The Wreck
of the
“Mud Hen”
beach, an’ the others ’ad gone off in the hills, an’ I guess they’d ’ad another row. They carried off my gun an’ my cards, an’ I never want to see a bunch o’ lunatics like that agin. I’d as leave take in a lot o’ mad dogs as I would them geezers. I wish that dam’ Swede at the wheel ’ad headed ’is ol’ tub som’eres else, ’er sunk ’er out in the middle ’o the lake, instid o’ shootin’ ’er in ’ere an’ fussin’ me all up. Them fellers’ll be about as pop’lar as a skunk if they ever come ’round ’ere agin.”
The remains of the poor old “Mud Hen” were visible about half a mile down the coast. Her charred and broken ribs protruded from the sands that had buried her keel, seemingly in mute protest against final oblivion. The fate that evil company brings was hers, but her refuge is now secure.
Happy Cal had been born and educated in a southern city. At twenty he had fallen in love with a dark-haired, beautiful, and softly languorous creature, with dreamy eyes, whose faded and worn photograph he produced after a long search through the leaves of an old and very dirty book. The book, which he also showed me, was rather anarchistic in character, and its well-thumbed pages may have considerably influenced Cal’s lack of faith in things in general.
After the exchange of fervent mutual vows, he had shouldered a musket and answered the call of the cause that was lost on the battlefields of the sixties.
After many vicissitudes and many months of suffering and hardship, poor Cal, in a tattered uniform, found his way back through the mountains to the altar on which he had laid his heart. He found the raven tresses on the shoulder of another, and retreated into the soul darkness from which he never emerged. He was only partially conscious of the weary miles and aimless wanderings that eventually took him into the silence and isolation of the sand hills, where he elected to abide in secrecy.
The golden chalice had been dashed from his lips—he had drunk of bitter waters. His star had fallen, and, like a wounded animal, he had sought the solitudes, beyond the arrows that had torn him.
The sad, lonely years in the little driftwood hut had benumbed the cruel memories, but the problems of existence brought only partial forgetfulness. Under the cold northern stars and during the winter storms, his seared and tortured soul strove for peace, but it came not.
His sole companion in his exile was a big gray and white dog. He had found the poor, half-starved, stray creature prowling around in the vicinity of the hut one night, and had taken him in. Community of interest had caused these two atoms to coalesce. The dogs name was Pete, and it was Pete who was the indirect and innocent cause of Cal’s final awakening to what he considered a sad reality a year or two later.