CHAPTER 33
I do not know how long I was in a state of forgetfulness, but it seemed an age. A vague consciousness grew upon me by degrees, and then came a gathering anguish of pain in my limbs and through all my body. I shuddered. The thought flitted through my brain, “this is death—this is the hereafter.”
Then came a white upheaval at my side, and a voice said, with bitterness:
“Will some gentleman be so good as to kick me behind?”
It was Ballou—at least it was a towzled snow image in a sitting posture, with Ballou’s voice.
I rose up, and there in the gray dawn, not fifteen steps from us, were the frame buildings of a stage stationⒺexplanatory note, and under a shed stood our still saddled and bridled horses!
An arched snow-drift broke up, now, and Ollendorff emerged from it, and the three of us sat and stared at the houses without speaking a word. We really had nothing to say. We were like the profane man who could not “do the subject justice,” the whole situation was so painfully ridiculous and humiliating that words were tame and we did not know where to commence anyhow.
The joy in our hearts at our deliverance was poisoned; well-nigh dissipated, indeed. We presently began to grow pettish by degrees, and sullen; and then, angry at each other, angry at ourselves, angry at everything in general, we moodily dusted the snow from our clothing and in unsociable single file plowed our way to the horses, unsaddled them, and sought shelter in the station.
I have scarcely exaggerated a detail of this curious and absurd adventure. It occurred almost exactly as I have stated it. We actually went into camp in a snow-drift in a desert, at midnight in a storm, forlorn and hopeless, within fifteen steps of a comfortable inn.
For two hours we sat apart in the station and ruminated in disgust.
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[begin page 219] The mystery was gone, now, and it was plain enough why the horses had deserted us. Without a doubt they were under that shed a quarter of a minute after they had left us, and they must have overheard and enjoyed all our confessions and lamentations.
After breakfast we felt better, and the zest of life soon came back. The world looked bright again, and existence was as dear to us as ever. Presently an uneasiness came over me—grew upon me—assailed me without ceasing. Alas, my regeneration was not complete—I wanted to smoke! I resisted with all my strength, but the flesh was weak. I wandered away alone and wrestled with myself an hour. I recalled my promises of reform and preached to myself persuasively, upbraidingly, exhaustively. But it was all vain, I shortly found myself sneaking among the snow-drifts hunting for my pipe. I discovered it after a considerable search, and crept away to hide myself and enjoy it. I remained behind the barn a good while, asking myself how I would feel if my braver, stronger, truer comrades should catch me in my degradation. At last I lit the pipe, and no human being can feel meaner and baser than I did then. I was ashamed of being in my own pitiful company. Still dreading discovery, I felt that perhaps the further side of the barn would be somewhat safer, and so I turned the corner. As I turned the one corner, smoking, Ollendorff turned the other with his bottle to his lips, and between us sat unconscious Ballou deep in a game of “solitaire” with the old greasy cards!
Absurdity could go no farther. We shook hands and agreed to say no more about “reform” and “examples to the rising generation.”
The station we were at was at the verge of the Twenty-six-Mile Desert. If we had approached it half an hour earlier the night before, we must have heard men shouting there and firing pistols; for they were expecting some sheep drovers and their flocks and knew that they would infallibly get lost and wander out of reach of help unless guided by sounds. While we remained at the station, three of the drovers arrived, nearly exhausted with their wanderings, but two others of their party were never heard of afterward.
We reached Carson in due time, and took a rest. This rest, together with preparations for the journey to Esmeralda, kept us [begin page 220] there a weekⒺexplanatory note, and the delay gave us the opportunity to be present at the trial of the great land-slide case of Hyde vs. MorganⒺexplanatory note—an episode which is famous in Nevada to this day. After a word or two of necessary explanation, I will set down the history of this singular affair just as it transpired.
the trial of the great land-slide case of Hyde vs. Morgan] Mark Twain had already published two versions of the story he is about to tell in the next chapter. The first, entitled “A Rich Decision,” appeared in an August 1863 letter to the San Francisco Morning Call. The second, which appeared in the Buffalo Express in April 1870, was revised for inclusion in Roughing It (SLC 1863p, 1870e). Both earlier versions are reprinted in The Great Landslide Case, together with a discussion of the historical background and the evolution of the text (Anderson and Branch). James C. Merrell, who claimed to have shared a cabin with Clemens in Aurora, asserted that Clemens wrote an even earlier version of the story there during his 1862 sojourn. Merrell’s account, which incorrectly implies that the landslide itself occurred in Aurora, may well be apocryphal (see the note at 221.20–29):
I believe that I heard read the first letter which ever gave him encouragement to become a writer. There had been an avalanche, which carried down a miner’s cabin and deposited it on top of another miner’s cabin. This appealed to Clemens as a most amusing mix-up, and he wrote a long letter to the Virginia Enterprise, describing the incident and making a long argument as to which miner could claim the entire property.
He chuckled over it a good deal while he was writing it and when he had finished he brought it to us and said, “Listen, boys, to what I told ’em about the late catastrophe.” Then he read it all through to us.
Not long after, he got a letter from the Enterprise. I do not know the contents of it, but at supper table Clemens said, “I guess those fellows liked my stuff pretty well.” Soon afterwards he had money to pay his bills, and I always supposed the paper gave him something for the letter. (Cyril Clemens, 19–21)