St. Joewas at that time the fitting-out point for overland parties bound for California. As a matter of course it presented abusy, bustling appearance, and seemed full of life and movement. There was a large transient population, of a very miscellaneous character. It included the thrifty, industrious emigrant, prepared to work hard and live poorly, till the hoped-for competence was attained; but there was also the shiftless adventurer, whose chief object was to live without work, and the unscrupulous swindler, who was ready, if opportunity offered, to appropriate the hard earnings of others.
"It's a lively place, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom.
"It is, indeed, my young friend," said the cautious Scot; "but it is a place, to my thinking, where it behooves a man to look well to his purse."
"No doubt you are right, Mr. Ferguson. I have learned to be cautious since my adventure with Graham and Vincent."
"There's many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour."
St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-class hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these—a two-storybuilding, dignified by the title of "The Pacific Hotel"—our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day—the same price they charged at first-class hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face.
"You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said.
"He isn't my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson.
"I thought he didn't look much like you," said the landlord.
"I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh."
"Well, gentlemen, I wish you both good luck. What will you take? I have a superior article of whisky that I can recommend."
"Thank you, but I beg you will excuse me, sir," said Ferguson. "I never drink."
"Nor I," said Tom; "but I am much obliged to you all the same."
"Well, that beats me," said the landlord. "Why, you don't know what's good. You ain't a minister, are you?" turning to Ferguson.
"I have not that high distinction, my friend. I am an unworthy member of the church of Scotland."
"I don't think your countrymen generally refuse whisky."
"So much the worse for them. They are only too fond of it. My own brother died a miserable death, brought on by his love of liquor."
"Then I won't press you; but I say, strangers, you won't find many of your way of thinking in the country you're going to."
"I don't doubt he's right, Tom," said Ferguson to Tom, as they entered the chamber assigned to them. "We may not be together always. I hope you won't be led away by them that offer you strong drink. It would be the ruin of you, boy."
"Don't fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I have no taste for it."
"Sometimes it's hard to refuse."
"It won't be hard for me."
"I am glad to hear you say that, my lad. You are young, strong, and industrious. You'll succeed, I'll warrant, if you steer clear of that quicksand."
Later in the day the two friends began to make inquiries about overland travel. They had no wish to remain long at St. Joe. Both were impatient to reach the land of gold, and neither cared to incur the expense of living at the hotel any longer than was absolutely necessary. Luckily this probably would not be long, for nearly every day a caravan set out on the long journey, and doubtless they would be able to join on agreeing to pay their share of the expenses. It was a great undertaking, for the distance to be traversed was over two thousand miles, through an unsettled country, some of it a desert, with the chances of an attack by hostile Indians, and the certainty of weeks, and perhaps months, of privation and fatigue. Mr. Donald Ferguson looked forward to it with some apprehension; for, with characteristic Scotch caution, he counted the cost of whatever he undertook, and did not fail to set before his mind all the contingencies and dangers attending it.
"It's a long journey we're going on, my lad," he said, "and we may not reach the end of it in safety."
"It isn't best to worry about that, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom cheerfully.
"You are right, my lad. It's not for the best to worry, but it is well to make provision for what may happen. Now, if anything happens to me, I am minded to make you my executor."
"But don't you think I am too young, Mr. Ferguson?"
"You are o'er young, I grant, but you are a lad of good parts, temperate, steady, and honest. I have no other friend I feel like trusting."
"I hope, Mr. Ferguson, there will be no occasion to render you any such service, but whatever I can I will do."
"It will be very simple. You will take my money, and see that it is sent to my mother, in Glasgow. I will give you her address now, and then, if any sudden fate overtakes me, there will be no trouble. You will know just what to do."
Tom was flattered by this mark of confidence. It was evident that the cautious Scotchman had formed a very favorable opinion of him, or he would not have selected so young a boy for so important a trust.
"Will you do the same for me, Mr. Ferguson?" he asked, with the sudden reflection that, young as he was, there was no absolute certainty of his living to reach California.
"Surely I will, my lad."
"If I should die I should want any money I might have left sent to my father."
"Give me his address, my lad, and it shall be done. It is a good precaution, and we shan't either of us die the sooner for doing our duty, to the best of our ability, by those who would mourn our loss."
Tom and his friend instituted inquiries, and ascertained that two days later a caravan was to start on its way across the continent. They ascertained, also, that the leader of the expedition was a pioneer named Fletcher, who was making his home at the California Hotel. They made their way thither, and were fortunate enough to find Mr. Fletcher at home. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a practical farmer, who was emigrating from Illinois. Unlike the majority of emigrants, he had hisfamily with him, namely, a wife, and four children, the oldest a boy of twelve.
"My friend," said Ferguson, "I hear that you are soon leaving here with a party for California."
"I leave day after to-morrow," answered Fletcher.
"Is your party wholly made up?"
"We are about full; but we might receive one or two more."
"My young friend and I wish to join some good party, as we cannot afford to remain here, and we are anxious to get to work as soon as possible."
Some care needed to be exercised in the choice of a party, as there were some who would only give trouble and annoyance, or perhaps fail to pay their proper share of the expenses. But Ferguson's appearance was sufficient guarantee of his reliability, and no one was likely to object to Tom.
"Of course," added Ferguson, "we are ready to bear our share of the expense."
"Then you can come," said Fletcher. "You will both need revolvers, for we may be attackedby Indians, and must be able to defend ourselves."
"Certainly, we will do our part, if need be."
This was an expense which Tom had not foreseen; but he at once saw the importance of being armed when crossing such a country as lay before them, and went with Ferguson to make the needful purchase. His Scotch friend instructed him in the method of using his new weapon, and Tom felt a boy's natural pride in his new acquisition. He felt years older then he did on the morning when he left his country home. He had gained some knowledge of the world, and felt a greater confidence in himself on that account. He looked forward to the remainder of his journey with pleasurable excitement, and lost no time in making the necessary preparations.
WhileTom was slowly making his way westward, there was one place where tidings from him were anxiously awaited, and where nightly prayers were offered for his health and safe progress. Of course this was the dear, though humble, farmhouse, which had been his home.
Twice a week Tom wrote, and his letters were cheerful and reassuring.
"Don't trouble yourself about me, dear mother"—he wrote from Cincinnati. "I am making friends, and learning how to travel. I feel years older, and rely much more on myself than when, an inexperienced boy, I bade you good-by. I am a thousand miles from you, and the longest and most difficult part of the journey lies before me; but with health andstrength, and prudence, I hope to arrive in good condition at my destination. As to health I never felt better in my life, and I have taken lessons in prudence and caution which will be of essential service to me. I have found that a boy who goes out into the world to seek his fortune cannot trust everybody he falls in with. He will find foes as well as friends, and he will need to be on his guard."I start to-morrow for St. Joseph, in Missouri, going by way of St. Louis. Mr. Donald Ferguson, a middle-aged Scotchman, is my companion. A younger and livelier companion might prove more agreeable, but perhaps not so safe. Mr. Ferguson is old enough to be my father, and I shall be guided by his judgment where my own is at fault. He is very frugal, as I believe his countrymen generally are, and that, of course, just suits me. I don't know how long I shall be in reaching St. Joseph, but I shall write you once or twice on the way. Give my love to father, Sarah, Walter, and Harry, and keep a great deal for yourself."Your loving son,"Tom."
"Don't trouble yourself about me, dear mother"—he wrote from Cincinnati. "I am making friends, and learning how to travel. I feel years older, and rely much more on myself than when, an inexperienced boy, I bade you good-by. I am a thousand miles from you, and the longest and most difficult part of the journey lies before me; but with health andstrength, and prudence, I hope to arrive in good condition at my destination. As to health I never felt better in my life, and I have taken lessons in prudence and caution which will be of essential service to me. I have found that a boy who goes out into the world to seek his fortune cannot trust everybody he falls in with. He will find foes as well as friends, and he will need to be on his guard.
"I start to-morrow for St. Joseph, in Missouri, going by way of St. Louis. Mr. Donald Ferguson, a middle-aged Scotchman, is my companion. A younger and livelier companion might prove more agreeable, but perhaps not so safe. Mr. Ferguson is old enough to be my father, and I shall be guided by his judgment where my own is at fault. He is very frugal, as I believe his countrymen generally are, and that, of course, just suits me. I don't know how long I shall be in reaching St. Joseph, but I shall write you once or twice on the way. Give my love to father, Sarah, Walter, and Harry, and keep a great deal for yourself.
"Your loving son,"Tom."
"Tom is growing manly, Mary," said Mark Nelson to his wife. "It's doing him good to see a little of the world."
"I suppose it is, Mark," said his wife; "but the more I think of it the more I feel that he is very young to undertake such a long journey alone."
"He is young, but it will make a man of him."
"He must be having a tip-top time," said Walter; "I wish I were with him."
"You would be more of a hindrance than a help to him, Walter," said Mark Nelson.
"You are only a child, you know," said Sarah, in an elder-sister tone.
"What do you call yourself?" retorted Walter. "You are only two years older than I am."
"Girls always know more than boys of the same age," said Sarah condescendingly. "Besides, I haven't said anything about going out to California."
"No, I should think not. A girl that's afraid of a mouse had better stay at home."
Walter referred to an incident of the dayprevious, when the sudden appearance of a mouse threw Sarah into a panic.
"Are there any mouses in California?" asked little Harry, with interest.
"If there are I could carry a cat with me," returned Sarah good-humoredly.
Mark Nelson, though he felt Tom was a boy to be trusted, did ask himself occasionally whether he had been wise in permitting him to leave home under the circumstances. Suppose he continued in health, there were doubts of his success. His golden dreams might not be realized. The two hundred dollars which he had raised for Tom might be lost, and bring in no return; and this would prove a serious loss to Mark, hampered as he was already by a heavy mortgage on his farm. Would Squire Hudson be forbearing, if ill-luck came? This was a question he could not answer. He only knew that such was not the squire's reputation.
"Well, Mr. Nelson, what do you hear from Tom," asked the squire, one day about this time. "How far is he on his way?"
"We received a letter from Cincinnatiyesterday. He then was about starting for St. Joseph."
"Does he seem to enjoy the journey?"
"He writes in excellent spirits. He says he has met with good friends."
"Indeed! How does his money hold out?"
"He does not speak of that."
"Oh, well, I dare say he is getting along well;" and the squire walked on.
"Does he feel interested in Tom, or not?" queried Mark Nelson, as he looked thoughtfully after the squire, as he walked on with stately steps, leaning slightly on his gold-headed cane. He might have been enlightened on this point, if he could have heard a conversation, later in the day, between Squire Hudson and his son Sinclair.
"I saw Mark Nelson this morning," he observed at the supper table.
"Has he heard from Tom?"
"Yes; his son wrote him from Cincinnati."
"I wish I could go to Cincinnati," grumbled Sinclair; "I think I have a better right to see the world than Tom Nelson."
"All in good time, my son. Tom is not traveling for pleasure."
"Still, he is getting the pleasure."
"He will have to work hard when he reaches California. Probably he won't have a cent left when he gets there."
"What will he do then?"
"He must earn money."
"Do you think he will do well, father?"
"He may, and then again he may not," answered the squire judicially.
"If he don't, how is he going to pay you back the money you lent him?"
"I always thought your father was foolish to lend his money to a boy like that," said Mrs. Hudson querulously.
"Women know nothing about business," said the squire, with an air of superior wisdom.
"Sometimes men don't know much," retorted his wife.
"If you refer to me, Mrs. Hudson," said her husband, "you need have no anxiety. I did not lend the money to the boy, but to his father."
"That isn't much better. Everybody knows that Mark Nelson has all that he can do to get along. His wife hasn't had a new dress for years."
The squire's face grew hard and stern. He had never loved his wife, and never forgiven Mrs. Nelson, whom he had loved as much as he was capable of doing, for refusing his hand.
"She has made her bed and she must lie upon it," he said curtly. "She might have known that Mark Nelson would never be able to provide for her."
"Perhaps she never had any other offer," said Mrs. Hudson, who was ignorant of a certain passage of her husband's life.
"Probably she did, for she was a very pretty girl."
"Then she's faded," said Mrs. Hudson, tossing her head.
Squire Hudson did not reply; but as his eyes rested on the sharp, querulous face of his helpmate, and he compared it mentally with the pleasant face of Mrs. Nelson, he said to himself that, faded or not, the latter was still better looking than his wife had been in the days of her youth. Of course it would not do to say so, for Mrs. Hudson was not amiable.
"Mark Nelson has given me security," saidthe squire, returning to the point under discussion. "I hold a mortgage on his farm for the whole amount he owes me."
"Do you think you shall have to foreclose, father?" asked Sinclair.
"If Tom does not succeed in California, I probably shall," said the squire.
"Do you think he will succeed?"
"He may be able to make a living, but I don't think he will be able to help his father any."
"Then why did you lend him the money?"
"He wanted to go, and was willing to take the risk. I lent the money as a business operation."
"Suppose Mr. Nelson loses his farm, what will he do?" inquired Sinclair.
"I really don't know," answered the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "That is no concern of mine."
"Tom wouldn't put on so many airs if his father had to go to the poorhouse," said Sinclair.
"Does he put on airs?"
"He seems to think he is as good as I am," said Squire Hudson's heir.
"That is perfectly ridiculous," said Mrs. Hudson. "The boy must be a fool."
"He is no fool," said the squire, who did not allow prejudice to carry him so far as his wife and son. "He is a boy of very fair abilities; but I apprehend he will find it harder to make his fortune than he anticipated. However, time will show."
"Most likely he'll come home in rags, and grow up a day-laborer," said Sinclair complacently. "When I'm a rich man I'll give him work. He won't feel like putting on airs, then."
"What a good heart Sinclair has!" said Mrs. Hudson admiringly.
Squire Hudson said nothing. Possibly the goodness of his son's heart was not so manifest to him.
Soonafter leaving St. Joe, the emigrant train which Tom had joined, entered theterritory of Kansas. At that early day the settlement of this now prosperous State had scarcely begun. Its rich soil was as yet unvexed by the plow and the spade, and the tall prairie grass and virgin forest stretched for many and many a mile westward in undisturbed loneliness.
One afternoon, toward the setting of the sun, the caravan halted on the site of the present capital of the State, Topeka. The patient oxen, wearied with the twenty miles they had traveled, were permitted to graze. The ten baggage wagons or "ships of the plain," as they were sometimes called—came to anchor in a sea of verdure. They were ranged in a circle, the interior space being occupied as a camping-ground. Then began preparations for supper. Some of the party were sent for water. A fire was built, and the travelers, with a luxurious enjoyment of rest, sank upon the grass.
Donald Ferguson looked thoughtfully over the vast expanse of unsettled prairie, and said to Tom, "It's a great country, Tom. There seems no end to it."
"That's the way I felt when I was ploddingalong to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing.
"It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking."
"I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?"
"No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that."
Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim.
"How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I'm getting used to it."
"Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly."
These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from hiscomfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey.
"Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.
"I am just about dead. I didn't bargain for walking all the way across the prairies. Why couldn't old Fletcher let me ride?"
"The oxen have had all they could do to-day to draw the wagons through the mud."
"Look at those boots," said the Bostonian ruefully, pointing to a pair of light calfskin boots, which were so overlaid with mud that it was hard to tell what was their original color. "I bought those boots in Boston only two weeks ago. Everybody called them stylish. Now they are absolutely disreputable."
"It seems to me, my friend," said the Scotchman, "that you did not show much sagacity in selecting such boots for your journey. My young friend, Tom, is much better provided."
"His boots are cowhide," said Mr. LawrencePeabody disdainfully. "Do you think I would wear cowhide boots?"
"You would find them more serviceable, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "Besides, I don't believe anybody could tell the difference now."
"How much did you pay for them?" asked the Bostonian.
"A dollar and a half."
"Humph! I thought so," returned Peabody contemptuously. "We don't wear cowhide boots in Boston."
"You are not in Boston now."
"I wish I was," said Peabody energetically. "I wouldn't have started if I had known what was before me. I expected to travel like a gentleman, instead of wading through this cursed mud till I'm ready to drop. Look at my pantaloons, all splashed with mire. What would my friends say if I should appear in this rig on Washington Street?"
"They might take you for a bog-trotter," said Tom, smiling.
"I have always been particular about my appearance," said Peabody plaintively. "'He looks just as if he'd come out of a bandbox,'some of my lady friends used to say. How do I look now?"
"Like a dirty-handed son of toil," said Tom humorously.
"So do you," retorted Peabody, who felt that this was uncomplimentary.
"I admit it," said Tom; "and that's just what I expect to be. You don't expect to dig gold with kid gloves on, do you, Mr. Peabody?"
"I wish I had brought some with me," said the Bostonian seriously. "It would have saved my hands looking so dingy."
"How came you to start for California, my friend?" inquired Ferguson.
"The fact is," said Peabody, "I am not rich. There are members of our family who are wealthy; but I am not one of the lucky number."
"You were making a living at home, were you not?"
"Yes; but my income was only enough for myself."
"I suppose you were in love, then," said Tom.
"I don't mind saying that I was; confidentially,of course," said Mr. Peabody complacently.
"Was your love returned?"
"I may say it was. The young lady was the daughter of a merchant prince. I saw that she loved me, but her father would not consent to our union, on account of my limited means. I read in theTranscriptof the gold discoveries in California. I determined to go out there, and try my fortune. If I am successful I will go home, and, with a bag of gold in each hand, demand the hand of Matilda from her haughty sire. When he asks me for my credentials, I will point to the gold, and say, 'Behold them here!'"
"If both your hands are full I don't see how you can point to the bags of gold," said Tom, who liked to tease the young Bostonian.
"There are a great many things you don't understand," said Mr. Peabody, irritably.
"He is right, Tom," said Ferguson, with a quiet smile.
"If you are both against me, I will give it up," said Tom. "All I can say is, I hope you'll get the two bags of gold, Mr. Peabody, and that you'll get the young lady, too."
Here Fletcher came up, and called upon Tom to assist in preparations for supper. Our hero readily complied with the request. Indeed, he always showed himself so obliging that he won the favorable regards of all.
Mr. Peabody continued the conversation with Mr. Ferguson.
"Do you think there's as much gold in California as people say?" he asked.
"No," answered the Scotchman.
"You don't?" ejaculated the Bostonian, in dismay.
"No; people always magnify when they talk of a new country. Now, my friend, how much do you expect to get in the first year?"
"Well, about fifty thousand dollars," answered Peabody.
"And how much were you earning in Boston—a thousand dollars?"
"About that," answered Peabody vaguely. In fact, he had been working on a salary of twelve dollars a week, in a retail dry-goods store on Washington Street.
"Then you expect to make fifty times as much as at home?"
"Don't you think I will?"
"I have never had such large expectations. If I make three or four thousand dollars in twelve months it will satisfy me."
"But a man would never get rich, at that rate," said Lawrence Peabody uneasily.
"I don't know about that. It depends as much on what a man does with his money, as on the amount he makes," said the prudent Scot.
"I am afraid I did wrong in leaving Boston," said Peabody gloomily. "If I am to travel many weeks through the mud, and get no more than that, I shall feel that I am poorly paid."
"You don't feel like my young friend Tom. He is full of hope, and enjoys everything."
"He hasn't been brought up as I have," said Peabody. "A country boy in cowhide boots is tough, and don't mind roughing it."
Ferguson did not have a chance to answer, for there was a summons to supper—a welcome call, that made even Mr. Lawrence Peabody look cheerful for the time being.
Whenthe party camped for the night the custom was to arrange the baggage wagons in a semicircle, and provide a resting-place for the women and children inside. As they were passing through a country occupied by Indians it was necessary to post one or more sentinels to keep watch through the night, and give notice of any who might be seen lurking near the camp. Fortunately, however, an Indian attack was seldom made at night. The time generally selected was in the morning, when the party were preparing to start on their day's march. Tom, as a boy, would have been excused taking his turn; but this did not suit him. He requested as a favor, that he might stand watch with the rest.
"Can he be relied upon? Is he not too young?" asked Fletcher, the leader, of Mr. Ferguson.
"You can depend upon him," said theScotchman confidently. "There's more manliness in Tom than in many men of twice his years."
"Then I will put his name on the list," said Fletcher.
"That's right. I'll answer for him."
But there was one of the travelers who was by no means eager to stand on watch. This was Lawrence Peabody, the young man from Boston. He sought an interview with Fletcher, and asked to be excused.
"On what grounds, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher, surprised.
"It doesn't agree with me to lose my night's sleep," said Peabody. "I am naturally delicate, and——"
"Your excuse is not satisfactory, Mr. Peabody. We are banded together in a little community, having mutual rights and mutual obligations. In the arrangements made for the common safety it is your duty to bear your part."
"I am willing to provide a substitute," said Peabody eagerly.
"Where will you find a substitute?"
"I have been talking with Tom Nelson. He says he is willing to serve in my turn."
"He will serve when his own turn comes; that will be all we can expect of him."
"But he is only a boy. Why should he be expected to take his turn?"
"If he is old enough to be a substitute, he is old enough to stand watch for himself."
"But, Mr. Fletcher, I am very delicate," protested Lawrence Peabody. "I must have my regular sleep, or I shall be sick."
"We must take our chances of that, Mr. Peabody."
"I shall be very likely to go to sleep on my post."
"I wouldn't advise you to," said Fletcher seriously. "It might be dangerous."
"Dangerous!" ejaculated Peabody nervously.
"Precisely. If a lurking Indian should surprise you, you might wake up to find yourself scalped."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Bostonian, his teeth chattering, for he was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. "Do you—think there is any danger of that?"
"Considerable, if you neglect your duty."
"But perhaps I can't help falling asleep."
"Mr. Peabody," said Fletcher sternly, "you must keep awake. Not only your own safety, but that of the whole camp, may depend upon your vigilance. If you choose to risk your own life, I don't complain of that, but you shall not imperil ours. I therefore give you notice, that if you fall asleep on guard you will be drummed out of camp, and left to shift for yourself."
"But I couldn't find my way on the prairie," said Peabody, very much alarmed.
"You had better think of that when you are tempted to close your eyes, Mr. Peabody," replied Fletcher.
Lawrence Peabody walked off, feeling very much disconcerted. Fervently he wished himself back in Boston, where there are no Indians, and a man might sleep from one week's end to another without any danger of losing his scalp.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom, observing his melancholy appearance.
"I don't think I shall ever live to see California," answered Mr. Peabody plaintively.
"Why, what's the matter now?" asked Tom, checking an inclination to laugh; "are you sick?"
"I don't feel very well, Tom. I'm very delicate, and this journey is almost too much for my strength."
"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Peabody! Think of the gold that awaits you at the end of the journey."
"It's all that keeps me up, I do assure you. But I am afraid I shall never live to get there," said Peabody, with a groan.
"Don't think of such things, Mr. Peabody. Of course none of us is sure of living, but the chances are, that we shall reach California in health, make our fortunes, and go home rich. At any rate, that's what I am looking forward to."
"I wouldn't mind so much but for one thing, Tom."
"What is that?"
"Fletcher insists that I shall take my turn in standing guard. If I were not so delicate I wouldn't mind; but I know I can't stand it. I'll give you two dollars to take my place, every time my turn comes."
"I am willing, if Mr. Fletcher is," said Tom, who was by no means averse to making a little extra money.
"But he isn't. I proposed it to him, for I was sure I could arrange with you; but he refused."
"I suppose," said Tom slyly, "he thought I couldn't fill your place. You are a brave, resolute man, and I am only a boy."
"Tom—I—I don't mind telling you; but I am afraid I am not brave."
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Peabody! that is only your modesty."
"But I assure you," said the young Bostonian earnestly, "I am speaking the truth. If I should see an Indian crawling near the camp I'm really afraid I should faint."
"You won't know how brave you are till you are put to the test."
"But do you think there is any chance of my being put to the test? Do you think there are any Indians near?" asked Lawrence Peabody, wiping the damp perspiration from his brow.
"Of course there must be," said Tom."We are passing through their hunting-grounds, you know."
"Why did I ever leave Boston?" said Mr. Peabody sadly.
"You came, as I did, to make your fortune, Mr. Peabody."
"I'm afraid I can't keep awake, Tom; Mr. Fletcher tells me, if I don't, that he will turn me adrift on the prairie. Isn't that hard?"
"I am afraid it is a necessary regulation. But you won't fall asleep. Your turn will only come about once in two weeks, and that isn't much."
"The nights will seem very long."
"I don't think so. I think it'll be fun, for my part."
"But suppose—when you are watching—you should all at once see an Indian, Tom?" said Peabody, with a shiver.
"I think it would be rather unlucky for the Indian," said Tom coolly.
"You are a strange boy, Tom," said Mr. Peabody.
"What makes you think so?"
"You don't seem to care anything about the danger of being scalped."
"I don't believe I should like being scalped any more than you do."
"You might have got off from standing watch; but you asked to be allowed to."
"That is quite true, Mr. Peabody. I want to meet my fair share of danger and fatigue."
"You can stand it, for you are strong and tough. You have not my delicacy of constitution."
"Perhaps that's it," said Tom, laughing.
"Would you mind speaking to Fletcher, and telling him you are willing to take my place?"
"I will do it, if you wish me to, Mr. Peabody."
"Thank you, Tom; you are a true friend;" and Mr. Peabody wrung the hand of his young companion.
Tom was as good as his word. He spoke to Fletcher on the subject; but the leader of the expedition was obdurate.
"Can't consent, my boy," he said. "It is enough for you to take your turn. That young dandy from Boston needs some discipline to make a man of him. He will never do anything in a country like California unless hehas more grit than he shows at present. I shall do him a favor by not excusing him."
Tom reported the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously waited for the night when he was to stand watch.
A daylater, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians.
"I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said Fletcher.
"What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson.
"Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree."
"I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty savage."
Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as usual.
"What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on account of the party surrounding them.
"Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company.
Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men—he was rather near-sighted—and turned very pale.
"Is it the Indians?" he faltered.
"Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't you see that they are scalped?"
"I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do—do you think it has been done lately?"
"Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh."
"Then the Indians that did it must be near here?"
"Probably."
"These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to keep together. In union there is strength."
The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy mortgage.
"Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The mortgage will never be paid through his exertions."
Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant.
"He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey will have a happier ending."
"Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time enough to submit to it when you must."
"That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson."
"Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble."
"We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the service?"
"Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I volunteer."
Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.
"I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you."
"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?"
"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."
"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.
"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows."
"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."
"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"
"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.
"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another."
In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.
Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles.
"Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said.
It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch. He was very uneasy and nervousthrough the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher.
"I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it would split open."
"Let me feel of it," said Fletcher.
"It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said.
"It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate constitution."
"The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy.
"It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected.
"Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch."
"You don't look at it in the right light, Mr.Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise."
Lawrence Peabody stared.
"I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said.
"If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep."
Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him.
"He'll be well before night," thought Fletcher shrewdly; and he privately imparted the joke to the rest of the party. The result was that Mr. Peabody became an object of general attention.
In half an hour the young man from Boston removed his handkerchief from his head.
"Are you feeling better, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.
"Very much better," said Peabody.
"Your headache seems to pass off suddenly."
"Yes, it always does," said the young Bostonian. "I am like mother in that. She had a delicate constitution, just like mine. One minute she would have a headache as if her head would split open, and half an hour afterward she would feel as well as usual."
"You are very fortunate. I was afraid your headache would make it uncomfortable for you to watch to-night."
"Yes, it would; but, as the captain said, it would have kept me awake. Now I don't believe I can keep from sleeping on my post."
"Why don't you tell Fletcher so?"
"Won't you tell him, Tom? He might pay more attention to it if you told him."
"No, Mr. Peabody. You are certainly the most suitable person to speak to him. What makes you think he would pay more attention to me, who am only a boy?"
"He seems to like you, Tom."
"I hope he does, but really, Mr. Peabody, you must attend to your own business."
Fletcher was at the head of the train, walking beside the first wagon. Hearing hurriedsteps, he turned, and saw Mr. Lawrence Peabody, panting for breath.
"Have you got over your headache, Mr. Peabody?" he asked, with a quiet smile.
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher, it's all gone."
"I am glad to hear it."
"It would have kept me awake to-night, as you remarked," said Peabody. "Now, I am really afraid that I shall fall asleep."
"That would be bad for you."
"Why so?"
"You remember those two poor fellows whom we found scalped the other day?"
"I shall never forget them," said Lawrence Peabody, with a shudder.
"Better think of them to-night. If you go to sleep on watch, those very Indians may serve you in the same way."
"Oh, good gracious!" ejaculated Peabody, turning pale.
"They or some of their tribe are, no doubt, near at hand."
"Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody, panic-stricken.
"No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly thatthe unhappy Bostonian shrank back in dismay.
For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles—a broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was—more honorably represented the same city.
Lawrence Peabody'sfeelings when night approached were not unlike those of a prisoner under sentence of death. He was timid, nervous, and gifted with a lively imagination. His fears were heightened by the sad spectacle that he had recently witnessed. His depression was apparent to all; but I regret to say that it inspired more amusement than sympathy. Men winked at each other as they saw him pass; and, with the exception of Tom and his Scotch friend, probably nobody pitied the poor fellow.
"He's a poor creature, Tom," said Donald Ferguson; "but I pity him. We wouldn'tmind watching to-night; but I doubt it's a terrible thing to him."
"I would volunteer in his place, but Mr. Fletcher won't agree to it," said Tom.
"He is right. The young man must take his turn. He won't dread it so much a second time."
"What would the poor fellow do if he should see an Indian?"
"Faint, likely; but that is not probable."
"Mr. Fletcher thinks there are some not far off."
"They don't attack in the night, so I hear."
"That seems strange to me. I should think the night would be most favorable for them."
"It's their way. Perhaps they have some superstition that hinders."
"I am glad of it, at any rate. I can sleep with greater comfort."
The rest were not as considerate as Tom and Ferguson. They tried, indeed, to excite still further the fears of the young Bostonian.
"Peabody," said Miles, "have you made your will?"
"No," answered Peabody nervously. "Why should I?"
"Oh, I was thinking that if anything happened to you to-night you might like to say how your things are to be disposed of. You've got a gold watch, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Peabody nervously.
"And a little money, I suppose."
"Not very much, Mr. Miles."
"No matter about that. Of course if you are killed you won't have occasion for it," said Miles, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way," said Peabody irritably. "It makes me nervous."
"What's the use of being nervous? It won't do any good."
"Do you really think, Mr. Miles, there is much danger?" faltered Peabody.
"Of course there is danger. But the post of danger is the post of honor. Now, Peabody, I want to give you a piece of advice. If you spy one of those red devils crouching in the grass, don't stop to parley, but up with your revolver, and let him have it in the head. If you can't hit him in the head, hit him where you can."
"Wouldn't it be better," suggested Peabody,in a tremulous voice, "to wake you up, or Mr. Fletcher?"
"While you were doing it the savage would make mince-meat of you. No, Peabody, fire at once. This would wake us all up, and if you didn't kill the reptile we would do it for you."
"Perhaps he would see me first," suggested Peabody, in a troubled tone.
"You mustn't let him. You must have your eyes all about you. You are not near-sighted, are you?"
"I believe I am—a little," said Peabody eagerly, thinking that this might be esteemed a disqualification for the position he dreaded.
"Oh, well, I guess it won't make any difference, only you will need to be more vigilant."
"I wish I was blind; just for to-night," thought Peabody to himself, with an inward sigh. "Then they would have to excuse me."
John Miles overtook Fletcher, who was with the head wagon.
"Captain Fletcher," he said, "I am afraid Peabody will make a mighty poor watch."
"Just my opinion."
"He is more timid than the average woman. I've got a sister at home that has ten times his courage. If she hadn't I wouldn't own the relationship."
"I am not willing to excuse him."
"Of course not; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep an eye open myself, so that we sha'n't wholly depend on him."
"If you are willing to do it, Miles, we shall all be indebted to you. Don't let him know it, though."
"I don't mean to. He shall suppose he is the only man awake in camp."
At a comparatively early hour the party stretched themselves out upon the ground, inviting sleep. Generally they did not have to wait long. The day's march brought with it considerable physical fatigue. Even those who were light sleepers at home slept well on the trip across the plains. Few or none remained awake half an hour after lying down. So Peabody knew that he would soon be practically alone.
With a heavy heart he began to pace slowly forward and back. He came to where Tom lay.
"Tom—Tom Nelson," he called, in a low voice.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom, in a sleepy tone.
"Are you asleep?"
"No; but I soon shall be."
"Won't you try to keep awake a little while? It won't seem so lonesome."
"Sorry I can't accommodate you, Mr. Peabody; but I'm awfully tired and sleepy."
"Who's that talking there?" drowsily demanded the nearest emigrant. "Can't you keep quiet, and let a fellow sleep?"
"Good night, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, by way of putting an end to the conversation.
"Good night," returned the sentinel disconsolately.
The hours passed on, and Lawrence Peabody maintained his watch. He was in no danger of going to sleep, feeling too timid and nervous. He began to feel a little more comfortable. He could see nothing suspicious, and hear nothing except the deep breathing of his sleeping comrades.
"It is not so bad as I expected," he muttered to himself.
He began to feel a little self-complacent, and to reflect that he had underrated his own courage. He privately reflected that he was doing as well as any of his predecessors in duty. He began to think that after he had got back to Boston with a fortune, gained in California, he could impress his friends with a narrative of his night-watch on the distant prairies. But his courage had not yet been tested.
He took out his watch to see how time was passing.
It pointed totwelveo'clock.
Why there should be anything more alarming in twelve o'clock than in any other hour I can't pretend to say, but the fact none will question. Mr. Peabody felt a nervous thrill when his eyes rested on the dial. He looked about him, and the darkness seemed blacker and more awe-inspiring than ever, now that he knew it to be midnight.
"Will it ever be morning?" he groaned. "Four long hours at least before there will be light. I don't know how I am going to stand it."
Now, there was attached to the wagon-train one of those universally despised but usefulanimals, a donkey, the private property of a man from Iowa, who expected to make it of service in California. The animal was tethered near the camp, and was generally quiet. But to-night he was wakeful, and managed about midnight to slip his tether, and wandered off. Peabody did not observe his escape. His vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and with his head down he gave way to mournful reflection. Suddenly the donkey, who was now but a few rods distant, uplifted his voice in a roar which the night stillness made louder than usual. It was too much for the overwrought nerves of the sentinel. He gave a shriek of terror, fired wildly in the air, and sank fainting to the ground. Of course the camp was roused. Men jumped to their feet, and, rubbing their eyes, gazed around them in bewilderment.
It was not long before the truth dawned upon them. There lay the sentinel, insensible from fright, his discharged weapon at his feet, and the almost equally terrified donkey was in active flight, making the air vocal with his peculiar cries.
There was a great shout of laughter, in themidst of which Peabody recovered consciousness.
"Where am I?" he asked, looking about him wildly, and he instinctively felt for his scalp, which he was relieved to find still in its place.
"What's the matter?" asked the leader. "What made you fire?"
"I—I thought it was the Indians," faltered Peabody. "I thought I heard their horrid war-whoop."
"Not very complimentary to the Indians to compare them with donkeys," said Miles.
Lawrence Peabody was excused from duty for the remainder of the night, his place being taken by Miles and Tom in turn.
It was a long time before he heard the last of his ridiculous panic, but he was not sensitive as to his reputation for courage, and he bore it, on the whole, pretty well.
Thetraveler of to-day who is whirled across the continent in six days and a half has littleconception of what the overland journey was in the year 1850. Week after week and month after month slipped away between the start and the arrival on the western slope of the Sierra Nevadas. Delicate women and children of tender years developed extraordinary endurance, and showed remarkable fortitude on the wearisome trip. But the hope of bettering their fortunes was the magnet that drew them steadily on, day after day, in their march across the plains.
Tom was at an age when adventure has a charm. His feet were often weary; but he never tired of the journey. Every morning found him active, alert, and ready for the toilsome walk. He was, indeed, impatient for the time to come when he could be earning something to pay up his debt to Squire Hudson, and so relieve his father from the additional burden assumed for his sake. Otherwise he was quite content to plod on, seeing something new every day.
"You're always cheerful, Tom, my lad," said Ferguson, one day.
"Yes," said Tom. "I am having a good time."
"Youth is aye the time for enjoyment. When I was a lad like you I might have been the same."
"Don't you enjoy the journey, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Tom.
"I'm getting tired of it, Tom. I look upon it as a means to an end. I'm in a hurry to reach the mines."
"So am I, Mr. Ferguson, for that matter."
"And I can't help thinking, what if they don't turn out as well as we expect? Then there'll be months lost, besides a good bit of money," replied Ferguson.
"Oh, I'm sure there is plenty of gold, and we shall get our share," said Tom confidently; "that is, if we have our health."
"I hope it'll be as you say, my lad. Indeed, I think you are right. You have taught me a lesson."
"Have I, Mr. Ferguson? What is it?"
"Always to look on the bright side. It is a lesson worth learning. It makes a man feel happier, and often gives courage to press on to the accomplishment of his purpose."
"I suppose it is natural to me," said Tom.
"It is a happy gift. It is a pity that poor creature from Boston hadn't it."
Lawrence Peabody was approaching, and this no doubt led to the allusion. He was limping along, looking decidedly down in the mouth, which, indeed, was not unusual.
"What is the matter with you, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.
"I'm almost gone," groaned Peabody. "My strength is exhausted, and, besides, I've got a terrible corn on my left foot."
"How long has that been?"
"For two or three days. It's torture for me to walk. I don't know but you'll have to leave me here on the prairie to perish."
"Not so bad as that, Mr. Peabody, I hope. Perhaps Mr. Chapman will lend you his donkey to ride upon."
The owner of the donkey was within hearing distance, and at once expressed a willingness to lend his animal to Mr. Peabody.
"That will be better than perishing on the prairies," said Tom cheerfully.
"I am not much used to riding," said Peabody cautiously.
"He won't run away with you, Peabody," said the owner. "He's too lazy."
Lawrence Peabody was already aware of this fact, and it gave him courage to accept the offered help. He mounted Solomon—as the donkey was called, for some unknown reason—and for a time enjoyed the relief from the toil of walking. He became quite cheerful, and was disposed to congratulate himself upon his success, when an unfortunate fit of obstinacy came over Solomon. It dawned upon the sagacious animal that it would be much easier to travel without a load, and, turning his head, he looked thoughtfully at his rider.
"Get up, Solomon!" exclaimed Peabody, striking the animal on the haunch.
Solomon felt that this was taking a personal liberty and he stood stock-still, his face expressive of obstinacy.
"Why don't he go on?" asked Peabody, perplexed.
"He's stopping to rest," said Tom. "I am afraid he is lazy."
"Go along!" exclaimed Peabody, again using his whip. But the animal did not budge.
"This is really very provoking," murmured the rider. "What shall I do?"
"Don't give up to him," advised one of the company. "Here, let me whip him."
"Thank you; I wish you would."
It was an unlucky speech. The other complied with the request, and delivered his blow with such emphasis that Solomon's equanimity was seriously disturbed. He dashed forward with what speed he could command, Mr. Peabody holding on, in a sort of panic, till he was a hundred yards away. Then he stopped suddenly, lowering his head, and his hapless rider was thrown over it, landing some distance in advance. Solomon looked at him with grim humor, if a donkey is capable of such a feeling, and, apparently satisfied, turned and walked complacently back to the wagon-train.
Several of the company, witnessing the accident, hurried forward to Mr. Peabody's assistance. They picked him up, groaning and bewildered, but not much hurt.
"None of your limbs broken," said Miles. "I guess you'll do."
"I'm badly shaken up," moaned Peabody.
"It will do you good," said Miles bluntly.
"You had better try it yourself, then," retorted Peabody, with unwonted spirit.
"Good for you!" laughed Miles. "I suspect you are not dead yet."
"What made you put me on such a vicious beast?" asked Peabody of the owner.
"Solomon isn't vicious; he's only lazy," said Chapman. "We can't blame him much."
"I think he ought to be shot," said Peabody, painfully rising, and stretching out one limb after another to make sure that none was broken.
"You seem to be unlucky, Mr. Peabody," said Tom.
"I'm always unlucky," moaned Peabody.
"Will you ride again, Mr. Peabody?" asked Chapman. "I'll catch Solomon for you, if you like."
"Not for fifty dollars!" exclaimed Peabody energetically. "It is as much as anybody's life is worth."
"If you will make me the same offer, I won't refuse, Mr. Chapman," said Tom.
"You can mount him, if you like."
Tom waited for no second invitation. Heapproached Solomon cautiously, vaulted upon his back, and the animal, disagreeably surprised, had recourse to the same tactics which had proved so successful in the case of the young man from Boston. But he had a different kind of a rider to deal with. Tom had been accustomed to ride from the time he was six years of age, and he stuck to his seat in spite of all attempts to dislodge him. So far from feeling alarmed, he enjoyed the struggle.
"It's no go, Solomon!" he said gaily. "You've tackled the wrong customer this time. Better make up your mind to go as I want you to."
Solomon came to the same conclusion after a time. He had tried his ordinary tactics, and they had proved unavailing. The struggle had been witnessed with some interest by the other members of the company.
"You can ride, youngster; that's a fact," said the owner of the donkey. "I didn't say anything, but I rather expected to see you follow Peabody."
"I'm used to riding," said Tom modestly. "Mr. Peabody is not."
"Every lad ought to know how to ride," said Ferguson. "It's a deal manlier than smoking a cigar, to my thinking."