The Hermit of Sawmill Mountain [pp. 152-162]

1The Hermit of Sawmill Mountain.
bers. More range could not be procured,
for there was none. The country was scorch ing all around him. In December some
more fortunate owners had driven their
stock into Arizona, but it was too late now
to think of that. The attempt would be
madness, for there was no feed along the
route.
In the San Francisco market sheep had
gone steadily down to twenty-five cents per
head. Then they ceased to be quoted.
There were no takers. The local market
was glutted with mutton, for the sheep men
sought thus to save some small share of their
investment. Fifty cents for a sheep, skinned
and dressed, was the ordinary price. Clearly,
he could not dispose of his stock. It is
doubtful if he could have even given them
away.
The feed upon the ground had dried up
long ago, and had been swept away in clouds
of dust by the hot winds, which came like the
breath of a furnace from the scorching sands
of the Mojave Desert.
One day in early March, Charles and his
herders had killed two thousand lambsknocked them in the head, ruthlessly, to
prevent starvation. It was pitiful, but there
was no room for pity.
At last Sydney saw that but one resource
was left him. He would establish a mafanza
forthwith, and slaughter his flocks for their
pelts. The little shearing house down upon
the creek bank was speedily prepared for
the work. In two days it was in full operation, killing at the rate of five hundred per
day, and the green hides were being cured
for transportation.
But a greater calamity even than the loss
of his flocks was in store for the man. One
Friday night his wife was taken suddenly ill,
and on Sunday they carried her to rest in the
old Mission churchyard in San Buenaventura. Upon her breast a little baby lay, fairhaired and waxen-fingered, which had never
opened its eyes upon the world.
Sydney seemed to give up everything
after the funeral, going about everywhere as
one in a dream. He was listless and restless.
All interest had gone out of life.
VOL. VI.-I I.
It was at this time of trouble that the
image of Agnes Dehton, fair and smiling,
again rose before him. He would go to her,
he thought. Though she might despise
him, she would still pity him and comfort
him in his sorrow. He was very humble
now. Whatever of her great sympathy she
chose to accord him, he would accept it
thankfully, and would ask for no more.
At first, I think, he only wanted to be
near some one who knew him and who would
condole with him in his sorrow. Don Jose
and the I)ofia were kind, but they did not
know and could not understand.
He began at once to prepare for his de parture from Southern California. His bus iness affairs were soon arranged; his pelts
disposed of to the best advantage, to a peri patetic Basque dealer in hides and tallow,
and he was ready to start. The cabin he
would leave as it was, simply locking the
doors and placing the key in charge of Don
Jose. There was nothing but his immediate
personal effects that he cared to take with
him, and some day in the future, perhaps,
when he was happier, it might be a source of
melancholy pleasure to return here for a
season and to muse over the happiness which
had gone out of his life forever. The cabin
and its contents were safe from molestation
until his lease of the land expired, five years
yet.
It was on the 25th day of April that he
mounted his horse a splendid animal, kindly loaned him for his ride into town by Don
Jose-and turned to bid farewell to valley
and mountain and whispering pines.
"It is the day upon which my five years'
probation expires," he muttered, smiling
sadly.
Slowly he rode into town and stabled his
horse. Then, from force of habit, he entered the postoffice and asked for mail. A
newspaper was handed him, but he put it
into his pocket without so much as a glance
at the handwriting in which it was directed.
He thought of it again at supper that
evening, and pulling it out, prepared to glance
over it, while waiting the filling of his order.
It was a copy of a New York paper, he no
1885.]
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