California is the proprietor of a past, and in moments of sentiment croons of:
The days of old,
The days of gold,
The days of Forty-nine.
Dodge also owns a day-that-was. Its memory appeals often and fondly to an hour when no one asked a stranger’s name, but politely reduced curiosity to a cautious “What may I call you?” The stranger might have been “Bill Jones” in the faraway, forgotten East. He could now become “Jack Robinson”; and if his case presented any personal argument favourable to such change, the liberality of Dodge not alone permitted but invited that amendment. The stranger’s life for Dodge commenced with his advent in its friendly midst and went no further back. His past, with all that to him appertained, had fallen from him as fall the fetters from the bond slave when once he sets foot upon the sacred soil of England. Dodge refused to be involved in any question of what that stranger had done, or who he was. It received him, trusted him, watched him, and when popular judgment concerning him had ripened, it either applauded or lynched him as circumstances seemed most to invite.
It is good to shut one’s eyes and ruminate upon a past. The old days are ever golden, and for those of Dodge this should be their portrait. What might the heart of the stranger desire that they do not offer him? If he be a-weary, there is the Wright House whereat he may repose himself. Does he crave relaxation, there is Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall, called sometimes the Bird Cage, where to the lively observations of the fiddle he shall loosen the boards of the floor until refreshed. At all hours of the night the master of ceremonies is to be heard above the subdued muttering of exuberant feet:
“Ally man left—all sasshay! Balance to yer podners—all hands ’round! Grand right an’ left—dozy do! Chaat ’n’ swing—right arm to yer podner! All prom’nade to the bar!”
If mere trade be the stranger’s purpose, where is that emporium superior to Mr. Wright’s? Should the appetite of speculation seize him, is there not the Alamo, the Alhambra and the Long Branch? From those latter clapboard palaces of chance, where Fortune holds unflagging court, comes the inviting soft flutter of chips, punctuated by such terse announcements from roulette wheel and faro table as “All’s set an’ th’ ball’s rollin’!” or “Ace lose, trey win!” Now and again a hush descends while through the blue tobacco smoke two sisters of charity—looking with their white faces and black hoods like pale pictures set in jet—make the silent round of the games, seeking aid for their hospital in Santa Fé. Each courtier of Fortune cashes a handful of chips, and passes the proceeds to them over his shoulder; knowing that should sickness lay skeleton hand upon him he will be welcome at their merciful gates.
If the stranger be not only strange but tender—having just made his appearance, possibly, on some belated “buckboard” from the South, where he has been touring the Panhandle or ransacking the ranges with thoughts of buying a ranch—the all-night whirl of Dodge excites his wonder. In such round-eyed case, he sets forth at four o’clock in the morning his amazement to Mr. Short.
“Aren’t you open rather late?” mildly observes the tender stranger.
“It is rather late,” responds Mr. Short, with an eye of tolerant cynicism, “it is rather late for night before last, but it’s jest th’ shank of th’ evenin’ for to-night.”
The tender stranger makes no response, for his faculties have become engaged upon an ebullient cowboy who, with unsteady step, swings in through the Long Branch’s open door, spurs a-jingle, wide hat set at an arrogant slant.