California -- Fiction; Gold mines and mining -- Fiction; Western stories
The square itself was crowded with people moving to and fro. The solid
majority of the crowd consisted of red or blue shirted miners; but a
great many nations and frames of minds seemed to be represented. Chinese
merchants, with red coral buttons atop their stiff little skullcaps,
wandered slowly, their hands tucked in capacious sleeves of the richest
brocade. We had seen few of this race; and we looked at them with the
greatest interest, examining closely their broad bland faces, the
delicate lilacs and purples and blues of their rich costumes, the
swaying silk braided queues down their backs. Other Chinese, of the
lower castes, clad in blue canvas with broad bowl-shaped hats of straw
on their heads, wormed their way through the crowd balancing baskets at
the ends of poles. Rivalling the great Chinese merchants in their
leisure, strolled the representatives of the native race, the Spanish
Californians. They were darkly handsome men, dressed gloriously in short
velvet jackets, snowy ruffles, plush trousers flaring at the bottom, and
slit up the side of the leg, soft leather boots, and huge spurs
ornamented with silver. They sauntered to and fro smoking brown-paper
cigarettos. Beside these two, the Chinese and the Californians, but one
other class seemed to be moving with any deliberation. These were men
seen generally alone, or at most in pairs. They were quiet, waxy pale,
dressed always neatly in soft black hat, white shirt, long black coat,
and varnished boots. In the face of a general gabble they seemed to
remain indifferently silent, self-contained and aloof. To occasional
salutations they responded briefly and with gravity.
"Professional gamblers," said Talbot.
All the rest of the crowd rushed here and there at a great speed. We saw
the wildest incongruities of demeanour and costume beside which the
silk-hat-red-shirted combination was nothing. They struck us
open-mouthed and gasping; but seemed to attract not the slightest
attention from anybody else. We encountered a number of men dressed
alike in suits of the finest broadcloth, the coats of which were lined
with red silk, and the vests of embroidered white. These men walked with
a sort of arrogant importance. We later found that they were members of
that dreaded organization known as _The Hounds_, whose ostensible
purpose was to perform volunteer police duty, but whose real effort was
toward the increase of their own power. These people all surged back and
forth good-naturedly, and shouted at each other, and disappeared with
great importance up the side streets, or darted out with equal busyness
from all points of the compass. Every few minutes a cry of warning would
go up on one side of the square or another. The crowd would scatter to
right and left, and down through the opening would thunder a horseman
distributing clouds of dust and showers of earth.
"Why doesn't somebody kill a few of those crazy fools!" muttered Talbot
impatiently, after a particularly close shave.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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