sides gashed by countless holes. A number of Chinamen and Indians were
working in it, scraping about and filling pans and wicker baskets with
loose dirt, which they washed in the stream trickling through. But
there were no white men.
"That was the tail-race," explained Mr. Marshall, "which led off the
water after it had passed under the wheel. After we got the mill to
going, about the middle of January, last year, we found the tail-race
wasn't big enough to carry off the water fast and make a current that
would turn the wheel. So I threw the wheel out of gear, one night, and
lifted the head-gate of the race full open, to flow a hard stream
through and wash the tail-race deeper. Next morning early, which was
January 24, I went down with Weimer (you know Weimer, Mr. Grigsby; he
served in the Frémont battalion during the conquest), who was helping
me, to see what the water had done. We shut it off first, of course,
above. Well, the tail-race certainly had been scoured a good bit, and
we were looking in, as we walked, congratulating ourselves on the job,
when I saw a sparkle of yellow on a flat bed-rock. I went down in and
picked it up, and I was sure it was gold. I sent an Indian back to the
men's cabin for a tin plate. I didn't want to say much about the find
till I'd made certain that it wasn't copper, but during the day Weimer
and I searched about and found a little more. We tried it out with
potash in Mrs. Weimer's soap kettle, and it didn't tarnish. The other
men got excited, and the next day started to poking about on their own
account, in the rain. I took what I had down to the fort, and the
captain and I locked ourselves in and tested it with nitric acid,
weighed it, pounded it, did everything we could think of, and made dead
certain that gold it was. Next day the captain himself came up to the
mill, and we all found gold. It was everywhere. Of course that set us
up in great shape, but the captain made us promise to keep the matter a
secret for six weeks until he had finished a flour-mill that he was
building at the fort, or else he wouldn't be able to get anybody to
work for him at wages. But some of the men showed their dust down at
the store at the fort, buying goods, and the cat was out of the bag.
Everybody deserted the old captain, his grist-mill hasn't been finished
to this day, his crops weren't reaped, his saw-mill property was
overrun with a regular army, some of the people tried to save a bed of
gravel for him, but that's gone now, neither his rights or mine are
respected, I don't own an ounce of gold and am busted, and he'll be
busted soon. There's no gratitude in this country," and Mr. Marshall
turned gloomily away.
"There doesn't seem to be much show here for mining; the whole
country's been turned over," commented Mr. Adams, as they gazed about.
"But I'm glad to have seen the spot where the first gold was found in
California."
"By the way, Jim," spoke the Frémonter, "are there any quartz workings
around here? Never heard of a claim called the Golden West, did you?"
Mr. Marshall shook his head, in his gloomy fashion.
"Not on the South Branch of the American, either fork. It's all placer
work yet. That's the quickest. Lodes don't pay; they need machinery,
and nobody wants to wait for machinery. But I've heard they're
beginning to find lodes over in the Nevada country, beyond the upper
North Branch. Several parties on their way to the dry diggin's of
Rough and Ready spoke about quartz outcrops over yonder somewhere on
the North Branch."
"Yes, we thought we'd go over that way ourselves," answered Mr. Grigsby.
"Whereabouts is Rough and Ready, Mr. Marshall?" asked Charley's
father--much to Charley's relief, who wanted to know, himself.
"It's a dry diggin's camp, near to the Nevada dry diggin's, in Grass
Valley between the Bear and the Yuba. That's all _I_ know," responded
Mr. Marshall, as if to imply that it was all he cared, too!
The directions seemed very indefinite, in such a big country, but Mr.
Grigsby appeared to be impressed by something or other in Mr.
Marshall's words, for he was plunged into a brown study until the party
had left Mr. Marshall sitting gloomily as before and were resuming the
march. Then, out of earshot of the cabins and mill, he suddenly
slapped his buckskin thigh and uttered an exclamation.
"By jings!" he said. "I have it--and those three fellows had it, too.
We've overrun 'em. They've turned off, below, and I'll wager they're
making for that smudge! Remember that smudge on the map--what looked
to be another 'G. H.,' in capital letters? Well, sir, if that sign
isn't 'G. W.' instead of 'G. H.' I'll miss my guess. 'G. W.'--'Golden
West'! How does that strike you? It's yonder in the new quartz
country, you see."
Charley stared, agape. The idea was stupendous. Oh, if only they had
that map, again, so as to re-examine it.
"Why--I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Grigsby," agreed his
father, weighing the matter. "Then we ought to get over there as quick
as we can."
"I _know_ I'm right," asserted the Frémonter. "Feel it in my bones.
And away we go, as straight as we can travel."
A long, long tramp across a wild country it was, now, upon which the
tall Frémonter piloted the way. He seemed to know where he was going
and what he was doing; and Charley and his father could only trust in
his guidance. Up hill and down, through timber and brush, sometimes on
a trail and sometimes not, ever making northward, on they went, with
the burro the nimblest of all, and Mr. Adams having hard work,
occasionally, with his lame leg. But wherever they passed, no matter
how rough and high the country, they encountered miners like
themselves, digging and washing and searching, in camp or on the march.
But not a word more, of the Jacobs party, or of the Golden West mine.
Mr. Grigsby appeared to be looking for certain landmarks, ahead. It
was at the end of two weeks of travel and camp when they three,
following a pack trail across a timbered ridge, suddenly emerged into a
beautiful vista of valley and snowy range, to the north and east; the
course of a rushing river, and the tents of another mining camp.
"There she is!" cheered the Frémonter, swinging his hat. "There's the
trail where Frémont and we fellows came in, the second time, winter of
Forty-five. Yon river's the North Branch of the American. I remember
that gap, there. What that camp is I don't know; but we'll find out."
"This is an emigrant trail, then, too, isn't it?" queried Charley's
father.
"It'll be the main emigrant trail, or I'm much mistaken."
"I don't see any emigrants, though," puffed Charley, as down they
hastened, for the camp. He was wondering about Billy Walker.
"No; there haven't many passed yet, that's certain," answered the
Frémonter. "But the rush must be about due."
"What camp's this?" he hailed, as they passed a party of miners delving
and washing in a little ravine.
"This is the Shirt-tail Diggin's, stranger, where everybody's happy and
the goose hangs high."
Shirt-tail Diggin's consisted of a collection of tents and of lean-to
shacks made of boughs and canvas, three or four log cabins, and a
store, scattered along the side of the valley, amidst great trees. To
the east showed the bluish gap, of which Mr. Grigsby had spoken, in the
hills, and beyond the hills was the snowy range. Through the valley
coursed the river--the North Branch of the American, according to Mr.
Grigsby; and in the river shallows and along the banks and in ravines
and ditches on both sides, up the slopes themselves, with pick and
spade and pan and cradle were working the miners.
As with his father and Mr. Grigsby and the burro he drew near, Charley
was surprised to hear a cheer--and another, and another, as if in
greeting. Why was that? Was it a joke? But see! Arms were pointing,
hats were waving, and shout joined with shout:
"Emigrants in sight! Here they come--the overlanders! Tumble out,
boys!"
XX
ANOTHER GREAT DISCOVERY
Sure enough! Following a trail out from among the timbered slopes to
the east, there emerged from the gap a white-topped wagon--and another,
and a succession of dots of other vehicles and of people horseback,
until a long line was winding down through the green and brown. Yes,
emigrants! Charley had seen such wagons, and even such a procession,
before, in Missouri; but this was different, because these wagons and
people had come clear across the 2,000 miles of plain and mountain and
desert, from the Missouri River! Think of that!
From their ditches and ravines out clambered the miners all, to wipe
their brows and gaze and cheer. And on weaved the line, until the
people afoot, also--even women, and some children--could be seen
trudging beside the wagons.
Riding at a walk, the horsemen who led the procession as if picking out
the trail approached slowly, while the camp waited. The nearer the
procession came, the worse for wear it looked: the white-topped wagons
(there were only a few) were torn and battered, the other vehicles were
only make-shifts, cut down from the originals, the horses, mules and
oxen were very thin, and the people themselves were gaunt and ragged
and pitiable. As brown as any Arabs and as bearded as the miners were
the leading horsemen.
"Howdy?" greeted one, with a nod. "How far to Sutter's?"
"Seventy miles," responded a score of voices. "Where you from?"
"The Missouri River."
"When did you leave?"
"Last week in April."
The first of the wagons came lumberingly creaking in. It was drawn by
two yoke of lean spotted oxen. The wheels had been wrapped with
rawhide, for repairs, and the canvas top was torn and discolored and
askew. From the puckered front peered a woman and two children; the
man of the family was walking wearily beside, swinging an ox-goad.
"Howdy, strangers?" he hailed, as he halted. "Are these the Californy
diggin's?"
"Is this Californy?" put in the woman, quaveringly.
"You bet your bottom dollar, friends," was the hearty answer. "This is
Californy, and these are the Shirt-tail Diggin's, the best on 'arth."
"Haven't got any flour for trade, have you?" queried the man.
"Nary flour, nary anything for trade, stranger, but I'll _give_ you a
sack o' the best flapjack flour that ever came out a store."
"Hooray for the first woman in Shirt-tail Diggin's!" rose the cheer,
and the crowd surged forward excitedly.
"No, strangers, I don't want your flour for nothin'," said the man, as
if a little alarmed. "I'm busted for money, but I'll trade ye, and
trade ye fair."
"Where's the gold? I'd like to see some gold," ventured the woman--a
little alarmed at the uproar.
"Pass the hat, boys," ordered the spokesman of the camp; he fished out
his buckskin sack, shook a generous portion into the top of his old
hat, and started the hat through the crowd. Somebody hustled back with
flour, somebody else with bacon; Shirt-tail camp fairly fought for the
privilege of handing these and other supplies in, to the wagon, and
there was added a buckskin sack half full of dust.
"Oh, we can't take these," appealed the woman, shrinking. She wasn't
handsome, just now; she was thin, haggard and tanned, and wore a calico
gown; but to the miners she was a woman, just the same, and Charley
found himself wishing she were his mother.
"Take 'em! Throw 'em in, boys, anyway. They're for the first woman in
Shirt-tail. Hooray! Hooray!"
"Charley Adams! Oh, Charley!" cried a voice, piercing the crazy
clamor. Charley whirled and looked. It was--why, Billy Walker! Of
course! Billy Walker! He had forgotten about Billy, for the
moment--in fact, he hadn't recognized him.
But the remainder of the emigrant train had drawn near, bunching as it
halted, and on foot Billy was hurrying through the crowd, followed by
his father. Charley gave a shrill whoop of joy, and with a run he and
Billy grabbed one another and hugged and danced. Then they drew off to
shake hands; then Charley shook hands with Mr. Walker--and Mr. Adams
shook hands with Billy and his father; then Charley and Billy
grinningly sized one another up.
"You look like a sure-'nough miner," said Billy.
"And you look like a sure-'nough overlander," said Charley.
"What have you got? Have you found much gold? Are these the regular
diggin's? How long've you been here? Have you made your pile? Were
you seasick any? Did it storm at sea? What's the name of this place?
Where's the Sacramento? Did you stay in San Francisco? How much gold
can I dig in a day?" propounded Billy, all at once.
"I've found some gold--I've panned out half a sackful. We haven't been
here long. Wasn't seasick a bit--scarcely. These are the Shirt-tail
diggin's," replied Charley. "What kind of time did you have? Did you
kill any Injuns? Do you have to go on? Why don't you stop now and
mine? Is this all your crowd? Did you have a lot of fun? Do you want
me to show you how to pan?"
"Gee, we had some fun, but we had an awful time, mostly," declared
Billy, soberly. And he looked it. His flannel shirt was torn and
faded, his trousers were patched with buckskin, his boots were scuffed
through and resoled with rawhide, the knife in his belt had been ground
down to half a blade, and his rifle was scarred and the stock spliced
with rawhide at the grasp. Besides that, his face and hands were brown
as brown, and scratched, he was thin as a rail, but his eyes were
bright and steady and he evidently was as hard as nails. "We broke our
wagon and lost our horses--they just fell down and died in their
tracks--and had to leave half our outfit out in the desert. But our
company's first in; there are about 200 of us--and there are about
30,000 following, strung out all the way from here to the Rocky
Mountains, I guess. That's a tough trail, across the desert from Fort
Hall; but we made it, though the Digger Injuns 'most got our scalps,
once. Part of the crowd's coming in by way of Oregon; and that's a
harder trail still, we hear. Some of our own company, branched off,
other side of the Sierra, for the Carson River, but we struck up the
Truckee and over to the American River this way. Don't know what dad
and I'll do now. We ought to get some grub and other stuff. I'd give
ten dollars for a loaf of bread."
"Huh, I guess you would," retorted Charley. "Do you know what flour's
selling at, in California? Sixty dollars a barrel. Besides, we don't
eat _bread_, up here. We eat flapjacks."
"Jiminy!" sighed Billy, his mouth watering as he smacked his dry lips.
"That sounds mighty good, just the same. Honest, I've been living on
old ox so long I've nearly forgotten what flapjack tastes like. I used
to have 'em back home, though. Remember those old Liz, our cook, made?
Yum! Just the same," he added, defiantly, "I'm glad I came. I
wouldn't have missed that trip for anything."
"You bunk in along with us, and we'll give you all the flapjacks you
can eat," urged Charley. "Dad can make the best you ever tasted. And
I'll show you how to pan out the gold, too. Shucks! It's easy. Some
days you'll just simply scoop it up, and think you're going to be rich
right away--and next day you won't find color, even. But it's fun.
Wish you and your father _would_ throw in with us. There's no use in
going on down to Sacramento; prices of everything are awful, there, and
at San Francisco, too. Ask him, won't you?"
But Billy didn't need to ask, for Mr. Grigsby had been introduced to
Mr. Walker by Charley's father, and they three were talking together
earnestly. The upshot was (to Charley's and Billy's delight) that the
two parties joined.
"I've told Mr. Walker that we're on the search for a certain quartz
proposition," announced Charley's father, to his partner Charley, "and
if we find it we'll probably need good help to develop it. And there's
nobody we'd rather have in with us than him and Billy. Now if we five
can't make our way, I'll miss my guess. What do you think about it?"
Think about it? Charley and Billy uttered another war-whoop, together,
and in a mutual hug gave a kick-up Indian dance--but Shirt-tail
Diggin's was used to this sort of thing.
"I'd better hustle out and see what I can add to the outfit," said Mr.
Walker; and accompanied by Mr. Grigsby, away he went.
He succeeded in buying a horse from one of the emigrants, and in
picking up here and there a few supplies. By the time that the horse
and burro were packed, and the start onward might be made, the emigrant
train also was again in motion, and the miners were descending again
into their ravines and ditches. The great majority of the emigrants
continued eastward, bound for "the Sacramenty," there to renew their
strength. A few stayed in camp at Shirt-tail. But a weary lot they
all were--they and their animals; weary and seemingly bewildered now
that they actually had arrived in the famed gold fields of California.
Mr. Grigsby set the pace, as usual, for his party. Straightaway he
led, down the first ravine out of Shirt-tail, up the other side, and
into a draw or pass which wound among the hills. The miners whom they
passed, at work, gazed curiously; and one or two hailed with--"Where
you bound, strangers? What've you heard? Another strike?" But the
party only smiled and shook their heads.
Charley and Billy trudged together, leading burro and horse.
"Did you shoot anything on the way across?" asked Charley.
"You bet. Shot an antelope. Killed him first crack. He was mighty
good eating, too. But there wasn't much game. Too many people on the
trail."
"Did you kill any bear?"
"No. Didn't even see one. We were in too big a hurry to stop to hunt
much, anyway, and when we needed meat the worst, we couldn't find it.
That was on the desert between Salt Lake and these mountains. Where
are we going now? Do you know?"
"Over to a camp called Rough and Ready, in Grass Valley, I guess."
"What's there?"
"It's dry diggin's, mostly, but it's more of a quartz country than
this. We're on the track of a big quartz claim. You remember that
sick man I found in St. Louis?" Billy nodded. "Well, he told us about
a claim of his; he sort of gave it to dad and me. We aren't telling
anybody else, but now you're a partner, I can tell you that much."
"Jiminy!" exclaimed Billy. "Hope we find it."
"Well, if we don't we can wash out a lot of gold, anyhow."
"What are dry diggings, Charley?"
"They're diggin's in dry ground, where you have to bring in the water
some way. Wet diggin's are placers in the beds of streams where you're
in the water already. Shirt-tail was wet diggin's. They're the
hardest because your feet are soaked and get sore, and you catch
rheumatism and fever and everything.
"What's quartz diggin's, then?"
"Aw, those aren't diggin's, exactly," informed the wise Charley.
"Quartz is a rock that helps form a lode where the gold is carried,
first, before it's crumbled out by the weather and is washed down with
gravel and sand to make the placer beds. You dig the placer bed, but
you have to use a crow-bar and powder on lodes, and break them to
pieces. Then you have to crush the pieces and wash the gold out or
unite it with mercury and get it that way. Lode mining takes
machinery, if it's done right, and it's expensive; but it lasts longer,
if it's any good, because you can follow the lode for miles. Placer
mining is sort of luck."
"If we find a lode, what'll we do with it, I wonder," pursued Billy.
"We haven't any machinery, or much powder, either."
"We'll get the machinery, all right, if we find the spot," asserted
Charley. "My father and Mr. Grigsby are going into this thing
scientifically; that's the only way to make a success; your father's no
slouch, either.
"I should say not," agreed Billy, loyally. "I guess we all together
can make a mine pay, if anybody can."
"This is awful rough traveling, isn't it!" remarked Charley, suddenly.
And Billy answered: "Kind of; but we were over worse. Had to haul the
oxen and horses up and down by ropes." Nevertheless, the going was, as
Charley had said, "awful." Steep slope after steep slope blocked the
way; the brush and timber grew thick; sometimes large rocks interposed;
and when the party weren't sliding they were climbing, dragging the
puffing pack animals. But the trail that had been taken always led on.
Camp was made beside a spring, in a little flat or cup surrounded by
timber over which peeked the snow-caps of the main range. For supper
Billy had his flapjacks, as Charley had promised; and how he did eat!
Nobody's appetite was especially poor, however.
"Now you're a Forty-niner, sure," informed Charley, to his fellow
partner. "You've got a fresh lining in your stomach. When we get
settled I'm going to practice till I can toss a flapjack up the cabin
chimney and catch it coming down on the outside. See?"
Up hill and down was it the next day, again. Shortly after noon they
came to a high ridge, covered with brush in spots, and in spots bare.
The three men climbed on, for a view ahead, but Charley and Billy
branched off, to a place that looked lower. Then, suddenly, Charley
caught sight of it--a great grayish-brown beast, lumbering along a
slope just ahead, and making for the top not far before. Sometimes he
was in the brush, sometimes in the open; but Charley knew him at once.
"Billy!" he cried, excited. "There's a bear! Shoot! Quick!"
"Where?"
"Right in front of us! See? Hurry, or he'll be over the top."
"That's not a bear. That's a cow."
"Cow your grandmother! 'Tis, too! A grizzly! They grow as big as
cows in this country. Aren't you going to shoot? Give me that gun."
The burro and the horse had seen or smelled, for they were pulling back
and snorting, ears pricked, eyes Staring. Billy stepped on his lead
rope, and leveled his gun like lightning.
[Illustration: Billy stepped on his lead rope and leveled his gun like
lightning]
"Bang!" The big bear gave a jump aside and turning sharp lumbered
faster, straight for the top. "Bang!" spoke Billy's patent repeater,
again. And just as the bear disappeared over the top, "Bang!" shot
Billy, a third time. But the bear was gone.
"Did I hit him? Did I hit him?" panted Billy. "Whoa, there, you
horse. Did I hit him?"
"Don't think so," panted Charley, just as excited. "Maybe you did,
though. I heard the bullets sing, anyway. One must have struck rock.
Come on; let's go over. Tie your horse. How many shots you got left?
"Four."
In a jiffy they tied the horse and burro to the brush, and away they
pelted, lunging and staggering up the slope, to the place where they
had seen the bear.
He wasn't there now, and he wasn't anywhere in sight, either; and
though they searched closely, they could not find even a drop of blood.
"I guess I missed him clean," confessed Billy, ruefully. "I was in too
big a hurry."
"It's hard shooting up hill; and he was running, too," sympathized
Charley, "Let's see where the bullets hit."
That would be some satisfaction; so they searched more. Presently
Billy yelped:
"Here's where one hit. It knocked a big chunk out of the rock. Funny
looking rock." And then he exclaimed: "Come over, Charley. Quick!
The rock's got a lot of yellow in it!"
"What color rock?" demanded Charley.
"Whitish."
"Let's see."
Billy pointed, and he also handed up the piece that the bullet had
knocked loose. Yes, the fresh side of the piece was white and
glistening--and the whiteness was mottled with dull yellow. The scar
in the rocky ridge also was white and yellow mottled.
"Is it gold, Charley?" gasped Billy, anxiously.
"I don't know, for sure," said Charley, trying not to be foolish. "But
I think this is quartz, all right enough; and if that yellow's soft
enough to be scraped with a knife blade it's liable to be gold." He
drew out his knife from his belt and scraped at the yellow. Where the
yellow was thickest it could--yes, it could be scraped in tiny
shavings. Billy was peering close; and he was breathing so fast that,
Charley afterward declared, he could be heard half a mile. But no
matter now.
"It's gold!" Charley's voice came tense and stammery. "Anyway, it's
soft."
"Do you suppose the whole rock's full of gold?"
"Maybe. Let's knock off some more. Maybe the whole hill's full of
gold--all the rock! Hurrah!"
"Hurrah! Maybe it'll get solider, deeper we go," cheered Billy,
hopefully.
Charley hammered with his boot heel and pried with his knife; Billy
hammered with his rifle-butt; and when they knocked off even a chip, it
showed traces of gold. Why, wherever the rock stuck up, making little
humps and furrows, it seemed to be the one kind: quartz-blotched and
yellow-spotted.
"Hurrah!" again cheered Charley. "We ought to stake off claims. Who
found it? I saw the bear."
"And I shot the bullet," returned Billy.