NED AND TOM TAKE TO WANDERING--PHILOSOPHICAL SPECULATIONS--A STARTLING
APPARITION--THE DIGGER INDIANS--WATER BOILED IN A BASKET--THE GLOOMY
PASS--THE ATTACK BY ROBBERS--THE FIGHT--A SURPRISE--THE ENCAMPMENT.
Change is one of the laws of nature. We refer not to small-change,
reader, but to physical, material change. Everything is given to
change; men, and things, and place, and circumstances, all change, more
or less, as time rolls on in its endless course. Following, then, this
inevitable law of nature, we, too, will change the scene, and convey our
reader deeper in among the plains and mountains of the far, "far west."
It is a beautiful evening in July. The hot season has not yet succeeded
in burning up all nature into a dry russet-brown. The whole face of the
country is green and fresh after a recent shower, which has left myriads
of diamond-drops trembling from the point of every leaf and blade. A
wide valley, of a noble park-like appearance, is spread out before us,
with scattered groups of trees all over it, blue mountain-ranges in the
far distance circling round it, and a bright stream winding down its
emerald breast. On the hill-sides the wild-flowers grow so thickly that
they form a soft, thick couch to lie upon, immense trees, chiefly pines
and cedars, rise here and there like giants above their fellows. Oaks,
too, are numerous, and the scene in many places is covered with
mansanita underwood, a graceful and beautiful shrub. The trees and
shrubbery, however, are not so thickly planted as to intercept the view,
and the ground undulates so much that occasionally we overtop them, and
obtain a glimpse of the wide vale before us. Over the whole landscape
there is a golden sunny haze, that enriches while it softens every
object, and the balmy atmosphere is laden with the sweet perfume called
forth by the passing shower.
One might fancy Eden to have been somewhat similar to this, and here, as
there, the presence of the Lord might be recognised in a higher degree
than in most other parts of this earth, for, in this almost untrodden
wilderness, His pre-eminently beautiful works have not yet to any great
extent been marred by the hand of man.
Far away towards the north, two horsemen may be seen wending their way
through the country at a slow, ambling pace, as if they would fain
prolong their ride in such a lovely vale. The one is Ned Sinton, the
other Tom Collins.
It had cost these worthies a week of steady riding, to reach the spot on
which we now find them, during which time they had passed through great
varieties of scenery, had seen many specimens of digging-life, and had
experienced not a few vicissitudes; but their griefs were few and slight
compared with their enjoyments, and, at the moment we overtake them,
they were riding they knew not and they cared not whither! Sufficient
for them to know that the wilds before them were illimitable; that their
steeds were of the best and fleetest Mexican breed; that their purses
were well-lined with dollars and gold-dust; that they were armed with
rifles, pistols, knives, and ammunition, to the teeth; and that the land
was swarming with game.
"'Tis a perfect paradise!" exclaimed Tom Collins, as they reined up on
the brow of a hill to gaze at the magnificent prospect before them.
"Strange," murmured Ned, half soliloquising, "that, although so wild and
uncultivated, it should remind me so forcibly of home. Yonder bend in
the stream, and the scenery round it, is so like to the spot where I was
born, and where I spent my earliest years, that I can almost fancy the
old house will come into view at the next turn."
"It does indeed remind one of the cultivated parks of England," replied
Tom; "but almost all my early associations are connected with cities. I
have seen little of uncontaminated nature all my life, except the blue
sky through chimney tops, and even that was seen through a medium of
smoke."
"Do you know," remarked Ned, as they resumed their journey at a slow
pace, "it has always seemed to me that cities are unnatural
monstrosities, and that there should be no such things!"
"Indeed," replied Tom, laughing; "how, then, would you have men to
live?"
"In the country, of course, in cottages and detached houses. I would
sow London, Liverpool, Manchester, etcetera, broadcast over the land, so
that there would be no spot in Britain in which there were not clusters
of human dwellings, each with its little garden around it, and yet no
spot on which a _city_ could be found."
"Hum, rather awkward for the transaction of business, I fear," suggested
Tom.
"Not a bit; our distances would be greater, but we could overcome that
difficulty by using horses more than we do--and railroads."
"And how would you manage with huge manufactories?" inquired Tom.
"I've not been able to solve that difficulty yet," replied Ned, smiling;
"but my not being able to point out how things may be put right, does
not, in the least degree, alter the fact that, as they are at present,
they are wrong."
"Most true, my sagacious friend," said Tom; "but, pray, how do you prove
the fact that things _are_ wrong?"
"I prove it thus:--You admit, I suppose, that the air of all large
cities is unhealthy, as compared with that of the country, and that men
and women who dwell in cities are neither so robust nor so healthy as
those who dwell in country places?"
"I'm not sure that I do admit it," answered Tom.
"Surely you don't deny that people of the cities deem it a necessary of
life to get off to the country at least once a year, in order to
recruit, and that they invariably return better in health than when they
left?"
"True; but that is the result of change."
"Ay," added Ned, "the result of change from worse to better."
"Well, I admit it for the sake of argument."
"Well, then, if the building of cities necessarily and inevitably
creates a condition of atmosphere which is, to some extent, no matter
how slight, prejudicial to health, those who build them and dwell in
them are knowingly damaging the life which has been given them to be
cherished and taken care of."
"Ned," said Tom, quietly, "you're a goose!"
"Tom," retorted Ned, "I know it; but, in the sense in which you apply
the term, all men are geese. They are divided into two classes--namely,
geese who are such because they can't and won't listen to reason, and
geese who are such because they take the trouble to talk philosophically
to the former; but to return from this digression, what think you of the
argument?"
Tom replied by reining up his steed, pointing to an object in front, and
inquiring, "What think you of _that_?"
The object referred to was a man, but, in appearance at least, he was
not many degrees removed from the monkey. He was a black, squat,
hideous-looking native, and his whole costume, besides the little strip
of cloth usually worn by natives round the loins, consisted of a black
silk hat and a pair of Wellington boots!
Dear reader, do not suppose that I am trying to impose upon your
good-natured credulity. What I state is a _fact_, however unlikely it
may appear in your eyes.
The natives of this part of the country are called digger Indians, not
with reference to gold-digging, but from the fact of their digging
subterranean dwellings, in which they pass the winter, and also from the
fact that they grub in the earth a good deal for roots, on which they
partly subsist. They are degraded, miserable creatures, and altogether
uncivilised, besides being diminutive in stature.
Soon after the first flood of gold-hunters swept over their lands these
poor creatures learned the value of gold, but they were too lazy to work
diligently for it. They contented themselves with washing out enough to
purchase a few articles of luxury, in the shape of cast-off apparel,
from the white men. When stores began to be erected here and there
throughout the country, they visited them to purchase fresh provisions
and articles of dress, of which latter they soon became passionately
fond.
But the digger Indians were not particular as to style or fashion--
glitter and gay colour were the chief elements of attraction. Sometimes
a naked savage might be seen going about with a second-hand dress-coat
put on the wrong way, and buttoned up the back. Another would content
himself with a red silk handkerchief tied round his head or shoulders.
A third would thrust his spindle-shanks through the arms of a sleeved
vest, and button the body round his loins; while a fourth, like the one
now under consideration, would parade about in a hat and boots.
The poor digger had drawn the right boot on the left foot, and the left
boot on the right--a matter of little moment, however, as they were
immensely too large for him, as was also the hat, which only remained on
his brows by being placed very much back on the head. He was a most
singular being, and Ned and Tom, after the first glance of astonishment,
were so un-mannered as to laugh at him until they almost fell off their
horses. The digger was by no means disconcerted. He evidently was
accustomed to the free and easy manners of white men, and while they
rolled in their saddles, he stood quietly beside them, grinning
hideously from ear to ear.
"Truly, a rare specimen of humanity," cried Ned, when he recovered his
composure. "Where did _you_ come from, old boy?"
The digger shook his head, and uttered some unintelligible words.
"It's of no use speaking to him; he don't understand English," said Tom
Collins, with a somewhat puzzled expression.
The two friends made several attempts to ask him, by signs, where he
lived, but they utterly failed. Their first efforts had the effect of
making the man laugh, but their second attempts, being more energetic
and extravagant, frightened him so that he manifested a disposition to
run away. This disposition they purposely encouraged until he fairly
took to his heels, and, by following him, they at last came upon the
village in which his tribe resided.
Here they found an immense assemblage of men, and women, and children,
whose appearance denoted dirtiness, laziness, and poverty. They were
almost all in a state bordering on nudity, but a few of them wore
miscellaneous portions of European apparel. The hair of the men was
long, except on the forehead, where it was cut square, just above the
eyebrows. The children wore no clothes at all. The infants were
carried on stiff cradles, similar to those used by North American
Indians. They all resided in tents, made of brushwood and sticks, and
hundreds of mangy, half-starved curs dwelt along with them.
The hero of the hat and boots was soon propitiated by the gift of a few
inches of tobacco, and Ned Sinton and Tom Collins were quickly on
intimate terms with the whole tribe.
It is difficult to resist the tendency to laugh when a human being
stands before you in a ludicrously-meagre costume, making hideous
grimaces with his features, and remarkable contortions with his limbs,
in the vain efforts to make himself understood by one who does not speak
his language! Ned's powers of endurance were tested in this way by the
chief of the tribe, an elderly man with a beard so sparse that each
stumpy hair might have been easily counted.
This individual was clad in the rough, ragged blue coat usually worn by
Irish labourers of the poorest class. It was donned with the tails in
front; and two brass buttons, the last survivors of a once glittering
double row, fastened it across the back of its savage owner.
"What _can_ he mean?" said Ned, at the close of a series of pantomimic
speeches, in which the Indian vainly endeavoured to get him to
understand something having reference to the mountains beyond, for he
pointed repeatedly towards them.
"It seems to me that he would have us understand," said Tom, "that the
road lies before us, and the sooner we take ourselves off the better."
Ned shook his head. "I don't think that likely; he seems rather to wish
us to remain; more than once he has pointed to his tent, and beckoned us
to enter."
"Perhaps the old fellow wants us to become members of his tribe,"
suggested Tom. "Evidently he cannot lead his braves on the war-path as
he was wont to do, and he wishes to make you chief in his room. What
think you? Shall we remain? The blue coat would suit you admirably."
During this colloquy the old savage looked from one speaker to another
with great eagerness, as if trying to comprehend what they said, then,
renewing his gesticulations, he succeeded at last in convincing the
travellers that he wished them not to pursue their journey any further,
in the direction in which they were going. This was a request with
which they did not, however, feel disposed to comply; but seeing that he
was particularly anxious that they should accept of his hospitality,
they dismounted, and, fastening their horses to a tree close beside the
opening of the chief's hut, they entered.
The inside of this curious bee-hive of a dwelling was dirty and dark,
besides being half-full of smoke, created by the pipe of a squaw--the
old man's wife--who regaled herself there with the soothing weed. There
were several dogs there also, and two particularly small infants in
wooden cradles, who were tied up like mummies, and did nothing but stare
right before them into space.
"What's that?" inquired Tom, pointing to a basketful of smoking water.
"It looks like a basket," replied Ned.
"It _is_ a basket," remarked Tom, examining the article in question,
"and, as I live, superb soup in it."
"Tom," said Ned Sinton, solemnly, "have a care; if it is soup, depend
upon it, dogs or rats form the basis of its composition."
"Ned," said Tom, with equal solemnity, "eat, and ask no questions."
Tom followed his own advice by accepting a dish of soup, with a large
lump of meat in it, which was at that moment offered to him by the old
chief who also urged Ned Sinton to partake; but he declined, and,
lighting his pipe, proceeded to enjoy a smoke, at the same time handing
the old man a plug of tobacco, which he accepted promptly, and began to
use forthwith.
While thus engaged, they had an opportunity of observing how the squaw
boiled water in a basket. Laying aside her pipe, she hauled out a
goody-sized and very neatly-made basket of wicker-work, so closely woven
by her own ingenious hands, that it was perfectly water-tight; this she
three-quarters filled, and then put into it red-hot stones, which she
brought in from a fire kindled outside. The stones were thrown in in
succession, till the temperature was raised to the boiling point, and
afterwards a little dead animal was put into the basket.
The sight of this caused Tom Collins to terminate his meal somewhat
abruptly, and induced Ned to advise him to try a little more.
"No, thank you," replied Tom, lighting his pipe hastily, and taking up a
bow and several arrows, which he appeared to regard with more than usual
interest. The bow was beautifully made;--rather short, and tipped with
horn.
The arrows were formed of two distinct pieces of wood spliced together,
and were shod with flint; they were feathered in the usual way. All the
articles manufactured by these natives were neatly done, and evinced
considerable skill in the use of their few and simple tools.
After resting half-an-hour, the two friends rose to depart, and again
the old Indian manifested much anxiety to prevail on them to remain; but
resisting all his entreaties, they mounted their horses and rode away,
carrying with them the good wishes of the community, by the courtesy of
their manners, and a somewhat liberal distribution of tobacco at
parting.
The country through which they passed became wilder at every step, for
each hour brought them visibly nearer the mountain-range, and towards
night-fall they entered one of the smaller passes or ravines that
divided the lower range of hills at which they first arrived. Here a
rugged precipice, from which projected pendent rocks and scrubby trees,
rose abruptly on the right of the road, and a dense thicket of
underwood, mingled with huge masses of fallen rock, lay on their left.
We use the word road advisedly, for the broad highway of the flowering
plains, over which the horsemen had just passed, narrowed at this spot
as it entered the ravine, and was a pretty-well-defined path, over which
parties of diggers and wandering Indians occasionally passed.
"Does not this wild spot remind you of the nursery tales we used to
read?" said Ned, as they entered the somewhat gloomy defile, "which used
to begin, `Once upon a time--'"
"Hist, Ned, is that a grizzly?"
Both riders drew up abruptly, and grasped their rifles.
"I hear nothing," whispered Ned.
"It must have been imagination," said Tom, throwing his rifle carelessly
over his left arm, as they again advanced. The gloom of the locality,
which was deepened by the rapidly-gathering shades of night, quieted
their spirits, and induced them to ride on in silence. About fifty
yards further on, the rustling in the bushes was again heard, and both
travellers pulled up and listened intently.
"Pshaw!" cried Ned, at last, urging his horse forward, and throwing his
piece on his shoulder, "we are starting at the rustling of the night
wind; come, come, Tom, don't let us indulge superstitious feelings--"
At that moment there was a crash in the bushes on both sides of them,
and their horses reared wildly, as four men rushed upon them. Before
their steeds became manageable, they were each seized by a leg, and
hurled from their saddles. In the fall, their rifles were thrown out of
their grasp into the bushes; but this mattered little, for in a close
struggle pistols are better weapons. Seizing their revolvers, Ned and
Tom instantly sprang up, and fired at their assailants, but without
effect, both being so much shaken by their fall. The robbers returned
the fire, also without effect. In the scuffle, Ned was separated from
his friend, and only knew that he maintained the fight manfully, from
the occasional shots that were fired near him. His whole attention,
however, had to be concentrated on the two stalwart ruffians with whom
he was engaged.
Five or six shots were fired at a few yards' distance, quick as
lightning, yet, strange to say, all missed. Then the taller of the two
opposed to Ned, hurled his revolver full in his face, and rushed at him.
The pistol struck Ned on the chest, and almost felled him, but he
retained his position, and met the highwayman with a well-directed blow
of his fist right between the eyes. Both went down, under the impetus
of the rush, and the second robber immediately sprang upon Ned, and
seized him by the throat. But he little knew the strength of the man
with whom he had to deal. Our hero caught him in the iron grasp of his
right hand, while, with his left, he hurled aside the almost inanimate
form of his first assailant; then, throwing the other on his back, he
placed his knee on his chest, and drew his bowie-knife.
Even in the terrible passion of mortal combat, Ned shuddered at the
thought of slaying a helpless opponent. He threw the knife aside, and
struck the man violently with his fist on the forehead, and then sprang
up to rescue Tom who, although he had succeeded at the outset in felling
one of the robbers with the butt of his pistol, was still engaged in
doubtful strife with a man of great size and power. When Ned came up,
the two were down on their knees, each grasping the other's wrist in
order to prevent their bowie-knives from being used. Their struggles
were terrible; for each knew that the first who freed his right hand
would instantly take the other's life. Ned settled the matter, however,
by again using his fist, which he applied so promptly to the back of the
robber's neck, that he dropped as if he had been shot.
"Thank you--God bless you, Ned," gasped Tom, as soon as he recovered
breath; "you have saved my life, for certainly I could not have held out
a minute longer. The villain has all but broken my right arm."
"Never mind," cried Ned, stooping down, and turning the stunned robber
over on his face, "give me a hand, boy; we must not let the fellows
recover and find themselves free to begin the work over again. Take
that fellow's neckcloth and tie his hands behind his back."
Tom obeyed at once, and in a few minutes the four highwaymen were bound
hand and foot, and laid at the side of the road.
"Now," said Ned, "we must push on to the nearest settlement hot-haste,
and bring a party out to escort--Halloo! Tom, are you wounded?"
"Not badly--a mere cut on the head."
"Why, your face is all covered with blood!"
"It's only in consequence of my wiping it with a bloody handkerchief,
then; but you can examine, and satisfy yourself."
"The wound is but slight, I see," rejoined Ned, after a brief
manipulation of Tom's skull; "now, then, let us away."
"We'll have to catch our horses first, and that won't be an easy
matter."
Tom was right. It cost them half-an-hour to secure them and recover
their rifles and other arms, which had been scattered over the field of
battle. On returning to the spot where the robbers lay, they found them
all partially recovered, and struggling violently to free themselves.
Three of them failed even to slacken their bonds, but the fourth, the
powerful man who had nearly overcome Tom Collins, had well-nigh freed
his hands when his captors came up.
"Lie quiet," said Ned, in a low tone, "if you don't want the butt of my
rifle on your skull."
The man lay down instantly.
"Tom, go and cut a stake six feet long, and I'll watch these fellows
till you come back."
The stake was soon brought and lashed to the robber's back in such a
manner that he was rendered utterly powerless. The others were secured
in a similar manner, and then the two travellers rode forward at a
gallop.
For nearly an hour they continued to advance without speaking or drawing
rein. At the end of that time, while sweeping round the jutting base of
a precipitous rock, they almost ran into a band of horsemen who were
trotting briskly towards them. Both parties halted, and threw forward
their rifles, or drew their revolvers for instant use, gazing at each
other the while in silent surprise at the suddenness of their meeting.
"Give in, ye villains," at last shouted a stern voice, "or we'll blow ye
out o' the saddle. You've no chance; down your arms, I say."
"Not until I know what right _you_ have to command us," replied Ned,
somewhat nettled at the overbearing tone of his opponent. "We are
peaceable travellers, desiring to hurt no one; but if we were not,
surely so large a party need not be afraid. We don't intend to run
away, still less do we intend to dispute your passage."
The strangers lowered their fire-arms, as if half-ashamed at being
surprised into a state of alarm by two men.
"Who said we were `afraid,' young man?" continued the first speaker,
riding up with his comrades, and eyeing the travellers narrowly. "Where
have you come from, and how comes it that your clothes are torn, and
your faces covered with blood?"
The party of horsemen edged forward, as he spoke, in such a manner as to
surround the two friends, but Ned, although he observed the movement,
was unconcerned, as, from the looks of the party, he felt certain they
were good men and true.
"You are a close interrogator for a stranger," he replied. "Perhaps you
will inform me where _you_ have come from, and what is your errand in
these lonesome places at this hour of the night?"
"I'll tell ye wot it is, stranger," answered another of the party--a
big, insolent sort of fellow--"we're out after a band o' scoundrels that
have infested them parts for a long time, an' it strikes me you know
more about them than we do."
"Perhaps you are right," answered Ned.
"Mayhap they're not _very_, far off from where we're standin',"
continued the man, laying his hand on Tom Collins's shoulder. Tom gave
him a look that induced him to remove the hand.
"Right again," rejoined Ned, with a smile. "I know where the villains
are, and I'll lead you to them in an hour, if you choose to follow me."
The men looked at each other in surprise.
"You'll not object to some o' us ridin' before, an' some behind ye!"
said the second speaker, "jist by way o' preventin' yer hosses from
runnin' away; they looks a little skeary."
"By no means," answered Ned, "lead on; but keep off the edge of the
track till I call a halt."
"Why so, stranger?"
"Never mind, but do as I bid you."
The tone in which this was said effectually silenced the man, and during
the ride no further questions were asked. About a quarter-of-an-hour
afterwards the moon rose, and they advanced at such a rapid pace that in
a short time they were close upon the spot where the battle had taken
place. Just before reaching it Ned called a halt, and directed the
party to dismount and follow him on foot. Although a good deal
surprised, they obeyed without question; for our hero possessed, in an
eminent degree, the power of constituting himself a leader among those
with whom he chanced to come into contact.
Fastening his horse to a tree, Ned led the men forward a hundred yards.
"Are these the men you search for!" he inquired.
"They are, sir," exclaimed one of the party, in surprise, as he stooped
to examine the features of the robbers, who lay where they had been
left.
"Halloo!" exclaimed Tom Collins, "I say, the biggest fellow's gone!
Didn't we lay him hereabouts?"
"Eh! dear me, yes; why, this is the very spot, I do believe--"
All further remarks were checked at that moment by the sound of horses'
hoofs approaching, and, almost before any one could turn round, a
horseman came thundering down the pass at full gallop. Uttering a
savage laugh of derision, he discharged his pistol full into the centre
of the knot of men as he passed, and, in another moment, was out of
sight. Several of the onlookers had presence of mind enough to draw
their pistols and fire at the retreating figure, but apparently without
effect.
"It's him!" cried Tom Collins; "and he's mounted on your horse, Ned."
"After him, lads!" shouted Ned, as he ran back towards the place where
the horses were fastened. "Whose is the best horse?"
"Hold on, stranger," said one of the men, as he ran up to Ned, "ye may
save yer wind. None o' the horses can overtake your one, I guess. I
was lookin' at him as we came along. It would only be losin' time for
nothin', an' he's miles ahead by this time."
Ned Sinton felt that the man's remarks were too true, so he returned to
the spot where the remaining robbers lay, and found that the miners had
cut their fastenings, and were busily engaged in rebinding their hands
behind them, preparatory to carrying them back to their settlement. It
was discovered that the lashings of one of the men had been partly
severed with a knife, and, as he could not have done it himself, it was
plain that the robber who had escaped must have done it, and that the
opportune arrival of the party had prevented him from accomplishing his
purpose. How the man had broken his own bonds was a mystery that could
not now be solved, but it was conjectured they must have been too weak,
and that he had burst them by main strength.
Another discovery was now made, namely, that one of the three robbers
secured was no other than Black Jim himself; the darkness of the night
had prevented Ned and Tom from making this discovery during the fight.
In less time than we have taken to describe it, the robbers were
secured, and each was mounted behind one of his captors.
"Ain't you goin' with us?" inquired one of the men, observing that Ned
Sinton stood leaning on his rifle, as if he meant to remain behind.
"No," answered Ned; "my companion and I have travelled far to-day,
besides fighting a somewhat tough battle; we mean to camp here for the
night, and shall proceed to your settlement to-morrow."
The men endeavoured to dissuade them from their purpose, but they were
both fatigued, and persisted in their determination. The impression
they had made, however, on their new friends was so favourable, that one
of their number, a Yankee, offered the loan of his horse to Ned, an
offer which the latter accepted thankfully, promising to return it safe
and sound early on the following day. Five minutes later the sound of
the retreating hoofs died away, and the travellers stood silently side
by side in the gloomy ravine.
For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in
his companion's face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said:
"It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that
we are a couple of beggars?"
"If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we
are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you."
"Well, I've no objection," rejoined Ned, "to your taking my words in
that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real,
veritable, _bona fide_ beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in
the world."
Tom Collins's visage grew exceedingly long.
"Our united purse," pursued Ned, "hung, as you are aware, at my
saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed,
is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!"
Tom's countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture
to speak.
"Now," continued Ned, forcing a smile, "there is nothing for it but to
make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our
travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as
we please, my dear fellow, but there's no denying that we are in what
the Yankees would call an `oncommon fix.'"
Ned's remark as to "laughing at it," was altogether uncalled for and
inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a
grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins's thoughts at that moment
than laughing.
"Are the victuals gone too?" inquired Ned, hastily.
Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins's horse, which grazed hard
by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags
were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter
cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse,
pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and assuming that
the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the
preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that
insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above
the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands,
and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom's
assertion, "happy as kings."
The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable
dispute.
"I recommend the level turf under this oak," said Ned, pointing to a
huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward.
"It's too low," objected Tom, (Tom could always object--a quality which,
while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the
conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to
gunpowder in that of others;) "it's too low, and, doubtless, moist. I
think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling
cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot."
"Now, who is to decide the question if I don't give in, Tom? For I
assume, of course, that you will never give in."
At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them.
It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks
in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of
summer, that they snap off without a moment's warning, often when there
is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so
well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in
selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an
occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches.
An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had
barely passed Ned's lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they
stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground.
"That settles it," said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse
towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its
branches.
In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare
on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pass, while they cooked
and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed
little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over
them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on
their saddles, and murmuring "Good-night," forgot their troubles in the
embrace of deep, refreshing slumber.