became a road out of the town, the dust was thicker than ever, from
parties on before. It lay brown and powdery, ankle-deep and hot to the
boots. The sun blazed down fiercely. Leading the little burro, in his
heavy clothing Charley soon was streaming with perspiration; before,
tramped with long stride the Frémonter, a rifle on shoulder; at the
rear stanchly limped Mr. Adams, well laden with gun and pistol and the
few articles that he and Mr. Grigsby had divided.
The burro's pack displayed crowbars and shovels and picks and gold pans
and camp equipage; and to Charley's mind the little procession looked
very business-like.
After following the dusty road through a flat brown plain, in about a
mile and a half they passed what Mr. Grigsby said was the famous
Sutter's Fort. With its thick clay walls and square towers at the
corners, pierced with loopholes, it did indeed look like a fort.
Inside the walls were several clay buildings where the captain had
lived and stored his goods and taught his Indians to do white man's
work. He had erected his fort here in 1839, and had been given all the
land about, by the Mexican government of California. But now the fort
was deserted; the doors and windows had been broken in, most of the
wood had been torn out and carried off, and the fields about had been
used as pasturage by the gold seekers. No wonder that the captain felt
aggrieved; and it was pretty hard on him, when really because of his
saw-mill had gold been discovered. This was poor reward for having
settled the country and built a saw-mill--and a flour mill besides.
"There's the Rio Americano," spoke Mr. Grigsby, pointing ahead, after
they had passed old Fort Sutter.
About a quarter of a mile before on the left, a line of trees indicated
the course of a river--the American. And a fine stream it proved to
be, flowing clear and sparkling between wooded grassy banks. The road,
still dusty, turned slightly, and ascended along the river, making
toward the rolling brown foothills which shimmered in the blue
distance, with the mighty snow-crests of the Sierra Nevada range
glinting beyond them.
In the shallows and on the bars of the American parties of miners were
at work digging away with spades and picks, and squatting to wash out
the gold in their pans. They all were so busy that they seemed to note
nothing on either side of them or overhead. Their eyes were glued to
the sand and the holes and the pans. Other parties had halted by the
way, for rest in the shade of trees; and these hailed the Adams party
with the usual calls: "How far to the diggin's, strangers?" "This is
the American, ain't it?" "Say! How much do you s'pose a man can dig
in a day, up there?" "Where you folks from, and where you bound?" "Is
it always this hot in Californy?" And so forth, and so forth.
Several parties on their way back to Sacramento also were met; they
were brown and hairy and rough and ragged, and some of them limped
weakly as if they could scarcely carry their weapons, picks, spades,
crowbars and blanket-rolls. They all were received with a perfect
volley of excited queries from the resting parties--to which they
replied with wave of hand and sometimes with a triumphant flourish of a
fat little sack.
But Mr. Grigsby paused not for the gold seekers in the river, or under
the trees, or on the way down. He tramped stoutly, with his long
stride; Charley just as stoutly followed behind, leading the packed
burro, and at the tail of the burro strode, a little unevenly, the tall
and soldierly Mr. Adams.
[Illustration: From Sacramento to "the diggin's," 1849. Showing the
trail of Charley Adams' party, searching for the Golden West Mine]
The dusty road continued through the wide rolling plain which formed
the east half of the great Valley of the Sacramento. The herbage was
short and brown, except at the margin of the streams, and the hot
landscape was broken by occasional large spreading trees, singly and in
clumps. As the foothills gradually drew nearer, the number of miners
became greater. Finally, at sunset, Mr. Grigsby halted at a grassy
hollow, near the American, where there was a considerable camp of men,
and even two women. A rude sign announced the title "Woodchuck's
Delight."
"We'll camp, too, I reckon," he quoth, dropping his pack; and Charley
was glad to hear the words. "How are you?" greeted Mr. Grigsby to the
nearest miners, as he turned to unpack the burro.
"Howdy, strangers? Where you from and where you going?"
"Just coming in, or have you made one pile?"
"That's a burro, ain't it? Will you sell him?"
"What might your names be, strangers?"
To these and other queries Mr. Grigsby answered good-naturedly, as he
and Mr. Adams stripped the little burro. The camp consisted of a few
tents and of men who merely had thrown their blankets down here and
there, as if to cook their suppers and rest till morning. The great
majority had come afoot, many without even pack animals; a sprinkling
of horses and mules were staked out, at pasture; and speedily Mr.
Grigsby led the burro aside, to stake him out, too. He laid back his
ears, stretched out his shaggy head, and made short runs at the other
animals near him, until he had cleared a grazing spot all his own.
Then he hee-hawed triumphantly, and lay down for a luxurious roll.
Mr. Adams and Charley tossed the bedding to a place which appeared as
good as any other, for sleeping, and got out the "grub" and cooking
utensils.
"Charley, you're expected to supply the wood and water, and help me
with the camp chores generally," directed his father. "We'll let
Grigsby do the hunting and camp locating and burro tending, and I'll
cook and wash dishes. That will be our regular system. How about it,
Grigsby?"
"Sounds like a pretty good arrangement," agreed the Frémonter, tersely.
"But I'm perfectly willing to chip in wherever necessary."
"Get some wood, Charley," bade Mr. Adams. "That's first. There's the
axe." And he proceeded to sort out the food, while Mr. Grigsby busied
himself with the bedding.
Charley seized the axe from amidst other tools, and lustily chopped
wood from a tree which already had been half demolished by other
campers. In fact, it looked as though very soon no trees would be
left, along this trail; which was a great pity.
Having brought enough wood, he took an iron kettle and trudged to the
river. Several miners were at work, along the banks, and on a bar in
the middle; one was working right where Charley arrived--a low place,
like a miniature gully, where the soil was bare and sandy clay. He had
dug a small trench, and was shoveling some of the loose dirt into his
gold pan.
Charley could not help but watch, for a moment.
"Are you getting anything?" he ventured.
The man appeared to be a rough fellow, unshaven and tanned red, in
faded blue flannel shirt, old trousers belted with a leather strap, and
bare feet. But when he smiled, and pausing a second, answered, he
spoke in a pleasant voice, with as good language as from Charley's
father or any other cultured person.
"Oh, a few pinches. See----?" and he swirled his pan level full of
water, until the water and much of the dirt had flowed out over the
edges. He did this again--picked out a number of pebbles and large
particles of dirt--swirled once more, and tilted the pan, almost empty,
for Charley to see.
Hurrah! Sure enough, there was a thin seam of yellow, lying in the
angle of sides and bottom! And breaking it, was a small irregular
particle, of blackish hue tinted with the yellow in spots. Charley's
eyes bulged. Gold! Was this the way they did it?
The man picked out the small lump, and turned it in his fingers.
"One little nugget. Worth probably twenty dollars," he remarked. "The
rest of the pans--these are two pans washed out--average about twelve
cents." Then, at sight of Charley's excited face, he laughed heartily.
"You look as though you had the gold fever, boy, and had it bad," he
said. "But these pans are nothing. They wouldn't sum up more than
four dollars a day--and nobody in California would work long for four
dollars a day. It's too low down on the river to pan out real wages.
I'm just amusing myself. Got a pan? Come in and try your luck. The
ground's free."
"I can't, now," stammered Charley. "I'm getting water for supper.
Maybe I can later, though. Will you be here after a while?"
"Oh, as like as not," answered the man, calmly scraping out the yellow
stuff with the point of his knife, and dropping it into the usual brown
buckskin sack--which, Charley noted, bulged a little at the bottom. "I
used to be a preacher; now I seem to be a miner. What's your name and
where'd you come from and where are you going, as the fashion of asking
questions is."
Charley briefly told him (for he liked this ex-preacher immensely), but
of course he didn't mention that they were on the trail of the Golden
West claim. He simply said that they were bound up the American. Then
he dipped his water and hastened back to the camp, where he found his
father waiting.
"I saw a man panning gold," he announced.
"Getting anything?" asked Mr. Grigsby, not at all excited.
"Yes. A nugget and a lot of dust besides. He said he'd help me pan,
if I'd come back after supper. Can I, dad?"
"Oh, I guess you can, if you have no chores," consented his father,
with a smile at Mr. Grigsby.
Charley had no idea that his father was such a cook. Mr. Adams went at
the matter in great shape--and even Mr. Grigsby, lying near, rewrapping
a place on the pack saddle, apparently found nothing to criticise.
Mr. Adams (and it looked odd to see him, a man, busy cooking!) had
bread batter already started. He took one of the gold pans, dumped
into it some flour, a pinch or two of saleratus, and a quart or two of
the water. He mixed away with his hands, adding flour and water until
the batter was correct, formed it into a loaf, laid it in another pan,
well greased with bacon rind, covered it with the first pan, and set
the "oven" well down among coals that he had raked out to one side. He
poured a little water into the fry pan, or spider, laid in a lot of
chunks and strips of dried-beef or jerky, and salted it and put it on
the fire. He took out a handful of coffee beans that had been roasting
in the fry pan before he used the pan for the stew (and how good they
smelled!), crushed them in a piece of cloth between two stones, and
turned them into the coffee-pot.
"You must have been there before," commented Mr. Grigsby.
"Well, I've been a soldier, you know," explained Mr. Adams. "This is
soldiers' fare; that's all."
"Strangers, you're new to the diggin's, I reckon," asserted a caller,
who strolled in and coolly sat down. He was an exceedingly powerful
man--as tall as the Frémonter, broad and heavy, a veritable giant. His
shaggy whiskers were bright red. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat,
below which hung his red hair to mingle with his whiskers; his red
shirt was open at the hairy throat, his stained coarse trousers were
belted with a piece of rawhide, through which was thrust a knife and
pistol, and he was barefooted. He certainly was the biggest and most
ferocious-looking man that Charley had ever seen. Yet he acted very
harmless.
"Why so?" queried Mr. Adams, examining his bread.
"'Cause you're bread eaters, 'stead o' bein' flap-jackers. By that I
take it you've not been up into the flapjack country yon," and he
jerked his head in the direction of the foothills and mountains. "When
a man makes his squar' meals out o' flapjacks an' sow-belly, then he
can call himself a miner."
"You've been there, in the flapjack country, I suppose," invited Mr.
Adams.
"Have I, stranger? Wall, I should shout! I was one of the fust into
the diggin's after Jim Marshall discivvered color. Fact is, I'm jest
down from thar now, only stoppin' hyar at Woodchuck's Delight to rest
my feet. They've got rheumatiz powerful bad, wadin' in the water so
much."
Charley had noted that many of the men in the camp were barefooted, as
if their feet were sore; evidently Woodchuck's Delight was a sort of a
resting place.
"How are things at the saw-mill diggin's?" queried Mr. Grigsby.
"Peterin' out, stranger," replied the red-whiskered man. "Quiet as a
Quaker Sunday. I was thar about a month ago."
"Is Marshall mining?"
"Not much. He's grumblin', mostly. Thar's a man, who when he struck a
big thing jest natter'ly didn't know what to do with it. It made him
pore instead o' rich. The rush o' people tromped an' dug all over him,
an' he doesn't appear to have enough spunk to stand up for himself. He
seems to think he owns the hull country, 'cause he was thar fust, an'
'cordin' to his notion nobody can mine without his leave. But as
matter o' fact, he was too blamed slow to locate any claims; an' when
the miners agreed to let him have 100 feet, he didn't get to work on
it. He seems to expec' the Government to pay him for his discivvery,
while he sits 'round waitin' an' grouchin'. But that sort o' thing
doesn't go, out hyar, whar every man must look out for himself an' do
his part."
"Never heard of a claim called the Golden West, in those parts, did
you? A quartz claim?"
"Nary Golden West, stranger; or any other quartz claim; 'cept that thar
was a party through on the trail a day or two ago, inquirin' for that
same name--the Golden West. But they didn't say whether it was lode or
placer."
"Three men, with a bay mule--one man small and dark, long nose?"
pursued Mr. Grigsby.
"You've got 'em, stranger."
"Which way were they bound?" asked Mr. Adams.
"I reckon they went on up the American."
Mr. Grigsby and Charley's father exchanged glances; then Mr. Adams
spoke quickly, as if to drop the subject.
"Will you have supper with us, sir?" For the bread was done.
"No, thank 'ee; I'm well lined with flapjacks and sowbelly, to last me
till mornin'," replied the red-whiskered man. However, he stayed while
the party cleaned up everything that Mr. Adams had cooked.
Now it was near the close of twilight; and Charley, fidgeting
anxiously, wondered whether he might not try for gold, just once. His
father must have read his thoughts, for he said suddenly:
"Get out your pan, Charley, if you want to, and try your luck. We'll
tend to the chores."
Charley needed no second bidding. He grabbed the one clean pan, and
down to the river he ran. He fancied that he heard the red-whiskered
man call after him, with joking advice, and he knew that other campers,
whom he passed, laughed at his eagerness; but who could tell--perhaps
he would find gold as well as anybody.
The ex-preacher was still there, in his "diggin's," working away.
"Hello!" he welcomed, cheerily. "Come in and spell me. I'm tired.
There's your dirt, all ready for you."
Into the shallow ditch jumped Charley, as bold as an old-timer, and
scooped some dirt into his pan. The ex-preacher sat down on the side
of the ditch and watched him.
"Don't put in too much dirt at once, boy," he cautioned. "Half full is
enough. That's right. Now sink it to the rim in the water, and swirl
it around and back again, so the current will carry the dirt off.
Don't be afraid to keep it moving. That's it. The gold is heavy, you
know; the dirt goes and the gold stays behind. Whoa'p! Let's see.
No, it's all gone, this time. You've washed the pan clean. Try again.
Take things easy."
That proved to be no easy job, though. The pan was large, the dirt and
water weighted it down, and as Charley squatted and tried to swirl it
around, at just the right level, presently his back and his arms were
aching together.
"Slow, now," bade his instructor, becoming interested. "Raise the pan
a bit and swash the water--flip it out along with the dirt, a little at
a time. Be careful of that black sand--it's heavy and carries the
gold. Here; I'll get rid of the sand for you," and taking the pan he
cleverly swirled it, occasionally dipping up more water, until the sand
had flowed off.
"There you are!" he laughed, gaily thrusting the pan back into
Charley's hands. "And there's your color, sure enough. See it? A
ten-cent pan, the first time. Good!"
Charley anxiously peered. In the rounded angle of bottom and side, a
narrow gleam of yellow! Could it be possible? Yes; there it was, the
gold; actually, real gold, and he had washed it--or at least, he had
washed most of it.
"Shall I try some more?" he asked, excitedly.
"Sure. Go ahead. We always wash several pans, before we clean up.
Now do it all yourself. You know how."
This time Charley succeeded in getting rid of everything but a very
little of the sand; and behold, the yellow seam was deeper. After the
third pan he could wait no longer; he out with his buckskin sack, and
with the point of his knife scooped his gold in. A little sand went
along with it, but who cared?
"We'd better quit for the night, I guess," remarked his new friend, who
appeared as delighted as he. "I expect you've made as much as half a
dollar. Now it's time for tenderfeet to go to bed."
Through the dusk Charley trudged back to the fire, with his pan and his
gold, feeling much indeed like a regular Forty-niner.
His father and Mr. Grigsby were sitting by the fire, talking, when in
he burst upon them.
"I got some! I got some!" panted Charley.
"Did you? All right. Show up."
"It's in my sack. See?" And Charley "showed." "I didn't stay to pan
much. But I learned how."
"A trace of gold, and considerable sand," pronounced Mr. Grigsby. "But
that's enough, for a starter--only you want to dry that stuff out, lad,
and blow the sand away. Understand?"
"We've decided to push right along, Charley," said his father, just as
if he and Mr. Grigsby considered Charley as much of a partner as they
were, "up the trail to Marshall's place; then we can turn north for the
north branch of the American, or for the Yuba and the Feather beyond.
They're all mining districts. Do you agree?"
"I agree," assented Charley. "And whenever we camp we can wash out
gold, can't we?"
His father laughed.
"Certainly. By the time the mine is reached, may you'll have filled
your sack."
Charley yawned mightily. The future seemed golden bright--yet he felt
as though he couldn't keep awake long enough to discuss it. His father
yawned; so did Mr. Grigsby; already the majority of the campers were
stretched out in their blankets, some of them snoring; and to bed went
the Adams party, also.
Charley removed his boots and trousers and flannel shirt; and rolling
himself in his army blanket used them as a pillow--the fashionable
scheme, he noticed. He was asleep so soon, and slept so "fast," that
he was perfectly astonished to wake into daylight and breakfast time.
The camp of Woodchuck's Delight was breaking apart, for a number of its
tender-footed inhabitants had started on, up or down the trail. As his
father and Mr. Grigsby were packing the burro, the red-whiskered giant
of the evening before passed by, and waved an "Adios."
"It's almost time that we met some of the overland crowd, isn't it?"
remarked Mr. Adams, as they took up the march, in the same order as
before.
"Not quite," answered Mr. Grigsby. "That's a four months' trip, and I
don't reckon any of 'em got away much before the middle of April.
It'll be two or three weeks or more, yet, when the first of them cross
the range."
"Will they all come this way?" appealed Charley. Thirty thousand there
were, so people said; and what a procession they would make!
"No. There's that southern trail, around by the Gila, and to San Diego
or up through Los Angeles. And the northern trail, to Oregon and then
down. But the Eastern papers advised taking the Oregon trail up the
Platte and across South Pass beyond Fort Laramie, to Fort Hall; then
south to the Mary's River that Frémont named the Humboldt, down the
Humboldt to the Sinks, over to the Truckee and across the Sierra to the
head of the north fork of the American--the way we came in with Frémont
in Forty-five. And there's that other way, about our trail of
Forty-four: by the Carson River, which is south of the Truckee, over
Carson's Pass of the Sierra, to the South Fork of the American--which
would strike down this trail, like as not, to Sacramento. But in my
opinion the trail up the Truckee to the North Fork is the best, and the
bulk of the people will come that way."
So saying, Mr. Grigsby shouldered his long rifle, and strode out, to
lead. Charley occupied the middle, with the burro. His father limped
in the rear.
XIX
A GREAT DISCOVERY
Coloma, near to the celebrated Sutter's saw-mill, was about thirty
miles on east, up the trail. The trail did not always keep to the
American, but diverged from it. However, streams flowing into the
American were crossed, and ever the trail waxed more interesting.
Several new towns were passed--one, called the Mormon Diggings, was
inhabited largely by Mormons from Salt Lake. Here mining was in full
blast, with many improved methods, as by "cradles," which were boxes
set upon rockers and rocked like a cradle so that the water and sand
were flowed out as from a pan; and by long boxes called "Long Toms,"
set on an incline so that when the water and dirt were flowed down
them, their cleats, nailed across the bottom on the inside, caught and
held the heavy sand and gold. Then the cleats were cleaned and the
gold separated. As further into the foothills the trail led, the more
numerous were the miners; and when the first of the mountains were
entered, every gulch and ravine held its busy population.
Now the mountains, high and thickly timbered, clustered before and on
either side, when, on the afternoon of the second day (for Mr. Adams
traveled slowly on account of his lame leg), Mr. Grigsby, ahead,
pointed and said:
"There's the saw-mill."
So it was--a large frame building, apparently not all completed, amidst
a clearing of stumps, on the edge of a ravine near the foot of a slope.
Several log cabins and a number of tents stood near it; and shacks and
tents dotted the gullies around. But, as Captain Sutter had said, the
mill was not running; and as the red-whiskered man had alleged, the
locality was not bustling.
"I expect the place has been all worked out, by the first rush,"
commented Mr. Grigsby, as he led on, up the well-marked trail.
"This is where the gold was discovered in Forty-eight, is it?" queried
Charley's father, as on the edge of the clearing they paused, to take
breath, and gaze about them.
"Yes, sir; and unless I'm much mistaken, there's Jim Marshall himself,
in front of that cabin."
So saying, followed by his party the Frémonter crossed the clearing, as
if making for one of the cabins before whose open door a man was
sitting, on a stool. The man appeared scarcely to notice their
approach, and barely turned his head when, halting, Mr. Grigsby
addressed him.
"How are you, Jim? I met you down at Sutter's, after the war. My
name's Grigsby."
"Yes, I remember your being 'round there," responded Mr. Marshall, in a
soft, slow drawl, rising to shake hands. "The country wasn't so full,
then."
He was a rather tall, well-built man, with long brown beard and slouch
hat. He had wide brown eyes, with a sombre gaze in them. In fact, his
whole countenance was sober and a bit sullen.
"So you're still at the mill."
"I have been, but I'm going out. There's no place for me here. The
man who discovered this gold ain't given an ounce of it," and Mr.
Marshall's voice was bitter. "What did I get for all I did when I
opened that mill-race? Nothing; not even gratitude. It's Government
land, they say, and so the people flock in and take it, and my only
chance is to rustle like everybody else. Do you think that's fair?
No, sir! If I had my percentage of all the gold being mined around
here I'd be a rich man. Instead, they give me a hundred feet, and
expect me to dig like the rest. Bah! I'll starve, first."
Although Mr. Marshall was trying to make this a tale of woe, Charley,
for one, could not quite see the reasonableness in it.
"Well, Jim," hastily soothed Mr. Grigsby, "this is a country of hustle,
and most of us have to look out for ourselves. You were here first,
and I suppose people figured on your making the most of opportunity.
Anyway, I wish you'd take us over to the mill-race and show these two
partners of mine just where you discovered the gold. We aren't going
to stay, but we'd like to see that much."
"Yes, I can do that," assented Mr. Marshall. "Leave your animal here,
if you want to. There aren't many white people about" (and he spoke
bitterly, again) "to steal it."
Charley tied the burro to the cabin. Mr. Marshall led the way over to
the mill, which was abandoned and idle, and paused on the brink of a
wide ravine that extended back to the mill wheel.