



Produced by Donald Lainson





A PHYLLIS OF THE SIERRAS


By Bret Harte




CHAPTER I.


Where the great highway of the Sierras nears the summit, and the pines
begin to show sterile reaches of rock and waste in their drawn-up files,
there are signs of occasional departures from the main road, as if the
weary traveller had at times succumbed to the long ascent, and turned
aside for rest and breath again. The tired eyes of many a dusty
passenger on the old overland coach have gazed wistfully on those sylvan
openings, and imagined recesses of primeval shade and virgin wilderness
in their dim perspectives. Had he descended, however, and followed one
of these diverging paths, he would have come upon some rude wagon track,
or "logslide," leading from a clearing on the <DW72>, or the ominous
saw-mill, half hidden in the forest it was slowly decimating. The
woodland hush might have been broken by the sound of water passing over
some unseen dam in the hollow, or the hiss of escaping steam and throb
of an invisible engine in the covert.

Such, at least, was the experience of a young fellow of five-and-twenty,
who, knapsack on back and stick in hand, had turned aside from the
highway and entered the woods one pleasant afternoon in July. But he
was evidently a deliberate pedestrian, and not a recent deposit of
the proceeding stage-coach; and although his stout walking-shoes were
covered with dust, he had neither the habitual slouch and slovenliness
of the tramp, nor the hurried fatigue and growing negligence of an
involuntary wayfarer. His clothes, which were strong and serviceable,
were better fitted for their present usage than the ordinary garments
of the Californian travellers, which were too apt to be either above or
below their requirements. But perhaps the stranger's greatest claim to
originality was the absence of any weapon in his equipment. He carried
neither rifle nor gun in his hand, and his narrow leathern belt was
empty of either knife or revolver.

A half-mile from the main road, which seemed to him to have dropped out
of sight the moment he had left it, he came upon a half-cleared area,
where the hastily-cut stumps of pines, of irregular height, bore an odd
resemblance to the broken columns of some vast and ruined temple. A few
fallen shafts, denuded of their bark and tessellated branches, sawn into
symmetrical cylinders, lay beside the stumps, and lent themselves to the
illusion. But the freshly-cut chips, so damp that they still clung in
layers to each other as they had fallen from the axe, and the stumps
themselves, still wet and viscous from their drained life-blood, were
redolent of an odor of youth and freshness.

The young man seated himself on one of the logs and deeply inhaled the
sharp balsamic fragrance--albeit with a slight cough and a later hurried
respiration. This, and a certain drawn look about his upper lip,
seemed to indicate, in spite of his strength and color, some pulmonary
weakness. He, however, rose after a moment's rest with undiminished
energy and cheerfulness, readjusted his knapsack, and began to lightly
pick his way across the fallen timber. A few paces on, the muffled whir
of machinery became more audible, with the lazy, monotonous command
of "Gee thar," from some unseen ox-driver. Presently, the slow,
deliberately-swaying heads of a team of oxen emerged from the bushes,
followed by the clanking chain of the "skids" of sawn planks, which they
were ponderously dragging with that ostentatious submissiveness peculiar
to their species. They had nearly passed him when there was a sudden
hitch in the procession. From where he stood he could see that a
projecting plank had struck a pile of chips and become partly imbedded
in it. To run to the obstruction and, with a few dexterous strokes and
the leverage of his stout stick, dislodge the plank was the work not
only of the moment but of an evidently energetic hand. The teamster
looked back and merely nodded his appreciation, and with a "Gee up! Out
of that, now!" the skids moved on.

"Much obliged, there!" said a hearty voice, as if supplementing the
teamster's imperfect acknowledgment.

The stranger looked up. The voice came from the open, sashless,
shutterless window of a rude building--a mere shell of boards and beams
half hidden in the still leafy covert before him. He had completely
overlooked it in his approach, even as he had ignored the nearer
throbbing of the machinery, which was so violent