There was a strong attraction which drew George Inwood toward the
golden sands of California, to which we have not even hinted thus
far; but it is high time it received notice.
Several years before, when the young student had just entered
college, he was descending the Hudson in the ill-fated Henry Clay.
On board, he formed the acquaintance of the most engaging young
lady he had ever met. Intellectual, vivacious and accomplished, he
felt strengthened mentally and morally when he left her presence--a
condition far different from that in which one is sure to vacate the
society of nine-tenths of the fashionable women of the present time.
A mutual interest sprang up between the two, and everything was
progressing delightfully toward a tenderer state of feeling, when
that well-remembered calamity burst upon the doomed steamer. In the
confusion and tumult, Inwood, who was an excellent swimmer, became
the means of saving Miss Marian Underwood and her father from death
by drowning.
There can be but little doubt of the result of all this, had
matters been left to take their natural course, but Inwood had just
entered college, and the next tidings that reached him relating to
the Underwoods was, that the father, who was quite wealthy, had
removed to California, and settled quite a distance to the south
of San Francisco. After deliberating a long time upon the matter,
he addressed a respectful but friendly letter to Marian, and then
anxiously awaited the reply; but it never came, and, concluding that
her hand was pre-engaged, he did not repeat the experiment, and did
his best to forget her.
Absorbed in his studies and preparations for his sacred calling, he
succeeded, not in forgetting her, but in preventing her occupying his
thoughts so prominently, although this would have been impossible,
had he known that the letter so carefully written had never reached
its intended destination, and that the fair Miss Underwood often
wondered and as often sighed that he did not seem to deem her worth
the trouble of a letter.
But now that Inwood’s attention was drawn toward California, the
image of this lady constantly rose before him, and he found himself
speculating, at all times of day, regarding her. The great question
was, whether there was “room” for him in her thoughts--that is, the
room which he wished--that which should exclude everything else.
He resolved to find out her residence, and make her a call--his
subsequent course regarding her to be determined by the reception he
received, and her manner toward him.
The voyage to Aspinwall was without incident worthy of mention, as
was the trip across the isthmus on the new railroad, which had been
finished a little over three years. The journey was an unceasing
delight to Edwin, who was just of that age when everything seen
and heard make such a weird impression upon the mind. The broad,
surging Atlantic, the vessels which skimmed like sea-gulls along the
horizon’s edge, the glimpse of the tropical islands, the majesty
of the storm, the exuberant vegetation of the isthmus; these, and
hundreds of other sights, made up a continual banquet for him upon
which the eye could feast and never become sated.
Captain Romaine presented each of them with through tickets to San
Francisco, so as to be sure of their reaching their destination
without further expense.
They waited several days at Panama for the steamer which was to
carry them the rest of the way, and when they went on board, found
themselves greatly crowded for room, and obliged to undergo much
privation in the way of food; but they were as able to bear it as
were the rest of the passengers, and were none the worse, when, on a
bright morning in early spring, they landed in San Francisco.
The first step was to secure temporary lodgings, which was done
without difficulty, and then, while Jim sat on the low porch in front
of their “hotel,” and smoked his pipe, George and Edwin wandered over
the new city. The curiosity of both was, perhaps, equal, and the day
passed rapidly away in gazing at this wonderful giant which sprang so
suddenly into full grown manhood.
By making careful inquiries, George learned that Mr. Underwood was
settled to the south some fifty or sixty miles, and was one of the
wealthiest land-owners and stock-raisers in that section--which was
anything but pleasant information to Inwood, who would have much
preferred to hear that they were in destitute circumstances--in
order that he might call upon them, and feel himself upon something
like equal terms. The information, indeed, seemed to make our young
friend reconsider his decision of calling upon the Underwoods until
he returned from the mines laden with wealth, when he could have no
hesitation in doing so.
Perhaps, if he passed within the immediate vicinity of Underwood’s
ranche, as some of the people termed it, he might seek occasion to
get a glimpse or peep at Marian--but nothing in the world should
induce him to do more.
George Inwood had about a hundred dollars--not enough to procure him
the outfit he needed. He had brought three rifles, three revolvers,
and some cooking utensils with him; but he still needed digging and
mining implements, cloth for tents--to say nothing of a horse apiece,
and one or two mules to carry their luggage.
As a matter of course, it was out of the question to think of
procuring these; and, as the best that could be done under the
circumstances, he bought a rickety old mule, capable of carrying all
that could be piled upon his back, and going like a clock when wound
up, without retarding or increasing his speed, and disposed to walk
straight over a precipice, if it happened to be in his way, unless
he was gradually shied off by Jim Tubbs placing his shoulder against
his, and forcing him to swerve from his course.
“Dat are beast’ll carry all we’ve got to carry, ’cept ourselves, an’
if thar’s only room for us to get on, he’d carry us too,” remarked
the negro, when everything was ready, and they were about to start.
“Yes; he will answer for our luggage.”
“And must we walk?” inquired Edwin in dismay.
“I do not see how it is to be prevented,” replied his brother, as
cheerfully as he could speak.
“Why don’t you buy free hosses?” inquired Jim.
“For the reason that I have not the funds to do it with. I haven’t
enough money left to buy the poorest animal, in the shape of a horse,
that walks the streets of San Francisco.”
“_If you hain’t, mebbe somebody else has._”
“What do you mean?” inquired Inwood, in perplexity.
Ah! wasn’t that a moment of triumph for Jim Tubbs? How cool and
deliberate he tried to be, as he shoved his great hand away down in
his pantaloons pocket, until it looked as if he were fumbling at
his shoe string, and finally fished up a huge leathern purse, so
corpulent that it had very much the appearance of that humble kitchen
edible known as the dough-nut.
“Dar!” he said, as he flung it carelessly toward the amazed George
Inwood, “mebbe dar ain’t nofin’ in dat! Mebbe dat’s all counterfeit;
mebbe Mr. Tubbs hain’t been sabin’ up his money dese five years!
’Spose you look at dat--p’raps dar may be sumfin’ or other in dar.”
Jim leaned back against the column of the porch, cocked his old wool
hat on one side of his head, shoved both hands down into his pockets,
carelessly swung one foot around the ankle of the other, so that it
was supported on the toe, and then, smoking his little black pipe,
looked at Inwood, as he opened the purse and counted out the yellow
gold pieces one after the other, until he had finished.
“How much do you make?” asked Jim, in the same style that he would
have inquired the time of day.
“Four hundred and seventy dollars. Is this all yours, Jim?” inquired
Inwood, hardly comprehending the pleasant truth.
“Shouldn’t wonder now if I had sumfin’ to say ’bout it.”
The three withdrew to a more private place, where the money was
again counted, and it was found to amount to the sum mentioned. Jim
explained how he had been engaged in saving for the last five years,
as he had an idea that there would come some “’casion” like this.
He was shrewd enough to keep its existence a profound secret until
the crisis in their affairs, well knowing that Inwood would have
considered that moment of necessity as at hand long before.
And so the three horses were purchased, and a number of articles
which they needed, and, leaving San Francisco, they took a southeast
direction toward San Jose and continuing on in the same course,
struck a pass in the Coast Range near the 37th parallel.
By this time, they were far beyond the limits of civilization, and
traveling in a wild, savage country, where they occasionally met
emigrants and miners, but more frequently encountered red men and
wild beasts.
California then, as now, was rapidly filling up, but among the
mountains were thousands of miles where the foot of white men had
never trod, and where, beyond question, the auriferous particles lay
in glittering masses, only waiting for the spade of the miner, or the
rock-splitting powder of the blaster.
Before reaching the regions of the mountains, Inwood made careful
inquiries, and learned that the residence of the Underwoods lay but
a small distance from San Jose, and that, by a slight deviation from
his course, he could take it in his path. He did so, neither his
brother nor the astute African entertaining the slightest suspicions
of the true object which drew him thither.
They caught sight of the large Mexican-looking building, with its
low roof, broad wings and extensive outbuildings, its vast droves
of cattle and sheep, which were scattered here and there over an
area of many miles; all these signs of the thrift and wealth of the
owner, and it was with strange emotions that Inwood halted on a small
eminence a short distance away, and gazed down upon the pleasant
scene.
He saw no signs of life about the house. Here and there were to be
seen one or two men passing hither and thither, over the hills or
among the cattle, but the house itself was as still as death, and the
thought once occurred to his mind that, perhaps, the proprietor lay
cold and inanimate within those shaded rooms, or, perhaps, Marian
herself was stretched in the robes of the tomb.
Jim proposed that they should honor the proprietor of this estate
by spending the evening with him, but Inwood objected, and they
encamped in an adjoining piece of wood. When everything had been
made ready for the night, and the full moon had risen, Inwood left
his companions, and sauntered toward the house, his heart throbbing
tumultuously with its varied emotions.
As he walked slowly by, he caught the faint notes of the guitar, and
heard a low, sweet voice humming a familiar song. He looked in the
direction whence it came, and, through the interlacing vines, could
faintly detect the form and outline of Marian Underwood. He knew it
was _her_--he recognized the voice, and twice he paused and was about
to enter the gate; but he checked himself by a painful effort of the
will, and, loitering as long as he dared in the vicinity, he turned
on his heel and wandered back.
“When I return, I will call!” was the comforting conclusion he gave
himself.
In a few days, by patient traveling and perseverance, they reached
the eastern slope of the Coast Range, and found themselves in the San
Joaquin Valley, where they intended to prosecute their search for
gold. Carrying out their purpose of getting into a region where there
was little danger of being disturbed by any of their own race, they
followed the slope to the southward, keeping among the mountains, and
guarding every movement.
They “prospected” a long time, and suffered at first for want of
food, but they soon overcame this difficulty, and prosecuted their
search for gold with greater vigor than ever. They had poor fortune
for awhile, but they pushed resolutely forward, and finally came upon
a small mountain stream, which contained an abundance of the shining
particles among its sands.
Here they would have pitched their tent, had they not accidentally
discovered a remarkable cave, which answered their purpose so well,
that they carried everything within, and at once made it their
quarters. Their horses were tethered in a dense grove further down
the stream, where they were visited once a day to see that all was
well.
They had been here but a few days, when they discovered signs
of Indians, and Edwin was put on watch, while the others busied
themselves in “making hay while the sun shone.” The young sentinel
had been there but a short time, when he descried the troublesome
visitors approaching along the slope; and what then and there took
place our good readers have already learned.