The Girl of the Golden West | Page 9

know, putting off the hour of open avowal, shutting his eyes to the
accumulating facts that day by day had silently spoken of lawlessness
and peril. Three years, his father had just said; well, that explained how
it was that no suspicions had ever awakened until after he had
completed his education and returned home from his travels. But since
then a child must have noted that something was wrong: the grim,
sinister faces of the men, constantly on guard, as though the old
hacienda were in a state of siege; the altered disposition of his father,
always given to gloomy moods, but lately doubly silent and saturnine,
full of strange savagery and smouldering fire. Yes, somewhere in the

back of his mind he had known the whole, shameful truth; had known
the purpose of those silent, stealthy excursions, and equally silent
returns,--and more than once the broken heads and bandaged arms that
coincided so oddly with some new tale of a daring hold-up that he was
sure to hear of, the next time that he chanced to ride into Monterey. For
three years, young Ramerrez had known that sooner or later he would
be facing such a moment as this, called upon to make the choice that
should make or mar him for life. And now, for the first time he realised
why he had never voiced his suspicions, never questioned, never
hastened the time of decision,--it was because even now he did not
know which way he wished to decide! He knew only that he was torn
and racked by terrible emotions, that on one side was a mighty impulse
to disregard the oath he had blindly taken and refuse to do his father's
bidding; and on the other, some new and unguessed craving for
excitement and danger, some inherited lawlessness in his blood,
something akin to the intoxication of the arena, when the thunder of the
bull's hoofs rang in his ears. And so, when the old man's lips opened
once more, and shaped, almost inaudibly, the solemn words:
"You have sworn,--" the scales were turned and the son bowed his head
in silence.
A moment later and the room was filled with men who fell on their
knees. On every face, save one, there was an expression of
overwhelming grief and despair; but on that one, ashen grey as it was
with the agony of approaching death, there was a look of contentment
as he made a sign to the padre that he was now ready for him to
administer the last rites of his church.

III.
The Polka Saloon!
How the name stirs the blood and rouses the imagination!
No need to be a Forty-Niner to picture it all as if there that night: the

great high and square room lighted by candles and the warm, yellow
light of kerosene lamps; the fireplace with its huge logs blazing and
roaring; the faro tables with the little rings of miners around them; and
the long, pine bar behind which a typical barkeeper of the period was
busily engaged in passing the bottle to the men clamorous for whisky in
which to drink the health of the Girl.
And the spirit of the place! When and where was there ever such a fine
fellowship--transforming as it unquestionably did an ordinary saloon
into a veritable haven of good cheer for miners weary after a long and
often discouraging day in the gulches?
In a word, the Polka was a marvellous tribute to its girl-proprietor's
sense of domesticity. Nothing that could insure the comfort for her
patrons was omitted. Nothing, it would seem, could occur that would
disturb the harmonious aspect of the scene.
But alas! the night was yet young.
Now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured and
musically-inclined company were waiting arrived. Clear above the
babel of voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player
began singing in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument:
"Camp town ladies sing this song Dooda! Dooda! Camp town race
track five miles long Dooda! Dooda! Day!"
Throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than an
occasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody. For once, at any
rate, it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did the chorus,
which had been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd and was
rip-roaring along at a great rate, reach the second line than there
sounded the reports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the direction of the
street. The effect was magical: every voice trailed off into uncertainty
and then ceased.
Instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush fell upon
the room, the joyous light of battle in every eye, if nothing else,

attesting the approach of the foe; while