Drift from Two Shores

“Who was My Quiet Friend?”

Bret Harte


The voice was not loud, but clear and penetrating. I looked vainly up and down the narrow, darkening trail. No one in the fringe of alder ahead; no one on the gullied slope behind.

“O! stranger!”

This time a little impatiently. The California classical vocative, “O,” always meant business.

I looked up, and perceived for the first time on the ledge, thirty feet above me, another trail parallel with my own, and looking down upon me through the buckeye bushes a small man on a black horse.

Five things to be here noted by the circumspect mountaineer. First, the locality,—lonely and inaccessible, and away from the regular faring of teamsters and miners. Secondly, the stranger’s superior knowledge of the road, from the fact that the other trail was unknown to the ordinary traveler. Thirdly, that he was well armed and equipped. Fourthly, that he was better mounted. Fifthly, that any distrust or timidity arising from the contemplation of these facts had better be kept to one’s self.

All this passed rapidly through my mind as I returned his salutation.

“Got any tobacco?” he asked.

I had, and signified the fact, holding up the pouch inquiringly.

“All right, I’ll come down. Ride on, and I’ll jine ye on the slide.”

“The slide!” Here was a new geographical discovery as odd as the second trail. I had ridden over the trail a dozen times, and seen no communication between the ledge and trail. Nevertheless, I went on a hundred yards or so, when there was a sharp crackling in the underbrush, a shower of stones on the trail, and my friend plunged through the bushes to my side, down a grade that I should scarcely have dared to lead my horse. There was no doubt he was an accomplished rider,—another fact to be noted.

As he ranged beside me, I found I was not mistaken as to his size; he was quite under the medium height, and but for a pair of cold, gray eyes, was rather commonplace in feature.

“You’ve got a good horse there,” I suggested.

He was filling his pipe from my pouch, but looked up a little surprised, and said, “Of course.” He then puffed away with the nervous eagerness of a man long deprived of that sedative. Finally, between the puffs, he asked me whence I came.

I replied, “From Lagrange.”

He looked at me a few moments curiously, but on my adding that I had only halted there for a few hours, he said: “I thought I knew every man between Lagrange and Indian Spring, but somehow I sorter disremember your face and your name.”

Not particularly caring that he should remember either, I replied half laughingly, that, as I lived the other side of Indian Spring, it was quite natural. He took the rebuff, if such it was, so quietly that as an act of mere perfunctory politeness I asked him where he came from.


“And you are going to—”

“Well! that depends pretty much on how things pan out, and whether I can make the riffle.” He let his hand rest quite unconsciously on the leathern holster of his dragoon revolver, yet with a strong suggestion to me of his ability “to make the riffle” if he wanted to, and added: “But just now I was reck’nin’ on taking a little pasear with you.”

There was nothing offensive in his speech save its familiarity, and the reflection, perhaps, that whether I objected or not, he was quite able to do as he said. I only replied that if our pasear was prolonged beyond Heavytree Hill, I should have to borrow his beast. To my surprise he replied quietly, “That’s so,” adding that the horse was at my disposal when he wasn’t using it, and half of it when he was. “Dick has carried double many a time before this,” he continued, “and kin do it again; when your mustang gives out I’ll give you a lift and room to spare.”

I could not help smiling at the idea of appearing before the boys at Red Gulch en croupe with the stranger; but neither could I help being oddly affected by the suggestion that his horse had done double duty before. “On what occasion, and why?” was a question I kept to myself. We were ascending the long, rocky flank of the divide; the narrowness of the trail obliged us to proceed slowly, and in file, so that there was little chance for conversation, had he been disposed to satisfy my curiosity.

We toiled on in silence, the buckeye giving way to chimisal, the westering sun, reflected again from the blank walls beside us, blinding our eyes with its glare. The pines in the canyon below were olive gulfs of heat, over which a hawk here and there drifted lazily, or, rising to our level, cast a weird and gigantic shadow of slowly moving wings on the mountain side. The superiority of the stranger’s horse led him often far in advance, and made me hope that he might forget me entirely, or push on, growing weary of waiting. But regularly he would halt by a bowlder, or reappear from some chimisal, where he had patiently halted. I was beginning to hate him mildly, when at one of those reappearances he drew up to my side, and asked me how I liked Dickens!

Had he asked my opinion of Huxley or Darwin, I could not have been more astonished. Thinking it were possible that he referred to some local celebrity of Lagrange, I said, hesitatingly:—

“You mean—”

“Charles Dickens. Of course you’ve read him? Which of his books do you like best?”

I replied with considerable embarrassment that I liked them all,—as I certainly did.

He grasped my hand for a moment with a fervor quite unlike his usual phlegm, and said, “That’s me, old man. Dickens ain’t no slouch. You can count on him pretty much all the time.”

With this rough preface, he launched into a criticism of the novelist, which for intelligent sympathy and hearty appreciation I had rarely heard equaled. Not only did he dwell upon the exuberance of his humor, but upon the power of his pathos and the all-pervading element of his poetry. I looked at the man in astonishment. I had considered myself a rather diligent student of the great master of fiction, but the stranger’s felicity of quotation and illustration staggered me. It is true, that his thought was not always clothed in the best language, and often appeared in the slouching, slangy undress of the place and period, yet it never was rustic nor homespun, and sometimes struck me with its precision and fitness. Considerably softened toward him, I tried him with other literature. But vainly. Beyond a few of the lyrical and emotional poets, he knew nothing. Under the influence and enthusiasm of his own speech, he himself had softened considerably; offered to change horses with me, readjusted my saddle with professional skill, transferred my pack to his own horse, insisted upon my sharing the contents of his whisky flask, and, noticing that I was unarmed, pressed upon me a silver-mounted Derringer, which he assured me he could “warrant.” These various offices of good will and the diversion of his talk beguiled me from noticing the fact that the trail was beginning to become obscure and unrecognizable. We were evidently pursuing a route unknown before to me. I pointed out the fact to my companion, a little impatiently. He instantly resumed his old manner and dialect.

“Well, I reckon one trail’s as good as another, and what hev ye got to say about it?”

I pointed out, with some dignity, that I preferred the old trail.

“Mebbe you did. But you’re jiss now takin’ a pasear with me. This yer trail will bring you right into Indian Spring, and onnoticed, and no questions asked. Don’t you mind now, I’ll see you through.”

It was necessary here to make some stand against my strange companion. I said firmly, yet as politely as I could, that I had proposed stopping over night with a friend.


I hesitated. The friend was an eccentric Eastern man, well known in the locality for his fastidiousness and his habits as a recluse. A misanthrope, of ample family and ample means, he had chosen a secluded but picturesque valley in the Sierras where he could rail against the world without opposition. “Lone Valley,” or “Boston Ranch,” as it was familiarly called, was the one spot that the average miner both respected and feared. Mr. Sylvester, its proprietor, had never affiliated with “the boys,” nor had he ever lost their respect by any active opposition to their ideas. If seclusion had been his object, he certainly was gratified. Nevertheless, in the darkening shadows of the night, and on a lonely and unknown trail, I hesitated a little at repeating his name to a stranger of whom I knew so little. But my mysterious companion took the matter out of my hands.

“Look yar,” he said, suddenly, “thar ain’t but one place twixt yer and Indian Spring whar ye can stop, and that is Sylvester’s.”

I assented, a little sullenly.

“Well,” said the stranger, quietly, and with a slight suggestion of conferring a favor on me, “ef yer pointed for Sylvester’s—why—I don’t mind stopping thar with ye. It’s a little off the road—I’ll lose some time—but taking it by and large, I don’t much mind.”

I stated, as rapidly and as strongly as I could, that my acquaintance with Mr. Sylvester did not justify the introduction of a stranger to his hospitality; that he was unlike most of the people here,—in short, that he was a queer man, etc., etc.

To my surprise my companion answered quietly: “Oh, that’s all right. I’ve heerd of him. Ef you don’t feel like checking me through, or if you’d rather put ‘C. O. D.’ on my back, why it’s all the same to me. I’ll play it alone. Only you just count me in. Say ‘Sylvester’ all the time. That’s me!”

What could I oppose to this man’s quiet assurance? I felt myself growing red with anger and nervous with embarrassment. What would the correct Sylvester say to me? What would the girls,—I was a young man then, and had won an entrée to their domestic circle by my reserve,—known by a less complimentary adjective among “the boys,”—what would they say to my new acquaintance? Yet I certainly could not object to his assuming all risks on his own personal recognizances, nor could I resist a certain feeling of shame at my embarrassment.

We were beginning to descend. In the distance below us already twinkled the lights in the solitary rancho of Lone Valley. I turned to my companion. “But you have forgotten that I don’t even know your name. What am I to call you?”

“That’s so,” he said, musingly. “Now, let’s see. ‘Kearney’ would be a good name. It’s short and easy like. Thar’s a street in ’Frisco the same title; Kearney it is.”

“But—” I began impatiently.

“Now you leave all that to me,” he interrupted, with a superb self-confidence that I could not but admire. “The name ain’t no account. It’s the man that’s responsible. Ef I was to lay for a man that I reckoned was named Jones, and after I fetched him I found out on the inquest that his real name was Smith, that wouldn’t make no matter, as long as I got the man.”

The illustration, forcible as it was, did not strike me as offering a prepossessing introduction, but we were already at the rancho. The barking of dogs brought Sylvester to the door of the pretty little cottage which his taste had adorned.

I briefly introduced Mr. Kearney. “Kearney will do—Kearney’s good enough for me,” commented the soi-disant Kearney half-aloud, to my own horror and Sylvester’s evident mystification, and then he blandly excused himself for a moment that he might personally supervise the care of his own beast. When he was out of ear-shot I drew the puzzled Sylvester aside.

“I have picked up—I mean I have been picked up on the road by a gentle maniac, whose name is not Kearney. He is well armed and quotes Dickens. With care, acquiescence in his views on all subjects, and general submission to his commands, he may be placated. Doubtless the spectacle of your helpless family, the contemplation of your daughter’s beauty and innocence, may touch his fine sense of humor and pathos. Meanwhile, Heaven help you, and forgive me.”

I ran upstairs to the little den that my hospitable host had kept always reserved for me in my wanderings. I lingered some time over my ablutions, hearing the languid, gentlemanly drawl of Sylvester below, mingled with the equally cool, easy slang of my mysterious acquaintance. When I came down to the sitting-room I was surprised, however, to find the self-styled Kearney quietly seated on the sofa, the gentle May Sylvester, the “Lily of Lone Valley,” sitting with maidenly awe and unaffected interest on one side of him, while on the other that arrant flirt, her cousin Kate, was practicing the pitiless archery of her eyes, with an excitement that seemed almost real.

“Who is your deliciously cool friend?” she managed to whisper to me at supper, as I sat utterly dazed and bewildered between the enrapt May Sylvester, who seemed to hang upon his words, and this giddy girl of the period, who was emptying the battery of her charms in active rivalry upon him. “Of course we know his name isn’t Kearney. But how romantic! And isn’t he perfectly lovely? And who is he?”

I replied with severe irony that I was not aware what foreign potentate was then traveling incognito in the Sierras of California, but that when his royal highness was pleased to inform me, I should be glad to introduce him properly. “Until then,” I added, “I fear the acquaintance must be Morganatic.”

“You’re only jealous of him,” she said pertly. “Look at May—she is completely fascinated. And her father, too.” And actually, the languid, world-sick, cynical Sylvester was regarding him with a boyish interest and enthusiasm almost incompatible with his nature. Yet I submit honestly to the clear-headed reason of my own sex, that I could see nothing more in the man than I have already delivered to the reader.

In the middle of an exciting story of adventure, of which he, to the already prejudiced mind of his fair auditors, was evidently the hero, he stopped suddenly.

“It’s only some pack train passing the bridge on the lower trail,” explained Sylvester; “go on.”

“It may be my horse is a trifle oneasy in the stable,” said the alleged Kearney; “he ain’t used to boards and covering.” Heaven only knows what wild and delicious revelation lay in the statement of this fact, but the girls looked at each other with cheeks pink with excitement as Kearney arose, and, with quiet absence of ceremony, quitted the table.

“Ain’t he just lovely?” said Kate, gasping for breath, “and so witty.”

“Witty!” said the gentle May, with just the slightest trace of defiance in her sweet voice; “witty, my dear? why, don’t you see that his heart is just breaking with pathos? Witty, indeed; why, when he was speaking of that poor Mexican woman that was hung, I saw the tears gather in his eyes. Witty, indeed!”

“Tears,” laughed the cynical Sylvester, “tears, idle tears. Why, you silly children, the man is a man of the world, a philosopher, quiet, observant, unassuming.”

“Unassuming!” Was Sylvester intoxicated, or had the mysterious stranger mixed the “insane verb” with the family pottage? He returned before I could answer this self-asked inquiry, and resumed coolly his broken narrative. Finding myself forgotten in the man I had so long hesitated to introduce to my friends, I retired to rest early, only to hear, through the thin partitions, two hours later, enthusiastic praises of the new guest from the voluble lips of the girls, as they chatted in the next room before retiring.

At midnight I was startled by the sound of horses’ hoofs and the jingling of spurs below. A conversation between my host and some mysterious personage in the darkness was carried on in such a low tone that I could not learn its import. As the cavalcade rode away I raised the window.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Sylvester, coolly, “only another one of those playful homicidal freaks peculiar to the country. A man was shot by Cherokee Jack over at Lagrange this morning, and that was the sheriff of Calaveras and his posse hunting him. I told him I’d seen nobody but you and your friend. By the way, I hope the cursed noise hasn’t disturbed him. The poor fellow looked as if he wanted rest.”

I thought so, too. Nevertheless, I went softly to his room. It was empty. My impression was that he had distanced the sheriff of Calaveras about two hours.

Drift from Two Shores - Contents    |     A Ghost of the Sierras

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