The Idyll of Red Gulch by Bret Harte
Sandy was very drunk. He was lying under an azalea bush, in pretty much
the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before. How long he
had been lying there he could not tell, and didn't care; how long he
should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and unconsidered. A
tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffused and
saturated his moral being.
The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular, was
not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to attract
attention. Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected a temporary
tombstone at Sandy's head, bearing the inscription, "Effects of McCorkle's
whisky—kills at forty rods," with a hand pointing to McCorkle's
saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire, personal; and
was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process rather than a
commentary upon the impropriety of the result. With this facetious
exception, Sandy had been undisturbed. A wandering mule, released from his
pack, had cropped the scant herbage beside him, and sniffed curiously at
the prostrate man; a vagabond dog, with that deep sympathy which the
species have for drunken men, had licked his dusty boots, and curled
himself up at his feet, and lay there, blinking one eye in the sunlight,
with a simulation of dissipation that was ingenious and doglike in its
implied flattery of the unconscious man beside him.
Meanwhile the shadows of the pine trees had slowly swung around until they
crossed the road, and their trunks barred the open meadow with gigantic
parallels of black and yellow. Little puffs of red dust, lifted by the
plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon the
recumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower; and still Sandy stirred not.
And then the repose of this philosopher was disturbed, as other
philosophers have been, by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex.
"Miss Mary," as she was known to the little flock that she had just
dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her
afternoon walk. Observing an unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the
azalea bush opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it—picking her
way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little shivers of
disgust and some feline circumlocution. And then she came suddenly upon
Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex. But when she had
paid that tribute to her physical weakness she became overbold, and halted
for a moment—at least six feet from this prostrate monster—with
her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight. But neither sound
nor motion came from the bush. With one little foot she then overturned
the satirical headboard, and muttered "Beasts!"—an epithet which
probably, at that moment, conveniently classified in her mind the entire
male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary, being possessed of certain
rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps, properly appreciated the
demonstrative gallantry for which the Californian has been so justly
celebrated by his brother Californians, and had, as a newcomer, perhaps
fairly earned the reputation of being "stuck-up."
As she stood there she noticed, also, that the slant sunbeams were heating
Sandy's head to what she judged to be an unhealthy temperature, and that
his hat was lying uselessly at his side. To pick it up and to place it
over his face was a work requiring some courage, particularly as his eyes
were open. Yet she did it, and made good her retreat. But she was somewhat
concerned, on looking back, to see that the hat was removed, and that
Sandy was sitting up and saying something.
The truth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy's mind he was satisfied
that the rays of the sun were beneficial and healthful; that from
childhood he had objected to lying down in a hat; that no people but
condemned fools, past redemption, ever wore hats; and that his right to
dispense with them when he pleased was inalienable. This was the statement
of his inner consciousness. Unfortunately, its outward expression was
vague, being limited to a repetition of the following formula—"Su'shine
all ri'! Wasser maar, eh? Wass up, su'shine?"
Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her vantage of distance,
asked him if there was anything that he wanted.
"Wass up? Wasser maar?" continued Sandy, in a very high key.
"Get up, you horrid man!" said Miss Mary, now thoroughly incensed; "get
up, and go home."
Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and Miss Mary trembled.
He started forward a few paces and then stopped.
"Wass I go home for?" he suddenly asked, with great gravity.
"Go and take a bath," replied Miss Mary, eying his grimy person with great
To her infinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off his coat and vest, threw
them on the ground, kicked off his boots, and, plunging wildly forward,
darted headlong over the hill, in the direction of the river.
"Goodness heavens!—the man will be drowned!" said Miss Mary; and
then, with feminine inconsistency, she ran back to the schoolhouse and
locked herself in.
That night, while seated at supper with her hostess, the blacksmith's
wife, it came to Miss Mary to ask, demurely, if her husband ever got
drunk. "Abner," responded Mrs. Stidger, reflectively, "let's see: Abner
hasn't been tight since last 'lection." Miss Mary would have liked to ask
if he preferred lying in the sun on these occasions, and if a cold bath
would have hurt him; but this would have involved an explanation, which
she did not then care to give. So she contented herself with opening her
gray eyes widely at the red-cheeked Mrs. Stidger—a fine specimen of
Southwestern efflorescence—and then dismissed the subject
altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest friend, in Boston: "I
think I find the intoxicated portion of this community the least
objectionable. I refer, my dear, to the men, of course. I do not know
anything that could make the women tolerable."
In less than a week Miss Mary had forgotten this episode, except that her
afternoon walks took thereafter, almost unconsciously, another direction.
She noticed, however, that every morning a fresh cluster of azalea
blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. This was not strange, as
her little flock were aware of her fondness for flowers, and invariably
kept her desk bright with anemones, syringas, and lupines; but, on
questioning them, they one and all professed ignorance of the azaleas. A
few days later, Master Johnny Stidger, whose desk was nearest to the
window, was suddenly taken with spasms of apparently gratuitous laughter
that threatened the discipline of the school. All that Miss Mary could get
from him was, that someone had been "looking in the winder." Irate and
indignant, she sallied from her hive to do battle with the intruder. As
she turned the corner of the schoolhouse she came plump upon the quondam
drunkard—now perfectly sober, and inexpressibly sheepish and
These facts Miss Mary was not slow to take a feminine advantage of, in her
present humor. But it was somewhat confusing to observe, also, that the
beast, despite some faint signs of past dissipation, was amiable-looking—in
fact, a kind of blond Samson whose corn-colored, silken beard apparently
had never yet known the touch of barber's razor or Delilah's shears. So
that the cutting speech which quivered on her ready tongue died upon her
lips, and she contented herself with receiving his stammering apology with
supercilious eyelids and the gathered skirts of uncontamination. When she
re-entered the schoolroom, her eyes fell upon the azaleas with a new sense
of revelation. And then she laughed, and the little people all laughed,
and they were all unconsciously very happy.
It was on a hot day—and not long after this—that two
short-legged boys came to grief on the threshold of the school with a pail
of water, which they had laboriously brought from the spring, and that
Miss Mary compassionately seized the pail and started for the spring
herself. At the foot of the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a
blue-shirted arm dexterously but gently relieved her of her burden. Miss
Mary was both embarrassed and angry. "If you carried more of that for
yourself," she said, spitefully, to the blue arm, without deigning to
raise her lashes to its owner, "you'd do better." In the submissive
silence that followed she regretted the speech, and thanked him so sweetly
at the door that he stumbled. Which caused the children to laugh again—a
laugh in which Miss Mary joined, until the color came faintly into her
pale cheek. The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside the door,
and as mysteriously filled with fresh spring water every morning.
Nor was this superior young person without other quiet attentions.
"Profane Bill," driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known in the
newspapers for his "gallantry" in invariably offering the box seat to the
fair sex, had excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the ground that
he had a habit of "cussin' on upgrades," and gave her half the coach to
herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, having once silently ridden with her in
the same coach, afterward threw a decanter at the head of a confederate
for mentioning her name in a barroom. The overdressed mother of a pupil
whose paternity was doubtful had often lingered near this astute Vestal's
temple, never daring to enter its sacred precincts, but content to worship
the priestess from afar.
With such unconscious intervals the monotonous procession of blue skies,
glittering sunshine, brief twilights, and starlit nights passed over Red
Gulch. Miss Mary grew fond of walking in the sedate and proper woods.
Perhaps she believed, with Mrs. Stidger, that the balsamic odors of the
firs "did her chest good," for certainly her slight cough was less
frequent and her step was firmer; perhaps she had learned the unending
lesson which the patient pines are never weary of repeating to heedful or
listless ears. And so, one day, she planned a picnic on Buckeye Hill, and
took the children with her. Away from the dusty road, the straggling
shanties, the yellow ditches, the clamor of restless engines, the cheap
finery of shop windows, the deeper glitter of paint and colored glass, and
the thin veneering which barbarism takes upon itself in such localities—what
infinite relief was theirs! The last heap of ragged rock and clay passed,
the last unsightly chasm crossed—how the waiting woods opened their
long files to receive them! How the children—perhaps because they
had not yet grown quite away from the breast of the bounteous Mother—threw
themselves face downward on her brown bosom with uncouth caresses, filling
the air with their laughter; and how Miss Mary herself—felinely
fastidious and intrenched as she was in the purity of spotless skirts,
collar, and cuffs—forgot all, and ran like a crested quail at the
head of her brood until, romping, laughing, and panting, with a loosened
braid of brown hair, a hat hanging by a knotted ribbon from her throat,
she came suddenly and violently, in the heart of the forest, upon—the
The explanations, apologies, and not overwise conversation that ensued
need not be indicated here. It would seem, however, that Miss Mary had
already established some acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough that
he was soon accepted as one of the party; that the children, with that
quick intelligence which Providence gives the helpless, recognized a
friend, and played with his blond beard and long silken mustache, and took
other liberties—as the helpless are apt to do. And when he had built
a fire against a tree, and had shown them other mysteries of woodcraft,
their admiration knew no bounds. At the close of two such foolish, idle,
happy hours he found himself lying at the feet of the schoolmistress,
gazing dreamily in her face, as she sat upon the sloping hillside weaving
wreaths of laurel and syringa, in very much the same attitude as he had
lain when first they met. Nor was the similitude greatly forced. The
weakness of an easy, sensuous nature that had found a dreamy exaltation in
liquor, it is to be feared was now finding an equal intoxication in love.
I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himself. I know that he
longed to be doing something—slaying a grizzly, scalping a savage,
or sacrificing himself in some way for the sake of this sallow-faced,
gray-eyed schoolmistress. As I should like to present him in a heroic
attitude, I stay my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being only
withheld from introducing such an episode by a strong conviction that it
does not usually occur at such times. And I trust that my fairest reader,
who remembers that, in a real crisis, it is always some uninteresting
stranger or unromantic policeman, and not Adolphus, who rescues, will
forgive the omission.
So they sat there, undisturbed—the woodpeckers chattering overhead
and the voices of the children coming pleasantly from the hollow below.
What they said matters little. What they thought—which might have
been interesting—did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned how
Miss Mary was an orphan; how she left her uncle's house, to come to
California, for the sake of health and independence; how Sandy was an
orphan, too; how he came to California for excitement; how he had lived a
wild life, and how he was trying to reform; and other details, which, from
a woodpecker's viewpoint, undoubtedly must have seemed stupid, and a waste
of time. But even in such trifles was the afternoon spent; and when the
children were again gathered, and Sandy, with a delicacy which the
schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them quietly at the
outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest day of her weary
As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school term of Red
Gulch—to use a local euphuism—"dried up" also. In another day
Miss Mary would be free; and for a season, at least, Red Gulch would know
her no more. She was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek resting on
her hand, her eyes half-closed in one of those daydreams in which Miss
Mary—I fear to the danger of school discipline—was lately in
the habit of indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns, and other
woodland memories. She was so preoccupied with these and her own thoughts
that a gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or translated itself
into the remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. When at last it asserted
itself more distinctly, she started up with a flushed cheek and opened the
door. On the threshold stood a woman the self-assertion and audacity of
whose dress were in singular contrast to her timid, irresolute bearing.
Miss Mary recognized at a glance the dubious mother of her anonymous
pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed, perhaps she was only fastidious; but
as she coldly invited her to enter, she half-unconsciously settled her
white cuffs and collar, and gathered closer her own chaste skirts. It was,
perhaps, for this reason that the embarrassed stranger, after a moment's
hesitation, left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in the dust beside
the door, and then sat down at the farther end of a long bench. Her voice
was husky as she began:
"I heerd tell that you were goin' down to the Bay tomorrow, and I couldn't
let you go until I came to thank you for your kindness to my Tommy."
Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, and deserved more than the poor
attention she could give him.
"Thank you, miss; thank ye!" cried the stranger, brightening even through
the color which Red Gulch knew facetiously as her "war paint," and
striving, in her embarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the
schoolmistress. "I thank you, miss, for that! and if I am his mother,
there ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And if I ain't
much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher lives than
Miss Mary, sitting primly behind her desk, with a ruler over her shoulder,
opened her gray eyes widely at this, but said nothing.
"It ain't for you to be complimented by the like of me, I know," she went
on, hurriedly. "It ain't for me to be comin' here, in broad day, to do it,
either; but I come to ask a favor—not for me, miss—not for me,
but for the darling boy."
Encouraged by a look in the young schoolmistress's eye, and putting her
lilac-gloved hands together, the fingers downward, between her knees, she
went on, in a low voice:
"You see, miss, there's no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I
ain't the proper person to bring him up. I thought some, last year, of
sending him away to Frisco to school, but when they talked of bringing a
schoolma'am here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was all
right, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And O, miss, he loves you
so much; and if you could hear him talk about you, in his pretty way, and
if he could ask you what I ask you now, you couldn't refuse him.
"It is natural," she went on, rapidly, in a voice that trembled strangely
between pride and humility—"it's natural that he should take to you,
miss, for his father, when I first knew him, was a gentleman—and the
boy must forget me, sooner or later—and so I ain't goin' to cry
about that. For I come to ask you to take my Tommy—God bless him for
the bestest, sweetest boy that lives—to—to—take him with
She had risen and caught the young girl's hand in her own, and had fallen
on her knees beside her.
"I've money plenty, and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good
school, where you can go and see him, and help him to—to—to
forget his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be
kindness to what he will learn with me. Only take him out of this wicked
life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You will; I know
you will—won't you? You will—you must not, you cannot say no!
You will make him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he has grown
up, you will tell him his father's name—the name that hasn't passed
my lips for years—the name of Alexander Morton, whom they call here
Sandy! Miss Mary!—do not take your hand away! Miss Mary, speak to
me! You will take my boy? Do not put your face from me. I know it ought
not to look on such as me. Miss Mary!—my God, be merciful!—she
is leaving me!"
Miss Mary had risen and, in the gathering twilight, had felt her way to
the open window. She stood there, leaning against the casement, her eyes
fixed on the last rosy tints that were fading from the western sky. There
was still some of its light on her pure young forehead, on her white
collar, on her clasped white hands, but all fading slowly away. The
suppliant had dragged herself, still on her knees, beside her.
"I know it takes time to consider. I will wait here all night; but I
cannot go until you speak. Do not deny me now. You will!—I see it in
your sweet face—such a face as I have seen in my dreams. I see it in
your eyes, Miss Mary!—you will take my boy!"
The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary's eyes with something
of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out. The sun had set on Red
Gulch. In the twilight and silence Miss Mary's voice sounded pleasantly.
"I will take the boy. Send him to me tonight."
The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary's skirts to her lips. She
would have buried her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not. She
rose to her feet.
"Does—this man—know of your intention?" asked Miss Mary,
"No, nor cares. He has never even seen the child to know it."
"Go to him at once—tonight—now! Tell him what you have done.
Tell him I have taken his child, and tell him—he must never see—see—the
child again. Wherever it may be, he must not come; wherever I may take it,
he must not follow! There, go now, please—I'm weary, and—have
much yet to do!"
They walked together to the door. On the threshold the woman turned.
She would have fallen at Miss Mary's feet. But at the same moment the
young girl reached out her arms, caught the sinful woman to her own pure
breast for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.
It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that Profane Bill took
the reins of the Slumgullion Stage the next morning, for the
schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he entered the highroad, in
obedience to a pleasant voice from the "inside," he suddenly reined up his
horses and respectfully waited as Tommy hopped out at the command of Miss
Mary. "Not that bush, Tommy—the next."
Tommy whipped out his new pocketknife, and, cutting a branch from a tall
azalea bush, returned with it to Miss Mary.
"All right now?"
And the stage door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch.