The Golden Dream - Robert Michael Ballantyne (best biographies to read .txt) 📗

day he would be, as he expressed it, "riding through fields of goold dust;" instead of which, day after day passed, and night after night, during which he endured all the agonies inseparable from a _first_ journey on horseback, and still not a symptom of gold was to be seen, "no more nor in owld Ireland itself." But Larry bore his disappointments like an Irishman, and defied "fortin' to put him out of timper by any manes wotiver."

"Patience," said Bill Jones, removing his pipe to make room for the remark, "is a wirtue--that's wot I says. If ye can't make things better, wot then? why, let 'em alone. W'en there's no wind, crowd all canvas and ketch wot there is. W'en there _is_ wind, why then, steer yer course; or, if ye can't, steer as near it as ye can. Anyhow, never back yer fore-topsail without a cause--them's my sentiments."

"And very good sentiments they are, Bill," said Tom Collins, jumping up and examining the girth of his horse; "I strongly advise you to adopt them, Larry."

"Wot a bottle o' wisdom it is," said O'Neil, with a look of affected contempt at his messmate. "Wos it yer grandmother, now, or yer great wan, that edicated ye?--Arrah, there ye go! Oh, morther, ye'll break me heart!"

The latter part of this remark was addressed to his mule, which at that moment broke its laryat, and gambolled gaily away over the flowering plain. Its owner followed, yelling like a madman. He might as well have chased the wind; and it is probable that he would never have mounted his steed again had not the vaquero come to his aid. This man, leaping on his own horse, which was a very fine one, dashed after the runaway, with which he came up in a few minutes; then grasping the long coil of line that hung at his saddle-bow, he swung it round once or twice, and threw the lasso, or noose, adroitly over the mule's head, and brought it up.

"Yer a cliver fellow," said Larry, as he came up, panting; "sure ye did it be chance?"

The man smiled, and without deigning a reply, rode back to the camp, where the party were already in the saddle. In a few minutes they were trotting rapidly over the prairie.

Before evening closed, the travellers arrived at one of the road-side inns, or, as they were named, ranches, which were beginning at this time to spring up in various parts of the country, for the accommodation of gold-hunters on their way to the mines. This ranche belonged to a man of the name of Dawson, who had made a few hundred dollars by digging, and then set up a grog-shop and house of entertainment, being wise enough to perceive that he could gain twice as much gold by supplying the diggers with the necessaries of life than he could hope to procure by digging. His ranche was a mere hovel, built of sun-dried bricks, and he dealt more in drinks than in edibles. The accommodation and provisions were of the poorest description, but, as there was no other house of entertainment near, mine host charged the highest possible prices. There was but one apartment in this establishment, and little or no furniture. Several kegs and barrels supported two long pine planks which constituted at different periods of the day the counter, the gaming-table, and the _table d'hote_. A large cooking stove stood in the centre of the house, but there were no chairs; guests were expected to sit on boxes and empty casks, or stand. Beds there were none. When the hour for rest arrived, each guest chose the portion of the earthen floor that suited him best, and, spreading out his blankets, with his saddle for a pillow, lay down to dream of golden nuggets, or, perchance, of home, while innumerable rats--the bane of California-- gambolled round and over him.

The ranchero, as the owner of such an establishment is named, was said to be an escaped felon. Certainly he might have been, as far as his looks went. He was surly and morose, but men minded this little, so long as he supplied their wants. There were five or six travellers in the ranche when our party arrived, all of whom were awaiting the preparation of supper.

"Here we are," cried the captain, as they trotted into the yard, "ready for supper, I trow; and, if my nose don't deceive me, supper's about ready for us."

"I hope they've got enough for us all," said Ned, glancing at the party inside, as he leaped from the saddle, and threw the bridle to his vaquero. "Halloo, Boniface! have ye room for a large party in there?"

"Come in an' see," growled Dawson, whose duties at the cooking stove rendered him indifferent as to other matters.

"Ah, thin, ye've got a swate voice," said Larry O'Neil, sarcastically, as he led his mule towards a post, to which Bill Jones was already fastening his steed. "I say, Bill," he added, pointing to a little tin bowl which stood on an inverted cask outside the door of the ranche, "wot can that be for?"

"Dunno," answered Bill; "s'pose it's to wash in."

At that moment a long, cadaverous miner came out of the hut, and rendered further speculation unnecessary, by turning up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, and commencing his ablutions in the little tin bowl, which was just large enough to admit both his hands at once.

"Faix, yer mouth and nose ought to be grateful," said Larry, in an undertone, as he and Jones stood with their arms crossed, admiring the proceedings of the man.

This remark had reference to the fact that the washer applied the water to the favoured regions around his nose and mouth, but carefully avoided trespassing on any part of the territory lying beyond.

"Oh! morther, wot nixt?" exclaimed Larry.

Well might he inquire, for this man, having combed his hair with a public comb, which was attached to the door-post by a string, and examined himself carefully in a bit of glass, about two inches in diameter, proceeded to cleanse his teeth with a _public tooth-brush_ which hung beside the comb. All these articles had been similarly used by a miner ten minutes previously; and while this one was engaged with his toilet, another man stood beside him awaiting his turn!

"W'en yer in difficulties," remarked Bill Jones, slowly, as he entered the ranche, and proceeded to fill his pipe, "git out of 'em, if ye can. If ye can't, why wot then? circumstances is adwerse, an' it's o' no use a-tryin' to mend 'em. Only my sentiments is, that I'll delay washin' till I comes to a river."

"You've come from San Francisco, stranger?" said a rough-looking man, in heavy boots, and a Guernsey shirt, addressing Captain Bunting.

"Maybe I have," replied the captain, regarding his interrogator through the smoke of his pipe, which he was in the act of lighting.

"Goin' to the diggin's, I s'pose?"

"Yes."

"Bin there before?"

"No."

"Nor none o' your party, I expect?"

"None, except one."

"You'll be goin' up to the bar at the American Forks now, I calc'late?"

"Don't know that I am."

"Perhaps you'll try the northern diggin's?"

"Perhaps."

How long this pertinacious questioner might have continued his attack on the captain is uncertain, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the announcement that supper was ready, so he swaggered off to the corner of the hut where an imposing row of bottles stood, demanded a "brandy-smash," which he drank, and then, seating himself at the table along with the rest of the party, proceeded to help himself largely to all that was within his reach.

The fare was substantial, but not attractive. It consisted of a large junk of boiled salt beef, a mass of rancid pork, and a tray of broken ship-biscuit. But hungry men are not particular, so the viands were demolished in a remarkably short space of time.

"I'm a'most out o' supplies," said the host, in a sort of apologetic tone, "an' the cart I sent down to Sacramento some weeks ago for more's not come back."

"Better than nothin'," remarked a bronzed, weatherbeaten hunter, as he helped himself to another junk of pork. "If ye would send out yer boy into the hills with a rifle now an' again, ye'd git lots o' grizzly bars."

"Are grizzly-bears eaten here?" inquired Ned Sinton, pausing in the act of mastication, to ask the question.

"Eaten!" exclaimed the hunter, in surprise, "in coorse they is. They're uncommon good eatin' too, I guess. Many a one I've killed an' eaten myself; an' I like 'em better than beef--I do. I shot one up in the hills there two days agone, an' supped off him; but bein' in a hurry, I left the carcase to the coyotes." (Coyotes are small wolves.)

The men assembled round the rude _table d'hote_ were fifteen in number, including our adventurers, and represented at least six different nations--English, Scotch, Irish, German, Yankee, and Chinese. Most of them, however, were Yankees, and all were gold-diggers; even the hunter just referred to, although he had not altogether forsaken his former calling, devoted much of his time to searching for gold. Some, like our friends, were on their way to the diggings for the first time; others were returning with provisions, which they had travelled to Sacramento city to purchase; and one or two were successful diggers who had made their "piles,"--in other words, their fortunes--and were returning home with heavy purses of gold-dust and nuggets.

Good humour was the prevailing characteristic of the party, for each man was either successful or sanguinely hopeful, and all seemed to be affected by a sort of undercurrent of excitement, as they listened to, or related, their adventures at the mines. There was only one serious drawback to the scene, and that was, the perpetual and terrible swearing that mingled with the conversation. The Americans excelled in this wicked practice. They seemed to labour to invent oaths, not for the purpose of venting angry feelings, but apparently with the view of giving emphasis to their statements and assertions. The others swore from _habit_. They had evidently ceased to be aware that they were using oaths--so terribly had familiarity with sinful practices blunted the consciences of men who, in early life, would probably have trembled in this way to break the law of God.

Yes, by the way, there was one other drawback to the otherwise picturesque and interesting group, and this was the spitting propensity of the Yankees. All over the floor--that floor, too, on which other men besides themselves were to repose--they discharged tobacco-juice and spittle. The _nation_ cannot be too severely blamed and pitied for this disgusting practice, yet we feel a tendency, not to excuse, but to deal gently with _individuals_, most of whom, having been trained to spitting from their infancy, cannot be expected even to understand the abhorrence with which the practice is regarded by men of other nations.

Nevertheless, brother Jonathan, it is not too much to expect that you ought to respect the universal condemnation of your spitting propensities--by travellers from all lands--and endeavour to _believe_ that ejecting saliva promiscuously is a dirty practice, even although you cannot _feel_ it. We think that if you had the moral courage to pass a law in