The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West

“Goin’ to the diggin’s, I s’pose?”

“Yes.”

“Bin there before?”

“No.”

“Nor none o’ your party, I expect?”

“None, except one.”

“You’ll be goin’ up to the bar at the American Forks now, I calc’late?”

“Don’t know that I am.”

“Perhaps you’ll try the northern diggin’s?”

“Perhaps.”

How long this pertinacious questioner might have continued his attack on the captain is uncertain, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the announcement that supper was ready, so he swaggered off to the corner of the hut where an imposing row of bottles stood, demanded a “brandy-smash,” which he drank, and then, seating himself at the table along with the rest of the party, proceeded to help himself largely to all that was within his reach.

The fare was substantial, but not attractive. It consisted of a large junk of boiled salt beef, a mass of rancid pork, and a tray of broken ship-biscuit. But hungry men are not particular, so the viands were demolished in a remarkably short space of time.

“I’m a’most out o’ supplies,” said the host, in a sort of apologetic tone, “an’ the cart I sent down to Sacramento some weeks ago for more’s not come back.”

“Better than nothin’,” remarked a bronzed, weatherbeaten hunter, as he helped himself to another junk of pork. “If ye would send out yer boy into the hills with a rifle now an’ again, ye’d git lots o’ grizzly bars.”

“Are grizzly-bears eaten here?” inquired Ned Sinton, pausing in the act of mastication, to ask the question.

“Eaten!” exclaimed the hunter, in surprise, “in coorse they is. They’re uncommon good eatin’ too, I guess. Many a one I’ve killed an’ eaten myself; an’ I like ’em better than beef—I do. I shot one up in the hills there two days agone, an’ supped off him; but bein’ in a hurry, I left the carcase to the coyotes.” (Coyotes are small wolves.)

The men assembled round the rude table d’hôte were fifteen in number, including our adventurers, and represented at least six different nations—English, Scotch, Irish, German, Yankee, and Chinese. Most of them, however, were Yankees, and all were gold-diggers; even the hunter just referred to, although he had not altogether forsaken his former calling, devoted much of his time to searching for gold. Some, like our friends, were on their way to the diggings for the first time; others were returning with provisions, which they had travelled to Sacramento city to purchase; and one or two were successful diggers who had made their “piles,”—in other words, their fortunes—and were returning home with heavy purses of gold-dust and nuggets.

Good humour was the prevailing characteristic of the party, for each man was either successful or sanguinely hopeful, and all seemed to be affected by a sort of undercurrent of excitement, as they listened to, or related, their adventures at the mines. There was only one serious drawback to the scene, and that was, the perpetual and terrible swearing that mingled with the conversation. The Americans excelled in this wicked practice. They seemed to labour to invent oaths, not for the purpose of venting angry feelings, but apparently with the view of giving emphasis to their statements and assertions. The others swore from habit. They had evidently ceased to be aware that they were using oaths—so terribly had familiarity with sinful practices blunted the consciences of men who, in early life, would probably have trembled in this way to break the law of God.

Yes, by the way, there was one other drawback to the otherwise picturesque and interesting group, and this was the spitting propensity of the Yankees. All over the floor—that floor, too, on which other men besides themselves were to repose—they discharged tobacco-juice and spittle. The nation cannot be too severely blamed and pitied for this disgusting practice, yet we feel a tendency, not to excuse, but to deal gently with individuals, most of whom, having been trained to spitting from their infancy, cannot be expected even to understand the abhorrence with which the practice is regarded by men of other nations.

Nevertheless, brother Jonathan, it is not too much to expect that you ought to respect the universal condemnation of your spitting propensities—by travellers from all lands—and endeavour to believe that ejecting saliva promiscuously is a dirty practice, even although you cannot feel it. We think that if you had the moral courage to pass a law in Congress to render spitting on floors and carpets a capital offence, you would fill the world with admiration and your own bosoms with self-respect, not to mention the benefit that would accrue to your digestive powers in consequence thereof!

All of the supper party were clad and armed in the rough-and-ready style already referred to, and most of them were men of the lower ranks, but there were one or two who, like Ned Sinton, had left a more polished class of mortals to mingle in the promiscuous crowd. These, in some cases, carried their manners with them, and exerted a modifying influence on all around. One young American, in particular, named Maxton, soon attracted general attention by the immense fund of information he possessed, and the urbane, gentlemanly manner in which he conveyed it to those around him. He possessed in an eminent degree those qualities which attract men at once, and irresistibly good nature, frankness, manliness, considerable knowledge of almost every subject that can be broached in general conversation, united with genuine modesty. When he sat down to table he did not grasp everything within his reach; he began by offering to carve and help others, and when at length he did begin to eat, he did not gobble. He “guessed” a little, it is true, and “calculated” occasionally, but when he did so, it was in a tone that fell almost as pleasantly on the ear as the brogue of old Ireland.

Ned happened to be seated beside Maxton, and held a good deal of conversation with him.

“Forgive me, if I appear inquisitive,” said the former, helping himself to a handful of broken biscuit, “but I cannot help expressing a hope that our routes may lie in the same direction—are you travelling towards Sacramento city or the mines?”

“Towards the mines; and, as I observed that your party came from the southward, I suppose you are going in the same direction. If so, I shall be delighted to join you.”

“That’s capital,” replied Ned, “we shall be the better of having our party strengthened, and I am quite certain we could not have a more agreeable addition to it.”

“Thank you for the compliment. As to the advantage of a strong party, I feel it a safeguard as well as a privilege to join yours, for, to say truth, the roads are not safe just now. Several lawless scoundrels have been roving about in this part of the country committing robberies and even murder. The Indians, too, are not so friendly as one could wish. They have been treated badly by some of the unprincipled miners; and their custom is to kill two whites for every red-man that falls. They are not particular as to whom they kill, consequently the innocent are frequently punished for the guilty.”

“This is sad,” replied Ned. “Are, then, all the Indian tribes at enmity with the white men?”

“By no means. Many tribes are friendly, but some have been so severely handled, that they have vowed revenge, and take it whenever they can with safety. Their only weapons, however, are bows and arrows, so that a few resolute white men, with rifles, can stand against a hundred of them, and they know this well. I spent the whole of last winter on the Yuba River; and, although large bands were in my neighbourhood, they never ventured to attack us openly, but they succeeded in murdering one or two miners who strayed into the woods alone.”

“And are these murders passed over without any attempt to bring the murderers to justice?”

“I guess they are not,” replied Maxton, smiling; “but justice is strangely administered in these parts. Judge Lynch usually presides, and he is a stern fellow to deal with. If you listen to what the hunter, there, is saying just now, you will hear a case in point, if I mistake not.”

As Maxton spoke, a loud laugh burst from the men at the other end of the table.

“How did it happen?” cried several.

“Out wi’ the yarn, old boy.”

“Ay, an’ don’t spin it too tight, or, faix, ye’ll burst the strands,” cried Larry O’Neil, who, during the last half-hour, had been listening, open-mouthed, to the marvellous anecdotes of grizzlies and red-skins, with which the hunter entertained his audience.

“Wall, boys, it happened this ways,” began the man, tossing off a gin-sling, and setting down the glass with a violence that nearly smashed it. “Ye see I wos up in the mountains, near the head waters o’ the Sacramento, lookin’ out for deer, and gittin’ a bit o’ gold now an’ again, when, one day, as I was a-comin’ down a gully in the hills, I comes all of a suddint on two men. One wos an Injun, as ugly a sinner as iver I seed; t’other wos a Yankee lad, in a hole diggin’ gold. Before my two eyes were well on them, the red villain lets fly an arrow, and the man fell down with a loud yell into the hole. Up goes my rifle like wink, and the red-skin would ha’ gone onder in another second, but my piece snapped—cause why? the primin’ had got damp; an’ afore I could prime agin, he was gone.

“I went up to the poor critter, and sure enough it wos all up with him. The arrow went in at the back o’ his neck. He niver spoke again. So I laid him in the grave he had dug for himself, and sot off to tell the camp. An’ a most tremendous row the news made. They got fifty volunteers in no time, and went off, hot-fut, to scalp the whole nation. As I had other business to look after, and there seemed more than enough o’ fightin’ men, I left them, and went my way. Two days after, I had occasion to go back to the same place, an’ when I comed in sight o’ the camp, I guess there was a mighty stir.

“‘Wot’s to do?’ says I to a miner in a hole, who wos diggin’ away for gold, and carin’ nothin’ about it.

“‘Only scraggin’ an Injun,’ he said, lookin’ up.

“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll go and see.’

“So off I sot, and there wos a crowd o’ about two hundred miners round a tree; and, jest as I come up, they wos puttin’ the rope round the neck of a poor wretch of an old grey-haired red-skin, whose limbs trembled so that they wos scarce able to hold him up.

“‘Heave away now, Bill,’ cried the man as tied the noose.

“But somethin’ was wrong with the hitch o’ the rope round the branch o’ the tree, an’ it wouldn’t draw, and some time wos spent in puttin’ it right. I felt sorter sorry for the old man, for his grave face was bold enough, and age more than fear had to do with the tremblin’ o’ his legs. Before they got it right again, my eye fell on a small band o’ red-skins, who were lookin’ quietly on; and foremost among them the very blackguard as shot the man in the galley. I knew him at once by his ugly face. Without sayin’ a word, I steps for’ard to the old Injun, and takes the noose off his neck.

“‘Halloo!’ cried a dozen men, jumpin’ at me. ‘Wot’s that for?’ ‘Scrag the hunter,’ cries one. ‘Howld yer long tongues, an’ hear what he’s got to say,’ shouts an Irishman.

“‘Keep your minds easy,’ says I, mountin’ a stump, ‘an’ seize that Injun, or I’ll have to put a ball into him before he gits off’—for, ye see, I obsarved the black villain took fright, and was sneakin’ away through the crowd. They had no doubt who I meant, for I pinted straight at him; and, before ye could wink, he was gripped, and led under the tree, with a face paler than ever I saw the face o’ a red-skin before.

“‘Now,’ says I, ‘wot for are ye scraggin’ this old man?’ So they told me how the party that went off to git the murderer met a band o’ injuns comin’ to deliver him up to be killed, they said, for murderin’ the white man. An’ they gave up this old Injun, sayin’ he wos the murderer. The diggers believed it, and returned with the old boy and two or three others that came to see him fixed off.

“‘Very good,’ says I, ‘ye don’t seem to remimber that I’m the man what saw the murder, and told ye of it. By good luck, I’ve come in time to point him out—an’ this is him.’ An’ with that I put the noose round the villain’s neck and drawed it tight. At that he made a great start to shake it off, and clear away; but before you could wink, he was swingin’ at the branch o’ the tree, twinty feet in the air.

“Sarved him right,” cried several of the men, emphatically, as the hunter concluded his anecdote.

“Ay,” he continued, “an’ they strung up his six friends beside him.”

“Sarved ’em right too,” remarked the tall man, whose partiality for the tin wash-hand basin and the tooth-brush we have already noticed. “If I had my way, I’d shoot ’em all off the face o’ the ’arth, I would, right away.”

“I’m sorry to hear they did that,” remarked Larry O’Neil looking pointedly at the last speaker, “for it only shewed they was greater mortherers nor the Injuns—the red-skins morthered wan man, but the diggers morthered six.

“An’ who are you that finds fault wi’ the diggers?” inquired the tall man, turning full round upon the Irishman, with a tremendous oath.

“Be the mortial,” cried the Irishman, starting up like a Jack-in-the-box, and throwing off his coat, “I’m Larry O’Neil, at yer sarvice. Hooroo! come on, av’ ye want to be purtily worked off.”

Instantly the man’s hand was on the hilt of his revolver; but, before he could draw it, the rest of the company started up and overpowered the belligerents.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the host of the ranche, stepping forward, “it’s not worth while quarrelling about a miserable red-skin.”

“Put on your coat, Larry, and come, let’s get ready for a start,” said Ned; “you can’t afford to fight till you’ve made your fortune at the diggings. How far is it to the next ranche, landlord?”

This cool attempt to turn the conversation was happily successful. The next ranche, he was told, was about ten miles distant, and the road comparatively easy; so, as it was a fine moonlight night, and he was desirous of reaching the first diggings on the following day as early as possible, the horses and mules were saddled, and the bill called for.

When the said bill was presented, or rather, announced to them, our travellers opened their eyes pretty wide; they had to open their purses pretty wide too, and empty them to such an extent that there was not more than a dollar left among them all!

The supper, which we have described, cost them two and a half dollars—about ten shillings and sixpence a head, including a glass of bad brandy; but not including a bottle of stout which Larry, in the ignorance and innocence of his heart, had asked for, and which cost him three dollars extra! An egg, also, which Ned had obtained, cost him a shilling.

“Oh, morther!” exclaimed Larry, “why didn’t ye tell us the price before we tuck them?”

“Why didn’t ye ax?” retorted the landlord.

“It’s all right,” remarked Maxton. “Prices vary at the diggings, as you shall find ere long. When provisions run short, the prices become exorbitant; when plentiful, they are more moderate, but they are never low. However, men don’t mind much, for most diggers have plenty of gold.”

Captain Bunting and Bill Jones were unable to do more than sigh out their amazement and shake their heads, as they left the ranche and mounted their steeds; in doing which the captain accidentally, as usual, drove both spurs into the sides of his mule, which caused it to execute a series of manoeuvres and pirouettes that entertained the company for a quarter of an hour, after which they rode away over the plain.

It was a beautiful country through which they now ambled pleasantly. Undulating and partially wooded, with fine stretches of meadow land between, from which the scent of myriads of wild-flowers rose on the cool night air. The moon sailed low in a perfectly cloudless sky, casting the shadows of the horsemen far before them as they rode, and clothing hill and dale, bush and tree, with a soft light, as if a cloud of silver gauze had settled down upon the scene. The incident in the ranche was quickly banished, and each traveller committed himself silently to the full enjoyment of the beauties around him—beauties which appeared less like reality than a vision of the night.

Chapter Nine.

A Night Ride in the Woods—The Encampment—Larry’s First Attempt to dig for Gold—An Alarm—A Suspicious Stranger—Queer Creatures

In less than two hours the travellers reached the second ranche, which was little better, in appearance or accommodation, than the one they had left. Having no funds, they merely halted to water their cattle, and then pushed forward.

The country became more and more undulating and broken as they advanced, and beyond the second ranche assumed the appearance of a hill country. The valleys were free from trees, though here and there occurred dense thickets of underwood, in which Maxton told them that grizzly-bears loved to dwell—a piece of information that induced most of the party to carry their rifles in a handy position, and glance suspiciously at every shadow. Large oaks and bay-trees covered the lower slopes of the hills, while higher up the white oak and fir predominated.

About an hour after midnight the moon began to descend towards the horizon, and Ned Sinton, who had been unanimously elected commander of the little band, called a halt in the neighbourhood of a rivulet, which flowed round the base of an abrupt cliff whose sides were partially clothed with scrubby bushes.

“We shall encamp here for the night, comrades,” said he, dismounting; “here is water and food for our nags, a fine piece of greensward to spread our blankets on, and a thick-leaved oak to keep the dew off us. Now, Maxton, you are an old campaigner, let us see how soon you’ll have a fire blazing.”

“I’ll have it ready before you get the camp kettles and pans out,” answered Maxton, fastening his horse to a tree, seizing an axe, and springing into the woods on the margin of the stream.

“And, Captain Bunting,” continued Ned, “do you water the horses and mules: our vaquero will help you. Jones will unpack the provender. Tom Collins and I will see to getting supper ready.”

“An’, may I ax, commodore,” said Larry O’Neil, touching his hat, “wot I’m to do?”

“Keep out of everybody’s way, and do what you pleases, Larry.”

“Which manes, I’m to make myself ginerally useful; so here goes.” And Larry, springing through the bushes, proceeded to fulfil his duties, by seizing a massive log, which Maxton had just cut, and, heaving it on his powerful shoulder, carried it to the camp.

Each was immediately busied with his respective duties. Bustling activity prevailed for the space of a quarter of an hour, the result of which was that, before the moon left them in total darkness, the ruddy glare of a magnificent fire lighted up the scene brilliantly, glanced across the sun-burnt faces and vivid red shirts of our adventurers, as they clustered round it, and threw clouds of sparks in among the leaves of the stout old oak that overspread the camp.

“Now, this is what I call uncommon jolly,” said Captain Bunting, sitting down on his saddle before the cheerful blaze, rubbing his hands, and gazing round, with a smile of the utmost benignity on his broad, hairy countenance.

“It is,” replied Maxton, with an approving nod. “Do you know, I have often thought, captain, that an Indian life must be a very pleasant one—”

“Av coorse it must,” interrupted Larry, who at that moment was luxuriating in the first rich, voluminous puffs of a newly-filled pipe—“av coorse it must, if it’s always like this.”

“Ay,” continued Maxton, “but that’s what I was just going to remark upon—it’s not always like this. As a general rule, I have observed, men who are new to backwoods life, live at first in a species of terrestrial paradise. The novelty and the excitement cause them to revel in all that is enjoyable, and to endure with indifference all that is disagreeable; sometimes, even, to take pleasure in shewing how stoically they can put up with discomfort. But after a time the novelty and excitement wear away, and then it is usual to hear the praises of Indian life spoken of immediately before and immediately after supper. Towards midnight—particularly if it should rain, or mosquitoes be numerous—men change their minds, and begin to dream of home, if they can sleep, or to wish they were there, if they can’t.”

“Get out! you horrid philosopher,” cried Tom Collin as he gazed wistfully into the iron pot, whose savoury contents, (i.e. pork, flour, and beans), he was engaged in stirring. “Don’t try to dash the cup of romance from our lips ere we have tasted it. Believe me, comrades, our friend Maxton is a humbug. I am an old stager myself; have lived the life of an Indian for months and months together, and I declare to you, I’m as jolly and enthusiastic now as ever I was.”

“That may be quite true,” observed Maxton, “seeing that it is possible you may have never been jolly or enthusiastic at all; but even taking your words as you mean them to be understood, they only tend to enforce what I have said, for, you know, the exception proves the rule.”

“Bah! you sophisticator,” ejaculated Tom, again inspecting the contents of the pot.

“Och, let him spake, an’ be aisy,” remarked Larry, with a look of extreme satisfaction on his countenance; “we’re in the navelty an’ excitement stage o’ life just now, an faix we’ll kape it up as long as we can. Hand me a cinder, Bill Jones, an’ don’t look as if ye wos meditatin’ wot to say, for ye know that ye can’t say nothin’.”

Bill took no further notice of this remark than to lift a glowing piece of charcoal from the fire with his fingers, as deliberately as if they were made of iron, and hand it to O’Neil, who received it in the same cool manner, and relighted his pipe therewith.

“It strikes me we shall require all our jollity and enthusiasm to keep up our spirits, if we don’t reach the diggings to-morrow,” said Ned Sinton, as he busied himself in polishing the blade of a superb hunting-knife, which had been presented to him by a few college friends at parting; “you all know that our funds are exhausted, and it’s awkward to arrive at a ranche without a dollar to pay for a meal—still more awkward to be compelled to encamp beside a ranche and unpack our own provisions, especially if it should chance to be a wet night. Do you think we shall manage to reach the diggings to-morrow, Maxton?”

“I am certain of it. Twelve miles will bring us to Little Creek, as it is called, where we can begin to take initiative lessons in gold-washing. In fact, the ground we stand on, I have not a doubt, has much gold in it. But we have not the means of washing it yet.”

Larry O’Neil caught his breath on hearing this statement. “D’ye mane to tell me,” he said, slowly and with emphasis, “that I’m maybe sittin’ at this minute on the top o’ rale goold?”

“You may be,” answered Maxton, laughing.

“W’en ye don’t know,” remarked Bill Jones, sententiously, removing the pipe from his lips, and looking fixedly at his messmate, “W’en ye don’t know wot’s under ye, nor the coorse o’ nature, w’ich is always more or less a-doin’ things oncommon an’ out o’ the way, ye shouldn’t ought to speckilate on wot ye know nothin’ about, until ye find out how’s her head, an’ w’ich way the land lies. Them’s my sentiments.”

“Halloo! Larry,” cried the captain and Tom Collins simultaneously, “look out for the kettle. It’ll boil over.”

Larry’s feelings had been deeply stirred at that moment, so that the union of the sudden shout, with the profundity of Bill’s remark, had the effect of causing him to clutch at the tea-kettle with such haste that he upset it into the fire.

“Oh! bad luck to ye!”

“Clumsy fellow!” ejaculated Ned. “Off with you to the creek, and refill it.”

Larry obeyed promptly, but the mischance, after all, was trifling, for the fire was fierce enough to have boiled a twenty-gallon caldron in a quarter of an hour. Besides, the contents of the iron pot had to be discussed before the tea was wanted. In a few minutes supper was ready, and all were about to begin, when it was discovered that O’Neil was missing.

“Ho! Larry, come to supper!” shouted one.

“Hi! where are you?” cried another.

But there was no reply, until the captain put both hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to the nautical halloo with which, in days gone by, he was wont to hail the look-out at the main-top.