[Bret Harte, The First Man, New York Sun article reprinted in the Reno Evening Gazette, June 4, 1877]

 

The First Man.

__________

[Bret Harte in the New York Sun]

            Some repairs were needed to the engine when the train reached Reno, and while most of the passengers were taking a philosophical view of the delay and making themselves as comfortable as possible in the depot, in walked a native.  He wasn't a native Indian nor a native grizzly, but a native Nevadian, and he was rigged out in important style.  He wore a bearskin coat and cap, buckskin leggings and moccasins and in his belt was a big knife and two revolvers.  There was lightning in his eye, destruction in his walk, and as he sauntered up to the red hot stove and scattered tobacco juice over it, a dozen passengers looked pale with fear.  Among the passengers was a car painter from Jersey City and after surveying the native for a moment, he coolly inquired :

            "Aren't you afraid you'll fall down and hurt yourself with those weapons !"

            "W — hat ?" gasped the native in astonishment.

            "I suppose they sell such outfits as you've got on at auction out here, don't they ?" continued the painter.

            "W — what d'ye mean — who are ye ?" whispered the native, as he walked around the stove and put on a terrible look.

            "My name is Logwood," was the calm reply, "and I mean that, if I were you, I'd crawl out of those old duds and put on some decent clothes."

            "Don't talk that way to me, or you won't live a minit !" exclaimed the native as he hopped around.

            "Why, you homesick coyote, I'm Grizzly Dan, the heaviest Indian fighter in the world !  I was the first white man to scout for General Crook !  I was the first white man in the Black Hills !  I was the first white man among the Modocs !"

            "I don't believe it," flatly replied the painter.  "You look more like the first white man down to the dinner table !"

            The native drew his knife, put it back again, looked around, and then softly asked,

            "Stranger, will you come over behind the ridge and shoot and slash until this thing is settled ?"

            "You bet I will !" replied the man from Jersey as he rose up.  "Just pace right out and I'll follow."

            Every man in the room jumped to his feet in wild excitement.  The native started for the back door, but when he found the car painter at his heels, with a six-shooter Colt in his hand, he halted and said :

            "Friend, come to think of it, I don't want to kill you and have your widow come on me for damages."

            "Go right ahead, I'm not a married man !" replied the painter.

            "But you've got relatives, and I don't want no lawsuits just as spring is coming." "I'm an orphan, without a relative in the world !" shouted the Jerseyite.

            "Well, the law will make me bury you, and it would be a week's work to dig a grave at this season of the year.  I think I'll break a rib or two for you, smash your nose, gouge out your left eye, and let it go at that !"

            "That suits me to a dot !" said the painter.

            "Gentlemen, please stand back, and some of you shut the door to the ladies' room."

            "I was the first man to attack the grizzly bear with a bowie knife, remarked the native, as he looked around.  "I was the first man to discover silver in Nevada.  I made the first scout up Powder river.  I was the first man to make hunting shirts out of the skins of Pawnee Indians.  I don't want to hurt this man, as he seems kinder sad and down-hearted, but he must apologize to me."

            "I will not do it," said the painter.

            "Gentlemen, I never fight without taking off my coat, and I don't see any hook to hang it on," said the native.

            "I'll hold it," shouted a dozen voices in chorus.

            "And another thing," softly continued the native ' "I never fight in a hot room.  I used to do it years ago but I found it was running me into consumption.  I always do my fighting out doors now."

            "I'll go out with you now, you old rabbit-killer !" exclaimed the painter, who had his coat off.

            "That's another deadly insult to be wiped out in blood, and I see I must finish you. I never fight around a depot, though. I go out on a prairie where there is a chance to throw myself."

            "Where's your prairie — lead the way !" howled the crowd.

            "It wouldn't do any good," replied the native, as he leaned against the wall. "I always hold a ten dollar gold piece in my mouth when I fight,  and I haven't got one to-day — in fact I'm dead broke."

            "Here's a gold piece!" called a tall man, holding up the metal.

            "I'm a thousand times obleeged," mournfully replied the native, shaking his head, "I never go into a fight without putting red paint on the tip of my left ear for luck, and I haven't my red paint by me, and there isn't a bit in Reno."

            "Are—you—going—to—fight ?" demanded the car painter, reaching out for the bear-skin cap.

            "I took a solemn oath when a boy never to fight without painting my left ear," protested the Indian killer. "You wouldn't want me to go back on my solemn oath, would you ?"

            "You're a cabbage, a squash, a pumpkin dressed up in leggings !" contemptuously remarked the car painter, as he put on his coat.

            "Yes, he's a great coward," remarked several others, as he turned away.

            "I'll give $10,000 for ten drops of red paint !" shrieked the native. "Oh ! why is it I have no paint for my ear when there is such a chance to go in and kill !"

            A big blacksmith from Illinois took him by the neck and run him out, and he was seen no more for an hour.  Just before the train started, and after all had taken seats, the "first man" was soon on the platform. He had another bowie knife and had also put a tomahawk in his bolt. There was red paint on his left ear, his eyes rolled, and in a terrible voice he called out,

            "Where is that man Logwood ? Let him come here and meet his death !"

            "Is that you ? Count me in !" replied the car painter as he opened the window. He rushed for the door, leaped down, and was pulling off his overcoat again, when the native began to retreat, calling out:

            "I'll get my hair cut and be back here in seventeen seconds. I never fight with long hair. I promised my dying mother not to."

            When the train rolled away he was soon flourishing his tomahawk around his head in the wildest manner.