A Tragedy of the Columbia [pp. 513-520]

Overland Monthly
late now an' the boys won't have no beef
fer dinner'f ye don't get a hustle. G' on,
Jim," and the tall, bony young fellow with
the buckskin complexion, the long nose,
and the upper lip which persistently re fused to grow more than a very few, very
short, yellow hairs,-which he, " Spike
Thompson, driver of the United States
military post commissary wagon, as per sistently coaxed and refused to shave off,
-plied the whip vigorously upon the
backs of the two shaggy old mules.
" Ay Sunday-school teacher us't t' tell
how ole King Absalom jumped outer a
mule when he was whipped in a fight, an'
started to run, but was ketched. Mules
must'a' been swifter in them days,'r else
Absalom war a durned fool. Think of
Gin'ral Walker beatin' a retreat on Jack."
And he burst into a loud guffaw. "G'
cn, Jim, you pokin' son-of-a gun,'r I'11
never git thar," he howled at the refractory ass, dealing him another blow.
The mules, with heads turned toward
the water, pricked up their ears.
"What ye lookin' at, ye critters? Waal
I'm durned." A dark object was creeping up the sand, now almost free of the
water; but again, Spike saw, as some wave
larger than its fellows surged up the sand,
entirely submerged. "A man,'r I'm no
mule-skinner!" he ejaculated, bringing
his luehering team to a halt with a sharp
jerk at the reins and a sudden "Whoa!'
Springing fronm his seat, he ran down thshore. The man, for man it was, crawled
feebly, blindly along, away from the brealers. He turned his head as in terror at the
approach of another wave which roared
behind him; he struggled to rise, supporting himself, as the boy saw, by an oar
which he grasped in his right hand; half
up he came, with a supreme effort, threw
one foot forward, staggered pitifully, and
before the driver could reach him, went
-— z~
down again, uttering no sound. Spike
stooped, threw both arms about the prostrate man, and lifting him from the boiling water which had rushed upon them,
drew him up the sand.
"Poor cuss, he's mighty nigh done
fur," muttered Spike, loosing the rigid(
fingers, one by one, from the oar, to which
they still clung with the steely grip of unconsciousness, obeying the last mandate
of the now suspended mind. With great
difficulty he placed the limp and motionless form in the wagon, covering it over
with his own great coat. " Ge' up," he
yelled, seizing the lines, and began to belabor the old mules as they had never been
before.
"Bill Lakes, the fisherman, as I live,"
said the company surgeon, when an hour
later they brought the unconscious man lo
the post hospital.
Late that evening, Bill opened his eyes
and looked about him; his lips moved and
the nurse, bending low, caught the halting,
broken words, "God-'1-migh-ty be
praised. Tell the o-le-woman."
Next day Spike brought the wife to the
post, and a week later, just as the sun was
sinking into the silver sea, two mules
hitched to a battered spring wagon halted
before the whitewashed cottage in Astoria.
"G' bye, Bill; g' bye, Mrs. Lakes,"
said the driver with the few short yellow
hairs upon his upper lip.
As he drove away he mused: "Mules
is slow, an' no mistake; but ef these here
critters had n't been slow, I'd been long
there'fore I was, an' that bein' so, thar'l
likely been another o' them wimmen as
goes round not sayin' nothin' an' is allers
lookin' out t' sea, fur he was dead faint
when I pull'd him up from the water. Ge'
up, Jaek,-Jim, g' lang!"
520