking as angular in his flannels as the lateSignorina Festo- razzi, an Irish woman, six feet in height, andweigh- ing fifty-six pounds, who used to exhibit herself in herchemise to the people of San Francisco. He then crept into one ofthe 'bunks,' having first placed a revolver in easy reach,according to the custom of the country. This revolver he tookfrom a shelf, and it was the one which Mr. Beeson had mentionedas that for which he had returned to the gulch two years before.
In a few moments Mr. Beeson awoke, and seeing that his guest hadretired he did likewise. But be- fore doing so he approached thelong, plaited wisp of pagan hair and gave it a powerful tug, toassure himself that it was fast and firm. The two beds-- mereshelves covered with blankets not overclean-- faced each otherfrom opposite sides of the room, the little square trap-door thathad given access to the Chinaman's grave being midway between.This, by the way, was crossed by a double row of spike- heads. Inhis resistance to the supernatural, Mr. Beeson had not disdainedthe use of material precautions.
The fire was now low, the flames burning bluely and petulantly,with occasional flashes, projecting spectral shadows on the walls--shadowsthat moved mysteriously about, now dividing, now unit- ing. Theshadow of the pendent queue, however, kept moodily apart, nearthe roof at the farther end of the room, looking like a note ofadmiration. The song of the pines outside had now risen to thedignity of a triumphal hymn. In the pauses the silence wasdreadful.
It was during one of these intervals that the trap in the floorbegan to lift. Slowly and steadily it rose, and slowly andsteadily rose the swaddled head of the old man in the bunk toobserve it. Then, with a clap that shook the house to itsfoundation, it was thrown clean back, where it lay with itsunsightly spikes pointing threateningly upward. Mr. Beeson awoke,and without rising, pressed his fingers into his eyes. Heshuddered; his teeth chattered. His guest was now reclining onone elbow, watching the proceedings with the goggles that glowedlike lamps.
Suddenly a howling gust of wind swooped down the chimney,scattering ashes and smoke in all di- rections, for a momentobscuring everything. When the fire-light again illuminated theroom there was seen, sitting gingerly on the edge of a stool bythe hearth-side, a swarthy little man of prepossessing appearanceand dressed with faultless taste, nodding to the old man with afriendly and engaging smile.
'From San Francisco, evidently,' thought Mr. Bee- son, who havingsomewhat recovered from his fright was groping his way to asolution of the evening's events.
But now another actor appeared upon the scene. Out of the squareblack hole in the middle of the floor protruded the head of thedeparted Chinaman, his glassy eyes turned upward in their angularslits and fastened on the dangling queue above with a look ofyearning unspeakable. Mr. Beeson groaned, and again spread hishands upon his face. A mild odour of opium pervaded the place.The phantom, clad only in a short blue tunic quilted and silkenbut covered with grave-mould, rose slowly, as if pushed by a weakspiral spring. Its knees were at the level of the floor, whenwith a quick upward impulse like the silent leaping of a flame itgrasped the queue with both hands, drew up its body and took thetip in its horrible yellow teeth. To this it clung in a seemingfrenzy, grimacing ghastly, surging and plunging from side to sidein its efforts to disengage its property from the beam, bututtering no sound. It was like a corpse artificially convulsed bymeans of a galvanic battery. The contrast between its su-perhuman activity and its silence was no less than hideous!
Mr. Beeson cowered in his bed. The swarthy lit- tle gentlemanuncrossed his legs, beat an impatient tattoo with the toe of hisboot and consulted a heavy gold watch. The old man sat erect andquietly laid hold of the revolver.
Bang!
Like a body cut from the gallows the Chinaman plumped into theblack hole below, carrying his tail in his teeth. The trap-doorturned over, shutting down with a snap. The swarthy littlegentleman from San Francisco sprang nimbly from his perch, caughtsomething in the air with his hat, as a boy catches a butterfly,and vanished into the chimney as if drawn up by suction.
From away somewhere in the outer darkness floated in through theopen door a faint, far cry--a long, sobbing wail, as of a childdeath-strangled in the desert, or a lost soul borne away by theAdver- sary. It may have been the coyote.
In the early days of the following spring a party of miners ontheir way to new diggings passed along the gulch, and strayingthrough the deserted shanties found in one of them the body ofHiram Beeson, stretched upon a bunk, with a bullet hole throughthe heart. The ball had evidently been fired from the oppositeside of the room, for in one of the oaken beams overhead was ashallow blue dint, where it had struck a knot and been deflecteddownward to the breast of its victim. Strongly attached to thesame beam was what appeared to be an end of a rope of braidedhorsehair, which had been cut by the bullet in its passage to theknot. Nothing else of interest was noted, excepting a suit ofmouldy and incongru- ous clothing, several articles of which wereafter- ward identified by respectable witnesses as those in whichcertain deceased citizen's of Deadman's had been buried yearsbefore. But it is not easy to under- stand how that could be,unless, indeed, the gar- ments had been worn as a disguise byDeath himself --which is hardly credible.