10. The First Piano in a Mining Camp

In a mining camp in the State of Nevada long ago great excitement turns to disappointment when nobody can play the first piano to arrive there. Then on Christmas Eve, a half-starved white-haired man came in from the snow and began to play. What happened after that? Please read on and discover the thrilling end to this story.

Around 1858 there was a little camp about ten miles from Pioche, Nevada, occupied by a few hundred miners. When the day was over, these men did not rest from their labors like honest New England farmers; they sang, danced, gambled, and shot each other, whichever activity pleased them.

One evening the report spread along the main street (which was the only street) that three men had been killed at another camp not far away, and that the bodies were coming in. Soon an ancient wagon labored up the hill, pulled by a couple of tired horses. The wagon contained a large box. As soon as its general shape could be seen in the faint light of the camp, it began to affect those who were standing around. Death always enforces respect, and though no one had yet seen dead bodies inside, the crowd gradually became quiet. When the horses came to a standstill, the wagon was immediately surrounded. The driver, however, was not in the least impressed with the seriousness of his responsibility.

"All there?" asked one of the miners.

"Haven't examined. Guess so."

The driver filled his pipe, and lighted it as he continued: "I wish the whole load had fallen off the river bank on the way."

A man who had been looking on stepped up to the driver at once. "I don't know who you have in that box, but if they happen to be any friends of mine, I'll lay you down beside them."

"We can soon see," said the driver of the wagon calmly. "Just open the box, and if they happen to be the man you want, I'm here."

The two looked at each other for a moment, and then the crowd gathered a little closer, expecting trouble.

"Well, open the box. I don't take back what I said."

With these words, the driver began to remove the boards that covered the box. He got the boards off, and then pulled out some old rags. A strip of something dark, like rosewood, presented itself.

"It must have come from the East," said one of the onlookers. The crowd looked astonished.

Some more boards flew up, and the man who was ready to defend his friend's memory shifted his gun a little. Presently the whole box cover was off and the driver revealed to the astonished group the top of something which puzzled all alike.

"Boys," said he, "this is a piano."

A general shout of laughter went up, and the man who had been so anxious to enforce respect for the dead said something about feeling dry. Soon the keeper of the nearest bar was helping the boys give the joke all the attention it deserved.

If a dozen dead man had been in that box, their presence in the camp could not have caused half the excitement that the arrival of the piano caused. By the next morning, it was known that the instrument was to reside in an establishment owned by Tom Goskin, the leading gambler of the camp. It took nearly a week to get the piano on its legs, and the owner was the proudest individual in the state. Finally it rose to an upright position with the aid of dozens who came to assist. At last it was ready to be played.

"It's been showing its teeth all week," someone said. "We'd like to have it say something."

Alas! There was not a man to be found who could play upon the instrument. Goskin began to realize that he had spent a vast amount of money for small results.

One day a red-haired gambler in the camp told a friend that he could "knock any amount of music out of the piano, if he only had it alone for a few hours to try it." This report spread through the camp, but on being questioned he declared that he didn't know a note of music.

There were doubtless many men in the camp who would have given ten ounces of gold just to spend half an hour alone with the piano, but no man dared. Each feared the laughter that the crowd would shower upon him if he proved unable to play.

Months passed, and it was Christmas Eve. Goskin, according to his custom, had decorated his gambling place with branches of mountain greens. The piano was covered with evergreens, and all that was needed to fill the cup of Goskin's contentment was a man to play the instrument.

Getting a piece of paper, he made a sign:

This he placed near the piano, and though the sign was in full view of the gamblers until midnight, it failed to draw any musician from his shell.

So the merrymaking went on, with shouting and laughter and singing and occasional dancing as the crowd tried to forget the howling storm outside. Suddenly they became aware of the presence of a white-haired man crouching near the fireplace. His clothes—such as were left—were wet with melting snow, and he had a half-starved, half-crazy expression. He held his thin, trembling hands toward the fire and looked around as if in search of something. His appearance was in such contrast to the noisy merriment of the gamblers that it cast a cold shadow upon the group, and gradually the merrymaking came to an uneasy pause.

Goskin, mixing up a cup of egg, hot milk, and whiskey, advanced and remarked cheerily: "Here, stranger, take heart! This is the real stuff."

The man accepted the cup, drank, and seemed more at home.

"Out in the mountains—caught in the storm?" asked Goskin. "Bad night, this is!"

"Pretty bad." said the man.

"How long have you been out?"

"Four days."

Goskin led the stranger to the lunch counter, where he ate as eagerly as a wild animal, after which he seemed to come alive.

"Do you always have your place decorated like this?" he finally asked Goskin.

"This is Christmas Eve," was the reply.

The stranger looked surprised. "December twenty-fourth, sure enough. When I was in England, I always kept Christmas. But I've been wandering around in the mountains until I've lost track of the feasts of the church."

Then his eye fell upon the piano. "Where's the player?" he asked.

"Never had any," said Goskin, rather ashamed.

"I used to play when I was young."

Goskin almost fainted at these words.

"Stranger, try it! Give us a tune!" Goskin's heart beat faster, for he feared the man would refuse.

"I'll do the best I can," the old man said.

He seated himself before the instrument. In a few seconds the room was as quiet as a church.

The old man brushed back his long white hair, looked up to the ceiling, half closed his eyes, and passed his fingers over the piano keys. He touched but a single note, yet the sound thrilled the room. Gaining confidence as he progressed, he soon bent to his work like a master. The instrument was not in exact tune, but the ears of his audience heard nothing wrong.

"Listen to him play! Just listen to that!"

The player went on to the old tunes the miners had heard at home. All the sad and touching songs that came up like dreams of childhood, this unknown player drew from the piano keys. His hands drew tears from their hearts. On and on he played, until the final song—the sweet, remembered notes of "Home, Sweet Home."

When the player stopped, the crowd was silent. There was no more merrymaking. Each man wanted to go off to his cabin and write letters to those he had left at home.

Dawn arrived as the last man left Goskin's place; and the player, laying his head down, fell asleep.

"I say, friend," said Goskin. "Don't you want a little rest?"

"I do feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me rest here for a day or so."

He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying and stretched himself upon them.

"I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't last long. I've got a brother down in the valley—his name is Driscoll. He must be wondering where I am. Can you get him before morning? I'd like to see his face once before I die."

Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew Driscoll well.

"He's your brother? I'll have him here in half an hour."

As Goskin dashed out into the storm, the musician pressed his hand to his side and groaned. Goskin heard the word "Hurry!" and rushed down the mountain to Driscoll's cabin.

It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was very pale.

"My God! I hope he's alive! I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago!"

They saw that the old man had drawn the blanket over his face, and the two men stood for a moment, awed by the thought that he might be dead. Goskin lifted the blanket, and pulled it down, astonished. There was no one there!

"Gone!" cried Driscoll wildly.

"Gone!" echoed Goskin, pulling out the drawer in which he kept his cash. It was empty. "Ten thousand dollars!" he groaned.

The next day the miners left the camp, followed a horse's tracks through the snow, and lost them in the trail leading to Pioche. There was a man missing from the camp. It was the red-haired gambler who had denied that he knew how to play the piano. One day they found a wig of white hair, and remembered how the "stranger" had pushed that hair back when he looked at the ceiling for inspiration, on the night of December 24, 1858.

From Progressive Reading Series Book 7, ed., Dr. Virginia French Allen,

Washington, D.C., 1966.