Chapter 50
California Joe, collected by John Lomax, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yearsley. Well, mates, I don't like stories. Or am I going to act a part around the campfire that ain't a truthful fact? So fill your pipes and listen. I'll tell you.
Let me see. I think it was in 50. From that till 63. You've all heard tell of Bridger. I used to run with Jim.
and many a hard day's scouting I've done, alongside of him. Well once, near old Fort Reno, a trapper used to dwell, we called him old Pap Reynolds, the scouts all knew him well. One night, in the spring of fifty, we camped on Powder River, and killed a calf of buffalo, and cooked a slice of liver.
While eating, quite contented, I heard three shots or four, put out the fire, and listened, we heard a dozen more. We knew that old man Reynolds had moved his traps up here, so picking up our rifles and fixing on our gear, we moved as quick as lightning.
To save was our desire. Too late, the painted heathens had set the house on fire. We hitched our horses quickly and waded up the stream, while down close beside the waters I heard a muffled scream, and there among the bushes a little girl did lie.
I picked her up and whispered, I'll save you or I'll die. Lord, what a ride! Old Bridger had covered my retreat. Sometimes that child would whisper, In voice, low and sweet, Poor Papa! God will take him To Mama up above.
There is no one left to love me, There is no one left to love. The little one was thirteen, And I was twenty-two. I says, I'll be your father, And love you just as true. She nestled to my bosom, Her hazel eyes so bright, Looked up and made me happy, The close pursuit that night.
One month had passed, And Maggie, we called her Hazel Eye, In truth was going to leave me, Was going to say good-bye. Her uncle, Mad Jack Reynolds, Reported long since dead, Had come to claim my angel, His brother's child, he said. What could I say?
We parted. Mad Jack was growing old. I handed him a banknote, and all I had in gold. They rode away at sunrise. I went a mile or two, and parting says, We'll meet again. May God watch over you. By a laughing, dancing brook a little cabin stood, And, weary with a long day's scout, I spied it in the wood.
The pretty valley stretched beyond, The mountains towered above, And near its willow banks I heard the cooing of a dove. T'was one grand pleasure. The brook was plainly seen, like a long thread of silver, In a cloth of lovely green.
The laughter of the water, the cooing of the dove, Was like some painted picture, some well-told tale of love. While drinking in the country and resting in the saddle, I heard a gentle rippling like the dipping of a paddle, and turning to the water a strange sight met my view,
a lady with her rifle in a little bark canoe. She stood up in the centre with her rifle to her eye. I thought just for a second my time had come to die. I doffed my hat and told her, if it was just the same, to drop her little shooter, for I was not her game.
She dropped the deadly weapon and leapt from the canoe. Says she, I beg your pardon, I thought you was a Sue. Your long hair and your buckskin looked warrior-like and rough. My bead was spoiled by sunshine, or I'd have killed you sure enough. Perhaps it would have been better if you'd dropped me then, says I,
for surely such an angel would bear me to the sky. She blushingly dropped her eyelids, her cheeks were crimson red. One half-shy glance she gave me, and then hung down her head. I took her little hand in mine, she wondered what it meant, And yet she drew it not away, but rather seemed content.
We sat upon the mossy bank, her eyes began to fill, The brook was rippling at our feet, the dove was cooing still. Tis strong arms were thrown around her, I'll save you or I'll die. I clasped her to my bosom, my long-lost hazel eye.
The rapture of that moment was almost heaven to me. I kissed her, mid the teardrops, her merriment and glee. Her heart near mine was beating when sobbingly she said, My dear, my brave preserver, they told me you were dead. But oh, those parting words, Jo, have never left my mind.
You said, we'll meet again, Mag, then rode off like the wind. And oh, how I have prayed, Joe, for you who saved my life, that God would send an angel to guide you through all strife. The one who claimed me from you, my uncle, good and true, is sick in yonder cabin, has talked so much of you.
If Joe were living, darling, he said to me last night, he would care for you, Mag, when God puts out my light. We found the old man sleeping. Hush, Maggie, let him rest. The sun was slowly setting in the far-off glowing west.
And though we talked in whispers, he opened wide his eyes. A dream, a dream, he murmured. Alas, a dream of lies. She drifted like a shadow to where the old man lay. You had a dream, dear uncle, another dream today?
Oh, yes, I saw an angel as pure as mountain snow, and near her at my bedside stood California Joe. I'm sure I'm not an angel, dear uncle, that you know. These hands that hold your hand, too. My face is not like snow.
Now listen while I tell you, for I have news to cheer. Hazel Eye is happy, for Joe is truly here. It was but a few days after the old man said to me, Joe boy, she is an angel, and good as angels be. For three long months she hunted and trapped and nursed me too.
God bless you, boy. I believe it. She's safe along with you. The sun was slowly sinking when Maggie, my wife, and I went riding through the valley, the teardrops in her eye. one year ago to-day joe i saw the mossy grave we laid him neath the daisies my uncle good and brave And comrade, every springtime is sure to find me there.
There is something in the valley that is always fresh and fair. Our love is always kindled while sitting by the stream, Where two hearts were united in love's sweet happy dream.
