Gold

Of the gambling places, one only–that conducted by Danny Randall and called the Bella Union–inspired any sort of confidence. The other two were frequented by a rough, insolent crew, given to sudden silences in presence of newcomers, good-humoured after a wild and disconcerting fashion, plunging heavily at the gaming tables and drinking as heavily at the bars. This is not to imply that any strong line of demarcation existed between the habitues of one or the other of these places. When an inhabitant of Italian Bar started out for relaxation, he visited everything there was to visit, and drifted impartially between Morton’s, Randall’s Bella Union, and the Empire. There was a good deal of noise and loud talk in any of them; and occasionally a pistol shot. This was generally a signal for most of the bystanders to break out through the doors and windows, and for the gayly inclined to shoot out the lights. The latter feat has often been cited admiringly as testifying to a high degree of marksmanship, but as a matter of fact the wind and concussion from the heavy revolver bullets were quite sufficient to put out any lamp to which the missiles passed reasonably close. Sometimes these affrays resulted in material for the Sunday inquests; but it is astonishing how easily men can miss each other at close range. Most of the shootings were the results of drunken quarrels. For that reason the professed gunmen were rarely involved. One who possessed an established reputation was let alone by the ordinary citizen; and most severely alone by the swaggering bullies, of whom there were not a few. These latter found prey for their queer stripe of vanity among the young, the weak, and the drunken. I do not hesitate to say that any man of determined character could keep out of trouble even in the worst days of the camp, provided he had no tempting wealth, attended to his own affairs, and maintained a quiet though resolute demeanour.

When in camp Johnny and his two companions shone as bright particular stars. They were only boys, and they had blossomed out in wonderful garments. Johnny had a Californian sombrero with steeple crown loaded with silver ornaments, and a pair of Spanish spurs heavily inlaid with the same metal, a Chinese scarf about his neck, and a short jacket embroidered with silver thread. But most astonishing of all was a large off-colour diamond set in a ring, through which he ran the ends of his scarf. Parenthetically, it was from this that he got his sobriquet of Diamond Jack. I had a good deal of fun laughing at Johnny, but he didn’t mind.

“This diamond,” he pointed out, “is just as good as gold dust, it’s easier carried, and I can have some fun out of it.”

I am afraid he and Old Hickory Pine and Cal Marsh did a bit of swaggering while in town. They took a day to the down trip, and jogged back in a day and a half, stopping in Sacramento only the extra half day. Then they rested with us one day, and were off the next. Thus they accomplished seven or eight trips in the month. Both Old and Cal had the reputation of being quick, accurate shots, although I have never seen them perform. As the three of them were absolutely inseparable they made a formidable combination that nothing but an organized gang would care to tackle. Consequently they swaggered as much as they pleased. At bottom they were good, clean, attractive boys, who were engaged in an adventure that was thrilling enough in sober reality, but which they loved to deck forth in further romance. They one and all assumed the stern, aloof, lofty pose of those whose affairs were too weighty to permit mingling with ordinary amusements. Their speech was laconic, their manners grave, their attitude self-contained. It was a good thing, I believe; for outside the fact that it kept them out of quarrels, it kept them also out of drinking and gambling.

I made many acquaintances of course, but only a few friends. The best of these were Dr. Rankin and Danny Randall. Strangely enough, these two were great pals. Danny had a little room back of the Bella Union furnished out with a round table, a dozen chairs, and a sofa. Here he loved to retire with his personal friends to sip drinks, smoke, and to discuss all sorts of matters. A little glassless window gave into the Bella Union, and as the floor of the little room was raised a foot or so, Danny sat where he could see everything that went on. These gatherings varied in number, but never exceeded the capacity of the dozen chairs. I do not know how Danny had caused it to be understood that these were invitation affairs, but understood it was, and no one ever presumed to intrude unbidden into the little room. Danny selected his company as the fancy took him.

As to why he should so often have chosen me I must again confess ignorance. Perhaps because I was a good listener. If so, the third member of a very frequent triumvirate, Dr. Rankin, was invited for the opposite quality. The doctor was a great talker, an analyst of conditions, and a philosophical spectator. The most frequent theme of our talks was the prevalence of disorder. On this subject the doctor had very decided views.

“There is disorder because we shirk our duty as a community,” he stated, “and we shirk our duty as a community because we believe in our hearts that we aren’t a community. What does Jones or Smith or Robinson or anybody else really care for Italian Bar as a place; or, indeed, for California as a place? Not a tinker’s damn! He came out here in the first place to make his pile, and in the second place to have a good time. He isn’t dependent on any one’s good opinion, as he used to be at home. He refuses to be bothered with responsibilities and he doesn’t need to be. Why a pan miner needn’t even speak to his next neighbour unless he wants to; and a cradle miner need bother only with his partners!”

“Miners’ meetings have done some pretty good legislation,” I pointed out.

“Legislation; yes!” cried the doctor. “Haven’t you discovered that the American has a perfect genius for organization? Eight coal heavers on a desert island would in a week have a full list of officers, a code of laws, and would be wrangling over ridiculous parliamentary points of order in their meetings. That’s just the trouble. The ease with which Americans can sketch out a state on paper is an anodyne to conscience. We get together and pass a lot of resolutions, and go away with a satisfied feeling that we’ve really done something.”

“But I believe a camp like this may prove permanent,” objected Randall.

“Exactly. And by that very fact a social obligation comes into existence. Trouble is, every mother’s son tries to escape it in his own case. What is every one’s business is no one’s business. Every fellow thinks he’s got away from being bothered with such things. Sooner or later he’ll find out he hasn’t, and then he’ll have to pay for his vacation.”

“We never stood for much thieving at Hangman’s Gulch,” I interposed.

“What did you do?”

“We whipped and sent them about their business.”

“To some other camp. You merely passed on your responsibility; you didn’t settle it. Your whipping merely meant turning loose a revengeful and desperate man. Your various banishments merely meant your exchanging these fiends with the other camps. It’s like scattering the coyotes that come around your fire.”

“What would you do, Doctor?” asked Randall quietly; “we have no regular law.”

“Why not? Why don’t you adopt a little regular law? You need about three in this camp–against killing, against thievery, and against assault. Only enforce in every instance, as far as possible.”

“You can’t get this crowd to take time investigating the troubles of some man they never heard of.”

“Exactly.”

“And if they get too bad,” said Danny, “we’ll have to get the stranglers busy.”

“Confound it, man!” roared Dr. Rankin, beating the table, “that’s just what I’ve been trying to tell you. You ought not to care so much for punishing as for deterring. Don’t you know that it’s a commonplace that it isn’t the terrifying quality of the penalty that acts as a deterrent to crime, but it’s the certainty of the penalty! If a horse thief knows that there’s merely a chance the community will get mad enough to hang him, he’ll take that chance in hopes this may not be the time. If, on the other hand, he knows that every time he steals a horse he’s going to be caught and fined even, he thinks a long time before he steals it.”

“All that’s true, Doctor,” said Danny, “as theory; but now I’m coming to bat with a little practice. Here’s the camp of Italian Bar in the year 1849. What would you do?”

“Elect the proper officers and enforce the law,” answered the doctor promptly.

“Who would you elect?”

“There are plenty of good men here.”

“Name me any one who would take the job. The good men are all washing gold; and they’re in a hurry to finish before the rains. I don’t care who you’re about to name–if anybody; this is about what he’d say: ‘I can’t afford to leave my claim; I didn’t come out here to risk my life in that sort of a row; I am leaving for the city when the rains begin, and I don’t know that I’ll come back to Italian Bar next season!’”

“Make it worth their while. Pay them,” insisted the doctor stoutly.

“And how’s the money to pay them to be collected? You’d have to create the officers of a government–and pay them.”

“Well, why not?”

“At the election, who would take interest to elect a decent man, even if you could get hold of one? Not the other decent men. They’re too busy, and too little interested. But the desperadoes and hard characters would be very much interested in getting some of their own stripe in office. The chances are they would be coming back to Italian Bar next season, especially if they had the legal machinery for keeping themselves out of trouble. You’d simply put yourself in their power.”

Dr. Rankin shook his head.

“Just the same, you’ll see that I am right,” he prophesied. “This illusion of freedom to the social obligation is only an illusion. It will have to be paid for with added violence and turmoil.”

“Why, I believe you’re right as to that, Doctor,” agreed Danny, “but I’ve discovered that often in this world a man has to pay a high price for what he gets. In fact, sometimes it’s very expedient to pay a high price.”

“I can foresee a lot of violence before the thing is worked out.”

At this point the doctor, to his manifest disgust, was summoned to attend to some patient.

“That all sounds interesting,” said I to Danny Randall once we were alone, “but I don’t exactly fit it in.”

“It means,” said Danny, “that some day Morton’s gang will go a little too far, and we’ll have to get together and string some of them up.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE OVERLAND IMMIGRANTS

The overland immigrants never ceased to interest us. The illness, destitution, and suffering that obtained among these people has never been adequately depicted. For one outfit with healthy looking members and adequate cattle there were dozens conducted by hollow-eyed, gaunt men, drawn by few weak animals. Women trudged wearily, carrying children. And the tales they brought were terrible. They told us of thousands they had left behind in the great desert of the Humboldt Sink, fighting starvation, disease, and the loss of cattle. Women who had lost their husbands from the deadly cholera were staggering on without food or water, leading their children. The trail was lined with dead mules and cattle. Some said that five thousand had perished on the plains from cholera alone. In the middle of the desert, miles from anywhere, were the death camps, the wagons drawn in the usual circle, the dead animals tainting the air, every living human being crippled from scurvy and other diseases. There was no fodder for the cattle, and one man told us that he estimated, soberly, that three fourths of the draught animals on the plains must die.

“And then where will their owners be?”

The Indians were hostile and thieving. Most of the ample provision that had been laid in had to be thrown away to lighten the loads for the enfeebled animals. Such immigrants as got through often arrived in an impoverished condition. Many of these on the route were reduced by starvation to living on the putrefied flesh of the dead animals along the road. This occasioned more sickness. The desert seemed interminable. At nightfall the struggling trains lay down exhausted with only the assurance of another scorching, burning day to follow. And when at last a few reached the Humboldt River, they found it almost impossible to ford–and the feed on the other side. In the distance showed the high forbidding ramparts of the Sierra Nevadas. A man named Delano told us that five men drowned themselves in the Humboldt River in one day out of sheer discouragement. Another man said he had saved the lives of his oxen by giving some Indians fifteen dollars to swim the river and float some grass across to him. The water of the Humboldt had a bad effect on horses, and great numbers died. The Indians stole others. The animals that remained were weak. The destruction of property was immense, for everything that could be spared was thrown away in order to lighten the loads. The road was lined with abandoned wagons, stoves, mining implements, clothes.

We were told these things over and over, heavily, in little snatches, by men too wearied and discouraged and beaten even to rejoice that they had come through alive. They were not interested in telling us, but they told, as though their minds were so full that they could not help it. I remember one evening when we were feeding at our camp the members of one of these trains, a charity every miner proffered nearly every day of the week. The party consisted of one wagon, a half dozen gaunt, dull-eyed oxen, two men, and a crushed-looking, tragic young woman. One of the men had in a crude way the gift of words.

He told of the crowds of people awaiting the new grass at Independence in Missouri, of the making up of the parties, the election of officers for the trip, the discussion of routes, the visiting, the campfires, the boundless hope.

“There were near twenty thousand people waiting for the grass,” said our friend; a statement we thought exaggerated, but one which I have subsequently found to be not far from the truth.

By the middle of May the trail from the Missouri River to Fort Laramie was occupied by a continuous line of wagons.

“That was fine travelling,” said the immigrant in the detached way of one who speaks of dead history. “There was grass and water; and the wagon seemed like a little house at night. Everybody was jolly. It didn’t last long.”

After Fort Laramie there were three hundred miles of plains, with little grass and less water.

“We thought that was a desert!” exclaimed the immigrant bitterly. “My God! Quite a lot turned back at Laramie. They were scared by the cholera that broke out, scared by the stories of the desert, scared by the Indians. They went back. I suppose they’re well and hearty–and kicking themselves every gold report that goes back east.”

The bright anticipations, the joy of the life, the romance of the journey all faded before the grim reality. The monotony of the plains, the barrenness of the desert, the toil of the mountains, the terrible heat, the dust, the rains, the sickness, the tragedy of deaths had flattened all buoyancy, and left in its stead only a sullen, dogged determination.

“There was lots of quarrelling, of course,” said our narrator. “Everybody was on edge. There were fights, that we had to settle somehow, and bad feeling.”

They had several minor skirmishes with Indians, lost from their party by disease, suffered considerable hardships and infinite toil.

“We thought we’d had a hard time,” said our friend wonderingly. “Lord!”

At the very start of the journey they had begun to realize that they were overloaded, and had commenced to throw away superfluous goods. Several units of the party had even to abandon some of their wagons.

“We chucked everything we thought we could get along without. I know we spent all one day frying out bacon to get the grease before we threw it away. We used the grease for our axles.”

They reached the head of the Humboldt. Until this point they had kept together, but now demoralization began. They had been told at Salt Lake City that they had but four hundred miles to go to Sacramento. Now they discovered that at the Humboldt they had still more than that distance to travel; and that before them lay the worst desert of all.

“Mind you,” said our friend, “we had been travelling desperately. Our cattle had died one by one; and we had doubled up with our teams. We had starved for water until our beasts were ready to drop and our own tongues had swollen in our mouths, and were scared–scared, I tell you–scared!”

He moistened his lips slowly, and went on. “Sometimes we took two or three hours to go a mile, relaying back and forth. We were down to a fine point. It wasn’t a question of keeping our property any more; it was a case of saving our lives. We’d abandoned a good half of our wagons already. When we got to the Humboldt and learned from a mountain man going the other way that the great desert was still before us, and when we had made a day or two’s journey down the river toward the Sink, I tell you we lost our nerve–and our sense.” He ruminated a few moments in silence. “My God! man!” he cried. “That trail! From about halfway down the river the carcasses of horses and oxen were so thick that I believe if they’d been laid in the road instead of alongside you could have walked the whole way without setting foot to ground!”

And then the river disappeared underground, and they had to face the crossing of the Sink itself.

“That was a real desert,” the immigrant told us sombrely. “There were long white fields of alkali and drifts of ashes across them so soft that the cattle sank way to their bellies. They moaned and bellowed! Lord, how they moaned! And the dust rose up so thick you couldn’t breathe, and the sun beat down so fierce you felt it like something heavy on your head. And how the place stunk with the dead beasts!”

The party’s organization broke. The march became a rout. Everybody pushed on with what strength he had. No man, woman, or child could ride; the wagons were emptied of everything but the barest necessities. At every stop some animal fell in the traces, and was cut out of the yoke. When a wagon came to a stop, it was abandoned, the animals detached and driven forward.

Those who were still afoot were constantly besought by those who had been forced to a standstill.

“I saw one old man, his wife and his daughter, all walking along on foot,” said the immigrant bitterly. “They were half knee deep in alkali, the sun was broiling hot, they had absolutely nothing. We couldn’t help them. What earthly chance had they? I saw a wagon stalled, the animals lying dead in their yokes, all except one old ox. A woman and three children sat inside the wagon. She called to me that they hadn’t had anything to eat for three days, and begged me to take the children. I couldn’t. I could have stopped and died there with her, but I couldn’t put another pound on my wagon and hope to get through. We were all walking alongside; even Sue, here.”

The woman raised her tragic face.

“We left our baby there,” she said; and stared back again into the coals of the fire.

“We made it,” resumed the immigrant. “We got to the Truckee River somehow, and we rested there three days. I don’t know what became of the rest of our train; dead perhaps.”

We told him of the immigrant register or bulletin board at Morton’s.

“I must look that over,” said he. “I don’t know how long it took us to cross the mountains. Those roads are terrible; and our cattle were weak. We were pretty near out of grub too. Most of the people have no food at all. Well, here we are! But there are thousands back of us. What are they going to do? And when the mountains fill with snow─”

After the trio, well fed for the first time in months, had turned in, we sat talking about our fire. We were considerably subdued and sobered; for this was the first coherent account we had heard at first hand. Two things impressed us–the tragedy, the futility. The former aspect hit us all; the latter struck strongly at Old and Cal. Those youngsters, wise in the ways of the plains, were filled with sad surprise over the incompetence of it all.

“But thar ain’t no manner of use in it!” cried Old. “They are just bullin’ at it plumb regardless! They ain’t handled their cattle right! They ain’t picked their route right–why, the old Mormon trail down by the Carson Sink is better’n that death-trap across the Humboldt. And cut-offs! What license they all got chasin’ every fool cut-off reported in? Most of ’em is all right fer pack-trains and all wrong fer wagons! Oh, Lord!”

“They don’t know,” said I, “poor devils, they don’t know. They were raised on farms and in the cities.”

Johnny had said nothing. His handsome face looked very sombre in the firelight.

“Jim,” said he, “we’re due for a trip to-night; but I want you to promise me one thing–just keep these people here, and feed them up until we get back. Tell them I’ve got a job for them. Will you do it?”

I tried to pump Johnny as to his intentions, but could get nothing out of him; and so promised blindly. About two o’clock I was roused from my sleep by a soft moving about. Thrusting my head from the tent I made out the dim figures of our horsemen, mounted, and moving quietly away down the trail.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE PRISONERS

I had no great difficulty in persuading the immigrants to rest over.

“To tell you the truth,” the narrator confided to me, “I don’t know where we’re going. We have no money, We’ve got to get work somehow. I don’t know now why we came.”

His name, he told me, was George Woodruff; he had been a lawyer in a small Pennsylvania town; his total possessions were now represented by the remains of his ox team, his wagon, and the blankets in which he slept. The other man was his brother Albert, and the woman his sister-in-law.

“We started with four wagons and a fine fit-out of supplies,” he told me–“food enough to last two years. This is what we have left. The cattle aren’t in bad shape now though; and they are extra fine stock. Perhaps I can sell them for a little.”

Two days passed. We arose the morning of the third to find that the oxen had strayed away during the night. Deciding they could not have wandered far, I went to my gold washing as usual, leaving Woodruff and his brother to hunt them up. About ten o’clock they came to my claim very much troubled.

“We can’t find them anywhere,” they told me, “and it doesn’t seem natural that they should stray far; they are too tired.”

I knocked off work, and returned with them to the flat, where we proceeded to look for tracks. The earth was too hard and tramped to show us much, and after a half hour of fruitless examination we returned to camp with the intention of eating something before starting out on a serious search. While thus engaged the express messengers rode up.

“Hullo!” said Johnny cheerfully. “Glad to hear you made such a good thing out of your cattle!”

He caught our stare of surprise, swung from his horse and advanced on us with three swift strides.

“You haven’t sold them?” he exclaimed.

“We’ve been looking for them all the morning.”

“Stolen, boys!” he cried to his companions. “Here’s our job! Come on!”

He leaped on his horse in the headlong, graceful fashion the boys had cultivated at the relay station, and, followed by Cal and Old, dashed away.

We made nothing definite of this, though we had our surmises to exchange. As the boys had not returned an hour later, I resumed my digging while the Woodruffs went over to visit with Yank, who was now out of bed. Evening came, with no sign of our friends. We turned in at last.

Some time after midnight we were awakened by the shuffling and lowing of driven cattle, and went out into the moonlight to see our six oxen, just released from herding, plunging their noses thirstily into the little stream from the spring. Five figures on horseback sat motionless in the background behind them. When the cattle had finished drinking, the horsemen, riding in two couples and one single, turned them into the flat, and then came over to our camp.