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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In 'In the Carquinez Woods' by Bret Harte, the reader is transported to the rugged landscape of California during the Gold Rush era. Harte's writing style, characterized by vivid descriptions and attention to detail, immerses the reader in the harsh yet captivating setting of the story. The book delves into themes of greed, betrayal, and redemption, offering a glimpse into the complex human nature in a time of great turmoil. Harte's realistic portrayal of characters and their struggles adds depth to the narrative, making it a compelling read for those interested in American literature of the 19th century. Bret Harte, known for his stories set in the American West, drew inspiration from his own experiences as a miner and journalist during the Gold Rush. His firsthand knowledge of the region and its people lends authenticity to his writing, making his work a valuable contribution to the literary canon of the time. I highly recommend 'In the Carquinez Woods' to readers who enjoy historical fiction with a strong sense of place and well-developed characters. Harte's masterful storytelling and insightful commentary on human nature make this book a must-read for anyone interested in American literature and the California Gold Rush era.
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In the Carquinez Woods
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.
The sun was going down on the Carquinez Woods. The few shafts of sunlight that had pierced their pillared gloom were lost in unfathomable depths, or splintered their ineffectual lances on the enormous trunks of the redwoods. For a time the dull red of their vast columns, and the dull red of their cast-off bark which matted the echoless aisles, still seemed to hold a faint glow of the dying day. But even this soon passed. Light and color fled upwards. The dark interlaced treetops, that had all day made an impenetrable shade, broke into fire here and there; their lost spires glittered, faded, and went utterly out. A weird twilight that did not come from the outer world, but seemed born of the wood itself, slowly filled and possessed the aisles. The straight, tall, colossal trunks rose dimly like columns of upward smoke. The few fallen trees stretched their huge length into obscurity, and seemed to lie on shadowy trestles. The strange breath that filled these mysterious vaults had neither coldness nor moisture; a dry, fragrant dust arose from the noiseless foot that trod their bark-strewn floor; the aisles might have been tombs, the fallen trees enormous mummies; the silence the solitude of a forgotten past.
And yet this silence was presently broken by a recurring sound like breathing, interrupted occasionally by inarticulate and stertorous gasps. It was not the quick, panting, listening breath of some stealthy feline or canine animal, but indicated a larger, slower, and more powerful organization, whose progress was less watchful and guarded, or as if a fragment of one of the fallen monsters had become animate. At times this life seemed to take visible form, but as vaguely, as misshapenly, as the phantom of a nightmare. Now it was a square object moving sideways, endways, with neither head nor tail and scarcely visible feet; then an arched bulk rolling against the trunks of the trees and recoiling again, or an upright cylindrical mass, but always oscillating and unsteady, and striking the trees on either hand. The frequent occurrence of the movement suggested the figures of some weird rhythmic dance to music heard by the shape alone. Suddenly it either became motionless or faded away.
There was the frightened neighing of a horse, the sudden jingling of spurs, a shout and outcry, and the swift apparition of three dancing torches in one of the dark aisles; but so intense was the obscurity that they shed no light on surrounding objects, and seemed to advance of their own volition without human guidance, until they disappeared suddenly behind the interposing bulk of one of the largest trees. Beyond its eighty feet of circumference the light could not reach, and the gloom remained inscrutable. But the voices and jingling spurs were heard distinctly.
“Blast the mare! She's shied off that cursed trail again.”
“Ye ain't lost it again, hev ye?” growled a second voice.
“That's jist what I hev. And these blasted pine-knots don't give light an inch beyond 'em. D—d if I don't think they make this cursed hole blacker.”
There was a laugh—a woman's laugh—hysterical, bitter, sarcastic, exasperating. The second speaker, without heeding it, went on:—
“What in thunder skeert the hosses? Did you see or hear anything?”
“Nothin'. The wood is like a graveyard.”
The woman's voice again broke into a hoarse, contemptuous laugh. The man resumed angrily:—
“If you know anything, why in h-ll don't you say so, instead of cackling like a d—d squaw there? P'raps you reckon you ken find the trail too.”
“Take this rope off my wrist,” said the woman's voice, “untie my hands, let me down, and I'll find it.” She spoke quickly and with a Spanish accent.
It was the men's turn to laugh. “And give you a show to snatch that six-shooter and blow a hole through me, as you did to the Sheriff of Calaveras, eh? Not if this court understands itself,” said the first speaker dryly.
“Go to the devil, then,” she said curtly.
“Not before a lady,” responded the other. There was another laugh from the men, the spurs jingled again, the three torches reappeared from behind the tree, and then passed away in the darkness.
For a time silence and immutability possessed the woods; the great trunks loomed upwards, their fallen brothers stretched their slow length into obscurity. The sound of breathing again became audible; the shape reappeared in the aisle, and recommenced its mystic dance. Presently it was lost in the shadow of the largest tree, and to the sound of breathing succeeded a grating and scratching of bark. Suddenly, as if riven by lightning, a flash broke from the center of the tree-trunk, lit up the woods, and a sharp report rang through it. After a pause the jingling of spurs and the dancing of torches were revived from the distance.
“Hallo?”
No answer.
“Who fired that shot?”
But there was no reply. A slight veil of smoke passed away to the right, there was the spice of gunpowder in the air, but nothing more.
The torches came forward again, but this time it could be seen they were held in the hands of two men and a woman. The woman's hands were tied at the wrist to the horse-hair reins of her mule, while a riata, passed around her waist and under the mule's girth, was held by one of the men, who were both armed with rifles and revolvers. Their frightened horses curveted, and it was with difficulty they could be made to advance.
“Ho! stranger, what are you shooting at?”
The woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Look yonder at the roots of the tree. You're a d—d smart man for a sheriff, ain't you?”
The man uttered an exclamation and spurred his horse forward, but the animal reared in terror. He then sprang to the ground and approached the tree. The shape lay there, a scarcely distinguishable bulk.
“A grizzly, by the living Jingo! Shot through the heart.”
It was true. The strange shape lit up by the flaring torches seemed more vague, unearthly, and awkward in its dying throes, yet the small shut eyes, the feeble nose, the ponderous shoulders, and half-human foot armed with powerful claws were unmistakable. The men turned by a common impulse and peered into the remote recesses of the wood again.
“Hi, Mister! come and pick up your game. Hallo there!”
The challenge fell unheeded on the empty woods.
“And yet,” said he whom the woman had called the sheriff, “he can't be far off. It was a close shot, and the bear hez dropped in his tracks. Why, wot's this sticking in his claws?”
The two men bent over the animal. “Why, it's sugar, brown sugar—look!” There was no mistake. The huge beast's fore paws and muzzle were streaked with the unromantic household provision, and heightened the absurd contrast of its incongruous members. The woman, apparently indifferent, had taken that opportunity to partly free one of her wrists.
“If we hadn't been cavorting round this yer spot for the last half hour, I'd swear there was a shanty not a hundred yards away,” said the sheriff.
The other man, without replying, remounted his horse instantly.
“If there is, and it's inhabited by a gentleman that kin make centre shots like that in the dark, and don't care to explain how, I reckon I won't disturb him.”
The sheriff was apparently of the same opinion, for he followed his companion's example, and once more led the way. The spurs tinkled, the torches danced, and the cavalcade slowly reentered the gloom. In another moment it had disappeared.
The wood sank again into repose, this time disturbed by neither shape nor sound. What lower forms of life might have crept close to its roots were hidden in the ferns, or passed with deadened tread over the bark-strewn floor. Towards morning a coolness like dew fell from above, with here and there a dropping twig or nut, or the crepitant awakening and stretching-out of cramped and weary branches. Later a dull, lurid dawn, not unlike the last evening's sunset, filled the aisles. This faded again, and a clear gray light, in which every object stood out in sharp distinctness, took its place. Morning was waiting outside in all its brilliant, youthful coloring, but only entered as the matured and sobered day.
Seen in that stronger light, the monstrous tree near which the dead bear lay revealed its age in its denuded and scarred trunk, and showed in its base a deep cavity, a foot or two from the ground, partly hidden by hanging strips of bark which had fallen across it. Suddenly one of these strips was pushed aside, and a young man leaped lightly down.
But for the rifle he carried and some modern peculiarities of dress, he was of a grace so unusual and unconventional that he might have passed for a faun who was quitting his ancestral home. He stepped to the side of the bear with a light elastic movement that was as unlike customary progression as his face and figure were unlike the ordinary types of humanity. Even as he leaned upon his rifle, looking down at the prostrate animal, he unconsciously fell into an attitude that in any other mortal would have been a pose, but with him was the picturesque and unstudied relaxation of perfect symmetry.
“Hallo, Mister!”
He raised his head so carelessly and listlessly that he did not otherwise change his attitude. Stepping from behind the tree, the woman of the preceding night stood before him. Her hands were free except for a thong of the riata, which was still knotted around one wrist, the end of the thong having been torn or burnt away. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair hung over her shoulders in one long black braid.
“I reckoned all along it was YOU who shot the bear,” she said; “at least some one hiding yer,” and she indicated the hollow tree with her hand. “It wasn't no chance shot.” Observing that the young man, either from misconception or indifference, did not seem to comprehend her, she added, “We came by here, last night, a minute after you fired.”
“Oh, that was YOU kicked up such a row, was it?” said the young man, with a shade of interest.
“I reckon,” said the woman, nodding her head, “and them that was with me.”
“And who are they?”
“Sheriff Dunn, of Yolo, and his deputy.”
“And where are they now?”
“The deputy—in h-ll, I reckon; I don't know about the sheriff.”
“I see,” said the young man quietly; “and you?”
“I—got away,” she said savagely. But she was taken with a sudden nervous shiver, which she at once repressed by tightly dragging her shawl over her shoulders and elbows, and folding her arms defiantly.
“And you're going?”
“To follow the deputy, may be,” she said gloomily. “But come, I say, ain't you going to treat? It's cursed cold here.”
“Wait a moment.” The young man was looking at her, with his arched brows slightly knit and a half smile of curiosity. “Ain't you Teresa?”
She was prepared for the question, but evidently was not certain whether she would reply defiantly or confidently. After an exhaustive scrutiny of his face she chose the latter, and said, “You can bet your life on it, Johnny.”
“I don't bet, and my name isn't Johnny. Then you're the woman who stabbed Dick Curson over at Lagrange's?”
She became defiant again.
“That's me, all the time. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. And you used to dance at the Alhambra?” She whisked the shawl from her shoulders, held it up like a scarf, and made one or two steps of the sembicuacua. There was not the least gayety, recklessness, or spontaneity in the action; it was simply mechanical bravado. It was so ineffective, even upon her own feelings, that her arms presently dropped to her side, and she coughed embarrassedly. “Where's that whiskey, pardner?” she asked.
The young man turned toward the tree he had just quitted, and without further words assisted her to mount to the cavity. It was an irregular-shaped vaulted chamber, pierced fifty feet above by a shaft or cylindrical opening in the decayed trunk, which was blackened by smoke, as if it had served the purpose of a chimney. In one corner lay a bearskin and blanket; at the side were two alcoves or indentations, one of which was evidently used as a table, and the other as a cupboard. In another hollow, near the entrance, lay a few small sacks of flour, coffee, and sugar, the sticky contents of the latter still strewing the floor. From this storehouse the young man drew a wicker flask of whiskey, and handed it, with a tin cup of water, to the woman. She waved the cup aside, placed the flask to her lips, and drank the undiluted spirit. Yet even this was evidently bravado, for the water started to her eyes, and she could not restrain the paroxysm of coughing that followed.
“I reckon that's the kind that kills at forty rods,” she said, with a hysterical laugh. “But I say, pardner, you look as if you were fixed here to stay,” and she stared ostentatiously around the chamber. But she had already taken in its minutest details, even to observing that the hanging strips of bark could be disposed so as to completely hide the entrance.
“Well, yes,” he replied; “it wouldn't be very easy to pull up the stakes and move the shanty further on.”
Seeing that either from indifference or caution he had not accepted her meaning, she looked at him fixedly, and said,—
“What is your little game?”
“Eh?”
“What are you hiding for—here, in this tree?”
“But I'm not hiding.”
“Then why didn't you come out when they hailed you last night?”
“Because I didn't care to.”
Teresa whistled incredulously. “All right—then if you're not hiding, I'm going to.” As he did not reply, she went on: “If I can keep out of sight for a couple of weeks, this thing will blow over here, and I can get across into Yolo. I could get a fair show there, where the boys know me. Just now the trails are all watched, but no one would think of lookin' here.”
“Then how did you come to think of it?” he asked carelessly.
“Because I knew that bear hadn't gone far for that sugar; because I know he hadn't stole it from a cache—it was too fresh, and we'd have seen the torn-up earth; because we had passed no camp; and because I knew there was no shanty here. And, besides,” she added in a low voice, “maybe I was huntin' a hole myself to die in—and spotted it by instinct.”
There was something in this suggestion of a hunted animal that, unlike anything she had previously said or suggested, was not exaggerated, and caused the young man to look at her again. She was standing under the chimney-like opening, and the light from above illuminated her head and shoulders. The pupils of her eyes had lost their feverish prominence, and were slightly suffused and softened as she gazed abstractedly before her. The only vestige of her previous excitement was in her left-hand fingers, which were incessantly twisting and turning a diamond ring upon her right hand, but without imparting the least animation to her rigid attitude. Suddenly, as if conscious of his scrutiny, she stepped aside out of the revealing light and by a swift feminine instinct raised her hand to her head as if to adjust her straggling hair. It was only for a moment, however, for, as if aware of the weakness, she struggled to resume her aggressive pose.
“Well,” she said. “Speak up. Am I goin' to stop here, or have I got to get up and get?”
“You can stay,” said the young man quietly; “but as I've got my provisions and ammunition here, and haven't any other place to go to just now, I suppose we'll have to share it together.”
She glanced at him under her eyelids, and a half-bitter, half-contemptuous smile passed across her face. “All right, old man,” she said, holding out her hand, “it's a go. We'll start in housekeeping at once, if you like.”
“I'll have to come here once or twice a day,” he said, quite composedly, “to look after my things, and get something to eat; but I'll be away most of the time, and what with camping out under the trees every night I reckon my share won't incommode you.”
She opened her black eyes upon him, at this original proposition. Then she looked down at her torn dress. “I suppose this style of thing ain't very fancy, is it?” she said, with a forced laugh.
“I think I know where to beg or borrow a change for you, if you can't get any,” he replied simply.
She stared at him again. “Are you a family man?”
“No.”
She was silent for a moment. “Well,” she said, “you can tell your girl I'm not particular about its being in the latest fashion.”
There was a slight flush on his forehead as he turned toward the little cupboard, but no tremor in his voice as he went on: “You'll find tea and coffee here, and, if you're bored, there's a book or two. You read, don't you—I mean English?”
She nodded, but cast a look of undisguised contempt upon the two worn, coverless novels he held out to her. “You haven't got last week's 'Sacramento Union,' have you? I hear they have my case all in; only them lying reporters made it out against me all the time.”
“I don't see the papers,” he replied curtly.
“They say there's a picture of me in the 'Police Gazette,' taken in the act,” and she laughed.
