'The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in keeping with my surroundings; but I shall esteem myself highly favoured if it is your pleasure to partake of it, rather than seek better at Bentley's Flat.'
With a singular refinement of hospitable humil-ity Mr. Beeson spoke as if a sojourn in his warm cabin on such a night, as compared with walking four-teen miles up to the throat in snow with a cutting crust, would be an intolerable hardship. By way of reply, his guest unbuttoned the blanket overcoat.
The host laid fresh fuel on the fire, swept the hearth with the tail of a wolf, and added:
'But I think you'd better skedaddle.'
The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his broad soles to the heat without removing his hat. In the mines the hat is seldom removed except when the boots are. Without further remark Mr. Beeson also seated himself in a chair which had been a bar-rel, and which, retaining much of its original char-acter, seemed to have been designed with a view to preserving his dust if it should please him to crumble. For a moment there was silence; then, from somewhere among the pines, came the snarling yelp of a coyote; and simultaneously the door rattled in its frame. There was no other connection between the two incidents than that the coyote has an aver-sion to storms, and the wind was rising; yet there seemed somehow a kind of supernatural conspiracy between the two, and Mr. Beeson shuddered with a vague sense of terror. He recovered himself in a moment and again addressed his guest.
'There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, and then if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over the worst of the way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike--I dare say you know the place.'
The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that he did, but that he did indeed.
'Two years ago,' began Mr. Beeson, 'I, with two companions, occupied this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred we left, along with the rest.
In ten hours the gulch was deserted. That evening, however, I discovered I had left behind me a val-uable pistol (that is it) and returned for it, passing the night here alone, as I have passed every night since. I must explain that a few days before we left, our Chinese domestic had the misfortune to die while the ground was frozen so hard that it was im-possible to dig a grave in the usual way. So, on the day of our hasty departure, we cut through the floor there, and gave him such burial as we could. But before putting him down I had the extremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to that beam above his grave, where you may see it at this mo-ment, or, preferably, when warmth has given you leisure for observation.
'I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death from natural causes? I had, of course, noth-ing to do with that, and returned through no irresist-ible attraction, or morbid fascination, but only be-cause I had forgotten a pistol. That is clear to you, is it not, sir?'
The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a man of few words, if any. Mr. Beeson continued:
'According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a kite: he cannot go to heaven without a tail. Well, to shorten this tedious story--which, however, Ithought it my duty to relate--on that night, while I was here alone and thinking of anything but him, that Chinaman came back for his pigtail.
'He did not get it.'
At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank si-lence. Perhaps he was fatigued by the unwonted exercise of speaking; perhaps he had conjured up a memory that demanded his undivided attention. The wind was now fairly abroad, and the pines along the mountainside sang with singular distinctness.
The narrator continued:
'You say you do not see much in that, and I must confess I do not myself.
'But he keeps coming!'
There was another long silence, during which both stared into the fire without the movement of a limb.
Then Mr. Beeson broke out, almost fiercely, fixing his eyes on what he could see of the impassive face of his auditor:
'Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no inten-tion of troubling anyone for advice. You will par-don me, I am sure'--here he became singularly persuasive--'but I have ventured to nail that pig-tail fast, and have assumed that somewhat onerous obligation of guarding it. So it is quite impossible to act on your considerate suggestion.
'Do you play me for a Modoc?'
Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrust this indignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was as if he had struck him on the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was a protest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for a coward--to be played for a Modoc: these two ex-pressions are one. Sometimes it is a Chinaman.
Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question frequently addressed to the ear of the suddenly dead.
Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment's pause, during which the wind thundered in the chimney like the sound of clods upon a coffin, he resumed:
'But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life of the last two years has been a mis-take--a mistake that corrects itself; you see how.
The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may say at Bentley's--but that is not important. It was very tough to cut; they braid silk into their pig-tails. Kwaagh.'
Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. His last word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath, opened his eyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep sleep. What he said was this:
'They are swiping my dust!'
