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John Miles slept long, and awoke feeling refreshed and cheerful. He had a healthy organization, and never failed to eat and sleep well. Like Crane, he had no toilet to make, but sprang to his feet already dressed.
His first thought was naturally of his treasure. His heart gave a quick bound when he failed to discover it in the place where he remembered to have put it. In dismay he instituted a search, which, of course, proved unavailing.
"Who could have taken it?" thought Miles, large drops of perspiration gathering upon his forehead.
All about him was loneliness. He could see no signs of life. Yet the bag could not have gone away of itself. There was certainly human agency in the matter.
Miles confessed to himself with sadness thathe had been imprudent to leave the bag where it would naturally excite the cupidity of any passing adventurer. That it must have been taken by such a one seemed evident. In that case, the chance of recovering it seemed slender enough. Nevertheless, John Miles decided to make an effort, hopeless as it was, to discover the whereabouts of his lost property.
"If it had been mine, I wouldn't have cared so much," he said to himself, with a sigh; "but poor Tom's money is gone too. I will make it up to him if I live, but I am afraid his father will be inconvenienced by the delay."
Miles made preparations for his departure, and strode away, looking searchingly to the right and left in search of something that might throw light upon his loss. Presently he espied the two Chinamen. Could they have taken it? He would at any rate speak to them.
"Good-morning, John," he said, when he came within hearing distance.
Ah Sinbobbed his head, and repeated "Good-morning, John."
"Do you live here?"
"Yes, we washee-washee for gold."
"Does anyone else live near by?"
The two inclined their heads, and answered in the negative.
"Have you seen anyone pass last night or this morning?"
"Yes," answered Ah Sin. "'Melican man stay all nightee—over there. Chinaman give him a cup of tea this morning."
"How long ago?" asked Miles, eagerly.
"Two hours," answered Ah Jim.
"In what direction did he go?"
The two Chinamen readily told him.
Miles decided to tell them of the loss of his bag of gold-dust. Possibly they could throw some light upon his loss.
"Some one stole a small bag of dust from me last night," he said. "I suspect it was the man you describe. Did he appear to have any such article with him?"
"Yes," answered Ah Sin, who, with natural cunning, saw that this information would divertsuspicion from them. "It was so large," indicating the size with his hands.
Of course his description was accurate, for he had very good reason to know the size of the bag.
"He must have been the thief," said Miles, eagerly. "In what direction did you say he went?"
Ah Sin pointed to the west.
"I will follow him. It is on my way. If I catch the villain, it will be the worse for him."
"He velly bad man," said Ah Sin, sympathizingly.
"That's where you are right, my heathen friend. Well, good-morning, John. I am much obliged to you for your information."
"Velly welcome, John."
As John Miles rode away, Ah Sin turned to his friend Ah Jim, and remarked,—
"S'pose he catch him, he kill him."
"All lightee!" returned Ah Jim. "He velly bad man, he thief."
The two Chinamen exchanged glances. If theyhad been white men, there would have been a smile or a wink, but these children of Confucius looked so serenely virtuous, so innocent of guile, that the most experienced detective would have seen nothing in their faces indicating any guilty knowledge of the lost treasure. But, guileless as they seemed, they had proved more than a match for Bill Crane and his victim.
John Miles rode away with a faint hope that he might overtake the man, whoever he might be, who had stolen his precious bag. In due time he reached the spot where Crane had examined the bag, and on discovering its worthless contents, had thrown it away. The thief had not taken the trouble to empty it.
When Miles saw it he hurried to it, hoping he might find some of the treasure inside. Of course he was disappointed, and at the same time bewildered.
"This is certainly my bag," he said to himself. "Here are my initials, J. M. Then there are other marks well known to me. I could swearto it anywhere. But how does it happen that it is full of sand, and why has the thief thrown it away? That beats me!"
Miles decided that for some reason unknown the thief had transferred its contents to some other bag—perhaps his own—and then had discarded the original one, in wanton humor filling it instead with sand.
"He may have been afraid it would be found on him," thought Miles. "The marks on the bag would have been evidence enough to condemn him. By throwing away my bag he thinks himself safe."
His solution of the puzzle was ingenious, but as we know he erred in two respects. Bill Crane had not filled the bag with sand and thrown it away from prudential considerations, nor had he profited by the theft he had committed. He had been as badly outwitted as his victim, and the profit had gone to the bland and obliging Chinamen, who had thus far escaped suspicion.
John Miles slackened his rein, and thought seriously and sadly of the position to which hewas reduced. What was he to do? He was, in the expressive language of the country, "cleaned out," and brought to a pass where he must begin life over again, with the disadvantage of being seventy-five dollars in debt, for he was resolved that Tom's loss should be paid back to the uttermost penny.
Presently philosophy came to his aid.
"It might have been worse," he reflected. "Two hundred dollars is too large a sum to lose, but it wont take long to make up if I have any sort of luck. I wish I were in San Francisco. It may trouble me to get there without means."
When misfortune comes it is always best to look it manfully in the face, and not to shrink from or over estimate it. John Miles had a strong, healthy nature, with a good deal of confidence in his own resources, and in an hour or two he was again looking hopefully forward to the future. Not that he cherished a hope of recovering his lost money. There seemed to be no way of identifying it, even if he should track the thief.One ounce of gold-dust looks like another, and there is no way of distinguishing individual property in that form.
John Miles pushed on slowly. About noon he found himself threading a narrow cañon, shaded by gigantic redwood tress, with steep, almost perpendicular sides, with here and there a narrow streamlet descending in a cascade, and lighting up the darkened scene with its silvery reflections.
"This is a pretty spot, but it would be lonely to live here," thought Miles. "Yet," shading his eyes, "there seems to be a cabin of some sort. Is it possible that anybody lives in this cañon?"
Ten minutes' ride brought him to a rude cabin, with a gigantic tree spreading at a great height protecting branches over it. That it was inhabited was clear, for in front of it stood a strongly built, robust woman, who seemed to be nearing forty.
She bent a searching look upon the intruder, who bent his head courteously.
"Good-morning, ma'am," said Miles.
"Good-morning, stranger," was the reply. "Where might you be going?"
"I am on my way to the city. Am I on the right track?"
"I reckon so."
"Do you live here—alone?" asked John Miles, in some curiosity.
"It looks like it, doesn't it?" returned the woman. "I've been alone since my man pegged out."
"Is that long?"
"A matter of three weeks."
"I sympathize with you," said Miles. "You must be very lonely."
"Yes," said the widow. "Jim was good company, and I feel kind of lonesome without him, you better believe."
"There isn't much sentiment there," thought Miles. "She doesn't appear to be heart-broken. Do you mean to stay here alone?" he inquired. "Are you not afraid?"
"What's there to be afraid of?"
"Some tramp or adventurer might attack and injure, or at least rob you."
"Look here, stranger! do you see that?" and the woman produced a revolver. "Do you see that shooting-iron?"
"It looks as if it might be a good one," said Miles, who began to think the woman better able to take care of herself than he had at first supposed.
"You bet it is! I know how to use it, too. If one of them tramps gets in front of it, and sasses me, he'd better say his prayers mighty quick, for he'll need 'em. He needn't reckon much on my being a woman. I can shoot jest as true as my man could when he was alive."
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John Miles eyed the woman curiously. There did not seem much that was feminine left in her. Life in the wilderness had made her as bold and self-reliant as a man. She was not compelled to plead for woman's rights. She resolutely took a man's rights, and was prepared to maintain them against all comers.
"I rather think you can take care of yourself, ma'am," he said.
"You can bet your bottom dollar on that, stranger," said the woman, cheerfully. "Brown—that's my husband—knew what I was. We was ekal partners—Brown and me—and he knew too much to tread on me."
"I'm glad I wasn't Brown," thought John Miles. "When I marry, it'll be a woman, and not a man in petticoats."
"If you're hungry, stranger," said the woman, "just jump off that horse of yours, and come in. I can give you a square meal, and I reckon you haven't had one lately."
"You are right, Mrs. Brown," said Miles, dismounting with alacrity. "My provisions are dry and stale, and I shall enjoy a square meal amazingly. But I ought to tell you that last night I was robbed of a bag of gold-dust, and I have nothing to pay you."
"Who asks for pay?" returned the woman. "I don't keep a hotel, but I'm tired of eating alone. I want to see how it seems to have a man setting opposite me agin. So come in, and I won't keep you waiting long."
"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. If you don't mind, I'll light my pipe, and sit out here till I've had a smoke."
"You can smoke inside if you want to. I always let Brown. It makes me feel better, now that he's pegged out, that I didn't deny him any of his little comforts."
"Clearly Mrs. Brown was a considerate wife," thought Miles; "but she doesn't look like a woman to fall in love with."
Tying his horse, he threw himself down on the grass, and enjoyed the luxury of a smoke while Mrs. Brown was heard bustling about inside, preparing the square meal which she had promised to her unexpected guest.
Presently she reappeared.
"The victuals is ready, if you are, stranger," she said.
"I am ready, Mrs. Brown," said Miles, rising at once, and entering the cabin.
The cabin was rough, and ill-adapted to a fastidious tenant, but it looked comfortable. What attracted Miles most, however, was a table set in the middle of the floor, covered with a substantial and appetizing meal. Mrs. Brown was a fair cook—perhaps her only feminine accomplishment. She placed Miles at the head of the table, and seated herself opposite him. She watched his attacks upon the fare she had provided with evident satisfaction.
"I hope you like it," she said.
"Mrs. Brown, I haven't tasted anything so good for a long time."
She nodded, with a pleased look.
"Brown allus liked my cookin," she said. "He had a good appetite most generally, and it was a pleasure to see him eat. It's kinder lonesome cookin' for yourself. Then, too, it takes away my appetite sittin' down alone to eat."
"You must be very lonely, Mrs. Brown."
"Yes, its lonesome like bein' a widder. I'm kinder used to seein' a man about the house."
"So I suppose."
"Be you a married man?" asked the lady, pointedly.
"No, ma'am."
"How old be you?"
"Twenty-eight," answered Miles, rather amused.
"Then you're old enough to get married?"
"Oh yes, I am old enough."
"Be you in love with any girl?"
"The old woman's getting curious," thought Miles. "However, I don't mind gratifying her curiosity."
"No, I'm not in love," he replied.
Mrs. Brown eyed him thoughtfully. She seemed to be revolving some plan in her mind.
"Take a good look at me, stranger," she said, bracing herself up, as if on exhibition.
"Certainly," said John Miles, considerably astonished.
"I want to ask you a few questions."
"Go ahead, Mrs. Brown."
"Am I hump-backed?"
"Certainly not. Who said you were?"
"Just attend to my questions, if you please, stranger. Am I squint-eyed?"
"Mrs. Brown must be crazy," thought Miles. However, he answered in the negative.
"Am I as homely as a hedge-fence?" pursued the widow.
"Has anybody been calling you so? If so, tell me who it is."
"Never you mind, stranger. Am I old and wrinkled?"
"Certainly she's out of her mind," thought Miles. "I must humor her."
"I think you are a very good-looking woman," he said, soothingly.
"No, I'm not," said the strong-minded lady, "but at the same time I ain't a scarecrow."
"Certainly not."
"Don't talk too much, stranger. I expect you're surprised at my questions, but I'll come to the p'int at once. I'm tired of livin' here alone. I didn't think I'd miss Brown so much. He wasn't any great shakes of a man, but he was better than nothing. He was company for me, Brown was, in the long evenin's, and I miss him. I've made up my mind to take on somebody in his place, and I reckon I'd like to engage you, stranger. Will you marry me?"
Mrs. Brown did not blush when she asked this extraordinary question. She was entirely self-possessed, and could not have been cooler, if she had been transacting an ordinary piece of business.
John Miles had never before received a proposal of marriage. He felt as awkward and confused as a young girl, and began to hesitate and stammer.
"Really, Mrs. Brown," he began, "you have taken me by surprise."
"I expect I have," said the widow, "but I'll give you time to think it over. Brown left me I pretty comfortable, though I did more to get the property together than he. You wouldn't think it, perhaps, but I've got five thousand dollars in gold hid away somewheres near, and there's a claim not far away, that belongs to me, and will pay for workin'."
"I am glad you are so well off, Mrs. Brown," said Miles.
"If you marry me," continued the widow, "you can work that claim. You're a strong, able-bodied man, and a year from now, if you want to, we'll go to the city, and settle down. I'm older than you; but a matter of a few years don't make much difference. You were robbed, you told me?"
"Yes, of all that I had."
"How much was it?"
"About two hundred dollars."
"That ain't much."
"It's a good deal when it's all you have," answered Miles.
"If you marry me you won't miss it," said Mrs. Brown. "I won't give you my money right off, for you might run off with it, but at the end of the first year you shall have half of it. There's a parson a few miles up the cañon, at Dirt Hole, that will marry us any time we ride over. What do you say, stranger?"
It was an embarrassing moment for John Miles. He had no desire to succeed the deceased Brown, notwithstanding the little property he had left behind him. Mrs. Brown did not in the least resemble the wife of whom he had sometimes dreamed. But how could he decline without exciting the resentment of that singular female? He bore in mind that Mrs. Brown carried a revolver, and she might take a notion to shoot him down. He must temporize.
"Your proposal is a very kind and flattering one, Mrs. Brown, but I don't care to marry just at present. I want to go to the city and try my fortune. I've only lately arrived in California,and I am not ready to settle down yet."
To his relief Mrs. Brown accepted his objection in good part.
"No offence, stranger," she said. "I didn't know how you might feel about it. I've made you a fair offer."
"Indeed you have. The time may come when I shall return, and—"
"I won't promise to wait for you, stranger. Somebody else may happen along that'll take the situation."
"It would be too much to expect you to wait for me, I admit."
"All right, stranger. You've answered fair, and now we'll let the matter drop."
When Miles left the cabin he carried with him an addition to his stock of provisions, for which he was indebted to Mrs. Brown's liberality. It was evident that she bore no malice, notwithstanding her suit had been rejected.
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About an hour after John Miles rode away from the widow's door Mr. William Crane came in sight of the cabin. He had strayed from the direct course, and that had delayed him. Otherwise he would not have fallen behind Miles.
Bill Crane was in rather a melancholy mood. He had not got over his disappointment of the morning. He was fagged out and hungry, and felt that luck was against him. When he saw the cabin, and the widow Brown sitting in the door-way, it instantly occurred to him that here was a chance to get a dinner. He had nothing to pay, to be sure, but he need say nothing about it till after the dinner was eaten.
As he rode up, he removed his hat, and said, "Good-day, ma'am."
Mrs. Brown scrutinized the new-comer withcritical eyes. She decided that he was not as good-looking as John Miles. Indeed Bill Crane never could have been accounted handsome; but on this point the widow was not exacting. She was looking for somebody to fill the place of her lamented Brown, and relieve her loneliness, and it was Crane's eligibility in this respect that she was considering. Beauty was but skin deep, as Mrs. Brown was practical enough to admit, and she was not overstocked with that attractive quality herself. Though Crane did not know it, the resolute, middle-aged female, from whom he hoped to obtain a gratuitous dinner, was making up her mind to offer him the position of husband.
"Good-day, stranger," she answered composedly. "Are you travelin' fur?"
"I'm thinkin' of goin' to Frisco," he said, "but it's a long journey and I'm fagged out. If you have no objection, I'll stop at your place and see if I can rest a few minutes."
"You can stop if you want to," she said."I don't see much company, and I like to see a new face now and then."
"So do I," said Crane, thinking a little flattery might help him; "especially when it's the face of a good-looking woman."
"I ain't good-lookin' enough to hurt me," returned Mrs. Brown, with a frankness which rather disconcerted and puzzled Crane, "but I don't mind you callin' me so. If you are anyways hungry, I haven't cleared away the dinner, and—"
"You are very kind," broke in Crane, eagerly; "I don't mind saying I am a little bit hungry."
"All right, stranger. If you'll wait long enough for me to make some hot tea, and warm the victuals, you shall have a chance to judge of my cookin'."
Bill Crane was quite elated. He decided that the widow would not ask him for payment, thus saving him from embarrassing excuses. In due time he was called in and seated in the chair not long since occupied by John Miles.
"You're the second man that's dined with me to-day," said the widow.
"And who was the first lucky man?" inquired Crane, suspecting at once that it might have been Miles.
"I don't know his name, but he was a good-looking young man, who said he had had a bag of gold-dust stolen from him."
"That's Miles," thought Crane; and he at once decided not to betray any knowledge of him.
"He was in bad luck," said Bill. "Did he know who stole it?"
"He didn't tell me. I don't think he knew."
"That's well," thought Crane.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"To the city."
"Do you live here all the year round, Mrs.——?"
"My name's Brown, stranger."
"All I can say is, that Brown is a lucky man. Another cup of tea if you please, Mrs. Brown."
"You might not like to exchange places withhim, for all his luck, stranger," remarked the widow.
"Indeed I would," said Bill, with a languishing look.
"He's six feet under ground!" explained Mrs. Brown, dryly.
"Dead?" ejaculated Crane.
"Yes; he's been dead these three weeks."
"And you are a widow?"
"That's so, stranger."
"But you don't mean to stay a widow?" interrogated Crane.
"Well, it is kinder lonesome. It seems natural like to have a man round."
"I wonder if she's got any money," thought Crane. "I'll find out if I can."
"Yes, Mrs. Brown, I feel for you," he said. "A woman can't struggle with the world as a man can."
"I don't know about that, stranger. I can take care of myself, if that's what you mean."
"But a woman needs a man to protect and work for her," insinuated Crane.
"I don't need any one to protect me," said the widow; "and, as for support, I've got a matter of five thousand dollars laid by, and a good claim that'll pay for the workin'. I don't think I shall need to go to the poor-house yet awhile."
Bill Crane's eyes sparkled. The widow Brown seemed wonderfully attractive in his eyes. He was willing to barter his young affections for five thousand dollars and a claim, even if the widow had been thrice as homely as she was. If he had known that Mrs. Brown was bent on marriage his way would have been clearer. His mind was made up. He would woo and win his fair hostess if he could.
"When did Brown die?" he inquired.
"Three weeks ago, stranger."
"You must miss him."
"Yes, he was a quiet man, Brown was. He never gave me any trouble, and it was natural to see him round."
"You must not mourn for him too much, Mrs. Brown."
"I shan't make a fool of myself," said thewidow. "He's gone, and he won't come back. There's no use cryin'."
"She's rather a queer specimen," thought Crane. "She hasn't broken her heart, it seems."
"You ought to marry again," he said.
"I mean to," said Mrs. Brown.
"Well, that's frank," thought Crane. "There ain't any nonsense about her."
"Your second husband will be a lucky man, Mrs. Brown."
"Well, he'll have a good livin', and, if he treats me right, he'll get treated right too."
"This is a cold world, Mrs. Brown. I've been drifting about till I'm tired. I'd like to settle down with a good wife."
"If you want to take Brown's place, say so," remarked the widow, in a business-like tone.
Bill Crane was staggered by the promptness with which his hint was taken, but did not hesitate to follow it up.
"That's what I mean," he said.
"What's your name, stranger?"
"William Crane."
"You haven't got another wife anywhere, have you?"
"Of course not."
"I've got to take your word for it, I s'pose. I guess I'll take the risk. I'll marry you if you say so."
"How soon?" asked Crane, eagerly.
"Well, there's a parson a few miles from here. We can ride right over and be back by sundown, if that will suit you."
"A capital idea, Mrs. Brown. You won't be Brown long," he added, sportively. "How will you like to be called Mrs. Crane?"
"One name will do as well as another," said the widow, philosophically.
Crane wanted to make inquiries about the five thousand dollars and the claim; but he reflected that it might be inferred that his views were mercenary. It would be more politic to wait till after marriage. He did not understand the character of the woman he was going to marry. She understood very well that Crane was marrying her for her money; but she felt lonesome, and itsuited her to have a husband, and she was willing to overlook such a trifle.
The widow had a horse of her own. Directly after dinner it was harnessed, and the two rode over to Dirt Hole, a small mining settlement, where the Rev. Pelatiah Pond, a Methodist minister, united them in the bonds of matrimony.
When Mr. and Mrs. Crane reached home, Bill ventured to inquire, "Have you got the money in the house, Mrs. Crane,—the five thousand dollars, I mean?"
"It's put away in a safe place."
"You'd better let me take care of it for you, my dear."
"Not at present, Mr. Crane. A year from now I will let you have half of it, if you behave yourself."
"As your husband, madam, I insist."
"Stop right there, stranger—Mr. Crane, I mean," said the bride, decidedly. "Do you see that? and she whipped out a revolver.
"Good gracious, Mrs. Crane! Do you want to murder me?"
"No, I didn't marry you for that; but I want you to understand that the money is in my hands, and I don't allow any man to insist. I may let you have some of it when I get ready. Do you understand?"
"I believe I do," murmured Crane. "I'm regularly taken in and done for," he reflected sadly.
But directly after their return Mrs. Crane prepared a nice supper, and Crane, as he ate it, and smoked a pipe later, began to be reconciled to his new situation.
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Meanwhile Tom, happily unconscious that the money entrusted to John Miles had been lost, continued to work diligently at his claim. His success varied from day to day; but, on the whole, he was gaining. He spent nothing except for absolute necessities, and in spite of all temptations he gave a wide berth to Missouri Jack's saloon. In this way he gained the ill-will of the saloon-keeper, who felt a certain portion of every miner's gains ought to find its way into his till.
One evening Tom met the saloon-keeper when out walking. The latter had not at that time given up securing Tom's patronage.
"Good-evening, young feller," said Jack.
Tom answered the greeting politely.
"Why don't you come round to the saloon evenings? We always have a jolly crowd there.After a hard day's work it'll do you good to take a social glass."
"I would rather not drink, thank you," said Tom.
"You ain't afraid of a little drink, I hope, are you?"
"Yes, I would rather let it alone."
"Oh, you're too good to live," said Jack, in deep disgust.
"I hope not," answered Tom, smiling; "for I hope to live a good many years."
That was the last attempt Missouri Jack made to secure Tom as a patron. Our hero spoke in so decided a tone that he understood the uselessness of the attempt.
Two months passed, and Tom heard nothing from John Miles. He was not surprised or disquieted, for he knew that mails to the interior were very irregular, and, besides, Miles might not be fond of letter-writing. He took it for granted that the seventy-five dollars had been forwarded home, and were now in his father's hands. He had saved as much more, and would like to havesent that too, for its possession gave him anxiety; but there seemed to be no opportunity.
About this time he received two letters. The first was from John Miles, written from San Francisco. After acquainting Tom with his loss of the bag of gold-dust, he proceeded:—
"I should not have cared so much, Tom, had the loss been mine only; but it was hard to think that I had lost your money too, and was unable to pay it back. I know, from what you said, that your father needed the money, and that the delay would put him to a good deal of inconvenience. You shall have it all back, Tom, every cent; but you will have to wait awhile. On reaching Frisco I got work, and soon saved up enough to pay the debt, when, as bad luck would have it, I fell sick, and before I got well all my money had been used up. Now I am well again, and at work, and if I have good luck will be able soon to send on the money to your father. I know you will understand the circumstances, and will excuse the delay.
"The very day I discovered my loss I had achance to marry a fortune. You will stare at that, and wonder how it happened. At a lonely cabin I made the acquaintance of a widow, who was looking out for a second husband. She was left with a comfortable property, which, with her hand, she was willing to bestow upon your friend; but she didn't tempt me much. I believe her fortune amounted to five thousand dollars and a claim. It would be a good chance for you, if you were old enough, Tom.
"I don't know when this letter will reach you, for the country mails—at least to such out-of-the-way places as River Bend—go quite irregularly. However, I hope you will get it after a while, and won't be too much troubled about the money; if I live it shall be repaid."
Tom showed this letter to Ferguson.
"It's a pity, my lad, that the money was stolen," said the Scotchman; "but you'll get it again. John Miles is an honest man."
"I am sure of that, Mr. Ferguson. I don't know that I ought to make him pay it back, though. It isn't his fault that it was lost."
"That's true, my lad, and you might offer to share the loss with him, but I doubt if he would accept your offer. He will feel better to pay it all back."
"At any rate I will write him, and make him the offer."
"That's fair, Tom; but you'll see what he'll say."
It may be stated here that Miles utterly declined to accept any abatement of the debt.
"I ought to have taken better care of the money," he said. "It's my fault, and I shall pay it in full."
The next letter was from home. Tom opened and read it eagerly. It was mainly from his father, but there was a note from each member of the family.
His father wrote:—
My dear Tom,—We are glad to hear that you have reached California after a wearisome journey, and are now at work. We have travelled so little that we can hardly realize that you are more than three thousandmiles away from us, with so many mountains, plains, and valleys between. Of course you cannot tell us much in your letters of your various experiences. I wish we could have you with us this evening, and hear some of them from your own lips.I am anxious to hear that you are succeeding in the object of your journey, and that you will not find the stories of the rich gold fields greatly exaggerated. I do not myself believe all I hear, yet I think there must be gold enough to pay those who search for it diligently. You must remember, my dear boy, that hard work is better than luck, and more to be relied upon. Don't expect to make your fortune all at once by finding a big nugget, but work steadily, and you will meet with more or less success.If you succeed moderately, I shall be glad you went away, for here prospects are not very good. Our little farm seems to be less productive every year. The soil is not very good, as you know, and I cannot afford fertilizers. This year the crops were not as good as usual, and we have felt the decrease sensibly. If there were not a mortgage on the farm, I could get along very well, but the interest now amounts to one hundred and thirty-two dollars annually, and it is hard to get that amount together. Next month sixty-six dollars come due, and I don't know how I am to find the money. Squire Hudson could afford to wait; but I am afraid he won't. The older and richer he gets, the more grasping he becomes, I sometimes think. However, I don't want to borrow trouble. If it is absolutely necessary I can sell off one of the cows to raise the money, and before the year comes round I think you will be able to help me.Walter, though only twelve years old,—his thirteenth birthday comes next month,—helps me about the farm, and is very useful in doing chores. He likes farm-work, and will be ready to succeed me in time. As for Sarah, she is a good, sensible girl, and helps her mother in a good many ways. Though I am a poor man, and always expect to remain so, I feel that I am blessed in having good, industrious children, who promise to grow up and do me credit. I should not be willing to exchange one of my boys for Squire Hudson's son Sinclair. He is, to my mind, a very disagreeable boy, who makes himself ridiculous by the airs he puts on. I have seen him once or twice lately when he appeared to have been drinking; but I hope I am mistaken in this. He is an only son, and it would be a pity that he should go astray.
My dear Tom,—We are glad to hear that you have reached California after a wearisome journey, and are now at work. We have travelled so little that we can hardly realize that you are more than three thousandmiles away from us, with so many mountains, plains, and valleys between. Of course you cannot tell us much in your letters of your various experiences. I wish we could have you with us this evening, and hear some of them from your own lips.
I am anxious to hear that you are succeeding in the object of your journey, and that you will not find the stories of the rich gold fields greatly exaggerated. I do not myself believe all I hear, yet I think there must be gold enough to pay those who search for it diligently. You must remember, my dear boy, that hard work is better than luck, and more to be relied upon. Don't expect to make your fortune all at once by finding a big nugget, but work steadily, and you will meet with more or less success.
If you succeed moderately, I shall be glad you went away, for here prospects are not very good. Our little farm seems to be less productive every year. The soil is not very good, as you know, and I cannot afford fertilizers. This year the crops were not as good as usual, and we have felt the decrease sensibly. If there were not a mortgage on the farm, I could get along very well, but the interest now amounts to one hundred and thirty-two dollars annually, and it is hard to get that amount together. Next month sixty-six dollars come due, and I don't know how I am to find the money. Squire Hudson could afford to wait; but I am afraid he won't. The older and richer he gets, the more grasping he becomes, I sometimes think. However, I don't want to borrow trouble. If it is absolutely necessary I can sell off one of the cows to raise the money, and before the year comes round I think you will be able to help me.
Walter, though only twelve years old,—his thirteenth birthday comes next month,—helps me about the farm, and is very useful in doing chores. He likes farm-work, and will be ready to succeed me in time. As for Sarah, she is a good, sensible girl, and helps her mother in a good many ways. Though I am a poor man, and always expect to remain so, I feel that I am blessed in having good, industrious children, who promise to grow up and do me credit. I should not be willing to exchange one of my boys for Squire Hudson's son Sinclair. He is, to my mind, a very disagreeable boy, who makes himself ridiculous by the airs he puts on. I have seen him once or twice lately when he appeared to have been drinking; but I hope I am mistaken in this. He is an only son, and it would be a pity that he should go astray.
Tom looked thoughtful after reading this letter.
"Is it bad news, Tom, lad?" asked Ferguson.
"Times are hard at home, Mr. Ferguson,"answered Tom. "Father is very much in need of money. It would have been a great help to him if he had received that seventy-five dollars."
"You have as much as that on hand now, Tom. If it isn't enough, I will lend you some."
"Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. You are a good friend, and I wouldn't mind accepting your offer, if I needed it. But father won't need any more than I can send him. Only I don't know how to get it to him."
"If you were in San Francisco, you would have no difficulty in sending the money."
"No."
"I've been thinking, Tom," said Ferguson, after a while, "that it might be a good plan for us to take a little vacation, and visit the city. We have been working steadily here over three months, and the change would do us good. Besides, we might on the way come across some better place. This isn't as good now as when we began to work it."
"That is true," said Tom.
"Suppose, then, we stay a week longer, sellout our claim if we can, and start in the direction of the city."
"You and I?"
"Yes; we shall be better off without company."
"We had better not let Peabody know we are going, or he will want to accompany us."
"I could almost be willing to take him, poor creature, to get him away from that Missouri Jack; but, as you say, he would not be a help to us."
So it was decided that, in a few days, as soon as they were ready, Tom and Ferguson should leave River Bend.
Top
It leaked out after a while that Tom and Ferguson were intending to leave River Bend, and considerable regret was expressed by the other members of the party. Tom was a general favorite. His youth and his obliging disposition made him liked by all except Missouri Jack and his set. It cannot be said that his Scotch friend was popular, but he was, at all events, highly respected as a man of high principle and rigid honesty. This was not the way the miners expressed it. They called him a "square" man, and that word expressed high moral praise. They all felt that Tom was going off in good company.
Before they went, the two had a chance for a speculation. Two weeks before, a man came to River Bend, across the country, with a horse andwagon, the latter an old express wagon, which he had brought round the Horn from some one of the Eastern States. What had induced him to take so much trouble to convey such bulky articles was not quite clear. Now that he was a miner he had no use for them, and at River Bend they were not saleable. This man, Abner Kent, came to Ferguson's tent, where he and Tom were resting after the labors of the day. He was a tall man, with a shambling gait and an angular face.
"Good-evening," he said. "If you ain't busy I'll sit down a few minutes."
"We are glad to see you Mr. Kent," said Ferguson. "Tom and I were discussing our plans, but we've plenty of time for that. Come in. Here's a place for you."
"I hear that you are going to leave us, you two?"
"Yes, Tom has some business in San Francisco, and I want to see a little more of the country."
"How are you going?"
"We'll take the cars if we can find any," answered Tom. "If we can't we'll foot it."
"That's what I came to see you about. You know I've got a horse and wagon."
"Yes."
"Why don't you buy it? You'll go easier and quicker."
"We can't afford it," said Ferguson. "Poor men must walk."
"You don't see the point. When you get through with the team, you can easily sell them for more than you gave. It will be a good speculation."
"That will depend on how much we give," said the Scotchman, shrewdly.
"To be sure, Mr. Ferguson. Now about that, I'll be easy. They ain't any good to me here. I'll take—let me see—four hundred dollars cash. You'll maybe double your money inside of a month."
The team did seem cheap at this price, as prices of all articles in a new country are very much enhanced.
"Tom and I will talk it over and let you know to-morrow morning," said Ferguson.
"That's all right. It's a good chance for you."
When Kent was gone Tom asked, "What do you think of his offer, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I think it will be a good investment, Tom, and that we shall be less likely to be robbed than if we carried gold-dust with us. You know how John Miles got robbed."
"I have only a hundred dollars," said Tom, doubtfully.
"I have enough to add to it, but I think we can get the team cheaper. I don't want to beat the man down, but a bargain is a bargain, and we must look out for our own interest."
"You know more about such things than I do, Mr. Ferguson; I will agree to anything you say."
"Very well, my lad, I shall be sure to consult your interest as well as my own. It will be very comfortable for us to have a team of our own."
"It will seem strange to me," said Tom, laughing. "What will they think at home when they hear that I have set up a carriage?"
"They might think it imprudent to invest all you had in that way; but we'll make money out of it yet, or I am sorely mistaken."
The next morning, while Tom and Ferguson were at work, Kent came up to them.
"What have you decided about the team?" he asked.
"We are not willing to pay four hundred dollars," said Ferguson.
"That's a fair price."
"It may be, but it will take all the money Tom and I can raise. You know it wouldn't be quite prudent for us to part with all our funds."
"I will take a note for part of the money," said Kent.
"That's very considerate of you, but scarcely prudent."
"Then don't you want it at all?" asked Kent, disappointed.
"Yes; we are prepared with an offer. We'll give you three hundred dollars."
Kent shook his head.
"That's too little," he said.
Ferguson remained silent. He wished to give Kent time to reflect upon his offer.
"Have you sold these claims of yours?" asked Kent, after a pause.
"No."
"Then add them to your offer, and I accept it."
This proposal struck Ferguson favorably. They could not carry away their claims, and very possibly no other purchaser might offer, as, except as regards location, other places along the river-bank could be had without cost.
"What do you say, Tom?" asked Ferguson.
"I agree if you do, Mr. Ferguson."
"Then it's a bargain, Mr. Kent. I hope it'll prove satisfactory to both of us."
"I don't think you'll regret it. It's a good speculation."
When the two friends had settled for theirpurchase, Tom paying one hundred and Ferguson two hundred dollars, our hero found himself left with twenty dollars, or its equivalent in gold-dust, while his companion had about one hundred and fifty left over.
"We shall go off in style," said Tom; "riding in our own carriage. But there's one thing I have been thinking of. I want to send a hundred dollars home as soon as I get the chance. Suppose we can't sell the team?"
"Have no fears about that, Tom. I'll lend you the money if that is the case; but, mark my word, we shan't have it left on our hands, of that you may be sure."
The night before they were to start Lawrence Peabody dropped in. He was looking down in the mouth.
"How does the world use you, Mr. Peabody?" inquired Tom.
"Fortune is against me," said Peabody. "I'm tired of River Bend."
Tom glanced at his companion. He could guess what was coming.
"Won't you take me with you, Tom?" entreated the young Bostonian.
"You must ask Mr. Ferguson. He is the head of our party."
Peabody looked appealingly towards Ferguson, but the Scotchman shook his head.
"You mustn't be offended, Mr. Peabody," he said, "when I tell you that you are responsible for your own bad luck. You have had just as good a chance as Tom or I."
"Your claim was better."
"There was no difference that I can see, except that we worked, and you didn't. You don't expect gold to come to you?"
"You and Tom are more used to hard work than I," murmured Peabody.
"If you did not feel able to work, you should not have come to California. A man must work harder here than at home, and then he stands a chance of succeeding better."
"Then you won't take me?" asked Peabody, sadly.
"Are you in debt to Captain Fletcher for board?"
Peabody reluctantly admitted that he was, but had no idea how much he owed.
"Fletcher tells me that he shall not trust you any longer."
Lawrence Peabody looked frightened.
"What shall I do?" he faltered. "I shall starve."
"You can't blame the captain; he knows that you spend the little money you do earn at the saloon. But he will give you a chance. There is no one to wash clothes in the camp, and we have all observed that you keep yours looking well. If you will set up a laundry, you can make more money than in any other way."
"But then I should be a common washer-woman," objected Peabody. "What would my friends in Boston say?"
"They won't hear of it. Besides, a man can do here what he would not do at home."
It may be stated here that Peabody, finding work absolutely needful, went into partnershipwith a Chinaman, who arrived at the camp a day or two later, and succeeded in making a fair living, which hitherto he had been unable to do. After he was employed, his visits to the saloon became less frequent. At times he was disturbed by the fear that his friends at home might learn the character of his employment; apart from this he found his new business, with the income it yielded, not distasteful.