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The Lonesome Man
by
“Few come this trail now,” the miner volunteered, as he cleared the table. “I am alone and seldom see a human being drifting my way. I do not invite them.”
The stranger refilled his pipe and again leaned back against the wall in ponderous repose. If he heard his host’s remark he gave no sign of it, and yet, despite the persistence of his guest’s silence–perhaps because of it–the lonely gold-seeker babbled on with increasing candor, contradicting himself, revealing, hiding, edging round his story, confessing to his hopes of riches, betraying in the end the secrets of his lonely life. It was as if the gates of his unnatural reserve had broken down and the desire to be heard, to be companioned, had over-borne all his early caution.
“It’s horribly lonesome up here,” he confessed. “Sometimes I think I’ll give it all up and go back to civilization. When I came here the pass had its traffic; now no one rides it, which is lucky for me,” he added. “I have no prying visitors–I mean no one to contest my claim–and yet a man can’t do much alone. Even if my ore richens I must transport it or build a mill. Sometimes I wonder what I’m living for, stuck away in this hole in the hills. I was born to better things–“
He checked himself at this moment, as if he were on the edge of self-betrayal, but his listener seemed not vitally interested in these personal details. However, he made some low-voiced remark, and, as if hypnotized, the miner resumed his monologue.
“The nights are the worst. They are endless–and sometimes when I cannot sleep I feel like surrendering to my fate–” Here again he broke off sharply. “That’s nonsense, of course. I mean, it seems as if a life were too much to pay for a crazy act–I mean a mine. You’ll ask why I don’t sell it, but it’s all I have and, besides, no one has any faith in it but myself. I cannot sell, and I can’t live down there among men.”
Gabbling, keeping time to his nervous feet and hands, endlessly repeating himself, denying, confessing, the miner raged on, and through it all the dark-browed guest smoked tranquilly, too indifferent to ask a question or make comment; but when, once or twice, he lifted his eyes, the garrulous one shuddered and turned away, a scared look on his haggard face. He seemed unable to endure that steady glance.
At last, for a little space, he remained silent; then, as if compelled by some increasing magic in his hearer, he burst forth:
“I’m not here entirely by my own fault–I mean my own choice. A man is a product of his environment, you know that, and mine made me idle, wasteful. Drink got me–drink made me mad–and so–and so–here I am struggling to win back a fortune. Once I gambled–on the wheel; now I am gambling with nature on the green of these mountain slopes; but I’ll win–I have already won–and soon I shall sell and go back to the great cities.”
Again his will curbed his treacherous tongue, and, walking to the doorway, he stood for a moment, looking out; then he fiercely snarled:
“Oh, God, how I hate it all–how I hate myself! I am going mad with this life! The squeak of these shadowy conies, the twitter of these unseen little birds, go on day by day. They’ll drive me mad! If you had not come to-night I could not have slept–I would have gone to the mill, and that means drink to me–drink and oblivion. You came and saved me. I feared you–hated you then; now I bless you.”
Once more he seemed to answer an unspoken query:
“I have no people. My mother is dead, my father has disowned me–he does not even know I am alive. I’m the black devil of the family–but I shall go back–“
His face was working with passion, and though he took a seat opposite his guest, his hands continued to flutter aimlessly and his head moved restlessly from side to side.