Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1878-04-14
A GHOST OF THE SIERRAS.
BY BRET LARTE.

IL was vast SllcuCe VI pines, feuOlGnl
with balsamic breath. and mutfied with
the dry dust Of dead bark and matted
MOSES. Lying on our backs, we looked
upwards through a hundred feet of clear
unbrokcn interval to the first lateral
branches that formed the flat canopy
above us. Here and there the fierce sun
from whose active persecution we had
just escaped, searched for us through the
woods, but its keen blade was dullcd and
turned aside by intercostal boughs, and
it's brightness dissipated in nebulous
mists throughout the roofing of the dim
brown aislcs around us. We were in an.
other atmosphere, under another sky IN.
deed in another world than the dazzling
one we had just quilted. The grave 81
lcnce seemed so much part of the
grateful GOODNESS that we hesitated to
speak, and for some moments lay quietly
outstretched on the pine tassels where VIC
had first thrown ourselves Finally, a
voice broke the silence:
"Ask the old Major; he knows all
about it"
The person here alluded to, under that
military title, was myself. I hardly need
explain to any Californian that it by no
means followed that was a g Major or
that I was ''old," or that knew ANYTHING
about it, or indeed what 8. it y referred
to. The whole remark was merely one
of the usual conventional teelers to con-
versation-a kind of social preamble,
quite common to our slangy camp inter
course. Nevertheless, as [ was ALWAYS
known as the Major, perhaps for no bet
ter reason than that the speaker, an old
journalist, was always called Doctor. I
recognized the fact so far as to kick aside
an intervening saddle so that could see
the speakers face on a level with nv OVID.
and said noting
"About ghosts" said the Doctor, after
pause, which nobody broke or was ex-
pected to break. "Ghosts! sir. That's
what we want to know. What are we
doing here in this black old mansoleum
of Calaveras county If it isn't to find out
something about EN-, eh?"
Nobody replied.
"Thar's that haunted house at Cave
City. Cant be more than mile or two
away, anyhow. Used to be just of the
trial"
A dead silence
The Doctor addressing space gener-
ally: Eyes, sir; 1T was a mighty queer
story
Still the same reposeful indifference
We all knew the Doctors skill as a ro-
contour; we all knew that story was
coming, and we all knew that any inter
ruption would be fatal. Time and time
again in our prospecting experience, had
a word Of polite encouragement, rash
expression of interest, even too eager
attitude of silent expectancy, brought the
Doctor to a sudden change of subject;
time and time again had we seen the un-
wary stranger stand amazed and Devil
dered between our own indifference and
the sudden termination of promising
anecdote, through his own unluckv in
reference. So we said nothing. ssThe
Judge''-another instance of arbitrary
neutrality-suspicious. to sleep. Jack
began to twist cigaritto. Thornton bit
off the ends of pine needles refectively.
Yes, SIR" continued the doctor, cody
resting the back of his head on the palms
of his hands, it was rather curious. All
except the murder. That's what gets me
for the murder had no new points, ne
fancy touches, no sentiment, no mystery
Was just one of the old style, sub-head
paragraphs. Old-fashioned miner scrub
along on hard tack and beans, and save
up a little money to 60 home and see re
lations. Old-fashioned assassin sharpen
up knife, old style, loads old fintlock
brass mounted pistol; walks IN on old
fashioned miner on: dark night, sends hin
home to his relations away back to sever
al generations, and walks off with til,
swag. No mystery there; nothing t,
clear up; subsequent revelations only i'm
pertinance. Nothing for any ghost to d,
who meant business. More than that
over forty murders, same old kind, com
mitted every year in Calayeras, and n,
spiritual post olbits coming due every an
niversary; no assessments made on tn
peace and quiet of the surviving commu
nifty. tell you what boys, I've Away
been irclined to throw off on the Cav,
City ghost for that alone. It's bad preo
edent, sir. Ifthat kind o. thing is going
to obtain to the Foot Hills, we'll have TIL
trails full of chaps formely knocked ove1
by Mexicans and road agents every little
camp and grocery will have stock enough