Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West
The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable dispute.
“I recommend the level turf under this oak,” said Ned, pointing to a huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward.
“It’s too low,” objected Tom, (Tom could always object—a quality which, while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to gunpowder in that of others;) “it’s too low, and, doubtless, moist. I think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot.”
“Now, who is to decide the question if I don’t give in, Tom? For I assume, of course, that you will never give in.”
At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them. It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of summer, that they snap off without a moment’s warning, often when there is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches.
An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had barely passed Ned’s lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground.
“That settles it,” said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its branches.
In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pass, while they cooked and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on their saddles, and murmuring “Good-night,” forgot their troubles in the embrace of deep, refreshing slumber.
Chapter Seventeen.
A Curious and Valuable Draught—Lynch Law applied—Black Jim’s Confession—Ned becomes a Painter, and finds the Profession Profitable as well as Amusing—The First Portrait
Next morning the travellers were up and away by daybreak, and in the afternoon they came upon a solitary miner who was prospecting in a gulch near the road-side.
This word gulch is applied to the peculiarly abrupt, short ravines, which are a characteristic feature in Californian more than in any other mountains. The weather was exceedingly hot, and the man took off his cap and wiped his streaming brow as he looked at the travellers who approached him.
“Ha! you’ve got water there, I see,” cried Tom Collins, leaping off his horse, seizing a cup which stood on the ground full of clear water, and draining it eagerly.
“Stop!” cried the man, quickly.
“Why!” inquired Tom, smacking his lips.
The miner took the empty cup and gazed inquiringly into it.
“Humph! you’ve drunk it, every grain.”
“Drop, you mean,” suggested Tom, laughing at the man’s expression; “of course I have, and why not? There’s plenty more of the same tap here.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind the water,” replied the man, “if ye had only left the gold-dust behind, but you’ve finished that too.”
“You don’t mean it!” gasped Tom, while the questions flashed across his mind—Is gold-dust poison? And if not, is it digestible? “How—how much have I swallowed?”
“Only about two dollars—it don’t signify,” answered the man, joining in the burst of laughter to which Ned and Tom gave way on this announcement.
“I’m afraid we must owe you the sum, then,” said Ned, recovering his composure, “for we have only one dollar left, having been robbed last night; but as we mean to work in this neighbourhood, I dare say you will trust us.”
The man agreed to this, and having directed the travellers to the settlement of Weaver Creek, resumed his work, while they proceeded on their way. Tom’s digestion did not suffer in consequence of his golden draught, and we may here remark, for the benefit of the curious, that he never afterwards experienced any evil effects from it. We may further add, that he did not forget to discharge the debt.
After half-an-hour’s ride they came in sight of a few straggling diggers, from whom they learned that the settlement, or village, or town of Weaver Creek was about two miles further on, and in a quarter of an hour they reached it.
The spot on which it stood was wild and romantic, embosomed among lofty wooded hills, whose sides were indented by many a rich ravine, and seamed by many a brawling water-course. Here digging was, as the miners have it, in full blast. Pick, and shovel, and cradle, and long-tom, and prospecting-pan—all were being plied with the utmost energy and with unwearied perseverance. The whole valley was cut up and converted into a net-work of holes and mud-heaps, and the mountain slopes were covered with the cabins, huts, and canvas tents of the miners.
About the centre of the settlement, which was a very scattered one, stood a log-house or cabin, of somewhat larger dimensions than the generality of those around it. This was the grand hotel, restaurant, and gambling-house of the place, besides being the scene of the trials and executions that occasionally took place. Some such work was going forward when our travellers rode up, for the area in front of the hotel was covered with a large concourse of miners.
“I suspect they are about to try the poor wretches who attacked us last night,” said Ned, dismounting at the door of the house.
He had scarcely spoken, when a couple of men ran towards them.
“Here you are, strangers,” they cried, “come along and bear witness agin’ them blackguards; they’re just about to be strung up. We’ll look after your horses.”
The duty was a disagreeable one, but it could not be avoided, so Ned and Tom suffered themselves to be led into the centre of the ring where the three culprits were standing already pinioned, and with the ropes round their necks. For a short time silence was obtained while Ned stated the circumstances of the robbery, and also the facts regarding the murder of which Black Jim had been previously found guilty. Then there was a general shout of “String ’em up!” “Up wi’ the varmints!” and such phrases; but a short respite was granted in consequence of Black Jim expressing a desire to speak with Ned Sinton.
“What have you to say to me?” inquired Ned, in a low tone, as he walked close up to the wretched man, who, although his minutes on earth were numbered, looked as if he were absolutely indifferent to his fate.
“I’ve only to say,” answered the culprit, sternly, “that of all the people I leaves behind me in this world there’s but one I wish I hadn’t bin bad to, and that’s Kate Morgan. You know something of her, though you’ve never seen her—I know that. Tell her I—no, tell her she’ll find the gold I robbed her of at the foot o’ the pine-tree behind the tent she’s livin’ in jist now. An’ tell her that her little sister’s not dead, though she don’t believe me. I took the child to—”
“Come, come, ha’ done wi’ yer whisperin’,” cried several of the bystanders, who were becoming impatient of delay.
“Have patience,” said Ned, raising his hand. “The man is telling me something of importance.”
“I’ve done,” growled Black Jim, scowling on the crowd with a look of hate; “I wish I hadn’t said so much.”
The rope was tightened as he spoke, and Ned, turning abruptly on his heel, hurried away with his friend from the spot just as the three robbers were run up and suspended from the branch of the tree, beneath and around which the crowd stood.
Entering the inn, and seating themselves in a retired corner of the crowded gambling-room, Ned and Tom proceeded to discuss their present prospects and future plans in a frame of mind that was by no means enviable. They were several hundreds of miles distant from the scene of their first home at the diggings, without a dollar in their pockets, and only a horse between them. With the exception of the clothes on their backs, and Ned’s portfolio of drawing materials, which he always carried slung across his shoulder, they had nothing else in the world. Their first and most urgent necessity was supper, in order to procure which it behoved them to sell Tom’s horse. This was easily done, as, on application to the landlord, they were directed to a trader who was on the point of setting out on an expedition to Sacramento city, and who readily purchased the horse for less than half its value.
Being thus put in possession of funds sufficient at least for a few days, they sat down to supper with relieved minds, and afterwards went out to stroll about the settlement, and take a look at the various diggings. The miners here worked chiefly at the bars or sand-banks thrown up in various places by the river which coursed through their valley; but the labour was severe, and the return not sufficient to attract impatient and sanguine miners, although quite remunerative enough to those who wrought with steady perseverance. The district had been well worked, and many of the miners were out prospecting for new fields of labour. A few companies had been formed, and these, by united action and with the aid of long-toms, were well rewarded, but single diggers and pan-washers were beginning to become disheartened.
“Our prospects are not bright,” observed Tom, sitting down on a rock close to the hut of a Yankee who was delving busily in a hole hard by.
“True,” answered Ned, “in one sense they are not bright, but in another sense they are, for I never yet, in all my travels, beheld so beautiful and bright a prospect of land and water as we have from this spot. Just look at it, Tom; forget your golden dreams for a little, if you can, and look abroad upon the splendid face of nature.”
Ned’s eye brightened as he spoke, for his love and admiration of the beauties and charms of nature amounted almost to a passion. Tom, also, was a sincere admirer of lovely, and especially of wild, scenery, although he did not express his feelings so enthusiastically.
“Have you got your colours with you?” he inquired.
“I have; and if you have patience enough to sit here for half-an-hour I’ll sketch it. If not, take a stroll, and you’ll find me here when you return.”
“I can admire nature for even longer than that period, but I cannot consent to watch a sketcher of nature even for five minutes, so I’ll take a stroll.”
In a few minutes Ned, with book on knee and pencil in hand, was busily engaged in transferring the scene to paper, oblivious of gold, and prospects, and everything else, and utterly ignorant of the fact that the Yankee digger, having become curious as to what the stranger could be about, had quitted his hole, and now stood behind him quietly looking over his shoulder.
The sketch was a very beautiful one, for, in addition to the varied character of the scenery and the noble background of the Sierra Nevada, which here presented some of its wildest and most fantastic outlines, the half-ruined hut of the Yankee, with the tools and other articles scattered around it, formed a picturesque foreground. We have elsewhere remarked that our hero was a good draughtsman. In particular, he had a fine eye for colour, and always, when possible, made coloured sketches during his travels in California. On the present occasion, the rich warm glow of sunset was admirably given, and the Yankee stood gazing at the work, transfixed with amazement and delight. Ned first became aware of his proximity by the somewhat startling exclamation, uttered close to his ear—
“Wall, stranger, you air a screamer, that’s a fact!”
“I presume you mean that for a compliment,” said Ned, looking up with a smile at the tall, wiry, sun-burnt, red-flannel-shirted, straw-hatted creature that leaned on his pick-axe beside him.
“No, I don’t; I ain’t used to butter nobody. I guess you’ve bin raised to that sort o’ thing?”
“No, I merely practise it as an amateur,” answered Ned, resuming his work.
“Now, that is cur’ous,” continued the Yankee; “an’ I’m kinder sorry to hear’t, for if ye was purfessional I’d give ye an order.”
Ned almost laughed outright at this remark, but he checked himself as the idea flashed across him that he might perhaps make his pencil useful in present circumstances.
“I’m not professional as yet,” he said, gravely; “but I have no objection to become so if art is encouraged in these diggings.”
“I guess it will be, if you shew yer work. Now, what’ll ye ax for that bit!”
This was a home question, and a poser, for Ned had not the least idea of what sum he ought to ask for his work, and at the same time he had a strong antipathy to that species of haggling, which is usually prefaced by the seller, with the reply, “What’ll ye give?” There was no other means, however, of ascertaining the market-value of his sketch, so he put the objectionable question.
“I’ll give ye twenty dollars, slick off.”
“Very good,” replied Ned, “it shall be yours in ten minutes.”
“An’ I say, stranger,” continued the Yankee, while Ned put the finishing touches to his work, “will ye do the inside o’ my hut for the same money?”
“I will,” replied Ned.
The Yankee paused for a few seconds, and then added—
“I’d like to git myself throwd into the bargain, but I guess ye’ll ask more for that.”
“No, I won’t; I’ll do it for the same sum.”
“Thank’ee; that’s all square. Ye see, I’ve got a mother in Ohio State, an’ she’d give her ears for any scrap of a thing o’ me or my new home; an’ if ye’ll git ’em both fixed off by the day arter to-morrow, I’ll send ’em down to Sacramento by Sam Scott, the trader. I’ll rig out and fix up the hut to-morrow mornin’, so if ye come by breakfast-time I’ll be ready.”
Ned promised to be there at the appointed hour, as he rose and handed him the sketch, which the man, having paid the stipulated sum, carried away to his hut with evident delight.
“Halloo, I say,” cried Ned.
“Wall?” answered the Yankee, stopping with a look of concern, as if he feared the artist had repented of his bargain.
“Mind you tell no one my prices, for, you see, I’ve not had time to consider about them yet.”
“All right; mum’s the word,” replied the man, vanishing into his little cabin just as Tom Collins returned from his ramble.
“Halloo, Ned, what’s that I hear about prices? I hope you’re not offering to speculate in half-finished holes, or anything of that sort, eh?”
“Sit down here, my boy, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Tom obeyed, and, with a half-surprised and more than half-amused expression, listened to his companion’s narration of the scene that had just taken place, and of the plan which he had formed in his mind. This plan was carried out the following day.
By daybreak Ned was up preparing his drawing materials; then he and Tom breakfasted at the table d’hôte, after which the latter went to hunt for a suitable log-hut in which to carry on their joint labours, while the former proceeded to fulfil his engagement. Their night’s lodging and breakfast made a terribly large gap in their slender fortune, for prices at the time happened to be enormously high, in consequence of expected supplies failing to arrive at the usual time. The bill at the hotel was ten dollars a day per man; and provisions of all kinds were so dear, that the daily earnings of the miners barely sufficed to find them in the necessaries of life. It therefore behoved our friends to obtain a private dwelling and remunerative work as fast as possible.
On reaching the little log-hut, Ned found the Yankee ready to receive him. He wore a clean new red-flannel shirt, with a blue silk kerchief round the throat; a broad-brimmed straw hat, corduroys, and fisherman’s long boots. To judge from his gait, and the self-satisfied expression of his bronzed countenance, he was not a little proud of his personal appearance.
While Ned arranged his paper and colours, and sharpened the point of his pencil, the Yankee kept up a running commentary on men and things in general, rocking himself on a rudely-constructed chair the while, and smoking his pipe.
The hut was very small—not more than twelve feet by eight, and just high enough inside to permit of a six-foot man grazing the beams when he walked erect. But, although small, it was exceedingly comfortable. Its owner was his own architect and builder, being a jack-of-all-trades, and everything about the wooden edifice betokened the hand of a thorough workman, who cared not for appearance, but was sensitively alive to comfort. Comfort was stamped in unmistakeable characters on every article of furniture, and on every atom that entered into the composition of the Yankee’s hut. The logs of which it was built were undressed; they were not even barked, but those edges of them that lay together were fitted and bevelled with such nicety that the keenest and most searching blast of north wind failed to discover an entrance, and was driven baffled and shrieking from the walls. The small fire-place and chimney, composed of mud and dry grass, were rude in appearance; but they were substantial, and well calculated for the work they had to perform. The seats, of which there were four—two chairs, a bench, and a stool—were of the plainest wood, and the simplest form; but they were solid as rocks, and no complaining creak, when heavy men sat down on them, betokened bad or broken constitutions. The little table—two feet by sixteen inches—was in all respects worthy of the chairs. At one end of the hut there was a bed-place, big enough for two; it was variously termed a crib, a shelf, a tumble-in, and a bunk. Its owner called it a “snoosery.” This was a model of plainness and comfort. It was a mere shell about two and a half feet broad, projecting from the wall, to which it was attached on one side, the other side being supported by two wooden legs a foot high. A plank at the side, and another at the foot, in conjunction with the walls of the cottage, converted the shelf into an oblong box. But the mattress of this rude couch was formed of buffalo-skins, covered with thick, long luxurious hair; above which were spread two large green mackinaw blankets of the thickest description; and the canvas pillow-case was stuffed with the softest down, purchased from the wild-fowl of California with leaden coin, transmitted through the Yankee’s unerring rifle.
There was a fishing-rod in one corner, a rifle in another, a cupboard in a third; poles and spears, several unfinished axe-handles, and a small fishing-net lay upon the rafters overhead; while various miscellaneous articles of clothing, and implements for mining hung on pegs from the walls, or lay scattered about everywhere; but in the midst of apparent confusion comfort reigned supreme, for nothing was placed so as to come in one’s way; everything was cleverly arranged, so as to lie close and fit in; no article or implement was superfluous; no necessary of a miner’s life was wanting; an air of thorough completeness invested the hut and everything about it; and in the midst of all sat the presiding genius of the place, with his long legs comfortably crossed, the tobacco wreaths circling round his lantern jaws, the broad-brimmed straw hat cocked jauntily on one side, his arms akimbo, and his rather languid black eyes gazing at Ned Sinton with an expression of comfortable self-satisfaction and assurance that was quite comforting to behold.
“Wall, mister, if you’re ready, I guess ye’d better fire away.”
“One second more and I shall commence,” replied Ned; “I beg pardon, may I ask your name?”
“Jefferson—Abel Jefferson to command,” answered the Yankee, relighting the large clay pipe which he had just filled, and stuffing down the glowing tobacco with the end of his little finger as slowly and deliberately as though that member were a salamander. “What’s yourn!”
“Edward Sinton. Now, Mr Jefferson, in what position do you intend to sit?”
“Jest as I’m settin’ now.”
“Then you must sit still, at least for a few minutes at a time, because I cannot sketch you while you keep rocking so.”
“No! now that’s a pity, for I never sits no other way when I’m to home; an’ it would look more nat’ral an’ raal like to the old ’ooman if I was drawd rockin’. However, fire away, and sing out when ye want me to stop. Mind ye, put in the whole o’ me. None o’ yer half-lengths. I never goes in for half-lengths. I always goes the whole length, an’ a leetle shave more. See that ye don’t forget the mole on the side o’ my nose. My poor dear old mother wouldn’t believe it was me if the mole warn’t there as big as life, with the two hairs in the middle of it. An’ I say, mister, mind that I hate flatterers, so don’t flatter me no how.”
“It wouldn’t be easy to do so,” thought Ned, as he plied his pencil, but he did not deem it advisable to give expression to his thoughts.
“Now, then, sit still for a moment,” said Ned.
The Yankee instantly let the front legs of his chair come to the ground with a bang, and gazed right before him with that intensely-grave, cataleptic stare that is wont to overspread the countenances of men when they are being photographed.
Ned laughed inwardly, and proceeded with his work in silence.
“I guess there’s Sam at the door,” said Abel Jefferson, blowing a cloud of smoke from his mouth that might have made a small cannon envious.
The door flew open as he spoke, and Sam Scott, the trader, strode into the hut. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a good-humoured but intensely impudent expression of countenance, and tanned to a rich dark brown by constant exposure to the weather in the prosecution of his arduous calling.
“Halloo! stranger, what air you up to!” inquired Sam, sitting down on the bench behind Ned, and looking over his shoulder.
Ned might perhaps have replied to this question despite its unceremoniousness, had not the Yankee followed it up by spitting over his shoulder into the fire-place. As it was, he kept silence, and went on with his work.
“Why I do declare,” continued Sam, “if you ain’t photogged here as small as life, mole an’ all, like nothin’. I say, stranger, ain’t you a Britisher?”
Sam again followed up his question with a shot at the fire-place.
“Yes,” answered Ned, somewhat angrily, “and I am so much of a Britisher, that I positively object to your spitting past my ear.”
“No, you don’t, do you? Now, that is cur’ous. I do believe if you Britishers had your own way, you’d not let us spit at all. What air you better than we, that you hold your heads so high, and give yourselves sich airs! that’s what I want to know.”
Ned’s disgust having subsided, he replied—
“If we do hold our heads high, it is because we are straightforward, and not afraid to look any man in the face. As to giving ourselves airs, you mistake our natural reserve and dislike to obtrude ourselves upon strangers for pride; and in this respect, at least, if in no other, we are better than you—we don’t spit all over each other’s floors and close past each other’s noses.”
“Wall, now, stranger, if you choose to be resarved, and we choose to be free-an’-easy, where’s the differ? We’ve a right to have our own customs, and do as we please as well as you, I guess.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Abel Jefferson, commencing to rock himself again, and to smoke more violently than ever. “What say ye to that, mister?”
“Only this,” answered Ned, as he put the finishing touches to his sketch, “that whereas we claim only the right to do to and with ourselves what we please, you Yankees claim the right to do to and with everybody, else what you please. I have no objection whatever to your spitting, but I do object to your spitting over my shoulder.”
“Do you?” said Sam Scott, in a slightly sarcastic tone, “an’ suppose I don’t stop firin’ over your shoulder, what then?”
“I’ll make you,” replied Ned, waxing indignant at the man’s cool impudence.
“How?” inquired Sam.
Ned rose and shook back the flaxen curls from his flushed face, as he replied, “By opening the door and kicking you out of the hut.”
He repented of the hasty expression the moment it passed his lips, so he turned to Jefferson and handed him the drawing for inspection. Sam Scott remained seated. Whether he felt that Ned was thoroughly capable of putting his threat in execution or not we cannot tell, but he evinced no feeling of anger as he continued the conversation.
“I guess if you did that, you’d have to fight me, and you’d find me pretty smart with the bowie-knife an’ the revolver, either in the dark or in daylight.”
Sam here referred to the custom prevalent among the Yankees in some parts of the United States of duelling with bowie-knives or with pistols in a darkened room.
“And suppose,” answered Ned, with a smile—“suppose that I refused to fight, what then?”
“Why, then, you’d be called a coward all over the diggin’s, and you’d have to fight to clear your character.”
“And suppose I didn’t care a straw for being called a coward, and wouldn’t attempt to clear my character?”
“Why, then, I guess, I’d have to kick you in public till you were obligated to fight.”
“But suppose still further,” continued Ned, assuming the air of a philosopher discussing a profoundly-abstruse point in science—“suppose that, being the stronger man, I should prevent you from kicking me by knocking you down, what then?”
“Why, then, I’d be compelled to snuff you out slick off?”
Sam Scott smiled as he spoke, and touched the handle of his revolver.
“Which means,” said Ned, “that you would become a cold-blooded murderer.”
“So you Britishers call it.”
“And so Judge Lynch would call it, if I am not mistaken, which would insure your being snuffed out too, pretty effectually.”
“Wrong, you air, stranger,” replied the trader; “Judge Lynch regards affairs of honour in a very different light, I guess. I don’t think he’d scrag me for that.”
Further investigation of this interesting topic was interrupted by Abel Jefferson, who had been gazing in wrapt admiration at the picture for at least five minutes, pronouncing the work “fuss rate,” emphatically.
“It’s jest what’ll warm up the old ’ooman’s heart, like a big fire in a winter day. Won’t she screech when she claps her peepers on’t, an’ go yellin’ round among the neighbours, shewin’ the pictur’ o’ ‘her boy Abel,’ an’ his house at the gold diggin’s?”
The two friends commented pretty freely on the merits of the work, without the smallest consideration for the feelings of the artist. Fortunately they had nothing but good to say about it. Sam Scott, indeed, objected a little to the sketchy manner in which some of the subordinate accessories were touched in, and remarked that the two large hairs on the mole were almost invisible; but Jefferson persisted in maintaining that the work was “fuss rate,” and faultless.
The stipulated sum was paid; and Ned, bidding his new friends good-morning, returned to the inn, for the purpose of discussing dinner and plans with Tom Collins.
