By Sam P. Davis
(This was written by a talented 19th Century newspaper
reporter and
editor in Nevada. He penned this story and some say it was a
"tall tale."
But you have to wonder. Having studied characters in the
Old West for more than 50 years, these "tales" aren't as
far fetched
as some believe. At least it's fun to think they could have
actually
happened.—Historian Craig MacDonald)
(In the mid-19th Century) there was a little camp about 10
miles from
Pioche, occupied by upwards of 300 miners, everyone
of whom might have packed his prospecting implements and
left for more
inviting fields anytime before sunset.
When the day was over, these men did not rest from their
labors, like the
honest New England agriculturalist, but sang, danced,
gambled and shot each other, as the mood seized them.
One evening, the report spread along Main Street (which was
the only
street) that three men had been killed at Silver Reef
and the bodies were coming in. Presently, a lumbering old
conveyance
labored up the hill, drawn by a couple of horses,
well worn out with their pull. The cart contained a
good-sized box,
and no sooner did its outlines become visible through
the glimmer of a stray light here and there, than it began
to affect the idlers.
Death always enforces respect, and even though no one had
caught sight
of the remains, the crowd gradually became subdued, and
when the horses came to a standstill, the cart was immediately surrounded. The
driver, however, was not in the least impressed with the solemnity of his
commission.
"All there?" asked one.
"Haven't examined. Guess so."
The driver filled his pipe and lit it as he continued:
"Wish the bones and load had gone over the grade."
A man who had been looking on, stepped up and said:
"I don't know who you have in that box, but if they happen
to be any
friends of mine, I'll lay you alongside."
"We can mighty soon see," said the teamster, coolly. "Just
bust the
lid off, and if they happen to be the men you want, I'm here."
The two looked at each other for a moment, and the crowd
gathered a
little closer, anticipating trouble.
"I believe that dead men are entitled to a good treatment,
and when
you talk about hoping to see corpses go over a bank, all
I have to say is, that it will be better for you if the
late lamented ain't my friends."
"We'll open the box. I don't take back what I've said, and
if my
language don't suit your way of thinking, I guess I can stand it."
With these words, the teamster began to pry up the lid. He
got a board
off, and then pulled out some old rags. A strip of
something dark, like rosewood, presented itself.
"Eastern coffins, by thunder!" said several, and the crowd
looked
quite astonished.
Some more boards flew up, and the man who was ready to
defend his
friend's memory, shifted his weapon a little. The cool
manner of the teamster had so irritated him that he made up his mind to pull his
weapon at the first sight of the dead, even
if the deceased was his worst and oldest enemy.
Presently, the whole of the box cover was off, and the
teamster,
clearing away the packing, revealed to the astonished group
the top of something which puzzled all alike.
"Boys," said he. "This is a pianner."
A general shout of laughter went up, and the man who had
been anxious
to enforce respect for the dead muttered something about
feeling dry, and the keeper of the nearest bar was several ounces better off by
the time the boys had given the joke all
the attention it called for.
Had a dozen dead men been in the box, their presence in the
camp could
not have occasioned half the excitement that the arrival of
that lonely piano caused. By the next morning, it was known that the instrument
was to grace a hurdy gurdy saloon owned by Tom Goskin, the leading gambler in
the place.
It took nearly a week to get this wonder on its legs, and
the owner
was the proudest individual in the state. It rose gradually
from a recumbent to an upright position, amid a confusion
of tongues,
after the manner of the tower of Babel.
Of course, everybody knew just how such an instrument
should be put
up. One knew where the "off hind leg" should go, and
another was posed on the "front piece."
Scores of men came to the place every day to assist. "I'll put the bones in good
order." "If you want the wires tuned up, I'm the boy." "I've got music to feed it for a month." Another
brought a
pair of blankets for a cover, and all took the liveliest
interest in it. It was at last in condition for business.
"It's been showin' its teeth all week. We'd like to have it
spit out something."
Alas! There wasn't a man to be found, who could play upon
the
instrument. Goskin began to realize that he had a losing
speculation on his hands. He had a fiddler and a Mexican,
who thrummed
a guitar. A pianist would have made his orchestra
complete.
One day, a three-card monte player told a friend
confidentially that
he could "knock any amount of music out of the piano, if he only had it alone a
few hours to get his hand in."
This report spread about the camp, but on being questioned,
he vowed
that he didn't know a note of music. It was noted,
however, as a suspicious circumstance, that he hung about
the
instrument and looked upon it lovingly, like a hungry man
gloating over a beefsteak in a restaurant window. There was
no doubt
that this man had music in his soul, perhaps in his
fingers'-ends, but did not dare to make a trial of his
strength after
the rules of harmony had suffered so many years of
neglect.
So the fiddler kept on with his jigs, and the Mexican pawed
his
discordant guitar, but no man had the nerve to touch the
piano. There were, doubtless, scores of men in the camp,
who would
have given 10 ounces of gold dust to have been half an
hour alone with it, but every man's nerve shrank from the
jeers which
the crowd would shower upon him should his first
attempt prove a failure. It got to be generally understood
that the
hand which first essayed to draw music from the keys
must not slouch from its work.
It was Christmas Eve, and Goskin, according to custom, had
decorated
his gambling hall with sprays of mountain cedar and
a shrub, whose crimson berries did not seem a bad imitation
of English
holly. The piano was covered with evergreens, and
all that was wanting to completely fill the cup of Goskin's
contentment was a man to play the instrument.
"Christmas night and no piano-pounder," he said. "This is a nice country
for a Christian to live in."
Getting a piece of paper, he scrawled the words: "$20
Reward to a Compitant Piano Player." He stuck it up on the music
rack, and, though the inscription glared at the frequenters
of the
room until midnight, it failed to draw any musician from
his shell.
So, the merry-making went on; the hilarity grew apace. Men
danced and
sang to the music of the squeaky fiddle and worn out
guitar, as the jolly crowd within tried to drown the
howling of the
storm without.
Suddenly, they became aware of the presence of a
white-haired man,
crouching near the fireplace. His garments—such as
they were left—were wet with melting snow, and he had a
half-starved,
half-crazed expression. He held his thin, trembling
hands toward the fire, and the light of the blazing wood
made them
almost transparent.
He looked about him once in awhile, as if in search of
something, and
his presence cast such a chill over the place that
gradually the sound of the revelry was hushed, and it
seemed that this
waif of the storm had brought in with it all the gloom
and coldness of the warring elements.
Goskin, mixing up a cup of hot eggnog, advanced and
remarked cheerily:
"Here stranger, brace up! This is the real stuff."
The man drained the cup, smacked his lips, and seemed more
at home.
"Been prospecting, eh? Out in the mountains, caught in the storm? Lively
night this!"
"Pretty bad," said the man.
"Must feel pretty dry?"
The man looked at his steaming clothes and laughed, as if
Goskin's
remark was a sarcasm.
"How long out?"
"Four days."
"Hungry?"
The man rose up, and walking over to the lunch counter,
fell to work
upon some roast bear, devouring it as any wild animal
would have done. As meat and drink and warmth began to
permeate the
stranger, he seemed to expand and lighten up. His
features lost their pallor, and he grew more and more
content with the
idea that he was not in the grave.
As he underwent these changes, the people about him got
merrier and
happier, and threw off the temporary feeling of
depression, which he had laid upon them.
"Do you always have your place decorated like this?" he
finally asked Goskin.
"This is Christmas Eve," was the reply. The stranger was
startled.
"When I was in England, I always kept Christmas. But I had
forgotten
that this was the night. I've been wandering about in
the mountains until I've lost track of the feasts of the church."
Presently, his eye fell upon the piano.
"Where's the player?" he asked.
"Never had any," said Goskin, blushing at the expression.
"I used to play when I was young." Goskin almost fainted at
the admission.
"Stranger, do tackle it and give us a tune! Nary man in
this camp ever
had the nerve to wrestle with that music box." His
pulse beat faster, for he feared the man would refuse.
"I'll do the best I can," he said.
There was no stool, but seizing a candle box, he drew it up
and seated
himself before the instrument. It only required a few
seconds for a hush to come over the room.
"That old coon is going to give the thing a rattle."
The sight of a man at the piano was something so unusual
that even the
faro dealer, who was about to take in a $50 bet on the
tray, paused and did not reach for the money. Men stopped
drinking,
with the glasses at their lips. Conversation appeared
to have been struck with a sort of paralysis, and cards
were no longer shuffled.
The old man brushed back his long, white locks, looked up
to the
ceiling, half closed his eyes, and in a mystic sort of
reverie, passed his fingers over the keys. He touched but a
single
note, yet the sound thrilled the room. It was the key to
his
improvisation, and, as he wove his chords together the
music laid its
spell upon every ear and heart.
He felt his way along the keys, like a man treading
uncertain paths;
but he gained confidence as he progressed, and presently
bent his work like a master. The instrument was not in
exact tune, but
the ears of his audience, through long disuse, did
not detect anything radically wrong. They heard a
succession of grand
chords, a suggestion of paradise, melodies here and
there, and it was enough.
"See him counter with his left!" said an old rough,
enraptured.
"He calls the turn every time on the upper end of the
board,"
responded a man with a stack of chips in his hand.
The player wandered off into the old ballads they had heard
at home.
All the sad and melancholy, and touching songs that
came up like dreams of childhood, this unknown player drew
from the
keys. His hands kneaded their hearts like dough,
and squeezed out the tears as from a wet sponge.
As the strains flowed one upon the other, they saw their
homes of long
ago, reared again; they were playing once more
where the apple blossoms sank through the soft air to join
the violets
on the green turf of the old New England states; they saw
the glories
of the Wisconsin maples and the haze of the Indian summer,
blending
their hues together; they recalled the heather of Scottish
hills, the white cliffs of Britain, and heard
the sullen roar of the sea as it beat upon their memories,
vaguely.
Then came all the old Christmas Carols, such as they had
sung in
church 30 years before; the subtle music that brings up
the glimmer of wax tapers, the solemn shrines, the
evergreens, holly,
mistletoe, and choirs. Then the remorseless performer
planted his final stab in every heart with, "Home Sweet Home."
When the player ceased, the crowd slunk away from him.
There was no
more revelry and devilment left in his audience.
Each man wanted to sneak off of his cabin and write the old
folks a
letter. The day was breaking as the last man left the
place,
and the player, laying his head down on the piano, fell
asleep.
"I say, pard," said Goskin. "Don't you want a little rest?"
"I feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me
rest here for
the matter or a day or so." He walked behind the bar
where some old blankets were lying and stretched himself
upon them. "I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't last long. I've got a
brother
down in the ravine. His name's Driscoll. He don't know I'm
here. Can you get him before morning? I'd like to see his face once before I
die."
Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew
Driscoll well.
"He's your brother? I'll have him here in half an hour."
As he dashed out into the storm, the musician pressed his
hand to his
side and groaned. Goskin heard the word, "Hurry,"
and sped down the ravine to Driscoll's cabin. It was quite
light in
the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was pale
as death.
"My God! I hope he's alive! I wronged him when we lived in England 20
years ago."
They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face. The two stood
a moment, awed by the thought that he might be dead. Goskin lifted the
blanket and pulled it down astonished. There was no one there!
"Gone!" cried Driscoll, wildly.
"Gone!" echoed Goskin, pulling out his cash drawer. "Ten thousand
dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose change in the
drawer!"
The next day, the boys got out, followed a horse's tracks through the
snow, and lost them in the trail leading to Pioche. There was a man
missing from camp. It was the three-card monte man, who used to deny
point-blank that he could play the scale.
One day, they found a wig of white hair, and called to mind that the
"stranger" had pushed those locks back when he looked toward the ceiling
for inspiration the night of Dec. 24, 1858.