It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October.
The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind Nature for the wingless wild things that have their homes in the tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus1 slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of God.
October is the time;1900; Hope Canyon is the place, a silver-mining camp away down in the Esmeralda region. It is a secluded spot, high and remote; recent as to discovery; thought by its occupants to be rich in metal;a year or twos prospecting will decide that matter one way or the other. For inhabitants, the camp has about two hundred miners, one white woman and child, several Chinese washermen, five squaws, and a dozen vagrant buck Indians in rabbit-skin robes, battered plug hats, and tin-can necklaces. There are no mills as yet; no church, no newspaper. The camp has existed but two years; it has made no big strike; the world is ignorant of its name and place.
On both sides of the canyon the mountains rise wall-like, three thousand feet, and the long spiral of straggling huts down in its narrow bottom gets a kiss from the sun only once a day, when he sails over at noon. The village is a couple of miles long; the cabins stand well apart from each other. The tavern is the only frame house;the only house, one might say. It occupies a central position, and is the evening resort of the population. They drink there, and play seven-up and dominoes; also billiards, for there is a table, crossed all over with torn places repaired with court-plaster; there are some cues, but no leathers; some chipped balls which clatter when they run, and do not slow up gradually, but stop suddenly and sit down; there is a part of a cube of chalk, with a projecting jag of flint in it; and the man who can score six on a single break can set up the drinks at the bars expense.
Flint Buckners cabin was the last one of the village, going south; his silver claim was at the other end of the village, northward, and a little beyond the last hut in that direction. He was a sour creature, unsociable, and had no companionships. People who had tried to get acquainted with him had regretted it and dropped him. His history was not known. Some believed that Sammy Hillyer knew it; others said no. If asked, Hillyer said no, he was not acquainted with it. Flint had a meek English youth of sixteen or seventeen with him, whom he treated roughly, both in public and in private; and of course this lad was applied to for information, but with no success. Fetlock Jones;name of the youth;said that Flint picked him up on a prospecting tramp, and as he had neither home nor friends in America, he had found it wise to stay and take Buckners hard usage for the sake of the salary, which was bacon and beans. Further than this he could offer no testimony.
Fetlock had been in this slavery for a month now, and under his meek exterior he was slowly consuming to a cinder with the insults and humiliations which his master had put upon him. For the meek suffer bitterly from these hurts; more bitterly, perhaps, than do the manlier sort, who can burst out and get relief with words or blows when the limit of endurance has been reached. Good-hearted people wanted to help Fetlock out of his trouble, and tried to get him to leave Buckner; but the boy showed fright at the thought, and said he dasnt. Pat Riley urged him, and said:
You leave the damned hunks and come with me; dont you be afraid. Ill take care of him.
The boy thanked him with tears in his eyes, but shuddered and said he dasnt risk it; he said Flint would catch him alone, some time, in the night, and then;Oh, it makes me sick, Mr. Riley, to think of it.
Others said, Run away from him; well stake you; skip out for the coast some night. But all these suggestions failed; he said Flint would hunt him down and fetch him back, just for meanness.
The people could not understand this. The boys miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is quite likely that the people would have understood if they had known how he was employing his spare time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flints; and there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humiliations, and studied and studied over a single problem;how he could murder Flint Buckner and not be found out. It was the only joy he had in life; these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four which he looked forward to with eagerness and spent in happiness.
He thought of poison. No;that would not serve; the inquest would reveal where it was procured and who had procured it. He thought of a shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would be homeward bound at midnight;his unvarying hour for the trip. No;somebody might be near, and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his sleep. No;he might strike an inefficient blow, and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred different ways;none of them would answer; for in even the very obscurest and secretest of them there was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a possibility that he might be found out. He would have none of that.
But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurry;he would find the way. It was somewhere, and he would endure shame and pain and misery until he found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to the murderer;there was no hurry;he would find that way, and then;oh, then, it would just be good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thing about his oppressor.
Two days before the before-mentioned October morning Flint had bought some things, and he and Fetlock had brought them home to Flints cabin: a fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner; a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which they placed under Flints bunk; a huge coil of fuse, which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that Flints mining operations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting was about to begin now. He had seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the process, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture was right;blasting-time had come. In the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into it and out of it a short ladder was used. They descended, and by command Fetlock held the drill;without any instructions as to the right way to hold it;and Flint proceeded to strike. The sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlocks hand, almost as a matter of course.
You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! There;hold fast. D;you! Ill teach you!
At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.
Now, then, charge it.
The boy started to pour in the powder.
A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.
Get up! You cant lie sniveling there. Now, then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I;Put in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott! get out of the way! He snatched the iron and tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse, climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after a little there was a shower of descending stones; then all was serene again.
I wish to God youd been in it! remarked the master.
They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled another hole, and put in another charge.
Look here! How much fuse are you proposing to waste? Dont you know how to time a fuse?
You dont! Well, if you dont beat anything I ever saw!
He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:
Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut the fuse and light it!
The trembling creature began,
If you please, sir, I;
You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!
The boy cut and lit.
Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you were in;
In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft and ran. The boy was aghast.
Oh, my God! Help! Help! Oh, save me! he implored. Oh what can I do! What can I do!
He backed against the wall as tightly as he could; the sputtering fuse frightened the voice out of him; his breath stood still; he stood gazing and impotent; in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be flying toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had an inspiration. He sprang at the fuse; severed the inch of it that was left above ground, and was saved.
He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright, his strength gone; but he muttered with a deep joy:
He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if I would wait.
After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the shaft, looking worried and uneasy, and peered down into it. He took in the situation; he saw what had happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy dragged himself weakly up it. He was very white. His appearance added something to Buckners uncomfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret and sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from lack of practice:
It was an accident, you know. Dont say anything about it to anybody; I was excited, and didnt notice what I was doing. Youre not looking well; youve worked enough for to-day; go down to my cabin and eat what you want, and rest. Its just an accident, you know, on account of my being excited.
It scared me, said the lad, as he started away; but I learnt something, so I dont mind it.
Dammed easy to please! muttered Buckner, following him with his eye. I wonder if hell tell? Mightnt he?… I wish it had killed him.
The boy took no advantage of his holiday in the matter of resting; he employed it in work, eager and feverish and happy work. A thick growth of chaparral extended down the mountain-side clear to Flints cabin; the most of Fetlocks labor was done in the dark intricacies of that stubborn growth; the rest of it was done in his own shanty. At last all was complete, and he said:
If hes got any suspicions that Im going to tell on him, he wont keep them long, to-morrow. He will see that I am the same milksop as I always was;all day and the next. And the day after to-morrow night therell be an end of him; nobody will ever guess who finished him up nor how it was done. He dropped me the idea his own self, and thats odd.
1 [From the Springfield Republican April 12, 1902.]
To the Editor of the Republican:;
One of your citizens has asked me a question about the œsophagus, and I wish to answer him through you. This in the hope that the answer will get around, and save me some penmanship, for I have already replied to the same question more than several times, and am not getting as much holiday as I ought to have.
I published a short story lately, and it was in that that I put the œsophagus. I will say privately that I expected it to bother some people;in fact, that was the intention,;but the harvest has been larger than I was calculating upon. The œsophagus has gathered in the guilty and the innocent alike, whereas I was only fishing for the innocent;the innocent and confiding. I knew a few of these would write and ask me; that would give me but little trouble; but I was not expecting that the wise and the learned would call upon me for succor. However, that has happened, and it is time for me to speak up and stop the inquiries if I can, for letter-writing is not restful to me, and I am not having so much fun out of this thing as I counted on. That you may understand the situation, I will insert a couple of sample inquiries. The first is from a public instructor in the Philippines:
Santa Cruz, Ilocos Sur, P. I.
February 13, 1902.
My Dear Sir: I have just been reading the first part of your latest story, entitled A Double-barreled Detective Story, and am very much delighted with it. In Part IV, page 264, Harpers Magazine for January, occurs this passage: far in the empty sky a solitary ‘œsophagus slept, upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of God. Now, there is one word I do not understand, namely, œsophagus. My only work of reference is the Standard Dictionary, but that fails to explain the meaning. If you can spare the time, I would be glad to have the meaning cleared up, as I consider the passage a very touching and beautiful one. It may seem foolish to you, but consider my lack of means away out in the northern part of Luzon.
Yours very truly.
Do you notice? Nothing in the paragraph disturbed him but that one word. It shows that that paragraph was most ably constructed for the deception it was intended to put upon the reader. It was my intention that it should read plausibly, and it is now plain that it does; it was my intention that it should be emotional and touching, and you see, yourself, that it fetched this public instructor. Alas, if I had but left that one treacherous word out, I should have scored! scored everywhere; and the paragraph would have slidden through every readers sensibilities like oil, and left not a suspicion behind.
The other sample inquiry is from a professor in a New England university. It contains one naughty word (which I cannot bear to suppress), but he is not in the theological department, so it is no harm:;
Dear Mr. Clemens: Far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus slept upon motionless wing.
It is not often I get a chance to read much periodical literature, but I have just gone through at this belated period, with much gratification and edification, your Double-Barreled Detective Story.
But what in hell is an œsophagus? I keep one myself, but it never sleeps in the air or anywhere else. My profession is to deal with words, and œsophagus interested me the moment I lighted upon it. But as a companion of my youth used to say, Ill be eternally, co-eternally cussed if I can make it out. Is it a joke, or I an ignoramus?
Between you and me, I was almost ashamed of having fooled that man, but for prides sake I was not going to say so. I wrote and told him it was a joke;and that is what I am now saying to my Springfield inquirer. And I told him to carefully read the whole paragraph, and he would find not a vestige of sense in any detail of it. This also I commend to my Springfield inquirer.
I have confessed. I am sorry;partially. I will not do so any more;for the present. Dont ask me any more questions; let the œsophagus have a rest;on his same old motionless wing.
New York City, April 10, 1902.
The Double-Barreled Detective Story, which appeared in Harpers Mag. for January and February last, is the most elaborate of burlesques on detective fiction, with striking melodramatic passages in which it is difficult to detect the deception, so ably is it done. But the illusion ought not to endure even the first incident in the February number. As for the paragraph which has so admirably illustrated the skill of Mr. Clemenss ensemble and the carelessness of readers, here it is:;
It was a crisp and spicy morning in early October. The lilacs and laburnums, lit with the glory-fires of autumn, hung burning and flashing in the upper air, a fairy bridge provided by kind nature for the wingless wild things that have their home in the tree-tops and would visit together; the larch and the pomegranate flung their purple and yellow flames in brilliant broad splashes along the slanting sweep of the woodland; the sensuous fragrance of innumerable deciduous flowers rose upon the swooning atmosphere; far in the empty sky a solitary œsophagus slept upon motionless wing; everywhere brooded stillness, serenity, and the peace of God.
The success of Mark Twains joke recalls to mind his story of the petrified man in the cavern, whom he described most punctiliously, first giving a picture of the scene, its impressive solitude, and all that; then going on to describe the majesty of the figure, casually mentioning that the thumb of his right hand rested against the side of his nose; then after further description observing that the fingers of the right hand were extended in a radiating fashion; and, recurring to the dignified attitude and position of the man, incidentally remarked that the thumb of the left hand was in contact with the little finger of the right;and so on. But it was so ingeniously written that Mark, relating the history years later in an article which appeared in that excellent magazine of the past, the Galaxy, declared that no one ever found out the joke, and, if we remember aright, that that astonishing old mockery was actually looked for in the region where he, as a Nevada newspaper editor, had located it. It is certain that Mark Twains jumping frog has a good many more pints than any other frog.