The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West Part 8

yerself on the top of it for four! Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is it yerself? Och, but this is the place intirely--goold and silver for the axin' a'most! Ah, ye needn't grin. Look here!"

Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulled them forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining little nuggets of gold interspersed among them.

Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apart from the crowd, asked how he had come by so much money.

"Come by it!" he exclaimed; "ye could come by twice the sum, av ye liked. Sure, didn't I find that they wos chargin' tshoo dollars--aiqual to eight shillin's, I'm towld--for carryin' a box or portmanter the length o' me fut; so I turns porter all at wance, an' faix I made six dollars in less nor an hour. But as I was comin' back, I says to myself, says I, `Larry, ye'll be the better of a small gla.s.s o'

somethin'--eh!' So in I goes to a grog-shop, and faix I had to pay half-a-dollar for a thimbleful o' brandy, bad luck to them, as would turn the stomik o' a pig. I almost had a round wi' the landlord; but they towld me it wos the same iverywhere. So I wint and had another in the nixt shop I sees, jist to try; and it was thrue. Then a Yankee spies my knife,--the great pig-sticker that Bob Short swopped wi' me for my junk o' plum-duff off the Cape. It seems they've run out o' sich articles just at this time, and would give handfuls o' goold for wan.

So says I, `Wot'll ye give?'

"`Three dollars, I guess,' says wan.

"`Four,' says another; `he's chaitin' ye.'

"`Four's bid,' says I, mountin' on a keg o' baccy, and howldin up the knife; `who says more? It's the rale steel, straight from Manchester or Connaught, I misremimber which. Warranted to cut both ways, av ye only turn the idge round, and shove with a will.'

"I begood in joke; but faix they took me up in arnest, an' run up the price to twinty dollars--four pounds, as sure as me name's Larry--before I know'd where I wos. I belave I could ha' got forty for it, but I hadn't the heart to ax more, for it wasn't worth a bra.s.s b.u.t.ton."

"You've made a most successful beginning, Larry. Have you any more knives like that one?"

"Sorrow a wan--more's the pity. But that's only a small bit o' me speckilations. I found six owld newspapers in the bottom o' me chist, and, would ye belave it, I sowld 'em, ivery wan, for half-a-dollar the pace; and I don't rightly know how much clear goold I've got by standin'

all mornin' at the post-office."

"Standing at the post-office! What do you mean?"

"Nother more or less nor what I say. I suppose ye know the mail's comed in yisterday morning; so says I to myself this mornin', `Ye've got no livin' sowl in the owld country that's likely to write to ye, but ye better go, for all that, an' ax if there's letters. Maybe there is; who knows?' So away I wint, and sure enough I found a row o' men waitin'

for their letters; so I crushes for'ard--och! but I thought they'd ha'

hung me on the spot,--and I found it was a rule that `first come first sarved--fair play and no favour.' They wos all standin' wan behind another in a line half-a-mile long av it wos a fut, as patient as could be; some readin' the noosepapers, and some drinkin' coffee and tay and grog, that wos sowld by men as went up an' down the line the whole mornin'. So away I goes to the end o' the line, an' took my place, detarmined to stand it out; and, in three minutes, I had a tail of a dozen men behind me. `Faix, Larry,' says I, `it's the first time ye iver comminced at the end of a thing in order to git to the beginnin'.'

"Well, when I wos gittin' pretty near the post-office windy, I hears the chap behind me a-sayin' to the fellow behind him that he expected no letters, but only took up his place in the line to sell it to them what did. An' sure enough I found that lots o' them were there on the same errand. Just then up comes a miner, in big boots and a wide-awake.

"`Och,' says he, `who'll sell me a place?' and with that he offered a lot o' pure goold lumps.

"`Guess it's too little,' says the man next me.

"`Ah, ye thievin' blackguard!' says I. `Here, yer honer, I'll sell ye my place for half the lot. I can wait for me letter, more be token I'm not sure there is wan.' For, ye see, I wos riled at the Yankee's greed.

So out I steps, and in steps the miner, and hands me the whole he'd offered at first.

"`Take them, my man,' says he; `you're an honest fellow, and it's a trate to meet wan here.'"

"Capital," cried Ned, laughing heartily; "and you didn't try for a letter after all?"

"Porter there?" shouted a voice from the quay.

"That's me, yer honer. Here ye are," replied the Irishman, bounding away with a yell, and shouldering a huge leathern trunk, with which he vanished from the scene, leaving Ned to pursue the train of thought evoked by his account of his remarkable experiences.

We deem it necessary here to a.s.sure the reader that the account given by Larry O'Neil of his doings was by no means exaggerated. The state of society, and the eccentricities of traffic displayed in San Francisco and other Californian cities during the first years of the gold-fever, beggars all description. Writers on that place and period find difficulty in selecting words and inventing similes in order to convey anything like an adequate idea of their meaning. Even eye-witnesses found it almost impossible, to believe the truth of what they heard and saw; and some have described the whole circle of life and manners there to have been more like to the wild, incongruous whirl of a pantomime than to the facts of real life.

Even in the close and abrupt juxtaposition of the ludicrous and the horrible this held good. Ned Sinton had scarcely parted from his hilarious shipmate, when he was attracted by shouts, as if of men quarrelling, in a gaming-house; and, a few moments later, the report of a pistol was heard, followed by a sharp cry of agony. Rushing into the house, and forcing his way through the crowd, he reached the table in time to see the b.l.o.o.d.y corpse of a man carried out. This unfortunate had repeatedly lost large sums of money, and, growing desperate, staked his all on a final chance. He lost; and, drawing his bowie-knife, in the heat of despair, rushed at the president of the table. A dozen arms arrested him, and rendered his intended a.s.sault abortive; nevertheless, the president coolly drew a revolver from under the cloth, and shot him dead. For a few minutes there was some attempt at disturbance, and some condemned, while others justified the act. But the body was removed, and soon the game went on again as if nothing had occurred.

Sickened with the sight, Ned hurried from the house, and walked rapidly towards the sh.o.r.es of the bay, beyond the limits of the canvas town, where he could breathe the free ocean air, and wander on the sands in comparative solitude.

The last straggling tent in that quarter was soon behind bun, and he stopped by the side of an old upturned boat, against which he leaned, and gazed out upon the crowded bay with saddened feelings. As he stood in contemplation, he became aware of a sound, as if of heaving, plethoric breathing under the boat. Starting up, he listened intently, and heard a faint groan. He now observed, what had escaped his notice before, that the boat against which he leaned was a human habitation. A small hole near the keel admitted light, and possibly, at times, emitted smoke. Hastening round to the other side, he discovered a small aperture, which served as a doorway. It was covered with a rag of coa.r.s.e canvas, which he lifted, and looked in.

"Who's there?" inquired a voice, as sharply as extreme weakness would allow. "Have a care! There's a revolver pointing at your head. If you come in without leave, I'll blow out your brains."

"I am a friend," said Ned, looking towards the further end of the boat, where, on a couch of straw, lay the emaciated form of a middle-aged man.

"Put down your pistol, friend; my presence here is simply owing to the fact that I heard you groan, and I would relieve your distress, if it is in my power."

"You are the first that has said so since I lay down here," sighed the man, falling back heavily.

Ned entered, and, advancing as well as he could in a stooping posture, sat down beside the sick man's pallet, and felt his pulse. Then he looked anxiously in his face, on which the hand of death was visibly placed.

"My poor fellow!" said Ned, in a soothing tone, "you are very ill, I fear. Have you no one to look after you?"

"Ill!" replied the sick man, almost fiercely, "I am dying. I have seen death too often, and know it too well, to be mistaken." His voice sank to a whisper as he added, "It is not far off now."

For a few seconds Ned could not make up his mind what to say. He felt unwilling to disturb the last moments of the man. At last he leaned forward, and repeated from memory several of the most consoling pa.s.sages of Scripture. Twice over he said, "Though thy sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as wool," and, "Him that cometh unto Me, (Christ), I will in no wise cast out."

The man appeared to listen, but made no reply. Suddenly he started up, and, leaning on his elbow, looked with an awfully earnest stare into Ned's face.

"Young man, gold is good--gold is good--remember that, _if you don't make it your G.o.d_."

After a pause, he continued, "_I_ made it my G.o.d. I toiled for it night and day, in heat and cold, wet and dry. I gave up everything for it; I spent all my time in search of it--and I got it--and what good can it do me _now_? I have spent night and day here for weeks, threatening to shoot any one who should come near my gold--Ha!" he added, sharply, observing that his visitor glanced round the apartment, "you'll not find it _here_. No, look, look round, peer into every corner, tear up every plank of my boat, and you'll find nothing but rotten wood, and dust, and rusty nails."

"Be calm, my friend," said Ned, who now believed that the poor man's mind was wandering, "I don't want your gold; I wish to comfort you, if I can. Would you like me to do anything for you after--"

"After I'm dead," said the man, abruptly. "No, nothing. I have no relations--no friends--no enemies, even, _now_. Yes," he added, quickly, "I have one friend. _You_ are my friend. You have spoken kindly to me--a beggar. You deserve the name of friend. Listen, I want you to be my heir. See here, I have had my will drawn up long ago, with the place for the name left blank I had intended--but no matter--what is your name?"

"Edward Sinton."

"Here, hand me that ink-horn, and the pen. There," continued the man, pushing the paper towards him, "I have made over to you the old boat, and the ground it lies on. Both are mine. The piece of ground is marked off by four posts. Take care of the--"

The man's voice sank to a mere whisper; then it ceased suddenly. When Ned looked at him again, he started, for the cold hand of death had sealed his lips for ever.

A feeling of deep, intense pity filled the youth's heart, as he gazed on the emaciated form of this friendless man--yet he experienced a sensation approaching almost to gladness, when he remembered that the last words he had spoken to him were those of our blessed Saviour to the chief of sinners.

Spreading the ragged piece of canvas that formed a quilt over the dead man's face, he rose, and left the strange dwelling, the entrance to which he secured, and then hastened to give information of the death to the proper authorities.

Ned was an hour too late for dinner when he arrived at the hotel, where he found Captain Bunting and his new friend awaiting him in some anxiety. Hastily informing them of the cause of his detention, he introduced them to each other, and forgot for a time the scene of death he had just witnessed, in talking over plans for the future, and in making arrangements for a trip to the diggings.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

OUR HERO AND HIS FRIENDS START FOR THE DIGGINGS--THE CAPTAIN'S PORTRAIT--COSTUMES, AND SCENERY, AND SURPRISES--THE RANCHE BY THE ROAD-SIDE--STRANGE TRAVELLERS--THEY MEET WITH A NEW FRIEND, AND ADOPT HIM--THE HUNTER'S STORY--LARRY OFFERS TO FIGHT A YANKEE--HIGH PRICES AND EMPTY PURSES.

Ovid never accomplished a metamorphosis more striking or complete than that effected by Captain Bunting upon his own proper person. We have said, elsewhere, that the worthy captain was a big, broad man, with a s.h.a.ggy head of hair, and red whiskers. Moreover, when he landed in San Francisco, he wore a blue coat, with clear bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, blue vest, blue trousers, and a glazed straw hat; but in the course of a week he effected such a change in his outward man, that his most intimate friend would have failed to recognise him.

No brigand of the Pyrenees ever looked more savage--no robber of the stage ever appeared more outrageously fierce. We do not mean to say that Captain Bunting "got himself up" for the purpose of making himself conspicuous. He merely donned the usual habiliments of a miner; but these habiliments were curious, and the captain's figure in them was unusually remarkable.