Nevada

Vermont. Not in love?

Tom. Not a bit of it.

Vermont. Ain't goin' back on the comforts of life?

Tom. No, old man; but when that —

Vermont. Agnes (smacks his lips) does taste kinder sweet.

Tom. When Miss Fairlee placed her little hand in my arm, and looked up into my face, I felt as though I would like to die for her.

Vermont. Must have been a killing look.

Tom. And when she spoke, the queerest feeling – There it is again. Old man, I feel sick.

(Enter Jube and Win-Kye from cabin.)

Jube. Sick? Don't you do it. Dar ain't a fusycian widdin fourteen miles.

Win-Kye. Me bling pillee man velly quick.

Vermont. All the doctor he wants is in the cabin. Tom, you're talking like a blamed fool; but it's jest nater: when a woman touches the fancy of a man, it's like the wind among the timber. The little ones sway and rustle, and seem mighty tickled; but the big brawny trees groan and tremble as though their last day had come. Shake yourself together, boy, jump into your hole, a good steady diet of pick and shovel is a sure cure for love or bile.

(Jerden appears on run.)

Jerden (speaking as he comes down to stage). Morning, mates: where can I find one Tom Carew?

Tom. I answer to that name, stranger.

Jerden. Ah! I'm in luck. They say you're the best informed miner in these parts. I'm looking for a man who came from the East, – Richard Fairlee.

Tom. Don't know him, stranger.

Vermont. Names don't count here. Most of us is baptized and rechristened when we arrive. What does he look like?

Jube. Has he got all his arms and legs, years and eyes?

Win-Kye. Any strawbelly marks, John?

Jerden. I have traced him by many aliases. How he looks now, I cannot say; but when he left the East he looked like this.

(Takes photograph from pocket-book, and hands it to Tom, who looks at it, Vermont, Jube, and Win-Kye crowd round him.)

Tom. A good-looking fellow. I don't know him.

Jerden. Don't belong in this camp.

Jube. No, sir: dat air feller ain't got no beard, an' has light complex, jes' like Win-Kye.

Win-Kye. No Chinaman; 'Melican man plaps, Ilishman plaps; no Chinaman.

Jerden. Well, there he is; and he's wanted by a bank.

Tom. Robbery?

Jerden (C.). Forgery, twenty thousand dollars.

(Vermont and Jube R., Tom and Win-Kye L.)

Tom. You're a detective?

Jerden. Yes. Shall I have your help in securing this fugitive from justice?

Tom (coldly). We're not man-hunters. Many a poor fellow, made criminal by passion or misfortune, has drifted among us to be made better by a life of hardship and privation. We ask no man's past history. If he be knave or fool, he shows his hand, and he is lost. Miner law is swift and sure.

Vermont. You've your answer, stranger.

Jerden. All right: I'll find my man without your help; but, if you should change your minds, there's a thousand dollars for the man who gives information.

Tom and Vermont (draw revolvers, cover Jerden, and speak together). You get!

(Jerden turns, and runs up run, against Silas, who is descending.)

Silas. Look out for paint. (Exit Jerden.) Seems to be in a hurry. (Comes down to stage.) How are you, boys? White, black, and yellow. The widow said she had an assortment of colors, and here they are. Put up your shooting-irons, gentlemen: I'm a friend of the widow's. I left my card here an hour ago. (Points to rock.)

Tom. Any friend of the widow's is heartily welcome.

Vermont. From the east, stranger?

Silas (sets paint-pail down near rock). Switcham, Vt. Name, Silas Steele. Occupation, painter and decorator. For further particulars seek any prominent bowlder, and look out for paint.

Jube. Golly! dar's a heap er talent in dat ar brush, I know; fur I used to whitewash myself.

(Win-Kye edges up to paint, examines it, takes brush, and daubs a little on rock during the following scene, dropping it, and taking it up as Silas turns and watches him.)

Silas. Whitewash yourself? You took a big contract.

Tom. Stopping with the widow?

Silas. No: only a chance acquaintance. She came from Vermont.

Vermont. So did I.

Silas. Did you? Then, you're the man I've been looking for.

Vermont (starts). Eh?

Silas. My old man took it into his head about twelve years ago to start west, minin'; and we've never seen him from that day to this. Nice old fellow, the deacon, but queer. Started off without so much as a good-by, Hannah, and has been lost to his family, the church, and Switcham, ever since. But we heard from him occasionally in the shape of gold-dust to mother, but no word or clew to his whereabouts. Mother's worried so, I've come out here to look him up if he's alive. Any of you know Deacon Steele?

Jube. Deacon who? Golly! we's all out ob deacons: dey fall from grace when dey git out here.

Vermont. You're wasting time, youngster: the deacon's dead and buried.

Silas. You knew him?

Vermont. No: but deacons die young here.

Tom. Perhaps 'tis Nevada.

Vermont and Jube. Nevada!

Silas. Who's Nevada?

Tom. The mystery of the mines: you may meet him here to-day, to-morrow in some gloomy gulch, – a ragged, crazy miner, seeking, as he has sought for ten years, a lost mine.

Silas. A lost mine?

Tom (C.) This was his story as I have heard it from old miners. He was known among them a dozen years ago, as a quiet, reserved man, working by himself, wandering off prospecting alone. At times they missed him. He had been off for a week, when, one night, he came in staggering, faint from the loss of blood, with a deep wound in his head, and the wild air of a maniac. From his broken speech, they gathered this: He had found indications of gold, had opened a tunnel, and worked far in, all by himself, mind, following some theory of his own, when suddenly, with his pick, he loosened a stone above his head, which fell and crushed him; not, however, until he had caught one glimpse of a rich vein of gold. Poor fellow, he could never find his way back, and none of his mates could help him. They would have believed his story to be but the wild speech of his wandering mind, had they not found in his tangled hair, mingled with dirt and blood, flakes of gold.

Vermont. Poor old chap.

Silas. With a gold-mine in his hair. Rich old beggar.

Tom. Nevada is no beggar; though no cabin is shut against him, no miner's friendly hand withheld. He will neither eat nor sleep until he has earned both food and shelter. For a willing mate in an ugly tunnel, with a steady grip and a strong arm, give me Nevada.

Nevada (outside). Who calls Nevada? (Dashes down run, and stands C.; music pianissimo.) Nevada, the gold king. My dominions are beneath the hills, stretching away in veins broad and deep, so rich that I could overturn empires; but I am shut out, the golden doors are closed against me, and the key, the key, is lost. (Puts his hand to head, drops his head, and comes down slowly; music stops.)

Tom. Ah! it's one of his off days. Nevada, old man, don't you know me?

Nevada (slowly raises his head, looks wildly at Tom, then his face brightens). Tom, Tom Carew. (They shake hands warmly.) You want me. Many a day we have worked together. (Looks round.) And here's Vermont.

Vermont (grasping his hand). Right here, pard.

Nevada. Ah! old grizzly and – woolly.

Jube. Dat's me to a har.

Nevada. And little pigtail.

Win-Kye. Piggee tail velly well, John; alle same you, John?

Nevada. I'm hungry and tired, Tom: give me a pick.

Tom. Not to-night, old friend: you shall go to my ranch, and to-morrow —

Nevada. To-morrow. (Looks about wildly. All draw away from him. Music pianissimo.) To-morrow I must go back, back along the ravine, three miles, then climb the bowlders, to where that fallen giant lies across the stream; over it to the gorge a mile beyond, and then – and then I'm lost – straight ahead to the right, to the left, again and again, no trail, no trace; and yet 'tis there, ever before my eyes, the wealth of a kingdom, the jewel of Nevada, lost to me forever. (Covers his face with his hands.)

Tom. Ah! if we could only keep him from that lost mine.

Silas. What a wreck! But he's not the first man crazed by gold.

Nevada. Far off, a mother and her child wait anxiously for my coming, – wait for the gold I promised them. I left the little one sleeping in her cradle. Oh! when shall I see my little child again? (Music stops.)

(Enter, from cabin, Mosey, with a change.)

Moselle (running to him). Now, Nevada, here I am. Have you, too, missed me?

Nevada (looking into her face anxiously). I know that voice and that face.

Moselle. Of course you do. It's the same voice that has sang you to sleep many and many a time, and it's the same face you have kissed often. Why don't you now?

Nevada (takes her face between his hands, and kisses her forehead). It's little Moselle back from school.

Moselle. With a head full of knowledge, and a heart bubbling over with fun.

Vermont. And when the two get working together, this camp will be a howling wilderness, you bet.

Moselle. Come, Nevada, mother will be glad to see you.

Nevada. No, child: I cannot go in.

Moselle. Then, I'll lead you. You shall find plenty to do, – bring water and wood for mother; and when you are tired I will sing for you.

Nevada. Sing! I'll come, I'll come. I love to hear you sing. (Music pianissimo.) She was singing to the child the whole day long, – the little one sleeping in her cradle. She smiled in her sleep when I stooped to kiss her, and that smile is ever with me. I see it in the first faint, rosy tints of the breaking day, and watch it deepen and broaden into gold – (fiercely) – gold that mocks me, drives me mad. (Music stops.)

Moselle. Come, come, Nevada, you need rest and quiet. (Takes his hand, and leads him into cabin.)

Nevada. Yes, little one, with you. (Music until off.)

Tom. He's safe for to-night.

Silas. Now, if some good Samaritan would take me in, I'd esteem it a favor for which I will pay liberally. (Takes bag from his breast.) Art is my mistress; but, when I get hungry, I turn my eyes from her lovely face to the ground, and dig like the rest of you. There's a little left in the bag.

Tom. You can't pay here.

Vermont. No, tender foot; but you shall bunk with me.

Tom. With you, Vermont? He'll be the first stranger that ever saw the inside of your ranch.

Jube. Dat's so. Swachability ain't no 'count wid him.

Vermont. Come on, stranger: it's jest about the time I fry my bacon.

Silas. And it's just the time I eat mine, – when I can get it. (Exeunt Vermont and Silas R. 2 E., Silas taking pail.)

Jube. Golly! de idea ob dat ole Vermont takin' in a stranger. De meanest man in de camp.

Tom. He's not mean with Mosey.

Jube. Das a fac'. But to cotton to a tender hoof. Golly! I jes' like to see him set about it. Come on, Win-Kye: see de fun. (Exit R. 2 E.)

Win-Kye. All ligh', Jube. Me likee funee too. (Exit R. 2 E.)

(Enter Dandy Dick down run, knapsack on back.)

Dick (speaking as he comes down). If there's any fun, let me share it.

Tom. Ah, Dick!

Dick. Tom (they shake hands), you brought the sunlight with you?

Tom. Yes, Dick: Mosey's safe and well.

Dick. Tom, the old hole's petered out. (Takes off knapsack, and drops it near rock R. C.) I've dug and panned for a week, and not an ounce of dust.

Tom. That's bad; but better luck next time.

Dick. Luck! Not while you hold to such an unlucky partner as I. Tom Carew, I never met a man I so much admired as I do you. When I dropped into this camp, a stranger, without a penny, you took me by the hand, let me in to your claim, an equal partner, – the best paying claim in the camp, – till I struck it; since then we haven't panned enough to pay for bacon. It's my infernal luck. I wouldn't care for myself, but to blast your prospects of a rich find —

Tom. Hold on, Dick. You complain of bad luck, – you whom Moselle loves.

Dick. That's another matter.

Tom. Right. The pure ore of a loving heart is not to be compared to the glittering lie we take to ourselves with which to purchase happiness. The one purifies and ennobles its possessor, the other too often drags us down to the dust from which we filch it.

Dick. Sentimental, Tom? Why, what's come over you?

Tom. A woman. No, an angel. Dick, the sweetest woman you ever set eyes on.

Dick. That's Moselle.

Tom. Oh, you're blind!

Dick. And you expect me to see through your eyes? Well, who is this paragon?

Tom. Moselle's friend, who came home with her to-day. I have only met her once. She is all grace and beauty, and, I'll swear, as good as she is beautiful. If I could only win her, Dick.

Dick. Well, what's to prevent?

Tom. I am only a poor miner, and she —

Dick. A poor judge of manhood, if she takes you at your own valuation. Send her to me: I'll tell her, that if she wants a warm heart, a determined spirit, and a courageous arm, she will find them in Tom Carew, who, in those virtues, stands head and shoulders above all the miners of Nevada. I suppose that is her picture you are nursing so carefully in your belt.

Tom. No: that is a poor devil whom a detective is tracking.

Dick. Ah! let's have a look at him. (Takes picture.)

Tom. A detective was here an hour ago; but it's not one of our boys. (Turns away to L.)

Dick (looks at picture, starts, but instantly recovers himself as Tom turns). No: he's none of us.

Tom. Not a bad face?

Dick. No, but a weak one. A good subject for some designing villain to make a victim of. (Hands it back, Tom replaces it in belt.)

(Moselle runs on from cabin.)

Moselle. Now for a run.

Dick. Right into my arms.

Moselle (runs into his arms). Why, Dick, I never thought of seeing you.

Dick. But you're glad to see me again?

Moselle. O Dick! you know I'd rather meet you than any other here (sees Tom, draws away from Dick, and casts down her eyes), except Tom.

Tom. Humbug!

Moselle. And Tom is lost to me. Poor Tom! He's discovered a wonderful nugget. It's in our cabin now; and Tom is so worried that he's been watching the door ever since it was deposited there, for fear some one should steal it. Ha, ha, ha!

Tom. I was only waiting till you should appear to keep Dick company. Now I'm off. (Goes to R. 2 E.)

Moselle. Don't be gone long, Tom, we shall be so lonesome without you.

Tom. Oh, have your little love-feast! I'll be back in time.

Moselle. In time for what?

Tom. To count the spoons. (Exit R. 2 E.)

Moselle. Now, what does he mean by that?

Dick. I'm sure I don't know, unless he expects you and I to —

Moselle (holding up her finger threateningly). Beware!

Dick. Exactly. Beware silver ware, spoons. (Puts arm about her waist.)

Moselle (slips away). Oh, drop the spoons!

Dick. But you dropped my arm.

Moselle. I like freedom.

Dick. Then, why do you run away from me?

Moselle. To catch my breath. Freedom is a virtue. You make it a vice.

Dick. Ah! but remember, I haven't seen you for three months. Think of the lonely hours without you.

Moselle. Think of my lonely hours over those horrid studies, – geography, history, arithmetic! One and one are two.

Dick (again slipping his arm about her waist). No: one and one are one.

Moselle. You're wrong, Dick: one and one are still one and (slips away) one.

Dick. Moselle, I'm afraid you'll never be won.

Moselle. Not by arithmetic. I hate figures.

Dick. I admire yours.

Moselle. Do you, Dick? What! in these rags? Ah! you should see me in regimentals.

Dick. Regimentals?

Moselle. Yes: silks and satins, kids and laces, as Madam Ferule turns us out for inspection.

Dick. I should like that.

Moselle. I hate it. Give me a gown like this, that shows the honorable tears of contact with briers and rocks; a pair of boots like these, that won't slip on the bark of trees, – and I'm just jolly. I can run, climb, fly. And here I am wasting time. I can stand still no longer. I'm off (flies up run): catch me if you can.

Dick. Moselle!

Moselle (stops and turns). Well, Dick?

Dick. Good-by. In a few moments I shall have left the camp.

Moselle (coming down). Left the camp! why?

Dick. That is my secret; you may hear bad report of me, may be told to shun me, taught to despise me; but, Moselle, believe me, I love you, and will one day ask you to be my wife.

Moselle. Your wife! Dick, who are you?

Dick. Still Dick, or Dandy Dick as the boys style me: the other, an honored name, must still be withheld, even from you. You see, I am frank with you.

Moselle. Frank! you tell me nothing.

Dick. Exactly; but I love you.

Moselle. You needn't have told me: I knew it long ago.

Dick. And I may hope?

Moselle. Yes, on one condition.

Dick. Name it.

Moselle (darting up run). That you catch me before I reach the big bowlder.

Dick. Catch me losing you. (Exit up run.)

(Enter Tom R. 2 E.)

Tom. Dick, where's my knife? (Looks round.) Gone! The cabin is upside down, no hatchet, no knife; nice housekeeper to leave when one goes a journey. There's his pack, and I want my knife; so, Master Dick, by your leave – (Picks up pack, and is at work on the strap; enter Agnes from cabin.)