[Richard L. Rinckwitz, The Circe of Lahontan Basin: A Story of Nevada's Desert, The Overland Monthly, July 1908]

 

THE CIRCE OF LAHONTON BASIN

A STORY OF NEVADA'S DESERT

BY RICHARD L. RINCKWITZ

 

            TO SUDDENLY stop a girl upon the public highway, seize her horse by the bit and throw him back upon his haunches -- all this for the simple purpose of demanding information -- was at best a questionable action. And yet, with all my brutality, I winced under the torrent of her abuse. The truth is always bitter; from pretty lips, it is doubly so, even though the girl be -- but this had been mere conjecture upon my part. I may have been hasty in judgment.

            Urged alike by spur and voice, her little Indian pony reared and struck at me viciously. "A locoed prospector,'' "a drunken Gringo," were a few of the mildest terms she had used. I flushed angrily. The night before I had been drinking, but worry and fear for Chestor's safety had since sobered me. I was far more sane than she, so I only tightened my grip on the bridle, carefully avoiding whip and hoofs alike.

            "I think you can tell me a little about him," I said quietly. "You saw more of him lately than I."

            "I have not seen him since -- I know nothing of him," she exclaimed furiously. I knew she lied.

            "A prospector does not always keep to the road," I said, watching her face. "Four days ago I was south of Sand Springs in the foothills, to the left of Buck Horn pass, and I saw you together on Hidden Trail."

            She started at this, doubtless wondering how much more I knew. Suddenly I found myself staring into a wicked little 45-calibre Derringer. Cornered, her Indian blood had come to the surface.

            "If I were a man, this would be an effective argument. As I am a woman, you had better step aside -- it might go off," and I took the hint.

            Freed, she was in no hurry to depart, but grinned wickedly at my too evident discomfiture, taking the precaution to keep me covered.

            "Your friend, Mr. Chestor," and the tone was bitterly sarcastic, "is really very near -- and yet so far," she added, as an after thought, laughing outright. I failed to see anything to laugh at, so kept silent.

            Truly, the vagaries of a woman's mind are hard to fathom. A minute ago, we had been at sword's point. My life, I knew, had been at the mercy of her little finger, and now she seemed disposed to chat about the weather.

            "What do you think of my dog?" she asked suddenly. "Has he changed any since you last saw him?"

            I looked at the cur. If you have ever seen one coyote dog, you have seen them all -- black or spotted, they are alike in one respect: Fawning, cringing, eyes shifty, and ever ready to run at the slightest hostile gesture. I had often noted these traits -- in this dog they were evident to an unusual degree. But now I started with surprise at the change in him. He came forward menacingly, hair bristling, teeth showing, and the eyes gleaming balefully.

            "You had better watch that dog," I advised. "Some day he'll do you an injury."

            "I was about to remark,' she said, more to the dog than to me, "that Mr. Chestor has a horror of being known as a 'squaw man' -- says it would be worse than a dog's life." The peculiar emphasis and the sardonic laugh that followed, gave me an insight to the past few weeks. I had often warned Chestor against playing with this kind of fire. Indian blood alone is bad

62        OVERLAND MONTHLY.

enough hidden by the velvety veneer of the Anglo-Saxon, it is a veritable volcano.

            "This tells me nothing of Chestor," I impatiently broke in. '''While you sit there talking nonsense, he may be dying of thirst.''

            "Softly, softly," she remarked. "Really, you white people are so impatient," and again that laugh gave me cold chills. She was far whiter than I, hence the sarcastic laugh. "Believe me, Chestor is not in want -- of water."

            "A very wise dog, not?" she questioned, seeing my absorbed contemplation. Lately, my ideals of women had undergone a change. "A woman, a dog" -- the fragment of some old adage occurred to me. A dog is without guile, but cannot speak. I stooped to stroke the trembling cur, and wished I could understand his nervous whimpering.

            "I think the cur is tired of me," she called, turning her horse slowly. "I will leave him with you awhile." It was only with difficulty that I held him. His eyes became bloodshot with rage, and yet, when I let go, he quickly returned.

* * * *

            The mining excitement at Sand Springs brought us to Nevada. Journalistic free lances, Chestor and I left San Francisco at the first hint of a gold strike, scenting "copy" -- possibly a scoop, with the prospect of a good claim on the side. For weeks the boom hung fire, and we made our headquarters at Fallon, in a tent. It was agreed that Chestor should mainly keep in touch with the Fallon mine owners, and that I should make trips to Sand Springs as a prospector.

            It was with no little concern that I noticed the growing intimacy of Chestor and the Princess. As the daughter of General S. by his first wife, a Piute squaw, Chestor knew her; but I learned more. When on the first rung of the ladder -- little more than a "hay baler" – it seems the General considered the daughter of Chief Onesides a good match. With the coming of prosperity -- eighty thousand sheep in the Sierras, and possibly a faint outline of political honors on the horizon -- the point of view changed somewhat; also, an Indian woman at thirty is not as pretty as a girl of eighteen, and divorces are easy to get.

            South of Fallon in the foothills, so the story goes, are a group of caves, known only to the Piutes. To these they would retreat when hard pressed. With the coming of the whites, the caves were used less and less, until at last they were known only to the chief and the members of his tepee.

            Left to her own devices, forsaken for a brighter and whiter light, with a child in the white man's wigwam, and an alien in that of her people, the squaw found solace in the hills. Here in the caves of her ancestors, she could live in the past, since the present and future alike were denied her.

            The way over Hidden Trail is long. Returning after sundown one evening, she found the doors closed against her. Heartbroken, the divorced wife lived a few years among her people ; long enough to see her daughter call a white woman "mother."

            And the daughter -- she whom the whites with unconscious irony called "The Princess" -- with the apparent stoicism of an Indian, saw her mother go "back to the blanket" -- the drudge of an Indian encampment. Outwardly, to her father and the new mother, she affected indifference; ignorance, even of the true state of affairs. The clandestine meetings were many. That her mother should sink low was but so much additional gall and wormwood, compared to the "might have been ;" so much more to be accounted for on the day of reckoning -- when or how she did not as yet know.

            And one night an Indian boy came with a message. She followed him, through the red light district, down dark alleys he led her, to that part of the town that is infinitely worse. Here, in squalor and filth, she found her mother, dying. Rapidly, incoherently, at times, the squaw spoke, of her childhood, the first year of married life -- and the succeeding ones. Many things the girl did not fully understand -- or attributed to the ravings of a wandering mind.

            Coming away, she found herself clutching a little vial, sealed and covered with Indian hieroglyphics. Vaguely she recalled the frenzied words of counsel and caution. The Indian characters were strange to her. And then she opened the other little package tied up in buckskin,

THE CIRCE OF LAHONTON BASIN.        63

and found a modern hypodermic syringe and several sheets of paper covered with the English writing of her mother.

            Out of her teens, the Princess held court, with many to do her homage. The social life of a Nevada town, at best, is a restricted one. Remittance men, Governmental engineers, miners, assayers, correspondents -- gamblers -- all accepted the inevitable and worshiped the General's money-bags. The Princess was wise beyond her years -- with a wisdom that is the heritage of another's sorrow. Too well she knew the power behind the throne -- that which so mysteriously removed the stain of the tar brush. Without it, she would have been simply a squaw, a half-breed, and her name trailed deep in the dust. Scorning the subterfuges of others in similar circumstances, she proudly proclaimed herself an Indian, even going to the length of dismounting on the off-side, Indian fashion, instead of the near one, as we do.

            With subtle graces her silky webs were spun; unconsciously each victim sold his birth-right for her smiles -- and basked; but always there was an invisible Nemesis that stalked gauntly on the outskirts, humorous and sardonic by turns.

            The fun began with young Overstreet, the pious one. Little fish, they say, are easier to catch than big ones -- and decidedly he was a little fish -- and a queer one. Shy, quiet and unobtrusive, he had flitted about in Fallon, ostensibly for the purpose of raising funds for a church -- harmless at worst -- and best. Upon him fell the first spell. Soon people forgot his "mission," seeing him only a devoted admirer of the Princess. Then, one evening, he appeared in the bar room of the Cabinet.

            "I've been bit -- bit by a snake," he announced, baring a skinny arm. A bunch of brawny miners examined him, and finding one small puncture, filled him up with whisky. Desirous of showing his skill at cards, he was then fleeced by the gambling element. The next morning, Fallon was treated to the unique spectacle of a tearful, would-be minister astride the ridge-pole of a gin mill.

            "All is wickedness down below," he confided to the jeering crowd, between sobs, and invited them to journey with him up into the realms of space on a ridge pole.

            Sam Richards and Welbert Crawley, rival suitors and cattlemen, fell out one morning. Sam lost an ear and Welbert got shot in the leg. Henry Morgan, a remittance man, finding his monthly allowance inadequate to the demands of courtship, forged a check and is now in jail.

            I could tell of locoed Charlie ; of Bill -- but why stir up old memories ! People knew, in a way, that to court the Princess was akin to selling one's soul to Mephisto; a man loved, got shot or lost an ear -- it was a nine days' wonder, and easily forgotten -- in a land where strenuous deeds are in order.

            But with me it was another matter. Chestor and I were as Damon and Pythias, inseparable. I knew him well, and I had twice seen the Princess with her " savage out," to use an expression of hers. For the sake of "copy" -- or love -- Chestor would venture into a lion's den. I had noticed little by-plays between the two -- an ominous glitter of the eyes when things went wrong -- flint and steel – the inevitable sparks; friction. Daily I had expected trouble, and now, at the opening of this story it had come.

            Returning after two weeks' absence, I had found a note on the table, dated back twelve days.

            "Am off for a two-days' trip," it read. "Will surely be back soon, as I have date to fill."

            And then came the clatter of hoofs and her appearance, followed by my rash actions. That she should ask first for her dog, completely ignoring my questions about Chestor, angered me; the more so, as the cur put in an appearance while she spoke.

            Slowly the hoof-beats grew fainter, then ceased. Absorbed in listening, I failed to at once notice the dog's insistent actions. And then, looking down, I saw that he carried a roll of manuscript, as one often sees dogs carry parcels in town. It was in Chestor's handwriting. I read:

            "Dear Old Hoss -- At present I am in durance vile -- a captive in the cave of Her ancestors -- sabe ? This will very likely astonish you; whether the move was premeditated I know not. I was always fully

64        OVERLAND MONTHLY.

aware without your warnings (which I now wish had been heeded) that I was playing with fire, but thought she was only playing a game -- one she has played before. You know I had no matrimonial intentions, and thought she also knew. To my surprise, I now find her in earnest -- and the role of squaw man I have no desire to play.

            "This morning we had a nasty 'heart to heart' talk -- masks off; no beating about the bush. With all that talk about the others fresh in my mind, I spoke as I felt; and the naked truth raised a storm of Indian vituperation about my devoted head. I find myself in a pretty mess -- the only window is heavily barred, and the door bolted on the outside. The devil only knows how she slipped out; I didn't see her go.

            "The day has been endless ; only a little light coming in from the window, and now, with the approach of night (it is only four o'clock, but dark) I would go crazy if it were not for that black cur of hers.

            "Am writing by candle light; found a small stump by accident; guess it will last an hour. Am pretty hungry – wonder if she expects me to eat the dog -- raw. Come to think of it, he has eaten nothing since morning, either.

            "Several of her veiled threats now occur to me (at the approach of night, am like an old woman.) What she meant I fail to see. Remember reading somewhere of an Indian girl killing off an unfaithful lover with the monotonous drip of ice-water -- no ice here, at any rate.

            "The calm before the storm broke, put me off my guard. We had launched into an interesting discussion of psychic phenomena, with occasional reference to Hudson for facts. Also, I remember a remark of hers -- in the light of later developments it now seems pregnant with meaning, about a Malay custom of waking a sleeper gently -- the supposition being that during sleep the soul is wandering – off on a visit; and if the sleeper woke before its return, some one would be minus a soul -- grin, confound it! She holds, it would seem, that as I refuse to come 'hair, flesh and hide,' she has a first mortgage on my soul -- the devil ! Some of that stuff they hand out to Indians at Carlyle is evidently bearing fruit -- laughingly assures me that a fair exchange (of souls) is no robbery -- wonder whose I shall get?

            "Have been sleeping one night, I expect (and hope.) Don't feel well; whether the queer atmosphere of this place (or doings) I know not. Woke up drowsy; can't shake it off, somehow – this is a regular Black Hole of Calcutta. Found a repast awaiting me upon awakening – some Indian bread, you know the kind, made of mesquite beans; water with a nasty taste, and some stuff she must have brought from town. I dined. The dog acts queer, seems depressed in spirits also. I tried to pry open the window bars -- nothing doing. Had hoped to get out the dog with message on collar.

            "Am losing track of the days and time -- forgot to wind watch. Have been trying to undermine the door, but can hardly keep my eyes open, this –"

            What followed I could decipher with difficulty, no two sentences being alike, in style. Some were very faint, others written in a peculiar, jerky fashion, as of one in many moods.

            "Have had peculiar and vivid dreams -- even "see" things while awake. Upon awakening this morning, I had the odd experience of seeing myself writing, as if in a mirror. The vision persisted quite a while -- must have fallen asleep while writing, as the dog lay blinking in my roll of bedding.

            "Jack, I don't know how this thing will end. Just found several small punctures upon my arm. Remember the little chap that said a snake bit him ? I've been drugged -- the Snake bit me –"

            The letter broke off abruptly. I lost no time in useless preparation, but set out for the foothills at once. The dog seemed as anxious to get under way, as if he understood. I was glad of this, as without him I could never hope to unravel the mysteries of Hidden Trail.

            My hopes were unfounded. The dog seemed as much at a loss in the hills as was I. Two days were lost in futile effort. Always he led me into the hills up to a certain point, then doubled and took to the north. It was a most baffling quest, an endless search.

            Finally, from an Indian I learned that Chestor had been seen in the neighborhood

PERFECTION. 65

of Pyramid Lake. There, waist-deep in the mud, we found him.

            I have often seen steers mired. Patiently the vaquero flounders about, his horse girth-deep in the ooze and slime. Slowly the lariat tightens, and the steer gradually finds a firmer footing. One moment he totters about, tongue lolling; then, with the first impulse of the newly awakened life in him, he charges, friends and enemies alike forgotten.

            As it is with the steer, so it was with Chestor -- with this difference: torpid, in a stupor or shamming, he watched the rope descend, but as the coil closed about him, his sullen silence gave way to an outburst of fury. Like a coyote trapped were his actions. Snarling, foaming at the mouth, he fought every inch of the way and finally had to be overcome and tied down.

            When a man becomes insane, locoed, we say his mind is wandering. He is not himself. Who, then, is he? The curtain of night descends, the body sleeps. Not so the soul. No longer in abeyance, it wanders forth. Memories of past experiences assert themselves; phantom shapes overshadow each other, prismatic in effect. Perspective, shrouded in the lapse of centuries, is distorted. The sleeper tosses about, restlessly; mutters incoherently, or cries in alarm. In the morning, with the light of another sun full upon him he remembers, or thinks he does, and smiles; but always there is the feeling of a life's experience crowded into a few short hours -- of sleep.

            More by accident than design, I found the Hidden Trail and the caves. The door was shattered, as if from a charge of powder. Made of oak and bound with iron stolen from pioneers in the days of the gold fever, it now lay a useless mass.

            I stooped to enter, and found a comfortable, almost luxurious interior. Navajo rugs from the South, skins, furs from Alaska, all lay scattered about, together with stone hammer and axe-heads.

            Startled at my sudden entrance, the Princess looked up. Dishevelled, hair hanging loosely, and with the marks of recent tears, she was still beautiful.

            "So you have found him -- and I have lost him," she said, scornfully. Then, as if in answer to my unspoken question, she pointed to a corner of the room. Gradually, for the light was dim, I became aware of the coyote dog, seemingly asleep in a roll of blankets.

            I looked closer. The eyes seemed closed and about the mouth were flecks of foam, interspersed with blood.

            The second time my question was answered ere spoken.

            "He became mad, so I shot him," she said briefly, and again pillowed her head on the cushion. Devious are the workings of a woman's mind. Repressed sobs shook her, and I quietly withdrew.