And so they met.

THE IDYL OF RED GULCH

Sandy was very drunk.  He was lying under an azalea bush, in pretty much the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before.  How long he had been lying there he could not tell, and didn’t care; how long he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and unconsidered.  A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffused and saturated his moral being.

The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular, was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to attract attention.  Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected a temporary tombstone at Sandy’s head, bearing the inscription, “Effects of McCorkle’s whisky—­kills at forty rods,” with a hand pointing to McCorkle’s saloon.  But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire, personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process rather than a commentary upon the impropriety of the result.  With this facetious exception, Sandy had been undisturbed.  A wandering mule, released from his pack, had cropped the scant herbage beside him, and sniffed curiously at the prostrate man; a vagabond dog, with that deep sympathy which the species have for drunken men, had licked his dusty boots, and curled himself up at his feet, and lay there, blinking one eye in the sunlight, with a simulation of dissipation that was ingenious and doglike in its implied flattery of the unconscious man beside him.

Meanwhile the shadows of the pine trees had slowly swung around until they crossed the road, and their trunks barred the open meadow with gigantic parallels of black and yellow.  Little puffs of red dust, lifted by the plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon the recumbent man.  The sun sank lower and lower; and still Sandy stirred not.  And then the repose of this philosopher was disturbed, as other philosophers have been, by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex.

“Miss Mary,” as she was known to the little flock that she had just dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her afternoon walk.  Observing an unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the azalea bush opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it—­picking her way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little shivers of disgust and some feline circumlocution.  And then she came suddenly upon Sandy!

Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex.  But when she had paid that tribute to her physical weakness she became overbold, and halted for a moment—­at least six feet from this prostrate monster—­with her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight.  But neither sound nor motion came from the bush.  With one little foot she then overturned the satirical headboard, and muttered “Beasts!”—­an epithet which probably, at that moment, conveniently classified in her mind the entire male population of Red Gulch.  For Miss Mary, being possessed of certain rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps, properly appreciated the demonstrative gallantry for which the Californian has been so justly celebrated by his brother Californians, and had, as a newcomer, perhaps fairly earned the reputation of being “stuck-up.”