CHAPTER III
OLD MISERY
DESPITE his sense of guilt, and his fear of being tracked, Gilbert could not resist the optimism of the wonderful morning. As he rolled his blankets and shamefacedly threw his telescope and magnet and dirt-boiler to one side Phelps, of Grass Valley, finished his toilet by running his fingers through his hair and whiskers, and cordially greeted:
“Well, how’s our young ‘Ounce-Diggings' this morning?”
“Not quite so much of a fool as last night,” politely answered Gilbert. “Mr. Peters dressed me down for buying that rubbish.”
Phelps grinned and encouraged him:
“You’re improving. Most of us went through it. Last year some of us old miners chipped in forty thousand dollars to build a gold-baker, got up by an eastern cuss. Shares was ten dollars each. It was a furnace and he figured on melting all the rock away and leaving the pure gold. Not much better than your marvelous dirt-boiler. And lots of men older'n you bought a boiler. Now what you going to do?”
“Work.”
“Good. You can work for me on my ledge. Found a rich ledge in Grass Valley three years ago. Till this season it cost more to get the gold out than the gold would fetch. But new methods make it a rich proposition. Other fellows got tired and discouraged and sold their ledges for a song. I've just held on to mine and put in my time hydraulicking and sluicing till some one come along with brains enough to show how a ledge should be worked. Now things are going to boom and I can use an honest young man at tip-top wages.”
“I’ve as good as made a deal with an old man who lives in the mountains. That is, I've said I would go if he would take me. He has a funny name: Old Misery. I'm to meet him this morning. Probably will go with him to-day.”
“All right. He's a bear-hunter. Lived all his life among Injuns. I don't think you'll git rich working with him, but that's your business. If you ever want to try mining just ask for Phelps, of Grass Valley. Four miles southwest of here.”
The Rhode Island man and the Georgia man turned out from their bunks and spoke pleasantly.
The former grinned cavernously and advised:
“Don’t feel cut up over the telescope. Lots of them sold couple of years back. I came out early in 'fifty. I bought a diving-suit.”
“I went in on the rock-melter with Phelps,” chuckled a voice from an upper bunk. “And on the side I paid a lazy Dutchman fat wages for a month to locate gold with a forked stick.”
“I’m prospecting down Coloma way, young man,” spoke up the Georgia man. “They say the diggings down there are played out, but that's 'cause they don't know where to look. You're simple enough to be honest. Want to come along?
Gilbert considered himself a thief, and he knew it would be unsafe to venture near Coloma. He repeated his intentions of going up into the hills if Old Misery would take him. He could see his decision lessened him in their esteem, and, tying his blankets and taking his bag, he hurried from the bunkhouse to find the mountain man.
While looking for Old Misery he found time to satisfy his timber-loving soul and gazed long at the stumps of huge sugar-pines dotting the slope of the ravine. The magnificent trees had been slaughtered, within a brief space of time. In the east, however, ridge after ridge of heavily timbered country climbed high to find the Sierra. In the far background stretched the pale-blue peaks, separating California from the Great Basin.
The streets were humming with life, and the fear of yesterday seized upon him as he mingled with the drifting crowds. There was every chance, he told himself, that he had been traced to Sacramento. If that were a fact then the rough and ready upholders of the law would surely press their quest to Marysville and Nevada City.
“Go back to bed, Senor Stupid, and wake up,” greeted a bird-like voice.
It was Maria of the dreadful escapade. She was seated on a mule and leading a pack-animal. Much red stockings and the edge of a red petticoat showed below the brown skirt, and small red shoes were drumming lightly against the mule's ribs. Her lips were scarlet, and her dark cheeks were flushed. He wondered that she could be so smiling after passing through such a terrible experience.
“Good morning, Miss Maria,” he coldly replied. “You’re going away?”
“Senor Comandante forgives my running away to the ceety. I go to meet my dreadful grandfather,” she lightly replied. “We may meet again. Quien sabe?”
Gilbert did not wish to see her again. But as she knew about his predicament and seemed to be worldly wise he desired to secure some benefit from the chance meeting.
In a low voice he asked: “Do you think there is any danger?”
“Pouf! What does Maria care for danger? It is living without danger that makes the heart grow tired,” she scornfully replied. “Americanos hanged a woman of my people at Downieville, but they never will hang Maria.”
“I hope not,” he muttered. “But they may hang me.”
This appeared to appeal to her sense of the humorous, for she laughed much.
“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed. “To think the great Joaquin should be helped by a gringo jus’ landed at the bay! I wake in the night and laugh.”
“Hush! Not so loud with names,” he hoarsely cautioned.
Her eyes became two flints and she shrilly asked:
“Who are you to tell Maria how she shall talk?”
“I’m a greenhorn,” he mumbled. “Just a fool; one who heard men say the girl in the El Dorado was Ana Benites, one of—”
“Nombre de Dios! What do you say?” she hissed. Then gravely: “You speak much wisdom, Senor Gilbert. Names should be whispered. The danger for you, senor, showed its claws when you boarded the Sacramento boat. Men were there watching for the young man who opened a window. But on the boat they thought you were one of the people with that cat of a Montez woman. The danger is not over. But keep the heart high, senor. The great man does not forget one who has served him even if that man be a gringo.”
“God forbid I should ever see him again!”
“Is it so?” her low voice fiercely demanded, and she rested her slender brown hands on her hips and stared at him wrathfully. “You push aside the good will of a great man?”
Anger gave place to hero-worship in her small face. More quietly she continued:
“Your people cheated Mexico out of this country. Your Colonel Walker goes to steal Sonora. Your people drive my people from good claims. They keel them if they do not go. But they do not drive Joaquin Murieta!”
The last in a hissing whisper with her head thrust forward and close to his face. Then she was showing her white teeth in a smile and nodding gaily, and prophesying:
“You may meet him again. Quien sabe? He rides far. He rides where he will.”
“No! No!” he mumbled. “I’m sweating blood. Meeting him once has spoiled my life. I can not even work and pay back what I gambled away.”
“Stole,” she corrected with a little sneer. “Why not steal again and pay. Every one steals out here except Senor Comandante. Men fight to get into office in San Francisco so they can steal. My old grandfather wore cloth over his face when his eyes were good. ‘Stealing’ is one name for many ways of taking what you want.”
Then she was laughing again and patting the bosom of her white blouse and confiding:
“The great man is blamed for all the gold the El Dorado lost that night. But I could not go without my pay. I had no time to count. My bad grandfather will say I am a good girl to bring gold to him. I tell you this for we, as you Americanos say, are in the same boat. Is it not? Sí.”
Gilbert stepped back as the Mexican-Chinese man came up. He was the same who had tossed a silver mounted bowie-knife on to the stage the night before. He ignored Gilbert and spoke sharply in Spanish to the girl. She eyed him resentfully, yet appeared to be afraid of him, and made a short answer. He spoke again, only a few words; and she kicked her small heels against the mule and rode up the ridge path toward the foot-hills.
Turning to Gilbert and speaking in excellent English, the fellow remarked:
“It is good to have the rains over.”
The speech was insignificant, but his gaze was persistent and curious.
Gilbert disliked him exceedingly and replying briefly, moved on to be rid of him. A short distance up the street he halted before a window containing a display of Chinese shawls and wondered if one of the Walker girls back home would care for one. Several Vermont men had returned home from California the season before and each had brought one or more of these shawls. Then came again the realization that he was done with Vermont once the Coloma men wrote home how he had been false to his trust, or had been killed after visiting the express office.
A Chinese girl, looking less than fourteen years of age and carrying an infant in a silk scarf on her back, quickly appeared in the doorway.
Pointing a tawny finger at the window, she said in a falsetto little voice: “Velly good.”
She was the first woman of her race Gilbert had seen at close range. She reminded him of a quaint doll. And yet there was ancient cunning in her small face and a curious suggestion of strength in the tawny fingers. He stared at her and then at the infant. On the head of the child was a black cap, gaily embroidered.
“Your child?” he found himself asking.
She laughed and nodded and again pointed at the shawls and repeated:
“Velly good.”
The Mexican-Chinese man suddenly stood beside Gilbert and spoke in a strange singsong to the little creature. She bowed low and hastily withdrew inside the shop.
“My wife,” explained the man with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sent over for Old Sam, who runs a wash house. He wouldn't take her. Too young. So I bought her from him. If you're interested in the shawls I'll make the price almost nothing.”
“Thank you. I'm not buying anything to-day,” Gilbert told him. . “You’re going away? I think that is wise. Of course the time to buy shawls is when you are going back home. I salute you, senor.”
He entered the shop and Gilbert went on, puzzled by the man's bearing and speech.
Near the Hotel de Paris he met Old Misery.
The Mountain man would have passed without noticing him had not Gilbert accosted him, explaining:
“I am the man Mr. Peters spoke to you about in the theater last night.
Old Misery ran a brown hand through his yellow white beard and stared quizzically at the Vermonter and slowly replied:
“When I'm having a war-dream things looks brighter'n they do after I've slept it off. Mebbe you'll fit in with me, but I’m gambling Peters is betting t'other way. More I look at you the more you make me think of some one I wanted to climb while I was haunching up on my hind legs and making the eagle scream.”
“You threatened to stick a long knife into me, sir, for being afraid of a big bear. The bear came toward me when I got out of the stage. I pulled my Allen revolver.”
“We— Cuss me if it ain't so! You acted up like a Pike County man. If you'd pulled a real gun on Bill Williams I wouldn't 'a' been so fussed. But one of them pepper-boxes! It hurt Bill's finer feelings just like it did mine. Anyway, you’ve got guts 'nough to be honest. Never like a dodger. We'll trail down to the old stable where I leave Bill, and the three of us will have a pow wow. I've got quite a lot of animals up in the hills. Some of the queerest have only two legs. And I'll lift ha’r to please Peters. But it's sort of straining friend ship to shove a greenhorn on me who carries a pepper-box.”
“That’s what I told Mr. Peters, Mr. Misery. It was his idea. He meant well by me, and has been mighty kind. But I can see I’d only be in your way, Mr. Misery.”
“Good land! Stop that ‘mistering’ me! If the boys heard you they'd nag the life out of me. Old Misery. I was called that when I worked for the Hudson's Bay Company at Yerba Buena in 'forty-six, and when I worked for Jacob Leese afore he sold out to the Hudson's Bay. Always Old Misery. Back in the days when big ships was sailing where the busy part of Frisco now is. S'long as you can look every man in the face and tell him to go to hell you don't have to go a-mistering anybody.”
“I can't look men in the face,” was the low and bitter reply. “I’ve done things I shouldn't have done.”
Old Misery stared at him blankly, then shrewdly; and confessed:
“Younker, so have I. But I never l'arned that being meeching ever helped undo anything. I was rampageously drunk last night. Oughter be ashamed of myself, seeing as how I had Bill Williams along. Howsomever, we'll save the talk till we can have Bill in at the pow-wow.”
Gilbert was convinced he could not overcome the mountain man's prejudices; nor did he believe any discussion would favorably influence the whimsical character.
“I can get a job in the mines, although there are reasons why I should not just now.”
“Along of doing things you didn't oughter,” mused Old Misery. “If Peters said that he hit plumb center. And now let me tell you something about mining, where you work for yourself. A placer-miner that earns six hundred dollars a year is lucky. You hear of them that make a rich strike; but you don't know nothing about the thousands and thousands who don't make grub and liquor. Even as keen a man as ‘Weymouth Mass’—friend of mine—ain't managed yet to hit the mark. And he come out in the first rush from the East. But I will say he's now got a big medicine working for him and oughter hit the bull's-eye. But the man who works steady for wages, here or at the bay, has the miner who ain't got any medicine beat all to pieces.
“If Peters didn't say you had good reasons for not doing a honest day's work—See here, younker: Bill Williams won't like that sort of talk a damn bit. He'd rare up on his hind legs and snort even if it was said in the sign language. Howsomever, Bill ain't no Gospel slinger. He's broad-minded, and he banks a heap on what Peters says. We'll put the whole business before him. But it's got to be a straight talk. Nothing held back.”
“Mr. Peters said I was to tell you everything.”
“His head is full of sense. We'll spread all the cards out before Bill. It's him that has the say-so. I'll chip in when it can help, being weak and mortal. But it's for Bill—who never done wrong—to decide.”
Gilbert followed him, believing him to be crazy. But better the company of the mentally unbalanced than to be left alone with his fear that some man from the bay might tap him on the shoulder and tell him he was wanted. He was beginning to realize that Joaquin Murieta was no common evil-doer, and that public sentiment would be quick to bestow a noose on a man who helped him to escape. It was the height of the tragically ridiculous that a Vermont greenhorn, just arrived on the coast of gold, should be the one selected by fate to show the arch-outlaw the hidden window and to flee in his company as far as the street.
When they came to the stable, a dilapidated log and slab structure no longer used for horses, the mountain man directed:!
“Wait out here. Bill 'n' me will be with you in the flap of a beaver's tail. Better to pow-wow in the open than inside walls.”
He vanished through the dark doorway, and Gilbert sat down and became interested in an eighteen months’ old grizzly bear, weighing some five hundred pounds. The bear was hitched to a broken wagon by a long chain, and, being well-fed, was thoroughly good-natured and beautiful of coat. A man passing by the front of the building paused to fondle him roughly. After the man went on the bear advanced to make friends with Gilbert. Reassured by what he had seen, Gilbert scratched the bear behind the ears and petted him.
For some minutes the two were excellent companions; then a pig squealed back of a pen adjoining the stable. The bear quickly padded back to the wagon and crawled beneath it. The pig wriggled through an opening and stood gazing foolishly about, unable to decide just what use he should make of his new freedom. Like a cat watching a mouse the bear watched the pig. The pig grunted and advanced toward the bear's unfinished breakfast. The captive's legs began to twitch, and the muscles worked rapidly beneath the silky coat. Then the bear made a rush. The pig squealed demoniacally and barely scrambled out of reach of the swift, hooked paw.
“If the derned young fool had waited two seconds more he'd had him,” cried Old Misery from the stable door. “Some of you shoo that pig away before Bill comes out. Bill's a gentleman, but he forgets that fact when he smells pork.”
The pig was chased to the back of the stable; then Old Misery came forward, closely followed by the same immense bulk that had terrified Gilbert the day before. The grizzly's tail was shorter than his ears. His coat was brownish-yellow with white tips, and he was fat. The small eyes searched for a glimpse of the squealing pig, but he did not offer to leave his master. When the mountain man halted Gilbert drew his heels under him, ready to leap and run. The bear dropped on the warm earth, curled up and went to sleep.
Old Misery seated himself cross-legged and began:
“I see that young fool bear cottoning to you, younker. You had a trick with his ears that pleased him mightily. He's one of the cubs I sold last season. Sold another just before going to the bay; a female, older and full as big. She's to be took to Frisco. There must be a dozen bears down to the bay that I trapped. Gentleman behind me is Bill Williams. Named after an old partner of mine, who knew more about the Rocky Mountains than any one else 'cepting Jim Bridger 'n' me.
“Gineral Frémont says Williams lost his bearin's and come nigh busting up his outfit. But old mountain men will tell you that if the gineral had follered Bill's medicine he'd never tried to cross the mountains at the head of the Arkansas in winter, and he wouldn’t lost three men and his papers. We called him old Bill Williams when Kit Carson, Uncle Dick Wooten and L. B. Max well was l'arning the mountain passes. Bill always believed he'd change into a buck elk, but said he would stick close to one of the Colorado parks.
“I ain't shot a buck elk in that neighborhood since he was wiped out by Injuns. So you can see I’ve give my four-footed pard a good name; and he's living up to it. Now that we're squatting we'll smoke and pow-wow.” And he proceeded to fill his pipe and light it. “Bill's got his ears open even if he does play off at being asleep.”
Gilbert doubted this last statement as he stared at the furry ball, nearly as high as when the animal was standing.
“He’s tame,” muttered Gilbert.
Old Misery lowered his pipe and snorted.
“If you was among the Crows you'd be their head medicine-man. Tame? He's civilized. He's a gentleman.”
“Of course,” hurriedly agreed Gilbert. “How did you happen to meet him?”
“After silk hats knocked the stuffing out of beaver prices and fetched the price down from ten dollers a pound to twenty-five cents apiece, I just wandered up and down the country. One day in Frisco, 'forty-nine, I went in and saw Rowe's circus. That give me the notion of trapping animals for the towns. Bill was one of the first I trapped. He was young and playful and raked me from neck to crotch. He soon l'arned I couldn't stand as much fun as when I was younger, and now he's as well behaved as any Gospel-slinger you ever see. I've been offered eighteen hundred for him. Circus back East wanted him bad.”
“And you refused!”
“Good lord! Would you sell your best friend for a bag of dust?” roared Old Misery, his frosty eyes glittering.
“The question was foolish. Of course you refused; for there's Bill. I was thinking you had the offer right after Bill was caught. Of course you wouldn't sell him after you got attached to him.”
Only partly mollified, Old Misery growled:
“Yes, there's Bill. And he's gitting onpatient to hear you talk. You don't have to make a yip. But if you do talk, just remember you're speaking on pipes, and get started. Time's most up, ain't it, Bill?”
One small eye opened sleepily.
The mountain man's stern gaze promised no reward for a confession, but believing he could trust him and anxious to have it over with, Gilbert plunged into a narrative of his trials since leaving home. He remarked that he had been ill for much of the long voyage down the east Atlantic coast and for much of the time up the west coast of South America. He copied from Mr. Peters in reminding that he had landed in San Francisco more of a greenhorn than otherwise might have been expected. He shielded himself none, and when he had finished his face was red, and he found it hard to meet the boring gaze of the mountain man.
“So you're a Yankee, huh?” mumbled Old Misery. “That's 'gainst you to my way of thinking. To Bill's way of thinking, too. We never had no bad weather out here till the Yankees begin coming in. Never was such goings-on in weather as the rains of last winter and the winter before. My camp's high in the hills, but Bill 'n' me don't want to risk being washed out or snowed under along of having a Yankee with us. That your idee, Bill?”
The big bear stretched out his legs and wriggled his mass of flesh and then curled up again. Gilbert's eyes opened wide in amazement. Instead of being condemned for gambling away money that did not belong to him, and for helping the bandit king to escape, he was being mocked by this strange, old man for being an easterner. Later he would learn that many native Californians and mountain men entertained the quaint belief that the climate changed for the worse once far-eastern men flocked in.
Before he could think of any defense to offer Old Misery was resuming:
“Bill says that there ain't a grizzly in the Sierra foot-hills, or around Shingletown, or McCumber's Flats above Fort Reading, or at Lassen's Butte, that doesn't know it's the Yankees that sent our old-time weather to hell.”
“Well, that seems to finish it,” muttered Gilbert.
“Don’t be so cussed brash. I ain't passed the pipe yet. On t'other hand, Bill says, the weather'll be about as bad at camp if you stay down here hiding from a rope with a noose in it. He says the mischief's done already, and a few more Yanks can't make it any worser. Do I 'terpret you right, Bill?”
Mr. Williams laboriously rolled on his back and squirmed convulsively; then toppled over on his fat side and continued his nap.
Old Misery watched him admiringly and added:
“That's his way of thinking, he says. He won't change it if hell freezes over.”
“I’m a thief,” bitterly reminded Gilbert. “I’m wanted for helping a lawbreaker to escape. I expected those would be the things you—and Bill—would think about.”
“Man’s a thief who steals things for hisself when he don't need 'em,” mused Old Misery. “A man who takes something for gambling outfit to put in its pouch is just a cussed fool.”
“If they had an electric telegraph between San Francisco and Sacramento they would have had me by the time the stage reached the south side of this creek.
Old Misery snorted in disgust.
“Tel’graph outfit! Send a talk over a hank of wire! When they can do that Bill Williams will be wearing feathers. Don't talk foolishness. Minnetarees would say you was mahopa. Out of your head.”
While he was indulging in this bit of skepticism the young bear bounced from the wagon and jumped on Bill Williams. The cyclonic whirl of furry forms violently hurled the mountain man and Gilbert to one side.
Old Misery, on his hands and knees, informed Gilbert:
“Bill always likes to play a bit. T'other Bill I named him after was that way. Full of fun, 'specially when in liquor.”
And with keen enjoyment he watched the unequally matched antagonists wrestle and cuff each other. Gilbert had the wind knocked from his lungs and was incapable of speech for some minutes. The bears were good-natured, however, and it was obvious that Bill was not exerting himself.
Old Misery crawled to his feet and gleefully exclaimed: “See the old cuss let on he’s plumb licked!”
This as Bill fell on his neck and gave an excellent portrayal of the conquered.
“Well, now we’ve settled all that, we'll be hoofing it up to the hills,” continued the mountain man. “I’ll fetch “Solid Comfort’ and we’ll start.”
“But there's the money I lost and the man I helped—”
“Listen, younker,” harshly cut in Old Misery. “Neither Bill Williams nor me has lost any gold dust, nor Murietas. Keep shet. See how big Bill has grow’d. That's along of not talking all the time. Owls live many years for the same reason.”
With the springy step of youth he made for the stable, leaving Gilbert to wonder what particular sort of a pet he would bring back. When he reappeared he was carrying a rifle.
“Where's Solid Comfort?” asked Gilbert.
Misery patted the rifle, and countered:
“You don't carry no weepins. That's good.”
“I still have my Allen's revolver in my blanket roll—”
“I was speaking of deadly weepins. After we git to camp I'll show you how to whittle so's I can trust you with a knife.”
“Then I'm to go with you?”
“This is a free country, 'cept for Mexicans and Chinese. They was sorter overlooked when freedom was parceled out on this side of the Sierras.”
He started off up the ridge road, his rifle over his arm, his head swinging from side to side as it would in the Indian country. The big bear plodded along at his heels, his head swinging from side to side. A rod behind came Gilbert, his blanket over his shoulder, his carpet-bag in hand, fearfully expecting some violent interruption to his going and not yet quite sure how far the strange old man would endure his company.
They left the town behind and had followed the creek as far as Willow Valley when the pounding of hoofs caused the mountain man to glance back and come to a halt.
A man was riding rapidly after them, and as he drew nearer Old Misery spat in disgust and exclaimed:
“Ching-a-ling. Breed of the worst kind. Calls himself ‘Manuel Vesequio.' But to us old-timers he's Ching-a-ling, half-Mexican, t'other half Chinese. Some say he's a spy for Murieta. Likely 'nough. He's in a hustle, but he don't 'pear to be chased.”
The breed reined in his horse some distance from the two men and covered the remaining distance on foot. He seemed to be in haste, and his yellowish-brown face reflected some suggestion of fear, as he glanced behind him. He told Old Misery:
“There is much running back and forth of men in the town. They will come this way.”
“Ching-a-ling, tell what's on your mind. Just why did you ride after us?” demanded the mountain man as he eyed the fellow with much disfavor.
“How should Manuel Vesequio know what men mean when they talk loud and run to get horses and point this way, Senor Misery?” was the sullen answer. “Perhaps they race their horses. Perhaps they ride after a man. Perhaps they ride after a young man. Quien sabe? Excuse, Senor Don Misery. The horse smells the bear very strong. I do not like to walk back to town. Adios.”
And before he could be questioned further he turned, ran back to his nervous mount, flung himself into the saddle, and galloped at breakneck speed down the creek.
“They’re after me!” gasped Gilbert. “You go ahead. I'll take to the timber. They’ll blame you if they find me with you.”
“You’re 'fraid Bill 'n' me will git hurt, huh? Solid Comfort will have a word to say afore that happens. But it's neighborly of you to have it in mind. We'll trail along and think about dodging trouble when Trouble shows hisself. Bill's already thinking 'bout it. Ching-a-ling's a spy for Joaquin, all right. Some one fetched him word to give you a warning.”
“I don’t want to be beholden to that man,” muttered Gilbert as they quickened their pace.
“I never stop to think who's hauling on the rope that pulls me out of a hole,” replied Old Misery. “They can't come up so quick that you won't have time to tree yourself. No use fretting.”
As the day wore on and there were no signs of pursuit the mountain man decided the breed had brought a false alarm, or else the posse had taken the wrong direction. They halted late in the afternoon at a deserted cabin in a deep ravine in the heart of big timber.
Above on the lofty, rocky wall immense sugar pines reared their magnificent tops, and on a dead limb of one of these perched a bald eagle, king of the feathered folk. He was staring into the sunset and perhaps down on the emerald floor of the Sacramento Valley, his favorite fishing-grounds. Old Misery pointed him out, but Gilbert was not sure he saw him. More intimate were the blue-jays. These at once discovered the campers and ventured close to obtain food.
“I like the little cusses,” murmured the old mountain man as several of the pretty creatures lighted within a few feet of him and picked up crumbs of bread he scattered about.
His benign expression changed to a frown as the discordant croak of a raven sounded near by.
“Bill 'n' me call that feller ‘Death.’” he muttered, glancing toward the dark woods uneasily. “Never eats anything. You'll find him out where even a horned toad can't pick up a living. Have a chaw, Bill.”
He tossed a piece of tobacco to his pet, who eagerly caught it in his mouth.
“That's what I like 'bout a bear. He's so damned human. Likes terbacker. Hi! There’s another cuss that's 'most human. Bill calls 'em ‘mountain men.’ Hear him?”
Gilbert picked out the harsh, disagreeable voice of a crow; only it was different from the eastern crow.
Old Misery reached the height of praise when he solemnly declared:
“That feller can go anywhere a mountain man can. He don't feel t' home below the four-thousand-foot level. When crossing the Cascades at seven thousand feet up I’ve seen 'em three thousand feet overhead, taking it as easy as a buck with three squaws. And, dern him! He's just like a jay. Wants to know everybody's business. Cunning's a jay, too. But he flies like a woodpecker, and is just as shy. He'll out-Injun any other bird in guard ing against trouble. Always lights on a dead tree where he can look round afore gunning for grub in a live tree. Never forgets as lots of men do. Never gits careless.”
Old Misery had brought bread and cooked meat, and they soon finished their supper. Gilbert felt he was out of the world as they lounged by the fire in the open. The mountain man lighted his pipe and leaned against the sleeping bear and told amazing stories of his colorful life.
As if it were a mere incident, he spoke of going as guide with General Ashley to the Upper Missouri in 1823, and in this connection he explained he had been with Pilcher at the mouth of the Bighorn in 1821. He briefly described his crossing to California with Jedediah Smith in 1826, and declared he was one of the survivors of the Mohave massacre on the Colorado when ten of the party were killed. In a sketchy manner, as though talking to entertain himself rather than to enlighten his companion, he reviewed the return trip with Smith in 1827, crossing the Sierra in the vicinity of the Stanislaus River.
Invariably he said:
“Me 'n' Jed Smith,” thereby giving Gilbert the impression he, not Smith, was in command of the expedition. Almost all of the old-time names dropping from his bearded lips were new to the Vermonter; just as some geographical points well known in the East were meaningless to Misery, who knew them only by colloquial, or their Indian, names.
After concluding the 'twenty-seven narrative he abruptly asked:
“What winter you born in, younker?”
“In the summer of 'thirty-one.”
“Winter-count of 'thirty-one, huh? Makes you twenty-two now. And poor Jed Smith was only thirty-three when he was killed at the Cimarron. That bird we call 'Clarke's crow,' that's like a jay and a woodpecker, wouldn't 'a' got trapped as poor Jed did. He was only twenty-eight when I took him overland. Why, he was only two years older'n you when he went with me 'n' Gineral Ashley to the Upper Missouri—but he l’arned fast.”
“You’ve been out here quite a while,” observed Gilbert.
“Uh-huh. Quite a while,” muttered the mountain man. “Come here from the East, but it's so long ago seems if I always was out here.” Then with a flash of heat: “Some folks in Frisco got together an outfit they call 'The Californy Pioneers.' Before you can belong you have to be able to brag 'bout coming out here in 'forty-nine—four years ago! I didn't sabe the rules of the game and 'lowed to take on with 'em. And, damn me, if they didn't say I was lying when I said I was here in 'twenty-six. Bill's dead right. It's time to snooze.”
He preferred the open, lying against the bear. Gilbert succumbed to the house habit and spread his blanket inside the cabin. He was awakened in the morning by large gray squirrels scampering over the roof. He heard the crack of a rifle some distance from the camp and remembered Ching-a-ling's warning. In his haste to dress he lost time. As he was rolling his blankets he heard the rifle for the second time. When he burst through the doorway it was to behold Old Misery coming from the growth with a brace of quail. Bill Williams swung along at his heels.
Gilbert threw his blankets back into the cabin, hoping the mountain man had not detected his panic. A dusky grouse, the handsomest of its kind, flew up a few feet in front of the mountain man.
Old Misery called out:
“See that cock, younker? He's lit in a tree nigh here. S'pose you take Solid Comfort and pot him to go along with our breakfast. I’ll be dressing the quail.”
Gilbert was eager to make himself useful. In Vermont he had been considered a good bird-shot.
“He won't quit the tree when you fire at him,” said the mountain man. “Just reload and shoot again.”
He passed over his bullet-pouch and powder-horn.
“If he doesn't drop once I sight him it'll be because he's nailed to the limb,” assured Gilbert.
Old Misery grinned and winked at Bill Williams.
Gilbert ran to the woods at the point where the grouse had entered. Almost at once he heard a dull booming note and knew the bird was directly ahead. With rifle ready and moving stealthily he crept forward. After a half dozen steps the cry sounded on his left, and he shifted his course. But he had proceeded only a short distance when the call was repeated behind him. He turned back and reached an opening where he could see Old Misery. The mountain man was apparently waiting for him to shoot the bird. Gilbert held up three fingers to signify he almost located that many birds.
“Git 'em all,” encouraged Old Misery. “Remember, they won't quit their perch. Take your time in reloading.”
Gilbert waved his hand and advanced deeper into the timber. Now the booming call was close on his right, and he wheeled and cocked the rifle. Almost immediately it was answered from the left. As he faced in that direction it began reverberating deep in the woods. The plentitude of chances and the swift exchange of calls tended to confuse him. He turned about, then reversed his position; then decided to advance some distance into the growth. But the call ahead now sounded afar off. And he halted and waited for a grouse to sound a cry closer at hand. While he was thus maneuvering and hesitating and getting nowhere Old Misery strolled to the edge of the timber and asked:
“What seems to be bothering you?”
“There's half a dozen of them in here,” answered Gilbert.
“Fetch Solid Comfort here.”
Gilbert went to him and surrendered the gun.
“Now look up that trunk thirty feet. See where the first branch j'ins?”
Gilbert tilted back his head and gazed sharply. He made out the indistinct figure of a bird perched on the limb and close to the trunk.
“It’s one of them,” he whispered. “Give me the gun.”
“It’s all of 'em,” Old Misery informed him, still retaining the rifle. “Hear him? He's trying to dog you away.”
There came dull rumbling far off to the right. “This time of year he'll play that trick to keep you away from his mate. Sorter throws his voice all around to fool you. Bill Williams would be 'shamed of me if I shot him. Know any Yankee birds that can play that trick?”
Somewhat crestfallen, Gilbert walked back to the fire. The air was soothing with the aroma of the pines and spicy with the spruce scents. If he could but forget the betrayed trust he knew he would feel wonderfully exhilarated. As he took his dipper of coffee and one of the quails on a huge slice of bakery bread he decided he never before had been so hungry. He glanced at his watch, changed to coast time.
It was six o'clock; and he idly remarked: “Folks back home have been up four hours.”
“Good land! I’ve heard 'bout Yanks being early risers, but gitting up at two in the morning!” exclaimed Old Misery.
“At this time of year they get up at five. An hour later in winter.”
“Then what medicine have you got that tells you they got up this 'ticular morning at two?” sharply demanded the mountain man.
“But they didn't. Their time is three hours earlier than ours. That’s what I meant.”
Old Misery tossed the framework of a quail to Bill Williams and stared at the young man thoughtfully.
Finally he asked: “You mean there's anything back East that's quicker'n we be out here?”
Gilbert was puzzled at first; then believed he understood and explained:
“I was speaking of the difference in time. Of course when it's six o'clock here it's a bit over three hours later there; or a trifle past nine.”
“Well I’ll be cussed!” gasped the mountain man. “Bill Williams, you hear that? Look here, younker, Bill 'n' me took you along, thinking you was simple, not bad. We reckoned you'd made a fool of yourself like lots of young fellers do when they git away from home. But the one thing I won't stand for is a liar. 'Cording to your tell something can happen back East at nine o'clock, and—if our medicine was strong enough for us to know it the minute it happened—we could know 'bout it here at six o'clock or three hours afore it happened.”
Gilbert endeavored to explain how London saw the sun ahead of New England, and how Vermont saw the sun ahead of California. As he listened Old Misery's anger vanished, and he gazed pityingly on the young man.
After the explanation was finished the mountain man patiently asked:
“Then if a man was shot in London at one o'clock this afternoon we'd hear that gun crack—if our ears were medicine 'nough—bout five o'clock this morning, or nigh on to eight hours afore it happened?”
Gilbert floundered about helplessly in a last endeavor to make it clear.
Old Misery sadly shook his head and confided to Bill Williams
“You’re right, Bill. We've got to give him a try. But he's mahopa. He don't show color.”
Some one shouting down the ravine brought the two to their feet.
Gilbert cried: “By heavens, they've caught me!”
A figure could be glimpsed in the timber at the west end of the ravine.
“Into the woods behind the cabin! Stay there till I give you a call,” ordered Old Misery.
And with his rifle over his arm he walked down the ravine, the bear lazily following him. Several men were now to be seen in the timber; and one rode clear, but reined in as his horse threatened to bolt. Old Misery halted.
The newcomer was Phelps of Grass Valley.
“Git that damned bear to one side so I can come up!” he called out.
“B'ars owned this country 'fore you ever was borned. My b'ar knows more'n you. And I don't like your talk. What you want up here?”
Phelps, now on the ground and holding his horse, apologized:
“I take it all back, Misery. I'm like my fool horse. I don't know much of nothing.”
“We won't fight over that. But what you want?”
“How's diggings?” replied Phelps, and grinning broadly.
Other figures were now emerging from the open woods. Several pack-animals were in the procession, and had picks and shovels strapped on their loads.
Old Misery relaxed his watchful attitude and muttered:
“Miners, Bill. They wouldn't pack shovels along if they was chasing the young fool— Killed in the afternoon in London and known here afore it happened! Young cuss is heyoka[1]— All right, Phelps. Just stick where you be till I put Bill Williams in the shack.”
The men halted and waited for him to lead the bear to the cabin and close the ruin of a door on him.
To Gilbert in hiding the mountain man called out: “Show yourself, “Difference in Time.” Everything's all hunky.”
Gilbert emerged from behind the cabin. Old Misery called out for the men to leave their pack-animals behind and advance. The miners swarmed up the trail.
The Georgia man was in the party and waving his hand, he yelled:
“We’ve caught you at it, Misery. Let it be same as usual; double-claim for you. Your discovery right. Choice of third claim for your young friend. We'll hold a meeting to-night and decide on the size of the claims. Now if you'll lead the way we'll proceed to locate.”
Old Misery stroked his heard and grinned broadly and asked of the cabin:
“Hear that talk, Bill? Of course you’re laffing.”
Then to the prospectors:
“What give you boys the notion I’d struck pay dirt up here? You know I never fuss with gold till some one else has dug and cleaned it.”
“Can't catch birds with that seed,” good-naturedly replied Phelps.
And his companions laughed heartily, and several men ran back to remove picks and shovels from the packs.
“Can't fool us, Misery. You gave the game away when you was drunk and throwing knives at the Chinaman. Mebbe you don't remember giving him a double handful of gold. We looked it over. Never come from Deer Crick or the Yuba. It was sharp-edged 'stead of being smooth and worn like river gold.”
“I see,” mused Old Misery. “Smartest of us git caught sometimes, don't we? Well, boys, if you'll strike down through the timber to the first bench above the little crick you'll find color all right. I ain't saying how rich you'll find it. As for staking a claim you oughter know I never shovel dirt and rocks and paw round in mud. When I find free gold I take 'nough for whisky and terbacker, just as I shoot 'nough meat to eat and no more. If I want a claim for this young feller I'll find him one out of what you folks leave.”
“But your gold wa’n’t river gold.”
“Mebbe I dug it out of cracks in a rich ledge. There's a ledge on this side of that bench. You know I ain't no miner. I sell meat, birds and animals to miners and towns. My pay is in gold. I have all kinds give me. You're marking the wrong tree, boys, but pitch in and tear up the ground.”
Phelps eyed him cunningly and suggested:
“Perhaps we'd better stick close to you, Misery.”
“Now you're talking on a pipe,” eagerly agreed the mountain man. “Keep along with me and I’ll sell you deer meat at seventy-five cents a pound after your grub runs out. And I’ll lead you over some new country. Snake River country by the way of the Humboldts.”
The Georgia man conferred with Phelps in whispers. More men came straggling from the timber.
With a chuckle Old Misery exclaimed:
“See 'em pile in! Reg’lar rush. You fellers better look smart or they'll stake out the whole bench.”
This arrival of more prospectors caused a panic among the first on the scene. One of the newcomers, armed with pick and shovel, broke from his companion and raced down the slope and into the growth to where he knew he would find running water. The others quickly chased after him. Phelps' party witnessed this stampede with much alarm, and the group began disintegrating. Phelps and the Georgia man succumbed and made frantic haste to reach the bench.
Old Misery hastily packed up his belongings and released the bear and tossed out Gilbert's blanket-roll and carpet-bag and warned the young man:
“Stir your hoofs fast, younker. Those idiots will be chasing us 'way to camp if we don't lose 'em.”
He took to the evergreens on the south side of the ravine, and Gilbert endeavored to keep at his heels. But the mountain man's legs seemed to be all springs, and he glided up the slope and over the slippery brown carpet of pine needles with a rapidity the easterner could not equal. Near the top of the ridge and after they had passed a narrow pack-horse trail the mountain man finally halted and waited for Gilbert to come up.
With the sweat streaming down his face Gilbert approached to within a rod of his companion when he was halted by the sudden appearance of a rifle barrel protruding from the bushes back of Old Misery and by a hoarse voice commanding:
“Drop that gun and stick up your hands, old man. Keep that damned bear quiet if you want to live.
Without displaying any agitation and without moving his head, Old Misery obeyed.
The unseen next commanded: “You, young feller, come close, and up with your paws.”
Gilbert nervously did as told.
“Ain’t you ‘Reelfoot' Williams?” asked Old Misery without raising his voice.
“None of your damn business! I want what's left of that gold you was making so free with in Nevada City two nights ago.”
“Welcome to anything I’ve got 'cept my pipe and gun. Thought I knew the voice. 'Cording to my young friend here if this was happening in London over the ocean the folks in Frisco—if their hearing was keen 'nough—would know 'bout it more'n seven hours afore it happened.”
“Shut up!” growled Reelfoot Williams, a pest of the northern trails but a minor offender compared with Joaquin Murieta.
He stepped from the bushes, his masked face watching Gilbert as he stood behind the mountain man. The latter spoke sharply to the bear, and Bill Williams lay down.
“There's a hundred or more miners down the slope, Reelfoot,” lazily warned Old Misery. “If they sight you this mountain air will be filled with lead. And I don’t want the b'ar hurt. You'd better straddle your hoss and ride away.”
“I’ll risk stopping long enough to go through your clothes. Young feller, you face down the ridge. Old man, if you make a move my knife will stop it.”
“Go ahead, but work sharp. My arms is gitting tired. In the inside pocket of my shirt.”
Leaning his rifle against a tree and holding his knife in his right hand, the point against his victim's back, the bandit slipped his left arm around the old man's waist and thrust his hand into the pocket of the hunting-shirt.
“Lord! Not very hefty,” he growled as he fished out a small bag.
“Got rid of most of it. But better take a peek at what's on top.”
Suspecting some ruse, yet curious, the bandit loosened the string and opened the bag. After a quick glance the bandit muttered an oath and dropped the bag on the ground.
“So that's it, eh?” he growled. “Never dreamed of it. No, thank you. Not any more for me. I’ve had enough. That's one game I won't buck. Stand just as you are for a bit.”
And he picked up his rifle and backed through the bushes.
Then came the sound of hoofs, and Old Misery sighed in relief and dropped his arms and said:
“All right, younker. Take it easy. He's vamosed.”
“He robbed you!” gasped Gilbert as he faced about.
“No. Just took a peek at my medicine and remembered he had business over the ridge. Riding like hell by this time.”
He picked up the bag and drew from it a monte card and stared at it thoughtfully.
“First time I ever let any one else see it,” he mused. “You might as well look.”
Across the face of the card was scrawled:
Joaquin–Amigo
“The man—”
“Same cuss,” sighed Old Misery, as he took the card and tore it into bits. “Pulled him out the San Joaquin River with a rope in high water. Looked like a rat when he got ashore. Not till he caught his hoss and rode off did he tell me he was Murieta. After you've saved a man's worthless life it's hard to turn round and kill him. But Bill 'n' me talked it over afterward and decided that’s how it would have to be if we met up with him again. Tried to git him in Frisco, but Scar-Faced Luis dropped back and held me up. I saved his life. You helped him to bust loose from the El Dorado. Funny. Both helped him out of a bad fix.”
“But the card?”
“Few days after I roped him out the river a man came to me and give me the card and rode off. I’ll spoil his hide the next chance I git.” Then with a chuckle: “Only Bill 'n' me ain't sure 'bout seeing him first. That dif’rence in time might work against me. I might try to shoot him in the afternoon, with him knowing 'bout it several hours aforehand; then he'd git his lead home first. Mebbe you saw him afore you really saw him, and helped him from the El Dorado afore he went into that place.
- ↑ Teton Dakota. A demented person; foolish.