By Bret Harte
As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was adark night， a lonely road， and that I was the only passenger.
Let me assure the reader that I have no ulterior design inmaking this assertion. A long course of light reading hasforewarned me what every experienced intelligence mustconfidently look for from such a statement. The storytellerwho willfully tempts Fate by such obvious beginnings； whois to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or halfmurdered，or frightened by an escaped lunatic， or introducedto his ladylove for the first time， deserves to be detected. I amrelieved to say that none of these things occurred to me. Theroad from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew no other bandittithan the regularly licensed hotelkeepers； lunatics had not yetreached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own freewill in California stages； and my Laura， amiable and longsufferingas she always is， could not， I fear， have borne upagainst these depressing circumstances long enough to havemade the slightest impression on me.
I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand， gazingdoubtingly on the vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust ofWingdam was visible on its roof and sides， and the red slimeof Slumgullion clung tenaciously to its wheels. I opened thedoor； the stage creaked easily， and in the gloomy abyss theswaying straps beckoned me， like ghostly hands， to come innow and have my sufferings out at once.
I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstancewhich struck me as appalling and mysterious. A lounger on thesteps of the hotel， who I had reason to suppose was not in anyway connected with the stage company， gravely descended，and walking toward the conveyance， tried the handle of thedoor， opened it， expectorated in the carriage， and returned tothe hotel with a serious demeanor. Hardly had he resumedhis position when another individual， equally disinterested，impassively walked down the steps， proceeded to the backof the stage， lifted it， expectorated carefully on the axle， andreturned slowly and pensively to the hotel. A third spectatorwearily disengaged himself from one of the Ionic columns ofthe portico and walked to the box， remained for a moment inserious and expectorative contemplation of the boot， and thenreturned to his column. There was something so weird in thisbaptism that I grew quite nervous.
Perhaps I was out of spirits. A number of infinitesimalannoyances， winding up with the resolute persistency ofthe clerk at the stage office to enter my name misspelt onthe waybill， had not predisposed me to cheerfulness. Theinmates of the Eureka House， from a social viewpoint， werenot attractive. There was the prevailing opinion—so commonto many honest people—that a serious style of deportmentand conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility andelevated station. Obeying this principle， all hilarity ceased onmy entrance to supper， and general remark merged into thesafer and uncompromising chronicle of several bad cases ofdiphtheria， then epidemic at Wingdam. When I left the diningroom，with an odd feeling that I had been supping exclusivelyon mustard and tea leaves， I stopped a moment at the parlordoor. A piano， harmoniously related to the dinner bell， tinkledresponsive to a diffident and uncertain touch. On the whitewall the shadow of an old and sharp profile was bending overseveral symmetrical and shadowy curls. “I sez to Mariar，Mariar， sez I， ‘Praise to the face is open disgrace.’” I heard nomore. Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression onthe subject of female loveliness， I walked away， checking thecompliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to mylips， and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavilyupon me that I stood hesitatingly before the stage door. Thedriver， about to mount， was for a moment illuminated by theopen door of the hotel. He had the wearied look which wasthe distinguishing expression of Wingdam. Satisfied that Iwas properly waybilled and receipted for， he took no furthernotice of me. I looked longingly at the box seat， but he did notrespond to the appeal. I flung my carpetbag into the chasm，dived recklessly after it， and—before I was fairly seated—witha great sigh， a creaking of unwilling springs， complainingbolts， and harshly expostulating axle， we moved away. Ratherthe hotel door slipped behind， the sound of the piano sank torest， and the night and its shadows moved solemnly upon us.
To say it was dark expressed but faintly the pitchy obscuritythat encompassed the vehicle. The roadside trees were scarcelydistinguishable as deeper masses of shadow； I knew them onlyby the peculiar sodden odor that from time to time sluggishlyflowed in at the open window as we rolled by. We proceededslowly； so leisurely that， leaning from the carriage， I morethan once detected the fragrant sigh of some astonished cow，whose ruminating repose upon the highway we had ruthlesslydisturbed. But in the darkness our progress， more the guidanceof some mysterious instinct than any apparent volition of ourown， gave an indefinable charm of security to our journey thata moment’s hesitation or indecision on the part of the driverwould have destroyed.
I had indulged a hope that in the empty vehicle I mightobtain that rest so often denied me in its crowded condition.