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.
After they had approached within plain sight we saw that the single horseman was Cal Marsh; and that Johnny and Old each led an animal on which a man was tied, his arms behind him, his feet shackled beneath the horse’s barrel.
“Here, you fellows,” said Johnny in a low voice, “just catch hold here and help with these birds.”
The three descended rather wearily from their horses, the lead lines of which Cal held while the rest unshackled the prisoners and helped them to dismount. They were both known to me, one as the big desperado, Malone; and the other as the barkeeper at Morton’s place, our old friend of Chagres days. The latter’s head was roughly bound with a bloody cloth. Under Johnny’s direction we tied them firmly. He issued his orders in a low-voiced, curt fashion that precluded anything but the most instant and silent obedience.
“There,” said he at last, “they’ll do. Chuck them inside where they’ll be out of sight. Now about those two horses─”
“I’ll just run ’em up to the Dutchman’s Flat and stake ’em out thar,” interposed Old. “Thar ain’t no one thar; and they won’t be discovered.”
“Well,” conceded Johnny, “if your horse isn’t too tired.”
“She’ll make it,” replied Old confidently.
“Now for our horses,” said Johnny.
“Won’t do to be getting in at this time of night. It doesn’t look natural. Don’t believe we can get them to the stable without being spotted. Maybe you’d better stake them up there too. Can you walk back?”
“I reckon,” said Old.
He tied the four led horses together, mounted, took the lead rope from Cal, and rode off up the gulch.
Cal came to the fire and sat down. I was instantly struck by his ghastly appearance.
“Cal’s bored through the shoulder,” Johnny explained. “Now, Jim, you’ve got to go up and get Dr. Rankin. He lives at Barnes’s hotel, you know. Barnes is all right; bring him down, too, if you happen to wake him up. Go around to Danny Randall’s quietly and tell him we want to see him. He sleeps in that little back room. Throw some pebbles against the stovepipe; that’ll wake him up. Look out he doesn’t pot you. Don’t let anybody see you if you can possibly help; and tell the others to slip out here quietly, too. Do you understand all that?”
“I see what I’m to do,” I assented; “but let me in! What’s it all about?”
“We met these men and three others driving Woodruff’s oxen this morning,” said Johnny rapidly. “Stopped and had quite a chat with them. They told what sounded like a straight story of having bought the oxen. I knew Woodruff wanted to sell. Didn’t suppose they’d have the nerve to lift them right under our noses. Guess they hadn’t an idea they’d meet us on the road. We were taking the lower trail just for a change. So as soon as we got the news from you, we went back, of course. They suspected trouble, and had turned off. Old and Cal are wonders at trailing. Came up with them just beyond Bitter Water, and monkeyed around quite a while before we got a favourable chance to tackle them. Then we took the cattle away and brought back these birds. That’s all there was to it.”
“You said five. Where are the other three?”
“Killed ’em,” said Johnny briefly. “Now run along and do your job.”
After some delay and difficulty I fulfilled my instructions, returning at last in company with Danny Randall, to find my friends sitting around the little fire, and Dr. Rankin engaged in bathing Cal’s wound. Johnny was repeating his story, to which the others were listening attentively.
“I learned a little more of this sort of thing in Sacramento,” he was concluding. “And I’d like to state this right here and now: practical jokes on these immigrants are poor taste as far as I am concerned from now on. That’s my own private declaration of war.”
“Let’s take a look at your birds, Johnny,” suggested Randall.
I brought out the prisoners and stacked them up against the trees. They gave us back look for look defiantly.
“You won’t live a week after this,” said the Morton man, whose name was Carhart, addressing Johnny.
“I’ll just have a look at your head, my friend,” said Dr. Rankin.
The man bent his head, and the doctor began to remove the bloody bandages.
“Question is,” said Johnny, “what do we do with them?”
Danny was thinking hard.
“One of two things,” said he at length: “We can string them up quietly, and leave them as a warning; or we can force matters to a showdown by calling a public meeting.”
“Question is,” said I, “whether we can get anybody with nerve enough to serve as officers of court, or, indeed, to testify as witnesses.”
“You said a true word there,” put in Carhart with an oath.
“I’ll bear witness for one,” offered Dr. Rankin, looking up from his work, “and on a good many things.”
“Look out, damn you!” muttered Carhart.
“I’ve been called to a good many cases of gunshot wounds,” continued the doctor steadily, “and I’ve kept quiet because I was given to understand that my life was worth nothing if I spoke.”
“You’d better keep your mouth shut!” warned the bandit.
“Now,” pursued the doctor, “I personally believe the time has come to assert ourselves. I’m in favour of serving notice on the whole lot, and cleaning up the mess once and for all. I believe there are more decent men than criminals in this camp, if you get them together.”
“That’s my idea,” agreed Johnny heartily. “Get the camp together; I’ll see every man in it and let Woodruff tell his tale, and then let Old or me tell ours.”
“And I’ll tell mine,” said Dr. Rankin.
Danny Randall shook his head.
“They’ll rise to it like men!” cried Johnny indignantly. “Nobody but a murderer and cattle thief listening to that story could remain unmoved.”
“Well,” said Danny, “if you won’t just quietly hang these fellows right now, try the other. I should string ’em up and shut their mouths. You’re too early; it won’t do.”
*
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TRIAL
The meeting took place in the Bella Union, and the place was crowded to the doors. All the roughs in town were on hand, fully armed, swearing, swaggering, and brandishing their weapons. They had much to say by way of threat, for they did not hesitate to show their sympathies. As I looked upon their unexpected numbers and listened to their wild talk, I must confess that my heart failed me. Though they had not the advantage in numbers, they knew each other; were prepared to work together; were, in general, desperately courageous and reckless, and imbued with the greatest confidence. The decent miners, on the other hand, were practically unknown to each other; and, while brave enough and hardy enough, possessed neither the recklessness nor desperation of the others. I think our main weakness sprang from the selfish detachment that had prevented us from knowing whom to trust.
After preliminary organization a wrangle at once began as to the form of the trial. We held very strongly that we should continue our usual custom of open meeting; but Morton insisted with equal vehemence that the prisoners should have jury trial. The discussion grew very hot and confused. Pistols and knives were flourished. The chair put the matter to a vote, but was unable to decide from the yells and howls that answered the question which side had the preponderance. A rising vote was demanded.
“Won’t they attempt a rescue?” I asked of Danny Randall, under cover of the pandemonium. “They could easily fight their way free.”
He shook his head.
“That would mean outlawing themselves. They would rather get clear under some show of law. Then they figure to run the camp.”
The vote was understood to favour a jury trial.
“That settles it,” said Danny; “the poor damn fools.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“You’ll see,” said he.
In the selection of the jury we had the advantage. None of the roughs could get on the panel to hang the verdict, for the simple reason that they were all too well known. The miners cautiously refused to endorse any one whose general respectability was not known to them. I found myself one of those selected.
A slight barrier consisting of a pole thrown across one corner of the room set aside a jury box. We took our places therein. Men crowded to the pole, talking for our benefit, cursing steadily, and uttering the most frightful threats.
I am not going to describe that most turbulent afternoon. The details are unessential to the main point, which was our decision. Counsel was appointed by the court from among the numerous ex-lawyers. The man who took charge of the defence was from New York, and had served some ten years in the profession before the gold fever took him. I happen to know that he was a most sober-minded, steady individual, not at all in sympathy with the rougher elements; but, like most of his ilk, he speedily became so intensely interested in plying his profession that he forgot utterly the justice of the case. He defended the lawless element with all the tricks at his command. For that reason Woodruff was prevented from testifying at all, except as to his ownership of the cattle; so that the effect of his pathetic story was lost. Dr. Rankin had no chance to appear. This meeting should have marked the awakening of public spirit to law and order; and if all the
elements of the case had been allowed to come before the decent part of the community in a common-sense fashion, I am quite sure it would have done so. But two lawyers got interested in tangling each other up with their technicalities, and the result was that the real significance of the occasion was lost to sight. The lawyer for the defence, pink and warm and happy, sat down quite pleased with his adroitness. A few of us, and the desperadoes, alone realized what it all meant.
We retired to Randall’s little room to deliberate. Not a man of the twelve of us had the first doubt as to the guilt of the prisoners. We took a ballot. The result was eleven for acquittal and one for conviction. I had cast the one vote for conviction.
We argued the matter for three hours.
“There’s no doubt the men are guilty,” said one. “That isn’t the question. The question is, dare we declare it?”
“It amounts to announcing our own death sentence,” argued another. “Those fellows would stand together, but who of the lot would stand by us? Why, we don’t even know for sure who would be with us.”
“This case ought never to have been tried by a jury,” complained a third bitterly. “It ought to have been tried in a miners’ court; and if it hadn’t been for those soft heads who were strong for doing things ‘regularly’ instead of sensibly, we’d have had it done that way.”
“Well,” said an older man gravely, “I agree to that. I am going to be governed in my decision not by the merits of the case, but by the fact that I have a family back in the States. I consider my obligations to them greater than to this community.”
I reasoned with them for a long time, bringing to bear all the arguments I had heard advanced at various times during our discussions in Danny Randall’s back room. At last, seeing I could in no manner shake their resolution, I gave in. After all, I could not blame them. The case was to them only one of cattle stealing; they had no chance to realize that it was anything more. Without solicitation on my part they agreed to keep secret my opposition to the verdict of acquittal.
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