The Outcasts of Poker Flat

The Outcasts of Poker Flat (revised)

Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, the twenty-third of November, 1850, a change in moral atmosphere. Two or three men, conversing, ceasing, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, ominous.	1
Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face, Whether he was conscious was another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” “likely it’s me.” whipping away red dust from neat boots, He quietly discharged any further conjecture.	2
Poker Flat was “after somebody.” the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. a spasm of virtuous reaction, lawless and ungovernable. A secret committee determined to rid the town. Two men were hanging  from the boughs of a sycamore.	3
Mr. Oakhurst was right, A few of the committee had urged hanging him.	4
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence, none the less coolly. He was much a gambler not to accept Fate.	5
A body of armed men deported wickedness of Poker Flat. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, a coolly desperate man, a young woman “The Duchess”; another, “Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” sluice-robber,  confirmed drunkard	6
feelings found vent in hysterical tears, some bad language, a Parthian volley of expletives. Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, With easy good-humor he insisted, exchanging his own horse for mule. The young woman readjusted draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry.	7
The road to a camp that seemed to offer invitation, over a steep mountain range, Distant a day’s severe travel. The party soon passed the moist, temperate regions into dry, cold, bracing Sierras. The trail narrow and difficult and the party halted.	8
The spot wild, impressive, wooded amphitheater surrounded. Naked granite, sloped, precipice overlooked valley. Undoubtedly suitable spot. But scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished. furnished with liquor, in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience.	9
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink he gazed, the loneliness, his habits of life, his very vices, oppressed him. He looked, gloomy walls a thousand feet above pines. The valley below, deepening shadow.	10
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. New-comer Tom Simson, guileless youth.	11
Not exactly alone; Piney Woods. remember Piney? a stout, comely damsel, fifteen, blushing unseen.	12
	13
The air had grown strangely chill the sky overcast.	14
Shadows crept, a slight breeze rocked, The ruined cabin, patched for the ladies.	16
Mr. Oakhurst awoke benumbed. The dying fire, the wind, blowing strongly, brought to his cheek —snow!	17
I have chosen to take Harte's The Outcasts of Poker Flat and edit it down to a form that looks more like a traditional poem. Something that I chose to do was keep the words identical and not change them even though I removed a lot of the stuff in between. I found that many of the words are active verbs and the descriptions are sort of ominous. At the beginning of the story I chose to leave lines and stanzas longer because we are sort of building up the story by describing the setting and characters. This takes a lot longer and requires smooth transition. As we move through the story and it begins to unfold with little to no explanation I discovered that there were naturally shorter lines that occurred and led to more couplets for stanzas. I think this is because we get a lot of fore-shadowing in the longer story with filler in between like words and descriptions of what people are doing or their facial expression. The beginning seems to drag but the middle seems to start to pick up some sort of speed on it's own. I think Harte's story is set up much like an epic and lends itself very well to being shortened into a more traditional poem instead of being what some would consider prose.