We have not seen McQuown since, nor any of his men. There has been no bloodshed since Blaisedell’s arrival. Blaisedell has had to buffalo a few recalcitrants, and has escorted some Cowboys and drunken miners to the jail, but violent death has removed itself from our midst temporarily.
Blaisedell is an imposing figure of a man, with a leonine fair head, an erect and powerful carriage, and eyes of an astonishing concentration. He seems guileless and straightforward, very dignified, yet I have seen him laughing and joking like a boy with his friend Morgan in the Glass Slipper. It is rumored that Blaisedell has an interest in that gambling hall. He spends much time there in company with Morgan, and on several occasions has engaged himself in dealing faro there. From what we have seen of Blaisedell thus far, he seems to have no excesses; he is not given to whoring, drunkenness, or profanity. I think he must needs be a blessedly simple man, in his position, for does not the capacity to deal in violence without excesses, to deal actually in men’s lives as he must do, denote an almost appalling simplicity?
Or is he, in the end, only a merchant like myself, with his goods for sale as I have mine, knowing, as I know, that the better the goods the better price they will command, and the price variable as well with the Need? I see my mind must seek to bring this man to my terms, or perhaps it is to my level.
November 27, 1880
Pranksters have poured cement into the new piano at the French Palace. The piano, which Taliaferro had brought here at what I am sure must have been enormous expense, is ruined, the culprits unknown. It was a mean and thoughtless trick, in that coarse vein of frontier humor of which I have seen far too much. I have offered my sympathy to Taliaferro, who merely glowered. I suppose he suspects that since I mentioned it, I may be the guilty one.
There has also been another rash of rumors about the presence of Apaches in the Dinosaurs, that Espirato has returned from Mexico and is gathering his band again, preparatory to going on the warpath. This is not given much credence, since it has been several years since Espirato was last heard from. He is widely believed dead, and the bulk of his warriors secretly returned to the reservation at Granite.
In consequence of these rumors, however, we have had the pleasure of again seeing General Peach, who is always sensitive to news of his old adversary. He came through Warlock last Sunday with one troop of horse, another having swept up the far side of the valley. It was a shock to see him, for he has grown incredibly gross, and, viewing him, it is easy to believe that his mind is eaten away with paresis. Still, there is something inherently heroic about him; it is like watching an equestrian statue of the Cid or George Washington wrapped in a cloak of heroic deeds, to the accompaniment of stirring martial music. The man has had the capacity throughout his career for giving miserable and inexcusable fiasco the semblance of a thrilling victory. He rode down Main Street at the head of his troop as in a Fourth of July Parade, wearing his huge hat, his white beard blowing back, his strange, pale eyes fixed straight ahead while he saluted right and left with the leather-covered shaft which is supposed to be that of an arrow that almost ended his days at the battle of Bloody Fork. We watched him fresh from a fool’s errand to the border, and reminded ourselves that he has a harem of Apache and Mexican women out of which he has produced (supposedly) a get of half-breed bastards numerous enough to increase by a good percentage the population of this territory; that, in his senility, he wets his trousers like a child, and must have his hand guided by Colonel Whiteside when he writes his name; and still we could not forbear to applaud his passage — badly as he has treated us here.
There have been rumors that silver will drop again on the market, and there is unrest among the miners, who fear a cut in their wages. Especially those of the Medusa. Some weeks ago, in the collapse of a stope at that unlucky mine, two miners were killed outright, and a third horribly crushed — the doctor says the man, Cassady by name, did not die the same night only because he seemed to feel it would put Miss Jessie out, and so clung to his life until early this week, when he finally gave up the ghost. The Medusa miners are incensed about these deaths, and I understand that talk of the Miners’ Union has begun again. They claim that insufficient lagging-timbers are furnished to support their burrowings. This MacDonald denies heatedly, and calls them overpaid and pampered as it is. The price of lumber is certainly fantastic. There are trees of any size only in the northernmost Bucksaws, Bowen’s Sawmill is small, the water power to run it often insufficient, and breakdowns frequent.
There is this time more sympathy than usual with the miners, of whom a large number have been killed and maimed in mine accidents this year. The doctor is quite beside himself about it, a man rarely given to shows of anger. Still, as I said to him, the fellows do make wages of $4.50 a day, and are free to take themselves elsewhere and to other work, if they choose.
December 14, 1880
A death of note has been that of the little professor, whose piano playing at the Glass Slipper all of Warlock had enjoyed. Poor fellow, apparently, while in his cups, he fell insensible into the street at night, where his skull was crushed by a hoof or wagon wheel; not found until morning. God rest his soul, his passing so tragically has saddened us all.
December 28, 1880
Christmas has come and gone and a New Year is almost upon us. The cold spell has broken, and in this the peaceful season there is peace, but perhaps no more than the usual amount of good will. I have a crèche in my store window, Mary and Joseph bending over the Infant in the manger, attended by kings and shepherds. It is surprising how men stop and stare. I think they are not enraptured at the old story; the star of Bethlehem interests them not, nor do the shepherds and the kings. The baby fascinates them, a hideous little piece, out of scale to the rest of the figures, pink plaster with daubs of deeper pink upon the cheeks. It is not that there are no babies here, for the miners beget them upon their Mexican “wives” in some quantity. But they are not proper babies, being illegitimate; and not pink, being half-breed tan to begin with, which soon becomes a deeper hue due to the lack of frequent applications of soap and water. Most important, I think, is that the Babe is surrounded by His family. For there are no proper families here, and pitifully few proper women. There are Cyprians in quantity (more attentive to my crèche even than the men), there are a few ranch women whom we see from time to time, shapeless and bonneted against the sun and rude eyes. There are, in town, besides Miss Jessie, Mrs. Maple and Mrs. Sturges, the one, as is said, twice the man Dick Maples is and as tough as bootsole leather, the other ancient, huge, and a reformed harlot from the look of her.
The reigning queen is Myra Burbage, to court whom, of a Sunday, a great procession of Warlock’s most affluent young bachelors rides down valley to irritate Matt Burbage. Men are made slaves to women by a cunning nature, who designed lust as the means to the continuation of our kind; we are made slaves as well by a trap of our own devising, whereby we desire to stand, as it were, for one of those stiff and smug photographer’s portraits, as man and wife amid our offspring in that proud and self-contained protective society, a family.
A Christmas party at the General Peach, and all were invited to sip a cup of Christmas cheer — paying two dollars to the miners’ fund for the privilege. Myra Burbage distributing her favors among her admirers, and, wonder of wonders, Miss Jessie apparently much interested and amused in conversation with the Marshal! She looked very pretty with her face flushed by the warmth of her labors — or was it something else that had caused her color to rise? There will be much surmise about this, I have no doubt. The Marshal and Miss Jessie have been observed, before this, buggy-riding together, and now, I am sure, more notice will be taken of their activities.