The Great Mono Miracle

The Great Mono Miracle (1925)
by Peter B. Kyne

information about this edition.

Extracted from Sunset magazine, 1925 Sept, pp. 36–39, 86 & Oct, & pp. 36–38, 82–83. first published in the same magazine in 1912 July. Illustrations by Louis Rogers may be omitted.

3884652The Great Mono Miracle1925Peter B. Kyne

BECAUSE of the special interest in early California history during the celebration of the state’s seventy-fifth birthday anniversary many requests have been made upon editors of Sunset Magazine for the republication of “The Mono Lake Mystery,” written by Peter B. Kyne and first published in Sunset Magazine in the issue of July 1912. Complying with these requests the Sunset gladly gives its readers the pleasure of reading this delightful yarn of the days that are gone but not forgotten. ⁠ —The Editors.

The Great Mono
Miracle

By Peter B. Kyne

A WAVE of moral turpitude had struck the mining-camp of Lundy Diggings, which was (and, for that matter, is) in Mono County, California. Colonel Jim Townsend, editor of the Mining Index, and the moral, social and political mentor of the Diggings, was, in a measure, so to speak, the original ripple from which had grown the said wave of moral turpitude. The Colonel started the downward plunge by fathering a string of most phenomenal lies, directed for the most part toward belittling the neighboring camp of Aurora, just across the line in Nevada.

Colonel Townsend stated, editorially, that Aurora was merely a boom camp and would soon “peter” out, and, prophesying the beginning of the “petering” process within the next sixty days, cordially invited the wise men of Aurora, to whom a hint was sufficient, to settle in Lundy Diggings. Major Hector Quackenbush, editor of the Aurora Turkey-Buzzard, replying to this attack, referred, editorially of course, to Lundy Diggings as a wart on the fair face of nature, and an exceedingly dull, deadly wart at that. So “dead,” in fact, was Lundy Diggings, cited the Major, that they hadn’t had a killing there in three months.

This latter statement hurt Colonel Townsend, for the reason that it was true. However, as a loyal Lundyite, he printed a fitting defense to Major Quackenbush’s attack and branded the Major as a coyote with the interior of a rattlesnake, intimating that if the lack of killings in Lundy Diggings displeased Major Quackenbush, he, the Major, might revive that popular pastime by presuming to visit Lundy Diggings—just once.

In reply to this, the editor of the Aurora Turkey-Buzzard delved into the pyrotechnic past of Colonel Townsend, branding him the most degenerate and horrible liar on earth. He even went so far as to make a sworn affidavit that he had known Colonel Townsend when he lived in a cabin on Jackass Hill, in Tuolumne county, with one Bret Harte, and that even in those days, owing to his absolute aversion to veracity, Colonel Townsend had been known far and wide by the ironical sobriquet of “Truthful James.”

Now, if the truth must be known, Aurora was a “boom” camp, and Lundy Diggings was a trifle jealous. Altogether too many of the pioneers of the Diggings were emigrating to Aurora and, as the natural champion of the community, it was up to Colonel Townsend to fight the inroads of rival camps and to advertise Lundy Diggings to the limit through the columns of his little weekly paper, the Mining Index.

HOWEVER, aside from the announcement of an occasional one-fiddle dance at the schoolhouse, and the reports of the weekly output of gold in the mines at Lundy Diggings, news was scarce with the Colonel. He pined for a “freak” story, and finally he took to invention as the offspring of necessity. He induced Pat Brady to go over to Tuolumne county and rob a stage. Obedient to instructions, Pat left behind him a trail as broad as a county road, with the result that the sheriff of Mariposa trailed the fugitive through Sonora Pass and Bridgeport down to Lundy Diggings, where he and Pat Brady shot it out together with blank cartridges in front of the Hotel Lundy. When the guns were empty Pat surrendered, whereupon Colonel Townsend brought forward eight witnesses to prove an alibi and defied the sheriff to take Pat Brady out of Mono county without requisition papers.

Thus began the first press-agenting of Lundy Diggings. Colonel Townsend printed a story with a three-column head in the Index and the Carson Appeal and the Aurora Turkey-Buzzard “fell” for the story also. Lundy Diggings was given considerable publicity, and the sheriff of Tuolumne, having accepted return of the “loot” from Pat Brady, attended to the business which had really brought him to Lundy Diggings and departed, richer by twenty-five dollars collected by Colonel Townsend in the Pick and Drill saloon, the Lundy Lily saloon and the Sluice Box.

Two days later Tioga Tom died of delirium tremens in the back room of the Sluice Box. Colonel Townsend suggested a public wake and funeral, with interment at Aurora. The idea was a marvel, and so was Tioga Tom’s wake. The Lundyites, two hundred strong, followed the body into Aurora, thus promoting the largest funeral ever held in that country. In addition the occasion furnished Colonel Townsend with a splendid opportunity for a humorous story, and by a subtle play of words he gave the world to understand that had Trova Tom been alive he would never have consented to burial in Aurora; that no “dead” men were tolerated in Lundy Diggings, however far Aurora might have degenerated in that respect.

A week later a Piute buck murdered a Basque sheep herder, and the men of Lundy Diggings, incited thereto by a vitriolic editorial in the Index, lynched the Piute. Once more Lundy Diggings was on the map. The Reno and Carson papers referred to the Diggings as a live camp where the blind goddess never slept on the job.

Truthful James was so delighted with his efforts that he decided to promote a grand municipal spree, and seized upon the fourth of July as a pretext. He, in company with his compatriots, awoke on the morning of the sixth, and in order to save his second-class postal privilege the Colonel was forced to reprint the issue of the Index from the week previous. Major Quackenbush was quick to notice this, and branded Lundy Diggings as the greatest natural asylum for inebriates east of the Sierra.

Truthful James was too humiliated to reply in kind, and in order to fill up the space where an ad had been canceled, he ran a short paragraph descriptive of the almost human intelligence of a fox owned by the proprietor of the local hotel. This pet fox, so the Colonel wrote, had already been trained to wag the dust off the hotel furniture with his tail, and was now being taught to swab out lamp chimneys. Such a marked impression did this piece of news make on a young man by the name of Samuel L. Clemens, then a tenderfoot rusticating in Aurora, that he rode over to Lundy Diggings to make the acquaintance of Truthful James and the fox.

In the course of his visit Mr. Clemens confided to Truthful James that in his poor weak way he had aspirations toward literary fame. In fact, at that very period, under the modest nom de plume of Mark Twain, he was engaged in writing a record of his peculiar adventures in California and Nevada, under the title of “Roughing It.” He showed the Colonel his uncompleted manuscript, and Truthful James was lost in admiration.

Naturally, when two such kindred spirits meet, there can be but one answer.

“Mark,” said the Colonel affectionately, “you’re a boy after my own heart, and the most lovable, whole-hearted liar I have ever met. Let us repair to the Lundy Lily saloon and pour a slight libation upon the altar of friendship.”

Late that night, when Truthful James had reluctantly parted with his new-found friend and shaped his devious course to his room on the second floor of the Lundy House, he created such a disturbance mounting the stairs that the landlady stuck her head out of her room and remonstrated with him.

“Colonel Townsend!” she snapped, “if you can’t make less noise when you come in at night I’ll have to rent your room to some other gentleman.”

“Madam,” replied Truthful James, with solemnity, “if you can find—hic—another gentleman in all Lundy Diggings cup—who can carry a barrel of whisky upstairs—hic—with less noise, let him cup—have my room.”

THUS began that decline in public morals which must ever follow in the footsteps of popularity due to the unique and successful press-agenting of a mining-camp, and which ambition, under the able tutelage of Truthful James, quickly infected every able-bodied man in Lundy Diggings. With success came the necessity for celebration, and the municipal spree was the popular and natural outlet, and within a few months Lundy Diggings became known not only as a “tough” camp, but a “lively” camp and the thirstiest on earth. Mark Twain came over from Aurora at least once a week, bringing all the latest gossip and in this way aiding and abetting Colonel Jim Townsend in his public welfare work. The issues of the Mining Index that summer were purest gems of freak humor and priceless lies, and the consumption of squirrel whisky doubled. A little German moved in and erected a small brewery down on the edge of Lundy lake, and joy reigned supreme. There was a killing often enough to make life interesting, and, on the whole, existence in Lundy Diggings was ideal until a preacher came over from Bodie and declared war on the Demon Rum.

Wherefore a blight fell on Lundy Diggings.

Lundy Diggings, discussing the advent of the parson that night in the three local thirst bureaus, agreed to extend him a unanimous welcome to the camp. Mark Twain, who happened to be in the Sluice Box that evening, made quite a speech, wherein he pointed out the advantages, socially and spiritually, that would accrue to the camp when word went forth to the world that Lundy Diggings not only sported but supported a real, sure-enough parson. The sagacious Mark stated further that no wise preacher would knowingly select as a field of operations a camp that was not worthy of the honor and a promising vineyard from every viewpoint. Gentlemen were requested, in the interests of fair play, to attend divine service the following Sunday morning in a large tent which would be erected on the vacant lot back of the Lundy Lily saloon, and to listen respectfully to what the recently arrived sky-pilot might say. He closed his speech by suggesting that any man who placed less than one dollar on the contribution plate would be no true son of Lundy Diggings and might very justly be suspected of intentions inimical to the welfare of the camp.

Colonel Townsend stated, with that dignity which always clothed him round sixth-drink time, that with a parson safely installed in Lundy Diggings men might presume to go forth into the outer world, marry and return to Lundy Diggings to propagate their species, proud in the knowledge that their offspring would grow up in the fear of the Lord, etc.

It was all good seed and it fell on fertile ground, for on Sunday morning every seat in the canvas church was filled when the preacher mounted the little platform that was to serve as a pulpit. He was escorted to the pulpit by no less a person than Mark Twain who, in a few happy, humorous but sincere remarks, introduced to Lundy Diggings Reverend Cecil Greenwater, D.D., LL.D., A.B. A man on a rear bench inquired of his neighbor, in accents freighted with awe, if LL.D. stood “Lake Lundy Diggings. A dozen other men turned and strained their ears and craned their necks for the answer, and Colonel Townsend was forced to growl “Gentle-men!” three times before order was restored.

The services proceeded. After the invocation followed a hymn or two, vicariously sung by the Lundyites, and the Reverend Cecil Greenwater cleared his throat and prepared to deliver his sermon. He chose for his text the story of the prodigal son who wasted his all in riotous living, until, in order to sustain life in his wretched body, he was forced to dispute with swine for husks. In a few terse but eloquent words the parson pictured the sorry plight of the prodigal son; then, without any preliminary warning he stepped forward two paces, shook back his long dank black hair, pointed an accusing finger at the congregation and proceeded to prophesy for those contented gentlemen a future compared to which the sorry plight of the prodigal son resembled a comfortable sojourn in a Turkish bath.

In other words, the Rev. Greenwater paid his respects to the Demon Rum and the men who dallied with it. They were no ordinary everyday stock respects, slightly shopworn but as good as new, for the Rev. Greenwater was not that kind of a preacher. He painted no picture of blighted hopes, of ruined homes and confidence betrayed—by rum! He wasted no time describing the effects of liquor on the alimentary canal, the liver and the kidneys. He just talked about hell and hell-fire. He gave the most alarming statistics regarding the population of the nether regions and declared that ninety-two and thirty-seven one-hundredths per cent of the unhappy souls in Satan’s charge at that moment could trace their downfall to rum if given the opportunity. The air smelled of brimstone one could almost feel the devouring flames creeping up one’s pants’ leg and reaching for one’s coat-tails. And as a peroration, Rev. Greenwater stated that, one and all, they should be heartily ashamed of themselves and repent and reform before it should be too late; after which he prayed—a wholesome, wholehearted, friendly appeal that the men of Lundy Diggings might be delivered from the flames of everlasting fire—amen!

The balance of that Sunday the camp spent in discussing the sermon and a very good brand of Triple X just arrived from Carson. Truthful James stated that in his opinion any Lundyite who drank rum deserved hell-fire. As for himself, he was scheduled for Paradise beyond the peradventure of a doubt, for he had never taken a drink of rum in all his life. He preferred whisky, and the more crawl and scratch to it the better the whisky. In the end he suggested a whisky bout to vindicate the honor of the camp and as a notice to the Demon Rum to stay elsewhere for instance.

During the following week the Rev. Cecil Greenwater spent his time introducing himself to the individual members of his flock, and in a vain but earnest effort to round up some Piutes and include them in his flock. Colonel Townsend warned him that Indians were always barred in Lundy Diggings, and that the sight of a Piute buck singing Old Hundred would be sufficient to create a riot in camp.

ON the Sunday following, Rev. Cecil Greenwater again held services in the big tent, and as on the occasion of his initial sermon every man in camp attended. Camp ethics demanded that much. Religion was quite a different matter. “Brethren,” announced the parson, when finally he had gotten round to the delivery of his sermon, “instead of taking my text from the gospel which I have just read to you, I will devote the next half hour to a discussion of the evils attendant upon the enormous consumption of squirrel whisky in this camp.

“It was to be expected that there would be among you some who came to scoff and remained to pray. (Though, now that I mention it, I do not recall meeting any of these rare birds.) But, inured as I am to the hurly-burly of this western country, I must own to the surprise of my life this week. It has remained for Lundy Diggings to produce the man who came to pray and remained to scoff. I did not expect that the only man to sneer and jibe would be the man to whom this camp looks as the arbiter of its every question, ethical, social and political. I was almost tempted to say spiritual as well, but I will not offer you such a gratuitous insult. I did not look to see my poor words taken from my mouth and twisted in the ingenious brain of a sot, to make a trap for the weak and erring. There sits this man! (here the parson pointed a bony finger at Colonel Townsend, as if he were about to transfix him). “There sits this wolf in sheep’s clothing, this hoary-headed sinner. Not content with uprooting the seed of morality, decency and sobriety which I fondly imagined had taken root in the hearts of at least a few of my congregation, by printing in his paper a so-called humorous defense of drunkenness, he has had the gross indecency to print also a would-be humorous squib in his paper anent the arrival in this camp of twenty-five barrels of Triple X whisky, which he pronounces the finest ever imported into Lundy Diggings, and recommends it for the unlimited use of man and beast.”

“Parson” quavered Truthful James huskily, “I had to run that reader about the whisky at the Lundy Lily saloon. It’s advertising. I get paid for it. Can I run a newspaper and keep this camp on the map, unless I accept advertising and get paid for it?”

“Go!” thundered the Rev. Cecil Greenwater.

Colonel Townsend went; and the entire congregation, faithful to their disgraced leader, followed him, leaving the preacher to gesticulate to several rows of empty benches.

IN the Pick and Drill saloon whither the congregation repaired, Truthful James harangued the multitude. Frequently he was interrupted by earnest requests to “have a drink on me, Colonel.”

“It is mighty evident” declared the Colonel, “that the presence of this preacher in camp is going to be inimical to the best interests of the camp. I am—and I take it that every man within sound of my voice is also teetotally opposed to prohibition, and further than that I don’t aim to permit any skim-milk-fed skypilot to turn loose his bazoo on me or any other citizen in good standing this camp. I dislike a bigot and a bigoted prohibitionist I despise in particular. We accepted this preacher person in a spirit of brotherly love, and the ingrate has declared war. We aimed to help him to a better living than any preacher in California, and I’ve heard some talk about building him a church. What does he go and do? Starts hammering our local industries first pop, and telling us we're headed straight for the eternal flames. I won’t stand for such treatment. This holy man, this reverend brand-snatcher, must be taught a lesson. He must be taught that this is a free country and that freedom of the press is constitutional and that when the freedom of the press is assailed, the very palladiums of liberty—”

The Colonel choked in sheer rage, and Mark Twain mounted a beer case and addressed the crowd.

“Gentlemen: this public insult to a public-spirited man must not be permitted to pass unnoticed.

“During the few brief but happy months in which I have gravitated between Lundy Diggings and Aurora, I have taken in the surrounding country for fifty miles, and in the course of my wanderings I have discovered a most excellent habitat for our clerical friend. You have all observed that marvelous body of water ten miles to the south of Lundy Diggings and Lundy lake. Scientists—the few who have visited it—declare Mono lake to be the Dead Sea of the West. It is a beautiful body of water fifteen to eighteen miles wide and nearly thirty miles long, lying in the very center of Mono basin, which is supposed to be an old crater. The country for miles in every direction is sheer desert, and such are the peculiar properties of the waters of Mono lake that nothing can live therein. It combines a dreadful mixture of salt, borax, soda, alkali and lots of other things too numerous to mention.

“Quite in the center of Mono lake rise two bare, volcanic islands. The large white island to the south is composed entirely of white lava, cast up from the bottom of the lake in some prehistoric upheaval. The northern island is composed of black lava. There is not a sprig of vegetation on either island, but on the large white island, called by the Indians Po-ah-ho, there is a wonderful hot spring with a plentiful deposit of boiling mud.

“There is no water on Po-ah-ho save that which spurts from the boiling spring. Unfortunately, there is no means of cooling this water, even if it were drinkable, which, unfortunately again, it is not. Owing to the recent heated and lurid references to the ultimate destiny of our good friend, the Colonel, I am, oddly enough, reminded of this island. It 1s the nearest approach to Hades that I have ever seen, and it has occurred to me to make a motion to maroon this preacher on Po-ah-ho island for one week with no other company than a week’s grub and one small five-gallon keg of beer manufactured in our local brewery.”

Mark Twain got no further. A perfect howl of approval greeted his suggestion, and Truthful James, with tears in his eyes, embraced the future king of American humorists.

“My boy!” he cried, with tears in his honest eyes. “My boy! How can I thank you for that suggestion?”

The tumult and the shouting having died, Mark Twain resumed his discourse.

“Escape from Po-ah-ho island without a boat is absolutely impossible, for the champion long-distance swimmer of the world could not last a mile in the waters of Mono lake. One spoonful of the bitter water of this Dead Sea of the West, injected into the human nostril or mouth, would produce a frightful nausea, followed by shortness of breath and unavoidable submersion. A drop of it in the eyes of a powerful swimmer would blind that swimmer. And lastly, the character of the water is such that the hide of the swimmer would speedily be removed, accompanied by an intolerable itching, followed by frightful agony and—and—subsequent dissolution. However, this is not the crux of the situation, as the Colonel would put it. The fact remains that a prohibitionist marooned on Po-ah-ho island will drink beer rather than die of thirst, and as the nights are warm and the island hot, a week on the island would be productive of little bodily discomfort. And now, since the Colonel is the injured party in this transaction, I suggest that he appoint the various committees and get the job over with today. We can then meet at Mono lake next Sunday and see how the parson 1s coming on.”

Truthful James ordered a round of drinks (to be charged and taken out in advertising), cleared his throat and announced his committees.

“THE committee of arrangements will consist of Pat Brady, Indian Pete and Dry Wash McFadden. Pat Brady will repair immediately to the brewery and rejoin the crowd here in fifteen minutes with one five-gallon keg of beer. Indian Pete will interview the proprietor of the Mono County Mercantile Company and will also report in fifteen minutes with assorted grub calculated to last the parson for one week. Dry Wash McFadden will beg, borrow or steal a team and a wagon, and later beg, borrow or steal a boat from the shores of Lundy lake, reporting here with the team, wagon and boat as soon as possible.

“The balance of the voting strength of Lundy Diggings is cordially invited to string along with the procession as it wends its way down to the shores of Mono lake, in the pursuit of a practicable demonstration of the power of matter over mind.”

Rev. Cecil Greenwater was seated on the porch of the Lundy House, meditating over the godlessness of his flock, when the reception committee entered unceremoniously and slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Within twenty minutes the committee of arrangements reported, the Bodie stage was pressed into service for the convenience of the reception committee, Mark Twain and Truthful James, and the pilgrimage to Mono lake commenced.

Arrived at the wild and barren shores of Mono lake, the boat was quickly launched and provisioned, and Dry Wash McFadden (who begged piteously for the honor) took his place on the thwarts and thrust his oars into the rowlocks. The parson was then invited to step into the boat, and Truthful James addressed him:

“Reverend Sir” he began, “after listening to both your sermons on the evils of drink, we have arrived at the conclusion that you are looking upon this wicked world with a jaundiced eye—that your antipathy to good liquor arises through ignorance of its energizing properties. It has been decided, therefore, to maroon you for one week on Po-ah-ho island, where you will have ample time to reflect on the error of your way. And since there is no drinking water on Po-ah-ho, our excellent committee of arrangements has very thoughtfully provided for your sole use and benefit a five-gallon keg of our own home-brewed lager beer, which the excellent Creaky will proceed to tap after the most approved and scientific manner immediately upon arrival at the island. Dry Wash McFadden will see to it that your handcuffs are removed and you will then be free to spend your time on beer and meditation until we call for you next Sunday. Adios.”

If the assembled Lundyites expected an expression of horror and despair, either verbal or facial, at this announcement, they were bitterly disappointed. The Rev. Cecil Greenwater merely bowed his head and offered a prayer as the rowboat got under way for Po-ah-ho.

“You've killed him, you fanatic!” And the Colonel covered the preacher with his gun

Part One of “The Great Mono Miracle,” which we think is one of the best stories Peter B. Kyne ever wrote, appeared in Sunset for September. It has been reprinted from Sunset for July 1912 at the request of many of our readers.

Part II

TWO hours later, when Creaky and Dry Wash had returned, after depositing the parson on the volcanic island, the boat was loaded into the wagon and the homeward journey begun. These two worthies reported that the parson had received his sentence with a grim smile, and that just as they pulled away from the island he had gotten down on his knees and prayed that they might be forgiven, for they knew not how sorely they had sinned.

“Well, he’s safe for a week” was the only comment from Truthful James.

“Somebody might sneak back and take him off,” suggested Indian Pete.

“Impossible” replied the Colonel easily. “There isn’t a boat anywhere in Mono county except on Lake Lundy, and we'll keep watch on them.”

“Suppose somebody should paddle out to him-on a log” suggested Inyo Scotty.

“Ever find a log on a desert?” retorted Mark Twain scathingly, and Inyo Scotty subsided. The only two rescue contingencies possible had been met and overcome.

To this day the three oldest inhabitants of Lundy Diggings are divided in opinion as to the exact number of hours intervening between the arrival of the pilgrims from Mono lake and the arrival back of the Rev. Cecil Greenwater. Some maintained at the time that the parson stayed on Po-ah-ho island two hours, while others set the time limit at two hours and a half. Be that as it may, the fact remains that at exactly eight-twenty-seven by the clock that same Sunday evening, Colonel Jim Townsend and his companions in iniquity received a shock which threatened for a moment to set their respective reasons tottering on their respective thrones. There was a faro game going on in the Lundy Lily saloon and Truthful James was in the act of placing a six-bit bet, when a sudden hush came over the room and the worthy Colonel paused with his finger still on the money.

In the doorway stood Cecil Greenwater, D.D., LL.D., A.B.

“How the—dickens did you get back so soon?” gasped the Colonel, and licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry.

“The Lord will not suffer his servant—”

“Did you swim ashore?” demanded Creaky Tibbetts, leaning over the bar in wild-eyed wonder.

“I did not” replied the Rev. Greenwater solemnly.

“Somebody get a boat and go after you?” demanded Dry Wash McFadden.

“No.”

“You lie.”

Smack! The parson’s fist landed straight and true on the McFadden chin. The late member of the committee of arrangements piled up in a corner and lay there.

“Perhaps you walked ashore” sneered Indian Pete, who remembered in a vague sort of way from a childhood impression the story of Galilee.

Mark Twain reached down and fingered the hem of the parson’s trousers.

“Dry as a covered bridge” he announced. “Creaky, the drinks are on you. He didn’t walk, he didn’t swim, and he didn’t ride in a boat. We know this to be true, for the reason that all three are impossible of performance, under the circumstances.

“Perhaps” sneered Creaky, as he set out the glasses, “perhaps he flew.”

Mark Twain felt of the parson’s shoulder blades, ascertained that he concealed no wings under his long-tailed coat, and so advised the assembled company. The ghost of a smile flickered round the corners of the parson’s mouth, but with his habitual solemnity he faced the crowd, saying:

“The Lord remembereth his own, and when I cry aloud he will hearken to my distress.”

By this time Truthful James had recovered his accustomed poise.

“The reception committee will immediately assume charge of the person of this preacher” he ordered, “escort him to his room at the Lundy House and maintain a strict guard over him until morning. We have sworn to make this prohibitionist drink five gallons of beer, and he’ll do it if we have to keep him there a month.”

Nothing loath, the reception committee obeyed with alacrity, and by noon of the following day Cecil Greenwater, D.D., LL.D, A.B., was once more back on Po-ah-ho island, and six men were detailed to ride entirely round the barren shores of the lake and discover the boat in which he had escaped previously. Indian Pete and Pat Brady, who rowed him out to the island, searched every nook and cranny of the great, blistered mass of lava, and reported no boat. At work. At the hour of sundown, when the midnight, the third committee left the crater to the south shores of the lake, Indian Pete, who carried a pair of field-glasses, reported the parson still on the island, gazing wistfully shoreward across eight miles of shimmering alkaline water.

A guard was set on all the rowboats on Lundy lake that night, and in the morning every boat was accounted for. Nevertheless, as Truthful James and Mark Twain sat at breakfast in the Lundy House that morning Greenwater entered the dining-room, bowed solemnly and said grace before falling to on his breakfast.

But there could be no more breakfast for Colonel Jim Townsend. The casual reappearance of the soul-saver had shocked him fearfully, and he “streaked” it for the Pick and Drill saloon. It was necessary for the excellent Creaky to fill that worthy’s glass twice before the Colonel managed to gasp:

“Creaky! He’s back again!”

“No!” replied Creaky incredulously, and such was his agitation he let the whisky bottle crash to the floor.

“But I say ‘yes,’ Creaky” faltered the Colonel. “He’s eating breakfast this moment over at the hotel. Dog my cats, sir, I wonder if the fellow’s human? You don’t suppose, Creaky” (here the Colonel leaned across the bar and whispered in the barkeep’s ear).

“It's spooky, I'll admit,” responded Creaky. “I wouldn’t swear he can’t walk on water, though I wouldn’t believe he could until I’d seen for myself.”

At this juncture entered Dry Wash McFadden and Indian Pete, and to them the Colonel broke the news of the parson’s return. Dry Wash McFadden sat down helplessly on an empty beer case and gazed suspiciously at the Colonel.

“There’s some monkey business going on” he snapped presently. “Somebody’s playing this camp for a lot of suckers, and suspicion points to the greatest liar in camp, Truthful James Townsend.”

“Dry Wash” cried the unhappy Colonel, “I’m serious. I’ll about go looney if this mystery isn’t explained. We've simply got to find out how that parson gets across eight miles of water without a boat and still manages to land as dry as a bone. Gentlemen, the reputation of this camp is at stake. If news of this ever leaks out, those dead camps like Bodie and Aurora will laugh us out of the country.

“Right you are, Colonel” said Indian Pete. “We’ll just naturally snake this parson back to the island again this morning, and in order to see to it that he stays there and consumes that five gallons of beer, I’ll spend a few days there with him. I'll take my Ballard rifle with me, and if any skunk in this camp or any other camp comes pesterin round he'll hear from Indian Pete.

“Pete” cried the Colonel heartily, “you’ve got a head. That’s the ticket. Watch the villain and in a day or two he’ll give up and tackle the beer. It’s against human nature to die of thirst, Pete.

In pursuance of this program, the reception committee once more rounded up the Rev. Greenwater—an easy matter and attended without risk. The parson showed not the slightest inclination to resist and permitted himself to be taken back to Po-ah-ho island. But one change was noticeable. He had lost his solemn, rather fierce visage, and appeared to have grown mild and melancholy, as if the sins of Lundy Diggings rested heavily on his soul. He was meek and lowly of spirit, indeed, and when Indian Pete announced his intention of spending a few days with him on the island, a smile of genuine pity fringed the parson’s mournful phiz. “Poor fools,” he muttered as if to himself, “blinded by abominations, they see not the error of their way.” He seemed about to accept the situation with the best possible grace. Suddenly, however, he raised his head, transfixed the committee with a lightning glance from his smoldering eyes and burst forth into a denunciation so bitter, and withal so interspersed with scriptural quotations to clinch his argument, that several of his audience shivered inwardly.

“Hark, ye men of Babylon” he thundered. “Ye seek in your poor, weak, human way to thwart the will of One greater than all the world. It is not enough that I have proved to you without a boat, or in fact a piece of floating timber of any kind, without swimming and without flying or walking on water, I have been able to leave that accursed island. But like Thomas of old, who doubted when they told him that Christ had indeed risen from the dead, ye seek further proof. Be it so.”

The Rev. Greenwater pointed a bony finger to the fringe of ancient craters which fringe Mono lake to the south.

“Tomorrow night, then, O ye who believe not, shall ye have further proof that it is not well to interfere with the Lord’s work. At the hour of midnight, the third crater to the south will break forth in the anger of Omnipotence, and there shall be wailing and howling and gnashing of teeth. Repent, ye sinners, before it is too late.”

“Rats” cried an was set on impious voice, and Creaky Tibbetts laughed outright, while Indian Pete motioned the parson into the boat.

“Swell chance you've got to start any fireworks under the nose of your Uncle Pete,” he said grimly.

AT exactly eight-fifteen the following morning Truthful James was busy sticking type in the office of the Index, when a shadow darkened the door. Truthful James glanced up, and fell back limply against the type case. In the doorway, gazing at him with that familiar sad, stern, accusing glance, stood the Rev. Cecil Greenwater.

“How do you do, brother Townsend,” he said gravely.

“Where in—Sam Hill is Indian Pete?” panted the Colonel.

“Indian Pete, being a godless man, is still on Po-ah-ho; unless, indeed, he has attempted to swim eight miles to the mainland, in which event you might just as well write him up a nice obituary.

“You’ve killed him, you doggoned fanatic” fumed the Colonel, and covered the preacher with his gun, the while he whooped lustily for help. Dry Wash McFadden and Pat Brady came on the run, and to these worthies the Colonel turned over the parson for safe keeping. Three hours later Creaky and the Colonel might have been observed in a small boat, pulling madly for the volcanic island in Mono lake. When they landed, Indian Pete, looking as chop-fallen as a sheep-killing dog, was waiting to receive them.

“Seen the preacher?” he began.

“Pete” inquired Creaky suspiciously, “how come that parson to get away from you?”

“After the committee left us here” explained Indian Pete, “me and the parson sits down for a friendly little chat. Along about sunset the parson allowed he was hungry, and suggested that we b’ile some eggs in the hot spring on the other side of the island. So I give him the eggs and he went over to the spring to b’ile the eggs while I set down to enjoy a glass of beer (which, by the way, I don’t enjoy the beer little bit, it bein’ entirely too warm). While doin’ this I sweeps the lake for ten mile, lookin’ for signs of a rescue party, but it’s all as dead as the Dead Sea. Nothin’ in sight. Well, gentlemen, I waited half an hour for the preacher to return with the b'iled eggs, and then I got anxious and went over to the hot spring to see if he’d fallen in and b’iled himself instead of the eggs. He wasn’t there, but I found the eggs, hard-b’iled, and this note from the parson.”

He handed the note to the Colonel, who read aloud:

Dear Indian Pete:

Sorry I will be unable to return with the eggs. I have been suddenly called away.

Faithfully yours,
C. Greenwater, D.D., LL.D., A.B.

“It was dusk by that time, and if there had been a boat I couldn’t have seen it. But I know there wasn’t no boat.”

“Pete” said the Colonel severely, “you were drunk.”

“You lie” snapped Indian Pete.

“Oh, don’t try to get out of it by telling me I lie” retorted Truthful James. “Spring something new.”

Indian Pete sat down wearily and held his mystified head in his hands.

“I used to think miracles was all a fairy tale” he said presently, “but if this parson aint got a stand-in with the Almighty, I’m a Greaser. I tell you, boys, after all, we're a mighty wicked outfit up there in the Diggings, and there’s such a thing as temptin’ Providence too far. I’ve seen this miracle, and hereafter I aint takin’ no chances. A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind man, and from now on I quit hectorin’ this preacher. We oughta quit drinkin’ and cussin’ and shootin’ each other, and get religion. Creaky, you want to rustle a job in a sody fountain, and Colonel—you oughta let up on stretchin’ the truth. I tell you, boys, it’s just as the parson says. There’s a day of reckonin’ comin’. I been bummin’ all week, on this parson business, and if a man’s to be rendered accordin’ to his work, like he says, I aint figgerin’ none on gettin’ the nub end of the deal.” The horrified Creaky and Truthful James exchanged a startled glance that said as plainly as words:

“The parson’s converted him. The toughest man in camp’s got religion.”

“Well” replied Truthful James, “the goings-on of that parson are certainly super-human. It does begin to look as if he had divine aid. Nevertheless, I still cling to my theory that religion and prohibition is for womenfolks and children. And I shall continue to think so, behavin’ myself as I doggone please, miracle or no miracle.”

“You know what he promised for tonight, if we didn’t reform” warned Indian Pete.

“If he can pull off that job” sneered Truthful James, “I'll apply for a job as elder of his church and sign the pledge for life.”

“Aw, you're lyin’” said Creaky incredulously.

“Very well, then, Creaky, wait and see. Live and learn, Creaky. In the meantime, Pete, hop aboard, and we'll get back to Lundy Diggings.”

At a quarter of twelve that night every man in Lundy Diggings was gathered in the street in front of the Lundy House, gazing southward for a glimpse of the miracle promised them by the Rev. Cecil Greenwater. The reverend gentleman himself walked among the Lundyites, watch in hand. From time to time he replied to the coarse ribaldry of the crowd with some scriptural quotation, which seemed always to have the peculiar virtue of bringing down coals of fire on the heads of the crowd, so to speak.

“You're really going to pull off that volcanic eruption?” sneered Truthful James.

“At midnight, as I promised” replied the parson.

“And you're going to make good?” interrupted Dry Wash McFadden.

“I never permit any man to call my bluff when I’m struggling with Satan for a soul” answered the parson quietly. “And since it appears that the sinful citizens need such an awakening as came to Sodom and Gomorrah, permit me to state, in the classical language of Lundy Diggings, that I will pull off my play ten minutes ahead of time, just to prove that I can make good. It is now thirteen minutes of twelve. At exactly ten minutes of twelve the third crater to the south of Mono lake will go into eruption with a roar that will shatter the windows in Lundy Diggings. Repent, ye sinners, before it is too late.”

Silence for perhaps ten seconds; then back in the crowd a man laughed derisively.

“Silence” thundered Indian Pete.

“Two minutes in which to repent” announced the parson.

“Going—going,” chanted Creaky, in the sing-song cadence of an auctioneer.

“One minute in which to repent.”

“Going—goin-g-g-g—won’t some gentleman please make an offer? One large chunk of salvation, gentlemen, and going dirt cheap. Come, gentlemen, come. Make me an—”

Far to the south a vivid flash lit up the sky for one single dreadful second; then to the ears of the sinners of Lundy Diggings came the roar of a terrific explosion. The ground trembled under their feet, doors rattled in every cabin and a sound of shattered glass rent the air. Even while the echoes of the explosion still reverberated up Mill creek cañon, two more explosions followed in quick succession and a faint pink glow appeared in the sky to the south. A streak of fire shot skyward and burst into a ball of yellow flame, and as the pink glow spread rapidly the surrounding country was lit up, and huge clouds of dense black smoke could be seen rolling from the crater.

“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner” moaned Creaky Tibbetts, and sank to his knees in the main street of Lundy Diggings. Dry Wash McFadden and Pat Grady, dreadfully shaken at the miracle, crossed themselves piously, uncertain for a moment whether it might not be policy to “string their chips” with a Protestant preacher. Aaron Rubenstein, proprietor of the Mono County Mercantile Company, fainted with fright. When he came to, in a feeble voice he proclaimed himself a Christian and offered to devour a yard of pork sausage to prove it. Indian Pete, his face pale and his lips a-quiver, begged the Rev. Greenwater to pray for him and with him. And all the time the fiery glow to the south spread over the sky and the huge clouds of smoke billowed upward. Every few minutes minor explosions rent the air and blazing rock could be seen hurtling skyward, bursting and falling in myriads of yellow sparks. The top of the crater, like a great pimple, loomed angrily through the night, and simultaneously Lundy Diggings concluded that it had run its race and that the end of the world was nigh. From somewhere in the crowd came the sound of a man sobbing. It was Aaron Rubenstein, but the effect was just the same as if it had been Colonel Jim Townsend, and the Rev. Greenwater was quick to perceive his advantage.

“My brethren” he said in a sepulchral voice, “let us pray.”

To a man, the Lundyites flopped to their knees and prayed for deliverance from the wrath which seemed about to overtake them. Then the parson “exhorted” them. How well he “exhorted” is now a matter of history, for by two o’clock in the morning the eruption from the ancient volcano had ceased and Cecil Greenwater, D.D., LL.D., A.B., had the signature of every man in Lundy Diggings signed to a pledge to abstain from drink for a period of one year. Moreover, in that nest of lawlessness and sin, a congregation had been formed, and every man, with the exception of Pat Brady and Dry Wash McFadden, had signed the roll of membership in the First Christian Church of Lundy Diggings. As a guarantee of good faith, the parson suggested that all old topers put up a cash bond of twenty dollars each, to be forfeited to the building fund in case they slid from grace. The suggestion was unanimously adopted, and when finally the volcanic eruption died away and the chastened populace of the Diggings had retired to virtuous couches, Rev. Cecil Greenwater sat down at a small table in his room at the Lundy House and wrote a note, which he addressed to Colonel Jim Townsend, editor of the Mining Index.

Ten minutes later, with an old carpet bag in one hand and the letter to Colonel Townsend in the other, Rev. Cecil Greenwater tiptoed silently downstairs and out into the deserted main street of the camp. As he passed the office of the Index he slipped his letter under the door and continued his walk. Half a mile from camp he discovered a saddle-horse tied in the sagebrush. Quickly depositing the roll of membership in the First Christian Church, the signed pledges of the reformed topers of Lundy Diggings and approximately three thousand dollars, cash and gold dust, in his saddle-bags, Cecil Greenwater, D.D., LL.D., A.B., mounted and rode away

About noon next day Indian Pete strolled into the editorial sanctum of the Mining Index and found Truthful James with his head bowed over the type case.

What’s up, brother Townsend?” inquired Indian Pete piously.

Brother Townsend thrust a folded piece of paper toward Indian Pete.

“Read that” he moaned. Indian Pete opened it and read:

Lundy House, 2:30 A. M.

My Dear Colonel:

The drinks are on Lundy Diggings. I really ought to leave the camp to find out for itself, but the joke is too good to keep; so here goes.

Regarding my miraculous escapes from Po-ah-ho island: Simplest thing in the world, Colonel. Mark Twain schemed out the whole thing, and I did the rest. (You will recall that Mark suggested marooning me on the island with a keg of beer, and the suggestion was so devilishly ingenious that the camp “fell” for it at once.) We knew they would, so I thoughtfully provided myself with a remarkably simple means of escape from the island.

Owing to the marvelous volcanic activity in this country ages ago, the south shore of Mono lake is lined with immense boulders of pumice stone, cast forth from that line of extinct craters. Now, it is a fact that pumice stone floats as well, as if not better than, cork. So I towed half a dozen of these great pieces of pumice stone over to Po-ah-ho and weighted them carefully with pig iron so they wouldn’t turn turtle when I climbed aboard. I had previously provided a stock of paddles for my trip, and all I had to do was to shove off and paddle ashore. It is a dangerous journey, but with care in the selection of your pumice stone boulder and the navigation thereof, aided by a total absence of wind on the lake, the trip can be made in comfort, as I have clearly demonstrated on three different occasions.

As for that volcanic eruption (?), that I must also confess, is Mark Twain’s idea, although I put up the money for the purchase of the dynamite, red fire and fireworks, and paid to have them packed up to the old crater. Mark had to hustle to arrange the eruption on time, in order that I might not be caught four-flushing. However, it was a grand success and will, I trust, redound greatly to the mental, moral, social and ethical benefit of Lundy Diggings.

Regarding the three thousand odd dollars which the scheme netted, please be advised that the sum will be donated to the building fund of the new Miner’s Free Hospital, to be erected at Aurora. The money will be turned over to the committee today with the compliments of Lundy Diggings. The lame, the sick and the halt will be grateful to all you boys, and you will be repaid a thousandfold.

As for the two lists of prominent citizens and the signed pledges which I carry away with me, please be advised that the same will, in due course, be published in the Aurora Turkey-Buzzard, on which paper I have, and will have, until I can acquire a swift horse and get out of the country, the honor to be a reporter.

It will be useless to seek either Mark Twain or myself, with a view to lynching us. We will have left the country and we will not return.

You will pardon a somewhat human disposition to gloat over your predicament, when I venture the hope that hereafter you will attend to your knitting and refrain from publishing any further scurrilous attacks on the camp of Aurora, and the editor of the Aurora Turkey-Buzzard.

That is all. Thanking you kindly one and all and wishing you many happy returns of the day, I beg to subscribe myself,

Fraternally yours, ⁠
C. Greenwater.

Truthful James sighed and a tear trickled down his ruddy face.

“Oh, Pete” he gasped, “I’m scooped. And me an elder of the church and the first to sign the pledge!”