Gold

by Stewart Edward White

  CHAPTER XV

  THE GOLD TRAIL

  We loaded our pack-horses, and set off next morning early on the trailup the American River. At last, it seemed to us, we were really underway; as though our long journeyings and many experiences had been but apreparation for this start. Our spirits were high, and we laughed andjoked and sang extravagantly. Even Yank woke up and acted like a friskycolt. Such early wayfarers as we met, we hailed with shouts andchaffing; nor were we in the least abashed by an occasional surlyresponse, or the not infrequent attempts to discourage our hopes. Forwhen one man said there was no gold, another was as confident that thediggings were not even scratched.

  The morning was a very fine one; a little chilly, with a thin white misthanging low along the ground. This the sun soon dissipated. The birdssang everywhere. We trudged along the dusty road merrily.

  Every little while we stopped to readjust the burdens to our animals. Amountaineer had showed us how to lash them on, but our skill at thatsort of thing was _miner's_, and the packs would not hold. We hadto do them one at a time, using the packed animal as a pattern fromwhich to copy the hitch on the other. In this painful manner we learnedthe Squaw Hitch, which, for a long time, was to be the extent of ourknowledge. However, we got on well enough, and mounted steadily by theturns and twists of an awful road, following the general course of theriver below us.

  On the hills grew high brush, some of it very beautiful. The buckthorn,for example, was just coming out; and the dogwood, and the mountainlaurel. At first these clumps of bush were few and scattered; and thesurface of the hills, carpeted with short grass, rolled gently away, orbroke in stone dikes and outcrops. Then later, as we mounted, they drewtogether until they covered the mountainsides completely, save whereoaks and madrone kept clear some space for themselves. After a time webegan to see a scrubby long-needled pine thrusting its head here andthere above the undergrowth. That was as far as we got that day. In thehollow of a ravine we found a tiny rill of water, and there we camped.Johnny offered some slight objections at first. It was only two o'clockof the afternoon, the trees were scrubby, the soil dusty, the placegenerally uncomfortable. But Yank shook his head.

  "If we knew how they played this game, it might be all right to goahead. But we don't," said he. "I've been noticing this trail prettyclose; and I ain't seen much water except in the river; and that's anawful ways down. Maybe we'll find some water over the next hill, andmaybe we won't. But we _know_ there's water here. Then there's thequestion of hoss thieves. McClellan strikes me as a man to be believed.I don't know how they act; but you bet no hoss thief gets off with myhoss and me watchin'. But at night it's different, I don't know how theydo things. But I _do_ know that if we tie our hosses next us, theywon't be stolen. And that's what I aim to do. But if we do that, we gotto give them a chance to eat, hain't we? So we'll let them feed the restof the afternoon, and we'll tie em up to-night."

  This was much talk for Yank. In fact, the only time that taciturnindividual ever would open up was in explanation of or argument aboutsome expedient of wilderness life or travel. It sounded entirelylogical. So we made camp.

  Yank turned the two horses out into a grass meadow, and sat, his backagainst an oak tree, smoking his pipe and watching them. Johnny and Iunrolled the beds, sorted out the simple cooking utensils, and startedto cook. Occasional travellers on the road just above us shouted outfriendly greetings. They were a miscellaneous lot. Most were headedtoward the mountains. These journeyed in various ways. Some walked afootand unencumbered, some carried apparently all their belongings on theirbacks, one outfit comprising three men had three saddle horses and fourpacks--a princely caravan. One of the _cargadores'_ pack-trainswent up the road enveloped in a thick cloud of dust--twenty or thirtypack-mules and four men on horseback herding them forward. A white mare,unharnessed save for a clanging bell, led the way; and all the mulesfollowed her slavishly, the nose of one touching the tail of the other,as is the mule's besotted fashion. They were gay little animals, withsilver buttons on their harness, and yellow sheepskin linings to theirsaddles. They carried a great variety of all sorts of things; and at thefreighting rates quoted to us must have made money for their owners.Their drivers were a picturesque quartette in sombreros, wide sashes,and flowing garments. They sat their animals with a graceful carelessease beautiful to behold.

  Near sundown two horsemen turned off the trail and rode down to ourlittle trickle of water. When they drew near we recognized in one ofthem Don Gaspar Martinez. He wore still his gorgeous apparel of the daybefore, with only the addition of a pair of heavy silver ornamentedspurs on his heels, and a brace of pistols in his sash. His horse, amagnificent chestnut, was harnessed in equal gorgeousness, with silveredbroad bit, silver chains jangling therefrom, a plaited rawhide bridleand reins, a carved leather, high-pommelled saddle, also silverornamented, and a bright coloured, woven saddle blanket beneath. Theanimal stepped daintily and proudly, lifting his little feet andplanting them among the stones as though fastidiously. The man who rodewith Don Gaspar was evidently of a lower class. He was, however, astraight handsome young fellow enough, with a dark clear complexion, asmall moustache, and a pleasant smile. His dress and accoutrements wereon the same general order as those of Don Gaspar, but of quieter colourand more serviceable material. His horse, however, was of the samehigh-bred type. A third animal followed, unled, packed with two cowhideboxes.

  The Spaniard rode up to us and saluted courteously; then his eye litwith recognition.

  "Ah," said he, "the good friends of our Capitan Sutter! This is to bewell met. If it is not too much I would beg the favour of to camp."

  "By all means, Don Gaspar," said Johnny rising. "The pleasure is ofcourse our own."

  Again saluting us, Don Gaspar and his companion withdrew a shortdistance up the little meadow. There the Spaniard sat down beneath abush and proceeded to smoke a cigaretto, while his companion unsaddledthe horses, turned them loose to graze, stacked up their saddles, andmade simple camping arrangements.

  "Old Plush Pants doesn't intend to do any work if he catches sight of itfirst," observed Johnny.

  "Probably the other man is a servant?" I suggested.

  "More likely a sort of dependent," amended Johnny. "They run a kind ofpatriarchal establishment, I've been told."

  "Don't use them big words, Johnny," complained Yank, coming up with thehorses.

  "I meant they make the poor relations and kid brothers do the hustling,"said Johnny.

  "Now I understand you," said Yank. "I wish I could see what _they_do with their hosses nights. I bet they know how. And if I was a hossthief, I'd surely take a long chance for that chestnut gelding."

  "You might wander over later and find out," I suggested.

  "And get my system full of lead--sure," said Yank.

  The two camps did not exchange visits. We caught the flicker of theirlittle fire; but we were really too tired to be curious, and we turnedin early, our two animals tied fast to small trees at our feet.

  The next day lifted us into the mountains. Big green peaks across whichhung a bluish haze showed themselves between the hills. The latter weremore precipitous; and the brush had now given way to pines of bettersize and quality than those seen lower down. The river foamed overrapids or ran darkling in pools and stretches. Along the roadside,rarely, we came upon rough-looking log cabins, or shacks of canvas, ortents. The owners were not at home. We thought them miners; but in thelight of subsequent knowledge I believe that unlikely--the diggings werefarther in.

  We came upon the diggings quite suddenly. The trail ran around thecorner of a hill; and there they were below us! In the wide, dry streambottom perhaps fifty men were working busily, like a lot of ants. Somewere picking away at the surface of the ground, others had dugthemselves down waist deep, and stooped and rose like legless bodies.Others had disappeared below ground, and showed occasionally only asshovel blades. From so far above the scene was very lively and animated,for each was working like a beaver, and the red shirts made
gay littlespots of colour. On the hillside clung a few white tents and log cabins;but the main town itself, we later discovered, as well as the largerdiggings, lay around the bend and upstream.

  We looked all about us for some path leading down to the river, butcould find none; so perforce we had to continue on along the trail. Thuswe entered the camp of Hangman's Gulch; for if it had been otherwise Iam sure we would have located promptly where we had seen thosered-shirted men.

  The camp consisted merely of a closer-knit group of tents, log shacks,and a few larger buildings constructed of a queer combination of heavyhewn timbers and canvas. We saw nobody at all, though in some of thelarger buildings we heard signs of life. However, we did not wait toinvestigate the wonders of Hangman's Gulch, but drove our animals alongthe one street, looking for the trail that should lead us back to thediggings. We missed it, somehow, but struck into a beaten path that tookus upstream. This we followed a few hundred yards. It proceeded along arough, boulder-strewn river-bed, around a point of rough, jagged rocks,and out to a very wide gravelly flat through which the river had madeitself a narrow channel. The flat swarmed with men, all of them busy,and very silent.

  Leading our pack-horses we approached the nearest pair of these men, andstood watching them curiously. One held a coarse screen of willow whichhe shook continuously above a common cooking-pot, while the other slowlyshovelled earth over this sieve. When the two pots, which with theshovel seemed to be all the tools these men possessed, had been halffilled thus with the fine earth, the men carried them to the river. Wefollowed. The miners carefully submerged the pots, and commenced to stirtheir contents with their doubled fists. The light earth muddied thewater, floated upward, and then flowed slowly over the rim of the potsand down the current. After a few minutes of this, they lifted the potscarefully, drained off the water, and started back.

  "May we look?" ventured Johnny.

  The taller man glanced at us, and our pack-horses, and nodded. This wasthe first time he had troubled to take a good look at us. The bottom ofthe pot was covered with fine black sand in which we caught the gleamand sparkle of something yellow.

  "Is that gold?" I asked, awed.

  "That's gold," the man repeated, his rather saturnine features lightingup with a grin. Then seeing our interest, he unbent a trifle. "We drythe sand, and then blow it away," he explained; and strode back to wherehis companion was impatiently waiting.

  We stumbled on over the rocks and debris. There were probably somethingnear a hundred men at work in the gulch. We soon observed that the potmethod was considered a very crude and simple way of getting out thegold. Most of the men carried iron pans full of the earth to thewaterside, where, after submerging until the lighter earth had floatedoff, they slopped the remainder over the side with a peculiar twisting,whirling motion, leaving at last only the black sand--and the gold!These pan miners were in the great majority. But one group of four menwas doing business on a larger scale. They had constructed what lookedlike a very shallow baby-cradle on rockers into which they poured theirearth and water. By rocking the cradle violently but steadily, theyspilled the mud over the sides. Cleats had been nailed in the bottom tocatch the black sand.

  We wandered about here and there, looking with all our eyes. The minerswere very busy and silent, but quite friendly, and allowed us to examineas much as we pleased the results of their operations. In the pots andcradles the yellow flake gold glittered plainly, contrasting with theblack sand. In the pans, however, the residue spread out fan-shapedalong the angle between the bottom and the side, and at the apex thegold lay heavy and beautiful all by itself. The men were generallybearded, tanned with working in this blinding sun, and plasteredliberally with the red earth. We saw some queer sights, however; as whenwe came across a jolly pair dressed in what were the remains ofultra-fashionable garments up to and including plug hats! At one sideworking some distance from the stream were small groups of nativeCalifornians or Mexicans. They did not trouble to carry the earth allthe way to the river; but, after screening it roughly, tossed it intothe air above a canvas, thus winnowing out the heavier pay dirt. Ithought this must be very disagreeable.

  As we wandered about here and there among all these men so busilyengaged, and with our own eyes saw pan after pan show gold, actualmetallic guaranteed gold, such as rings and watches and money are madeof, a growing excitement possessed us, the excitement of a small boywith a new and untried gun. We wanted to get at it ourselves. Only wedid not know how.

  Finally Yank approached one of the busy miners.

  "Stranger," said he, "we're new to this. Maybe you can tell us where wecan dig a little of this gold ourselves."

  The man straightened his back, to exhibit a roving humorous blue eye,with which he examined Yank from top to toe.

  "If," said he, "it wasn't for that eighteen-foot cannon you carry overyour left arm, and a cold gray pair of eyes you carry in your head, I'ddirect you up the sidehill yonder, and watch you sweat. As it is, youcan work anywhere anybody else isn't working. Start in!"

  "Can we dig right next to you, then?" asked Yank, nodding at an unbrokenpiece of ground just upstream.

  The miner clambered carefully out of his waist-deep trench, searched hispockets, produced a pipe and tobacco. After lighting this he made Yank alow bow.

  "Thanks for the compliment; but I warn you, this claim of mine is notvery rich. I'm thinking of trying somewhere else."

  "Don't you get any gold?"

  "Oh, a few ounces a day."

  "That suits me for a beginning," said Yank decidedly. "Come on, boys!"

  The miner hopped back into his hole, only to stick his head out againfor the purpose of telling us:

  "Mind you keep fifteen feet away!"

  With eager hands we slipped a pick and shovels from beneath the packropes, undid our iron bucket, and without further delay commencedfeverishly to dig.

  Johnny held the pail, while Yank and I vied with each other in being thefirst to get our shovelfuls into that receptacle. As a consequence wenearly swamped the pail first off, and had to pour some of the earth outagain. Then we all three ran down to the river and took turns stirringthat mud pie beneath the gently flowing waters in the manner of the "potpanners" we had first watched. After a good deal of trouble we foundourselves possessed of a thick layer of rocks and coarse pebbles.

  "We forgot to screen it," I pointed out.

  "We haven't any screen," said Johnny.

  "Let's pick 'em out by hand?" suggested Yank.

  We did so. The process emptied the pail. Each of us insisted onexamining closely; but none of us succeeded in creating out of ourdesires any of that alluring black sand.

  "I suppose we can't expect to get colour every time?" observed Johnnydisappointedly. "Let's try her again."

  We tried her again: and yet again; and then some more; but always withthe same result. Our hands became puffed and wrinkled with constantimmersion in the water, and began to feel sore from the continualstirring of the rubble.

  "Something wrong," grunted Johnny into the abysmal silence in which wehad been carrying on our work.

  "We can't expect it every time," I reminded him.

  "All the others seem to."

  "Well, maybe we've struck a blank place; let's try somewhere else,"suggested Yank.

  Johnny went over to speak to our neighbour, who was engaged in tossingout shovelfuls of earth from an excavation into which he had nearlydisappeared. At Johnny's hail, he straightened his back, so that hishead bobbed out of the hole like a prairie dog.

  "No, it doesn't matter where you dig," he answered Johnny's question."The pay dirt is everywhere."

  So we moved on a few hundred feet, picked another unoccupied patch, andresumed our efforts. No greater success rewarded us here.

  "I believe maybe we ought to go deeper," surmised Yank.

  "Some of these fellows are taking their dirt right off top of theground," objected Johnny.

  However, we unlimbered the pickaxe and went deeper; to the ext
ent of twofeet or more. It was good hard work, especially as we were all soft forit. The sun poured down on our backs with burning intensity; our handsblistered; and the round rocks and half-cemented rubble that made thebar were not the easiest things in the world to remove. However, we keptat it. Yank and I, having in times past been more or less accustomed tothis sort of thing, got off much easier than did poor Johnny. About twofeet down we came to a mixed coarse sand and stones, a little finer thanthe top dirt. This seemed to us promising, so we resumed our washingoperations. They bore the same results as had the first; which was justthe whole of nothing.

  "We've got to hit it somewhere," said Johnny between his teeth. "Let'stry another place."

  We scrambled rather wearily, but with a dogged determination, out of ourshallow hole. Our blue-eyed, long-bearded friend was sitting on aconvenient boulder near at hand, his pipe between his teeth, watchingour operations.

  "Got any tobacco, boys?" he inquired genially. "Smoked my last untilto-night, unless you'll lend."

  Yank produced a plug, from which the stranger shaved some parings.

  "Struck the dirt?" he inquired. "No, I see you haven't." He stretchedhimself and arose. "You aren't washing this stuff!" he cried inamazement, as his eye took in fully what we were about.

  Then we learned what we might have known before--but how shouldwe?--that the gold was not to be found in any and every sort of looseearth that might happen to be lying about, but only in either a sort ofblue clay or a pulverized granite. Sometimes this "pay dirt" would befound atop the ground. Again, the miner had to dig for it.

  "All the surface diggings are taken up," our friend told us. "So now youhave to dig deep. It's about four feet down where I'm working. It'llprobably be deeper up here. You'd better move back where you were."

  Yank, stretched himself upright.

  "Look here," he said decidedly; "let's get a little sense intoourselves. Here's our pore old hosses standing with their packs on, andwe no place to stay, and no dinner; and we're scratchin' away at thisbar like a lot of fool hens. There's other days comin'."

  Johnny and I agreed with the common sense of the thing, but reluctantly.Now that we knew how, our enthusiasm surged up again. We wanted to getat it. The stranger's eyes twinkled sympathetically.

  "Here, boys," said he, "I know just how you feel. Come with me."

  He snatched up our bucket and strode back to his own claim, where hefilled the receptacle with some of the earth he had thrown out.

  "Go pan that," he advised us kindly.

  We raced to the water, and once more stirred about the heavy contents ofthe pail until they had floated off with the water. In the bottom lay afine black residue; and in that residue glittered the tiny yellowparticles. We had actually panned our first gold!

  Our friend examined it critically.

  "That's about a twelve-cent pan," he adjudged it.

  Somehow, in a vague way, we had unreasonably expected millions at atwist of the wrist; and the words, "twelve cents," had a ranklypenurious sound to us. However, the miner patiently explained that atwelve-cent pan was a very good one; and indubitably it was real gold.

  Yank, being older and less excitable, had not accompanied us to thewaterside.

  "Well, boys," he drawled, "that twelve cents is highly satisfactory, ofcourse; but in the meantime we've lost about six hundred dollars' worthof hoss and grub."

  Surely enough, our animals had tired of waiting for us, and had movedout packs and all. We hastily shouldered our implements.

  "Don't you want to keep this claim next me?" inquired our acquaintance.

  We stopped.

  "Surely!" I replied. "But how do we do it?"

  "Just leave your pick and shovel in the hole."

  "Won't some one steal them?"

  "No."

  "What's to prevent?" I asked a little skeptically.

  "Miners' law," he replied.

  We almost immediately got trace of our strayed animals, as a number ofmen had seen them going upstream. In fact we had no difficulty whateverin finding them for they had simply followed up the rough stream-bedbetween the canon walls until it had opened up to a gentler slope and ahanging garden of grass and flowers. Here they had turned aside and werefeeding. We caught them, and were just heading them back, when Yankstopped short.

  "What's the matter with this here?" he inquired. "Here's feed, and waternear, and it ain't so very far back to the diggings."

  We looked about us, for the first time with seeing eyes. The littleup-sloping meadow was blue and dull red with flowers; below us thestream brawled foam flecked among black rocks; the high hills rose up tomeet the sky, and at our backs across the way the pines stood thickserried. Far up in the blue heavens some birds were circling slowly.Somehow the leisurely swing of these unhasting birds struck from us thefeverish hurry that had lately filled our souls. We drew deep breaths;and for the first time the great peace and majesty of these Californiamountains cooled our spirits.

  "I think it's a bully place, Yank," said Johnny soberly, "and thatlittle bench up above us looks flat."

  We clambered across the slant of the flower-spangled meadow to thebench, just within the fringe of the pines. It proved to be flat, andfrom the edge of it down the hill seeped a little spring marked by thefeathery bracken. We entered a cool green place, peopled with shadowsand the rare, considered notes of soft-voiced birds. Just over ourthreshold, as it were, was the sunlit, chirpy, buzzing, bright-coloured,busy world. Overhead a wind of many voices hummed through the pine tops.The golden sunlight flooded the mountains opposite, flashed from thestream, lay languorous on the meadow. Long bars of it slanted through anunguessed gap in the hills behind us to touch with magic the very topsof the trees over our heads. The sheen of the precious metal was overthe land.