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.
Chapter Eighteen.
Ned’s New Profession pays admirably—He and Tom Wax Philosophical—“Pat” comes for a “Landscape” of himself—Lynch Law and the Doctors—Ned’s Sitters—A Yankee Swell receives a Gentle Rebuff.
The ups and downs, and the outs and ins of life are, as every one is aware, exceedingly curious,—sometimes pleasant, often the reverse, and not infrequently abrupt.
On the day of their arrival at the settlement, Ned and Tom were almost beggars; a dollar or two being all the cash they possessed, besides the gold-dust swallowed by the latter, which being, as Tom remarked, sunk money, was not available for present purposes.
One week later, they were, as Abel Jefferson expressed it, “driving a roaring trade in pictur’s,” and in the receipt of fifty dollars, or 10 pounds a day! Goods and provisions of all kinds had been suddenly thrown into the settlement by speculators, so that living became comparatively cheap; several new and profitable diggings had been discovered, in consequence of which gold became plentiful; and the result of all was that Edward Sinton, esquire, portrait and landscape painter, had more orders than he could accept, at almost any price he chose to name. Men who every Saturday came into the settlement to throw away their hard-earned gains in the gambling-houses, or to purchase provisions for the campaign of the following week, were delighted to have an opportunity of procuring their portraits, and were willing to pay any sum for them, so that, had our hero been so disposed, he could have fleeced the miners to a considerable extent. But Ned was not so disposed, either by nature or necessity. He fixed what he considered fair remunerative prices for his work, according to the tariff of the diggings, and so arranged it that he made as much per day as he would have realised had he been the fortunate possessor of one of the best “claims” in the neighbourhood.
Tom Collins, meanwhile, went out prospecting, and speedily discovered a spot of ground which, when wrought with the pan, turned him in twenty dollars a day. So that, in the course of a fortnight, our adventurers found themselves comparatively rich men. This was satisfactory, and Ned admitted as much one morning to Tom, as he sat on a three-legged stool in his studio—i.e. a dilapidated log-hut—preparing for a sitter, while the latter was busily engaged in concluding his morning repast of damper, pork, and beans.
“There’s no doubt about it, Tom,” said he, pegging a sheet of drawing-paper to a flat board, “we are rapidly making our fortunes, my boy; but d’you know, I’m determined to postpone that desirable event, and take to rambling again.”
“There you go,” said Tom, somewhat testily, as he lit a cigar, and lay down on his bed to enjoy it; “you are never content; I knew it wouldn’t last; you’re a rolling stone, and will end in being a beggar. Do you really mean to say that you intend to give up a lucrative profession and become a vagrant?—for such you will be, if you take to wandering about the country without any object in view.”
“Indeed, I do,” answered Ned. “How often am I to tell you that I don’t and won’t consider the making of money the chief good of this world? Doubtless, it is an uncommonly necessary thing, especially to those who have families to support; but I am firmly convinced that this life was meant to be enjoyed, and I mean to enjoy it accordingly.”
“I agree with you, Ned, heartily; but if every one enjoyed life as you propose to do, and took to rambling over the face of the earth, there would be no work done, and nothing could be had for love or money—except what grew spontaneously; and that would be a joyful state of things, wouldn’t it?”
Tom Collins, indulging the belief that he had taken up an unassailable position, propelled from his lips a long thin cloud of smoke, and smiled through it at his friend.
“Your style of reasoning is rather wild, to say the least of it,” answered Ned, as he rubbed down his colours on the bottom of a broken plate. “In the first place, you assume that I propose to spend all my life in rambling; and, in the second place, you found your argument on the absurd supposition that everybody else must find their sole enjoyment in the same occupation.”
“How I wish,” sighed Tom Collins, smoking languidly, “that there was no such thing as reasoning. You would be a much more agreeable fellow, Ned, if you didn’t argue.”
“It takes two to make an argument,” remarked Ned. “Well, but couldn’t you converse without arguing?”
“Certainly, if you would never contradict what I say, nor make an incorrect statement, nor draw a wrong conclusion, nor object to being contradicted when I think you are in the wrong.”
Tom sighed deeply, and drew comfort from his cigar. In a few minutes he resumed,—“Well, but what do you mean by enjoying life?”
Ned Sinton pondered the question a few seconds, and then replied—
“I mean this:— the way to enjoy life is to do all the good you can, by working just enough to support yourself and your family, if you have one; to assist in spreading the gospel, and to enable you to help a friend in need; and to alleviate the condition of the poor, the sick, and the destitute. To work for more than this is to be greedy; to work for less is to be reprehensibly lazy. This amount of work being done, men ought to mingle with their fellow-creatures, and wander abroad as much as may be among the beautiful works of their Creator.”
“A very pretty theory, doubtless,” replied Tom; “but, pray, in what manner will your proposed ramble advance the interests of religion, or enable you to do the extra ordinary amount of good you speak of?”
“There you go again, Tom; you ask me the abstract question, ‘What do you mean by enjoying life?’ and when I reply, you object to the answer as not being applicable to the present case. Of course, it is not. I did not intend it to be. The good I mean to do in my present ramble is chiefly, if not solely, to my own body and mind—”
“Stop, my dear fellow,” interrupted Tom, “don’t become energetic! I accept your answer to the general question; but how many people, think you, can afford to put your theory in practice?”
“Very, very few,” replied Ned, earnestly; “but that does not affect the truth of my theory. Men will toil night and day to accumulate gold, until their bodies and souls are incapable of enjoying the good things which gold can purchase, and they are infatuated enough to plume themselves on this account, as being diligent men of business; while others, alas! are compelled thus to toil in order to procure the bare necessaries of life; but these melancholy facts do not prove the principle of ‘grind-and-toil’ to be a right one; much less do they constitute a reason for my refusing to enjoy life in the right way when I have the power.”
Tom made no reply, but the vigorous puffs from his cigar seemed to indicate that he pondered these things deeply. A few minutes afterwards, Ned’s expected sitter entered. He was a tall burly Irishman, with a red-flannel shirt, open at the neck, a pair of huge long boots, and a wide-awake.
“The top o’ the mornin’ to yees,” said the man, pulling off his hat as he entered.
“Good-morning, friend,” said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his pick and shovel, and left the hut. “You are punctual, and deserve credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down.”
“Faix, then, I don’t know what a ‘quality’ is, but av it’s a good thing I’ve no objection,” replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the bed which Tom had just vacated. “I wos wantin’ to ax ye, sir, av ye could put in me pick and shovel in the lan’scape.”
“In the landscape, Pat!” exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the generic name of the species; “I thought you wanted a portrait.”
“Troth, then, I don’t know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur’ o’ meself all over, from the top o’ me hat to the sole o’ me boots. Isn’t that a lan’scape?”
“No, it’s a portrait.”
“Then it’s a porthraite I wants; an’ if ye’ll put in the pick and shovel, I’ll give ye two dollars a pace for them.”
“I’ll put them in, Pat, for nothing,” replied Ned, smiling, as he commenced his sketch. “I suppose you intend to send this to some fair one in old Ireland?”
Pat did not reply at once. “Sure,” said he, slowly, “I niver thought of her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she’s been a’most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It’s for me grandmother I want it.”
“Your grandmother! that’s curious, now; the last man I painted meant to send the likeness to his mother.”
“Not so cur’ous neither,” replied the man, with some feeling; “it’s my opinion, the further a man goes from the owld country, and the rougher he becomes wi’ scrapin’ up and down through the world, the more tinder his heart gits when he thinks o’ his mother. Me own mother died whin I wos a bit spalpeen, an’ I lived wi’ me grandmother, bliss her heart, ever since,—at laste till I took to wanderin’, which was tin years past.”
“So long! Pat, you must have wandered far in that time. Have you ever been away far into the interior of this country, among the mountains, in the course of your wanderings!”
“Among the mountains, is it? Indeed I have, just; an’ a most tree-mendous beautiful sight it is. Wos ye goin’ there?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. Is the shooting good?”
“Shootin’, ah! av ye’d bin wi’ me an’ Bill Simmons, two summers ago, ye’d have had more nor enough o’ shootin’. The grizzlies are thick as paes, and the buffaloes swarm in the valleys like muskaitoes, not to mintion wolves, and beavers, and badgers, and deer, an’ sich like—forby the red Injuns; we shot six o’ them critters about the legs an’ arms in self defence, an’ they shot us too—they put an arrow dane through the pint o’ Bill’s nose, an’ wan ripped up me left arm, it did.” (Pat bared the brawny limb, and exhibited the wound as he spoke.) “Shootin’, is it? faix there’s the hoith o’ shootin’ there, an’ no end o’ sainery.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the door being burst violently open, and several men rushing into the hut. They grasped the Irishman by the arms, and attempted to drag him out, but Pat seized hold of the plank on the edge of which he sat, and refused to move at first.
“Come along, boy,” cried one, boisterously; “we’re goin’ to lynch a doctor, an’ we want you to swear to him.”
“Ay, an’ to swear at him too, if ye like; he’s a rig’lar cheat; bin killin’ us off by the dozen, as cool as ye like, and pretendin’ to be an M.D. all the time.”
“There’s more than wan,” cried another man, seizing Pat again by the arm; “won’t ye come, man?”
“Och! av coorse I will; av it’s to do any good to the public, I’m yer man. Hooray! for the people, an’ down wi’ the aristock-racy.”
This sentiment was received with a shout of delight, and several exclamations of “Bah!” as the party hurried in a body from the studio. Ned, having thus nothing to do, rose, and followed them towards the centre of the settlement, where a large crowd was collecting to try the unhappy doctors above referred to.
There were six of them, all disreputable-looking rascals, who had set up for doctors, and had carried on a thriving business among the sick miners,—of whom there were many at that time,—until a genuine doctor arrived at the place, and discovered and exposed them. The miners were fortunately not bloodthirsty at this time, so the six self-dubbed M.D.s, instead of being hanged, were banished for ever from the settlement. Half-an-hour later the miners were busy in their respective claims, and Ned Sinton was again seated before his “lan’scape” of the Irishman.
Just as he was completing the sketch, the door opened slowly, and a very remarkable man swaggered into the room, and spat on the centre of the floor. He was dressed in the extreme of the fashion then prevalent in the Eastern States. A superfine black coat, silk vest, superfine black trousers, patent-leather boots, kid gloves, and a black silk hat! A more unnatural apparition at the diggings could not well be imagined. Ned Sinton could hardly credit his eyes, but no rubbing of them would dispel the vision. There he stood, a regular Broadway swell, whose love of change had induced him to seek his fortune in the gold-regions of California, and whose vanity had induced him to retain his drawing-room costume.
This man, besides being possessed of a superabundance of supercilious impudence, also possessed a set of digging tools, the handles of which were made of polished oak and walnut, with bright brass ferrules. With these he proposed to dig his fortune in a leisurely way; meanwhile, finding the weather rather hot, he had made up his mind to have his portrait done.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, this gentleman shut the door with his heel, turned his back to the fire-place—from the mere force of habit, for there was no fire—and again spat upon the floor, after which he said:
“I say, stranger, what’s your charge for a likeness?”
“You will excuse me, sir,” answered Ned, “if, before replying to that question, I beg of you not to spit on my floor.”
The Yankee uttered an exclamation of surprise, and asked, “Why not, stranger?”
“Because I don’t like it.”
“You wouldn’t have me spit in my hat, would you?” inquired the dandy.
“Certainly not.”
“Where then?”
Ned pointed to a large wooden box which stood close to the fire-place, and said, “There—I have provided a box for the accommodation of those sitters who indulge in that disagreeable practice. If you can’t avoid spitting, do it there.”
“Wall, now, you Britishers are strange critters. But you haven’t told me your price for a portrait.”
“I fear that I cannot paint you at any price,” replied Ned, without looking up from his paper, while Pat listened to the conversation with a comical leer on his broad countenance.
“Why not, stranger?” asked the dandy, in surprise.
“Because I’m giving up business, and don’t wish to take any more orders.”
“Then I’ll set here, I guess, an’ look at ye while ye knock off that one,” said the man, sitting down close to Ned’s elbow, and again spitting on the floor. Whether he did so intentionally or not we cannot tell, probably not, but the effect upon Ned was so strong that he rose deliberately, opened the door, and pointed to the passage thus set free, without uttering a word. His look, however, was quite sufficient. The dandy rose abruptly, and walked out in silence, leaving Ned to shut the door quietly behind him and return to his work, while the Irishman rolled in convulsions of laughter on Tom Collins’s bed.
Ned’s sitters, as we have hinted, were numerous and extremely various. Sometimes he was visited by sentimental and home-sick miners, and occasionally by dandy miners, such as we have described, but his chief customers were the rough, hearty men from “old England,” “owld Ireland,” and from the Western States; with all of whom he had many a pleasant and profitable hour’s conversation, and from many of whom, especially the latter, he obtained valuable and interesting information in reference to the wild regions of the interior which he longed so much to see.
Chapter Nineteen.
The Wilderness again—A Splendid Valley—Gigantic Trees and Waterfalls—Tom meets with an Accident—Both meet with many Surprises—Mysteries, Caverns, Doleful Sounds, and Grizzly-Bear-Catchers.
Mounted on gallant steeds, Ned and his friend again appear in the wilderness in the afternoon of a beautiful autumn day. They had ridden far that day. Dust covered their garments, and foam bespattered the chests of their horses, but the spirits of men and beasts were not yet subdued, for their muscles, by long practice, were inured to hardship. Many days had passed since they left the scene of their recent successful labours, and many a weary league had been traversed over the unknown regions of the interior. They were lost, in one sense of that term—charmingly, romantically lost—that is to say, neither Ned nor Tom had the most distant idea of where they were, or what they were coming to, but both of them carried pocket-compasses, and they knew that by appealing to these, and to the daily jotting of the route they had travelled, they could ascertain pretty closely the direction that was necessary to be pursued in order to strike the great San Joaquin river.
Very different was the scenery through which they now rode from that of the northern diggings. The most stupendous and magnificent mountains in the world surrounded, on all sides, the valley through which they passed, giving to it an air of peaceful seclusion; yet it was not gloomy, for the level land was broad and fertile, and so varied in aspect that it seemed as though a beautiful world were enclosed by those mighty hills.
Large tracts of the valley were covered with wild oats and rich grass, affording excellent pasturage for the deer that roamed about in large herds. Lakes of various sizes sustained thousands of wild-fowl on their calm breasts, and a noble river coursed down its entire length. Oaks, chestnuts, and cypresses grew in groups all over the landscape, and up on the hill-sides firs of gigantic size reared their straight stems high above the surrounding trees.
But the point in the scenery which struck the travellers as being most peculiar was the precipitous character of the sides of many of the vast mountains and the flatness of their summits. Tom Collins, who was a good judge of heights, having travelled in several mountainous regions of the world, estimated the nearest precipices to be upwards of three thousand feet, without a break from top to bottom, but the ranges in the background towered far above these, and must have been at least double.
“I never saw anything like this before, Tom,” said Ned, in a suppressed voice.
“I did not believe such sublime scenery existed,” replied his companion. “I have travelled in Switzerland and Norway, but this surpasses both. Truly it was worth while to give up our gold-digging in order to see this.”
“Yet there are many,” rejoined Ned, “who travel just far enough into California to reach the diggings, where they remain till their fortunes are made, or till their hopes are disappointed, and then return to England and write a book, perchance, in which they speak as authoritatively as if they had swept the whole region, north and south, east and west. Little wonder that we find such travellers contradicting each other flatly. One speaks of ‘California’ as being the most splendid agricultural country in the world, and advises every one to emigrate at once; while another condemns it as an arid, unproductive region, fit only for the support of Indians and grizzly-bears;—the fact being, that both speak, (correctly enough, it may be), of the very small portion of California they have respectively visited. Why, the more I travel in this wonderful land the more I feel how very little I know about it; and had I returned to England without having seen this valley, I should have missed one of the most remarkable sights, not only in the country, but, I verily believe, in the world. If you ever return home, Tom, and are persuaded, ‘at the earnest request of numerous friends,’ to write a book, don’t dogmatise as to facts; remember how limited your experience has been, and don’t forget that facts in one valley are not facts at all in another valley eight or ten miles off.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Tom Collins, patting the arched neck of his steed—“perhaps the advice with which you have just favoured me might, with greater propriety, have proceeded from me to you; for, considering the copious variety of your sentiments on this and other subjects, and the fluency with which you utter them, it is likely that you will rush into print long before I timidly venture, with characteristic modesty, even to grasp the pen!”
As Tom ceased speaking they came upon a forest of pine, or fir trees, in the midst of which towered a tree of such gigantic height, that its appearance caused them simultaneously to draw up, and gaze at it in silent wonder.
“Can it be possible,” said Ned, “that our eyes don’t deceive us! Surely some peculiarity in the atmosphere gives that tree false proportions?”
Without answering, Tom galloped towards the tree in question, closely followed by his friend.
Instead of any delusive haze being cleared away, however, the tree grew larger as they approached, and when they halted about twenty yards from it, they felt that they were indeed in the presence of the monarch of the forest. The tree, which they measured, after viewing it in wondering admiration from all points of view, was ninety-three feet in circumference, and it could not have been less than three hundred and sixty feet high. They little knew that, many years afterwards, the bark of this giant tree, to the height of a hundred and sixteen feet, was to be removed to England, built up in its original form, and exhibited in the great Crystal Palace of Sydenham; yet so it was, and part of the “mother of the forest” may be seen there at this day.
Towards evening the travellers drew near to the head of the valley.
“We must be approaching a waterfall of no ordinary size,” remarked Tom, as they rode through the dark shades of the forest, which were pretty extensive there.
“I have heard its roar for some time,” answered Ned, “but until we clear this belt of trees we shan’t see it.”
Just then the roar of the fall burst upon them with such deafening violence, that they involuntarily started. It seemed as if a mighty torrent had burst its bounds and was about to sweep them away, along with the forest through which they rode. Pressing forward in eager haste, they soon found that their having doubled round a huge mountain barrier, which the trees had hitherto concealed from them, was the cause of the sudden increase in the roar of the fall, but they were still unable to see it, owing to the dense foliage that overshadowed them. As they galloped on, the thunder of falling waters became more deep and intense, until they reached an elevated spot, comparatively free from trees, which overlooked the valley, and revealed a sight such as is not equalled even by Niagara itself.
A succession of wall-like mountains rose in two tiers before them literally into the clouds, for several of the lower clouds floated far below the highest peaks, and from the summit of the highest range a river, equal to the Thames at Richmond, dropt sheer down a fall of above two thousand feet. Here it met the summit of the lower mountain-range, on which it burst with a deep-toned, sullen, never-ceasing roar, comparable only to eternal thunder. A white cloud of spray received the falling river in its soft embrace, and sent it forth again—turbulent and foam bespeckled—towards its second leap, another thousand feet, into the plain below. The entire height of the fall was above three thousand feet. Its sublimity no language can convey. Its irresistible effect on the minds of the wanderers was to turn their thoughts to the almighty Creator of so awe-inspiring and wonderful a scene.
Here they discovered another tree, which was so large that their thoughts were diverted even from the extraordinary cataract for a short time. Unlike the previous one, this monarch of the woods lay prostrate on the ground, but its diameter near the root was so great that they could not see over it though seated on horseback. It measured a hundred and twenty feet in circumference, and, when standing, must have been little, if at all, short of five hundred feet in height.
Surrounded as they were by such noble and stupendous works of God, the travellers could not find words to express their feelings. Deep emotion has no articulate language. The heaving breast and the glowing eye alone indicate the fervour of the thoughts within. For a long time they sat gazing round them in silent wonder and admiration, then they dismounted to measure the great tree, and after that Ned sat down to sketch the fall, while his companion rode forward to select a spot for camping on.
Tom had not proceeded far when he came upon the track of wheels in the grass, a sight which surprised him much, for into that remote region he had supposed few travellers ventured, even on horseback. The depth and breadth of the tracks, too, surprised him not a little. They were much deeper and broader than those caused by any species of cart he had yet seen or heard of in the country, and the width apart was so great, that he began to suspect he must have mistaken a curious freak of nature for the tracks of a gigantic vehicle. Following the track for some distance, he came to a muddy spot, where the footprints of men and horses became distinctly visible. A little further on he passed the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern, and, being of an inquisitive disposition, he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, intending to examine the entrance.
To enter a dark cave, in a wild, unknown region, with the din of a thundering cataract filling the ears, just after having discovered tracks of a mysterious nature in the neighbourhood, was so trying to Tom’s nervous system, that he half resolved to give it up; but the exploration of a cavern has a fascination to some dispositions which every one cannot understand. Tom said “Pshaw!” to himself in an undertone, and boldly stepping into the dark portals of the cave, he disappeared.
Meanwhile, Edward Sinton finished his sketch, and, supposing that Tom was waiting for him in advance, he mounted and galloped forward as fast as the nature of the ground would allow.
Soon he came to the tracks before mentioned, and shortly after to the muddy spot with the footprints. Here he drew rein, and dismounted to examine the marks more closely. Our hero was as much perplexed as his friend had been at the unusually broad tracks of the vehicle which had passed that way. Leading his horse by the bridle, he advanced slowly until he came to the spot where Tom’s horse stood fastened to a tree,—a sight which alarmed him greatly, for the place was not such as any one would have selected for an encampment, yet had any foul play befallen his friend, he knew well that the horse would not have been left quietly there.
Sorely puzzled, and filled with anxious fears, he examined the spot carefully, and at last came upon the entrance to the cavern, before which he paused, uncertain what to do. The shadows of evening were fast falling on the scene, and he experienced a feeling of dread as he gazed into the profound gloom. He was convinced that Tom must be there; but the silence, and the length of time he had been absent, led him to fear that some accident had befallen his friend.
“Ho! Tom!” he shouted, on entering, “are you there?” There was a rolling echo within, but no voice replied to the question.
Again Ned shouted at the full pitch of his lungs, and this time he thought he heard a faint reply. Hurrying forward eagerly, as quickly as he dared, he repeated his shout, but the declivity of the entrance became so great that he lost his footing and well-nigh fell headlong down a steep incline. He succeeded, however, in regaining his hold, and clambered back to the entrance as quickly as possible.
Here he caught up a pine-knot, struck a light and kindled it, and, with this torch held high above his head, advanced once more into the cavern.
The voice of Tom Collins at this moment came loud and full from the interior,—“Take care, Ned, there’s a sharp descent; I’ve tumbled down it, but I don’t think I’m much hurt.”
“Cheer up, my boy,” cried Ned, heartily; “I’ll get you out in a minute.”
The next moment he stood beside his friend, who had risen from the rugged floor of the cave, and sat on a piece of rock, resting his head on his hand.
“Are you badly hurt, my poor fellow?” said Ned, anxiously, going down on one knee and endeavouring to raise his friend’s head. “I fear you are. Here, try a drop of this brandy. That’s it. Why, you look better already. Come, now, let me examine you.”
The spirit revived Tom at once, and he replied cheerfully, as he submitted to inspection,—“All right, I was only stunned a little by the fall. Catch me exploring again without a light!”
On examination, Ned found, to his great relief; that his friend’s hurts were slight. He had been stunned by the severity of his fall, but no bones were broken, and only a few scratches received, so that, after another sip of brandy, he felt almost as well as ever. But he firmly resisted his companion’s entreaty to leave the cavern.
“No, my boy,” said he, “after paying such a price as entrance fee, I’m not going to quit until I have explored the whole of this cave, so please go out for another pine-knot or two, and I’ll wait for you.”
Seeing that he was determined, Ned obeyed, and soon returned with several fresh torches, two of which were ignited, and a bright light sent far and wide into the roof of the cave, which was at a great height above them.
The walls were of curious, and in some places grotesque, forms. Immense stalactites hung from the roof, and these were of varied colours,—pale green, pink, and white,—while some of them looked like cascades, which sprang from the walls, and had been petrified ere they quite reached the ground. The roof was supported by natural pillars, and various arched openings led into similar chambers, some of which were larger and more curious than the outer one.
“Do you know,” said Ned Sinton, as they sat down on a rock in one of the inner chambers to rest, “this place recalls vividly to my remembrance a strange dream which I had just before leaving England.”
“Indeed!” said Tom; “I hope you’re not a believer in dreams. Don’t, I beseech you, take it into your head that it’s going to be realised at this particular moment, whatever it was.”
“It would take a very strong amount of belief indeed to induce me to expect the realisation of that dream. Shall I tell it you?”
“Is it a very ghostly one?” inquired Tom.
“No; not at all.”
“Then out with it.”
Ned immediately began the narration of the remarkable dream with which this story opens, and as he went on to tell of how the stout old gentleman snuffed gold-dust, and ultimately shot up to the roof of the cave, and became a golden stalactite, Tom Collins, whose risible tendencies were easily roused, roared with laughter, until the vaulted caverns echoed again. At the end of one of these explosions, the two friends were struck dumb by certain doleful and mysterious sounds which proceeded from the further end of the inmost chamber. In starting to his feet, Tom Collins let fall his torch, and in the convulsive clutch which he made to catch it, he struck the other torch out of Ned’s hand, so that instantly both were left in the profoundest darkness, with their hearts beating like sledge-hammers against their ribs.
To flee was their first and natural impulse; but to flee in the dark, over rough ground, and with very imperfect ideas as to the position of the cave’s outlet, was dangerous.
“What is to be done?” ejaculated Tom Collins in a tone that indicated the perturbation of his heart too clearly.
At that moment Ned remembered that he had a box of matches in the pocket of his hunting-coat; so, without answering, he drew it forth, struck a light, and re-ignited the torches.
“Now, Tom,” he said, “don’t let us give way to unmanly fears. I have no belief whatever in ghosts or spirits, good or evil, being permitted to come in visible or audible form to frighten poor mortals. Every effect has a cause, and I’m determined to find out the cause of these strange sounds. They certainly proceed from animal lungs, whether from man or beast remains to be seen.”
“Go ahead, then, I’ll follow,” said Tom, whose courage had returned with the light, “I’m game for anything that I can see; but I confess to you that I can not stand howls, and groans and darkness.”
Notwithstanding their utmost efforts they failed to discover the cause of the mysterious sounds, which seemed at times to be voices muttering, while at other times they swelled out into a loud cry. All that could be certainly ascertained was, that they proceeded from the roof of the innermost cavern, and that the centre of that roof was too high to be discerned by torch-light.
“What shall we do now?” inquired Tom.
“We shall go to the summit of the hill above this cave, and see what is to be seen there. Always look at both sides of a mystery if you would fathom it; come along.”
In a few minutes they stood in open air, and once more breathed freely. Mounting their horses, they ascended the steep slope of the hill above the cave, and, after some trouble, reached the summit. Here the first thing that met their gaze was a camp-fire, and near to it several men engaged in harnessing their horses to a large waggon or van. The frantic haste with which they performed the operation convinced Ned that he had discovered the cause of the mysterious voices, and that he and Tom had been the innocent cause of frightening the strangers nearly out of their wits. So engrossed were they with their work, that our travellers advanced within the circle of light of their fire before they were discovered. The man who first saw them uttered a yell, and the whole party turned round, seized their rifles, and, with terror depicted on their countenances, faced the intruders.
“Who comes here?” shouted one.
“Friends,” answered Ned, laying down his rifle and advancing.
Instantly the men threw down their arms and resumed the work of harnessing their horses.
“If ye be friends,” cried the one who spoke first, “give us a hand. I guess all the fiends in the bottomless pit are lo-cated jist below our feet.”
“Listen to me for one moment, gentlemen,” cried Ned Sinton. “I think I can relieve your minds. What have you heard or seen?”
At these words the men stopped, and looked inquiringly at their questioner.
“Seen! stranger, we’ve seed nothin’, but we’ve hear’d a sight, we have, I calc’late. We hear’d the imps o’ darkness talkin’ as plain as I hear you. At first I thought it was somebody at the foot o’ the hill, but all of a suddent the imps took to larfin’ as if they’d split, jist under my feet, so I yelled out to my mate here to come an’ yoke the beasts and git away as slick as we could. We wos jist about ready to slope when you appeared.”
Ned now explained to them the cause of their alarms, and on search being made, a hole was found, as he had anticipated, close at hand among the bushes, which communicated with the cavern below, and formed a channel for the conveyance of the so-called mysterious sounds.
“And now,” said Ned, “may I ask permission to pass the night with you?”
“You’re welcome, stranger,” replied he who seemed to be the chief of the band—a tall, bearded American, named Croft, who seemed more like a bandit than an honest man. His comrades, too, six in number, appeared a wild and reckless set of fellows, with whom one would naturally desire to hold as little intercourse as possible; but most men at the Californian diggings had more or less the aspect of brigands, so Ned Sinton and his companion felt little concern as to their characters, although they did feel a little curious as to what had brought them to such a wild region.
“If it is not taking too great a liberty,” said Ned, after answering the thousand questions put to him in rapid succession by his Yankee host, “may I ask what has brought you to this out-of-the-way valley?”
“Bear-catchin’,” answered the man, shortly, as he addressed himself to a large venison steak, which a comrade had just cooked for him.
“Bear-catching?” ejaculated Ned.
“Ay, an’ screamin’ hard work it is too, I guess; but it pays well.”
“What do you do with them when caught?” inquired Tom Collins, in a somewhat sceptical tone.
“Take ’em down to the cities, an’ sells ’em to fight with wild bulls.”
At this answer our travellers stared at the man incredulously.
“You’re strangers here, I see,” he resumed, “else you’d know that we have bull and bear fights. The grizzlies are chained by one leg and the bulls let loose at ’em. The bulls charge like all possessed, but they find it hard to do much damage to Caleb, whose hide is like a double-extra rhinoceros. The grizzlies ginerally git the best of it; an’ if they was let loose, they’d chaw up the bulls in no time, they would. There’s a great demand for ’em jist now, an’ my trade is catchin’ ’em alive here in the mountains.”
The big Yankee stretched out his long limbs and smoked his pipe with the complacent aspect of a man who felt proud of his profession.
“Do you mean that you seven men catch fall-grown grizzly-bears alive and take them down to the settlements?” inquired Ned in amazement.
“Sartinly I do,” replied the bear-catcher; “an’ why not, stranger?”
“Because I should have thought it impossible.”
“Nothin’’s impossible,” replied the man, quietly.
“But how do you manage it?”
Instead of replying, the Yankee inquired if “the strangers” would stay over next forenoon with them.
“With much pleasure,” answered Ned, not a little amused at the invitation, as well as the man’s brusque manner.
“Well, then,” continued the bear-catcher, shaking the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into his hat, “I’ll let ye see how we do it in the mornin’. Good-night.”
So saying, he drew his blanket over his head and resigned himself to sleep, an example which was speedily followed by the whole party.