Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 July 1893 — LOWRY’S WIDOW. [ARTICLE]

LOWRY’S WIDOW.

BY FRED L. FOSTER.

It was certainly very unfortunate for Lowry that he should have died at that particular time. Had the unwelcome event occurred a month before it would not have mattered so much; but now, just as he had struck it rich and had written East for his wife to come on and share his good fortune, it was, to say the least, very exasperating. But he was dead, beyond a doubt, and likewise variously scattered, the result of too close intima* cy with a premature blast. The miners gathered up his visible remains and buried them with due solemnity; then they waited for the advent of the widow. ,

But not without much misgiving. How would they meet her? And who of their number would assume the delicate and embarrassing task of informing her that she was a widow ? They talked it all over that night in front of Pete Simpson’s bar. “Fac’ is, fellers,” said Ore eyed Jerry, the autocrat of the camp, as he turned his solitary optic on the crowd, “Fac’ is, it’s a tough job, but it’s got to be done, an’ I’ll do it, if it takes a leg. Leave it to me, fellers, and I’ll let ’er down as soothin’ as possible.” And with a deep feeling of relief, that found exSression in another round of red liquor, le miners left it to Jerry. In due course of time a letter addressed to James Lowry in a shaky, feminine hand and postmarked Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, arrived in camp and was opened by Lowry’s self-appointed executors. It was from Mrs. Lowry, and from it they learned that she would not arrive for several weeks. One day, about six weeks after the reception of this letter, as the stage rattled up to the single so-called hotel of the little Tuolumne mining camp, the loungers on the porch caught the glimpse of a dress inside. At once all was excitement.

“She’a come!” they exclaimed. “Where's Jerry?” Jerry, who was seated at a table in the barroom, reluctantly laid down a hand” and reached the outside in time to agsist the lady from the stage, awkwardly lifting his hat as he did so. “Mrs. Lowry, I reckon,” said Jerry, as •he alight ed. The lady threw back the veil from her face, smiled and answered: “Yes. Where’s my husband?” . The crowd that had gathered inquisitively, but respectfully, about the stage fell back astounded; not at the question, but at the woman who asked it. Lowry was fifty years old, if a day, at the time he was so unceremoniously fired out of existence. He had never spoken much about his wife, whom he had left in the East fully ten years before, yet from familiarity with Jim’s age, his homely face, and still more homely ways, the miners had formed the impression that his wife must be a woman of forty or forty-five and equally angular and unimpressive in appearance. But here she was before them, a woman of possibly thirty, plump and shapely, with a face that was simply bewitching. She was absolutely handsome and there was an expression in her eye and mouth that seemed to indicate that she knew it. The smile disappeared and she looked at Jerry somewhat anxiously. “Why isn’t Mr. Lowry here to meet me?” she asked. • •

There was a painful pause. The miners looked at Jerry and Jerry looked at his boots. “Fac’is, ma’am,” he finally said, as he slowly twirled his greasy hat with one hand. “ Fac’ is, Jim’s—a ailin’. Bin workin’, you know, gettin’ ready fer you, an’— an’—sorter down with a fever or somethin’. Fac’ is, he’s—but say! You must be tired an’ hungry; there’s a room fer you in this here hotel an’ I’ll take you over to see Jim later.” With apparent reluctance Mrs. Lowry followed the hotel proprietor to the room that had been fitted up for her weeks before and sacredly kept unoccupied ever since, while the crowd, with exclamations of astonishment and delight, pressed forward to the bar. “Fellers,” said Jerry, with the air of one who had just discovered a rich “pocket” of the yellow metal; “fellers, here’s to the widderl” An hour later Mrs. Lowry accompanied Jerry to Jim’s cabin, and on the way up the trail be broke to her the sad news of her husband’s death. But in what way he imparted the melancholy information his companions never could "•F*u’ is, fellers,” he had said in reply to their questions, “it makes me creepy to think about it, she took on that terrible; but I let ’er down easy as posserble. Thought she faint sure, •’special’

when I showed her where Jim was chucked. Her carryin’ on was mighty depressin’, I’m tellin’ you.” The next morning the widow, who had sat down at the supper-table the evening of her arrival in a gown of softtoned gray that at once took all the boarders captive, surprised every one by appearing arrayed in a somber robe of mourning. Her face was pale and sorrowful, and there was a sadness in her voice that excited the deep sympathy of all who saw her. All but one. Bradford, the “gentleman gambler,” whose dark eyes and long black mustache had dawned upon the camp a few months before, wore a scow) as he got up from the late breakfast table. He had eaten slowly, if indeed he had eaten anything at all. The miners had breakfasted long before; only a few business men, gamblers and idlers were at the table, and one by one they finished their meal and departed, until only he and the widow remained. As he passed her chair on his way out he stopped and hurriedly whispered: “Fool! what are you doing with that dress on? Were you supposed to know that you were a widow when you started? And if not, how do you expect to account for that dress between last night and this morning?” Then, with a suppressed oath, he strode angrily out from the room.

The widow looked frightened. She hastily arose and went to her room. The landlord, out on the porch, was talking to Jerry, and dubiously shaking his head. “Now, where did she git them duds?” he said in a manner that impressed Jerry most painfully. The latter slowly worked his jaws, expectorating in gloomy silence. At last, ‘•Fac’ is,” he replied, “these here women is ’stonishin’; me an’you don't know no more ’bout ’em than they do of tun'ls, drif’s and winzes. I reckon that big trunk of hern was full of clo’es an’ she come pervided for ever’ contingency. Of course, she couldn’t a knowed as how Lowry had flunked till I told ’er; an’ she did carry on amazin’, 1 tell you.” That mourning costume was the seed from which sprang curiosity, doubt and finally suspicion. Mrs. Lowry took possession of the little cabin in which her husband had lived, and there she slept and did her own cooking. She seldom showed herself except to attend to business in connection with the sale of the mine, a transaction that she showed a feverish anxiety to close. But she was at all times gracious and pleasant to the men, and half the camp were madly in love with her. Independently of the mine, which was worth a cool hundred thousand, if a cent, and which Lowry had fortunately located in her name, she could have married any one of the magnates of the camp off-hand within two days after her arrival, if she had been so disposed. Jerry, whom she had selected as her right-hand man, was alternatively exultant and depressed. He became her slave, and would have jumped down the deepest shaft on the mountain side if she had asked him to; and yet he was much of the time troubled and perplexed. Gradually he became imbued with the idea that he had seen Mrs. Lowry before; but where or when, he vainly cudgeled his brain to remember. And so he went about, doing her bidding, feeling amply rewarded by the smiles she showered upon him, her light, jesting talk, of which he only was the recipient, and her friendly, familiar ways, that were kept for him alone. But with his companions he had become moody, taciturn, even irritable. He neglected his claim, and spent half his time knocking around Jim’s cabin, choring for the widow, running errands and negotiating with Tom Carroll, the wealthiest mine owner in all that region, for Mrs. Lowry’s mine. From an offer of $50,000 Carroll finally rose so $70,003, and there he stuck.

“It’s like steal in’ it, an’ you know it,” exclaimed Jerry, wrathfully. “It’s all I can stand,” was the bland reply. “If the widow can get more, all right; I shan’t begrudge her the money.” And Carroll turned away. The widow was eager to accept the amount offered. “An’ throw away $30,000!” growled Jerry. “It’s a fortun’ in itself. You can get what the mine’s worth if you don’t rush so blame' las’. You got all summer before you. Ketch me lettin’ that swindlin’ Carroll get away with the mine like that; it’s worse’n stage robbin’l”

But the widow was obdurate. She must return east; she needed money at once; she had left a dear sister almost on her death bed; she couldn't manage the mine if she kept it; and if Carroll should change his mind she would not probably be able to sell it at all—a dozen other reasons that came promptly and plausibly from her persuasive lips. And so, exactly one week from the day of her arrival, the bargain was concluded. The next day the papers were to be prepared and the transfer duly made, and the following day Mrs. Lowry was to start on her return trip East. Jerry was in an ugly mood that evening, and even his most intimate companions let him severely alone. For three hours he sat at a poker game, and during all that time he did not utter a word, except to sullenly name his bets, call for his cards and demand his drinks. He drank heavily, and lost heavily as he drank. In the subsequent expressive language of the barkeeper, “Jerry played the rottenes’ game that ever disgraced the house. He’s worse than down on his luck; since the widow came he’s got to be a blinkin’ ijet. He ought to swaller a few ounces of of nitro-glycerine an’ then set down hard on a rock; it might knock some sense into him.”

When Jarry, his last dollar gone, arose from the gaming table he stalked straight out into the night. The stars were shining large and luminous in that clear mountain atmosphere; the air was cool and sweet, and high up on the mountain side the tall pines were peacefully dreaming in the shadows. But the glories of the night had no attractions for Jerry. His mind dwelt solely upon the widow, and irresistibly his feet turned up the narrow trail that led to her cabin. The fascination that Mrs. Lowry had exercised upon Jerry, and all in the short space of one week, was a thing that he could not comprehend. Her beauty, her magnetism, the scent of her clothing, the familiar and confidential tone of voice with which she invariably addressed him, all had conspired to infatuate him completely. For the last three days he had gone about under a spell; had he been hypnotized he could not have been more completely subject to her influence. The thought of her going away was to him something worse than death. The camp, the mine, the blue sky above him, all his surroundings, had merged themselves into that one woman, and with her exit they would melt away and leave him the centre of a black and dismal void. Such was his feeling; and, being by nature unintelligent and coarse, it served only to madden and brutalize him It was a short time in which to be metamorphosed from a freeman into a slave, from a thoughtless, contented, hardworking

miner into a worrying, surly, miserable do-nothing, who could see nothing in the world but one woman, and in whose mind was room for but a single thought —that he was about to lose her. But men of intelligence, refinement and wide experience with women and the world have had their heads turned in even a shortei time and have done even crazier things than he. He no longer puzzled himseli over the question of her identity. Was she in truth Lowry’s widow? He did not know, but neither did he now care. Had he seen that face before? Possibly, but if he had it was now a matter of indifference to him when or where or under what circumstances. He could not let her go away, or if she went he was determined to go with her. And so he stumbled on up the trail, aflame with love and liquor. It was hours past bedtime and there was no light in the window as Jerry made the turn in the trail that brought him almost to the cabin door. Suddenly he collided with an object; he started back with an oath, and at the same time he heard an exclamation of surprise. A man stood before him and in the bright starlight Jerry could see that it was Bradford, the gambler. Jerry’s hand went to his pistol. “What you doin’ here, an’ at this time o’ night?” yelled Jerry, in a voice like the explosion of a blast. ‘‘You sneaking spy, take that!” cried Bradford, suddenly springing forward and striking him a blow in the face that sent him sprawling. But even as the blow was struck Jerry thrust his right hand upward and forward, there was a blaze of fire and the still night became alive with the reverberating echoes of a pistol shot.

Headlong down the steep trail, over Jerry’s body fell Bradford, uttering a single cry—“o, God!” And there h e lay, speechless, motionless.his fdee prone in the dust. The shock of the blow and of his fall and the report of the pistol instantly cleared away the fumes from Jerry’s brain; but before he could arise he heard a shriek, the cabin door flew open and a figure clothed in white came running down the trail, calling out in tones of terror: “John, John! Oh, what is itl John, what has happened ?” And thus calling and running in a few seconds Mrs. Lowry was down the trail stooping over the two prostrate forms sobbing, moaning and crying for help. Jerry, ashamed, half-frightened, closed his eyes and lay quiet. The widow, shuddering, gave him a glance and then flung herself upon Bradford’s body. And there she lay fondling his bloody face, mingling her frantic kisses with curses upon the man who shot him, until at last she fainted.

Jerry was no coward ; but the unexpected meeting, with its tragical result, had unnerved him ; he got up and stealthily hurried away. Besides, her words had cut him to the heart. Her curses, her scorn, her vindictive raging —these he could not stay to face. Suddenly he stopped and abruptly flung his hand to his head. Like a flash that face and form were again before him, but in other surroundings than these.

“ Great flumes !” he exclaimed, as he gazed blankly up at the stars; “it’s Mandie Le Brunt, .the sharpest female in all Sacramento! ”

The papers were not made out tlie next day. That morning a woman, closely veiled, climbed into the out-going stage at a point below the camp; and that very afternoon another woman, plainly dressed, with streaks of gray in her hair and a face that indicated years of patient toil and sadness and trouble, was gently assisted from the stage at the hotel door. And it was Jerry who helped her to alight. “Fellers,” he said, as a few moments a dozen or more miners crowded up to the bar. “ Fellers, fac’ is, women is uncertain, but they can’t fool us allers. Here’s to the widder! ” —[San Francisco Examiner.