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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




Long counters, with splendid mirrors, display richest plate. They
groan with costliest glass, and every dark beverage from hell's
hottest brew. Card tables, and quiet recesses, richly curtained,
invite to self-surrender and seclusion. The softest music breathes
from a full orchestra. Gold is everywhere, in slugs, doubloons,
and heaps of nuggets. Gold reigns here. Silver is a meaner metal
hardly attainable. Bank notes are a flimsy possibility of the
future. Piles of yellow sovereigns and the coinage of every land
load the tables. Sallow, glittering-eyed croupiers sweep in, with
affected nonchalance, this easy-gained harvest of chance or fraud.

As the evening wears on, these halls fill up with young and old.
The bright face of youth is seen, inflamed with every burning
passion, let loose in the wild uncontrolled West. It is side by
side with the haggard visage of the veteran gamester. Every race
has its representatives. The possession of gold is the cachet of
good-fellowship. Anxious crowds criticise rapid and dashing play.
The rattle of dice, calls of the dealers, shouts of the attendants
ring out. The sharp, hard, ringing voices of the fallen goddesses
of the tables rise on the stifling air, reeking of smoke and wine.
Dressed with the spoils of the East, bare of bosom, bright of eye,
hard of heart, glittering in flashing gems, and nerved with drink,
are these women. The painted sirens of the Adelphi smile, with
curled carmine lips which give the lie to the bold glances of the
wary eyes of those she-devils.

With a hideous past thrown far behind them, they fear no future.
Desperate as to the present, ministering to sin, inciting to violence,
conspiring to destroy body and soul, these beautiful annihilators
of all decency vie in deviltry only with each other.

They flaunt, by day, toilettes like duchesses' over the muddy
streets; their midnight revels outlast the stars sweeping to the
pure bosom of the Pacific. The nightly net is drawn till no casting
brings new gudgeons. An unparalleled display of wildest license
and maddest abandonment marks day and night.

Across the square the Bella Union boasts similar glories, equal
grandeur, and its own local divinities of the Lampsacene goddess.

It is but a stone's throw to the great Arcade. From Clay to Commercial
Street, one grand room offers every allurement to hundreds, without
any sign of overcrowding. The devil is not in narrow quarters.

On the eastern front of the plaza, the pride of San Francisco
towers up: the El Dorado. Here every glory of the Adelphi, Arcade,
and Bella Union is eclipsed. The unrivalled splendor of rooms,
rich decorations, and unexcelled beauty of pictures excite all. The
rare liveliness of the attendant wantons marks them as the fairest
daughters of Beelzebub. The world waves have stranded these children
of Venus on the Pacific shores. Music, recalling the genius of the
inspired masters, sways the varying emotions of the multitude. The
miners' evenings are given up to roaming from one resort to another.
Here, a certain varnish of necessary politeness restrains the throng
of men; they are all armed and in the flush of physical power;
they dash their thousands against impregnable and exciting gambling
combinations at the tables. With no feeling of self-abasement, leading
officials, merchants, bankers, judges, officers, and professional
men crowd the royal El Dorado. Here they relax the labors of the
day with every distraction known to human dissipation.

Staggering out broken-hearted, in the dark midnight, dozens
of ruined gamesters have wandered from these fatal doors into the
plaza. The nearest alley gives a shelter; a pistol ball crashes
into the half-crazed brain.

Suicide!--the gambler's end! Already the Potter's Field claims
many of these victims. The successful murderers and thugs linger
in the dark shadows of Dupont Street. They crowd Murderer's Alley,
Dunbar's Alley, and Kearney Street.

When the purse is emptied, so that the calculating women dealers
scorn to notice the last few coins, they point significantly to
the outer darkness. "Vamos," is the word. A few rods will bring
the plucked fool to the "Blue Wing," the "Magnolia," or any one of
a hundred drinking dens. Here the bottle chases away all memories
of the night's play.

In utter defiance of the decent community, these temples of pleasure,
with their quick-witted knaves, and garrisons of bright-eyed
bacchanals, ignore the useful day; at night, they shine out, splendid
lighthouses on the path to the dark entrance of hell. By mutual
avoidance, the good and bad, the bright and dark side of human effort
rule in alternation the day and night. Sin rests in the daytime.

In the barracks, where the serried battalions of crime loll away
the garish day, silence discreetly rules. Sleep and rest mark the
sunlit hours. The late afternoon parade is an excitant.

All over San Francisco, in its queerly assorted tenancy, church
and saloon, school and opium den, thieves' resort and budding home,
are placed side by side. Vigorous elbowing of the criminal and base
classes finally forces all that is decent into a semi-banishment.
Decency is driven to the distant hills, crowned with their scrubby
oaks. Vice needs the city centre. It always does.

Philip Hardin is cynical and without family ties. Able by nature,
skilled in books, and a master of human strategy he needs some
broader field for the sweep of his splendid talents than the narrowed
forum of the local courts. Ambition offers no immediate prize to
struggle for. The busy present calls on him for daily professional
effort. Political events point to an exciting struggle between
North and South in the future; but the hour of fate is not yet on
the dial.

In the Southerner's dislike of the contact of others, looking to his
place as a social leader of the political element, Philip Hardin
lives alone; his temporary cottage is planted in a large lot removed
from the immediate danger of fires. His quick wit tells him they
will some day sweep the crowded houses in the eastern part of the
city, as far as the bay. The larger native oaks still afford a
genial shade. Their shadows give the tired lawyer a few square rods
of breathing space. Books and all the implements of the scholar
are his; the interior is crowded with those luxuries which Hardin
enjoys as of right. Deeply drinking the cup of life, even in his
social vices, Philip Hardin aims at a certain distinction.

Around his table gather the choicest knights-errant of the golden
quest. Maxime Valois here develops a social talent as a leader of
men, guided by the sardonic Mephisto of his young life.

Still the evening hours hang heavily on the hands of the two lawyers.
When the rapidly arriving steamers bring friends, with letters or
introductions, they have hospitality to dispense. The great leaders
of the South are now systematically colonizing California. Guests
abound at these times at Hardin's board. Travel, mining, exploration,
and adventure carry them away soon; extensive tours on official
duty draw them away. As occupations increase, men grow unmindful
of each other and meet more rarely.

For the saloons, rude hotels, gaming palaces, and resorts of
covert pleasures are the usual rendezvous of the men of fortune
and power. In such resorts grave intrigues are planned; future
policies are mapped out; business goes on under the laughter of
wild-eyed Maenads; secrets of state are whispered between glass
and glass.

Family circles, cooped up, timid and distant, keep their doors
closed to the general public. No one has yet dared to permanently
set up here their Lares and Penates. The subordination of family
life to externals, and insincerity of social compacts, are destined
to make California a mere abiding place for several generations. The
fibres of ancestry must first knit the living into close communion
with their parents born on these Western shores. Hardin's domineering
nature, craving excitement and control over others, carries him often
to the great halls of play; cigar in mouth, he stands unmoved; he
watches the chances of play. Nerved with the cognac he loves, he
moves quickly to the table; he astonishes all by the deliberate
daring of his play. His iron nerve is unshaken by the allurements
of the painted dancers and surrounding villains. Towering high
above all others, the gifted Mississippian nightly refreshes his
jaded emotions. He revels in the varying fortunes of the many games
he coolly enjoys. Unheeding others, moving neither right nor left
at menace or danger, Hardin scorns this human circus, struggling
far below his own mental height.

Heartless and unmoved, he smiles at the weaknesses of others.
The strong man led captive in Beauty's train, the bright intellect
sinking under the craze of drink, the weak nature shattered by the
loss of a few thousands at play--all this pleases him. He sees,
with prophetic eye, hundreds of thousands of future dwellers between
the Sierras and the sea. His Southern pride looks forward to a
control of the great West by the haughty slave-owners.

This Northern trash must disappear! To ride on the top wave of the
future successful community, is his settled determination. Without
self-surrender, he enjoys every draught of pleasure the cup of life
can offer. Without scruple, void of enthusiasm, his passionless
heart is unmoved by the joys or sorrows of others. His nature
is as steady as the nerve with which he guides his evening pistol
practice. The welcome given to Maxime Valois by him arises only
from a conviction of that man's future usefulness. The general
acceptability of the young Louisianian is undoubted. His blood,
creed, and manners prove him worthy of the old Valois family. Their
past glories are well known to Philip Hardin. "Bon sang ne peut
mentir." Hardin's legal position places him high in the turmoils
of the litigations of the great Mexican grants. Already, over the
Sonoma, Napa, Santa Clara, San Joaquin and Sacramento valleys all
is in jeopardy. The old Dons begin to seek confirmations of the legal
lines, to keep the crowding settlers at bay. The mining, trading,
and land-grabbing of the Americans are pushed to the limits of the
new commonwealth. A backward movement of the poor Mexican natives
carries them between the Americans and the yet powerful land barons
of their own race. Harassed, unfit to work, unable to cope with the
intruders, the native Californians become homeless rovers. They
are bitter at heart. Many, in open resentment, rise on the plains
or haunt the lonely trails. They are now bandits, horse-thieves,
footpads and murderers. True to each other, they establish a chain
of secret refuges from Shasta to San Diego. Every marauder of
their own blood is safe among them from American pursuers.

Every mining camp and all the settlements are beginning to send
refugees of the male foreign criminal classes to join these wandering
Mexican bands.

With riot in the camps, licentiousness ruling the cities, and
murder besetting every path, there is no safety for the present.
California sees no guarantee for the future. Judge Lynch is the only
recognized authority. He represents the rough justice of outraged
camps and infuriated citizens. Unrepressed violent crimes lead
to the retaliatory butchery of vigilance committees. Innocent and
guilty suffer without warrant of law. Foreign criminal clans herd
together in San Francisco for mutual aid. The different Atlantic
cities are separately represented in knots of powerful villains.
Politics, gambling, and the elements of wealth flourishing in
dens and resorts, are controlled by organized villains. They band
together against the good. Only some personal brawl throws them
against each other.

Looking at the dangerous mass of vicious men and women, Valois
determines that the real strength of the land will lie in the
arrivals by the overland caravans. These trains are now filling
the valleys with resolute and honest settlers.

His determination holds yet to acquire some large tract of land where
he may have a future domain. On professional visits to Sacramento,
Stockton, and San Jose he notes the rising of the agricultural
power in the interior. In thought he yearns often for the beauties
of splendid Lagunitas. Padre Ribaut writes him of the sullen
retirement of Don Miguel. He grows more morose daily. Valois learns
of the failing of the sorrow-subdued Donna Juanita. The girlish
beauty of young Dolores is pictured in these letters. She approaches
the early development of her rare beauty. Padre Francisco has his
daily occupation in his church and school. The higher education of
pretty Dolores is his only luxury. Were it not for this, he would
abandon the barren spiritual field and return to France. Already
in the canyons of the Mariposa, Fresno, and in the great foot-hills,
miners are scratching around the river beds. Hostile settlers are
approaching from the valley the Don's boundaries. These signs are
ominous.

Padre Francisco writes that as yet Don Miguel is sullenly ferocious.
He absolutely refuses any submission of his grant titles to the
cursed Gringos. Padre Francisco has not been able to convince the
ex-commandante of the power of the great United States. He knows
not it can cancel or reject his title to the thousands of rich acres
where his cattle graze and his horses sweep in mustang wildness.
Even from his very boundaries the plough can now be seen breaking
up the breast of the virgin valley. The Don will take no heed. He
is blinded by prejudice. Maxime promises the good priest to visit
him. He wonders if the savage Don would decline a word. If the
frightened, faded wife would deign to speak to the Americano. If
the budding beauty would now cast roses slyly at him from the bowers
of her childhood.

Maxime's heart is young and warm. He is chilled in his affections.
The loss of his parents made his life lonely. Judge Valois, his
uncle, has but one child, a boy born since Maxime's departure on
the Western adventure. Between Hardin and himself is a bar of twenty
years of cool experience. It indurates and blunts any gracefulness
Hardin's youth ever possessed. If any man of forty has gained
knowledge of good and evil, it is the accomplished Hardin. He is
a law unto himself.

Fearing neither God nor man, insensible to tenderness, Philip
Hardin looks in vain to refresh his jaded emotions by the every-day
diversions of the city by the sea. The daily brawls, the excited
vigilance committee of the first winter session of popular justice,
and partial burning of the city, leave Hardin unmoved. It is a
dismal March night of 1851 when he leaves his residence for a stroll
through the resorts of the town. Valois listlessly accompanies
him. He does not gamble. To the El Dorado the two slowly saunter.
The nightly battle over the heaps of gold is at its height. At the
superb marble counter they are served with the choicest beverages
and regalias of Vuelta Abajos' best leaf. The human mob is dense.
Wailing, passionate music beats upon the air. There is the cry of
lost souls in its under-toned pathos. Villany and sentiment go hand
in hand at the El Dorado. The songs of old, in voice and symphony,
unlock the gates of memory. They leave the lingerers, disarmed, to
the tempting allurements of beauty, drink, and gaming.

There is an unusual crowd in the headquarters of gilded folly.
Maxime, wandering alone for a few minutes, finds a throng around a
table of rouge et noir. It is crowded with eager gamesters. Nodding
to one and another, he meets many acquaintances--men have no real
friends as yet in this egoistic land. The Louisianian moves toward
the goal whither all are tending. Jealous glances are cast by
women whose deserted tables show their charms are too well known.
All swarm toward a new centre of attraction. Cheeks long unused
to the blush of shame are reddened with passion, to see the fickle
crowd surge around the game presided over by a new-comer to the
sandy shores of San Francisco. She is an unknown goddess.

"What's all this?" asks Maxime, of a man he knows. He is idling
now, with an amused smile. He catches a glimpse of the tall form
of Philip Hardin in the front row of players, near the yellow
bulwarks of gold.

"Why, Valois, you are behind the times!" is the reply. "Don't you
know the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?"

"I confess I do not," says the Creole. He has been absent for some
time from this resort of men with more gold than brains. "Who is
she? What is she?" continues Maxime.

His friend laughs as he gaily replies, "As to what she is, walk
up to the table. Throw away an ounce, and look at her. It's worth
it. As to who she is, she calls herself Hortense Duval." "I suppose
she has as much right to call herself the daughter of the moon
as to use that aristocratic name." "My dear boy, she is, for all
that--" "Queen Hortense?" "Queen of the El Dorado." He saunters
away, to allow Valois a chance to edge his way into the front row.
There the dropping gold is raked in by this fresh siren who draws
all men to her.

Dressed in robes of price, a young woman sits twirling the arrow
of destiny at the treasure-laden table. Her exquisite form is
audaciously and recklessly exposed by a daring costume. Her superb
arms are bared to the shoulder, save where heavy-gemmed bracelets
clasp glittering badges of sin around her slender wrists. An
indescribable grace and charm is in every movement of her sinuous
body. Her well-poised head is set upon a neck of ivory. The lustrous
dark eyes rove around the circle of eager betters with languishing
velvety glances. A smile, half a sneer, lingers on the curved lips.
Her statuesque beauty of feature is enhanced by the rippling dark
masses of hair crowning her lovely brows. In the silky waves of
her coronal, shines one diamond star of surpassing richness. In
all the pride and freshness of youth her loveliness is unmarred by
the tawdry arts of cosmetic and make-up. Unabashed by the admiration
she compels, she calmly pursues her exciting calling. The new-comer
is well worthy the rank, by general acclaim, of "Queen of the El
Dorado." In no way does she notice the eager crowd. She is an
impartial priestess of fortune. Maxime waits only to hear her speak.
She is silent, save the monosyllabic French words of the game.
Is she Cuban, Creole, French, Andalusian, Italian, or a wandering
gypsy star? A jewelled dagger-sheath in her corsage speaks of Spain
or Italy. Maxime notes the unaccustomed eagerness with which Hardin
recklessly plays. He seems determined to attract the especial
attention of the divinity of the hour. Hardin's color is unusual.
His features are sternly set. Near him stands "French Charlie," one
of the deadliest gamesters of the plaza. Equally quick with card,
knife, or trigger, the Creole gambler is a man to be avoided. He
is as dangerous as the crouching panther in its fearful leap.

Hardin, betting on black, seems to win steadily. "French Charlie"
sets his store of ready gold on the red. It is a reckless duel of
the two men through the medium of the golden arrow, twirled by the
voluptuous stranger.

A sudden idea strikes Valois. He notes the ominous sparkle of "French
Charlie's" eye. It is cold as the depths of a mountain-pool. Is
Hardin betting on the black to compliment the presiding dark beauty?
Murmurs arise among the bystanders. The play grows higher. Valois
moves away from the surging crowd, to wait his own opportunity. A
glass of wine with a friend enables him to learn her history. She
has been pursued by "French Charlie" since her arrival from Panama
by steamer. No one knows if the reigning beauty is Havanese or
a French Creole. Several aver she speaks French and Spanish with
equal ease. English receives a dainty foreign accent from the
rosebud lips. Her mysterious identity is guarded by the delighted
proprietors. The riches of their deep-jawed safes tell of her
wonderful luck, address, or skill.

Charlie has in vain tried to cross the invisible barrier which
fences her from the men around her. To-night he is as unlucky in
his heavy play, as in arousing any passion in that wonderful beauty
of unexplained identity. The management will answer no questions.
This nightly excitement feeds on itself. "French Charlie" has been
drinking deeply. His play grows more unlucky. Valois moves to the
table, to quietly induce Hardin to leave. Some inner foreboding
tells Valois there is danger in the gambling duel of the two men he
watches. As he forces his way in, Charlie, dashing a last handful
of gold upon the red, turns his ferocious eyes on Hardin. The
lawyer calmly waits the turn of the arrow. Some quick presentiment
reaches the mind of the woman. Her nerves are shaken with the strain
of long repression. The arrow trembles on the line in stopping.
The queen's eyes, for the first time, catch the burning glances of
Philip Hardin. "French Charlie," with an oath, grasps the hand of
the woman. She is raking in his lost coins before paying Hardin's
bet. It is his last handful of gold.

Maddened with drink and his losses, Charlie yields to jealousy
of his victorious neighbor. "French Charlie" roughly twists the
wrist of the woman. With a sharp shriek, she snatches the dagger
from her bosom. She draws it over the back of the gambler's hand.
He howls with pain. Like a flash he tears a knife from his bosom.
He springs around the table toward the woman. With a loud scream,
she jumps back toward the wall. She seeks to save herself, casting
golden showers on the floor, in a rattling avalanche. Before the
ready hireling desperadoes of the haunt can seize Charlie, the
affrighted circle scatters. Valois' eye catches, the flash of a
silver-mounted derringer. Its barking report rings out as "French
Charlie's" right arm drops to his side. His bowie-knife falls
ringing on the floor. A despairing curse is heard. The Creole
gambler snatches, with the other hand, a pistol. He springs like
a lion on Philip Hardin. One step back Hardin retreats. No word
comes from his closed lips. The mate of the derringer rings out
loudly Charlie's death warrant. The gambler crashes to the floor.
His heart's blood floods the scattered gold. The pistol is yet
clenched in his stiffened left hand. Valois rushes to Hardin. He
brushes him aside, and springs to the side of the "Queen of the
El Dorado." She falls senseless in his arms. In a few moments the
motley crowd has been hurried from the doors. The great entrances
are barred. The frightened women dealers seek their dressing-rooms.
All fear the results of this brawl. Their cheeks are ashy pale under
paint and powder. The treasures are swiftly swept from the gaming
tables by the nimble-witted croupiers. Hardin and Valois are left
with the unconscious fallen beauty. A couple of the lately organized
city police enter and take charge. Even the blood stained gold is
gathered from the floor. Light after light is turned out. The main
hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police,
waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting
his last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought
from his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the
outcast of society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound
tells its story.

Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly
quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman.
Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin's in one long, steadfast,
inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, "Take me away." She
covers her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight
of the waxy features and stiffening form of the thing lying there.
Ten minutes ago it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and
tiger-like activity. Vale, "French Charlie."

Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their
arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The
shaken sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined
men against each other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his
side. There is a bond of blood sealed between them. It is the mere
sensation of a night; the talk of an idle day. On the next evening
the "El Dorado" is thronged with a great multitude. It is eager
to gaze on the wondrous woman's face, for which "French Charlie"
died. Their quest is vain. Another daughter of the Paphian divinity
presides at the shrine of rouge et noir. The blood-stains are
effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in the city cemetery
is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin, released upon
heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few days he
bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his
conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between
him and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God,
Philip Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a
strange new light in them.

The "Queen of the El Dorado" sits no more at the wheel of fortune.
Day succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent
charms are magnified in description. The memory of the graceful,
dazzling Hortense Duval fades from the men who struggle around the
gaming boards of the great "El Dorado." She never shows her charming
face again in the hall.

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